melted and made

"You can teach the craft, but you can't teach the gift."

Some days I log onto Facebook and feel depressed by the catapults of everyone else's lives. Living those fabulous dreams.

Maybe it's the almost-done high, but today I feel just fine. You have yours. I have mine.

Kevin, before dawn:

"I love shooting from the hip. When I just say what comes to mind and it's awesome, that validates the belief that I am a human man-god."

varias cosas

What I loved about Stephanie's dissertation defense last week (besides the inane questions about ecojustice critiques) was how valuable her thesis is. How it is indeed alive and pulsating. It could form the basis of future pedagogies for future students who march along the grass under blue skies with fists to the air, voices in unison. Words for life rather than the vaults of the scholars.

I want my work to breathe. To move consciously and subconsciously up and down the veins to the river, to rush us forth.

(Oh, and I also want my Ph.D. Does this surprise anyone? Didn't think so.)

--

Well, they're almost done. Nick, Pete, Kristina, Rob, Celeste, Grandma Weston, good ol' Julian Zwanstein.

I drove home the other day and finally decided that they were valid. That something happens in this story that doesn't happen in other stories I know. At least, not in the same way. That by circumstance and eventually his own volition, Nick begins to find his own way. Make his own life.

And positive professional feedback calling it an "extremely fine manuscript" doesn't hurt, either!

I need this moment. I tend to not allow it for myself but--

I need to let myself be proud!

--

"I'm not here to paint you pretty pictures. I'm here to break your heart." - Red

As I walked through campus tonight I realized that I'm actually graduating. Going forth. So they say. You're forty-five minutes away and I'll always stop by for another part-time gig. But I'll miss you, Southampton.

In my hour of darkness, she is standing right in front of me

"Do you have a sister?" she asks first. No, just brothers. "Someone who's like a sister?"

She looks at the rest of the cards. Names my struggles. Knows I'm an artist. Points to the card of knives and said, "Someone has treated you very badly." She returns to the woman's face. "But your go-to-girl is always the one saying, 'You'll be okay! I told you so!'"

I have many majestic female friends. But for the ladies who have known me in my most dramatic times -- thank you, Rachel, Emeline, Elizabeth! :-D

A video to send us off

This is a hot floor routine - an unexpected mix of classic lines combined with sassy, sharp, weird movements. Then again, Hollie Vise has never been a slouch when it comes to looking lovely.

Check it out!

Handle it.

So on the one hand we have frolicking in the grassy knoll with Ashley-yay for flips in the grass!, running through the Mashashamuet trails, skinning the knee on a branch, Olaf's ice cream, and a grand total of one flyer accomplished. On the other, dying in my room from allergies. This is almost as bad as Tralee allergies, when I couldn't keep my eyes open when we drove down the driveway.

And on the third hand, RA Frank just knocked on the suite door and called, "Hello, Diana." Be still, freshie hearts!

Twenty-Twelve

Katelyn, age 9, points at my SBS T-shirt: "That school is closing."
Diana: "Yes."
Katelyn, proud of her logic: "You won't have a college to go to anymore!"
Diana: "I'm graduating, but thanks."
Meghan, age 7: "NO! I was going to go there!"

At the end of practice, I join the team push-ups. "You need to come back!" says Coach Kim, not for the first time. Ah, a comeback...

"We'll get you ready for 2012," Rob says.

On my final push-up, I hear Jenny: "You're going to fight the apocalypse?!"

Zombie Apocalypse, Day 1

Poetry: Inverted outcomes. Expectations subverted. Beginning mundanely enough, then twisted so fast that by the end, the poem's over but your mouth's still open.

What would you do if your son was at home?

"OH MY GOD THERE ARE PICTURES OF HIM IN THE WATER!"

Good times in the SBS Res Life office!

Tell me how I'm supposed to breathe with no air, air, air, air...

"That hug was insane!"

Today is a better day. Thank you, GSO and Wolfie?

hot like ozone and doors off hinges

I have to remember that there is more than one right path.

agoraphobia

The sky is the right mix of sun and blue slate gray, the wind stirring up and down, yellow dandelions in long grass, and yet all I want to do is stay on this side of the window and shut my eyes.

How now brown cow

Backstage, 1:57 pm: mumbling and humming and stretching and lips flapping. The actor's warm-up. Cacophony for a small room.

Warming up to be a human.

Hey, blog, hey

Life is starting to simmer back down. Conversations can turn to something else. There are other events in the world. Tragedies and scandals and warmth and light. The trick is to scoop it up while you can.

S.O.S. SBS

The sounds of chants echoing against brick and the heads that lifted inside to watch--

I'm impressed.

Sustain Our School

The story that began it all:

http://www.27east.com/story_detail.cfm?id=269571&town=Southampton&n=Stony%20Brook%20University%20announces%20plan%20for%20drastic%20cuts%20at%20Stony%20Brook%20Southampton


The first "war room" session The "command center" the next day.

Imagine if these students were always so proactive--what else could they accomplish?

longhorn

So now that I've thoroughly hated on people talking about writing, let's write about writing!


Nothing much at all. Just the thought: I'd like to think of writing as the live text, pulse still visible until the skin, ever changing its mind. Not the dead stack gathering dust. Unless it's in the desert. There's wind out there.

In the mood to, for no reason at all, hit someone in the face.

Right now I am completely resistent to everything. Offense, defense, tragedy, your deep idea. Take it elsewhere. I don't care. I don't care!

And I am really tired of talking about writing. Unless you're my teacher, go away. I mean it. The next time someone comes rambling at me about their "epiphany" or yammers at me about their novel-in-progress and then talks over me when I attempt to respond, I will count to three.

One.

(Unless you're Dom/Flo.)

Two.

(Or Cormac McCarthy. He gets me going these days.)

All others better start running.

--

Well, if I'm destined to tread these same circles, I'll at least try to make it interesting for myself. Three-sports-connected interesting. Running up the hill that climbs steeper the faster you drive your knees up and down, catching the sun dripping over the sound as you reach summit, legs wobbling as the road flattens, headphones singing the only thing I still believe in is you, pumping your fist in triumph as a truck passes-hell, yeah. I am the fucking champion.

"Diana! You look darling!"

exclaims 10-year-old Kaylee as she enters practice at 9:10 this morning. Most of Kaylee's conversations take place at full volume. She runs over to touch my hair. "You look beautiful! I need to take a picture!"

Oh, and she wants to do a floor routine to Lady Gaga's "Telephone."

That's what I call a champion!