Addonizionism

I was finally so lucky this past week to overcome some passive-aggressive behavior at work and decided to shirk duties that only I could perform perfectly. I took Friday off--in honor of my birthday, in honor of my parents coming to visit from two hrs away, in honor of that little "treat" to myself, in honor of all Woolf-lovers out there who understand that sometimes a woman needs "a room of one's own" for writing, sculpting, contemplating. And it was the biggest splurge when I decided to stroll around campus, where my natural habitat had been for the past four years--a place that I had so missed, with its strangely familiar faces and pedestrians with places to go. Almost crow-like, I decided on the shiniest side of town, built up recently with coffee shops, juice bars, tanning beds, theaters and a HUGE Barnes & Noble. I'm a poor Grad Student, and never understood what "No Fees for G.A.s" stickers posted all around campus meant until I was there myself. Splurging this particular day meant, buying a coffee drink I actually had to be made.
But once stepping into the Barnes & Noble and hitting the air-conditioned stacks, I let out a true sigh of relief. I could finally allow space in my brain for some pleasure-reading. I had intended the reading to be a perusal of the latest InStyle magazine, or maybe a glimpse at who's fucking who, but after finding that this campus B&N had no visible magazine stack (was it fate?), I strolled right into the "Poetry" corner. And truly, it was just that--a corner. One solitary bookcase, one-sided that contained all of the poetry that this particular B&N could offer. How sad. And I immediately let the clerk shelving books nearby know this. With a harumph of playful disbelief, I said, "Seriously, there's only shelf for Poetry?" I'm sure I sounded snotty, or he probably thought I was trying to sound smarter than I really was. But one bookshelf?! You are kidding. Would any other bookstore stand for this? one of the greatest genres of literature and life..?
Anyway, since there was only one, I decided that it must have been because it contained all the quintessential works: Milton, Whitman, Hughes, Angelou, Wordsworth, Shax, you know. But I was more disappointed that I had to sift long and hard before I came up with "The Best of's...." Milton and maybe some Housman, more disappointment, they weren't even full works. But still possessing crow-like tendencies, a glint caught my eye and there was Kim Addonizio's "What is this thing called love?" poking from the shelf, a lone copy. The cover was enough to have me at hello: a photo of a man (shirtless and placid at the end of the bed, head resting on crossed arms) and a woman (with her head cut off by the camera angle, putting/taking off her top). The bed sheets were rumpled, and you can see the doorway from the perspective of the photo. From this picture alone, I could read so much. The loose interpretations fit perfectly with the title of the collection of poems, and after reading several titles like "31 year-old-lover," "Ex-boyfriends," "Bad Girl," and "Fuck" I knew that this was just what my day needed.
Now, those titles mentioned may not make you suddenly sit down on the dirtied carpet of a bookstore in the middle of the day, but I did. And I'm sure the clerk still thought I was either weird or pretentious. But this book was calling me. First, because it had the balls to have such titles that clearly reflected the ripples of my life, and because it had the balls to call a poem "Fuck." Addonizio is like the reminder to me that my work does have a Muse--even if it is so vague and infinite--though it still exists. Her works that I have read thus far don't simply include categories of reasons why saying "fuck" is cool, but it carries individualized and universal meanings for women about love, sex, and heartache. Kudos to Addonizionism--and I will strive to not shy away from writing about the truth of the most natural thing a human can do.