tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-112622892024-03-18T02:47:30.199-07:00dulcetly...notes on a bookish lifewriting, art, design, editing, libraries, vintage style and decor, books and film...
kristy bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03831806047965186923noreply@blogger.comBlogger3299125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11262289.post-14464341634174825292024-03-17T13:09:00.000-07:002024-03-17T14:49:14.515-07:00poetry killed the radio star<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsUN1lGGIQn2TZUCfJQOmxoP97Wb1eXErVEtTGapNUI8bYblvn98xYY_VJrVBfShFaOvF-HXDwKyjWCGXO5pQLNoxrzr3U-91JP9WTfamcAE1ZtAwEGrB7_UgpHa9KYM9j_WjASkpyHcz5UAOGzPp6_sxOl5W3QoSn-ngFUoenxNN-IaI5dJ23pQ/s2000/Copy%20of%20Untitled%20(1).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="2000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsUN1lGGIQn2TZUCfJQOmxoP97Wb1eXErVEtTGapNUI8bYblvn98xYY_VJrVBfShFaOvF-HXDwKyjWCGXO5pQLNoxrzr3U-91JP9WTfamcAE1ZtAwEGrB7_UgpHa9KYM9j_WjASkpyHcz5UAOGzPp6_sxOl5W3QoSn-ngFUoenxNN-IaI5dJ23pQ/w640-h640/Copy%20of%20Untitled%20(1).png" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p>In the summer of 1996, before my last year of undergrad, I was on a writing spree. It had all started, of course, before that, when I was 19 and pumping out terrible slender poems, or maybe as early as age 15, scrawling those terrible blue diary poems. The interest continued, but the practice waned a bit through a couple years where my focus was more on studying lit and doing theater stuff. But that summer a poetry workshop the previous spring had launched me into writing more frequently (if not better.) This meant that I spent the summer, free of other obligations until some play rehearsals started up in August, devoting myself to poetry in a way you never really get time to again. Both the writing and the submitting, which was mostly to slightly dodgy publications listed in the back of<i> Writer's Digest</i>. </p><p>I would hand-write poems, then type them up on the navy blue electric typewriter that sustained me all the way through college (that is, until I started spending more time in the computer lab that last year.) It was a cumbersome machine and I could never find the right correction tape, so mostly awkwardly hauled it and a tiny bottle of white out around the house with a box of poetry stuff to work on the floor in front of the sofa, outside on the deck, or at the dining room table (I had a slender desk with shelves in my bedroom, but it was more a place to store stacks of books and a drip machine that made tea. )</p><p>The poems I was writing had relinquished, thankfully, the tendency to want to rhyme I'd sported all through the workshop.(I was actually good at it, making the rhymes, but the poems were pretty bad otherwise.) I call this my fiercely terrible Emily Dickinson phase. The things, sans rhyme, I wrote that summer would win me a couple of poetry prize nods (honorable mentions and second places) for college prizes the next spring.They weren't exactly amazing, but they were better.</p><p>The biggest thing I remember from that summer was recording every poem when I was done drafting it. I used a portable boombox I also sometimes carried with me from workspace to workspace. Listening to my voice reading me helped me write better in a way, hearing how the words sounded off the page. Somewhere in this apartment I still have the tape I used, though nothing to play it on. Who knows if it would even play after close to 30 years. I'm also not sure if I could handle meeting my 22-year-old self again, much in the same way my old paper journals make me cringe.</p><p>I think of this every time I make a recording now though. On my easy little oval mic that plugs into my computer. 30 years later and my voice is actually still probably the same voice--a voice that I always wish was deeper and more mature, but still sounds clear like a bell and soft. I remember hearing Plath read her own work the first time after being seeped in her work for years and being surprised that she sounded nothing like I would have imagined her to. She was not the flustered girl of her diary entries and letters, but her voice rich and bone serious. I also remember sitting in my Modern British Poetry class at DePaul, listening to Eliot read <i>The Wasteland</i>, scribbling notes and doodles in my spiral notebook and all the gears in my head turning.</p><p>When I am recording a poem now, I usually try not to listen too carefully to the audio, since that voice does not sound like how my voice sounds in my head and the disconnect is a weird one. I remember being so surprised though the first time I heard someone else reading one of my poems in an audio file. It almost became a different poem in someone else's intonations and rhythms entirely. </p>kristy bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03831806047965186923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11262289.post-39879168922393754162024-03-16T10:40:00.000-07:002024-03-16T10:43:24.473-07:00book birthday | feed<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh4NLbhGYYgNLDLZb_KMIX1pF2mjV8m1-mmvOX5oNBI7BUya9CbJJKhBLWHPT4hDn1nte-275Y3YyGfylzrsRUCNcPJO5ehJuuMvlGPzMBfAvYjNgUtHfvkMkrKE-chRb6YNbvIAfUPff7MN5wsXk0nVh0K2yAISgErK_JtkSr5-ZNRkFQY3dG1Nw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="400" data-original-width="277" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh4NLbhGYYgNLDLZb_KMIX1pF2mjV8m1-mmvOX5oNBI7BUya9CbJJKhBLWHPT4hDn1nte-275Y3YyGfylzrsRUCNcPJO5ehJuuMvlGPzMBfAvYjNgUtHfvkMkrKE-chRb6YNbvIAfUPff7MN5wsXk0nVh0K2yAISgErK_JtkSr5-ZNRkFQY3dG1Nw=w443-h640" width="443" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Today, the Facebooks reminded me that <a href="https://dulcetshop.myshopify.com/products/feed-kristy-bowen-1">this little volume </a>turns three, which feels impossible and so long ago all at the same time. It will probably always hold a special place in my heart since it was the first voyage on the self-publishing journey, that involved a whole lot of learning curve in terms of formatting, designing, and editing my own work. </p><p>This was also, of course, the book that took shape in the year after my mother's death, and is in many ways, is about mothering in general, even the series of poems written before that awful fall, like <i>the summer house</i> and <i>the science of impossible objects</i>, but especially those written in early 2018 like <i>the hunger palace</i> and <i>plump</i>, and of course, <i>swallow</i>. The book always feels like a purging, a sort of therapy, and I'm grateful for that. </p><p><br /></p><p data-mce-fragment="1" data-mce-style="font-weight: 400;" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, "Lucida Grande", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0px 0px 15px;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: 700;">from THE SUMMER HOUSE</span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, "Lucida Grande", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0px 0px 15px;"><span data-contrast="none" style="box-sizing: border-box;">Soon, the baby is full of bees. Bees in the bathtub, bees in the bassinet. Floating the surface of your coffee each morning without fail, tiny wings sticky with cream. Who can be a good mother amidst all this hum, the summer house thick with hives. The lives you've given up to</span><span data-contrast="none" style="box-sizing: border-box;"> </span><span data-contrast="none" style="box-sizing: border-box;">get there. Every tiny shoe, every tiny spoon slick with honey. Who can be a good mother to a child made of wax, even now softening in the sun.</span><span data-ccp-props="{"134233117":true,"134233118":true,"201341983":0,"335559740":240}" style="box-sizing: border-box;"> </span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>kristy bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03831806047965186923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11262289.post-86245595873837835572024-03-15T20:21:00.000-07:002024-03-15T22:15:27.191-07:00fragments and voice<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3TZT1LMc36wz57yAD9uzbkcOu8Ig3K7nIr-MAKpGKqp8qP7LnsaSQOs3vB_u_QX8Ent2DMWPx487t_D2x75c1qGw5ePLCF_PEtvlHGx8hjpDXhk2iUboCNA-nA-sKTjAGiujL6-yX4T8Bn26HvI8At_ocUM_rijgfIxkCmEWOzNbs-LlcyJuHOA/s2000/Untitled%20design%20(19).png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="2000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3TZT1LMc36wz57yAD9uzbkcOu8Ig3K7nIr-MAKpGKqp8qP7LnsaSQOs3vB_u_QX8Ent2DMWPx487t_D2x75c1qGw5ePLCF_PEtvlHGx8hjpDXhk2iUboCNA-nA-sKTjAGiujL6-yX4T8Bn26HvI8At_ocUM_rijgfIxkCmEWOzNbs-LlcyJuHOA/w640-h640/Untitled%20design%20(19).png" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">from GHOST BOX</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>Every once in a while I will read a poem I like in a journal or online and it is such a tidy little knot of a poem, all of its Ps and Qs in place, Ts crossed and Is dotted. It's like a thimble full of honey. It exists in a vacuum of space around it, and somehow addresses some big question or thematic issue. While I am not a Mary Oliver fan, her poems were often like this. Observation----> Conclusion.</p><p>I do not write those poems. Maybe I did, once upon a time. There are certainly poems in T<i>HE FEVER ALMANAC </i>like this, maybe even in <i>IN THE BIRD MUSEUM</i>. But in the mid-2000s my writing became much more fragmented. This coincidentally was around the time I started working in collage, which is all about fragmentation. I cannot help but think these two things are related. </p><p>There is rarely a single voice, even though sometimes it's me, or sometimes a persona. More often it may be a series of voices, a fragmented conversation coming from another room. This is probably why I feel most comfortable writing in series, since as a whole, they make sense (sometimes) in a way that I would never be able to achieve in a single poem. I was excited when years ago, I learned there was a word for--polyvocality. Even when it's a singular subject or voice, that voice is often fractured or fragmented in a way that works similarly. I felt this when writing<i> GRANATA</i>, which was why the p-o-v changed so many times throughout the project. Similarly, when I was working on <i>PELT</i> and could not decide who was telling the story--Antoinetta or Lavinia. The dog girl or the portraitist. In the end, it wound up being both.</p><p>I remember reading an essay once on poetic voice and fracturing of self that resonated with me. That the human voice is fractured no matter what. That all points of view are subject to error and fragmentation. Sort of like Picasso trying to present all points of reference in a painting. This may be why I am always reluctant to overly use "I" in poems, since really, I am a collection of fractured thoughts and impressions, just as much as a piece of art or writing is. </p><p>My poem series always feel like an approach at something. From all sides and angles. A whole delivered in fragments and shards. It's something I've been thinking a lot about with the GHOST BOX project, which is set to include written fragments and visual work, both regular collage and AI generated images like the one above, all of which work together to create a world and a story.</p>kristy bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03831806047965186923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11262289.post-45161781506023815702024-03-14T19:24:00.000-07:002024-03-14T19:26:48.397-07:00four years out<p> Yesterday, I realized that it had been exactly four years since lockdown started and the covid madness began. On March 13th it seemed like a temporary pause that would move off over the water. It had been buzzing in the news like a far-off alarm the previous 2-3 weeks, causing enough ruckus that the college decided that Friday to go completely online. We were wrong about the brevity, of course, and it would be months until I returned to the library. Months more until we had the shield of vaccines. Actually, a couple years still until I felt comfortable going out, masked, then eventually unmasked. </p><p>In hindsight, the lockdowns weren't especially effective, and actually an immediate mask mandate probably would have been better. But the knee-jerkers would have also not complied with that, so who knows. We'd have been fucked either way. As such, the pause brought a lot of people full stop. Out of the routines and pressures that life had become in those lead-up years. My situation was particularly strange, since we had reached a critical mass of understaffing and extra work that two people in a department could not hold the door on for much longer. When we returned, the pace was slower and starting to build when I left. Most staff, the librarians, had not even returned, so still much fell on the folks who were on-site. This was another nail in the coffin that was my leaving in addition to lots of excuses on how positions couldn't be filled because of covid shortfalls and pay increases that we were told were now even more impossible. </p><p>When I look back at my journal entries from that period, there is this stunned stillness. It was a while before I could write or really accomplish much. But it came back. That summer, I worked on several projects and did a lot of work-related things like online exhibits, workshops, and presentations over zoom. I was talking to J about this weird time and he mentioned that the lockdown was the first time we got to spend more time together since both of us had slightly freer schedules, already five years into the relationship. It was also riddled with social unrest and curfews that had him coming over earlier to comply. </p><p>By summer's end, I was back at work with shorter weeks and hours, but by fall, we were open the full slate. Sparsely populated, but open. Things began to ramp up as vaccines were issued over the next year, people began to return to masked normal, just as I was closing the door on that chapter of my life. I did not get to see the full return, but by spring of 2022, even I was taking my mask off in movie theaters I now had time to go to. I've had a few colds since early 2023 and isolated plenty each time without testing (which actually, going out, would probably expose more people). They could have been covid, or just as likely could have not been. </p><p>Sometimes, it seems like a bad dream, but really, so many say, bad as it was, that it was wake-up call. That it gave a moment for contemplation and change. A course correction. A metaphorical (and sometimes literal) brush with death that caused you to question how you were living. And all of this is true. Having come out of a tense situation where mortality seemed always to be six feet away, how many people realized that they weren't exactly living the best version of their lives? Or that how they'd been doing things was not how they wanted to be doing them? I felt this first with art and writing related things, but later with work-related things that ultimately set the wheels of leaving in motion. All of 2021 I kept telling myself that if I decided to stay, it would be because I wanted to, not because I HAD to. When I finally made the plans and put in notice, it was just this enormous rush of relief that I had done the right thing. </p><p>Yesterday, my day was actually not unlike the covid era. I woke up for breakfast and coffee before digging into work at home, where my days are still lots of work, but more leisurely and less stressful with zoom meetings and nonsense. Later, I made fun AI art weirdness and drafted a poem before making fajitas for dinner, a pandemic favorite of mine when I finally had time to cook in my kitchen. While we have been going out quite a bit, this week has been quiet, so I haven't left the apartment in several days and I am okay with this. What is missing is that anxious doomscrolling and perusal of the news (always unsettling, but it feels less fraught to not be following infection and death numbers.)</p><p>I'm not sure what life may have looked like without that pause and reconsideration. likely something would have eventually broken things down, but it may have taken longer and I would have been less likely to jump into the maelstrom of freelancing. We all thought maybe the world was ending as we knew it and that, if it wasn't, we'd best be damned living better, doing better, and being kinder to ourselves. </p>kristy bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03831806047965186923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11262289.post-6605266134594721222024-03-14T11:45:00.000-07:002024-03-15T12:23:51.916-07:00the alice experiments<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaxb9hpXiecwTzaklnaRHdP7hw8CEP6fvSLXfuuwu_BV6N1T4qa_S3UEEZ74_p2NWc6iaWjFn1IU9a8HkHModUDc_5dLA-vB255QBT60i7qKeDjY77T7M7sAEoi7I19T6pBN4WuzGTz3qJSiwismZc4vgH6lB7O6HCxo8AW-L8RW2u6daYWx7xUA/s2000/53582226574_85200665fe_o.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="2000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaxb9hpXiecwTzaklnaRHdP7hw8CEP6fvSLXfuuwu_BV6N1T4qa_S3UEEZ74_p2NWc6iaWjFn1IU9a8HkHModUDc_5dLA-vB255QBT60i7qKeDjY77T7M7sAEoi7I19T6pBN4WuzGTz3qJSiwismZc4vgH6lB7O6HCxo8AW-L8RW2u6daYWx7xUA/w640-h640/53582226574_85200665fe_o.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdc4IKwuS3bL1Z1GZcNZ3Qe7hEI1Pu4S3LtJIiBZJvCPORGamG7embeBlN3Yr_uckRcPMFr-ebve9gc-NfkfHXDF_6UrPUWlig4ltT3ehGnOgSovRD75IpEj25hQV3XfmEwVPULFdvRi8SCTms4D6KWdKr5PrLMRdHlENqIneCokgsbHgC_KMTqw/s2000/Untitled%20design.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="2000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdc4IKwuS3bL1Z1GZcNZ3Qe7hEI1Pu4S3LtJIiBZJvCPORGamG7embeBlN3Yr_uckRcPMFr-ebve9gc-NfkfHXDF_6UrPUWlig4ltT3ehGnOgSovRD75IpEj25hQV3XfmEwVPULFdvRi8SCTms4D6KWdKr5PrLMRdHlENqIneCokgsbHgC_KMTqw/w640-h640/Untitled%20design.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijBvHa5o5YrBiv4Gxom4UKXhcv0klONnLhsmGhex1g8MDTZv_H8caPu3Pf9ZGlS9l35bocVaQnE-S89r9D_WEwNGVLMpLxF-qcMBks2Pr2ih02mXQB2AAa5boLRi7q_2qjS4mbb99A_WceIOi-wEmpj3jCS_QTTCFiqSfu8Wty8OVJRteYv92BRQ/s2000/53582347845_2cc2f4235d_o.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="2000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijBvHa5o5YrBiv4Gxom4UKXhcv0klONnLhsmGhex1g8MDTZv_H8caPu3Pf9ZGlS9l35bocVaQnE-S89r9D_WEwNGVLMpLxF-qcMBks2Pr2ih02mXQB2AAa5boLRi7q_2qjS4mbb99A_WceIOi-wEmpj3jCS_QTTCFiqSfu8Wty8OVJRteYv92BRQ/w640-h640/53582347845_2cc2f4235d_o.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDMMnSd0B4djaJ95d9Sz9s3j55RjfLToky55TciT6x5JTU_EOftvIhpfc90jH2QGuMxUHlh9ojPnsRR2yqaCLiryEg3Sayp-pKA1U-_WsL78ONd7oVjx0mZ_vCY5h2q9Q1IaKhuRq2dSwi5Brx-wBG0qrpq8C2SF63Civswy8HTsabVq1WpOtsxw/s2000/53582126913_1acc9953e9_o.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="2000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDMMnSd0B4djaJ95d9Sz9s3j55RjfLToky55TciT6x5JTU_EOftvIhpfc90jH2QGuMxUHlh9ojPnsRR2yqaCLiryEg3Sayp-pKA1U-_WsL78ONd7oVjx0mZ_vCY5h2q9Q1IaKhuRq2dSwi5Brx-wBG0qrpq8C2SF63Civswy8HTsabVq1WpOtsxw/w640-h640/53582126913_1acc9953e9_o.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWn7bUQD-8wEMBSjqcu9pD7sSCdSJI2kNMm8HRegWt-JFHLJrPXdA7WJK51ow7QrXIGT-3niwlXm7o4ejRHDh2sdj0_0Ox46_G8vYcRnZpgvPuLaoplHiEqdCOe13RXgatXctGBmol_HpoKqN6FN7Ry1oZm7Btm5nX2VktzX7m8nqUA9ffp7PXLw/s2000/53582224619_ae91d87014_o.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="2000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWn7bUQD-8wEMBSjqcu9pD7sSCdSJI2kNMm8HRegWt-JFHLJrPXdA7WJK51ow7QrXIGT-3niwlXm7o4ejRHDh2sdj0_0Ox46_G8vYcRnZpgvPuLaoplHiEqdCOe13RXgatXctGBmol_HpoKqN6FN7Ry1oZm7Btm5nX2VktzX7m8nqUA9ffp7PXLw/w640-h640/53582224619_ae91d87014_o.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyQZr8zfxPhaFpsq65f-ygpGNia971qFzfwDYLakmqccrzxJ7s9TaGGnMjFgSGVF9tBEgAIKAw48Yb593VSoX-GlRGfsgjLKwEBT4wfw8UopJJVtQbuxv0QD2ShkChO5uOCCsPnmBXXPMY19OEM2MlwTJNFxTgw7Cs3lNa6DmgJQHgMAcylqNcgQ/s2000/53582347135_47a9c07f2f_o.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="2000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyQZr8zfxPhaFpsq65f-ygpGNia971qFzfwDYLakmqccrzxJ7s9TaGGnMjFgSGVF9tBEgAIKAw48Yb593VSoX-GlRGfsgjLKwEBT4wfw8UopJJVtQbuxv0QD2ShkChO5uOCCsPnmBXXPMY19OEM2MlwTJNFxTgw7Cs3lNa6DmgJQHgMAcylqNcgQ/w640-h640/53582347135_47a9c07f2f_o.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p>Working a bit more with the bots this past week to generate and manipulate images (see the cabinet card pieces below.) Sometimes you get some really cool results, sometimes not so much (and sometimes you get terrifying results that are just not good enough quality to even work with.). I was working on some fun little<i> Alice in Wonderland</i> images and it has me thinking of returning to the Alice poem project I started a few years back and that has been languishing since waiting for me to pick it back up and just it off....I'll be finishing up the ghost box poems (which you can catch <a href="https://www.instagram.com/dancinggirlpress/">in progress snippets of on IG</a>), so maybe that is where I will turn my attention next...</p><p>You can see more of them <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/15659520@N00/albums/72177720315386613/">here</a>...</p>kristy bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03831806047965186923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11262289.post-21500957349118771452024-03-10T13:21:00.000-07:002024-03-10T13:34:13.153-07:00specimens<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMFxdHU0nOihPFI92Q1uC73JUN4SmHm0KS61ELgiDyX_3ZoUYgw4-ElyT3vOmAml0eIK3EZhZ9ADWycq-NDUhP0-gC424kkqevywZ6KN-1lOalsvYApfb0eUmL1C4FEnI2CKD7ZLj0CtfDqfUveJphGiSXg4UKtGldedmNZ1jL8zmQCjNSa1XGtg/s2000/Copy%20of%20Untitled%20(26).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="2000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMFxdHU0nOihPFI92Q1uC73JUN4SmHm0KS61ELgiDyX_3ZoUYgw4-ElyT3vOmAml0eIK3EZhZ9ADWycq-NDUhP0-gC424kkqevywZ6KN-1lOalsvYApfb0eUmL1C4FEnI2CKD7ZLj0CtfDqfUveJphGiSXg4UKtGldedmNZ1jL8zmQCjNSa1XGtg/w640-h640/Copy%20of%20Untitled%20(26).png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT5boGFwca_bmLyz0korJI-Viv30HuJ6PvvWpKUEFIk3KVuuXEbkNOpUvwxk_Tp6t6_fbXrTvQZgfMj9A3ePrE5HWfYO3kt-wldZi3xqz7uapnLwPPyWauJLKXL9ypIwIyhjHhGAaYkRshxF1DAHQr7DuKNLCsSfQSxiKzigdNXg2hW7rPMK8Ieg/s2000/Copy%20of%20Untitled%20(25).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="2000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT5boGFwca_bmLyz0korJI-Viv30HuJ6PvvWpKUEFIk3KVuuXEbkNOpUvwxk_Tp6t6_fbXrTvQZgfMj9A3ePrE5HWfYO3kt-wldZi3xqz7uapnLwPPyWauJLKXL9ypIwIyhjHhGAaYkRshxF1DAHQr7DuKNLCsSfQSxiKzigdNXg2hW7rPMK8Ieg/w640-h640/Copy%20of%20Untitled%20(25).png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBCW9cY_N0sfcvN_rcoM3k6oWoD7BziXAj16Ue0KZfd9aSHTRDXVqMkby9KFGArbTYHu65LxtFdDkfWIuo_nnKcJA0t16oXXrrXVRONbels4qcNEhZuivoXqhT2P-lMfUD-wdD1uQavBdTAu6fGjV2bW2cfUVTCcLVWJhaBIJ85s2NjVWHwMbrgg/s2000/Copy%20of%20Untitled%20(24).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="2000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBCW9cY_N0sfcvN_rcoM3k6oWoD7BziXAj16Ue0KZfd9aSHTRDXVqMkby9KFGArbTYHu65LxtFdDkfWIuo_nnKcJA0t16oXXrrXVRONbels4qcNEhZuivoXqhT2P-lMfUD-wdD1uQavBdTAu6fGjV2bW2cfUVTCcLVWJhaBIJ85s2NjVWHwMbrgg/w640-h640/Copy%20of%20Untitled%20(24).png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYx6SgGr-_Ps45sakQh0DI99cCfG4odP65WApN79LicOs4RMKRlrB6wC4QDJA9kNji2XY6w8CZpfEDSECFw7TbyXmT2qTSZqAUBwP1QdGbNmfzLqshAUfBASaZaQrIPzQ4wQUPBYzb9B5o2uLDuk1UoYbgmYATIaA3Cwwxn97MovXKO2TJtMbFEg/s2000/Copy%20of%20Untitled%20(23).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="2000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYx6SgGr-_Ps45sakQh0DI99cCfG4odP65WApN79LicOs4RMKRlrB6wC4QDJA9kNji2XY6w8CZpfEDSECFw7TbyXmT2qTSZqAUBwP1QdGbNmfzLqshAUfBASaZaQrIPzQ4wQUPBYzb9B5o2uLDuk1UoYbgmYATIaA3Cwwxn97MovXKO2TJtMbFEg/w640-h640/Copy%20of%20Untitled%20(23).png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijOgKth7XTAPYrsGn2Zpt6gyGtxiiwVTEjOANxeT7PUmggUbdijy1t_jYZcX-YnFcMFJuIegYZhW74MzleuFsY4yv6FtfGBnlV5raf6zKirXKt29tzvZE2XabzoVatmksq30r8Qh34U3H2vRLIDTjf1F58qoG25LFaYvmrwTJV-7Nb9BlUS0FYqQ/s2000/Copy%20of%20Untitled%20(22).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="2000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijOgKth7XTAPYrsGn2Zpt6gyGtxiiwVTEjOANxeT7PUmggUbdijy1t_jYZcX-YnFcMFJuIegYZhW74MzleuFsY4yv6FtfGBnlV5raf6zKirXKt29tzvZE2XabzoVatmksq30r8Qh34U3H2vRLIDTjf1F58qoG25LFaYvmrwTJV-7Nb9BlUS0FYqQ/w640-h640/Copy%20of%20Untitled%20(22).png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHgwdCxR1iRL8fLolckhBY2ysBQwrH8_bsRmNFJXYAnQTDvNf_R6D7cA2bj9WDl1gyEsmmR_1EYmbDoU6afepgmgNvqGx8Ql9SjsxuLZNtyP1_dgjQvctjIk1EONtqEp2ooxHcv2aJkX9tk-qWi6smzbno-EWYMSh72OMl4hFBdye_T8-YLg7h2g/s2000/Copy%20of%20Untitled%20(21).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="2000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHgwdCxR1iRL8fLolckhBY2ysBQwrH8_bsRmNFJXYAnQTDvNf_R6D7cA2bj9WDl1gyEsmmR_1EYmbDoU6afepgmgNvqGx8Ql9SjsxuLZNtyP1_dgjQvctjIk1EONtqEp2ooxHcv2aJkX9tk-qWi6smzbno-EWYMSh72OMl4hFBdye_T8-YLg7h2g/w640-h640/Copy%20of%20Untitled%20(21).png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /> <p></p>kristy bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03831806047965186923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11262289.post-82661815605066143052024-03-09T13:05:00.000-08:002024-03-09T13:29:06.449-08:00notes & things 3/9/2024<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgapwWZ2r7w1l66Ulr2656P3HGdBmumpjNKGl5uaFUOSMxBh27XHWtx3UW_9Y0Zy_9WeYfQ_JqYJxFFK0oePlOhG7JNPj8KX6o6Hmqb-qlXA0baerI69-9-gvy2VuNxwrApnweCzYsSnjzM88stmfqECHXxwWI-JxGdVPNQZ_en1qPo-EWqsbtzJg/s2000/Copy%20of%20Untitled%20(18).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="2000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgapwWZ2r7w1l66Ulr2656P3HGdBmumpjNKGl5uaFUOSMxBh27XHWtx3UW_9Y0Zy_9WeYfQ_JqYJxFFK0oePlOhG7JNPj8KX6o6Hmqb-qlXA0baerI69-9-gvy2VuNxwrApnweCzYsSnjzM88stmfqECHXxwWI-JxGdVPNQZ_en1qPo-EWqsbtzJg/w640-h640/Copy%20of%20Untitled%20(18).png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p>Tonight we spring ahead an hour and into the thickest part of March, where the weather this year varies from day to day but overall is milder than the usual end drags of winter. One day we have the windows open while we sleep and work and the next, firmly shut against what sounds like a steady and angry train whistle of wind blowing constantly between the buildings. I am taking my spiffy new camera, courtesy of J for Christmas, to the bar tonight to take some shots of him hosting karaoke for his soon-to-be-website, so will likely still be out and about for the sudden shift of the witching hours. </p><p>Today I've made some goofy images in AI that can be harvested for collages and am settling in for some new layouts. I also packed up the first round of orders for GRANATA, signing and writing notes to the gracious friends who have bought a copy. I will still be posting snippets and audio poems on <a href="https://www.instagram.com/dancinggirlpress/">Instagram</a> for the next few weeks to, of course, entice you to <a href="http://www.tinyurl.com/granatapoetry" target="_blank">purchase a copy</a> if you haven't yet.. (I don't make a huge amount of each copy since I pay for printing costs, but it's still more than royalties with traditional publishing, so any amount helps me keep doing what I do.) I will also be doing a sale in April for my birthday on older titles with more info on that available soon. </p><p>As for creative things underway, I have been having fun with digital images and collages and making strange little bits for my own amusement (see above.) I've also made progress with daily writing on a new series of poems that will probably eventually be a zine. So far, there are about a dozen salvageable pieces shaking around with some more to come as I gear up to start something entirely different for NaPoWriMo next month. <i>Which</i> something is still up for debate, but it may be the Mary Shelley/ Frankenstein-inspired project I've been waffling on starting up for months (I wanted to work on it and share some of it in October for #31DaysOfOctober, but it just never happened.) </p><p>Each spring I question whether I should commit to 30 poems (I write daily sometimes, but definitely skip some days and take the weekends off.) The imperative does keep me moving, and some of my best shorter writing projects were either finished or started in April of some year or another, including the <i>villains</i> series that recently became a <a href="https://issuu.com/aestheticsofresearch/docs/villainszine">zine</a>. </p><p>Otherwise, life lately is fancy croissants and tea when we can afford them, a couple new sundresses that are still too scanty to wear, and lots of decor and DIY writing on everything from Victorian architecture to using vintage suitcases and trunks for storage. We had a brief lull in outings this week and next, but will be heading to the Goodman to see <i>The Penelopiad</i> on St Pat's Day and out to the opening of the drive-in the following week. April is shaping up to be a bear, but mostly good things like another tattoo appointment and many movies (the time capsule has moved onto 1994, plus there are some new things we'll definitely be seeing horror-wise.) Also, of course, my birthday---and a milestone one at that. It feels completely and utterly impossible most of the time since I mostly feel like I turned 26 and just have been sort of floating here. Also I feel like I have de-aged in the past couple of years (including the lessening of grays when I look at my roots each month) since leaving the library. It's amazing what removing constant stress, bitter quiet resentment, and money worries will wreak upon the body in a good way. (well I still have the last of those in this economy, but things are much better being able to control my freelance income)</p><p><br /></p><p> </p>kristy bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03831806047965186923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11262289.post-69623838018892472372024-03-04T15:39:00.000-08:002024-03-04T15:39:16.784-08:00now available in the shop<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiWfnMNLnGxbgtIcp3ewfzmPdUVd93GDXSkHzOP6J-0PRk890C3ro35_K3imo6_OvjM4XSLleZrY96vW7UKZQQP7l91P5yC4LOpw77bb1gzvo-U6EcxN1ze3HJRwKei3qOPNmzjbMZ_Zr5JE5q0Wpf9MF2PfiJ5doWxRDKKSFDKwXrzSM0i2Xm7g/s1193/Your%20paragraph%20text%20(15).png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="690" data-original-width="1193" height="370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiWfnMNLnGxbgtIcp3ewfzmPdUVd93GDXSkHzOP6J-0PRk890C3ro35_K3imo6_OvjM4XSLleZrY96vW7UKZQQP7l91P5yC4LOpw77bb1gzvo-U6EcxN1ze3HJRwKei3qOPNmzjbMZ_Zr5JE5q0Wpf9MF2PfiJ5doWxRDKKSFDKwXrzSM0i2Xm7g/w640-h370/Your%20paragraph%20text%20(15).png" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /> <span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; font-size: 16px;">This lush and sensuous modern retelling of the Persephone myth juxtaposes her journey to the underworld with that of the girls who were transformed into winged monsters in the wake of her abduction.</span><p></p><div style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="http://www.tinyurl.com/granatapoetry" target="_blank">Order it here</a>...</span></div>kristy bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03831806047965186923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11262289.post-51732908130946590652024-03-03T15:35:00.000-08:002024-03-05T23:06:52.754-08:00selling out: branding for poets<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVtB2vPYhnG8LIg0qks3UEIcgJtRV-8eqzpOZq0gVsn5IiQgU4pHv7UULaAloiAn-J5G3WI9b08GqOm5zlNbfoX0mnB4TYPtA4hNiuGhCusiankTYH9Ida_EC4f_23Ltgz60G_QmwMU-0LqKak3kShMzDpcwvvgKDl7n_YzcQ57P_I_qFJTbAUJw/s5997/pexels-pixabay-414584.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="5997" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVtB2vPYhnG8LIg0qks3UEIcgJtRV-8eqzpOZq0gVsn5IiQgU4pHv7UULaAloiAn-J5G3WI9b08GqOm5zlNbfoX0mnB4TYPtA4hNiuGhCusiankTYH9Ida_EC4f_23Ltgz60G_QmwMU-0LqKak3kShMzDpcwvvgKDl7n_YzcQ57P_I_qFJTbAUJw/w640-h426/pexels-pixabay-414584.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p>A few weeks back I bookmarked <a href="https://www.vox.com/culture/2024/2/1/24056883/tiktok-self-promotion-artist-career-how-to-build-following?fbclid=IwAR1D_ENHglU1aiYdsiko_RdTZ-ehbB580n1LWgn_o-TuR3Xesl4PH4RXzkY" target="_blank">this Vox article</a> with the aim of reading it through more thoroughly. Revisiting it today, it got me thinking about this weird dual state most writers or artists find themselves in. It may be a modern age thing, since many of the artists we know from the distant past, particularly literary ones, had other people doing the heavy lifting of issuing, promoting, and curating the work. While the artists could simply hide in a garret all day and then turn up at a bar or cafe occasionally for appearances or readings (or getting in fights with other writers.) </p><p>This is, of course, not the lit world that baby poet me was born into in the 90s and early aughts. Even the machines that put work out into the world, like journals and small presses, relied much on the author's own promo, platforms, and appearances to sell work. Maybe if you landed a Big Five publisher or were financially stable enough to enroll a professional PR person, you could sit back and solely focus on the work itself, but that was not even an option. Especially for writers who not only had to split their time between writing and promoting but also whatever else they were doing to actually make a living--teaching, freelance, or other day jobs. Many writers like to talk about the good ole days when you could just bow out of the process mostly once you're genius had been manifested and move on to the next project, but I don't think that was true for most authors, no matter your genre, and hadn't been so in a while. </p><p>I took to finding ways to promote work early when I actually didn't have that much work, and maybe that's why, now, two decades in, it feels much less arduous. It takes time, of course, time you could probably be writing. But since I find all sorts of ways to waste time (streaming bad TV shows, scrolling reels, watching thrifting hauls on YouTube) and not writing, I suppose it could be a far worse way to spend my time. In 2001, I made my first author website, along with my first curation project, <i>wicked alice</i>. I had just begun publishing frequently in similar online journals and wanted to start my own. I used a free website generator that had ads for at least another two years before I bought a proper domain. In 2001, even MySpace was in its fledgling days, though later I did have one of those briefly. What we know of social media was still years off for most of us. </p><p>That early website was mostly just a way to corral an internet presence into one place as more and more poems wound in more and more journals. It provided a place to direct people to, a landing spot if readers were interested in reading more. I didn't start blogging until late 2003, on Xanga, which was much more community-feeling, sort of like an early mix of Live Journal and what Tumblr would eventually be. Between 2003 and 2007 or so, I like to think of as the golden era of poetry blogs. I hopped to this space in early 2005 and have been here since. On those blogs, many people stuck to craft discussions and reviews and strictly writing-related topics. But this space has always felt like partly that, but also part diary or journal, part sounding things out or thinking out loud. It was also part of a general conversation with other writers before short-form social media became the norm around 2009-ish.</p><p>Those same authors would later move to things like Tumblr, Facebook, Twitter. I used Tumblr as my domain forwarded homepage for a while in the 2010s, and I liked the shareability of it, but left when new no-porn guidelines kept getting collages with even slight nudity blocked by bots. I moved that homepage to another Blogger account since I needed a slightly different set-up than what I have here. It's not a site that gets a lot of traffic, even as much as this blog, since most of my direction to things comes via social media, but it's a nice landing spot to get to everything else to include in bios and business cards and such. From there, you can get to the shop, my YouTube video poems, my portfolio on Flickr that I use for art, and Instagram (where I post most of my content these days). I still spend a good amount of time on Facebook, but it's more for keeping up with friends and family and occasional randomness. I do put links to books and share things to keep folks apprised of what I'm up to, along with other freelance writing bits, but promotion is not its main purpose. It's also behind a friend wall to keep out trolls and mansplainers. </p><p>Instagram is where you will most often find me doing promotion-like things on the public side of the internet, though much can be said to approaching even that platform a little differently the past couple of years. More as a way to share work and creative "content" and not just purely as a promo or "branding" (whatever that is or means to you) vehicle. It's maybe more the aims of what I post there vs. what I actually post there. Instead of just directing people to publications and book sales pages, I try to create more meaty things that can be enjoyed wholly via the medium like reels and video poems and poem postcards. While I veered away from TikTok after a month of trying it out last April for NaPoWriMos (it felt a little too wild west and random for continued use, but maybe I will return this April for that. ) I do like video as a potential delivery for words, be that text-driven pieces or audio readings. I actually get a great amount of joy creating the things themselves, which while not scratching the same itch as actual writing or artwork, still is enjoyable in the same way graphic design is or building a website.</p><p>As for the "brand, " I'm not sure. It's a gross word when it seems wrapped up in commerce, but it's probably more innocuous when you view it not as limiting and cutting off parts of yourself but as a way to exist on the internet as a creator in an authentic way. I get that those two things may seem completely incongruous, but I don't think they have to be. I don't believe there is anything to selling out unless you find yourself doing things you don't want to do or for all the wrong reasons. I also think not all platforms are right for all writers. I hated Twitter mostly, so it was easy to walk away amid its downfall, but I do like creating for Instagram and YouTube a lot, so the importance is finding one you like and figuring out how to enjoy it. Many writers prefer not to have an internet presence at all. I think you should have something, even if it's just a link to a public portfolio in Google Docs that tells people where to find you. </p><p><br /></p>kristy bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03831806047965186923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11262289.post-76587996624166906992024-03-01T21:21:00.000-08:002024-03-01T21:25:15.835-08:00secret agents<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2dVNFJZYXMSO7cK4JqGQ8etdWcVXKNG7Dpga3BgpVSpxyHutLXaQ9l-1ZZ7LqpjGA56HsN2CxiP1dPxmfPAdm_z7laJgqHUjPqd7r6qxEpbATfWSYUqOglIKTKQqrAKZn9GXxEN7W0yH_bRUpNuMUBTvbVs_CrVVjNyl-cRF3SwHEXZMOmC85RQ/s1515/Untitled%20design%20-%202024-02-02T010154.671.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1515" data-original-width="1328" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2dVNFJZYXMSO7cK4JqGQ8etdWcVXKNG7Dpga3BgpVSpxyHutLXaQ9l-1ZZ7LqpjGA56HsN2CxiP1dPxmfPAdm_z7laJgqHUjPqd7r6qxEpbATfWSYUqOglIKTKQqrAKZn9GXxEN7W0yH_bRUpNuMUBTvbVs_CrVVjNyl-cRF3SwHEXZMOmC85RQ/w562-h640/Untitled%20design%20-%202024-02-02T010154.671.png" width="562" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p>Last week, I was talking to my lead editors at HD about some recent work and they startled me a little by mentioning that I was a poet (it's not currently in my bio there, which is focused more on decor/DIY writing, but it was when I started) It's obviously not, of course, a secret. since anyone who looks at my website or socials can see it or buy my books. But I also spend a lot of time writing things for other people, far more time than I spend on creative work. And it is a mix of subjects and publications, most of which have their own unique style and voice. But, then again, I'd never considered how the "poetic voice" of my writing impacted those. My editors thankfully encouraged me to bring more of that poetic voice into my pieces, the idea of which I loved, since I had tried, these last two years, to stamp it out completely. </p><p>At first, it seemed necessary since a lot of my work was academic lessons, ie there wasn't much room for me in those. Or by-the-book dictionary entries for the antique site or passages for the real estate site in a sort of breezy neighborhood tour tone. Even my film writing for the gamer site had a sort of formula and media tone we all shared. Then later, even in lifestyle spaces, I read a lot of other pieces to try to match what I saw there. I guess I didn't know writing in my own voice was an option.but I'm glad it is.</p><p>My surprise that I had been found out as a poet was the more curious part, especially since, from the time I started writing when I was a teenager, it sometimes felt like a secret identity outside certain spaces. I was writing poems all along, but I was known more as a newspaper staffer. Then a theater kid. In college, as a lit major or theatre techie, not as much a writer myself, though I did things like public in the litmag and take occasional workshops. I went to grad school solely devoted to lit, then started working in libraries, where I was even more undercover. I'm pretty sure I never talked much about writing when I worked in the elementary school, though I must have since I did get invited to a couple classes to talk about poetry and was picked to judge/coordinate our entries in the district-wide writing contest. (the very same one I bailed on in 8th grade when I tried to write a horror novel and instead turned in an alphabet book.) </p><p>I was pretty slow to reveal it to my fellow co-workers at Columbia. The exception being the librarian, an interim department lead and later a friend, who hired me, who was really excited I was a creative writer and I think, in hindsight, probably hired me <i>becuase</i> of that since the pool was no doubt filled with people with more academic library experience than I had at the time. But soon he was in another department and it was a while before my other co-workers were aware I was even a writer, much less a poet. I was working really hard and doing things like founding lit mags and submitting work, but it probably wasn't until I started the MFA program that anyone knew what I was doing when I wasn't clocking long nights at the circ desk. It still was something I didn't really talk about, beyond requesting occasional nights off to attend readings. </p><p>In my personal life, it was perhaps even more on the down low. My parents and sister knew, of course, though my mom always said she didn't really understand any of it until she came to my first reading in like 2005. Some extended family members understood more than others.But only a couple ready my books. I was winning contests and getting my degree and finishing book # 1. I was seeing someone for a few years who I occasionally shared work and accomplishments with. The only people who really knew me as a poet, however, were other poets. Even as that relationship mostly ended and others began, I didn't exactly lead with the fact I wrote poetry, though if they were around long enough, I eventually at least talked about it, though only a couple ever really read my work in detail. Many were not particularly literary-minded to be honest. This was refreshing and disappointing all at once.</p><p>Even later, when I felt like my poetic exploits were more out there among the people I knew, poetry felt like this thing that belonged to another world, even though I did much to entwine it sometimes with my job, mounting readings and panels and exhibits that occasionally featured my work. There was library-me, who wrote articles and presentations about library programming and promo strategies and how to create a murder mystery. When I pretty much solely drafted our award-winning ACLR application in 2017, a feat that involved countless hours of work, the head of the national organization nearly laughed out loud at the fancy reception we'd earned when our director revealed a poet had wrote the entire thing (though I still think this, and the unending engine of my resentment over many things happening then and not being taken seriously, is why we won--a particular kind of word witchery.)</p><p>Still most days, I don't go about in the world exclaiming I am a poet. My mother, right before she left the care facility a month or so before her death, was one day boasting to the aide who was helping her, that I was a poet and it seemed sort of ridiculous in light of the sort of important work this woman was doing. Somewhat are frivolous, as all art is, and not at all necessary. Mostly because I always feel that no one cares. Or that that sort of work isn't valuable in the world. The real flesh and bone world, not the poetry world. Which I know isn't true, but if I wanted to be valuable I would have persisted in my desire to be a scientist or teacher, both things I gave up and decided to forge a life with words. There's a line in the <i>American Psycho </i>musical that always hits a certain way when I listen to the soundtrack:</p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>"You're not moving mountains. Or changing lives.</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>You're just killing while you're killing time." </i></p><p>Still, sometimes it does feel like I am a secret agent. That I'm like Batman, except I write my little lines and tell my little stories instead of solving crime. Like there's a secret code word all of us poets know and reveal ourselves accordingly. </p><p> </p>kristy bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03831806047965186923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11262289.post-72431101166753663762024-02-29T23:53:00.000-08:002024-02-29T23:53:16.012-08:00notes & things | 2/29/2024<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK9qxknQf1n1TDYQwv3qr81dEMi32FxuEZyUQMa-iPFLqPlHLxEFBx8viAx4gGK7FwVajf_dABZ8B-m19cvJTwXpE3dQpxvxCK7jJwGm0ThPK56NGfNcn0ibuzQCuOqoS8UVHO4g6HmTKm8L2Uk4IZywpwVLd-EbQJXV99lGH1bivgTNG9jP_k6Q/s1333/53508092889_e1d3595150_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1333" data-original-width="1333" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK9qxknQf1n1TDYQwv3qr81dEMi32FxuEZyUQMa-iPFLqPlHLxEFBx8viAx4gGK7FwVajf_dABZ8B-m19cvJTwXpE3dQpxvxCK7jJwGm0ThPK56NGfNcn0ibuzQCuOqoS8UVHO4g6HmTKm8L2Uk4IZywpwVLd-EbQJXV99lGH1bivgTNG9jP_k6Q/w640-h640/53508092889_e1d3595150_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p>Leap Days always feel a little magical. Almost like they don't count. An extra day in the year. An extra rotation that requires nothing especially productive. I've been doing my best working on some DIY articles I need to finish before end of the day, but not much else, which means I'll be up early tomorrow to finish press stuff before I do some more writing in the afternoon and early evening. We have some D&D plans on Saturday, something I never thought I'd be into as much as I am, certainly not at this age, so I won't be able to push anything back and still be able to be lazy Sunday, the one day I try to leave for myself. </p><p>The weather has turned back to more seasonally appropriate, but it's been a busy one, with a couple films early in the week (including the horror brilliance that was <i>Stopmotion</i> and the irreverent fun that was <i>Drive Away Dolls</i>) and a production of Richard III at Chicago Shakespeare Theatre. For discount tickets we had really amazing seats,front center of the dress circle in a theatre that is actually not that big. The whole production had a very Victorian asylum/hospital look I adored and some gender-swapped casting that may have made me more sympathetic to the villain.</p><p>I am also getting ready to launch GRANATA tomorrow and should have the first stack of the final version early next week. I wound up changing the spine color to be different from a color I've used before for the spine of ANIMAL, VEGETABLE, MONSTER, from dark green to a pale gray-blue, A minor change but a pretty one nonetheless. Keep on eye on IG, where I will be posting audio poems, reels, and snippets from the book...</p><p>Otherwise, I am just playing around a bit more with AI snippets in collages (see above) and liking the somewhat monstrous results that may wind up being a fun zine project down the line.. </p>kristy bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03831806047965186923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11262289.post-4533444612546901002024-02-26T10:56:00.000-08:002024-02-26T10:59:00.379-08:00monsters <p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh33Rs6Y39sK_Vo9K-nSjY1mYS2LDwOcfWw59YRmgM_LZ-3PahEUrQX9OEvFGh6yfVLLzRseES1sbvfdaKmm68j5w8W-DYSCs1JprFv3HGRXj-J_mB_d0fCh-eMdiSjMGHpctmV66fVBMTYVUiKD4IJ3-2yRZ6t996orMvKxFGIMr1Rq2LXyrQllw/s2000/53505537894_65db481d2d_o.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1333" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh33Rs6Y39sK_Vo9K-nSjY1mYS2LDwOcfWw59YRmgM_LZ-3PahEUrQX9OEvFGh6yfVLLzRseES1sbvfdaKmm68j5w8W-DYSCs1JprFv3HGRXj-J_mB_d0fCh-eMdiSjMGHpctmV66fVBMTYVUiKD4IJ3-2yRZ6t996orMvKxFGIMr1Rq2LXyrQllw/w426-h640/53505537894_65db481d2d_o.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCkJ9M_GYrksnDWPGf0JCm2ckNVXVuJW7BCg2LlqpgMktUIOwhAjgyvFX3mL7WoWwIZNtRUhIJShkd766uQscGLalixbF5BBpQYPfUi4VHcmYXQA8EOqZydLA9SL2DKbmIiLFPimeLVokymmdDOJ0s4syofjZbOYVaLew-O8B01lTM92J0rHbbtw/s1603/53505537039_1831cf7c9e_o.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1603" data-original-width="1328" height="523" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCkJ9M_GYrksnDWPGf0JCm2ckNVXVuJW7BCg2LlqpgMktUIOwhAjgyvFX3mL7WoWwIZNtRUhIJShkd766uQscGLalixbF5BBpQYPfUi4VHcmYXQA8EOqZydLA9SL2DKbmIiLFPimeLVokymmdDOJ0s4syofjZbOYVaLew-O8B01lTM92J0rHbbtw/w433-h523/53505537039_1831cf7c9e_o.jpg" width="433" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibsmbxkcAe7PQA2IzDr2Zb09weWnYfR3BBAT1-_Al6JH8jvLr2MyGb5uA6v7gnFhD9tFSyQJu1NaeqQ-pmvCTVhrONYqGufrtoVfOiUGaN8mwTAqyccUABjaevOJBPAueJ0a46vIHRvIttKDwcA5tcP2TIW4NLf3nrC4UxzuP7gKJo7i1stdkKlw/s1983/53503981563_8281281194_o%20(1).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1983" data-original-width="1312" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibsmbxkcAe7PQA2IzDr2Zb09weWnYfR3BBAT1-_Al6JH8jvLr2MyGb5uA6v7gnFhD9tFSyQJu1NaeqQ-pmvCTVhrONYqGufrtoVfOiUGaN8mwTAqyccUABjaevOJBPAueJ0a46vIHRvIttKDwcA5tcP2TIW4NLf3nrC4UxzuP7gKJo7i1stdkKlw/w424-h640/53503981563_8281281194_o%20(1).png" width="424" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz3QUgs56EW1_mc6QKILfhxH7ccD4NlcOZG9DkeqXXqrWs5eM4UvA-MtwG1CYYLZetC7Wd3840EuaKEXfHFMbr_vxd2U1OjYjwqoNrxFjdisD7gdbvKaNSwfHYqONCUHySNEYploQKXI1qclf-NrcXDhM9QGVXQAO2pd8nbYCQ1-uzeWv_jvSWrw/s1601/53502946932_5f33b9e905_o.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1601" data-original-width="1328" height="510" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz3QUgs56EW1_mc6QKILfhxH7ccD4NlcOZG9DkeqXXqrWs5eM4UvA-MtwG1CYYLZetC7Wd3840EuaKEXfHFMbr_vxd2U1OjYjwqoNrxFjdisD7gdbvKaNSwfHYqONCUHySNEYploQKXI1qclf-NrcXDhM9QGVXQAO2pd8nbYCQ1-uzeWv_jvSWrw/w422-h510/53502946932_5f33b9e905_o.png" width="422" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxA6yiDE4tSJvS8ijY3-Kp2MezLJqyQTNJ6EwOo2i86x0R3W0TkkoG_a-i6HhzFR8-i2OigxxVA1SxfCnI5q_zdavprQlillKUW9k_osBaZFYK4SZmSmAoE2R269sPLwhEXyujZwpsUY21xz0_9BM_xTQZ_QBcl8FlcUxWwiG76RnPWuTy-zQWCQ/s1441/53502948417_542df5d963_o.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1441" data-original-width="1322" height="464" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxA6yiDE4tSJvS8ijY3-Kp2MezLJqyQTNJ6EwOo2i86x0R3W0TkkoG_a-i6HhzFR8-i2OigxxVA1SxfCnI5q_zdavprQlillKUW9k_osBaZFYK4SZmSmAoE2R269sPLwhEXyujZwpsUY21xz0_9BM_xTQZ_QBcl8FlcUxWwiG76RnPWuTy-zQWCQ/w427-h464/53502948417_542df5d963_o.jpg" width="427" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_NAVMpEyxAH7sFnqlfodRHH6Qxn0xFHDdpdbfXhann9Pu6i57tTOl1b5DR6JyQvPlvID5dYlWT66QWTxio32O5DE2aybHDyMedmvsFpnieig0qtDq3vNCiBTTeNMWc1k5R4NCVkLHa_3Wtw0yZ8lYCtahyphenhyphenHmuMdf56jnsAP6LhGAR1v8xu7RhSQ/s1323/53505228886_018155d621_o.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1283" data-original-width="1323" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_NAVMpEyxAH7sFnqlfodRHH6Qxn0xFHDdpdbfXhann9Pu6i57tTOl1b5DR6JyQvPlvID5dYlWT66QWTxio32O5DE2aybHDyMedmvsFpnieig0qtDq3vNCiBTTeNMWc1k5R4NCVkLHa_3Wtw0yZ8lYCtahyphenhyphenHmuMdf56jnsAP6LhGAR1v8xu7RhSQ/w411-h398/53505228886_018155d621_o.jpg" width="411" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>some recent AI collaborations with collage....</p>kristy bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03831806047965186923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11262289.post-81696485845988853862024-02-24T17:00:00.000-08:002024-02-25T22:41:40.018-08:00doomish and beautiful<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAhQhx-pus9aX5axtYR0ldQV3coVEZvk0TANKEXnAoBG-Tg2XpQ7P6bebkLUQmiEQ2-gDVLulNMnwlA82yemVBgvKJ_5UcocNbKzQIjw7J6ST_S9u3Qgi7p3i1ccuYNTmfhmtJCFpIFufEYfgekEBZMSGinWWlqMbQKxGsfNf12Ox0IaqStdc4rw/s863/gran.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="855" data-original-width="863" height="634" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAhQhx-pus9aX5axtYR0ldQV3coVEZvk0TANKEXnAoBG-Tg2XpQ7P6bebkLUQmiEQ2-gDVLulNMnwlA82yemVBgvKJ_5UcocNbKzQIjw7J6ST_S9u3Qgi7p3i1ccuYNTmfhmtJCFpIFufEYfgekEBZMSGinWWlqMbQKxGsfNf12Ox0IaqStdc4rw/w640-h634/gran.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p>Yesterday's mail brought the proof for <i>granata</i>, which meant spending today, free of other writing projects, marking it up and fixing any margin issues inside. Any remaining pesky typos or off punctuation. This one was a little less tricky with lineated lines instead of prose blocks, but the lines do run a bit longer than I usually go, which meant some additional adjustments. There was also some small movement of images that were a little too far over, and some final typography touches that were simply cosmetic. It's always a joy to feel the final project come together and bound so neatly, especially this one, that started as an indeterminate shorter series of poems in summer of 2022 and eventually grew into a considerably longer project that incorporated over 20 pieces of visual art as well. Amazingly the cover was absolutely perfect this time (I have a hard time centering text when you can't readily see the trim lines in action.) It's even more beautiful on the back cover where you see more of the images.</p><p>As I was slowly sipping coffee and reading one final time through the poems this afternoon, I couldn't help thinking about 1999 once again in particular. Not unusual since we have been taking mini-trips into the cinematic past with the time capsule series each week, but more that it was the year I really began taking a possible career in writing more seriously. Today I sit and scribble notes and update print files on what will technically be my 14th collection of poems (if you count <i>little apocalypse</i>, which is technically just an e-book, but will eventually be in print at some point in the future.) In 1999, I sat at another dining room table, in another apartment, in another neighborhood, and wrote poems out longhand on paper before typing them into a beige word processor that saved work on floppy discs. I was writing a book then, just as I have now, that was about mythology largely. Many of poems then drew from Greek or Roman myths--Daphne, Cassandra, Calypso, Helen of Troy. While that book was terrible and the sort of book you would expect a 25-year-old to write, some of those poems, the better ones, would eventually see print in my chapbook, <i>The Archaeologist's Daughter.</i> Though it may be telling that none would make it into my first full-length several years later. </p><p>In those days, it was a lot of myth and history and fairytales happening in my work. I think when you are a young writer who has barely been out in the world and are only experiencing things through the lens of things you read an learn about in school, it's liable to end up this way. My first published poem in a journal was about <i>Paradise Lost. </i>My second, later that summer, about Salem witches (strangely not even as good as the "Swimming the Witch" piece I'd write a couple years later.) That first chapbook is filled with these kinds of pieces based on art, literature, history, fairytales, and myths.</p><p>In a couple years, I would write about them less, but still sometimes they'd crop up in other places, or at least the feel of them would. Or maybe just that they became more modern or specific. The urban legend poems of <i>Archer Avenue</i>, or the poems in <i>errata </i>about Victorian novels. The next time I'd tackle fairytales was the <i>book of red </i>artist book project (Little Red Riding Hood), then <i>the shared properties (</i>Goldilocks and the Three Bears<i>).</i>.By then, it was less about the fairy tale and more about the modern interpretation. The next time I took on myth, it would be <i>taurus</i>, which was about the minotaurs set in the midwest, the series from which the <i>dark country</i> full-length takes its title. I continued to work with history--the HH Holmes poems, for example, or the Walter Potter series. The artist and dog-girl poems of <i>pelt</i>. </p><p>So it seems natural that I would circle back around to myths for a longer project again via <i>granata. </i>As I was working on them that summer, I kept calling them the "smutty Persephone poems" even though I already had the working title in place. Reading them now, they feel very lush and sensuous, moreso than a lot of what I've written in the intervening year and a half. It's of course, not just Persehone's story, but also that of the Sirens, who were punished or gifted with their transformation depending on who you ask. I begin with a quote from Ovid, who frames it as a gift. But then Ovid may have been wrong. I tried not to be too beholden to the classical age, so these poems move about in time, as all stories about gods would I suppose. A sort of timelessness that smudges the setting a little and saves it from feeling too archaic. When I organized them, I wanted them to feel a bit circular, or maybe more like overlapping circles. The art pieces came fast and furious this past summer, all at once and over several days. They form another layer of circles linked with the text.</p><p>All in all, I am excited to show it to readers, though I realize poetry about Persephone and other Greek influences are a dime a dozen. But hopefully, this little book is yet another stone in the wall of all the books that take on the Greeks, even across great time and distance from the time of the stories.</p><p><br /></p>kristy bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03831806047965186923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11262289.post-69545080915740064982024-02-22T21:48:00.000-08:002024-02-22T21:59:57.473-08:00all the tortured poets<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiia3p7hAdrLcVERznzj0Q3Hpoprq6tOlnZ84JmJb6Ec0pa-6keK5ELgjO2OfqWwOoFasL9mKxeDx0bPa75rYnagPpjFLMTF0208XB1VaPJF3AhHAlURWyOvzlA4OCNIz3gbhyphenhyphenLpOoHw8rkAyqOYS8dj_Ob5EstqFzJt_429fwmjNbPbUpXJIoahw/s1158/528340138_92fd45e9f7_o.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1158" height="589" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiia3p7hAdrLcVERznzj0Q3Hpoprq6tOlnZ84JmJb6Ec0pa-6keK5ELgjO2OfqWwOoFasL9mKxeDx0bPa75rYnagPpjFLMTF0208XB1VaPJF3AhHAlURWyOvzlA4OCNIz3gbhyphenhyphenLpOoHw8rkAyqOYS8dj_Ob5EstqFzJt_429fwmjNbPbUpXJIoahw/w640-h589/528340138_92fd45e9f7_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">A couple weeks back I was both a little excited and a little wary when I heard that TS's new album, coming in a mere two months referenced tortured poets in all their glory. The word "poetry" always feels strange out in the world of pop culture of mainstream news, when all of the sudden we look up from our tiny little desks and readership and everyone seems to be looking for us to have some sort of take or response. It happens every time there's a new poet laureate or during the Biden inauguration with Amanda Gorman's reading. Or poetry hits the news or magazines that people besides writers read. Every time they talk about wildly successful insta-poets and how poetry is such a force. Mostly it feels this way because we've been here, stoking flames for decades, while only the occasional flame-up catches the world at large's attention. It's like people suddenly notice we exist, and yet at the same time, very much do not. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">I am excited to see what she does with it--this literary slant. I am suspicious of pop stars or musicians who write poetry. Not that they can't write good poems, just that they usually don't. Even amazing lyricists sometimes don't quite make that leap to good writing. The sort of things that make you a great songwriter might not mean you are a good poet. Earlier, I was listening to Amy Winehouse's "Black to Black" and the line--</span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-style: italic;"><div style="text-align: center;">And life is like a pipe</div><div style="text-align: center;">And I'm a tiny penny</div></span><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="background-color: white; color: #202124;"><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: center;">Rolling up the walls inside</div><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">and it feels so much like poetry, as does much of her and songwriters like TS and Lana del Rey, but does it translate to the page, which always feels like its different rules and expectations. And yet it's funny because I feel like I am the poet I am because of listening to a lot of great female songwriters over the years, starting with Tori Amos in my early 20s. I always think about Jewel in the 90s, who was also a good songwriter, but her poems, while not absolutely terrible, were the sort of thing you wrote in your late teens, which was actually when she wrote them I suspect. We all wrote those poems. I think with a few more years and some serious contemporary poet reading and she would have been a much stronger writer for the page. When her book came out in 1999, I was writing better poems than in my early 20s, but not the better poems I would write in the next couple of years that formed my own first book.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">But then, I think what I am trying to free myself of is that ivory tower snobbiness of even having the audacity to say what is good poetry. What is crafted and what is shit. I certainly don't belong in that tower. And mostly feel like I have been sitting on the steps and occasionally knocking on the door. So who am I to deny or make judgments on who enters or exits. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Of course, the question must be asked if we're tortured because we're poets, or poets because we're tortured? As for writers, especially poets, trying to fend your way in a world where most people are apathetic about those who create with words can make you feel a little tormented if not under duress exactly...</div></span></span>kristy bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03831806047965186923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11262289.post-49589442845883916502024-02-17T14:04:00.000-08:002024-02-17T14:05:02.716-08:00bonus e-zine for february lovers<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_mW5ZVzuTC5lb0vbxaVEIRuROFRsUTFP7NOCLmOOzLMBGlBpVigR84tb-nUNYynJREwSQRhsejOl0JD9e0tBGz6ji9p8RRRtOPcEj6KAMdZDRB1opBVFb3n6CzGNPbfc1JKpPT18RctCAjZJIbGKXc97oNnpZnarV1wXkb16XfoSKoTKBe8bGXnWo7-gh/s400/slash.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="390" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_mW5ZVzuTC5lb0vbxaVEIRuROFRsUTFP7NOCLmOOzLMBGlBpVigR84tb-nUNYynJREwSQRhsejOl0JD9e0tBGz6ji9p8RRRtOPcEj6KAMdZDRB1opBVFb3n6CzGNPbfc1JKpPT18RctCAjZJIbGKXc97oNnpZnarV1wXkb16XfoSKoTKBe8bGXnWo7-gh/s320/slash.png" width="312" /></a></div><p></p><p>This series of poems started as a Valentine and ended up becoming something else entirely. Previously only available in a tiny edition of 30 published in 2018 and as party of my longer collection in 2020, SEX & VIOLENCE, I am releasing a special bonus e-zine version in celebration of Valentines and twisted love poems this February.</p><p>Read it <a href="https://issuu.com/aestheticsofresearch/docs/lovepoemzineelectronic">here</a>.</p>kristy bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03831806047965186923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11262289.post-46848373627538282062024-02-11T14:52:00.000-08:002024-02-22T21:19:48.979-08:00notes & things | 2/11/2024<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8UUFlsEhtcRUoJkRVJmWm1afC-P-VjzD89gfTrlvp2xwX4k5jGmF7ZEwGHWUiu-79-ZcxOFyd2YnU3butdaUDeUPH9DlZSen3LJ93xg7-psWQ4LPFgvA7IkPWycyUzuALhlhHMlU6KPhGUgyGo8TldshmsiW2-4WSMvgst6j87QF5g7923O4p0A/s700/Untitled.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="698" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8UUFlsEhtcRUoJkRVJmWm1afC-P-VjzD89gfTrlvp2xwX4k5jGmF7ZEwGHWUiu-79-ZcxOFyd2YnU3butdaUDeUPH9DlZSen3LJ93xg7-psWQ4LPFgvA7IkPWycyUzuALhlhHMlU6KPhGUgyGo8TldshmsiW2-4WSMvgst6j87QF5g7923O4p0A/w638-h640/Untitled.png" width="638" /></a></div><br />Despite stolen trees and a week of heftier-than-usual freelance work, February has been mild, with warmer temperatures and even some rain. It's a good sign, the later it gets in the month, that winter will be somewhat more gentle on us. That we will not get huge amounts of snow, ice, or polar vortex kind of cold. Valentine's Day is next week, and we actually get to go out his year, so will be heading downtown for dinner and to see <i>Drunk Shakespear</i>e. The alternative was real Shakespeare in the form of <i>Richard III</i>, which we are still going to try to get tickets for during a discounted theater week, but which seemed a little stark and dark for a day devoted to romance. <div><br /></div><div>I find myself craving chocolate during February, more than any other time of year, and perhaps it's just the association of the holiday, but also maybe my body is craving serotonin more than usual. Chocolate and tea. The latter of which I have plenty of, the former of which I find the apartment sadly bereft of and should remedy immediately. We ordered some paczi's a week early for Mardi Gras last week for a decadent breakfast, some of which were chocolate, though the lemon are by far my favorite, followed by the raspberry. Also croissants. My social feeds are full of colorful king cakes, which I've grown wary of after finding the baby and its promise of good luck in 2020, the luck of which turned out to be covid lockdowns a couple weeks later apparently. If the obligation to bring the following year's king cake to the staff meeting was mine, it was never filled. There never was another staff meeting or everyone in the same room again. Even still, I imagine they are meeting via Zoom monthly, and it's all the same old bullshit.</div><div><br /></div><div>I am progressing slowly on the preparation of the final file for GRANATA, and am finishing up some image formatting tweaks. Hopefully, I can have a printed galley in hand in the next two weeks, though I never know how long to budget for print time (it can take a couple days, it can take up to three weeks.) It's looking good though, and I think we'll still be on schedule for early March. I have a whole bunch of dgp chaps in progress that will also soon be available after the final tweaks in the layouts are ironed out, and then more to catch up from the fall. I am still knee-deep in summer submissions, and if I have something of yours, you are still in the running at this point, with most first-round rejections having gone out and moving well into second-reads of things of interest. Unfortunately, it's about a 100 that I must narrow to under 30, so it's rough going. I hope to have decisions made and all responses sent by the end of March for books debuting late this year and early next. </div><div><br /></div><div>This morning we spent lazily in bed, finishing off the final episodes of <i>Game of Thrones,</i> and once again I am still in agreement that Dani's character arc was inevitable, but do also think that final season was entirely too rushed in getting there. It seemed fitting that I posted a<a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/C3J6ULEsTHP/?img_index=1"> bit of VILLAINS</a> yesterday that was inspired by the Dragon Queen just a little. Tonight is a double feature and pre-Valentines date night that will include <i>Lisa Frankenstein</i>, a stop for pizza at Pequods, and then a late night showing at the Logan of <i>Bride of Chucky</i>, two movies that seem to pair extraordinarily well. </div>kristy bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03831806047965186923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11262289.post-55618757200118990512024-02-09T22:30:00.000-08:002024-02-10T12:26:00.565-08:00midwinter elegy<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLAA2ZBBvfELzvEEEwPlayQwQWtWhKXMj79eez8OmvctnQkQOcULV9_cglBs4rJj84UUQ4RCHz95e2j-IOrhIgVXOz-2a_jNlk3fe8Eox_EnM8jKYldRQdMCMlb2xzaQ-xhhB7OQlgaLIJR48i5QFTSuUWOuQlac54pFFBaU7y3gNRJHcnYR7Rqg/s2000/Untitled%20design%20-%202024-02-10T001357.533.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="2000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLAA2ZBBvfELzvEEEwPlayQwQWtWhKXMj79eez8OmvctnQkQOcULV9_cglBs4rJj84UUQ4RCHz95e2j-IOrhIgVXOz-2a_jNlk3fe8Eox_EnM8jKYldRQdMCMlb2xzaQ-xhhB7OQlgaLIJR48i5QFTSuUWOuQlac54pFFBaU7y3gNRJHcnYR7Rqg/w640-h640/Untitled%20design%20-%202024-02-10T001357.533.png" width="640" /></a></div> <p></p><p>Today I woke up to realize that sometime in the past couple of days, the tree that has been in the courtyard between my building and the row of low townhouses next door (where they have remodeling the unit that once belonged to the Polish couple since fall) has gone missing. Strange for a kind of big tree, and stranger still I had to think for a minute why the area outside my windows looked different. Granted, its been bare for months, much less noticeable in winter months, but still there. The small sapling that occupied the front garden of the townhomes, once barely to the second floor twenty years ago, but until this week, cresting the 4th floor and moving onto the 5th. It wasn't wide, but I occasionally suspected that in a year or two, in full leafiness, it would be close enough to lean out the window and touch it. It was a constant, always losing its leaves in like one day in the fall, and taking until well into May to even begin to bud. I didn't pay it much mind in winter when you had a clear view across the courtyard, but in summer, it offered a little privacy between buildings. </p><p>Yesterday, we slept til noon, and could hear some saw buzzing and construction down below in and out of sleep. I looked out there at one point later from the dining room and noticed they'd moved the fence forward closer to the stoop, but was distracted enough by my full day of writing to not even notice if the tree was missing during the daytime. Now that I think of it, it probably was. At some point yesterday, with my back to the window, it felt like the late afternoon light was different in the apartment, but I wrote it off to lengthening days. Only this morning as I rolled over did I notice I could see the rooftop unimpeded in the view from the bedroom and sat up with a start. </p><p>I'm guessing the sawing yesterday may have been the removal, which probably was felled backward toward the alley mostly, quickly and quietly without a lot of fanfare. It felt like a bad omen, a loss, so much that I teared up and had to chide myself for crying over a tree I apparently didn't even realize was immediately gone. I feel like something I loved, that belonged to me, as much as anything in nature belongs to us, was stolen. I am probably being dramatic and superstitious, and this was certainly an act of man, not nature, but I can't help thinking that two large trees, decades old, fell in the yard of my childhood home in the months before I lost each parent, both huge towering trees diseased and off-balance and taken out by storms and rot. It made me uneasy and anxious today, more than usual. Yesterday was also weirdly stormy for February. </p><p>A couple months back, they had planted two small evergreen bushes toward the front of the steps, so I suppose these will have to be my trees now...</p>kristy bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03831806047965186923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11262289.post-16179935895840264792024-02-06T07:42:00.000-08:002024-02-06T12:17:19.502-08:00villains<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyFySwFwp1qPehwrLbB2j0VPckHS1GYz92A-OXt1NDyLWr6GIhiFopbm9TR9rJ_FjCdKsn3Jo-X8nv7Zipy4nRYQ6oxtwT4tnldlTUEqlAf3RDiHtvCXd64wAtQ8QDZ8tADP9ZFl30ISpWDIIkN00nrjrfPs_NcUl_c0Dan47P1J-aaATKWsNYndBSMBwR/s887/villainscover.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="867" data-original-width="887" height="626" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyFySwFwp1qPehwrLbB2j0VPckHS1GYz92A-OXt1NDyLWr6GIhiFopbm9TR9rJ_FjCdKsn3Jo-X8nv7Zipy4nRYQ6oxtwT4tnldlTUEqlAf3RDiHtvCXd64wAtQ8QDZ8tADP9ZFl30ISpWDIIkN00nrjrfPs_NcUl_c0Dan47P1J-aaATKWsNYndBSMBwR/w640-h626/villainscover.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5ETdq_ZAFYhCYmccKzU42yZQU3MVJOS57moPnr6bYdD-4TMmaENQkJE1Xlh3FPhROb47KLZy6Cc5x02cDV34ltFwCL7oF6n1QPWlwbY9sSrawXOI2odXNnDOQvAAeOuVzaQkCyTBdh0JeRmcK99569QtzmTt6ANZ_GQQXV128fTqYDnYeLIHtJgcEKGQx/s2000/Your%20paragraph%20text%20(4).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="2000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5ETdq_ZAFYhCYmccKzU42yZQU3MVJOS57moPnr6bYdD-4TMmaENQkJE1Xlh3FPhROb47KLZy6Cc5x02cDV34ltFwCL7oF6n1QPWlwbY9sSrawXOI2odXNnDOQvAAeOuVzaQkCyTBdh0JeRmcK99569QtzmTt6ANZ_GQQXV128fTqYDnYeLIHtJgcEKGQx/w640-h640/Your%20paragraph%20text%20(4).png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p>The February free e-zine has dropped and you can read it <a href="http://tinyurl.com/villainspoetry">here</a>. </p>kristy bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03831806047965186923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11262289.post-69712048878772619182024-02-05T21:02:00.000-08:002024-02-05T22:11:49.824-08:00just who does she think she is?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwZCvN_C7iSV6LcSbyFo7r_2Tm2yvZzJXXpBmnwP2uIRkDC2VrsR9B7xpBibgwTziiLlX4KfMvKFuy_k1kfD0ha3nC4Kf9-qj6_1KWYI9ZkFz4z6Ho-ZMaiA5oaJ1V5wHRa9v4FR_STVQwSJY9GdmWSMHcAoxfsZJ2XZt9g3EKbKw0Ci8gd08yhg/s2000/Untitled%20design%20-%202024-02-05T230847.038.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1333" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwZCvN_C7iSV6LcSbyFo7r_2Tm2yvZzJXXpBmnwP2uIRkDC2VrsR9B7xpBibgwTziiLlX4KfMvKFuy_k1kfD0ha3nC4Kf9-qj6_1KWYI9ZkFz4z6Ho-ZMaiA5oaJ1V5wHRa9v4FR_STVQwSJY9GdmWSMHcAoxfsZJ2XZt9g3EKbKw0Ci8gd08yhg/w426-h640/Untitled%20design%20-%202024-02-05T230847.038.png" width="426" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>My mother was a watcher. And by watcher, I mean someone who watched people carefully and observed mannerisms, flaws, details other people might not notice. Though she was not a writer, she probably could have turned those skills to the page, since their tendency passed on down to me, powers that I hopefully use for good far more than evil. One of the things she did repeatedly when I was a child, and a comment I heard her often say, was "Who does she think she is?" It was usually uttered in parking lots, where we waited for my dad to run into the store, and a woman, all ages, all body types, all types of dress was carrying herself just a little too confidently. </p><p>And by confidently, I mean just normally. Maybe breezily or casually. And this may have been her biggest flaw. She wasn't like those of us who are anxious, uncomfortable awkward in life just hoping for the asphalt to open us up and swallow us completely. Certainly not like my mother, or me for many years as a teen, keenly and acutely aware of our body and its size, the way clothing fit or did not fit, how much time we spent pulling fabric away from curves. A women who really seemed to be okay in her body, whatever it looked like. Whatever she was doing. Kind of just existing. While my mother's own body issues plagued her for her entire life, I was not going to let it do so for mine.</p><p>And really, maybe it had not so much to do with body image slone. I watch a lot of YouTube style and thrifting videos, where women bloggers spend a lot of time apologizing or fending off potential attacks about their hair, the detergent they use, what they put on their sandwiches. Which seems silly until you actually look at the comments, and sure enough, they are responding to a sort of watchfulness on the part of other women who somehow like to spend time leaving negativity on other people's videos. This is especially true in body positive spaces, where many comments seem to say, how dare you? Have a body and put clothes on it and enjoy them? You're supposed to be miserable. Shut the fuck up. </p><p>And then today, a Taylor Swift Grammy's win and some news of a new album, and my feed is filled with people who are tired of her being so much and so productive and just everywhere now, she should dial it back. To be less. Take up less space. And really it's the same bullshit. If she seems that nice in real life and is that successful, she must surely be a raging bitch and super problematic, cannibalizing those around her in pursuit of her own glory. She's surely not successful because she just works really hard. </p><p>Not that I am in any way as famous/successful/rich as TS, but even I've felt it in some lit circles, at my old job in the library. That demand that you be less. Write less poems (because how could you be good if you're prolific), promote yourself less, publish less, take up less space, stop doing extra work that really needs to be done or you'll make co-workers look bad. Stop stepping on toes or over bodies that haven't moved in decades. When I was in my MFA and dared win a contest or start a press or publish a first book (the same things my online writer friends were already doing in spades). But still, who do you think you are? </p><p>There is a certain amount of taking up space that you're allowed, especially in any given corner. Especially if you are a woman. Occasionally I hear someone muttering the affirmation "I am enough." and I always laugh since I will usually apologize for being too much. Perhaps mine should be "You are not too much." Too opinionated, too driven or ambitious, too frank when asked a question. I preface new people sometimes, apologizing in advance for personality quirks they will surely encounter if they stick around long enough. Maybe I should be done doing that as well, as should TS for any attacks that she is writing too many songs or releasing too many albums, or just getting too much airtime at football games. That's just way too much space...</p><p><br /></p>kristy bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03831806047965186923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11262289.post-21239239744911584112024-02-02T23:13:00.000-08:002024-02-02T23:13:42.549-08:00book birthdays and ballyhoo<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtput9jQVh92F5Sb-xZvsF9PE5YlzkNW4A8p5WX8F0zsO58zjeqvX-rUjoarBS0DQGFin6ax2PWe93sXTENSYLWyu3elToYyaKPg6JyKFF0_5pB-0Tc-URyj1L7gLrd1LJ7gmVzdZObZ8g5S6oVc4b-MNOt5_MThg9dHCoMCaZdiJj2j-JxW1t5A/s640/girlshow%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtput9jQVh92F5Sb-xZvsF9PE5YlzkNW4A8p5WX8F0zsO58zjeqvX-rUjoarBS0DQGFin6ax2PWe93sXTENSYLWyu3elToYyaKPg6JyKFF0_5pB-0Tc-URyj1L7gLrd1LJ7gmVzdZObZ8g5S6oVc4b-MNOt5_MThg9dHCoMCaZdiJj2j-JxW1t5A/w640-h480/girlshow%20(1).jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />In the fall of 2011, I had kind of given up hope on poetry. I was still in a strange period of not writing very much if at all following the completion of my MFA in 2007, which had soured me on poets having their fingers in my work for far too long. Instead, I was focusing on the chapbook series, which was growing, and the Etsy shop, which was thriving from around 2008-2010 in a way that sometimes seemed frightening and would have me making soap and candles in the middle of the night, spending weekend working on jewelry, and frantically photographing vintage when I had good light in my apartment. It would wane as 2011 went on, and by year's end I would abandon ship for a standalone shop and kind of refocus mostly on books, art, and paper with a few other lovelies thrown in. I had completed my thesis, GIRL SHOW, in 2007 and it had been snapped up by the publisher of my first book, Ghost Road, though the operation kind of began to fall apart soon after, with the official word, due to an editor's health predicaments, they would close in 2009.<p></p><p>I wasn't quite sure what to do with the book then, and sent it only to one publisher who I'd had my on for a couple years and was still relatively new sometime in early 2010. It was a while before it was accepted. Meanwhile I played out my usual personal life romantic dramas and got drunk a lot with librarians every week and placed writing at the back of my mind except for those James Franco poems that I started more as joke with friends. One Saturday in October, I received a very nice message from Black Lawrence, the only place I'd sent it asking if it was still available. I was gobsmacked, since I had long given up hope and possibly even interest in publishing more books at that point (and sometimes secretly wondered if I should be writing at all.) </p><p>Technically, the book was my third full-length (at least that I wanted anyone to see) but it would eventually make its debut at AWP 2014 in Seattle, which after a harrowing 2 day train ride, I landed in underslept and slightly hungover after writer drunken shenanigans (because while writers cannot drink as much as librarians, they try) I had signed my first book excitedly in Atlanta in 2007 and here I was 7 years later with the third book (well technically it was #4 because that slender little book of prose, SHARED PROPERTIES had slipped solicited by an editor in mid-2013, but at the time, I considered it the third poetry book, but the lines would blend and shift over the years.). </p><p>It was shiny and pretty when the first box arrived at the studio a few weeks earlier that January, when I was battling my usual winter blahs and a recently deceased kitty. The cover, which wrapped around slightly around, had turned out even better than I expected, and part of me was happy the book had been delayed since that more recent artwork would not have existed if it had been published earlier on. While the poems inside already felt like the past for me, they were sound and its still something I can stand on. The structure of the book formed very much by my group thesis seminar in the fall of 2006, but most of the changes I had made to please my thesis advisor the next spring to get the thing actually approved had been reverted. I had a had quite the past year 2006 into 2007 on all fronts (mono, rending heartbreak, exhaustion of working full time in addition to classes) and was too tired to argue, but it seems foolish now that I didn't stand my ground.</p><p>Nevertheless, the book that was accepted and published was the version I would have wanted. It was also my most best-selling title with the press and still retains that status today, despite a couple other books that came after (SALVAGE in 2016 and SEX & VIOLENCE in 2020.) BLP is retiring it to out-of-print heaven this year after a strong decade, so it seemed important to celebrate its birthday, especially since it almost never made it out of manuscript, I do have a <a href="https://dulcetshop.myshopify.com/products/girl-show-kristy-bowen">good size stash of copies for sale</a> on my own and you can find them used in a couple places. </p><p>More importantly, however, that little yes that came that Saturday in the fall of 2011 gave me a renewed sense of purpose that maybe not all was lost, and combined with those silly James Franco poems, got me writing furiously again in early 2012 and then I just kept going. </p>kristy bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03831806047965186923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11262289.post-88977864729967905342024-02-02T10:29:00.000-08:002024-02-02T10:32:45.845-08:00not so serious fun<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKkyTVtd-FLnk3TJWYbV2UMy-Yw2H_j1LLif8QRzNMynlfQbshCuQymFlq55ixraFSIaef8MZr3bARRDkSXjkYm6zzgmGc1W7uxKP1ESumleyeNXVdY1isa6jALZ37ohesED2jj375hSeVOw9N4v7mtwqUK_yYL73Oq2INQhuWlXOMDzXUvETlOA/s1601/Untitled%20design%20-%202024-02-02T011212.186.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1601" data-original-width="1328" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKkyTVtd-FLnk3TJWYbV2UMy-Yw2H_j1LLif8QRzNMynlfQbshCuQymFlq55ixraFSIaef8MZr3bARRDkSXjkYm6zzgmGc1W7uxKP1ESumleyeNXVdY1isa6jALZ37ohesED2jj375hSeVOw9N4v7mtwqUK_yYL73Oq2INQhuWlXOMDzXUvETlOA/w530-h640/Untitled%20design%20-%202024-02-02T011212.186.png" width="530" /></a></div><br />When you've known someone for almost a decade, you can rarely shock them. The other night, as we were getting ready for bed and <i>Game of Thrones</i>, J rolling a joint, me moving the cats out of the way that are always perturbed at giving up prime spots, he joked about taking his art seriously (the rolling technique) and I laughed loudly and said I never took anything, least of all art, seriously. This seemed to surprise him, which got me thinking about how artists (writers, what have you) should never take things too seriously, since seriousness seems the antithesis of art. And truly, it didn't occur to me til I said it out loud in that conversation that you CAN'T take yourself too seriously, otherwise it will make you want to cry. Or quit. Or die.<p></p><p>I think maybe there was a time of taking poetry too seriously. Not necessarily the game of it, which was writing, so of course it should bring joy, but the rules of the game of it. The things you are supposed to do or very much not supposed to do as you conduct yourself in the world as a writer. This led to much angst and much vitriol leveled at things that seemed unfair or unjust or just wonky in the publishing world. It played out in real-life conversations with writers in bars or over dinner, on social media, on this very spot you sit. And even the actual writing is perhaps dangerous to take too seriously. It cuts you off from a sense of WTF and WHY NOT? Some of the best writing I've done were projects, like the James Franco pieces more than a decade ago, where I gave my self permission to not care. To not look so heavily with an eye toward making "ART" and yet, they were perhaps some of the truest, most artful writing I've done. </p><p>My journey the last few years, as we weathered covid and my own supreme job dissatisfaction. As people's attention wandered to new things, new platforms, new obsessions, at times poetry in particular (far moreso than art) felt like a losing game. I even found myself unable to read anything BESIDES poetry, which I had to with a box full of submissions. Anything longer or more in-depth made me feel like I couldn't breathe sometimes. This is in some ways still true, though I am enjoying audio books, mostly non-fiction in a memoirish-vein. So I get it, but it also sucks that when you feel like your particular genre is the bottom rung in popularity and are trying to pull even those few dedicated readers your way.</p><p>With art, maybe it's a little better in terms of engagement, but art thrives in play. This week, I've been fiddling a bit more with the robots to help create collages and I am liking the results overall. I'll be sharing these over on Instagram in the coming days and the best part about them is the sense of play and experimentation. There is some serious work in manipulating images and thinking about design, but sometimes you get the weirdest shit from AI generators (see above) that is gloriously lovely and terrifying all at once. Which is maybe all we can expect from art or poetry. As for the rules, we can take them or leave them. Perhaps seriousness comes in just keeping at it.</p>kristy bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03831806047965186923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11262289.post-61694729835739502392024-01-25T22:43:00.000-08:002024-01-25T22:43:17.440-08:00notes & things / 1/26/2024<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivQr2GsMRbHqERUob4v2NQEziIuaT8MOJym2vENgRhOyWUVyyijlwqYRSE2952Vk8IF2iarV4yS5Z4SUGOed9OjYbdzzDPAhMU3V8HlXVXrZxPyIOkyN1TjHU0VRrrxAVh7ACQAtINqD1cNwhTysJGXvtw_UnNnWHp9ofk1wmg2uH8v0Y3FFsGtg/s5184/pexels-alissa-nabiullina-997567.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivQr2GsMRbHqERUob4v2NQEziIuaT8MOJym2vENgRhOyWUVyyijlwqYRSE2952Vk8IF2iarV4yS5Z4SUGOed9OjYbdzzDPAhMU3V8HlXVXrZxPyIOkyN1TjHU0VRrrxAVh7ACQAtINqD1cNwhTysJGXvtw_UnNnWHp9ofk1wmg2uH8v0Y3FFsGtg/w640-h426/pexels-alissa-nabiullina-997567.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>The cold weather has mellowed a little, leaving fog behind that makes every day look a little like some English mystery. I half expect hellhounds and Loch monster to emerge at dusk or dawn. Even with the warmer (and by warmer, I mean leveling out slightly above freezing) I hope we've had the worst of it, but experience tells me otherwise. Februaries and even March can be snowy if not quite as frigid. Outside a couple movie outings (the time capsule screenings at Alamo for <i>Audition</i> and <i>Galaxy Quest</i>) and a couple more this weekend. I have been staying close to home writing and making books and working my way on my own slowly through <i>AHS: 1984</i>, which is much better than I expected given reviews while it was on. </p><p>I am about ready to finalize the publication file of GRANATA in the coming week (hopefully) and if so, will be on schedule still for a late February release. There are images involved, so it will no doubt be a little more complicated than previous book projects. On Instagram, I've been mostly sharing some older work from my early collage days, many of which I only have digital files of, having sold most of the collages in the early Etsy days. There are regular paper collages, assemblages, an artist book, and some installation projects. All created when visual exploits were very new for me, so they are a little rougher than work done later. </p><p>I am floating in between written projects currently, having finished up the very last of the witch poems I started in the fall and have been sharing regularly over on Instagram as well. I am still uncertain where these poems belong..there are a couple longer manuscripts crudely constructed, but this may not fit in either, but I don't know until the second one tales shape more fully. RUINPORN, the one that is mostly done, still needs a lot of work and help later this year. The second I've been turning a title for over in my head, is maybe two series so far, the villain poems and the urban crypto series. The witches and the governess poems may be a third, or may just as likely not be. </p><p>I've been thinking about the concepts of wintering and hibernation but also noticing that at 5pm, there is now a bit more light still left in the sky when a few weeks ago, there was none. Winter may not have its hooks out of us yet, but its time is more limited. I did (finally) put my tiny tree and wreaths and garlands away (the tree had burned out shortly after the new year and I was loving the lights on the garland near the tv too much to remove them.) But as usual, after the holiday stuff comes down, the living room feels bare and darker than usual, much like the landscape outside. I've been fending off most of the winter blues with tea and fancy meatloaf cooked by J and more <i>Game of Thrones </i>carefully tucked under the more serious winter comforter in the bedroom. </p><p><br /></p>kristy bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03831806047965186923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11262289.post-70375385979714522552024-01-21T14:54:00.000-08:002024-02-22T22:49:12.194-08:00time capsules<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-AjPW6fN2bYWWxvHcVDiZ6gljtuR0ymExhBMq9GmhN7oV1RGTkMxB6HawNbrnbjsQNBoRUWOoJ47dPmBX7U_j8GitRV9bS95pdV2ktqmQTrUjm3iqw6HjjTtqcutx_N8E72rOi_WHjT9zxfRkYPuk4kJ4CYQah3hZn9SRMFtxeUtrp9CD6IRZYA/s2000/archivesendplate%20(1).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="2000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-AjPW6fN2bYWWxvHcVDiZ6gljtuR0ymExhBMq9GmhN7oV1RGTkMxB6HawNbrnbjsQNBoRUWOoJ47dPmBX7U_j8GitRV9bS95pdV2ktqmQTrUjm3iqw6HjjTtqcutx_N8E72rOi_WHjT9zxfRkYPuk4kJ4CYQah3hZn9SRMFtxeUtrp9CD6IRZYA/w640-h640/archivesendplate%20(1).png" width="640" /></a></div><br />One of the reasons that we have been catching so many older films is a series at Alamo that takes a single year and programs selected films from that particular year. Currently, it's 1999--so we got a chance to see <i>Being John Malkovich</i> last week, which will be followed up by <i>Audition, The Matrix, The Talented Mr. Ripley,</i> and some others in the next month or so. While my own personal 1999 is tucked away in print journals for the most part, it was a strange year of transitions. I didn't catch most of these movies in the moment in theaters. 1999 was the year I finished up my MA degree and started my summer-long search for a job. When I moved back to Rockford briefly and into a gorgeous apartment with a sleeping porch and glorious floors I eventually could not afford to keep. When I took two jobs I left after the first day (one at lunchtime the day I started) The first selling ad space in a film publication, the second as a production assistant at a small local rag under a tyrannical editor whose staff lived in fear of him. I was only 25, but even then, I somehow knew to get out of bad situations cleanly and quickly. I remember my mother telling me work was not something you enjoyed but something you endured. <p></p><p>I would start working at the elementary school library that fall, and I think our only trip to the movies in my broke-ness was to see <i>The Blair Witch Project</i> with my sister. Summer was long that year, split by moving back in with my parents and into the room I had vacated two years before. That fall, and through the next year, I was always tired from getting up for school hours, but the work days were interspersed by things like day-long fishing trips, where not being a fisherman, I would lay under trees and sit at picnic tables and write stories in notebooks I still have. I read a lot of young adult books I brought home for fun, made a lot of amazingly creative bulletin boards. Read stories dramatically for rapt K-5th graders. Mediated battles over the first couple <i>Harry Potter</i> books. That winter, we rang in the new millennia and everyone was only half worried that the world's technology would come grinding to a halt (it obviously did not.) </p><p>While the internet was familiar, with no computer at home, I would spend my brief lunch break and sometimes after school using the web to check in on <i>Poets & Writers</i> forums. I still read magazines and books and the newspaper, though, for the bulk of information. I didn't submit much during that year, though a few publications came out that I'd lain seeds for the spring before while still in Chicago. I detailed my days and thoughts in one of the many Mead composition books I kept through college and beyond. I felt like I was treading water, and I really kind of was. I would turn 26 the next spring and have a crying fit in the DMV parking lot over my sorry financial circumstances. A year later, around Thanksgiving, I would put in my notice, and move with only a mattress and a few pieces of furniture to the apartment I still live in now. To the job I just left a couple years back and ultimately the life I enjoy now. </p><p>It would be several years until my first book or chapbook was published. More years until my experiments began in visual art. 1999 was more a year of floating. I remember I was determined to complete my first book by my 25th birthday that spring, and oh what a book it was, thankfully gone with the floppy word processor disc it rode in on. It was also the year of my first real journal acceptance and publication (that was not a subscriber's issue, vanity anthology, or related to a college lit mag.) I wrote a lot of poems in the spring (some survive in my first chapbook, T<i>he Archaeologist's Daughter)</i> but turned my eye toward fiction in the summer. By fall, work/life balance made it hard to write at all.</p><p>Many of the films we are seeing this winter, I caught in the intervening years on DVD or streaming, but just as many not, but in their age, they feel like remnants of a time that doesn't exist, of a world that we only remember existed a certain way, but then again, maybe it never really did...</p>kristy bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03831806047965186923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11262289.post-73537695353678204032024-01-19T14:28:00.000-08:002024-01-19T14:28:13.123-08:00the importance of story<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsA55GVF-JUcmU3Mr3GtZmxBIi411alz-Lz2iEuF_GP5EbgNHP9jj_F6Mv6vG3Joqifg5p_NVSoqlbmYUxgLLP1aB81n8lPbFL1TeED3pFGQmKlpW9aaTYt6YwJJeMNPv7q7KGPidSb_4chkWdOq4bAn7fJgVoif-XAgpSw1_TeQcQLCs4yP__3g/s6720/pexels-karolina-grabowska-4248604.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6720" data-original-width="4480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsA55GVF-JUcmU3Mr3GtZmxBIi411alz-Lz2iEuF_GP5EbgNHP9jj_F6Mv6vG3Joqifg5p_NVSoqlbmYUxgLLP1aB81n8lPbFL1TeED3pFGQmKlpW9aaTYt6YwJJeMNPv7q7KGPidSb_4chkWdOq4bAn7fJgVoif-XAgpSw1_TeQcQLCs4yP__3g/w426-h640/pexels-karolina-grabowska-4248604.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><br /> I've been thinking about narrative lately and the importance of story and storytelling in my work. Especially in light of some more fiction-ish forays I occasionally dabbled in last year and have hauled out for some edits, but also when it comes to essays and poems and even visual work.While they use slightly different muscles, even the things that don't necessarily have a language or text element to them still feel like a narrative or story of sorts. It is still a way of creating and delving into an imaginative world, just coming out in a different form. Like if you took an apple and made different things from it--some juice (a poem), applesauce (a picture) a cake (an essay), a pie (fiction). Different things combine in different ways.<p></p><p>I am always curious about the education of fiction writers, having only taken one fiction workshop when I was 19. I was in no way as absorbant at that age, and really would have preferred it maybe a decade later when I feel I would have been more open to take things from it and use them wisely in my main genre. Instead, somewhere, there is a file folder of bad short stories about the sort of things you write about as an undergrad--maybe not terrible, but certainly not that good. The instructor once commented that my sentences were way too long and Faulknerian and perhaps I was better suited to be a poet. I sort of already was, sending out terribly skinny and spare missives (though thankfully, the year of rhyming *yikes* I was saving for a couple years later.) I had written a one-act play that won honorable mention in a contest for young playwrights at the very end of high school, but, beyond quite a few drama and theater history classes in college, I was no better in that genre. By the time I took poetry classes, I was very good at some things, but also terrible at others. This did not change until I was in grad school, despite a steady dose of reading and novels in the intervening years, but very little poetry beyond the usuals--Dickinson, Whitman, Eliot. And of course, Plath.</p><p>To hear most of my classmates--both in undergrad and my MFA classes in poetry-- story and narrative was not important (and dare I say wholly unfashionable in the sort of experimental lyric or langpo world I was steeped in.) This may have been part of my difficulty in finding people who could agree on what a decent poem was. Or even other poets to talk with about story and storytelling when it came to this genre. Perhaps it may be also why I historically gravitated more toward prose poems and hybrid work than traditional verse. </p><p>But poems are perhaps the best place to find stories and narratives beyond the lyric moment or experiments in sound and language. Or maybe poetry has a space where something can be all three at once, Or at least I hope so. </p>kristy bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03831806047965186923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11262289.post-39743375827329770072024-01-17T01:29:00.000-08:002024-01-17T01:30:05.539-08:00movies about writers writing movies<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBf9kavdrvxH2NJqxrHqV5-fQJgfWJnlp1A4uqCM5NVTp43u0qG9_7ZE4K2LJkGazGU75mh9V3LuVdBcMfx9vP4lQc5DxbZVBIj35TKsJVxpTR_RQ5AnQkSyONMVMbfsvw6tAv6Mhw88QoDUYlOJg-5CKXsHRGLA1TGA8QwswgpoM9Lmu9ajKA5w/s5616/pexels-leah-kelley-952594.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3744" data-original-width="5616" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBf9kavdrvxH2NJqxrHqV5-fQJgfWJnlp1A4uqCM5NVTp43u0qG9_7ZE4K2LJkGazGU75mh9V3LuVdBcMfx9vP4lQc5DxbZVBIj35TKsJVxpTR_RQ5AnQkSyONMVMbfsvw6tAv6Mhw88QoDUYlOJg-5CKXsHRGLA1TGA8QwswgpoM9Lmu9ajKA5w/w640-h426/pexels-leah-kelley-952594.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />Last night, after a week's delay due to our colds, made it out to see <i>American Fiction</i>, which looked to be comedy-heavy in the trailer, but actually turned out to be both a great satire of the literary and film world, as well as the bonus of a really good family drama. Some of the struggles in the movie were related directly to the black experience it is centered around and the ridiculous expectations for black African-American writers, but other parts were painfully familiar I imagine for all writers of all races and cultures.<p></p><p>Writers on film are always laughably unrealistic and sometimes at the same time, sobbingly familiar. A couple months back, we watched <i>Adaptation</i>, and though the genres are different, both of these felt similar in their critique of the publishing world (especially where it links up with the film world and its own ridiculousness.) Poets rarely make the screen, and when they do, it's morose biopics of the most tragic and/or glaringly idealistic (ie, the husband in <i>Mother!</i>)</p><p>At the same time, after I watch these sorts of movies--the discussions centered around audience desires and trends and how to conduct yourself as an author in the world, my occasional feelings of invisibility actually feel like a relief. Yes, no one is paying any attention at all to the poets in the grand scheme of things, and yet, *gleefully whispers* nobody is paying attention. It's the ultimate place of freedom when the steaks are so alarmingly low. If my next book is drastically different from the last "successful" one, it's probably the difference of maybe a few hundred bucks in direct book sales, not a steep advance that will never pay out and critical annihilation that can taint you going forward. For every reader you may lose, you may gain more. I remember when <i>the fever almanac</i>, my first book came out, a couple reviews mentioned that they did not like <i>in the bird museum</i> as much. But other people ignored the first book and loved that one. Or loved the next. (though the joke is on book #1 because guess which one is still actually in print?) What is probably my bestselling book (and by that I mean maybe 300 plus copies) was <i>girl show,</i> which more closely resembled my first book, but which recently fell out of print with the publisher after a strong decade. The rest trail behind, though it was <i>shared properties of water and stars, </i>published in 2013,<i> </i> that perhaps got the most critical attention, but not the most sales. At some point, I stopped looking for logic and took whatever came as it may. </p><p>With self-published titles, I can see a little the dynamics of driving book sales. The more work I put in, the more it usually yields in terms of copies sold (I haven't yet took any of these books on the road to readings since the pandemic hit and everything has been zoom since.) The results and failure are a little bit more immediately visible rather than waiting for publisher statements and royalty checks (tiny ones at that.) Becuase no one is hoping to make money on poetry in general, least of all me, it's almost a relief. There will be more books. They will sell or they won't sell. I will keep on writing. </p><p><br /></p>kristy bowenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03831806047965186923noreply@blogger.com0