Tuesday, October 27, 2009
poetic perspectives
So we're wrapping up my first month of blogging (applause), and I feel pretty good about this whole thing. It's another notebook for me to add to my collection, as I've exausted a few and started another one that's this awesome ugly yellow color. (I love composition books!)
So I do want to put an after-note on some of these entries, poems, rants, etc.
We're pretty much all adults here, and I'm sure we can handle all adult content at its best and worst.
But I definitely want to address perspectives. In classes, we all learn about "first person", second, third, lalala.
Most of my work is written in first person/"I"--whether it's in my poetry, fiction, and especially nonfiction. This blog is my regurgitation of all forms of writing, and (with the previous entry "Adam's Apple" for an example,) my speaker doesn't always mean me.
For example, the speaker in "Adam's Apple" is a young, confused, sexual girl. Although I am young, confused, and love talking about sexual things, she is a character--a speaker--that lives in my head. Just as characters like Caleb, Ruth, a nameless girl, etc. also live in my head. (These are story ideas, by the way.) In my head, there is a woman who has just undergone a sex change, and a man who falls in love with her. When this guy finds out his girlfriend used to be a man, he goes nuts, starts walking around malls, auto shops, fitness clubs, etc. to check out his gaydar. He tests his own physical attraction for others, and frantically tries to find out of he is also attracted to men.
I also have a cat named Felipe that lives in my head. But I think it's because I want a cat named Felipe. However, I think he could definitely contribute something to the cause.
So I do want to put an after-note on some of these entries, poems, rants, etc.
We're pretty much all adults here, and I'm sure we can handle all adult content at its best and worst.
But I definitely want to address perspectives. In classes, we all learn about "first person", second, third, lalala.
Most of my work is written in first person/"I"--whether it's in my poetry, fiction, and especially nonfiction. This blog is my regurgitation of all forms of writing, and (with the previous entry "Adam's Apple" for an example,) my speaker doesn't always mean me.
For example, the speaker in "Adam's Apple" is a young, confused, sexual girl. Although I am young, confused, and love talking about sexual things, she is a character--a speaker--that lives in my head. Just as characters like Caleb, Ruth, a nameless girl, etc. also live in my head. (These are story ideas, by the way.) In my head, there is a woman who has just undergone a sex change, and a man who falls in love with her. When this guy finds out his girlfriend used to be a man, he goes nuts, starts walking around malls, auto shops, fitness clubs, etc. to check out his gaydar. He tests his own physical attraction for others, and frantically tries to find out of he is also attracted to men.
I also have a cat named Felipe that lives in my head. But I think it's because I want a cat named Felipe. However, I think he could definitely contribute something to the cause.
Adam's Apple
You chugged a bottle of water,
and my attention shifted from your sweaty,
water-pearled hair, your slick chest
to the bobbing lump in your throat
and I imagine a fishing line
teasing my eyes in the water's reflection
and the sun's playful peek-a-boo
over the pond's circumference.
I see the red and white bait slowly meander
over the surfance, and sometimes it dips
and dunks but I can never
catch a fish.
Why is it called an Adam's apple? I ask
and poke the bony, tumor-like interruption
in your throat.
Dunno, you said.
I try to push it back in.
Ow! That's tender, don't poke it, you said
and gave me the remnants of water, probably
dominated with saliva.
I thought of the tender bite on my shoulder,
how you bit into it as if it were a peach or something.
Your teeth slid in easily,
not as hard as your apple,
and I wonder if Eve took your hard
aggressive bite, or if she just nibbled
like I do on the half-crescent of your
ear, a taste-test, a sample;
I'm sure she'd never tasted something like that before.
And Adam sees this rebellion
of God's broken rules
And he sees Eve nibble and gets jealous.
I think Adam ripped Eve a new one
or maybe chewed through her cognitive wires and said,
You idiot, why did you do that?!
but Eve was confused and she had no idea.
But Adam, what are you talking about? she asked.
God said don't touch! Don't bite! he said.
But he didn't tell me--you didn't tell me, she said.
But you should've known, you stupid woman.
So Adam thought, what the hell,
we're dying anyway,
so he ripped the fruit from her hand
and chomped a chunk out of the apple
and obnoxiously chewed with apple mush stringing
among the threads of saliva.
Eve starts getting angry
Why didn't you tell me?
You should've known. There are some things you shouldn't have to be told, he said.
She took the apple from his hand and,
mid-bite,
she shoved her hand down his throat
until the apple gets stuck
and Adam is suffocating,
choking as the apple bits fly like
little gnats out of his gasping, gaping mouth.
and my attention shifted from your sweaty,
water-pearled hair, your slick chest
to the bobbing lump in your throat
and I imagine a fishing line
teasing my eyes in the water's reflection
and the sun's playful peek-a-boo
over the pond's circumference.
I see the red and white bait slowly meander
over the surfance, and sometimes it dips
and dunks but I can never
catch a fish.
Why is it called an Adam's apple? I ask
and poke the bony, tumor-like interruption
in your throat.
Dunno, you said.
I try to push it back in.
Ow! That's tender, don't poke it, you said
and gave me the remnants of water, probably
dominated with saliva.
I thought of the tender bite on my shoulder,
how you bit into it as if it were a peach or something.
Your teeth slid in easily,
not as hard as your apple,
and I wonder if Eve took your hard
aggressive bite, or if she just nibbled
like I do on the half-crescent of your
ear, a taste-test, a sample;
I'm sure she'd never tasted something like that before.
And Adam sees this rebellion
of God's broken rules
And he sees Eve nibble and gets jealous.
I think Adam ripped Eve a new one
or maybe chewed through her cognitive wires and said,
You idiot, why did you do that?!
but Eve was confused and she had no idea.
But Adam, what are you talking about? she asked.
God said don't touch! Don't bite! he said.
But he didn't tell me--you didn't tell me, she said.
But you should've known, you stupid woman.
So Adam thought, what the hell,
we're dying anyway,
so he ripped the fruit from her hand
and chomped a chunk out of the apple
and obnoxiously chewed with apple mush stringing
among the threads of saliva.
Eve starts getting angry
Why didn't you tell me?
You should've known. There are some things you shouldn't have to be told, he said.
She took the apple from his hand and,
mid-bite,
she shoved her hand down his throat
until the apple gets stuck
and Adam is suffocating,
choking as the apple bits fly like
little gnats out of his gasping, gaping mouth.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
word vomit
Roots
Change
Grow
Exterminate
Bloom
Expand
Depth
Grow
Growth
Growing
Grown
Roots
Uproot
Uprooted
Replanted
Grounded
Sand vs Soil
Peace vs Ignorance
(un)willingness
acceptance vs. rejection
home
dwelling
dwell
grudge
circles
questions
answers
repeat
over
over
over
repeat
over
roots
sanity
uproot
denial
right
wrong
over
over
over
Change
Grow
Exterminate
Bloom
Expand
Depth
Grow
Growth
Growing
Grown
Roots
Uproot
Uprooted
Replanted
Grounded
Sand vs Soil
Peace vs Ignorance
(un)willingness
acceptance vs. rejection
home
dwelling
dwell
grudge
circles
questions
answers
repeat
over
over
over
repeat
over
roots
sanity
uproot
denial
right
wrong
over
over
over
Friday, October 23, 2009
a penny for your thoughts
I wrote a sonnet for a class assignment, and I want to know what you guys think. So PLEASE comment, and feel free to critique. If something doesn't make sense or sounds funny or awkward, please tell me! For those of you who don't live in English world, a sonnet (the English, anyway) is a 14 line poem, written in iambic pentameter (10 syllables with the accent being on every other syllable,) with the rhyme scheme being ABABCDCD, etc...then the sonnet ends with a rhyming couplet (the last two lines.) I will say that I do follow the formalist requirements, only my iambic pentameter isn't perfect...I do have 10 syllables in each line, but my stressed and unstressed syllables aren't perfect, which isn't a big deal.
Here goes.
Oh, and I'd love to have thoughts on what you make of the content.
Thanks guys!
Trees that Die
The trunk stands crooked, shedding woodchip scales;
the leaves are red and gold and fading green;
the knobby arms with bony fingers fail
to reach the clouds that taunt and sky that cleans
the earth and roots with a freefalling sea.
The storm sends wind, caressing branch and bloom,
and thunder vibrates heating air, a tease
that tempts barky spine to release its tomb
of guarded and logical heart. Trees strain
and reach for the atmospheric borders,
roots wiggle through the mass of soft terrain,
they spiral down like lightning that orders--
"Depart from me" He accents with a bolt,
as leaves float down like hands He couldn't hold.
Here goes.
Oh, and I'd love to have thoughts on what you make of the content.
Thanks guys!
Trees that Die
The trunk stands crooked, shedding woodchip scales;
the leaves are red and gold and fading green;
the knobby arms with bony fingers fail
to reach the clouds that taunt and sky that cleans
the earth and roots with a freefalling sea.
The storm sends wind, caressing branch and bloom,
and thunder vibrates heating air, a tease
that tempts barky spine to release its tomb
of guarded and logical heart. Trees strain
and reach for the atmospheric borders,
roots wiggle through the mass of soft terrain,
they spiral down like lightning that orders--
"Depart from me" He accents with a bolt,
as leaves float down like hands He couldn't hold.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
The Beginning of my Journey into Superpower-dom
After a night of not enough sleep (which I blame fully on Joyce Kilmer and his insult to women and his motivation to make me write blasphemy against him; and yes, Joyce is a man), after 8am poetry, I attacked my bed, a bowl of rice krispies (no sugar), and the remote. I flipped it to one of the last episodes of the 3rd season of Heroes...one of my only tv obsessions, which I don't even watch episodically on tv, but through the complete seasons.
I've become entranced by this whole superpower idea--somehow I missed that from around ages 4-18. I watched an episode and a half (the suspense nearly killed me,) then as I trudged up the hill, I kept wondering what it would be like to read people's minds like Matt Parkman. I passed by several people around Cherry, wondering what the guy with the dreads would think. He was wearing those ear-swallowing headphones, the ones that look like an agent would wear in the 40s as he tried to crack the code of Japanese correspondence.
Then I morphed back into English world as I entered Cherry Hall.
I swear, I'm not on drugs. Not illegal ones, anyway. And I had yet to have a cup of coffee, but I know I was not hallucinating.
You know how sometimes--especially during school or as you're walking down the street in a big city, you feel a bit alone (this can be good or bad,) and you feel like it would be crazy to run into someone you know?
I feel like that a lot, even though I've gotten to know many people in Cherry Hall--all my classes are there, plus I work there.
Well, I would say about 3 seconds into my stoic-faced entrance, I immediately noticed 4 completely random, unattached friends in the same cluster outside room 120. Some were walking out of the class, one was standing against the wall, a couple were walking in. I thought about saying hi to Dustin and Lauren until I realized I'd have to say hi to everyone, but I'm not in that much of a people mood.
I kept walking.
Nathan came out of Dr. Hunley's office to my left, someone else (I don't remember which friend it was,) came out of the door to my right, then 10 yards down the hallway, Sarah was to the right against the wall, Elizabeth was to the left against the wall. I approached the Writing Lab as someone (again, a friend who I forget) came out of the lab as my other Lauren was walking in.
I was FREAKING OUT. That's like 10 people within 30 seconds of walking down ONE HALLWAY ON ONE FLOOR. Maybe it seems strange to you. Why would that freak me out?
I guess it might've been rude of me not to say anything to anyone. Honestly, I was walking and very dazed, but the reaction time between sight and thought was a bit slow, so talking to these people was an option that didn't really hit me until I walked into the Writing Center with buggy eyes and a quickened pace.
I told one friend. We went to the bathroom--the private one for faculty only, we each peed, telling funny stories of the day. There are 3 stalls, and usually no more than 2 people in at once. A lady was in another stall--probably pooping--then Kelly and I started washing our hands when 2 more professors walked in, each took a stall. 5 people in one tiny bathroom is pretty overwhelming. I felt claustrophobic. We walked out the first door into the lobby area, another professor walked in. Walked out the other door to the hallway and another was making her way to the pot.
WHAT THE FREAK.
I get the feeling this entry probably isn't as interesting or thought-provoking as my others.
But my friends speculate that I have this superpower in which everyone I know is drawn to me somehow.
Bleeker: "You definitely bring something to the table."
Juno: "Charisma."
I've become entranced by this whole superpower idea--somehow I missed that from around ages 4-18. I watched an episode and a half (the suspense nearly killed me,) then as I trudged up the hill, I kept wondering what it would be like to read people's minds like Matt Parkman. I passed by several people around Cherry, wondering what the guy with the dreads would think. He was wearing those ear-swallowing headphones, the ones that look like an agent would wear in the 40s as he tried to crack the code of Japanese correspondence.
Then I morphed back into English world as I entered Cherry Hall.
I swear, I'm not on drugs. Not illegal ones, anyway. And I had yet to have a cup of coffee, but I know I was not hallucinating.
You know how sometimes--especially during school or as you're walking down the street in a big city, you feel a bit alone (this can be good or bad,) and you feel like it would be crazy to run into someone you know?
I feel like that a lot, even though I've gotten to know many people in Cherry Hall--all my classes are there, plus I work there.
Well, I would say about 3 seconds into my stoic-faced entrance, I immediately noticed 4 completely random, unattached friends in the same cluster outside room 120. Some were walking out of the class, one was standing against the wall, a couple were walking in. I thought about saying hi to Dustin and Lauren until I realized I'd have to say hi to everyone, but I'm not in that much of a people mood.
I kept walking.
Nathan came out of Dr. Hunley's office to my left, someone else (I don't remember which friend it was,) came out of the door to my right, then 10 yards down the hallway, Sarah was to the right against the wall, Elizabeth was to the left against the wall. I approached the Writing Lab as someone (again, a friend who I forget) came out of the lab as my other Lauren was walking in.
I was FREAKING OUT. That's like 10 people within 30 seconds of walking down ONE HALLWAY ON ONE FLOOR. Maybe it seems strange to you. Why would that freak me out?
I guess it might've been rude of me not to say anything to anyone. Honestly, I was walking and very dazed, but the reaction time between sight and thought was a bit slow, so talking to these people was an option that didn't really hit me until I walked into the Writing Center with buggy eyes and a quickened pace.
I told one friend. We went to the bathroom--the private one for faculty only, we each peed, telling funny stories of the day. There are 3 stalls, and usually no more than 2 people in at once. A lady was in another stall--probably pooping--then Kelly and I started washing our hands when 2 more professors walked in, each took a stall. 5 people in one tiny bathroom is pretty overwhelming. I felt claustrophobic. We walked out the first door into the lobby area, another professor walked in. Walked out the other door to the hallway and another was making her way to the pot.
WHAT THE FREAK.
I get the feeling this entry probably isn't as interesting or thought-provoking as my others.
But my friends speculate that I have this superpower in which everyone I know is drawn to me somehow.
Bleeker: "You definitely bring something to the table."
Juno: "Charisma."
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
I worry about things, and I get scared about things.
Things I worry about should be more of a scared thing, and things I get scared about should be under "worry" criteria...as in not so big of a deal, but worthy of worry. Then again, nothing is worthy of worry in a Christian perspective. Though I'm Christian, I feel like my human tendencies greatly overwhelm the Christian part.
ex:
I worry about paying bills, skipping exercise for like 2 weeks, the greasy spot along the dips between my face and nose, my consistently bloody fingernails, my Peace Corps application that is still unfinished (although it's for a purpose,) reading the books I need to read, writing the things I need to write, getting all A's, taking the GRE, Grad School, mission work, relationships, friendships, family, my future family, boys, finding enough chocolate throughout the day, getting smothered by all the Wal Mart people traffic, finishing up the 3rd season of Heroes...
Here's why I'm scared:
I worry about those things, but they don't deeply affect me.
I do cry sometimes from being so stressed and overwhelmed, but my outbursts don't get deep to the core. In stead of internally being so wrapped up in an emotion, I often feel that I'm 20 feet away from myself, looking through a window or mirror, watching myself cry out of partial emotion. I cry because it's this bodily reaction due to internal and external factors. Crying is normal. But me crying doesn't mean I'm having this super-intense feeling session.
In fact, I'm scared because most of the time, I'm numb.
Beyond the body-part-goes-to-sleep tingle numb, but the absolutely-no-feeling numb. I feel like a phantom limb would create more nerve-ending reactions than my body would right now. I'm in this state of no-repurcussions...I can't be too busy...who cares what people think (which I actually do appreciate)...I could write all day and be content...I could cuss out somebody and not feel regret...someone could cuss me out and it wouldn't really bother me that much...
THAT numb.
The does-God-hear-me numb followed by the I-don't-try-to-be-heard numb.
The stoic-face numb. The mechanical-voice numb. (My voice has changed...I noticed that today.)
The slice-your-toe-and-ask-your-roomate-to-sew-it-up numb.
Honestly, pain affects me, but my body doesn't really respond to it that much. A lot of people think that I put on this "tough girl" front, that I can handle things non-babyish, especially with my softball background.
And honestly, I worry that pain isn't that big of a deal for me anymore.
I got plugged with a softball the other day.
I sliced my toe open a couple months ago, and it needed stitches.
But honestly, I didn't really care.
The initial pain hurt, but later, I didn't think about it. Until I will randomly glance at the thin scar on my toe, or I'll rub my barely-tender forearm against the edge of a desk and feel the slightest twinge of a bruised muscle.
Then I go on with life.
I guess I should appreciate pain--that I can still feel it, that my nerves rush through my body like an alarm just went off.
*Wee-uw, wee-uw, wee-uw!* the sirens of my nervous system scream.
My body reacts, but my emotions don't--unless I say something like "piss!" (or other words to that effect) as a response.
But honestly, I feel that I say those because it's normal. Because it's pure reaction for me to scream my favorite four-letter words when I'm pegged by fallen blinds or piss-rocket throws.
A numb, unthought reaction. One without root, one without nerve endings.
Worry is a simple reaction to things we don't fully comprehend
But I'm not scared of grades and the future.
I scared my feelings won't wake up to my own urgency, that I'll ignore myself along with ignoring other opinions that I don't care so much about. Scared that I may stay for things I don't need to stay for, scared that I'll leave purely for the sake of leaving/running/escaping.
Maybe numbness could pay off when I need to do what I need to do.
I don't know, but I'm very intrigued by this numbness thing.
Relationships fail, no big deal. My ideals change, no big deal. My body changes, no big deal.
It's life. It moves, I move. Sometimes it moves just out of reaction.
Things I worry about should be more of a scared thing, and things I get scared about should be under "worry" criteria...as in not so big of a deal, but worthy of worry. Then again, nothing is worthy of worry in a Christian perspective. Though I'm Christian, I feel like my human tendencies greatly overwhelm the Christian part.
ex:
I worry about paying bills, skipping exercise for like 2 weeks, the greasy spot along the dips between my face and nose, my consistently bloody fingernails, my Peace Corps application that is still unfinished (although it's for a purpose,) reading the books I need to read, writing the things I need to write, getting all A's, taking the GRE, Grad School, mission work, relationships, friendships, family, my future family, boys, finding enough chocolate throughout the day, getting smothered by all the Wal Mart people traffic, finishing up the 3rd season of Heroes...
Here's why I'm scared:
I worry about those things, but they don't deeply affect me.
I do cry sometimes from being so stressed and overwhelmed, but my outbursts don't get deep to the core. In stead of internally being so wrapped up in an emotion, I often feel that I'm 20 feet away from myself, looking through a window or mirror, watching myself cry out of partial emotion. I cry because it's this bodily reaction due to internal and external factors. Crying is normal. But me crying doesn't mean I'm having this super-intense feeling session.
In fact, I'm scared because most of the time, I'm numb.
Beyond the body-part-goes-to-sleep tingle numb, but the absolutely-no-feeling numb. I feel like a phantom limb would create more nerve-ending reactions than my body would right now. I'm in this state of no-repurcussions...I can't be too busy...who cares what people think (which I actually do appreciate)...I could write all day and be content...I could cuss out somebody and not feel regret...someone could cuss me out and it wouldn't really bother me that much...
THAT numb.
The does-God-hear-me numb followed by the I-don't-try-to-be-heard numb.
The stoic-face numb. The mechanical-voice numb. (My voice has changed...I noticed that today.)
The slice-your-toe-and-ask-your-roomate-to-sew-it-up numb.
Honestly, pain affects me, but my body doesn't really respond to it that much. A lot of people think that I put on this "tough girl" front, that I can handle things non-babyish, especially with my softball background.
And honestly, I worry that pain isn't that big of a deal for me anymore.
I got plugged with a softball the other day.
I sliced my toe open a couple months ago, and it needed stitches.
But honestly, I didn't really care.
The initial pain hurt, but later, I didn't think about it. Until I will randomly glance at the thin scar on my toe, or I'll rub my barely-tender forearm against the edge of a desk and feel the slightest twinge of a bruised muscle.
Then I go on with life.
I guess I should appreciate pain--that I can still feel it, that my nerves rush through my body like an alarm just went off.
*Wee-uw, wee-uw, wee-uw!* the sirens of my nervous system scream.
My body reacts, but my emotions don't--unless I say something like "piss!" (or other words to that effect) as a response.
But honestly, I feel that I say those because it's normal. Because it's pure reaction for me to scream my favorite four-letter words when I'm pegged by fallen blinds or piss-rocket throws.
A numb, unthought reaction. One without root, one without nerve endings.
Worry is a simple reaction to things we don't fully comprehend
But I'm not scared of grades and the future.
I scared my feelings won't wake up to my own urgency, that I'll ignore myself along with ignoring other opinions that I don't care so much about. Scared that I may stay for things I don't need to stay for, scared that I'll leave purely for the sake of leaving/running/escaping.
Maybe numbness could pay off when I need to do what I need to do.
I don't know, but I'm very intrigued by this numbness thing.
Relationships fail, no big deal. My ideals change, no big deal. My body changes, no big deal.
It's life. It moves, I move. Sometimes it moves just out of reaction.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Socks and Windshield Wipers
1. Although the heater in my apartment is finally fixed, my feet are always cold. I usually sleep in as few clothes as possible because I love being cold when I sleep, but for some reason, I love the feeling of socks on my feet.
2. I love winter because I get to wear funky, warm, thick, long, decorated socks.
3. I am currently wearing light blue socks with yellow ducks on them. I got them when I was a freshman in highschool, maybe a sophomore, so these things are super old. But they're still un-holey. They're absolutely fantastic. I love them.
4. I never pay attention to windshield wipers until my windshield is dirty or until it rains/snows/other crazy precipitation.
5. I'm always complaining about how streaky my windshield gets from the wipers.
6. It takes me forEVER before I'll replace them.
The moral of the story...
wait,
there is no moral to the story.
In fact, there is no connection between duck socks and windshield wipers.
I'm writing about them because I'm wearing duck socks and I'm currently thinking about my car and how it can be improved in quality. (It's not a quality car by any means, but I should take better care of it.)
And I'm random.
Many things I write have no purpose. I prefer that, because I spend a lot of time
thinking in such depth, connecting important things, making metaphors between things like
duck socks and windshield wipers.
But I'm rebelling against my literary needs to make such connections.
Tonight, I choose to write about duck socks and
windshield wipers
because I feel like it.
Because I can.
Because sometimes, writing doesn't have to be burdensome.
Sometimes it can be fun and pointless.
Fun and pointless like duck socks.
Wait, did I just make a metaphor?
2. I love winter because I get to wear funky, warm, thick, long, decorated socks.
3. I am currently wearing light blue socks with yellow ducks on them. I got them when I was a freshman in highschool, maybe a sophomore, so these things are super old. But they're still un-holey. They're absolutely fantastic. I love them.
4. I never pay attention to windshield wipers until my windshield is dirty or until it rains/snows/other crazy precipitation.
5. I'm always complaining about how streaky my windshield gets from the wipers.
6. It takes me forEVER before I'll replace them.
The moral of the story...
wait,
there is no moral to the story.
In fact, there is no connection between duck socks and windshield wipers.
I'm writing about them because I'm wearing duck socks and I'm currently thinking about my car and how it can be improved in quality. (It's not a quality car by any means, but I should take better care of it.)
And I'm random.
Many things I write have no purpose. I prefer that, because I spend a lot of time
thinking in such depth, connecting important things, making metaphors between things like
duck socks and windshield wipers.
But I'm rebelling against my literary needs to make such connections.
Tonight, I choose to write about duck socks and
windshield wipers
because I feel like it.
Because I can.
Because sometimes, writing doesn't have to be burdensome.
Sometimes it can be fun and pointless.
Fun and pointless like duck socks.
Wait, did I just make a metaphor?
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Ahhhh...nuts
So I'm in Fiction Writing listening to someone critique a story and I'm being all puppy-dog ADD, watching a fly skirt across the room, picking my fingernails until they bleed. I'm checking my phone every 10 minutes, consequently seeing the minutes end with 9. 3:19, 3:29, 3:49, 4:09, 4:19.
4:19. We're supposed to be out in exactly one minute, and we've just started critiquing the third story.
Come on, seriously?
I look out the window, look at a girl's crazy outfit with teal-colored tights, a navy shirt, brown snow boots. Boobs hanging out. She talks a lot.
I look at Dr. Bell's collared shirt. Another set of blue stripes. He wears stripes a lot, specifically blue.
I feel my thigh jiggling from my foot across it--it wag wag wag wag wags like the puppy dog I'm resembling.
I look at my pitiful-looking nails, at the faded writing on my hand. The knobby bone in my right hand sticks out a lot more than my left hand. My red-green-white braided bracelet on my left wrist is starting to fade a little. The white is getting a little dingy, but someone will have to remove my wrist to get that sucker off.
4:23. Come on, dudes. Shut up. I need to go to my apartment, go to the library, get something to eat.
I check my backpack, throw my phone in the pocket out of frustration. But my pocket looks flat.
Uh-oh.
My keys aren't there.
I yank the phone right out of there, text my roommate.
Keys are on my bed. Along with my WKU ID card. Money. Debit card. Credit card.
4:29, we get out. 9 minutes past is completely unacceptable. Come on peeps.
I walk to the apartment, obnoxiously knock on the door, no answer. I repeat several times. No answer. I call both roomies. No answer.
Well, nuts.
Story of my life.
I think I have ADD.
Or amnesia.
Or epilepsy.
Maybe I have a brain tumor.
4:19. We're supposed to be out in exactly one minute, and we've just started critiquing the third story.
Come on, seriously?
I look out the window, look at a girl's crazy outfit with teal-colored tights, a navy shirt, brown snow boots. Boobs hanging out. She talks a lot.
I look at Dr. Bell's collared shirt. Another set of blue stripes. He wears stripes a lot, specifically blue.
I feel my thigh jiggling from my foot across it--it wag wag wag wag wags like the puppy dog I'm resembling.
I look at my pitiful-looking nails, at the faded writing on my hand. The knobby bone in my right hand sticks out a lot more than my left hand. My red-green-white braided bracelet on my left wrist is starting to fade a little. The white is getting a little dingy, but someone will have to remove my wrist to get that sucker off.
4:23. Come on, dudes. Shut up. I need to go to my apartment, go to the library, get something to eat.
I check my backpack, throw my phone in the pocket out of frustration. But my pocket looks flat.
Uh-oh.
My keys aren't there.
I yank the phone right out of there, text my roommate.
Keys are on my bed. Along with my WKU ID card. Money. Debit card. Credit card.
4:29, we get out. 9 minutes past is completely unacceptable. Come on peeps.
I walk to the apartment, obnoxiously knock on the door, no answer. I repeat several times. No answer. I call both roomies. No answer.
Well, nuts.
Story of my life.
I think I have ADD.
Or amnesia.
Or epilepsy.
Maybe I have a brain tumor.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Let's Get Tribal or Something
So a series of songs has been crossing my mind this morning after staying up way too late to finish a poetry portfolio and to study for an 8am quiz.
"Everybody Dance Now" by C+C Music Factory has always reigned as one of my all-time dance-like-a-white-girl-pretending-she's-a-black-girl favorites. It brings out my inner arm-pumping, robot-moving, heisman-posing self. (The Heisman pose? Sadly, yes.)
"15 Steps" by Radiohead brings out my wanna-be tribal self. I want to make a ginormous fire somewhere and do the rain dance. What exactly is the rain dance? I think I'll learn it.
"Bobby McGee" by Janis Joplin...don't be fooled. This may not seem like a dancing song, but I guarantee you it brings out my inner air-guitar hippy. I think I would dance to this around a fire, too, only I would dance like a leg-pattin' country fool. And it would be marvelous.
Prepare yourself for this one.
And remember, I like weird things and I like musicals, so I'm completely justified in wanting to learn the tango.
Probably two of the greatest musical scenes I can think of are from Chicago and Moulin Rouge, where both movies have a super powerful tango scene.
Chicago's is the Cell Block Tango/Murderess Row- "He Had it Comin"
Moulin Rouge's is Le Tango Roxanne.
OOoooooohhhh I have chills! They're so flippin' amazing! (PS if you haven't watched them, youtube them NOW!)
The tango is super powerful, super sexual, super emotional. It's awesome.
And I want to dance so I can find a physical outlet for release, because Lord knows my physical activity is going to pot! Running just doesn't feel so enthralling anymore...
"Everybody Dance Now" by C+C Music Factory has always reigned as one of my all-time dance-like-a-white-girl-pretending-she's-a-black-girl favorites. It brings out my inner arm-pumping, robot-moving, heisman-posing self. (The Heisman pose? Sadly, yes.)
"15 Steps" by Radiohead brings out my wanna-be tribal self. I want to make a ginormous fire somewhere and do the rain dance. What exactly is the rain dance? I think I'll learn it.
"Bobby McGee" by Janis Joplin...don't be fooled. This may not seem like a dancing song, but I guarantee you it brings out my inner air-guitar hippy. I think I would dance to this around a fire, too, only I would dance like a leg-pattin' country fool. And it would be marvelous.
Prepare yourself for this one.
And remember, I like weird things and I like musicals, so I'm completely justified in wanting to learn the tango.
Probably two of the greatest musical scenes I can think of are from Chicago and Moulin Rouge, where both movies have a super powerful tango scene.
Chicago's is the Cell Block Tango/Murderess Row- "He Had it Comin"
Moulin Rouge's is Le Tango Roxanne.
OOoooooohhhh I have chills! They're so flippin' amazing! (PS if you haven't watched them, youtube them NOW!)
The tango is super powerful, super sexual, super emotional. It's awesome.
And I want to dance so I can find a physical outlet for release, because Lord knows my physical activity is going to pot! Running just doesn't feel so enthralling anymore...
Sunday, October 11, 2009
I'm trying to do one post per day. If I had my ways, I would probably post 30 entries a day. Writing is a bit of an addiction to me. Sometimes, too much is not good.
But at the moment, I have to write again. I posted probably an hour ago, and as if I just swallowed a whole pot of coffe, I gotta go again.
I need you to know something. Every day, I am both Christian and temporary-Athiest.
Woah now, you say. Woah Jamie.
Listen, I know that sounds crazy. In an attention-grabbing way, I'm telling you that I doubt God's existence every day. And if you're Christian, you doo, too. Now, usually, those nonbeliever moments are only seconds long. I know God is real.
Somehow, I ended up with my friend's set of post-it notes in my car. (Lauren, these are yours from our Wal Mart list we made before the yard sale.) The other day, I was driving, and had major wordage just attack me. It was like....word diarrhea. Yeah, it's that serious. This is my world. Sometimes, if I have no pen or paper around, I'll record things onto my phone so I won't forget. Yeah.
So I took the post it and scribbled in between stop lights or in a parking lot or something. I don't really remember.
But I wrote this.
"Why God?" they don't ask.
............ is what I don't say.
All the .......s took up about 5 lines worth of space, because I didn't have time to write out my answer.
Here is my answer.
Why God?
Because there was a moment when I realized the seriousness of faith. I was 10-ish, sitting on my bed. My heart felt as if it were being yanked across my chest, and I knew what it was. Who it was. It was God, and he was pulling my heart--gripping it, squeezing it, tugging it, until I gave him...not things, not promises, not desires. But me. I gave him me. He was squeezing and tugging and pulling to find the deep, dark, hidden thing I call my soul. My spiritual Jamie. He found that. He was asking for it. Then as I hit my knees, I was asking for him.
Thoughts did not cross my mind. This is how I know God is real. Because just as my shoulder aches when I sleep, just as my nostrils flair if I sing, just as ribs expand with each breath, God sought something that had never before been sought, and I knew what it was. God had never touched me before, but I knew it was him. Our souls are hidden deep within the crosswires of our minds, our hormones, our organs. And only He can move our souls like that. Only He can grip my heart so tight that I knew I could find relief by only asking for Him. He already had me within his grip, but it wasn't painful. It was peaceful. It was breathing. He didn't ask anything. I had to ask Him to take it, to take over. I needed him to do this.
He did. I didn't tell it for 6 years--that I was saved. I didn't understand somethings, and I got confused about salvation, about how others were saved. Mine seemed odd.
To make a long story long, I eventually told it. I prayed about it--really prayed, not just pretend prayed--and finally accepted that God was mine, I was his, and we were in a relationship together. And to have a successful relationship with someone, you have to claim them. To talk to them. In relationship terms, if God were a boy, he so would've dumped me.
Here's my problem. Amidst my journey, my relationship with God, I have lost so much confidence in myself, which culminates from lacking trust in God.
It has been embedded in my mind that we as God's children are nothing. We are sinners. God saved us, but we are dirty sinners.
I can't stand it anymore. Yes, I sin.
But I am somebody. I am something. Because of God. Because of Grace. Because of Love. Because of a tugging heart and a hidden soul and the peace I have about my life after death. If I tell myself I am nothing, I will do nothing for myself AND for God. If I tell myself I am a dirty sinner, I will sin over and over and over, because that's my self-expectation.
So don't tell me I'm just a sinner.
Because I'm God's child. I'm God's. Not yours.
I need people to get out of my head. I've never said this before. I've never tried it. For some reason, I've been scared of saying it, scared of how the word will come off my tongue, scared of the reaction it would bring, scared of how cheesy it would sound.
Rebuke.
Yes. To all of these things, to all of these people who are literally or mentally in my head trying to convince me of my unworthiness, of my fall from grace,
I
rebuke
you
from my bound-up life
from my confused mind
from my questionable past
from my uplifted roots
from my unclear future
in the name of
Jesus
Christ.
I rebuke you.
Get away from me, stay away from me, until you have positive encouragement to offer me. I don't want this negativity anymore. Someone else can take it, because I want to be through.
But at the moment, I have to write again. I posted probably an hour ago, and as if I just swallowed a whole pot of coffe, I gotta go again.
I need you to know something. Every day, I am both Christian and temporary-Athiest.
Woah now, you say. Woah Jamie.
Listen, I know that sounds crazy. In an attention-grabbing way, I'm telling you that I doubt God's existence every day. And if you're Christian, you doo, too. Now, usually, those nonbeliever moments are only seconds long. I know God is real.
Somehow, I ended up with my friend's set of post-it notes in my car. (Lauren, these are yours from our Wal Mart list we made before the yard sale.) The other day, I was driving, and had major wordage just attack me. It was like....word diarrhea. Yeah, it's that serious. This is my world. Sometimes, if I have no pen or paper around, I'll record things onto my phone so I won't forget. Yeah.
So I took the post it and scribbled in between stop lights or in a parking lot or something. I don't really remember.
But I wrote this.
"Why God?" they don't ask.
............ is what I don't say.
All the .......s took up about 5 lines worth of space, because I didn't have time to write out my answer.
Here is my answer.
Why God?
Because there was a moment when I realized the seriousness of faith. I was 10-ish, sitting on my bed. My heart felt as if it were being yanked across my chest, and I knew what it was. Who it was. It was God, and he was pulling my heart--gripping it, squeezing it, tugging it, until I gave him...not things, not promises, not desires. But me. I gave him me. He was squeezing and tugging and pulling to find the deep, dark, hidden thing I call my soul. My spiritual Jamie. He found that. He was asking for it. Then as I hit my knees, I was asking for him.
Thoughts did not cross my mind. This is how I know God is real. Because just as my shoulder aches when I sleep, just as my nostrils flair if I sing, just as ribs expand with each breath, God sought something that had never before been sought, and I knew what it was. God had never touched me before, but I knew it was him. Our souls are hidden deep within the crosswires of our minds, our hormones, our organs. And only He can move our souls like that. Only He can grip my heart so tight that I knew I could find relief by only asking for Him. He already had me within his grip, but it wasn't painful. It was peaceful. It was breathing. He didn't ask anything. I had to ask Him to take it, to take over. I needed him to do this.
He did. I didn't tell it for 6 years--that I was saved. I didn't understand somethings, and I got confused about salvation, about how others were saved. Mine seemed odd.
To make a long story long, I eventually told it. I prayed about it--really prayed, not just pretend prayed--and finally accepted that God was mine, I was his, and we were in a relationship together. And to have a successful relationship with someone, you have to claim them. To talk to them. In relationship terms, if God were a boy, he so would've dumped me.
Here's my problem. Amidst my journey, my relationship with God, I have lost so much confidence in myself, which culminates from lacking trust in God.
It has been embedded in my mind that we as God's children are nothing. We are sinners. God saved us, but we are dirty sinners.
I can't stand it anymore. Yes, I sin.
But I am somebody. I am something. Because of God. Because of Grace. Because of Love. Because of a tugging heart and a hidden soul and the peace I have about my life after death. If I tell myself I am nothing, I will do nothing for myself AND for God. If I tell myself I am a dirty sinner, I will sin over and over and over, because that's my self-expectation.
So don't tell me I'm just a sinner.
Because I'm God's child. I'm God's. Not yours.
I need people to get out of my head. I've never said this before. I've never tried it. For some reason, I've been scared of saying it, scared of how the word will come off my tongue, scared of the reaction it would bring, scared of how cheesy it would sound.
Rebuke.
Yes. To all of these things, to all of these people who are literally or mentally in my head trying to convince me of my unworthiness, of my fall from grace,
I
rebuke
you
from my bound-up life
from my confused mind
from my questionable past
from my uplifted roots
from my unclear future
in the name of
Jesus
Christ.
I rebuke you.
Get away from me, stay away from me, until you have positive encouragement to offer me. I don't want this negativity anymore. Someone else can take it, because I want to be through.
I See/Hear Colors
I've never been a hypochondriac. Well, I say I haven't. I've always had headaches (every day for years...I can't remember a day when I didn't have one,) but once they started getting serious, once the migraines graced my presence, I tried to convince myself I had a brain tumor. Actually, I've never told that one before. *sigh of relief* Then again, this may place me as an unreliable narrator.
Okay here's my point: for a while, I thought seeing colors was normal. We all see colors, right? Example: My oddly shaped mole on my arm is very dark brown. (Oh no! Oddly shaped mole?! Could this be....) Our Halloween decorations are orange.
I see those colors. But I also hear colors. Or when I hear certain things, I see colors. Example: at church, when I hear people sing in harmony, I see this vibrant shape of multi-colored, blooming flowery things.
I know, you're thinking WTF?
I know. I know. But I never even questioned it until I read a memoir with a girl who may/not have epilepsy, and she has auras. These auras are colorful and surround people like halos.
Auras? Colors? Hmmm...
I immediately went to my Nursing major roomie Elizabeth, "DUDE, do I have epilepsy?"
She asked me a series of questions and shortly determined that no, I do not in fact have epilepsy, but those with epilepsy generally have seizures. Did I have seizures?
No, not that I know of.
So I've decided to accept the fact that I see colors/hear colors at random moments of time. Good news=my days are usually pretty when I hear music. (This happens with instruments, too.)
Okay I'm done now.
I'm Frontin'
I like to give this air that I'm a very striaghtfoward, honest person. For the most part, I'm honest and straightfoward. I'll tell you random things that come to mind. I'll explode with independence/individualism.
But I've learned that this will also be a problem. In Soul Cravings, Erwin McManus writes of how we try to distinguish ourselves by specific labels, or by obtaining a label that differentiates us from the norm. We do this through clothing, tattoos, hair, etc. (Do you see where this is going?)
McManus says, "Whem we live outside of healthy community, we not only lose others, but we lose ourselves."
He says that when we develop relationships with others, we become more in touch with ourselves. We cultivate love between each other and increase our godly love.
I love love. I do. But sometimes it's very hard for me ro receive love. (See Blue Like Jazz by Donald Miller.) Sometimes I want to just thrive on my own. Sometimes I want to just grab a backpack and some supplies and just rough it in the wilderness. Clearly I know this wouldn't work, but it's my desire to get away from things. To become introverted and self-reliant, and most of all, more God-reliant.
For some reason, it's very hard for me to rely on God in the life I'm in now. I get so involved in the age-21 life. Not the stereotypical age-21 life. But the schooling, writing, working life. The stressing-over-money-and-future life. I still enjoy getting giddy over boys and movies. I can emerse myself in books and my own writing. And friends. I love my friends, and what they spiritually mean to me.
But I'm relying on my friends for a spiritual outlet, and I feel that I'm relying less on God. I need to find a balance.
If I leave Bowling Green, KY in May and seek a life elsewhere, I need to find community. I need to find self-growth where I'm not lonely and wanting. If I get lonely and wanting, I'll become vulnerable to other vices, and I refuse to let myself do that. I have no self-control with coffee, chocolate, and peanut butter, but I will not let myself get so vulnerable that I lean to other things to get my fix. I feel that as much as I try to run away from communal comformity, I still need a sense of relational community for self-growth, self-discovery. I want to discover a new part of myself all the time. I want to expand, but not just for the sake of expansion. (I don't want to sound too much like a hippy.) I need to think more in terms of God.
I need to think love. Feel love, receive love, give love without thinking about vulnerability or repercussion. I need to feel community without feeling self-conscious or judged. I need to breathe for more than a day. I need my wonderful epiphanies to last weeks or months or years, not just hours or days at a time before they're crushed with negativity.
I need community.
We all need community.
I need love.
We all need love.
I have God, but I need God.
We all need God.
And I need a community that embraces God's love, that embraces me so tightly that I can breathe and feel free of judgment, free of cynicism, and sometimes, free of myself.
But I've learned that this will also be a problem. In Soul Cravings, Erwin McManus writes of how we try to distinguish ourselves by specific labels, or by obtaining a label that differentiates us from the norm. We do this through clothing, tattoos, hair, etc. (Do you see where this is going?)
McManus says, "Whem we live outside of healthy community, we not only lose others, but we lose ourselves."
He says that when we develop relationships with others, we become more in touch with ourselves. We cultivate love between each other and increase our godly love.
I love love. I do. But sometimes it's very hard for me ro receive love. (See Blue Like Jazz by Donald Miller.) Sometimes I want to just thrive on my own. Sometimes I want to just grab a backpack and some supplies and just rough it in the wilderness. Clearly I know this wouldn't work, but it's my desire to get away from things. To become introverted and self-reliant, and most of all, more God-reliant.
For some reason, it's very hard for me to rely on God in the life I'm in now. I get so involved in the age-21 life. Not the stereotypical age-21 life. But the schooling, writing, working life. The stressing-over-money-and-future life. I still enjoy getting giddy over boys and movies. I can emerse myself in books and my own writing. And friends. I love my friends, and what they spiritually mean to me.
But I'm relying on my friends for a spiritual outlet, and I feel that I'm relying less on God. I need to find a balance.
If I leave Bowling Green, KY in May and seek a life elsewhere, I need to find community. I need to find self-growth where I'm not lonely and wanting. If I get lonely and wanting, I'll become vulnerable to other vices, and I refuse to let myself do that. I have no self-control with coffee, chocolate, and peanut butter, but I will not let myself get so vulnerable that I lean to other things to get my fix. I feel that as much as I try to run away from communal comformity, I still need a sense of relational community for self-growth, self-discovery. I want to discover a new part of myself all the time. I want to expand, but not just for the sake of expansion. (I don't want to sound too much like a hippy.) I need to think more in terms of God.
I need to think love. Feel love, receive love, give love without thinking about vulnerability or repercussion. I need to feel community without feeling self-conscious or judged. I need to breathe for more than a day. I need my wonderful epiphanies to last weeks or months or years, not just hours or days at a time before they're crushed with negativity.
I need community.
We all need community.
I need love.
We all need love.
I have God, but I need God.
We all need God.
And I need a community that embraces God's love, that embraces me so tightly that I can breathe and feel free of judgment, free of cynicism, and sometimes, free of myself.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Do-Over
For Memoir/Autobiography, I'm reading a book called "Do-Over!" by Robin Hemley. This man is 48 and goes back to better his experiences through his childhood. For example, his kindergarten teacher was a tyrant/ended up being thrown into the loony bin, and treated the guy very poorly. So at 48 and with 3 kids, he enrolls in kindergarten (after a long process of paper work, background check, etc.) for a week. I haven't gotten far into the book, but he also does the same for summer camp, prom (which should be verrry interesting), etc.
Question: What would I do over? What would I, at 21, currently do to better an experience?
--I, too, would go back to kindergarten, hoping to encounter a much better teacher. My teacher, Mrs. Lonas, was nice, I think. She was old and scary. I peed my pants almost every day for fear of having to ask her a question. (Back then, I didn't talk to grown-ups. I was shy.) I also cried every day because I missed Mom, but that ended when the Lonas told me she would send me to Mrs. Coots (aka: Mrs. Toots) the principal if I didn't stop crying.
--I would go back to my last gymnastics class at age 7, when my dad told me I was done with gymnastics because it was softball season. I was good and in a class with high school girls. I was 7, had perfected the back-handspring, and almost did a back tuck by myself when Dad yanked me out of the program. I would say, "No, Dad. I'm staying. I'll play softball, but taking gymnastics over the course of several years will also help me to maintain muscle tone when I grow 5 1/2 inches between 7th and ith grade, thus causing my muscles to stretch out too fast, which will eventually cause many injuries throughout high school and college. I'm staying."
--I would go back to the summer before my freshman year of college, when my sister got married. I would do a much better job of planning her showers and try a little harder to ease stress, not to provoke more. (This was my first wedding, so I was highly inexperienced.)
--I would go back to a random day when I was little, my sister and terribly manipulative cousins persuaded me to pick up these "special rocks" by our neighbors goat farm. "But those are goat poops," I said. "No, stupid, those are rocks,' one of the cousins said. My sister encouraged me to pick them up, too. Maybe that's why I didn't try so hard at her wedding. (Joke, Kelly. Just a joke.) So I did, and they laughed. "You're such an idiot, Jamie," one of them said. I hated hanging out with them, but I had no one else my age. Well, actually, I did. My two other cousins and my brother were more my age, but for some reason, they weren't there that day. So I would go back to that moment, pick up those goat turds and pellet them in the face. I would try to smash those turds up their nose, into their mouth, in their pockets, in their earholes. Ohhhhh, victory.
--I would go back to a revival at my church when countless people would come up to me and my sister and constantly ask us questions. Were we lost? saved? going to hell? confused? going to heaven? ignoring God's knockin? listening to the preacher? listening to them? wanting to go to the altar? wanting to pray? And I would tell them to leave us alone. Tell them they were embarrassing me, making me angry, making me feel victimized and confused and very turned-off to their ways.
--I would go back to a time when I was about 12, filling up Sandy's water bucket. There was a dirt dobber in the bucket, and I didn't want Sandy to drink it, so I started fetching it out with my hand. The bug latched onto my middle finger and rear-ended its stinger into my tender little pad of a finger. I remember staring wildly with disbelief at this Dirt Dobber con. Stupid wasp! You tricked me! I starting shaking my hand frantically, hoping all that wind and air I was creating would heal the hurt. I ran across the back yard, finding Mom and Dad working in the yard, and I was crying--no, blubbering about this wasp and how my middle finger was throbbing. I'm pretty sure this cultivated my hidden fear of bugs. It's like I'm afraid I'll start trailing a ladybug with my finger, then it will suddenly morph into a terrible wasp Transformers-style and then I'm screwed. So I would go back and leave the wasp alone.
Question: What would I do over? What would I, at 21, currently do to better an experience?
--I, too, would go back to kindergarten, hoping to encounter a much better teacher. My teacher, Mrs. Lonas, was nice, I think. She was old and scary. I peed my pants almost every day for fear of having to ask her a question. (Back then, I didn't talk to grown-ups. I was shy.) I also cried every day because I missed Mom, but that ended when the Lonas told me she would send me to Mrs. Coots (aka: Mrs. Toots) the principal if I didn't stop crying.
--I would go back to my last gymnastics class at age 7, when my dad told me I was done with gymnastics because it was softball season. I was good and in a class with high school girls. I was 7, had perfected the back-handspring, and almost did a back tuck by myself when Dad yanked me out of the program. I would say, "No, Dad. I'm staying. I'll play softball, but taking gymnastics over the course of several years will also help me to maintain muscle tone when I grow 5 1/2 inches between 7th and ith grade, thus causing my muscles to stretch out too fast, which will eventually cause many injuries throughout high school and college. I'm staying."
--I would go back to the summer before my freshman year of college, when my sister got married. I would do a much better job of planning her showers and try a little harder to ease stress, not to provoke more. (This was my first wedding, so I was highly inexperienced.)
--I would go back to a random day when I was little, my sister and terribly manipulative cousins persuaded me to pick up these "special rocks" by our neighbors goat farm. "But those are goat poops," I said. "No, stupid, those are rocks,' one of the cousins said. My sister encouraged me to pick them up, too. Maybe that's why I didn't try so hard at her wedding. (Joke, Kelly. Just a joke.) So I did, and they laughed. "You're such an idiot, Jamie," one of them said. I hated hanging out with them, but I had no one else my age. Well, actually, I did. My two other cousins and my brother were more my age, but for some reason, they weren't there that day. So I would go back to that moment, pick up those goat turds and pellet them in the face. I would try to smash those turds up their nose, into their mouth, in their pockets, in their earholes. Ohhhhh, victory.
--I would go back to a revival at my church when countless people would come up to me and my sister and constantly ask us questions. Were we lost? saved? going to hell? confused? going to heaven? ignoring God's knockin? listening to the preacher? listening to them? wanting to go to the altar? wanting to pray? And I would tell them to leave us alone. Tell them they were embarrassing me, making me angry, making me feel victimized and confused and very turned-off to their ways.
--I would go back to a time when I was about 12, filling up Sandy's water bucket. There was a dirt dobber in the bucket, and I didn't want Sandy to drink it, so I started fetching it out with my hand. The bug latched onto my middle finger and rear-ended its stinger into my tender little pad of a finger. I remember staring wildly with disbelief at this Dirt Dobber con. Stupid wasp! You tricked me! I starting shaking my hand frantically, hoping all that wind and air I was creating would heal the hurt. I ran across the back yard, finding Mom and Dad working in the yard, and I was crying--no, blubbering about this wasp and how my middle finger was throbbing. I'm pretty sure this cultivated my hidden fear of bugs. It's like I'm afraid I'll start trailing a ladybug with my finger, then it will suddenly morph into a terrible wasp Transformers-style and then I'm screwed. So I would go back and leave the wasp alone.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
A Buffer into My World...
So I just realized that post #1 was a little intense, so I feel like I should preface this whole blog thing a little. I write all the time, and I currently have 3 writing classes. Poetry. Fiction. Memoir/Autobiography. I think in verse all the time, I think of how I can develop my main character (Caleb) in my short story. I listen carefully to people's names to see if I'd ever use them in a story, I pay extra attention to little buds spurting through cracks in the sidewalk or the way coffee leaves a faint, annoying ring around the mug. I watch body language, noting who is really lonely or really aggressive or really flirty or really passive or shy. I have a writer's brain, and I'm trying to develop that further.
So don't be alarmed if I write things that seem odd.
I am odd. And I kinda like it. :)
So as a preface, here is a poem I wrote last year about poetry. Don't worry, it's not this amazing piece of work. People write poetry about poetry all the time, so this is not a new, amazing, provocative thing, but it's honest and it's me.
Poetry the Manipulative Prick
I've tried simple,
complex,
longer detailed lines with similar syllables
then short and direct
staccato
for contrast
Creative imagery
--gone,
dashes--symbolic punctuation
feels overused.
simple things
described with disgusting details
and damned alliteration
I'm through with analyzing
I'm through with seeking a muse
in the swirling toilet water
or a dried leaf.
I can't handle manipulating myself
to regurgitate old feelings
But I can't stop
--notebooks--stacks
by my bed
on my desk
in my car
pens never at hand,
and a mind full of lyrics
I'm manipulated by words
letters
lines
shapes of black symbols,
empty white space
So don't be alarmed if I write things that seem odd.
I am odd. And I kinda like it. :)
So as a preface, here is a poem I wrote last year about poetry. Don't worry, it's not this amazing piece of work. People write poetry about poetry all the time, so this is not a new, amazing, provocative thing, but it's honest and it's me.
Poetry the Manipulative Prick
I've tried simple,
complex,
longer detailed lines with similar syllables
then short and direct
staccato
for contrast
Creative imagery
--gone,
dashes--symbolic punctuation
feels overused.
simple things
described with disgusting details
and damned alliteration
I'm through with analyzing
I'm through with seeking a muse
in the swirling toilet water
or a dried leaf.
I can't handle manipulating myself
to regurgitate old feelings
But I can't stop
--notebooks--stacks
by my bed
on my desk
in my car
pens never at hand,
and a mind full of lyrics
I'm manipulated by words
letters
lines
shapes of black symbols,
empty white space
Anecdote 1 (written on a receipt)
I remember him opening his wallet in church. I was building hymnal houses and he opened his thin wallet to show me small, square packages that looked like mini wet wipes you get while eating hot wings.
Condoms.
I gave him my disgusted face and turned around to face the preacher. I pretended to set an example, but I thought about that square package and why he would need it at church. After he got saved, he would walk around the church giving everyone hugs. He hugged me with complete control and I felt as though he were humping me.
*I'm not sure when this actually happened, but I'm estimating about 10 years ago. It's funny, all the things you witness in church.
Condoms.
I gave him my disgusted face and turned around to face the preacher. I pretended to set an example, but I thought about that square package and why he would need it at church. After he got saved, he would walk around the church giving everyone hugs. He hugged me with complete control and I felt as though he were humping me.
*I'm not sure when this actually happened, but I'm estimating about 10 years ago. It's funny, all the things you witness in church.
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