I don’t normally share my personal health information with acquaintances, blog followers, or facebook friends (let alone the entire internet). I don’t want to be weighted with the stigma of illness, and I loathe the culture of pity surrounding some contemporary cancer survivor networks. Honestly, I don’t want to have conversations about cancer, and I don’t want people to apologize to me. But I feel moved at this moment, in the interest of truth and testimony, to share a hastily written story about my own health and Planned Parenthood.

At 19, I was stupid. I smoked, drank, avoided sleep, and refused to waste time or money going to a doctor for something as unnecessary as a check-up. Then I decided I wanted birth control. Lo and behold, when one wants birth control, one must undergo an exam. Lucky for me, Planned Parenthood was right down the street, and they sold birth control pills for $5 a pack if you bought in bulk—the only catch was a yearly exam. Thus, the nurses and gynecologists of Planned Parenthood became my only doctors, and those annual exams my only check-ups, during my college years. The same was true for many other women I saw in the waiting room, many of whom were not college students, and weren’t lucky enough to have health insurance under their step-father’s plan.

During a routine annual exam in 2005, a nurse practitioner pressed her thumb to my neck and said, “What’s that?”

“What’s what?” I said.

“That.” She rolled her thumb around on a hard little knot just beneath my Adam’s apple. “You need to get that checked out. I think it’s a thyroid nodule.”

I totally ignored her (What lump? Bodies are lumpy, so what?), and when I returned the following year for another exam to keep the cheap birth control coming, a different nurse practitioner noticed the same lump. Okay, I thought, I guess I should get it checked out.

By 2008, I’d had two surgeries to remove my thyroid gland and some lymph nodes in my neck (the cancer had metastasized), as well as radioactive iodine treatment. While I have a slow-growing and non-aggressive type of cancer that rarely spreads beyond the surrounding lymph nodes, I don’t like to think about the parts of my body it could have reached if gone unchecked—that is, if those two nurse practitioners at Planned Parenthood hadn’t been so observant, hadn’t been insistent, hadn’t been there at all.

Susan G. Komen for the Cure just announced that they’re cutting funding to Planned Parenthood for breast cancer screening services (source). While I have always taken issue with Komen’s Pink Ribbon campaign (Barbara Ehrenreich articulates most of my own feelings about it better than I ever could in her brilliant essay ‘Cancerland’), this news really struck a nerve. It seems that the conservative movement’s initiative to politicize and take control of women’s health issues in the name of ‘morality’ politics, defunding Planned Parenthood, to the detriment of women from all backgrounds—but especially of those without health insurance—has spread into spheres of power I thought safe from politics. Maybe nothing is safe from politics.

I hope that women and men will let Susan G. Komen for the Cure know exactly what they think about this decision, and how they feel about Planned Parenthood. If I ever pay off those student loans, every extra dime I get will go to Planned Parenthood. I just hope they’re still around when that happens.

While I am aware of rural poverty, I’ve always associated images of urban decadence with poverty more so than scenes of rural ruin. There is something gaudy and proud about urban decay—the sprawling metallic glare, the rainbow of patinas, and the sequined rust all present themselves theatrically, performing the story of a city’s decline. Urban poverty is aesthetically confrontational. There is something much humbler about a singular barn in the middle of a pasture, its bald ceiling half-caved, its slumped frame standing on one wall—just as proud, but quietly so.

In any case, it’s all ‘ruin porn,’ the merits and pitfalls of which have been debated, especially in the context of photography from cities like Detroit. Is it exploitative? Aesthetically speaking, sure—but I prefer to not mix ethics into my aesthetics. (And if you enjoy ruin porn as much as I do, I highly recommend the Detroit photos on this site, by Yves Marchand and Romain Meffre.)

It does seem, however, that the narrative appeal of tragedy is at the heart of this particular aesthetic—the aesthetic of ruin, that is. This kind of imagery implies loss—a fall from greatness that is more engaging (for me, and some others, at least) than sustained greatness. An instructor once explained to me that Vermeer’s paintings are captivating because they imply a narrative—something has just happened, or is about to happen within the world of the painting. So what easier way for a photographer to imply a narrative than by capturing the squalor inside the remnants of a once thriving theater or factory? Maybe it’s too easy. We all know the story by now. (With this thought, I question some of my own creative choices, of course.)

I could call it ‘history’—the force that pulls my neck around as I drive, in order to make out the cracks between the wooden planks of the porch, the missing door hinge, the black silhouette of furniture through a muddy window—but if I’m being honest, I’ll admit that a refurbished historic theater just as clean and sturdy as it was in 1885 is not nearly as interesting. It’s the loss that pulls.

It’s voyeurism—the chance to peep into someone else’s microcosm of grief, displayed by and seemingly contained within a physical structure. While I was driving on 117, a replica of one such tiny microcosm sat next to me in the passenger seat. My friend Chris, whom I had been visiting in Wilmington, had secretly made a three-dimensional representation of the fictional town featured in my thesis collection, which attempts to deal with the idea of microcosmic grief in rust belt cities. In an amazing act of spontaneous collaboration, Chris had made me a rusted city.

Chris Guppy's rusted city

So as I passed all of those rural towns, their bubbles of decay flying by my own steel bubble of a vehicle, rattling in a cardboard box beside me were these little microcosms of plaster and paint, born of my friend’s own internal world, itself born of a reading of my own internal world, born of a childhood spent in the bubble of a rust belt town.

Peeping into the microcosm

 Thanks to Chris Guppy for making this post visually engaging with her rusted city. 

Here is a brief (very brief) tribute to her on NPR.

Unfortunately, I am only recently discovering the bulk of her work, including this wonderful little poem:

Strings

We pop into life the way
particles pop in and out
of the continuum.
We are a seething mass
of probability.
And probably I love you.
The evil of larva
and the evil of stars
is a formula for the future.
Some bodies can
thrust their arms into
a flame and be instantly
cured of this world,
while others sicken.
Why think, little brother
like the moon, spit out like
a broken tooth.
“Oh,” groans the world.
The outer planets,
the fizzing sun, here we come
with our luggage.
Look at the clever things
we have made out of
a few building blocks—
O, fabulous continuum.

-Ruth Stone

(from What Love Comes To: New and Selected Poems, which was a Pulitzer finalist)

And more babbling about my own work (flash fiction) on the Bellingham Review blog can be found here.

Read it here!

Six of the 56 escaped animals were captured alive. Six.

The sheriff who granted his deputies permission to kill the animals as they encountered them, said: “Public safety was my No. 1 concern. I gave the order that if the animals looked like they were going to get out, they were going down.” He’s also quoted as saying, “Right now, we’re shooting to kill.” Why weren’t the animals just tranquilized? According to the New York Times, police reported that when a tranquilizer dart was used on one of the tigers, it failed to disable the animal, so they used assault rifles instead.

But here’s the thing: it wasn’t as if these animals were being hidden. Police had been called to the property before. In fact, the owner was previously indicted on animal cruelty charges, and police pointed out that Thomspson’s property “isn’t designed to keep in wild animals.” So why on earth was he allowed to have them? Moreover, if the county knew about the existence of this animal “sanctuary,” why on earth weren’t they prepared to deal with a potential disaster?

This seems tangentially related to the issue of nuclear power. An analogy can be made on the basis of hubris: if we are not prepared to handle a potential disaster, why would we knowingly and willfully put ourselves in circumstances that could lead to such a disaster on the assumption that we simply won’t let a disaster happen? On the assumption that we have control over the world, human and non-human.

Ohio has no regulations on the sale and ownership of exotic animals, and yet they are completely unprepared to deal with the consequences of a disaster involving those kinds of animals. This poses a threat not only to the (human) public, but to the animals. From the New York Times: “Once the extent of the danger became apparent…deputies were given high-powered assault rifles and rode in the beds of pickup trucks, where throughout the night they shot the animals as they cornered them.”

If regulatory laws had been in place, this could have been avoided. Then again, maybe not; something similar happened recently on a much smaller scale in North Carolina, but this time the animals were still captive when they were killed. Oh, and they were deer, not tigers. Read about it here. 

I’ll avoid detailing my thoughts on speciesism and my current fascination with post-humanist studies, but I’d like to refer to one bit of philosophy here. In “The Animal That Therefore I Am,” Derrida quotes Jeremy Bentham (who asked the same question in a 1789 consideration of the parallels between racism and speciesism), asking, of animals, “Can they suffer?” The Humanist idea that we are entitled to special rights as a species because we are capable of higher modes of consciousness, logic, and reason (and sometimes language) than other species provides an argument for our biblical “dominion” over other animal species. Are we so much more important as a species than every other species of life on the planet? Is the answer yes because we say it is, or because we have guns and nuclear waste? Bentham writes: “But a full-grown horse or dog, is beyond comparison a more rational, as well as a more conversable animal, than an infant of a day or a week or even a month, old…The question is not, Can they reason? nor, Can they talk? but, Can they suffer?^” 

Photo from the Columbus Dispatch

Like humans, other animals have bodies and psyches capable of suffering. These were animals that were held captive outside of their native environment, and then shot to death. People tend to say things like “Thank God no human life was taken” in these situations, but I have a hard time seeing it that way.

It’s too easy to say “This was the only thing to do,” when instead one can ask, “What else could have been done,” as a sincere inquiry. Better yet to ask “Would this have been done to human,” and then examine why the answer is what it is. I am asking myself if I would feel differently about the situation if the animals killed were all rodents, and why that answer is what it is. Where does one draw lines in determining a hierarchy of life? On what criteria? Is it more productive and sustainable to view life in a non-hierarchical framework — one not based on human subjectivity? Perhaps these questions should be asked more often.

The winner and finalists are listed here on the Rescue Press blog.

Some internet research has turned up a disturbing amount of causes that have claimed October as their official month.

Aside from a whole slew of health issues, some of which are catalogued here, and included in my list below, October seems very concerned with food.  The fact that it’s Hunger Awareness Month shouldn’t be a problem, as it’s also National Pretzel Month, National Chili Month, National Caramel Month, National Pickled Peppers Month, National Seafood Month, National Apple Month, National Cookie Month, National Popcorn Popping Month, National Eat Country Ham Month, National Sausage Month, National Pork Month (guess it’s not National Slaughterhouse Awareness Month), National Restaurant Hospitality Month, National Spinach-Lovers’ Month, All American Breakfast Month, Gourmet Adventures Month, and National Cook Book Month.

Some October causes are blatantly commercial: National Kitchen and Bath Month.

Tied with National Rollerskating Month as my favorite October designation: National Sarcastic Awareness Month. (Perhaps a response to awareness overload?)

Can one really be aware of so many disparate and important causes at once (rollerskating and breakfast)? Doesn’t all this frivolous awareness dilute October’s pool of consciousness to the point at which nobody can be very aware of anything (if anybody ever was)? I’ve come to the conclusion that these designations are fairly meaningless, and that October is the sluttiest of all months, offering herself up to any schmuck with a cause. I can jump on that train. Why not National Cat Bed Month? Let’s pair that with National Homeless Cat Month. How about National Tablecloth Month? National October Month? National ‘National Month’ Month?

Here is a short list of October causes, not including those I’ve already mentioned:

Adopt a Shelter Dog Month
Computer Learning Month
National Cosmetology Month
Country Music Month
Disability Employment Awareness Month
Diversity Awareness Month
Emergency Care Month
Family History Month
German-American Heritage Month
National AIDS Awareness Month
National Applejack Month (What the hell is an applejack? you ask. This.)
Clergy Appreciation Month
National Computer Learning Month
Domestic Violence Awareness Month
International Drum Month
Lupus Awareness Month
National Diabetes Month
National Vegetarian Month
National Depression Education and Awareness Month
Polish American Heritage Month
National Collegiate Alcohol Awareness Month
National Toilet Tank Repair Month
Children’s Magazine Month
National Ergonomics Months
Squirrel Awareness Month
National Down Syndrome Month
National Stamp Collecting Month
National Liver Awareness Month (Be aware that you have one?)
Celiac Disease Awareness Month
 

 
(Homeless Cat)

Oh, where to start? Nobody’s reading this anyhow, so I suppose I could start anywhere I like. How about here, where you’ll get a synopsis and a link to the exchange that started it all (this one). There are, at this point, gobs of opinions out there on blogs like Slope, Coldfront, Versal, and Montevidayo (a blog I particularly like). But if you don’t want to read them all (really, it starts to feel like a junior high locker room after a while), the gist is this: A small press called BlazeVOX, which focuses on avant-garde literature (and one that has put out some good books, as everyone is quick to point out), has begun to ask authors (only after their manuscripts are accepted) to help fund the cost of printing their book (with a few hundred dollars). Do read the original exchange, linked above, if you want to know more about it.

I’m not so interested in all of that anymore, but in the reading of it — especially the comments made on a Tarpaulin Sky facebook post — I noticed something strange, and aggravating: many of those who defended the editor of this press took to blaming writers. (Check out the posts and comments linked above for examples.) Comments were in the vein of: ‘You should expect this, what with how little financial support there is for poetry’ and ‘Everybody wants their name in print, but nobody wants to buy other peoples’ books.’

Wait, what?

Funny story: I submitted my manuscript to BlazeVOX just days before all of this came out (I haven’t heard from them, and I can bet I won’t now). At that point, I had already spent a few hundred dollars submitting it to contests (including at least one that doesn’t have a cash prize) knowing that I’ll never make that money back from sales (because in fact, there is very little financial support for poetry). Now I should expect to double that loss? Am I some kind of a diva for thinking that’s not exactly right? I think that there may be several problems with this business model, but I’m not an editor. I also don’t know Geoffrey Gatza, the editor at BlazeVOX, and I have no interest in blaming or defending him. Maybe he’s a nice guy who made a mistake. Maybe he’s worse than that. I don’t pretend to know.

Let’s continue to examine the blame-the-writers phenomenon.

I can’t speak for everyone, but I feel that I do my part. Writers have a responsibility to partake in the literary community, financially — particularly to support small presses and new writers (given that one has an interest in them). Writers have a responsibility to read literary journals other than the Paris Review, and to actively seek out new books by new authors. I believe this. And I do it.

However, I am not a rich lady. I’m not even a permanently employed lady. I’m a freaking office temp with student loans. I cannot buy every book that BlazeVOX has ever printed. I have purchased from them (including a purchase when I submitted my manuscript, as a ‘fee,’ or a ‘thank you’) and if they stay alive, I will continue to do so. Why am I being made to feel guilty in this situation? Why are the financial woes of the publishing industry being placed on my shoulders? I know I’m not the only writer who does what they can, financially, to take part in the literary community. That simply can’t be true. If it were true, BlazeVOX would sell zero copies of each title, rather than 30, because for the most part, other writers are the only goddamned people buying the books. Granted, the presses should be selling more, and writers should be buying more, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to take the blame for this press’s failures, let alone the failures of the entire publishing industry.

If any of the three of you who actually started reading this are still reading, I have a confession: I don’t subscribe to every journal to which I’ve ever submitted work. There have been some, in fact, that I’ve never read at all. I know. I’m part of the problem, right? But again, I am not a rich lady. On top of contest fees (which often include a subscription), I can afford to subscribe to about five other journals a year (including ones that I don’t submit to), and to buy ten to fifteen books (almost all poetry, from small presses) a year. As a given, I also continue to buy and read the journals who have published me. I read blogs. I borrow books from the library.

Consider this possibly fictional statistic, taken from an unreliable source: new poets average 1 acceptance to every 25 rejections. Consider this definitely true statistic: new poets are broke, and probably always will be. You do the math. Can I really buy a copy of every single journal that I submit to in my lifetime? If there comes a day when I can, on that day I will thank the heavens for the inexplicable miracle, and I will do just that. I’ll buy two copies of every journal I submit to. Hell, I’ll buy a press.

Okay, here comes the resolution: I will actually buy more sample copies of and subscriptions to the journals to which I submit my work. (And often, sample copies are much cheaper than recent copies.) I started today. I submitted to Ninth Letter – a journal of which I am aware to a certain extent, and have probably read somewhere, but one that I can’t actually remember having read — and I bought an issue. In fact, I bought an expensive, recent issue, because it featured an essay by an acquaintance of mine, Michelle Bliss. I point out this detail not to pat myself on the back, but to offer up another idea: supporting the literary community necessarily involves money, but creative support (of the writers) matters too, especially when you can’t give as much financial support as others.

Please stop blaming the writers. Editors and presses (including those mentioned above, like Tarpaulin Sky and BlazeVOX) should be thanked and appreciated for creating venues for new voices, but so should writers be thanked for sending their voices out into a world that doesn’t always welcome them. Some of us are doing the best we can, and not getting much in return. Quit blaming us for our own struggle.

The Blue Ridge Mountains look very different, of course, from Wyoming’s Big Horn Mountains, but I’ll take either. I need mountains in my life. Growing up landlocked, the ocean was always destination number one, but now that I’ve spent a little time (very little) in various mountainous landscapes, I’ve realized that this is actually what I’ve been wanting. And unlike Asheville, Boone is unassuming, maybe even more wild. (Asheville’s great, but a little full of itself and too yuppie sometimes).

I could go on and on about why mountains are better for me than the beach, or urban sidewalks (had a week-long stay at my sister’s apartment in NYC just prior to this trip, which was a lot of fun, though not particularly stunning or revitalizing), but instead I’ll just post photos that don’t do Boone any justice.

Along the Blue Ridge Parkway:

Not too many candid shots here.

Daniel Boone Gardens:

That one was only semi-staged.

Moth wing fungi (I made that up).

In the meditation hut, meditating, of course.

Some photo credit goes to the lovely Chris Guppy.

And once again, bigger: