hey, at least she got her 30 seconds of fame.
instead of working
I often wonder what the space is between loving something and wanting to be the best at it. Where does the difference come, or is there one? If you love doing something, should you strive ceaselessly to be the very best at whatever that is? At dancing? At playing basketball? At cooking french food? Or is it alright to be satisfied with loving something fully, so much that you are O.K. with not being the best? Are you O.K. with knowing that no matter how hard you try, there will always be someone out there more brilliant than you, someone one step ahead, someone who attracts more attention and praise than you ever will?
In high school I was often concerned with what it meant to be the best. I so easily gave into stress - the idea of not getting straight A's was terrifying. It meant that someone was better than me, that in the field where I usually excelled, academics, I was no stand out. My worth was my GPA and the number of awards I got and the number of praises I received from my teachers. That self sort of sickens me now.
I'm not sure what happened when I got into college, but that part of me just took a deep breath and decided to run away. My friends in high school could always anticipate my stressed out, Hermonie Granger-esque moods before they actually arrived. They would be ready with sweet notes of encouragement or a surprise vanilla latte. And first semester of first year, I remember getting calls from them around exam time in which they timidly tried to gage my stress level, afraid that I was on the verge of explosion. I don't think they really believed me when I said I was alright. I'm not sure I actually believed myself, but I really was fine. And now, I still am. Occasionally I'll relapse and exhibit some type-A personality traits, but the foundation of my self worth & even my very sense of identity has shifted. I've started answering my own questions about worth, started realizing that life is about loving what you do, not so much proving yourself in it.
This shift in perspective is gradual though, and still not complete. Tonight as I wade through papers and other work and look toward finals on the horizon, I feel the old me crawling out of her hiding place. What if I'm not a good writer? What if no one ever knows my name, ever reads my words? What if my best isn't good enough? Isn't good enough to get into the poetry workshops I'm applying for? Isn't good enough to ever make any sort of difference? Those possibilites are terrifying, but really, are they important? How much weight should I give them?
Here is how I feel about this right now, at 8:56 in Alderman Cafe on a sunday night. This could change in two milliseconds, but I'm thinking that the answer to that central question is: Keep Going. When I write, I feel myself breathing and expanding and alive in ways I don't feel with anything else. Poetry fascinates me and challenges me and I'm falling in love with it - so how could I stop? Why would I? It's where I want to become. It's what I adore. And maybe that is answer enough - do what you love. Even when everyone else around you seems brilliant and better and out to beat you at your own game. Even with the threat of being denied or hated or misunderstood. Do what you love, because that is what matters. That is what lasts. Maybe trying to be the best is important, but only in the sense that you work hard to become the best you, you work hard at what you adore in order to discover yourself more and to fall in love more. It is a challenge of being more yourself, even if that doesn't look like being better than anyone else. Does that make sense? Maybe not, but it's a pretty comforting life philosophy, so I'll go with it for now.
In high school I was often concerned with what it meant to be the best. I so easily gave into stress - the idea of not getting straight A's was terrifying. It meant that someone was better than me, that in the field where I usually excelled, academics, I was no stand out. My worth was my GPA and the number of awards I got and the number of praises I received from my teachers. That self sort of sickens me now.
I'm not sure what happened when I got into college, but that part of me just took a deep breath and decided to run away. My friends in high school could always anticipate my stressed out, Hermonie Granger-esque moods before they actually arrived. They would be ready with sweet notes of encouragement or a surprise vanilla latte. And first semester of first year, I remember getting calls from them around exam time in which they timidly tried to gage my stress level, afraid that I was on the verge of explosion. I don't think they really believed me when I said I was alright. I'm not sure I actually believed myself, but I really was fine. And now, I still am. Occasionally I'll relapse and exhibit some type-A personality traits, but the foundation of my self worth & even my very sense of identity has shifted. I've started answering my own questions about worth, started realizing that life is about loving what you do, not so much proving yourself in it.
This shift in perspective is gradual though, and still not complete. Tonight as I wade through papers and other work and look toward finals on the horizon, I feel the old me crawling out of her hiding place. What if I'm not a good writer? What if no one ever knows my name, ever reads my words? What if my best isn't good enough? Isn't good enough to get into the poetry workshops I'm applying for? Isn't good enough to ever make any sort of difference? Those possibilites are terrifying, but really, are they important? How much weight should I give them?
Here is how I feel about this right now, at 8:56 in Alderman Cafe on a sunday night. This could change in two milliseconds, but I'm thinking that the answer to that central question is: Keep Going. When I write, I feel myself breathing and expanding and alive in ways I don't feel with anything else. Poetry fascinates me and challenges me and I'm falling in love with it - so how could I stop? Why would I? It's where I want to become. It's what I adore. And maybe that is answer enough - do what you love. Even when everyone else around you seems brilliant and better and out to beat you at your own game. Even with the threat of being denied or hated or misunderstood. Do what you love, because that is what matters. That is what lasts. Maybe trying to be the best is important, but only in the sense that you work hard to become the best you, you work hard at what you adore in order to discover yourself more and to fall in love more. It is a challenge of being more yourself, even if that doesn't look like being better than anyone else. Does that make sense? Maybe not, but it's a pretty comforting life philosophy, so I'll go with it for now.
if Satan decided to dress up as a sugary treat...
...it would be Candy Corn.
Did you know that each year Americans consume enough Candy Corn that if laid end-to-end, would circle the earth 4.25 times?
that makes me want to barf. I have had it up to here with candy corn and their evil ways. here is why.
me, today at about 6:20pm-la la la, I'm just innocently going to drink some tea. Gotta find a mug. Oh look! a bag of delicious candy corn hiding behind the mugs! that looks like a good snack!
6:25pm-yummmm these candy corns sure are great! I could eat them all day long!
6:26pm- hmm, these are kind of filling...but still pretty tasty!
6:27pm- ok, I think if I eat much more I'm going to feel sick. I wonder what a serving size is. . .20 pieces? WHAT?! Twenty pieces go into my mouth with each handful! What in the world...I've gotta stop eating this.
6:29pm- Why am I still eating these?? They are just so little and cute, I can't stop!
6:29:15pm- Seriously, I HAVE to put these away. I'm going to vomit.
6:29:32pm- Really, I am about to vomit. ughhhh candy corn, WHY???? This feeling is awful, it's like a sugary hell......someone kill me now!
6:30pm- What's that, mom? Time for dinner? Thanksgiving leftovers? you mean, the meal that somehow manages to taste even better than the first time we eat it? And we are eating now, when I feel like all I want to do is run into the street and let a tractor trailer run me over? NOOOOOOOOO!!! DANG YOU, CANDY CORN!!!
And that is how Candy Corn ruined Thanksgiving. well, the day after thanksgiving.
warning: learn from my mistake. DO NOT let a candy's cute-factor deceive you. Stay strong.
Did you know that each year Americans consume enough Candy Corn that if laid end-to-end, would circle the earth 4.25 times?
that makes me want to barf. I have had it up to here with candy corn and their evil ways. here is why.
me, today at about 6:20pm-la la la, I'm just innocently going to drink some tea. Gotta find a mug. Oh look! a bag of delicious candy corn hiding behind the mugs! that looks like a good snack!
6:25pm-yummmm these candy corns sure are great! I could eat them all day long!
6:26pm- hmm, these are kind of filling...but still pretty tasty!
6:27pm- ok, I think if I eat much more I'm going to feel sick. I wonder what a serving size is. . .20 pieces? WHAT?! Twenty pieces go into my mouth with each handful! What in the world...I've gotta stop eating this.
6:29pm- Why am I still eating these?? They are just so little and cute, I can't stop!
6:29:15pm- Seriously, I HAVE to put these away. I'm going to vomit.
6:29:32pm- Really, I am about to vomit. ughhhh candy corn, WHY???? This feeling is awful, it's like a sugary hell......someone kill me now!
6:30pm- What's that, mom? Time for dinner? Thanksgiving leftovers? you mean, the meal that somehow manages to taste even better than the first time we eat it? And we are eating now, when I feel like all I want to do is run into the street and let a tractor trailer run me over? NOOOOOOOOO!!! DANG YOU, CANDY CORN!!!
And that is how Candy Corn ruined Thanksgiving. well, the day after thanksgiving.
warning: learn from my mistake. DO NOT let a candy's cute-factor deceive you. Stay strong.
hi friday.
Today I'm in love with this video & song. Kings of Convenience is great & I can remember the very moment I discovered them, which isn't true of most artists. I was almost 16 & in high school & in NYC with my two best friends. It was Zoe's birthday & she got this CD as a present & we listened to it as we napped on the way home. His voice is so melancholy but sweet. And in this video, he is precious. I love his goofy glasses and green scarf and borrowed hat.
This project, Amsterdam Acoustics is pretty cool. . . they record acoustic sessions with different artists as they wander around, using Amsterdam as the backdrop. The project only started this past summer, so I'm excited to see who else they record! check it out.
This project, Amsterdam Acoustics is pretty cool. . . they record acoustic sessions with different artists as they wander around, using Amsterdam as the backdrop. The project only started this past summer, so I'm excited to see who else they record! check it out.
Amsterdam Acoustics - Erlend Øye (Kings of Convenience) - Mrs. Cold / Ask (The Smiths) from Mokummercials on Vimeo.
insomnia
When I can’t sleep, I come to the living room and sit on the couch and drink 2% milk and read William Carlos Williams. Or sometimes Neruda. Or if I want to make things easy on myself, I’ll go with Austen. I allow Colonel Brandon and the Dashwoods to hand me off into night. They tell stories perfect enough for dreams.
Sometimes when I can't sleep, I like to think of all the other people not sleeping and I feel better about myself. I think of Kevin from Kentucky who is up counting postage stamps in his collection. He gets to about 2987 when he looses track and has to start all over again. He organizes them in colors and then hates that so he organizes them by year instead. I think of Carla from China who lays awake making shadow puppet dragons in the dim light, wishing her mother had given her a more Chinese sounding name. She gets up quietly, youtubes the latest Miley Cyrus song and memorizes the dance to show her friends at school. It's that slutty Party in the USA video that's ruining the innocence of all the world. I think of Sam the Space Station astronaut who lays awake not knowing what time it is since it's always black. He looks down at earth and thinks of me, too, and wonders what page I'm on in Sense & Sensibility. He's read it once because his girlfriend, Evelyn from Earth, told him to but he didn't think it was that good.
Sometimes when I can't sleep I think of all the sounds I'm not hearing. The clocks in the living room downstairs. The honk of horns in New York City. The shouts of shortorder cooks at 24 hour diners. The roar of planes flying over the ocean. The thunder of a storm where it is storming, somewhere. I wonder if all those sounds together would be something neat and artsy, like this video a guy made once that my friend e-mailed me. It was a really cool song made from the sound of spoons and pancakes flipping and bacon sizzling. I guess those went together. . horns and clocks and angry chefs might just be a cacophonous headache all forced into one.
Sometimes when I can't sleep I think of each piece grass in the yard. They each must get so angry being seen all together. They just get called "the grass" and not "the grasses"; they aren't individual in the slightest. If I were a blade of grass, I would complain about that with my friends if the yard. I would say "Hey, look here. I stand up on my own! I have my very own root that goes down there into the ground. OK, so I look the same as everyone else, but isn't it what's on the inside that counts? Don't you teach that to your kids? Like we really chose to grow in a group all, well....grouped together. Read Whitman sometime. That dude really got me."
Sometimes when I can't sleep I reread everything I've written in other times when I couldn't sleep. Even if it's in a notebook with other things, I can always pick it out. I always manage to make myself sound more brilliant than I do when I am fully awake and normal. I wonder what the world would see if I was the me I am when I am on the edge of my bed, pen in hand, hair frazzled, glasses astray, rebelling against the doctor's recommend hours of shut-eye. I think I'm slightly more interesting.
Sometimes when I can't sleep, I like to think of all the other people not sleeping and I feel better about myself. I think of Kevin from Kentucky who is up counting postage stamps in his collection. He gets to about 2987 when he looses track and has to start all over again. He organizes them in colors and then hates that so he organizes them by year instead. I think of Carla from China who lays awake making shadow puppet dragons in the dim light, wishing her mother had given her a more Chinese sounding name. She gets up quietly, youtubes the latest Miley Cyrus song and memorizes the dance to show her friends at school. It's that slutty Party in the USA video that's ruining the innocence of all the world. I think of Sam the Space Station astronaut who lays awake not knowing what time it is since it's always black. He looks down at earth and thinks of me, too, and wonders what page I'm on in Sense & Sensibility. He's read it once because his girlfriend, Evelyn from Earth, told him to but he didn't think it was that good.
Sometimes when I can't sleep I think of all the sounds I'm not hearing. The clocks in the living room downstairs. The honk of horns in New York City. The shouts of shortorder cooks at 24 hour diners. The roar of planes flying over the ocean. The thunder of a storm where it is storming, somewhere. I wonder if all those sounds together would be something neat and artsy, like this video a guy made once that my friend e-mailed me. It was a really cool song made from the sound of spoons and pancakes flipping and bacon sizzling. I guess those went together. . horns and clocks and angry chefs might just be a cacophonous headache all forced into one.
Sometimes when I can't sleep I think of each piece grass in the yard. They each must get so angry being seen all together. They just get called "the grass" and not "the grasses"; they aren't individual in the slightest. If I were a blade of grass, I would complain about that with my friends if the yard. I would say "Hey, look here. I stand up on my own! I have my very own root that goes down there into the ground. OK, so I look the same as everyone else, but isn't it what's on the inside that counts? Don't you teach that to your kids? Like we really chose to grow in a group all, well....grouped together. Read Whitman sometime. That dude really got me."
Sometimes when I can't sleep I reread everything I've written in other times when I couldn't sleep. Even if it's in a notebook with other things, I can always pick it out. I always manage to make myself sound more brilliant than I do when I am fully awake and normal. I wonder what the world would see if I was the me I am when I am on the edge of my bed, pen in hand, hair frazzled, glasses astray, rebelling against the doctor's recommend hours of shut-eye. I think I'm slightly more interesting.
homMMMe
I love being home. I love the familiar sound of the coffee pot beeping in the kitchen. I love curling up on the couch with Chance at my feet & the fireplace on. I love my big bed, so big that I can leave piles of books and notebooks and clothes at the foot of it and still have plenty of room to sleep. I love hearing the courthouse bells. I love the Christmas lights already strung around Main Street. I love reunions with friends. I love that a cow made the cover of The Warrenton Lifestyle magazine this week. I love seeing half of Fauquier county at Panera, plus Robert Duvall. I love my grandmother and mother pouring over recipe books and filling the sink with dishes. I love planning midnight Frost-milkshake dates. I love how the piano waits for me in the living room. I love how small and wonderful this town is.
things mean a lot
I'm really excited about this project. Check it out. This stemmed from an idea Ellen Picker had and one that we've been discussing and working on together. I think it's such a cool thing that we are in a community (a world!) of people who just naturally love. How often do we think about that? Yes, there is hate. People do that pretty naturally, too, and it takes up a lot of our attention. But I think something more natural to us than that is the ease with which we love things. It takes a lot of energy to despise something, but not so much just to fall head-over-heels for something good and wonderful. Everyone knows what it mean to look at something or somewhere or someone and feel connection, purely out of untainted adoration. It's powerfully simple and universal. We love. It's not so much the what that intrigues me - it's just the fact that it happens so often and so strongly and so innately. We were made for it.
"Things Mean A Lot" is an art project, social experiment, community endeavor. We are so thrilled to start it. Please check it out and consider sending in or dropping off something that means a lot to you. It's super exciting for us to get the ball rolling on it, to begin to explore and build a monument to the fact that this is a community of unique and wonderfully made lovers. We can't wait to see where TMAL takes us!
"Things Mean A Lot" is an art project, social experiment, community endeavor. We are so thrilled to start it. Please check it out and consider sending in or dropping off something that means a lot to you. It's super exciting for us to get the ball rolling on it, to begin to explore and build a monument to the fact that this is a community of unique and wonderfully made lovers. We can't wait to see where TMAL takes us!
5 Rules to Falling in Love (as understood from disney princess stories)
1) utilize your lovely singing voice (obviously, guys find it irresistible when young ladies communicate mainly through sing-song narratives. Whether it be about household chores or serenading a little bird outside the window, ladies should always proudly sing for many hours of the day. If one sings loud enough, chances are that their soul mate will hear their voice echoing through the forest and know instantly that they have found the one)
2) pretend to be someone you're not (boys probably won't like you if they know exactly who you are from the start. Better to keep them interested by employing the use of a mysterious alter-ego when you first meet. Act like a poor peasant girl even if you are royalty. Dodge tricky questions such as "where are you from?", especially if the answer is "under the sea." And of course, utilize any magic-help you might have on the side. Fairy Godmothers are totally fair game. When the man of your dreams finds that they got to know you based on a total lie, NBD. It was all in the name of love)
3) don't waste time (When you find the one you're meant to be with, you will know instantly. This is true almost 100% of the time, except if your soul mate has been cursed and has spent many years trapped inside the body of a beast. Then you'll have to go through that pesky business of "getting to know" them. But that is only the rare exception. If you look at a boy and find him attractive, chances are that he is your future husband. Do not dilly-dally. Marry him right away, even if all you know about him is his name & that he conveniently showed up to help in some dire situation)
4) master the flirty stare (Do not underestimate the power of a strategically-planned stare. It's how most relationships begin. Make sure you open your eyes as wide as possible, until they take up about 1/3 of your face, hold eye contact for a long period of time, then blink, look down and shrug away shyly. It's a sure-fire method to happily-ever-after. Heck, if you've got the stare down, it doesn't really matter if you're good at much else. Most men aren't interested in similar interests or personality anyway. This stare can also be very successful if paired with thematic orchestra music, but that is not a necessity)
5) Just don't do anything. (Who says that women should be more assertive in this progressive age - my advice: let your prince come to you. Take a tip from Sleeping Beauty - just take a nap, preferably a really long one, and when you wake up, your soul mate will be kneeling down at your bedside, asking for your hand in marriage. Piece of cake.)
2) pretend to be someone you're not (boys probably won't like you if they know exactly who you are from the start. Better to keep them interested by employing the use of a mysterious alter-ego when you first meet. Act like a poor peasant girl even if you are royalty. Dodge tricky questions such as "where are you from?", especially if the answer is "under the sea." And of course, utilize any magic-help you might have on the side. Fairy Godmothers are totally fair game. When the man of your dreams finds that they got to know you based on a total lie, NBD. It was all in the name of love)
3) don't waste time (When you find the one you're meant to be with, you will know instantly. This is true almost 100% of the time, except if your soul mate has been cursed and has spent many years trapped inside the body of a beast. Then you'll have to go through that pesky business of "getting to know" them. But that is only the rare exception. If you look at a boy and find him attractive, chances are that he is your future husband. Do not dilly-dally. Marry him right away, even if all you know about him is his name & that he conveniently showed up to help in some dire situation)
4) master the flirty stare (Do not underestimate the power of a strategically-planned stare. It's how most relationships begin. Make sure you open your eyes as wide as possible, until they take up about 1/3 of your face, hold eye contact for a long period of time, then blink, look down and shrug away shyly. It's a sure-fire method to happily-ever-after. Heck, if you've got the stare down, it doesn't really matter if you're good at much else. Most men aren't interested in similar interests or personality anyway. This stare can also be very successful if paired with thematic orchestra music, but that is not a necessity)
5) Just don't do anything. (Who says that women should be more assertive in this progressive age - my advice: let your prince come to you. Take a tip from Sleeping Beauty - just take a nap, preferably a really long one, and when you wake up, your soul mate will be kneeling down at your bedside, asking for your hand in marriage. Piece of cake.)
shout out to: precious
don't you just love those things that make you say "awwwwww" and feel all warm & fuzzy inside? here are a few items that are, in a word, precious:
-Hey Julie by Fountains of Wayne (proof that they are more than "Stacey's mom." I love these song lyrics. they are presh! and this video cracks me up.)
-Babies (I think I just died a little)
-puppy-precious-ness (look at the freckles on his little nose. ahhh I want him!)
-Mr. Darcy in P&P (even though I know it's coming, everytime I read this part I tear up a little and sigh and squeal. don't judge, it's sooooo presh!)
"In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you." Pride and Prejudice, Chapter 34.
-baby laughter (I know I said babies above, but baby laughter is the greatest sound ever. Plus, this little girl makes me feel better about myself because she seems to agree that people falling down is pretty stinkin' hilarious)
-Hey Julie by Fountains of Wayne (proof that they are more than "Stacey's mom." I love these song lyrics. they are presh! and this video cracks me up.)
-Babies (I think I just died a little)
-puppy-precious-ness (look at the freckles on his little nose. ahhh I want him!)
-Mr. Darcy in P&P (even though I know it's coming, everytime I read this part I tear up a little and sigh and squeal. don't judge, it's sooooo presh!)
"In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you." Pride and Prejudice, Chapter 34.
-baby laughter (I know I said babies above, but baby laughter is the greatest sound ever. Plus, this little girl makes me feel better about myself because she seems to agree that people falling down is pretty stinkin' hilarious)
true life
gotta love an MTV-channel original series. True Life in particular. Sometimes it's a pretty entertaining show, but I kind of get sick of the subject material. The episodes are always something like "True Life: my baby daddy broke up with me over text message" or "True Life: I ain't gonna stop eating McDonald's even after my 6th heart attack."
So today I was thinking about episodes of True Life that I myself could star in. I think they'd be pretty fly.
TRUE LIFE....
I frequently burn things in the microwave.
I am afraid of birds.
I cry at commercials.
I dress up for Harry Potter release events.
I can't remember the last time I did laundry.
I am a coffee-holic.
I am awesome.
:) HAPPY THURSDAY
So today I was thinking about episodes of True Life that I myself could star in. I think they'd be pretty fly.
TRUE LIFE....
I frequently burn things in the microwave.
I am afraid of birds.
I cry at commercials.
I dress up for Harry Potter release events.
I can't remember the last time I did laundry.
I am a coffee-holic.
I am awesome.
:) HAPPY THURSDAY
today's project
Today I got super frustrated thinking about my writing and feeling like I never escape this place of being cliche. So I did what I do and wrote a (rather long) poem about it :) Think of it as an ode to the creative process slash me just blowing off steam. You don't have to read it but it makes me feel good to get it out. Poetry > those squeezy stress balls. . . in my experience.
part one.
Sunsets are experts on seduction.
They saunter in, that typical hip shoulder hip shoulder
swagger. The whole thing is deliciously ordinary.
All thoughts are these thoughts and they are all thought.
Together you end up at a Comfort Inn and it’s his thoughts
and her thoughts and their thoughts and mine. The TV blares some
mediocre report about street cleaners on strike and the local
elementary school changing the world one box top at a time.
Your skin and her skin smell like paper-wrapped soap
and the TV is blaring. Bob with the weather heads home
to a wife who secretly wants a divorce but is holding
it together for the kids. Jane at the news desk thinks Bob’s
cute but heads home to Lean Cuisine and silence.
Sunset takes up her orange-red towel and you think
of how those colors, mixed up at least, make brown.
Your life is plain.
Ten years down the road you realize you let go
of the love of your life because it was hard work and now
you are left writing checks to a cliché. You are the bald spot
on your head and the 9 to 5 and the mask in a jar
by the door - an Eleanor Rigby.
One more line about the dazzle of the sky as it sets
just might kill you. And yet you are obsessed.
part two.
I wake up and hear the sound of coffee brewing.
I see the way the dew clings onto the green,
fingers scratching, holding tightly and asking
“Is this blade any higher than yesterday?”
“Is this all the same?”
“Maybe I should just fall.”
/
Even in my waking I am envious.
Not of the flowers as they scream and
push their way into existence.
I am them because my words are them.
They ache to be colorful, fertile,
even to be plucked from their roots to live
half-remembered in vases on coffee tables,
so desperate for love.
No, I am angry at the sound of coffee rain
in my kitchen. It knows the things
I cannot know and cannot produce.
More beautiful is the sound of it,
More beautiful is the creating than
what I consume so quickly in my mug.
And even in every kitchen in every house in every state
it’s there. Peacefully making, day after day making.
That’s what it does and should do.
and still I cannot.
still I am not satisfied.
and when I am satisfied, I arrive later to think that
my satisfaction was held in vain and I am really
bitter-tasting and stale.
when will I be alright with being alright?
should I be?
part one.
Sunsets are experts on seduction.
They saunter in, that typical hip shoulder hip shoulder
swagger. The whole thing is deliciously ordinary.
All thoughts are these thoughts and they are all thought.
Together you end up at a Comfort Inn and it’s his thoughts
and her thoughts and their thoughts and mine. The TV blares some
mediocre report about street cleaners on strike and the local
elementary school changing the world one box top at a time.
Your skin and her skin smell like paper-wrapped soap
and the TV is blaring. Bob with the weather heads home
to a wife who secretly wants a divorce but is holding
it together for the kids. Jane at the news desk thinks Bob’s
cute but heads home to Lean Cuisine and silence.
Sunset takes up her orange-red towel and you think
of how those colors, mixed up at least, make brown.
Your life is plain.
Ten years down the road you realize you let go
of the love of your life because it was hard work and now
you are left writing checks to a cliché. You are the bald spot
on your head and the 9 to 5 and the mask in a jar
by the door - an Eleanor Rigby.
One more line about the dazzle of the sky as it sets
just might kill you. And yet you are obsessed.
part two.
I wake up and hear the sound of coffee brewing.
I see the way the dew clings onto the green,
fingers scratching, holding tightly and asking
“Is this blade any higher than yesterday?”
“Is this all the same?”
“Maybe I should just fall.”
/
Even in my waking I am envious.
Not of the flowers as they scream and
push their way into existence.
I am them because my words are them.
They ache to be colorful, fertile,
even to be plucked from their roots to live
half-remembered in vases on coffee tables,
so desperate for love.
No, I am angry at the sound of coffee rain
in my kitchen. It knows the things
I cannot know and cannot produce.
More beautiful is the sound of it,
More beautiful is the creating than
what I consume so quickly in my mug.
And even in every kitchen in every house in every state
it’s there. Peacefully making, day after day making.
That’s what it does and should do.
and still I cannot.
still I am not satisfied.
and when I am satisfied, I arrive later to think that
my satisfaction was held in vain and I am really
bitter-tasting and stale.
when will I be alright with being alright?
should I be?
today is GOOD.
It's monday. I spent most of the day in a typical start-of-week, blah-mood. Then, while heading home, I caught the sunset. Did you see it? It was incredible.
Sometimes that's all I need to know that life is pretty darn wonderful.
happy monday.
Sometimes that's all I need to know that life is pretty darn wonderful.
happy monday.
prose poem?
I'm not sure what this is or what I'm doing with it. But it was just an "I don't feel like doing anything but write" type of late afternoon, so here is the first draft of a prose poem (at least I'm calling it a prose poem) I'm exploring/maybe will keep working on. Who knows?
The sun made sense to her. Little strokes of shadow and not shadow, here and not here, manageable pieces of real and not real. What confused her most was the color red. It was everywhere, all around, and yet she was not sure how or why.
The only red she remembered knowing was the color of that night when the sky was setting deeply and the pool water was so still. He had helped her over the fence and they were laughing so much. Everyone else put loud s’s and h’s together in fear of being caught. The exit sign glistened red in the still blue. Her cheeks, if you could have seen them in the dim light, were pink flushed sculptures of happy. There was music: the sound of the water parting as their skin made it stir, the quiet of cicadas in trees and whispered conversation, the breaking of blue and reentry into air. The red faded out of the sky and became black, and it was then that he put his hand on her hair and they kissed for the first time. The happy pieces of art exploded and, if you could have seen it in the dim light, a bigger than life smile made home on her face.
It was August Light then but not August Light now. It was Late December Light. This was a whole new character – it was cold-blooded and sharp and broke into pieces, highlighting things not to be seen or imagined. She hated it and wondered where it came from, who carried her to his den. She was overcome by him and she was dying by him.
But then again, Late December Light has illuminated their hands a few hours ago, tickled their fingers as they brushed together on the radio knob. It was this animal that played up the smooth of his face as she stole sideways glances while gliding down the highway. It was this beast that crawled through the sunroof, warming their shoulders that she felt were much too far apart because of center console. She squinted and stared it right in the eye, anticipating pulling into the driveway and him opening the car door, anticipating the way he’d smile at her and offer his hand in the old-fashioned way she adored, anticipating the good feeling that came from just being held and loved without words or wisdom of age. She closed her eyes and she let Late December Light lure her in. And now she thought only that things seemed more than shadow and not shadow, here and not here, real and not real. What was life and not life? What was sun, and what was light? Where was he?
The red again. It clung to her skin and to her hair, the hair he breathed in during that night of breaking in, of August Light and then not light. There was music: loud voices, a screaming woman, a screech of some sort of radio or walkie-talkie, crunchy steps, the insistent repetition of her name. . why not his? Late December Light put a spotlight on the dashboard and she found she was resting against it. Then he nudged her arm and she felt it limp and aching. He stung venom in her eyes and she noticed the highway they had been gliding on stood still and harsh outside the broken glass of window. She put loud s’s and h’s together in her mind, afraid to hear if he would come up from the blue stillness beside her, afraid of hearing no reentry into air.
The sun made sense to her. Little strokes of shadow and not shadow, here and not here, manageable pieces of real and not real. What confused her most was the color red. It was everywhere, all around, and yet she was not sure how or why.
The only red she remembered knowing was the color of that night when the sky was setting deeply and the pool water was so still. He had helped her over the fence and they were laughing so much. Everyone else put loud s’s and h’s together in fear of being caught. The exit sign glistened red in the still blue. Her cheeks, if you could have seen them in the dim light, were pink flushed sculptures of happy. There was music: the sound of the water parting as their skin made it stir, the quiet of cicadas in trees and whispered conversation, the breaking of blue and reentry into air. The red faded out of the sky and became black, and it was then that he put his hand on her hair and they kissed for the first time. The happy pieces of art exploded and, if you could have seen it in the dim light, a bigger than life smile made home on her face.
It was August Light then but not August Light now. It was Late December Light. This was a whole new character – it was cold-blooded and sharp and broke into pieces, highlighting things not to be seen or imagined. She hated it and wondered where it came from, who carried her to his den. She was overcome by him and she was dying by him.
But then again, Late December Light has illuminated their hands a few hours ago, tickled their fingers as they brushed together on the radio knob. It was this animal that played up the smooth of his face as she stole sideways glances while gliding down the highway. It was this beast that crawled through the sunroof, warming their shoulders that she felt were much too far apart because of center console. She squinted and stared it right in the eye, anticipating pulling into the driveway and him opening the car door, anticipating the way he’d smile at her and offer his hand in the old-fashioned way she adored, anticipating the good feeling that came from just being held and loved without words or wisdom of age. She closed her eyes and she let Late December Light lure her in. And now she thought only that things seemed more than shadow and not shadow, here and not here, real and not real. What was life and not life? What was sun, and what was light? Where was he?
The red again. It clung to her skin and to her hair, the hair he breathed in during that night of breaking in, of August Light and then not light. There was music: loud voices, a screaming woman, a screech of some sort of radio or walkie-talkie, crunchy steps, the insistent repetition of her name. . why not his? Late December Light put a spotlight on the dashboard and she found she was resting against it. Then he nudged her arm and she felt it limp and aching. He stung venom in her eyes and she noticed the highway they had been gliding on stood still and harsh outside the broken glass of window. She put loud s’s and h’s together in her mind, afraid to hear if he would come up from the blue stillness beside her, afraid of hearing no reentry into air.
you knew this was coming
Dear Cat-haters,
I am sorry that you are so unaware of how awesome felines can be. I am sorry that you have embraced the stereotype the world has thrown on you that if you are a cat person, you are some sort of loser/loner. (totally false, right? I mean, look at me! I'm awesome!) I am sorry that you do not get to experience the great joy that cute, adorable kittens can bring to life. But mostly, I am sorry for the entire cat-community when I think of the lack of love they receive on a daily basis.
Puppies get all the limelight and what do cats get? Oh, a musical named after them. A musical no one even cares about anymore. Great. Life just isn't fair sometimes, is it cats?
People always give cats a bad rep because they say they are less "loving" than puppies. But maybe that kitten that mulled your arms all up with it's claws was just trying to play. Or maybe you just really deserved it.
Cats rule because they do what they want and don't apologize for it. They say "heck yes, I'm going to sleep on the armchair for 14 hours today! And no, you cannot sit here even though it is your favorite spot, because guess what? It's now MY favorite spot. Suck on that." You go, cats.
All it takes for a cat to be fine is a clean litter box (that's right, they are smart enough to go to the bathroom inside. take that, puppies!) and some Friskies. Occasionally they would like a belly rub. Sometimes they want to purr and let you scratch their ears. But mostly, they just want you to acknowledge how awesome they are and admire them from a distance. I respect that.
Also, who says you have to choose cats OR dogs? I happen to love both and see no problem with that. It's like chocolate & vanilla - both are delicious, so why battle between the two? Just make a twist cone & it's all good. (Although a puppy & cat twist cone might be slightly less delicious)
I hate to be antagonistic, but I hope this letter has prompted all you anti-cat folks to rethink your erroneous ways. I think I speak for cats everywhere when I say that all they want is love. and your favorite sweater to snag. Seriously though, cats are simply looking for someone to take the time to care and reach out to them.(but don't reach out too quickly or they might paw your hand and then bite you)
with friendly feline feelings,
emily
youth
I said to myself: three daysand you'll be seven years old.I was saying it to stopthe sensation of falling offthe round, turning worldinto cold, blue-black space.-"The Waiting Room", Bishop
I think it's been the combo of being outside in terrific fall weather plus reading some amazing Elizabeth Bishop poems that has made me think about childhood. I miss the days when my brother & I could spend whole afternoons building mountains of leaves & creating new worlds & exploring the yard. I miss being dazzled at the little details of a small snack or an earthworm or the branches of that apple tree I called my own. I miss when Taylor & I would spend hours writing little stories - his were always adventure/science fiction & mine always had a protagonist identical to me in every way, except her name was Kimberly and she usually had magic powers or was friends with ghosts. I miss eating tomatoes right from the ground in Granny & Dado's garden. I miss the thrill of standing on the fence & watching the horses they sometimes kept. I miss playing make-believe.
There is something so beautiful about a child's perspective of the world. When I was little, I felt like I could reach & reach & r e a c h and never find an end. I think a tragedy of getting older is thinking that we can put words to the universe & close it off & make it small. But when we are young, there is this incredible self-satisfaction with just being in awe of all of it, an acceptance of knowing that our days are big & beautiful & beyond us. It seems like with age comes this tendency to freak out over where we fit and how we define everything. I think I'd prefer just to twirl with arms s t r e t c h e d wide and enjoy life like I did when I was little - when earth seemed dizzy but really sweet and colorful and endless.
tips for the fellas
hey boys-
I'm not sure if you've listened to any top music hits recently, but DANG are there some romantic song lyrics out there. I mean, I know that if any of ya'll were trying to holler at me, I would be swept off of my feet by some of these moving, poetic words. Just thought I would post a few suggestions that could help you woo the lady of your choice. Ah, what a romantic age we live in!
affectionately yours,
emily
"Shawty, [you're] like a melody in my head that I can't keep out. . .It's like my iPod's stuck on replay!"
"I'ma tell you one time: when I met you, my heart went 'knock knock', now I met you, my heart won't stop stop."
"Somebody call 911! [you're] a shawty fire burning on the dance floor, WHOA!"
"Hey baby girl I've been watchin' you all day! Man, that thing you got behind you is amazing!"
I'm not sure if you've listened to any top music hits recently, but DANG are there some romantic song lyrics out there. I mean, I know that if any of ya'll were trying to holler at me, I would be swept off of my feet by some of these moving, poetic words. Just thought I would post a few suggestions that could help you woo the lady of your choice. Ah, what a romantic age we live in!
affectionately yours,
emily
"Shawty, [you're] like a melody in my head that I can't keep out. . .It's like my iPod's stuck on replay!"
"I'ma tell you one time: when I met you, my heart went 'knock knock', now I met you, my heart won't stop stop."
"Somebody call 911! [you're] a shawty fire burning on the dance floor, WHOA!"
"Hey baby girl I've been watchin' you all day! Man, that thing you got behind you is amazing!"
a thursday affair
As Jenny Lewis would say, you are what you love.
If that's true, then today I am:
crunchy leaves. my purple cable-knit. gorgeous words by Whitman. a lunch date with a good friend. this song. dancing around the house in my comfy Mukluks. letter-writing to much-missed pals. rediscovering a lost notebook. Deaf culture. the piano practice rooms. Alicia Bock's photos:
to silly songs
one time when I was a wee little first year, I did dumb things like procrastinate my work and make up weird songs/dances with Kirsten. (I am SO above that now....hehehe)
for example: (I'm sorry if this makes your ears bleed. we are not musical geniuses, we just enjoy Pez & Backstreet Boys)
Although that has not yet made us Youtube stars, one of my good friends, Abena, is actually on her way there. She made up this great song called "You're the man of my dreams even though you eat babies". Do yourself a favor & watch it. It is incredible, I promise.
Here's to ridiculous musical endeavors & lovely thursdays :)
for example: (I'm sorry if this makes your ears bleed. we are not musical geniuses, we just enjoy Pez & Backstreet Boys)
Although that has not yet made us Youtube stars, one of my good friends, Abena, is actually on her way there. She made up this great song called "You're the man of my dreams even though you eat babies". Do yourself a favor & watch it. It is incredible, I promise.
Here's to ridiculous musical endeavors & lovely thursdays :)
that darn Sufjan
some people can pull all-nighters. I don't think I can.
I only got 2 hours last night & felt like I was an extra from zombieland walking around grounds all day.
and then I projected my frustration with my lack of rest onto several undeserving victims. Such as Sufjan Stevens. I just read this article that says he isn't actually going to make albums for each of the 50 states. OK, so I guess I sort of knew that.....was he really going to make 50 state-themed albums? No. but still, I wanted him to, so I was mad. I yelled "DANG IT, SUFJAN!" really loudly and then hit my fist against the arm chair, and that is when it occured to me that I have a problem and I should probably go to bed.
...now my watch alarm is going off. it goes off every night at 8:44 and I can't figure out how to turn if off and I lost the directions. DANG IT, WATCH!!! arghhh
ok, goodnight world. see you when I'm not a horrible Sufjan-hating person.
. . . I still really like this song:
I only got 2 hours last night & felt like I was an extra from zombieland walking around grounds all day.
and then I projected my frustration with my lack of rest onto several undeserving victims. Such as Sufjan Stevens. I just read this article that says he isn't actually going to make albums for each of the 50 states. OK, so I guess I sort of knew that.....was he really going to make 50 state-themed albums? No. but still, I wanted him to, so I was mad. I yelled "DANG IT, SUFJAN!" really loudly and then hit my fist against the arm chair, and that is when it occured to me that I have a problem and I should probably go to bed.
...now my watch alarm is going off. it goes off every night at 8:44 and I can't figure out how to turn if off and I lost the directions. DANG IT, WATCH!!! arghhh
ok, goodnight world. see you when I'm not a horrible Sufjan-hating person.
. . . I still really like this song:
in the name of love
This is a hugely stereotypical-girl thing to enjoy, but I could look at wedding photos all day. They are wonderful. It doesn't even matter whose they are....I just adore them.
I get super depressed by divorce rates & sad, Hollywood depictions of what marriage & love should look like. But wedding photos are great because you just get images of joy and nothing else. They are like capturing real-life fairytales.
I have recently fallen head-over-heels for this website. enjoy a piece of my wedding-photo obsession :)
these are my confessions
Today in church we talked about confession. and also, I have been listening to that Glee mash-up song "Confessions" pretty much non-stop. With those things as my inspiration, I thought I would make my own confessional-list for today's post. Since this is a public blog, (and because my parents read this.just kidding, mom & dad) I won't make it super serious. But here are a few things I feel the need to get off my chest:
1) I am an "english" person but I am horrible at grammar. I over-use commas like WHOA. and also, I am a pretty bad speller. (for example, I still say "Wed"-"nes"-"day" out loud when I spell wednesday.)
2) I still watch Full-House reruns. and thoroughly enjoy them.
3) I told my housemates that I didn't drink any coffee yesterday and they were proud of me. but then I relapsed and had a mug. I need help.
4) I procrastinate. A lot. I have to write a paper today. but I am blogging.
5) One time in 7th grade, my friend and I took my other friend's lunch and put it in the lost & found as a joke. when she couldn't find it, we simply suggested that maybe she "lost" it so she would get the hint. When she didn't, we just went back to the lost and found, claimed her lunch and ate her fruit snacks. Sorry, Shannon.
6) For fun in middle school, I would roller blade around our unfinished basement listening to N'SYNC. by myself.
7) I'm pretty sure I could only list all 50 states by singing The Fifty Nifty United States song I learned in 5th grade.
8) I laugh when people fall down. Like, really hard.
9) Someone asked me for directions on how to get to the bookstore as I was crossing old dorms a few weeks ago. I panicked (because I hate giving directions/am directionally-challenged) and did my best to explain. When they tried to clarify with me and asked if they had the right idea of where to go, I realized that I had sent told them a totally wrong way. But I was so confused that I just said "Yep, that'll get you there!" and then walked away.
10) I like one of my cats better than the other one. Sorry, Mosby.
1) I am an "english" person but I am horrible at grammar. I over-use commas like WHOA. and also, I am a pretty bad speller. (for example, I still say "Wed"-"nes"-"day" out loud when I spell wednesday.)
2) I still watch Full-House reruns. and thoroughly enjoy them.
3) I told my housemates that I didn't drink any coffee yesterday and they were proud of me. but then I relapsed and had a mug. I need help.
4) I procrastinate. A lot. I have to write a paper today. but I am blogging.
5) One time in 7th grade, my friend and I took my other friend's lunch and put it in the lost & found as a joke. when she couldn't find it, we simply suggested that maybe she "lost" it so she would get the hint. When she didn't, we just went back to the lost and found, claimed her lunch and ate her fruit snacks. Sorry, Shannon.
6) For fun in middle school, I would roller blade around our unfinished basement listening to N'SYNC. by myself.
7) I'm pretty sure I could only list all 50 states by singing The Fifty Nifty United States song I learned in 5th grade.
8) I laugh when people fall down. Like, really hard.
9) Someone asked me for directions on how to get to the bookstore as I was crossing old dorms a few weeks ago. I panicked (because I hate giving directions/am directionally-challenged) and did my best to explain. When they tried to clarify with me and asked if they had the right idea of where to go, I realized that I had sent told them a totally wrong way. But I was so confused that I just said "Yep, that'll get you there!" and then walked away.
10) I like one of my cats better than the other one. Sorry, Mosby.
