It's Been A Long, Long Time Coming

I'm trying to write a paper. Really. I am. I have all the good ideas, and I kind of actually want to write. I have a couple of pages. I can't get any f(u/a)rther than that tonight. It's just not happening. This sucks.

Mostly I'm just sad. I really wanted to be home tonight. I wanted to see people tonight. I wanted people to be happy to see me. I wanted hugs. I did not want to be home alone with the cat, reorganizing my bag to make sure that it's less than 50lbs, watching my life being turned into a baseball metaphor on TBS. (Btw, My Boys is a great show. And I don't even mind the episode-to-episode uberextended metaphor.)

Oh, screw it. I'm going to do some reading. Later.


Song of the Moment: Waiting in Vain ~Annie Lennox


PS. Just a little shout out to the cargaritas crew. Last night? Hi-lar-i-ous.

Just a Song Before I Go

I'm actually not singing, nor am I going to anywhere. You might say that whole song-title posting title thing was a huge-ass lie. Whatever. I just figured that it was time to blow the dust off this blog and I couldn't think of anything else to start with. With which to start.

First: Ken Henisey, you are more than welcome to internet stalk me and I may or may do the same to you occasionally.

Second: Last week was the worst week ever. Monday, I tried to watch Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip only to see Friday Night Lights. Studio 60 was apparently on vacation, and while the other show was interesting, I was less than pleased. Then, on Tuesday, I got a parking ticket when I was parked in a perfectly legal fashion. Weds, I was diagnosed with an ear infection and rather than oral antibiotics, I got ear drops. Can I even begin to express how much I hate ear drops? Yeah, it's partly because of the coldness, the muted sound, the having to lay on my right side while they do their magic, when I am a left-side or stomach sleeper. More than that, though, I'm fairly certain that my fear of ear things stems from watching Star Trek: The Wrath of Khan when I was little. At one point, there's an earwiggish thing in Chekov's ear that allows Khan to order him around, but I still have a visceral reaction to anything in my ear.

Anyway, Weds. night I get another parking ticket from Officer 199, whom I'm fairly certain has a vendetta against me now. I can only say--BRING IT! Then, on Thursday, between class and rehearsal at Moreau Seminary, I arrived home to use the hated eardrops only to hear my tire wheezing. Yup--flat. The good thing was that I am amazing and, having practiced with my father for just such an occasion, was able to change my tire. But now I'm driving on a donut. THEN on Friday I had a completely awkward run in with the best makeout buddy I've had to date. And his girlfriend. Who, unbeknownst to me at the time, was his girlfriend when we were messing around. Suffice it to say she spent the entire time on Friday avoiding my existence, and he wasn't much better. Pretty sporty week from start to finish.

The good part, in all honesty, was an absolutely amazing evening at the Club LaSalle with Greg. We went on Thursday and had martinis and port and a nice cigar...just lovely. And also the Vision mini-reunion after Folk Choir mass this Sunday. Though, since it was Sunday I think it probably counts as this week, rather than last week.

Third: I've been watching Adult Swim on the Cartoon Network all evening, and it's pretty hilarious. ESPECIALLY Futurama and more especially The Family Guy. That is all.

Fourth: Spent the evening working on prose poetry documenting the trip from AK to IN. See samples below.

Fifth: have new website/eshop thing. www.lushgrammar.etsy.com. You should go there.


Song of the moment: "Winter"~Joshua Radin

Driving South,
Day 1


these are not my mountains their scar tissue like stretch marks between crests red from iron or alpine tundra on fall fire 8000 acre burn where fireweed and new willows look like gems among tombstones arching white stakes will we be like this in eight days in four thousand miles after two countries this morning we laughed because the truck drove past our rest stop because the truck drove past a new bathroom smelling of bubblegum because we were two women alone and literally a hundred miles from anyone and the truck drove past while you were looking at grey water runs past this ashed cemetery in the Yukon and I wonder if we will still be there once we get there if we will still laugh or if the teeth in our smiles will be nothing more than grave markers for things unsaid if our pictures will lay us bared teeth and all if I will be sad when you leave when this silver bullet is unpacked and empty and I so want to miss you when you leave

Driving South
Day 4

oil makes the world go round and for a day it was our axle the one that almost didn’t turn the wheels when we left Junction 37 to drive this lonesome road between A and the Bend we didn’t have the rules that we had when we hit Fort Nelson

Nugget City was a lump we drove past on the way to better things because isn’t this whole road one way or the other a way away from something to something better and lingering in the middle just causes problems just makeks you think that maybe it won’t end or that you never really began so we skipped as much of the middle as we could all three days of it skipping like stones from small town to small town until Edmonton then Montana

Rancheria too passed but like a kidney stone the worry small at first small but calcifying as the miles passed and the needle dipped and dipped and dipped past half past a quarter and for the first time on this trip we prayed we prayed in tense small voices that sounded like insults like don’t talk to me like I already know what you’re going to say but if you so much as look at me these eyes will become rivers on an empty road grey blue highways down a fat cheek and then we will stop and the car will the car go again will it start as though the world begins and ends when the engine turns and maybe today fuck the sunrise maybe today it does maybe today hinges on that turn not of the world but of this key and how damn many miles to the klick less or more or less and what the hell good is calculus if I forgot the math of miles to klicks of measuring how to get where I want to go without killing us in the process without doing something stupid and killing us in the process how many lives how many lives to the click how many

giddy the only word was giddy as we coasted into a one building town a single pump so old we had to pay with cash to a person to someone who didn’t ask where we were going because everyone but him was going somewhere else I almost filled the tank with laughter almost fell out of the car and this time the weakness in my knees had nothing to do with four hundred miles driving stick and thank God this person never got on with his own life because we would still be here would still be wanting to be anywhere else but not today thank God not today

Driving South
Day 8


eight days on the road and we are still afraid of trucks still afraid that when they are close they are closing in that they will push or crush or any of a number of horrors only we know about but refuse to say and it takes five minutes before we realize that this trucker is acknowledging our four thousand miles our license plate that starts or ends the game that no one sees in Illinois is nodding at what we know that we know never to stay in east anything that there’s a reason people move west because it is brighter and makes us feel less pale and less corn fed and less and less and even though he has no idea where we are going he has been where we have been has known that fear of sailing off a highway in Alberta wind of days of corn and a lack of mountains that feels more like a lack of drapes in a bedroom like leaving the lights on during a one night stand like meeting God and knowing whether or not he smiles and we actually want to be here we want him to know and after eight days we wave to the truck that honks at us outside of LaSalle ,after a night in East Moline that swelled my eye lids like bodies in a river and I knew that I would miss you I knew that this time I would cry when you left and I knew that finally it was okay to let you leave that I would drive you away and not turn to dust that I still had tears enough to drive me home

Be Warned: This is a Goat Entry (cf. May 25 entry)

Well, for the second time in as many nights, I'm getting off the phone in tears in someone else's house. I haven't cried this much since my last old movie marathon. Last night was...anyway. Tonight was dealing with something I haven't been on the receiving end of in a while: parental disappointment.

Don't get me wrong--the 'rents aren't arms-up shamed by me or anything. No, they're more subtle than that. I called for my weekly check-in-at-the-house phone call, which unfortunately hasn't happened in about two weeks. And I called in the middle of "Studio 60" for them, which was crappy on my part. I forgot that it's at 10/9 central and apparently AK counts as central. (What really bites is that, while I remembered that Steve and Michele don't have cable/tv reception, I forgot that I had shows to watch, so I will have to catch up online tomorrow.)

So I'm on the phone with my parents. My father's computer is acting out again, so he's a little distracted and irritated: understandable. Mom's a little distracted by the show and the fact that it's 9:30, which is kind of late for her. She's usually asleep on the couch by now. I talk about the fact that I'm housesitting for Steve and Michele, which leads to discussion of Steve needing the vacation because he's been a little tetchy in choir, which somehow then led to a confession of my newly-claimed back-row status.
*Sidebar: The back row has always been where "the cool" kids sat; the ones with all the good quips and fun antics in choir. Until this year, I had not been "back row," and have recently been reveling in it. Before you say it, yes, I realize how juvenile it is to care about cool points this late in the game, and I know I'm far beyond the high school age after which this should cease to be a concern. But I...really like being one of the cool ones, for the very reason that it took so long to get there. So there's that piece of baggage for the goat.

Anyway, no big thing in the conversation and we move on. Until about twenty minutes later, and after a variety of topics, my dad, who has been silent for a couple of minutes, pipes up with "Did you ever think that maybe Steve counts on you NOT being back row?' Talk about conversation bombs. Dammit, here I go again. "I mean, you were saying that Steve has been frustrated, and you're making jokes in the back..." It's like the man can see in my head and I hate it. I hate the hypocrisy of it all--a month ago I was bitching about lack of focus in the choir, particularly in large rehearsals, and how it makes us look and sound bad, and have I done anything about it since? No. I have added to the problem. Knowing exactly what I was doing the whole time but refusing to care because I was being a rebel and breaking the rules: something I generally don't do because I'm fairly bad at getting away with it.

Worst part of it is, I know Steve counts on me, not for my voice, but because in the past I have been a focused member of the group during rehearsal. I have been the shusher, as it were, and now I need to be shushed. And I've seen the disappoinment and a little confusion on his face when he looks at me, and I've brushed it off. Because being funny is, apparently, more important to me than his respect. How feking lame that is. What a slap to the face after everything he's done for me.

Now that I'm wallowing in self recrimination, I think it's time for bed. Better outlook tomorrow, though I may need to count a few goats to get to sleep.

Truth of the moment: Just because you have a guilt complex doesn't mean you've done nothing wrong.

Dam.

Okay, so I didn't want to get in trouble for having a swear word in my title--that's the only reason I spelled it without the 'n'. So don't even think about correcting my spelling, because I am in no mood for it.

But honestly--ever have one of those moments where the fates conspire against even the slightest chance you have at a love--or lust--life by means of piddly coincidences that then become insurmountable obstacles, if only because you wrap them in more layers of anguish than that kid from A Christmas Story? Yeah, we're talking some serious overdramatizing, but I can't help myself.

I'm at the Bookstore Cafe, not thinking about Big Block of Cheese Day or anything to do with Aaron Sorkin. No, I am prepping a set of submissions for the Amy Lowell Travelling Poet Prize, due in Boston by Saturday. Yesh: thank God for express mail. Anyway, the prize itself is $47,900, with which the poet must spend 12 consecutive months outside North America or the possessions of any of its countries. I know I could have said a year, but that has different meanings to those within and without the academic system. I discovered this prize last night, while I should have been reading Hegel and Kristeva on the purpose of poetry...and before I spent four delightful, wicked and totally unproductive hours with Greg Ramsower and Jake Teitgen in the Keough dining room. Though I did learn that a house of brands is where the parent company, like Johnson & Johnson, spreads like a roof over the bricks of its brands, while brands of house appear to be like--correct me if I'm wrong--Apple, where you have the iPod and the iBook and iTunes, but all are pasted with the Apple logo.

Back to the point: upon discovering this prize, I immediately started--no, not revising poems for submission--looking for long term cottage rentals in Australia, Ireland, Scotland and Spain. Yup. Smart. But now, as the deadline looks closer, I am in the Bookstore Cafe, selecting and revising, when who should appear but someone we shall call AH. He's looking very cute and Londonesque as always, very nice black wool peacoat, hair curling just past the unpopped collar, and accompanied by a companion of the young-male-teen persuasion. The situation reeks of Big Brother-ness, which only makes him more appealing.

He comes over and says hi, asks what I'm doing, etc. Charming, between bouts of advising his protege. We close the conversation with him saying he'd like to read some of my work, and that he'd like me to read some of his. I stumble over an idiot's version of "I'd be delighted to" and then he leans over to pat my shoulder at exactly the same moment that I shift in my seat. I do this so I can face him, as opposed to talking sideways, but I'm fairly certain it comes across as "the last thing I want you to do is touch me." When really I'd like it to be both first and last and everything in between.

Honestly, I like him, I think he's incredibly smart and funny and quite attractive, but I'm not stalkerish crazy about him. From all my sources I know that he's fairly well attached to someone else, and I have no jealous-rage issues about that, which tells me that my attraction is pretty superficial. But I really want him to think I'm as cool a friend-type person as I think he is, and subsequently I will spend the next hour and a half obsessing over the chance that now he thinks I have a) a personal disdain for him or b) a general phobia about being touched, neither of which is even remotely true except maybe the last one and only by strangers.

Great. And now the cafe has been invaded by middle school creatures who don't know enough to turn off their iPods if they're going to let the earbuds dangle. Just great. At least one of them has the decency to have brought a well-loved copy of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. It's not quite enough to redeem the whole gaggle, but it's close.

Song of the moment: "David Duchovney"~Bree Sharp

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Midterms

everywhere you go...
There's a kid with an online test,
trying to do his best,
in tears because his download speed is slow!

It's beginning to look a lot like midterms:
soon the sobs will start,
and the thing that make them stop
are the caffeine pills you pop--
don't mind the racing heart...

A pair of essays to write
and a flu bug to fight
are the curse of every coed;
group projects to do,
no one working but you
make you want to bang walls with your head;
and now you're sexiled from your room
so your roomie can "study" in bed!

It's beginning to look a lot like midterms--
stress that you can't shake...
But just hold on for a week
and the leisure that you seek
will be yours: Fall Break!


Yes, ladies and gentlemen, we are in midterms week here at the University of Notre Dame. Once again it is very strange to watch the undergrads in the painful throes of exams and projects while not having any to do myself. I mean, I do have a paper for my one and only bitchin' hard class, Poetry and Theory, but that isn't due until the Friday after break. Anticipate a rant and breakdown right around next Monday. Maybe Weds, since I tend not to have rants/breakdowns/conversations on Mondays or Tuesdays. You know, because of Studio 60 on Monday and Veronica Mars & Nip/Tuck on Tuesdays. So plan on a Wednesday rant.

I was really panicked about two weeks ago, thinking that I had nothing to offer the world of poetry, and that my thesis wasn't ever going to get done because I was writing only crap, based upon the responses and intense amounts of criticism from my thesis director. *Don't point out to me that criticism, particularly of me, is his job; I know that...its usefulness and accuracy don't make it any easier to accept.* However, in the thesis meeting after that, he noted the improvement in my writing, particularly in my revisions, and said that I have about 20 poems that are almost ready to go--only minor revisions necessary--for my thesis. 20 poem. That's between 25 and 30%, and I still have three months to finish the rest. This is awesome, particularly since I've given myself permission to write what I want: to be quirky or light if that's what I'm feeling, to have a tone shift in a poem (as long as the voice/speaker is unified, which may or may have been the problem before), to use Spanish or not as the poem moves me...these things are all aspects of poetry that I had been denying because I was trying to make my work sound like everyone else's, which is just silly when only one of my multitudinous personalities is anything like anyone else really long sentence that won't seem to die and yet must die right about now. So yeah...having given myself permission to write my poetry, instead of what I think other people think my poetry should be, I'm inspired to write more often, and far more willing to work on the finer points of craft, since I'm interested in the material.

Having spent now three hours in a variety of procrastinatory activities--talking to friends, reading the newspaper (all of it...the Trib and the Times), reading about Studio 60 again--I should probably get some work done before I succumb to temptation and go see Open Season. Talking deer, wussy bears and squirrels with Scottish accents: what's not to love?

Song of the moment: "The Internet is for Porn"~Avenue Q

If You Like Pina Coladas...

And who doesn't? I mean, seriously.

So, tonight's episode of Veronica Mars is definitely a step in the right direction...quite the turnaround from last week. I couldn't be more pleased.

Problem is, I really want to share the best parts, but with the advent of TiVo and DVR, it's possible that people, even those in my time zone, might not be up to speed, and I certainly don't want to spoil it. So I won't, however much pain it brings me.

On the bright side, I've been having a fairly prolific week, as far as writing goes. I'll put the poems up in a bit, but the best part of it all is that I've done it because of--not in spite of--spending hours in front of the television. Let me explain: yesterday, there were a couple of specials on the History Channel...episodes of a series called "Engineering an Empire." Those featured were Rome, with the marvels of Hadrian's wall and the Pantheon, etc. Then on to the Egyptians, and all of the pyramids, the dams, the mud ramps and sand traps to prop obelisques... Very cool. They also shared some smatterings of information about the various reigns of emperors and pharoahs, and that's where the poems originated. It's nice to know that I can write at least some of my sloth off as research for my job which is, of course, writing. At least until May.

Lessons of Empire
Rome

1
the victor in any decent fratricide
will not simply etch out his brother's name
paint a new face on a familial body

no

a good political murder requires evidence
a chipped stone
smudged ink
a brother beheaded in effigy

evidence
anyone can be erased


2
while the baths may be for everyone

warm water spilling from tilted jars
and flowered fountains
steam beading on marble facades
rising to painted dome heavens

someone must stoke the fires

senators will always leave their stains
in the bath house
in the heated sweat of coal caked slaves
the open mouths of bath house queens


3
without water
even a gilt kingdom
will crumble like poorly
mixed concrete

aqueducts are a necessary beauty
an exposed vein
begging for a razor



Stay tuned for Egypt, currently a work in progress.

Song of the moment: "Right Here Waiting for You"~Richard Marx

This End Up...

A short note before we begin: The new Godiva is far too focused on art and peanut butter, and needs to go back to what it does best, which is classic amazing chocolate. Why does my caramel taste slightly of toasted coconut? Further proof of my assessment's validity.

Also: I am thoroughly tired of login pages telling me that my password is wrong. It is not wrong. It is a saved password, and pops up automatically. So why said password should be rejected on the first attempt and accepted--without changes or corrections; same automated password--on the second try is a mystery.

NOW: on with the profundity, which is really just spectacular fecundity of thought.

I was sitting in the Bookstore Cafe today, reading my Sartre like a good little grad student, when I had a thought. Backstory: the Sarte was from Black Orpheus, an assessment of the Negritud poetry movement that effectively made the Black voice a "true" voice by virtue of its removal from worldliness, simultaneously essentializing and primitivizing it, and also Othered the so-called White voice by making it unnatural. The essay did this, not the Negritud movement, which began in the Caribbean and was seen as the first kind of Black poetry, despite the fact that the writers of it were largely of a privileged or criollo background that was itself traditionally racist. But then so were most things in the 20s-50s. Of any century so far.

Anyway, sitting in the Cafe, drinking my mocha and reading when I am thumped on the head by a realization. I always thought that the idea posited in the West Wing first season episode called "The Crackpots and These Women," about Big Block of Cheese Day-- *Note: I looked it up, and it's not actually that episode; it's a second season episode called "Somebody's Going to Emergency, Somebody's Going to Jail." But I just couldn't get rid of Big Block of Cheese Day; when am I ever going to be able to write that again? Seriously.*Note 2: I was not wrong! It just happened to be Big Block of Cheese Day: Season II. Yay me. And no more reading Sorkin scripts.

Regardless, in this episode, CJ take a meeting with an organization that wants to flip the map upside-down, so that North is down. I pretty much dismissed it as weird and moved on. But when I was reading this really skewed version of reality and literature by Sartre, the episode came to me again. I never thought that maps, of all things, might be influenced by politics or racial privilege, but here's what I started thinking about in the Bookstore Cafe.

Let's say that the universe is viewed on a horizontal plane, two dimensional. Who's to say which side of that plane is "up?" What if God, wherever He happens to reside, views it from the "other" side? We're just as upside-down from Australia as it is from us, so why is North up? It really only makes sense when you consider who was doing the cartography.*Note: I have since been surfing around on the Internet--between reading West Wing scripts and checking Facebook for outside recognition of my existence--and found "upside-down" maps that dovetail quite well with this idea. Maps from Australia that have it up and the Eastern hemisphere front and center.

Also (this is where it gets a little more harebrained, but at the time I thought it was inspired), if magnetic north is why north is "up," then we have to consider: why would a very large deposit of exceptionally heavy magnetic material be on top of the world, instead of at the bottom of it?

Think about it: in our world, heavy substances are drawn toward the center of the earth, the point around which we rotate. What if the solar system, in terms of the universe as a whole, does the same thing? What if, a hundred or a thousand years from now, we discover the rotational center of the universe? And what if our magnetic north has been drawn toward it this whole time? Doesn't it just make sense that something like a big lump of magnetic material--it seems like it would not be on top of anything, is my point--not acting like some sort of planetary paperweight, but more as ballast, meaning it would be on the bottom of the planet.

I do believe that I have just blown my own mind.

I'd also be willing to bet that I just blew yours, too, if only with the fact that, if you're still reading, you read this whole thing. Why in God's name didn't you do something more productive with that time? Read a West Wing script, have dinner, get blasted out of your skull? You do know you're never going to get that time back, right? But that is what happens here: randomness, from big blocks of cheese to ontological geology and astronomy. Yet another example of how I roll, and how wobbly that trajectory really is.

Poem in progress:

Her Name was Lola

wicked she was--must have been

as any little girl given rubies before her time

little girls in gingham and rubies

on a path of gold to a rich man's house

and such a good witch

whipped white like butter and

frosting--or cotton candy

queen sending a little girl

all gingham and rubies

to an old man's house

that's why, Glinda dear, you too are witch

no fairy or godmother who might

serve up milk, cookies and a home

without clicking heels or ultimatums

not you, not godmother

finding a little lost girl

dust her off, dress her up

on a path paved with gold intentions

To Be Continued (then revised)

Song of the Moment: "New York Minute"~Don Henley

Oh, Nostalgia

Ever notice how the movies you loved when you were little usually end up being total cheese if you watch them as an adult?

This is, of course, not true of all movies, such as Charlotte's Web, Fern Gully, anything Disney, animated or live action. But things like, say, Labyrinth. Or the movie that I just finished watching, Dragonheart. I remember loving that movie. But watching it just now on--what else---the CW, I was struck by what an absolutely horrid movie it really is. In all honesty the storyline has a lot of promise: dragon shares a heart with dying boy only to have boy turn into evil king, and in the ultimate sacrifice dies so that evil king might die, too. Seriously, the stuff of classic fantasy. I even like the way the dragon is animated, in a digitized Jim Henson style. But as soon as you see his mouth moving and Sean Connery's voice coming out of it, we're done. Added to that the lame dialogue; the declarations of plot by the main characters; the freakish combination of Dennis Quaid, long hair and a semi-developed character; the piss-poor fight choreography, including a few scenes in which a 5'6" woman takes on and beats two full-fledged knights, not by being nimble but in a blow-for-blow axe fight--right, that's gonna happen; and last but not least, the ridiculous "look to the stars" epilogue. Gag me.

The cool thing, though is that there were several actors in it who have since moved on to better things. Dennis is, fortunately, not one of them. But obviously Sean Connery is just amazing, end of story. And then there are David Thewlis and Jason Isaacs. No, they're not exactly Brad or Mel (in)famous, but they are ever so much more important. Why, you may ask. Because they, Mssrs. Thewlis and Isaacs, are key players in the ongoing Harry Potter saga. I was watching the Dragonheart, and knew that I knew the evil king from somewhere, so the next step was logical: the Internet Movie Database (IMDb). Turns out the actor was our Mr. Thewlis, who just happens to play Professor Remus Lupin in The Prisoner of Azkaban and in the forthcoming Order of the Phoenix, which is due to wrap filming this month. Also featured in those movies, and I believe in all the other ones, is Mr. Isaacs, aka Distilled Disdain, aka Lucius Malfoy. Such a good pick for the role, especially after his performance in The Patriot.

One of the actors that I have not seen in a Harry Potter movie and would like to see is Patrick Stewart. Yes, I know that he's pretty much Captain Picard, but I always thought that Alan Rickman would always be the Sheriff of Nottingham (Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves), and yet he is not only a wonderful Snape but has been able to branch out and do a marvelous job in Love Actually. I think that Jean-Luc--I mean, Patrick--would be able to branch out just as admirably. Also, I think it might be cool if Sean Connery had a part, though that might be to many Lowlandesque accents.

Well, that was a lot. I think I'm going to watch David Bowie in near-drag now. I know, I know--I just finished saying that Labyrinth was cheese, but it's cult cheese with some good music, awesome Jim Henson puppets, and great childhood memories attached. Not gonna lie, I'm still kind of turned on by David like this, even though my brain goes euuw. I may follow it up with one of Tom Cruise's earlier works, Legend. Also cheese, but I have an absolutely clear memory of the first time we watched it. I was either 6 or 7, and we were living on East Carmel in Mesa, AZ. My dad was at an academy--I think it was the NCO (Non-Commissioned Officer) academy that time. When Dad went away, Mom and my brothers and I would have at least one night that was a "sleepover" night. That day we went to Blockbuster, got Labyrinth, and then to the Giraffe Frozen Yogurt place for pistachio fro-yo. That night we had dinner then got into our PJs. Mom gave us each a pillow and sent us out the back door so we could go around to the front door and ring the bell like at a real sleepover. We had M&Ms, and I was eating the pistachio yogurt the first time I saw Tim Curry as the Lord of Darkness. It was awesome.

Oh, nostalgia.

Song of the Moment: "Dance Magic"~David Bowie from Labyrinth


PS. If you've never heard Meli Barber swear, you really should. Seriously, one of the funniest and most shocking things ever.

P^3. S.

Jake is on top of the refrigerator, and I am really enjoying playing house. In a moment, I will actually start reading, and I've already knocked 10 pages off by discovering that it's poetry, which I understand a lot easier than theory (wonder why that is...;) ) but I just washed the dishes and the stove, dancing around to my favorite early-90s hits (though not the aforementioned albums or groups) and thinking, you know, when I get a place of my own, I could do this all the time. The cleaning, the prancing, the sliding across linoleum floors. At all hours, if I so desired. And I'm not going to lie: I will probably so desire.

Ah, something to look forward to. :)

Song of the moment: "Cream"~Prince

CW: My Favorite Initials!

On the To Do list for this evening:

~Clean the house, because we (Jake and I) don’t have a clue when Ev and Juan are coming back…we think it’s Weds, but of course we don’t want to have the house in disarray when they get back. In this case, disarray must be though of in terms, not of my usual standards, but the standards for the exceptionally clean and organized people with whom I live. Come on, now—I wouldn’t toxify their house.

~Errands. I need food. Jake, of course, has plenty, but I need to stop eating at the dining hall. Or go all in for a meal plan and stop eating at home. Either way, a decision must be made.

~Make earrings for Jacqui. She’s had an order in for earrings to match three necklaces that I made for her, but I haven’t been feeling well enough to make them. They also require smashing, which is problematic in a nice little neighborhood unaccustomed to the sound of metal on metal on metal.

~Read approximately 200 pages of literary theory for class tomorrow. I’m actually feeling buoyed by the fact that I managed to accurately wade myself through 80 pages of Martin Heidegger. Myself. Alone.

~Revise my poems. All of them. No, don’t be frightened, this is not going to be another scary get-the-hell-out-of-here entry. I’m in a much better mood since talking to my parents. Funny how the same things that your friends tell you—that not everything should be personal, that sometimes when what you love is what you do, doing what you love is work, and hard work at that—actually sink in when your parents say them. So, when I say I need to revise all my poems, I mean I need to really read them and see if maybe Orlando has a point. I need to work on it.

~Finish my laundry. I may have left the last load in the dryer on Saturday, and it now needs to be fluffed because it has become a sad, wrinkly mess.

Instead of doing any of these things, I am watching 7th Heaven on the CW, which I have found on my cable. It’s channel 5. You need to know this because it is on the CW that the season premier of Veronica Mars will show next Tuesday.

I should actually revise that. I am not watching 7th Heaven. I am now watching a new show, Runaway. Starring Donnie Wahlberg, brother of Mark “Look at my Calvin Klein package” Walhberg. But this brother is the “Katie-as-a-shrieking-pre-pre-teen” Donnie, of TNKotB. That’s right: The New Kids. Covergirl. The Right Stuff. (Please) Don’t Go Girl. My 3rd grade heartthrob (I still have that CD, by the way. That and Paula Abdul’s Shut Up and Dance: The Remix. They were the first CDs in our house, back in what—1990?) is now a 40-something actor with his brother’s receding hairline but without the hip dip. At least not that we’ve seen. So strange. I may end up watching this show, now, because there appears to be a hot-the-way-your-best-friend’s-dad-is-hot neighbor and they’ve already had one car/penis joke. These are the hallmarks of quality television.

But back to 7th Heaven. No, actually. Now that I have a new show, I think it will suffice to say that I am being distracted, and need to wrest myself from the evil clutches of the Satan Box, and the slightly more insidious mitts of the blogosphere.

But before I go: Am I the only person who is sick of these winking woman, diet-food-as-indulgence advertisements? Yoplait mousse that’s “shoe-shopping good.” “All day massage good.” “Do the masseuse in the sauna while two or three more fight outside for dibs.” (PS, Yoplait…a masseuse is female. Yeah. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.) Lean Cuisine that tastes like sin itself. Well, at least compared to munching rulers and accidentally licking self-adhesive stamps. I’ve had diet food, and there’s a reason that people go off their diets. Hint: it’s not because they’ve suddenly lost their appreciation of haute cuisine a la box. And women have enough self image problems without being told that their taste is also flawed because they’re panting for the masseur, not the yogurt.

P.S. Anyone else think that I just set a record for the number of hyphenated descriptions in one blog entry? I think I did.

P.P.S. The football star of this show's name is Brady. Coincidence? Yeah, a coincidence the way CW also being Charlie Weiss's inititals is a coincidence. Hah!

ND at Michigan State

8:22 PM
Great. Just great. Zibby gets plowed over because he runs into his guy instead of wrapping his guy, and then they score on their first drive. Just effing great. And would Bob Davie shut up about his days at the reins? Cripes.

8:32
"Of course, I never won against Michigan State--I didn't even know there was a trophy."
Okay, that was kind of funny. Perhaps we'll let Bob continue to speak.

8:38
Fumble by Zibby...another gimme for another Michigan. And I can't even really be pissed off about this last TD, because it was beautifully done, at least from the POV of someone whose only knowledge of football was gleaned inside Notre Dame Stadium.

And why get rid of the iPod Mini when you're just going to make the nano its petite twin? same colors and everything. Huh. I may not be in the best mood for product critique. And Zibby needs to cut his damn hair because he has not proven himself badass enough this season to merit a badass haircut.

8:56
Holy crap, that was the longest quarter ever. I'd forgotten how much longer a football game was when a) you're not there physically and b) when your team has so obviously already given up.

As anyone who reads this particular entry will understand in the first two sentences, I am not reacting with any degree of actual knowledge about the game of football. I couldn't tell you what a shotgun pass or zone defense were if you paid me. But holy crap. 20 yards of total offense in the first quarter, as opposed to State's 188 yards. Even I know how freaking miserable that is. I almost want to tell the band to hush, because the team they're trying to support forgot to come to the game. Even when we manage to trip up the runner he stumbles forward for another three yards.

The good thing is that Zbikowski was showing some increased energy in the last couple of plays in the first quarter. That's another thing--when I, of all people, can see that Brady is just wildly out of his groove and that the D looks like the last place it wants to be is on the field, you know it's bad. They need to forget what's at stake, because if they don't step up we've lost anyway.

9:04
Thank goodness, 9 yards from Darius. Let it be a sign or things to come FIRST DOWN! YES! It is sad that I am so excited about a first down.

9:06
Yes! YESYESYESYESYES! I love the no huddle approach, because all this stuff is in Quinn's muscle memory, and he just needs to shut his brain down to get it back. And yes, I terrified the cat when I started shrieking. I'm okay with that. Really. Now I'm going to go apologize.

9:18
I go to the bathroom for two minutes only to return after an apparent scuffle and an interception-->TD. WTF, mate?

9:27
Does anyone else think The Shark should have spent a little less time playing baseball and a little more time on his receiving this summer? He just doesn't have even a semblance of last year's consitency. (Makes him sound like pudding, huh?)

9:29
Beautiful, beautiful play fake (that's what Bob called it). Carlson...this is a name that I have heard a lot lately. I like it. I also like how Darius always freaks the crap out of me by runninig horizontally for ages before turning for the vertical run. He always makes the turn, and I always panic anyway. It must be hell on earth, being in the seats anywhere TD!!!!! near me at the games.

And we back in the game, 14-24 with 6:45 left in the half. Oh, and I love it when they explain things with the yellow pen. I may need to make flashcards. I may also take back what I said about Jeff. Maybe.

9:36
Question: what is a "draw play?" I'm assuming it has something to do with drawing the defense into thinking it's another play, but they forgot to explain that one to me.

And the creepy little SkyCam thing is floating along in the back field.

9:40
And dammit, they just used our own play against us. Poo.

9:51
Half time. Dinner time. Also drug time--I think the cold meds have been wearing off.

10:18
Mmmm. Hot dogs and beans. Classic cold food, because it doesn't taste like much to begin with, so you're not missing anything, what with the whole tastebud atrophy that always accompanies one of my colds. And Carlson is my new hero.
21-31; ten points is definitely doable.

10:23
Nice sack by Trevor Laws. This State crowd is looking downright morose, though, which is odd since they're still ten points up. I hope we don't look like that--oh, wait! We haven't been ten points up in, well...ages.

Oh, and a nice short punt. Come on, offense. time to live up to the D's expectation.

10:29
Well, our 4th and 8 attempt didn't quite work out the way we had planned. And Charlie may or may look like he's going to eat Brady Quinn. New question: would the Irish be, at this point, much worse off if he did? I don't mean that. But it's something to think about. I think we should just play mudball now. Have fun and play loose, but not in the bad way.

Dude, my head is going to freakin' explode. I want to know why the drugs haven't kicked in yet.

10:34
Aaaand another TD for the Spartans.
21-37 Michigan State

10:38
Darius freaks me out again. I hate it when he does that! And bad bad bad with the rain and the slippery ball. And we have some serious biflowing frustration happenening between Brady and Charlie.

I hate Ringer.

10:46
Shit. Shit shit shit. Who held? Shit. But it looks like Zibby's mentally back. Shit. Who is number 8? We CANNOT CANNOT CANNOT CANNOT afford this many penalties. And now Brady's all over the place.

10:55
If you've read this far, and honestly I don't understand why you would have, you have come to the same conclusion that I have: it is dangerous for Katie to watch the game at home alone with the cat. At least when there are other people in the house I pretend to be productive, and am less likely to yammer on like I have been.

That said, tomorrow at 7 Extreme Makeoever is going to be at North Pole, AK. I've been there. That's where the Christmas shop is. Mostly overflow people who work at/near Eilsen AFB. Think I'm going to watch. Sleepy. Flag.

11:05
How the hell was that holding called on the offense? One of our guys practivcally jocked the ball carrier by way of his collar...I thought that was illegal. Maybe? Something called a "horse collar"? *Editorial note: the author has since learned that there is no horse collar penalty in NCAA football, and that it was only declared a penalty, as opposed to a fine, in the 2005 season, much to the dismay of Jerry Jones, all time class act.

11:09
HEADS UP CARLSON! Yes! So lucky.

And Brady, way to neutralize that gain.

11:11
Jeff, way to get cheesed about the no-call! 37-27 Michigan, going for 2.

Shit. Why did we go for the run? They've had Darius's number almost the whole game, so why wouldn't we go with a short pass? (I am actually asking these questions, not being shitty about the call, so if you have answers feel free to respond...)

The TV peoples seem to agree with me, which makes me feel pretty good about my novice assessment of the situation. This is getting to be one ass long entry.

11:18
YEEEEEEEEAH! Ndukwe is awesome! Way to cause the fumble and recover it.

No no no. Too many penalties, boys! Too many penalties.

11:22
Don't even argue with that call, it bounced off your freaking back! How on earth can you think that isn't interference?

11:25
YES! But wtf with the missed FG?! It's okay, it's okay. 5 minutes is enough. We can do this. I don't care if it's ass ugly, as long as it's an ass ugly W.

11:27
Hey, I just saw Shaneyfelt! Oh, but weird take on the band. Strange echo thing.

11:29
WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
40-37 NOTRE DAME!!!!! And it was a defensive touchdown. Woooooooooooo!

11:35
Please no OT. I need to sleep.

11:38
This is what my defense should look like every time they're on the field. Wired, in the O's face every single play. Every single game. This is my Notre Dame football team!

11:41
And Lambert is a pinball wizard! How the hell did he get that?!

Thank you, thank you, thank you. Ugly as all get out, but I'll take it.
11:43
40-37 Notre Dame

And holy crap, is our team tone deaf! :)

Refuge, Thy Name is Cartoons!

So, yesterday I was describing my life (psuedo-professional, at least) as a continual process of flinging shit against a Teflon wall. You have a lifetime supply at hand, but nothing sticks. By that I mean that I had another meeting with my thesis director, who told me that I was thinking up a lot of lines, but that none of them were working as poetry.

At this point, I'm walking a fine line between anger and despair. The anger part is typical me: as I've told many of my friends, I like to believe that all of my work is divinely inspired, and therefore beyond reproach or revision. Honestly, though, I know that I have a lot to work on, but I like to think that some of the things I'm doing work. After yesterday, though, not so much. I wrote a poem about Hilary Clinton which is now supposed to cut that part out completely (yes, that would be the whole thing) and rewrite it as a poem from the POV of the whale that swallowed Jonah. A poem that was supposed to be nothing but a scene adn reaction to an Octavio Paz poem is now supposed to be about the children who appear in only one line as scenery but are now going to be some sort of protagonists.

I actually dread writing these days. I hate the idea of sitting down and composing anything, because I know that it's not going to work. What used to be my escape and a place of repose has become dirge work. And that's where the despair works its way in. I used to love doing this. I have 196 poems that I wrote when I was just writing for me, because I loved doing it. Now I have to come up with 60 pages and I hate the idea of it, because I hate the idea of having someone disecting it and reworking it to become a better reflection of him. Every workshop feels like poetry by committee, where everyone looks for what's best about his own work in mine. And I need to clarify: when I say "doing it for me" I don't mean using it as therapy or anything; I just mean doing it as something that's fun for me to do and cool to share with close friends, without worrying if it's too whacked out for traditionalists or too traditional for experimentalist or too may words for language poets.

Really, I might be overreacting, but it certainly doesn't feel like it. It feels like I'm just going to wade through the next six months; serve my time, try to get the thesis done and get my degree, then get the hell out of here. To only God knows where, doing God knows what.

At this point, I'm okay with being a mediocre poet. I'm okay. I just need to get this done, and move on. And until then, I am watching Volume 5 of "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles," the original series. It is keeping me sane.

Song of the moment: "Life"~Shooter

The Times, They Are A'Changin'

Ron Burgundy had never heard that song, so when he fell, he fell hard.

I'm not handling it too well, either. I guess that's the problem with living the good life--change is almost never for the better. I'm not saying it's worse, either. Just different, and taking some getting used to...yeah. Just taking some getting used to, dangling preps and all.

Must be the plague...this is just an out-of-sorts week. And it's only three days in. Wahoo.

Song of the moment: "Anything Goes"...see following poem for example


Junque Jewelry

I've lost my edge pieces and have only interiors
one more rhinestone turtle
corner of a marcasite pill box distinct enough
a single emerald brooch fitted tightly in the center
but I have twenty more strands of grey pearls
not a clasp among them

where is the wizened Asian man who should have knotted me
the silk and cotton between each Tahitian potato

all I can see are little eyes in curving corners
I don't even know if they had lids or lashes once upon a time
I know only their ruby truths
of sex and love as antonyms
or homophones when the night
is cold enough
dark enough
long enough

wicked vermeil is winking across
twelve pieces, each looking like conjoined
toads--all lumps and gaping mouths
pewter newts crawling along gold
box chains with no pendants
earrings with no backs
only French hooks
and clip ons

somewhere the edges are hiding
under the coffee mug
the couch
the sleeping cat
somewhere the box is overturned
its nest of treasures and picture map
waiting for me

waiting

Um, Disturbing...

Is anyone else bothered by the fact that, for some reason, one of the Google ad links on my blog today was for Satan Worship? Right next to "Worship Songs"? Definitely threw me for a moment or more.

So, yesterday I was talking to a friend of mine who demanded that I tell the world what it's like to live my life for a day. I can do nothing but comply.

Now, he wasn't talking about what it's like to be a graduate student at Notre Dame, or adjunct faculty at an underfunded community college. He wasn't even really wondering about what it's like to have stolen the affections of someone else's house cat to the point that he jumps off his owner's lap to see me when I walk in the house. No, he (friend, not house cat) was talking about what it's like to experience my life.

It is, in one word, bewildering. I think, perhaps, examples are the best way to illustrate this point.

Classic Example No.1: The Prosthetic Leg
Imagine that you're teaching, trying to help your class learn to write persuasive essays. You think the best way to do this is to use a very ridiculous example, to show that ANYTHING can be turned into a persuasive essay. So you come up with a topic: prosthetic legs. So farfetched, it's gotta work. Your argument: that somehow peg legs are better than the current trend of realistic prosthetics. You are quite proud of yourself, and turn to the whiteboard to start outlining your supports: the continued popularity of Captain Ahab, the fiduciary benefits of single shoe purchasing, and the fact that you'd be everyready for Pirate Day. It is then that you hear the first of the snickering. Suddenly you are outside your body, peering around the room at the same time you're writing these things. A nanosecond later, your out-of-body eyes land on a student who until this moment was residing only in your peripheral vision. And you realize that this student has a prosthetic leg. Both your body and out-of-body self suddenly freeze, including pulse and breathing. You whip yourself around and watch yourself hurry to apologize, at the same time realizing that you have just lost any and all authority previously gained.

At this most inoportune of moments, your cell phone, which you have set to buzz when it's time for the class to break, starts dancing around on the desk. It is not time to break. It is not even close to breaktime. No, you are receiving a call from your brother, who you find out later via voicemail was only calling to ask about the Michigan game. Strike two. Try to regain ground. Die a little on the inside.

Classic Example No.2: Nicholas Says Hello
You are sitting in choir at the end of rehearsal, listening to a wide array of announcements, and something--we no longer know what--pops into your head as a good thing to say. You raise your hand, but in the half second between the time that Steve says your name and the time that it's time to speak, you forget completely what you were going to say. (You think now that maybe it was about listening to Karen; you're not entirely sure.) But you have the floor--you have asked for it, and must say something. So you say the first thing that comes to mind, since the last announcement had something to do with tenors: "Our favorite tenor, Nicholas, is moved into Evanston and says hi." Moments later you relize that you will have to call Nicholas now and tell him you've told the choir he said hi, just in case someone calls to say hi back; if you don't warn him, and the someone does call, he will have no idea what's going on and your idiot lie will be discovered. Nicholas laughs at you when you call.

Now imagine that things like this, in varying degrees of duh happen to you multiple times daily. You just stand there, watching yourself trip off the edge of the sidewalk and grin like an idiot because we all know how stupid you looked trying to make it look nonaccidental. Like someone would purposefully trip off the sidewalk. You hear yourself saying bizarro things, the whole time mentally chanting shutup! shutupshutupshutup! just stop talking now. or now. or now. Knowing the entire time that the only way you're going to stop talking is if you suddenly drop dead, burst into flame, or are delivered an open-hand slap to the face. At the end of every day I am exhausted by the simple act of existing within myself, and need those six hours of Animal Planet to recuperate.

The bonus to the whole thing is, of course, that much of the time this existence is ridiculously funny to the outside world. You tell your friends about it, and they laugh. A lot. So it's not so bad, after all. In fact, it's a pretty sweet life. Certainly wouldn't trade it for a peg leg, no matter how much money I could save on shoes.

So...now you know. You should also know that I have somehow lost one of the batteries in the remote, so the TV, until I stop blogging, is stuck on BET After Dark...does anyone else think it's a little funky that Nicole Richie is featured as the love interest in her father's new music video, "I Call It Love"? I mean, they separate him very clearly from the male who is her love interest, but it's still kind of sketch. Oh well. Lionel still has the sweet pipes that taught us about "Dancing on the Ceiling," so I may just go out and get the new CD. By that I of course mean download it from iTunes. Whatever.

For now, just remember that I am once, twice, three times a lady. And that, for me, we're talking about three different people.

Song of the Moment: "Night Train"~Lionel Richie

Bourbon Chicken Is Not Worth The Pain

Notre Dame 41, Penn St. 17
ND 2-0


I was so mad earlier this evening I could have smacked someone upside the head and not felt guilty about it later. Yes. I could have.

The football game was great and, due to Sherene’s incredible generosity with her apartment, I was able to bypass all the worry about parking (because I spent the night at Sherene’s). So we’re in a very good mood on the way to Carolyn’s house and, once there, the rest of the crew defer to me and we order Chinese food from Golden Dragon. Life is rosy.

An hour later, however, life has started to lose a wee bit of its sparkly pink sheen. I call the Golden Dragon for an update on our food. I am told that they are very busy and that my food would be ready in 25 minutes; no, it would not be easier for me to pick it up than have it delivered.

So fine, we keep watching the Texas/OSU game. An hour later, and my outlook on life has paled considerably. And then gotten really dark. Homicidal, even, because I am still waiting for my food. I call Golden Dragon again, and am told to be patient, that my food is almost done, 10 minutes. I respond that I am going to pick it up.

I head down to the restaurant, where there are four disgruntled students who have been waiting for their food for an hour. Phones are ringing off the hook, and there are three people—only three—working behind the line. The woman answering phones took three minutes to find my order, then told me it was almost done. Ten minutes after that, I see them start my food. We’re now at 2 hours and ten minutes after the original order. Twenty minutes after that, I’m finally ready to go. The proprietor did not offer me a discount for my supreme inconvenience, nor for my patience. And while I was there, he had the gall to instruct the poor girl answering phones to tell people that, by calling to check on their very late food, they were just delaying everyone’s orders. Then he got pissed that people were cancelling said orders.

Suffice it to say, I will not be ordering from Golden Dragon again, and intend to advise others against it. I mean, it’s just bad business to take more orders than you can make, and worse not to tell people that it’s going to be a two hour wait, and even worse to make the customer feel that it’s somehow her fault. I mean, holy crap, the gall of it all.

Then, the piece de resistance, Robyn’s fortune: “do not let your goals fall to the trolls,” or something really similar. Definitely involved both goals and trolls. It was spectacular.

Song of the moment: “For the Glory of Love”~classic Richard Marx

Much Too Young

to feel this damned old. Yeah, I know--not the best of starts, quoting a Garth Brooks song. But it's almost 5AM, and I could, at this point, really care less. (Stupid saying, that one...shouldn't it be I couldn't care less? Whatever.)

I'm having one of those nights where it seems that my body has been possessed by something else...a pod moment, if you will: like the bod's the pod and my mind is operating completely independently of it, strangely amused but bewildered by the whole thing. I mean, I have never had allergies in my life. In my life. To anything. And yet now I have reached a level of congestion that is keeping me up at night, making me ill in the morning, but magically disappears with the periodic application of allergy meds. The strange aural hypersensitivity? Where I can hear pitches from, say, a television that's on when the cable box isn't? And the noise doesn't just annoy--it makes me sick to my stomach? Also gone with the decongestants, which makes me think that it, too, is sinus related. Have I mentioned that I have never been allergic to anything in my life?

That said, I blame Indiana. Whatever is contaminating the air around here, natural or not, is quite literally ruining my life. MY LIFE, PEOPLE! Forget to take one round of pills, and you're up until all hours waiting for the make-up round to kick in, blogging about congestion. A new low, even for me.

But at least Jake is comfortable. Woke up this morning and he was perched right on my hip. I was sleeping on my left side, and he was playing Dominique Dawes on my hip. Granted, not as big a challenge as the balance beam, to be sure, but still. I iwas imipressed. And now he's rubbing his face all over the computer. I love living in a cat house. Particularly one in which the cat in question doesn't drool all over me.

T-34 hours and counting until football returns to ND. The Lions, hopefully, are preparing for the pasting they are about to receive.


Song of the moment: "God Beyond All Praising" to the tune of Thaxted, better known from Holst's Jupiter

Then hear, O Gracious Saviour, accept the love we bring;

that we, who know Your favour may serve You as our King.

And whether our tomorrows be filled with good or ill,

we'll triumph through our sorrows and rise to bless You still;

to marvel at Your beauty and glory in Your ways,

and make a joyful duty our sacrifice of praise.

The End of an Era

The Crocodile Hunter, Steve Irwin, is dead at 44 of a stingray wound.

Wildlife conservation and filming will never be the same.

The Debate Rages

First off, between the camps who think that Jake's owners don't know how much he likes to fetch and the ones who think this is something new that he discovered with me.

But far mor importantly, the debate rages about whether or not I go on FC tour to the Southeast this winter break. Here are the facts:

I can legitimately escape campus on the 5th of Dec., right after my last workshop.
Jake just got trapped by a vicious newspaper and is now tearing around the room trying to escape.
Folk Choir Tour begins on the 4th of January, which means arriving back at ND on the 3rd.
The spring semester begins on the 16th.

And now, the pros of going on FC Tour:

• There are many people who won't be going, due to things like orchestra tours and bowl games and an overall lack of desire to take time away from le family to hang out with Folkheads for 11 days. The pro part of this is that a) there's the potential for solos ;) and b) I think I'll be legitimately needed as a strong alto, now that I don't have throat cancer.
• Since I want to participate in ACE after graduation, this would be an ideal time for me to get the lay of the land, as it were, to see if these were the kinds of places I'd be willing to go.
• Steve wants me to go. A lot.
• I genuinely like the people in Folk Choir, and this would allow more bonding with the newbies, should they decide to come.
• I would still get to spend about a month home, from Dec. 6 to Jan. 3.

And now the cons:

• I can leave on the 6th regardless, which gives me about 6 weeks of vacation that I could potentially spend with my parents and brothers and choir after only two weeks at home this summer. I also don't know how long I'll get to be home this summer, depending upon what next year's plans turn out to be, so this could be it until Christmas 2007.
• Do I really want to be on a bus with 50 other people for 11 days? To somewhere where it's not snowy or cold? In January? Particularly if Jen is off somewhere doing football things and not being my grad school buddy...
• Hypthetically: we go to the National Championship. Do I want to be watching it in Busch Gardens with a bunch of ND people, or at the crazy party that my parents will throw at the house with all of my loved ones?
• Costs: how many meals are we going to be paying for? Flying back to school on the 3rd, two days after New Years when everyone and their monkey will be recovered and flying home, costs almost $200 more than waiting until the 13th. It won't be a hardship then, because I'll have my PFD money, but it's going to make things a little tight right now.

So that's where we are right now. Feel free to weigh in, because it's causing me no end of headaches.

Song of the moment: "Here Come the Irish!"~Unknown woman who sounds like the lead singer of the Corrs

Short and Sweet

Just a heads up that I have neither throat cancer nor vocal nodes. I would also like to say that WebMD is probably the worst website in the history of the world; at least, it is for hypochondriacs like I was last week. You start looking at symptoms like ear issues and voice problems, and suddenly you're freaking out that you have throat cancer and your mom's telling you you're on crack.

I would like to point out, though, that I had a plan of action ready in case it was throat cancer. Being a grad student, it would have been no problem at all to let my profs know and do everything from home. That way I would still be a full time student, so I wouldn't have to give the loan money back, and I would have been able finish the semester. By spring semester, after an aggressive course of chemo and/or radiation, I would have been bald and weak but returning to school to finish my thesis and graduate with my class. Hard, but with the kind of family support that I have, I am probably one of the best-equipped people to get cancer ever.

I would like to reiterate, after that whole schpiel, that I do not have cancer, and am incredibly grateful for that. I would also like to apologize to all of you who, like Greg, are by this point thinking "For the love of God, Kathryn, shut up about the cancer!"

As it turns out, I have a combination of reflux and allergies that are being cared for by a little antihistamine/decongestant/acidblocker cocktail, and my vocal chords are functioning beautifully. YAY me! (And BOOOOOOOOOO particulate content of Indiana air!)

Now that's taken care of, I'm going to watch another season of Veronica Mars, since I just purchased season 1 for $20 at Wal~Mart. (See that thing in the middle? To the rest of the world that's a tilde. To Wal~Mart, it's called a "squiggly." As in "Gimme a W! Gimme an A! Gimme an L! Gimme a squiggly!*gratuitous hip shaking, much like in the chicken dance, right before the claps*" That, ladies and gentlemen, is how Wal~Mart is taking over the minds of our youth, one squiggly at a time.)

Song of the Moment: stupid "Are You Ready for Some Football?!" ~ Hank Williams, Jr.

Jake, the Prince of Abyssinia

is on my bed pouncing on...a Q-Tip. Not sure why, but the beast seems to love them, despite an apparent inability to see them unless they're right in front of him. Oh, he found it. He has three others stashed in the bathroom. It's really funny to watch him just go nuts about them. I was using one a minute ago and he just about whined, he wanted it so badly. Which is why I have a bathroom wastebasket--hahaha, he's heading into the bathroom to retrieve his stash, which I just tossed--with a lid: so that the only Q-Tips kitty can have are clean ones. Otherwise it's just yucky.

I keep ranting about educational TV, and I thought it was time for my reading public to see the (somewhat ripened, though still green) fruits of my viewing labours. And the cat's drinking out of my bedside water glass. Nice. He's got this cool little habitat thing going on up here. Drinks when he wants them, lubbies when he wants them, lots of high thronelike places and more cotton swabs than he can flick his tail at. His life must be rough. Anyway, the following came out of today's episode of "After the Attack" on Animal Planet. I would like to dedicate it to Jen Cimino.


The Angry Friday Alligator


one more mention of tomorrow and I’m going under
I can feel myself sinking
nictitating membranes closing
eyelids down
I am five six of scale and teeth
and I can sit here
looking down my nose at you
for hours

you’re like one of those little turtles
spending its life on my nose
unaware that I’m plotting ways
to crack you out of that box shell

maybe one day you roll and realize
I’m not a log
leather boots
the newest neoconsumerist nuveau riche
monogrammed wallet perpetually open

but look at how this smile
draws you out
just so
just so
just say mmmm
and know you’re going down with me
tomorrow
just so

Do I Look Like a Philo Major to You?

No, of course not! I like reality, and I relish making stupid, undeveloped claims supported only by the statement and belief that it's "because I said so."

That said, perhap Poetry and Theory Since the 1930s was not the best choice of course for me. I have been sitting in Reckers for almost an hour, reading two pages of Karl Marx from The Grundrisse (nope, no idea what it means) over...and over...and over...and over. I haven't felt this stupid in ages. I am not a fan of this feeling.

Thing is, I don't think it's really a reflection of my intellect that I can't understand this piece of work. I don' t mean that I'm brilliant, though I am in many ways. Mostly I mean that this man's grammar is so awful that I have no idea what he's talking about, not because it's difficult subject matter or illogical argument, but because I can't see which verbs go with which subjects or objects in which senteces. AND MY GOD, THE SENTENCE FRAGMENTS! It's bloody ridiculous, is what it is. I wouldn't pass Marx in ENGL 111, let alone allow my life to be influenced by him. Honestly, I think red is the color of communism because of all the corrective marks that must have appeared in the drafts of Marx's various papers and manifestos.

Then again, it's probably the translation that's doing it. Perhaps in the original language, which I think must have been either German or French (I'm leaning toward German, due to the title of the work) sentence fragments are a sign of unplumbd intellectual depths. Right now, though, they're plumb pissing me right off. Almost to the point where I might have to go buy a lamp, just so I can have one lightbulb moment today. And I still have another 65 pages to go before I can go to bed. This sucks.

Remind me of this moment the next time I talk about how little work I have to do, or if I ever--EVER--again mention the possibility of getting my PhD before retirement.

Song of the moment: "No Creo"~Shakira, because of the following lyrics:

No creo en Venus ni Marte
No creo en Carlos Marx
No creo en Jean Paul Sartre
No creo en Brian Weiss
Solo creo en tu sonrisa azul
En tu mirada de cristal
En los besos que me das
Y hablen lo que hablen

Preworry Runs in My Family

Ladies and gentlemen, I am a horrible and duplicitous person. Two faced in ways that DC Comics couldn't fathom.

I can hear the protests--I can't be two-faced, I'm too nice/sweet/dense/slow. Well, maybe not those last two. And I surely hate to disillusion you all, but there comes a time in every life when reality, harsh and unbending, must be faced. This is that time.

The reality of my life of lies hit me like a herring to the face today when, after sitting silently through rehearsal, I accepted Michele's praise about coming to both rehearsal and Final Vows even though I can't sing. I accepted her thanks, then snuck (sneaked?) out of the Basilica and headed for LaFortune, fun, and coffee. And I have every intention of going back and waiting outside the Basilica so that it looks like I attended. How lame is that?

In all honesty, though, I'm not sure I could have handled another hour listening to songs I know by heart and not singing them. Rewind: I think I hurt my voice and, pending a visit to an ear/nose/throat guy, am not singing at all. Period. Because I have no self control. Also because in the last few days even singing softly has made my ears ring and I clearly don't know how to sing without hurting myself.

Thing is, I'm preworrying a lot. That's my family's version of running the 'what ifs' and focusing on the absolute worst possible scenario. We fixate and ulcerate over them, and then get to enjoy the profound relief of knowing we blew the whole thing out of proportion when time reveals the pettiness of our worry. In this instance, worst case scenario is Julie Andrews: vocal fold nodules, botched surgery, range of 5 notes where once there were five octaves. Adjusted to my life, we're looking at 2 1/2 notes. I'll be like Springsteen, only my range will probably be lower than his.

That's basically what I'm fixated on. Actually, it's not that bad until I'm in rehearsal, not singing. Any other time and I'm able to think, it'll be fine. It's probably just stressed and I need to lay off for a month or so, then learn how to warm up properly. Vocal rest and rehab: no big.

But when I'm in rehearsal, listening to everyone else sing, it's way different. That's what I do. I have a hard time remembering the last time, before the last day or so, that I went 24 hours without singing...something. The last Mass I attended without at least singing quietly from the congregation. The last song I loved that I didn't in part love because I loved to sing it. And then I think about the possibility of not doing it for 6 months. And the possible consequence, if I can't learn some self control or figure out what's wrong, of never doing it again, and I lose it. Started tearing up during rehearsal today, and on Thursday.

What surprises me is that it's not the idea of not being in Folk Choir that bothers me. I mean, it bothers me, but I know that I can be without it and be more than fine. And even if I have to drop this year to heal, I know that the most important part--the people--won't stop hanging with me because I've misplaced my talent.

No, what bothers me is how will I respond if I really can't sing for a month, or three months, or six? What will I do with that time? How will it affect my faith life, since so much of what I experience in Mass has to do with the musical part of the liturgy? I don't know. Right now, I'm just praying that it's some sort of strange allergy, or a problem with my ear and not my voice. Or maybe that I'm in kind of voice settling stage. Okay, I think I made that up. I'm trying to be positive. That's hard for me.

Regardless, I'm going to head upstairs and get my coffee before I sneak back to the Basilica.

Song of the moment: "Louder Than Words"~Tick, Tick...BOOM!

The Return of iTunes

Just when you thought it couldn't get better, Apple came along and improved iTunes. How, you may ask?

They put Shark Week up for sale.

That's right, more than just songs and the usual ABC Family drivel (although the first season of 'Wildfire' was admittedly quite good, if a little 'Seventh Heaven' for my tastes), iTunes has begun selling educational television for portable viewing. Moms around the world are grateful, because now their kids can watch the Discovery channel on the way to and from places instead of having to talk in the car.

Wait, this wasn't supposed to be a cynical diatribe. The previous irritation can be explained away by one thing: jealousy. Yours truly does not have an iPod with video capabilities. Oh, I know, I know--I have a ginormous screen on my laptop--which, strangely enough, is on the floor instead of my lap while I get some serious cramps of the trapezius muscle from typing in a prone position for no apparent reason--that allows me to watch things like the entire second season of 'Veronica Mars.' I also have cable, which enables me to watch the Discovery Channel to my heart's content. But come on, people--this is Shark Week. Shark Week is a once-a-year occurence and I missed the 2006 installment because I didn't know it was happening. How can I pass this up?

And yet I must. Because I, dear reader, blew my spare cash on beads. Piles and piles of beads. Including a ruby in the rough, a large polished chunk of Sleeping Beauty turquoise, strands of watermelon tourmaline, citrine, faceted garnet, blue topaz, jade, green garnet chunks, peridot chips, carnelian disks, turquoise chips and rounds, and some lime colored turquoise that is to die for. And lots of silver to make it all pretty. Ladies and gentlemen, Lush Grammar, jewelry by Kathryn Hunter, is kicking into high gear. Real business cards, license and all. It's going to be awesome. And hopefully profitable.

So, yeah. That's why no Shark Week. At least not yet. And no Johnny Bravo.

That is all.

Song of the moment: "There's a Hole in the Bucket, Dear Liza"~traditional American folk song

Updates

On The Mermaid Chair: I was watching Lifetime: Television for Women yesterday, or rather, really early this morning, and apparently the network has made a film of this book. Starring Academy Award winner Kim Basinger, who has been curiously absent from any kind of film, television or theatre for the last ten or so years. Should be interesting.

On Sitatmytable Guy: I have seen him at Reckers three times since our little encounter. I know it's him because of his nose--it's not enormous, but still of proportions at odds with his face, and the only image I can give to describe it is...think of a Roman, and picture him as a hobbit. I mean, it's long, and kind of pointy, but bulbous at the sides. Very identifiable nose. I believe that he is not a freshman, as was my original assumption. Instead, I believe him to be a sophomore or junior who, since my graduation, has attempted to usurp my place as resident at Reckers. Well, Schnozzy Bear, Miss Piggy's not giving up that easily. I was there before you will, and will be there until the brick turns to dust around me. Bring it on!

Book Clubs

I should have been asleep an hour or more ago. Instead, I got caught up in Sue Monk Kidd's latest novel, The Mermaid Chair. Kidd is also the author of The Secret Life of Bees, and I think what appeals to me about her writing is the femenine experience of the divine. The finding of self with, through and around a search for and knowledge of God. I know, lots of prepositional phrases. But that exploration seems to me the expression of my poetics--no, rather the driving force behind my desire to write. My poems are very rarely about the search for God or self, but are often the orienteering markers left on my path.

The real reason for my writing this particular entry, though, is what I found not within the book, but at the end of it. What does it say about our society that we have introductions to books situated at the back of them? Perhaps that we are so goal oriented that we skip straight to the end to see if the return will be worth the temporal investment? That those who read to read dive right in to see where the words themselves will take the reader? That those who read to discuss it later, to know the communion of thought found in a book club, the endangered reality of shared experience and interest in a world of niches also search for some assurance that the interpretation will be common as well? I don't really know, but it seemed like an interesting question to pose.

Sometimes I experience God like this Beautiful Nothing...And it seems then as though the whole point of life is just to rest in it. To contemplate it and love it and eventually disappear into it. And then other times it's just the opposite. God feels like a presence that engorges everything. I come out here, and it seems the divine is running rampant. That the marsh, the whole of Creation, is some dance God is doing, and we're meant to step into it, that's all.
~Brother Thomas, p. 153

Strange that the one quote that most affects me, after the ranting about feminine experience, would be in the voice of a man. But we can't control these things, can we? At the very least, I can't. That's just how I roll.

That's My Table

So it's freshman orientation at the University of Notre Dame. A time of new beginnings, of hellos, goodbyes, and all sorts of strange things that parents only do when in the presence of masses of other parents. You know--the insane number of pictures, the career wars, the "I'm hoping his social life takes off in college," followed by "Are you sure you don't want your letter jacket?" Most of the time, these snippets of conversation are kind of hilarious. Sometimes, not so much. To the gentleman who said "That's so high school" while walking past me, you're lucky you kept walking. Didn't want to beat you down in front of your freshman then stamp all over your limp and twisted body. Stop crying--that's so geriatric.

I actually wish I were a bit more intimidating. I know that I like to bow up, but clearly I am not anywhere near as intimidating as even the most average toddler. Why do I know this? Because of what happened to me today in Reckers.

After singing at the Liturgy and Music retreat, or whatever it's called, at my favorite place--Sacred Heart Parish Center--I headed to Reckers for lunch. There were several things that went wrong there, but I got lunch and sat down to read the paper and eat. Brilliant idea. So brilliant that someone else decided to do the same thing.

I'm sitting at the table, reading, when a young man who definitely looked like a frosh (though I could be wrong) came over to the table. Put his books on the table and sat in the chair next to me. Started reading his book and drinking his soda.

I was pretty much astounded. I would never, ever do that, particularly when there were two other, empty tables around us. Didn't quite know what to do, so I just ignored it and kept reading and eating. Then his buzzer went off and I thought, yes, maybe it's to-go and he'll, well, go . I was right: it was to-go. But he did not leave.

No, he put his food down on my paper, opened it and started to eat his lunch, while reading his book. He still had not said a word to me. Now, I get thoroughly irritated with people who borrow the salt from my table in the middle of a conversation with their friends, or who come over and start poking through the sections of the paper that I haven't read yet. These things are simply rude, because it is clear that I have staked a claim on this particular table, and anything on it is automatically within my personal bubble. You want to use my salt? Fine--acknowledge my presence and the fact that you're interuting whatever I happen to be doing. This can be as easy as saying, "hey, do you mind if I borrow your salt?" Make sure that the paper isn't one I purchased, which only takes one simple inquiry: "Excuse me, is that your paper?" This can be supplemented with "do you mind if I read the comics?"

Thing was, I couldn't even really be irritated with this person. I mean, I was a little annoyed, for sure, but what kind of guts does it take to commandeer a table while the table's occupant is still there? And what was I going to say? "I don't know where you're from, but here we're not very personable. Find your own damn table, and get off my newspaper. Oh, and welcome to Notre Dame." Or "I know that we are ND, but not that close--piss off." Neither of those came to mind, actually, or I might have used one. As it was, I finished my meal, packed up and went my way. I'm still kind of flabbergasted by it.

And now, I think an early night, because we have to be at the JACC at 8am. That's right--8AM. For a 10AM liturgy. Wahoo.

Song of the moment: "Colors"~Amos Lee

Oh, My Aching Arse

When last we met, I was lamenting the lack of internet from my laptop and the lack of educational television. I have more than made up for that lack in the last 90 hours. Animal Planet is my narcotic and my anti-drug, my alpha and omega sans caps. It’s the first thing I watch in the morning and the last thing I leave on when I put “sleep mode” on the television. (I have kind of a problem falling asleep in the dark or in silence…I blame living in Alaska for the dark thing—no darkness in summer—and dorm life for the silence.)

Do you know that the Riley’s olive turtle nests by the thousands along the coast of Costa Rica, but only in the evenings of the waxing tide? That in one season 40 million eggs will be laid, but that only about 5% will survive, and of the 2 million hatchlings, about 5% will make it to adulthood? Or that coatis and ghost crabs love to eat the turtle eggs? Or that capuchin monkeys wait until low tide in the mangrove swamps, dig up clams and whack them against branches until the clam gets stressed and loosens up? You do now, and you know why? Because I watch Animal Planet.

What I really love is that this photographer, Austin Stevens (:Snakemaster)—who actually has more experience with snakes than many professional herpetologists, having grown up in South Africa and photographed snakes and other animals since his teen years (he’s Croc Dundee old, not Croc Hunter old)—is in the Amazon for this episode, looking for anacondas, and he’s saying some ridiculous things: He leapt three stories (so approximately 27 feet) off a boat to catch a snake in the water (its natural habitat) because he didn’t have time to take the stairs. Was it an anaconda? No, and he knew it: it was a kind of corn snake, but “it was just gorgeous and I couldn’t miss it.” Then he found a Peruvian tree boa—up a tree over the water, mind you—and leapt out of his canoe, went up the tree, wrestled the boa, and—while trying to get it back to the canoe, where the cameras were, fell about 15 feet into the water. Then he tossed the boa into his canoe, jumped in after it, draped it back over its branch for photos, and said “I hope I find an anaconda less aggressive.” Clearly it’s the snake’s natural aggression, and not the serious manhandling it just received, that make it grumpy. Uhuh.

He’s just caught a small anaconda, only about a meter or so long, and got bit. One thing that he didn’t mention, which he should have, is the amount of bacteria that can be found in a snake mouth. It’s not quite the deadly Petri dish known as the Komodo dragon’s oral cavity (those things have over 100 different bacteria living in there, and can kill and/or make a victim crazy in about 5 minutes) but it’s certainly something that requires serious antibiotics. He also didn’t mention that, as with pretty much all the constrictors, the anaconda’s teeth curve back toward its jaw, and if he were to try and pry the jaws open he would end up sawing and tearing his skin. On those animals you actually have to press the teeth further in, move the entire head slightly forward, and then open the jaws, bringing the teeth out their original punctures. No, what he mentioned is that, by rinsing his wound in the river, he’s summoned up piranhas and will need to be really careful about falling in the water from here on out.

God, I love this channel. Love love love love.

You know, I’ve seen river otters on the banks of the St. Joe river three out of the last four days on the way to campus, and some rabbit…I may need a digital camera. And a pair of snake tongs—you never know when you’ll run across a particularly grumpy garden snake, or when the opossum that you thought was actually dead is really alive and more of an ROUS than a standard

Thinking about it now, too, I’d be willing to bet that the Dutch influence is what gives similarity to the South African, New Zealand and Australian accents. I really like them. I think they sound musical, but without the lilt that lends musicality to, say, an Irish accent or the muffled percussion of a Scottish brogue.

Song of the Moment: "The Bad Touch" ~The Bloodhound Gang

Let the Man Prance

Well, some of my friends can't be bothered to comment on the blog, but when prodded have responded that I've been rather introspective in the last few entries. This is true, and more so than I had every intended when I started blogging. I like to make fun of things, myself being among the more popular subject. Lately, though, I've been using the blog as a diary more than a fun forum, and this must stop. I can't get famous some day and have the news media stumble across a dark and self-involved blog which then causes them to compare me to Poe or Anais Nin. That just won't do.

So, for a change of pace, I'm going to publish one of my papers. Before you freak out, no, it is not the one about the object-usage conflict in Hamlet's Act 4, Scene 7; it's not the one about antifraternal literature and the Canterbury Tales; and it most certainly is not the one about borders in male poets writing female subjects. In all honest, I was bored writing the last two, so I certainly wouldn't subject you to them, and the first has far too many mentions of the word "breast," which would probably result in my blog showing up on internet searches between porn and the La Leche League websites. This paper is about poetry and gymnastics, and I really enjoyed writing it. The publication of something I've already written also gives me time to do something else during the time I would normally spend blogging, mainly cleaning the house before its owners return tomorrow. If I'm done by 2:30, maybe I'll sleep instead of staying up. Doubt it'll be done by then, but it certainly can't hurt to try. Anyway, on to the manifesto. :)

Hopping Across the Mat
or
A Place for Light Verse


I have never enjoyed watching male gymnasts perform their floor routines. Every four years, demigods from across the globe garb themselves in small shorts and wristbands, clap their hands in resin or chalk and take their duck foot positions at the corner of a springy blue mat. They bow to the judges, bow to the audience, and then dart forward to launch into a plank front flip of at least nine rotations before touching ever so lightly down in the opposite corner. On the next tumbling pass, involving variations on a somersault and the always strange skill of grabbing one ankle while upright and lifting it as high as is possible without diminishing reproductive viability, the gymnast discovers that he has stopped three inches short of his next launch pad, and he proceeds to earn my ridicule: he points his toes, extends his leg and daintily skips to where he needs to be, whirling his arms in what in some subcultures might be considered an extremely rude indication of how fat they mama is. This may happen two, even three times in a single routine, between breathtaking acts of gravitational defiance, and nine out of ten spectators would like to see it gone. But what if it actually has a function? What if those little hops, toes pointed like professor’s sarcasm, are in the routine to get the gymnast from A to B but also to give him a chance to breath in the interminable 60-90 seconds he spends on the mat, flipping himself into the various pretzel shapes usually reserved for Circque de Soleil employees? And what if the spectator needs that break as much as the gymnast?

Lately I find myself weighted by the density of the poetry that I am seeing written by my peers and in the books of poetry that I read. Little lead pellets roll from enjambed line to enjambed line or fall off the end: stop. A poem for children in Iraq, a poem for the Comfort women, a poem for the rape victim, and one moralizing against war/consumerism/conservativism/atheism/ votingfortheidiotBushism. And these are just the poems that I understand. Others are litanies of place names and theories and histories that don’t provide any historical facts and still others that can look like the poet had a bag of words into which he reached, grabbed a handful and flung them at a blank sheet. These are the flips. They are artful and stunning and well choreographed, and they wear me out. I think one has to be a practitioner of the art to truly understand how difficult it is to perform a poetic plank front flip into a backward somersault. But I find myself needing a break from the mental acrobatics of these works, and have nowhere to turn except to children’s literature, where light verse has been stashed for the duration of my short life.

If I want a poem that will make me laugh, or at the very least not make me want to disown everything I am as imperialist and right wing, I have to turn to Shel Silverstein or Roald Dahl or Ogden Nash, all of whom live in the youth section of bookstores and libraries, or on the shelves of my mother’s third grade classroom. The subject matter, yes, is often juvenile, but that is the audience that we have given to light verse poets. They are assigned illustrators and make more money than any “legitimate” poet by writing about homework and dirty socks. But my God, are their toes pointed! They use rhyme and meter and wit that are often wasted on their audience. This kind of wit and humor should not be relegated to the nursery, but should be embraced as welcome reprieve from the near-unbearable weight of sociopolitical treatises and unnaturing of nature. Good poets should be able to write light verse without anyone fearing for their talent, and should be able to publish poems that aren’t trying to explain or solve the problems of the world or the human race or even of one human’s existence because, in a troubled world, those poems that make us laugh can be every bit as valuable as those that make us weep.

A gymnast loses points if any part of his sculpted self touches the blue mat outside the white lines, and more than one has lost a medal because his thumb toe crossed or his top heavy torso tipped him out while he tried to set up his next sequence of earthbound acrobatics. The abdominal muscles may control the flips and the shoulders cushion the landing; the hands might elevate the body for those awe-inspiring flares that, by rights, belong on the pommel horse, and the thighs provide liftoff, but it is those pointed toes and little, dancing, strangely funny steps that keep the routine going, that are the taxiway between landing and takeoff. So let the man prance. Let light verse give the poetry reader a break between incredible works of heartbreaking genius. Let the poet/gymnast take a moment to breathe between triple back flips and power tumbling, without threat of sending him back to the YMCA gymnasium to coach summer camp. And let the world see him do it, because it makes us laugh.



Song of the Moment: "Don't Tread on Me" ~ Metallica

I Need to Get Wired

And I don't mean on caffeine. Living at the Warners has been great, except for one or two significant problems that have nothing to do with the drooling beast. No, the problem is that they don't have cable, and I can't get online using my laptop.

Now the conflict with the first couldn't be more obvious: I haven't watched educational TV for three weeks, with the exception of a few jaunts to Spring Valley. There I was able to watch a special about samurai on The History Channel, which was pretty sweet, but not nearly enough to tide me over. I need The Crocodile Hunter, a couple of hits of Trading Spaces and maybe some Food Network. It's a problem, but I've been watching the same DVDs for ages (Steve really needs to work on the size of his collection) and I need COMMERCIALS! I have no idea what strange ED medications have come out in the last weeks, or whether there's a new compilation CD featuring reggae hair bands of 1987, or if there's a new crappy movie out that I need to see on a Sunday night. It's killing me.

The internet part is not quite as bad, and mostly revolves around my inability to download new music, which is kind of annoying. I have a list of different songs that I've heard on the radio that I cannot get to because I don't want to download them to the Warner's computer.

But the great part of it all is that I'm into my new suite on Friday evening. It's going to be awesome. It has wireless internet, cable in my room, an a bathroom of my own. I need to figure out what I'm going to do for extra workspace, since the desk is wee, but beyond that I'm really excited.

And now, off to Reckers. I'm supposed to meet my thesis advisor on Monday or Tuesday to talk about how my thesis is coming, and since I only wrote about 7 poems this summer, I need to get on that. And I really need to eat because my hands are starting to shake and I don't remember if I ate breakfast. Lunch?

Song of the Moment: "Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy" ~Big & Rich

Jesus, Take the Wheel

I've been listening to this song in my head for two days now. Well, this and "Christmas Lullaby" from "Songs for a New World." (Normally I would italicize the title of the musical, rather than putting it in quotes like it was another song, but I'm using a Mac, and Safari, so I don't have all those cool formatting options.)

"Jesus take the wheel;
take it from my hands,
'cause I can't do this on my own...
I'm letting go,
so give me one more chance--
save me from this road I'm on..."

For all my talk about conversion this summer, and despite my need to do so, I'm still not ready to give up my problems to Jesus. For me, that doesn't mean not doing anything about them, but rather acknowledging that I need to do more than admit my faults: I need to change. In a variety of different situations, the way that I handle things is the same way I've been handling them, bungling them beyond belief. And like the man who was drowning in a river I've seen the life saver, the boat and the Coast Guard, but waved them on, waiting for things just to change. To return to the song's driving metaphor, for some reason I think that I can keep steering the way I have been, and praying harder, and somehow the road will change beneath me--this time I won't spin out, all the while knowing I will.

I know, convoluted beyond belief without details, but you're not getting any of those. Therapeutic this may be, but therapy it most certainly isn't. Suffice it to say that, for all my bravado, I am petrified of change. Not of physical change, but of the kind that might actually count. It's like "What About Bob?": if I continue messing certain things up, my faults are quantifiable. If I change them, get rid of them, then I have to face new challenges that, cerebrally, I know I'll be able to handle but that I'm too lazy to want to face. I'm almost comforted by the surety of failure.

I guess it actually comes back to my last entry...Oscillation, while weird, and while mentally abhorant, is comfortable. It's the same rocking motion that parents use to put their children to sleep. Why else am I back at ND at all? Yes, I love the program, and yes, I have no regrets. But at the same time, I was so set on coming back here, to somewhere I was comfortable and peaceful that, having been accepted elsewhere, I said no. It's why I am drawn to people who will like me but cannot love me, why I content myself with skills I know I have rather than trying new things, why I spent part of this summer working at the same job I started 6 years ago. All are without risk of changing the person I believe myself to be. I have made peace with this person.

But if that were true, I wouldn't feel this way. It's just another comfortable lie that puts me in control. I'm determined to wring this wheel to death before I let Someone else steer. But I have hope, and Vision gave it to me. It was the first thing I've done in a long time that has stretched the limits of the person I think I am. And I kind of like what I see at the edges. Which brings us to the other song:

"In the eyes of heaven, my place is assured;
I carry with me heaven's grand design...
Gloria, gloria, I will sing the name of the Lord,
and He will make me shine."

I'm starting to believe it. Brace for the changes... I promise they will be for the better.