One person's trauma is another person's...laughter?
I was convinced that what I'd written was, at most, melodramatic and, at the minimum, emotionally charged. Hell, just writing it had put me in a bad mood. And by the time it came my turn to read out loud, I slumped a bit and hoped that maybe she'd pass over my story this week.
I read the first page. I look up.
And everyone is...grinning.
"This was really amusing and fun to read," one classmate says.
Amusing?
"It sounds like you're mad at him for doing exactly what you did!"
"He sounds like a nice fellow and he really seems to care about you."
"This could be a sitcom!"
They pale in comparison to how I've felt about her for my entire life.
Italicized lines are from someone else about someone else, but I see just how right they are. They all are.
Because, well, it hurt like hell but if I know now that I can forgive, that we are very much human and no matter if I cry or swear certain things to myself -
isn't this a test, after all? -
"Despite all that, I'm here," I told you my first night there -
that I will still feel the very same if not stronger -
I feel strongly that I can overlook that, because of how much she matters to me.
- then, well,
why not smile with them?
Friday, September 26, 2008
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
the story's in the first paragraph, they say
"It is narcissistic, vain, egotistical, unrealistic, selfish, and hateful to assume ownership of a town or a word.
"It is also essential."
Inconsistent courage pisses me off, but tonight I choose to be stupidly brave. To walk on dark path under trees instead of in safely-lit areas the way they tell us to.
"Your words used your way will generate your meanings. Your obsessions lead you to inner life."
Grass crinkles softly in yellow lights. I see no one. I see thoughts.
This place is haunted, you know.
Compromise: dark path with solid lights from buildings ahead.
So many dark windows. Who is like me?
I can't cry. Would you believe that? Well, last night I looked up at the stars while I was driving home and they made me so sad. I don't know why. I mean, hell, they're always there. What else is?
But besides that.
"It is also essential."
Inconsistent courage pisses me off, but tonight I choose to be stupidly brave. To walk on dark path under trees instead of in safely-lit areas the way they tell us to.
"Your words used your way will generate your meanings. Your obsessions lead you to inner life."
Grass crinkles softly in yellow lights. I see no one. I see thoughts.
This place is haunted, you know.
Compromise: dark path with solid lights from buildings ahead.
So many dark windows. Who is like me?
I can't cry. Would you believe that? Well, last night I looked up at the stars while I was driving home and they made me so sad. I don't know why. I mean, hell, they're always there. What else is?
But besides that.
Sunday, September 07, 2008
a break like this
http://www.dakotafilms.com/clips/promos/the-bourne-ultimatum <-- my cousin is the pizza delivery guy!
To Eric and Matt
Feet pause. "Is that a finger?"
"I'm talking to the nice man," she says.
"We're bored here. Can you drive onto the grass or something?" he wants to know.
"Later," we promise.
Sashaying with umbrellas past bright facades and brick pathways. "Don't have a cow!" and we groan and laugh.
Sprinting over sand - cool but not yet wet - meet grey crashing white grey again and again -
I stand at the shore, watch crashing grey and know that the desperately rushing tide runs to meet me - I smile - this overwhelming chaos, this beauty - I have finally found a place that is me.
"Let's break out the wine," Kim suggests as the trouble alarm beeps loudly and emergency lights shine on the residents in the hallway who look at me.
We play power outtage instead of power hour. Never have I ever kissed a cheerleader. Giggling fits take us outside. Intriguing basement conversations next to the room with one chair. Kid in the blue poncho, what's his story? Keep it on the DL.
"You two were in bathing suits and I was wearing a tank top," she'll claim later. Rain and wind slap our skin like the volleyball that keeps soaring under the net. Orange lights illuminate laughing bodies in the night.
White skirt,
soaking rain,
brilliantly clear morning.
This is the best time I've had in three years.
What have you been doing?
You don't want to know.
"I'm talking to the nice man," she says.
"We're bored here. Can you drive onto the grass or something?" he wants to know.
"Later," we promise.
Sashaying with umbrellas past bright facades and brick pathways. "Don't have a cow!" and we groan and laugh.
Sprinting over sand - cool but not yet wet - meet grey crashing white grey again and again -
I stand at the shore, watch crashing grey and know that the desperately rushing tide runs to meet me - I smile - this overwhelming chaos, this beauty - I have finally found a place that is me.
"Let's break out the wine," Kim suggests as the trouble alarm beeps loudly and emergency lights shine on the residents in the hallway who look at me.
We play power outtage instead of power hour. Never have I ever kissed a cheerleader. Giggling fits take us outside. Intriguing basement conversations next to the room with one chair. Kid in the blue poncho, what's his story? Keep it on the DL.
"You two were in bathing suits and I was wearing a tank top," she'll claim later. Rain and wind slap our skin like the volleyball that keeps soaring under the net. Orange lights illuminate laughing bodies in the night.
White skirt,
soaking rain,
brilliantly clear morning.
This is the best time I've had in three years.
What have you been doing?
You don't want to know.
Thursday, September 04, 2008
silent dim way of spirits
It's ten o'clock and we're already yawning. She pulls her fingers through reddish blond hair and talks about traffic court and moving south.
So who's the adult who lives in here?
Radio stations come in as crisply as headlights on dotted lines. Laughs come as sharply as plastic ball to plastic bat.
Are they, like, the school gangsters?
Ghosts on the highway each night. If I were the ghost in the windmill, I'd come down to this field to run from sweatshirt to sweatshirt, laughing in the silent dim way of spirits.
The thing is that you can't be afraid. You have to push through.
Reading about writing and as I listen, something glows again.
I should be here.
We should go sometime. I don't need to drink. I just like to dance.
I like learning to love small towns. But as she drives through the two stoplights that separate us from my car, I have the urge to tell her to keep going. Keep moving. Past these places.
I've lost the old nostalgia that upstate skies had for me, even from the start. I'm south and the stars are sharp and she laughs, good friend, keeping me clear, present.
Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.
I want to be the ghost tonight and not the driver. I want to get lost tonight, flowing through forests under the red slice of moon until someone whispers softly for me to turn back.
So who's the adult who lives in here?
Radio stations come in as crisply as headlights on dotted lines. Laughs come as sharply as plastic ball to plastic bat.
Are they, like, the school gangsters?
Ghosts on the highway each night. If I were the ghost in the windmill, I'd come down to this field to run from sweatshirt to sweatshirt, laughing in the silent dim way of spirits.
The thing is that you can't be afraid. You have to push through.
Reading about writing and as I listen, something glows again.
I should be here.
We should go sometime. I don't need to drink. I just like to dance.
I like learning to love small towns. But as she drives through the two stoplights that separate us from my car, I have the urge to tell her to keep going. Keep moving. Past these places.
I've lost the old nostalgia that upstate skies had for me, even from the start. I'm south and the stars are sharp and she laughs, good friend, keeping me clear, present.
Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.
I want to be the ghost tonight and not the driver. I want to get lost tonight, flowing through forests under the red slice of moon until someone whispers softly for me to turn back.
Monday, September 01, 2008
to the next to the next sort of life
What I've learned:
RCR's = death. There's nothing quite like the desperation - yet liberation - of knowing for certain, "I am fucked." Everyone has a story. Everyone. I can function on one hour of sleep, apparently. Never think that you won't run into someone again. We may be exhausted but I will always be trying to make you laugh - and laughing even if you stay silent. My friends roll deep. Always. These bathrooms do not include soap. Or towels. I say I'm nervous but I walk up and down as if this is in fact mine. As if those answers are mine.
And I love this dizzying jolts of words - laughs in slow times - quick quick feet - one hour of sleep smile and pass from the next to the next to the next sort of life.
RCR's = death. There's nothing quite like the desperation - yet liberation - of knowing for certain, "I am fucked." Everyone has a story. Everyone. I can function on one hour of sleep, apparently. Never think that you won't run into someone again. We may be exhausted but I will always be trying to make you laugh - and laughing even if you stay silent. My friends roll deep. Always. These bathrooms do not include soap. Or towels. I say I'm nervous but I walk up and down as if this is in fact mine. As if those answers are mine.
And I love this dizzying jolts of words - laughs in slow times - quick quick feet - one hour of sleep smile and pass from the next to the next to the next sort of life.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
"I'm pretty sure they don't let you major in geography if you don't know where Iowa is."
Well,
for just two days,
between driving back and forth enough times to accumulate the distance it would have taken to drive to Binghamton or Albany (but not El Paso...yet), infected cysts, being that smiling yet stoic girl on the table as they lifted the needle, 9 pm panicked escapes to Riverhead, beer pong on armoirs, boo lovin', ghost stories, lack of Interwebs, strawberries and bananas, 5 am pained steps towards painkillers, Windows Updates, Olympic rings, bulletin board supplies, fervently missing Spanish and gymnastics while both aren't far away, being alternately bewildered/annoyed and amused/upbeat, text conversations, unsolicited compliments, the standard Beth Grinnell ridiculousness that I've come to expect, whispers on a very small campus that turn to shouts picked up by wind, and trying to figure out how the hell I'll walk that line of carefree and 22 and 22 and mature writer...
...looks like I got that life change I was seeking, all right.
for just two days,
between driving back and forth enough times to accumulate the distance it would have taken to drive to Binghamton or Albany (but not El Paso...yet), infected cysts, being that smiling yet stoic girl on the table as they lifted the needle, 9 pm panicked escapes to Riverhead, beer pong on armoirs, boo lovin', ghost stories, lack of Interwebs, strawberries and bananas, 5 am pained steps towards painkillers, Windows Updates, Olympic rings, bulletin board supplies, fervently missing Spanish and gymnastics while both aren't far away, being alternately bewildered/annoyed and amused/upbeat, text conversations, unsolicited compliments, the standard Beth Grinnell ridiculousness that I've come to expect, whispers on a very small campus that turn to shouts picked up by wind, and trying to figure out how the hell I'll walk that line of carefree and 22 and 22 and mature writer...
...looks like I got that life change I was seeking, all right.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
hard enough to wake me
I have a lot to say.
For once I want to be the car crash
Not always just the traffic jam
Dreams again: Fell asleep while driving. Too many hours at the wheel cannot keep my eyes open. I deny it - I can't remember - but my mom says disapprovingly that they saw the marks on the side of the highway -
vaguely I recall car spinning -
Hit me hard enough to wake me.
I had been leaving your house, but you were no longer there.
And if the road gets rocky,
just steady as we go.
"Jeep rider's disease." Delightful. Antibiotics remind me of why I never cared much for medication - sudden thirst and sudden sleep.
Steph: "dear diana, cortland is not the same without you ... lets rewind k bye."
For no reason at all, friends have come out in full force these past few days and I realize how many people I love - how many love me.
I've got this adventure coming up. They want to hear. Wish me well. But want me back sooner rather than later.
I'm gaining pounds
on the precipice of too late.
Seems that I've recovered a couple of the pounds I'd lost the past few days. Probably for the best. After all...
Dear Diana:
Please learn to plan ahead better; i.e., when exercising and driving for an hour each and preparing to cater in decently warm weather, eat more than three slim slices of cinnamon bread and a glass of orange juice.
Sincerely,
the black spots in your eyes and ringing in your ears
Reach out
and take it
'Cause I'm so tired of all this fear.
Jingling cell phone music shakes me awake each morning. Sometimes earlier than I'd intended - a random call or message. Sometimes precisely on time.
Call me silly. But each morning the ringer sings me from sleep - always startled, disoriented - I wonder if it's from you.
For once I want to be the car crash
Not always just the traffic jam
Dreams again: Fell asleep while driving. Too many hours at the wheel cannot keep my eyes open. I deny it - I can't remember - but my mom says disapprovingly that they saw the marks on the side of the highway -
vaguely I recall car spinning -
Hit me hard enough to wake me.
I had been leaving your house, but you were no longer there.
And if the road gets rocky,
just steady as we go.
"Jeep rider's disease." Delightful. Antibiotics remind me of why I never cared much for medication - sudden thirst and sudden sleep.
Steph: "dear diana, cortland is not the same without you ... lets rewind k bye."
For no reason at all, friends have come out in full force these past few days and I realize how many people I love - how many love me.
I've got this adventure coming up. They want to hear. Wish me well. But want me back sooner rather than later.
I'm gaining pounds
on the precipice of too late.
Seems that I've recovered a couple of the pounds I'd lost the past few days. Probably for the best. After all...
Dear Diana:
Please learn to plan ahead better; i.e., when exercising and driving for an hour each and preparing to cater in decently warm weather, eat more than three slim slices of cinnamon bread and a glass of orange juice.
Sincerely,
the black spots in your eyes and ringing in your ears
Reach out
and take it
'Cause I'm so tired of all this fear.
Jingling cell phone music shakes me awake each morning. Sometimes earlier than I'd intended - a random call or message. Sometimes precisely on time.
Call me silly. But each morning the ringer sings me from sleep - always startled, disoriented - I wonder if it's from you.
Friday, August 22, 2008
I'll read to you here, save your eyes
It's easier not to be great
It's easier to resist the suggestion and of course I never will. Something aches when I stand still, but the moment I begin to run, it nods, clenches, runs with me.
You'll always be able to count on me to throw a full at random times in random gyms. Just to remind myself that I can.
and measure these things by your eyes.
"Have you made a lot of friends?" Matt wants to know as I lounge next to Riverside's trampoline, holding my leg in the air as an afterthought. "If I saw you like that, I'd be like, 'Damn. I'm being her friend.'"
I alone love you
Clear night again, dark trees bright stars. My lower back expands and burns and I shift uncomfortably, idly wondering what'd Emeline say -
then a star falls.
No arch. No streaking farewell. A straight line. A simple tug of gravity wanting theirs back.
Fear is not the end of this!
It's easier to resist the suggestion and of course I never will. Something aches when I stand still, but the moment I begin to run, it nods, clenches, runs with me.
You'll always be able to count on me to throw a full at random times in random gyms. Just to remind myself that I can.
and measure these things by your eyes.
"Have you made a lot of friends?" Matt wants to know as I lounge next to Riverside's trampoline, holding my leg in the air as an afterthought. "If I saw you like that, I'd be like, 'Damn. I'm being her friend.'"
I alone love you
Clear night again, dark trees bright stars. My lower back expands and burns and I shift uncomfortably, idly wondering what'd Emeline say -
then a star falls.
No arch. No streaking farewell. A straight line. A simple tug of gravity wanting theirs back.
Fear is not the end of this!
Thursday, August 21, 2008
warmer falls
Of course, who knows what will happen, but I'm so glad I got the job!!!
I haven't really admitted them to myself yet but there are perks in this place. Many, in fact.
And imagine: a winter less than bitter with a sun that stands aloof but stands nonetheless?
Yes. That would be all right with me.
I haven't really admitted them to myself yet but there are perks in this place. Many, in fact.
And imagine: a winter less than bitter with a sun that stands aloof but stands nonetheless?
Yes. That would be all right with me.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Friday, August 15, 2008
4 (oh, I am nervous!)
Drama already: Bela and Bob Costas concur that Shawn needs to upgrade her barani to a rudi. Gotta agree, she can definitely pull it off. Amber French sure can! :-)
Six tenths... can Shawn pull it off? I'm hoping for a finish like Carly's in 2004.
Now Tim's picking up on the drama.
Jiang: Aw, this routine is so cute. Let's see how it goes today. See, the Chinese can do more than one pose between their skills! Low landing on triple full. Low on full-in. Not good triple turn. Or was it a double? Tim calls it "easy," after all. She seems a bit less thrilled. Last pass...again, low landing. Crowd loves her, though. 14.775. Let's see how the US girls score...
Is this the elusive Anna Pavlova? My goodness, she materializes!: Very aggressive. Long lines like Nastia. Cool front layout step-out. She moves very confidently. Feel like the choreography could be more intense to reflect the music. Intriguing ending pose. Psh, Elf, NOBODY is like Lilia. Besides Brittany Wiesner, who is the exception to every rule. 15.05.
This lack of commercials is awesome. And I've certainly just jinxed myself.
Ksenia: Cutesy, bu she does smile. Height on the tumbling isn't great. Putting on the Ritz, eh? Lots of energy, which is nice. Good routine, but not sure if it changed my life. 15.075, I think they said.
Yang: Dramatic opening pose. This music sounds promising. Very clean tumbling so far. Not that third pass. Switch ring not as good as others. Long wait for last pass. Low landing. I bet they'll let her slide, though, judging by how scores have been. Very pretty overall, though, it must be said! 15.00. Really? Thought they'd give her more.
Nastiaaaaa's turn! Oh, USA....: COME ON, Nastia!!!!! I'm nervous! Wavering in my certainty!: I like Tim's advice to "land on your feet and stay in bounds." Good first pass! Nice double front! Beautiful leaps. Was that out of bounds? Even the commentators are silent. Last pass!!....NICE! And of course a lovely ending pose. Good for her!!! Aw, her dad looks so happy. Yang just hugged her, too. This is suspenseful! 15.525! SWEET! Finally, a decent score for her!
OHHH, Shawn!: Wow. 16.125. Do-able, but could be tough... Tim says nay. Wait, didn't she score around that at Trials? Nice and extremely high first pass. I really hate her dance or lack thereof, but she's so damn cute. Second pass....Good, stayed in bounds. This music is cool. Good ending, good for her! She shouldn't be ashamed of second, if that's where she ends up. She looks slightly tired - what, she's human? :-p
Score score score.....
15.525
Nastia for the win! Wow! Good for her! Aw, they hug.
Wow. Nastia really brought it. I can see the touching comeback stories starting now. But Shawn brought it, too. Good job, USA!
And now Steph and I don't have to cause a ruckus...tonight, at least.
Six tenths... can Shawn pull it off? I'm hoping for a finish like Carly's in 2004.
Now Tim's picking up on the drama.
Jiang: Aw, this routine is so cute. Let's see how it goes today. See, the Chinese can do more than one pose between their skills! Low landing on triple full. Low on full-in. Not good triple turn. Or was it a double? Tim calls it "easy," after all. She seems a bit less thrilled. Last pass...again, low landing. Crowd loves her, though. 14.775. Let's see how the US girls score...
Is this the elusive Anna Pavlova? My goodness, she materializes!: Very aggressive. Long lines like Nastia. Cool front layout step-out. She moves very confidently. Feel like the choreography could be more intense to reflect the music. Intriguing ending pose. Psh, Elf, NOBODY is like Lilia. Besides Brittany Wiesner, who is the exception to every rule. 15.05.
This lack of commercials is awesome. And I've certainly just jinxed myself.
Ksenia: Cutesy, bu she does smile. Height on the tumbling isn't great. Putting on the Ritz, eh? Lots of energy, which is nice. Good routine, but not sure if it changed my life. 15.075, I think they said.
Yang: Dramatic opening pose. This music sounds promising. Very clean tumbling so far. Not that third pass. Switch ring not as good as others. Long wait for last pass. Low landing. I bet they'll let her slide, though, judging by how scores have been. Very pretty overall, though, it must be said! 15.00. Really? Thought they'd give her more.
Nastiaaaaa's turn! Oh, USA....: COME ON, Nastia!!!!! I'm nervous! Wavering in my certainty!: I like Tim's advice to "land on your feet and stay in bounds." Good first pass! Nice double front! Beautiful leaps. Was that out of bounds? Even the commentators are silent. Last pass!!....NICE! And of course a lovely ending pose. Good for her!!! Aw, her dad looks so happy. Yang just hugged her, too. This is suspenseful! 15.525! SWEET! Finally, a decent score for her!
OHHH, Shawn!: Wow. 16.125. Do-able, but could be tough... Tim says nay. Wait, didn't she score around that at Trials? Nice and extremely high first pass. I really hate her dance or lack thereof, but she's so damn cute. Second pass....Good, stayed in bounds. This music is cool. Good ending, good for her! She shouldn't be ashamed of second, if that's where she ends up. She looks slightly tired - what, she's human? :-p
Score score score.....
15.525
Nastia for the win! Wow! Good for her! Aw, they hug.
Wow. Nastia really brought it. I can see the touching comeback stories starting now. But Shawn brought it, too. Good job, USA!
And now Steph and I don't have to cause a ruckus...tonight, at least.
3
"The American kids are doing good," says Bela. Gotta agree that the scoring seems a bit conservative with respect to the Americans.
"Look at Shawn. Look at Shawn!"
If Shawn hits and doesn't win, I will be pissed. So far, neither she or Nastia have nohing to be ashamed of -- they're doing solidly.
YES, beam! This should be a pleasure.
I want to see Nastia calmly and cooly punch an NBC cameraman.
Shawn is .750 behind? How is that possible?
Ooh, I hope the delay isn't making her too nervous....*sarcasm.*
Here we go: God, I love that series and how she lands it! She moves so damn fas into everything. Gotta agree - first time I've seen her wobble. Low back leg on switch leap. But she's got it oing on. Lets see this full turn: hot! Emeline is proud right now, I know. Cool cartwheel thing - Beth must learn it. Solid!
Replay of that series confirms that I want to be Shawn Johnson.
16.050 - an improvement despite the wobbles.
Yay, Jiang!: Pink clips are fun. Whatever, Tim, let's see you mount the beam. (Flashbacks to Gary Babjack randomly tossing front fulls on Tumble Track.) Hesitation before front tuck. I think Angela Calvano's sheep jump is superior. Not too impressive today. Pretty dismount. 15.425. Definitely high.
Steliana: Yeah, sticking that double layout! Ahhh, another floor routine with three poses betwen skills for choreography. Doesn't go with the music. She doesn't look too thrilled. But, hey, if she's got back problems, nice tumbling! Awkward lack of applause. 14.500. "That not good." - Al Trautwig.
"I don't know what's going on," Tim says.
Oh, the message boards will be full of it!
Haha at the photographer in Yang's face. Shawn looks sad. No sad!
Loooong unnecessary filler talk while gymnasts sit or stand.
OMG PIRATES MUSIC!!!! WHO IS THAT?! Is she swordfighting?!?! AHH! The end cut is the same as mine!
Steph calls because she hears the music! "China is cheating their way through the Olympics! I want to go there and sue their asses!"
Ksenia (I can barely concentrate): (and why aren't they showing Anna Pavlova?!): Cool front aerial to scale. Not the same! Text from Beth about the music. Looks like a pretty good beam set. 15.925.
Yang: Seriously don't know how she is winning over Shawn. Pretty mount! Mine definitely didn't look like that when I tried to learn it. Silence in the gym. Okay, maybe I can see - she's definitely got some flair. OOH, not good full turn. Awkward side aerial. My God, she is skinny. I like her perky poses. She does finish every routine looking thrilled, which I always appreciate. But "it's beatable," as Elfie notes. 15.750. Eh.
Nastia!: Yeah, press handstand! She looks so incredibly tall, all 5'3" of her. Nice switch leap-half. Stay calm. Get rid of that side somi -- it breaks her nice lines! She shouldn't try to look like a ninja. Slow to connect that wolf full. The Liukin is a hot skill. Love that switch ring! NICE!!!!! Stuck dismount!!!! She better effin' get in the mid 16's. Or Steph and I will be causing a ruckus overseas. 16.125? Are you kididng?? FOUR TENTHS HIGHER than Yang's routine and that's it? Wow.
HAHA, a "definitive walk" from Nellie Kim. Thanks, Al.
What is going on here?!
Good for Nastia taking the lead! Oh, I am worried for Shawn.
"Look at Shawn. Look at Shawn!"
If Shawn hits and doesn't win, I will be pissed. So far, neither she or Nastia have nohing to be ashamed of -- they're doing solidly.
YES, beam! This should be a pleasure.
I want to see Nastia calmly and cooly punch an NBC cameraman.
Shawn is .750 behind? How is that possible?
Ooh, I hope the delay isn't making her too nervous....*sarcasm.*
Here we go: God, I love that series and how she lands it! She moves so damn fas into everything. Gotta agree - first time I've seen her wobble. Low back leg on switch leap. But she's got it oing on. Lets see this full turn: hot! Emeline is proud right now, I know. Cool cartwheel thing - Beth must learn it. Solid!
Replay of that series confirms that I want to be Shawn Johnson.
16.050 - an improvement despite the wobbles.
Yay, Jiang!: Pink clips are fun. Whatever, Tim, let's see you mount the beam. (Flashbacks to Gary Babjack randomly tossing front fulls on Tumble Track.) Hesitation before front tuck. I think Angela Calvano's sheep jump is superior. Not too impressive today. Pretty dismount. 15.425. Definitely high.
Steliana: Yeah, sticking that double layout! Ahhh, another floor routine with three poses betwen skills for choreography. Doesn't go with the music. She doesn't look too thrilled. But, hey, if she's got back problems, nice tumbling! Awkward lack of applause. 14.500. "That not good." - Al Trautwig.
"I don't know what's going on," Tim says.
Oh, the message boards will be full of it!
Haha at the photographer in Yang's face. Shawn looks sad. No sad!
Loooong unnecessary filler talk while gymnasts sit or stand.
OMG PIRATES MUSIC!!!! WHO IS THAT?! Is she swordfighting?!?! AHH! The end cut is the same as mine!
Steph calls because she hears the music! "China is cheating their way through the Olympics! I want to go there and sue their asses!"
Ksenia (I can barely concentrate): (and why aren't they showing Anna Pavlova?!): Cool front aerial to scale. Not the same! Text from Beth about the music. Looks like a pretty good beam set. 15.925.
Yang: Seriously don't know how she is winning over Shawn. Pretty mount! Mine definitely didn't look like that when I tried to learn it. Silence in the gym. Okay, maybe I can see - she's definitely got some flair. OOH, not good full turn. Awkward side aerial. My God, she is skinny. I like her perky poses. She does finish every routine looking thrilled, which I always appreciate. But "it's beatable," as Elfie notes. 15.750. Eh.
Nastia!: Yeah, press handstand! She looks so incredibly tall, all 5'3" of her. Nice switch leap-half. Stay calm. Get rid of that side somi -- it breaks her nice lines! She shouldn't try to look like a ninja. Slow to connect that wolf full. The Liukin is a hot skill. Love that switch ring! NICE!!!!! Stuck dismount!!!! She better effin' get in the mid 16's. Or Steph and I will be causing a ruckus overseas. 16.125? Are you kididng?? FOUR TENTHS HIGHER than Yang's routine and that's it? Wow.
HAHA, a "definitive walk" from Nellie Kim. Thanks, Al.
What is going on here?!
Good for Nastia taking the lead! Oh, I am worried for Shawn.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
2
Nasta's score in contention? Fair enough. But then again, not the highest difficulty. I like her bright pink leo. Quite the bold statement.
Shawn Johnson "recovered"...yeah, I'd say she looks pretty under control from a simple step forward.
Steliana Nistor: nice Hindorff, legs apart on her bar transitions (Tim sees what's up), ugly dismount but she stuck it. Wow, 15.975? Generous.
Okay, now it's really rotation two:
Oh, geesh, enough of Bela Karolyi, please!
Nastia: beautiful Geinger. Low Tkatchev. Yay, good Pak salto! I wonder how much the form breaks on her giants cost her. Apparently not too much. Eeks, awkward landing but she made it through! And, of course, she's barely breathing afterwards. Between her and Michael Phelps, I'm feeling like a slacker.
Replay: Yikes, she's so close to that bar! But safe.
16.650.
Shawn: Little close on the Geinger - I agree, Tim. YEAH, stick! Haha, she looks quite relieved. Good work. I'm not sure why everyone knocks her bar routine all the time. She's solid. 15.275. Hmm.
Jiang Yuyuan: Cool leo. Beautiful Pak! I feel like she's not quite as innovative as other Chinese gymnasts on bars. Pretty dismount.
Steliana: Nice connection out of the front aerial. Yes, Jil, straddling the beam is never an overly positive experience. I hate side somis. Terrible full turn. She's a little loose and keeps doing her front moves in the same part of the beam. Lacks polish. 15.550? Generous.
Ksenia Semenoa: Cool name. She looks so little! They should show more of Russia, even if they've struggled. I respect anyone who can swing bars without grips. Nice releases, as Elfie notes. She's on that high bar forever. Very cool dismount! Nice! 16.475.
Why are they talking about Anna Pavlova but not showing her? Putas, por favor.
This gym is quite tame compared to 1996, even during the team competition.
We could show her routine instead of focusing on Nastia's face.
"Nice music," my mom says.
Yang Yilin: She's got that style on bars. Looks like she's working pretty hard every time she kips up. I don't know, Tim, it didn't really blow me away. 16.725. That seems a bit high for some missed handstands, especially when they hit Shawn so hard.
Shawn and Nastia move to the balance beam - hell, yeah!
Shawn Johnson "recovered"...yeah, I'd say she looks pretty under control from a simple step forward.
Steliana Nistor: nice Hindorff, legs apart on her bar transitions (Tim sees what's up), ugly dismount but she stuck it. Wow, 15.975? Generous.
Okay, now it's really rotation two:
Oh, geesh, enough of Bela Karolyi, please!
Nastia: beautiful Geinger. Low Tkatchev. Yay, good Pak salto! I wonder how much the form breaks on her giants cost her. Apparently not too much. Eeks, awkward landing but she made it through! And, of course, she's barely breathing afterwards. Between her and Michael Phelps, I'm feeling like a slacker.
Replay: Yikes, she's so close to that bar! But safe.
16.650.
Shawn: Little close on the Geinger - I agree, Tim. YEAH, stick! Haha, she looks quite relieved. Good work. I'm not sure why everyone knocks her bar routine all the time. She's solid. 15.275. Hmm.
Jiang Yuyuan: Cool leo. Beautiful Pak! I feel like she's not quite as innovative as other Chinese gymnasts on bars. Pretty dismount.
Steliana: Nice connection out of the front aerial. Yes, Jil, straddling the beam is never an overly positive experience. I hate side somis. Terrible full turn. She's a little loose and keeps doing her front moves in the same part of the beam. Lacks polish. 15.550? Generous.
Ksenia Semenoa: Cool name. She looks so little! They should show more of Russia, even if they've struggled. I respect anyone who can swing bars without grips. Nice releases, as Elfie notes. She's on that high bar forever. Very cool dismount! Nice! 16.475.
Why are they talking about Anna Pavlova but not showing her? Putas, por favor.
This gym is quite tame compared to 1996, even during the team competition.
We could show her routine instead of focusing on Nastia's face.
"Nice music," my mom says.
Yang Yilin: She's got that style on bars. Looks like she's working pretty hard every time she kips up. I don't know, Tim, it didn't really blow me away. 16.725. That seems a bit high for some missed handstands, especially when they hit Shawn so hard.
Shawn and Nastia move to the balance beam - hell, yeah!
1
Yes, I am going to blog through every rotation. And yes, I will love it.
Yang Yilin - nice start.
Nastia's vault = amazing! And the reason why I started blogging at this moment.
15.025? Lame. I can't see four tenths in execution.
Solid from Shawn Johnson - of course. "This is very scary," says. Tim Dagget as the judges pick up the phone. Please stop talking. Was it really that iffy? Roll us the replay again, please. Can they legally zoom in that close to a judge's computer?
Jiang Yuyuan - I like this girl's spunk. Sloppy....fall to the back. Sucky way to begin. Did she really have a shot for the gold? Hopefully she gets it back together - I like her style.
Damn you, Water Cube!
Yang Yilin - nice start.
Nastia's vault = amazing! And the reason why I started blogging at this moment.
15.025? Lame. I can't see four tenths in execution.
Solid from Shawn Johnson - of course. "This is very scary," says. Tim Dagget as the judges pick up the phone. Please stop talking. Was it really that iffy? Roll us the replay again, please. Can they legally zoom in that close to a judge's computer?
Jiang Yuyuan - I like this girl's spunk. Sloppy....fall to the back. Sucky way to begin. Did she really have a shot for the gold? Hopefully she gets it back together - I like her style.
Damn you, Water Cube!
Whilst eagerly awaiting the women's all-around final
Since, not surprisingly, I've perked up substantially (isn't that always my way?),
a few thought-provoking quotes for y'all from Way of the Peaceful Warrior by Dan Millman:
"Everything you'll ever need to know is within you; the secrets of the universe are imprinted on the cells of your body. But you haven't learned how to read the wisdom of the body. So you can only read books and listen to experts and hope they are right."
"Softly, he said, 'It is better for you to take responsibility for your life as it is, instead of blaming others, or circumstances, for your predicament. As your eyes open, you'll see that your state of health, happiness, and every circumstance of your life has been, in large part, arranged by you - consciously or unconsciously.'"
"Anger is stronger than fear, stronger than sorrow. Your spirit is growing. You are ready for the sword."
"Stressful thoughts reflect a conflict with reality. Stress happens when the mind resists what it is."
"There are no ordinary moments."
-What time is it?
-Now.
-Where are we?
-Here.
"You do have a terminal illness: It's called birth. You don't have more than a few years left. No one does! So be happy now, without reason - or you never will be at all."
-"So what do I do now/ Whwere do I go from here?"
-"Who cares?" he yelled gleefully. "A fool is 'happy' when his cravings are satisfied. A warrior is happy without reason. That's what makes happiness the ultimate discipline - above all else I have taught you. Happiness is not just something you feel - it is who you are."
"Feelings change...Sometimes sorrow, sometimes joy. But beneath it all remember the innate perfection of your life unfolding. That is the secret of unreasonable happiness."
And my FAVORITE QUOTE:
"...This is the final task I will ever give you, and it goes on forever. Act happy, be happy, without a reason in the world. Then you can love, and do what you will."
a few thought-provoking quotes for y'all from Way of the Peaceful Warrior by Dan Millman:
"Everything you'll ever need to know is within you; the secrets of the universe are imprinted on the cells of your body. But you haven't learned how to read the wisdom of the body. So you can only read books and listen to experts and hope they are right."
"Softly, he said, 'It is better for you to take responsibility for your life as it is, instead of blaming others, or circumstances, for your predicament. As your eyes open, you'll see that your state of health, happiness, and every circumstance of your life has been, in large part, arranged by you - consciously or unconsciously.'"
"Anger is stronger than fear, stronger than sorrow. Your spirit is growing. You are ready for the sword."
"Stressful thoughts reflect a conflict with reality. Stress happens when the mind resists what it is."
"There are no ordinary moments."
-What time is it?
-Now.
-Where are we?
-Here.
"You do have a terminal illness: It's called birth. You don't have more than a few years left. No one does! So be happy now, without reason - or you never will be at all."
-"So what do I do now/ Whwere do I go from here?"
-"Who cares?" he yelled gleefully. "A fool is 'happy' when his cravings are satisfied. A warrior is happy without reason. That's what makes happiness the ultimate discipline - above all else I have taught you. Happiness is not just something you feel - it is who you are."
"Feelings change...Sometimes sorrow, sometimes joy. But beneath it all remember the innate perfection of your life unfolding. That is the secret of unreasonable happiness."
And my FAVORITE QUOTE:
"...This is the final task I will ever give you, and it goes on forever. Act happy, be happy, without a reason in the world. Then you can love, and do what you will."
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
"I'm emotionally devastated right now."
The text message from Brittany Galla after Alicia Sacramone's fall on floor said it all:
"What the fuck? Seriously."
After the exhilaration of the US men catching beautiful release skills, sticking dismounts, and skirting through pommel horse with a triumphant finish by Alexander Artemev to win the bronze medal, hugging and shouting in joy, tonight was quite the opposite.
Tonight, the stony-faced US women sat silently after finishing the meet, watching the grinning Chinese women smile through stumbles on floor that proved to be meaningless.
Yes, the silver is indeed an accomplishment, and yes, the Chinese had the mathematically victory even with a theoretical 1.6 added to the US score.
But it's one thing to know for certain that you could have done no better and quite another to recall every hesitant landing, each missed handstand, and two unsalvagable falls.
But chins up, USA. You'll likely live to compete another day. For all the talk of "experience," not one member had competed in an Olympics before. You are all innocent.
And nothing could be as bad as the Sydney Olympics, anyway.
As an aside, I appreciate the sagacity of Holly Fitzgerald: "You should be out there, I KNOW you wouldn't dare step or land out of bounds during your floor routine and you would have kickass accompanying music as well." :-)
And at least Danielle, Beth, and I were able to practice our full turns and cheerleading routines during the commercials!
I'd love to see Jonathan Horton stick his landings all the way through the all-around final; why not add another bronze? The Shawn Johnson-Nastia Liukin one-two punch would be fantastic. I appreciate Nastia's artistry, but I'd love to see Shawn win just so that I can finally believe that it IS possible to hit just about all of the time. I'm also not particularly sold on Cheng Fei. I'd much rather see spunky Jiung Yuyuan win some hardware, regardless of how old she really is.
Ahh, yes, we are all innocent...
"What the fuck? Seriously."
After the exhilaration of the US men catching beautiful release skills, sticking dismounts, and skirting through pommel horse with a triumphant finish by Alexander Artemev to win the bronze medal, hugging and shouting in joy, tonight was quite the opposite.
Tonight, the stony-faced US women sat silently after finishing the meet, watching the grinning Chinese women smile through stumbles on floor that proved to be meaningless.
Yes, the silver is indeed an accomplishment, and yes, the Chinese had the mathematically victory even with a theoretical 1.6 added to the US score.
But it's one thing to know for certain that you could have done no better and quite another to recall every hesitant landing, each missed handstand, and two unsalvagable falls.
But chins up, USA. You'll likely live to compete another day. For all the talk of "experience," not one member had competed in an Olympics before. You are all innocent.
And nothing could be as bad as the Sydney Olympics, anyway.
As an aside, I appreciate the sagacity of Holly Fitzgerald: "You should be out there, I KNOW you wouldn't dare step or land out of bounds during your floor routine and you would have kickass accompanying music as well." :-)
And at least Danielle, Beth, and I were able to practice our full turns and cheerleading routines during the commercials!
I'd love to see Jonathan Horton stick his landings all the way through the all-around final; why not add another bronze? The Shawn Johnson-Nastia Liukin one-two punch would be fantastic. I appreciate Nastia's artistry, but I'd love to see Shawn win just so that I can finally believe that it IS possible to hit just about all of the time. I'm also not particularly sold on Cheng Fei. I'd much rather see spunky Jiung Yuyuan win some hardware, regardless of how old she really is.
Ahh, yes, we are all innocent...
Monday, August 11, 2008
Preliminary thoughts
In the wise words of Jeremy Lavine...
"Please, a little less drama!"
Yes, we'd all like a lot more gymnastics and far fewer "in-depth back stories," inane commenary from Al Trautwig, and interviews with George Bush and Bela Karoyli.
Bela: "...And Chellsie."
Bob Costas: "Chellsie Memmel."
Bela: "Yes. Obviously."
But since that's all essentially a given in different permutations in any Olympics...
Enough with the lamentations over the loss of Paul and Morgan Hamm to the U.S. mens' team. Yes, both have big names and big scoring potential. And they're out and many experts consider the team "out," too - barely in medal contention.
But isn't that the fateful justice of gymnastics? That sometimes it all comes down to who maintains their balance and who wavers?
From what I've watched and read, the men have hardly called it a wash. And when you've got routines like this from Alexander Artemev - something to make the most casual observer pay attention to pommel horse (on the NBC replay, even competitors from other countries applauded) - and an extremely clean full-twisting layout Kovacs from Justin Spring (not to mention the triple back) - you can't help enjoying the US men and their "nothing to lose" attitude.
On the ladies' side, it's certainly questionable as to whether some of the Chinese athletes are even a day over 14, let alone 16. But when tiny He Kexin can pull out release moves like these, I almost don't think it matters.
My fellow aficionado Danielle and I were quite disappointed to hear that Sam Pezsek had sprained her ankle and to watch Alicia Sacramone bounce out of bounds. But I think the US will pull through - maybe not for the gold (China's become so balanced on every event that it may be near impossible despite the clean slate), but solidly for the silver. And in the all-around, as much as I sigh at the lack of choreography and overabundance of rigid arms in nearly every pose in her floor routine, I hope Shawn Johnson dominates.
"Please, a little less drama!"
Yes, we'd all like a lot more gymnastics and far fewer "in-depth back stories," inane commenary from Al Trautwig, and interviews with George Bush and Bela Karoyli.
Bela: "...And Chellsie."
Bob Costas: "Chellsie Memmel."
Bela: "Yes. Obviously."
But since that's all essentially a given in different permutations in any Olympics...
Enough with the lamentations over the loss of Paul and Morgan Hamm to the U.S. mens' team. Yes, both have big names and big scoring potential. And they're out and many experts consider the team "out," too - barely in medal contention.
But isn't that the fateful justice of gymnastics? That sometimes it all comes down to who maintains their balance and who wavers?
From what I've watched and read, the men have hardly called it a wash. And when you've got routines like this from Alexander Artemev - something to make the most casual observer pay attention to pommel horse (on the NBC replay, even competitors from other countries applauded) - and an extremely clean full-twisting layout Kovacs from Justin Spring (not to mention the triple back) - you can't help enjoying the US men and their "nothing to lose" attitude.
On the ladies' side, it's certainly questionable as to whether some of the Chinese athletes are even a day over 14, let alone 16. But when tiny He Kexin can pull out release moves like these, I almost don't think it matters.
My fellow aficionado Danielle and I were quite disappointed to hear that Sam Pezsek had sprained her ankle and to watch Alicia Sacramone bounce out of bounds. But I think the US will pull through - maybe not for the gold (China's become so balanced on every event that it may be near impossible despite the clean slate), but solidly for the silver. And in the all-around, as much as I sigh at the lack of choreography and overabundance of rigid arms in nearly every pose in her floor routine, I hope Shawn Johnson dominates.
Also, the US mens' swimming victory over France in the 4x100m freestyle relay was quite fly. Literally.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
law of conservation of words
The law of the conservation of energy states that energy may be neither created nor destroyed.
I put words together in enthusiastic spurts at the beginning of the summer and over the past few weeks. Here was one - maybe not that - oh, yes, this very one - plucked from blue-grey haze.
Selected or not, they were all ready to laugh after I'd finally righted myself from getting lost on a straight line on a beach. They smile each time I fail my "need to be obscure" and choose something honest and, yes, emotional. They have rushed to surround me - words of all colors and inflections - each time I returned in tears.
Sometimes they pace with me, keeping me company - telling the same stories to soothe me. Other times, they cringe - so much noise, so little sense. Sometimes they dance outside of my open-then-shut mouth, hoping for once I'll scream.
Now I pull none.
They wait, watching.
They look up as I enter the kitchen, sweating from a run. The same songs play through my ears. The table is set for dinner. "Are you going to the gym tonight?" my mom wants to know.
"Yeah," I answer automatically.
They sit back as I dance to the same beats again again again, nod their approval.
Now it is dark and I would turn away to sleep, but they nudge my chin so that I have to look up.
We look at each other for a long while.
I put words together in enthusiastic spurts at the beginning of the summer and over the past few weeks. Here was one - maybe not that - oh, yes, this very one - plucked from blue-grey haze.
Selected or not, they were all ready to laugh after I'd finally righted myself from getting lost on a straight line on a beach. They smile each time I fail my "need to be obscure" and choose something honest and, yes, emotional. They have rushed to surround me - words of all colors and inflections - each time I returned in tears.
Sometimes they pace with me, keeping me company - telling the same stories to soothe me. Other times, they cringe - so much noise, so little sense. Sometimes they dance outside of my open-then-shut mouth, hoping for once I'll scream.
Now I pull none.
They wait, watching.
They look up as I enter the kitchen, sweating from a run. The same songs play through my ears. The table is set for dinner. "Are you going to the gym tonight?" my mom wants to know.
"Yeah," I answer automatically.
They sit back as I dance to the same beats again again again, nod their approval.
Now it is dark and I would turn away to sleep, but they nudge my chin so that I have to look up.
We look at each other for a long while.
Monday, July 28, 2008
The Book of Emeline
In regards to an F&V paper:
"Maybe it will 'flow' better this way..... although even smoothies are chunky at times."
In regards to The Future:
"Why can't we both take a year off and make money doing nothing and then go to Bingo and be roommates?"
-I can't think of anything better! :-)
"Maybe it will 'flow' better this way..... although even smoothies are chunky at times."
In regards to The Future:
"Why can't we both take a year off and make money doing nothing and then go to Bingo and be roommates?"
-I can't think of anything better! :-)
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
driving home
Arm dangles out the window, indifferent. (But this is summer.)
Stations come in clearer at night. Blue and white digital screen pauses at nearly every number. (You wouldn't want to overlook a chance, would you?)
Silent lightning blinks but the tension is dull, distant. The first wind before the storm sighs.
I am restless, too.
Low murmur and buzz from softly swaying trees - not urgent but not silent.
Headlights on the curve and my foot leaves the gas. AC/DC's on the highway to hell, but still I hear the buzz beyond the noise -
Too many words.
I need to listen to the night.
Stations come in clearer at night. Blue and white digital screen pauses at nearly every number. (You wouldn't want to overlook a chance, would you?)
Silent lightning blinks but the tension is dull, distant. The first wind before the storm sighs.
I am restless, too.
Low murmur and buzz from softly swaying trees - not urgent but not silent.
Headlights on the curve and my foot leaves the gas. AC/DC's on the highway to hell, but still I hear the buzz beyond the noise -
Too many words.
I need to listen to the night.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Saturday, July 19, 2008
fiction.
When I was younger - nine, ten, eleven, twelve - I'd sit down at the laptop on the dining room table on Saturday mornngs. I had no real interest in the Internet, found instant communication awkward, and instead did what came so naturally then.
I wrote.
I wrote epic tales of the Key West Suns. There must be over thirty stories. As Lena remembers, one was 200 pages. Size 14 font, single-spaced.
And then I started middle school and my writing began to turn to gymnastics tales that were essentially actual people with different names and semi-fictitious situations.
And then long fiction faded into bursts of poetry. And then I don't remember fiction at all. I began a few stories here and there, got to ten or forty pages, and stopped. I did not know how they should end. So I ended before they had the chance to.
At sixteen, everything became real. Friends, night skies, burning limbs, thoughts of love, tired mornings, and the tension already - here-or-elsewhere, this-or-more.
It's been that way for six years. I needed to live instead of spinning fiction from more fiction. What did I know, anyway?
I wanted to write in fiction so many times this year, hoping to maybe be slightly less vague through clear metaphors, but it happened again - that ending thing. I still don't know.
So I settle for flashes - urgent writings to be done in a few hours or a few days where something happens and ends. Like the writing I get paid for: start, story, done.
Because what do I know, anyway? I'd like to think a little bit more, at least.
I woke up this morning and realized I'd dreamt of love with someone who does not exist and unrealistic monologues and movie danger. Not grad school, not whatever-this-is, not strange-events-that-I-somewhat-dread-to-cover-but-know-will-be-fine.
What a relief it was: to dream in fiction.
I wrote.
I wrote epic tales of the Key West Suns. There must be over thirty stories. As Lena remembers, one was 200 pages. Size 14 font, single-spaced.
And then I started middle school and my writing began to turn to gymnastics tales that were essentially actual people with different names and semi-fictitious situations.
And then long fiction faded into bursts of poetry. And then I don't remember fiction at all. I began a few stories here and there, got to ten or forty pages, and stopped. I did not know how they should end. So I ended before they had the chance to.
At sixteen, everything became real. Friends, night skies, burning limbs, thoughts of love, tired mornings, and the tension already - here-or-elsewhere, this-or-more.
It's been that way for six years. I needed to live instead of spinning fiction from more fiction. What did I know, anyway?
I wanted to write in fiction so many times this year, hoping to maybe be slightly less vague through clear metaphors, but it happened again - that ending thing. I still don't know.
So I settle for flashes - urgent writings to be done in a few hours or a few days where something happens and ends. Like the writing I get paid for: start, story, done.
Because what do I know, anyway? I'd like to think a little bit more, at least.
I woke up this morning and realized I'd dreamt of love with someone who does not exist and unrealistic monologues and movie danger. Not grad school, not whatever-this-is, not strange-events-that-I-somewhat-dread-to-cover-but-know-will-be-fine.
What a relief it was: to dream in fiction.
relentless momentum (still)
"This is what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object."
I reject calm, it seems. So much has changed. Do you see that? Even my face, the one that won't convince a stranger that I'm over 16 without proof. The one that's nearly always amused, shifting theatrically, or listening intently.
I saw it tonight in the movie theater bathroom. I saw it when I walked into the gym this fall, winter, spring, glancing at the mirror - after scanning to see if my shorts length was appropriate - before looking down inevitably to the scar on my knee -
The face: emotionless, observant, and yes - older.
We left this place more or less equal, and now I see it split down the middle - those with nothing, floating, searching, grasping. And those sprinting. Dreams. Distance. Desire.
And I am in the middle, split.
So much is wrong with every choice and I will still want to run, but the slightly amused, slightly tired look of these eyes in that older face shrug at me:
It does not matter.
I reject calm, it seems. So much has changed. Do you see that? Even my face, the one that won't convince a stranger that I'm over 16 without proof. The one that's nearly always amused, shifting theatrically, or listening intently.
I saw it tonight in the movie theater bathroom. I saw it when I walked into the gym this fall, winter, spring, glancing at the mirror - after scanning to see if my shorts length was appropriate - before looking down inevitably to the scar on my knee -
The face: emotionless, observant, and yes - older.
We left this place more or less equal, and now I see it split down the middle - those with nothing, floating, searching, grasping. And those sprinting. Dreams. Distance. Desire.
And I am in the middle, split.
So much is wrong with every choice and I will still want to run, but the slightly amused, slightly tired look of these eyes in that older face shrug at me:
It does not matter.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
moving the stars
"...Human speech is like a cracked tin kettle, on which we hammer out tunes to make bears dance when we long to move the stars."
-Gustave Flaubert, Madame Bovary
-Gustave Flaubert, Madame Bovary
Saturday, July 12, 2008
I could be wrong.
And today is just lovely: resoundingly deep blue sky. A mind decided. A pulse that tingles eagerly now, not deliriously. A light yet solid touch of the hand in mine, swinging.
And I could be wrong. I could be wrong.
And I will always wonder.
But now, I will see.
And I could be wrong. I could be wrong.
And I will always wonder.
But now, I will see.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
that this too, too sullied flesh would melt
Rain falls in March:
another step on worn pavement,
a pluck on the window screens -
just another reminder -
Snow would drop
thick fast and silent
then, exhausted, fall onto itself -
how to live, they say -
Or maybe not so.
We see our sins in rain.
another step on worn pavement,
a pluck on the window screens -
just another reminder -
Snow would drop
thick fast and silent
then, exhausted, fall onto itself -
how to live, they say -
Or maybe not so.
We see our sins in rain.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
june is running out and i would like a week off
Dear Miller Place High School,
I am sorry for throwing up on the side of your track. At least the orange vomit complemented the red color scheme.
Sincerely,
a citizen who ran too quicky too soon after eating sweet potatoes.
..
"You're never this blah."
Strange, but I carry thoughts and desires and duties as well. Strange, but I just want to rest tonight.
Why, yes. I am mortal.
Your arm around me and I immediately lean in. "Is that what you wanted?" I sense you've smiled.
Well, of course I'll always want that as long as you're next to me.
My eyes close briefly. I have carried myself for so long.
I am sorry for throwing up on the side of your track. At least the orange vomit complemented the red color scheme.
Sincerely,
a citizen who ran too quicky too soon after eating sweet potatoes.
..
"You're never this blah."
Strange, but I carry thoughts and desires and duties as well. Strange, but I just want to rest tonight.
Why, yes. I am mortal.
Your arm around me and I immediately lean in. "Is that what you wanted?" I sense you've smiled.
Well, of course I'll always want that as long as you're next to me.
My eyes close briefly. I have carried myself for so long.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
she touches the lightning
Lightning frightens me not at all tonight.
My shoulders strong against the rain.
Go ahead. Go ahead.
My shoulders strong against the rain.
Go ahead. Go ahead.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
you and me and secrets in dirt
I caught up to you and me in the woods today. I was the same height, maybe a bit less muscular. You had a few inches to go, but you had enough on me.
We were walking, of course, our mouths moving faster than feet and heads turning at the sound of approaching steps. The unspoken: Who actually runs? ... Should we?
You and I let me pass and watched me move out of view. To give us credit, I thought, we would have at least pretended to run as I ran by.
Then the woods were ours again. Our secrets in dirt. But spoken, of course.
Ten years and so much now unspoken, I thought.
I could have slowed my steps - you never asked me - maybe I should have known -
No.
I ran.
We were walking, of course, our mouths moving faster than feet and heads turning at the sound of approaching steps. The unspoken: Who actually runs? ... Should we?
You and I let me pass and watched me move out of view. To give us credit, I thought, we would have at least pretended to run as I ran by.
Then the woods were ours again. Our secrets in dirt. But spoken, of course.
Ten years and so much now unspoken, I thought.
I could have slowed my steps - you never asked me - maybe I should have known -
No.
I ran.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
pain lies on the riverside
or so it did, once.
Creaking heavy door (aren't we all older now) my creaking knee - dinghy lights and ragged looks -
Oh, old lover, the years have not found you well.
Creaking heavy door (aren't we all older now) my creaking knee - dinghy lights and ragged looks -
Oh, old lover, the years have not found you well.
Saturday, June 07, 2008
central, thinking neither north nor south
I feel safe to be anxious in this old town. Hills cling to heat and faces lift to fireworks.
Here I feel brave enough to leave. For so long I'd wanted to take that interstate north, but now I'm better off heading south...
Neither matter tonight. I drive through here and suddenly feel you, palpable as humidity: desperate desire on skin and just as invisible.
Improbable.
I drive.
Dark windows tonight and silent doors in houses we had called ours, chipped paint, crooked floors, tilting fixtures and all. Our shithole, our palace, our fire trap, our fortress. Our place.
I drive. I hear you laugh -
nearly in my ear, full sonorous range from high laughter to deep chuckle -
softened by walls in rooms I cannot see, but I know your eyes gleam as they always will.
I feel you, though it does not matter.
But the streets have not forgotten me. I drive.
Here I feel brave enough to leave. For so long I'd wanted to take that interstate north, but now I'm better off heading south...
Neither matter tonight. I drive through here and suddenly feel you, palpable as humidity: desperate desire on skin and just as invisible.
Improbable.
I drive.
Dark windows tonight and silent doors in houses we had called ours, chipped paint, crooked floors, tilting fixtures and all. Our shithole, our palace, our fire trap, our fortress. Our place.
I drive. I hear you laugh -
nearly in my ear, full sonorous range from high laughter to deep chuckle -
softened by walls in rooms I cannot see, but I know your eyes gleam as they always will.
I feel you, though it does not matter.
But the streets have not forgotten me. I drive.
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Enough to make you nervous.
"You know when you indirectly know a lot of information about one person, and it makes the situation funny for you and really awkward for them?"
"How much do you know?"
"Enough to make you nervous."
"How much do you know?"
"Enough to make you nervous."
a little night music
I'm dancing in the room
as if I was in the woods with you
No need for anything but music
Music's the reason why I know time still exists
Time still exists...
So I just put my arms
around you,
around you,
And I hope that I will do no wrong
My eyes are on you
they're on you
And I hope that you won't hurt me
-Elysa, "Dancing"
as if I was in the woods with you
No need for anything but music
Music's the reason why I know time still exists
Time still exists...
So I just put my arms
around you,
around you,
And I hope that I will do no wrong
My eyes are on you
they're on you
And I hope that you won't hurt me
-Elysa, "Dancing"
Saturday, May 31, 2008
southern night, thinking of north
All roads lead to some pulse, yes, but what of empty dirt paths winding grimly and inevitably towards the blade that draws blood?
I'll never have my mind entirely made up, of course, but when I see white buildings glowing in desert night and find myself wishing it were snow, I have a hint.
But I could be just as alone on snow-coated nights.
I'll never have my mind entirely made up, of course, but when I see white buildings glowing in desert night and find myself wishing it were snow, I have a hint.
But I could be just as alone on snow-coated nights.
Friday, May 30, 2008
May summer (the awakening)
Your songbird steps, stumbles, and smiles in a bright flowered dress, in chorus with green green grass blue sky blue water.
Children push each other on swings and play checkers with rocks – they call out in some cacophony and you never hear a word.
You touch her palm, swing her fingers with yours - a light graze – she needs not coaxing nor restraint – she can hold her own –
She laughed and looked at him with eyes that at once gave him courage to wait and made it torture to wait
She moves over pavement, laughing talking – always a dance – your arm around her and for a moment, you hold her.
She likes that, the being held.
Oh, but the tide holds her later, tugs her ankles – I am coming – taunts and recedes -
She could have shouted for joy.
She closes her eyes instead as sun strikes pale face dark hair wide smile – she neither invites nor rejects -
And you kiss her – before she can laugh – before her eyes turn sky-bound again in her dance against gravity –
- while she is quiet girl with closed eyes and you for this moment have her.
Children push each other on swings and play checkers with rocks – they call out in some cacophony and you never hear a word.
You touch her palm, swing her fingers with yours - a light graze – she needs not coaxing nor restraint – she can hold her own –
She laughed and looked at him with eyes that at once gave him courage to wait and made it torture to wait
She moves over pavement, laughing talking – always a dance – your arm around her and for a moment, you hold her.
She likes that, the being held.
Oh, but the tide holds her later, tugs her ankles – I am coming – taunts and recedes -
She could have shouted for joy.
She closes her eyes instead as sun strikes pale face dark hair wide smile – she neither invites nor rejects -
And you kiss her – before she can laugh – before her eyes turn sky-bound again in her dance against gravity –
- while she is quiet girl with closed eyes and you for this moment have her.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Be still.
So I'm not the only one who thinks that any form of treading is better than standing still.
And because of that, I like this portion quite a bit:
"...As Thoreau observed, 'It is not enough to be busy. The question is, what are
we busy about?' Life will be unsatisfying to those who sew and grind and run
in circles for what is merely self-interested. Life will be unsatisfying also to
those who confuse their jobs done for money with their work done as a moral
being in a humane world. Life will also be unsatisfying if empty of dreams.
"As Hans Selye wrote in his book, The Stress of Life, 'Realistic people who
pursue practical aims are rarely as realistic or practical, in the long run of life,
as the dreamers who pursue their dreams.'
"Among the wise, life is a celebration, a celebration of the realization of one’s
potential as a human being. That potential peaks at the confluence of the
currents which energize our lives, our work (not jobs) and our dreams. Where
these currents join we make our greatest contributions, contributions always to
humanity.
"As you head off in pursuit of your work and your dreams, recognize that to
travel far you must travel light. Therefore, live below your means, say no
often, don’t just do something - sit there. Sit there until the direction is clear.
As you head off in pursuit of your work and your dreams, may you be joined
by good health, good books, good friends, good laughs, and good memories.
In the somber times they will lift your spirit, lighten your burden and lengthen
your stride, that you may travel far. So go. Head for the confluence. Keep
your soul aloft. Strike a blow for humanity."
Tom Goodale, "Waste, Work and Dreams"
Commencement Address
SUNY Cortland, 5/17/08
And because of that, I like this portion quite a bit:
"...As Thoreau observed, 'It is not enough to be busy. The question is, what are
we busy about?' Life will be unsatisfying to those who sew and grind and run
in circles for what is merely self-interested. Life will be unsatisfying also to
those who confuse their jobs done for money with their work done as a moral
being in a humane world. Life will also be unsatisfying if empty of dreams.
"As Hans Selye wrote in his book, The Stress of Life, 'Realistic people who
pursue practical aims are rarely as realistic or practical, in the long run of life,
as the dreamers who pursue their dreams.'
"Among the wise, life is a celebration, a celebration of the realization of one’s
potential as a human being. That potential peaks at the confluence of the
currents which energize our lives, our work (not jobs) and our dreams. Where
these currents join we make our greatest contributions, contributions always to
humanity.
"As you head off in pursuit of your work and your dreams, recognize that to
travel far you must travel light. Therefore, live below your means, say no
often, don’t just do something - sit there. Sit there until the direction is clear.
As you head off in pursuit of your work and your dreams, may you be joined
by good health, good books, good friends, good laughs, and good memories.
In the somber times they will lift your spirit, lighten your burden and lengthen
your stride, that you may travel far. So go. Head for the confluence. Keep
your soul aloft. Strike a blow for humanity."
Tom Goodale, "Waste, Work and Dreams"
Commencement Address
SUNY Cortland, 5/17/08
Gryphon?
"There's a guy outside wearing a sack," Lena says.
We look out the window. Sack-wearing person strums his guitar as girls dance and someone takes pictures.
"Is this normal?"
"Pretty much."
"...Is that a dude?"
Unconfirmed.
..
In honor of discussions about Emeline doing important things at Arcadia with her ten hours of class and double-Masters program:
"Why didn't we choose useful majors?!"
..
Diana: mmmm
that came later
Beth: seriously!?
Diana: HAHA
Beth: laughing is not an answer diana marie
That's right.
We need people to tell it straight up. Like when I get pissed when you say I'm singing out of tune. Or when he tells her to do a double back. Or when any of them tell me that I'm making a mistake. Or when they tell you.
And then we need them to nod. To say, "I understand." To say, "I don't understand. But I support you anyway."
Thank you.
We look out the window. Sack-wearing person strums his guitar as girls dance and someone takes pictures.
"Is this normal?"
"Pretty much."
"...Is that a dude?"
Unconfirmed.
..
In honor of discussions about Emeline doing important things at Arcadia with her ten hours of class and double-Masters program:
"Why didn't we choose useful majors?!"
..
Diana: mmmm
that came later
Beth: seriously!?
Diana: HAHA
Beth: laughing is not an answer diana marie
That's right.
We need people to tell it straight up. Like when I get pissed when you say I'm singing out of tune. Or when he tells her to do a double back. Or when any of them tell me that I'm making a mistake. Or when they tell you.
And then we need them to nod. To say, "I understand." To say, "I don't understand. But I support you anyway."
Thank you.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
"No homo/no emo!" :slap:
The Gallagher brothers caused a fitting ruckus, ducks were fed, I sat between my two best Summa Cum Laude friends, Wes Weaver made fun of Stony Brook with four graduates of that school standing right there (e.g. every male in my family), and everyone made it home without EdGal throwing too much of a fit.
Oh, and I do feel the gap already.
I'm at work on something "real" right now. Of course I am. What else would I do -- accept the claustrophobia?
I want to write because I've always got energy, because I don't see anything else moving right now, because it will help me hover just a bit above boredom and a good deal above sadness, because I've got time and motivation and have yet to choke these out of myself.
Nobody knows what to say. You could be silent forever and still a character who fascinates me.
Because it all went down so beautifully.
Oh, and I do feel the gap already.
I'm at work on something "real" right now. Of course I am. What else would I do -- accept the claustrophobia?
I want to write because I've always got energy, because I don't see anything else moving right now, because it will help me hover just a bit above boredom and a good deal above sadness, because I've got time and motivation and have yet to choke these out of myself.
Nobody knows what to say. You could be silent forever and still a character who fascinates me.
Because it all went down so beautifully.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
You'll never know what your best writing is, probably.
In that setting (with frequent shifts into the back-story), the reader is shown the character's mind trying to figure out what is happening.
For me, this is a central tension. There is on one hand the urge to be astounded (which is usually handled through lyrical language and images of storms and stars and other natural phenomena), to manage disappointment and fear, and to come to terms with ambition--all in pretty elliptical language shot through with laconic conversation. It's unusual. I wonder who your heroes are going to be as you continue to read in this genre of creative nonfiction memoir.
I’d also like to see you play with being goofy. Funny. Off the wall. You were faced with some very serious stuff this last year and you chose (probably wisely) to write out it with respect and sobriety, but don’t be afraid to look also at the absurdity of it.
Friday, May 16, 2008
you'll find what you think you're gonna be, child
Text message from Doug Gallagher:
"We hope to be there around 6. Dennis is ready to party...he brought his funnel."
My thoughts are just jolts-
Grad school update:
Four acceptances
Two rejections
One pending
leaps-
Schools I have/will say yes to:
Two (maybe three)
jumps-
Little bags of dark chocolate M&M's eaten:
One
entropy-
Schools I've actually decided on:
Zero.
not yet formed-
Infinite:
your words, I hope. Share them all - the filler, the mumbles, the mistakes, and more often than you'd believe, the beautiful.
-but finally ready to shake and shatter and spark in this sky that has always watched patiently, waiting for the birth.
"We hope to be there around 6. Dennis is ready to party...he brought his funnel."
My thoughts are just jolts-
Grad school update:
Four acceptances
Two rejections
One pending
leaps-
Schools I have/will say yes to:
Two (maybe three)
jumps-
Little bags of dark chocolate M&M's eaten:
One
entropy-
Schools I've actually decided on:
Zero.
not yet formed-
Infinite:
your words, I hope. Share them all - the filler, the mumbles, the mistakes, and more often than you'd believe, the beautiful.
-but finally ready to shake and shatter and spark in this sky that has always watched patiently, waiting for the birth.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
all things.
warm spring night sky and damp drizzle. arms around my raw shoulder, hard stools, and liquid down throat, down arms -
i gasp -
we rip ourselves and catch our feet on the sidewalk. someone distant laughs. i cannot yet form a smile.
i will learn, they promise, inevitably.
but now air water light rip me and i clutch at my uncomfortable skin-
the pain of birth.
--
mist settles on cool grey stones to watch lights on roads and dark hills.
i wish you were with me.
quiet steps on soft ground. nothing whispers but the silence is calming, knowing.
you are always with me.
death sees not nothing but all things.
i gasp -
we rip ourselves and catch our feet on the sidewalk. someone distant laughs. i cannot yet form a smile.
i will learn, they promise, inevitably.
but now air water light rip me and i clutch at my uncomfortable skin-
the pain of birth.
--
mist settles on cool grey stones to watch lights on roads and dark hills.
i wish you were with me.
quiet steps on soft ground. nothing whispers but the silence is calming, knowing.
you are always with me.
death sees not nothing but all things.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
in progress
Water spins off light-shattered glasses
Dripping down
Dark skin dark rooms
Burning beats burning wood
Against blistering feet
Someone’s laugh shakes
Head swiftly and finger
Touches finger softly -
But only after today -
glass dropped by small hands
skin split on dry concrete
in the sprint inside from
lightning-shattered sky
radio in the living room
interrupted by storm warning
the half-hinged stubborn back door
her heart upstairs –
someone laughs
shatters thunder.
Dripping down
Dark skin dark rooms
Burning beats burning wood
Against blistering feet
Someone’s laugh shakes
Head swiftly and finger
Touches finger softly -
But only after today -
glass dropped by small hands
skin split on dry concrete
in the sprint inside from
lightning-shattered sky
radio in the living room
interrupted by storm warning
the half-hinged stubborn back door
her heart upstairs –
someone laughs
shatters thunder.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
sweatshirt song
There's nothing quite like unsolicited comments about my sweatshirts as I walk down the sidewalks of Cortland.
Random wasted boy passing Emeline and me: "St. Joseph's is...nice!"
Random wasted boy walking behind Emeline and me: "Don't speak to her like that. She's a League Champion!"
Random boy on cell phone as I walked home from my Spanish final: "I'd like to thank my parents and the nice little people of C-State Cheerleading..."
Random wasted boy passing Emeline and me: "St. Joseph's is...nice!"
Random wasted boy walking behind Emeline and me: "Don't speak to her like that. She's a League Champion!"
Random boy on cell phone as I walked home from my Spanish final: "I'd like to thank my parents and the nice little people of C-State Cheerleading..."
Thursday, May 08, 2008
chasquido
On the road to page 10 of este ensayo tan fantastico, I couldn't help but be a bit amused/intrigued by what wordreference.com pulled up for me como respuesta:
chasquido: m (ruido) crack
(de la lengua) click
(de los dedos) snap
Versatile, indeed.
There is something so urgent going on in this poem and I hope I can capture it fully.
chasquido: m (ruido) crack
(de la lengua) click
(de los dedos) snap
Versatile, indeed.
There is something so urgent going on in this poem and I hope I can capture it fully.
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
"Siempre protegido en su torre de marfil..."
I thought only of experiences, but ahora me da cuenta de que una parte of me has depended on este escapismo this year -- cierta distancia, if you will.
And I am willing to go anywhere -- small northern towns, countries with half of the population below the poverty line, cities of screeching lights and lake shores -- if it will take me.
I am protected right now at this table in Mexico, New York, 8 pages into my Spanish paper, as Emeline talks to her parents about the deals she's made on books off of Ebay, her sister YouTubes songs in the next room, and her grandma likely concocts more hilarious remarks ("Did you just say, 'Get 'er done'?"). A stream moves quietly through rain-darkened green grass.
Distance makes me safe.
Yet the always-running part of me is stared down by the other part that just wants rest. A small-town, intimate, smiles and pies and forever love sort of life. And I will sit by the window and write my stories. A beautiful, reflecting silence.
Well, I will always be writing.
Pero eventualmente, inevitable, como sabemos demasiado bien, tengo que volver.
He salido y he vuelto.
And I am willing to go anywhere -- small northern towns, countries with half of the population below the poverty line, cities of screeching lights and lake shores -- if it will take me.
I am protected right now at this table in Mexico, New York, 8 pages into my Spanish paper, as Emeline talks to her parents about the deals she's made on books off of Ebay, her sister YouTubes songs in the next room, and her grandma likely concocts more hilarious remarks ("Did you just say, 'Get 'er done'?"). A stream moves quietly through rain-darkened green grass.
Distance makes me safe.
Yet the always-running part of me is stared down by the other part that just wants rest. A small-town, intimate, smiles and pies and forever love sort of life. And I will sit by the window and write my stories. A beautiful, reflecting silence.
Well, I will always be writing.
Pero eventualmente, inevitable, como sabemos demasiado bien, tengo que volver.
He salido y he vuelto.
Monday, May 05, 2008
(writing a list to postpone doing below items)
Honors Thesis = DONE!
German skit = performed, confounding every spectator (probably not in a good way)
As You Like It paper = DONE!
Spanish research paper = 3/10 pages...oops
Publishing Niche essay = about to be revised
Publication piece = likewise or completely rewritten
Publication place = FOUND! (Lena = a god...You're a god and I am not...)
Last radio show = roar! (courtesy of Rachel)
Mexico, NY = impending
Spanish and German finals on the same day = beautiful
Fabulous times with fabulous people = ongoing!
German skit = performed, confounding every spectator (probably not in a good way)
As You Like It paper = DONE!
Spanish research paper = 3/10 pages...oops
Publishing Niche essay = about to be revised
Publication piece = likewise or completely rewritten
Publication place = FOUND! (Lena = a god...You're a god and I am not...)
Last radio show = roar! (courtesy of Rachel)
Mexico, NY = impending
Spanish and German finals on the same day = beautiful
Fabulous times with fabulous people = ongoing!
Saturday, May 03, 2008
I turn my head to the side
and smile
serenely - knowingly.
I once wished I could stay, but now I only want to move. Skirt swishes, hair whispers across eyes, I smile because you cannot see me. I duck behind taller bodies but I am not hiding.
I feel no shame from passing beats.
Oh, but I still know it
head still sideways - your lies disgust me -
Let's go - it's our song!
I look but will no longer watch.
serenely - knowingly.
I once wished I could stay, but now I only want to move. Skirt swishes, hair whispers across eyes, I smile because you cannot see me. I duck behind taller bodies but I am not hiding.
I feel no shame from passing beats.
Oh, but I still know it
head still sideways - your lies disgust me -
Let's go - it's our song!
I look but will no longer watch.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
tributo a la mujer.
As I began to glide into that wonderful delirium born of late-night inspiration, finding all sorts of sources and connections for my thesis that I hadn't anticipated, I found one link that said it all:
Women Feeling More Stress in College.
Yes, hombres. I know you're working hard, too. You're expected to be the breadwinners. To be the big pimps. To please your mother. To kick ass at every sports event and in every round of beer pong. To sleep when you're dead. To never show that you're cracking. And to get pretty good grades.
I understand this.
And then you've got the mujeres. Still caught in double expectations: yes, be emotional and vulnerable all you wish. But you're a liberated woman these days and you can take care of yourself. You can cry to your mother but in the end it's you who's up all night finishing your work. You wonder what they might say about you but you're busy creating your own words, making yourself appear - and be - original and capable in - yes - a still male-dominated society. You're good at multitasking, and therefore you take every task every activity every role every teary friend and take it to heart so that everything comes out neatly in the end. And I know that for most of you, "neatly" really masks the desire for perfection.
But how about you? How do you come out?
Do you give yourself time to wonder?
Mike from Cortland and Mike from home will never know how invaluable they were in simply calming me down this year. Kevin has never once laughed at my emotional outbursts. With a look, Jesse lets me know that I'm being ridiculous. Priedes, although we don't speak often, never fails to make me laugh.
Yet what's impressed me most in these months since September is the strength of the women around me. Emeline, that kitten and ticking bomb. Tanya, venturing to Wisconsin. Brittany and Amber, never afraid to battle and raise their voices. Mindy's complete audacity. Rachel - yes, you, my dear! - who, though stepping softly, has made great changes for her own happiness.
I went to play Mario Kart one night and came home the next morning with a story so much like hers. And Natalie's. Cassandra came to practice with a story too much like mine. Beth understood too well. Jess and I wonder out loud together, but soon shake our maracas and dance - we will not sit still for you. Kristen finally said no. Danielle and my cousin Meghan blaze through life with the energy of five small children.
And the wonderful part is that they are a sampling - not the whole.
We look to each other. We smile. And we keep moving.
Women Feeling More Stress in College.
Yes, hombres. I know you're working hard, too. You're expected to be the breadwinners. To be the big pimps. To please your mother. To kick ass at every sports event and in every round of beer pong. To sleep when you're dead. To never show that you're cracking. And to get pretty good grades.
I understand this.
And then you've got the mujeres. Still caught in double expectations: yes, be emotional and vulnerable all you wish. But you're a liberated woman these days and you can take care of yourself. You can cry to your mother but in the end it's you who's up all night finishing your work. You wonder what they might say about you but you're busy creating your own words, making yourself appear - and be - original and capable in - yes - a still male-dominated society. You're good at multitasking, and therefore you take every task every activity every role every teary friend and take it to heart so that everything comes out neatly in the end. And I know that for most of you, "neatly" really masks the desire for perfection.
But how about you? How do you come out?
Do you give yourself time to wonder?
Mike from Cortland and Mike from home will never know how invaluable they were in simply calming me down this year. Kevin has never once laughed at my emotional outbursts. With a look, Jesse lets me know that I'm being ridiculous. Priedes, although we don't speak often, never fails to make me laugh.
Yet what's impressed me most in these months since September is the strength of the women around me. Emeline, that kitten and ticking bomb. Tanya, venturing to Wisconsin. Brittany and Amber, never afraid to battle and raise their voices. Mindy's complete audacity. Rachel - yes, you, my dear! - who, though stepping softly, has made great changes for her own happiness.
I went to play Mario Kart one night and came home the next morning with a story so much like hers. And Natalie's. Cassandra came to practice with a story too much like mine. Beth understood too well. Jess and I wonder out loud together, but soon shake our maracas and dance - we will not sit still for you. Kristen finally said no. Danielle and my cousin Meghan blaze through life with the energy of five small children.
And the wonderful part is that they are a sampling - not the whole.
We look to each other. We smile. And we keep moving.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
a softening of the storm
Is it strange that the history in these sidewalks and streets make me smile? That I no longer want to run and may, just may, learn to let myself flow?
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
I could feel no pain.
I don't know what to say just yet -
I laugh instead:
This certifies that
Diana Gallagher
in recognition for
10th Place on Floor/Killing a Bottle
Has been selected to receive this certificate
The 19th day of April in the year 2008
wonderful friends - "SWORDFIGHT!" - their signs, their genuine smiles, their screams, their, "Screw it, you deserve this"
feelings move faster than feet as the temperature rises and lights hit faces lifted and smiling -
We are smiling but we are nervous.
My nerves finally ended - fell, in fact - 10th place on floor with a 9.3
I will always be too hard on myself;
I was smiling and I wasn't nervous as I danced, tumbled instead of thought - it was right - more than anything else will ever be -
I had worried that night, thought I didn't deserve this - yet I have changed from all of the changes this year - because I knew I was wrong.
I hadn't been smiling and I was incredibly nervous before I saluted to the judges - scores barely scraping above 9.0 for even the best Penn State girls, a balk on my whipback pass on the warm-up floor, starting floor on the first rotation of the first session of Nationals - who qualifies to finals that way?
Two weeks ago I smiled and simply couldn't be nervous, knowing that my body had been against me (it'd be bad if you fell on your rib again) and that my mind had won, knowing that six weeks before I'd fallen and groaned in pain and known that today, even if I fell, I could feel no pain.
I laugh instead:
This certifies that
Diana Gallagher
in recognition for
10th Place on Floor/Killing a Bottle
Has been selected to receive this certificate
The 19th day of April in the year 2008
wonderful friends - "SWORDFIGHT!" - their signs, their genuine smiles, their screams, their, "Screw it, you deserve this"
feelings move faster than feet as the temperature rises and lights hit faces lifted and smiling -
We are smiling but we are nervous.
My nerves finally ended - fell, in fact - 10th place on floor with a 9.3
I will always be too hard on myself;
I was smiling and I wasn't nervous as I danced, tumbled instead of thought - it was right - more than anything else will ever be -
I had worried that night, thought I didn't deserve this - yet I have changed from all of the changes this year - because I knew I was wrong.
I hadn't been smiling and I was incredibly nervous before I saluted to the judges - scores barely scraping above 9.0 for even the best Penn State girls, a balk on my whipback pass on the warm-up floor, starting floor on the first rotation of the first session of Nationals - who qualifies to finals that way?
Two weeks ago I smiled and simply couldn't be nervous, knowing that my body had been against me (it'd be bad if you fell on your rib again) and that my mind had won, knowing that six weeks before I'd fallen and groaned in pain and known that today, even if I fell, I could feel no pain.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Saturday, April 12, 2008
"You can stand under my umbrella any f__king time you want."
I love these sorts of nights: when everything is awesome. Just right.
Andy's in the den reading Transition, Stephanie’s getting proposed to in the street, I’m asking Kelly if she wants sauce on her sternum, five us deciding that we’ll open our own gym, Angela’s laughing and falling under the table, Tanya's reading my poem and exclaiming, "You better shut the door!" Caroline’s tugging me over to dance with guys jumping up and down, “Seven millimeters is better than an inch – that’s what I tell the ladies” (and yes, Liz, that is indeed a reference to your poetry!), “This might be awkward, but do you want to dance?” "Yeah, 6,000 miles away - quite the booty call!" “I’ll make love to you like you want me to,” “Did you just say that you love the way I hold you?” “He knows who I be,” “You have to write a story about me someday,” we’re driving with the sunroof open and the windows down at 2 a.m. and the rain has faded – we are laughing and shouting too much for it to hold much sway.
I did not have to struggle for strength tonight; I already had it.
Andy's in the den reading Transition, Stephanie’s getting proposed to in the street, I’m asking Kelly if she wants sauce on her sternum, five us deciding that we’ll open our own gym, Angela’s laughing and falling under the table, Tanya's reading my poem and exclaiming, "You better shut the door!" Caroline’s tugging me over to dance with guys jumping up and down, “Seven millimeters is better than an inch – that’s what I tell the ladies” (and yes, Liz, that is indeed a reference to your poetry!), “This might be awkward, but do you want to dance?” "Yeah, 6,000 miles away - quite the booty call!" “I’ll make love to you like you want me to,” “Did you just say that you love the way I hold you?” “He knows who I be,” “You have to write a story about me someday,” we’re driving with the sunroof open and the windows down at 2 a.m. and the rain has faded – we are laughing and shouting too much for it to hold much sway.
I did not have to struggle for strength tonight; I already had it.
Friday, April 11, 2008
From a fine poet friend,
whose works I fully expect to see one day years from now:
I'll leave it at the foot of the Montauk Lighthouse with a message pinned saying " last thoughts for now of a ramblin coot young or old en route to dancing woman child at heart hopefully forever."
I'll leave it at the foot of the Montauk Lighthouse with a message pinned saying " last thoughts for now of a ramblin coot young or old en route to dancing woman child at heart hopefully forever."
Sunday, April 06, 2008
Stories
At Friday night's pasta party, we're eating dinner and taking a break from stalking Caroline's ex-boyfriend on Facebook when someone asks, "Diana, what's your major?"
"Professional Writing and Spanish," I say.
"Yeah? What do you want to do with that?"
"Be a writer."
"Ooh, can you write about me?" Caroline asks, biting into a forkful of pasta.
"Or me?" Steph offers.
"I wrote a story once," Mindy chimes in.
There were many stories that evening -- stories of skills, sex, "being bombed," cheating and reuniting. We laughed until about a quarter to 11, when we realized, "Hey, we've got a meet tomorrow."
We are not the ones who are supposed to have stories written about us. We are the club team of an overlooked sport and if you're club, well, of course you can't be worth watching. A joke, really, of the sport as 18-to-22-year-old girls pretend to do what they did ten years ago, rejects from the "real team," older girls pulling on leotards and wobbling as someone applauds politely.
If that's what you think, I am glad you were not there yesterday.
Three o'clock on Saturday afternoon. Too late to be asleep from the night before, but you could be napping. You could be doing work, making out, staring at the clock, doing your nails. Much better uses of your time, of course.
Otherwise you would have been dismayed by a Penn State girl's front-front-half on vault, Cornell's girl swinging full-twisting front giants, Jess throwing a flight skill from every family on beam and winning the event. You would not have appreciated Mindy's roundoff back tuck on floor that she taught herself, Nicole's face-planted but valiant Tsuk, Steph's full, Cassandra's first front handspring on vault, Beth's graceful beam routine after yet another ticket, Em's newly-learned Arabian that landed on her feet.
And you would narrow your eyes at this girl, yes, not good enough for varsity, the one who fractured her rib exactly six weeks before -- she should have been out of the sport when she blew out her knee, her and that Emeline with the dislocated elbow --
How dare she look so joyous and beat nearly every other gymnast's harder tumbling with a 9.4?
Sometimes we try to tell ourselves that it's a joke, too. We laugh when Mindy does the robot on beam and know that no matter how many times we fall, no coach will yell at us or pull us from the lineup, no extra routines will be our punishment.
But if you think we're joking, you should watch our faces just before we salute the judge.
Yes, our crowd is fans for other teams, some of our parents, some of our significant others and dear friends (and Angela Calvano). And they clap as loudly as we did for you. And we do not want them to see us falter.
If you were a gymnast once and your body still has strength and will to flip, how can you sit quietly now?
We will not have lengthy online write-ups and a possible newspaper article. Only a few of our friends who weren't there will remember to ask, "Hey, how'd the meet go?"
We will have far too many photographs. We will laugh loudly and share pretzels. We will be at practice tonight because we choose to be there.
And we will have the stories that a few will read. The stories that we will all understand.
"Professional Writing and Spanish," I say.
"Yeah? What do you want to do with that?"
"Be a writer."
"Ooh, can you write about me?" Caroline asks, biting into a forkful of pasta.
"Or me?" Steph offers.
"I wrote a story once," Mindy chimes in.
There were many stories that evening -- stories of skills, sex, "being bombed," cheating and reuniting. We laughed until about a quarter to 11, when we realized, "Hey, we've got a meet tomorrow."
We are not the ones who are supposed to have stories written about us. We are the club team of an overlooked sport and if you're club, well, of course you can't be worth watching. A joke, really, of the sport as 18-to-22-year-old girls pretend to do what they did ten years ago, rejects from the "real team," older girls pulling on leotards and wobbling as someone applauds politely.
If that's what you think, I am glad you were not there yesterday.
Three o'clock on Saturday afternoon. Too late to be asleep from the night before, but you could be napping. You could be doing work, making out, staring at the clock, doing your nails. Much better uses of your time, of course.
Otherwise you would have been dismayed by a Penn State girl's front-front-half on vault, Cornell's girl swinging full-twisting front giants, Jess throwing a flight skill from every family on beam and winning the event. You would not have appreciated Mindy's roundoff back tuck on floor that she taught herself, Nicole's face-planted but valiant Tsuk, Steph's full, Cassandra's first front handspring on vault, Beth's graceful beam routine after yet another ticket, Em's newly-learned Arabian that landed on her feet.
And you would narrow your eyes at this girl, yes, not good enough for varsity, the one who fractured her rib exactly six weeks before -- she should have been out of the sport when she blew out her knee, her and that Emeline with the dislocated elbow --
How dare she look so joyous and beat nearly every other gymnast's harder tumbling with a 9.4?
Sometimes we try to tell ourselves that it's a joke, too. We laugh when Mindy does the robot on beam and know that no matter how many times we fall, no coach will yell at us or pull us from the lineup, no extra routines will be our punishment.
But if you think we're joking, you should watch our faces just before we salute the judge.
Yes, our crowd is fans for other teams, some of our parents, some of our significant others and dear friends (and Angela Calvano). And they clap as loudly as we did for you. And we do not want them to see us falter.
If you were a gymnast once and your body still has strength and will to flip, how can you sit quietly now?
We will not have lengthy online write-ups and a possible newspaper article. Only a few of our friends who weren't there will remember to ask, "Hey, how'd the meet go?"
We will have far too many photographs. We will laugh loudly and share pretzels. We will be at practice tonight because we choose to be there.
And we will have the stories that a few will read. The stories that we will all understand.
Thursday, April 03, 2008
"You know, Emeline,"
I say as I bite into my pseudo-dinner of peanut butter and marshmallow fluff, "I think this is the most emotionally stable week I've had all year."
"Are you serious?" Emeline's back is to me, but I can imagine the look on her face.
I consider. "Okay. Five days."
"Yeah, I was going to say..."
"Are you serious?" Emeline's back is to me, but I can imagine the look on her face.
I consider. "Okay. Five days."
"Yeah, I was going to say..."
Today's lesson in chivalry
Nothing says "romance" like a marriage proposal via text message.
Oh, Angie Baby, how I love thee!
Oh, Angie Baby, how I love thee!
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
I am going to miss this place.
Emeline walks into my room with disheveled hair, looking exhausted.
"Are you okay?" I ask.
"Yeah. Can I have some ibuprofen?"
"Yes!" I scamper over to the drawer. The bottle is, of course, mostly full.
"You giving me medicine..." Emeline says as she shakes the tablets into her palm. "I never thought this day would happen."
"Are you okay?" I ask.
"Yeah. Can I have some ibuprofen?"
"Yes!" I scamper over to the drawer. The bottle is, of course, mostly full.
"You giving me medicine..." Emeline says as she shakes the tablets into her palm. "I never thought this day would happen."
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
April 1
Some realizations in life:
1) "Creeper" is an amazing word.
2) It probably applies to me.
3) I should stop applying to grad schools that I don't actually want to go to.
4) No matter what happens on Saturday, I'm quite proud that I managed to get all of my routnes together -- and some improved -- in the week-and-a-half after "clearing" myself.
5) I don't like even numbers besides 8, 10, and 18, so therefore, I end on 5.
6) Okay, I also like six.
1) "Creeper" is an amazing word.
2) It probably applies to me.
3) I should stop applying to grad schools that I don't actually want to go to.
4) No matter what happens on Saturday, I'm quite proud that I managed to get all of my routnes together -- and some improved -- in the week-and-a-half after "clearing" myself.
5) I don't like even numbers besides 8, 10, and 18, so therefore, I end on 5.
6) Okay, I also like six.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Arrested
I'd been about to cross the street, splash sneaker-first through that puddle when you caught my arm. Rain-straightened hair spun across my face.
I should have felt you coming.
"Long time, no see," you said. Your smile was the same under the dark hood. "How've you been?"
Do you want to know?
"Of course I do."
You hadn't always.
"Yes, I did."
I smile.
"You look great, you know."
Thank you.
"Hey, can I come by later? You're usually around after practice, right?"
Sure.
"Great."
But just to warn you -
I might not always be there.
I should have felt you coming.
"Long time, no see," you said. Your smile was the same under the dark hood. "How've you been?"
Do you want to know?
"Of course I do."
You hadn't always.
"Yes, I did."
I smile.
"You look great, you know."
Thank you.
"Hey, can I come by later? You're usually around after practice, right?"
Sure.
"Great."
But just to warn you -
I might not always be there.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
cracks
I am on that sidewalk around that corner I'd once thought about so much. Late-afternoon sunlight keeps the cool breeze at bay.
Nearly a year later and I only feel the breeze.
Church bells send deep reverberations and although I am on the other side of the street, I feel closer to something religious than I have in a long while.
I remember the October night that made me write that little piece, "Sidewalk Song," two days after. I look for the crack that sent me bouncing. Here? No, too obvious; it had to be something subtler to unsettle me.
I do not know which one it was. But that night I tripped and then I laughed. You didn't laugh. But you were smiling.
What happened the next day and in scattered late-nights in months afterwards do not matter.
You were happy, you know.
Nearly a year later and I only feel the breeze.
Church bells send deep reverberations and although I am on the other side of the street, I feel closer to something religious than I have in a long while.
I remember the October night that made me write that little piece, "Sidewalk Song," two days after. I look for the crack that sent me bouncing. Here? No, too obvious; it had to be something subtler to unsettle me.
I do not know which one it was. But that night I tripped and then I laughed. You didn't laugh. But you were smiling.
What happened the next day and in scattered late-nights in months afterwards do not matter.
You were happy, you know.
Friday, March 28, 2008
886 words despues
I'd forgotten how much I love "Mad Season" (though many say, "Hey, it's your song!" when it comes on).
Girl outside: "It's snow."
Indignant male: "IT'S NOT SNOWING!"
There's no finer triumph than realizing that your traumatic experiences at eighth grade dances can be converted into excellent writing material.
Girl outside: "It's snow."
Indignant male: "IT'S NOT SNOWING!"
There's no finer triumph than realizing that your traumatic experiences at eighth grade dances can be converted into excellent writing material.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Your attention, please
"All students: read through ALL the Batch 2 submissions. In the folder titled 'Recommendations for NeoVox Contest Winners,' post a message that lists the submissions you think should be in the contest competition. Also, if there are any high quality pieces in batch 1 that should go into the contest..."
Really, this is the least of my concerns.
I.
am.
so.
done!
--
It's been one of those I'll write something brilliant/I'll stalk Facebook, I'll laugh about spating/I still have to read 15 Spanish poems, I'm leaving this world/Keep me safe, I'm not convinced/Yes, please, 8 pages on Falstaff done/Why am I taking 19 credits? Start to run/A new injury (on the right foot - again) tingling in warning...sort of days.
And then this song plays on the list I created in honor of skimming through those NeoVox entries. Turn the radio up and push the pedal to the ground. And I have to smile.
And though I may not have words, the moment - the moment - is all right.
Really, this is the least of my concerns.
I.
am.
so.
done!
--
It's been one of those I'll write something brilliant/I'll stalk Facebook, I'll laugh about spating/I still have to read 15 Spanish poems, I'm leaving this world/Keep me safe, I'm not convinced/Yes, please, 8 pages on Falstaff done/Why am I taking 19 credits? Start to run/A new injury (on the right foot - again) tingling in warning...sort of days.
And then this song plays on the list I created in honor of skimming through those NeoVox entries. Turn the radio up and push the pedal to the ground. And I have to smile.
And though I may not have words, the moment - the moment - is all right.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
fine instants
Some perfect timing or misfire creates those breathtakingly fine instants -
On dark and winding North Country Road, eyes indifferent to curves and music louder than pulse, something sent that deer across and right around the car - a flash, a perfect arc.
It runs. I drive.
My breathing shakes. But I could not have done a thing - could not have missed it so perfectly.
::
Awkward acquaintances in familiar places -
walk walk head down head down sneak a glance eyes caught -
you here how? Hey hey gone, cheeks flush a bit. I am sorry that I am not more graceful right now.
Something cautions me against the mistakes I could make.
::
About one minute from now, you will be one foot away and I will realize that I have intentionally unarmed myself, that the strength I cultivated all this while rushes my words and shakes my fingers, that I may very well hurt myself more but do not do not want to stand up and step out -
Because I'd only gotten a few feet away when something told me to turn around, told me that I would find what to say.
On dark and winding North Country Road, eyes indifferent to curves and music louder than pulse, something sent that deer across and right around the car - a flash, a perfect arc.
It runs. I drive.
My breathing shakes. But I could not have done a thing - could not have missed it so perfectly.
::
Awkward acquaintances in familiar places -
walk walk head down head down sneak a glance eyes caught -
you here how? Hey hey gone, cheeks flush a bit. I am sorry that I am not more graceful right now.
Something cautions me against the mistakes I could make.
::
About one minute from now, you will be one foot away and I will realize that I have intentionally unarmed myself, that the strength I cultivated all this while rushes my words and shakes my fingers, that I may very well hurt myself more but do not do not want to stand up and step out -
Because I'd only gotten a few feet away when something told me to turn around, told me that I would find what to say.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
put your blue jeans back on, girl, and go home
Despite the cold winds of spring and the cold I may face soon enough -
Four years after graduating high school - states and cities and countries between - drinks and lips raised to other people -
There will never be anything like what happens with these people in these small towns on this island in all of those years.
And now.
Four years after graduating high school - states and cities and countries between - drinks and lips raised to other people -
There will never be anything like what happens with these people in these small towns on this island in all of those years.
And now.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
states of self
Dangerous.
The wooden planks sway under pounding steps. Body catches up to where mind pauses, pacing. I stop at the edge and gasp. But not for long.
Water would not soothe or suffocate. Today it would be pushed away as I jumped, green-blue shoved away in a frenzy. Cooling for a moment, refreshing in the instant, and then I would return to land, dripping running gone.
My eyes make calm waters dizzying. The wood still rocks. I am at the edge, yes -
between sprinting and stillness - between this extremely audacious possibility and this very familiar path - between laughing and screaming - between spreading my arms to the winds of this world and -
-
Moment.
A cool and sunny afternoon instead of snow. I catch my breath and sit on the peeling red limb of the porch.
I will always be too curious - always be imagining the corners I cannot see into.
But today I only see a slow car, a tall man and a shorter girl far down on the sidewalk, light on pavement, soft green amidst brown.
And suddenly I feel the blood running over knees and down calves, through fingers clutching wood - for once lively but not destructive in the brain.
I am here.
Annihilate.
Same place, same action for forty minutes.
I see 34:23 -
The last twenty minutes of my life passed in rapid breathing, eyes blinking against bright lights, and thoughts I will never remember.
The wooden planks sway under pounding steps. Body catches up to where mind pauses, pacing. I stop at the edge and gasp. But not for long.
Water would not soothe or suffocate. Today it would be pushed away as I jumped, green-blue shoved away in a frenzy. Cooling for a moment, refreshing in the instant, and then I would return to land, dripping running gone.
My eyes make calm waters dizzying. The wood still rocks. I am at the edge, yes -
between sprinting and stillness - between this extremely audacious possibility and this very familiar path - between laughing and screaming - between spreading my arms to the winds of this world and -
-
Moment.
A cool and sunny afternoon instead of snow. I catch my breath and sit on the peeling red limb of the porch.
I will always be too curious - always be imagining the corners I cannot see into.
But today I only see a slow car, a tall man and a shorter girl far down on the sidewalk, light on pavement, soft green amidst brown.
And suddenly I feel the blood running over knees and down calves, through fingers clutching wood - for once lively but not destructive in the brain.
I am here.
Annihilate.
Same place, same action for forty minutes.
I see 34:23 -
The last twenty minutes of my life passed in rapid breathing, eyes blinking against bright lights, and thoughts I will never remember.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Perspective
Another afternoon of linguistics coding. Another dark and damp Cortland winter day. Freezing rain patters outside. The basement is nearly as cold. I listen to the recording, fingers ready to mark lexical substitutions and inflectional errors.
“La farmacia abierta ofrece medicina muy cara.”
I am in Mexico.
“What should we do?” I ask Ashley. We’re standing uncertainly by a newspaper kiosk on the sidewalk. Huge buses rumble by – green, purple, green-and-white. The signs in the windows announce Centro, Xochicalco, La Selva (the jungle?).
Our host padre had directed us to the Estrella Blanca bus station, but the woman behind the counter had shaken her head when I asked if there were any routes to Tepoztlan. “If you go by the corner past the newspaper stand, the bus stops there,” she said in Spanish (at least, I thought so).
We asked the young guy with the sunglasses who sold newspapers and magazines. He nodded in concordance with what the woman had said.
And so we are standing and staring at the bus station across the street, although the bus we need will clearly not emerge. Taxis screech by. They slow down and we wave them off. Someone whistles. I am wearing shorts and the warm breeze wraps against my legs. I’ve already taken a few sips from my exceedingly large plastic water bottle.
“We’re going to Tepoztlan,” Ashley says again. The wind tosses her perfectly straight brown hair as she glances down the street. She tightens the drawstring straps of her backpack.
“But what if the bus never comes?”
“It will. We’re getting there.”
I admire my roommate’s determination. When I met her in Norma’s class, I’d thought she was the “pretty girl” with perfect dark eyelashes and a wide smile. Little did I know that she’d spent six months in Africa and would frequently talk about her desire to return there. That she was the strong, focused sort of woman that I wanted to be. Finding a bus to Tepoztlan, to her, was only a tiny nuisance in what she assumed would be a worthwhile adventure.
Mercedes was the first to mention Tepoztlan to us, and Mama had nodded enthusiastically. Un lugar mistico. In our second house, Pilly’s mother had agreed with this assessment. La energia, she kept saying. Mucha energia diferente.
I want to go to Tepoztlan. But it’s already been half an hour. I’d be able to live with frolicking through the centro under the sun and perhaps swinging by an Internet café. But I hadn’t touched the Internet in a couple of days, and I had to admit that the break felt like relief.
I do not want to be reminded of that hard winter-streaked place, of what it would mean to be back there.
“Let’s move down,” I suggest.
We walk to the corner. The pharmacy next to us offers all sorts of cheap pills and potions. Mothers with small children stride past us, knowing exactly where to go.
I’m not sure which of us leads the way – but our feet bring us around the corner and stop next to the pharmacy window – we keep our eyes on the main road, watch another series of Centro, Xochicalco, La Selva buses pass –
And then we turn our heads to the street in front of us, the cross street, as the bus with the green-and pink letters “Tepoztlan” pulls up before us.
Before we turn back to the bus, we turn to each other, eyes wide.
“La farmacia abierta ofrece medicina muy cara.”
I am in Mexico.
“What should we do?” I ask Ashley. We’re standing uncertainly by a newspaper kiosk on the sidewalk. Huge buses rumble by – green, purple, green-and-white. The signs in the windows announce Centro, Xochicalco, La Selva (the jungle?).
Our host padre had directed us to the Estrella Blanca bus station, but the woman behind the counter had shaken her head when I asked if there were any routes to Tepoztlan. “If you go by the corner past the newspaper stand, the bus stops there,” she said in Spanish (at least, I thought so).
We asked the young guy with the sunglasses who sold newspapers and magazines. He nodded in concordance with what the woman had said.
And so we are standing and staring at the bus station across the street, although the bus we need will clearly not emerge. Taxis screech by. They slow down and we wave them off. Someone whistles. I am wearing shorts and the warm breeze wraps against my legs. I’ve already taken a few sips from my exceedingly large plastic water bottle.
“We’re going to Tepoztlan,” Ashley says again. The wind tosses her perfectly straight brown hair as she glances down the street. She tightens the drawstring straps of her backpack.
“But what if the bus never comes?”
“It will. We’re getting there.”
I admire my roommate’s determination. When I met her in Norma’s class, I’d thought she was the “pretty girl” with perfect dark eyelashes and a wide smile. Little did I know that she’d spent six months in Africa and would frequently talk about her desire to return there. That she was the strong, focused sort of woman that I wanted to be. Finding a bus to Tepoztlan, to her, was only a tiny nuisance in what she assumed would be a worthwhile adventure.
Mercedes was the first to mention Tepoztlan to us, and Mama had nodded enthusiastically. Un lugar mistico. In our second house, Pilly’s mother had agreed with this assessment. La energia, she kept saying. Mucha energia diferente.
I want to go to Tepoztlan. But it’s already been half an hour. I’d be able to live with frolicking through the centro under the sun and perhaps swinging by an Internet café. But I hadn’t touched the Internet in a couple of days, and I had to admit that the break felt like relief.
I do not want to be reminded of that hard winter-streaked place, of what it would mean to be back there.
“Let’s move down,” I suggest.
We walk to the corner. The pharmacy next to us offers all sorts of cheap pills and potions. Mothers with small children stride past us, knowing exactly where to go.
I’m not sure which of us leads the way – but our feet bring us around the corner and stop next to the pharmacy window – we keep our eyes on the main road, watch another series of Centro, Xochicalco, La Selva buses pass –
And then we turn our heads to the street in front of us, the cross street, as the bus with the green-and pink letters “Tepoztlan” pulls up before us.
Before we turn back to the bus, we turn to each other, eyes wide.
Friday, March 14, 2008
coaxing the wheel
With that
first breath of invention,
the manmade learns to
defy its maker:
Frankenstein,
factories of fabric, plastic suffocation,
the soft snow shedding from slim pills,
the cooling metal of
the blade -
the wheel:
The clouds squint, but only a few drops fall. My father crouches under the car. I lean against another and watch the turning metal wean off the clinging screws - a loosening of the tight, an undoing of the knot. Almost relaxing, I think.
He tugs the tire. The semi-squashed, semi-deflated rubber does not respond.
He tries again. Then he prods with a metal rod, coaxing the wheel, trying to persuade without force.
first breath of invention,
the manmade learns to
defy its maker:
Frankenstein,
factories of fabric, plastic suffocation,
the soft snow shedding from slim pills,
the cooling metal of
the blade -
the wheel:
The clouds squint, but only a few drops fall. My father crouches under the car. I lean against another and watch the turning metal wean off the clinging screws - a loosening of the tight, an undoing of the knot. Almost relaxing, I think.
He tugs the tire. The semi-squashed, semi-deflated rubber does not respond.
He tries again. Then he prods with a metal rod, coaxing the wheel, trying to persuade without force.
The wheels watches. Waits.
Relents.
Rolls crookedly, spitefully, mockingly - Look what you have made me.
--
Strange to say, but it's really, genuinely good to be home.
I think I have an idea of what I want to do, which of course involves more paperwork - but I think it is reasonable enough to all those with vested interests.
I know exactly what I want to prove, but I do not know if I will see that confirmed. My mind comes to contradicting conclusions. The only answer that comes to mind is Time.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
a driving melancholy
Blasts of wind rock the small dock. Sneakers step assuredly across wobbling wooden planks. Ripples of water glance at the wood, roll away towards the Sound.
Keep going -
walking -
How would skin feel in dark green-blue water mid-March - good, yes - and the smelling salt of sea putting all thoughts to sleep, waking touch sensation and breathing and ears - closing eyes -
Open eyes versus water now, so much water to fall into becoming a part of a driving melancholy beat in the ears -
But eyes win, moving slowly but lucidly. They shift back towards sand towards solid.
Not now.
Not now.
(This is
nonfiction.)
Keep going -
walking -
How would skin feel in dark green-blue water mid-March - good, yes - and the smelling salt of sea putting all thoughts to sleep, waking touch sensation and breathing and ears - closing eyes -
Open eyes versus water now, so much water to fall into becoming a part of a driving melancholy beat in the ears -
But eyes win, moving slowly but lucidly. They shift back towards sand towards solid.
Not now.
Not now.
(This is
nonfiction.)
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Last night I dreamt
that an OXXO was being built in Miller Place.
Which flashes back to Ashley and I walking into the convenience store to discover Kayla, Kim, and Heather drinking at a table and eating cookies before our final night of mayhem...
Ah, Mexico!
Which flashes back to Ashley and I walking into the convenience store to discover Kayla, Kim, and Heather drinking at a table and eating cookies before our final night of mayhem...
Ah, Mexico!
We cannot pace any longer
After warm times with old friends and long talks of identity crises in Lauren's basement, I returned to the final section of The Thesis. And now I see a mirror - summer/fall, winter/spring.
I've had many ideas - hints of direction -
but now I must forget them all because suddenly I see one path, running as straight as time towards May, and I write along it now. Perhaps later there will be time for a glance. But for now I hold my breath against this fracture and run - somewhere [Somewhere is There] -
~
And if I move enough, I begin to think this was all a dream.
I've had many ideas - hints of direction -
but now I must forget them all because suddenly I see one path, running as straight as time towards May, and I write along it now. Perhaps later there will be time for a glance. But for now I hold my breath against this fracture and run - somewhere [Somewhere is There] -
~
And if I move enough, I begin to think this was all a dream.
Monday, March 10, 2008
A masterpiece is on the way
(of course!), but in the meantime, I am really, really enamored of my wondrous new computer. Yay for speed and no random shutting down!!!
And as I work on the NCGA website (holla!), I'd like to thank MIT - those technical wizards - for teaching me a new word: triskaidekaphobia.
And as I work on the NCGA website (holla!), I'd like to thank MIT - those technical wizards - for teaching me a new word: triskaidekaphobia.
Friday, March 07, 2008
Thursday, March 06, 2008
flash
"Asshole." Brittany glares at the white car who dared budged into her path. We successfully complete the lefthand turn onto Groton. "What is he doing? I had the turning signal! Right?"
"No," I admit.
"Oh. Oops. Sorry about that."
"It's cool."
And it was.
..
Angela's tiny townie, stuck in a backward roll: "A little help, please?"
(Ahh, another one of those classes where Kelly and I just wanted to pull the fire alarm.)
And from the fabulous Angela herself, as the wee children stretched and we did not help them: "So what's this about grad school? Are you going?"
"Well, I got in one place so far --"
"Ah, yes, I heard about that. And by 'heard,' I mean 'read.'"
..
"Rachel said, 'Tell Diana that I love her,'" Chris recalls as I test my balance on the "Vew-Do" board. "And Chase said, 'Well, I don't think I'll say that...but tell her I say hi.'"
Chuck Norris has counted to infinity -- twice.
..
I saw what she wrote.
"Wanted: someone willing to be used."
"No," I admit.
"Oh. Oops. Sorry about that."
"It's cool."
And it was.
..
Angela's tiny townie, stuck in a backward roll: "A little help, please?"
(Ahh, another one of those classes where Kelly and I just wanted to pull the fire alarm.)
And from the fabulous Angela herself, as the wee children stretched and we did not help them: "So what's this about grad school? Are you going?"
"Well, I got in one place so far --"
"Ah, yes, I heard about that. And by 'heard,' I mean 'read.'"
..
"Rachel said, 'Tell Diana that I love her,'" Chris recalls as I test my balance on the "Vew-Do" board. "And Chase said, 'Well, I don't think I'll say that...but tell her I say hi.'"
Chuck Norris has counted to infinity -- twice.
..
I saw what she wrote.
"Wanted: someone willing to be used."
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
A clean break
I broke down today.
There were no witnesses. No music. No gasps for air.
A clean break.
Everything concentrated into rigid white
and I
swallowed it
down.
And what does all of that mean?
Well,
Dear Emeline,
I know you predicted that you’d find my painkillers unused five years from now. But since I have been disobeying your orders to rest and have instead raced on the stationary bike for one hour and ten minute-long intervals, and then waken up in pain each morning, I have decided that it is time to take one for the team.
Sincerely,
Your impatient patient
P.S. Brittany would like to share, “I can’t believe you broke something. Again.”
..
I look at my pictures and realize that I have every reason in the world to be happy.
There were no witnesses. No music. No gasps for air.
A clean break.
Everything concentrated into rigid white
and I
swallowed it
down.
And what does all of that mean?
Well,
Dear Emeline,
I know you predicted that you’d find my painkillers unused five years from now. But since I have been disobeying your orders to rest and have instead raced on the stationary bike for one hour and ten minute-long intervals, and then waken up in pain each morning, I have decided that it is time to take one for the team.
Sincerely,
Your impatient patient
P.S. Brittany would like to share, “I can’t believe you broke something. Again.”
..
I look at my pictures and realize that I have every reason in the world to be happy.
Saturday, March 01, 2008
an old song/ a bright night
I like it; I find it fitting.
Hope dangles on a string
Like slow spinning redemption
Winding in and winding out
The shine of it has caught my eye
And roped me in
So mesmerizing, so hypnotizing
I am captivated
I am vindicated
I am selfish
I am wrong
I am right
I swear I'm right
I swear I knew it all along
And I am flawed
But I am cleaning up so well
I am seeing in me now the things you swore you saw yourself
So clear...
So turn
Up the corners of your lips
Part them and feel my fingertips
Trace the moment, fall forever
Defense is paper thin
Just one touch and I'd be in
Too deep now to ever swim against the current
So let me slip away...
...
The night glowed deep purple Tuesday night. A snow fell that silenced wind. White trees, white land, white curves held steady under the gaze of a blurry moon.
Quiet.
The creek rushed against wooden barriers -- Beaver Creek, perhaps, or some nameless waterway that was dry dirt in summer and rejoicing runoff in winter when all other life moved reluctantly.
Then there was another noise: brush against glass, systematically swiping the glow from the windshield. An unnatural noise.
I smiled then.
Who was I to disturb this night?
Hope dangles on a string
Like slow spinning redemption
Winding in and winding out
The shine of it has caught my eye
And roped me in
So mesmerizing, so hypnotizing
I am captivated
I am vindicated
I am selfish
I am wrong
I am right
I swear I'm right
I swear I knew it all along
And I am flawed
But I am cleaning up so well
I am seeing in me now the things you swore you saw yourself
So clear...
So turn
Up the corners of your lips
Part them and feel my fingertips
Trace the moment, fall forever
Defense is paper thin
Just one touch and I'd be in
Too deep now to ever swim against the current
So let me slip away...
...
The night glowed deep purple Tuesday night. A snow fell that silenced wind. White trees, white land, white curves held steady under the gaze of a blurry moon.
Quiet.
The creek rushed against wooden barriers -- Beaver Creek, perhaps, or some nameless waterway that was dry dirt in summer and rejoicing runoff in winter when all other life moved reluctantly.
Then there was another noise: brush against glass, systematically swiping the glow from the windshield. An unnatural noise.
I smiled then.
Who was I to disturb this night?
Friday, February 29, 2008
bigger than my body.
Many people celebrate the anniversaries of blissful or tragic events.
I celebrate each injury's anniversary with a new one.
Wouldn't want to be stuck in the past, now, would we? Who wants to reminisce about last year's two hour-plus hospital visit when Cortland Memorial is a mere two blocks away?
Two years in a row, Fat Tuesday was the day. First, my knee cracked and then swelled up to the size of the early post-surgery days. Back came the ice, training room stim, Ace bandage. Even the limp returned as a touch of nostalgia. A month or so later, I made myself fine by tumbling on the Spins floor (death-defying, to be sure).
If Tanya hadn't been in the training room with me last year when they'd poked at the crepitus in my foot, I most certainly would not have gone to the hospital. Why such a hassle when clearly all I needed was ice and a day or two of taking it easy? Okay, how about four months? How about the fact that, for all I know, that damn fifth metatarsal could still be broken?
Oh, and I thought I was being clever this year. Tuesday passed. Then Ash Wednesday. No practice for me until Saturday's competition; I'd avoided giving up gymnastics for Lent this year.
Nearly a week from last Thursday, I was in a similar position to the year before: waiting waiting waiting at the Cortland Hospital, listening to American Idol, and wondering, What'd you do this time?
But this year, I knew that prayers on x-ray tables do not work. I knew that despite how much milk I drank or the "careful" activities I participated in, the bone would still heal at whatever pace it chose, and most likely not one that I agreed with.
But I'd competed on it -- and pretty decently, too. As voices approached and then roamed away from my little room, I began to almost hope that I'd done something that would show up on an x-ray. It would justify Emeline's patience in the waiting room, the tug I felt whenever I breathed (or laughed...walked...jumped...flipped...), the moments of my life that I'd spent making noise in hopes that someone would hear me and just lead me to the x-ray table already.
Just as Tanya had been correct last year, Emeline knew what was up this time. We scampered into her room and loaded the x-ray CD onto the computer. We found the magnifying glass tool. And then we searched high and low until we found the intruder: a fairly straightfoward crack of the tenth rib. Nothing like last year's lengthy and perplexing sine wave.
I'll believe "four to six weeks" when I see it. And you'll see me compete. Experience and adrenaline: stronger than any dosage of ibuprofen.
....
Lest I feared building up too much bad karma, I discovered that I have been accepted into El Paso's MFA in Creative Writing program. The one I've been talking about for several weeks now and finally applied to at the last minute. I wouldn't actually get in, of course.
I still can't believe it.
Now May is not so terrifying - I may actually do somehing that I enjoy with my life. Imagine??
I celebrate each injury's anniversary with a new one.
Wouldn't want to be stuck in the past, now, would we? Who wants to reminisce about last year's two hour-plus hospital visit when Cortland Memorial is a mere two blocks away?
Two years in a row, Fat Tuesday was the day. First, my knee cracked and then swelled up to the size of the early post-surgery days. Back came the ice, training room stim, Ace bandage. Even the limp returned as a touch of nostalgia. A month or so later, I made myself fine by tumbling on the Spins floor (death-defying, to be sure).
If Tanya hadn't been in the training room with me last year when they'd poked at the crepitus in my foot, I most certainly would not have gone to the hospital. Why such a hassle when clearly all I needed was ice and a day or two of taking it easy? Okay, how about four months? How about the fact that, for all I know, that damn fifth metatarsal could still be broken?
Oh, and I thought I was being clever this year. Tuesday passed. Then Ash Wednesday. No practice for me until Saturday's competition; I'd avoided giving up gymnastics for Lent this year.
Nearly a week from last Thursday, I was in a similar position to the year before: waiting waiting waiting at the Cortland Hospital, listening to American Idol, and wondering, What'd you do this time?
But this year, I knew that prayers on x-ray tables do not work. I knew that despite how much milk I drank or the "careful" activities I participated in, the bone would still heal at whatever pace it chose, and most likely not one that I agreed with.
But I'd competed on it -- and pretty decently, too. As voices approached and then roamed away from my little room, I began to almost hope that I'd done something that would show up on an x-ray. It would justify Emeline's patience in the waiting room, the tug I felt whenever I breathed (or laughed...walked...jumped...flipped...), the moments of my life that I'd spent making noise in hopes that someone would hear me and just lead me to the x-ray table already.
Just as Tanya had been correct last year, Emeline knew what was up this time. We scampered into her room and loaded the x-ray CD onto the computer. We found the magnifying glass tool. And then we searched high and low until we found the intruder: a fairly straightfoward crack of the tenth rib. Nothing like last year's lengthy and perplexing sine wave.
I'll believe "four to six weeks" when I see it. And you'll see me compete. Experience and adrenaline: stronger than any dosage of ibuprofen.
....
Lest I feared building up too much bad karma, I discovered that I have been accepted into El Paso's MFA in Creative Writing program. The one I've been talking about for several weeks now and finally applied to at the last minute. I wouldn't actually get in, of course.
I still can't believe it.
Now May is not so terrifying - I may actually do somehing that I enjoy with my life. Imagine??
Monday, February 25, 2008
the fiction, the romance
I just want to write something fictitious and potent. Apparently I can't do either right now. So:
"Chelsea? Chelsea?"
I turned around. "No."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah, sorry."
As I walk away, one of the guys observes, "That's not Chelsea."
"My mile time is faster than my GPA."
"Dude, a 2-minute mile is impossible."
"How can a girl show a guy that she loves him without intercourse?"
"Send him a card."
"A kidney is 10G. That's all I'm going to say."
And yes, it was said to me:
"You don't even know the shit I've gone through because of you."
"Chelsea? Chelsea?"
I turned around. "No."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah, sorry."
As I walk away, one of the guys observes, "That's not Chelsea."
"My mile time is faster than my GPA."
"Dude, a 2-minute mile is impossible."
"How can a girl show a guy that she loves him without intercourse?"
"Send him a card."
"A kidney is 10G. That's all I'm going to say."
And yes, it was said to me:
"You don't even know the shit I've gone through because of you."
Monday, February 18, 2008
"You really like this club thing, huh?"
In the 11th hour (and 11th year) of my gymnastics career, Doug Gallagher FINALLY witnessed that I do not, in fact, compete on "the chains."As we look for a parking spot at Cornell, the CD Caroline made for me turns to a familiar pop beat. "Piece of Fucking Me," Caroline declares.
"Can you write a story about me?" she asks the next day. "Put me in the circus. Or as a prostitute in France...I'm speaking at your wedding."
"TAKE IT TO THE STREETS!" Mindy yells as I'm about to vault.
Emeline glides forward for a switch kip- begins to turn -and tumbles to the floor.
"Emeline!" I exclaim. "What would Amy Himes say?"
And then I burst out laughing.
The Pinger + the Heap: FINALLY competing together since 2008. :-) (And yes. We are jacked.)
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Just to set this down
because in the past twenty-four hours, everything went right:
-at 1 a.m., it hit me. It. Whatever it is. But it hit me and I wrote straight towards 2 a.m., rearranging words, finding connections, honing in, cutting down, seeing directions in what had been vague outlines.
-The Publishing Industry, 10:05 a.m.
Phil: Did you hear about the College Writing Contest yet?
Me: No, why?
Phil: You won something.
!!!
(Of course, I checked my e-mail and found nothing. But apparently it's true. :-))
-2:29 p.m. "The examencitos weren't too bad," Prof says, handing back the papers. I see a red mess on top of mine and arrows all over - pointing to a 97. (Which, of course, really helps in figuring out a life direction!)
-8:30 p.m. "That was that day. This is today!" Emeline declares after I express my fear of crashing on the second pass of my floor routine. I listen to her and make the entire routine -- with energy left over.
-The energy kept me after practice to nearly 10:00, creating Beth's floor routine to wonderfully dramatic music (and holding her head still when she got a bit too rambunctious). "This is what happens when I start editing," I tell Emeline. "I can't stop."
-and by 12:45 a.m., I have a 32-page fiction portfolio (I'd thought I'd only be able to eke out three pages), a "personal statement," a "critical writing sample," and last but not least, the application payment form for Friday's deadline.
For once, I can say it sincerely: Good work, Gallagher!
-at 1 a.m., it hit me. It. Whatever it is. But it hit me and I wrote straight towards 2 a.m., rearranging words, finding connections, honing in, cutting down, seeing directions in what had been vague outlines.
-The Publishing Industry, 10:05 a.m.
Phil: Did you hear about the College Writing Contest yet?
Me: No, why?
Phil: You won something.
!!!
(Of course, I checked my e-mail and found nothing. But apparently it's true. :-))
-2:29 p.m. "The examencitos weren't too bad," Prof says, handing back the papers. I see a red mess on top of mine and arrows all over - pointing to a 97. (Which, of course, really helps in figuring out a life direction!)
-8:30 p.m. "That was that day. This is today!" Emeline declares after I express my fear of crashing on the second pass of my floor routine. I listen to her and make the entire routine -- with energy left over.
-The energy kept me after practice to nearly 10:00, creating Beth's floor routine to wonderfully dramatic music (and holding her head still when she got a bit too rambunctious). "This is what happens when I start editing," I tell Emeline. "I can't stop."
-and by 12:45 a.m., I have a 32-page fiction portfolio (I'd thought I'd only be able to eke out three pages), a "personal statement," a "critical writing sample," and last but not least, the application payment form for Friday's deadline.
For once, I can say it sincerely: Good work, Gallagher!
Monday, February 11, 2008
Wie geht's?
Wie heisen Sie, bitte? There's just too many words we're never meant to learn, I heard as I drove into the whiteout, thinking of raising the volume as I struggled to see brakelights traffic lights anything besides white. "This is the best song ever" - Damn right it is - I am glad to be here, glad I found all of you, and glad I know this before I leave. Wie sagt man (algo, algo) auf Deutsch? Do I have any idea what I am doing? If you call my name out loud, do you suppose I'd come running? You're a natural. I don't know what that means. I had thought perhaps I was meant for one thing, but now it seems to be everything - words written and spoken, movement that rips lungs ever so gracefully. "Trust me, I understand," she laughs when I tell her how I feel off-pace, how I wish to wake up and find myself back there. I am off-centered but if I keep spinning, the gyrations will keep me from collapsing. I rush too much for commas these days. Do you suppose I'd come at all? I suppose I would.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
I'll keep [all our] dirty little secrets
(start from the bottom and read up)
If you had been here, you would have laughed.
(But you weren't. And it doesn't make a difference.)
And by the time Emeline reads this:
the "secret potion" will be on the kitchen table.
After Diana participates in and survives her first "power hour":
"I'll keep all our dirty little secrets..."
"Left or right?"
"I just threw a shovel and it hit a car..."
As we stroll past the Magic "City Championships" at the Carousel Mall, Rachel muses:
"You know, we're really close to being that."
"Oh, I know," I agree. "Only a few degrees off. There's a fine line, and we're on one side."
"Or a shelf. If you will."
Waking up to the text message:
"I hate Dr. Boynton." (You can do it, Rachel!)
Many hours later:
Gas: $20 (that Emeline threw onto the counter)
Admission: $5
After-dancing Twix: $1.07
Water: $.50
Direction off of 81: Left (this time)
Making poor life decisions, doing handstands in apartment hallways in Syracuse, learning the Rubiks cube, watching Annia Hatch on YouTube, being "wingmen," learning that we (apparently) have tight butts (all of this courtesy of our random amigos cubanos), reminiscing about our past innocence on the drive home ("Do you drink?"), and eating a 5 am breakfast before going to bed: Priceless.
After a solid practice and before salsa:
I alone love you
I alone tempt you
I alone love you
Fear is not the end of this!
If you had been here, you would have laughed.
(But you weren't. And it doesn't make a difference.)
And by the time Emeline reads this:
the "secret potion" will be on the kitchen table.
After Diana participates in and survives her first "power hour":
"I'll keep all our dirty little secrets..."
"Left or right?"
"I just threw a shovel and it hit a car..."
As we stroll past the Magic "City Championships" at the Carousel Mall, Rachel muses:
"You know, we're really close to being that."
"Oh, I know," I agree. "Only a few degrees off. There's a fine line, and we're on one side."
"Or a shelf. If you will."
Waking up to the text message:
"I hate Dr. Boynton." (You can do it, Rachel!)
Many hours later:
Gas: $20 (that Emeline threw onto the counter)
Admission: $5
After-dancing Twix: $1.07
Water: $.50
Direction off of 81: Left (this time)
Making poor life decisions, doing handstands in apartment hallways in Syracuse, learning the Rubiks cube, watching Annia Hatch on YouTube, being "wingmen," learning that we (apparently) have tight butts (all of this courtesy of our random amigos cubanos), reminiscing about our past innocence on the drive home ("Do you drink?"), and eating a 5 am breakfast before going to bed: Priceless.
After a solid practice and before salsa:
I alone love you
I alone tempt you
I alone love you
Fear is not the end of this!
Thursday, February 07, 2008
After moving from (nearly) nothing to (almost) something:
I feel cranky and disjointed without exercise, I know, and so it should go with writing.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
This is why (2.3.08)
Why do I still do this sport?
I cross my arms and stare straight ahead. 7.8. On a front handspring. I shouldn’t be receiving anything lower than an 8.0 on a vault I’d been competing since I was 13. Ridiculous.
Maybe there's a conspiracy. The judges know I'm 22. Or they think I'm a freshman who needs to be broken in with inexplicable start values and lower scores. Either way, I shouldn’t have bothered to compete. Sure, sure. Scores don’t matter. I open my grip bag and yank on the rubber blue wrist bands. Put it behind you, as always. I buckle the chalky straps. You know, you don't have to do this anymore.
Shut up. I know that. I know I'll keep doing it anyway. But right now, I have no idea why.
We stride over to bars. I am not nervous; I am pissed and feel a vague sense of dread. I should not be doing this. I should not be attempting a free hip and only able to eke out a cast back hip circle.
I rub chalk onto my hands as the touch warm-up comes to a conclusion and wish I didn’t have to compete. I wouldn’t even touch bars if we had someone else, if I didn’t have a cleaner routine (or a routine, if only three elements long) than others, if I did not remember how badly I had burned for so long to be able to compete, to be able to flip, to be able to walk.
Jess lands her flyaway and salutes the judges. I walk between the bars and wait for the judge to acknowledge me. Leave out the uprise and instead kip-cast-flyaway-hopefully not land on my face as I did in the warm-up? Missing B, I’m already missing two other B’s, but this will be one less…
I am never this unprepared.
She raises her hand. And the moment I hit the bar, I know exactly what I am doing.
Here I do not have words. I feel myself hitting angles and reacting with the precise balance of aggression and calm. I feel myself leap to the next bar, I am swinging, I am spinning, I am on the floor saluting.
This is why.
--
For the first time in my life, I’m excited to compete a beam routine. Beam was my first love, long before I danced in imitation of Riverdance, dramatically struck the floor in time to Speed, tumbled up the “Stairway to Heaven,” and engaged in imaginary sword-fighting pirate duels.
I used to feel invincible on beam, at least in practice. They groaned. I stepped lightly, always lifting my chin and flicking my wrists. They wobbled. I recovered and moved on quickly. They fell. So did I, but when I stayed on, I was on.
Then I changed levels, my hands missed the beam one too many times, and love turned to exasperation turned to separation. When I made myself step across the beam, it was almost a mockery. Remember when you loved beam? When you were good at it? When you weren’t afraid to do things?
Yes.
But this past week, I forced myself to do something new – no, not something that would shock a crowd, but something I had never made myself do before. And I’d landed solidly. Not accidentally. I did it again. Every time, two feet striking the beam and staying put.
My hands begin to sweat a bit as I wait for the judge. No adrenaline, I advise my body nervously. I don’t need the extra energy now.
My hands hover over the surface as if I am about to play the piano. This is between you and the beam.
“Yeah, Diana! SHOW IT OFF!” Mindy shouts and I have to smile as I land on the beam after the press handstand mount.
I land my roundoff and burst into another grin, then recall that I am in fact on beam and not floor. Who would dare show joy on beam?
With every move hit I surprise myself. Switch leap tuck full. Straddle jump tuck three-quarter. Yes. I become a bit more nervous. Stay on – yes! Okay – yes!
And of course by the time it’s necessary to dismount, I pray that nothing goes wrong, swing my leg, flip backwards, hit the floor, take a small step, and salute.
Remember when you loved beam? When you were good at it? When you weren’t afraid to do things?
Yes.
This is why.
I cross my arms and stare straight ahead. 7.8. On a front handspring. I shouldn’t be receiving anything lower than an 8.0 on a vault I’d been competing since I was 13. Ridiculous.
Maybe there's a conspiracy. The judges know I'm 22. Or they think I'm a freshman who needs to be broken in with inexplicable start values and lower scores. Either way, I shouldn’t have bothered to compete. Sure, sure. Scores don’t matter. I open my grip bag and yank on the rubber blue wrist bands. Put it behind you, as always. I buckle the chalky straps. You know, you don't have to do this anymore.
Shut up. I know that. I know I'll keep doing it anyway. But right now, I have no idea why.
We stride over to bars. I am not nervous; I am pissed and feel a vague sense of dread. I should not be doing this. I should not be attempting a free hip and only able to eke out a cast back hip circle.
I rub chalk onto my hands as the touch warm-up comes to a conclusion and wish I didn’t have to compete. I wouldn’t even touch bars if we had someone else, if I didn’t have a cleaner routine (or a routine, if only three elements long) than others, if I did not remember how badly I had burned for so long to be able to compete, to be able to flip, to be able to walk.
Jess lands her flyaway and salutes the judges. I walk between the bars and wait for the judge to acknowledge me. Leave out the uprise and instead kip-cast-flyaway-hopefully not land on my face as I did in the warm-up? Missing B, I’m already missing two other B’s, but this will be one less…
I am never this unprepared.
She raises her hand. And the moment I hit the bar, I know exactly what I am doing.
Here I do not have words. I feel myself hitting angles and reacting with the precise balance of aggression and calm. I feel myself leap to the next bar, I am swinging, I am spinning, I am on the floor saluting.
This is why.
--
For the first time in my life, I’m excited to compete a beam routine. Beam was my first love, long before I danced in imitation of Riverdance, dramatically struck the floor in time to Speed, tumbled up the “Stairway to Heaven,” and engaged in imaginary sword-fighting pirate duels.
I used to feel invincible on beam, at least in practice. They groaned. I stepped lightly, always lifting my chin and flicking my wrists. They wobbled. I recovered and moved on quickly. They fell. So did I, but when I stayed on, I was on.
Then I changed levels, my hands missed the beam one too many times, and love turned to exasperation turned to separation. When I made myself step across the beam, it was almost a mockery. Remember when you loved beam? When you were good at it? When you weren’t afraid to do things?
Yes.
But this past week, I forced myself to do something new – no, not something that would shock a crowd, but something I had never made myself do before. And I’d landed solidly. Not accidentally. I did it again. Every time, two feet striking the beam and staying put.
My hands begin to sweat a bit as I wait for the judge. No adrenaline, I advise my body nervously. I don’t need the extra energy now.
My hands hover over the surface as if I am about to play the piano. This is between you and the beam.
“Yeah, Diana! SHOW IT OFF!” Mindy shouts and I have to smile as I land on the beam after the press handstand mount.
I land my roundoff and burst into another grin, then recall that I am in fact on beam and not floor. Who would dare show joy on beam?
With every move hit I surprise myself. Switch leap tuck full. Straddle jump tuck three-quarter. Yes. I become a bit more nervous. Stay on – yes! Okay – yes!
And of course by the time it’s necessary to dismount, I pray that nothing goes wrong, swing my leg, flip backwards, hit the floor, take a small step, and salute.
Remember when you loved beam? When you were good at it? When you weren’t afraid to do things?
Yes.
This is why.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
learning to fly
What have you done for yourself?
I have fallen. But this time, intentionally.
My feet strike the beam as my hands push off. I raise my head, flick the fingers, move to the next skill as my heart gasps in relief.
5, 6, 7, 8. Wait, lift, twist. Okay. I stand above them, look at the wall and imagine it’s a crowd, know that I am as strong as the hands that clasp my ankles, know that although I do not know them well, I do not want to let them down.
“Ready?”
I reach my hands to the sky. I look up. And I let myself fall.
I feel air, I twist, I land on my back. The way I was never supposed to when I walked into this room for another sport.
“YOU DID IT!”
I'd begun thinking this year that just once, I'd like to know how it would feel to twist twice in the air. But I didn't know how that would happen, how the knee and limbs would be protected.
Nearly three years to learn a full from a full run, and now, ten minutes to twist a double from their hands.
I left last night and thought that I no longer need you to push me. I don’t know why I have allowed you to have that power: One hand in my hand and the other around my neck.
This is not your time.
I am busy battling someone else; I choose when to confront gravity and when to accept it. But always with a twist. I know you live, Gravity. But so do I.
I have fallen. But this time, intentionally.
My feet strike the beam as my hands push off. I raise my head, flick the fingers, move to the next skill as my heart gasps in relief.
5, 6, 7, 8. Wait, lift, twist. Okay. I stand above them, look at the wall and imagine it’s a crowd, know that I am as strong as the hands that clasp my ankles, know that although I do not know them well, I do not want to let them down.
“Ready?”
I reach my hands to the sky. I look up. And I let myself fall.
I feel air, I twist, I land on my back. The way I was never supposed to when I walked into this room for another sport.
“YOU DID IT!”
I'd begun thinking this year that just once, I'd like to know how it would feel to twist twice in the air. But I didn't know how that would happen, how the knee and limbs would be protected.
Nearly three years to learn a full from a full run, and now, ten minutes to twist a double from their hands.
I left last night and thought that I no longer need you to push me. I don’t know why I have allowed you to have that power: One hand in my hand and the other around my neck.
This is not your time.
I am busy battling someone else; I choose when to confront gravity and when to accept it. But always with a twist. I know you live, Gravity. But so do I.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Teotihuacan, January, 2008 A.D.
The smile's real, even with the sun in your eyes
and your breath lost after so many stairs climbed by so many before you -
who knew so much that you will never understand.
Monday, January 21, 2008
[More for me than for you]
Enternecida me tienes...
But not really.
I don't feel touched by anything right now. Cold, yes. Not hunger, tap water, jealousy, pain, intrigue, English (pues, maybe a bit), pressure, alcohol, fear, even gymnastics, even paper (my hand feels so slow, but I've written all along -- why are you heavy, hand, when my heart is not?).
I am touched by Mexico, every quote (every laugh-sobering sobremesa-error-talk of finding ourselves or finding our way through talking) those wonderful girls that I quickly became so close to, these pictures, laughing with Emeline across the table because she knows it's true and because I know she actually cares, Mike and Kelsey and Rachel and the real love of friends, ice in water, Jane Eyre, this calm and pervading peace as I look around and wonder, Where next?
I know I can at least offer the who and how (myself, my skill) and be patient - yet tenacious - in finding the where and when.
Because you see, I honestly don't know what to say about all of this. It was wonderful, incredible, inspiring, bewildering, frustrating, enlightening, encouraging -- and -- rarely frightening. I felt little fear. How about that? I was not so vulernable after all, little white girl wearing shorts in Tepoztlan. Of course the accent gave me away. Of course some spoke so quickly that all I could muster up from ten years of Spanish education was the polite request, "Repita, por favor?"
But as I finally felt validated with writing last spring, so I finally felt the same with Spanish. All of you forced it to be me: the interpretator, the listener and the speaker, the dictonary, the conjugator. Thank you for making me speak, make those requests, reply even in mentiras (there's another tale).
Maybe you were all correct all along -- that this Spanish thing, it will serve me well, that maybe that 4.18 within the major meant that I could apply -- and get by -- with the real speakers, even throw in a touch of Sor Juana or Marquez to show that I paid a bit of attention.
Well, two languages later and I still don't know what to say or think -- just know that these three weeks have changed my life and I must re-form myself around them, hoping all the while that I will never be the same again.
But not really.
I don't feel touched by anything right now. Cold, yes. Not hunger, tap water, jealousy, pain, intrigue, English (pues, maybe a bit), pressure, alcohol, fear, even gymnastics, even paper (my hand feels so slow, but I've written all along -- why are you heavy, hand, when my heart is not?).
I am touched by Mexico, every quote (every laugh-sobering sobremesa-error-talk of finding ourselves or finding our way through talking) those wonderful girls that I quickly became so close to, these pictures, laughing with Emeline across the table because she knows it's true and because I know she actually cares, Mike and Kelsey and Rachel and the real love of friends, ice in water, Jane Eyre, this calm and pervading peace as I look around and wonder, Where next?
I know I can at least offer the who and how (myself, my skill) and be patient - yet tenacious - in finding the where and when.
Because you see, I honestly don't know what to say about all of this. It was wonderful, incredible, inspiring, bewildering, frustrating, enlightening, encouraging -- and -- rarely frightening. I felt little fear. How about that? I was not so vulernable after all, little white girl wearing shorts in Tepoztlan. Of course the accent gave me away. Of course some spoke so quickly that all I could muster up from ten years of Spanish education was the polite request, "Repita, por favor?"
But as I finally felt validated with writing last spring, so I finally felt the same with Spanish. All of you forced it to be me: the interpretator, the listener and the speaker, the dictonary, the conjugator. Thank you for making me speak, make those requests, reply even in mentiras (there's another tale).
Maybe you were all correct all along -- that this Spanish thing, it will serve me well, that maybe that 4.18 within the major meant that I could apply -- and get by -- with the real speakers, even throw in a touch of Sor Juana or Marquez to show that I paid a bit of attention.
Well, two languages later and I still don't know what to say or think -- just know that these three weeks have changed my life and I must re-form myself around them, hoping all the while that I will never be the same again.
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