People die everyday. People are killed everyday. Everyone knows this, except for perhaps children who are too young to understand death. And even though we know this, many folks don’t think about it.

And now there is a very prominent reminder: War.

I feel a deep sense of fear and uncertainty. I have felt this before, as many Americans did, when the planes crashed into the World Trade Center buildings, the Pentagon, and the other one crashed in Pennsylvania (that is where it crashed after the passengers tried to retake control of the plane, right? It was covered by the media much less then the other events, so I may be recalling it incorrectly). I’m not in tears this time, at least not yet. If I was to see death, the lifeless bodies, then no doubt, crying would come.

The media are talking and talking and talking and talking, and at times, I want to throw something at the tv. There are careless words, hyped words, prejudiced words. These men (95% of the people talking thus far have been male) have to talk, even when a reporter in Baghdad said, let’s listen to the sounds of the city, and there was 1.3 seconds of silence in which you could here some rumbling, but not much else before the man in the newsroom had to open his mouth and start talking again.

The media is ticking me off. Maybe, though, it is just my fear and apprehension bubbling up.

This is happening. And people are going to die. Innocent people. And the greater good rises up in defense. And there is no position I can claim on this issue. I can’t be pro-war, and I can’t be anti-war. Call me a fence sitter, but really, I’m just torn. When it comes down to it, my opinion, formed or not, makes no difference. War has begun. All I can do is hope for the safety of those who deserve it, and I’m not the one to decide who those people are.

I should be writing. This final project is due in a little over 12 hours. I should be writing, yet, I’m prowling across electronic print, old print, pages long out of date, but suffused with sorrow and longing and lyrical thought. I want to be lyrical. I want to write words on a page as if the ink were my soul. There is hardly a doubt in my mind that my soul is never quite fully on any sheet of paper, no matter how truthful I try to be. Is that less honest? Or more?

I have to keep some of myself back, otherwise my skin might collapse upon itself, or so it seems. Can those who pour their souls over and over again in black ink on paper really be trusted? Can they have that much of themselves to give? Or is it all just words masquerading as someone’s utmost, deepest thoughts—their soul?

Some have more than their share of charisma (maybe that’s all it is). And charisma can’t be forced. At least, I’m not going to try to force it. But I think I’ll always wonder if I had more, or if I could pour my soul on a page, then could I’d be better (at writing, at life, at being me)?

These incoherencies were brought to you by Code Red and no sleep. Cheers!

Have you ever had a dream that is so real that it plagues you for hours after waking? And if that dream is about someone you know, perhaps not well (an acquaintance) you want to see them just to make sure your dream didn’t fictionalize or aggrandize said person? Or if you dreamt about a celebrity, have you ever wondered if they dream about random fans they’ve met or seen, as a sort of reciprocation?

And is it all right to tell your husband that you had a dream about his penis being completely detachable in its erect state? ... Even if it ended up just being a spare and the original was fully attached and intact?

I haven’t had much to say nor have I been having any thoughts that seem blog-worthy to me. I know that some folks will blog anyway in the hopes that just typing will bring something worthwhile to the fore. I guess I’m doing that very thing right now, but really this is about voids. Dry spells. Writer’s block. Hiatus of the mind. But truly my energies have been focused on final projects for school and researching, categorizing and indexing (on a spreadsheet) possible grad schools. And at the same time, I’m wondering if I should even bother going to grad school. But that’s a post about worries, and I wanted to focus on black holes.

I’m not a scientist, but I heard a blurb about energies within black holes. So even in a moment of mental block there are energies flowing, even if I’m not entirely aware of them. At least I’m hopeful about that. Ebbs and flows. Got to have both.

I’ve been talking about starting a novel this summer, just talking. As I’ve been talking, I’ve been thinking, because I don’t really have a place to start. I’m not sure what I should write. There is one short scene of dialog I wrote last summer for a class that intrigues me, but I’ve recently learned about a man’s real experience during WWII. This man is incredibly humble, and says he didn’t do anything special, just got lucky to elude Japanese capture in occupied Phillipines for 3 1/2 years. My husband heard more of his story than I did, and related it to me. And I talked to this man briefly about it. He lives in Hawaii, and we are going to see him on our trip while we are there. I’m wanting to pick his brain about the experience, but I’m worried.

Is he reluctant to talk about it just because he is so humble (and truly, he is), or could it also be that he doesn’t want to relive the experience through the telling? He seems to indicate that it isn’t a remarkable story, but I think in the span of 3 1/2 years things had to have happened. And there is some guilt on my part for getting excited to know the story. I shouldn’t be excited about war stories, half of my brain is telling me, while at the same time, the other half is enthralled that this man survived, went on to be a teacher, that he is an incredibly nice guy, and has functioned normally as far as can be seen. Enthralled, I am.

I’m going to tell him of my interest in his story and ask him if he would be willing to share it, and if I could use his life as inspiration for a book. He may say no. I’m preparing for that. And maybe he will say yes. I’m preparing for that as well, because even if he says yes, I may not be able to effectively write a novel from his story.

This is an exciting, scary prospect. Everyone who has attempted to write a novel or large scale project has started somewhere. Hopefully, this summer will be my start (of the writing, even though I’m already doing the thinking). [NOTE: I didn’t write a novel (or THIS novel). It was a fun idea though, and something I still am working towards.]

So, there’s this phenomenon known as Karaoke. And tonight was my first first-hand experience with it. I got up on the little stage with a friend and butchered “The Joker” by The Steve Miller Band. I only knew the chorus, but I promised to sing whatever songs my friends wanted if they would just get up there and do it. The one who has been bugging us all to go out for a night of Karaoke for weeks didn’t even get up and sing!! The nerve!

A guy from school (also invited by said friend who wimped out) proved twice that you don’t need a great voice if you are willing to hop around, pose and leap dramatically off of the stage. It was hella funny stuff. Oh! And there are some serious people at these things who seem like they want to be on American Idol (but they are probably too old).

Another fun night out with the girls. I was even asked for some advice by a guy named “Jim” about why he can’t fall for someone as easily as he could when he was young… Is everyone jaded at his age? (33 yrs old this stranger said he was) After, himmin’-n-hawin’, I finally just said, “Yep. We get older, more closed, more fearful, and less trusting.” Strangely, he seemed satisfied to know he wasn’t the only one feeling this way, and that was that. All the while, my friends are feeling nervous or annoyed by a strange (not necessarily ugly) drunk man talking our ears off. I was just amused. And I have to wonder, how the hell do I always end up giving people advice? Ah well, I’m not really complaining (just rambling).

We should have sung “Don’t Worry, Be Happy,” for that is the message for the rest of Wednesday! That, and Be Good!

A friend has said to me over the past weeks, “You are doing everything.” It’s obviously an exaggeration. But yesterday, I finally had the thought that maybe I am taking on too much. I agreed to get involved in a project next quarter, on top of all of my other projects. The allure of the people involved, and the project itself was too strong.

I guess by mid-May I’ll know if I’ve taken on too much.

By all appearances this morning it should be a gorgeous day. I will be outside for a good part of it, which I have missed. Besides the slight tan and activity, that is what I’ve missed since I haven’t had a tennis class. I’m going to do my best to take one this summer.

Today is my father-in-law’s memorial service at the small airport he once used as his base of post-retirement operations. I’ve been told that these operations became less and less about taking a plane up and more about tinkering and falling asleep in the afternoon in a chair in the hangar. He has a lot of friends at that airport, and now family will see where he liked to be most every afternoon before illness prevented it.

I left the house this morning with two different shoes on. I don’t remember ever having done this before in my life. I hope it isn’t indicative of how the rest of my day will be.

The end of the quarter is fast approaching, and I am taking stock of what I’ve learned which includes things not just found in the classroom. I’ve learned that writing in two genres at once is difficult for me. I have found it hard to split my creative energy between fiction and poetry.

I found that though I love reading fantasy/sci-fi fiction, I have a hard time creating a whole new world like many of the books I’ve read, at least in the limited number of days given for an assignment. I think a big part of that is that I tend to want to write on a grand scale, like the novels I’ve read, when what is required is a short story. Also, I’m not sure exactly what type of stories I should be telling. The best one’s I’ve written so far don’t fit into any category. They just happen from the stimulation and inspiration. Maybe, I don’t have to force myself into a category.

I’m conducting an experiment. For the Washington D.C. Program I wrote about earlier, I think I was fairly modest in my personal statement. I tend to do this for interviews and the like. I don’t want to come on too strong, and scare people off, so I go in the other direction and play things down. I think I still appear confident and friendly, but maybe not as capable as I really am. So, last week I applied for a position on campus next year as a peer mentor. Basically, it would be helping, guiding and possibly teaching incoming freshmen through the transition into college. In my application, my personal statement is brazen and extremely confident, possibly overconfident. I have my doubts about it. The interview is on Friday with at least one of the same women who interviewed me for the other thing. Like I said, this is an experiment. We shall see.

In other news, my cousin has found herself pregnant, engaged, and I’m to be a bridesmaid. I’m very excited for her, and terribly worried. This is completely unexpected by all involved. She has only know the man for a short while. And though from what I’ve been told he seems like a very decent guy, I still worry about her being hurt. I asked her several times today if she was all right, how she was doing, and all of that. I love my cousin. She is the kind of person who even on her worst days will bring a smile to your face because she doesn’t want to make anyone else feel down. She is a spark. Her smiles light up rooms, restaurants, entire buildings, you name it. She’s beautiful, both inside and out. She can also occassionally be scatterbrained, but never to a point of annoyance. Did I mention that I love her? Oh yeah, I did, but it can’t be said too much.

I’ve been feeling a certain amount of unrest these past few days. It may just be the final projects due for classes, the desire to get away to Hawaii, or maybe something else. I felt a small pang when I found out my cousin was pregnant. I still want a child, but I still have doubts from the miscarriage. Maybe it is all of these things. I’m looking forward to the trip. I’m hoping to clear my head a little bit while I’m there. Again, we shall see.

For many years, until recently in fact, I believed that I had nothing new or original to say. And this may be quite true in the broad scope of humanity. I believed that my greatest asset was the ability to take someone else’s good idea and make it a fabulous idea. It may very well be what I do best. I felt for a long time that this, feeding off of another’s original idea to create something better, made it so I had nothing original of my own to say. Not only that, but I’m certainly aware that imposing a part of myself on anything that is someone else’s will take some part of that thing away from them.

A situation, for example, I remember was when I was watching a friend’s, or in some cases a friend of a friend’s modern dance piece as it was being shaped, and there would be a moment that almost sparks, almost catches the eye but doesn’t quite deliver the punch, and would point it out and give a suggestion for a change, addition, etc. The problem was (may still be) that I spoke up when the other person didn’t even ask or want my opinion. I used to do this. I’ve tried to make a conscious effort to not do this anymore. It doesn’t always work.

Recently, in writing workshops, where we are given full reign to critique, suggest and edit, I’ve been finding an outlet I hadn’t before known, not even with dance. And I’ve noticed it is also the professors’ job to do the very same thing. I’ve been slow to come to the realization that I truly, truly want to teach. It isn’t something that is a backup plan. I’ve always admired teachers, and I’ve heard my whole life that “Those who can, do, and those who can’t, teach.” Conflicting ideas that have mingled in my brain for years. You know what? Fuck the saying. Teachers teach because it is important for others to learn and continue the cycle of not knowing so they can then know. And there is another idea I believe in—that we are all students, learning from each other, no matter who is standing at the front of a classroom.

So, what’s the doubt? There has to be one, right? Well, of course. Here it is… Is the guidance and knowledge I can give truly worth receiving? A big part of me says it is, but another part of me wonders if I’m just egotistical and full of shit. I also worry if I’ll be able to remember that I’m still a student once I’m a teacher. Will I overpower students or really listen? As a student, now, I’m often impressed with what other students say, and I’ve learned from them. Is it something I can continue?

And as far as having something original to say, and not just capitalizing from the genius of others… I’m finally feeling as if I have a voice of my own. I’m not sure exactly what I want to say, but I think I’ve finally realized that there is more to me than the ability to see everyone else’s good ideas. I’m my own vessel. And I can do something with that.

She started noticing it when she was about 16 years old. Street lights would sometimes flicker on or flicker off just as she came near. It happened frequently enough for a awareness of it to form in her mind, but not so frequent that it couldn’t be dismissed as coincidence.

She didn’t think much on it at the time, but noticed a particularly stressful situation at age eighteen when it happened again. They were in her car, parked along side the park that bordered her old house on its other side. He was ending the romance that had bloomed from a long friendship. She understood. She was moving away, she had graduated and he had another year left to go. He didn’t want to battle across the distance for love. It was understandable to her mind, but her heart wasn’t having it. At that moment their song came on the radio, and the streetlamp flickered out. She motion to it and said, “That is always happening, does it happen to everyone?” But the boy just looked at her blankly, before glancing up at the darkened bulb in confusion.

It was ten years later, when she found herself upset and thinking about making big changes in her life. A lamp hung at the corner of a row of garages, barely illuminating the stretch of black pavement between the rows of condominiums. Its light flickered off. She drove with no destination in mind, and ended up in the unfamiliar side of a familiar shopping center. It was desolate, and she picked a patch of illuminated pavement. She cried, and caught her breath, and thought about the mess she had made with her life, of the dreams she had let go, stopped chasing without even realizing. The light flicked off, leaving her in darkness.

A golf cart pulled towards her and stopped. The uniformed man ducked his head and looked to her with concern. “Is everything all right?” She rolled down the window, leaned on the steering wheel, and nodded to the man with a forced tear-stained smile. He hesitated, uncertain, but righted himself and drove the cart away.

When she returned home, the same lamp at the corner of the garages re-illuminated. She noted it and sighed.

Last night, she arrived at a place she had been hundreds of times before, parked near the entrance, turned off the car’s ignition, and shuffled through her stack of papers for the right form when the lamp overhead flickered off. A smile came to her face. She found what she needed and walked the short distance across the parking lot. Once inside, she waited behind the one man ahead of her until his business was done, and when it was her turn she handed the paperwork over. “Wait a moment and I’ll check this.” “Of course,” she replied, and moved across the lobby to take a seat. She understood the ritual, and had brought a book to help bide the time. The man behind the counter returned quicker then usual, after just five minutes, and gave a thumbs up sign. Another part of the ritual. She called out her thanks and made her way back across the parking lot.

As she walked, she gazed up at the dark lamp overhead and thought, I can never will it to happen with just my thoughts. I wonder why... And the light flickered back on. A small chuckle escaped her lips, and she smile the rest of the way home.