Karisma Rodriguez

Look over there —>. That tab above/to the right of this one.

There’s a new video up from my last reading. (By Evan Karp on YouTube. He tapes many literary events throughout SF so going to his channel is an easy way to check out tons of local writers!)

Take a look/listen!

The Inside Story Time reading went well and I had a wonderful time getting to meet and talk with all the writers afterward. This post-reading sharing of ideas was perhaps the best part for me. At some point, I just realized it was a very soothing feeling being in the metal/emotional energy of these people. It felt very much like a spiritual experience.

The next day at work, I was still in this giddy/euphoric haze thinking of all the ideas shared and revelations that were sparked for me. I was trying to hide it from coworkers because I thought they would think it strange what brought me such joy. Silly even. You see, this kind of giddiness is typically only associated with having a crush/new relationship/being in love. That is what people want to hear. That is the only source of happiness most people can understand. But this was deeper than that.

When the euphoric feeling is based on someone else, or anything outside yourself,  it’s rarely in equilibrium. Instead, it’s hinged on how that outside force will respond next. That exists to some degree with the performer/audience relationship, but not as much, because no matter how they respond, you know you’ve created something tangible, something palpable, something honest. Plus, when the audience is largely fellow performers, it’s a great equalizer .

During a dharma talk I once went to, the teacher said that the word “spirit,” either broken down or in some other language or something etymological, meant “breath.” If we look at the spirit as one’s breath, as Buddhists are wont to do, it is quite easy to see how poetry could be a spiritual experience. Because it’s only after we’ve expressed the mental/emotional energies we creative types harbor, that we can sigh and breath with ease. And just be.

This Thursday August 19th I’ll be reading some poetry at Cafe Royale with the fine folks of Inside Story Time. The four other authors reading are all published and–I believe–fiction writers (sometimes what looks like Fiction turns out to be Memoir or Creative Non-Fiction…or Non-Fiction…let’s just call it not Poetry). The theme of the night is “Transitions” and the magic happens from 6:30-8:30pm.

This is one I have struggled with while living in the city (SF) and one reason why I’d considered moving to the east bay before. Sound. (White) Noise. Music. Ambiance. Cacophony. A symphony. A…you get the point.

The sounds we take in–by choice or assault–have a profound impact on our emotional well-being. If you believe this article, sound can be held responsible for everything from hearing loss to heart attacks and learning disorders. I have recently contemplated wearing ear plugs on days when I’m out and about by myself, running errands–in other words, I don’t need to listen to people. I haven’t yet, but I do wear them to sleep.

For me, peace and quiet often go hand in hand. I can very palpably sense a difference in my state of being after I’ve come back from a peaceful place–middle of nowhere Missouri, somewhere in the east bay, monastery in Ukiah. My body/energy feels cleansed and soothed. But that just makes the cacophony of city noise waiting for me when I get back all the more abrasive. Given that I’m including the east bay, perhaps by peace and quiet I mean more sounds produced directly by living beings than by industry.

I wish I knew better what effect sound/noise has on my creative process. I do not recall ever being inspired to write by a sound. It’s nearly always something that comes out of conversation with/while relating to others that makes me want to write. That and busyness. I also need to feel secure. When I’m alone, I’m not inspired to write. I’m inspired to read, meditate, etc. To communicate somehow with something, but not to write. When I’m communicating and overwhelmed with tasks, the “answer” hits me, the connections are made somewhere in my brain and surface, and I must escape the situation to capture the thoughts.

So I don’t think moving to suburbia would do much in the way of creativity for me. I need a tropical island inhabited by mostly–but not all–cool people. Yes, that’ll do it! The sound of thunder and lightning can be invigorating, the sound of breeze certainly is, the sound of (harmless) animals and insects is nurturing, and the warmth is always there for stability.

I have heard of painters and other artists who create by listening to music that moves them. That’s always fascinated me. When music moves me I turn physical, not mental.

In closing, here’s an exercise: If you live in a noisy city and have a day to yourself, put on some ear plugs and see what it does for you. Be careful! This would not be the time to go crossing highways or walking through the Tenderloin or doing anything for which your sense of hearing could very well help you dodge something life-threatening. Maybe just go to a park and sit and observe everyone and everything, those lying down, the pedestrians, the cars zooming through streets.

Indulge in the absense of sound and the concentration of vision.

Then, when you’re ready, unplug yourself, and really hear all the sounds around you. Take a deep breath; awereness can be overwhelming.

More often than not, we seem to believe our eyes. We trust sight to tell us what we are surrounded by. Sometimes sounds surprise us and warn us of what we cannot see. And sometimes smells confirm what our eyes suspect (i.e. “that person looks homeless”). But rarely do we intentionally call another sense in for backup. Not too long ago, I began to do just that.

Prior to living somewhere with two cats, it was difficult to find an excuse to touch and caress things. In public. And I’ve always been a hands-on kind of person. One of my favorite pastimes as a child was playing with the narrow strip of dirt in our urban cement “yard.” I planted seeds, uncovered rocks, and just generally got my hands all up in the moist soil. And when I eat Mexican food, I’m guaranteed to have two messy hands when I’m done. Why fight what’s meant to be with something as futile as a fork?

So one day I decided I wanted to touch more things, welcome more texture into my life. I started with walls* and was amazed by what I found. Had I been relying solely on touch, I might have been convinced that the ridge-ladden “wood” in a dim restaurant was wood and not plastic, or that the smoothly painted walls of I forget where weren’t really marble. It was exciting, uncovering all the props put in place to deceive the mind through sight.

Next time you’re suspicious of what is “real,” go ahead and touch it**. Let your your senses consciously work together in pursuit of the truth of your environment. Is that piece of who-knows-what glass? Plastic? Wood? A painted rock?

You’ll be excited not necessarily by the answer itself, but by your discovery of the truth.

*Germ-neutral areas are highly recommended. This definitely excludes bathroom walls. Look for the things most people ignore. And be prepared to look weird.

**This post is in no way intended to encourage people to grope, fondle, or molest fellow human beings…or animals…or any living creatures. Seriously. Stick to objects.

This Saturday July 24th I will be reading poetry with other SF Insight sangha members in the Fireside Room of the Unitarian Universalist Church (1187 Franklin Street at Geary). The event will be a fundraiser for The Khuphuka Project–an orphanage for children in South Africa whose parents have died of AIDS. I’ll be reading a medium-sized poem called “Dear Mara,” and three tiny poems called “Religion I,” “Precious Human Birth,” and “Religion II.” The readings will last from7-9pm, no more, no less (I think because they have to rent the room for a specific time). Hope to see you there!

Whoops. Haven’t updated in a while. I was in the middle of moving! Still within this wonderful city.

On the 4th of July I was at the beach with a group of friends when one of them opened a bag of chocolate-covered pretzels. I didn’t know what she had opened but I could certainly smell the chocolate from several feet away amidst the salty breeze. “Could you really smell it?” one of them asked. “Yes,” I replied giddily, thinking nothing of it. The person continued to say that every poet he knew had a heightened sense of smell (and that he did as well despite not being a poet). Hm. I considered what he said. Being sensitive to sensory experiences and being a poet seem to work well together, sure. But certainly there are plenty of sensual non-poets. I don’t know what any intensive research into the matter would conclude (in a brave new world where research on/for poets is funded) but I do know that I am certainly in tune with the fact that I’m a sensual being.

I also know that our perception is often informed by our senses, so why not bring awareness to that?

Today, indulge in your sense of smell. See what it brings up.

In the past I’d noticed that wearing the same deodorant I wore during a dramatic high school crush affair instantly brought back all the memories and feelings associated with it. Of course, it is said that smell is the sense most strongly associated with memory.

Today I used an alcohol cleansing pad to clean a cut at work and the smell almost assaulted me with nostalgia. I wasn’t sure at first why it was affecting me, and then I remembered. It was the smell connected with my mother having nutured my wounds as a child (simple and frugal, she usually stuck with alcohol or hydrogen peroxide as remedies)–the feelings of both being protected and made to feel guilty for having gotten hurt arose.

Powerful stuff the senses.

As for a pleasant sense memory: the smell of sunscreen. Now that’s some instant smile serum right there.

Try it. Sniff your surroundings. Wait for a smell that calls to you and then inhale deeply. Be your feeling, thinking, remembering, and maybe even reconstructing/restructuring, creative, fabulous, sensitive poet self!!!

I’ll be reading with the San Francisco Writer’s Community at Cafe Royale tonight. It’s a great cozy little place with a luscious velvety red background curtain for the readers. Beer and wine. And tea. I believe the other (than me) readers tonight are of the Memoir and Fiction persuasion. The action starts at 7pm! Ish.

I recently attended a Buddhist group for younger folk where the theme of the night was “sob stories.” (If you’re a poet/writer, the odds are probably good that you’ve got a few of your own.) The intention was to keep it lighthearted and work with reframing your stories, but the timeframe was nowhere near long enough to be able to do that. After going around the room once, it became clear that sob stories are pretty intense, and that there are plenty of them. I’ve certainly experienced multiple. It was my first night at the group and the girl who’d invited me to it said something about how it was a pretty heavy night for my first time being there.

“Yes,” I said, and then thought about it. “But I like it that way. Because once you go that far, the only place left to go is here.”

Perhaps a bit abstract for the non-meditators of you, but it made sense to her. Basically I meant that once you’ve revealed what you consider to be the worst there’s no point in being anyone but yourself, in the present moment.

One guy in the group, who had said he had a relatively easy life and felt that his job was to usher other people’s greatness and hold a space for them, said something else in particular that I loved. He said that listening to other people’s harrowing and brave journeys allowed him to let go of his “kitchen mind” (a reference to the space where everyone socializes before meditating and discussing things), to let go of feeling like he has to wear a certain personality around people in order to be even a little loved. I thought that was really beautiful and, finally, it made sense to me why people often respond to such tumultuous stories with grattitude and compassion.

I never really understood it before. Sure I knew that “in suffering we all meet” because it’s something we all experience. But surely we understand pleasure too, so why not meet there? Or rather, why can’t we grow from there?

It never made sense to me why guys I dated responded positively to my stories. I felt like they just wanted to feel more interesting through knowing me. I could only see my stories as interesting, not personal. And I didn’t understand how exactly they could be of healing benefit to someone who didn’t experience the exact same or very similar circumstances themselves. But what that guy said makes perfect benevolent sense! And what a relief that people don’t have to be exactly like me to benefit from who I am .

When it comes down to the basics, we’re all scared and wanting to be loved, no matter what we’ve experienced, and knowing that everyone suffers and that some are brave enough to face it, get through it, and share it allows everyone to take off their masks.

Next step, letting go of the unhealthy fear that I am not as interesting as my stories.

Figure it out. I really can’t stress this enough.

Figure it out. Figure it out. Figure it out. By doing stuff. Experimenting with and tweaking your ideas as your discoveries arise. Be a scientist with your art.

Figure out what kind of artist you are. There are a lot of ideas out there as to what makes a creative type productive and successful. For poets, the ideas can be particularly negative at times (alcoholism, mental instability, suicide). And for all writers, there seems to be this popular idea that, “If I could just get away for a while, away from people, away from the world, and become a hermit, an emotional slave to my art, then I’d write something amazing and become famous. After killing myself, of course.”

Writers can be a little dramatic.

Personally, I’ve never been that big into self-destruction but I did once buy into the idea that I needed to get away from the world in order to be productive, that people were holding me back.

And I couldn’t have been more wrong.

I got my chance at solitude when I was teaching abroad in Japan. More or less. I had a few close friends nearby but I certainly did not have an English-speaking community of artists with which to share my work, nor was I living in a context that could understand my own. For a couple of months, I even lived alone. It made me anxious. I felt like poetry was pretty pointless if my best hopes for it was to submit it to journals online back home for people I’d never see to read it. (Of course, there was also the practical issue of feeling like my English language skills were deteriorating as I was helping others’ to improve.) I’d rather be out exploring and finding people to communicate with, however it was most possible to do so.

I traveled a lot in my early twenties and it was exciting, perspective-enhancing, and just plain full of many positive lessons and experiences one should be able to have in their lifetime. But it did not make me a better writer. At least not immediately.

I did learn though, after moving so much, that what made me most creative was stability. I had to adjust to being somewhere new first, and become somewhat familiar with it, for my muse to come out and play. It’s my relationships with people, the whole range from acquaintances to family, that inspire me to write. It’s the daily frictions that come about when we interact with each other, when our conversations become more personal, that makes me want to write.

And ultimately, without a community of writers around to share my insights with, what’s the point? Writing, after all, is a form of communication, and it’s not enough for me to believe or even to know that someone somewhere will read my work and be affected by it; I want to see it firsthand.

It’s different for everyone. This is how it works for me at this point in time. Some people really do work better as hermits.

So like I said. Figure it out!