Feeling Poetical

To make up for all the intellectual thoughts I've been forced to have (alas, they come with the end of term), my heart has turned to lighthearted poetry. Lacksadaisical poetry. Capricious poetry. Some favorites for the end of term:

"Warning," by Jenny Joseph
When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

"Where the Sidewalk Ends" Shel Silverstein
There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.



"I Sit and Think" J.R.R. Tolkien
I sit beside the fire and think
of all that I have seen,
of meadow-flowers and butterflies
in summers that have been;

Of yellow leaves and gossamer
in autumns that there were,
with morning mist and silver sun
and wind upon my hair.

I sit beside the fire and think
of how the world will be
when winter comes without a spring
that I shall never see.

For still there are so many things
that I have never seen:
in every wood in every spring
there is a different green.

I sit beside the fire and think
of people long ago,
and people who will see a world
that I shall never know.

But all the while I sit and think
of times there were before,
I listen for returning feet
and voices at the door.


"The Pope's Penis" Sharon Olds
It hangs deep in his robes, a delicate
clapper at the center of a bell.
It moves when he moves, a ghostly fish in a
halo of silver sweaweed, the hair
swaying in the dark and the heat -- and at night
while his eyes sleep, it stands up
in praise of God.



"The Mad Farmer Revolution: Being a Fragmentof the Natural History of New Eden,in HomageTo Mr. Ed McClanahan, One of the Locals" Wendell Berry
The mad farmer, the thirsty one,
went dry. When he had time
he threw a visionary high
lonesome on the holy communion wine.
"It is an awesome event
when an earthen man has drunk
his fill of the blood of a god,"
people said, and got out of his way.
He plowed the churchyard, the
minister's wife, three graveyards
and a golf course. In a parking lot
he planted a forest of little pines.
He sanctified the groves,
dancing at night in the oak shades
with goddesses. He led
a field of corn to creep up
and tassel like an Indian tribe
on the courthouse lawn. Pumpkins
ran out to the ends of their vines
to follow him. Ripe plums
and peaches reached into his pockets.
Flowers sprang up in his tracks
everywhere he stepped. And then
his planter's eye fell on
that parson's fair fine lady
again. "O holy plowman," cried she,
"I am all grown up in weeds.
Pray, bring me back into good tilth."
He tilled her carefully
and laid her by, and she
did bring forth others of her kind,
and others, and some more.
They sowed and reaped till all
the countryside was filled
with farmers and their brides sowing
and reaping. When they died
they became two spirits of the woods.

On their graves were written
these words without sound:
"Here lies Saint Plowman.
Here lies Saint Fertile Ground."

Four Stamps Worth of Thoughts

I find that as time passes, and I grow more content with who I am, the things I desire are simple, and necessary. The life I want is simple, uncluttered by desires for greatness, exceeding riches, and impossible love. I can say that now, in this moment, I am pleased with my life.

I mailed the last parts of my UNC-Chapel Hill application this evening (pushing it, I know...the deadline is the 1st...), and right before I dropped the envelope in the box, I failed to stop and breathe good karma over it. Not that I don't need it, I just didn't think about it until I got back to my car. I thought, "Oh, should I have prayed or meditated over that or something?" And in a brief conversation with myself, I noted that I'm really not too concerned with the outcome of this application. I want to get in, of course, or I wouldn't have applied. But if I'm concerned with rewards, or good karma, then I've got to expect a denial letter. (I've not lived up to certain moral standards this past year, but strangely, I'm far more happy than when I did.) If I'm concerned with grace or blessed opportunities or heavenly intervention, I should then feel guaranteed an acceptance. Neither of those seem plausible as a foundation for where I'll go to graduate school, though, so I've resigned myself to letting what comes, come. At this point in talking to myself, I saw the Christmas lights beginning to light up Broad Street. I was actually more excited about lights in store windows than I was about submitting my Statement of Purpose.

Perhaps this says something about myself and my desires for my life. Or maybe it just points out how excited I am for the holidays. Either way, it seems like all the things I wish for these days are simple things. Trite things, perhaps, but I think that they will bring me far more contentment than any school or degree could ensure.

Man Task #13: Retrieving Jewelry from the Drain

I am all for empowering women to do handyman jobs. There's a reason Handyman Magazine often runs how-to stories for chicks, and there's a reason that "Fix-It Guide for Women" with Rosie the Riveter on the cover has sold so well. A big huzzah for any woman who wants to prove she can, I just don't want to. I am not a fan of sticking my hand down dark holes, just looking down into my garbage disposal makes me feel a little ill, and the thought of what's lurking in my bathtub drain just makes me gag.

I knew the day would come when I'd have to some kind of yucky job myself. Every time something has come up in the past that I didn't want to touch with an unbent coat hanger, I called Dad, or brother, or boyfriend, and they came running (albeit with a grimace) with toolbox in hand. Until yesterday, I'd succeeded in not getting my hands dirty.

Yesterday, I had to retrieve an earring from the trap in my bathroom sink. I don't even think I've ever worn the particular earring I dropped, but I'm far too obsessive compulsive to own only one earring, knowing the other lurks, covered in slime, nearby. I called Dad. He was working and wouldn't be able to come by until Saturday. Brother was heading to class, and boyfriend was, too. It could have waited until either of them got out of class, but I would have had to pay Brother, at least in food currency, and Boyfriend would have laughed unmercifully. With one more call to Dad, I learned "bathroom sink protocol." Basically, this means big bowl, a washrag you don't mind never using again, and a solid gag reflex. Armed with 2 out of the three, I sit down in front of the sink and begin clearing out (remind me to get rid of stuff). I'm supposed to loosen the rings on both ends of the trap, so this I do, but only with much aggravation and under-the-breath cursing. Water begins dripping out of the trap, and I still don't understand how standing water can suddenly defy gravity and pour out of still attached trap, but it was gross.

I wrestle with the trap for a little while more, and finally get it loose. pull it away, and there's a mass of hair, bathrag fibers, and who knows what else hanging from the pipe. Ew? It's a bathroom sink, is it supposed to be that gross? I'm forced to unbend a coat hanger and go at it, waiting for that stupid earring to plop into the plastic, yellow party bowl I will never use again.

Now that I think about it, even though I scrubbed the earring with hot water, alcohol, and hot water again, I'll probably never wear it, either (even though it's probably way cleaner than the other earrings I wear, even the ones I didn't drop down a drain...). I can say, though, that I know how to get stuff out of a pipe, and reattach a sink trap so that it doesn't leak. I survived, yes, but it's not something I ever want to do again.

getting into Grad School

I'm good at a few things, procrastination, for example, but standardized test preparation is not one of them. Actually, now that I think about it, not being very good at preparing for the GRE can probably be accredited to my inclinations to procrastination.

I'm taking the GRE next Saturday, and I'm scared out of my wits. I haven't been doing so wonderfully on the practice exams; my scores reach nowhere near the safe level I'd like to them to, and I'm not entirely sure what I'll be able to do about it in the span of 5 days I have until my exam. I will, of course, have one more opportunity to take the GRE before the end of October (when my scores are due), but it would be nice if I did well enough the first time around, so I wouldn't have to pay the ridiculously inflated $140 testing fee. (September 23rd blog about that here.)

I'm beginning to get all the loose ends brought together for the whole "applying to Grad School" process. And yeah, even though it's not a proper noun, it totally gets capitalized letters. It's a huge deal to me. I've got 4-5 potentials in my mind for letters of recommendation; I'll be asking them soon. As soon as I get the GRE out of the way, I'll begin applying. I've got about a month to write my personal statement (which, of course, I have no idea how to do...).

"Applying to Grad School" has got me thinking--why in the hell am I doing this in the first place? Yeah, I like education, I thrive on classes and reading and learning, but what is all this bureaucratic mess I have to go through first? I understand why it's in place, but I'm not nearly competitive enough to do it. (Okay, obviously, I am, or I wouldn't be doing it. I'd be content to stop at my baccalaureate degree, having a completely normal and satisfied life like the rest of the world...) One of the schools I'll be applying to soon is UNC-Chapel Hill. I'm beginning to seriously doubt I'll get it. Not that I'm not intelligent enough, but to get into Chapel Hill is competitive. Everyone's trying to do it. The English department accepts less than 10% of their graduate applicants. Their deadlines are at least a month before most graduate programs, two months before some, and why? So they can weed out everyone who doesn't have it. Even on the chance that I would get in, would I really want to be in an environment that is so competitive, where each and every one of your classmates is fighting for your spot, their recognition, better of everything?

My second school is the University of Mississippi in Oxford. My parents are Mississippi State Alumni, so the thought of me going to Ole Miss is a little challenging to them, but hey, they're good parents and they'll support me all the way (even if they won't wear the t-shirt). I've heard good things about the English program there, and one of my favorite professors completed his graduate education there, so the education aspect looks promising. What I've heard about the social environment there, however, is a detriment to whatever academic appeal they have. Now, I can't say for sure, because I've never personally attended Ole Miss, but from family and friends who've been to Oxford, I've heard that socially, you must fit into a kind of social dichotomy - either you've got money and labels that you flaunt, or you don't. Even the professors are like this. I'm not much into labels, or social arrogance, and I don't know that I want to spend at least the next 6 years of academia in not only a university that operates on this, but a city. Plus, it's in Mississippi, which means that if I want to go out on the town for a night, I'd have to drive to neighboring Alabama, Tennessee, Arkansas, or Louisiana. Well, crap.

My third choice is the University of Georgia, where I'd originally wanted to go for my undergraduate studies before I realized that I actually had no idea what I wanted, and had better stay closer to home where I'd get in less trouble. I've heard some complaints about the program from some former English-major acquaintances of mine, and Athens is your typical college town. Studying is down, partying is up.

I guess I'm realizing I have no idea where I would fit in, and no matter which programs I apply to, they'll all have their problems and benefits. I'm having trouble realizing that it's probably not as big of a deal as I'm making it, either. The GRE is just the GRE, Grad School is really grad school, and not the end of my life. Sure, I'd get a more respected education at UCal-Berkeley, but I'm not so much concerned with how low people's jaw drops when they see my diploma as with how effective I am as an educator, or how curious I remain about literature. I think that in about a year from now, I'll realize that I can pretty much make myself happy anywhere, regardless of the storm of fears I'm going through right now.

But still, why in the world is the GRE so damn important?

Contemporary Logical Form

I love craigslist. I check them almost daily, mainly for secondhand furniture and books, but I'll occasionally read the "Rants and Raves" column, too. I had some extra time at work today, so I figured I'd venture away from Augusta's page and read some in North Carolina, as I'm applying for a graduate program there soon, and, well, I guess I was curious as to what kind of discussions are going on in my potential future home. Greensboro was in a heated battle between Atheists and Christians, and in the background, people were berating an IHOP waitress for being of Spanish descent and not speaking perfect English. It was scary there, in the Rants and Raves board in Greensboro, NC, so I went to a few other cities. In Charleston, SC, the discussion is lewd, and it somehow has been linked to a "black" verses "white" issue. In Athens, GA, people are calling the Jena 6 "thugs" and "hood-rat niggers" who will be judged by God. In Detroit, MI, it's the classic Republican vs. Democrat debate, with a healthy amount of "suck it up, public educators" thrown in the mix. Springfield, IL's page has been consumed with a blend of politics, war, and religion, while Los Angeles' threads were just so haphazard I'm not sure what they're discussing.

What bothers me isn't what's being discussed--racism, violence, politics, religion, and sexuality are things that need to be talked about--but the frustration comes from the way people are talking. It's completely illogical. I've yet to see any kind of normal discussion going on, and it's rare that a post isn't belittling or intentionally insulting the poster they're responding to. Insults, slurs, and curses are thrown out at every chance, and everyone assumes that their opinion is right, and everyone else should, quote, "fuck 0ff," or "suck my dick," or "go kill yourself."

I only searched a fraction of these boards, and only on one website, but I've seen it everywhere. Facebook, MySpace, Blogger, YouTube--I doubt there's a venue that hasn't been marred by inappropriate arguing.

Do I think that public forums should be censored? No way. I do think, however, that people should censor themselves in consideration of other people. Isn't it our social responsibility, our responsibility as people to manage the way we speak to each other? It seems like we would have so much more constructive conversation if we weren't so insistent on forcing everyone to agree with our perspective.

I'm content to know that I won't agree with the way other people see the world; on the same hand, though, I've accepted and embraced the fact that people don't agree with me. I'm not saying we should shy away from dialogue, or even make it nice or surface-level, but I do think that we should be more willing to lead our discussions with rationality and humility, and the general understanding that people, by definition, are diverse and impossible to understand. If we can't handle even our conversations with maturity and logic, what can we handle?

First Cigarette

I met my first cigarette at the Metro, the bar where we were getting a beer after class one night. Isaac had driven Zoh, Ali, and I to 8th Street Tobacco. Jacob Pride met us there. The boys bought loose tobacco, and Ali bought a pack of Djarum Blacks for the girls to share. When we got to the Metro, we crammed ourselves into a booth. A desk light sat on the edge of the table, and every time Ali’s need brushed against the outlet, it flickered wildly. Sometimes it went out completely, and we sat in the smoky darkness until Ali could find the plug again. I was nervous, and the Newcastle bottle cooled my palms. I didn’t know anyone there very well, and I didn’t know Jacob at all. I did know his cousin, Sam, and I wondered if Jacob, like Sam, would be one to sneak Miller Light in a gas station fountain drink cup into class.

Ali packed the Blacks, took one for herself, and offered the pack to Zoh’s delicate fingers. She took one, and I watched those fingers ignite the tobacco-filled stick, and place it to her lips. She inhaled, gently, and after a few seconds’ stillness, a blue-grey cloud slipped out of her mouth, and formed a nebulous haze three inches above her forehead. I watched this process for a while, learning how it worked. I held my breath after she inhaled, and anticipated the moment smoke would slide across the invisible gap in her lips with her neck arched back. Ali practiced smoke rings with Jacob in the background. Isaac rolled cigarette after cigarette, pausing to consider the flavor between each drag. I sipped a Newcastle, and half of another before Ali thrust a Black in my hands, and said “Here, smoke it.”

I had to ask how. “Easy,” she said, “Just breathe in, and take the smoke with you.” I did, and the rich, sweet smoke overtook my throat. There was the taste of candy on my lips; the filter was laced with cinnamon and cloves. I didn’t know how to bring the air into my lungs, so I held it there, on my tongue and at the roof of my mouth for a while before I tilted my head back and blew the now stale smoke up into the air. My exhale was sloppy and moist, and instead of the smoke blowing neatly away from my face to dissipate into the air, it drooped miserably near my cheeks. I repeated this for as long as I could stand, which was only about an inch and a half of my cigarette’s life. I finally had to snuff it out, leaving it crumpled and pathetic in the ashtray before I excused myself to the restroom and splashed cold water on my face.

Staring at my flushed complexion in the mirror, I clutched the porcelain of the sink and whispered, “Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up.” I could taste mingled beer and tobacco on my tongue, and heated spices in my hair. Traces of cigarette clung to my fingertips. I regained control of my senses, and walked back to the table. The air was muggy and stale, and I couldn’t feel a breeze through my turtleneck. Someone suggested we leave, and as crisp air washed over my face, I felt relieved. January air filled me, flushing out the hot cigarette breath that clung to my lungs. Later I would brush my teeth, only to still taste it on my tongue.

Arts in the Heart 2007

"Why do I drink so much? Why do I drink so much? What kind of drunkard would I be if I didn't drink so much?"

Who needs Bukowski when you've got poets who write lines like that? Oh yeah, that bit of poetic intrique was also sung. By an old man. With an Irish lilt. (Hearing that reminded me of my favorite Garrison Keillor joke: Two Irishmen walk out of a bar...) And so opened my Saturday night. Somewhere after that, I ate curried goat. Delicious. I mean it. I usually have an aversion to green foods that aren't sold in the produce section, but I think I'll have to add curried goat to the list of green things that are okay. (Green M&Ms might have to wait a while, though. No, that's a lie, I'll pretty much eat a green M&M anytime.)

Meanwhile, the reason I heard Irish jokes and ate goat: Arts in the Heart this year was pretty much fantastic. Some really great artists showed up- favorites were Grunge Goddess Pottery, a guy that made the image of a nude woman in stained glass, and Batik by a Sri Lankan named Rita. The Batik booth was the best. Her Batiks can be viewed here. (The ones I openly fawned over were similar to "Expression of Music," "Immortal Love," and  "Peacock Couple," but they're all stunning.) The whole process of making these canvasses is intense, time-consuming work. It's labor, but they're absolutely breathtaking in the end. I'd never even heard of this medium, but it's centuries old and pretty rare in today's market (for Western cultures, anyway; apparently in India, kids learn how to do this).

So, regardless of Weiss' philosophy test I've got on Monday, I'll be heading downtown tomorrow to ogle more art. Also to read (along with the gracious help of Zoh, Isaac, and Mike) a part of my play. 1-3:30 on the Cafe Stage--me and all the other Porter Fleming Winners are hanging out to read some stuff. (The link's for a map.) Not that I know any of the other Porter Fleming winners, but we'll get together and read anyway. Afterwards, I'll probably be heading to the Carribean booth for some plantains. And then maybe for some Indian food. And then back to Rita's booth just to stare (I'm much to poor to buy something I can stare at in my underwear).

Tuesday in Recap

8/28 in Recap

Tuesday Morning (Prayer Group, 10:30): Nelsey Tapley remarked that she “couldn’t remember when I was that young….cutting a’loose, probably.” She then informed me that she did the Charleston in front of a crowd of party guests when she was about 13. She looked silly, but it was the Charleston, so who cares? We’ve lost the art of social dancing. Now, you’re unique if you can tango or waltz; the girl in me longs for the elegance of social dances. Learning to dance tops the list of “things to do when you’re not in school anymore.” Re-learning the violin and taking more photography courses are there, too.

Tuesday Afternoon (Thesis Meeting, 2:30): “beautifully written,” “excellently stated,” “good progress,” “good project,” “excited to read your work,” “ambitious timeline, but we support you.” The panel of four encouraged me that the fifth (who was out for migraine-recuperation, and is notoriously the most challenging and difficult to please) was highly satisfied with my work, and impressed by the solidarity of my project. I felt that the only solid thing about me was the table I gripped with my palms. Are they just being nice? I feel like anyone can see that I have no idea what I’m talking about. Most of my self-esteem is tied up into academia, which is a precarious foundation. I’m scared I won’t live up to their expectations.

Tuesday Afternoon (Iraq War Protest, 6:15): A group of 30-40 people stood outside of a Unitarian church (not, duly noted, the First Baptist across the street) with signs protesting the Iraq War. “Honk for Peace!” a red sign screamed, and suddenly taken with a bohemian blush, I honked, and threw up a peace sign. Janis Joplin reincarnate in my Japanese sedan. Cars flew by me and I felt suddenly embarrassed. I’m not even fully in support of withdrawing our troops.

Tuesday Evening (Mom and Dad’s House, 9:30): My parents’ speaking becomes unintelligible when they note that I am suddenly less like their little girl in sweatpants and rubber boots than they would like me to be. It’s hard, as I’m slowly realizing that I can be disappointed by them, and their acceptance of the things I do, and their habits as maturing adults. And yet, they are proud of me, too, and that is a burden. And immense freedom. We are all growing older, and that's a hard thing for each of us to accept.

Tuesday Evening (Apartment Bedroom, 11:00): Folding clothes. Arranging underwear. A glass of ice water and Amos Lee through earbuds. Twenty minutes of solidarity of being. Contentment in lavender-vanilla scented fabric softener.

Dear Diaries

I’ve recently become privy to the heart of a 13 year old girl, via her secret and inner-most thoughts kept in her diaries. Behind her still child-like print and neon-colored ink, her thoughts lie in wait, behind her words, even, hoping to be discovered. It’s hard, sometimes, wading through the cotton candy that is firework flames and rapid fire heartbreak, but there’s a person there, a hint of what she will become.
Reading the account of her days is an experience. This girl works in extremes; opposites are built into her nature, and thus I am forced to operate on her same extremes, her same paradoxical emotions transferred to me. I laugh at her dramatic sentences, her wild emotions prefaced with haughty words and grand phrases. I sober at her expressions of her doubt, the quiet questioning of herself—with these she is less bold. I am emboldened when she is sure of herself, painfully afraid when she is challenged.
Our likeness is beyond our keeping of journals—I started writing at the same age she is now. I still have my journals; she will revere her pages until we are both too old to know we wrote them. She has become who I am; she is a part of me. Her 13 year old feelings belong to me at 21. Her hopes, mine. Her doubts, mine, too. She questions the same things I do, and faithfully accepts ideals I embrace along with her. “Who am I?” she asks, and I echo, “What am I doing with myself?” “Am I capable of love?” she wonders. I answer, “Is loneliness forever?” “Am I understood?” we beg in unison.
At times I want to scream at this girl, to rip out her words and abuse her immaturity. Other times, I embrace her in her fragility, long to protect her vulnerable heart. I want to give her the answers, show her how she can live and be happy, but then I remember, I am without answers. Just like her, I have only questions.
I don’t know why this girl has chosen to let me into her life, her world of possible lies, of beautiful truths. Perhaps I am the actualization of her desire for her secrets to be known by another person. Perhaps I am the person for whom she leaves her diary on a café table, the person she wants to read her thoughts and know her truth. Perhaps she needs the affirmation of her voice—as if someone reading her words validates their reason for existing. Or maybe only that she is not an apostle of secrets, a treasurer of mystery. She may be too bold, or not bold enough, too full of lies, or too strict with honesty. But I think in her writing, I have learned only a little of who she is, and infinitely more of who I am becoming.

time enough for words

I’ve had this poem in my brain since early Thursday; I’ve been working it and reworking it, and I finally got a sketch of it down in class last night. It’s been coming to me for days in the form of images—ephemeral photographs in my mind to which I’m struggling to ascribe language and words. It’s about 20 lines or so, folded in my pocket, being carried around in the anticipation of something to click in my brain and make it fit. It’d be a good poem…if someone else would write it. Or if I could make the images in my mind and my vocabulary connect.
Today was the day I would let it rest. Today was the day I would think about everything but that unrhymed demon nesting in my pocket, folded into notebook paper, just waiting to be constructed into something other than the half-formed mess it is right now. So in letting it rest, a completely different poem wrote itself out on my computer screen. I woke up with this new poem coated on my teeth, spoke this new poem to my dash on the drive to work, wrote out this new poem in about an hour at my desk.
I’m jealous of the ease at which this new poem unfurled; frustrated that it should have been more difficult to be justified.
Damn writing.

On Death

I've been engaged in conversations about life lately, and as I was writing tonight, I found something I wrote about death back in October. We view death and life as paradoxical extremes, but I don't know if that's true or not. These paragraphs speak of death as beautiful, and at the same time, I realize that the whole process of death can be bitter, terrifying, and ugly. Can the two be one? Anyway, the post.

~

We're afraid of death. As a culture we want to live a long time, and have a painless death, and there be guaranteed the peace of happy eternal existence. That's not a bad hope... The truth is, no one knows what death is like, and no one knows what death will bring, so we're scared of it. Perhaps we should be. But we don't even talk about it--not until we're standing over cocktail weenies at a funeral, and even then we're saying trite, meaningless things like, "Well, at least he's in a better place now," and "She would have wanted it this way."

How do we know what she would have wanted, what kind of place he's in if we never talk about it? It's morbid to talk about death. Instead of it being a healthy and necessary curiosity, it's a secret thing only the depressed and dying think about.

I think about death, I always have, especially m own. I always think about how people will react to it, as if their reactions and grief would be something I could watch from an invisible perch on the wall.

I want my own death to be something talked about, candidly, without fear and hesitation. I want people to think about mortality, and [the existence of] God, and perhaps most of all, each other. I want my death to allow people to see how much they really need other people. When I die, I want people to find healing in each other--through the love they can offer, through stories that won't fall on deaf ears, through shared meals and silent hugs, through meandering down neighborhood streets where life's essential questions are asked and challenged, through the community of connection with other people. I want people to enjoy their lover's body, I want people to pay attention to the warmth of the heart next to them, the feel of a person in their hands.

I want the healing of my loss to be found in the commonality of grief and love.

Grievers, be comforted...seek your ability to love another person. If you need to, sit amongst my things and remember. Know that I was happy. I would want people to know that I was happy, and that my moments of unhappiness were only because of things still not experiences, and not because of pain....Experience your life, love your life and the people in it.

We are so comfortable in the things of our life, when really, I think the prospect of all that is really in the world--truly seeing and knowing the true beauty made in creation--if we understood that, we should never be comfortable.

I think death touches that chord of true beauty in our souls--death shows us that things are transient, and even such a think as intangible as our connection with another person can be broken, that its bitter ripping away from ourselves leaves us with a would we aren't sure how to heal.

Death makes pain natural, and healing a discovery. Death should make us know we are meant for other people.