I heard a song today that I had never heard before. While it was playing I was coming out of the shower feeling refreshed. I went to the bedroom, and saw both of my cats sprawled out on the bed. They don’t normally do this, together and at the same time, since they don’t get along. I stood for a moment, towel in hand, that hand poised at the side of my head, stopped from its hair-drying activity, and I thought, if those cats were children I would have royally screwed up their lives by now.

I let go for the first time in several months, and cried.

At some point in my horoscopal (I love making up words) research, I came across a supposed aspect of my personality that I hadn’t thought of before: that I hold a grudge much longer than I think or say I do. Immediately, my reaction was, I do not! But then I started thinking about it, and hell if I don’t do that. For example, there is a project to be done, and I’m the last to know, even though I’m supposed to be in charge of it. This has happened before in my life, and while I understand that people talk about things in general conversation, and it isn’t meant as a slight to me that I don’t find out if I’m not there for that conversation, it still bugs me to no end if I’m supposed to be handling a project and I’m the last to know about the project. Anyway, I did have a point. So, even though my mind is all understanding, I have still been a little ticked about it, and I probably should have let it go days ago. It isn’t productive to hold on, and it wasn’t intentional from the other person. I know this deep down, I know this, and yet I’m still holding on to that tiny seed of hurt bundled in a layer of grudge. Damn. That sucks.

Though, you know what, I’m actually feeling better and better as I type this, so maybe it won’t suck much longer.

Happy Monday. Be good!

There are people who are naturally non-geeky. There are people who will forever be geeks, nerds, dorks, or freaks (see Benjamin Small’s definitions for a good time). To follow this thought out, there are bloggers that are non-geeky, and, dare I say, cool, suave, smooth, charismatic magnets of all that was the popular crowd in high school and is now, the nonchalant, verbally-gifted. There are other folks (of whom I belong) who are, and always will be dorks, geeks, etc. And even though some of us are completely comfortable and confident in this aspect of ourselves, and even though we are no longer tormented by it (like most of us where during the pre-pubescent/pubescent years), we still notice this difference.

Movie: Almost Famous (2000)
Lester Bangs: Oh man, you made friends with ‘em. See, friendship is the booze they feed you. They want you to get drunk on feeling like you belong.
William Miller: Well, it was fun.
Lester Bangs: Because they make you feel cool, and hey, I met you. You are not cool.

What’s my point? Well, during some moment in almost every uncool person’s life, s/he is going to wish for coolness. It happens. And I’m guessing, being one of those uncool folks, that the cool people don’t ever come to a moment where they wish, if only I was a geek, or a nerd, or a freak! Grrrr! If only! I’m betting that just doesn’t happen. All of that said, I’m currently not wishing I was cool. I accepted my uncoolness a long time ago. I just like watching and observing the energies that crop up when cool and uncool mix. Tis a fun thing, when not too painful.

After all of everything, I’m left with me. I’m me at home, in my mess. I’m me at school, taking notes, reading, listening to lectures, asking questions. I’m me when I’m driving in my car, baking in the spring-time sun, with the windows rolled down hoping for a breeze and for a small windfall so I can get the car’s air-conditioner fixed. I’m me when my husband’s inside of me, and I quiver, and shudder and shake and roll on waves of pleasure. I’m me when I feel sad and try to feel better by eating. I’m me when I know I’m doing this and still it is hard to stop. I’m me on those few occassions when I can stop. I’m me when I have gas and even I’m disgusted by the smell. I’m me when I feed the cats, when I sort the laundry, when I avoid school work by watching movies (good and bad) on HBO, when I fall asleep in the afternoons between classes, when I dream of old friends, when I dream of being chased and chasing, when I clip my toenails and fingernails and on and on and on.

And if you are still reading, dear patient reader, then I’m even me when I’m trying not to be a dork, because inevitably it only leads to dork-dom when you try not to be one. When I try not to let others see what’s beyond the warm smile, and deceptively open eyes (because yes you can see emotion there, but there’s so much more beyond that), I am, still, me. Or when I do let them beyond for a brief glimpse before I panic and slam down the door, the barricade to my castle of thoughts, the castle that contains all that is me, I am me. I’m me when I’m utterly still, quiet, smoldering, like my mother saw me do at age two, and she worried, worried greatly that I was holding it all in, and I was, and I still do, quite a bit in fact. And I’m me when I don’t even know about this revelation of my mother’s from her, but from a friend of hers, from a woman who has known me my whole life just as I’ve known her my whole life, but I can’t be sure we really, truly know one another.

There are the things I do and don’t do, the things I think—all of the things I think, the things I say, and the things I can’t or won’t ever say. Things, so many things that make me. And yet, I’m liquid. I’m bone. I’m pulses. I’m a spark. I could maybe be insignificant in a moment or a lifetime. But I could, also, maybe, be something important, momentous—I could be something that means something. In this moment, with (my friend and enemy) time, I am simply uncertain. I am me.

I’ll steal borrow a good idea when I see one. The following idea came to me from Monica, who got it from Steve, who got it from Townie, and if there are any more folks beyond that who are responsible for the idea, I haven’t a clue.

A is for apple. No really. My first painting assignment was to paint an apple four times, each with more of it eaten. Bad news was that I only got the first two versions done on the first day, so by the second day of class (two days later) the part with the first bite was all brown and I needed to take another bite, and then more bites to finally get it down to the core. Ick.
B is for bloating.
C is for cramps.
D is for Dreiser. Theodore Dreiser.
E is for Eliot. T.S. Eliot. (English Lit class gets two in a row.)
F is for friends. New and old.
G is for grapes. (Who knew painting was about the fruit?)
H is for Humpty Dumpty and the view before and after a fall.
I is for interview. A very nice woman let me pick her brain about her experiences in the peer mentor program I’m training for.
J is for jerks, and learning to let go of the frustration they bring about.
K is for kindness. Thankfully, the world isn’t populated with only jerks.
L is for listening.
M is for Mo. Sad fish? Or just a fish in a vase with a plant for a friend?
N is for new things. Scary as they can be, they are worth the effort of exploration.
O is for ordinary days. Need them to truly appreciate the extraordinary ones.
P is for pages, and pages of reading.
Q is for quitting briefly, and then not quitting after all.
R is for revisions.
S is for Sister Carrie (see the letter D)
T is for tasteless and timeless jokes.
U is for university.
V is for verbal and non-verbal communication.
W is for Wasteland, The. (see the letter E)
X is for X-rated. (The penis blog project found c/o The Syracuse Fan)
Y is for yes.
Z is for zippers.

Not sure if I’ll do this again, but it felt good for tonight.

Lesson One: When your boyfriend is in Sears in order to steal a bunch of tools, don’t be waiting in the car. I realize you may not have known he was going to steal. So, sure go ahead and claim ignorance, but it won’t get you any less arrested. And if you are in the driver’s seat when he comes running out, gunning the engine, well, that doesn’t look good either. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Lesson Two: On another thought-train, I’ve found that I am much easier to annoy when I’ve had a sleepless night. Yesterday, after one such night, as I sat in the Commons cafeteria at school, I became aware of one of the most annoying laughs. The super-loud “manly” giggle. Yes, an actual giggle. The skinny guy’s belly was actually jiggling inside, his throat was waving like a bowl-full of shaken jello. I wanted to slap some seriousness into to him, because otherwise I felt I might rip out his vocal cords. If the giggle was quieter, if it didn’t sound like it was coming out of a loud speaker, then maybe I wouldn’t have minded the ho-ho-ey-ness of it (as opposed to the he-he-ey-ness of a girlish or childish giggle), and maybe if he wasn’t the one cracking the jokes and therefore making himself giggle (if someone else was joking and forcing the obscene noises to eminate from his every oriface), then maybe, just maybe I could have tolerated it. But, I doubt it. So, if you’re a man, for the love of all that is sacred, don’t giggle at your own jokes.

Lesson Three: In an educational environment, there are various forms of communication. One of these can be a message board dedicated to a specific class, and even to specific groups within the class. There is one of these that I’m am to utilize this quarter. Already, I am wanting to clutch two people by the shoulders and shake some sense into them. (I’m not sure what this violent streak is about, but you can trust it is figurative, and not literal.) Each person is to post on the topic/question for the week, as well as give one response to someone else’s posting. That is fine and good. Here comes the trouble. When posting a response, I feel a person can disagree, agree, or add to the person’s original posting. Those are all well and good. Critiquing the person’s posting by saying what they could have added and/or saying that the person didn’t touch on some point (not asked by the original topic) isn’t good. I’m not sure if I’m making this clear, but I’ll try to give an example.

The topic is, say, apples. Person A writes about Golden Delicious and Granny Smith apples by describing their color, flavor, and the best climate for optimum growth. Person B responds by saying that person A should have mentioned Pippen and Macintosh apples as that would have made the posting more complete, and to next time put more thought and effort into the posting.

Person B can feel this way all she wants, but the response wasn’t at all constructive or helpful to the class. Here is a helpful response: Person C could say that Person A really knows about Granny Smith and Golden Delicious Apples, and that the qualities of Pippen and Macintosh apples are...such and such, etc. Now, that is a good response. Person A isn’t derided for what they didn’t say, acknowledged for what they did contribute, and the person responding is contributing as well, and not just being snide or seemingly trying to act as a stand-in for the actual teaching assistant who is judging and grading the discussions.

Deep breath. Heavy exhale. Feels good to get that off my chest. Happy Thursday all. Oh, and smile, sometimes it drives them mad wondering what the hell you could be smiling about! (Oh, right. The smiling is Lesson Four)

John Travolta inspired me when I saw his interview on Inside the Actors Studio. An acting student asked him where he goes for inspiration, internally or externally? Mr. Travolta’s answer was simple and brilliant. He said something to the effect that every person is interesting, you just have to figure out the right questions to ask. This of course makes sense for actors in figuring out character, but it also applies to writing fiction, when an author is trying to figure out a character. Ask the right questions. So simple. It was like I knew this once, but had forgotten.

So, two nights ago I sat down to begin a story, and I recalled a conversation I had with a friend from my first go around at college. I wrote the conversation down as best as I could remember. It was brief and filled about a page. It wasn’t a story and I couldn’t think of anything to do with it. I had changed the names around for myself and the two men involved in the discussion, and I liked the woman’s name so much, I thought, this isn’t a story, but what could she be doing that might start a story? And suddenly, she was running. Why was she running? Was she running from someone? To someone or something? Did she enjoy running or was it a labor? And suddenly, I knew she was a teenager in high school, and she had problems at home, and more and more until there was a full story ready for the printer.

Now, that was a rush. So, thank you, Mr. Travolta. Not only did you make me wish I was Olivia Newton-John all those years ago, but you’ve reminded me what that creative spark feels like and how to work in order to achieve it.

Growing up I knew two dads (though there was just one man). There was the one who would praise my achievements to his buddies, brag, boast, puff up and strut like a peacock, so to speak, and in general embarass me. The other was private, and in anger (there was a lot of anger, and yelling) I would hear how I was worthless and going to end up in a ditch somewhere, or that I was an ungrateful brat. There was no denying the two sides to my dad, and though I could at times predict when his anger would come, I was never quite sure, which meant the idyllic moments of sweetness and love were always tenative.

Sadly (because I should know better by now), I have let those predictions of failure over-run parts of my life. I’m aware of it now (sometimes). When I doubt myself, I hear his voice in my head. I hear the certainty of those words which called out every deepest, darkest fear about my inability to be a decent person and the happiness which I couldn’t possibly deserve. Most of the time, I can claim a confidence in life that I know many others still struggle with. I am proud of that. And then when I doubt, I doubt deeply—I tend to have absolutely no faith that I can succeed. It’s ridiculous.

I’m focusing on writing fiction. Last quarter I thought I wrote terribly (forget the A grade I received for the workshop). I’m feeling not so much a writer’s block, as a deep down doubt in my ability to imagine something new, and to get the words down so that they are believable, and make it something worthwhile to read. It is like there are two voices in my head: one telling me that I’m worthless, uncreative, and unoriginal, and the other telling me that the first voice is wrong and I can do this. I’m fighting for that second voice, but at moments it can be so easy to believe the doubts, to believe in my ultimate failure.

Just earlier today I wrote about trying for your dreams. I believe in that completely. And now, I write a cautionary post. It can be easy to give up. Don’t do it. I’m going to keep fighting these damn doubts. You do it too.

There were several years that were filled with me doing pretty much nothing. Well, I worked, I sat at a computer and played games, and I went to movies or concerts as a “night out.” I understand about getting in a rut and not doing the things that would make you happy in life. I understand how hard it can be to take a chance on the unknown, how intimidating and scary. And perhaps I shouldn’t admit this, but when I see people who can’t or won’t take the chance, I tend to feel a little proud of myself for doing so. Of course, I instantly tell myself that’s not a good reaction, but it’s real so I won’t deny it.

If you’ve taken a chance with your life, you deserve a celebration. If you are thinking of taking a chance, go for it. You may not succeed or end up where you hoped, but you took the chance, and I think that’s something to be proud of. And if you feel like you’re doing nothing with your life, imagine what would make it great, and then figure out a plan, no matter how unfeasible. Then go for it!

This ends my pep-talk. Happy Saturday.

Even when the most discerning of brides, the most hip, the most fashionable and the most financially conscientious, say they want their bride’s maids to have a dress that isn’t a “bridesmaid” dress, but something nice and spring-y that they can wear again, there will inevitably be the pull towards the “bridesmaid” dress. I’ve come to expect this, so I’m not too disappointed by my cousin’s dress choice. In fact, I think it is a lovely dress. I’m also not sure I’ll ever wear it again after the day in May when she gets married. So, this is a warning to all who have never had the experience. 99.9% of the time it will be a “bridesmaid” dress, even if the bride thinks she has enough discerning taste and enough of a relaxed wedding atmosphere planned to pick something else.

Recently, my husband and I were commenting on how much more involved in the college community I am this time around. And I think it is because I had the experience of doing it once when I was younger and I thought I had so much more time, and I felt so much more like a scrap of paper floating on the wind’s current, drifting wherever it wanted to take me. This time, I have my feet firmly on the ground, and I’m heading in a certain direction. I will still look around and get distracted (in both good and bad ways) so that my feet will take me to some unexpected places, but I’ve always got the end goal in my sights, so that after the distraction I can turn my feet back towards it. Which means I’m noticing and doing more. And I’m feeling pretty good about that.

And in deference to Robert Frost, I have pages to read before I sleep.

I was at a Bad Religion concert held at a small local club last night. The sound/acoustics were horrible. The band hadn’t played a concert since October of last year, and it sounded as if they hadn’t rehearsed very much since. Most of the time it sounded as if they were all one or two seconds off from the others in their playing. Ah well. I would have stuck it out, but my husband, who really likes them and was the reason we were there, wanted to leave. So we left.

As we were walking to our car, half deaf, I started thinking about sound. Sound has come up a lot in my English Lit class as we have been discussing Sister Carrie and the sounds, the white noise of industrialization, that Carrie encounters as she arrives in Chicago. On the first night back from Maui, I heard the noises of this city more clearly then usual--the bleating horn of the train, the whoosh of traffic on the street below--and for a moment, as my head lay upon my pillow, I missed the silence of Upcountry (Maui).

We get so we don’t even hear sounds after awhile, accustomed to it. There are other things like this. Landmarks we don’t see in our hometowns that visitors would see. People we ignore, who just may enjoy a smile from a stranger. Advertising that is so deeply ingrained in this culture that its effects are getting harder to calculate. How would we live without so much white noise, and background influences? And will there ever come a day when we are given that chance?

Nine books for my English Lit class. Nine. Two novels of large size (500+ pgs), two of medium size (190-300 pgs), one small novel (120 pgs), one play (142 pgs), and three books of poetry (selected readings from these). Woooo. That’s a lot of focused, thoughtful reading. There’s one other book for my fiction workshop, but it is a short story collection that is meant to give us some inspiration and modeling for such things as voice, plot, etc. So, it’s not quite as intimidating.

And as if that wasn’t enough fun stuff to have (I’m not being sarcastic, I’m truly looking forward to the books), I have 13 tubes of oil paint (one more on the way), and various brushes, and masking tape, and turpenoid, and other bottles of mysterious liquids, and messy bits of black charcoal, and some clean white canvas boards, and drawing paper. It’s all so exciting and intimidating too. I’m imagining myself as the mad scientist mixing things, and then as the mad artist slapping paint on canvas with wild abandon. Of course, I realize that this is entirely a fantasy. There is going to be a lot of grumping around, drawing things that don’t look like they are “supposed to” and then painting them so again they won’t look like they are “supposed to,” and I’ll feel more like an unartistic clutz then an artistic genius. But I’m ready for it, and until we actually get to work in class tomorrow, I’m going to let myself have the fantasy.