Just my first art show. No Big Deal. (I sure hope you read that with the appropriate level of sarcasm...)

Remember how I told you all about my act of subterfuge? How I weaseled my poetry into an art show? Well, here's how it went...

This is me living out my childhood dream of being a brown haired Vanna White. 

So, there was a reception during the April First Friday Artwalk. OF COURSE THERE WAS!
That didn't make me anxious at all. (It is one thing to send in poems to journals and writing competitions because those people are faceless and if/when they reject me it doesn't feel personal because I am not staring at their faces making small talk while it happens.) I was absolutely terrified of overhearing someone make fun of my stuff or tear it down to tiny little pieces. I am fairly self-aware and know that I am not a traditional "artist". There were things hanging on those gallery walls that just blew my mind and in no way could I even begin to compare my stuff to theirs. Apples to bowling balls. But guys, nothing horrible happened. In fact, people were so nice and curious and even complimentary! It really was okay. I really was just fine.

Here is my proof that people were good to me. I don't know Chelsea L., but I think she's fantastic and clearly has great taste. :o) 

To make what could be a very long story made short, this was a wonderful experience. I created something out of my norm, put on a brave face, and hung these pieces on a wall for the world to see. It was hard and stressful and uncomfortable, but worth it. People asked good questions, smiled genuine smiles, shook my hand, said they were proud, and it was an awesome night! I'll probably do it again next year...with a roll of Tums in hand. Or a stronger drink...

"The Looking". Copyright Jennifer Klein 2013.

"The 2nd Time Around". Copyright Jennifer Klein 2013.

When worlds collide. (No, not an actual armageddon...just using creative license.)

Recently, I discovered that Mark Hall is a brilliant music composer and producer. He ever so graciously gave me permission to peruse some of his pieces and use them to jump start my writing flow.

Here's the thing - - I love music of every kind. I played the clarinet for 8 years in the school concert band (Yes, I was a band nerd. Hard to believe, right?) and I can associate all of my favorite memories with particular songs. It's just how I'm built. I love listening to movie scores and putting myself in a "mood" and I take my daily play list at work very seriously. With that said, I had never thought to reverse the process and listen to a song first and THEN figure out the story to go with it. But that is exactly what Mark let me do. Thanks for that. (I'm not even being sarcastic. Seriously, thanks.)

For reference, track #2 was the inspiration for this poem. I heard the first 30 seconds and knew precisely what was going on in that house.

"This house has a sad story"

Alone in a room that was always too small for her imagination.

Not enough space to let her mind run free.

These four walls couldn’t and can’t hold dreams of this size.

The bed and blankets kept her warm but not comfortable.

Holding a doll that she never really liked and never really wanted.

Remembering how it didn’t speak to her 
and neither did those who gave it as a gift. As a bribe. Making her obligated.

Alone in a room that was always too small for her imagination.

Still not enough space for her adult sized memories.

Because their reach is too far. Too wide and too deep.

The bed and blankets are old and scratchy. Smelling like grape soda and decay.

The torn wallpaper, the dust floating, and the past flashing.

She can feel her skin prickling, her fists clenching, and her eyes rolling back.

This rage is enough to break her open and then consume all but her shell.

The anger is hot and takes just one shaky exhale to spark the first flame.

The breathe of her quiet “why” sends the room up in smoke.

Alone in what used to be a room too small for her imagination.

The walls have burned, the ashes are blowing, and her tears keep falling.

Drawing clean lines down her soot covered face.

She can see her melancholy expression reflected in the doll she never really liked.

And never really wanted.

Just like she always wanted to

She screamed, mangled the doll, walked out, and ran away.

Alone with her imagination she sees that memories are hard to shake

and new ones are easy to find.

But first, you must burn down your past.

There cannot be a phoenix without a fire.

Zodiac Exercise #8 - Leo

It's only been a few months since I did my last Zodiac inspired writing prompt. NO big deal. I haven't been procrastinating -- I've been busy. Yeah. BUSY.

So to pick up where I left off, here we go with #8 in the series. I call it "Feral", 

It started with one dance
and we kept it up all summer long
It was hot and burned so bright
Nothing soft about it -- this was fierce and ferocious

You wanted "us" more than anything
Growling out your declarations
there was nothing tame about your honesty
You were so obviously in love with being in love
you forgot to love those little pieces that made me

Loyal to a fault
You wouldn't let go of my arms
Couldn't hear me cry
Wanted to keep me close
But when I started walking away
You took of at a dead run

I guess when you are done, you're done
not even a single look back
Now I'll never know if I made you cry
My guess is that you haven't forgiven
I know you haven't forgotten

It was an act of pure subterfuge. I have no regrets.

So, the university that employs me holds an annual "Staff Art Show". Now it is quite obvious that I am not an artist in any formal way. I like to draw cartoon-ish doodles and make crafty things, but I would never say that I am anything close to a legitimate artist. I am like an artist's second-cousin-twice-removed-by-marriage. With that said, I definitely entered a piece of work in the show. Let me tell you why I did it and how I found a loophole to make myself feel better (read: less nauseous).

Since I am a poet who happens to love photography (even though I am not a great photographer) - - I used a picture that I took last summer, worked some digital manipulation magic, transferred that image to a canvas, painted on it a bit, and then placed a poem of mine as the cherry on top. Here's what that looks like:

Copyright Jennifer Klein, 2013. This was the piece I submitted to the University of Nebraska-Lincoln Staff Art Show. It is titled, "The Second Time Around". 

Basically, I took my strong suit (poetry) and fancied it up with a photograph (art). I gave it a title and labeled the medium "Mixed Media/Visual Poetry". LOOPHOLE!!!

That was the how, here's the why. People constantly assume that poetry is boring. That is is hard to understand. That it is not accessible to them. I thought that maybe, if I could literally show people the beauty of poetry, they might change their minds and give it a whirl. Even if they don't see this piece and fall over with inspiration to buy the complete works of Keats or Burroughs, I'll be content if they just stop thinking that it's boring.

The art show starts April 1st and runs through the 12th. I'll let you know how it goes.

Wish me luck...

Meeting your favorite author. (I call it an inspiration and awesome sandwich with a side of OMFG!)

Have you ever had the opportunity to see your favorite author in person? To listen to them speak for an hour? To meet them and shake their hand? I never thought I would say this - but I have. It was all I could have hoped for, and honestly, it was so much more. To get the full scope of how monumental this night was in my world, I need to back track a little and reveal a few personal details. Nothing juicy, so don't get your hopes up.

I was an English major, my emphasis was in the areas of poetry and creative writing, who obtained a minor in Native American Studies. During my four and a half years at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln (Go Big Red!) there was this one particular author who kept showing up on syllabus after syllabus. Whether it was for Poetry 498, Native American Lit 102, Ethnic Studies 201 - - Sherman Alexie was sure to be on  my required reading list. It began to feel like I was spending more of my late nights and early mornings with his books than I did with my best friends. What started out as merely homework assignments turned into a literary love affair. I started to develop this very personal relationship with his stories. His works were seeing me through some of the best and worst times of my life. (Keep in  mind that during my college years I was working 35-40 hours a week, had a baby, got engaged, and was looking to buy a house. It was a touch stressful, but also amazing.) From those moments on, his work has been tied to some of my most important memories.

When my Mom was diagnosed with cancer for the second time I was in the middle of reading "The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven". Those short stories were an escape hatch for me. On the nights I found myself huddled in the middle of my bed sobbing because I was terrified that my mom might die, I put those feelings on hold for a while, opened that book and climbed inside the cadence of Thomas Builds-the-Fire's voice. (In case you're wondering, my Mom is healthy as can be these days...)

When I was falling in love with the boy I just knew would break my heart and watching myself do every stupid and cliche thing I vowed to never do, I ran away from myself and into "Indian Killer". I got swept away in the thriller and forgot about my boy problems. For every time he didn't call, I read another chapter. Each time his phone when directly to voicemail, I read another chapter. I read that book four times in a month. (If you're keeping score, I've been with that boy for 11 years now and haven't reread the book in 10.)

When I found out I was pregnant, I couldn't immediately process what that meant for me at 20 years old. So I took some time away from the world, sat on my sun porch drinking iced tea and read "The Summer of Black Widows". By the second time through that book of poems I knew with an inexplicable certainty that everything was going to be just fine. I still wasn't sure what my plan was, but I knew that whatever happened, it would all work out. (My daughter will turn nine soon. She is smart, funny, beautiful, and I couldn't possibly love her any more.)

Needless to say, when I found out that Sherman Alexie was going to be on campus giving a talk, reading some of his work, and holding a book signing it was an absolute no-brainer where I would be that night. It was a given that I would be in that audience with bells on.

Through what I can only assume was me cashing in on a minimum of two years worth of built up karma points, I was able to sit in the front row of the auditorium and watch the man in all his hilarious and brilliant glory. Then to top it all off, after his talk and after standing in line for 45 minutes, I got the chance to meet him. Face-to-face. I was able to finally tell him "thank-you" for providing me with my version of comfort food. (Some folks go to chocolate or booze, I go to my personal Sherman Alexie library.) He said "you're welcome" in a very sincere voice, signed my book, chuckled a bit to himself and then asked me if I wanted to take a picture with him. I proceeded to nod my head like a broken bobble-head doll and against my better judgement, spilled my guts. My awkwardness reared its ugly head while I fessed up and told him that I was trying very hard to hold back the raging fan-girl inside and that I was desperately trying to play it cool. He stood up, walked over to me and said, "Come here you adorable little stalker," and then this happened:

Look who's getting a hug from their favorite author. OMFG - that's ME!
(Many many thanks go to the wonderful young man who happily agreed to take this photo for me.)

That's right, folks. What you are seeing is photographic evidence of me receiving a full two arm hug from Sherman Alexie, my literary hero.

I still don't have the words to describe what this meant to me. All I know is that this was definitely a night for the scrap book, and now I'm going to have to work on rebuilding a copious amount of karma points...