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About Rachel

Rachel Kessler is a writer and artist based in Seattle, Washington.

Writers Get to the Power Point

Tuesday / May 21 / 7:00 PM / Richard Hugo House
I’m finally transitioning from my beloved Kodak carousel tray of slides and have embraced the futuristic technology of the 1990s. Next Tuesday, May 21, I’ll be presenting a PowerPoint slide show that is actually a new story! The Richard Hugo House commissioned an exciting group of writers: Bill Carty, Kathleen Flenniken, Matt Gano, Arlene Kim, Erin Malone, Sierra Nelson, David Schmader, Greg Stump, Anastacia Tolbert (and me!) to create a slide show in the Petcha Kutcha form (20 slides shown for 20 seconds each), except these slide shows won’t be architects talking and it won’t be boring. It will be poets, comedians, comic artists, and story-tellers wielding laser pointers. There will be no horrible family vacation slides. The event is FREE, the bar will be open, and each presentation is 6 minutes and 40 seconds.

http://hugohouse.org/event/2013/may/writers-get-powerpoint

“Ho-Hum: Poetry of the Everyday” talk at Highline Community College

Tuesday April 9th / 9:00 AM / Highline Community College / Bldg. 2                            2400 S 240th St  Des Moines, WA 98198

I’ll be giving a reading of and talk about a new poem cycle dealing with water, drinking fountains, sewers, and toilets, as well as screening a few of the 1960s and ’70s educational films that inspired me.

Concept Album: 40

This poem appeared in the May 2012 issue of City Arts Magazine.

40

Driving around in my stolen car of lines ripped off from old hip-hop, I am the ripe women in aging bikinis. Most of these bikinis are yellow. These asses are not joking around. Stop, drop, and jiggle it. We are pushing the limits of a standard zipper. Each and every one of my selves is doing her part on this fine Sunday afternoon, swiping a debit card at the gas station for something cold wrapped in a paper bag, with which we will vaguely pretend to be stereotypically French, clicking heels and all. Our imaginations will elongate our limbs, we will stretch out on them like cats monorailing branches, our long invented fingers (hello, old friend) flicking some very real debris off the park bench.

The Next Big Thing

THANK YOU, Sierra Nelson, my long time collaborator and poet-hero, author of I Take Back the Sponge Cake – for tagging me for The Next Big Thing question series blog hop.

The QUESTIONS:

What is the working title of the book?

Concept Album: The Year In Boring Dreams

Where did the idea come from for the book? [and]  How long did it take you to write the first draft of the manuscript?

Inspired by fellow poet Pete Miller and our collaboration LOCCAL, I started writing some ditties to wash hands to, to put up by the sinks in public restrooms. Then I couldn’t stop hanging out in bathrooms, couldn’t stop thinking about what people write and think about and respond to in public restrooms. Toilet stalls are the original online comment section. Ever since the seventh grade, when I wrote my first anonymous protest poem in the girls bathroom stall in Jr. High (and was later caught out by the Natural Helpers), I’ve been writing these poems.

When I visited Rome recently, all the fountains told stories, which led me to the ancient Cloaca Maxima, aka the City’s Anus, one of the earliest sewer systems. I think a city’s public health works reveal as much about that society as their religion does. The Romans, actually the Etruscans, even had a goddess for it: Cloacina. She controlled sewers and sexual intercourse in marriage. I can’t stop thinking about that combination of duties. These fountains led me to the “Talking Statues” –fascinating statues where poets have written their anonymous political rants for 600 years.

So, several hundred or so years later, I have amassed a body of poems about water: the water cycle, where we get our drinking water, the physics and chemistry of water, what our flotsam and jetsam says about us, the songs the ocean gyres sing. Which leads me to the poems that are concept albums. I imagined I was writing a summary of an album, like Stevie Wonder’s The Secret Life of Plants but it was an album about eating chips, or finding a place to live with my family not full of mold and rats. I have spent many hours of my life listening to albums in headphones. I don’t believe in anthologies, in poetry or music. I want the whole album, in order, side A, then side B. I might choose to repeatedly dip into only track 2, side A, but even as I put the needle down, I can see all the context swirling around, so I know where I am reading or listening in the greater scheme of things.

Mostly, the poems are the stories and incantations of the everyday things that comprise the majority of one’s hours. Last summer, I decided to track my dreams, because I thought maybe that would unlock the awesome world of magic I lost sometime around age 14, but found that my dreams are stunningly dull. August 15, dreamt of checking email, and playing computer solitaire. I shit you not, I really dreamt that. I used to think I didn’t dream, but through this tracking exercise have discovered that it only seems like I’m not dreaming because my dreams are so boring they sneak right under the radar disguised as Real (Boring) Life.

What genre does your book fall under?

Poetry

What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a movie rendition?

Philip Seymour Hoffman as water and Dustin Hoffman as soap.

What is the one sentence synopsis of your book?

“We huff the musk of fog machine / see ourselves in the drunk robot pig rooting in dream.”

Who or what inspired you to write this book?

My writing group, LHGTI – without those guys scaring/inspiring me with their intellect and deadlines, I would not have written 99% of these poems. Michael Seiwerath, who, in the nicest and most supportive way possible, encouraged me to evaluate my complaining to dollar ratio, (Complaining : $), which led me to cut down on teaching hours to clear space for writing. As Duke Ellington put it, “I merely took the energy it takes to pout and wrote some blues.” Except that I’m not Duke Ellington. Terminator, and Terminator 2. Also, Tootsie. Sea shanties. Listening to Pink Floyd and Larry Norman and Betty Davis records on headphones. Saying the same 12 phrases to my kids over and over everyday like the broken record I swore I would never be.

What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

There are riddles. And jokes.

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

I recently discovered that, unlike with college applications, my mom is not going to send this out for me. So I am in the process of sending this around.

Next up:

For next Wednesday, I’ve tagged Jason Whitmarsh, author of Tomorrow’s Living Room, and Emily Beyer, who both have manuscripts I want to read.

Ode to Flotation Device

“Ode to Flotation Device: Stroke Pull” was first published in DESIRE and FLOTATION DEVICES: A Vis-a-Vis Society Study and Field Notes inspired by the art of Debra Baxter and was accompanied by a series of interactive surveys and reports via song and overhead projector at her “I want you to want me” opening at Ballard Fetherston Gallery in 2005. It appeared in The Monarch Review in April 2012.

ODE TO FLOTATION DEVICE: STROKE PULL
You forced my head down.
     I force the head down.
I describe thou as torture.
     I am wetly discarded.
You caused me to struggle.
     Held tightly, not looked at.
Make broad mine shoulders.
     I am the truth of weak shoulders.
Thou didst strengthen my stroke.
     Reviled for your weakness.
Grasped between thighs.
     Between countless thighs.
My reliance on legs.
     I cradle your legs.
Thou revealed my dependence.
     I bind and I strap.
I didst look for thou.
     I force the head down.

Olde “After the Party Pantoum”

This pantoum formed a link in the Poetry Chain that Paul Constant set off on The Stranger’s SLOG. Thanks to Sierra Nelson for tagging me!

After the Party Pantoum

 

Working that walk so hard it hurts,
it hurts, walking home in someone else’s high heels.
You were who you were before you came here —
a small animal, wandering, a drink in your hand.

 

It hurts, walking home in someone else’s high heels
so leave them by the road, a small monument to failure, leave them
to the curious small animal. Wonder — what was in that drink?
Work that barefoot walk in the rain.

 

Left the road for a small moment. Failed to leave
when, clearly, you’d had enough.
Work that barefoot walk in the rain
while you run through every stupid thing you said and did.

 

Clearly, you’d had enough —
enough to walk right up to him and
run through every stupid thing you said and did
and then apologize.

 

Enough! Walk right up to him and
give him a great big kiss
and then apologize
for bringing the party.

 

So you kissed him. Great.
You were who you were before you came here.
You brought the party and now you’re
working that walk so hard it hurts.

Parade of Fences

This poem was featured in The Far Field thanks to Kathleen Flenniken, Washington State’s Poet Laureate.

 

Parade of Fences

Donkey Fence. Brown Corduroy Suit Holiday High-jumping Fence. Cyclops’ Golden Grasses Fence. Spying Bushes Fence. Teenage Angst and Loneliness Fence. Tangerine Bikini Fence. Masking Tape and Wrath in Shared Bedroom Fence. Ancient Stone Fence. Family Religion Fence. Electric Fence. No Fooling Barbed Wire Fence. Angry Bull On the Other Side of This Fence Fence. Creaky Chainlink Gate Leading to Unplanned Pregnancy Fence. Falling Down Fence. Fence for Napping. Fence Without Hope. Wet Phone Books Fence. Garden Hose Wielded as Weapon Fence. Hedge Full of Surprising Thorns Fence. Invisible Fence. Useless Deer-proof Netting Fence. Bad Dog Barking Fence. Idealistic Fabric Hung By Hopeful Young Mother Trying to Be a Writer Fence. Small Children Hanging from Mother’s Limbs (Including Accidental Labial Grab) Fence. Horrible Grin Fence.

Link

59 Goodbyes was published January 2013 on Poetry Northwest‘s website. I wrote it during an experiment conducted in the Vis-a-Vis Society’s laboratory.

59 Goodbyes

Goodbye serious
Goodbye writing overly serious poems
Goodbye taking everything so seriously
Goodbye making everything into a joke
Goodbye shame
Goodbye dog poop in the basement
Goodbye talking shit while doing naught
Goodbye plot
Goodbye pee in the wrong place
Goodbye credit card debt
Goodbye hip-hurting shoes
Goodbye cold feet
Goodbye shed dog hair drifting
Goodbye drinking wine too quickly
Goodbye dehydration
Goodbye hoarding thriftstore clothes
Goodbye feeling sad about being fat
Goodbye fitness fantasy
Goodbye falling asleep while driving
Goodbye too-tight pants
Goodbye taking it personally
Goodbye impulse control
Goodbye confessionalism
Goodbye yelling in the morning
Goodbye Romney
Goodbye worrying about silences
Goodbye explaining
Goodbye smiling reflexively
Goodbye waking up at 2:00 a.m.
Goodbye waking up at 4:00 a.m.
Goodbye fear of the internet
Goodbye cussing out technology
Goodbye rough draft
Goodbye subsequent draft
Goodbye messy desk
Goodbye disposable contacts worn for 5 months
Goodbye Sunday afternoon blues
Goodbye tired all the time
Goodbye talking about tired all the time
Goodbye busy
Goodbye busy business
Goodbye drama-dona
Goodbye telling stories with no point
Goodbye old bra
Goodbye mindless mastication
Goodbye panic attacks in art museums
Goodbye search for authentic self
Goodbye fashion identity crisis
Goodbye terrible, overpriced cheeseburgers
Goodbye composite French fries
Goodbye uncurated piles
Goodbye IKEA storage solutions
Goodbye giant to-do list
Goodbye broken turntable
Goodbye muddy sound
Goodbye never-worn sweater
Goodbye single sock heap
Goodbye pitying narrative
Goodbye
Goodbye