Happy Mother's Day

It's no secret that I'm as up and down as the South Ferry yesterday. Confused and anxious for a number of reasons, many of them surrounding graduation and its outcome.

However, last night's dream was a wonderful reminder of what's good in my life: I am not pregnant!

A Tumbleweed Rolls in Flanders

Hannah, age 11: "Where did you get your sandwich? It looks SO GOOD!"
Diana: "School."
Hannah: "I'm going to your school!"
Diana: "You can't. It's closing."
The ladies: "Why?"
Diana: "Budget cuts."
Emily, age 9, nods knowingly: "I understand."

What do you read, my lord?

Mexico hath been brought to the book binder, a safe place and much less perilous than my bedroom.

Huzzah!

I'm sure I will make changes. But upon rereading I felt good about a number of areas, most especially:

The Emotional Scenes.

I was quite terrified to write such beasts. I could already see the flood of tears, the gasps for air, the cries of "No!" ripping the night -- all the overwrought outbursts of grief.

Luckily, I realized that my characters were as afraid of experiencing emotion as I was to write it for them.

We went from there.

That's my girl!

Hit it.

If all else fails, her dance on floor ought to be sassy!

It's all about soul (cinco de mayo)

One of the biggest challenges I faced in the tale of Mexico was getting in Nick's head. I knew he was skimming through life without disturbing the peace, but what else was going on? Meanwhile, Pete made perfect sense. I knew exactly how he felt toward everyone around him. His guilt. His flippant responses to most of life.

I did a loose "character biography" that would be better categorized as a freewrite inside of Nick's and Kristina's heads. I got so much out of Kristina that about one-third of what I wrote became a direct monologue. She was reckless and broken but always self-aware. Nick kept up the poker face. He came out in small anecdotes. Some scenes I never used, like his two-week "stoner phase" that ended abruptly when he was almost randomly drugtested for the NCAA. But I figured out why he was always so damn responsible by one brief line from his father. What it took to get him angry, and how he could control anything but those outbursts.

I think now that one difference between the ease and the struggle was that Pete and Kristina are realists. They expect nothing from the world. Nick should know better, but he still believes that life should be different.

May the Fourth

was a rousing success: mini Jedis, Spiderman celebration devices, kamikazes, epic dart fails, "I just got double-spanked!" and, dare I say it, some enjoyment from the birthday man himself?!
;-)

Fast times at GSO

Excerpt from the best ad I've received this semester:

"We have a screened porch, garden, full kitchen, horseshoes, treehouse, fire pit, washer & dryer, WiFi, cable, a lovely dog named Stella, and many turtles."

Look at your life, look at your choices.

I've the strong suspicion that if I don't submit my thesis to the Graduate School immediately, I will go insane! Get excited!

--

Without glasses the world turns blurry moon deep blue to mint and then the first stretch of light.

The first day I took this road was just as sleepless. Move-In Day 2008 and at some point we went to get coffee for the other folks, my face exhausted from smiles and "I'm your RA!" Around the curve and suddenly the bay thrown wide open beside us, sun breaking off of a thousand choppy waves. Today at that same curve the sun opens the clouds and the waves dance and I am just as mesmerized.

maps like calc b

I drive past the duck ponds and think that I could not have made better choices.

melted and made

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

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

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

Kevin, before dawn:

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

varias cosas

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

I need to let myself be proud!

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

A video to send us off

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

Check it out!

Handle it.

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

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

Twenty-Twelve

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

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

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

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

Zombie Apocalypse, Day 1

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

What would you do if your son was at home?

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

Good times in the SBS Res Life office!

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

"That hug was insane!"

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

hot like ozone and doors off hinges

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

agoraphobia

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

How now brown cow

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

Warming up to be a human.

Hey, blog, hey

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

S.O.S. SBS

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

I'm impressed.

Sustain Our School

The story that began it all:

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


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

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

longhorn

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


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

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

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

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

One.

(Unless you're Dom/Flo.)

Two.

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

All others better start running.

--

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

"Diana! You look darling!"

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

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

That's what I call a champion!

you see all the bad luck rinsed away

Today's objectives:
-take my laptop on a field trip
-obtain a copy of The Road (which, after reading All the Pretty Horses, I'm especially excited for)
-not drown

--

Dear Flo:

Your dreams are too big even for Tejas!

Can we have Monday night viewing parties of a certain ABC Family dramedy come June 28?

WHOA.

fruits and vegetables

I think what it comes down to is that I miss living on fire and those who ran through the flames with me.

a quarter after one

I remember bonfire smoke and sand in our shoes as we walked back to our cars. Coolers that we wouldn't dare drink out of. Not yet. Soft waves and steely stars.

Now they walk behind closed doors and I stand outside listening in.

Whomping willows!

After Dom's mention of the Diana monkey, I did a little Googling:

That facial expression's about right, don't you think?

dynasties & di-nasty

I miss that sense of us against the world.

The other Cabo

Spring break plans:

-revise thesis
-have the wonderful Dom, Kevin, and anyone else who's willing read it
-revise again
-figure out another way to print all of it
-SUBMIT!
-plan lesson sequence for ESL composition students
-gallivant with my loves
-create some form of a future for the fall
-open gym! (I've been getting requests for my floor routine from the girls...time to step up my game!)

Throw your hands up in the air/Wave 'em around like you just don't care

I bore easily at being a vehicle through which one talks about him/herself under the pretense of a dialogue.

So I'm going out with this:
Rock your body right
Backstreet's back, ALL RIGHT!

Yeah. I went there!

True time compression

For one week we pranced on the sidelines as the boys played recess soccer, shouting the lines we’d made up over our sandwiches – snarky poetry about lifting our shirts and whatever else rhymed with “shirts.” The lunch monitors shut down our rogue cheer squad by Friday. And so I walked into cheerleading tryouts as a college senior with my shirt firmly pulled over my stomach.

"Finals week

means there's more time to get shitfaced and sexy." - Tony

Destiny is calling me

We were nineteen and had just seen Kevin Devine that summer night in Huntington. As we walked the streets with our Cold Stone, most likely making fun of someone or something, this song came through the open doors and windows of a bar. One day we'd be old enough to be in those places, to be in those songs, but that night it was enough to stand on the sidewalk and imagine.

your eyes are the size of the moon

I need a dream to affix myself to.

It's sitting by the overcoat

Today's sky reminds me of September when my laundry churned in the basement of Hendrick Hall with everyone else's. I pulled on my tie-dyed Section XI track shirt ("Fast girls looking for good times") and ran through the rain. Around Corey and past Clark. I didn't know any roads beyond the highway that brought me here. My feet moved lightly over the sidewalk. My skin was warmer than the water. I had no idea what would happen next.

"Turtle are forever, boys are whatever."

Perhaps the karmic rule is "One blog per meet," as today could have been much more successful than it was.

But alas, they find a way to sneak onto the podium anyway.

Aren't they cute?

Born in the USA

Does blogging about the girls the night before lead to a place on the podium? If so, GTB better jump onboard!

Despite our third leg sneaking onto the floor during the national anthem and the fourth leg never showing up, these ladies put together their finest performance yet. How 'bout those 35's?

Valentina is second on beam! (And first at asking ridiculous questions.)

Then time for sunroof open, "Hey, Soul Sista!" fingers out the window solo adventure.

My first jaunt to Robert Moses.

And then back to the gym for the sassiest of them all:

"Right now we've got Zeus in the studio."

Happy birthday, Leenes!

(Stay tuned. You may just see us on late-night public access television pretty soon, sporting some rockin' costumes and asking those hard-hitting questions, like, "What's it like to be head of the Grecian gods?")

(P.S. This is no joke.)

--

I'm better at being proud of others than I am of myself. After watching the YAWP kids tear up the stage in the morning performance, I wonder if one day, the girls I see four days a week three hours at a time will bring it home.

2.5 pages later

Some nights, you just gotta put in the work.

The Challenges Faced by Modern RA's

include, but are never limited to:

-children rushed to the hospital for alcohol poisoning
-three weed write-ups in one week in the same building (two for the same people)
-holes burnt in bulletin boards
-stolen cross-walk signs placed in front of a building, in which the walking man now holds a joint and a lighter
-human waste in garbage bins
and
-Christmas trees in the laundry room.

To the old country

It's 51 degrees and the children of Southampton are unleashed in their green shirts, suspicious beverages, blasted music out the windows of questionable Irish authenticity.

And for me? Well, green's never been my favorite color, nor do I think I look particularly good in it. I'm in the mood for some Lady GaGa. And somehow I doubt that St. Patrick aspired to become synonymous with debauchery.

So a cold Guinness and good people should serve quite well, indeed.

3-17

Looks like today's the day to celebrate all sorts of things. ;-)

Almost two years and a near MFA later,

I've learned that if there's anything I need, it's rain boots.

Beware the ides of March!

Setting for a horror movie, anyone?

Poetry in the Time of Facebook

In a return of the "stay-up-'til-4am-for-no-real-reason" days, Kevin and I engaged in a conversation about all sorts of writing, but especially poetry.

I appreciate poetry. I like to write poetry when lightning jolts me to do so. I've been told by multiple professors that my poetry is quite good. But I don't consider myself a poet.

Why?

1. I don't bleed over my poems.
2. People can read my poems and know what's going on.

However, someone made the statement yesterday of "I don't believe in genres," and that interested me quite a bit. But that's for another time.

I agree with every teacher/poet who agrees that a poem scrutinizes an image, a moment, an emotion, a notion in the most concise way. I heartily believe that poems do not need to rhyme, and really shouldn't unless 1. they're following a strict form or 2. are just that good.

However, I also strongly believe that a poem must have something real for the reader to grasp. Something beyond words, words, WORDS.

Because when you start abstractly and float farther afield, the reader floats, too. Away from the poem. At that point your audience is other poets who write dense poems and probably don't know what the hell you mean, either, but will be glad to apply their interpretations.

Begin with something we all know or can envision ourselves knowing. Then move into abstractions. Move us with you from known to unknown, from concrete to imagined. From the mundane to the mystical. To those final two lines that make us say, "That's what this is all about."

That said, I think those dense poems do have a place: in the spoken realm. One of my friends writes deep poems that I can't for the life of me understand, but they sure do sound cool with the attention she pays to meter and rhythm. And when she performs them out loud, the words pitch and roll and run. I still don't know what they mean, but I feel them moving.

Today/tonight's goals: no meltdowns, possibly better poetry.

Reading critiques before bed is a bad idea. Now I'm awake and slowly panicking and trying to write poetry and realizing how incapable I am of thinking of anything that really matters.

Do you know what I mean? Here but not there. Not quite there. This is drivel, you know, but maybe you'd understand.

chill, winds!

-I love that it's warm enough to wear sweatshirts!

-Stumbled upon this in the SBS library. Dr. Boynton is my hero!

"It was an awesome $2.81 meal!"

I'd like to talk food for a hot moment, since Emeline has reminded me of our eating habits when times get tough. I'm talkin' rice for breakfast, giant molasses cookie and small french fry for dinner, cinnamon crunch cereal when ASC decided to serve corndogs over winter session. I have to keep these times in mind when I see my gymnasts make moves like:

-putting down one's donut to rush to the award stand
-eating Oreo's at 9:30 am
-refueling on Cheese Doodles (Cheez?)

After all, one of the best meets I ever had was Level 8 States in Vestal; in fact, I placed on beam! And what was the breakfast of champions that morning? An apple and a Boston creme donut. You never know.

--

I was about to announce that I'm going to run a ten-mile race in May!...And then I found the link and saw that it's $40 to enter. Uh...yeah.

--

Man, it feels good to be back in the write-'em-up swing! RA Diana rises again.

dog day

You know how some novels have that page between the dedication and the first line of prose? The page devoted to a deep quote that sets the tone for the novel?

I choose this:

Hear you sir,
What is the reason that you use me thus?
I loved you ever. But it is no matter.
Let Hercules himself do what he may,
The cat will mew, and dog will have his day.

-Hamlet, Act 5. Sc. 1

"I feel like I just gave birth."

There's my baby!

:-)

Meet me at Montauk

See you at The End.

burn-out scene

My life seems lamer than everyone else's. Time for a pros/cons list.

Hence why Albany is the perpetual escape. Why Albany? No idea, but it's always seemed like a good one. Get ready, Emeline. ;-)

They pound it and end scene.

Sometimes you can't resist embracing a cliche like "WRITING IS REWRITING" -- because it is -- and thank God it's true!

I find a deep satisfaction in rewriting, more so than finishing the first time around. I love the sense of excavating--all right, deeper here--tossing off debris--cut cut cut--rearranging--mosaic, how 'bout that?--to create a new work. Muscular and potent.

Two down. Nineteen to go?

1/234; 251

It's March.

Is it lame that I already miss Nick & Pete, as well as the Winter Olympics? And winter?

Either way, I'll take this lameness.

Live on fire

I wish I could write the soundtrack so that you could read just how perfectly each song lines up with the words I'm typing.

Almost out of the woods!

We all start in the stream

PBR, Katie's house, Talkhouse, off-road Montauk at two a.m. Whoa, a good night!

"I've never, like..." ::awkward trail-off::

The lack of intelligent conversation in the common area is beginning to hurt my head.

--

We are not what you think we are
We are golden,
we are golden.

Como Clay para Whitney

The good things: no Ross school today!, SBS improving my resume, "Lightning Crashes," 40 minutes of cardio, the snows, and asking out loud on the sandwich line, "What would Jesus do?"

a case of the overdramatics

By now I'm tired of the phrase "writing my thesis," but I'll miss it when/if it's ever done.

I also miss:

gymnastics (real gymnastics, not open gym gymnastics), a sense of team, the drive to exercise, physical goals, and people worth being around. Though maybe anyone is something; soon enough, who will be there at all?

In the end, there is one dance you'll do alone

Maybe it was catching the end of Paranormal Activity with the brave children of SBS, or the dreams last night that could happen, but today just doesn't feel right.

I dislike office work (nothing new), but walks through other buildings make me want to stay here. Shut the door. The silence of the engineering buildings, sans the rumble of machinery--doors without windows and old yellow walls--I thought I was safe in Fine Arts, with pianos and violins playing behind doors signaling life--alas, but the top floor yields graffiti on walls and lockers. My footsteps down the stairs. What kind of a home are these?

--

On a happier note, I'm pleased to see that Lena's inimitable observation of "lol...what?" and its meanings, social implications, and relevance on the lives of my friends (especially female) has truly taken off. Lulz away!

Hey, soul sista!

That title's for the ineffable Rachel Lee, whose movie blog I use as the ultimate gauge of a movie's worthiness. Rachel doesn't approve? Then no bueno!

(Buenoz?)

--

She's got the time,
says she's got time on her side.

Can't say I do! Ra!

2.20.2010 (the plot thickens)

Besides hearing Gia's confession that she thought chalk was cheese at age 2, stalking figure skating on YouTube, venturing to Bridgehampton for delicious raviolis, dancing on Chat Roulette in Sean's coyote den, and downloading "Invisible," I've been writing. Tonight the plot thickened and I think from here on out, it may be difficult to find stopping points until I reach the end. The end. Whatever that means. I already want/need to rewrite it.

Good or cringe-worthy, I'm proud that I've been so industrious for the past two months. It's not easy with so many open doors.

Back then I could do it all. But I'm beginning to see that by keeping up this life, some things have to give.

"Getting surgery. Might be paralyzed. BRB."

You have to love being called upon to "sub" when you're dressed for success: sparkle motion gymnastics jacket, bangs that linger too long on the face, and gray sweatpants with deep blue paw prints on the butt. Ah, but the old students giggle and wave at you anyway.

--

Good tidings: one of my plays will be performed here on April 17th. There's love, sex, and local sports. What more could you want?

--

Two songs in my mind the past two days: as I kick into the final stretch, Avenged Sevenfold's "Afterlife." And as I kick it back old-school, "Invisible." I won't even say the artist. It's embarrassing, I know, but it's my life.

Back to times on Lincoln Avenue

WHOA. Can't believe there's a Train song called "Lincoln Avenue" that basically sums up my life on Lincoln Avenue senior year.

(Montauk Highway song coming soon?)

But wait, now Pandora's brought us back to ninth grade: And she carries on without a doubt, I wonder if she'll figure it out...

"Who are you making faces at?"

"Diana's boyfriend!" - Sarah

Valentina wins beam on Valentine's Day, all sorts of ribbons for all sorts of places, Kaylee offers to straighten my hair "at the next sleepover," and a surprise visit from a very special gentleman -- quite the good day! :-D

[your title here]

I should be excited, but instead I'm afraid that time runs short here. Could I have been more?

(This is not a self-apocalypse.)

--

Sean, as the credits of The Lion King roll: "So who has The Little Mermaid?"

GGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGOAL

After the middle school lockerroom drama of She made the team and I didn't! How dare she? She gets everything! (ironic, since the speaker was a better gymnast than me at the time and that was all I really wanted), being yelled at by our lacrosse goalie because it was my fault that she couldn't catch the ball?, and those Saturday morning practices that we only went to for the promise of bagels, I left the days of team sports for track and field, cross-country, and of course gymnastics. Saved the passes and slick cuts for gym class floor hockey with Mike and Rob.

Last night's soccer extravaganza didn't exactly ignite a newfound longing for team sports. By the end of things, it was me loitering by the goal while Sean commentated the game. But there were some bursts: a ball to the side of the body, elbows to stomach, ankles rolling and then standing, sprinting after the ball in front of the boys who don't want their RA to write them up.

And today I feel a bit of soreness. I like that, the risk for pain. It's been awhile. For that, I might just go back.

I just died in your flash drive tonight

It must've been something I typed...

1) Tony rocks at life. Why, friends? Because he spent three-and-a-half hours recovering the thesis pages that disappeared with the yank of a flash drive. Now I don't need to cry myself to sleep.

2) Moral: Don't trust Res Life computers.

3) Or anything Res Life, for that matter.

4) Flosef also rocks at life. So hard, in fact, that she doesn't even need a Facebook fan page to show it. Can you imagine such blasphemy, friends? I can!

Storm warning

/occurrance. Meal gym meal grapes stashed in a cup and muffin tucked into bag for the other hours, the ones that will be harder to bear. Move from keyboard to keyboard to call it different scenery. New music from other keystrokes. I miss those girls! I hope I know enough to make them move though my accent's nameless and my writing creeps through. Out the window trees bend in dissonance. Can you hear me? I swear you still do.

El sol de febrero

"A sense of security, of well-being, of summer warmth pervades my memory. That robust reality makes a ghost of the present. The mirror brims with brightness; a bumblebee has entered the room and bumps against the ceiling. Everything is as it should be, nothing will ever change, nobody will ever die." - Vladimir Nabokov, Speak, Memory

Thinking of Empire

The conductor lifts his baton and the orchestra ascends into static.

Green water washes away the nightmare.

A half bit of peace

Now my room is habitable, and I don't need to rush anywhere just yet, and even the sun still shows distantly. The finer things!

--
And I'd hope you might
take me back inside
when the time is right.

I must have heard this song shouted in your car half a hundred times. Summer nights where I sang along. Now I play the old songs for the new words and damn, don't they sing!

Your kind of sentence

I say I dislike everyone lately and then I realize it's not really everyone but those I don't know very well. The ones I know well I like well enough.

I couldn't write more than four lines (besides the drafted e-mail with Flo) tonight because I need to connect. I need to talk to someone. Nothing is wrong. I want the satisfaction of conversation that moves seamlessly through the hours. That's your kind of sentence, I think.

I need someone to say, "This is where you should send it to" or "Let me help you in finding such a place." But yet I feel disjointed. I worry because I'm there one less day, and who knows what could happen in one less day for fourteen (now twelve?) weeks. Perhaps they'll need one less of me. I wonder about my priorities. How do I reconcile all of these things that matter? Do I dare to call them dreams?

2.1.2010 (1.2.2010 as we say en espanol)

Consider this, if you can: no Internet, few noises, purple and green walls and chairs, two-and-a-half hours, 8-9 pages. For the masters of night-before papers, nothing; for me, a breakneck speed.

--

Interesting how someone won't respond to an e-mail/Facebook message/wall post/etc., but will make their Internet activity VERY apparent. Just to keep in mind.

--

Before we trek through the "Wild Meadow," we turn the corner toward my flat tire. The late afternoon light just the way I love it. No breeze. Soft earth-red boots over the gravel. We turn and I think It's time to move. Time to start again.

Almost February

"Sometimes it happened that he spoke perfectly clearly and nobody paid him any mind at all. But on that day, on that particular morning, he was undeniable. On that particular morning he was at his best." - John Wray, Lowboy

Talk to strangers

One week down of Spring 2010, and the world is not too much (yet). Starting to feel the isolation again, but I see it's been voluntary. That I could connect more if I chose to. I haven't chosen to until today. Today the sun beams over the cold grass and the wind is calm and I want to make things move.

--

Every medium I use is a graveyard to someone else. I write anyway. Marking present time into memories for the return.

--

My cousin tells her two-year-old daughter, "Use your words."

I wake up and see my words as little girls cartwheeling. As older girls getting ideas.

Away from the sun again

These five hours of actually being in here, as opposed to pretending, are long. Quite long.

Old songs and some a bit newer came up on Pandora's "90's rock" station as I wrote. Strange to think how strongly I once felt. Strange to feel so differently now. I even put some of the old songs back on the iPod today. No more ninth grade, post-surgery burn, senior year at WSUC. Just the girl trying to be real. All of it carried with her.

--

I keep up the map of the Adirondacks to remind myself of where I am. It won't be long.

reading under the table with flashlights

I'm not sure how this biography situation is going to go (NSYNC? Miley? What, what?), but the people are interesting, and I could actually learn something, so that's a start.

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"You know, you've got a good catch," my dad says on the phone today. "He sat through the whole thing and didn't even look bored!"

I agree, Padre. ;-)

I am overwhelmed...

by how cute my girls were today! 32.20, 32.4o for the six-year-old? Not bad. Not a bad way to begin at all.

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How do you measure a year? In not panicking in the Return of the Residents. I have things to do. People to be.

"I'm going to call it 'the holy handstand' from now on."

Today has provided a number of revelations.

The first, which is unrelated to the others: Can we ban status updates? Please?

I have suddenly, but strongly, become exhausted by the excessive narcissism that is Facebook. I do not need to know every detail of your screenplay, your evening plans, your love life (though disasters do entice me, I will say), your love/hate family drama, your day every day. I DON'T CARE. Maybe your mom cares. That is very nice. But if you want sympathy, go, I don't know, tweet it somewhere. Text your friends. Be proactive rather than wail via Facebook.

Secondly:

For the first time, I looked around at today's competition and was not impressed. Did not feel either overwhelmed or ashamed. This season, we are either up there or getting there. It needs to be successfully demonstrated before the judges, but this year, unlike last, we've got the goods.

Thirdly:

I looked around and did not see many coaches smiling. A girl falls on her front tuck. Her coach throws his head back. Another misses her squat-on. Her coach tells her that she had better not miss that squat-on again. Ever.

Meanwhile, we've got Sarah picking her wedgie as she jumps from low to high bar (during warm-ups, thankfully), Alexa losing her tooth before bars, and each girl doing the most horrendous vault they've ever done in warm-ups.

I know there's money, pride, parental pressure, sweat, tears, endless rolled ankles on the line. But really, sometimes, what else can you do but laugh?

Fourthly:

Imagine: Competitive success and enjoying the sport?

"Tag it!" ::points to springboard::

1. Oh, RA "training," I almost enjoy you and your nothingness.

2. I really hope tomorrow's not a disaster with all those eyes watching.

3. ____________________________________________ (fill in your own).

"I'm not going to drop y'all like a bad habit!"

"I wouldn't go in those woods! There are deer and rabbits in there!" - Sherrille

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Well, I'm back in Southampton, and I am writing, and so far, my soul is still in tact.

I didn't think I'd say this,

but why did Winter Break fly so fast?!

"What'd I tell you about that mat?"

One of our Level 4's is very, very shy and would not do her floor routine in front of everyone. So the girls said they'd do the routine with her (minus most of the skills, so that nobody would die).

Como agua para chocolate

Rain falls on the crooked slates leading to our door. I can see the water through streetlights.

Tonight I'm perfectly at peace. Pink and green comforter. "Sarah Lawrence College Football - Still Undefeated" T-shirt. Alexis and Jillian running laps around the trees. Ten wondrous months! And the story that runs from underneath my fingers when I actually get going with it.

Tonight I could go for a scandal.

On the usefulness of penguins

Just to immortalize it in the blogosphere:

Gia, age 7: "It's cold. I need something to warm me up. Like a penguin with hot cheeks."

I'll be dancing

I've come to see that although our girls may not exactly be taking over the podium, their personalities are second to none.

Diana: "So ,Valentina, what do you want to be when you grow up? What's your life plan?"
Valentina: "I'm going to write a book about YOU!"
Diana is flattered.
Valentina: "I'm going to write about all my coaches. It'll be a series, starting with my first coach and going up to my last coach." ::throws arms wide to indicate this spectrum::

...

"Terrific" poetry?, YAWPing in the other worldly realm of Ross, and an official title for "the story." You fly faster than I imagined, winter break!

01.11.10

I enjoy palindromes like these.

3° on 01.11.10

A part of me secretly wants to get married on January 11th. ¿Por que, you may ask? Figure that out yourselves, LOTR fans!

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"We'll stay in the condo for a few days. Then we'll venture out. Then we'll stay in the condo for a day, venture out for a day. Mom will chainsmoke. Everyone will argue." - Jess' family vacations in Florida.

--

I lift my chin and spin in the kitchen. All is right.

rise of the poetess

Revised life plan:
-live in a utopian garden with Liz.
-frolic each day.
-feel bones.

Fire tower

Why Life is Kickin' Right Now:

-Not being in Southampton --> No duty phone, no flyers, no Dean-of-Students (or lack thereof) drama, no weed wafting through the night air...
-No drama of any sort!
-Time to work on my thesis.
-AND enjoy it!
-Googling for thesis and finding random things like Adirondack fire towers.
-Time to read!
-Time spent with my friends!!
-Time to work out/feel good.
-Real, edible food.
-Internet access to a TV show too embarrassing to name here.
-Open gym.
-Beth's love life.
-Lauren's love life: "But it didnt stop at my toes...all of a sudden...our SIDES were touching."
-Coaching. Far too entertaining...: Valentina, age 8, in response to Sue saying she's pregnant: "Why do you want to go through that pain again?" Everyone laughs and she says, "Don't laugh! You've all been through a birthing experience!"

"So when are you coming to work for us?"

I like that when my mom says, "When you graduate and get a full-time job," my dad and I both laugh.

Here are some potential life plans, Blog World.
-Miraculously land a full-time (yes, Madre!) teaching gig.
-Maintain a multitude of part-time jobs (a.k.a. life currently).
-Obtain Composition & Rhetoric certificate from SBU to entice potential employers.
-Apply to PhD programs at Binghamton, Albany. Downside: leaving my gymnasts if I am accepted.
-Get published, receive just enough critical clout so that people think I'm capable of teaching writing, hopefully leading to Life Plan 1.
-Teach, write, coach, enjoy life!
-Become Spanish.

earth turns slowly

Wind strips snow from fields (the green almost shows). It bursts in white dreams meant to blind. I turn up the radio anyway. I know what winter means.

--

The past week-and-a-half brought good friends and good laughs. Snowy days but decent roads keep me moving. Lots of sleep, lots of time, lots of words.

Life is pretty excellent!

1-1-2010

Not the biggest fan of January, but who doesn't mind a new start?

Addendum to previous post: Once in awhile, doing what I choose to do. Instead of caving to what I think everyone else wants.

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I think part of what's kept me jolted is that I went from the midst of the game -- feet kicking, legs flying, voices shouting -- to the podium, dressed in another jersey, announcements in other tongues -- still waiting for the payoff.