Foreigner.

Homeskillets, I am tired. I worked my rear off last week at work, trying to hire a replacement, and now I've got to train her. I get off at 2 pm every day wanting a tequila sunrise. I'm too drained to even spend time with the friends I'll leave. Too tired to keep my mind engaged, my heart wanting more. I feel this strain on my relationships like little strings of elastic stretching, stretching, stretching until they break, too tired to hold on any longer. 

My life is in boxes stacked in corners. Two weeks and counting. Can I do this? Or is it too late for second thoughts? On the plus side, the cat I want to adopt in Miss. is still un-adopted. I feel guilty for hoping she goes unadopted until I arrive, pretending to be a hero. 

The urge to tell stories is coming back to me. This is probably a  good sign. I need to find my voice again, because the stories are there, scratching the underside of my skin, looking for a tear to make larger. 

I am going to miss my family terribly. I already feel incapable, unaware of the change I will soon undergo. 

A poem, to summarize. 

Sobre Transportes del Norte, Lola Haskins

He leans across the aisle, and points

out my window to a field where three

streams of water gush straight up.

Agua caliente, he says. De la tierra.

We are nearing Zamora. The bus

slides by the blue wall of the plastics

factory. PRD, says the wall. And, 

PRI. All Mexico is coming to a boil.

Yo so de Salinas, he says. California.

He pulls his wallet out of his jeans,

scratches his undershirted stomach,

and passes me three folded sheets.

See? he says. Tickets. They are damp

from riding under him. Drunk driving

he says proudly. One more, and they

put me in jail. I like cerveza too much.

And he grins, and his teeth are so white

I think they would glow in the dark.

He folds the papers, leans back, puts

them away again. We are passing 

fields of maguey, full of broken glass

which glitters in the sun. I am foreign.

There is so much I do not understand. 

The Ease of Things

My mind has been settling back into the ease of things. I've been cooking, that's always a good sign--homey foods, comfortable foods that are simple to prepare and rich in taste and somehow infinitely more satisfying than food prepared by a stranger's hands.  Potatoes, creamy tomato pasta sauces, and fresh sliced veggies--they ground me in the simpleness of home. I was lucky, really, to have such a simple childhood. My parents were not rich, so they provided for my brother and I in the manner they knew: good laughter, outdoor play, family suppers. 

I don't know when I began to accumulate so many things. I've always been a bit of a packrat--storing away cards and movie stubs in tupperware boxes under my bed. But when did I start to collect so much stuff that holds no significance for me at all? I long to simplify. Clean out. Get rid of. But somehow, I've convinced myself that I need things. When I picture myself in my new home in Oxford, I see clean things, organized spaces, and warm, comfortable colors gracing the walls in playful splashes. Inevitably, when a mood like this strikes, I want to be a painter. I'm convinced that in a former life I was. In moods like this, I can literally feel the brush in my hand, the paint smudged on my fingertips. It's there, but try as I might, I can't bring the picture in my mind to life. It's hard to sense the beauty of a lived-in space if there are so many things cluttering it up. My creativity is stifled by the busyness of my home. I long for quiet, stillness, and the sense of perfect ease that once came so freely. 

Sex and Suffering.

I don't typically post poetry unless I have a busy mind, so I guess I'm busy trying to organize the next few months in my mind. I love this poem, so, for your reading pleasure, Tony Hoagland's "Self-Improvement":

Just before she flew off like a swan

to her wealthy parents' summer home,

Bruce's college girlfriend asked him to

improve his expertise at oral sex, 

and offered him some technical advice:

use nothing but his tongue tip

to flick the light switch in his room 

on and off a hundred times a day

until he grew fluent at the nuances

of force and latitude.

Imagine him at practice every evening,

more inspired than he ever was by algebra,

beads of sweat sprouting on his brow,

thinking, thirty-seven, thirty-eight,

seeing, in the tunnel vision of his mind's eye,

the quadratic equation of her climax

yield to the logic

of his simple math.

Maybe he unscrewed

the bulb from his apartment ceiling

so that the passerby would not believe

a giant firefly was pulsing

its electric abdomen in 3b.

Maybe, as he stood

two inches from the wall,

in darkness, fogging the old plaster

with his breath, he visualized the future

as a mansion rising from the hillside

of the shore that he was rowing to

with his tongue's exhausted oar.

Of course the girlfriend dumped him:

met someone apres-ski, who,

using nothing but his nose,

could identify the vintage of a Cabernet.

Sometimes we are asked 

to get good at something we have no talent for,

or excel at something we will never 

have the opportunity to prove.

Often we ask ourselves

to make absolute sense

out of what just happens

and in this way, what we are practicing

is suffering, 

which everybody practices,

but strangely few of us

grow graceful in.

The climaxes of suffering are complex, 

costly, beautiful, but secret.

Bruce never played the light switch again.

So the avenues we walk down, 

full of bodies wearing faces, 

are full of hidden talent:

enough to make pianos moan,

sidewalks split,

streetlights deliriously flicker. 

Walks With Dogs

It's a really beautiful day today. It's unseasonably warm for February, but it's beautiful anyway. I woke up around 8:15 this morning, and my mom dropped off the Yorshire Terrier that is now napping behind my head. Bogart and I just got back from our walk--I like walking with a dog because people who are outside inevitably stop and talk to you because you have a dog. And I think there's a direct correlation between old women and small dogs: the older the woman, smaller the dog she'll think is adorable. It's okay, though, because now two little old ladies in the condos adjoined to my apartment complex know me via Bogey.

Walking with a dog gives me the chance to think. Inevitably, when I walk through the condo-neighborhood, I think about what I want in life, where I want to be, who I want to be with, what I want to be doing. Obviously, I haven't the smallest clue. But on a day like this, not knowing seems better than being certain. And I've got plenty of time.

I've started watching my health a little better, and in only two weeks, I'm noticing how much happier, how much better I feel. Walks like today, enjoying them, prompts me to believe I want to stick around for days like this. There's a lot of bad going on in the world, there's a lot of hurt that won't be solved--I tend to let those things overtake my perspective. Walks with dogs tend to clear your mind. Boo, for instance, is the happiest dog in the universe. I really don't think there's ever a moment Bogey doesn't want to be around you, doesn't want to play fetch or hide-and-seek (and yeah, Bogart totally plays hide-and-seek, it's how he got his nickname, 'Boo'). It's infectious, really, the happiness of a dog. Even a small dog.

Happiness is generally infectious, anyway, isn't it? I went for dinner at the Bees Knees last night with a friend of mine. I don't know this woman particularly well; she just sat in front of me in Weiss' philosophy class last semester, and we chatted a lot. Yet there's this connection between us--be it shared interests, coinciding sensibilities, or something likened to the kindredness of spirits, I don't know. But hanging out with Melinda is just super fun. Even when we're talking about owing interest to the IRS and House resolutions that if passed, could not only outlaw abortion, but multiple types of birth control and assisted reproduction (HR 536-Scott), the world doesn't seem entirely dark. We disagree on who to vote for in Tuesday's primary, we've got different views of spirituality and religion, she's eons more intelligent than I, and my life is a little bit more stable than hers right now. But I think at the core of it all, we both just want to be happy. I think we try to be happy, and I think we try to bring happiness to the lives of those we encounter. As I was driving home after I stuffed myself on hummus and pita, I couldn't help but think how those that bring happiness make us want to get up and do good things for people. I think if we all tried to bring small joy into the lives around us, we'd all be better off.

The truth is, I'm worried about a lot of things. I habitually take on too many things at once and I exhaust myself. I was on the phone with mom yesterday afternoon, complaining about how exhausted I was. She responded, simply, "Well, you've been going all week, haven't you?" I try to control too many uncontrollable things. The beauty of walks with small dogs is that there's nothing to control. There's nothing to stress you out, nothing to busy your mind. It's just the dog and the joy he brings you.

Hyperbolic

It's been ages since I've last updated. Things feel much the same. I finished all my grad school applications, and now I wait until March or April to find out my fate (my wyrd, as I just finished reading Beowulf). After looking over one of my applications, I realized I screwed up big time. I made silly grammatical errors that I'm really ashamed to have made. Luckily, it wasn't for the school that I really have my hopes set on. Unfortunately, it was my Plan C school, and if I don't get into it, I may be certifiably boned.

I graduate in May. May. 116 days. I feel too small to graduate, for graduate school. I worry about what would happen if I don't get accepted, but I also worry about what will happen if I do. Both seem impossible. My lease doesn't end until July 31st, though, so it would appear that I'm worrying now for nothing. If I get in, I'll go. If I don't, I'll stay, and try again. But right now, I feel as if I am either treading unceremoniously still waters, or getting ready to enter an unconquerable torrent.

As far as this semester goes, I'm procrastinating the one thing I need to be doing (THESIS!). I'm strangely diligent in one of my classes, normally studious in the others. I miss Weiss' philosophy class. There was room for discussion there. He knew the answers, but left room for questions. My history professor, though brilliant, asks us questions to which he already has definite answers. My Anglo-Saxon professor gives us quizzes. Weiss told good stories. And we, as classmates, sparked a strange camaraderie amongst each other that is rare to most classrooms.

I have a new boss. His name is Jim and he is tall and full of energy. This is a nice contrast to the sack of oats that occupied the desk previously. Also, he seems to value my opinion as an employee; he is not patronizing and he seems to trust my opinions. I hope he is not too young and too bold for the congregation. Or rather, I hope they are not stalwarts of tradition. My job has been incredibly busy lately, and I've enjoyed it. I feel revitalized at work. I feel as if my paycheck is not a thief's bounty. It's strange, feeling like my part-time job is my work, and my classes are play.

I received a compliment, a prompt to enter an essay contest, and an encouragement to present my research from a professor who I did not realize knew my name, much less remembered the paper I wrote. I still place my teachers in a box, and assume they do not have memories for the students they teach. One day, I would like to sit down with them, as something other than a student, and talk about things other than literature. If I was not a student, could we be friends?

I threw my mother a surprise 50th birthday party on Saturday. I sat, very much a guest, at a table of women who were all in their late 40's and early 50's. They told stories I should have paid more attention to so that I could write them down one day and feel nostalgic. They remarked on their age: their 30s were good because that was their time that they grew and knew their families. In their 40s, they met their closest friends, and came to know themselves. They feel old and aging in their 50s, but it's nice, because they really know themselves and are comfortable with the women they have come to be. There wasn't much I could contribute to this dialogue. None sat around the table wanted to return to their 20s--too much was uncertain, too much of themselves was unknown. If they had to go back, they would want to take with them the wisdom they now posses. I'm 22. I feel I know myself fairly well, yet in their company, I felt young, foolish, and unrefined. I felt like there is still very much I've yet to learn, but my lessons must be stumbled across and not sought out.

One day, I will write a play about these women.

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.