Memoirous

The latter part of September (the days and months blurred together before finally moving!) I participated in an online panel titled: What We Talk About When We Talk About the New York School: Online Symposium (September 2022): For pandemic-related and other reasons, lots of our members were unable to travel to Paris for our spring symposium. We held an online symposium in late September, in order to hear from some of the poets and scholars in question. The symposium featured poetry readings from Greg Masters and Matt Proctor, and talks from Wojciech Drag, Jane Hertenstein, Susannah Hollister and Emily Setina, Marcella Durand, and Molly Murray, as well as some free-flowing discussion and questions at the end. The programme of talks and readings is attached, and you can watch the event on our website or our Youtube channel. Though I’m proud of my contribution, I feel as though I could look a less washed out. I did try—I wore make up—I thought about lighting and previewed myself on-ca

It has been a week, in the new Tiny House. Meanwhile . . . we have had fall, early winter, and Indian summer. The leaves peaked and are now falling. Profusely, in great piles, in a lush carpet, in a crunchy substrata, a golden blanket. Right now it looks like Oregon, with a light rain falling against a background of tall pointed pines. From my writing desk I can gaze out onto the back decks and across to my daughter’s house. to her cozy kitchen with glass sliding doors where she is arranging flowers picked up early this a.m. from a wholesaler. The baby naps. We are slowly settling into a routine of domesticity. Nevertheless, each night as I climb the ladder up to my sleeping loft I can’t get over that I’m in my own place. Already I have gotten mail—the first sign I am in residence, that I am here. That here is home.

Is nothing new for me. I slept in a loft in Chicago for over 34 years. I love that cozy coffin feel of slipping in and scrunching up. Granted I’m only 5’2”, and light on the ladder. The first night in the Tiny House I decided to sleep on the floor as my ladder was in transit. It was a long fitful uncomfortable night. The floor is ceramic tile and cold. In addition, I never sleep well the first night in a new situation. I blew up a camp mat, nevertheless, my back was stiff and sore in the morning. I was determined to spend the next few nights up in the loft, despite the rickety cast-off ladder pulled from a neighbor’s trash I’d use to get up there. It is an exercise in faith and folly as I wobble up, the whole thing swaying as I climb. Coming down, the same. Last night as I tucked in I thought: I feel safe. Complete. Content. The reality of boxes, my stuff strewn about, the puzzle pieces of my life seeking context are for a moment suspended as I turn on my light, pull up the cover

Isn’t quite the case. I have water, just not out of a faucet. I bought a 100-cup water reservoir (imagine a big-ass commercial coffee maker) where I draw water for washing, cleaning, cooking, etc. Right outside my front door is a garden or former garden (next year) anyway, I can toss gray water out there. It is a sustainable lifestyle with little waste. It just takes more time. I know after awhile a routine  will set in and things will become second-nature, but for now every step feels a bit intentional. The composting toilet from Nature’s Head made in Findlay, Ohio appealed to me on many levels. One) it was made in America and also in my home state of Ohio. My purchase was keeping a local company and local person employed. 2) I read the reviews and saw that it came highly recommended. The point is to separate the solids and liquids. What smells the most is the urine. I’ve become way more intuned to my bodily functions and—again—intentional. When going number two there is a trap do

Moved in. I am literally walking around boxes. Each step is a landmine. I keep repeating to myself, Everything will have its place. It has to, it’s a Tiny House. But it is mine. The scenario . . . 15’ x 15’, 225 square feet, with a loft bed area 15’ x not quite 4’. Expenses still being tabulated but somewhere just south of 10K to get it up to rustic cabin status. No running water—more about this later—a composting toilet with shower facilities next door in main house. The most expensive thing so far was the mini split heating/AC unit, which at the time I thought I’d never need that many BTUs, but these past couple of days have been raw, rainy, and blustery, the kind of weather that once out in it you think, I can’t wait to get inside with a cup of tea/coffee/hot chocolate and wrap my cold hands around a warm mug. So, yeah, I’m appreciating the efficient heat. At first I worried (as I worry about most stupid things I have no control over, the very essence of what worry is) when

So I lied: pictures are still forthcoming. Sorry. It’s just when I’m at the property and working I’m very focused on getting things done in the small amount of time I have—and energy. I’ve been doing ALL the heavy lifting of moving by myself. Not trying to provoke a pity-party, it’s just about time and resources. My roommate leaves me her car when out of town, so for the past week I’ve been busily packing and hauling using a 4-door Nissan. Obviously not everything is going to fit. Yesterday morning in a hurry to get out the door and to my daughter’s in time for her to leave for work at a flower event in Lansing, as I was carrying a filing cabinet downstairs I felt something. A pang? A tear? Definitely a strike team of pain. It was almost like colors in front of my eyes. I set the thing down and said, oh boy. I might need to slow down. But, then the other half of my brain reminded me that I NEEDED to take advantage of having the car. So, of course, I picked the metal filing cabi

It feels like I’m doing it all these days—enjoying the clear blue skies of a ripe October, bicycling crimson-leafed paths, geese on the pond in the early morning mist, the turkey and deer families grazing alongside the sidewalks. Plus, getting the Tiny House done. Wednesday was a day of great progress. I could tick some worry boxes off the list. [x] fan issue resolved, remote installed [x] paint on shelves that I thought was peeling, resolved (it’s not really, just needed to cure) [x] shelves and cabinets hung [x] shortened my basket units for under the counter/loft storage [x] free Persian wool rug off FB marketplace [x] smoke/carbon monoxide detector installed as well as remotes for HVAC In addition, I’ve been taking a 3-hour class online every Thursday night from OCWW for the month of September—my last one is Thursday Oct 7 with Rebecca Makkai. Plus continuing to submit stories to editors and agents. Not only have I opened the door and window to hope—I’ve been building the house t

It seems all my time and energy (when not working at the bike shop) is going into getting into my Tiny House haven by the end of the month. One would think I’m taking on the lion’s share of the work—but no, all I’m really doing is lying in bed at night worrying and keeping track of the ticked boxes. I’m not the one wielding the hammer, installing the smoke detector, hanging cabinets. I can be counted on to clean the floor, sweep up sawdust made by the real workers. Namely my son-in-law. I wish I could do the carpentry, electrical, drilling etc. Then I would have control. This whole process of having to rely on others, their schedule, their willingness, their being okay with giving up their day off—is the opposite of who I am. I’d much rather work like hell on my own and get it done. This isn’t even a collaboration as I have no skills to bring to the table. I’m forced to wait and let the thing come together as the days and weeks pile up. This is hard. Meanwhile—I was over at the