Conversations

I am not a very good conversationalist. I checkout out of conversations and rely on stock phrases to appear interested:

That’s funny.

Interesting.

You think so?

How do you mean?

Maybe.

Really?

Eloise, my fiancée, calls this Autopilot Chris. She even has games she plays with me when she realizes that I am not fully committed to the conversation. Most of the time it’s nonsense, and when I feign interest in the absurd or overtly perverted remarks engineered to get my attention, her point has been proven well enough. Occasionally, she will throw our daughter’s toys at me. Or knock whatever I’m reading out of my hands.

 

In groups I often feel like the only way to contribute is talk about myself, and even I grow tired of that. Most of the time.

 

In groups of guys, I usually have nothing to contribute to discussion. I don’t like sports; I don’t drink or smoke cigars. I’m a head nodding master.

 

Formalities escape me. I can forget to ask someone how they are, in as little time it takes me to respond to the same question. I will prattle on about something I’ve done or am doing and not realize that whoever I am talking to has been saying:

That’s funny.

Interesting.

You think so?

How do you mean?

Maybe.

Really?

Sometimes I don’t even care. I just like to hear myself talking.

I value my opinion more than most other peoples, which must mean that I think what I have to say is more important.

I don’t listen enough.

I write this blog, which isn’t a conversation, really. It’s really just me talking and some of my friends and family reading (which I am super thankful for).

I write poems.

I’m a horrible conversationalist.

 

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Record a conversation between you and someone else.

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Confession

The following is a fictional account of a true story:

 

The confessional crowded in on Jacob and a low pressuring light made him feel sticky with sweat. “Why are you here my son?” His voice was smooth and captivating. Jacob felt like he could trust him immediately. The way he trusted that if he broke a mirror he would get seven years bad luck. The way he trusted if he stepped on a crack he would break his mother’s back. In the same way if he couldn’t say the prayers this man gave him to say, he would go to hell.     

“Forgive me Father for I have sinned.” Jacob felt like crying.

“What is it that troubles you?” he asked.

Jacob kept his eyes on his boots and dredged up every time he could remember that he had ever been called bad and told the Father: every incident where he had been grounded, spanked, sat in the corner at school, or put in time out at his babysitter’s. He told him everything.

When he finished telling Father Ferrell his sins he felt dirty and exhausted. He told the Father doing all those wrong things made him feel guilt-ridden, nervous that he would go to Hell for doing them.  But really he had no idea what that meant. “Do you feel sorry for your transgressions?” Father Ferrell asked Jacob.

“Yes Father.”

“Then go and repent. Say the Lord’s Prayer four times.”

“Yes sir,” Jacob said.

 Father Ferrell was silent and when Jacob glanced up at him there was a delicate smile on his face. Jacob pulled open the door and walked up towards the altar. Jacob saw Sister Crump sitting quietly with her rosary draped over hand in the pew behind the rest of his class mates. Had she told Father Ferrell that he didn’t know the Hail Mary, how else could he have gotten away with no Hail Marys?

Our father who art in Heaven, he began and finished the prayer.

Our Father who art in Heaven, he began and finished a second time.

Our Father who art in Heaven, he began but stopped a little over half way through.

He didn’t even start the last.

 

 

 

A confession requires the following: a confessor, someone or thing to hear the confession, and a shared understanding of what is right and wrong and the consequences of having done something wrong. Usually there is an attempt at absolution, but the confession itself is separate.

 

The confessor could have any number of motives for confessing. Like Jacob above, the confessor could have an overwhelming fear for one’s self. That is, Jacob felt, at least at first, that his soul would be damned without confessing his wrongdoings.  The confessor could feel genuinely guilty for the wrong they feel they have committed. These two I feel are the most common reasons for confessing, though there are many others:

 

commiserating with someone else’s guilt or fear

manipulating someone’s perception of you

believing that a confession will lessen the atonement

 

 

There doesn’t seem to be any rules as to who can hear a confession. Undoubtedly some will be better trained than others. Typically the person will have some knowledge of the severity of what is being confessed. Their reaction is everything to the confessor, who has come specifically to this person anticipating, to some extent, what the outcome of the confession will be. Jacob anticipates that he will be asked to recite a prayer or a number of prayers and this will give him absolution. Other anticipated reactions:

 

a murderer confesses and is put in jail

a cheating husband confesses and finds his clothes on fire

 

These scenarios have a clear perception of right and wrong that has been established. Even the person who uses the confession to manipulate understands that there are perceived “rules” that were supposed to be followed. A second-grader (Catholics give their First Confession in the second grade) like Jacob would confesses breaking the rules of his parents and babysitter and teacher because those are the boundaries of right and wrong that make up his life. When he doesn’t follow directions he gets punished:

 

timeout

spanking

grounded

bed without dinner

 

I think part of the reason Jacob never finished his prayers, never achieved absolution, is that the reparation for not sharing, for being too loud in class, for throwing a tantrum didn’t seem to be related to knelling in prayer and certainly not Hell.

 

Poetry follows all of the above when it is confessional except that the audience does not get a chance to ask for reparation. In this way a poem I think that a confessional poem is the confession and the absolution.

 

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Write a lighthearted confessional poem.

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Humor

There is a scene in Julius Caesar after the death of Caesar, when Brutus and Cassius are arguing over honor. It is an intense debate in which Cassius tells Brutus just to kill him. Chest bared and dagger pointed at his heart, the melodrama could hardly be thicker. Couple this with the many times Cassius tempts the heavens to kill him, says he’ll take his own life, if he needs to. When the argument begins to cool down, a poet interrupts the scene, and begs the two to stop feuding. Brutus and Cassius make fun of the poet and his bad rhymes. Brutus, the honorable man, even calls the poet a “jigging fool.” When the poet final exits unceremoniously, the scene turns back to a serious discuss of war tactics. In teaching my students to understand this scene, we talked about comedic relief as transition between two serious and dramatic discussions, a brief break after a climactic moment.

 

For my writing, this scene reveals to me how self-aware Shakespeare must have been. After all, Shakespeare, poet and playwright (maybe synonymous terms in his day), had realized there is a power in understanding how people can apply a lamentable part of a whole (all poets try to force bad rhymes on people) to an individual. The ability to laugh at yourself can free you from the confines of your roles, in a way that is pleasing to the audience and liberating for the mind.

 Next week I'll be thinking about confessions.

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Make fun of yourself in a poem.

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Half Tuck

These days I put my pants on last, remembering

it wasn’t always my body resisted folding over itself.

How recently it prefers the ease of straightness

and, perceiving the lack of gymnast’s grace in tumbling

while putting on mismatched socks, wants to sit

on the edge of the bed while I stare down at my toes,

slide them into a pair of slip on shoes, imagining

ten sleek divers and no splash.   

Roles

There are the ones you choose, and the ones you don’t. All have models for success and failure. These are my roles, the models I follow, and how they impact my writing.

 

Son

I was born into this. Oh, how I have failed, disappointed, and abandoned. Oh, how I have succeeded, made proud, and returned.

Reader

 

Maybe my oldest chosen role. I read for pleasure and to learn. I’ve developed a system for reading that allows me to read all genres. Teacher and reader go together. In fact, my initial reason for wanting to teach English  was because I would be able to read books for a living. Reader and writer go together. I learned this from my brother, who, while I was content to just be a reader, encouraged me to write too.

 

Student

 

I tell my students that I have been in school my entire conscious life. Even now I take summer classes. Sadly, I am not the best student. I often slack on homework, procrastinate, settle. This blog is a weak replacement for an assignment given to me by my poetry mentor. I was supposed to write every day, not once a week. I am eager to learn and eager to please, I don’t know if that makes up for my shortcomings. I plan on being in school for the rest of my conscious life.

 

Teacher

 

I chose this role when I was in high school. I have been teaching for two years now. I like that there are clear guidelines. A good teacher does this, this, and this. There are the standards and etiquette. Systems you can study and learn. I get paid for this role. The pay is worth it.

Gamer

 

This is a role that I’m trying to let go. It consumes my mental space and my time. I enjoy playing games. The strategy involved has made me a sharper thinker. I met my best friend while learning to be a gamer. He taught me to take games seriously. Each action counts. Doing your best counts, even if you know you’ve lost.

 

Writer

 

In the seventh grade I won a poetry award for a poem I still remember:

 

The dew on the grass waits

for the sun to break

the barrier of darkness.

 

I remember writing it, and reading it to my teacher and her saying it was very good. Who knows if I’d even be writing this if it weren’t for that encouragement.  I was delighted that she found my writing pleasing. Still, I want my writing to be primarily enjoyable. I try not to put any constraint on my poems or thoughts. By this I mean, I avoid writing as social activism. I enjoy the story telling aspect this role, the humor and the pain of telling about life. My models for this are Stephen Dobyns, Katerina Stoykova-Klemer, Billy Collins, Anis Mojgani and the list goes on. These people capture life simply and complexly.

 

Friend

Being a friend is one of the hardest roles of all. The expectations are often murky. The relationship built along the blade of a knife. It requires energy, awkwardness, trust, respect, a shared history or future. I have to believe I can learn from my friends. They have to have some admirable quality that you wish to see replicated in yourself. I’m fortunate to have many good and great friends.

 

Husband

 

Coming Soon.

Brother

 

I have two sisters and a brother. I focus mainly on my role as a brother to my brother. There is much violence in this coming from Greek mythology, Christian mythology, our history. There is competition. There is a deep and physical love, and a desire to better one another. The poems I write about being a brother have a hard time capturing the volcanic relationship.

 

Father

 

There is more space in this role than I can ever fill. Even in my poetry I have a hard time exploring it. I think about my father a lot, his physical absence. I think about the physical absence of a God. I want to be, and am, present in my daughter’s life, but that’s not even the hard part. In the beginning of her life I felt unnecessary. I didn’t provide sustenance. Now that she is growing and learning more and more each day, I have more to offer. I focus on these smaller roles within our relationship as I write. I am the bath giver, hand holder, book reader, nighttime comforter, silly song singer, and so much more.

 

Next week I’ll be thinking about humor.

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Write a poem addressed to the person who gives you a role to fulfill.

 

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Daughter

 

Teach me the meaning

of both hands stretched

toward the sky: your balance

abandoned as you cast

yourself into a room

full of light and toys.