Last night I planted chocolate seeds...well, if by last night you mean 3am this morning and if by planting chocolate seeds you mean throwing Nestle semi-sweet mini morsels off your balcony and into the lawn.
After making chocolate-chip pancakes for a breakfast-themed dinner and left with just a handful of morsels packed into a corner of the nearly empty bag, we thought it quite wise to use the remaining chips as seeds...you know, "teach a man to fish" and so forth. We thought it quite sacrificial, too, all four of us imagining those last bits melting on our tongues.
I suppose the thinking was that chocolate will grow on trees, even if the "seeds" are a highly processed mixture of chocolate paste, cocoa powder, and liquid chocolate which hold no capacity whatsoever for germination. Despite such oversight, it was a noble endeavor.
We mused about what the chocolate fruit would look like when ripe for the picking. Would it hang from the flowers of the tree in the same shape as the morsels, tear-dropped like Hershey Kisses? A narrow stem above a heavy base seemed logical, gravitational. We began to get greedy and wondered if MiracleGro would turn the morsels into solid Nestle bars, or better yet, Nestle Crunch bars. Should we sprinkle some krispies into the ground? Should we make our own labels and package them and sell them for a dollar at the CSU? Should we call them "The Neverending Chocolate Bar" (also available in the Krispie variety) and sign contracts that forbid any of us from discolsing our secret chocolate seeds?
Nah. No MiracleGro. No krispies. We only grow organinc.
I can picture the semi-sweet mini morsels now, some still above ground and sprinkled in the grass with no hope of rooting, some flying high in the bellies of birds, some--the smallest--melted away by rain. I remember how silly it felt at the time. We wondered if the trees would grow tall enough to harvest right from my second story balcony.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Raspberries
A sticky drip of raspberry Popsicle slips down my pinky before I can take the first bite. The world above careens by. The frozen fruits are organic and 100% raspberry according to the label and the friend who recommended them to me. Like eating off the twig, she says. I suck the syrup off my finger and snap off a good portion of the bar between my teeth.I’m eight years old and crouched at the top of the hill in J B's backyard. I’m stooped below the hedge of their raspberry bushes, one hand holding a woven wooden basket against my hip, the other led by its red-tipped fingers into the bushes. I’ve become skilled at picking raspberries because I’ve never turned down an offer to harvest from the B's—pick 10, eat one; pick 10 more, eat 2; pick 5 when no one is watching and eat until you’re full. I hold the berry between my forefinger and thumb, twist with a murderer’s precision, check the cavity once for bugs and pop it into my mouth, still warm from mid-summer sun.
Tastes like heaven.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
A very cliche day
I'm in Seattle and it's raining out--not a hard rain, a spittle--but it's cloudy and the mountains are hidden in haze and I'm drinking Chai tea from a paper cup with a big logo on it and even though it's NOT Starbucks it feels very much like Starbucks what with the coffee shop ambiance and plastic-framed-glasses wearing patrons and the easy listening music (John Cougar Mellencamp back when he still used the "Cougar") playing softly behind the whir of froth-making coffee/tea equipment. I'm taking a breather at Online Coffee Co. from an afternoon at the Pike's Street Market with some fabulous fish-throwing theatrics and a stop at a kick-ass independent book store. S met me for lunch at noon at a Mexican restaurant in the Queen Anne district. We sat by the window and he gave me some entertaining although not at all true history of the city: "the long, low brick hotel across the street from us was built in 1842 as a brothel and some nights you can still hear the wails and moans of the prostitute ghosts from the street."
My flight arrived yesterday about 45 minutes late. We boarded more or less on time but because of headwinds we flew up into Canada, somewhere over British Columbia, and then back down into Seattle. S picked me up and we went right to the Irish pub, Fado, where we (me, Ship, Lily I, Lily II, Laura, and Shane) took part in the weekly trivia game. Since it is so close to St. Patrick's Day all the trivia was Irish/Ireland related so my pop culture skillz were pretty much useless. Tonight we're having seafood and tomorrow we'll do an underground tour, kayaking, happy hour and getting drunk.
I've been pretty busy eating all the good food I come across, drinking lots of Harp and Pinot Grigio, oh and then eating some more.
Despite the general gloom of the weather I can see why Seattlites argue for the city's charm and get defensive when people say, "how can you live with that constant rain?" It's not a flat city. The streets are hills and they give it depth. The buildings are intricate and interesting, maybe because the city is so relatively new; many homes are craftsman and all the homes have huge, wall-sized windows. Pink-white cherry trees sprout up from the sidewalks and decorate homes in Magnolia where S and L live.
I could live here. Well, I could live anywhere, but I could enjoy living here.
My flight arrived yesterday about 45 minutes late. We boarded more or less on time but because of headwinds we flew up into Canada, somewhere over British Columbia, and then back down into Seattle. S picked me up and we went right to the Irish pub, Fado, where we (me, Ship, Lily I, Lily II, Laura, and Shane) took part in the weekly trivia game. Since it is so close to St. Patrick's Day all the trivia was Irish/Ireland related so my pop culture skillz were pretty much useless. Tonight we're having seafood and tomorrow we'll do an underground tour, kayaking, happy hour and getting drunk.
I've been pretty busy eating all the good food I come across, drinking lots of Harp and Pinot Grigio, oh and then eating some more.
Despite the general gloom of the weather I can see why Seattlites argue for the city's charm and get defensive when people say, "how can you live with that constant rain?" It's not a flat city. The streets are hills and they give it depth. The buildings are intricate and interesting, maybe because the city is so relatively new; many homes are craftsman and all the homes have huge, wall-sized windows. Pink-white cherry trees sprout up from the sidewalks and decorate homes in Magnolia where S and L live.
I could live here. Well, I could live anywhere, but I could enjoy living here.
Monday, March 5, 2007
Student Health
December 2, 2006: After a week of blinding pain I decided to renew my 5+month expired student health insurance (sometimes, when your life is routine enough, it's a bit exhilarating when you know that you have no health insurance), wait a few more days for it to clear, print out my temporary health insurance card, and make myself an appointment at the MSU clinic. I had been there once before, last semester, because I needed a tetanus immunization in order to enroll in classes for this year, and had a pleasant experience.
However.
This time around I got the full student health experience and I hope I never have to experience it again. The examining room was tiny, about the size of my porch. The velcro on the blood pressure sleeve kept popping off of my arm as it reached 70% maximum inflation. The nurse (who was supposedly a triage nurse) handed me a digital thermometer and instructed me to stick it under my tounge, only she handed it to me holding it by the part that was to go under my tounge. I wiped it, as un-discreetly as possible, before inserting. No fever.
She left me alone in the room and while I waited on the doctor, I heard voices. Specifically, a doctor and a patient in the room next door. The walls were so thin that I could hear everything. The patient's name was Jake and Jake was having explosive diarrhea and some penis discharge. I had met Jake in the waiting room, only I didn't know his name then or his affliction. We had both reached for the same People magazine while we were waiting, and he let me have it but my excitement was short lived because I soon realized that it was People en Espanol. I didn't want to feel like an ass and set it back down like the only reason I went for it was so that Jake couldn't have it, so I flipped through the pages and pretended to read it and be interested.
Needless to say, when Dr. Hurd came into my room and introduced himself, I recognized his voice as the same from the next room. I shook his hand. Then I wondered if he had just done any penis examinations and I wiped my hand on the cushion of my chair. I answered questions very quietly, hoping that my voice wouldn't travel through the walls.
Dr. Hurd had a medical student shadowing him, a young girl--younger than me--blonde, competent looking (but also looking like she would have no problem blending in at a bar with some evening make-up, a haltar-top, pleather pants and a greasy pole), quiet and with a constant and unnerving smile on her face. She looked over his shoulder as I lay back on the examining table and watched intently as the good doctor kneaded my stomach like a loaf of bread. Yes, his cold and possibly penis-tainted hands and her smiling stare made me uncomfortable.
"Where's your pain?" he asked.
"My lower left abdomen," I said.
"And what does it feel like?" he asked.
"Sharp, stabbing pains. I can't sleep at night," I said.
"And how long has this been going on?" he asked.
"Since the beginning of the week," I said.
I was convinced I had appendicitis but that didn't even seem to be on his radar. He thought I had a higher chance of being pregnant. Who knows what was going through the medical student's mind.
After a few more belly rubs and rounds of repeated questions and answers, he gave me a prescription for antacid and sent me on my way.
Welp, the meds didn't work, the pain subsided after about a week, and my appendix never burst. It's been three months and now I'm the picture of student health. Confirmation of the power of the mind: I will not be sick again until May 2008--graduation.
However.
This time around I got the full student health experience and I hope I never have to experience it again. The examining room was tiny, about the size of my porch. The velcro on the blood pressure sleeve kept popping off of my arm as it reached 70% maximum inflation. The nurse (who was supposedly a triage nurse) handed me a digital thermometer and instructed me to stick it under my tounge, only she handed it to me holding it by the part that was to go under my tounge. I wiped it, as un-discreetly as possible, before inserting. No fever.
She left me alone in the room and while I waited on the doctor, I heard voices. Specifically, a doctor and a patient in the room next door. The walls were so thin that I could hear everything. The patient's name was Jake and Jake was having explosive diarrhea and some penis discharge. I had met Jake in the waiting room, only I didn't know his name then or his affliction. We had both reached for the same People magazine while we were waiting, and he let me have it but my excitement was short lived because I soon realized that it was People en Espanol. I didn't want to feel like an ass and set it back down like the only reason I went for it was so that Jake couldn't have it, so I flipped through the pages and pretended to read it and be interested.
Needless to say, when Dr. Hurd came into my room and introduced himself, I recognized his voice as the same from the next room. I shook his hand. Then I wondered if he had just done any penis examinations and I wiped my hand on the cushion of my chair. I answered questions very quietly, hoping that my voice wouldn't travel through the walls.
Dr. Hurd had a medical student shadowing him, a young girl--younger than me--blonde, competent looking (but also looking like she would have no problem blending in at a bar with some evening make-up, a haltar-top, pleather pants and a greasy pole), quiet and with a constant and unnerving smile on her face. She looked over his shoulder as I lay back on the examining table and watched intently as the good doctor kneaded my stomach like a loaf of bread. Yes, his cold and possibly penis-tainted hands and her smiling stare made me uncomfortable.
"Where's your pain?" he asked.
"My lower left abdomen," I said.
"And what does it feel like?" he asked.
"Sharp, stabbing pains. I can't sleep at night," I said.
"And how long has this been going on?" he asked.
"Since the beginning of the week," I said.
I was convinced I had appendicitis but that didn't even seem to be on his radar. He thought I had a higher chance of being pregnant. Who knows what was going through the medical student's mind.
After a few more belly rubs and rounds of repeated questions and answers, he gave me a prescription for antacid and sent me on my way.
Welp, the meds didn't work, the pain subsided after about a week, and my appendix never burst. It's been three months and now I'm the picture of student health. Confirmation of the power of the mind: I will not be sick again until May 2008--graduation.
Thursday, March 1, 2007
Calling the Dead
So I've been preoccupied with death lately.
I watch Six Feet Under every Monday night from 8:00 until midnight (to clarify, Bravo shows three full episodes back to back and since it's an HBO series they're longer than the 1-hour shows on cable, thus I spend every Monday night doing marathon-tube watching but it's sooo worth it). As the title of the show suggests, it's pretty morbid--funerals, cremation, suicides, kidnapping and beatings, murders, apocolyptic obsession, etc. Despite the show's abundant merits (writing and acting especially), there is little escaping the dark undertones.
For the past three weeks I've been working on an essay about my grandmother and her recent battle with cancer. I had set out for the piece to be more medical/objective regarding the initial diagnosis and (long) recovery process, but, as essays tend to do, it took on another life and I couldn't remove myself enough to NOT include Gran's lifespan and how much or how little of it she has left.
Finally, since the beginning of the semester I've been receiving phone calls in my office from various people--telemarketers, credit cards, insurance companies--all asking to speak to a guy named Z.H. He was a graduate student in the Literature track for the past few years but at the end of last semester the head of the track sent out an email notifying everyone of Z's suicide at a conference in Texas. This is all I know about him. This and that he apparently used to be in my office.
On February 20 I got a call:
Unlike all the previous callers, this man obviously knew that Z.H. was deceased: business affairs...family affairs. Still, I fumbled over the words used to be but no longer is. With all the other calls all I had to say was, "No" to "Is Z.H. in?" The man on the phone used a soft voice, I say used because it was clear that it was a put-on. I could feel the low resonance of his natural speaking voice. He probably thought I knew Z...I could have been his friend, his sister, his wife for all this guy knew. I can't remember the last time I was spoken to in such a thick tone of condolence. The tone itself made me sad, made me wish I knew Z and then made me wish that I didn't because if I did then I'd be one of the ones that lost him.
Death sucks even when no one is dying.
I watch Six Feet Under every Monday night from 8:00 until midnight (to clarify, Bravo shows three full episodes back to back and since it's an HBO series they're longer than the 1-hour shows on cable, thus I spend every Monday night doing marathon-tube watching but it's sooo worth it). As the title of the show suggests, it's pretty morbid--funerals, cremation, suicides, kidnapping and beatings, murders, apocolyptic obsession, etc. Despite the show's abundant merits (writing and acting especially), there is little escaping the dark undertones.
For the past three weeks I've been working on an essay about my grandmother and her recent battle with cancer. I had set out for the piece to be more medical/objective regarding the initial diagnosis and (long) recovery process, but, as essays tend to do, it took on another life and I couldn't remove myself enough to NOT include Gran's lifespan and how much or how little of it she has left.
Finally, since the beginning of the semester I've been receiving phone calls in my office from various people--telemarketers, credit cards, insurance companies--all asking to speak to a guy named Z.H. He was a graduate student in the Literature track for the past few years but at the end of last semester the head of the track sent out an email notifying everyone of Z's suicide at a conference in Texas. This is all I know about him. This and that he apparently used to be in my office.
On February 20 I got a call:
GA office.
Hi, ma’am. Hope I’m calling the right number. I’m trying to reach someone who handles the business affairs or family affairs of a Z.H. Is that name familiar to you?
You know, he used to be in this office but no longer is.
Okay. I’m sorry about disturbing you. Have a fine day.
That’s okay. You too.
Bye bye now.
Bye bye.
Unlike all the previous callers, this man obviously knew that Z.H. was deceased: business affairs...family affairs. Still, I fumbled over the words used to be but no longer is. With all the other calls all I had to say was, "No" to "Is Z.H. in?" The man on the phone used a soft voice, I say used because it was clear that it was a put-on. I could feel the low resonance of his natural speaking voice. He probably thought I knew Z...I could have been his friend, his sister, his wife for all this guy knew. I can't remember the last time I was spoken to in such a thick tone of condolence. The tone itself made me sad, made me wish I knew Z and then made me wish that I didn't because if I did then I'd be one of the ones that lost him.
Death sucks even when no one is dying.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Dreams
I'm not the kind of person who takes much stock in things like fate, destiny, predestination, the coincidences of the world around us all being tied to a central tether and holding a significance that is so much greater than ourselves, and yadda yadda yadda. However, it just so happens that my own, personal dreams are directly related to my life, how I've lived it, and how it may be affected in the future. My belief in the meaning of my dreams is my guilty pleasure as it would apply to the world of psycoanalytics; my fleeting indulgence into fate. And so follows one of many dreams and dream interpretations.
Reality:
A few nights ago, after a particularly good walk home and compelling conversation with a new MFA-er who had been sitting behind me in Monday night class for the past two weeks, I felt the feeling. The feeling being what happens when I allow myself to think things about another person like, "I like the way his hair falls out of the bottom of his baseball hat," and "no matter how much I say that I think a Southern accent sounds uneducated, his is just so damn charming," and "I wonder if he's a good couch-cuddler." Now, this all sounds very "crushy" and "new-lovey" but my thoughts were not necessarily directed towards him. He was just the catalyst. We parted ways at the parking lot. He offered me a ride home and I said "Thanks, but I can make it faster on foot than it would take you to drive out of the lot." Still, the offer was nice and something about the entire situation resonated. I had no name for it and certainly didn't think about any implications.
It was 9:30 when I got home. I had been on campus since 9:00 in the morning and was exhausted. Bed and a book. The book was "The Last Street Before Cleveland" which, overall, is a memoir about depression and personal history, but I read the last fifty pages that night and they were full of redemption, love for God and love for family, particularly the narrator's love for his wife. The point: the memoir and my love-lined interaction with my new friend connected, took root in my brain, and bloomed into a dream. (And this is why I MUST take note of my dreams...I know I miss things every day. I gloss over meanings and bury truths in far-reaching synapses, so when they come out of my subconcious, I have to pay attention or I'll lose them forever.)
Dream:
It was high school. I was in a classroom with Jeremy. The setting was familiar: it was after regular school hours because there was only Jeremy, Julian, and I. It was dark in the room and the remaining chairs were upsidedown on desks. We were chatting and laughing like we actually used to do. God it felt comfortable. It was a conversation where I held on to every word because I was convinced that every word would be brillant - not because Jeremy was dispensing revolutionary or wholly original and awesome ideas, but just because I enjoyed watching his mouth move...the experience of being so in love with the person that it doesn't matter what they are saying or doing at the moment. All that matters is what you know of them and no matter how flawed, it's more than enough. It's a love born from respect; the best kind. Jeremy and I had shared that once, years ago.
The three of us sat and talked about relationships. Julian asked what went wrong with Jeremy and me. (We had been the couple that everyone envied--two people who existed as a unit instead of individuals.) I didn't answer. I didn't have an answer. I still don't. Jeremy looked right at Julian and said, "We were engaged, you know." I said, "Were not. Why do you say that?" And Jeremy replied, "We had this kiss, and it was the most meaningful kiss I've ever had in my life, and I remember thinking then 'I have to be with this person forever. This kiss means we will be together forever'."
Reality:
I woke up with those words reverberating in a morning fog and I felt content, warm, loved, desired. In a post-dream euphoria, I tried to force myself back to sleep to see what happened with me and Jeremy--did we embrace and forgive each other and work it all out--but I couldn't. As soon as I lost it, I desperatley wanted that feeling back. It felt like what withdrawal must feel like...when you know how something tastes and sounds and smells and how it can transport you to beauty in an instant but you know you can't have it. I went from euphoria to painful longing before my eyes even opened to the first light.
Still, I stayed in bed for a few minutes and indulged in what might have been.
Reality:
A few nights ago, after a particularly good walk home and compelling conversation with a new MFA-er who had been sitting behind me in Monday night class for the past two weeks, I felt the feeling. The feeling being what happens when I allow myself to think things about another person like, "I like the way his hair falls out of the bottom of his baseball hat," and "no matter how much I say that I think a Southern accent sounds uneducated, his is just so damn charming," and "I wonder if he's a good couch-cuddler." Now, this all sounds very "crushy" and "new-lovey" but my thoughts were not necessarily directed towards him. He was just the catalyst. We parted ways at the parking lot. He offered me a ride home and I said "Thanks, but I can make it faster on foot than it would take you to drive out of the lot." Still, the offer was nice and something about the entire situation resonated. I had no name for it and certainly didn't think about any implications.
It was 9:30 when I got home. I had been on campus since 9:00 in the morning and was exhausted. Bed and a book. The book was "The Last Street Before Cleveland" which, overall, is a memoir about depression and personal history, but I read the last fifty pages that night and they were full of redemption, love for God and love for family, particularly the narrator's love for his wife. The point: the memoir and my love-lined interaction with my new friend connected, took root in my brain, and bloomed into a dream. (And this is why I MUST take note of my dreams...I know I miss things every day. I gloss over meanings and bury truths in far-reaching synapses, so when they come out of my subconcious, I have to pay attention or I'll lose them forever.)
Dream:
It was high school. I was in a classroom with Jeremy. The setting was familiar: it was after regular school hours because there was only Jeremy, Julian, and I. It was dark in the room and the remaining chairs were upsidedown on desks. We were chatting and laughing like we actually used to do. God it felt comfortable. It was a conversation where I held on to every word because I was convinced that every word would be brillant - not because Jeremy was dispensing revolutionary or wholly original and awesome ideas, but just because I enjoyed watching his mouth move...the experience of being so in love with the person that it doesn't matter what they are saying or doing at the moment. All that matters is what you know of them and no matter how flawed, it's more than enough. It's a love born from respect; the best kind. Jeremy and I had shared that once, years ago.
The three of us sat and talked about relationships. Julian asked what went wrong with Jeremy and me. (We had been the couple that everyone envied--two people who existed as a unit instead of individuals.) I didn't answer. I didn't have an answer. I still don't. Jeremy looked right at Julian and said, "We were engaged, you know." I said, "Were not. Why do you say that?" And Jeremy replied, "We had this kiss, and it was the most meaningful kiss I've ever had in my life, and I remember thinking then 'I have to be with this person forever. This kiss means we will be together forever'."
Reality:
I woke up with those words reverberating in a morning fog and I felt content, warm, loved, desired. In a post-dream euphoria, I tried to force myself back to sleep to see what happened with me and Jeremy--did we embrace and forgive each other and work it all out--but I couldn't. As soon as I lost it, I desperatley wanted that feeling back. It felt like what withdrawal must feel like...when you know how something tastes and sounds and smells and how it can transport you to beauty in an instant but you know you can't have it. I went from euphoria to painful longing before my eyes even opened to the first light.
Still, I stayed in bed for a few minutes and indulged in what might have been.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Then, as now.
In my mind and in my mirror, I've been 22 for the past three years. The picture I conjure of myself in (increasingly frequent) introspective moments is not my current self. It's a picture of me when I was still an undergrad, just learning how to write, not concerned with practicality, aware only of the most present and immediate aspects of life: family, friends, school, work. If I consider how others perceive me, again, I consider how they perceive my 22-year-old self...my hair then, shorter and pulled tight; my attitude, present and affected; my ambivalence to the future. But, I know my picture of myself is not accurate. I'm aware of my 25-year-old self. I call my mother after a long road trip not just to please her but because I recognize concern and because I know that I would appreciate a call, too.
Since 22, birthdays have lost a sense of hope and accomplishment. They no longer offer the promise of anything unless it is something you have to earn. 16 provided a driver's license, 18 provided independence (although none of us really wanted to have it) and a few perks (which none of us had use for), 21 provided drinking, status, adulthood. Every year after was vague; they held no "sure things," no capstones, no celebration other than mere survival. Even the milestones like 30 and 40 seem either too far off, too indefinite, or too old to think about. After 21, everyone is left to their own schedules, adding tick marks on their timelines as they go: graduation, job, marriage, baby, etc, etc. My timeline was filled with things that happened, not things that I had really set out to accomplish. I graduated, needed to pay rent so I got a job, was frustrated by the job and beginning to feel trapped, went back to school for some time to figure it all out.
Now, I exist in this in-between space, a place that feels so much like 22 because of the academic calendar, the undergraduates trolling the halls and gym and bars, the wide-eyed quest for knowledge and the indisputable and temporary gift of creativity and craft as first priority. While I live here though, I must live within the boundaries: Rent, jockeying for and pumping quarters into the two washers and two (insanely inefficient) dryers in the laundryroom down the hall, heat paid by my landlord and therefore controlled by my landlord, conversations with academics who take themselves way too seriously.
These parameters are what makes me think of myself as I was three years ago. I know exactly how I've grown since then, what I've learned, what I've done, what I've experienced and all the ways that I have matured, but my gut reaction is always me as a 22 year old.
I'm more than half-way through my time here, which means I'm on the downslide, which means I've got to start thinking about the afterwards. I've got to start thinking of myself as 25 going on 26. I will be 26 when I graduate. Just four years from 30. I've created a timeline for myself, re-laid the tracks that kept me in line for so long and kept me looking ahead while fully aware of how far I'd come. The major tick on my new timeline, in bold, black Sharpie, is: first baby by 27. This implies a number of things: a job and a house and a husband; my second baby by 29. I would call these goals, goals that exist in the real-world. They hover just outside of the school bubble for everyone to see, but are distorted by the curve, like a finger in a fishbowl, present but foreign. But I feel my perspective sharpening and the closer I get to the future, the clearer it will be.
Since 22, birthdays have lost a sense of hope and accomplishment. They no longer offer the promise of anything unless it is something you have to earn. 16 provided a driver's license, 18 provided independence (although none of us really wanted to have it) and a few perks (which none of us had use for), 21 provided drinking, status, adulthood. Every year after was vague; they held no "sure things," no capstones, no celebration other than mere survival. Even the milestones like 30 and 40 seem either too far off, too indefinite, or too old to think about. After 21, everyone is left to their own schedules, adding tick marks on their timelines as they go: graduation, job, marriage, baby, etc, etc. My timeline was filled with things that happened, not things that I had really set out to accomplish. I graduated, needed to pay rent so I got a job, was frustrated by the job and beginning to feel trapped, went back to school for some time to figure it all out.
Now, I exist in this in-between space, a place that feels so much like 22 because of the academic calendar, the undergraduates trolling the halls and gym and bars, the wide-eyed quest for knowledge and the indisputable and temporary gift of creativity and craft as first priority. While I live here though, I must live within the boundaries: Rent, jockeying for and pumping quarters into the two washers and two (insanely inefficient) dryers in the laundryroom down the hall, heat paid by my landlord and therefore controlled by my landlord, conversations with academics who take themselves way too seriously.
These parameters are what makes me think of myself as I was three years ago. I know exactly how I've grown since then, what I've learned, what I've done, what I've experienced and all the ways that I have matured, but my gut reaction is always me as a 22 year old.
I'm more than half-way through my time here, which means I'm on the downslide, which means I've got to start thinking about the afterwards. I've got to start thinking of myself as 25 going on 26. I will be 26 when I graduate. Just four years from 30. I've created a timeline for myself, re-laid the tracks that kept me in line for so long and kept me looking ahead while fully aware of how far I'd come. The major tick on my new timeline, in bold, black Sharpie, is: first baby by 27. This implies a number of things: a job and a house and a husband; my second baby by 29. I would call these goals, goals that exist in the real-world. They hover just outside of the school bubble for everyone to see, but are distorted by the curve, like a finger in a fishbowl, present but foreign. But I feel my perspective sharpening and the closer I get to the future, the clearer it will be.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
How you know you're on winter break:
Sis rocking the winter hat and coat before an unamused Native American.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
It's ELECTRIC, Boogey-woogey-woogey-woogey...
For about a month now I've noticed that I'm a super conductor. Okay, it's only when I'm in my office, but it's just me--not Denise, not Steve, not visitors to AH 307C--just me.
I have these two massive file cabinets where I keep all of my GA work and some of my not-so-GA-work and I have to access said cabinets almost every day. From the time it takes me to shuffle the 12 to 15 inches from my chair to the cabinets, I somehow produce enough static electricity for a painful, super-charged interaction between flesh and metal. Sometimes I feel the shock before I even touch the cabinet; a thin but potent stream of current actually bridges across space and time. Sometimes an audible "pop" can be heard; Josh has compared it to the sound of Fun Snaps, those tiny white balls you throw on the ground for an equally tiny explosion and popping sound. Sometimes I have so much electricity stored in my body that one touch of the cabinet will not be sufficient enough to release all of it, so I will be shocked multiple times in a row.
I don't know where I acquired the following bit of information (either television, an article, or from my mother's vast knowledge of precautionary measures) but I've heard that one should always touch the metal on their car after they get out (especially if one has cloth seats) before filling their gas tank to release any possible charge because even a small shock can cause a spark and ignite the gasoline. Since I'm mildly OCD (like many other people in the 21st century) and a product of my mother's, well, general cautiouness, I admit that ever since I got that information I have been touching the side of my car (even though I do not, in fact, have cloth seats) before filling my gas tank. Now, aware of my super-conductor-ishness, I put both hands on the car before fueling up. I know that the only place I seem to be afflicted is in my office, but soon, I might start wearing rubber gloves to the gas station...just in case.
Tonight while I was flipping through the channels on TV, I stopped on an image of a young Asian child with spoons and ash trays that were sticking to his bare chest. The child was standing straight up, his father was placing metallic items on him, and the commentator was explaining that the child seemed to be magnetic. Then it showed the father placing a 6-pound iron on his own chest and resting both of his hands at his side while the iron stayed firmly in place. The father said he first noticed his ability in the army when a friend placed a spoon on his forehead and it stayed there...for hours. Apparently his other son was also "magnetic." A researcher explained that the family was tested and there was no evidence of a magnetic field around or within them. They were an anomaly: no scientific or medical explanation.
As is my office. Or, more accuratley, the effect my office has on my electrical make-up. If this happened to anyone else while in my office, I wouldn't be so intrigued, just pissed-off, instead of what I am now: intrigued and pissed-off. I've tried different shoes. I've tried no shoes. I've tried fully picking up my feet to eliminate any static build-up. Still shocked. I need to de-ionize somehow. But, if I can't figure out how to do that, and if I have enough time between now and the end of next semester, I will try to harness the power, develop the skills to fire electric shocks at will, sew together a superhero outfit and dub myself "Conductress," form an alliance with the MAB (Magnetic Asian Boys) and use my newly acquired and honed superpowers to kill the president.
I have these two massive file cabinets where I keep all of my GA work and some of my not-so-GA-work and I have to access said cabinets almost every day. From the time it takes me to shuffle the 12 to 15 inches from my chair to the cabinets, I somehow produce enough static electricity for a painful, super-charged interaction between flesh and metal. Sometimes I feel the shock before I even touch the cabinet; a thin but potent stream of current actually bridges across space and time. Sometimes an audible "pop" can be heard; Josh has compared it to the sound of Fun Snaps, those tiny white balls you throw on the ground for an equally tiny explosion and popping sound. Sometimes I have so much electricity stored in my body that one touch of the cabinet will not be sufficient enough to release all of it, so I will be shocked multiple times in a row.
I don't know where I acquired the following bit of information (either television, an article, or from my mother's vast knowledge of precautionary measures) but I've heard that one should always touch the metal on their car after they get out (especially if one has cloth seats) before filling their gas tank to release any possible charge because even a small shock can cause a spark and ignite the gasoline. Since I'm mildly OCD (like many other people in the 21st century) and a product of my mother's, well, general cautiouness, I admit that ever since I got that information I have been touching the side of my car (even though I do not, in fact, have cloth seats) before filling my gas tank. Now, aware of my super-conductor-ishness, I put both hands on the car before fueling up. I know that the only place I seem to be afflicted is in my office, but soon, I might start wearing rubber gloves to the gas station...just in case.
Tonight while I was flipping through the channels on TV, I stopped on an image of a young Asian child with spoons and ash trays that were sticking to his bare chest. The child was standing straight up, his father was placing metallic items on him, and the commentator was explaining that the child seemed to be magnetic. Then it showed the father placing a 6-pound iron on his own chest and resting both of his hands at his side while the iron stayed firmly in place. The father said he first noticed his ability in the army when a friend placed a spoon on his forehead and it stayed there...for hours. Apparently his other son was also "magnetic." A researcher explained that the family was tested and there was no evidence of a magnetic field around or within them. They were an anomaly: no scientific or medical explanation.
As is my office. Or, more accuratley, the effect my office has on my electrical make-up. If this happened to anyone else while in my office, I wouldn't be so intrigued, just pissed-off, instead of what I am now: intrigued and pissed-off. I've tried different shoes. I've tried no shoes. I've tried fully picking up my feet to eliminate any static build-up. Still shocked. I need to de-ionize somehow. But, if I can't figure out how to do that, and if I have enough time between now and the end of next semester, I will try to harness the power, develop the skills to fire electric shocks at will, sew together a superhero outfit and dub myself "Conductress," form an alliance with the MAB (Magnetic Asian Boys) and use my newly acquired and honed superpowers to kill the president.
Saturday, December 2, 2006
Movies that I have recently re-viewed and even though I liked them the first time, I just realized how effing awesome they are:
Kill Bill, Volumes I and II
Adaptation
Elf
Apocalypse Now
Adaptation
Elf
Apocalypse Now
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Snow Dump
The first snow of the season doesn't announce itself; it just happens. You wake up in the morning to snow-covered yards and school closings and plows scraping their rusty bottoms on the roads. It falls to the earth like powdered sugar from a sieve: it's soundless and it floats through the air and it piles.
I, however, witnessed the first snow that came about a week ago. I had been in bed, reading Blue Hour, until about 1:30 when I dog-eared a page and turned off the light. My bedroom remained eerily bright -- I say eerily because the walls closest to my huge window had a soft orange color -- and I couldn't close my eyes hard enough to make everything black, so I got up and peeked through the blinds. I was shocked to see everything covered in white because it had been 70 degrees out just a few days before and since I hadn't turned the television on since I got back from my weekend home I heard no weather reports or forecasts for snow. It was beautiful for all the reasons that snow is beautiful: pure, soft, shimmering in certain light.
But, what was the orange color? It couldn't have been coming from the four 80-watt lightbulbs that line the back of our building; the entire sky was sour. I stood in front of the window, thinking how fucked-up nature could be, wondering if the pumpkin hue to everything was one of those wierd natural phenomenons or just pollution. The first snow had been corrupted by this bizarre orange sky, robbed of its sheen. It was as though someone had placed a fuzzy orange filter across my window, forcing me to see through an altered lens.
I couldn't sleep in a room as bright as winter dawn, so I stayed awake and thought about how snow can dump itself in inches and feet on top of you, nearly silently and within a very short time. And it's heavy.
*
While the first snow of the season was falling in Minnesota, my grandmother had cancer in Iowa. I found out two days before and it came just the same: suddenly and silently; buried in an old woman's broken body. I woke up to it, after years of good weather, after years of what we thought was luck but was really just ignorance. And the news was heavy and it continues to pile.
My thoughts haven't separated into sentences yet. They're still feeling. All I can do is write about how orange snow makes me think of the unnatural in the natural which makes me think of cancer in a uterus. And how fucked-up life can be.
Almost all of the snow has melted now. So, sometimes, I'm able to think about resilience and beauty, and that will get me through until the point that sentences form.
I, however, witnessed the first snow that came about a week ago. I had been in bed, reading Blue Hour, until about 1:30 when I dog-eared a page and turned off the light. My bedroom remained eerily bright -- I say eerily because the walls closest to my huge window had a soft orange color -- and I couldn't close my eyes hard enough to make everything black, so I got up and peeked through the blinds. I was shocked to see everything covered in white because it had been 70 degrees out just a few days before and since I hadn't turned the television on since I got back from my weekend home I heard no weather reports or forecasts for snow. It was beautiful for all the reasons that snow is beautiful: pure, soft, shimmering in certain light.
But, what was the orange color? It couldn't have been coming from the four 80-watt lightbulbs that line the back of our building; the entire sky was sour. I stood in front of the window, thinking how fucked-up nature could be, wondering if the pumpkin hue to everything was one of those wierd natural phenomenons or just pollution. The first snow had been corrupted by this bizarre orange sky, robbed of its sheen. It was as though someone had placed a fuzzy orange filter across my window, forcing me to see through an altered lens.
I couldn't sleep in a room as bright as winter dawn, so I stayed awake and thought about how snow can dump itself in inches and feet on top of you, nearly silently and within a very short time. And it's heavy.
*
While the first snow of the season was falling in Minnesota, my grandmother had cancer in Iowa. I found out two days before and it came just the same: suddenly and silently; buried in an old woman's broken body. I woke up to it, after years of good weather, after years of what we thought was luck but was really just ignorance. And the news was heavy and it continues to pile.
My thoughts haven't separated into sentences yet. They're still feeling. All I can do is write about how orange snow makes me think of the unnatural in the natural which makes me think of cancer in a uterus. And how fucked-up life can be.
Almost all of the snow has melted now. So, sometimes, I'm able to think about resilience and beauty, and that will get me through until the point that sentences form.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
The Red-Eye
Good news: I made it through Sunday night...managed a decent amount of sleep...and delivered a sensical, albeit non-illuminating, poetry analysis in class on Monday.
Bad news: It's 1:25 on Wednesday morning and I'm grading papers for tomorrow and I'll be skipping my afternoon class because I won't have the work done.
Damn you not-enough-hours-in-the-day.
Bad news: It's 1:25 on Wednesday morning and I'm grading papers for tomorrow and I'll be skipping my afternoon class because I won't have the work done.
Damn you not-enough-hours-in-the-day.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Disclaimer: Do Not Read. It's a rant.
FUCK.
It's 11:30 in the post-meridiem and I have at least four hours of a paper to write on a god-damned book of poetry that makes no sense. And I was totally coming around to poetry this term...willing to play on poetry's team...able to decipher the decent stuff, be in awe of the amazing stuff, and argue poetry's merits. But Carolyn Forche is fucked-up and all I want to do is sleep.
So I played in the snow all day yesterday and agreed to watch Pixar's Cars (during which I fell asleep) instead of coming up with insightful and beautifully formed analyses of how Forche creates meaning in her poems. Yeah, well, my bad.
"White. Given lilacs, lilacs disappear. Then low voices rising in walls."
How do you analize something SO abstract and SO unconnected to anything else in the poem that contains it?
This will be my, ahem, analysis: the impossibility of finding meaning where only purely subjective meanings can be found. That can be 500 words, easy. Slap a Works Cited on the end and my name on the top. And that's just what I'm going to do. And I've already wasted 10 minutes with this rant.
It's 11:30 in the post-meridiem and I have at least four hours of a paper to write on a god-damned book of poetry that makes no sense. And I was totally coming around to poetry this term...willing to play on poetry's team...able to decipher the decent stuff, be in awe of the amazing stuff, and argue poetry's merits. But Carolyn Forche is fucked-up and all I want to do is sleep.
So I played in the snow all day yesterday and agreed to watch Pixar's Cars (during which I fell asleep) instead of coming up with insightful and beautifully formed analyses of how Forche creates meaning in her poems. Yeah, well, my bad.
"White. Given lilacs, lilacs disappear. Then low voices rising in walls."
How do you analize something SO abstract and SO unconnected to anything else in the poem that contains it?
This will be my, ahem, analysis: the impossibility of finding meaning where only purely subjective meanings can be found. That can be 500 words, easy. Slap a Works Cited on the end and my name on the top. And that's just what I'm going to do. And I've already wasted 10 minutes with this rant.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Long time, no blog.
Has it really been this long? I feel like a bad mother. Here is my problem: I get distracted. Like my little friend in the t-shirt here.
Only, I don't usually flip the bird for no good reason.
Shit.
By the way...damn, that's a long finger. It's the size of my face. I always thought I had the potential to be a hand-model, but now I'm not so sure. I'm kinda like "Man Hands" on Seinfeld. Only, I'm "Long Fingers." Yikes....Case in point. I get distracted. Easily. This post is NOT suposed to be about middle fingers.
Yesterday in workshop, we got a little off topic. Prompted by one student's decision to use the word "pop" in a story, my other student's began discussing the use of "pop" versus "soda" versus (the rarely heard) "cola". It was actually a pretty intelligent conversation, despite the topic. We discussed possible reasons for the difference: regional differences, marketing, dialects, etc. I even brought up the fact that overseas (as far as I know) they say "Coke" for all soft drinks. The conversation developed further: "bubbler" versus "water fountain", "rest room" versus "bathroom", "ya'll" versus "yous guys." The point is, we got way off topic, and stayed off topic. As the teacher, I probably should have been more aware of the task at hand, but no, no, no. I am perfectley content to allow my mind to wander off -- far outside of the city limits, leaving all responsibilites and tasks to not get done at home. If this only affected me, that would be one thing, but as soon as I start playing my little flute during class like the Pied Piper for the workshoppers to follow, it's not a good thing. Pretty soon the hour is up and we're all in the middle of wheat field with about 200 miles behind us, separating us from the place we need to be.
This tick of mine not only affected my poor students, but generally dictates my life. Some examples: when I first got my guitar I did a pretty decent job of learning tablature, the easy way out of playing songs without having to really learn to read music. That got me through my formative months of reacquainting myself with the frets, the body, the sounds, the tender fingers, and so on. However, now that I have a pretty good idea of the sounds I can produce, that's all I do -- produce sounds -- try to put them together -- with no clue of what I'm doing. When I sit down with my (pretty kick-ass and expensive) chord book, I do a few strums, turn a few pages, but pretty soon I am leaned back on the couch just sliding my fingers up and down trying to piece together a good mash of made-up finger positions. I can do that for an hours. And I'm not learning anything because I never remember what the hell I did. Needless to say, learning the guitar is slow-going.
Example Number Two: Most days I arrive at work at 9:00 (rough, I know) but I never actually begin any work-related tasks until about 10-10:30. Why? Simple. If Denise is there, we chat. About nothing. About her godson, my crazy professor, the fact that it has snowed three gawl darn times already, and the work we both should be doing. If Denise is not there, I play on the computer: iTunes, McSweeney's, all the porn I can find (wink), and pictures of australian shepherd puppies. Or, if I happened to pick up a Reporter (school newspaper) on the way over, I read that. Every page. Every under-graduate caliber, fluffy, typoed page.
I could go on, but that would be boring. I suppose that as long as I don't allow myself to get distracted by really stupid things and have that affect really important things in my life or the lives of others, I'll be okay. Hmmm, that makes me think...kinda like the time back in '98 when the media went nuts over Clinton and Lewinski and fooled the American public into thinking that voting for a man like Bush in the next election would be a wise thing to do. See! There! I got distracted. Again.
Only, I don't usually flip the bird for no good reason.
Shit.
By the way...damn, that's a long finger. It's the size of my face. I always thought I had the potential to be a hand-model, but now I'm not so sure. I'm kinda like "Man Hands" on Seinfeld. Only, I'm "Long Fingers." Yikes....Case in point. I get distracted. Easily. This post is NOT suposed to be about middle fingers.
Yesterday in workshop, we got a little off topic. Prompted by one student's decision to use the word "pop" in a story, my other student's began discussing the use of "pop" versus "soda" versus (the rarely heard) "cola". It was actually a pretty intelligent conversation, despite the topic. We discussed possible reasons for the difference: regional differences, marketing, dialects, etc. I even brought up the fact that overseas (as far as I know) they say "Coke" for all soft drinks. The conversation developed further: "bubbler" versus "water fountain", "rest room" versus "bathroom", "ya'll" versus "yous guys." The point is, we got way off topic, and stayed off topic. As the teacher, I probably should have been more aware of the task at hand, but no, no, no. I am perfectley content to allow my mind to wander off -- far outside of the city limits, leaving all responsibilites and tasks to not get done at home. If this only affected me, that would be one thing, but as soon as I start playing my little flute during class like the Pied Piper for the workshoppers to follow, it's not a good thing. Pretty soon the hour is up and we're all in the middle of wheat field with about 200 miles behind us, separating us from the place we need to be.
This tick of mine not only affected my poor students, but generally dictates my life. Some examples: when I first got my guitar I did a pretty decent job of learning tablature, the easy way out of playing songs without having to really learn to read music. That got me through my formative months of reacquainting myself with the frets, the body, the sounds, the tender fingers, and so on. However, now that I have a pretty good idea of the sounds I can produce, that's all I do -- produce sounds -- try to put them together -- with no clue of what I'm doing. When I sit down with my (pretty kick-ass and expensive) chord book, I do a few strums, turn a few pages, but pretty soon I am leaned back on the couch just sliding my fingers up and down trying to piece together a good mash of made-up finger positions. I can do that for an hours. And I'm not learning anything because I never remember what the hell I did. Needless to say, learning the guitar is slow-going.
Example Number Two: Most days I arrive at work at 9:00 (rough, I know) but I never actually begin any work-related tasks until about 10-10:30. Why? Simple. If Denise is there, we chat. About nothing. About her godson, my crazy professor, the fact that it has snowed three gawl darn times already, and the work we both should be doing. If Denise is not there, I play on the computer: iTunes, McSweeney's, all the porn I can find (wink), and pictures of australian shepherd puppies. Or, if I happened to pick up a Reporter (school newspaper) on the way over, I read that. Every page. Every under-graduate caliber, fluffy, typoed page.
I could go on, but that would be boring. I suppose that as long as I don't allow myself to get distracted by really stupid things and have that affect really important things in my life or the lives of others, I'll be okay. Hmmm, that makes me think...kinda like the time back in '98 when the media went nuts over Clinton and Lewinski and fooled the American public into thinking that voting for a man like Bush in the next election would be a wise thing to do. See! There! I got distracted. Again.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Addendum
P.S. To the previous post:
In the name of humanity, I think that Christiane Amanpour should have some eggs frozen, and John Stewart should have some sperm frozen, so that by the time the bird flu pandemic hits or Kim Jong Il starts pressing buttons at will, America has a back up plan for repopulating and can start from scratch with Amanpour/Stewarts. It's worth considering.
In the name of humanity, I think that Christiane Amanpour should have some eggs frozen, and John Stewart should have some sperm frozen, so that by the time the bird flu pandemic hits or Kim Jong Il starts pressing buttons at will, America has a back up plan for repopulating and can start from scratch with Amanpour/Stewarts. It's worth considering.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
This just in...grrrls rule!
Christiane Amanpour can make me care about things that I would otherwise have little to no interest in: Hamas, Peabody awards, integrity. Her journalism is raw, without agenda, unlike the lisped, affected, camera-loving bobbleheads that report most news. Whether she's in a head scarf against the backdrop of a war-torn country or leading a panel discussion on Clinton's Global Initiative (www.ClintonGlobalInitiative.org), she feels refreshing to me, like the crisp release of pressure when opening a soda.
She has a somewhat manly quality, and maybe that's where her appeal lies, (I mean come on, does any self-respecting woman really take spritey Katie Couric seriously?). Her hips are narrow and her shoulders are broad. Her breats her only curves. Her hair is thick and black - no highlights, creams, or hairspray. Even without extensive styling it holds up like the baby-boomer housewife down the street whose natural style and body send the neighborhood wives to the salon in droves. Her features are a mixture of handsome (a strong chin and nose), dark (wide, piercing eyes and Iranian coloring), and feminine (full lips and high, cupped cheekbones).
In Hollywood, Catherine Zeta-Jones would be Amanpour's best, albeit sexified, match. They both have that nearly full British accent (Christiane born in London, lived her first 11 years in Tehran, then back to London). They both have deep, masculine voices: Catherine's is alluring in a Kathleen-Turner-come-hither-raspiness, and Christiane's is low and deliberate like the steady delivery of Walter Chronkite, a mid-range register appealing to the masses, dispensing words like tools of metal and wood.
She doesn't pose for the camera. Most reporters look into the lens like dogs when a treat is dangled in front of them, cocking their heads and pricking their eyebrows. They try to sensationalize the news with their pitchy voices and dramatic pauses in their speech. Christiane doesn't do that because she doesn't need to. She's objective. Purposive. She has the balls and the calculated restraint to let the story speak for itself.
She is the consumate correspondent; the regaled reporter; a cool chick.
She has a somewhat manly quality, and maybe that's where her appeal lies, (I mean come on, does any self-respecting woman really take spritey Katie Couric seriously?). Her hips are narrow and her shoulders are broad. Her breats her only curves. Her hair is thick and black - no highlights, creams, or hairspray. Even without extensive styling it holds up like the baby-boomer housewife down the street whose natural style and body send the neighborhood wives to the salon in droves. Her features are a mixture of handsome (a strong chin and nose), dark (wide, piercing eyes and Iranian coloring), and feminine (full lips and high, cupped cheekbones).
In Hollywood, Catherine Zeta-Jones would be Amanpour's best, albeit sexified, match. They both have that nearly full British accent (Christiane born in London, lived her first 11 years in Tehran, then back to London). They both have deep, masculine voices: Catherine's is alluring in a Kathleen-Turner-come-hither-raspiness, and Christiane's is low and deliberate like the steady delivery of Walter Chronkite, a mid-range register appealing to the masses, dispensing words like tools of metal and wood.
She doesn't pose for the camera. Most reporters look into the lens like dogs when a treat is dangled in front of them, cocking their heads and pricking their eyebrows. They try to sensationalize the news with their pitchy voices and dramatic pauses in their speech. Christiane doesn't do that because she doesn't need to. She's objective. Purposive. She has the balls and the calculated restraint to let the story speak for itself.
She is the consumate correspondent; the regaled reporter; a cool chick.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Best if purchased by 5/17/last semester
My poetry is like a loaf of Wonder bread. If you don't keep it in the refrigerator, it will get stale and grow mold within a few days.
These are some gems from the deep freeze that I came across from my poetry class last semester and that my professor liked. I was forced to write stuff, and this is what I came up with. Since any piece of writing doesn't truely exist as art until it has an audience, I thought I'd post them. (The other four poems I had to write were dried into croutons for the birds long ago.)
Spring
The dogs are prepared for spring,
sheared like sheep in the
early Saturday sun. Blue postures on the porch
as the horse clippers lay tracks on his back,
and fur falls to the concrete collecting in a
loose merle fluff at his feet, or flies into the trees,
soon to become cribs for bald,
blind birds.
Cobber, the other, is dreaming under the car
and the machine’s buzz. His legs pump horizontally, taking
him nowhere. His lids beat as if he were seizing,
and I see the backs of his eyes – mucid, milky bulbs,
showing him nothing. Blue yelps and wakes his litter-mate.
A skin tab on his stomach got caught in the blade sending two crimson missiles
from his tuck, that spread into roses
upon impact. I put one finger on the wound. Cobber
tries to sleep. Blue’s blood coagulates. The sun warms
and melts snow.
I woke to silence on Thursday morning.
No cockatiel squawks or cat-calls from the cage in the foyer. I found
Mr. Yellow far from his perch, half-paralyzed, resting on the bedding.
With his beak and left foot, he drug his right side,
rung by rung, to the top of the cage, carrying his distress
like Quasimodo and the tower, trying to convince me
he was okay. Cancer. An olive-sized tumor on the x-ray.
“Probably on the testicle,” said Dr. Dan,
“It pressed on the nerve and paralyzed his right side.
Poor little guy.” A tumor as big as my thumb
in a bird as big as my hand. If we had caught
it earlier, even as recently as September, we could have helped. But birds
don’t show illness. In the wild, at the first sign of injury,
the bird will be killed. I whistled with Mr. Yellow the day before
we gassed him, blissfully unaware.
moon glow
she gives us light
rippled blue on lake waves
bright white on winter’s sheets
creamy through our window pane
showing you the way - your calloused hands
that fumble in her absence - not at all
during the day
rough on pink skin
i don’t want the light on
i want to show you with my
moon glow
-Thank you and good night.
These are some gems from the deep freeze that I came across from my poetry class last semester and that my professor liked. I was forced to write stuff, and this is what I came up with. Since any piece of writing doesn't truely exist as art until it has an audience, I thought I'd post them. (The other four poems I had to write were dried into croutons for the birds long ago.)
Spring
The dogs are prepared for spring,
sheared like sheep in the
early Saturday sun. Blue postures on the porch
as the horse clippers lay tracks on his back,
and fur falls to the concrete collecting in a
loose merle fluff at his feet, or flies into the trees,
soon to become cribs for bald,
blind birds.
Cobber, the other, is dreaming under the car
and the machine’s buzz. His legs pump horizontally, taking
him nowhere. His lids beat as if he were seizing,
and I see the backs of his eyes – mucid, milky bulbs,
showing him nothing. Blue yelps and wakes his litter-mate.
A skin tab on his stomach got caught in the blade sending two crimson missiles
from his tuck, that spread into roses
upon impact. I put one finger on the wound. Cobber
tries to sleep. Blue’s blood coagulates. The sun warms
and melts snow.
I woke to silence on Thursday morning.
No cockatiel squawks or cat-calls from the cage in the foyer. I found
Mr. Yellow far from his perch, half-paralyzed, resting on the bedding.
With his beak and left foot, he drug his right side,
rung by rung, to the top of the cage, carrying his distress
like Quasimodo and the tower, trying to convince me
he was okay. Cancer. An olive-sized tumor on the x-ray.
“Probably on the testicle,” said Dr. Dan,
“It pressed on the nerve and paralyzed his right side.
Poor little guy.” A tumor as big as my thumb
in a bird as big as my hand. If we had caught
it earlier, even as recently as September, we could have helped. But birds
don’t show illness. In the wild, at the first sign of injury,
the bird will be killed. I whistled with Mr. Yellow the day before
we gassed him, blissfully unaware.
moon glow
she gives us light
rippled blue on lake waves
bright white on winter’s sheets
creamy through our window pane
showing you the way - your calloused hands
that fumble in her absence - not at all
during the day
rough on pink skin
i don’t want the light on
i want to show you with my
moon glow
-Thank you and good night.
Monday, September 11, 2006
Five years ago
Five years ago, I had just started my second year at the University of Iowa. I was living in my first apartment, alone, located behind a frat house on Oakridge Avenue, which we affectionatley referred to as "The Oak Ditch Holler". There were huge trees, a ditch, a stream, and altough it got too dark at night, it made me feel safe.
It was Tuesday. I got out of bed, took a shower, and fixed myself a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch with no milk because it gets soggy fast. I sat down on my purple couch and turned on the television to The Today Show. I must have been watching something on NBC the night before. Matt and Katie looked somber, but they delivered the news in the clear, steady voice that makes network anchor.
Someone was crashing planes into buildings.
When I left my apartment for class there was a helicopter circling the Old Capital overhead. When I arrived, my Professor (Margaret something) was crying at the front of the room. She was born in upstate New York and lived and wrote for twenty years in Manhattan. One of my classmates, a feminist with a bleached pixie cut, was crying with her. Her uncle worked in the World Trade Center and she couldn't get through to anyone on the phone. Details started leaking out from my other classmates: it wasn't an accident; all flights are grounded; thousands of people are dead. Two thousand seven hundred and forty nine, I learned today.
I spent the rest of the day in the student union, huddled around big screen tv's with strangers.
I didn't think about the future or what any of it meant because it was too soon. No one realized that it was far too late.
It was Tuesday. I got out of bed, took a shower, and fixed myself a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch with no milk because it gets soggy fast. I sat down on my purple couch and turned on the television to The Today Show. I must have been watching something on NBC the night before. Matt and Katie looked somber, but they delivered the news in the clear, steady voice that makes network anchor.
Someone was crashing planes into buildings.
When I left my apartment for class there was a helicopter circling the Old Capital overhead. When I arrived, my Professor (Margaret something) was crying at the front of the room. She was born in upstate New York and lived and wrote for twenty years in Manhattan. One of my classmates, a feminist with a bleached pixie cut, was crying with her. Her uncle worked in the World Trade Center and she couldn't get through to anyone on the phone. Details started leaking out from my other classmates: it wasn't an accident; all flights are grounded; thousands of people are dead. Two thousand seven hundred and forty nine, I learned today.
I spent the rest of the day in the student union, huddled around big screen tv's with strangers.
I didn't think about the future or what any of it meant because it was too soon. No one realized that it was far too late.
Saturday, September 9, 2006
Never wear a red polo to Target...
...especially on a day when there are tornados sucking up earth in all the surrounding counties and the emergency sirens are sounding as you pull into the parking lot. I don't care how much you need ice cube trays and a drain plug for your sink. Don't go to Target at all in these conditions, and if you absolutley have to, don't wear a red polo. Customers will approach you and ask you where the George Foreman grills are, even if you're wearing black pants, have a basket full of merchandise, and there is no trace of a walkie-talkie on your body. Then, when a tornado is spotted a few miles west of the city and you're coralled into the back room with every other customer and employee in the store, you'll find yourself avoiding eye contact with everyone because you're afraid they'll ask you when they can leave or how sturdy the building is or "doesn't this place have a basement?". You'll find yourself on the fringes of the mob, slinking down the baby doll isle, willing to risk being sucked into the vortex outside just because you wore your red polo to Target.
In a nutshell, that's how I was welcomed back to Mankato...in confusion, chaos, and frustration. But I only have myself and my Phoenix Staff shirt to blame. I hold no grudges. I went to Target last night for a hairbrush and a surge protector. I left with those items plus granola bars, a book that I won't have time to read, a prayer plant, and cork coasters.
School feels good again; familiar in many ways. Yesterday I felt the muscle soreness at the base of my neck that comes from toting between ten and thirty pounds every day in my backpack. The walk from my apartment to campus is considerably less this year (only about ten minutes from apt. door to office door), but it will still take a week or two to get used to. When I'm not wearing a skirt and have decent shoes on, I ride my bike, which cuts the commute in half but has it's own drawbacks: windblown hair, which can either look good or awful, and grease marks on my pants from the chain. Usually I just hike one pant leg up like LL Cool J to avoid that, but sometimes the wind is just too damn cold. Another familiar feeling is always being prepared with something to say in my Wednesday class that goes from 3:00-6:00 in case my stomach starts grumbling audibly. That's so embarassing. Who schedules a class through dinner time? Isn't dinner the most important American meal? Do they want me to lose all sense of my own culture? I'd be happy to live the Spanish lifestyle with siesta's and mid-day naps, but until then I'll just have to be ready to speak over the grumble.
The familiar is good to know, but rarely exciting. I have a batch of students now (hopefully the first of many batches) which is wonderful and exhilirating, but wierd because we co-exist in the same, relatively small, community. It didn't really occur to me until the end of the first week of class that I would be running in to these kids on campus. I was walking across the street and heard "Teacher, hey teach!" shouted from a car. Since I'm not used to being called "teacher" I didn't realize he was addressing me until he drove off and I saw the baseball hat he wears every Monday and Wednesday and realized who it was and that he was shouting to me. I'm afraid that 1) I won't recognize all my students and remember their names so I'll ignore them when I pass them in the halls, and 2) somebody will catch me when I'm having a really bad day or I'm in a pissy mood. I'm not exactley 'eternal sunshine' but I'll have to learn to fake it...but I detest even the idea of that...so I guess they'll just have to take me or leave me. Can't be everyone's best friend. I'm sure I'll run into kids at the gym when I'm sweaty and I have a scowl on my face from the soreness in my legs. God - what if I run into them at the bar. Shit. Maybe I can become the "cool teacher" who is "so laidback" and "throws back a few cold ones with us". So it is - so it shall be.
There's a skinny, mop-headed kid who brings his guitar to the plaza outside of Armstrong Hall (English building) and plays Sublime, Nirvana, Stone Temple Pilots, and takes requests. He played Sweet Baby James for me last May. His name is Jon - no 'h' - and he's got a sweet voice that can follow a melody anywhere. We have a loose agreement from last semester that I would accompany him with my mad tamborine skills. I haven't seen him around this year, which is disappointing, soI keep the window in my office open so I can listen for him. Maybe he's found another window in another building to play under. Maybe he's found someone who actually owns a tamborine and will shake their hips when they play.
In a nutshell, that's how I was welcomed back to Mankato...in confusion, chaos, and frustration. But I only have myself and my Phoenix Staff shirt to blame. I hold no grudges. I went to Target last night for a hairbrush and a surge protector. I left with those items plus granola bars, a book that I won't have time to read, a prayer plant, and cork coasters.
School feels good again; familiar in many ways. Yesterday I felt the muscle soreness at the base of my neck that comes from toting between ten and thirty pounds every day in my backpack. The walk from my apartment to campus is considerably less this year (only about ten minutes from apt. door to office door), but it will still take a week or two to get used to. When I'm not wearing a skirt and have decent shoes on, I ride my bike, which cuts the commute in half but has it's own drawbacks: windblown hair, which can either look good or awful, and grease marks on my pants from the chain. Usually I just hike one pant leg up like LL Cool J to avoid that, but sometimes the wind is just too damn cold. Another familiar feeling is always being prepared with something to say in my Wednesday class that goes from 3:00-6:00 in case my stomach starts grumbling audibly. That's so embarassing. Who schedules a class through dinner time? Isn't dinner the most important American meal? Do they want me to lose all sense of my own culture? I'd be happy to live the Spanish lifestyle with siesta's and mid-day naps, but until then I'll just have to be ready to speak over the grumble.
The familiar is good to know, but rarely exciting. I have a batch of students now (hopefully the first of many batches) which is wonderful and exhilirating, but wierd because we co-exist in the same, relatively small, community. It didn't really occur to me until the end of the first week of class that I would be running in to these kids on campus. I was walking across the street and heard "Teacher, hey teach!" shouted from a car. Since I'm not used to being called "teacher" I didn't realize he was addressing me until he drove off and I saw the baseball hat he wears every Monday and Wednesday and realized who it was and that he was shouting to me. I'm afraid that 1) I won't recognize all my students and remember their names so I'll ignore them when I pass them in the halls, and 2) somebody will catch me when I'm having a really bad day or I'm in a pissy mood. I'm not exactley 'eternal sunshine' but I'll have to learn to fake it...but I detest even the idea of that...so I guess they'll just have to take me or leave me. Can't be everyone's best friend. I'm sure I'll run into kids at the gym when I'm sweaty and I have a scowl on my face from the soreness in my legs. God - what if I run into them at the bar. Shit. Maybe I can become the "cool teacher" who is "so laidback" and "throws back a few cold ones with us". So it is - so it shall be.
There's a skinny, mop-headed kid who brings his guitar to the plaza outside of Armstrong Hall (English building) and plays Sublime, Nirvana, Stone Temple Pilots, and takes requests. He played Sweet Baby James for me last May. His name is Jon - no 'h' - and he's got a sweet voice that can follow a melody anywhere. We have a loose agreement from last semester that I would accompany him with my mad tamborine skills. I haven't seen him around this year, which is disappointing, soI keep the window in my office open so I can listen for him. Maybe he's found another window in another building to play under. Maybe he's found someone who actually owns a tamborine and will shake their hips when they play.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)