The Skinny

Many of you, over the past 2 months, have emailed me or phoned inquiring about my second book. As I have become good at saying: "I cannot talk about it." A few of you out there know the scoop, but you also know why I haven't publicly said anything.

In December of 2004, I began to get worried about my book being published because I hadn't even seen galley proofs. After 4 attempts at contacting the publisher, I did finally get the proofs, but it would be basically the last exchange between me and the publisher. The book was slated for an April 1st release. In January, no one had even worked on the cover. I had purchased the cover image from the Louvre, but nothing had been done with it. Then I realized that the Fall 2004 books still hadn't come out. I became more nervous.

I contacted the publisher a few times but got no response. Finally, in early March, some of the Fall 2004 books came out. I knew that there was no way my book could come out on time because production had stalled (if it ever really began). I wrote again to them, emailed, telephoned, faxed, but got no response. In mid-March, I decided this relationship just wasn't working out. It just isn't possible to work with an organization that isn't communicating. I wrote to them asking to terminate my contract. This is where the lawyers came in and why I couldn't talk about this.

I sent in the request for termination. Days passed and there was no response. I sent in a follow up letter. A month passed and no response. I was then instructed to contact various people in the process of the book's production, etc. I did. Finally, after giving them 2 months to respond to any of my queries, I wrote an official letter declaring the contract null and void for failure to abide by fiduciary terms of a contract. I followed the lawyers' instructions to the letter. The press had until today to respond by registered mail. Since they didn't, the contract is declared null and void. I have demonstrated that I have tried in good faith to communicate with them, and I have demonstrated and documented their lack of response. So, it is now finally over. I am free to find a new publisher. I am not happy about any of this or the expenses incurred, but sometimes things just don't work. And, as my Mom always says, everything in life happens for a reason. So, now you have the skinny. I haven't been secretive just for the sake of being secretive. I have been simply doing what I needed to do to move on.

So 1990's

The weekend has flown by quicker than I would like. We fly back to San Francisco tonight. Overall, it has been a nice escape. Last night, Jacob and I went out to dinner. The chef created a vegetable entree plate with a mushroom ragout that used lots of mushrooms but not portabello mushrooms. To quote Jacob: "I'm sorry, but I just don't like portobello mushrooms. I mean, portobello mushrooms are so 1990's."

Tommorrow is the last day of submissions for the season. Hopefully, within 6 weeks, all the submissions will be cleared and summer will be officially here for the magazine. Sometimes, we get so many submissions in the last week of May that it takes us 8-10 weeks to clear them all. We'll see. I have 6 poems to send out myself. I used to keep a list of magazines that read over the summer, but I think it is woefully out of date now. I guess all I need to find are 2 magazines that read, and that will take care of the six poems. I just don't have the time right now to deal with that. I used to be so good at sending work out. Recently, my submissions time has been used up sending out my second book ms. to editors who have asked to consider it. More about that tomorrow. I am so glad tomorrow is May 31st.

Thanks to all of you who sent in suggestions for great honeymoon spots. I am going to investigate some of them. But come tomorrow, I need to deal with my practice's schedule and a pile of paperwork. When I decided to go into Medicine, I imagined there was no business stuff to deal with. That seemed so appealing. I was so naive. I think it hard to avoid business stuff in any field.

Playing Hookie

Despite all the warnings that the airports were crazy, we flew out of San Francisco without too much trauma. The flight was 20 mins late, but we made up time in the air and landed only 7 mins late. We were both really tired and just turned in. This morning, after 7 hours sleep (a lot for me) I woke up all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. It is just too hot to hang out outside by the pool. So, we have been air-conditioned boys. And that is just fine. I have done nothing related to work. No reading for NER. No writing or think about poems. No expense reports for the practice. Nothing. And boy is that a good thing. I feel like watching 20 hours of television, and I might just do that!

Driving home from work yesterday, I saw the strangest thing. The car in front of me on Sunset had the following bumper sticker: "VOTE FOR PEDRO." At first, I though: "Huh?" But then it hit me where I had seen that before, and then I laughed out loud in the car.

We are busy trying to figure out where to go for our honeymoon next Spring. Right now, we are thinking either Cruise to Alaska and through Glacier Bay or Photo Safari in South Africa. Bali is out now because of the tenuous political tensions there. I think we want natural beauty, but I am not that interested in being immersed in The Nature. We know how I feel about The Nature. It is why I will never be caught dead camping! Any other ideas out there about gorgeous places in the world?

TGIF

My day yesterday ended up being much longer than I originally expected. Our weekly chart rounds in the afternoon went a lot longer than expected. I had hoped to get my dictations finished in the afternoon. But one of my patients wasn't doing so well. Actually, he is doing terribly. And getting him admitted to the hospital ended up being difficult because he is having more trouble walking and lives alone. In the end, I had to send an ambulance crew out to get him. Needless to say, I ended up at work 2 hours longer than I had planned to stay because by the time he was admitted it was already the time I had expected to leave (and I still had to get my work done). But that is just part of the job. And so is worry. I am worried about this man. He has no family. It pains me that he is dying of cancer with no one to help him. He doesn't even know his neighbors.

When I finally got home, Jacob and I ran to our local Mexican restaurant, inhaled some dinner, went back home, watched an episode of OZ, and then went to bed. Today, I am heading down to Mountain View to help out one of my associates who is very busy. Tonight, Jacob and I board a plane to escape for the long weekend. May has been a long month. On May 31st, a two month period of waiting and frustration will end. It will finally be over. And it is then I will be able to let many of you know what has transpired. Until then, I obediently follow the lawyers' orders. On May 31st, I will officially be free of a certain situation we have not and do not discuss here on the "Muse." Eduardo isn't the only one with secrets, you know.

Anyone else heading out of town for the long weekend?

Harbinger

Remember my recent post on the poetry world, the one where I talk about petty vindictive poets. Well, let us just say I recently received excellent proof of that in my mailbox. There is so little collegiality in the poetry world, it isn't a wonder to me why blogs have become more popular. Yes, sometimes blogs suck. Yes, sometimes they are boring. But I can say one thing. I have been very impressed with the sense of community in the poetry blogosphere. We aren't all alike, but many I have encountered in this virtual world have been wonderful. Have I figured out what blogging is yet? No, not really. But for me there is a very distinct sense of community here. There is a very real sense of people who understand what you do and why you do it. The Poetry Blogosphere is part letter to friends, part Salon, part journal, part silliness, part notebook, etc. etc. And remember my now oft quoted proviso: "If you don't like what you see here, reader move on." End of story.

The Brothers Karamazov

I found the following hysterical journal entry today. I laughed a lot while reading it. Amazing how much we change and still stay the same:


January 12, 1990

I am heading back to school in a few days, and thank God. Another week in south Florida would kill me. I just cannot live here anymore. Everything seems plastic and my parents are driving me nuts. I tried to explain to my parents that I was made the Editor in Chief of the university's literary magazine, but they just looked at me blankly. My Dad made some stupid comment about whether or not it would give me some business skills. I am afraid they just don't get me at all. I told them I had dropped the Studio Art major, and that seemed to make them happy. But I dare not tell them that now I am seriously thinking about a different art. My mom probably wouldn't say much, but I can already hear my father saying something like "Poetry? Who writes Poetry? Can you make a living doing that? Isn't that worse than painting stuff?"

I am already a nervous wreck about applying to med school. I know there are those who think I am crazy wanting to be a doctor, but I cannot explain it to them. I just have this feeling inside me that it is what I am supposed to do. Of course, my father has already explained to me it is a terrible investment of time that will never be repaid. But it isn't about time or money. I feel strongly that I am meant to do this, that I need to do it because it may be the only way I can give back to people. But whatever. I think I want to do it, so I am going to try. I have taken all the required courses. And how would I know if I could get in or not unless I try?

It saddens me Studio didn't work out. But I am not devoted to painting the way the others are. They are intense, passionate people. I feel like a cold fish next to them. And all I paint are stupid landscapes and abstract crap. I couldn't paint a person to save my life. The body is endlessly fascinating to me, but I can't paint it worth crap. When I try to paint a person, I find myself wanting to describe them with words, to get inside their heads. I fail before I even start. But I am good at failure already. I am always setting myself up. I am fickle and weak.

And then there is ----------. What am I supposed to do about her? I know it cannot work. It will never work. My eyes are always wandering, and always to the same one. And how can that work? I am no Oscar Wilde. I am not witty or charming or anything. And yet, he follows me around. And I find myself thinking about him at odd times. I am fickle. I wish there were a class at BC on how to figure out who the fuck you are. I don't have any idea who I am. Student. Boyfriend to ---------------. Son. Failed artist. Fuck up. If I could just figure out why this boy is stuck in my head, I swear everything else would fall into place. But it makes no sense to me. I know I am not that way. How could I be?

The only thing exciting about the coming semester is the Dostoyevsky course. An entire semester of nothing but Dostoyevsky. My pre-med friends will die just looking at the size of the novels I will be reading for that class. I wish I could find a job where all I had to do was read. I could get paid some amount per page. I had a dream like this once, but I dream so much crazy stuff. Fucked up stuff.

=================================

I have no idea why I find this so hilarious. I guess it is because I sound so angsty and manic. It is weird though. Reading this, I instantly felt myself back in that space--winter break, Junior Year of College. I kept a journal then but cannot for the life of me find it now. This page had been written in a spiral notebook and ripped out to be placed in that journal. It never got placed there and I found it just today in, of all things, The Brothers Karamozov.

Oh L'Amour

A good restaurant has vegetarian options on the menu. A great one will put together a vegetable plate for you. An exceptional one will cook a vegetarian entree for you from scratch. Well, Jacob is vegetarian, and so we are very aware of the different types of restaurants out there. Last night, before the concert, we had dinner at Florio. And surprisingly, the chef cooked Jacob a vegetarian entree from scratch. He didn't just put together a bunch of veggies and sides from other dishes, he cooked a vegetarian entree from scratch. We were quite impressed. And it was apparently good, too.

Erasure played at The Independent on Divisadero Street. It is a very small venue for a concert, and this being San Francisco, Erasure played there for five nights straight (or, as Jacob pointed out: "five night gay"). Several people in line with us waiting for the doors to open had been to one of the previous concerts; some had been the night before! When the doors opened, I was shocked to see how small the space was. Jacob and I ended up not even 10 ft. from Andy Bell. And the concert was amazing. We were so close I could analyze the rivulets of sweat snake their way down Andy Bell's chest and abdomen!

They sang not just some newer stuff, but they also sang all of their "greats." When the concert ended, I was a little sad because they hadn't sung "Sometimes." But then they came out for an encore, and that was one of the songs they did. It was incredible to hear an entire audience in a small venue singing along with the performers, and mostly in tune, too. It was probably one of the best concerts I have ever attended. The last time I saw Erasure was in Great Woods, MA in 1990. That was a huge venue where I could barely see Andy Bell (not that I would have been able to "see" him in the condition I was in then). But last night, from the angel wings and the Elvis lame' suits, from the backup singers dressed like Marilyn Monroe complete with shiny organdy skirts billowing, from the very first minute, the concert was incredible.

Today, I am busy reading reading for NER and trying to get errands done. I am so glad Jacob got us tickets for Erasure. It was, as Charlie Jensen says, HOT!

Six Feet Under

Long day at the hospital yesterday. Was there by 7:30 AM and left at about 6:00 PM. On the way home, Jacob reminded about the new season of Six Feet Under out now on DVD, so I stopped at Target and got it. The funny thing is there weren't any on the shelf. Two stock/sales people in the electronic area were stocking some CDs so I asked about it. One guy looked completely annoyed that I was even asking them if there were other copies elsewhere. But the other guy, definitely no more than 19, looked me dead in the eyes and smiled. Then he said he swore he saw one upstairs, but maybe it was the wrong season. The other guy said they were out and there couldn't be one stray just sitting upstairs. The nice guy jumped up and said, much to the annoyance of the other guy, that he was going to run upstairs and check. 15 mins later he came back with the brand new 3rd season, just released last week. I told him I really appreciated it. He just kept looking at me and kind of stammering. As I walked off, he said, "That's a gorgeous shirt." And that's when I knew it! No straight man would say that!! Anyway, I was so grateful that I did something I have never done. No, I didn't do that you dirty-minded people. I stopped at Customer Service and filled out a form to say how helpful this young man had been. The woman at the counter who took my gold star service form started laughing. She said, "Well, you have to be the first person who has ever turned in a "good" form for this guy!" I looked puzzled. "Well," she said, "He is usually inattentive to the customers. All those stock people are." Damn! I should wear that wine-colored dress shirt to work more often!!!

Anyway, we watched the first 3 episodes of the 3rd season last night. Six Feet Under was our first HBO obsession. It preceded Carnivale, etc. It is just so good. Sad, complicated, brilliant at times. And the first episode for the new season was directed by Roderigo Garcia (one of the directors for Carnivale and the son of Gabriel Garcia Marquez).

Tonight, Erasure! The last time I saw Erasure I was 20 years old. You don't even want to know what kind of condition I was in for that concert. Tonight, I will just remember those days. Tonight, I will be a doctor hiding in tight jeans and an even tighter shirt.

Limited

Yesterday afternoon, after trying to get various things done, I went with my friend, Geri, to see Star Wars. Her first time, my second. Loved it all over again. Afterward, we had dinner with Jacob. But the best part of the evening was a very long discussion about language and imagination. I found myself arguing that our imaginations are limited, by default, by our language. This discussion became quite convoluted and odd and, try as I might, I cannot reconstruct it here for you. The end result was Jacob telling me I was more like Foucault than I ever imagined. I wanted to scream. I always hated most of literary theory. Better yet, what I should say is I hate how English Departments took social science and its theories and bastardized them for the sake of looking at Literature. Anyway, it was a wonderful conversation. I wouldn't have traded it for the world. It was one of those conversations I would dream about having when I was younger. Yes, I realize this marks me for the nerd I am.

Today, a jam packed day ahead of me. But, I am one day closer to Erasure! And I am one day closer to the coming holiday weekend. Jacob and I are getting the hell out of Dodge. And I am quite excited about that. Years ago, over the Memorial Day weekend, we checked in to a hotel here in San Francisco because everyone we knew went somewhere and we hadn't planned anything. It was a great weekend of museum walking, shopping, eating, etc. It was as if we were tourists in San Francisco. It was a fabulous weekend visiting our own city.

Too funny

You're John Keats! You were born poor, trained to
be a doctor, and then decided you wanted to be
a poet. You threw yourself into poetry with
great dedication. You're very nice and
extremely dedicated to your art. You write
great letters and sexy poetry. It's amazing
how much you got done in your short lifetime.


Which Major Romantic Poet Would You Be (if You Were a Major Romantic Poet)?
brought to you by Quizilla


So, this doctor-poet, should he be a Romantic poet, would be another doctor-poet! Too funny.

Yesterday afternoon, I had to enjoy the great weather here. So I went over the a friend's house and sat in his garden and drank wine. We talked about a lot of stuff: revising poems, George Herbert, New York, other places we have lived, etc. It was a great afternoon. Later that evening, we met up with Jacob, grilled stuff for dinner, watched OZ, drank more wine. What more could a guy ask for?

Today, I really do have to get some work done. I need to start working on the physician schedule for my Group for July. And I need to get some stuff done for NER. But again, it is sunny, clear, brilliant and beautiful. I keep wanting to walk down by the beach or along the Great Highway. Gag!

==========================================

P.S. On Tuesday night, Jacob and I will be attending a small, intimate concert here in SF with none other than Erasure! Who needs love like that? We do.

Famous Poet

Over the past few weeks, I have had very similar conversations with two or three friends of mine (all poets). The basic gist of the conversation is the drive we see in many to become "famous poets." Well, I find this very odd. Very odd, indeed. I say that because I have no idea where such a foolish expression comes from in American Society. "Famous Poet." One says it and immediately wants to laugh maniacally. Famous Actor. Famous rock star. Famous politician. But "Famous Poet"? Isn't that an oxymoron? I mean, do you really think anyone you ran into on the street would know who Yusef Komunyakaa is? If you gave people a multiple choice survey, many might pick C. General or D. Leader of the Iraqi insurgency. "Famous Poet"?

This all leads me back to another thing I have thought about over the years. There seems to be a collegiality in the world of fiction that doesn't seem to exist in the world of poetry. So many poets are competitive, vindictive, petty people. And why? What is the prize? What are poets so desperately competing to win? Is it "fame"? Because if so, just revisit my first paragraph. I assure you no one I encounter at work, either patient or fellow physicians or staff, have a clue who John Ashbery or Louise Gluck are. They have never heard of these people. Derek Walcott? Nope. So, "fame"?

I am sure some will visit here and then sneak off to post idiotic posts about how I live in the age of nostalgia. It has happened before. Personally, I don't care. But whatever happened to poets writing for the sake of writing, for the sake of creating a poem that blows people's heads off? What has happened to that? I meet poets in grad school or poets just learning their craft, and what I hear discussed are prizes, fellowships, etc. Well, all of these things are good, but can it be THE goal? If so, I am more than a little disturbed. But I guess some could argue I am easily disturbed. They would, of course, be wrong.

Three times in the past month, people have referred to me as an intimidating and imposing person. I find this odd. I am more than a little goofy in how I live my life. But it occurs to me that most of the people saying this to me are poets, poets very invested in the systems of academia. I rarely agree with Dana Gioia, but I am starting to think the worst thing that ever happened to American Poetry was its adoption by the Academy. Yes, I know people want jobs and a means to support themselves, but I am sick and tired of listening to poets complain about their terribly busy and tiring lives of teaching 2-2 loads and sitting on committees. Go cry to someone else who cares. The vast majority of the world works far more than most poets. They don't get sabbaticals. They don't get summers off. And the vast majority make far less than Assistant and Associate Professors. When teaching Poetry Writing becomes this onerous task I hear about, something has gone terribly wrong. Poetry, to me, will always be a joyous thing, something outside the world of "work." To all those poets out there jockeying for a more prestigious teaching position, jockeying for the next prize, the next big thing, I feel immensely sorry for you. Yes, someday you will be famous: someday you will be utterly unknown.

Revenge is Good

After the reading last night, Jacob and I went to see Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith. It was much better than I expected. And it was definitely better than the first two prequels. Phantom Menace should have been titled the Phantom Plot. It is by far the worst of all the Star Wars movies. Revenge of the Sith is up there, but not the best of all of them. I still think Empire Strikes Back takes the cake. That is the Duncan Hines of Star Wars movies right there.

On a different note, thank God it is Friday. I need sleep. I really need it.

Leave this blog right now!!!!!

And run over to Charles' blog. Why? Because you need to congratulate him!

One of the Best First Books Published in the Last Decade

Okay, so I have been meaning to post on this for a couple of days now but haven't had the time. I just finished reading Richard Siken's Crush, the recent Yale winner. It is a phenomenal book. And I don't say that lightly. What strikes me the most about this book is the absolute command of the line Siken has. That might sound like mumbo jumbo to some, but his lines seemed guided both by cadence and by rational thought. Add to this a hauntingly dark, brutal, violent landscape and what you get is something absolutely memorable. At times, Siken's poems are pure lyric, love lyrics, but always there is the grit to ground such poems.

These are poems with speakers who want desperately to understand what is going on around him, wants to explain them. But time and time again, the poems demonstrate our inability to ever really recount experience with any real degree of faithfulness.

And gorgeous, these poems are. Just freakin' gorgeous. Many times I wonder why on earth some poets win the prizes they do. I mean them no ill will, it is just that prizes sometimes confound me. Well, Richard Siken deserved to win this prize. And I am glad there are poets like Louise Gluck out there judging because the world needs this book. As the blog title says: This really is one of the best first books published in the last decade. I will be anxiously looking for Mr. Siken's work in magazines in the future.

Reading Tonight, etc.

Well, I was thrilled last night to see Naima named America's Next Top Model. I really think she is gorgeous. As for AI, my predictions were correct.

Tonight I am reading at the San Francisco Public Library at 6:00 pm. I know I am reading with Joyce Jenkins. Originally, Ilya Kaminsky was also reading with us but had to cancel. If you are near Civic Center in San Francisco, stop on by.

Within minutes of finishing the reading, Jacob and I will high tail it down Van Ness to the AMC theatre to see Star Wars. I simply cannot wait. I am like a child on Christmas morning. I know it is retarded to admit this.

Okay, time to get back to work. Patients to see starting in 10 minutes.

What the...

Thanks a lot Reb, Rebecca, and Peter. I took this quiz because of you guys and look what happened. Not sure why on God's green earth I am Anakin Skywalker. I swear I am a nice guy. Really, I am!

Bars but No Shackles

I had a truly messed up dream last night that I was arrested and was waiting in a holding cell for Jacob to come bail me out. I have no idea what I supposedly did, but must assume it wasn't heinous since I could be bailed out. Clearly I have been watching too much OZ.

On the docket today, clear off my desk, once again, of NER submissions. Also, I need to send out some poems. Just realized, however, that submission season is practically over. I have 6 poems to my name that are not published. I really should send them out.

So, basically what I am saying is I have a full morning despite having a day off. I so wish Star Wars were out today. But I have to wait until tomorrow night. And I missed AI last night because of my dinner meeting. Jacob told me he thought Vonzell did a great job. He is also convinced the judges and producers don't want Vonzell to win, that they don't want another black woman to win the year after a black woman won. I think he may be right. The judges do seem to be heavily pushing Bo and Carrie. Who knows?

Did any of you see the show last night? Who stood out as the winner?

Lastly, check out our resident Hustler. Paul Newman has nothin' on ADT.

Existence, what existence?

You scored as Albert Camus. You are Albert Camus, so you are one sweet existentialist. He built largely upon the framework of existentialists before him, but introduced the concept that life is absurd, but that we should continue living anyway. You have strong liberal leanings, although you annoy the Communists. You are susceptible to driving fast, and possibly crashing into a tree.

Which Existentialist Philosopher Are You?
created with QuizFarm.com


So, apparently I am Camus. Okay, well, I guess. Got this strange quiz from Peter. Try it. Curious how other people would turn out taking this quiz.

Quickie

It has been a busy day so far. I am penning this quickly while there is a small lull in patient flow through the clinic. Tonight I have a dinner meeting and may miss most of American Idol. Oh well. I will survive.

Congratulations to my friends who got Fellowships to Bread Loaf this summer: Victoria Chang, Geri Doran, Andrew Feld, and G.C. Waldrep. It will be fun to see you all during the last 4 days of the conference when I will be bright eyed and bushy-tailed while you will all be tired!

Jacob and I have been making our way through the 4th season of OZ. We can now see why everyone says this is the best season of OZ. It is incredible. I highly recommend it.

Good News

I just got tickets for Star Wars. If Jacob will go with me, we will go see it after my reading on Thursday.

And ODLP is engaged!!!!!

How novel...

I was thinking yesterday, at one point, about the first novel I ever loved. You know, the novel you read and just couldn't put down because it was just so good, the novel you wanted to never end. I think it had to be The Count of Monte Cristo. Imagine my disappointment a few years ago when they released a film based on the book. The film was simply awful. But the book, even today, mesmerizes me. There are a core group of books that I just love and return to over and over. Besides The Count, there is Wuthering Heights and Crime and Punishment. Why these books? I am not entirely sure. I do remember reading Wuthering Heights as a teenager and being completely absorbed by it. And well, Crime and Punishment remains, in my mind, one of the best novels ever written. Are there novels out there that you just love so much you return to them over and over as time passes?

It's Alive!

Thank God in Heaven! Thank God! I found an on line site that had instructions for how to fix my computer and it worked. Apparently my finder file got corrupted (likely because I have a tendency to put my computer to sleep daily instead of shutting down and tend to do this for months at a time). From now on, I plan on shutting down at least every few days. Having the computer wake up instantly instead of waiting for it to boot up isn't worth this trauma.

I feel so much better now that my computer is back. It is just so pathetic how much I depend on a computer. In 1996, I didn't even have a computer and had only had email for a year. Now, I use my computer constantly, at work, at home, etc.

It is total mayhem in my neighborhood today because of the annual Bay to breakers race. A naked man and a guy in a suit both just walked by pushing a stroller with a keg in it. A woman dressed like wonder woman also just went by. Ah, San Francisco!

My new poem hurt my computer!

Well, I think my new poem killed my computer. I say this because now when I turn on my computer, none of the icons come up on the desktop. I can't access anything on my computer. I can get on to the internet, but that is about it. I can't open or even see any of my files. I did back up about a month ago, but I have done a lot of stuff since then. I ran a hardward test and nothing is wrong. Basically, the finder on my Apple Powerbook is not running, and I don't know how to make it run. When I check the disk, an allocation file extent is overlapped over and over. So, something went wrong yesterday right after I finished that poem. I always realize how dependent I am on my computer when something like this happens. I cannot get my NER stuff done, cannot tinker with the new poem, cannot access my expense account files, or the practice's schedule. This blows.

Yay!

Today has turned into an amazing day. After drafting my new poem, I ran out of here to go with Jacob up to Sonoma to pick up wine. On the way out the door, I stopped at my mailbox and in it was an acceptance from Ploughshares. They took my poem "Clean," the one I wrote In January. I am so excited. I actually really like that poem a lot, which is not always the case with me and my poems. Anyway, it was a beautiful afternoon in wine country. And I am just too excited for words. Maybe I should run and buy a lottery ticket.

It finally arrived!

Well, I knew it was coming, knew it. Came home this morning and went straight to my computer. Thought I was just going to tinker with some things. And lo and behold, I wrote the following:


Someone has already pulled a knife
across my chest, and the rope has already
gripped our wrists drawing blood.


I actually startled myself because I thought the lines I had been carrying around in my head the past few weeks were to be the first lines of the poem. But, as is my usual way of drafting a poem, they were in fact the last lines of the poem. My friend, Susan, finds this freaky, that I know the end before the beginning, but I rarely ever start a poem any other way. It is usually the last lines I get first, then I muck around with images and phrases for weeks, usually in my head. Then all it takes is a recognition of some type, in this case the line from a Moby song: "In my dreams I'm dying all the time." That did it. I had been listening to that song over and over in my car driving to and from work. The line finally sunk in and the poem started. So, when I sat down this morning and wrote the lines above, the poem kicked into overdrive and I had a first draft staring at me about 30 mins later. How does the poem end? Well, like this:


.....................................But Blood never lies,
does it? Blood carries so many secrets
one can only hear its murmurs in our arteries,

its incessant conversations, in the quiet night’s
bed just before sleep. Blood says
You are more and, sometimes, You are less.


Over the next weeks to months, I hope to tidy the draft up. But I am basking in that weird sensation of having drafted a new poem. It is a strange high very few understand except for other artists. It is more than a high, more than joy. I am loving it. It has been months since I last had this moment. Months and months.

Love Song

Okay, I couldn't resist. Peter started this. I had to decompose Prufrock myself. So, here we go:



Let us go, let us go.
One-night cheap hotels
with oyster-shells
lead you to the yellow fog,
the yellow smoke, its muzzle.
Let fall upon its back
a soft October night.
And indeed there will be time,
there will be time, there will be time
to murder and create, and time
for a question on your plate.

And indeed there will be time
to turn back and descend the stair
for I have known them all already, known them all--
when I am sprawling on a pin, when I
am pinned and wriggling, arms
that are braceleted and bare,
downed with light brown hair!
How should I begin?

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
scuttling across the floors.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
to have bitten off the matter with a smile,
to say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead."

Fast Fashion

"I can't understand
what makes a man
hate another man.
Help me understand."

Driving down 280 this morning to work, this song I hadn't heard in ages came on. It is weird how for years you can hear a song but not really notice the lyrics. Today, while driving along, I heard for the first time the lyrics noted above. It is sung over and over in this song. And I have listened to this song countless times, but I never noticed or thought about the lyrics.

It is Friday the 13th, and I am in San Mateo covering for one of my partners. Once again saw some followups, patients I treated years ago when I used to work here full time. One man, a guy who I treated for a very advanced and terrible head and neck cancer, is now 2 years out. And I am so happy that we spared his saliva and taste. Many people after the treatments for head and neck cancers lose their saliva and taste almost permanently. But he has his, has gained back his weight, is back working full time. After a rough week, it was good to see him. I was so happy for him. He just looked so good.

Last night I surprised Jacob. He had been a little on the sad side on Wednesday. So, I stopped on the way home and got him flowers (assorted irises, gerbers, and trumpet lilies) as well as that Bose iPod dock he has been pining for over the past few months. Then I hid it in his bedroom to surprise him. He loved it, of course. I know, I know, I am ruining my mean reputation with this post.

Next week, the final Star Wars movie. I just can't freakin' wait. I know, why the hell would I like Star Wars? Well, it has a strange significance to me. Star Wars was the first movie I ever saw. You never forget your first.

Experience

I missed the Tuesday night performances on AI, but I was glad last night that it was Anthony Federov who left the show. At this point I would love for Vonzell to win, but I like all three remaining contestants. It will be interesting to see who takes the prize. I am convinced the judges want Bo Bice to win. If he does, they get to tap into a market that includes rocker types, something AI has not previously done. I can also see them wanting Carrie for the country music slice of the pie. Since Fantasia won last season, I think the odds are stacked against Vonzell. But we will see.

Off to work in a little bit. This afternoon, I am giving a lecture on Brain Tumors in Adults to a group of students studying to become radiation therapists (the folks who administer the radiation in a radiation oncology department). I have given this lecture for the past two years. I guess I am doing something right because they keep inviting me back to give this particular lecture. Having trained at UCSF, I have a lot of experience treating brain tumors, so it makes sense that this is what I usually lecture on. Brain Tumors by and large are rare, but UCSF is known for the treatment of brain tumors, so I am usually the one with the most experience of treating these whenever I am at a conference in most local communities. My powerpoint slides are ready.

Listed

Before you know it, the next epsiode of "La Familia" will be here. For those who missed the first three episodes, check them out here (Episode 1, Episode 2, Epsiode 3) so you will be ready for Episode 4.

On another note, I discovered the weirdest thing today: Blogshares. It is bizarre. It is a fantasy exchange where blogs are valued and traded. I found my own blog listed on the exchange there. How freaky. Many of my fellow bloggers are also listed. It tells you the "value" of your blog, how much it is trading for, what one of your links is worth, etc. Who thinks this stuff up? And why does it even exist? So bizarre.

Okay, off to meet my friend, Ron, for coffee at Java Beach.

Boring the Muse

The last two days have been rough for me; I have been so incredibly busy with Medicine, I haven't even had a chance to answer emails. Having today off is a blessing. At least I got to get a couple of things done for NER and for myself so far.

There are times that I love Medicine, and there are times I wish I were a postal clerk. Even today, on my day off, I have gotten 2 calls from the hospital. And I know I shouldn't be annoyed because it comes with the territory, but I do feel annoyed sometimes. And I do feel like Medicine tries to overrun your life. I know many doctors who succumb to that, who become the drones of Medicine. They make me sad; they have nothing else in their lives. And maybe they are the good doctors. Maybe that is what it takes. But I cannot do it. I cannot let anything in my life completely define me. I have said it since I was in college: I am and always will be more than what I do. But enough of that. This should not be "Boring the Muse."

Got a nifty check for my poem in the Spring issue of Georgia Review, but I have yet to get a copy of the issue. This might sound strange, but getting the issue is always more exciting to me than getting the check. I am dying to see the poem in the issue. It took me 10 years to break into the Georgia Review. I want to see the poem in print in its pages.

All my obsessive thinking about blood seems to have subsided. But the "clearing" has only reinforced for me that a poem is coming. Already I am seeing the image of a field, a plant, and the barbarism of racism perpetuated in science and botany. The opening lines of the poem have already organized themselves as an address to someone, and I think I know who the someone is. And then there is the word "silence" and the word "stained" that keep pointing me toward further address or apology. Yes, there is a poem coming, and my sick brain is still working out the rhetoric of the poem, still working on the heart of the poem.

Back in the Saddle

We are back in SF. Of course, the weather here was bad last night so Air Traffic Control delayed our flight. Sitting in the airport waiting for a flight to clear is still one of the most annoying things on earth.

We had a great weekend. I needed it more than I realized. I was really tired before I left, mentally more than anything. And it was nice to spend a weekend away with Jacob where I didn't have to think about anything. I didn't once think about Medicine or NER while there. I didn't think about poetry or publishing crap. It was a beautiful thing.

Anyway, I am back at work and ready for the day. By mid-week, I hope to completely clear my desk at home of poems for NER (which will only make room for the next batches to arrive). And time for us to start looking more seriously at caterers.

Leaving Las Vegas...

Last night, after dinner, Jacob and I watched the fountains at Bellagio. Oddly enough, right in the middle of the fountain show was a young guy, maybe 22, screaming about God and sin and the need for us all to repent and open our hearts to Jeeeee-zus! It was truly bizarre but so Las Vegas at the same time because he paused with every fountain show, as if out of respect the great monied god of the MGM/Mirage.

While standing there, another young guy, aged 20, came up to us and started talking to us. It turned out he was a young gay guy who had just moved to Vegas from California. He was being really nice and was kind of funny. Then we realized he wanted information on gay bars. Well, we have never been to a single gay bar in Vegas. When we come here it is to eat, drink, shop, see shows, and gamble. He seemed a bit crest-fallen when we told him this. Jacob and I had to laugh that in all the hundreds and hundreds of people standing there, he would find us. Talk about good gaydar. And no, we weren't doing anything to call attention to us. I can hear Charles already.

And can I say Thank God for Baccarat. If it weren't for Baccarat, I would be losing big time. Let us just say that virtually every dollar I lost in the evil slot machines I won back at Baccarat. The Filthy Whores slot machine has now been renamed the Evil Whores slot machine. I say no more.

We fly back to SF tonight. This has been a great weekend. I really needed it. It was really good to be away from Medicine, Poetry, Editing, etc. Really good.

And we're off....

Well, I am going to bolt out of work a little early today. I am going to run up to San Francisco, pick up Jacob, and then head to the airport. It is time for Vegas, Baby! I am so excited I could spit! Just kidding ;) Bye fer now.

Butterfly Effect

Last night, because a certain man who means more to me than anyone else in the world is half-Mexican, we went out to dinner at a Mexican restaurant in our neighborhood. It was pure Cinco de Mayo mayhem. We go to this place fairly often, but last night we had to wait 55 mins to be seated. They had Mariachi and people drinking margaritas everywhere. Some friends met us there and helped us scarf down lots of great food. All in all, it was wonderful. Sadly, we were so tired when we left there we didn't watch any more of OZ last night.

I have been thinking a lot lately about something amazing I heard on NPR the other morning. Monarch butterflies apparently use the sun to guide them in their annual migration across the US and then to Mexico. For years we have known they use the sun to guide them, but what we could never figure out is how, even when cloudy, they still follow the right path. Well, these scientists placed monarchs on thin threads inside see through tunnels and tested their ability to point correctly in their flight patterns. Even when they dimmed the color of the glass to block the sun, the monarchs could do it. But then they serendipitously discovered that when they used a glass that blocked UV light, the monarchs started flying in circles. Yes, the monarch butterfly uses UV light to guide them. That is why even when cloudy they find their way in right direction. Neuroscientists just isolated the genes and area of their brains that have the capacity to analyze UV light. And the monarch even has receptors for UV light in their "eyes". How freakin' cool is that! Nature outsmarts us time and time again. The monarch butterfly is a far more sophisticated "machine" than we would ever have imagined.

Quick Note

I am lame this morning. I have little to say. A friend's email this morning depressed me a little. Alas. That said, you all need to be reading this post by Kelli. It is a total riot. It made me want to run out and adopt John Ashbery. Who knows who you will want to adopt after reading her post? Come back and let us know.

Phlebotomy, not lobotomy...

Is it still Wednesday? I want it to be Friday. I want to no longer be on-call. I want to be flying to Vegas with Jacob. Yup, it is almost time for Vegas Baby XIV, I think. I am not sure what number trip this is for the two of us, but that said, you all know how much we love that city. Ah, Sin City, we love you. But it is only Wednesday. Blogger I would most love to see in Vegas? Reb Livingston. Yup, Reb without hubby or Gideon. Something tells me she would be one hell cat on wheels!

To continue the blood theme: a guy in front of me today in line in the cafeteria was telling this woman with him about how much he loved blood oranges. I felt like someone in an episode of Seinfeld. I kept expecting a short man with glasses to walk up and offer me a blood orange. Then, as if this really were an episode of Seinfeld, the guy walks over to the condiment stand and when he turns I see PHLEBOTOMY on his lab coat. Yes, PHLEBOTOMY!

Burning Waffles

It is National Nurse's Week, so the doctors in our group made breakfast today for our nurses. Here, we made waffles. I mostly burned waffles until one of the other folks took over. It was a little sad. Waffles are not my forte.

I am still recovering from last night's Idol. It now appears the top 3 should be Bo, Carrie, and Vonzell. The other two are just not in their league at all. That said, I wasn't thrilled with Bo's performance last night. It seemed a little lackluster and fatigued. Vonzell seemed amazing to me, but Simon just bagged on her, which seems weird to me. Is he hearing something I am not?

I finally moved a print of mine from my old office in San Mateo to my office in Redwood City. It is a print of a mixed media piece I did while I was in graduate school. I was in a phase where I was totally obsessed with using photography and painting in collages. This one has a bust of Augustus Caesar in the foreground and a tomb door in the background but inside the tomb door I painted a mass of foliage drenched in sunlight with the sunlight falling through the tomb door and shadows spreading toward the bust of Caesar. I put it above my desk because I like the colors. Staff keep freaking out that I made it. I don't think they really believe I did it.

Getting ready to Bloom...

I am quite excited. I just heard from Charles Flowers that he is accepting my poem "I Will Come for You in the Morning" for his magazine, BLOOM. It is funny because I just finally got the nerve up to read this poem when I read in NYC. It is the first poem of mine where I wrote a stanza in Spanish (just a tercet). BLOOM is one of my new favorite magazines, so I am really thrilled to be a part of it. The poem is about seeing Death in the hospital and what Death has to say to me. Yes, I know, boiled down like that the poem sounds awful, but the poem isn't really like that. I swear.

Caught in the Act

I just discovered the strangest thing ever. Apparently POETRY now has web-exclusive essays. They used to have a few things you could read from the journal, but I think this is truly web-only material. Anyway, I found an article by Daisy Fried that discusses Poetry on the Web. Imagine my surprise as I was reading through it to find a section on blogs and to discover mine was discussed, quoted even! I am flattered, but also a little weirded out. Fried singled out one of my rants to quote from. A little embarrassing now that I am not all hyped up on indignation. Anyway, thank you Daisy Fried for a very interesting article. Other blogs mentioned included Ron Silliman (of course), Nick Carbo, Jim Berhle, our resident poet-comic, and a few others.

Priscilla, Trueblood, Blood-bath...

Jacob, Geri and I re-watched Priscilla: Queen of the Desert last night. I had forgotten just how funny that movie is. And I had forgotten just how touching the ending is where the little boy asks his drag queen Dad if he has a boyfriend and then says it would be nice for him to have one. And dear God, I had forgotten how out of this world the costumes in that movie are!

Today, I am back at my usual hospital. I have already seen 3 follow-ups and done a new patient consult. Now I am just waiting for consult number 2. Got through 160 poems for NER over the weekend. It was exciting because I found some poems from two people I have never heard of before. One has only published one poem so far. In both cases, the poems were just brilliant, linguistically playful and sharp. Also found poems from a few poets I know but who have never been in NER. Those excited me, too.

I think I am becoming obsessed with the word "blood." I keep seeing it and thinking about all the words that derive from it. I think I must be prepping for a poem because I find myself listening over and over to Brahms' German Requiem. I even have certain images stuck in my head. One is a field of dead grass. Another is the sight of blood in vials and the word blood written in blood. I am sure this is making me sound like some sicko freak, and I swear it isn't really that way. But I know I am approaching a poem, circling it, prodding it. I just can't see it yet. If lines start to come soon, I will know it is imminent.

Blood, Blood-lines, Blood-brothers

Thank you to all of you that came through with alternate means of getting in touch with Sarah Gambito. I did, in fact, get in touch with her, and we are working out the details right now for my endowment of two scholarships. I am anticipating one for a student and one to help a faculty member attend the retreat (which should help out the students as well). Kundiman is a great organization. It is an important organization. I know I have talked about the fact that I don't "feel" Asian most of the time, but one cannot deny the blood that runs through you, even if it is only 25% of your blood. I am very happy to be making this retreat they do available to someone who might not be able to afford it. And I am happy to help a faculty member get there to participate.

I have decided to name the scholarships after my great grandfather, Young Ten-Loy, who as a young Chinese man made the decision to marry my great grandmother, a young East Indian woman. He gave up his family and his life in China and could never return there. Thanks to the British Empire, he worked as a cook for the Navy and ended up in the Caribbean. His son, my grandfather, married a beautiful Puerto Rican woman who had emigrated there from Spain. They had my father. And history repeated itself when my mother gave up her family and her ties to England to marry my father. They all remind me that love is, perhaps, the most important thing in life. We all deserve love and the right to love the one we love. And so, I am 1/8th Chinese and 1/8th East Indian, 1/4 Puerto Rican/Spanish, and 1/2 Caucasian. But, as I have also said before, I have never in my life felt Caucasian. I have a sister who for all intents and purposes looks Caucasian, and even she doesn't "feel" Caucasian.

At AWP, I read for Victoria Chang's panel, the Asian American Anthology panel (an anthology I am in). It was kind of weird for me to read for the panel, but it also opened my eyes. Brenda Shaughnessy is a happa. Many poets today are! Natasha Trethewey and I got into a huge discussion about the fact there are many more of us "half-breeds" now. And we both wondered if our experiences of being in multiple worlds ethnically made us different writers and, more importantly, was there something that marked us as such. To be honest, I don't know the answer to that. I do know we all spent our childhoods being marked as other, as different. Many of us have been asked "What are you?" We have all been called racial epithets as children. I remember Paisley Rekdal, years ago, talking about how children were the most cruel and that it was scary to think they learned their cruelty from their parents. I could never make fun of people for their ethnicity as a child. Any sign of hatred would have been a sign of self hatred. I cannot even hate whites because, technically, I am more white than anything else. I have no idea why I am writing this here, but I am in a contemplative mood this morning.

Identity is a tricky thing. The multi-ethnic, multi-racial people are damned in many ways. We are almost never accepted by any of the groups in our makeup, and we are almost never sure of what we are. Even to this day, I never know what to check off on forms that ask for ethnicity. And it is only in the past few years that forms allow you to check more than one thing or check multiethnic. At one time in 1990, my Drivers license said Caucasian (the State of Florida then listed your race and in cases like mine, used your mother's race), my voters registration said Hispanic, and Boston College had me listed as Asian/Pacific Islander. Later, when in Medical School, I discovered I was listed as Black. It turned out that the registrar, instead of asking, just checked off the boxes for you as you walked up to get your picture taken for your ID. My friend, Rakesh, discovered he was "black" as well around the same time. Even to this day, I get things from an African American medical society because of that. I find this great. My brother laughed that in some ways, we are everything (either by blood or by perception). But at the same time, it means we are nothing.