Muscle Memory

Burial Hits the Beach

Wed, 08 May 2013 13:35:00 -0400

My first book, Burial, is now available from Tarpaulin Sky Press, just in time for summer vacation!

Set in the mind of a narrator who is grieving the loss of her father, who conflates her hotel room with the morgue, and who encounters characters that may or may not exist, Burial is a little novel about an immeasurable black hole. The book grapples with ontology and trades plot for ambience; the result is a lyrical elegy with no small amount of rot and vomit and ghosts.

You can read a review of the book at Publishers Weekly and learn more about its portability at PW’s Best Summer Books 2013 list.

Burial is available from Small Press Distribution or directly from Tarpaulin Sky Press. (It’s also on Amazon.)

Also available from TSky are three new books by David Wolach, Joyelle McSweeney, and Johannes Goransson, all of which of which were thoughtfully edited by the inimitable Christian Peet, and all of which I highly recommend.

Stay tuned at my website for details about a New York launch and book tour.

Thanks for all of your support, and enjoy your summer reading!

love, c.

Greetings! I have a new website. It contains downloadable...

Fri, 30 Nov 2012 22:07:00 -0500

Greetings! I have a new website. It contains downloadable writing, audio, a goofy picture I drew, a teaching portfolio, and so forth. Also, I am now blogging upside-down at http://clairedonato.tumblr.com. Come say hey.

If you’re here via my new website for my old school yoga-related writing, you’ll have to click back into the archives a bit. (Musings from my summer 2011 stay at the Millay Colony come after the yoga writing and thus appear before it here.) “What you need to know” about the yoga-related writing is that it takes place during a teacher training in spring 2011; at this time, I am conscious of the fact I am about to lose my beloved social justice teaching job (thanks to the federal government). Happy (or not-so-happy, but consequential nevertheless) reading.

love, c.

raygonne: #occupywallstreet

Wed, 05 Oct 2011 23:06:42 -0400

raygonne:

#occupywallstreet

Yesterday, I placed half an autumn leaf underneath the...

Tue, 23 Aug 2011 09:18:00 -0400

Yesterday, I placed half an autumn leaf underneath the ‘X’ of twigs I left on Edna St. Vincent Millay’s grave. I placed the second half under an acorn on Norma Millay Ellis’s grave. Then I made a wish. Sometimes, you have to trust in luck.

I ran along a new long road yesterday, taking a small break from...

Fri, 19 Aug 2011 09:23:00 -0400

I ran along a new long road yesterday, taking a small break from East Hill Road, the road I always take. I avoided the new road for days due a gnarly-looking hill that, against my body, at once felt daunting and good. The road curved up and wound around itself like a corkscrew worm, and when I reached a certain point (I hesitate to write the word ‘peak’), the view looked like this, only greener and more blue.

I did not see a car or person the entire time. The flowers by the road were overgrown and pink. After some time of feeling ‘at peace,’ ‘composed,’ and ‘serene,’ my mind turned toward the thought of my dead body, bloody in the flowers. At which point I turned around, ran back down the road, and thought to myself: I have been reading too many books.

It looked like this; now there is rain. The rain is an obstacle,...

Mon, 15 Aug 2011 11:10:00 -0400

It looked like this; now there is rain. The rain is an obstacle, or it is not. It complements Virginia Woolf’s The Waves, a cyclical reality whose language I coil around, twist around, wind around: ‘Now I will wrap my agony inside my pocket-handkerchief. It shall be screwed tight into a ball.’

I read The Waves with my head’s pair of globular organs. I read Solaris with my soft, nervous tissue, and its massive id ocean is incomparable to the rain. Easy Travel to Other Planets is stored inside my mind as a mood, a steady light that illuminates the image of a dolphin blanketed in blue.

Pictured here are gardens, hot-baked in the sun, tough and bright orange. As I look from the window, I see another garden where purple cabbage grows. I think to myself: It is hackneyed to say writing takes place from a window. Yet I acknowledge my impulse to say this in much the same way I acknowledge the artificiality of my lyricism, which does not reflect my speech.

Projected Twin Peaks against a wall in the main building on the...

Sun, 14 Aug 2011 10:02:33 -0400

Projected Twin Peaks against a wall in the main building on the night of the full moon. One day, my log will have something to say about this.

A family of frogs now lives in the pool where Edna St. Vincent...

Sat, 13 Aug 2011 11:13:00 -0400

A family of frogs now lives in the pool where Edna St. Vincent Millay’s pool parties took place. These pool parties were affairs requiring no clothing, unless one wanted a drink at the bar: then one would retreat into the changing stall and dress.

The following is a list of things to do in Austerlitz, NY, besides read and write: Go running to the pool; go running to Vincent’s pile of gin (which also includes Clorox bottles and other miscellaneous trash); go running to the end of East Hill Road (both ways); talk to fellow residents; Skype with JJ, Brix, and your mother; practice yoga: twists, arm balances, and inversions; pick and press brightly colored flowers in a book; nap on the floor in-between chapters (both written and read); decorate walls with images from old books, quotations, and mail received; sample bug sprays; sunblock your tattoo, shoulders, and face; tour the estate; drive to Chatham (3x) and the post office (1x); watch Bluebeard (2009), Twin Peaks (1990-91), and videos on YouTube; help bake cookies (peanut butter, chocolate chip); look at the stars; look at the burial sites and endless, open fields, seeing for miles; survey the woods for deer; survey the sky for saucers: pretend you’re in a sci-fi book; browse shitty jobs on craigslist; drink coffee and wine — contort your consciousness — and dream of a world in which the place where you live is ½ the way it already is, and ½ this.

Some days I go for runs along the Poetry Trail, a trail in the...

Thu, 11 Aug 2011 21:35:00 -0400

Some days I go for runs along the Poetry Trail, a trail in the woods lined with poems by Edna St. Vincent Millay. I listen to songs like ‘These Days,’ ‘Lover’s Spit,’ and ‘Orange Juice,’ and, as I run, I secretly wish to see deer. I go running when I need to think about my book, my ever-expanding book which is advancing both nowhere and somewhere. If questions comes up — and they do — movement usually provides an answer: I take notes as I run, then return to my little (big) room in the barn, write, and practice balancing upside-down.

Animals I have seen include: frogs, butterflies, hummingbirds, a dead mouse, &c. Two days ago, a green garden snake crossed my path. According to the Internet, this is a symbol of healing.

Most days, however, I write until my back is sore and my mind is spun inside-out and I have imaginary carpal tunnel syndrome. Then I write more.

Two days ago, I toured the house where Edna St. Vincent Millay...

Sun, 07 Aug 2011 11:27:00 -0400

Two days ago, I toured the house where Edna St. Vincent Millay lived until her death in 1950. Everything in the house is exactly the way it was the day she died, our docent said. Then he opened the front door and called out her name: ‘Vincent, you have visitors.’

All About Pittfield (1981) is an exciting, fast-moving game for the the entire family. The objective of the game is this: acquire the items on your shopping list from an assortment of local businesses. Along the way, gather travel cards, surprise cards, and paper money.

‘Preservation’ is a word that means ‘to keep.’ The bedspread in Edna St. Vincent Millay’s bedroom is the color of white blossoms. If you look closely, you will notice a stain. All About Pittsfield (1981) contains sheets of perforated coupons that were never torn away. Now the businesses are ghosts.

At night, I sleep in a barn — one of the first Sears and...

Fri, 05 Aug 2011 09:33:31 -0400

At night, I sleep in a barn — one of the first Sears and Roebuck catalog barns — that Edna St. Vincent Millay built in the mid-1920’s. There are, of course, ghost stories about the barn, but I think I sleep too soundly to believe the barn is haunted. However, as I fall asleep at night and think of ghosts, I find it comforting to think the rumored ghosts are gentle, literate, barnyard animal ghosts — ghosts of horses, pigs, sheep, cows, and roosters — who move with stealth around the barn; who purr quietly, pause, and skim through the barn’s bookshelves before moseying along to the nearby field above which the ghosts of hooded warblers, red-winged blackbirds, and cedar waxwings float.

There are butterflies in Austerlitz. There are also moths, the...

Thu, 04 Aug 2011 11:15:05 -0400

There are butterflies in Austerlitz. There are also moths, the butterfly’s drab, nocturnal sibling. Last night, a dead moth appeared on my desk. Its wings were white. Its eyes were black. I cupped it in my palm and felt its body.

Each day, I am writing sentences about the adverb ‘not.’ I write: I am not tired. By which I mean: I am exhausted. When I say I am not, I am saying that I am.

Days stretch out here, a friend says. 25 days will feel like 40. But to tell this story — which is both her and my story — I need a break from sleep. I need blue light, cold air, and flowering trees. And, to a great extent, I need a break from my body, from dwelling inside my body, my body which exists, must exist, yet is not as it hovers in the soundlessness.

Write until your eyes are bloodshot, then let the mosquitoes...

Tue, 02 Aug 2011 18:24:56 -0400

Write until your eyes are bloodshot, then let the mosquitoes suck away the blood.

Days 19 & 20: The Beginning

Sun, 15 May 2011 00:29:00 -0400

It seems appropriate that I began writing this post on my last day of teacher training and am now (finally) ‘publishing’ it on my last day of my teaching.

This past year — and especially the past few months — have been strange and transitional (among other words [like these]). I could make a list of the things I’ve done, but a list wouldn’t document anything. I could say, ‘Over the past year, teaching kept me energized, grounded, and perplexed.’ Truth is, I don’t know what else to say.

* * *

In yoga classes, it’s common for teachers to make this statement: ‘Get rid of that which isn’t serving you.’ With regard to physical practice, that refers to things like bodily tension or the urge to go too deep into a pose, and serving speaks to the notion of being of use. To be of use. I think of Smog, then I think of education. Big box classrooms. So little love. How, I wonder, do you get rid of that which isn’t of use to you when you’re trapped inside a system that isn’t serving you?

* * *

Most classrooms — most boxes, I suspect — make no room for love. Or, if love is allowed, it’s of the industrial strength, ‘tough’ variety.

(Pause while Claire becomes the protagonist in a middle-grade YA novel: ‘Call me crazy,’ she says, ‘but tough love is of little use to me. I’m hard enough on myself as it is. Why on earth would I need someone else to break me?’)

Why do so many teachers turn toward power, impatience, discipline, deadlines, failure, and scare tactics? This semester — especially over the past month — I’ve thought a lot about what (could) happen(s) to a classroom confronted by love. What might a classroom space in which kindness prevails look like? In response to these questions, I’ve tried to become more aware of (‘engaged with’? So many loaded words and phrases tonight!) ways in which I can and do and will and want to bring love into my classroom(s), focusing my mind on a pedagogy of patience, empathy, warmth, and collaboration.

‘I appreciate how patient you’ve been with me,’ one student said. I’ll keep it with mine.

* * *

Standing at the root, gripping onto the stem, identifying vulnerability’s nucleus and containing every word inside my heart, the same way the heart contains its four magmatic chambers that periodically erupt, producing pain: a spotless flare, a cloud of vapor, the image of your finger sliding across the surface of this text.

* * *

Time stopped.

I removed seeds from the basket and repeated one word: Ishvarapranidhana. Surrender.

The mind is covered with light.

The lungs inspire air into the blood.

The heart is carved into the shape of a palm, which reaches out.

I rest alone at the base of my spine, repeating one word.

* * *

Text appeared in my palm, made its way to the crown of my skull.

Text appeared in sleep, and I set fire to my hand.

When I awoke, I cupped the orthographic projection and considered time and space.

My feelings burned.

I burnt my palm.

My body inscribed an elliptical shape.

Hidden inside of my mind, I thought, is my palm.

Hidden inside of my palm, I thought, is temporary light.

Aware of the mind-body crevice, I sever each part of myself —

The mind, which is pacified by thoughts, space, knowledge, and tactile sense.

And the mind, which is warm, honest, and cordial to every living being but myself.

* * *

The mind asks the following question: What is that horrible stench?

Had I known the critter was dead, I would not have pressed my mouth against it.

Nor would I have grazed its soft hair with my lips.

Water laps against the shoreline, then retreats between my lips.

My lips graze against the surface of your mind. Therefore, you must consider this text.

This text consists of flesh and salt. It enunciates every single word. Yet every time I speak, no words come out, ‘no words come out,’ I speak.

VUE #30: Youth Organizing for Education Reform (Spring 2011)

Thu, 12 May 2011 10:06:13 -0400

VUE #30: Youth Organizing for Education Reform (Spring 2011):

“In communities around the nation, youth organizing groups are becoming effective and powerful partners in school reform. The articles in this issue, produced in collaboration with the Alliance for Education Justice, provide a firsthand glimpse into just a few of their efforts in different communities.”

Opening the Contemplative Mind in the Classroom

Sun, 08 May 2011 11:04:03 -0400

Opening the Contemplative Mind in the Classroom

Photo

Fri, 06 May 2011 23:59:43 -0400

Listening to this song while studying for my final exam, feeling...

Thu, 05 May 2011 22:25:20 -0400

Listening to this song while studying for my final exam, feeling appreciative, and thinking of Northern California, Kundalini, and sleep.

Days 17 & 18: I'm Counting on Your Fingers

Wed, 04 May 2011 23:47:00 -0400

Two more days, both backward and forward. Two days unlogged and two days to go. I’ve been thinking about savasana in preparation for when I lead a group through (in[to]? beyond? against?) it tomorrow morning. Today, I closed my eyes and spoke out loud in empty space to practice being less frenetic. On the train, I wrote things down in ink: ‘You are not defined by your thoughts,’ ‘bring your attention to the bones in your skeleton,’ ‘draw your attention to the space between your thoughts,’ etc. The caesura, the caesura, the caesura. I can’t help but think this all is not exactly what I mean.

But I don’t know what is, yet.

One piece of savasana-related advice that’s stuck with me over time actually comes from Daniella. That piece of advice is: choose stillness. Last winter, I took a trip during which I went climbing with a friend. That night, in bed, I found myself unable to sleep: all I could think about — visualize clearly — was my body climbing up the wall. Choose stillness: I remember repeating this phrase to myself over and over again until I fell asleep, unable to distinguish between my waking mind and haze.

When you feel something in sleep, do you feel the thing you feel in waking life? For example, if I close my eyes and sleep and feel a palm resting over mine, does that palm exist, or is it a sensation in my mind?

It was also in the winter that I began to visualize asana poses in my sleep.

When I sleep, I don’t know anything. Recently, I pictured myself flying an airplane. Then I pictured an apocalypse. My friend, my twin brain, was there. We were holding hands. We were walking toward it. ‘That means you love and trust her,’ JJ said. Which is true.

Speaking of love, I’ve been thinking about it. More on that soon. In the meantime, this blog will be ending in a couple of weeks, but before things wrap-up, stay tuned for reflections on and interviews with three marvelous yoga teachers: Ross Gay, Angela Arnold, and the aforementioned Daniella Rosales-Friedman.
Looking forward!

Day 16: The Expansiveness of Speech

Mon, 02 May 2011 20:48:00 -0400

I could write about a certain symbol being dead, but by what means? I do not believe in turning any living person into a body: a dead, once-living body — even if that body, in its life, seemed deeply unalive, already half-dead, unlike a human being who is, in fact, living, being, existing — breathing in reality, the fact or state of having lived, having died, having already felt half-empty inside while remaining very much alive, but not yet buried.

* * *

As I breathe, I ask you, How? You stand near the door, press your palm against my speech and practice the art of answering the question: How? In what way or manner? By what human means? In any way — however — the space between the speech pressed against your palm is filled with light. What do you see? Dead or alive, day or night, by any human means, the body reflects light, which occupies its speech.

Or, I write into this space, which has come to symbolize something to me. For some time, I found myself unable to write. Or, I wrote, and I knew I was writing. Now, I am writing, and time stops: I form a loop, don’t know what I write, thus I reread and rewrite until a sliver of meaning reveals itself. (I tried to tack on a simile, but you don’t want to read the phrase ‘like a stranger emerging from fog,’ right? Right.)

All of this to say: I began this experiment in documentation with the vision that I would read books, create playlists, list the foods I ate, etc. I never thought this work (this play, really) would move me toward a book: that I would begin drafting a table of contents for something (what thing?) called The Short Sharp Life. I’ll write in the abstract for a few more days. I’ll also incorporate some recommendations and reflections on my time doing yoga in NYC, because this blog is about yoga — in part, after all — a different form of union, which has rewritten and revised my life.

* * *

In conclusion, the past few days have felt surprising and light (surprisingly light?). I feel hopeful about May: sunny nights, question marks, friends and Special America at EPoetry. And I’m grateful that, this summer, I will be able to continue seeing my students, albeit in a new capacity (leading meditation).

The future is, or it may be.