Sunday, June 30, 2013
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
Friday, June 21, 2013
Saturday, June 01, 2013
Saturday, May 25, 2013
Friday, May 24, 2013
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
I have lived in so many places the past few weeks. Months. Years. Mental relocations. Colorado winters, working those mountain roads, bending their curves to my will. New Mexico heat and red earth, a sea of slow time burning. Pennsylvania towns that make my alma mater’s home look downright thriving. Here, the sun dazzling that water and beckoning it up, up closer to that road.
Monday, March 25, 2013
The signs: copy/paste as quickly as you can. Get a response that isn't no and say, "Okay" in your mind, not jump/gape/tell the world. Make comments in the bold/italicized/fade to gray speadsheet. Ponder the philosophical: "Can any man truly know how YA another man is?" (The answer: "NOT YA ENOUGH.")
But I have to remind myself that, hey, I'm doing it. One: I completed a novel. Two: I've revised the heck out of it. Three: I'm putting it out into the universe. (Four: the universe may just accept it.)
Now, if I can just stop having heart palpitations with "Inbox (1)" appears...
(No, really, can I?)
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Being back in this space, even for a few days, throws me back into the endless circle of Where do I go from here? I worry that I'm not good enough at taking chances, not interested enough in any paid task to do it all of the time, regularly, in my designated chair. Not bold enough make new highways permanent.
Am I telling the right stories, or the "right" stories? Is my mind capable of one story to lead them all and in the darkness bind them, or will they always be a little softer, more of a hum than a shout? Will there always be a hitch?
Saturday, March 23, 2013
Friday, March 22, 2013
Sunday, March 17, 2013
I'd rather pull your gravity to mine. A spice to the hot chocolate, a lift in the arms, a search for treasure and ocean homes and dead dolphins on the sand. All of those things.
Monday, March 04, 2013
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Thing is, I'm not satisfied with the majority of what I'm reading. I want emotional heft blended with stunning sentences and blazing characters. I want to reimagine what I thought I knew. And if I can't, I hope to write those stories.
Yet I have always struggled with place. Not brass and well-dressed enough to be popular, but sociable enough to hold a middle ground. An athlete and wearer of bright pink writing twisted speculative stories. More grounded in reality than these haphazard vegans, yet more fanciful than those on the 9-5. I am not on the outside, but have never felt fully on the inside, into the finite and definable.
Monday, February 25, 2013
Take a stroll by the main offices. Engage in raised voice conversations so the big ones know you're there. Stride back and forth, papers fluttering in your hands with purpose. Send emails, sign them "All the best." Thank everyone. Wish them well. Dress up, move out, get on with it.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
I drove by the school earlier, and it continues to exist in halves for me: the half that I work in, begrudgingly, and the half that I lived in, that I only see when I drive up the hill and around the circle. I don't do that often. Once every sixth months, I'd say, when you're here or when the nostalgia hits just enough. Work is work, but when I take in other angles, I am confident that this is a place where I have been happy.
Monday, February 18, 2013
Ability to travel across the country, solo, and find my way. Foresight to always bring reading material. Talent for never being bored when alone (only with other people, at times). Excellent at comebacks, spoken and physical. Five to ten years experience, still going strong.
Monday, February 11, 2013
I think. I hope.
Today, as the kids eat their snacks and scroll through Instagram, I wonder if I should have aimed higher. Law school. Something with clout and the instant eyebrow raised in approval. Nuclear chemistry, I think as I scroll through the Wikipedia articles that detail too many crimes against humanity. You could argue that I am aiming high in this manner, going the artist's way, but whether or not my work will have any profound effect on any human remains be seen.
Human remains. I don't like the reverberation of those words together. Context clues. Slipping in, slipping out.
Saturday, February 09, 2013
We're lucky out here. Maybe half of the anticipated snowfall reached us, and while a cleared driveway is a long way coming, it's not an impossible dream. I dug out the back of my car although there's hardly any clear path for it to back down. A tiny flake of freedom.
That's the most concerning thing about natural disasters, besides the obvious potential loss of life and property. Snow falls in a gentle but persistent paralysis. We are pristinely immobilized, confined to windows and icicle reflections. Time churns. My mind drums, drums.
The shovel brought back a whisper of the old calluses, padded yellow and soft orange discolorations. Flex knees, heave snow. The wind and I play catch; I toss the snow over my shoulder and it whips back into my face, sticking to my too-long ponytail. We become bolder, start playing chicken. I throw the snow recklessly. We dare one another to turn away first.
Friday, February 08, 2013
Thursday, February 07, 2013
No matter. I like it here. Black jacket pulled close, ponytail whipped by wind. I don't look old enough to have any sort of authority, but nobody seems to mind.
Two men inspected our chimney and returned with a penciled list of everything that needed to be adjusted. The word "extremely" was used numerous times, and not once in positive terms. So it goes, I guess, living in a seasonal town in unseasonable times. Straight down the floo.
But I enjoy it out here in this company. I feel I'm finally starting to get living arrangements right. Holding up the roof with the clacking of keyboards and flipping of cards. Your ace, my queen. I'm making the right moves.
Wednesday, February 06, 2013
This kind of blogging, where every public word wasn't meant to sell something, or create a persona, or try endlessly, endlessly, to join that inner circle of inanity. It was just me, flying solo, with friends popping in and out supportively over the years to comment and occasionally break out their own blogs.
I miss playful language. Being allowed to play, to dip in and out of perspectives and up and down avenues. Ignoring the undertones of What's this mean? and Clarify here. Some of the play has been beaten out of me, whether from my quest to be published "traditionally" or from the overall calming of my emotions, I can't say.
But I'd like to try again. I know that much.