Blogging break

Life has become too stressed. My coursework is gobbling up all my time, so I am discontinuing posting for a while.

Memory Walk

I've pasted below an email I sent out yesterday. I think it speaks for itself.

Five years ago today, my father died from complications related to Alzheimer's disease. Before that day, it had been around 2-3 years since he'd recognized me. It was only a matter of time before my sisters and eventually our mother were also washed from his memory by this horrible, devastating disease.

Related to his Alzheimer's condition, Dad also had developed Parkinson syndrome, a disease scientists think may be fundamentally related to Alzheimer's as often people diagnosed with one will develop signs of the other. I cannot begin to describe the emotions that rose in me as my father's health deteriorated, as his mind which he'd taken such pride in and his body began to fail him. However, I can say that his death at the age of 71 was actually a relief, both for him and for the rest of the family. We knew he would not get better, and watching him literally lose his mind was torture every day.

So, I write to you today, not for sympathy but to ask that you join me at 1 p.m. Oct. 5 at Stephens Lake Park in Columbia (Broadway and Old Hwy 63) for Memory Walk, a fundraising and attention raising event sponsored by the Alzheimer's Association. This organization provided information and support to my family as we grappled with Dad's illness, and now I'd like to give back. Please help me do so. Please follow the link listed in the message below and join my team, The Literate Ones (https://www.kintera.org/faf/search/searchTeamPart.asp?ievent=275436&team=3174799). Or create a team of your own and walk in honor or memory of someone you love.

One final thing to consider: since my grandmother died with Alzheimer's and my father died with Alzheimer's and unless I die in a car accident or some other unforseen cause, I have greater chances of dying with, if not from, Alzheimer's disease. So, if you won't walk for my dad, my grandmother, or someone else you know, would you please walk for me? The research that the Alzheimer's Association supports may be the very studies that will enable me not to develop the disease that took my father from me way too soon. Thanks for your support. I appreciate your friendship and understand if you are unable to attend the walk. Your thoughts on that day will also sustain those of us who are able to attend.

Rebecca

Funny video

I'm warped, but I find this video too humorous. Disclaimer: uses F-word frequently.

Blessed

Yet another week without any writing I'm at all comfortable sharing. Yikes. I hope the semester settles down some. So, instead I'm going to share an epiphany I experienced this week.

On Thursday evenings I'm enrolled in Qualitative Research Methods I. Can I just say ick? This past Thursday was a revelation in how little I know and how little I processed the reading assignment. I thought I had a firm understanding of feminism and critical race theory, but the prof and some other students proved me oh, so wrong (picture me frowning, thinking "what the heck did she just say...did she even speak English?").

Anyway, the professor said that each week two or so of us would share bits about our lives, as who we are and our belief systems we bring to our research will often color what we find. He began by sharing a bit about himself. Wow. First of all, he grew up in a Soviet block nation during the height of the cold war. His college was so poor that each class had two books: one for the professor, one for all the students to share. They had one tv channel that broadcast for 5-6 hours a day. They couldn't speak out at all about the government, even in their own homes, or they'd be put in prison or worse.

The longer he talked and shared how he came to the US and the conditions he grew up in, the more I realized how damn lucky I am. Yes, I have student loans that only my death will repay in full. Yes, I'm concerned about gas prices rising and the cost of health care. But...I have all the materials and more that I need to complete my coursework. I'm reasonably healthy and can afford and have access to health programs, like the yoga class I've been trying to sign up for all weekend. I am soooooo blessed. While my father is dead (5 years this coming Saturday), my mother is only 4 hours away by car and immediately accessible by telephone...as are my sisters I grew up with. I am so fortunate...it's pitiful that I needed the reminder.

Have a great week. I'll be enjoying the cooler temperatures.

Oops! and Huzzah!

Okay, I just realized that I didn't post anything yesterday. Oops. So, since I haven't written anything worth sharing this week (ahem...it was the first week of classes, and I was experiencing difficulties adjusting...do you really want me to post my rant about Vygotsky? I think not), I'm just going to tell about a neat moment of fate intervening. :)

In October, I'm supposed to go to Atlanta (yes, the scene of my horrid trip full of melt-downs, see this post), and for the past three weeks I've been trying to find out if the national office or my university is supposed to pay the air travel expenses since it's a training session for the research I'm working on. Well, I found out Wednesday that MU pays the airfare (hooray! and since the conference is in just over a month, can we also yell out, expensive!). Needless to say, I'm frantically trying to get approval and all that stuff, when the divine Debbie (you rock!) sends me an email about a Mindful Writing conference in Atlanta that starts the day I was supposed to leave. Yes!

So, I'm ever so thankful that the people at national weren't on the ball (which is unusual for them) because fate, it seems, wanted me to go to this Mindfulness conference. Huzzah!

A visitor

Last night, a visitor came knocking [exaggeration] at my door. Actually, he was sloooooooowwwwwly creeping past my door. I don't remember fuzzies being quite so long or big around, and I seem to remember some old saw about the darker the fuzz, the harsher the winter. Hooray! Something to look forward to. By the way, sorry for the fuzziness (sorry, bad pun) of the shot. I'm still trying to learn how to work my new camera. :)

Olympics

My past two weeks have been dominated by the Olympic coverage from China. Last night, for instance, I stayed up into the wee hours (4 a.m. to be precise) to watch the United States win gold after defeating Spain. Since I'm not normally a night owl, I hope this post makes some modicum of sense. If it doesn't, I'm not going to worry about it, because nobody but me pays any attention to it anyway. :)

The media hype the medal count (USA lead with 110, but China had the most gold) and the world and Olympic records broken, like Phelps winning 8 gold medals and setting new records just about every time he dipped his pinkie toe into a puddle. However, I love watching the Olympics not only for these phenomenal feats of determination and talent but also because of the stories.

The Olympics generate such phenomenal narratives--of triumph and defeat. For example, take Henry Cejudo. He's the 21-year-old son of undocumented Mexican aliens (and doesn't that phrase just sound odd?). His father walked out on the family 17 year ago, and Cejudo's mother raised her six kids with help of friends and family, moving from apartment to apartment, working several jobs at a time to keep the family afloat. Cejudo says he wasn't a good student, which is partly his reason for not wrestling at the collegiate level. But he took a chance, deciding to wrestle in the senior circuit, and won BIG. That's a phenomenal story. That's a story that highlights not only the joys of the Olympics but the possibility inherent in living in America.

Or consider Tyson Gay. When he didn't qualify for 100m in track and field, he made no excuses. The interviewer and the commentary guys gave him plenty of opportunity to blame nursing a hamstring injury for not running fast enough to make the medal round, but he didn't take it. He flat out told the reporter, I just didn't get it done (that's not a direct quote, notice the lack of quotation marks). Wow. That's an awesome statement of personal responsibility in this age of celebrities (including athletes) and others who blame everyone and everything else for their own bad behaviors. Gay didn't win the gold (Usain Bolt did without even running full out, a kid-glove slap to those he ran against, but that's another day's posting topic), but Gay did win my admiration. That's a story I'd like American youth to hear. That's an attitude that should be emulated. You rock, Tyson Gay!

Stories like those are what make the Olympic games so dynamic. When watching, I want everyone to win (yes, even the non-USA people) because each one has a story of personal triumph and hardship. But I realize that just by being at the games, they've won already. These athletes have managed to accomplish feats that highly paid politicians cannot: they participate in a global contest with honor, respect, and pride, and manage to do so with little acrimony. The troubles in Georgia served to highlight the phenomenal accomplishments of the Olympic games. It saddens me that the world leaders cannot take a clue from these contestants and strive to live more respectfully with each other.

Yes, I know the Olympics had their problems (the Tae Kwon Do competitor who attacked a referee, the Swedish wrestler who through a fit when he didn't win and was later proven right that a call was especially bad [layers upon layers of problems there], or the Chinese gymnasts whose ages seem a little iffy). Overall, though, the games remind us of the possibilities, they encourage us to strive to be our best, they serve as hope that the future may be brighter than today.

Post script: Just a few minutes after writing the above message, I read the story of Samia Yusef Omar of Somalia. Samia is what the Olympics are really about. I'm not even going to try to retell her story; just read it.

Red Rope

I'm reading Kim Campbell's book Less is More where she talks about using more short texts in teaching than using novels. I finished her chapters on essays and memoirs yesterday. Her discussion of a teaching strategy using candy sparked a memory (isn't that an awesome thing?). This morning after my sister and brother-in-law left, I just had to jot the event down. I've been eying the Twizzlers packages at the grocery story lately, so I'm not totally surprised that this memory popped into my brain.

Red Rope

Walking down a dirt path, sunrays skipping across the forest floor and mosquitoes buzzing around my dark head, I finally reach the lodge. The screen door screeches a greeting, alerting Sally that a customer has arrived. Inside, the lodge is an oasis of 1970s wilderness décor—dark stained paneling on every wall, rough hewn columns supporting the next floor, and a picture window facing the lake as well as framing poppy red hummingbird feeders.

Sally’s on the phone, so I climb a bar stool, using the foot rest of the counter as leverage to pull my six-year-old pudge onto the faux leather seat. Once atop the ottoman like disk, I push off from the counter and brace my feet against the stool’s legs to circle dizzyingly until Sally can give me her full attention, or until I plop off the stool from vertigo. The click of the plastic receiver against the metal apparatus of the wall-mount clues me to stop spinning and wait patiently for Sally to wrap the mile-long curled cord over the top of the phone.

“And what may I do for you today?” Sally smiles at me, asking a question to which she already knows the answer, but a smile fills my face anyway.

“A rope please.”

Behind me, I hear the tell-tale screech of the door before a familiar voice adds, “Me, too, Sally.”

Stacy ascends her stool like an Olympic gymnast. Her blonde hair falling straight down her back and pink swimsuit complete the illusion.

“Alright, ladies. You know the drill. Do you have permission from your mothers? You don’t want to go getting me into trouble now do ya?” Sally’s northern Minnesota accent belies the Norwegian settlers of the region, though she could pass more easily through the ranks of Ojibwa Sioux native to the area.

“Yes, ma’am,” Stacy says, sliding her eyes at me, a give-away that she’s lying. My shoulders hunch as I flinch back a space, thinking of the plastic-coated metal fly swatter her mother keeps over their rounded refrigerator, her arbiter of punishment.

Sally doesn’t look convinced but doesn’t argue, after all it’s only twenty-five cents. She swings her gaze to me. “And you missy? Do you have permission from Sylvia?”

I pause, considering letting Stacy have my treat to avoid her future punishment, but the memory of strawberry sugar outweighs my friendship. “Yes, ma’am.” Sally again doesn’t look convinced but shrugs and reaches for two pieces of rope. “I suppose these’re to be added to your tab.”

In our haste to escape with our treat, we barely nod, clutching the plastic encased candy and jumping from our perches. The screen door slaps against the door jamb behind us as we skip down the cement steps, heading for the dock. Once there, we spend a half minute playacting jumping rope with our treat, but greed soon overtakes us. The crinkle of thin plastic opening to release strawberry scented sugar rushes through my senses, reviving memories of past treats. My memory sinks like teeth into the chewy roundness edged with a sinuous rill. Lying on the deck, the splintery wood against our backs and bright sun warming our bodies, Stacy and I share stories—some exaggerated, others true—all the time knowing that vacation would soon end, we’d depart for the same city but not see each other until next year. Both of us know the sweet bliss of summertime friendship and the harsh lash of separation. The empty wrappers, long snakes of cellophane, lay between us that day, shiny reminders of life’s fleeting joy.

Lurker pic

A few weeks ago I posted a poem about a mosquito hanging out on my patio door. Well, today one of his cousins paid me a visit, and I just had to get a shot of him. This exercise took a little bit longer than I anticipated and placed me way behind on my agenda for the day. I'm not complaining--he's a gorgeous little brute--but now I must work on my school stuff....and watch the Olympics (a girl's got her priorities--hello, Michael Phelps, anyone?).

No "real" post

I've been out of town visiting my sister in St. Louis this past weekend. And now I'm feeling fatigued and snarky. However, I did have a marvelous time--I always do with Kristi, she's a great listener and fun companion. We went to Fast Eddies in Alton, what a great place! Then, we took the Great River Road back to St. Charles, stopping in the Village of Elspah (must revisit soon!), Grafton, and Meppen (population 150). It was a gorgeous day.

Cowboys and Angels

This poem was inspired by an article from a British journal that discusses using email and other asynchronous online forums for counseling. The author, Jeannie Wright, mentions that online counseling is beneficial for people, who due to to geography or disabilities, cannot physically attend face-to-face counseling sessions. Why am I reading articles like this? Well, I'm doing some preliminary work for my dissertation on writing as therapy. Fun!

Cowboys and Angels

Beyond windowpane
snow drifts from slate clouds,
collapsing soundless
to cover earth, animal, barn, house,
anything left bare to the elements.
Endless expanses of Canadian prairie
rest dormant, waiting for spring to chase
negative temperatures, renew life, thaw hearts.
Sheltered from the cold night,
a rancher sits at his computer,
attempting to make a connection
that geography forbids.
He logs on, accesses through passwords,
and wanders from room to room,
chatting with others.
“Hw r u?”
“Gr8.”
Later, a woman reads
beauty in snow-topped mountains,
messages of loneliness and cold,
pride in ranching and surviving.
Through her open window
soft breezes tickle curtains,
rearrange ends of her hair,
cool flushes of interest
blooming across her cheek.
She doesn’t hear the ocean’s roar
just beyond glass and screen
or the ring of cell phone
as a man passes on the sidewalk.
In fact, she cannot hear
even the muted hum
her computer generates as she types.
But she can imagine the silence
the man up north describes,
the isolation it brings a heart.
She can convey the warmth
of a gentle word whispering
through her keyboard
and into the dark.
Despite space,
no matter disability,
they enjoy the relief
another soul brings.

Unwilling Lurker

Unwilling Lurker

He clings, desperate.
This is not how it’s supposed to be.
Summer is waxing;
days are long.
Temperatures should climb,
even at this early hour.
But, he’s cold,
too cold.
He cannot fly,
much less sweep to the arm
held so tantalizingly near.
He’s trapped,
limbs clamped to screen door.

His size, a full inch from head to tail,
cannot assist him here,
nor can ebony wings
marked with white design.
His needle,
dreaded torture device,
instigator of scratching ,
remains useless,
a prisoner against the mesh.

The sun will rise and warm him,
instantaneously bestowing flight,
but not if the woman sipping coffee
notices him lurking and swats,
killing the dratted mosquito.

Man in Black

This week in class, we listened to a Johnny Cash song ("Long Black Veil") and wrote down sensory images that the sound of his voice or the words in the song inspired. We were supposed to write images for each of the five senses and create a more formalized poem (i.e. each line beginning with a variant of "This song feels like..."). But, as usual, I didn't follow directions. For one thing, I don't usually catch smells or tastes on paper well. For another, I shy away from these really structured poems generally. So, combining found poetry (titles and/or phrases from Cash's songs) with mainly sight images, here's a listing poem.

Man in Black

Thunder, rumble in the dark
hum of a bear fresh from his den
cocaine blues wrapped in long black veil
humble stone waiting at open grave
noble, human soul consumed in ring of fire
drum of train, prowling side of mountain
ebon shadow, mumble in the night
Sunday mornin’ comin’ down
growl of diesel engine, primitive, unyielding
croon of swarthy lover, persuading wary prey
walk the line written in jet upon an onyx page
growl soaked in whiskey and smoke
howling to Folsom barbed wire
defiant, killing just to watch death soak the page,
wretched solitary man
desolate phantom immune to a lullaby
fear cloaked in midnight, wonder, and hurt
Ghost Rider,
Highwayman
hound of hell and redemption

The Slow Dissolve

I created the following movie about my dad for one of my doctoral classes. The course discusses critical literacy, basically how does one teach those who might be more concerned about survival (food, shelter, etc). We looked closely at Pedagogy of the Oppressed by Paulo Freire as well as a few other texts (Bomer & Bomer, Christiansen, Baol). When it came time for my project, I wanted to do something different--not a lesson plan or an in-service or stuff like that (those they are all good topics)--something creative. So, I put audio recordings of my father singing behind pictures of him and poetry that I wrote within the last two years of his life, the time that his Alzheimer's was at its worst.

Writing has always been a way for me to understand or at least think through a problem or an emotion. This project was no different.

Elementals

As most US residents know, the Midwest is experiencing some massive flooding, mainly along the Mississippi River. Last Saturday I was driving from the airport in Kansas City to home (Columbia) on I-70 [part of the reason I haven't posted lately--trip to Denver] and saw this gorgeous fire-ball of a moon hanging over the flooded Missouri River. The sight just wouldn't leave my head, so I jotted down a few phrases in the dark as I drove [I don't recommend this practice] and then fleshed it out more when I got home (at 11.30 p.m., thank you). I'm sharing this rough draft online due to the timeliness of the subject and in hopes that someone will respond with helpful comments to improve it. At this point, dang it, I'm stumped with what to do with the dang thing. :(

Elementals

A fiery moon splashes
against an uninvited crest,
lipping, flirting with the edge of the road.
Beneath the canopy of small liquid mirrors
reflecting back orange rays,
an ocean of infant corn drowns;
another’s dream strangles
in the rising flood of the Missouri.
Scientists say the burnt hue overhead
results from fires in California
spewing ash into the air,
while the media relate
more levees broken under pressure
from rains further north.
Tonight, journeying home,
I ride a tight wire between elementals.
Do I succumb to the passion,
the promise of heat in the darkness,
knowing it might prove false,
a mere reflection of true ardor,
or do I yield to the serene,
the apparent guarantee of calm,
realizing I may suffocate
within its encompassing arms.
Instead, I continue on my course,
ignore the decision just outside my door,
and the moon slips away,
creeps over the horizon,
while the flood water washes
onto another shore.
Choosing neither passion
nor security,
my road continues on.

By the way, I'll post again soon with details and recommendations from my trip to Denver. It was a very good time, even though I was there to work (yuck). :)

Blessings

I wrote this poem exactly four years ago today. My dad had died the September before due to complications associated with a broken hip (it didn't help he had congested heart failure, Alzheimer's and Parkinson's). He was a dynamic man, almost larger than life. At the age of 42, he and my mom sold their hotel/restaurant business so he could enter the ministry. Since he didn't have even an associate's degree, we all lived on a minuscule paycheck while he attended college at Conception Abbey (a Benedictine monastery) and preached at two different churches. Within seven years, he'd earned his BA, MA, and PhD and built a new church. I miss him every day.

Blessings

My dad sang every Sunday
Before his sermon.
After visiting the Holy Land
He loved to sing, “I Walked Today
Where Jesus Walked”
For he’d felt a connection
Between place and time
And grew closer in his faith.
He had seen what Christ had witnessed,
Touched what God had molded,
Heard what the Father created.

This weekend, I kept expecting that mystical union
To miraculously come true for me.
Walking the steps of Conception Abbey,
I trod the paths my father
Had 30 years ago, saw the same trees,
Smelled the fresh country breezes,
Listened to raucous descendants
Of birds he’d heard in the 70s.
But
I wasn’t gifted.
I wanted a piece of the father I’d lost
Returned.
It didn’t happen.

This morning I rose with the nonexistent dawn,
Saw the fog obscure the scenic hillside,
And watched a quiet wren fly to and fro
Feeding his chicks.
Sitting on a bench under a massive sheltering oak,
I contemplated why numbness
Arrived in place of illumination.

Then
The bells tolled
Calling the faithful into home.
And I looked
Toward the Basilica
To find Joseph holding the Christ child
Peering over my shoulder
Reading my journal.

Heathen as I am,
I was blessed.
For a scant instant
A father’s love melted down
As droplets from Heaven,
Nourishing the earth,
Cleansing the air,
Renewing my soul.

“I walked today where he has walked and felt him standing there.”

There

I wrote this poem earlier this year after reading House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros. The words and situation are taken directly from the novel, which details a girl's evolving attitude toward the house and street in which she lives (in a nutshell--the novel is really about so much more than that).

There

Before, I can’t remember…
Then Paulina
Keeler
Loomis—the third floor
Then…
Mango Street
We moved a lot
Each time we added one more
Mama Papa Carlos Kiki Nenny Me


The house on Mango Street is ours
Not the house we’d thought we’d get
No rent
No sharing the yard with people downstairs
Don’t worry about making too much noise
No landlord banging on ceiling with a broom
But still… It’s not the house we’d thought we’d get

Mango Street is not the way they told it at all—
It’s small and red with tight steps
Windows so small they’re holding their breath
Crumbling bricks and swollen doors
No yard, only four little elms
Small garage, but we don’t own a car yet
Everyone must share a bedroom—Mama, Papa, Carlos, Kiki, Nenny, and me


You live there?
There…
Paint peeling
Wooden bars
You live there?
It made me feel like nothing.
You live there?
I nodded.

The house on Mango Street is not the house we’d thought we’d get, but
I live there.

Calico

Last weekend was my nephew's graduation. Since I stayed with my mother for the weekend and she doesn't have Internet access (she can't even work her VCR), no writing was posted last weekend. Sorry. Plus, she's been staying with me this week, leading to little writing being done by moi. Sorry, sorry. Thus, I'm posting a poem I wrote roughly two years ago. I was living in a much smaller apartment in a much smaller town. An alley dumped directly across the street from the picture window in my living room, and this mama kitty used the alley often, crying and wailing incessantly. Her plight, and my imagining living her life, inspired this work.

Calico

I hear her from a block away;
she’s crying in the alley again--
not the soft sob of a disappointment
but the despairing wail of a lifetime
scarred with broken promise.
Her life is marked by poverty—
children lost to babysnatchers,
malnutrition, abandonment, or just
the fender of a passing car.
She’s cowering near the garbage cans,
catching shelter from the rain
under a rotting eave.
Who knows where she’ll sleep tonight,
but for once I’m assured
that I won’t wake to her screams
under my window as the male
in her life takes out his pleasure.
Years ago, she was fine—
like a smoky Billie Holiday tune
or a warm brandy chaser.
She’d slink down the alley,
a purr in every step,
confident, satiated, sleek.
Each step was a symphony
of balance and grace,
seduction and purpose.
The fellas all vied for her attention.
I can only imagine the names
they called her then—
Baby, Sugarlips, Sweet Thang.
No longer.
She huddles, emaciated,
abused by the storm,
Society, the man up the street.
Her hair, where she still has it,
hangs in clumps,
dirty, snarled, mangy.
Tonight, after the storm passes,
she’ll look through my garbage,
find the shrimp I didn’t finish
and dine like a queen,
sit under the flickering streetlight,
and maybe look up at the moon
in wonder at something so beautiful.
Tomorrow or the next day,
sometime soon,
she’ll curl up in her safe place,
wrap her tail around her body,
and drift peacefully, I pray,
into the home of no yesterdays.

Stress

No poem or other creative writing this week. I'm attempting to finish projects due this week for school. Yesterday I worked all day on a lesson plan for using Second Life to teach a novel. It's still unfinished. Today, I must create a power point for my presentation tonight for my Talk in the Curriculum course (boy, will I be glad to have that finished). And so on....

I find it hard to sit at my computer where I can look outside onto my sun-drenched patio and concentrate on school work. The cardinals are calling to each other; the wrens are chirping away, and the geese meander by with a honk or two. Plus, everything is just so GREEN.

But...I have lots to do, and time is passing swiftly.

I am from...

Today would be my parents' 47th wedding anniversary. At the time of their marriage, my mother was a ticket agent for American Airlines in Nashville, and my father was a traveling salesman running from his destiny of being a minister. Both had been married before and had children. My maternal grandmother--and perhaps my snooty paternal grandmother--was not happy with Mom's involvement with Dad, so on May 6, 1961, Derby Day, Mom and Dad eloped to Kentucky. It was an inauspicious beginning. They stopped to eat on the way home, and both came down with food poisoning.

My dad loved the story of their wedding, even the illness. He'd say, "We eloped to Kentucky on Derby Day...and the race has been on ever since."

So, here's a little poem about the two greatest influences on my life.

I am from a southern magnolia,
transplanted long before my birth.
Hardier than her delicacy shows,
she yearns for that warmer soil,
but her roots are planted deep
in this Missouri dirt.
I wait patiently for her to bloom,
those sweet pastels drawing others in,
but just as the buds fully form,
a late snow shower frosts her limbs,
and she retreats in protection.

She’d like me to stay nested,
a reddened robin in her shelter,
but I am not like her.

For I am also of a drifting wind.
My father, a circuit rider,
Wandering was his soul.
He’d settle for a while,
give us time to acclimate,
gain a foothold in the arduous soil.
Then, the spirit would move us
to greener pastures,
through overgrown forests,
stopping sometimes on rocky outcroppings.
He liked the change, the challenge.
She always looked for ways to keep
her roots firmly grounded.

So, while I am from fixed beauty,
I hear a whisper in my ear say,
“Fly away, little bird. Fly!”
And as my feet lift off,
I ignore the knowing sorrow in her eyes.

Trunk life

Wednesday the Today Show had a segment on automobile tires. They said that even if never used, tires could still blow if they are six years old or older. Yikes! So, I checked my tires, and sure enough, they are six years old (there's a number right next to the rim that's four digits long, the first two digits are the week, the second two the year). So, I guess I'll add new tires to my list of money draining expenses this spring. Hooray!

Anyway, I was also reading Writing to be Read by Ken Macrorie this week for one of my seminar courses and thought I'd try a little of his advice. Originally, this poem was a series of three haiku (per Macrorie's advice), but I didn't like them. So, I switched it up. I'm still not thrilled with the piece so far, but I took a clue from Paul Valery ("A poem is never finished, only abandoned") and stopped tinkering with it. Ah, well....

Tires expire.
Of course they do
if driven 80,000 miles
with nary a rotation—
other than the obvious
round and round
to reach each destination.

Tires expire
from staying in storage
or languishing in cars’ spare vault.
They have a shelf life—
well, trunk life.

Wait, that’s untrue.
Tires don’t live.
They never toil in an office,
never hook up with others
at the local coffeehouse,
never birth a little Michelin
or a chunky Goodyear.

But if not removed from service,
replaced with a younger model,
recycled to another use,
tires will disintegrate,
even as the wheels continue revolving.

At a certain point in their career,
tires must retire.
If only that moment is recognized
and embraced entire.

spring

To continue on last week's theme--and because I haven't had time to write things other than papers for class (and those you don't want to read, trust me). I'm embedding some photos that I took this week. This is the view from my patio doors as a storm was coming in from the south. The trees have been just gorgeous!

Spring!

T.S. Eliot began his famous poem The Waste Land with "April is the cruelest month." When I taught high school, I agreed whole-heartedly as April also played host to the MAP test (Missouri's standardized test--ick). Plus, most Americans dread April because the 15th is tax day (double ick).

Today, however, the sun is shining. It's 75 degrees. I can hear cardinals calling to one another and wrens chirping right along. Even the geese with their intrusive honking don't bother me. How can anyone be uptight or glum or anything bad when a day this beautiful rolls along.

So, though I tried to take my laptop out on the patio to write a little ditty for you today. Apollo on his golden chariot was just too dang bright, making my computer screen look like a vast black hole. My friendly spider, who is still wan from winter's pale days, and I pulled out a book and read in the sun. Ah, spring!

Coupling

Sorry this is a day late (and here I am a dollar short--sorry, couldn't resist), but my sister came to visit this weekend. So, I'm a little preoccupied.

Coupling II

My breakfast is gone when
I notice honking at my patio door.
The geese that live in the complex
have made their daily migration to my abode.
They too seem to be paired,
their white-ringed necks creating hearts in mid-air,
a Hallmark greeting card just outside my door.
Geese mate for life.
Even if separated during annual migrations
they wait--sometimes years--for their partner
to return to the nest.
If one in a pair dies,
the other continues to live--
but not thrive--
for he (or she) does not re-mate.
Flocks have no singles’ groups
whereby unattached geese can find a new beau,
no ladies' night at the local pond.

Watching my flock hunt and peck
through the sparse brown grass under the elm,
I wonder...
Do some geese never find a mate?
Do some just join the thronging vee
hoping this year they'll find that lover
who makes their lives complete,
the one who gets them as none
other in the migratory pattern have?
Are there geese who watch as others find their mate
and yearly hatch their broods of goslings?
What does this single goose think
as her dark head turns grey?
Does she fear dying without notice--
alone, unmourned, easily forgotten?
Does she spend her nights yearning
the warmth of a body curled next to her
in the cold and forbidding darkness?
Does she watch each year pass
and realize the fading hope of meeting "the one"?

Holding my cup of Earl Grey between my hands,
my heart aches for that one soul
slightly apart from the rest,
hunkered, separate, not feeding.
Her bowed head swivels to observe the others.
She, unpaired, is spectator to their lives,
barely an actor within her own.

Coupling

This is part one of a two part poem. Weird as it is to say, I was inspired to write this while chasing my cereal around the bowl one rainy Saturday morning. I noticed that usually when one Cheerio was near another they seemed drawn to each other, like some magnetic force compelled them to one another. There's actually a scientific reason for this. Anyway, my writing group seemed to enjoy the first draft. I've worked on it some since then, so hopefully it's better. :) I'll post part two next Sunday.

Coupling I

How is it some couples seem to naturally pair?
Like the Cheerios in my breakfast bowl
they drift toward one another--
sometimes coasting into crowds
comprised of individual rings
but other times butting up in twos
to cling near the edge of their world.
Rarely do I find that solo Cheerio,
who, by the way, doesn't look so cheery.
Usually softened, maybe slightly misshapen,
he roams all over the ecru
surface of the skim milk,
He may occasionally hook up
with some group of o's,
but not for long.
He'll detach and wander away,
maybe because my spoon has come between
him and the object of his attraction.
Other times, he seems to bounce off
the others, seemingly repulsed,
or maybe he just enjoys his solitude,
his time alone to splash against the tide
of milk or laze away in the bubbles.
I call this lonesome rover "he;"
it could just as easily be "she."
Females can wander,
enjoy time apart from others.

Watching the rings lap lazily
at the sides of my white bowl,
a homogeneous group of like-visioned
individuals, I wonder if a rebel heart
buoys to the surface.
Does one beige cheerio ever long
to escape the green-rimmed white plastic
and dive into a fiesta red dish
bobbing with fruit loops?
Does she ever want to break
the chains holding her to the same place,
visit a wilder atmosphere,
chase a lucky charm?
Or will she eventually give up the dream,
settle in suburbia with the equally bland
but wholesome and slightly square
shredded wheat?
What will she do
before the thought of life
gobbling her up, one bite at a time
drives her to settle?
Or will she give in to self-absorption,
wallow on her own for a while,
and then eventually sink
to the bottom of the bowl?

Writing Group--update

Okay, I just found an essay that says more aptly what I tried to say yesterday about having a supportive group to write with. Brenda Ueland states:

The only good teachers for you are those friends who love you, who think you are interesting, or very important, or wonderfully funny; whose attitude is

"Tell me more. Tell me all you can. I want to understand more about everything you feel and know all the changes inside and out of you. Let more come out."

--from: Ueland, Brenda. "Everybody is Talented, Original and Has Something Important to Say." Landmark Essays on Writing Process. Ed. Sondra Perl. Davis, CA: Hermagoras, 1994. page 237.

Writing Group

I just returned from my spring break trip to Northwest Missouri. While others I know may have spent their week in Spain, New York City, Las Vegas, or other exotic locales, I am so glad I roadtripped "back home." While I don't relish a 3 1/2 hour drive anymore, the effort was worth it! In spades!

First of all, my nephew performed in his school's production of The Wizard of Oz. He played several of the characters: Uncle Henry, the guard at the Wizard's door, and one of the "O-E-O" guys at the witch's castle. However, his best role was as the basket of the Wizard's hot air balloon. Inspired! It makes me sad to think he's all grown up and almost graduated.

Second, of course, I was able to spend time with my family--even though they were sick for most of my visit. Poor Mom slept and coughed almost the entire time I was there.

However, by far the best part about my spring break trip was meeting with my writing group. Being away from them is probably the biggest negative to my doctoral studies. Sitting with Tina, Dawn, Vicky, and Vickey, I finally felt at home. Among them I'm at my best because they deserve my best and and give me the security to be myself. They're insightful, inquisitive, witty, and just plain fun. Plus, they overlook my stupidity--those moments when I utter something utterly dumb. For that, I am always thankful. As if all those characteristics weren't enough, they are also the coolest cats around.

Well, that's all for this week. I planned to post a poem I've been working on, but I flat out don't have time to finish it tonight. Bummer. So, look for it in coming weeks...or maybe after this semester is over.

yes we can

Atlanta

I just returned from Atlanta--for business not pleasure, darn it! But because of that trip I've let one more week elapse without writing. Bummer.

So, instead I thought I'd share a few thoughts and suggestions from my trip:

• When staying in the Buckhead region, visit Lola's Bellini Bar for dinner. It looked to be the new (a.k.a. "trendy") spot for after work socializing. I ordered their fish of the day--scallops with thin sliced roasted potatoes and asparagus. Divine. The scallops were HUGE! and so delicious. The Riesling was pretty good too.
• Another excellent place to eat is the Buckhead Diner, not at all what I expected. It was tres chic with gourmet plates. I had the salmon on cucumber salad. Yum. Plus, the service is beyond phenomenal. Our waiter was so patient with our giggles and questions, and none of the servers ever let my sweet tea glass go empty.
• A final place to eat (noting a pattern here?) is Brick Tops, another new and trendy place. I had the fish of the day sandwich--a sea bass. My only downer on this restaurant was that the sides weren't very customer friendly. I could only choose from french fries or a mayonaise cole slaw. But, everything else was excellent. The sea bass was light and flaky but not dry; the bun, toasted just right.

On another note, while I was in Atlanta the city experienced its first ever tornado in the downtown area. Luckily we were north of that area and only experienced wind and rain, but it made me think about lots of things. I was in Atlanta for a National Writing Project meeting for research grants and had experienced a major meltdown during the afternoon before the tornado. Needless to say I am MONDO STRESSED about this project and wasn't working well with the professor who was in Atlanta to work on the same project. Well, let's put it this way: I cried, and I rarely cry (heck, I made it through my dad's funeral without crying). So, I'm a little on edge, capesh? But after the tornado hit and I saw all the devestation on TV (and talked to my sister and my mother), I realized that in five years, all this will be well behind me, no longer "rattling my cage." There are many worse things out there, and I should just concentrate on how THANKFUL I am to have the life I live, the opportunity to go to grad school, the wonderfully supportive family I have, and so much else.

Okay, before I turn into a Hallmark commercial, I'll end my missive here. Atlanta is a beautiful city, one which I hope to visit again someday just for fun. I sincerely send them all my kind words and thoughts as they recover from the wrath nature visited upon them Friday night.

And to anyone who actually reads this--quelle shock! there's someone out there reading this????--I promise to post something less whiny and more creatively minded next week. Honest! (fyi: spring break starts this Friday--hooray!)

Surviving the Ice

I wrote this piece earlier this year after visiting my sister and her family in northwest Missouri. In December a series of ice storms struck the entire area, leaving the trees just massacred. It was painful to see all these awesome trees just stripped of limbs. So, on this March 2, with the temperature in the mid-seventies, I thought it appropriate to post a poem about an ice storm. This is a ROUGH DRAFT, so please don't expect much. However, if you have suggestions, please let me know! I always welcome constructive criticism! Especially a better title.

They stand beheaded.
Broken limbs dangleat their sides,
while flayed skin, cracked
and rough, lays scattered
at their roots, clinging
deep into frozen earth.
The wind gusts, firing bullets
to encase their torsos
and yet unhacked arms.
Shivering, they rub against each other,
rattling a skeletal rhythm of nature.
Melting snow tracks tears
the arid wind wipes clear.
A slight burn remains
mute evidence of their trials.
Naked and abused,
they stand against the whitened landscape.
Broken and exposed,
an unknown vulnerability emerges,
but they persevere.
Their bark has seen worse storms,
colder winters, thicker ice.
Some may be damaged,
others may be bowed,
but come summer,
they will rise once again
from these icy flames
and join the verdant chorus
of triumph and a wondrous
woodland peace.

The Wages of Sin

I wrote this piece for one of my classes. We've been discussing creative non-fiction, so this is my attempt at that genre. The events, obviously happened a few years ago, but most of it happened as I relate here. Some things just don't fade or go away.

The summer of 1998 I was a college student—again—working on my master’s degree and teaching certificate. Though I’d traveled frequently, I’d never traveled extensively or gone overseas. In fact, I’d never flown in a commercial airplane—ever. Although at the advanced age of twenty-six I physically appeared several years older than my traveling companions, in actuality I was by far just as naïve, maybe even more so.
Our group, comprised of thirteen college students from around the United States, had toured the literary sites of Briton—the Globe, St. Paul’s cathedral, the Clink, the Tower of London, Shakespeare’s home in Stratford, Canterbury cathedral, Warwick castle and others—and now we had landed on the Emerald Isle. Our first night in Dublin I can barely remember, having imbibed too much cider—how should I know “hard cider” contained alcohol? We’d done the pub crawl, as many of the literati of Ireland spent most of their time in these establishments. Life seemed grand as we lifted a pint in each pub. By the sixth or seventh pub, I was defined schnockered, one step beyond drunk.
The next evening we had free to spend in whichever way we chose. Most of the newly twenty-one-year-olds chose to do another, unsponsored, pub crawl, but a few of us opted for a different entertainment. A flyer I’d picked up in one of those infamous pubs listed the dates and times for movies showing around Dublin. To our surprise, a nearby theatre’s schedule included Lolita, starring Jeremy Irons as Humbert Humbert, as the late selection, showing at 11.00 p.m. We, of course, tantalized by the thought of seeing a film banned in our native, if Puritanical, country, had to go watch it. We owed it to Nabokov. We put it down to being English majors. Face it, as just a bunch of college kids we anticipated a fairly safe “thrill.”
Returning to the convent-turned-dormitory, we walked along O’Connell Street, one of the widest streets in Europe and the main avenue for the city. Chatting madly about the performances and secretly titillated at having watched a movie about such decadence, we didn’t notice that we passed the GPO, site of the Irish Provisional Government’s headquarters during the 1916 Rebellion that eventually caused the liberation of most of Ireland from Briton. We also remained oblivious to walking next to the Abbey Theatre, founded in 1903 by W.B. Yeats and home of the National Theatre of Ireland. It has the enviable history of having hosted plays by Yeats, Synge, and Shaw. Since it sits almost directly on the Liffey River, the building drifts in place upon a concrete raft, a feat of modern engineering and faith. On another architectural caveat, I vaguely took note of the bridge we used to cross the LIffey, simply because of the way the lights reflected off the river’s surface, never realizing that I crossed the only bridge in Europe that’s span outdistances its length.
Having crossed the river and navigated the weird intersection where O’Connell Street morphs into Grafton Street and crosses College Green, we cruised by the massive stone wall surrounding Trinity College. The illuminated Book of Kells called softly to us from within its hermetically sealed and pressurized-for-security glass case, but we stayed immune to all its entreaties. Once beyond Trinity, we turned down Nassau Street. In the daylight, I had taken photographs of the multi-colored doors, the Georgian architecture, and yearned for a chance to live within these remaining elements of history. Crossing the street, still talking about inconsequential things, we noticed a man take off the front wheel of his bike, secure it and the other wheel and frame to the wrought-iron fence around Marrion Square. Once assured of his transportation’s safety, he vaulted the fence and disappeared into the park, somewhere behind the reclining statue of Oscar Wilde, one of Dublin’s most revered playwrights, the author of my favorite, The Importance of Being Earnest, a tale depicting the life of Jack, a very proper man who invents a devilish brother in order to rush off to “save” him, allowing Jack the opportunity to commit the very deeds he disapproves of in “polite company.”
“What’s he doing?” Sherry asked.
The rest of us shrugged. “I don’t know,” Beth answered. “Who cares?” And blithely we continued on, passing one of the many pubs within “our neighborhood.”
Reaching the red doors of the dorm, which looked like any of the other row houses on that street, one of the two security guards on duty buzzed us into the building.
“”Ello, ladies. Did you enjoy your night out?” the cute one asked.
Giggling and barely replying we crossed under the crystal chandelier and dashed up the stairs to our room.
The next morning found each of us in varying states of readiness as our guide told us to come downstairs as soon as possible. A constable waited to talk to us individually.
Constable? Did we do something wrong? My mind immediately flashed back to Lolita. Maybe we broke a law by going to see the movie. Even though the guide assured the officer only needed our assistance, I still couldn’t help thinking of the verse from Romans: the wages of sin are death. The early-bird of the four roommates, I descended the stairs, gaining distinction as the first, lucky person to talk to the police officer, a likeable looking guy in a dark suit, not unlike our coach driver Phillip.
“’Ello. Please be seated,” he began before introducing himself as Detective Sean Casey. My mind raced, thinking: isn’t there a baseball player named Sean Casey?
“So, Seamus tells me you were one of the ladies who came in late last night. Is that correct?”
Seamus? Oh, the security guard. I could feel perspiration dot my forehead and upper lip. “Yes, sir,” my usually boisterous voice barely eked beyond my lips.
“What time was that?” he asked. Seeing my confusion, he added, “When you returned to the dormitory, what time was that?”
Wide-eyed, I paused. “I don’t know. The movie started at eleven. It probably played for about an hour and a half, and then the walk back probably took twenty or thirty minutes.” I licked my lips, catching the faint salt crusting on the upper rim. Doom had arrived as surely as Emily Dickenson’s gentlemanly depicted death. I had broken the rules and gone to see a movie about incestuous pedophilia. Now I recoiled from god’s lightning bolt on high.
“So, that would be about 1 a.m. Right?” He noted something in his little spiral notebook. Oh, god. I promise I’ll be good from here on. “Did you happen to notice anything unusual on your way home?”
The question stunned me out of my panic. Trying to remember the walk home, my previously quelled sense of humor reemerged. “Excuse me. Not trying to be flippant or anything, but I’m from the middle of nowhere in the dead-center of the United States. Nothing ever happens there. Everything here smacks of the unusual to me.”
He smiled, and I realized his handsomeness, a totally Irish, buttoned-down sort of handsome, at least.
“Point taken. Alright, did you hear anything, screaming or laughter, that seemed odd. Or did you see anyone odd on your walk home.”
Okay, that made more sense to me. I gazed off in the distance, rolling through my mind’s videotape of the night. The dude at the park!
“Yeah, I did.” Looking stunned, he began to write once more in his notebook as I told him about the bicyclist who jumped the fence. He asked me to describe the man, which I did, surprising myself with the details I could recall.
Nodding, the office stated, “That sounds like Padrick, but I’ll check it out.” Does everyone know each other here?
“Can I ask what this is about?”
He looked at me, a weariness and disillusionment deep in his eyes. Reaching some internal decision, he nodded.
“Sure, but I’ll ask you not to talk to your friends until after I’ve questioned them.” I nodded agreement. “Last night someone killed a prostitute two blocks down by the canal. I’m interviewing people in the neighborhood, looking for anyone out between midnight and two a.m., hoping they’ll have seen or heard something that’ll help us.” His tone indicated that a like event or events had occurred before and that he didn’t have high hopes of finding a clue to lead the police to the perpetrator.
“Oh… well, I hope you find whoever did it.”
“Thank you, ma’am. If you happen to remember anything before you leave for home, just tell one of the security guards. They’ll know how to contact me, and I’ll come round again to talk to you.”
Walking out of the parlor, with its thick plastered crown molding and the delicate fresco around its chandelier, I contemplated the night, our daring, and what it really meant to brave the world. While we laughed and hurrahed about seeing a racy movie, someone had murdered a woman within a mile of us. And we’d traipsed on, blissfully unaware. Tomorrow I knew that danger would once again lurk, because we planned to journey to the north, to Belfast, to the home of Sein Fein and contemporary Irish rebellion. Walls may separate sections of that noble city, but the bombs still detonating on a frequent basis could make us just as dead as that prostitute down by the canal.

Too Tight

This week was just too chaotic to even think about writing. I've been gone to the Write to Learn conference at Tan-Tar-A for three days. Between preparing to present at that conference and trying to get my homework done and straining to fit in a visit with a candidate for the Endowed Literacy Chair (which never happened---long, frustrating story), I didn't write anything but school work. So, I pulled a poem from long ago. This was written in probably 2002 a year before my dad died. He had a variety of illnesses, mainly Alzheimer's, Parkinson's, and congestive heart disease. I wrote this piece after he'd fallen down the stairs at home. This, if I remember correctly, was the injury that finally made us place him in a nursing home; he was just getting to be too much for Mom to take care of.

Too Tight

“Don’t squeeze so;
It hurts.”

Dusk.
A mosquito and chigger-bitten girl
Runs willy-nilly over the yard
In pursuit of elusive lightning bugs.
Just out of reach, the nighttime torch bearers
Cavort, test aerodynamics, as the girl giggles.
“I got one! I got one!”
Her shouts ring out.
Chubby legs turn;
She races back to the porch.
Open fist reveals guts & slime.
“Eew!”
overzealous pursuit brings untimely end.
Daddy’s shoulder muffles heartrending sobs
And sops tears one by one as they fall.
He knows how tight to give bear hugs.

Twenty-five years later,
The child is now grown.
Daddy, her hero, has fallen,
One rib and some soreness add to the tally of age.
She once looked up into his eyes—
Love, respect, adoration communicated freely.
Suddenly, she’s looking down into thinning hair.
Love, respect, adoration still faithful but blue.
She stands and embraces him,
Remembers bear hugs so strong which
Gave her wings, lifted her feet off ground,
Squeezed breath from both lungs,
Made her fly through the night.
Yet again, forgetful and overzealous, she squeezes too tight.
She fights back tears, looks back over his shoulder
As he, ever patient, whispers, almost wheezes,
“Don’t squeeze so;
It hurts.”

Little Pig

Thursday we celebrated the Chinese New Year in one of my classes (I'm a PhD student, so I'll probably refer to my classes often). Part of the warm up activity was writing about our "year"--the year in which we were born according to the Chinese zodiac. I thought this an auspicious way to begin my blogging life.

While I think the characteristics of my Chinese year suit me--noble, chivalrous--I very much dislike being a boar. It makes my insecurity rise because of its homonym, bore. Nobody wants to be thought uninteresting. But...

I do think some of the boar traits are ones I have. Pigs are relatively intelligent creatures, known for their adaptive techniques to protect their sensitive skin (i.e. wallowing in the mud--see related website: http://www.ag.ohio-state.edu/~twig/animals/html/021896.html). Boars--especially those in the wild--are fierce protectors, charging a perceived enemy and ripping its hide with their strong tusks. A recent blog post on the Daily Mammal (found at: http://dailymammal.blogspot.com/2008/01/north-carolina-week-european-wild-boar.html) said that boars are much more dangerous than mountain lions or other predators because of the ripping action.

So, I guess I should be proud to admit I'm a boar. I'm tough and smart, adaptive and tasty. I admit it: I'm a boar. I'm a boar!