I found myself in front of my bookshelf last night, my mind burdened with a friend's personal crisis, browsing the spines for something profound--words that may enlighten the situation. I rocked Dillard's "Pilgrim" onto its corner but soon returned it. Too naturey. Too Dillardy. I also considered Rand. In the end I pulled out the Tao Te Ching and flipped through its pages, 70% of which had verses highlighted pink and notations like "creator as balance" and "creator as peace" penciled in the margins. I purchased this book--considered a sacred text, I believe--for an Eastern Philosophy course as an undergrad. I found some beautiful lines, but none appropriate for my immediate situation. Before I returned the Tao Te Ching to the shelf, I happened to flip to the dedication page.
For Vicki
I thought it odd. It's like writing For Jerry in the front matter of The Bible.
*
In other news: I'll be boarding a plane to New York City in exactly 48 hours and standing in line to purchase tickets for Spring Awakening in roughly 96.
Joy!
Monday, January 28, 2008
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
r.i.p.
The truest thing I've heard since I saw news of Heath Ledger's death scroll across the CNN ticker last night: Australian actor Guy Pearce referred to him as the "friend I never got to meet." After all, that's what actors become to us. We build a catalog of movies, appearances, and interviews from which we pick and choose the pieces from their films that impact us. Things we relate to, things that lift us up or disgust and trouble us. In the end, we're left with an overall and ever-changing impression so that when we think of that actor, we know him as we might know a friend: intimatley and individually, according to our own preferences and perceptions. Heath seemed like one of the good ones, like he was an actor, not a star.
Monday, January 21, 2008
soundtrack to (the last 15 minutes of) my life
"Silver Lining" by Rilo Kiley: Super infectious alterna-folksy-pop driven by clapping hands and just about every corner of Jenny Lewis' always engaging range--the low, the high, the twang, and the tilt.
"Please Read the Letter" by Robert Plant & Alison Krauss: One of those urgent ballads that plants itself in your head as though it were a chore to be done before the week is out. Plant and Krauss (perfectly matched) build as the song builds but never overstep its quiet insistence.
"Walking Down the Line" by Bob Dylan: The repeated guitar/verse/harmonica structure tricks you into believing this song is simple. It conjures Woody, Muddy, Pete and every ideal they represent as Dylan strums fast to the tracks they laid.
Friday, January 18, 2008
the rule of 3
For years--many more years than a less what-makes-people-tick? person might tolerate--I've listened to Kathleen's ruminations about the stars, their power, the order of the universe, and celestial rules...all things that have led me to the rather depressing notion that our lives are not our own. I can remember listening to homilies about God bestowing free choice on humanity when I was a little girl in my jumper and hoes, excited about what I saw as wiggle room in my religion's otherwise strict doctrine. Just imagine waking up to a horoscope, anticipating your day according to a series of random declarations with all the breadth (and depth) of a fortune cookie fortune, as Kathleen did. Religiously. Is it not true that if you read what you believe to be a predictor of your day or interactions with others, you're likely to make that prediction come true whether you're conscious of it or not? Or, even more possible, you'll be on alert for any circumstances that might fit what has been prescribed thereby reinforcing your belief in the horoscope, the stars, the strings attached to each of your joints and manipulated by that big, shiny puppeteer in the sky? Despite this and despite my judgements, I allowed Kathleen to do my "star chart." I guess it tells me what planet my moon is in or what moon my sign has, I'm not really clear on that. The chart I should be living according to--hand-written on a 3' x 6' scrap paper--is now folded in half and used as a bookmark. I'll always try to respect that which I don't understand to avoid being an ignorant ass, but that doesn't mean I have to believe in it.
I don't remember when I came across the idea that bad things always come in threes (probably one of those sage sayings my grandmother tosses around like "hello's" but never underestimated by me, the one with 60 fewer years on this peculiar earth). While I don't believe in astrology as a way to map our lives and am resistant to the idea that there is a map to our lives, the rule of 3 has proven to be true on more than one occasion...coincidence at my core: yes, but there's an amazing amount of comfort that comes from these little processes. I imagine it has the same effect on me that faith in God had. Faith in a larger force requires a belief in order and order is always more deliberate and controllable than chaos, and therefore less troubling. Some of my biggest anxiety comes from my helplessness in the whole situation. All that I can do are things, gestures really, that don't produce results. Faith in the power of love and support can get you through a lot, but then as the bad news gets worse, it's difficult not to want something more concrete, the number that appears at the end of the equation. But, when the rule of 3 has a lasso around life, it's easier to believe that our lives really aren't our own, and if that means there is something--the cosmos, God, whatever--that has some sort of influence and the means to enact it, bring it on.
If my horoscope tomorrow says, "Things are looking up! You will be blessed with good news!", I will get on my knees in thanks. If it says otherwise, I will make the choice to throw it in the trash.
I don't remember when I came across the idea that bad things always come in threes (probably one of those sage sayings my grandmother tosses around like "hello's" but never underestimated by me, the one with 60 fewer years on this peculiar earth). While I don't believe in astrology as a way to map our lives and am resistant to the idea that there is a map to our lives, the rule of 3 has proven to be true on more than one occasion...coincidence at my core: yes, but there's an amazing amount of comfort that comes from these little processes. I imagine it has the same effect on me that faith in God had. Faith in a larger force requires a belief in order and order is always more deliberate and controllable than chaos, and therefore less troubling. Some of my biggest anxiety comes from my helplessness in the whole situation. All that I can do are things, gestures really, that don't produce results. Faith in the power of love and support can get you through a lot, but then as the bad news gets worse, it's difficult not to want something more concrete, the number that appears at the end of the equation. But, when the rule of 3 has a lasso around life, it's easier to believe that our lives really aren't our own, and if that means there is something--the cosmos, God, whatever--that has some sort of influence and the means to enact it, bring it on.
If my horoscope tomorrow says, "Things are looking up! You will be blessed with good news!", I will get on my knees in thanks. If it says otherwise, I will make the choice to throw it in the trash.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Friday, December 7, 2007
what Michael Stipe taught me about the writing process
free association
Ventriloquists, Tom Cruise, roof shingles, bad bruise, peanuts, marsupan, wonder bread, Flanders Ned.
Composition, scar tissue, the New Yorker Fiction issue; creamed corn, slaughtered pigs, heffalumps, Jason Biggs.
Grad school, recycled paper, always unnecessay drape draper; Dr. Suess, Everett Ruess, Suptertramp, Alaskan camp.
Time-off, switched on, candy canes, Gravitron; snow storm, marshmallows, hooded sweatshirts, bedfellows.
Ventriloquists, Tom Cruise, roof shingles, bad bruise, peanuts, marsupan, wonder bread, Flanders Ned.
Composition, scar tissue, the New Yorker Fiction issue; creamed corn, slaughtered pigs, heffalumps, Jason Biggs.
Grad school, recycled paper, always unnecessay drape draper; Dr. Suess, Everett Ruess, Suptertramp, Alaskan camp.
Time-off, switched on, candy canes, Gravitron; snow storm, marshmallows, hooded sweatshirts, bedfellows.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
an open letter to my bed
Dear Bed,
I apologize for not sleeping in you tonight. I've been neglecting you lately, haven't I? Coming in late, not keeping the light on to read, not tucking in as snugly as I used to. Do you feel unwanted? Do you know how much this is not the case? Here, I will ease your padded mind; allow me to complain:
I wish I could say it was the result of some hot romp in a foreign bedroom in a foreign apartment comple...no,no...in a three-story Victorian on Lakeview...and with a surley and/or hairy foreign man. But no. I've been sitting--awake--at my desk since 8:30 last evening. It's 6 am now. All nighter. Before that I was sitting in the library. Before that I was sitting in the Blue Earth Review office, The Hub, AH210. 70% of those locations involved a computer. 99% of the time spent on said computers was productive (NatalieDee is the remaining 1%). Yet, I still have to work instead of sleep because despite all that work time, it's not enough to fit it all in.
Furthermore, dear queen-sized pillow-top mattress with rounded corners and the clean smell of young cotton, I apologize for sliding into you with a tense body. For not being able to shake the days behind me and those yet to come. Some nights I'm as tight as a constrictor, all wound around myself and on my side. Other nights, I toss, inevitably pulling the elastic base-sheet corners to the center where they do not belong. I'm sure this disrupts you, but I never care to ask.
Please know, serene bed, that this will all soon be over. Know that I look forward to your comfort every single night and I'm desperately sad to leave it in the morning, especially now when leaving your embrace is like stepping into a meat locker. A meat locker in winter.
I apologize for not sleeping in you tonight. I've been neglecting you lately, haven't I? Coming in late, not keeping the light on to read, not tucking in as snugly as I used to. Do you feel unwanted? Do you know how much this is not the case? Here, I will ease your padded mind; allow me to complain:
I wish I could say it was the result of some hot romp in a foreign bedroom in a foreign apartment comple...no,no...in a three-story Victorian on Lakeview...and with a surley and/or hairy foreign man. But no. I've been sitting--awake--at my desk since 8:30 last evening. It's 6 am now. All nighter. Before that I was sitting in the library. Before that I was sitting in the Blue Earth Review office, The Hub, AH210. 70% of those locations involved a computer. 99% of the time spent on said computers was productive (NatalieDee is the remaining 1%). Yet, I still have to work instead of sleep because despite all that work time, it's not enough to fit it all in.
Furthermore, dear queen-sized pillow-top mattress with rounded corners and the clean smell of young cotton, I apologize for sliding into you with a tense body. For not being able to shake the days behind me and those yet to come. Some nights I'm as tight as a constrictor, all wound around myself and on my side. Other nights, I toss, inevitably pulling the elastic base-sheet corners to the center where they do not belong. I'm sure this disrupts you, but I never care to ask.
Please know, serene bed, that this will all soon be over. Know that I look forward to your comfort every single night and I'm desperately sad to leave it in the morning, especially now when leaving your embrace is like stepping into a meat locker. A meat locker in winter.
It's time for a shower now then the long hike to campus. Don't give up on me now, bed. I'll return tonight...wait, better make that early this morning. I have two papers to write and a contest to wrap up.
Sleepless in Semester-ville
Anna
Thursday, November 29, 2007
tid bits
New developments in my life that really only me or those closest to me might have any interest in but it still feels good just to write them down:
I now need to wear my glasses to see the text on computer screens just a few feet from my face. I hope this is due to stress levels and not eyesight deterioration. The first time I thought I needed glasses because I couldn't see the front of the classroom, the optomotrist told me my sight was fine any only impaired because I was under too much stress (true) and/or not getting enough sleep (also true). While these two things are still true today, it's a different kind of stress (rewarding) and a different kind of lack of sleep (worth it). Bottom line: If glasses become an essential thing for me, that means I'll need/want contacts and I hate the thought of contacts. Ugh.
I'm noticing that I'm making more mistakes as I type. Ever since I had a computer (Christmas 0?...a hulking Gateway beaut in that monochromatic cow-print box) I've been anal retentive about being error-free, punctually/grammatically/mechanically correct. I usually still maintain the latter, but my typos are getting out of control. "Out of control" in my eyes for this particular subject would be noticing an error once a week. Then I cringe at all the errors floating around in cyber-space with my name attached to them that I have missed. (Maybe it's because I can't see the effing screen.) It's a pride thing. Everyone is entitled to vices.
I've become buddies with a woman in my nonfiction workshop. She's older--30's--peppy, cute as a freaking button, hilarious in a very neurotic way and she's kind of brillant. She's a professor of Neurobiology and is taking a writing class for "fun." She's invited me to a gathering on Friday with other friends of hers who are probably super-smart and I'm a bit intimidated. At one time she was the elite of the elite in cutting edge science at a major university in I-forget-where. However, she doesn't exhibit the signs of the genius who must inevitably be severely lacking in some other element of their life. She appears completely normal and well adjusted and presents herself this way (as I hope I do too despite what's under the surface), but from what she's written, she's had some fucked up times. This is what I LOVE about nonfiction workshops: we share some of the most personal stories and experiences and vulnerabilities with one another and throughout the course of the semester, everyone has seen everyone else's, so we're all on the same team. This semester has been probably the most fulfilling in all my years in school. Our little, 11-person class has evolved into a pretty tight-knit community and it's because we know things about one another that sometimes just a select few people in this world know about us each.
Order is finally being restored to my life. Why? Because it needs to be. Because without schedule and organization and meticulous routine, I'm a mess. And it's always my fault because I always feel like I need a break when I think things are getting bad, and no matter how many times I've been through it before, I temporarily forget that breaks always make things worse. Denial is a powerful and terrible thing and if I had three wishes, #2 would be to never experience it again.
I now need to wear my glasses to see the text on computer screens just a few feet from my face. I hope this is due to stress levels and not eyesight deterioration. The first time I thought I needed glasses because I couldn't see the front of the classroom, the optomotrist told me my sight was fine any only impaired because I was under too much stress (true) and/or not getting enough sleep (also true). While these two things are still true today, it's a different kind of stress (rewarding) and a different kind of lack of sleep (worth it). Bottom line: If glasses become an essential thing for me, that means I'll need/want contacts and I hate the thought of contacts. Ugh.
I'm noticing that I'm making more mistakes as I type. Ever since I had a computer (Christmas 0?...a hulking Gateway beaut in that monochromatic cow-print box) I've been anal retentive about being error-free, punctually/grammatically/mechanically correct. I usually still maintain the latter, but my typos are getting out of control. "Out of control" in my eyes for this particular subject would be noticing an error once a week. Then I cringe at all the errors floating around in cyber-space with my name attached to them that I have missed. (Maybe it's because I can't see the effing screen.) It's a pride thing. Everyone is entitled to vices.
I've become buddies with a woman in my nonfiction workshop. She's older--30's--peppy, cute as a freaking button, hilarious in a very neurotic way and she's kind of brillant. She's a professor of Neurobiology and is taking a writing class for "fun." She's invited me to a gathering on Friday with other friends of hers who are probably super-smart and I'm a bit intimidated. At one time she was the elite of the elite in cutting edge science at a major university in I-forget-where. However, she doesn't exhibit the signs of the genius who must inevitably be severely lacking in some other element of their life. She appears completely normal and well adjusted and presents herself this way (as I hope I do too despite what's under the surface), but from what she's written, she's had some fucked up times. This is what I LOVE about nonfiction workshops: we share some of the most personal stories and experiences and vulnerabilities with one another and throughout the course of the semester, everyone has seen everyone else's, so we're all on the same team. This semester has been probably the most fulfilling in all my years in school. Our little, 11-person class has evolved into a pretty tight-knit community and it's because we know things about one another that sometimes just a select few people in this world know about us each.
Order is finally being restored to my life. Why? Because it needs to be. Because without schedule and organization and meticulous routine, I'm a mess. And it's always my fault because I always feel like I need a break when I think things are getting bad, and no matter how many times I've been through it before, I temporarily forget that breaks always make things worse. Denial is a powerful and terrible thing and if I had three wishes, #2 would be to never experience it again.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
a new segment: iPod-altry
iLibrary highlights for the third week of November:
Arcade Fire is a gloriously enthusiastic and sweat-filled show. Better still, they're not afraid of the hurdy gurdy and they rock.
CocoRosie. Transcendent? Systematically surprising. One of those that you cannot sing to and you're okay with that.
Sufjan, wrap your paper wings around me and pretend-fly me to wherever you begin.
Arcade Fire is a gloriously enthusiastic and sweat-filled show. Better still, they're not afraid of the hurdy gurdy and they rock.
CocoRosie. Transcendent? Systematically surprising. One of those that you cannot sing to and you're okay with that.
Sufjan, wrap your paper wings around me and pretend-fly me to wherever you begin.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
debate? that's debatable.
Question: What's the difference between the democratic presidential candidates at the CNN debate and the members of the audience asking said candidates questions?
Answer: The candidates are more rehearsed and have a delivery that's less obviously memorized.
Addendum: And when did "abortion rights" become "privacy rights"?
Answer: The candidates are more rehearsed and have a delivery that's less obviously memorized.
Addendum: And when did "abortion rights" become "privacy rights"?
Monday, November 12, 2007
excerpts from Outlook's "Sent Items;" 12 Nov to 6 Aug (in reverse chronology)
planning to drop friends off at the Minneapolis airport this weekend: i just worry that i'll squeeze myself into your carry-on and fly away to chicago and never ever come back to comp papers and professors who always want to be drunk.
regarding not coming home for Thanksgiving this year: The family will likely be shocked at my absence...I've always been the one whose life has been just boring enough to make it to just about every single family function (on the Schwartz side anyway)!
regarding being nominated for an award and automatically weighing the extra work before the honor: EXCITING but stressful. Yin and Yang. Cobber and Blue? THE BUDDIES! (Sorry, I think I can feel my brain leeking out of my ear and down my neck.) Which reminds me, I saw that little bump on my neck again...you know the one the Dr. said was probably just mucus build-up or something...I'll keep an eye on it.
regarding movies: High off of my (partially interrupted) viewing of Rebecca, I checked out Notorius (Hitchcock, Bergman, Grant) from the library. LOVED IT! Really, truely loved it. It's now one of my Top 10 Best Movies of All Time. Number one is, of course, Out of Africa. Did you see that Streep and Redford are together again in the new Lions for Lambs? I'm interested (because of Meryl) but hugely dissapointed that I'll have to sit through a few hourse of Tom Cruise screen time, too. I loathe him. Maybe you guys can go see it then tell me if it's worth it or not.
regarding potentially inappropriate relationships outside of the classroom: One of my students (the one who works at the strip club) wants me to go to the bar tonight while she's working. 2 for 1 drinks. Generally I don't buy into the whole "take the edge off" concept, but I sure feel like that's exactley what I need. I told her not tonite, though. Maybe before the end of the semester. I just think it might be weird-ish.
regarding my adorably technologically challenged father: Mother: please print this email for Father. Father: I suggest you hang this on the fridge...or, on your beloved Total Gym
Instructions to retrieve voicemail:
1. Dial Voicemailbox by either 1) choosing OKAY when prompted that you have a new voicemail on the screen, or 2) press 1 and SEND to call mailbox manually.
2. while your recorded "leave a message" voice is playing, press # key
3. woman will prompt you to enter password: 1313
4. listen to messages (after full message plays, either delete by pressing 7 or save by pressing 9)
5. close phone
Father: godspeed on your endeavor to master voicemail. hopefully by Christmas you'll be texting
Mother and Sister: inundate Father's phone with messages. the only way to learn is through practice
correspondence with a student about printing a final paper to be handed in the following day. i told them they absolutely could not use the printer in our classroom. but the printer in the dorm lounge is not working: (if you need to print tomorrow morning in 331, it's okay...just come early...and don't tell anyone. i don't want to force you into the harsh november winds tonite.)
(this message will self-destruct in 30 seconds!)
from a student about setting up a time to conference with me (note the horrific language/grammar/spelling/everything): hey anna srry about not signing up i am available at 2:20 tomarrow i have practice at 3 so as long as it doesn't last longer that 40 min everything should b gravy haha. see you then
my response: Gravy!
discussion prompt for a meeting i did not attend: On-Campus sculptures: rate them on a scale of 1-5, 1 being hideous and 5 being moderately hideous
some pedantic, elevated crap: Yesterday was our gorgeous day up here...sunny, seventy, and sweet. Today still has some of yesterday's lingering warmth, but it's overcast. However, the Minnesota river valley has been set ablaze with fall's colors...the trees really are beautiful here. I wish I had the presense of mind to carry my camera around more, but with all the books I've been toting to and from campus, I just can't stand one more item.
correspondence with a student about the film "Across the Universe" actually coming to Mankato and the greatness of Paul McCartney: That's crazy talk. I better go this weekend because it's not bound to stay in Mankato for long! Paul's a prophet.
a happy birthday exchange: I, too, might have a mid-mid life crisis. Let's do it together! Let's take extravagant trips (with the money from our young, 21-year old beaus) to mediocre destinations...the Ritz Carlton of Reno, Nevada, or an island getaway to one of those big sand-shores at the base of the Mississippi! What fun!
miscellaneous to mom: You're my idol for saving lives at the blood bank on holidays. Seriously. You're one hard-workin mama.
I'm glad you finally got the fountain moved. Sorry that I couldn't bring the Gun Show to town to help you guys with the heavy lifting!
regarding Cobber and Blue: OOOOOOooooooooooooooooooo Da Buddies!
regarding not coming home for Thanksgiving this year: The family will likely be shocked at my absence...I've always been the one whose life has been just boring enough to make it to just about every single family function (on the Schwartz side anyway)!
regarding being nominated for an award and automatically weighing the extra work before the honor: EXCITING but stressful. Yin and Yang. Cobber and Blue? THE BUDDIES! (Sorry, I think I can feel my brain leeking out of my ear and down my neck.) Which reminds me, I saw that little bump on my neck again...you know the one the Dr. said was probably just mucus build-up or something...I'll keep an eye on it.
regarding movies: High off of my (partially interrupted) viewing of Rebecca, I checked out Notorius (Hitchcock, Bergman, Grant) from the library. LOVED IT! Really, truely loved it. It's now one of my Top 10 Best Movies of All Time. Number one is, of course, Out of Africa. Did you see that Streep and Redford are together again in the new Lions for Lambs? I'm interested (because of Meryl) but hugely dissapointed that I'll have to sit through a few hourse of Tom Cruise screen time, too. I loathe him. Maybe you guys can go see it then tell me if it's worth it or not.
regarding potentially inappropriate relationships outside of the classroom: One of my students (the one who works at the strip club) wants me to go to the bar tonight while she's working. 2 for 1 drinks. Generally I don't buy into the whole "take the edge off" concept, but I sure feel like that's exactley what I need. I told her not tonite, though. Maybe before the end of the semester. I just think it might be weird-ish.
regarding my adorably technologically challenged father: Mother: please print this email for Father. Father: I suggest you hang this on the fridge...or, on your beloved Total Gym
Instructions to retrieve voicemail:
1. Dial Voicemailbox by either 1) choosing OKAY when prompted that you have a new voicemail on the screen, or 2) press 1 and SEND to call mailbox manually.
2. while your recorded "leave a message" voice is playing, press # key
3. woman will prompt you to enter password: 1313
4. listen to messages (after full message plays, either delete by pressing 7 or save by pressing 9)
5. close phone
Father: godspeed on your endeavor to master voicemail. hopefully by Christmas you'll be texting
Mother and Sister: inundate Father's phone with messages. the only way to learn is through practice
correspondence with a student about printing a final paper to be handed in the following day. i told them they absolutely could not use the printer in our classroom. but the printer in the dorm lounge is not working: (if you need to print tomorrow morning in 331, it's okay...just come early...and don't tell anyone. i don't want to force you into the harsh november winds tonite.)
(this message will self-destruct in 30 seconds!)
from a student about setting up a time to conference with me (note the horrific language/grammar/spelling/everything): hey anna srry about not signing up i am available at 2:20 tomarrow i have practice at 3 so as long as it doesn't last longer that 40 min everything should b gravy haha. see you then
my response: Gravy!
discussion prompt for a meeting i did not attend: On-Campus sculptures: rate them on a scale of 1-5, 1 being hideous and 5 being moderately hideous
some pedantic, elevated crap: Yesterday was our gorgeous day up here...sunny, seventy, and sweet. Today still has some of yesterday's lingering warmth, but it's overcast. However, the Minnesota river valley has been set ablaze with fall's colors...the trees really are beautiful here. I wish I had the presense of mind to carry my camera around more, but with all the books I've been toting to and from campus, I just can't stand one more item.
correspondence with a student about the film "Across the Universe" actually coming to Mankato and the greatness of Paul McCartney: That's crazy talk. I better go this weekend because it's not bound to stay in Mankato for long! Paul's a prophet.
a happy birthday exchange: I, too, might have a mid-mid life crisis. Let's do it together! Let's take extravagant trips (with the money from our young, 21-year old beaus) to mediocre destinations...the Ritz Carlton of Reno, Nevada, or an island getaway to one of those big sand-shores at the base of the Mississippi! What fun!
miscellaneous to mom: You're my idol for saving lives at the blood bank on holidays. Seriously. You're one hard-workin mama.
I'm glad you finally got the fountain moved. Sorry that I couldn't bring the Gun Show to town to help you guys with the heavy lifting!
regarding Cobber and Blue: OOOOOOooooooooooooooooooo Da Buddies!
Saturday, November 10, 2007
touch me?
I think about an iPod Touch. Probably more than I should. I have a piece of computer paper taped to the side of my bookshelf and divided into 5 sections that are labeled with names: Ma, Pa, Sis, Boyfriend, Gram. It's a Christmas List brainstorm and it reminds me daily of the iPod Touch; the present I want for myself. My little Nano, which had its face scratched on Day 2 of possession, no longer holds a charge for as long as I'd like it to. I would have been happy with a replacement Nano. Maybe even in black this time. But. Then me sees the Touch ads. Me hears the music is my boyfriend hook. Me gets wowed by the wow factor. Me feels like a silly little girl with a pen in her hand writing to the North Pole or waiting to sit on Santa's lap, requesting the newest and shiniest toy. But it's not for the fad of it. Music, baby. Music (and email and google and power on the fingertips and prestige in the pocket). My dad is shipping a stocking hat to me that has speakers built in to the ear flaps. He got it for free at his beauty supply store. If I'm gonna go, I'm gonna go all out.
I'm doing my best to avoid BestBuy. I want to touch it. It calls to me. I know it will be obsolete the second I buy it (or unwrap it???). I look at my little, grey, antiquated Nano wheel; I run the track with my fingertip and think about how I used to consider its fragility: don't press too hard, don't place it upsidedown in your pocket, don't squeeze it when removing it from the sleeve. It's lasted me for years and now it's time to handle the next incarnation too carefully.
I'm doing my best to avoid BestBuy. I want to touch it. It calls to me. I know it will be obsolete the second I buy it (or unwrap it???). I look at my little, grey, antiquated Nano wheel; I run the track with my fingertip and think about how I used to consider its fragility: don't press too hard, don't place it upsidedown in your pocket, don't squeeze it when removing it from the sleeve. It's lasted me for years and now it's time to handle the next incarnation too carefully.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
a photoessay and the third person to explore the things that we do
Tomorrow is Tuesday, October 30. Anna teaches Comp 101 at 10:00. Anna won't see her students until next Tuesday because she's going back to Iowa and cancelled classes on Thursday. Anna loves (most of) her students and feels guilty for not making them popcorn balls for Halloween like she had planned on doing. Life got in the way...again. It's 2am and Anna knows that if she shows up to class tomorrow without Halloween candy, she'll regret it. The students deserve it. Anna is stressed.
She seems to remember that it's open 24-hours-a-day. She cannot remember the last time she was there, but desperate times...
She chooses caramel apple suckers and Hershey's mini candy bars. One each for each student. Extra for the office. Dark chocolate for Loyal Meg. Despite the vacant look on her face, Anna's thrilled. She likes the student who's obsessed with the Beatles the most. And the football player in front is a card. The ones who did the extra credit will appreciate the gesture.
A lightbulb--as clear as a block-lettered, glowing beacon in the night--appears in Anna's mind:
She seems to remember that it's open 24-hours-a-day. She cannot remember the last time she was there, but desperate times...
Anna gets into her car with Loyal Meg riding shotgun (and Loyal Meg's camera) with vigor and purpose. "Those kids deserve a nice treat! They worked so hard on the Explanatory Syntheses!" (She fails to mention the two workshop papers sitting on her dining room table that need to be critiqued by tomorrow a.m.)
The open road. Almost as open as Anna is to suggestion at this point...
All that black. All that night. All those hours during the day holding conferences for the students she is on the road for now. All those words on all those pages. All that black ink melding into an encompassing mush, seeping through the skin like osmosis...into the finger, up the hand, the forearm, the shoulder. Into the fast-moving stream of the jugular. Hours later into the brain.
Anna's tired.
She arrives at the mega-store. The parking lot as tired as she is.
The candy selection, too. Trick-or-treat was last weekend. She thought at least she'd get surplus bags of candy at a discount. Not really.
She chooses caramel apple suckers and Hershey's mini candy bars. One each for each student. Extra for the office. Dark chocolate for Loyal Meg. Despite the vacant look on her face, Anna's thrilled. She likes the student who's obsessed with the Beatles the most. And the football player in front is a card. The ones who did the extra credit will appreciate the gesture.
Anna is still tired though. Usually 2am isn't a big deal. After a long weekend and consistently little sleep though, Anna can't hold out much longer.
She falls asleep at the wheel on Madison Avenue. The car careens into a Minnesota half-lake. The impact is enough to send a sucker stem out of the package and into her jugular where it quickly dislodges and the floodgates open.
Don't let it be in vain, Loyal Meg. Tell my story to the world! Deliver my candy to my students tomorrow. Give it to them before you tell them the tragic news. Make sure you wish them a Happy Halloween.
Monday, October 22, 2007
is it time yet? no? how about now?
Nine more days until I'm on the road, east of Mankato for a little bit, then south for a lotta bit and on down into my state.
Iowa
eye oh wha
I love Iowa and what it contains. Places, people; especially the people; my people. I have my departure day programmed into my phone. As if I'll forget. As if there's not a to-the-second running clock somewhere in the folds of my brain that, if I concentrated hard enough, I could access and know how many hours and minutes I am away from Iowa. I didn't get to see Iowa's September or October and I know that when I'm back for good, it will be like those months never existed.
I need this break. Three books came in the mail about two weeks ago--Into the Wild by John Krakauer, Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson, and Mountains Beyond Mountains by Tracey Kidder--and all I want to do is read them. When I walk past my bookshelf I see myself in a hotel room in Iowa City, on top of a stiff and thin comforter, starting Into the Wild at 7 or 8 and reading until I'm finished. It's been too long since this has happened.
I have to get out of here, just for a few days. I want Iowa to be now.
So, is it time yet?
Iowa
eye oh wha
I love Iowa and what it contains. Places, people; especially the people; my people. I have my departure day programmed into my phone. As if I'll forget. As if there's not a to-the-second running clock somewhere in the folds of my brain that, if I concentrated hard enough, I could access and know how many hours and minutes I am away from Iowa. I didn't get to see Iowa's September or October and I know that when I'm back for good, it will be like those months never existed.
I need this break. Three books came in the mail about two weeks ago--Into the Wild by John Krakauer, Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson, and Mountains Beyond Mountains by Tracey Kidder--and all I want to do is read them. When I walk past my bookshelf I see myself in a hotel room in Iowa City, on top of a stiff and thin comforter, starting Into the Wild at 7 or 8 and reading until I'm finished. It's been too long since this has happened.
I have to get out of here, just for a few days. I want Iowa to be now.
So, is it time yet?
Friday, October 12, 2007
words and people
abstemious
1) Abstaining from wine.
2) Sparing in diet; refraining from a free use of food and strong drinks; temperate; abstinent; sparing in the indulgence of the appetite or passions.
3) Sparingly used; used with temperance or moderation; as, an abstemious diet.
4) Marked by, or spent in, abstinence; as, an abstemious life.
5) Promotive of abstemiousness.
This popped up on my Word of the Day and, just like a particular song can instantly take you to a moment in your past (or, just like a package of Bottle Caps candy in the TA Office yesterday transported me to the low-lit atmosphere of Skate Country, throbbing pop music and the faint smell of early teenage pheromones mixed with foot sweat), I attach words to people. Abstemious is Emily to me. Only for the primary definition: abstaining from wine.
As in:
Emily, I dare you to be abstemious.
Or, Sis, the lavender sheen to your teeth and the way your eyes lock a couple seconds too long on mine when I talk to you are dead give-aways that you haven't been abstemious.
1) Abstaining from wine.
2) Sparing in diet; refraining from a free use of food and strong drinks; temperate; abstinent; sparing in the indulgence of the appetite or passions.
3) Sparingly used; used with temperance or moderation; as, an abstemious diet.
4) Marked by, or spent in, abstinence; as, an abstemious life.
5) Promotive of abstemiousness.
This popped up on my Word of the Day and, just like a particular song can instantly take you to a moment in your past (or, just like a package of Bottle Caps candy in the TA Office yesterday transported me to the low-lit atmosphere of Skate Country, throbbing pop music and the faint smell of early teenage pheromones mixed with foot sweat), I attach words to people. Abstemious is Emily to me. Only for the primary definition: abstaining from wine.
As in:
Emily, I dare you to be abstemious.
Or, Sis, the lavender sheen to your teeth and the way your eyes lock a couple seconds too long on mine when I talk to you are dead give-aways that you haven't been abstemious.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
somewhere between the HereNorThere
There is a shit-storm in Dubuque, and I'm 400+ miles away in a residual haze.
I spent the last two years busting my ass so that I could keep my head above the water this year knowing that even with a light course load I'd be too busy to take even one weekend off without major catching up. And now that I'm needed most I'm least accessible. I can't take care of the house for my mother while she's taking care of one of her best friends in the hospital. I can't drive to Cedar Rapids to visit my grandmother in the hospital and give my mother and aunts a break from watching their own mother die slowly. I can't console Emily when her student's brawl to the point where they need stitches and point finger-guns at the back of Emily's head and whisper a malicious "pow" to their classmates. I can't hug her and say Fuck those kids, fuck the system while she cries, words that we both know I don't mean but words that lose their weight over the phone. I can't run errands for dad who is working harder than ever. I can't integrate him into my life as much as I know he so desperately wants to be.
People need me here--to write, critique, revise, evaluate; to teach, engage, challenge, entertain, and sometimes give students a day off when I'm not ready and I know they're not ready; I'm a buddy, a conferencer, a peer, a colleague, a student--but it's not in the same way that I'm needed there; home. Nobody needs me here like they need me there. They ask things of me here. They expect things. If I don't perform there is a consequence.
Here I follow rubrics. I meet cirricula and deadlines. At home, the need for me often goes unexpressed, unacknowledged even by the asker. That's how I prefer it. I lurk around looking for ways to help, I help, then I hope that someone notices. I remember when I was a little girl and still attending Mass and feeling (really feeling) that God what present in every prayer, every sneeze, every "playing doctor" with the neighbor; I used to tell Him that the only thing I wanted was for people to say that I was a nice girl and really mean it. Rather than a saintly, altruistic desire, it was the M.O. I decided to adopt. Instead of my aunts gossiping amongst themselves, "Anna, she's the trouble-maker," I wanted them to say, "Anna, she's always doing something nice for someone." Now, I realize that I failed miserably at putting this persona forth in many selfish and/or trouble-making moments, but it's how I came to define myself. If I do enough for people to notice that I'm filling needs without seeming to ask for or expecting praise, I hoped that #1) people would notice my deed and think of me as a "nice girl," and #2) I would fill a need for someone....in that order.
I'm reading the Qu'ran now. I suspect it's because I'm looking for an answer. Guidance at the least. Actually, just a distraction will do. I realize that there is little I can do for the situations back home. There's only so many times I can say, "wow, that sucks," or "it will get better," over the phone before the phrases lose all of the little meaning they may have held. I'm here, at school, wading through my frusrations and annoyances as best I can while I should be there, piling sandbags agaisnt the flooding waters of the shit-storm (an Ani homage)...prefereably where no one can see me. They're all standing bone-dry on the other side. This is where I'm needed. It's the type of thing that defines a person.
I spent the last two years busting my ass so that I could keep my head above the water this year knowing that even with a light course load I'd be too busy to take even one weekend off without major catching up. And now that I'm needed most I'm least accessible. I can't take care of the house for my mother while she's taking care of one of her best friends in the hospital. I can't drive to Cedar Rapids to visit my grandmother in the hospital and give my mother and aunts a break from watching their own mother die slowly. I can't console Emily when her student's brawl to the point where they need stitches and point finger-guns at the back of Emily's head and whisper a malicious "pow" to their classmates. I can't hug her and say Fuck those kids, fuck the system while she cries, words that we both know I don't mean but words that lose their weight over the phone. I can't run errands for dad who is working harder than ever. I can't integrate him into my life as much as I know he so desperately wants to be.
People need me here--to write, critique, revise, evaluate; to teach, engage, challenge, entertain, and sometimes give students a day off when I'm not ready and I know they're not ready; I'm a buddy, a conferencer, a peer, a colleague, a student--but it's not in the same way that I'm needed there; home. Nobody needs me here like they need me there. They ask things of me here. They expect things. If I don't perform there is a consequence.
Here I follow rubrics. I meet cirricula and deadlines. At home, the need for me often goes unexpressed, unacknowledged even by the asker. That's how I prefer it. I lurk around looking for ways to help, I help, then I hope that someone notices. I remember when I was a little girl and still attending Mass and feeling (really feeling) that God what present in every prayer, every sneeze, every "playing doctor" with the neighbor; I used to tell Him that the only thing I wanted was for people to say that I was a nice girl and really mean it. Rather than a saintly, altruistic desire, it was the M.O. I decided to adopt. Instead of my aunts gossiping amongst themselves, "Anna, she's the trouble-maker," I wanted them to say, "Anna, she's always doing something nice for someone." Now, I realize that I failed miserably at putting this persona forth in many selfish and/or trouble-making moments, but it's how I came to define myself. If I do enough for people to notice that I'm filling needs without seeming to ask for or expecting praise, I hoped that #1) people would notice my deed and think of me as a "nice girl," and #2) I would fill a need for someone....in that order.
I'm reading the Qu'ran now. I suspect it's because I'm looking for an answer. Guidance at the least. Actually, just a distraction will do. I realize that there is little I can do for the situations back home. There's only so many times I can say, "wow, that sucks," or "it will get better," over the phone before the phrases lose all of the little meaning they may have held. I'm here, at school, wading through my frusrations and annoyances as best I can while I should be there, piling sandbags agaisnt the flooding waters of the shit-storm (an Ani homage)...prefereably where no one can see me. They're all standing bone-dry on the other side. This is where I'm needed. It's the type of thing that defines a person.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Saturday, September 22, 2007
can't blog now
Why? Why can't I blog now? Simple. I have a short list of very important tasks to complete by tomorrow morning.
First important task: Watch the Hawks beat Wisconsin on abc PrimeTime Football. Go Hawks.
Second important task: Finish creating my ADORABLE Grammar Guide newsletter for my Comp students. This issue (Vol. 1, Issue 1) is all about the comma. The title of my ADORABLE newsletter is ComPost...get it? Comp as in Composition and Post as in The Washington Post put together creates ComPost as in shit.
Next important task: Wash my sheets. And not because of sex. Just because it's time for a wash.
Fourth important task: Clean up my quasi-adorable apartment for Emily, Dan & Chad who are coming to visit me tomorrow! Yay! I'm so excited to see people who are normal and whom I love!
Yes, it's Saturday night and I'm not at Boomtown or the What's Up? Lounge "getting my party on." This is partly to do with the important task list, but mostly to do with how I spent my day today. I left quasi-adorable apartment around 9:40. I sat outside at the fountain until the library opened up at 10:00, spent the next eight hours downstairs at a work station, then left the library when the librarian kicked me out because the library closes at 6:00 on Saturdays and I was so engrossed in my ComPost that I had lost all track of time.
These are the reasons I'm not blogging now.
First important task: Watch the Hawks beat Wisconsin on abc PrimeTime Football. Go Hawks.
Second important task: Finish creating my ADORABLE Grammar Guide newsletter for my Comp students. This issue (Vol. 1, Issue 1) is all about the comma. The title of my ADORABLE newsletter is ComPost...get it? Comp as in Composition and Post as in The Washington Post put together creates ComPost as in shit.
Next important task: Wash my sheets. And not because of sex. Just because it's time for a wash.
Fourth important task: Clean up my quasi-adorable apartment for Emily, Dan & Chad who are coming to visit me tomorrow! Yay! I'm so excited to see people who are normal and whom I love!
Yes, it's Saturday night and I'm not at Boomtown or the What's Up? Lounge "getting my party on." This is partly to do with the important task list, but mostly to do with how I spent my day today. I left quasi-adorable apartment around 9:40. I sat outside at the fountain until the library opened up at 10:00, spent the next eight hours downstairs at a work station, then left the library when the librarian kicked me out because the library closes at 6:00 on Saturdays and I was so engrossed in my ComPost that I had lost all track of time.
These are the reasons I'm not blogging now.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
riddle me this
Are we really taking this guy seriously?
Cheers, lovey...I'm going to take my meticulously trimmed scruffy-beard and *rock out to my **hit song 1973.
*more like "sway aggressively"
**more like "pansy-ass ditty"
***
And now, from the guys that bring you Toothpaste For Dinner...
Cheers, lovey...I'm going to take my meticulously trimmed scruffy-beard and *rock out to my **hit song 1973.
*more like "sway aggressively"
**more like "pansy-ass ditty"
***
And now, from the guys that bring you Toothpaste For Dinner...
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
the balance of the universe (as it applies to my life in southern minnesota)
I'm sad today for various reasons, some that are frivolous and some that are legitimate (and although the legitimate reasons put the frivolous reasons into perspective, I'm still going to expound upon--nay, celebrate!--my frivilousness).
Ani DiFranco is in Iowa City tonight. I am not. Nuf said.
Ani DiFranco will smell the air on the banks of the Iowa River, dense with Midwestern field-must. I will not.
Iowa City will have their acoustic/rock/punk/freak Joneses rocked. I will not.
To re-iterate: Ani DiFranco--Hancher Auditorium in front of a beaming, tattooed, gyrating, and ardorous crowd. Me--Armstrong Hall room 210 in front of a Dell with a smudged-with-greasy-vending-machine-food finger-printed screen.
And according to RBR, tickets are still available. It's enough to put a person over the edge.
End of Pity Party; Population of 1; ME.
The universe has been re-balanced with the following news:
Tracy Kidder is coming to St. Peter on September 27. Words escape me...you wish! What a spectacular fucking way to spend my birthday weekend, hob-knobbing with (read: stalking) one of the pioneers of literary journalism! (I hate how cheesey exclamation points are...they turn just about any sentence into a corny declaration.)
Kidder will be discussing his new book at Gustavus Adolphus. I'll be toting my battered, jacketless, yellow-paged hardcover copy of Among Schoolchildren that I picked up on the third floor of Armstrong Hall in my first year in the program when the office of the School of Education was cleaning off their bookshelves and stacked a pile of books under a sign that read "Free."
This is like attending a John McPhee or Joan Didion reading. (With the exception of the small issue of shit in my pants. I would undoubtedly shit in my pants if Didion came to St. Peter.) I'll be taking my camera and my most glassy-eyed swoon for when I get my first glimpse of him at the podium.
Ani DiFranco is in Iowa City tonight. I am not. Nuf said.
Ani DiFranco will smell the air on the banks of the Iowa River, dense with Midwestern field-must. I will not.
Iowa City will have their acoustic/rock/punk/freak Joneses rocked. I will not.
To re-iterate: Ani DiFranco--Hancher Auditorium in front of a beaming, tattooed, gyrating, and ardorous crowd. Me--Armstrong Hall room 210 in front of a Dell with a smudged-with-greasy-vending-machine-food finger-printed screen.
And according to RBR, tickets are still available. It's enough to put a person over the edge.
End of Pity Party; Population of 1; ME.
The universe has been re-balanced with the following news:
Tracy Kidder is coming to St. Peter on September 27. Words escape me...you wish! What a spectacular fucking way to spend my birthday weekend, hob-knobbing with (read: stalking) one of the pioneers of literary journalism! (I hate how cheesey exclamation points are...they turn just about any sentence into a corny declaration.)
Kidder will be discussing his new book at Gustavus Adolphus. I'll be toting my battered, jacketless, yellow-paged hardcover copy of Among Schoolchildren that I picked up on the third floor of Armstrong Hall in my first year in the program when the office of the School of Education was cleaning off their bookshelves and stacked a pile of books under a sign that read "Free."
This is like attending a John McPhee or Joan Didion reading. (With the exception of the small issue of shit in my pants. I would undoubtedly shit in my pants if Didion came to St. Peter.) I'll be taking my camera and my most glassy-eyed swoon for when I get my first glimpse of him at the podium.
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