Saturday Morning Near The Airport: Why NaNoWriPo Has Gone Wrong

I'm not a novelist. I'm a hybrid mutt cross-genre poet administrator bricoleur mess. I'm a thief. Only I have forgotten how to write a sentence, a fragment, a single word. Forgotten how to steal. My language has no trajectory. That is, I do not know the direction. Depression/pedagogy/WWII war bride: how do they converge. Plus, the frame has not been built. The frame is a pile of sticks on a table, somewhere near the airport. Reading A Tonlist by Laura Moriarity: "Light changes the sentence." But so does the darkness. So dark that your hand in front of you cannot be seen, right up until the point that you smack yourself in the head. I'm teaching Cha's Dictee in the spring...first time, though I've discussed it in several independent studies. But that's a different kind of pedagogical endeavor. To be present with the discourse, but not responsible for it. I'm thinking about the Greek chorus and its purpose. What is the dramatic function: what is the ideal read of the text. Not in relation to Cha, but in relation to life. Write yourself (Cixous). But the self has been replaced by a university document, in which external reviewers call you homely. The other night at the Tea House, we sang Happy Birthday to Jack C. The server, clearly a non-singer, started us off on a key so high that I had to whisper the song. Somatic writing everywhere: on Tuesday in pedagogy class, I had to embody "alone" and then I was an elf. I was asked, "how do you know?" And found that it wasn't about an inner knowing but an external not knowing. Then yesterday at the writing center in-service, I understood the somatic response to the words against, beneath, and together. My back against the eyes. I slowly fell to the floor and caught myself in my own arms before touching the wooden floor in the Arapahoe House. Credibility is a facade: these days, I am thinking. A slick style that one puts on. The veneer. Last night I pondered the need for fingernails at all and was told they were my talons: only I do not know my prey. As I scratched the skin this morning, I wondered what it would be like using just the pads of the fingertips. Not the same. Being written only where writing ends (Moriarity). A maze: not so much as a continuum. Really not the same at all, I see. It's a genre problem (Moriarity). Yes, and a problem of trust. Belief in the self. I do not understand the Bird's frame. And as such, I am told to cut my nails.