Hidden in a home far from my own, a treasure lay buried, waiting to be uncovered, waiting to be rescued. The day it was discovered, the treasure pleaded not to be discarded.
My friend heard that plea and lifted the treasure in both arms. She knew how I had hid my own treasures, how I polished them in secret over the years. She had heard stories where I reminisced over lost treasures. In her heart, she sensed the treasure in her arms would fill the void of my lost treasures.
She loaded up the treasure and brought it to me, keeping it warm with an beautiful, old wool blanket.
The treasure lay on my desk, out of breath. It needed time to adjust to its new home.
One warm, sunny day, I took it outside for its first bath. Compressed air pushed cobwebs out. Tweezers pulled out twigs and craft supplies. I brought it back in just as raindrops started to fall and laid it down to rest on my desk. Time for it to rest up and catch its breath.
Last Sunday, I packed up some copies of Bubble Fusion, some bookmarks, snacks, and whole bunch of homemade mints. I got in the car with my oldest daughter and drove off to Ottawa in the darkness before the sun rose. OK. Let’s clarify that last part. Yes, it was dark when we left, but it’s always dark at 6:00 am in October around here.
Anyway, off we went with a GPS that didn’t know how to find Lansdowne Park in Ottawa. We had to enter an address that was further up the street on Queen Elizabeth Driveway. I worried that relying on an ancient GPS that gets lost just going to the Laurentians was not the best idea.
Thanks goodness we have something nowadays called Google Maps! I printed out those directions and brought them with us. Any discrepancies? Oh yeah. My daughter and I looked at each other and decided to listen to the print out. Excellent decision. With only one left-hand turn and two right-hand turns, we found Lansdowne Park.
I met many wonderful and interesting people! The organizers, the fellow authors at the different booths, and the people representing different companies were all so friendly.
As for the people who came to the Expo, well, they were incredible, too. Most were from the Ottawa area, I’m sure, but there were a few exceptions. There were people from as far away as Holland who showed up! Yes! Holland! People from Montreal also drove down to Ottawa for the event!
I would love to thank all the people who stopped by my table, shared their stories with me, and enjoyed my daughter’s homemade mints. I enjoyed every single last story you shared with me.
Last weekend, I participated in a poetry marathon. It was the first time in two years.
In a movie marathon, people watch a series of movies, like Start Wars, all in one sitting. It is a relaxing way to become exhausted.
In a running marathon, people run long distances as fast as they can. It is an exhilarating way to become exhausted with a sense of accomplishment.
So what exactly is a poetry marathon? Do you read poetry? Yes, a bit. Do you discuss poetry? Yes, a bit. Do you talk with other poets? Yes, a bit.
Most of the time, though, is spent thinking, reacting, writing, researching, erasing, rewriting. There is at least one prompt that goes out at the start of each hour and the participant has to write something by the end of the hour. A sense of urgency is felt in some hours, especially when sleepiness takes over in the middle of a poem.
It is a mind boggling, emotional journey, that leaves the participant exhausted with a huge sense of accomplishment. After all, poetry is not easy to write and to write a minimum of 24 within 24 hours is nothing short of phenomenal.
Another aspect that makes this poetry marathon incredible is that it is open to anybody, anywhere, as long as they have Internet. It is a marathon of writers from all around the world. The opportunity to encounter new points of view, to make friends, to join new groups of like-minded people is literally right at your fingertips.
It has taken me almost a full week to recover, probably because of the lack of coffee and snacks I took in during the event this year. My slower recovery might also be because I am older than I was last time.
Was it worth it? Yes, it was definitely worth it. I managed to write thirty-eight poems. Not all of them are any good, but thirty-eight poems written over a course of two months might not produce better results. They all need editing. The ones that are beyond editing to help them along might be useful as jumping points for something more meaningful.
Would I do this kind of marathon again? Well, considering that I have participated in a half marathon and this year was my second full poetry marathon, I think the answer is simple: of course!
I stood at the 39 km mark and cheered on the runners who had lots of strength left in them and seemed to skip by, runners who looked determined every time a foot touched the ground, runners who struggled to take their next step, runners who could barely breathe, and runners who mustered up just enough strength to walk.
It was on this 39 km mark that I noticed a few characters running in the opposite direction of the runners. Each character wore a smile. Each character moved lightly and looked like they were floating past.
Who caught my attention? Superman, Batman, and bumblebees in bright yellow tutus. The bumblebees held my attention the most. It might have been because they were bumblebees. It might have been their tutus. It might have been the joy they exuded; they did exude more than the superheroes.
These ballerina bumblebees hunted the downtrodden runners, sat with them, cheered them up, cheered them on, lifted their spirits, and got them to stand straight and head down the road to finish the race. They did this not for themselves, but for the runners and for the spirit of the marathon.
Real bumblebees do the same. They hunt the lonely flowers, land on them, spend time with them, gather pollen, and visit the next one. Yes, they do this to gather food for their hive, but, on a larger scale, they are doing this so that more plants grow, which means all animals, all people, have food to live.
Let’s never forget the black and yellow bumblebee. Cheer on those flying bumblebees any way we can when we see them and when we don’t. Let’s become ballerina bumblebees and cheer each other on. After all, we are all running a series of small races in this marathon called Life.
I have been thinking about what scares us lately. How does it feel? What makes us scared?
As a mom, there are a million fears all related to children and their future.
There’s also fears that are coupled with anxiety. Will the catwalk give way and send me plummeting to the cement floor below? Will I fall out the window when I clean out the sill from the inside?
To shirk ominous clouds off me, I remind myself: I am afraid of flying, yet I took the plane; I am afraid of new places, yet I went to a place I had never seen before. Because of this, I saw things I never would have seen. Like the gnarly old tree with the bush growing on it, the faces I see in the branches both dead and alive.
Fear. Something to think about. Something to overcome.
unsure of the world unsure of what to say unsure of what to do I stayed my tongue tied with observation thoughts built up ideas thoughts raced furious thoughts dared spill over I stayed my mind eyes of observation sure of my thoughts in air sure of my thoughts in words sure of my thoughts in ink I freed emotions posi-nega-tive I freed all the chains posi-nega-tive imagination held joy I could not find in misfit worlds in misfit schools in misfit jobs I spilled ink on paper posi-nega-tive I found here I lived best posi-nega-tive I gained serenity rules sure of what to do sure of what to say sure in my world
Bubble Fusion has two main pieces of art attached to it: the photo of me on the back and the cover. (Actually, the photo is also here on this website.)
Let’s start with the photo. I knew I would be needing a photo for the book and various sites. I found, through word of mouth, Ben Di Nunzio. I asked him if he would mind taking my picture. He was more than happy to oblige. We met one late afternoon and he took a lot of pictures of me outside among the trees, which is where I feel the most comfortable. The more time we spent together, the more comfortable I felt with him, the more I realized we had a few things in common.
I was nearly done working on Bubble Fusion. I needed to have a cover to go with the book. I tried one cover with a different artist, but it didn’t do the book justice.
By the time the book was done, I had a better idea of what I wanted on the cover. However, I wasn’t 100% positive it was a great idea.
I decided to call Ben up again to ask him for his advice and then decided to ask him to create the cover for me.
He came up with several different pieces of work. Some were beautifully elaborate. In the end, we both decided the one with multiple bubbles intersecting, or fusing, with each other was the most representative of the book.
The bubbles represent the feeling that each one of us is trapped in some type of bubble. Some people are unaware of it and have no problems communicating and connecting with other people. Others are acutely aware of living inside a bubble and make conscious decisions to let people in or to ask them to leave.
Bubbles approaching other bubbles are people meeting each other. Overlapping bubbles indicate a closer relationship.
The bubbles on the cover also imply molecules coming together to create something or, in this case, someone.
As for the font used on the cover, well, Ben Di Nunzio went the extra mile. He drew the unnamed font on the book cover. Here, again, he pulled the concept of bubbles into the text.
There you have it. The answer to who took my photo and the answer to who did the cover art.
Back in early January, I saw a posting that was looking for people to perform at an event to round off their series of activities for mental health awareness week. I looked for what I thought would be the best three poems that would be appropriate for such an event and submitted them, thinking nothing would come of it. After all, there were going to be other artists, musicians, and poets applying to perform. I really have to stop listening to that doubting side of me.
I had never read any of my work in public before. I have submitted my work to online journals and anthologies, and have been accepted. To speak my words in front of a lot of people was something completely new. Panic struck me when I realized what I was going to have to do.
My timidity is exponential in relation to the number of people in my vicinity. In other words, the more people are around the shyer I become. So, panic is a normal reaction when I know I am going to be speaking in front of a group of strangers.
I knew I only had 5 minutes to be on stage. Should I read all three? Timing them proved that would not be possible. Should I read the two short poems I submitted? That would take at most two minutes. Or should I read the long poem? That poem, depending on how I read it out loud, is anywhere from four to five and half minutes. Should I read something else? Should I even go through with it? If you read this paragraph as fast as you can without taking a breath at the end of any of the sentences, you might get a glimpse of the panic that ensued inside me.
February 1, 2019 I headed down to the Mental Health Coffee House. It is a cute little place inside of Montreal Arts Interculturels, which houses a nice art gallery. I will have to go back just to visit the gallery. There were a few snacks there and lots of water.
Bit by bit people came in and sat down. The musicians and poets were all young. Some were more comfortable than others going up to perform. At least, the comfortable ones might have just looked the part; I have no idea what was going on inside them. I heard so many wondrous singers. Their music had words that held real meaning. Their melodies were rich and calming. The poets read with strong feelings and spoke truths that most people dare not to admit in pubic. Complete honesty.
Another nice thing to see was the audience. They were warm and receptive to the performers. The atmosphere was conducive to calming all people within the walls. Mind you, it also helped that two of my friends were able to make it to the event, too.
When I went up to read, I was still nervous, but I wasn’t panicked. At least, not at the same level I had been in all week. The mistake I made was not to ask for the microphone stand. Sure I had no instrument, but it is really hard to turn pages with a microphone in hand! I don’t know why I didn’t ask for it; the stand was just standing there on the side. In any case, I glanced at my two friends from time to time during my reading. That helped to keep the nerves away. One of them snapped pictures of me, although I somehow missed seeing her do that. I didn’t miss seeing my other friend pick up a copy of the poem I was reading and read along quietly.
What poem did I decide to read? Well, I decided to read Upstairs, which was originally published on the online literary journal Soft Cartel. It is based on a recurring nightmare. I thought by writing it out, it might make it go away once and for all. Originally, I tried to write the recurring nightmare as a spooking or horror flash fiction since I always woke up winded from it. The more I looked at it, the more I revised it, the more I realized it was not flash fiction. It was a poem. Granted, it is a rather long poem, although not in the traditional sense of a long poem. A real long poem is usually between 3600 and 7200 words. Upstairs is a measly 362 words.
Do I want to expose my words to more people by letting them listen to them? Do I want to stand up in front of people and read some more? Absolutely! It was a wonderful feeling to know that I can share a part of myself and be appreciated by many different people.