We went out to dinner and drinks last night. Yummy, yummy, fruity alcoholic drinks. My husband got to meet two of my writing buddies from school, and my writing buddies got to see (almost) Drunk Erin, aka Fun Erin (according to hubby and a few others). It was a really nice evening, and my god, am I a lightweight. I don’t drink too often, if it is 6 times a year, it’s a lot. So it only takes one drink to feel a buzz, two to get a lil slurred in the speech and another to make me absolutely giddy.

It was good. Now, my buddies can put a face to my hubby and vice versa when I’m blathering on about him/them.

Not much else happening. Stories to write. Poems to revise. A book to reread. My house to clean.

If I get any thoughts in my head (I’m in short supply at the moment), I’ll let you know. Be Good.

Oh, I never said what the actual results were from the interview a couple weeks ago. I’m third on the alternate list. And the people who were actually chosen need to accept or decline the program by the end of business today. So, if three folks decline, then I’m in, but now I’m not so sure going away for the summer is the best thing. I’m considering looking for a local internship, taking a summer school class or two, because it looks like I can squeeze a minor in quite easily before I graduate. And I’m not sure if I’m too entirely spoiled or what, but getting on the alternate list is sort of disheartening. I’ve never really liked coming to things or receiving things that I absolutely knew were second rate. So, yeah, I’m thinking that makes me spoiled. Ah well. I don’t think I’m that way with everything, not necessarily with material things (now that I’m an adult, ahem), but usually when I feel people have undervalued or overlooked me, I guess—when they’ve decided I’m second rate. But maybe I am when it comes to some things. Maybe I need to learn to kick my ego upside the head, so that it will shut up sometimes.

What is it about a gun salute, and taps that brings instant tears? Yesterday, the rain let up just long enough for the quick military service for my father-in-law. He was loved. That can’t nearly express all the feelings that folks spoke about at the service, but that’s all I can write.

I’m starting to have doubts, and I blame The Gilmore Girls! (last night’s episode included some nervousness about college acceptance/rejection letters) It hits me every now and then… the questions. Is my writing good enough to get me into a graduate program? Is a Master’s the right thing to do? I’ve heard the programs can be devastating. Can I withstand the harsh, critical environment of such a program? I want to believe I can. Mostly, will I get accepted somewhere that isn’t here?

I know that I can only keep on doing the things I’m doing. Try for the outside programs, write the best way I know how, read as much as I can fit in, make connections with teachers and other students. And mainly that all comes naturally for me, I don’t have to force it (except for the occassional writer’s block situation). So, knowing that, I can tell myself that I’m doing everything I can to get where I want to be. I can tell myself everyday, but damn those doubts can sure linger.

Well, that’s enough about that. Doubts be damned, I’m going to try to ignore them so they’ll go away.

Donald Hall is an accomplished contemporary American poet, who has been writing for over 50 years and whose work tends to be a bit more serious then the poem I’ll post here. I have a copy of his book, Old and New Poems: 1947-1990. This is a great collection, and gives a wide sampling of his work as it has changed over the years. His wife, Jane Kenyon, was also an accomplished poet.

Since the width of this column would hinder the line length of the poem, here is O Cheese.

This was brought to you due to Trace’s inspiring poll about cheese. Enjoy.

I worked today. Making some money to pay the bills is always good in my book. “In my book.” It is an interesting saying, as if each person is a book. Don’t judge a book by its cover. I tend to do this with books. If the book has been nominated for an award, or won an award, I’ll usually buy it if it is some form of fiction. I figure if a panel of people somewhere liked the book, then I probably will too. I’m a fairly lenient reader. I might have mentioned that before. So long as the author has put the effort into his/her words, created a believable world and the story is a-flowin’, then I will probably enjoy it.

Can you tell that I’m trying to make an entry out of much of nothing?

My mind is playing possum (opossum for ye formal folks). It is laying very, very still, pretending to be a slab of chuck roast, instead of a swirling mass of thought. I suppose that isn’t so bad. The darn thing could use a break.

I hope everyone is having a decent day. Be good.

My father-in-law died yesterday. He was 83 years old.

He had been either in the hospital or rehabilitation center for over a month. During the past 9 years, since I first met him, he had several recurring medical problems that demanded hospitalization, treatments, rehabilitation, and many medications. A few years ago he had a stroke, and rehabilitated fairly well, but then fell and broke his femur, and had to be rehabilitated again. About a week before Christmas we noticed that he was less able to stand up and use his walker. By Christmas his speech was deteriorating. Then in January, he couldn’t move to get out of the bed. Diagnosis: another stroke or series of strokes.

He seemed alert this time when they moved him to the rehabilitation center, then some more problems. They shuffled him back and forth from the rehab place and the hospital because of fevers, and infections, until it was clear he needed to stay in the hospital. Pneumonia, kidney failure, and low blood pressure. All four of his remaining children (one daughter passed away before I knew my husband), his wife and I were able to be with him in his last days, but I know everyone was struggling with whether or not he realized that we were gathered around him, loved him and just wanted to him know that we were there. When he opened his eyes for those brief seconds, he couldn’t speak (the strokes), and he didn’t wave or nod. I heard my husband saying a few times that he didn’t think his dad could comprehend. I don’t know if he could comprehend, but I’m hopeful that on some level he knew his family loved him and had gathered around him.

I wrote something yesterday that I thought I’d post here. Tentatively titled: Silent Synapses [This has since been published in a small undergraduate lit mag, and revised (in that order, unfortunately)]

His biting levity would sometimes tighten
my stomach and flinch my skin.
Old age, I’d dismiss it. Crotchety.

Set in his ways, I thought, rooted
in sarcasm and stained white undershirts.
For years, I didn’t understand. It was a gift
he gave his son, my husband.
That askew glance at the world
that burst forth in its sharp tongue.

An unrelenting strength never giving in
to complacency. Only as he grew weaker
in body, spirit and mind, broken by a stroke
did I begin to miss his cutting humor,
begin to smile softer—unforced, begin to wait
for the words to form on his lips

hoping to see some spittle drying
to wit upon his white whiskers.
Frustration. He couldn’t speak
the words that, now, I wanted.
I wanted another chance to hear
his voice quirk, but the sounds

in the soft recesses, in the chasms
of thought and memory, were
forever silent synapses.

Is hate really the opposite of love? I’m thinking hate and love seem like part of the same thing, as if they are wrapped in a ball connected by the charge of emotions, fueled by irrationality, ignorance, acceptance, rejection, fear and on and on. People have done some extraordinary things fueled by love or hate.

I’m thinking apathy is the antithesis of love. Coldness, indifference, detachment, insensitivity. Looking into someone’s eyes and seeing nothing, the absolute absence of compassion or understanding or interest. On a personal level this scares me more then hate. I can do a fairly decent job of spotting and steering clear of hate, or at the very least, I can categorize it, excuse it to ignorance or just an emotional state. I can mostly forgive emotions, again on a personal level. (Globally, in concerns to terrorism and hate crimes, hate deserves the fear that most of us, including myself, feel for it.)

Apathy, though… this chills my bones and unsettles everything I think I know about human emotion. I can read emotions, and I can usually get a pretty good grasp on why a person may react a certain way to the things and people around them. I can’t say that I’ve never been apathetic towards someone, but neither can I say that my own apathy towards another being has made me feel like a better person.

There are reasons and excuses. Sometimes apathy is a method of self-preservation. Sometimes a person hasn’t been the recipient of kindness or caring, and doesn’t realize that giving it to another person is a fulfillment in itself. Maybe people have just grown tired. Maybe the very moment someone reaches out in hopes of making a connection with another person is the moment that seems unimportant because surely there are better, more important moments ahead. We can all count on the future, right?

Maybe. Maybe I’m misreading the look in the other person’s eyes, maybe it isn’t coldness, apathy. Maybe it is a wall, hiding the tumult of emotions behind its mortared cracks and crevices. Maybe they want to sympathize or offer a word of compassion, but they are overwhelmed to silence. Maybe by the time they shake it off, they’ve already seen the hurt in my eyes, the pulling back, and maybe they have decided that it is too late.

It is never too late. Even when we think it is too late, and we say it is too late, I don’t think it is. I could be six feet down in the ground, and it still wouldn’t be too late for someone to say they cared, and they were sorry if it never showed. But maybe that’s just me.

Questions from This or That:

1. Black or white? 
grey

2. Plaid or stripes? 
plaid

3. Paperback or hardcover books? 
Paperback for fondling, hardcover for collecting

4. Color or B&W printer? 
color

5. Golden oldies or the newest tunes? 
new, but I’ve been tuning to the classic rock radio station recently...

6. Ice cream: in a cone or a dish? 
both at the same time!

7. Bath or shower? 
daily=shower, special relaxation=bath

8. Are you outgoing or shy? 
both

9. Answer the phone when it rings, or screen calls? 
unfortunately, screen calls. damn solicitors

10. VCR or TiVO? 
VCR [Have since changed to TiVO. TiVO is like crack. Can’t break the addiction.]

As I’ve been reading over my posts here, I’ve noticed that there’s a lot more seriousness than levity taking place. I think this is because I find it easy to write serious thoughts, and much, much harder to write humorously. It took me about 5 to 6 short story attempts (with one decent success) before I wrote a semi-humorous piece. That’s about six serious to one humorous. But in my day to day endeavors I think I interact with other people in just about the opposite ratio—six humorous to one serious.

I admire people who can successfully convey humor in their writing. I wish I could do it more often. Everytime I crack myself up (it happens a lot), maybe I’ll try to see if I can translate it to text without completely butchering the humor. Sounds like a challenge. I wonder if I’ll have the energy and time for it.

I’m a romantic. It’s easy for me to admit. I’m also fairly emotional. It’s something I’ve never been able to hide.

I cried as a child watching Bambi. My brother teased me for years about that. In fact, any movie or show with a sad plot and actors who cried would cause me to cry. More teasing, but I never felt ashamed. I think those who teased me (brother included) might have been uncomfortable with my ease of emotionally reacting to this sort of stimuli, but I wasn’t uncomfortable.

Sometimes, though, my eyes will get watery at inopportune times. There are moments when I get a little choked up just from talking to someone, and I’m not even quite sure why. It is almost like the genuine feeling of what the other person is saying has reached something deep inside of me that I can’t control, that just reacts. I usually try to blink away the moisture if it is really not appropriate. If they notice, maybe they just think I’m a bit eccentric. I hope so, I can live with eccentric.

Books. Books can have an affect my mood, too. I’ve blubbered like a baby. I’ve laughed out loud, and this usually brings more of a curious look from my husband than the crying. I’ve felt rejuvenated. I’ve felt introspective. Books have allowed me to live for a little while in a world of fantasy, and I feel connected to those words and possibly for a little while connected to the mind that wrote those words.

Music. Music does this, too. Certain songs trigger certain memories—times, places, people. I believe there is a soundtrack to each life.

Movies and television. Here is the tricky stuff. I get feelings of longing for some of these fantasy relationships. La Femme Nikita is a show that pulls me in. There is that constant longing between Nikita and Michael. It is a love that seems to always be building and never fully fulfilled. And I crave this sort of make believe. Is it a sickness? At the same time I’m attracted to this drama, I know it isn’t real. Real love is usually not fraught with such complexities as those concocted for a tv show. But I’m still drawn to it.

I’ve been thinking a lot about reality versus fantasy, and the expectations associated with each. Love, family, body-image, education, career—I’m trying to figure out if my expectations of these things are based in reality, my reality, or based on some other fantasical idea that I’ve absorbed from the things around me (music, tv, movies, books, people). I know I’m drawn to fantasize. I just hope my dreams are grounded in some reality.

I used to play MMORPGs, which for those who don’t know them are massively multiplayer online roleplay games. Everquest? I’m often asked when I talk about this. No, not really. I only tried Evercrack for a few months and didn’t get addicted to it as most do. I tried Anarchy Online. That also lasted for a few months. I then played Dark Age of Camelot. That was the one that held my interest for a long while. A lot of what held my interest were the people, the friends I had made. But even without the interesting or fun people, I could play DAoC by myself. I moved onto Earth & Beyond, but then I found the lack of interaction to be discouraging, but for a few months I flew around space and had some fun exploring. Then I gave it up and didn’t play anymore MMORPGs.

For a long time, work and playing online games were my only social interaction with people other then my immediate family. And that was terribly sad. I think it was part of the reason I wanted to give up online gaming. Everytime I think of my decision, I feel pretty positive. But lately (I just got an email from DAoC about their expansion pack) I’ve been considering playing again. It’s a brief consideration. I’m mostly fighting the urge, because those games ate up so much of my time and fed into a life that was stagnant. I feel like I’m finally moving ahead with school and friends and projects, why fall into the traps of my past? So, I’m resisting, even though I remember having some really fun times.

I made it through yesterday on zero hours of sleep. (Got 12 hours last night. I feel goooood!) I managed to sound both completely incoherent one moment and knowledgable the next. The professor laughed when I read aloud a part of my imitation of Annie Proulx’s The Bunchgrass Edge of the World (Close Range: Wyoming Stories) written in McCarthy-esque style. I didn’t mean for it to be humorous. In fact, it nowhere near had the grace of McCarthy and was a little bit of a hack job. But it taught me how hard it is to try writing in someone else’s style, especially when that style is fairly unique and different from my own straight forward style. Maybe my professor will remember being amused and grade leniently. I’m hopeful, because so far he has been a very warm and encouraging teacher.

Oh, right. It’s Valentine’s Day. Seems like a pretty regular day to me. My car has a flat tire. The locking lugnut adapter is missing from my tire iron. My husband has to go to a second auto parts store to search for a replacement. If he can get the tire off of the car and fixed, that will be a great V-Day present I think. I’m not too hard to please. We’ve both got errands to run and house cleaning to do. I’ve got reading and some writing assignments I should start. (oh and I promised to work on a bio for this site)

I used to put a lot of importance on today. The few times I got roses were memorable. The few years I had boyfriends on this day were usually pretty good. I might have grown out of the frenzy that I used to associate with this day. I’m married now. Some years we have made an effort to do something special, and some years we haven’t. And you know what, I’m all right either way. Love isn’t something that is only shown and appreciated on one day the entire year, but all the time, as much as you can without causing other people to get a restraining order (special nod to Trace’s humor).

So, happy day to everyone. And if you don’t have someone else to love then love yourself. Which reminds me, a few friends and I were talking in between classes yesterday, and they were having trouble writing an erotic poem for their intermediate poetry class (I’m only in beginning poetry, so I’m jealous as hell that I don’t get to arouse my classmates). My suggestion? Masturbate, and hopefully if you did a good job then you have inspired yourself to write eroticly. (I’ve been shocking my new friends. But I think they know it is a compliment that I’m uncensoring myself around them.) So, if you don’t have a special someone to love, love yourself. I mean REALLY love yourself. Yes, that’s it. Just the way you like it. Wait. Make sure you aren’t in a coffee house or the library. Head home or to the nearest public bathroom stall. There you go. Ok, now, you can really give yourself some good lovin (with better hopes of not getting arrested).

Happy V-Day!

Today’s interview went well, I thought. They smiled and nodded a lot at my answers, and there were even a few “good” mutterings in response. But I’m not hopeful. The three interviewers made it a point to mention that they received a flood of applications for the Summer program, and even though they didn’t want to discourage me, they were hinting that almost any other quarter during next year would be better. Unfortunately, Summer is the only time I can do this program. If I get accepted I’ll be overjoyed, but I’m nowhere near holding my breath.

There is this other thing I’ve noticed recently. We live in a complex of townhomes with about 7 unconnected streets (more like driveways) that is near several low-income apartment complexes which are to the east. On the west side of our complex, along a main road is the bus stop. Until a few months ago we were ungated, so folks from the apartments and beyond, would walk through our complex, drop their trash at will, and some of the kids would play, skate, and bike in the center on our grass near the pool. Home Owner’s Association fees were raised and a wrought-iron gate was put around the entire complex. I’m all for the gates. I’ve always wanted them to gate it, even before I bought, and had rented here. The decrease in fast food wrappers and stray shopping carts is noticeable.

Another phenomenon which has been ongoing for awhile is the issuance of parking permits, limited to 1 or 2 per household depending on unit size. When there were no gates, I never questioned folks pulling into the complex. Either they were meant to be there, or if not, eventually they would be towed. Now, with the gates, as I pull up, slide my key card into the box and wait for the gate to open, I feel very defensive if someone has pulled up behind me. Are they just sneaking in behind me? Should they be there? They had better have their own damn key card, even if they don’t have to use it this time. All because of a gate. I shake my head in wonder. How can a gate inspire such protective, defensive thoughts? Is this what people mean when they complain about the amount of fences around homes, and neighbors being cut-off from one another? I grew up with fences. I never lived in a home that shared a yard with neighbors until I was an adult living in married student housing. Even now, my tiny backyard has a wooden fence.

I don’t know the answer to this, but I don’t really care for my paranoia associated with the new gates, even though I like the other aspects of them. Something to work on, I guess.

First, Happy Birthday, AM!!

Second, I just put the finishing touches on a poem for class this morning with the overt subject relating to being in the desert and wanting rain. It hasn’t rained at all in 2003 here in Riverside, until this morning. It may be just a coincidence, or maybe my poetry has power to change the weather!

That’s right I have super powers now! Every one be afraid. Be very afraid.

I’ve written about place before, mostly about my wonderings were my place is, and if it is here where I am now or someplace else. I’ve been noticing others having claim to a certain place, a city, a state, or maybe a park or a coffee shop. How do people get to sense of claiming something that can be so large, and so public as their own? I know they usually don’t say this to mean that it isn’t someone else’s place too. But, I’ve heard someone call an entire metropolis theirs, and invite a newcomer to enjoy it as if that newcomer was tresspassing and needed permission.

I have a mortgage, and some percentage of my condominium belongs to me, the rest to the bank. And yes, it is where I live, and what I own, but even still I don’t feel this fierce connection to it. And this city, I lay no claim to it. If anyone was to move here, I wouldn’t go so far as to say enjoy “my Riverside”. I don’t want to own it. It is a part of me just as the soil beneath my feet will always be a part of me, but I don’t own it. And maybe here is the key, I refuse to let this soil own me. There are places I have been to which I would gladly lose myself. But this place is not one of them. It is a pitstop, a twelve year one, thus far, but still a pitstop, or so my heart is telling me.

I feel guilt over this. Guilt indelibly comingles with my blood and my breath. I believe my wild youthful spirit was broke like a horse and in its place was a spirit tamed with guilt. So for those who love this place called Riverside, I mean not to demean, neither the person or the place. It is a fine place for some, I’m sure. But not for me.

And maybe Riverside doesn’t want me here, as much as I’d rather be somewhere else. I think that could be a possibility. Maybe, someday I’ll be somewhere that will feel like mine, I’ll grasp with passion at the soil, and set my roots in deep. I hope I can feel such desire for a place. I hope if that happens I can keep from laying claim as well, because I don’t think the land is mine, but if anything, the land owns me.

Here, this blog, is where I come to take myself in whatever form I am. Indulgence is a good word. On that note...

I’ve been thinking about faces. This isn’t a recent thought. In fact it began when I was a teen, and my friends parents loved me, thought I was completely straight-laced. My friends knew I could be different, knew I wasn’t against doing new things, taking some chances. It wasn’t so much that I was fooling people, or at least that’s what I thought at the time, but that people only saw whatever part of me I presented.

My parents knew me in one way, my friends another, my teachers another. I’ve never felt like I was lying to any of them. No, it wasn’t that. I think it was (is) more of a protection instinct. If they only see the parts of me that I know they will approve, well then, they’ll approve… That sounds incredibly cowardly.

Time and proximity will break down defense mechanisms. Over the years, I’ve begun to share dreams with my parents, and simply taken their criticisms as to my lack of perspective on reality in good stride (i.e. How will you make a living doing that?). But there are also some things that I’ve tried to share with others, and there is no way to get a sense of reciprocation from them, or even a hint of understanding. Not everyone will understand me, or why I feel the way I do, or why I do the things I do. In fact very few do, even those closest to me. And with that logic, I’ve just talked myself into believing that wearing a certain face for certain people isn’t always bad.

Who knows? I’m just going to try not to obsess on it one way or another. People wear different faces. I’m people, right? Right.