When I was thirteen years old we moved from Maryland to New York. That day my mother rushed around, making sure everything in the van was packed up neatly, that everyone had used the bathroom, that each and everything had been collected or left on purpose. It was late afternoon when she felt satisfied, and without a backward glance she walked down the long hall and stairwell that lead into out apartment; the stairwell was at last leading us out. At the bottom of those steps, lingering near the stoop in the late sunshine, stood my brothers, Justin and Randy. I was holding a teddy bear I had gotten for my ninth birthday, one I had meant to leave behind for them, but then forgot to let go of. I hugged each one goodbye, got in the car, and haven't been back since.
In college I stayed with a friend for spring break, near the Maryland border, and we drove straight through Hagerstown, right by Frederick. The sense of Deja Vu was overwhelming. Somewhere in one of those two cities, my brothers were living their lives. It was a strange thought.
Although Facebook, and before that Myspace, have been around for quite a while, I never contacted my brothers through either site. I was afraid I didn't know what to say. I felt guilty, and guilt goes a long way toward silence. And so the wall remained, until I decided to break it, on October 24. I didn't tell anyone that I had decided to find Randy and Justin again on facebook, and I certainly didn't tell anyone that I'd sent Randy a message and an apology.
After a month without a reply I figured I wasn't going to get one. My twin sister, Melissa, had tried to contact him when we were in high school and that hadn't gone well, so I thought maybe he didn't want anything to do with any of us. So imagine my surprise, dear imaginary reader, when two days ago Dec. 10, I got a message in response. Of course, I didn't reply immediately. I wasn't sure what to do, what to say, if I was ready to speak to him again, and anyone else that might include me speaking to. I was afraid, essentially, of reopening a past that I had put a firm lid on. That lid may have a peep hole, but it's still there. The emotional response I had was one I didn't expect. I was happy, but I was also incredibly sad, and learned that there was still a little anger left in my heart. What was I going to do? It was a big question. Should I allow myself to be too sad and scared to respond? Should I let myself feel that anger again?
Here's what I decided: fuck that anger. That fear can go jump in a hole and stay there. If there's one thing I don't want to lose now, amid the loss of friends and close relationships, it's the opportunity to get to know a part of my family that I so nearly lost completely.
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Sunday, December 2, 2012
To Remain Thankful
While I realize it's no longer November and Thanksgiving was TEN whole days ago (which feels like ten weeks at the moment) I have to say that I still have a lot to be thankful for. And the thing I am most thankful for is the company of good people in an amazing place.
On Friday I went with my poetry workshop class on a mildly impromptu field trip to the Permafrost Tunnel. It's one of two such places in the entire world (the other is Russia, Alaska's back yard). It was beautiful in the way that frozen silt is beautiful, which is to say you've got to be a certain kind of person to find that kind of thing beautiful. It was a truly amazing experience though. Our guide was a straight forward German fellow who admitted to knowing only as much as fifteen years of being a tour guide had taught him (still a considerable amount). During our safety talk we learned that we were some of the few people on earth to come into contact with the mold growing inside the tunnel because it was endemic (it wasn't dangerous though, no worries). It was a strange thing to consider that we were a fraction of the few hundred people (a small drop in the well of our population) who had come into contact with a strain of mold thousands of years old.
A safety talk and a hardhat seem sufficient preparation for entering a tunnel through which people have safely traveled for a few decades, but because the tunnel (which isn't really a tunnel because there's no opening on the other end) belongs to the military, everyone had to sign a check-in sheet which listed our names and the time of entry. Not so unusual, except that sheet is then faxed to the military base. If it isn't faxed again in an hour signalling that everyone has made it out alive the military comes and saves the day. Intense stuff for some frozen dirt.
The first thing I noticed stepping into the tunnel was the smell. It was sour and musty with just a faint hint of over-ripe sweetness lingering underneath of it. The smell of rotting bacteria. As the ice in the ice wedges sublimated (turning straight from ice into vapors(the world is a crazy place)) the anaerobic bacteria trapped in the ice came into contact with the oxygen in the air and died (sad day for anaerobes). It left the exposed ice covered in a layer that looked a lot like dusty cobwebs but was actually decayed organic matter. Delicious!
The ceiling itself (where there wasn't solid ice present) was an array of free-hanging old root systems, spidery and silty after thousands of years, and in the entrance you could see 10,000 - 30,000 year old bones belonging to animals that once (hypothetically) drank from an old watering hole that scientists believe existed where the tunnel entrance now is.
There were two different pathways leading into the earth. At the end of one we stood beneath a convergence of ice wedges which formed a polygonal cross-way above our heads. At the end of the other we saw chaotic crystal patterns, formed by small movements in the ice pushing the outer layers of frozen silt into sharp geometric patterns. Those two places were where the really beautiful things happened.
After our trip into earth we went to eat at a brewery right down the road called The Silver Gulch, which has really delicious food and even more delicious brews.
The following day Zack (rockstar and astronaut extraordinaire) and I went to Chena hot springs. It was a really lovely evening and my first time being in a hot spring. It was particularly interesting because it was around -35 and the water was around 100+. Which meant I was really warm but my hair and eyelashes were icy. I need to build up a heat tolerance and go back. On the drive home we also saw a really amazing and intense aurora, several skeins of it in varying intensities of pink and green sweeping and bunching across the sky. A wonderful cap to two great days.
On Friday I went with my poetry workshop class on a mildly impromptu field trip to the Permafrost Tunnel. It's one of two such places in the entire world (the other is Russia, Alaska's back yard). It was beautiful in the way that frozen silt is beautiful, which is to say you've got to be a certain kind of person to find that kind of thing beautiful. It was a truly amazing experience though. Our guide was a straight forward German fellow who admitted to knowing only as much as fifteen years of being a tour guide had taught him (still a considerable amount). During our safety talk we learned that we were some of the few people on earth to come into contact with the mold growing inside the tunnel because it was endemic (it wasn't dangerous though, no worries). It was a strange thing to consider that we were a fraction of the few hundred people (a small drop in the well of our population) who had come into contact with a strain of mold thousands of years old.
A safety talk and a hardhat seem sufficient preparation for entering a tunnel through which people have safely traveled for a few decades, but because the tunnel (which isn't really a tunnel because there's no opening on the other end) belongs to the military, everyone had to sign a check-in sheet which listed our names and the time of entry. Not so unusual, except that sheet is then faxed to the military base. If it isn't faxed again in an hour signalling that everyone has made it out alive the military comes and saves the day. Intense stuff for some frozen dirt.
 |
| Dramatic image of the entrance |
The first thing I noticed stepping into the tunnel was the smell. It was sour and musty with just a faint hint of over-ripe sweetness lingering underneath of it. The smell of rotting bacteria. As the ice in the ice wedges sublimated (turning straight from ice into vapors(the world is a crazy place)) the anaerobic bacteria trapped in the ice came into contact with the oxygen in the air and died (sad day for anaerobes). It left the exposed ice covered in a layer that looked a lot like dusty cobwebs but was actually decayed organic matter. Delicious!
The ceiling itself (where there wasn't solid ice present) was an array of free-hanging old root systems, spidery and silty after thousands of years, and in the entrance you could see 10,000 - 30,000 year old bones belonging to animals that once (hypothetically) drank from an old watering hole that scientists believe existed where the tunnel entrance now is.
 |
| Handy signs were hanging around letting us know the age of things. 14,000 is young compared to 30,000. |
 |
| Potential Sheep Horn jutting from the wall. |
There were two different pathways leading into the earth. At the end of one we stood beneath a convergence of ice wedges which formed a polygonal cross-way above our heads. At the end of the other we saw chaotic crystal patterns, formed by small movements in the ice pushing the outer layers of frozen silt into sharp geometric patterns. Those two places were where the really beautiful things happened.
After our trip into earth we went to eat at a brewery right down the road called The Silver Gulch, which has really delicious food and even more delicious brews.
The following day Zack (rockstar and astronaut extraordinaire) and I went to Chena hot springs. It was a really lovely evening and my first time being in a hot spring. It was particularly interesting because it was around -35 and the water was around 100+. Which meant I was really warm but my hair and eyelashes were icy. I need to build up a heat tolerance and go back. On the drive home we also saw a really amazing and intense aurora, several skeins of it in varying intensities of pink and green sweeping and bunching across the sky. A wonderful cap to two great days.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
To the Self
For a while, a few weeks only, a small drop compared to the rest of the life I've lived, I have not updated this blog. With such grand notions of attempting to write frequently (dare I say daily?) at the outset of this blog, I was disappointed with myself for not doing so. Which made me even less inclined to continue with the whole thing. Imagine the melodramatic cry, "What is the point!?" That's the thing with melodrama though. Often times it's quite silly.
Much too much has happened for me to trace back through the weeks, and more than anything I am surprised by the passage of time. As November's end nears, I contemplate what it is I'm grateful for, as so many others have. There are times when those things are hard to remember, when they fade out of focus. But I try always to be mindful of joy and to be kinder to myself.
So I am thankful for the biggest, clearest sky I've ever seen; for the great grey owl, the red and white fox, the grouse and ptarmigan; for the silence so still you can hear the snow falling. I am grateful for peacefulness and the chatter produced by spending time with people who are interested in one another, and for feeling loved and cared for. I am grateful for borrowing books, for poetry, for the strange and varied passage of time, which insists on change. And to time I owe the changes in my life, which have brought me to this point, past harsh adversity and trembling sorrow and the buoyant moments of joy. No less than every moment could have brought me here, even if I still sometimes struggle. I am grateful even for the struggle.
Much too much has happened for me to trace back through the weeks, and more than anything I am surprised by the passage of time. As November's end nears, I contemplate what it is I'm grateful for, as so many others have. There are times when those things are hard to remember, when they fade out of focus. But I try always to be mindful of joy and to be kinder to myself.
So I am thankful for the biggest, clearest sky I've ever seen; for the great grey owl, the red and white fox, the grouse and ptarmigan; for the silence so still you can hear the snow falling. I am grateful for peacefulness and the chatter produced by spending time with people who are interested in one another, and for feeling loved and cared for. I am grateful for borrowing books, for poetry, for the strange and varied passage of time, which insists on change. And to time I owe the changes in my life, which have brought me to this point, past harsh adversity and trembling sorrow and the buoyant moments of joy. No less than every moment could have brought me here, even if I still sometimes struggle. I am grateful even for the struggle.
Thursday, November 1, 2012
November First
This is a good day so far (three hours into it). I'm writing a new poem, revising an old one, reading two poetry books and a stack of poems for review for the lit magazine at UAF. And I think being immersed in poetry can make good days, even if you know you're avoiding work for class. Even if you're avoiding sleep, as usual.
I'd like to blame the weather here for my poor sleep. I'd like to say, "Oh well the sun patterns have..." blah blah blah. Truthfully, I'm just ignoring sleeping patterns. The sun doesn't rise early anymore, why should I? We lose seven minutes of daylight a day. To put it in perspective, by november 18 we will have approximately five hours and fifty minutes of sunlight. By december 1 we will have four and a half hours of sunlight. Most of this will be horizon sun, rising and setting.
Homicide rates are highest in hot, bright countries; suicide rates are highest in cold, dark countries. Either way someone is killing something. Isn't that strange? The habits of people are generally confusing.
I suppose I'm updating this for the sake of updating it, and not for any real reflection or purposeful writing. just needed to give that poem I'm working on a little air. I did write a different new poem while I was up here, and I quite liked it. I might even venture to say that it's good. Not sure yet how I feel about the new one. Longer lines than I usually go for, and of a very personal and close nature. I guess I'd say we'll see if I was going to post it here, but I'm not going to. So...
I'd like to blame the weather here for my poor sleep. I'd like to say, "Oh well the sun patterns have..." blah blah blah. Truthfully, I'm just ignoring sleeping patterns. The sun doesn't rise early anymore, why should I? We lose seven minutes of daylight a day. To put it in perspective, by november 18 we will have approximately five hours and fifty minutes of sunlight. By december 1 we will have four and a half hours of sunlight. Most of this will be horizon sun, rising and setting.
Homicide rates are highest in hot, bright countries; suicide rates are highest in cold, dark countries. Either way someone is killing something. Isn't that strange? The habits of people are generally confusing.
I suppose I'm updating this for the sake of updating it, and not for any real reflection or purposeful writing. just needed to give that poem I'm working on a little air. I did write a different new poem while I was up here, and I quite liked it. I might even venture to say that it's good. Not sure yet how I feel about the new one. Longer lines than I usually go for, and of a very personal and close nature. I guess I'd say we'll see if I was going to post it here, but I'm not going to. So...
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Two A.M.
There's a certain kind of intimacy in knowing you won't be sleeping. It's strange. It sneaks up on you. One moment you're in class, talking about poetry, outside smoking a cigar with someone you want to call a boy, someone who's actually a man. Strange to think about people in those kinds of terms. I don't like attributing too much age to people. I try not to analyze myself too much. Sunday night and into Monday I didn't sleep at all. Slept four hours Monday night, and almost nine last night. Now I can see the not sleeping sneaking up. I don't mind. I have a paper to do anyway. I just need to get out some of this extraneous thought so I can work on it. I know I can do it, that's not the hard part. I just have to concentrate long enough. Making myself some tea, putting on classical music as loud as my ear drums can stand it. About to open the window to cool it off in here.
I wrote a poem I really like. I went on a late diner dinner date. Kind of. Zack. Aspiring poet, astronaut, and rockstar.
I really like people.
I wrote a poem I really like. I went on a late diner dinner date. Kind of. Zack. Aspiring poet, astronaut, and rockstar.
I really like people.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Knights Awake
Fairy tales do not tell children the dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children the dragons can be killed.
The dragons can be killed. I've slept about four hours in the last two days. To clarify, I slept four hours last night, and none the night before. I just have to remember the dragons can be killed.
I do this thing sometimes, cut my thumbnails down too low. There's a weird, hard layer of skin beneath the place your nail should not be separating from your finger. I cut the nail low, pull on it, dig that skin out. Luckily that's the worst of my self-harming habits. Because it apparently is "self-harm." I've been dwelling a little more than I want to be lately. But I am feeling a lot better after this evening. I am sad for some of the people I've spoken with today, but I had a good time with Elliot, a friend I've made up here. I told him why I haven't been sleeping. He's really one of the sweetest and most genuine people I've ever spoken too. A rare thing indeed. He's smarter than he realizes, I think, and very good company if you're feeling down. I think I just have to remember that talking about my nightmares is going to help get rid of them.
The dragons can be killed. I've slept about four hours in the last two days. To clarify, I slept four hours last night, and none the night before. I just have to remember the dragons can be killed.
I do this thing sometimes, cut my thumbnails down too low. There's a weird, hard layer of skin beneath the place your nail should not be separating from your finger. I cut the nail low, pull on it, dig that skin out. Luckily that's the worst of my self-harming habits. Because it apparently is "self-harm." I've been dwelling a little more than I want to be lately. But I am feeling a lot better after this evening. I am sad for some of the people I've spoken with today, but I had a good time with Elliot, a friend I've made up here. I told him why I haven't been sleeping. He's really one of the sweetest and most genuine people I've ever spoken too. A rare thing indeed. He's smarter than he realizes, I think, and very good company if you're feeling down. I think I just have to remember that talking about my nightmares is going to help get rid of them.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
What kind of person is happy at 4 am?
It's beautiful for me to see the people awake at this hour. 4:24 am here, 8:24 am all along the east coast. Of course, these are my two reference points. And still. It's pretty. I'm awake and alone in my room, but just a wall away my roommate sleeps, and on the other side my two suite-mates sleep also. And all around we're spread; an interwoven blanket of experience, knit together by a thousand, thousand needles and more. When I imagine this we are all the glowing centers of our world view. At least, I hope we each glow to ourselves, at least occasionally...
It's been a long time since I've sat and read a book all the way through with only a blog and word checks to interrupt. In other words, to sit down and only record my thoughts and read, for about five straight hours. Right into the night. I won't be sleeping much tonight, I can tell already.
I'm thinking about that hidden thing in people that makes anyone capable of beauty. And how uncharitable I still am. I want to work harder at seeing others the way people who love them see them. I think it would be good if everyone tried that, at least once.
It's been a long time since I've sat and read a book all the way through with only a blog and word checks to interrupt. In other words, to sit down and only record my thoughts and read, for about five straight hours. Right into the night. I won't be sleeping much tonight, I can tell already.
I'm thinking about that hidden thing in people that makes anyone capable of beauty. And how uncharitable I still am. I want to work harder at seeing others the way people who love them see them. I think it would be good if everyone tried that, at least once.
Busy - brain all over
I've got a load of things to do, but I'm feeling pretty light. Pretty confident. I'm sure I can get it done, which a few days ago was not how I was feeling. Reading Gilead again. God Damn, though I'm not sure the letter writer would appreciate my saying that. But, God. . . Damn. So full of passion. That's how I want to be.
The snow has been good to me, and I'm excited to buy tough winter boots and a tough winter jacket, and take long and winding walks through the negative temperatures. I know I probably shouldn't. I know that I will. I like being out in it, how after a while you don't feel cold, so that once you come back in the regular warmth burns so hot that the heat won't leave your skin for hours. Close enough to frostbite, I suppose. Not that it's that's cold yet. Just remember past winters and enjoying the one that's fallen gently but steadily in.
I bought body butter to stave off the itchy tightness of dry skin, honey and shea. I want to call it Bee Balm, especially because it's from Burt's Bees.
I'm thinking about writing. About passion in writing. I tried writing a poem without putting a piece of myself in it. It's a miserable poem. I know exactly what I should not do now though.
Third person is the hardest way for me to write... It's an actual challenge and I feel as though I don't do it often enough to have ever done it well.
I'm dissatisfied with my hair right now. I kind if want it to be much longer than it is, though I've also said I'm chopping it all off again come summer. We shall see, I suppose. My roommate, Musa, believes that cutting my hair off again is going to look great. She even likes the picture of me with short hair on my license. And no one like license photos. Hahaha. Very sweet of her.
Anyway, my concern is growing it out again. So many old women these days have short white perms but I quite like the idea of a long white braid, when I'm old enough to have white on my head (that isn't snow).
Aging. Such an odd thing.
I just wanted to jot some things down to prove to myself that I'm not forgetting about this writing project I've undertaken. I hear from some sources that trying to write frequently/consistently is the best thing to do. I don't think I'm disciplined enough to achieve it at the moment. Though I do find the idea quite romantic and I've always been a bit of a romantic, and an idealist.
The snow has been good to me, and I'm excited to buy tough winter boots and a tough winter jacket, and take long and winding walks through the negative temperatures. I know I probably shouldn't. I know that I will. I like being out in it, how after a while you don't feel cold, so that once you come back in the regular warmth burns so hot that the heat won't leave your skin for hours. Close enough to frostbite, I suppose. Not that it's that's cold yet. Just remember past winters and enjoying the one that's fallen gently but steadily in.
I bought body butter to stave off the itchy tightness of dry skin, honey and shea. I want to call it Bee Balm, especially because it's from Burt's Bees.
I'm thinking about writing. About passion in writing. I tried writing a poem without putting a piece of myself in it. It's a miserable poem. I know exactly what I should not do now though.
Third person is the hardest way for me to write... It's an actual challenge and I feel as though I don't do it often enough to have ever done it well.
I'm dissatisfied with my hair right now. I kind if want it to be much longer than it is, though I've also said I'm chopping it all off again come summer. We shall see, I suppose. My roommate, Musa, believes that cutting my hair off again is going to look great. She even likes the picture of me with short hair on my license. And no one like license photos. Hahaha. Very sweet of her.
Anyway, my concern is growing it out again. So many old women these days have short white perms but I quite like the idea of a long white braid, when I'm old enough to have white on my head (that isn't snow).
Aging. Such an odd thing.
I just wanted to jot some things down to prove to myself that I'm not forgetting about this writing project I've undertaken. I hear from some sources that trying to write frequently/consistently is the best thing to do. I don't think I'm disciplined enough to achieve it at the moment. Though I do find the idea quite romantic and I've always been a bit of a romantic, and an idealist.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
I've Got a Feeling
For the first time in a long time, perhaps my whole life, except for those pieces where because nothing is under your direction you don't have to care where you end up (the youngest ages of our lives), I feel like I'm settling in. More than that, that I like where I am settling in. I like the person doing the settling. I feel... free. Like I'm making my own choices, more for myself than ever before. Not because of family, mother, sisters, or friends, acquaintances, social imperatives, crushes, enemies, the people you make bad first impressions on from which you can never recover (so stop thinking about it already). But for me. I've decided where I'm staying for the winter. Cabin and dog sitting, oh my! I'm wondering about my move for the summer. For me. Not because I have to (though technically I do, or I could just be homeless) but because I feel full of potential. And I wondered, why shouldn't I? I feel like it's possible for me to be on my own and rather than be scared (though there is also that) I feel empowered.
And what's more lovely is that I feel the urge to write. That suddenly, again, I can write. And do it well. I went through a whole, "Oh no I'm definitely not good enough" wave, which I've been told we all go through And we really do: writer, architect, McD worker (especially McD workers?), construction worker, migrant, traveler, (migrant traveler?) world saver, doesn't matter. Which is comforting in its own way. Maybe the common thread?
But I was sidetracked. I feel as though I can write. More importantly that I should write. In a way I'm interested to see if there's a day where I'm going to be permanently disillusioned by the world. I don't think I will, and that makes me happy. As many internet memes say, my faith in humanity has been restored. Faith in myself as well.
I'm riding this feeling for as long as it lasts.
And what's more lovely is that I feel the urge to write. That suddenly, again, I can write. And do it well. I went through a whole, "Oh no I'm definitely not good enough" wave, which I've been told we all go through And we really do: writer, architect, McD worker (especially McD workers?), construction worker, migrant, traveler, (migrant traveler?) world saver, doesn't matter. Which is comforting in its own way. Maybe the common thread?
But I was sidetracked. I feel as though I can write. More importantly that I should write. In a way I'm interested to see if there's a day where I'm going to be permanently disillusioned by the world. I don't think I will, and that makes me happy. As many internet memes say, my faith in humanity has been restored. Faith in myself as well.
I'm riding this feeling for as long as it lasts.
Sunday, October 7, 2012
Twice October
Almost a full year ago, on October 8, a few friends and I hatched a crazy idea to go swimming in Ten Mile Creek, which drifts half-polluted along the edge of Waynesburg, PA. It was one of the last warm days of October, we went for coffee at the then-new Waynesburg Press, kidnapped a table and four chairs and took it around the side of the building, where a grassy lot had replaced a rundown, main street business. The side of the Press is raw brick and mortar, the chairs and table faux-wrought iron. I felt like we made a typical sight, a hipster post card. The four of us writers, coffee on the table. I was wearing a dark blue corduroy blazer and rectangular, red framed glasses. We talked about what a nice day it was, how Elias and Ian had gone on adventure through fields, climbed hay-stacks, and stayed up most of the night watching the sky. We were talking about having our own adventure, and then someone mentioned swimming, right now, let's go. We sat there for a moment and considered swimming in the last of the warm weather; considered how unaffected the creek was by a single day's increase of ten degrees. But somehow we were making plans to meet up again, making sure everyone had everyone else's number, that we'd bring all the right stuff.
Right Stuff:
Bathing Suits
Towels
Dream Songs by Berryman
Wine, Woodtipped Black & Milds
Lighter
We trekked our way to the creek, stripped down to our bathing suits, and stepped to the bank. Elias was the first in, barely testing the water before pushing his body in, submerging his head. I remember the way his breath sounded when he came up for air. It sounded cold. Ian went next, cursing, shouting out into the quiet woods. They pulled themselves onto a slick log protruding from the opposite shore, shivering, skin colored by cold water. The sediment was loose and fine around our feet, stirred easily. The water was clouded as Julia and I stepped up to face the challenge. We held hands and attempted a fast and brave entry. The current was faster than I anticipated, the water colder than I imagined. There were a few nearly breathless moments before I began my best doggy paddle over to the log. Elias offered his hand to me, smiling brightly as I hoisted myself out of the water. My skin was splotchy and red, covered in goose bumps. We sat there as the air warmed us, sun filtered weakly by fall leaves, speaking occasionally. The realization struck that we were going to have to get back to solid land, and so we all plunged in again. I followed their firm forward strokes with my shivery doggy-paddle. We were on the bank laughing, smiling about the cold water, splashing it onto our legs and feet to get rid of the mud. We passed the rest of the day among those trees, reading poetry, smoking cigars, being the typical hipster postcard.
I'm remembering this day fondly for a few reasons, not the least of which is the good company I was in, and the fun we had. It is also nearly the anniversary of that adventure, which I unwittingly celebrated by doing something pretty damn similar. Except colder. Because Alaska.
On Friday I did my first grad-school reading. I was so nervous that I barely ate (though I enjoyed a piece of quiche, topped with smoked salmon). I found out that I was reading first and attempted to be positive about it. Get it done and over with! Which I did. I am actually really happy about doing it, because everyone really seemed to like my poem, and another MFA that I really respect came up and touched my arm, saying, "That was a really great poem." People wanted to shake my hand. It was very positive feedback and I'm glad that I did it (though during the reading I could feel my heart pounding, my chest and arms were red from the pent-up heat of feeling the need to pass out). The other two readings were really good, much lighter and funnier than mine, and afterward several of the MFA's wanted to go bowling. As we were all deciding who was going to ride in what car, I stood shivering a little in the cold air. It was around 40 degrees and I had forgotten a jacket. Eric turned to me, "Jones, take my jacket." Not an offer, a command. I had been refusing it all day, "Take this one, or," he tugged his hoodie from beneath the thick leather jacket, "or this one. Take one." So I took the cool one, the leather jacket with a rough collar and the feel of unkempt suede. It dwarfed me, my fingers barely showing from the cuff of the sleeve. Kathryn was going to drive us (remember ANDE?). The last thing to do was confirm directions. On Cowel street, inside the Korean grocery.
So we went bowling. I think it might go without saying, but I'll make the point in case anyone isn't aware: I am awful at bowling. Nearly everyone I've ever met bowls better than I do. I go to give other people morale boosts, and because I think it's loads of fun. The alley was just starting open bowling, so we put our names on a list and went into the bar. (Just to clarify: A bar inside of a bowling alley inside of a Korean grocery.) The beer was over priced, but good. A needed stress reliever. We were at the bar for a few minutes before the MFA's decided they needed a cigarette. Luckily for them it was a smokers bar and was outfitted, amazingly, with a cigarette vending machine. I bought a pack just because I could. Although it was also overpriced.
Quentin (think tall, reedy, clever, tries to be charming, big overwhelming glasses) gave everyone ridiculous names. He was nominated for his own insulting "Shit Haircut" while I opted to do disservice to the moniker "The Business." We had Club Foot, Whose Shoes, Broke Sandwich, Stupid Clue, and Mrs. Beard. I started out strong, seven gutter balls in a row, to make a total of three points by the fourth frame. I had a bit of a comeback and scored a total of 51. Round two served me little better, making only a two point improvement, but we all had a great time.
We planned to go back to Eric's cabin to hang out, but Kathryn needed a walk around the block to make sure she was good for driving, which I had full confidence she was, but she's the careful sort. So we took a walk around the block. Chilly rain and cigarettes.
We got to Eric's cabin after a taco bell run, harassed another MFA, Danny, into joining our party, and sat around drinking in a circle on the floor, talking about whatever passed through our heads. I was a bystander in a firesauce packet throwing battle, and a lot of giggling went on. Eric had been planning on going swimming, had mentioned it earlier, and now again. We had made a deal. If we went over to his cabin we were going swimming in the Chena River. Danny and Kathryn had gone outside to smoke when Eric looked to me, "Are we going?" So I took off my socks and we went, the four of us shivering in the night, a single towel between us and no bathing suits. The ground was cold and wet, and my toes were numb immediately. The path down to the water was rocky and I worried about accidentally cutting my feet. But we were committed. It was a bit chillier than earlier, our breath was foggy, our skin tightening for warmth. I walked down the shore a bit and looked back to see the other three in a loose cluster, Eric the furthest away, pulling his shirt off. I looked out into the dark water. Nothing was visible. When I looked back down Eric was entering the water, skinny dipping. None of us wanted wet underwear to sleep in.
Eric was in the water for about a minute. It was freezing. My feet were almost completely numb. I took off the zip up sweater I had borrowed, got goosebumps from the fresh air on my arms, and lifted my shirt off. Danny had now been into the water, and was so cold he was for a moment frozen, unable to respond or move, doubled in a shaky-breathing crouch. I stripped the rest of my clothes as fast as possible and stepped into the water. Eric was bargaining with Kathryn, "I'll go in again if you do." She was indecisively half-dressed. He waded back in to match my progress, and then dipped his head under. I couldn't bring myself to be totally submerged, but I stayed in for about two minutes, waiting to see if Kathryn would enter. She immersed her ankles, standing naked on the edge of the river, and turned back. She went to her clothes and reached down. Eric got out again too, breathing hard, joining Kathryn and Danny. They formed a pale constellation on the shore, bodies white in the distant dark. I went back to shore.
Once we'd mostly put our clothes back on we went back to the cabin and filed into the bathroom together. Eric drew hot water and we all perched on the edge of the tub. We were laughing, feeling alive, creating our own little river together, down to the sediment settling to match the pattern of the swirling water.
Right Stuff:
Bathing Suits
Towels
Dream Songs by Berryman
Wine, Woodtipped Black & Milds
Lighter
We trekked our way to the creek, stripped down to our bathing suits, and stepped to the bank. Elias was the first in, barely testing the water before pushing his body in, submerging his head. I remember the way his breath sounded when he came up for air. It sounded cold. Ian went next, cursing, shouting out into the quiet woods. They pulled themselves onto a slick log protruding from the opposite shore, shivering, skin colored by cold water. The sediment was loose and fine around our feet, stirred easily. The water was clouded as Julia and I stepped up to face the challenge. We held hands and attempted a fast and brave entry. The current was faster than I anticipated, the water colder than I imagined. There were a few nearly breathless moments before I began my best doggy paddle over to the log. Elias offered his hand to me, smiling brightly as I hoisted myself out of the water. My skin was splotchy and red, covered in goose bumps. We sat there as the air warmed us, sun filtered weakly by fall leaves, speaking occasionally. The realization struck that we were going to have to get back to solid land, and so we all plunged in again. I followed their firm forward strokes with my shivery doggy-paddle. We were on the bank laughing, smiling about the cold water, splashing it onto our legs and feet to get rid of the mud. We passed the rest of the day among those trees, reading poetry, smoking cigars, being the typical hipster postcard.
I'm remembering this day fondly for a few reasons, not the least of which is the good company I was in, and the fun we had. It is also nearly the anniversary of that adventure, which I unwittingly celebrated by doing something pretty damn similar. Except colder. Because Alaska.
On Friday I did my first grad-school reading. I was so nervous that I barely ate (though I enjoyed a piece of quiche, topped with smoked salmon). I found out that I was reading first and attempted to be positive about it. Get it done and over with! Which I did. I am actually really happy about doing it, because everyone really seemed to like my poem, and another MFA that I really respect came up and touched my arm, saying, "That was a really great poem." People wanted to shake my hand. It was very positive feedback and I'm glad that I did it (though during the reading I could feel my heart pounding, my chest and arms were red from the pent-up heat of feeling the need to pass out). The other two readings were really good, much lighter and funnier than mine, and afterward several of the MFA's wanted to go bowling. As we were all deciding who was going to ride in what car, I stood shivering a little in the cold air. It was around 40 degrees and I had forgotten a jacket. Eric turned to me, "Jones, take my jacket." Not an offer, a command. I had been refusing it all day, "Take this one, or," he tugged his hoodie from beneath the thick leather jacket, "or this one. Take one." So I took the cool one, the leather jacket with a rough collar and the feel of unkempt suede. It dwarfed me, my fingers barely showing from the cuff of the sleeve. Kathryn was going to drive us (remember ANDE?). The last thing to do was confirm directions. On Cowel street, inside the Korean grocery.
So we went bowling. I think it might go without saying, but I'll make the point in case anyone isn't aware: I am awful at bowling. Nearly everyone I've ever met bowls better than I do. I go to give other people morale boosts, and because I think it's loads of fun. The alley was just starting open bowling, so we put our names on a list and went into the bar. (Just to clarify: A bar inside of a bowling alley inside of a Korean grocery.) The beer was over priced, but good. A needed stress reliever. We were at the bar for a few minutes before the MFA's decided they needed a cigarette. Luckily for them it was a smokers bar and was outfitted, amazingly, with a cigarette vending machine. I bought a pack just because I could. Although it was also overpriced.
Quentin (think tall, reedy, clever, tries to be charming, big overwhelming glasses) gave everyone ridiculous names. He was nominated for his own insulting "Shit Haircut" while I opted to do disservice to the moniker "The Business." We had Club Foot, Whose Shoes, Broke Sandwich, Stupid Clue, and Mrs. Beard. I started out strong, seven gutter balls in a row, to make a total of three points by the fourth frame. I had a bit of a comeback and scored a total of 51. Round two served me little better, making only a two point improvement, but we all had a great time.
We planned to go back to Eric's cabin to hang out, but Kathryn needed a walk around the block to make sure she was good for driving, which I had full confidence she was, but she's the careful sort. So we took a walk around the block. Chilly rain and cigarettes.
We got to Eric's cabin after a taco bell run, harassed another MFA, Danny, into joining our party, and sat around drinking in a circle on the floor, talking about whatever passed through our heads. I was a bystander in a firesauce packet throwing battle, and a lot of giggling went on. Eric had been planning on going swimming, had mentioned it earlier, and now again. We had made a deal. If we went over to his cabin we were going swimming in the Chena River. Danny and Kathryn had gone outside to smoke when Eric looked to me, "Are we going?" So I took off my socks and we went, the four of us shivering in the night, a single towel between us and no bathing suits. The ground was cold and wet, and my toes were numb immediately. The path down to the water was rocky and I worried about accidentally cutting my feet. But we were committed. It was a bit chillier than earlier, our breath was foggy, our skin tightening for warmth. I walked down the shore a bit and looked back to see the other three in a loose cluster, Eric the furthest away, pulling his shirt off. I looked out into the dark water. Nothing was visible. When I looked back down Eric was entering the water, skinny dipping. None of us wanted wet underwear to sleep in.
Eric was in the water for about a minute. It was freezing. My feet were almost completely numb. I took off the zip up sweater I had borrowed, got goosebumps from the fresh air on my arms, and lifted my shirt off. Danny had now been into the water, and was so cold he was for a moment frozen, unable to respond or move, doubled in a shaky-breathing crouch. I stripped the rest of my clothes as fast as possible and stepped into the water. Eric was bargaining with Kathryn, "I'll go in again if you do." She was indecisively half-dressed. He waded back in to match my progress, and then dipped his head under. I couldn't bring myself to be totally submerged, but I stayed in for about two minutes, waiting to see if Kathryn would enter. She immersed her ankles, standing naked on the edge of the river, and turned back. She went to her clothes and reached down. Eric got out again too, breathing hard, joining Kathryn and Danny. They formed a pale constellation on the shore, bodies white in the distant dark. I went back to shore.
Once we'd mostly put our clothes back on we went back to the cabin and filed into the bathroom together. Eric drew hot water and we all perched on the edge of the tub. We were laughing, feeling alive, creating our own little river together, down to the sediment settling to match the pattern of the swirling water.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Dealing With
There are terrible things happening in the world. People want to internalize tragedy. Look, I'm sad too. I've been affected. I can feel. I'm a liar. The trees are bending in the immense crush of a cold rush that will not be stopped. I can hear the creaking, feel the wood as if in my own bones. The beat of the world is thumping hard, like a bird beating its feathers off against the bars of some cage, like the bars in my chest, keeping things in. I would love to see the door open, have a burgeoning gutting.
I'm mad at myself today. Going for a cup of coffee tomorrow with someone I met at a party. I have a lot of work to do and I'm not doing it. I keep turning the music pumping through my headphones up. I don't want to listen to myself right now. But when the beat slows, when the song switches, it's too quiet. I guess I've never slept well in October.
I'm mad at myself today. Going for a cup of coffee tomorrow with someone I met at a party. I have a lot of work to do and I'm not doing it. I keep turning the music pumping through my headphones up. I don't want to listen to myself right now. But when the beat slows, when the song switches, it's too quiet. I guess I've never slept well in October.
Monday, October 1, 2012
Dreams (1)
I've been dreaming. I haven’t consistently remembered a
dream in almost a year. I usually lie to people about it. But I've had dreams
that I’m remembering.
Last night I was a child on a playground, with a group of
other people I knew, all as children. We were playing games when a guy with a
big orange truck came. He cleaned the back of his truck out with a hose because
it was full of mud. Then he said he’d give us a ride. But not everyone could
fit in the cab because we had become ourselves again, so I sat in the back of
the truck, lay down and wrapped myself in an orange towel, to blend in. We
drove to a prison and were given a tour. All the men had long faces, and sat
facing away from us. It was silent. They opened the gate for us to leave but
there were complications with getting out. I had gotten back in the truck to
wrap myself up in the towel in the back, but a prisoner had gotten out and was
trying to steal the truck. He wrapped cords around my neck and tried to choke
me. I was crying. Calling for help. Fighting him. I grabbed his face, pulled at
it, and made it longer. He was a monster. I climbed on top of him and beat him,
but his body offered no resistance, as if he didn't have any bones. I punched
him until I could breathe, and finally someone I knew came out to help me. His
name is Eric. He pulled the cords off my neck and I went back inside sat in a
dark corner. I was afraid my face was getting longer, stretching off my bones
so I wouldn't need bones. I kept feeling the bones in my hands, which were
covered in blood. As I sat there, the scene changed. I was with the same people
but we were in a school, teaching children from the Amazon. Eric pulled at his
hair (a habit he has in real life) pushing it up and out, away from his face,
in a mane. He reminds me of a dark lion, but he is kind. The children sit
around us and talk, and he smiles and touches my hand. We teach the children
about kindness, like Vonnegut, "Hello babies. Welcome to Earth. It's hot
in the summer and cold in the winter. It's round and wet and crowded. On the
outside, babies, you've got a hundred years here. There's only one rule that I
know of, babies- God damn it, you've got to be kind.” They say writing and
reading is impossible in dreams, but I swear I can do both. Words are clear and
strong. Images shake. Colors morph and fold. My mind is a narrator, whoever the
voice in my head belongs to. The children sing and color and we smile. Eric
looks at me again and touches my hand.
Starvation Gulch
I've had a great weekend. Well, it basically started on Thursday. Had a good class in the evening, went to the pub with my classmates. It's just that... I'm still happy. Right now the dorm smells like Indian food. Musa, my roommate, flips between english and her native, Zambian language with ease while speaking to one of her friends on skype. My other suite mate, Xuanyu, is speaking Chinese with her boyfriend. There is laughter, easy exchanges. The way people should communicate. Friday there was a poetry reading that I went to with some other MFA's and we went, again, to the pub afterward. It was one of the guy's birthdays, Eric. He grew up bilingual, and so when Kendell, another MFA, showed up with her Cameroonian husband, Djafar, they spoke french with everyone. Those of us who had basic knowledge listened more than we spoke, but I really like conversations like that, and different languages are really beautiful. The sound structures, the difference in consonant repetition and vowel sound, the stress of the the words. I want to learn all of them.
Eric's birthday was really fun, and because it seems I know someone who was born every weekend, there was another party last night, which coincided with one of the biggest events on campus: Starvation Gulch.
We set fire to everything.
Eric's birthday was really fun, and because it seems I know someone who was born every weekend, there was another party last night, which coincided with one of the biggest events on campus: Starvation Gulch.
We set fire to everything.
This is from a few hundred feet away, on top of a hill as we walked down. Getting closer, we could feel the heat on our faces. It was so cold that later in the evening it snowed, but everyone was taking off their jackets and walking around in t-shirts and shorts. There was a rave in the middle of the crowd, people running around in polar bear suits, flashing glow sticks, illegal alcohol in an unimaginable number of bottles, being passed between everyone. We went to the birthday party before the fires, and I had a drink that put the gin back in ginger ale. While we were at the fire there was more gin, some really heady ale being drank from a water bottle (which wasn't helping the head) and some other flask (vodka, maybe?) being passed around the group of people celebrating Toby's birthday. The whole party sang happy birthday to him, he was given a Guy Fawkes mask, lifted up on top of the crowd, and carried around like a king. Looked like a damn good birthday. We went back to a kitchen rave, held in a small, small kitchen. Not sure why we chose the kitchen as the go-to spot, but decision making is always... hampered, at best, in those kinds of crowds. I met quite a few new people, and remember only one name. Re-met a few people from the fiasco party of two weeks ago and they all had a good laugh at some of my more interesting activities. Needless to say, this weekend was not a repeat of the previous. Which was great.
Tonight topped the weekend well, with hot cocoa and alcohol infused, chocolate flavored whipped cream, and a midnight jaunt in 20 degree (F) weather to hunt down the northern lights. Looked a little like amazing:
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Too Much in the Brain
Today I'm afraid I don't have much to give you except exposition. See, I've been feeling pensive, which I've actually been trying to resist. But my mind can't stop. And so it chugs along in spite of my basic desire for it not to. "I'm sorry," it says to me, "were you looking to sleep? To think clearly? What about all these other things?" And so it goes.
I've been thinking about people, relationships, relating, first impressions, self-criticism and honesty.
There are strong feelings of, "Do I belong here? Can I keep up?
Am I good enough?"
I've been thinking about people, relationships, relating, first impressions, self-criticism and honesty.
There are strong feelings of, "Do I belong here? Can I keep up?
Am I good enough?"
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
A little bit of everything
What makes us rare and beautiful?
There is a movie project that just ended called The Beauty Inside. Completely amazing to watch:
* * *
I've been thinking a lot about people, about interaction. The sun was bright and warm once it got up in the sky, and I sat outside reading. I looked up and caught the eyes of someone I'd never met. We both smiled and he asked me how I was. It was a brief moment. A passing one.
Before that, as I was getting coffee from the Polar Perk, I was watching people as they walked, passing one another, some operating as if they were entirely alone. And I know some people feel that way as they tug on a bit of clothing, tuck a stray strand behind their ear. How self-conscious we all are.
How self-conscious I am! On October 5 I'll be doing a reading in front of my peers. I'm very nervous about this, for a few reasons. The first being that I lost a great deal of my writing in a coffee spilling incident that didn't leave enough of an impression to make me stop drinking coffee but has me obsessively saving everything I write. The second is that no one here, except for whatever committee accepted me, has ever seen anything I've written. I'm looking at it very critically now. Am I saying too much? Did I somehow put exposition into this poem? Is it good enough? Smooth Enough? Engaging? Fifteen minutes is too long to be in front of a crowd like this. And yet I read for nearly thirty minutes in a very similar situation without a problem. So what is my problem? I've never started getting so nervous so early before. Every time I think about it my heart panics a little more.
* * *
I know I've been a little lacking with content control. I'm a little all over the place right now. I just wanted to say... I've been exercising. Regularly.
Okay, that's an over excited exaggeration. I've exercised two days in a row. Which I'm pretty sure has never happened ever, unless you count soccer and baseball practice as a kid. Which, frankly, doesn't count. Because I think I have about 100x more energy as an eight year old than I do now. But! I did do the elliptical thing today for 45 straight minutes and made it something like 3.7 miles. I felt pretty boss. Hopefully this makes up for all the drinking?... Ha.
(I'm not really alcoholic, guys. Jokes are fun.)
There is a movie project that just ended called The Beauty Inside. Completely amazing to watch:
* * *
I've been thinking a lot about people, about interaction. The sun was bright and warm once it got up in the sky, and I sat outside reading. I looked up and caught the eyes of someone I'd never met. We both smiled and he asked me how I was. It was a brief moment. A passing one.
Before that, as I was getting coffee from the Polar Perk, I was watching people as they walked, passing one another, some operating as if they were entirely alone. And I know some people feel that way as they tug on a bit of clothing, tuck a stray strand behind their ear. How self-conscious we all are.
How self-conscious I am! On October 5 I'll be doing a reading in front of my peers. I'm very nervous about this, for a few reasons. The first being that I lost a great deal of my writing in a coffee spilling incident that didn't leave enough of an impression to make me stop drinking coffee but has me obsessively saving everything I write. The second is that no one here, except for whatever committee accepted me, has ever seen anything I've written. I'm looking at it very critically now. Am I saying too much? Did I somehow put exposition into this poem? Is it good enough? Smooth Enough? Engaging? Fifteen minutes is too long to be in front of a crowd like this. And yet I read for nearly thirty minutes in a very similar situation without a problem. So what is my problem? I've never started getting so nervous so early before. Every time I think about it my heart panics a little more.
* * *
I know I've been a little lacking with content control. I'm a little all over the place right now. I just wanted to say... I've been exercising. Regularly.
Okay, that's an over excited exaggeration. I've exercised two days in a row. Which I'm pretty sure has never happened ever, unless you count soccer and baseball practice as a kid. Which, frankly, doesn't count. Because I think I have about 100x more energy as an eight year old than I do now. But! I did do the elliptical thing today for 45 straight minutes and made it something like 3.7 miles. I felt pretty boss. Hopefully this makes up for all the drinking?... Ha.
(I'm not really alcoholic, guys. Jokes are fun.)
Sunday, September 23, 2012
A Cabin Weekend Get Away: Shack up with your favorite MFA
I was supposed to be spending this weekend in a cabin, with other MFA's, writing and drinking and marry making. I was going to set off on Friday night with two other first year MFA's, Natalie and Kathryn. Except, we didn't quite make it to the cabin...
We left campus at about 5:10 pm and had to stop by Kathryn's cabin to grab her stuff. After everything was situated we hit up the gas station to top off the car and grab some wine. While we were there we also found, and purchased, 30 proof chocolate whip cream. It's delicious. More on that later though.
The drive to the hiking spot is 50 miles. We chatted, listened to music, and in general felt pretty optimistic about our trek. At the outset of our journey, still on the road, we stopped for a moose that ambled across the road, the stiff fur on his long legs catching the sun. Kathryn, our driver, joked about how dumb moose all looked, but I couldn't help but feel as if it was a majestic sight. We drove past rolling hills, trees, trailers, general stores, trees, and a very hokey diner with a stove pipe chimney releasing smoke and heat above the spindly trees. Our next left was the head of the trail that would lead us to the lower angel creek cabin. As we pulled in, a beautiful dog with a thick white and grey coat ran into the trees. It looked almost like a wolf.
There are three possible trails to take in order to get to the cabin. Of the three only two really make sense, and of those two, one looks much easier. One arched above the cabin, taking you north west, the other arched down a south west path, and the third took us west. According to the map we had, the trail west was the smartest option. It was the most direct path toward an evening spent by a fire, with wine and writing and good company. So we went west.
There is a saying which creates tension in a story pretty easily. It's a go to phrase. You've all heard it, "Little did we know." And so, little did we know, the trail west is best used in winter time. It starts out innocently enough. Very clearly marked, colors tied in the trees, little metal signs with stick-figures of skiers and snow-mobilers. And most misleadingly, a yellow sign with an arrow pointed the direction we were headed, "Cabin." We were excited, joking about how easy the trail was and how it would take us no time. Three miles? Ha!
The first signs that things were not as they seemed came in the form of puddles in the dips on the path. I attributed the water to the recent rain we've been having. However, as we continued to trek into the valley where the lower angel creek cabin lay, dirt gave way to moss and tussocks. There weren't many good places to step and our shoes were soon water logged. The first moment that anyone began to seriously worry was when Kathryn, attempting to power through a particularly watery section, got sucked into the muddy water up to her knee. She had already rolled her ankle a little and wanted to avoid the uneven, watery ground as much as possible. Once she got stuck in the ground, there was a moment when I think everyone thought to themselves, "Is this really happening?" It certainly went through my mind.
Natalie set down her backpack on the driest spot she could find and attempted to pull Kathryn out, but there wasn't much solid ground to get a good footing on and I feared they would both go down. Kathryn sighed and said, "Oh, is this how it ends?" While it may not have been the end we were all worried that she was going to have to even out her weight by sitting or leaning forward into more water. Having wet pants and shoes was bad enough.
Luckily (however lucky getting stuck in a bog can be) she sank down right next to a tree, a young pine. With the help of a little leverage and going at it from a different angle she was able to pull herself out. And so we continued on, deeper into the valley. This point was probably Kathryn's lowest, but as the trail became less and less clear, Natalie was finding her own low lasting a little too long. At one point, because the footing was so bad, she actually did fall.
We followed a path that continued to get overgrown, the orange markers far and few between, until finally we saw one in the distance. The hope was that this one would set us on a clear path again. We had to be close to the cabin. We'd been walking for almost two hours and were losing daylight rapidly. I forged over the tussocky land as quickly as possible in an attempt to find a trail. I kept stopping and looking for clearer markers, but there were none. When I reached that orange tie in the tree there weren't even moose tracks to indicate that any living thing had gone that way recently. At this point, with the sun resting on the shoulders of the hills, we decided to turn back.
Walking back was almost a relief, although I had wanted to get to the cabin. We planned to go to Natalie's apartment and stay the night. We talked as much as possible to ignore the dying light and deter any moose in the area. There were fresh tracks on the trails we had used to get so efficiently lost. There were plenty of things to mark the way we had come, the first large patch of water, the leaning tree that I'd almost been hit in the head with, the five gallons of water just sitting on the side of the trail, and the signs which had instilled such a false sense of security in us. We talked about when someone might start to come and find us, what we would do if we couldn't get out, how the area reminded us of different, bleak literary narratives (the marshes and moors of LOTR and Wuthering Heights). Natalie drove us home barefoot and I sat in the back with my feet in a plastic bag. We decided to name Kathryn's car Ande: A Near Death Experience.
We made it to Natalie's apartment and joked about exaggerating the story, about adding a real wolf, Kathryn getting stuck up to her chest, a group of moose chasing us down. Honestly, there isn't much to exaggerate without feeling exhausted anyway. Our pants and socks were so full of boggy mud-water that Natalie put them through the wash twice. We had a mini-picnic on the living room floor with all the food we were going to eat in the cabin, each of us drinking our own bottle of wine. We even had the alcoholic whip cream, not on smores but on pudding snack packs. It was delicious.
We stayed up until almost three in the morning, slept until noon, and had a delicious and large meal at a little place called the Cookie Jar at around 2 pm. Although we didn't have a writer's get away we managed to have a good time. And to not die, which we all found to be the highlight of the hike.
We left campus at about 5:10 pm and had to stop by Kathryn's cabin to grab her stuff. After everything was situated we hit up the gas station to top off the car and grab some wine. While we were there we also found, and purchased, 30 proof chocolate whip cream. It's delicious. More on that later though.
The drive to the hiking spot is 50 miles. We chatted, listened to music, and in general felt pretty optimistic about our trek. At the outset of our journey, still on the road, we stopped for a moose that ambled across the road, the stiff fur on his long legs catching the sun. Kathryn, our driver, joked about how dumb moose all looked, but I couldn't help but feel as if it was a majestic sight. We drove past rolling hills, trees, trailers, general stores, trees, and a very hokey diner with a stove pipe chimney releasing smoke and heat above the spindly trees. Our next left was the head of the trail that would lead us to the lower angel creek cabin. As we pulled in, a beautiful dog with a thick white and grey coat ran into the trees. It looked almost like a wolf.
There are three possible trails to take in order to get to the cabin. Of the three only two really make sense, and of those two, one looks much easier. One arched above the cabin, taking you north west, the other arched down a south west path, and the third took us west. According to the map we had, the trail west was the smartest option. It was the most direct path toward an evening spent by a fire, with wine and writing and good company. So we went west.
There is a saying which creates tension in a story pretty easily. It's a go to phrase. You've all heard it, "Little did we know." And so, little did we know, the trail west is best used in winter time. It starts out innocently enough. Very clearly marked, colors tied in the trees, little metal signs with stick-figures of skiers and snow-mobilers. And most misleadingly, a yellow sign with an arrow pointed the direction we were headed, "Cabin." We were excited, joking about how easy the trail was and how it would take us no time. Three miles? Ha!
The first signs that things were not as they seemed came in the form of puddles in the dips on the path. I attributed the water to the recent rain we've been having. However, as we continued to trek into the valley where the lower angel creek cabin lay, dirt gave way to moss and tussocks. There weren't many good places to step and our shoes were soon water logged. The first moment that anyone began to seriously worry was when Kathryn, attempting to power through a particularly watery section, got sucked into the muddy water up to her knee. She had already rolled her ankle a little and wanted to avoid the uneven, watery ground as much as possible. Once she got stuck in the ground, there was a moment when I think everyone thought to themselves, "Is this really happening?" It certainly went through my mind.
Natalie set down her backpack on the driest spot she could find and attempted to pull Kathryn out, but there wasn't much solid ground to get a good footing on and I feared they would both go down. Kathryn sighed and said, "Oh, is this how it ends?" While it may not have been the end we were all worried that she was going to have to even out her weight by sitting or leaning forward into more water. Having wet pants and shoes was bad enough.
Luckily (however lucky getting stuck in a bog can be) she sank down right next to a tree, a young pine. With the help of a little leverage and going at it from a different angle she was able to pull herself out. And so we continued on, deeper into the valley. This point was probably Kathryn's lowest, but as the trail became less and less clear, Natalie was finding her own low lasting a little too long. At one point, because the footing was so bad, she actually did fall.
We followed a path that continued to get overgrown, the orange markers far and few between, until finally we saw one in the distance. The hope was that this one would set us on a clear path again. We had to be close to the cabin. We'd been walking for almost two hours and were losing daylight rapidly. I forged over the tussocky land as quickly as possible in an attempt to find a trail. I kept stopping and looking for clearer markers, but there were none. When I reached that orange tie in the tree there weren't even moose tracks to indicate that any living thing had gone that way recently. At this point, with the sun resting on the shoulders of the hills, we decided to turn back.
Walking back was almost a relief, although I had wanted to get to the cabin. We planned to go to Natalie's apartment and stay the night. We talked as much as possible to ignore the dying light and deter any moose in the area. There were fresh tracks on the trails we had used to get so efficiently lost. There were plenty of things to mark the way we had come, the first large patch of water, the leaning tree that I'd almost been hit in the head with, the five gallons of water just sitting on the side of the trail, and the signs which had instilled such a false sense of security in us. We talked about when someone might start to come and find us, what we would do if we couldn't get out, how the area reminded us of different, bleak literary narratives (the marshes and moors of LOTR and Wuthering Heights). Natalie drove us home barefoot and I sat in the back with my feet in a plastic bag. We decided to name Kathryn's car Ande: A Near Death Experience.
We made it to Natalie's apartment and joked about exaggerating the story, about adding a real wolf, Kathryn getting stuck up to her chest, a group of moose chasing us down. Honestly, there isn't much to exaggerate without feeling exhausted anyway. Our pants and socks were so full of boggy mud-water that Natalie put them through the wash twice. We had a mini-picnic on the living room floor with all the food we were going to eat in the cabin, each of us drinking our own bottle of wine. We even had the alcoholic whip cream, not on smores but on pudding snack packs. It was delicious.
We stayed up until almost three in the morning, slept until noon, and had a delicious and large meal at a little place called the Cookie Jar at around 2 pm. Although we didn't have a writer's get away we managed to have a good time. And to not die, which we all found to be the highlight of the hike.
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
The speech wall from the other day was still standing this morning. It's morphed again, quite considerably. There was a can of pbr, which was painted over again, and a curved staff with music trailing over it. Most of the words are obscured entirely. It's been changed since this photo I took of it this afternoon, though I think all the spray cans are gone now. It still mostly looks like a disaster, in my opinion.
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* * *
This afternoon I walked out to Museum North. There is a lookout spot where, on clear days, you can see Denali (120 miles away). Today, however, it was raining. Which is not to say that the view was ruined. The trees stood bright yellow against the rainy clouds. After I had looked into clumps of bight yellow and dark green for so long it was nice to see tree tops, and leaves, pushed by wind and rain. It's as if, after a month of not having glasses, I am getting them for the first time all over again. Everything is crisp and clear, and I'm amazed that people can see like this without assistance. I'm almost jealous of them. Except then I feel like perhaps I can appreciate it more.
As I continued walking I noticed people on the path opposite me keeping close to one side. In a bizarre effort to clear the grass by the road a man stood with a leaf blower, blowing wet clumps of leaves from the grass onto the sidewalk. I didn't know what he intended to do once all the leaves were on the sidewalk, but I hoped for his sake that it didn't involve raking them all up. I thought the spots of yellow and gold were pretty against the grass, but someone from the university clearly didn't agree. He kept having to get off the road, onto the grass, as cars passed him. It felt ritualistic, as if he had done this many times before. I wondered how he felt, continually interrupted, stepping up and down, moving about a foot at a time down the side of the hill, stepping up and down again.
There is a spot, as you walk to the museum, that smells like something has died just inside the tree line. I'm reminded of how close we are to nature here. Reminded of the story of a man getting trampled by a moose that some kids had been antagonizing with snowballs, just outside of one the science buildings. I hear rustling in the trees and know that the most dangerous creatures are the ones afraid. Unfortunately, I am not afraid.
The museum itself is a wonderful place, and doesn't smell like dead things at all. I plan on going there quite a few more times before the end of the semester. There is a lot of history and art to be seen, and though the collection is relatively small it is beautiful. This is, by far, one of my most favorite pieces:
Along with this petrified heart of a tree:
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It's nice to be in this place, and though much of the art and writing is inspired by Alaska, I can't decide if that's a bad thing or not. So much of it focuses on the phenomenon that is living in the far north. It could be repetitious except that it's so impacting. For now. Perhaps that feeling will change. I can't help but feel as though it is marvelous still. The dark and light, the flush and drain of life. The stirring of minds as they collect here. The interior, as it's called. Some days I can't help but feel it's the interior of a very different kind of earth.
Suddenly
I'm feeling sort of at a loss, all of a sudden. Direction is a hard thing to hold on to. Often times I still walk without looking up, without looking into people's faces. When I do, they smile. Going into a building the other day I looked up to thank the guy holding the door. He didn't say you're welcome. He asked for my name.
Graffiti, Disjointed
Today there is a garish piece of plywood propped up on some 2x4's. I am sure the plywood was not garish when it was placed there, but the wall stands for some kind of representation of free speech and there are cans of spray paint collected around the bottom of the display. As I walk past someone is writing "#Starvat" in white, the only color that will show up against the back drop of words written on top of one another. I assume he means to advertise Starvation Gulch, an event held in Fairbanks at the end of September, where large fires burn before the dark sets in. We lose daylight at an exponential rate. Now it's minutes, soon it will be by half an hour, until we hit the solstice, when the sun will barely lift off the horizon.
The plywood references local and pop culture. Beneath the layers there was the batman logo in white, a choice I found inexplicable. In black, toward the bottom, were the words Bad Wolf. Now it's hard to make a single message out. Mutation arises, "This Li(fe)" is cut off diagonally by a sequence of three hearts. In black, surrounded by a border that did not protect it's message, are words about expectations. I can't help but feel that this project had so much more potential. Now, when I look at it, I wonder at what free speech means when it comes to making messages stand out. If anyone can come along and spray their words on top of others (marking their territory, almost) then how are we to be heard? Repetition? Copy Rights? This board is proof that it doesn't matter. The only thing now would be for it to rain, though I know it wouldn't have any effect on the dry paint. Part of me wishes that it could though. It would speak a better message, one about how ephemeral we are, how fleeting.
The other day I saw a message in marker on some kind of power box:
"Remember
Life is Short."
Beneath it was written, in a different hand:
"but Living
is the longest thing
you'll ever do"
Both of these things are true and at odds with one another.
The plywood references local and pop culture. Beneath the layers there was the batman logo in white, a choice I found inexplicable. In black, toward the bottom, were the words Bad Wolf. Now it's hard to make a single message out. Mutation arises, "This Li(fe)" is cut off diagonally by a sequence of three hearts. In black, surrounded by a border that did not protect it's message, are words about expectations. I can't help but feel that this project had so much more potential. Now, when I look at it, I wonder at what free speech means when it comes to making messages stand out. If anyone can come along and spray their words on top of others (marking their territory, almost) then how are we to be heard? Repetition? Copy Rights? This board is proof that it doesn't matter. The only thing now would be for it to rain, though I know it wouldn't have any effect on the dry paint. Part of me wishes that it could though. It would speak a better message, one about how ephemeral we are, how fleeting.
The other day I saw a message in marker on some kind of power box:
"Remember
Life is Short."
Beneath it was written, in a different hand:
"but Living
is the longest thing
you'll ever do"
Both of these things are true and at odds with one another.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
This weekend...
It's interesting how many little things your body is capable of that you take for granted. Today I became very grateful for my body's little abilities.
Before I mislead you any further, let me jut say that this is not, in any way, an inspiring story, unless it inspires you to never do what I have done. However, because I know people need to learn from their own experience, I doubt it will even do that much.
When I woke up this morning there were many things I was not capable of accomplishing once the hangover really set in. First though, I had to clean my vomit off of the window sill and several of my roommates things on that window sill. To be clear, there is no reason I should have even been over by the window. There's even less of a reason for me to have been throwing up by that window. Or on it. Once I finished cleaning, the self-loathing really set in.
Let's back up a little further. I don't remember doing the vomiting. When I woke up I was not wearing a shirt but I was still in the jeans from last night. It's always interesting for me to take stock of what I'm wearing when I don't remember ever getting into bed. My roommate was not in her bed. She was presumably taking stock of the things I had ruined, including a box of tea. I put a shirt on and was sitting up, taking stock of exactly how much pain I was soon going to be in. She came into the room and said, "You do know you threw up all over my stuff." It took me quite a while to register this, and then to be able to understand the enormity of the situation.
The evening before was not without its fun, to be sure, but, as I am sure so many of you know, drinking tends to lead to drinking more. And then trying to climb on the roof. And then being pulled off of the roof by two guys to make sure you don't kill yourself.
So let's get back to where we started, which is how great your body normally is when you haven't filled it full of poison and then run into everything. You can move! Without pain or dizziness. You can lie down. And tilt your head. You can probably even turn in a full circle. You're capable of eating things. Of saying the word food without feeling like throwing up. You can drink water without throwing up. In fact, regularly, your body accepts and holds all the food you try to shove into it. This was very severely not the case for me. In between crying and throwing up I spent a good deal of the day sitting on our very small, very dusty bathroom floor. I had managed about six bites of an english muffin, which was six bites too many in my body's opinion. And if you ever want to argue with your esophagus about when it should be letting food out, let me just say you will always lose.
Some Stats from this learning experience:
Attempts to climb on roof: 2
Bottles of vodka consumed (by just me): 1
Number of beer pong games played: 4 (maybe?)
Probable blood alcohol content: 10
Number of times I threw up: 11
Times I remember throwing up: 9
Number of vows to never go to cabin in the woods parties: probably 1,000,000
I had a victorious dinner of peanut butter snack crackers and watered down apple juice. I haven't thrown up in several hours and I hope that trend continues, for a very long time. Because there's almost no worse a way to spend a sunday afternoon than your body's revenge dry-heaves.
Right now it's about ten o'clock and I'm not feeling totally normal yet. Loads better? Yes. Like I could go for sandwich? Not so much (though I did just manage to eat the other half of that english muffin). My roommates occassionally pass by the sliding door that leads into one of the shared bedrooms and peer in, as if they're wondering, "Is she still alive?" What I am most worried about is the damage I have done, and the possibility that I have really upset the roommate who's things I so generously adorned with the contents of my stomach. She says it's fine and that she can tell I am truly sorry, but I'm going to buy her some tea and leave a little extra money. It's possible that my own shame leads me to fearing that it's worse than it really is, because this is the first time I have ever done something like this. And I know what you skeptics may think, but it's going to be a while before I even touch another drink.
And I'm positive lime vodka has been ruined for me forever.
Before I mislead you any further, let me jut say that this is not, in any way, an inspiring story, unless it inspires you to never do what I have done. However, because I know people need to learn from their own experience, I doubt it will even do that much.
When I woke up this morning there were many things I was not capable of accomplishing once the hangover really set in. First though, I had to clean my vomit off of the window sill and several of my roommates things on that window sill. To be clear, there is no reason I should have even been over by the window. There's even less of a reason for me to have been throwing up by that window. Or on it. Once I finished cleaning, the self-loathing really set in.
Let's back up a little further. I don't remember doing the vomiting. When I woke up I was not wearing a shirt but I was still in the jeans from last night. It's always interesting for me to take stock of what I'm wearing when I don't remember ever getting into bed. My roommate was not in her bed. She was presumably taking stock of the things I had ruined, including a box of tea. I put a shirt on and was sitting up, taking stock of exactly how much pain I was soon going to be in. She came into the room and said, "You do know you threw up all over my stuff." It took me quite a while to register this, and then to be able to understand the enormity of the situation.
The evening before was not without its fun, to be sure, but, as I am sure so many of you know, drinking tends to lead to drinking more. And then trying to climb on the roof. And then being pulled off of the roof by two guys to make sure you don't kill yourself.
 |
| (Pictured here: Damages by roof) |
So let's get back to where we started, which is how great your body normally is when you haven't filled it full of poison and then run into everything. You can move! Without pain or dizziness. You can lie down. And tilt your head. You can probably even turn in a full circle. You're capable of eating things. Of saying the word food without feeling like throwing up. You can drink water without throwing up. In fact, regularly, your body accepts and holds all the food you try to shove into it. This was very severely not the case for me. In between crying and throwing up I spent a good deal of the day sitting on our very small, very dusty bathroom floor. I had managed about six bites of an english muffin, which was six bites too many in my body's opinion. And if you ever want to argue with your esophagus about when it should be letting food out, let me just say you will always lose.
Some Stats from this learning experience:
Attempts to climb on roof: 2
Bottles of vodka consumed (by just me): 1
Number of beer pong games played: 4 (maybe?)
Probable blood alcohol content: 10
Number of times I threw up: 11
Times I remember throwing up: 9
Number of vows to never go to cabin in the woods parties: probably 1,000,000
I had a victorious dinner of peanut butter snack crackers and watered down apple juice. I haven't thrown up in several hours and I hope that trend continues, for a very long time. Because there's almost no worse a way to spend a sunday afternoon than your body's revenge dry-heaves.
Right now it's about ten o'clock and I'm not feeling totally normal yet. Loads better? Yes. Like I could go for sandwich? Not so much (though I did just manage to eat the other half of that english muffin). My roommates occassionally pass by the sliding door that leads into one of the shared bedrooms and peer in, as if they're wondering, "Is she still alive?" What I am most worried about is the damage I have done, and the possibility that I have really upset the roommate who's things I so generously adorned with the contents of my stomach. She says it's fine and that she can tell I am truly sorry, but I'm going to buy her some tea and leave a little extra money. It's possible that my own shame leads me to fearing that it's worse than it really is, because this is the first time I have ever done something like this. And I know what you skeptics may think, but it's going to be a while before I even touch another drink.
And I'm positive lime vodka has been ruined for me forever.
Friday, September 14, 2012
Two unrelated things
"Yesterday, I believe I would never have done what I did
today."
Cloud Atlas is becoming a movie. It looks like it's becoming an insanely awesome movie. I must watch it.
Today I had one of my classes, Teaching College Composition. It's a great atmosphere, very energetic and open. A place where we can discuss, easily, the issues of gender, sex, sexuality, race, and other tensions in the classroom. Afterward we all went to the pub and our prof. joined us for a drink. Such a strange thing to think of, let alone happen! But I admit to some happiness that she joined us because she singled me out and said she really enjoyed my response for one of our case studies. She thought I had understood the subject really well. It's a class that I hope will help me attain a TA for next year, and so to have that first bit of praise and motivation is really nice.
It was interesting though because I am really getting to know some of the other MA/MFA's for the first time. It is a very strange environment to be sure, because I feel as though everyone is sizing everyone else up, myself included. I think I surprised one guy in particular when we began to discuss art and my enjoyment of block printing because it's a very good medium for joining language and visual art together. He already has an MFA in painting, so hearing his take was very interesting. But it occurred to me that I really was surprising him. It's strange because I felt so well-liked in the 'burg that I suddenly feel that pressure again to gain respect from my peers. I think that pressure doesn't stop from here on out (a forever kind of thing), but I hope to gain a few more friends before long. I think in a way I may also be judging this MFA Painter, putting him into a category that he may still defy. And I realize I've been doing this more to the potential writers I've met than to anyone else.
If girls are harder on girls, writers are hardest on other writers.
Which is scary when you realize it can come back to you.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Tender and Gentle
"Being tender and open is beautiful. As a woman, I feel continually shhh’ed. Too sensitive. Too mushy. Too wishy washy. Blah blah. Don’t let someone steal your tenderness. Don’t allow the coldness and fear of others to tarnish your perfectly vulnerable beating heart. Nothing is more powerful than allowing yourself to truly be affected by things. Whether it’s a song, a stranger, a mountain, a rain drop, a tea kettle, an article, a sentence, a footstep, feel it all – look around you. All of this is for you. Take it and have gratitude. Give it and feel love." -Zooey Deschanel
This is a quote that has recently taken a hold of me. I feel like I really built a wall around myself, and for a long time I didn't even know it. I was stuck within myself. Here's a recent entry of thought I had on being gentle:
My whole life there has been harshness and now here I can have a stranger lay her head on my lap, and stroke her hair, do this incredibly gentle, vulnerable thing for this person. And she’s content, and will sleep, head on my lap. I can have this kind of connection, and brush fingers with a boy who’s growing into his own surety. This is an experience I think everyone should have. Because in a way you also learn to be gentle with yourself, and you just have to take things slowly. I know this is not revolutionary. But the revelation itself is what I feel so vital. No one telling you can ever teach you how to feel this. This is the same for running, swimming, painting, building, blowing smoke rings, writing a poem.
The experiences in these last two weeks of meeting so many new people, the vulnerability of going somewhere new, again, having to present yourself. You learn things about yourself that I'm sure you couldn't ever do by being stagnant, by not offering the first hello, by not putting yourself out there. I was so painfully withdrawn that now I almost feel as if I don't stop. Everyone's been saying these things about me that I wouldn't have believed, even a year ago. "You're so outgoing. I wish I could talk to people like you. You can say hi to anybody."
But, anybody can say hit to anybody. It's such a hard thing to do at first that after you start you can hardly recall how much courage you needed to begin. I've been reading pride and prejudice for a class and it's true what Mrs. Bennet says to her daughters, "At our time of life, it is not so pleasant, I can tell you, to be making new acquaintance everyday." What dear, funny Mrs. Bennet may not realize is that for many people being faced with new acquaintance everyday is down right scary. Except when it starts to get fun, and enjoyable, and you realize, (if you're an idealist and an optimist and whatever else) like me, that it begins to be beautiful.
I've made friends from every continent except Antarctica (I'm coming for you, penguins! (It's summer down there soon!)). I'm becoming fast friends with a PhD engineering student from the UK who wants to involve creating social progress in his degree. A girl from Zambia who's opposing optimism and string of bad days is at once baffling and endearing. The sweetest Japanese girl who believed that New Yorkers kept their fingers warm by sticking them in their nose. A duo from the Netherlands and France who each drank their own bottle of wine during a get together (and both so small). A girl from the UK that introduced me to some British culture and made sure I got back home safely. A Korean-American who feels mostly American, but who defers to anyone in an instant. So many interesting, charming people that it would take me too long to describe them all. And I still have so much time to get to know them.
I realize that these last posts have been brimming with joy and a possibly painful amount of cheer, but I just feel so much love right now, and I'm so happy. I want to be able to look back on this when the sun just barely lifts her face from the horizon, knowing that so much can happen that's lovely in the world.
This is a quote that has recently taken a hold of me. I feel like I really built a wall around myself, and for a long time I didn't even know it. I was stuck within myself. Here's a recent entry of thought I had on being gentle:
My whole life there has been harshness and now here I can have a stranger lay her head on my lap, and stroke her hair, do this incredibly gentle, vulnerable thing for this person. And she’s content, and will sleep, head on my lap. I can have this kind of connection, and brush fingers with a boy who’s growing into his own surety. This is an experience I think everyone should have. Because in a way you also learn to be gentle with yourself, and you just have to take things slowly. I know this is not revolutionary. But the revelation itself is what I feel so vital. No one telling you can ever teach you how to feel this. This is the same for running, swimming, painting, building, blowing smoke rings, writing a poem.
The experiences in these last two weeks of meeting so many new people, the vulnerability of going somewhere new, again, having to present yourself. You learn things about yourself that I'm sure you couldn't ever do by being stagnant, by not offering the first hello, by not putting yourself out there. I was so painfully withdrawn that now I almost feel as if I don't stop. Everyone's been saying these things about me that I wouldn't have believed, even a year ago. "You're so outgoing. I wish I could talk to people like you. You can say hi to anybody."
But, anybody can say hit to anybody. It's such a hard thing to do at first that after you start you can hardly recall how much courage you needed to begin. I've been reading pride and prejudice for a class and it's true what Mrs. Bennet says to her daughters, "At our time of life, it is not so pleasant, I can tell you, to be making new acquaintance everyday." What dear, funny Mrs. Bennet may not realize is that for many people being faced with new acquaintance everyday is down right scary. Except when it starts to get fun, and enjoyable, and you realize, (if you're an idealist and an optimist and whatever else) like me, that it begins to be beautiful.
I've made friends from every continent except Antarctica (I'm coming for you, penguins! (It's summer down there soon!)). I'm becoming fast friends with a PhD engineering student from the UK who wants to involve creating social progress in his degree. A girl from Zambia who's opposing optimism and string of bad days is at once baffling and endearing. The sweetest Japanese girl who believed that New Yorkers kept their fingers warm by sticking them in their nose. A duo from the Netherlands and France who each drank their own bottle of wine during a get together (and both so small). A girl from the UK that introduced me to some British culture and made sure I got back home safely. A Korean-American who feels mostly American, but who defers to anyone in an instant. So many interesting, charming people that it would take me too long to describe them all. And I still have so much time to get to know them.
I realize that these last posts have been brimming with joy and a possibly painful amount of cheer, but I just feel so much love right now, and I'm so happy. I want to be able to look back on this when the sun just barely lifts her face from the horizon, knowing that so much can happen that's lovely in the world.
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Thinking About Writing
I've been thinking that I'm going to have to produce a full portfolio sometime in the future, some kind of group of poems that can lead to a chap book, and perhaps publication. Here are some things that I've been finding are unintentionally poetic:
"Enlightening experiences with new/old friends. Loveliness sets in."
This is a facebook status by a friend that I've never met in real life. I've been considering the unintentional poetic, how things connect us in ways we couldn't have seen before, or in ways that people may not notice. The way two people who've never met clearly have similar tastes colors, whole groups of people move in packs of colors that they never even see. The ignored slant of a tree, the brush of common ideals and overlapping theory, a lunch between a rhetorician, a poet, and an engineer. Where else do these things happen? I've decided they are all, "Enlightening experiences with new/old friends. Loveliness sets in."
The other day I was in the post office and the girl next to me was getting upset. She was the kind of person that I might have judged immediately had I been even two years younger. She was a bit over weight, wearing ill-fitting, goth style clothes with plastic, polka-dotted bows in her black pigtails. Her glasses slid down the make-up on her nose as she frantically counted the change in her wallet. She needed seven dollars cash to post something over-night. It had to be shipped that day and by the time she could return to the post office, after she came back from work, which she was rapidly becoming late to, the office would be closed. She only had four dollars on her. When I gave her the three dollars she had no idea how to respond. At best I would have spent it on snacks, or vending machine coffee. I could see that she wanted to refuse the money and accept it at the same time. It produced an amusing reaction from her. She simply slid the bills over to her side of the counter, gave me a slide-long glance, as if at any moment I'd snatch the money back from her, and said, "I think this makes seven." The lady behind the counter looked at me, as if she too thought at any moment I might snatch the money back. I nodded, indicating that I was quite positive I didn't need three dollars. When they finished their transaction the girl turned completely around without giving me a second look and marched out of the post office looking as if she were the busiest person alive. The post lady looked at me and very dryly said, "Well, that was unexpected." I wasn't sure if I agreed with her or not.
I had clearly put the other girl on the spot and I'm not sure she was used to receiving random acts of kindness. I knew exactly how she might be feeling at the moment. She was too proud to admit she needed the help. She certainly didn't want it, but knew somewhere within her that it was her only option, one she couldn't have reached without the assistance of someone who could very well be looking down on her.
I'm not sure exactly what I find lovely about this experience, except to say that everyone knows the feelings of pride, and those moments when it's force is tested. It was certainly, at the very least, enlightening.
I hope to convince myself and others that we are all poetically bound. There is something so wonderful about the thought for me that I'm almost already convinced that it must be true. Another facebook status, for example, has this within it, "they have rained through this kingdom." That's definitely a typo in context, but let's look at it for what it says. I love the image it produces for me, traveling with rain through the kingdom. It may not be the best stuff but there's something wonderful living just underneath of that idea, of that thought. This is the way I think the whole world must be, even at its worst.
"Enlightening experiences with new/old friends. Loveliness sets in."
This is a facebook status by a friend that I've never met in real life. I've been considering the unintentional poetic, how things connect us in ways we couldn't have seen before, or in ways that people may not notice. The way two people who've never met clearly have similar tastes colors, whole groups of people move in packs of colors that they never even see. The ignored slant of a tree, the brush of common ideals and overlapping theory, a lunch between a rhetorician, a poet, and an engineer. Where else do these things happen? I've decided they are all, "Enlightening experiences with new/old friends. Loveliness sets in."
The other day I was in the post office and the girl next to me was getting upset. She was the kind of person that I might have judged immediately had I been even two years younger. She was a bit over weight, wearing ill-fitting, goth style clothes with plastic, polka-dotted bows in her black pigtails. Her glasses slid down the make-up on her nose as she frantically counted the change in her wallet. She needed seven dollars cash to post something over-night. It had to be shipped that day and by the time she could return to the post office, after she came back from work, which she was rapidly becoming late to, the office would be closed. She only had four dollars on her. When I gave her the three dollars she had no idea how to respond. At best I would have spent it on snacks, or vending machine coffee. I could see that she wanted to refuse the money and accept it at the same time. It produced an amusing reaction from her. She simply slid the bills over to her side of the counter, gave me a slide-long glance, as if at any moment I'd snatch the money back from her, and said, "I think this makes seven." The lady behind the counter looked at me, as if she too thought at any moment I might snatch the money back. I nodded, indicating that I was quite positive I didn't need three dollars. When they finished their transaction the girl turned completely around without giving me a second look and marched out of the post office looking as if she were the busiest person alive. The post lady looked at me and very dryly said, "Well, that was unexpected." I wasn't sure if I agreed with her or not.
I had clearly put the other girl on the spot and I'm not sure she was used to receiving random acts of kindness. I knew exactly how she might be feeling at the moment. She was too proud to admit she needed the help. She certainly didn't want it, but knew somewhere within her that it was her only option, one she couldn't have reached without the assistance of someone who could very well be looking down on her.
I'm not sure exactly what I find lovely about this experience, except to say that everyone knows the feelings of pride, and those moments when it's force is tested. It was certainly, at the very least, enlightening.
I hope to convince myself and others that we are all poetically bound. There is something so wonderful about the thought for me that I'm almost already convinced that it must be true. Another facebook status, for example, has this within it, "they have rained through this kingdom." That's definitely a typo in context, but let's look at it for what it says. I love the image it produces for me, traveling with rain through the kingdom. It may not be the best stuff but there's something wonderful living just underneath of that idea, of that thought. This is the way I think the whole world must be, even at its worst.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Restarting
I used this blog initially as a tool for class. I blogged when it was required of me, and sometimes not even then. Once, in an act of self-deprecation, I deleted all of the posts that had been on here. Now I feel a little sad about that. Which is why I am restarting. I'm living in Alaska right now after a few upheavals in my personal life. I'm not going to go into that unless it becomes related to what is happening here and now in a way that I view is relevant, because I am going to attempt some content control here (hopefully David Sedaris style). In fact, this blog is about my life as it unfolds now:
Today I realized that being in Alaska has caused me to reconsider many things, one of them being the strangeness of the world. I realized that if I tried to stop and think of all the enormous oddities I would never start up again. These thoughts really started when I flew for the first time. It was an experience I can't say I'll ever forget. To me the idea of a giant metal tube attached to two big metal triangles and a hell of a lot of jet fuel should not culminate in being lifted from the earth. And yet with a little extra push, hollow metal spaces do as well in the air as they do in the sea. What I found most strange was the commonplaceness of it all, the easy way the other passengers pulled down the plastic shades on their windows, leaned their heads back, and ignored the roar of the engine and the pull of gravity as it resisted our crazy burst into the air. I watched out the window as the airport I had found so large shrank down, a carpet square on the surface of the earth. I found that everything was this way. A river seemed no larger than a spilled cup of water, the houses were carefully laid, glass mosaic tiles. The feeling of these things combined with my constant dreams of flying nearly brought me to tears. I held back. Because this smallness was such a microscopic portion of the whole.
I suddenly realized why I had not become an astronaut. Seeing the earth fade out as others have done would surely be too much for me to handle.
But being in Alaska is strange in its own ways. The thought of the encroaching dark, the cold, the cold being so intense that it couldn't snow and ice sculptures wouldn't melt for months. The bigness of this place against the idea that the world is so small; the horizons and clouds which seem endless. None of these are new ideas, and yet for the first time they feel as if they are new.
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Perhaps I am the one becoming new.
Today I realized that being in Alaska has caused me to reconsider many things, one of them being the strangeness of the world. I realized that if I tried to stop and think of all the enormous oddities I would never start up again. These thoughts really started when I flew for the first time. It was an experience I can't say I'll ever forget. To me the idea of a giant metal tube attached to two big metal triangles and a hell of a lot of jet fuel should not culminate in being lifted from the earth. And yet with a little extra push, hollow metal spaces do as well in the air as they do in the sea. What I found most strange was the commonplaceness of it all, the easy way the other passengers pulled down the plastic shades on their windows, leaned their heads back, and ignored the roar of the engine and the pull of gravity as it resisted our crazy burst into the air. I watched out the window as the airport I had found so large shrank down, a carpet square on the surface of the earth. I found that everything was this way. A river seemed no larger than a spilled cup of water, the houses were carefully laid, glass mosaic tiles. The feeling of these things combined with my constant dreams of flying nearly brought me to tears. I held back. Because this smallness was such a microscopic portion of the whole.
I suddenly realized why I had not become an astronaut. Seeing the earth fade out as others have done would surely be too much for me to handle.
But being in Alaska is strange in its own ways. The thought of the encroaching dark, the cold, the cold being so intense that it couldn't snow and ice sculptures wouldn't melt for months. The bigness of this place against the idea that the world is so small; the horizons and clouds which seem endless. None of these are new ideas, and yet for the first time they feel as if they are new.
.jpg)
Perhaps I am the one becoming new.
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