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.

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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: