The Bibliomancy Oracle

Are you familiar with bibliomancy? Bibliomancy is the use of books in divination. The concept is that literature contains “truths” and speak to matters of great importance. Anyone who knows me knows I love to divine all sorts of shit.

In the beginning of the year, the OTHER Rebecca was giving bibliomancy readings on FB the old-fashioned way, using physical books from her library. Mine was:

“Are you a good witch or a bad witch?”

Everyday I ask myself that question. I intend on spending the rest of the year contemplating it.

There are a number of online oracles that I like and use to varying degrees, but I can't say that I LOVE any of them. But I love the idea of online oracles and I love books -- so one of the ways I've been spending my sabbatical is creating the kind of online oracle I'd like to use.

Here it is is: The Bibliomancy Oracle


It will answer all of your questions using the powers of literature and synchronicity. It is never wrong. Ever.

can I suffer and tweet at the same time?

A recent horoscope suggested that I don't squander my awesomeness on old hurts. I didn't take its advice today and squandered a bit of my awesomeness. For the greater good, I told myself, but probably not when it's wasted on deaf ears. After the squandering, I dreamed that I saw myself lying on the floor of a jail cell. I thought, I need to tweet that shit, but paused. If I'm tweeting about my incarceration, is it really that serious and worthy of comment? Can I really be suffering and oppressed, if I'm tweeting? I considered tweeting in C's voice as if he was announcing my jail news, but that seemed dishonest. I don't think I figured out what to do regarding my very compelling tweet announcement. (End of scene)

Another recent dream involved my trying out for something like American Idol except Roger Ebert was the judge. I waited all day in a line with a woman I sang next to in middle school chorus. I didn't know why I was trying out, I believed my voice not to be special, possibly not any good at all. I figured I was there so I might as well go through the motions. I did my do ra me warmup and popped in a few Tic Tacs to address my gnarly morning breath. The woman and I were the last people to be given a chance to tryout. Ebert was very friendly and chatty. We talked about how we remember Tupac in a certain way because he died so young, he remains still in time, but Snoop Dogg on the other hand . . . I was like "yeah, Snoop does guest appearances on a bunch of my son's Nickelodeon programs. Twenty years ago white American was terrified of that guy and now he's considered so tame, he entertains children. How times change!" We had a good chuckle then a bunch of dudes came and started taking the stage apart. Ebert said we better hurry up and sing while we still have our chance. I realized I didn't have a song, but the other woman did and she started singing "What a Wonderful World." Ebert motioned for me not to just stand there like a dope but to join in, so I did. Then one of the guys who's taking everything apart starts singing the song, really loud, drowning us out, which is kind of obnoxious because this is supposed to be our tryout and then ANOTHER guy joins the song and they change it to a song about how lesbians shouldn't have children. Shocked and bewildered Ebert, the woman and I stand there with WTF? expressions. (End of scene)


I do walk around with a semi-permanent WTF expression or at least the WTF feeling most of the time. Maybe it's because I'm almost 40 and becoming disconnected (happily, I think) from the "new/up-and-coming/young" as much as I feel disconnected by the generation before me with what I consider to be their warmed-over, no longer relevant debates they occasionally still rehash. Then there's my own generation, don't even get me started. While I still try to follow conversations the literary types are having, I'm becoming more and more puzzled. Like a confused senior citizen who no longer understands how to operate her modern television. How did this become that? sort of thing. What do they think I need that for? Who on Earth would ever use that? And most importantly, How did "What a Wonderful World" get co-opted by a bunch of entitled jackasses and become "Lesbians Shouldn't Have Children"?

Am I in this strange transitional space where I'm neither young nor old? Should I listen to my elder Ebert and speak/sing up? Should I even engage the jackasses? Would that change anything? Can I speak without engaging the diseased elements? If I stay quiet, does that mean they get to rewrite the song into their own illness and rule the world with it?


Just some questions I'm pondering these days.


p.s. Apologies to any olds or youngs I may have offended in this post. Please forgive me. I'm new to middle age.

I love you, I forgive you

The first quarter of my year long nothing-but-my-own-writing sabbatical is almost through and I'm thinking yeah, maybe this needs to be a 2-5 year sabbatical. I haven't written as much as I hoped and dreamed, but I'm writing and happy with the direction. I'm allowing myself to remain open too all sorts of direction, no matter how dopey or unsettling. Create first, discern later is the new motto. Since God Damsel, I became too critical and kept stalling myself before I even started. The negative voices were in major overdrive and sometimes I couldn't write more than a sentence before dropping a piece entirely. Now I reply to those voices with simply I love you or I forgive you and keep plowing on.

Yes, that's right, I'm regularly loving/forgiving her, them, er, me. Whoever it is I'm responding to.

I'm not sure if these voices have quieted because they feel acknowledged and accepted or if they just find my responses excruciating and no longer wish to communicate, but hey, whatever works. My demons are my new bffs.

So far I've only sent out a handful of submissions, just to a few places that invited me. Testing the waters so to speak. The work is bizarre, demented, fill-in-the-blank. Yesterday somebody on FB was going off on poets who don't use proper capitalization in their poems and that brought in a bunch of comments like "guess those cool avant garde kids were too busy skipping English class." That hurt my feelings. First of all, eschewing standard capitalization in a poem doesn't make one avant garde. I'm not exactly sure what does, but I'm pretty sure it's a bit more than that. Second, I was a good student and I didn't skip English class and I wasn't especially popular in high school either and I don't go around calling myself avant garde because I use my own set of grammar rules for my poems, so project your high school insecurities somewhere else. We're grown ass poets, so let's live and let live.

Speaking of going back into time, recently an editor from a new magazine that hadn't yet published its first issue invited me to send work. Now magazines with no past issues put out by editors unfamiliar to me can be tricky because it's difficult to surmise what the final product will be or what it is that they're looking for. After "That's Not Butter" appeared in BAP years back, I got a lot of invites to submit from newish magazine editors who, as it turns out, were only familiar with that one poem. When I'd respond with my latest and greatest, they'd often be like uuuhhhhh . . ., you know, like they responded to my profile on a dating site that only had a picture of me from 10 years/400 pounds ago and I showed up to our date as the Stay Puft Marshmallow in drag. That's OK. An invitation to send work is just that, an invitation to send work, nobody is promising anyone publication. In more cases, I do better sending work unsolicited because I take the time to discover and get to know receptive venues.

Despite these past experiences, I still work under the assumption that an editor who personally invites me to send work, is to some degree familiar with my work. This particular editor's inquiry did demonstrate that he was familiar with some of my more recent work so I sent some for consideration. I heard back not too long later saying that he and his co-editor wanted to take one of the poems but had some editorial suggestions. I opened the file to find that they basically workshopped my poem like I turned it in for an undergrad intro CW class. They standardized all the capitalization (of course) and cut out entire sections dealing with an icky penis monster (yes, I believe my poem passed my test and earned its penis) and the only other monster with references to sex.

Now, I'm not a magazine editor anymore, but back in my day, I wouldn't have accepted a poem that I felt needed such extensive editing. I would have passed. I didn't have to think very long before I wrote back and thanked him for his consideration but I was not interested in making the edits. I went on to write that if they didn't want the poem as it is, I'd rather pull it. I got it, the poem didn't fit their editorial aesthetic. It happens. In my case, it happens a lot.

I received 2 guilt-trippy responses from the editor. He told me how disappointed he was. He said the edits were to start a conversation with me about the poem. That's all fine and good, but by the edits they suggested it was clear that they wanted to change my poem into something very different and I didn't want that. I would have been receptive to editorial suggestions that approached the poem for what it was trying to accomplish, but not suggestions to give it some socially-acceptable makeover colonic. I didn't know what else to say except my vision for my poems comes before publication.

If changing my poems meant $$$ for my mortgage, I'd be more willing to sell out. But as it stands . . .

I'm probably going to distort something Rebecca Loudon commented on Kevin Andre Elliott's blog years ago, but I can't find it now. It was something like, you get to a point as a writer when you know who you are and what it is that you're trying to do -- it's a point where influences that don't really belong no longer carry the anxiety they used to before you knew.

Ok, she said it a lot smarter and better than that, so Rebecca if you remember what it is that you said 12 billion years ago when people used to keep poetry blogs, please note it in the comment field.

Whatever it was exactly that she said, the idea made a deep impression and I feel like I've been slogging to that point over these past few years. Yes, deep down I want everyone to think I'm brilliant and love my work, but it has to be my work, not someone else's idea of what it should be.

That's right, I love you and I forgive you and Damn girl, you smell gooooood.

yes

Craig Santos Perez sees the best minds of his generation destroyed by Facebook and he's quite right. Many of us have become incredibly boring. When I say many, I include myself. I am now very boring. I felt it coming on a couple years ago. I tried to fight it. Boringness won.

You know what? I'm sort of happier. I sleep better. It's been over two years since I've dreamed of being served a bloodied flacid penis in my spaghetti. I don't mean to brag, but generally, my dream-time penises have been waaaay less creepy. I suppose I can't blame all my dreamtime pecker woes on blogging and worry about pobiz. It's probably only around 90%. The other 10% is dealing with fiction writers.

It's certainly not all roses at FB. At this date, I recorded 47 FB dreams and they aren't roses and moonlight. Most of them involve looking like an asshole on FB. Often me looking like an asshole. FB brings a level of high school anxiety. Why did the editor of an anthology where my work appeared not accept my friend request? Did so and so really mean to unfriend me? Was it personal or a general culling? Am I annoying? Why did three family members unfriended me? Why won't my cousin accept my friend request? Are they all talking about me? Are they jealous because I'm so very cute? Am I better off without them?

Answer to all questions: Yes. Even the "why" questions. Especially the why questions. Why? Because YES.

It can kind of drive you nuts, if you let it. So I do these mental exercises where I try to drive away the petty anxiety and leave room for the real problems I should be shitting myself over. Like that squirrel tail I found yesterday while cleaning leaves and brush in the front yard. Where's the rest of the squirrel?

YES.

Anyhow. I saw the link to Craig's post on FB. I "liked" it, but I didn't "share" it because that was too much of a commitment. I might tweet it. But I need to think more on it. If I do tweet it, should I tweet it using the official No Tell Books or my personal account? I am on sabbatical and I don't want to give people the wrong idea that I'm willing to be engaged on pobiz matters. These are subtle, tricky waters to navigate and it's so very easy to unintentionally give mixed signals.

I shall not encourage pobiz.

FUN FACT: The two most common search phrases that bring people to this blog: "metal mouth james bond" and "andre the giant daughter"

I didn't know Andre the Giant had a daughter.


My boring blog doesn't mean I don't ever have interesting ideas. I think I still have a few.

For instance, after reading Elisa Gabbert's December perfume column at Open Letters Monthly, I'd been meaning to respond. In fact, not a week goes by where I don't think about giving Elisa a piece of my mind and publicly accuse her of smoking potpourried crack for writing "It manages to smell both grown-up and girlish, such that you can imagine a mother and daughter happily sharing a bottle." about Diane von Furstenberg's Diane. I had a response that was something like, "after smelling DVF's Diane I longed for the days when G was in diapers because a baby's ass is the only appropriate recipient of that powdery stench." Then I'd make some cheap dig on Elisa's MFA because, why not?

YES.


That's interesting, right?

YES.

Baby's asses and MFAs are classic blog gold.


But is it really worth it to start a blog blood feud over DVF's latest shitty scent? A few years ago I would have said YES! Now I'm feeling very ~~~~meh.


Is anyone, aside from Elisa, interested in hearing about my most recent perfume acquisitions? (Note to Elisa: sorry for all the name dropping, but you're one of the few still interesting and relevant poetry bloggers in existence, I gotta milk our association for all it's worth. It's because you're not on FB. It's your superhero power. It's why I'm targeting you.)

Caudalie Fleur de Vigne: I love this! I bought it last week in Paris and it was way cheaper over there. But the scent doesn't last. How can I make it last? Should I mix in some olive oil?
Betsy Johnson Too Too: Supposedly this one of those young lady perfumes that I'm too old for.
Privet Bloom Eau de Parfum: This is a spring/summer scent. My winter scent is Benefit So Hooked On Carmella. I'm a bit turned off by the Hamptons marketing.
Vera Wang: Why do they market this scent for brides? I get that Vera Wang is known for wedding dresses, but you're only a bride for a day (or several). Wouldn't marketing it as "the scent to get a husband" or "keep a husband" make better business sense?
A bunch of the Toccas: I got two gift collections for Christmas. My favorite is Cleopatra. When I want to smell like a pleasant old lady (about twice a month), I go for Florence.
Guerlain Aqua Allegoria Jasminora: This makes me feel fancy.

There's more, but those are the highlights.

Am I completely irrelevant?

YES.


As for G, now that he's a grown ass man of 7, I have to be more respectful of his privacy. Last summer he laid down some ground rules. I am never to use his full first name anywhere online (blog, FB, Twitter, etc.) without his permission. But I am allowed to refer to him as G whenever I want without having to ask permission. Pictures are OK too. I think because G understands how incredibly good looking he is and that's something that should be shared with all the world.

So I leave you with two pictures from last week. We were in Paris. G's old man and my ball/chain, C, was in Europe for two weeks on work, so we decided to meet up with C during G's spring break.






A rose is a G***** is a G*****.

portrait by Didi Menendez

Didi always creates such lovely portraits. I love this one. I look so pensive and DEEP. I can't help but to look at it and think Ooohh, what is she thinking? Whatever it is, I bet it's fascinating!




Here's the portrait from start to finish.

I have some poems in an upcoming MiPOeisas Magazine. I really am writing on my sabbatical. I think I'm gonna stay on sabbatical for the rest of my life. It's awesome. I bought a sewing machine and some how-to-sew books. As of yet, I have not figured out how to operate my sewing machine. I'm kind of embarrassed to admit this cause it blows my whole deep and fascinating cover. But I will learn how to operate my sewing machine, even if it means signing up for all day sewing classes. Then everybody will be all like, Oh my gawd, she made that dress? Put her on Project Runway!

Just as soon as I figure out how to get the thread on my bobbin.

is this really my first post for 2012?

Why yes it is! As I recently tweeted, the year didn't officially start until I dreamed of Rauan Klassnik and that only happened a few days ago. Whenever I dream of Rauan I know I'm in a very special dark place that is guaranteed to lead to somewhere psychically horrific. I can't wait. In this dream Rauan dropped me off at a psychiatric hospital so I could pick up my meds. There were a lot of poets in this hospital. Gasp. I know. One poet tried to discourage me from buying a dozen chocolate doughnuts, but not only did I buy them, I reported her to her manager. That's right, don't stand between me and my psychic doughnuts. The sweetest part was that Rauan was still there waiting to pick me up when I finished with my doughnut business at the hospital. Good thing too, because I left my purse with all my money in his car. So now you're wondering, if Rauan had my purse, how did I buy those doughnuts? Beats me. Obamacare?

This year's sabbatical is going well so far. I've written more these past two months than I did in the past two years. I don't mean to gloat, but the relief I feel right now knowing that I'm not going to AWP in a couple days--it's like I burned every ill-fitting bra I ever owned.

I'm a lady poet, hear me wheeeeeeeeeeee.

I'm recording dreams with poets almost every day. That is, when I'm not dreaming of the Hunger Games.

Wheeeeeeeee.

Here's a poem in Map Literary that I managed to write during my 2 year dry spell. It's a rarity and due to scarcity it will likely become very valuable, so you should probably read it. Wheeeeeeee.

guess the dream poet - part 5

Guess which poets listed (or possibly omitted) in the below dream anthology belongs in the blanks.

* * *

__Poet 1__ is in the bathroom. I'm hiding and giggling with __Poet 2__. We see a pile of baby bottle nipples underneath __Poet 1's__ bed. I tell __Poet 2__ that __Poet 1__ is sort of obsessed with feeding babies since he and his wife adopted one. __Poet 2__ says that he nastily went after her step-mother. The stepmother was an outspoken proponent of breastfeeding. I tell __Poet 2__ that's probably because __Poet 1's__ wife had such a difficult time breastfeeding, he probably saw her stepmother as a threat. But now I'm wondering, where is their adopted baby? Do they even have that baby anymore?

* * *

I'm talking about _______ with some women. They're telling me how he's not sexy anymore. I'm a little surprised. I remember his sexy calves from just last year.

* * *

_______ is making some kind of poetry video. He and his father chase a small airplane that's driving down a street. They jump on the back wheels and hold on. Then they're inside the plane. As the plane cruises up and down the road, he and his barrel-chested father take turns hanging out the window topless, just like if they were cruising in a car. Some women find this sexy.

* * *

In a math class. I can't figure out how to do a simple equation. I keep getting one of the parts wrong. This is something I used to be able to do but I've forgotten how and can't seem to learn it again. The teacher is making me learn again. I'm frustrated. At one point _______ is here. He/she seems really disappointed or in disbelief that I can't do this. I wonder if I have some kind of brain damage. It almost would seem like a relief -- to have a legitimate reason for why I'm struggling.

* * *

_______ is my mother. She's just returned from being in prison for 2 years. I'm a teenager and there's a lot of friction between us. We're living in a giant, beautiful mansion. I tell her I'm going to the bathroom. I go inside and a minute later she comes in, because it's the door into her bedroom. I yell at her that I told her I'd be in there. Every time I try to sit on the toilet, I notice another door that's open, and go close it. Some of the time I can even keep the doors closed. _______ yells at me that I've been in the bathroom a long time. I scream that I just want a few minutes on the toilet with some privacy, is that so much to ask for?

_______ wants me to go to my therapy appointment. I want to go, but I'm not ready and I argue with her on the balcony outside of my bedroom. I challenge _______ to a fight. I say "come on, let's go, prison rules!" not only showing that I'm not afraid of her, but I could give her the prison rule advantage and still kick her ass.

* * *