Dance, dance like it's the last, last night of your life, life

I appreciate songs that correlate carpe diem with dance floors.

oh em gee

A niche for the nov?

http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/2568901/what_is_new_adult_literature.html?cat=38

For the man who waves his hand and asks, "What's your process?"

I say,

Some days I get myself to the page by reminding myself that I can always erase it. Just write something. Just put it down.

A weekend for the booty shorts

It's true.

They took themselves out in the evening, both in purple dress form and velvet Spandex. They ran from high tide spilling down the sand at Pike's Beach. They danced in clubs that look like houses and under helmets like cyclists. They sat in soft puddles on sailboats, looking up at stars.

There will be many days for loneliness but this weekend wasn't one.

Speaking words of wisdom

Stephanie Wade is my hero. Every time I see a dead end, she points me the other way.

Watch out, PhD admissions crews!

..

I've got violins in my head and that's all right. Libertango forth.

bookishness

I've cranked through the following this summer. Normally my reading speed is rapid, but this thing called the Conference threw it off. No matter.

White Oleander by Janet Finch
Paint it Black " "
Naked by David Sedaris
Crime and Punishment (finally) by Fyodor Dostoevsky
Notes from Underground " "
Sag Harbor by Colson Whitehead (Flo is proud)
En route: One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Keep it real, rock stars.

Airplanes in the night sky

In honor of this weekend, I'd like to recount some of my finest airport moments.

Honorable mention:
This Saturday/Sunday. Saturday saw the plane delayed four times. On Sunday I wised up. Bought a slice of pizza and a brewski, found a table instead of the floor, read Sag Harbor.

The payoff? Emeline and Laurel, of course!

Third place:
Mexico, or rather, Hancock International Airport. Woke up at 3:45 am, arrived at the airport at 5 am to learn that our flight to Chicago was canceled, sat on the airport floor for seven hours until they finally realized that we were not going to Mexico that day.

The payoff? Mexico the next day. Plus a free stay at the Best Western next door. High class, kids.

Second place:
Hancock is the theme, it seems. As I drove to the airport pre-October break, tornadoes spun back home. I arrived to learn that my flight was canceled. I booked another flight, which ended up delayed three hours. I sat amongst SU students who video chatted on their Macs next to their designer luggage. Eventually JetBlue brought in pizzas because we'd waited for so long.

The payoff? Landing at JFK and sitting endlessly on the runway whilst the SU kids chatted on their cell phones. Win.

First place:
Kerry, Ireland to London, UK. Everyone lauds Ryanair for its cheap flights. They failed to mention that the aircraft are tiny, stiff, and shaky. The plane bucked between clouds. It rattled with every gust of altitude. My stomach rolled up and down. I put in my headphones and tried to sleep.

The payoff? Jude Law. Almost as good as Emeline and Laurel.

Notes from Notes from Underground

Re: a toothache: "One moans; but these are not straightforward moans, they are crafty moans, and the craftiness is the whole point."

"But what's to be done if the sole and express purpose of every intelligent man is babble--that is, a deliberate pouring from empty into void."

"Man loves creating and the making of roads, that is indisputable. But why does he so passionately love destruction and chaos as well? Can it be that he has such a love of destruction and chaos because he is instinctively afraid of achieving the goal and completing the edifice he is creating? How do you know, maybe he likes the edifice only from from far, and by no means up close; maybe he only likes creating it, and not living in it."

"...With consciousness, though the result comes out the same--that is, again there's nothing to do--at least one can occasionally whip oneself, and, after all, that lives things up a bit. It may be retrograde, but still it's better than nothing."

Suite Times

Diana: "Is it wrong that I'm amused by this Facebook status?"
Matt: "Nah. I'd print that shit out and roll around in it."

Galactic jamboree

As Sven, John, and I walk in and out of awkward actor parties, call people who don't answer, wave to the adults who sit on the stoop with wine and solo cups, it's like walking through college town to find what's alive and then settling back in the place with green chairs, pajamas, ukeleles, friends.

Fire with a side of Earth

For the third time in a week, someone asked if I've lost a lot of weight lately. Indeed, I unintentionally dropped a few pounds in June. But it was just that -- a few.

My tactics? Little exercise these past couple of weeks and very hearty meals. Dig it, man.

Keep a fire burning in your eyes

Crack those knuckles and toes. Shake out the arms. Call it the canvas or the clean page. Either way, a finger touches the chalky button, pushes play. I create.

stainless steel and bad romance

Tonight has been pretty amazing.

vegetarian considerations

I started writing stories of death and destruction in middle school, mocking them as I did, because it seemed as though all anyone wanted was the darkness. Those were the good stories. Kill your comedy and ready that same hand to wipe your eyes.

But now I know why the dead bird sings. With all this craft talk of tensions and stakes, what stakes are greater than life and death?

..

The slaying of bad habits requires an excess of something else to do.

On the eighth day

Flo: "Diana, you're the man and the woman and the man." ::falls into armoire:: "Whoa."

certified at 90%

I like that I'm at the Writer's Conference and have had little time to actually, you know, write.

But meeting up with old friends, listening to great readings and lectures (yes, great lectures!), and sprinting over the softball field of dreams -- yes, this is a much-welcome change from recent life.

ping and pong

For the first time, I realize the true duality of my name.

And I'm still loving Southampton!

Write on

To be back amongst the crowd with words all around--

(and in Jeremy's room)--

I feel alive again.

storytellers

http://internationalgymnast.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=1711%3Astretching-out-heres-my-story&catid=8%3Astretching-out&Itemid=130

Life is beautiful.

Futbol

The World Cup final was the first game I actually watched, beyond one college game that I attended in hopes of seeing cute guys. From half-time up through minute 1:16 and the ensuing celebration, I followed the dancing, the yellow cards, the goal.

I've concluded that there are a number of positives in watching the sport:

1. No time-outs, hence no dawdling and stalling.
2. Minimal commercial breaks -- AWESOME!
3. Constant motion, as opposed to American football.
4. The clock runs regardless of whistles, etc.
5. Dramatic near-misses.
6. Overly dramatic falls in hopes of getting a yellow card.
7. Impossibly intricate footwork.
8. Team Spain is BEAUTIFUL.

Saturday morning

Timeless sea breezes,
sea-wind of the night:
you come for no one;
if someone should wake,
he must be prepared
how to survive you.

-Rilke

Existential crisis got you down?

Dostoevsky and Notes from Underground will serve you well.

lime green

When I shut the door in the empty parking lot, the afternoon is desert heat. Lethal as sleepy eyes under warm blanket.

Pieces of sunlight in concert with wide-open windows and AC. Bumpers behind me. Slow down, knave. I move at just the right speed.

Fireworks from the freeway

There's nothing like deciding to trim your own bangs with a utility knife scissor. When you're twenty-four. And sober.

Happy Independence Day!

..

When in doubt, play "Things." I believe everyone will benefit by doing so.

..

So many decisions need to be made but a friend was all I needed and I thank you for that.

Aaand they're off.

I'm delighted to report that despite a late-night breakdown, stomach cramps, heat, and needing to walk for approximately six seconds, I finished third in my age group.

Burning down that highway skyline.

11:31

Not quite sure what my next move is, but I'd like this feeling to go away.

To your streetside garbage pile:

A mattress is only as good as the amount of little feet that have jumped on it.

7110

Life's too short to not wear neon hair ties.

Imagine all the people

Has anyone ever pitched the idea of cheerleading as an Olympic sport?

Can you imagine all the furor?

Is it wrong that should such an event ever come to pass, I'd tune in?

of dpi

So close to victory!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

the beating of the drum

Having traveled past Fort Drum on several occasions, I'm especially interested in this story:

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/06/27/world/27battalion.html?hp

that boy is a monster

Right now my hair's in two buns akin to Princess Leia (just less formal), I'm wearing an outfit other than gym clothes, eyeshadow's on my eyelids for the first time since Class Day. I have no plans to leave the house. But you never know.

digging poetry this eve

Rilke's Letter from Rome


by Star Black



Certainly you've missed this on your reading list,

or have you? do you really agree with Rilke's dark

equality, that women should be set free to be who

they are? are you that committed to this anguished



apartness? after all, we're no longer young, hello?

The phone's ringing once again, Housman calling,

the cherry blossoms fall. Frost, hunched upon

the old farm, is gazing at white spiders. Jarrell



is gone, his love for Mary - "Change me, change me" -

is all that is left of him, his beloved semesters,

his street crossings, his crooning essays, and, yes,

each woman misses him as I miss you, immediately,



so, let the letter from Rome go. You've read it. I've

read it. It's a good letter. Not as good as you, though.

It's time we met and made a mess

Whenever I get a little lonely, I watch Romanian gymnastics documentaries on YouTube.

For Don Joy

I used to know its whereabouts at all times. Get down the road and promptly pull a three-point turn when I forgot it at home. Let it swing from my hand as I walked back from practice.

Now?

It's a cool feeling to finally wonder: just where is that tremendous knee brace of mine?

The "I was going to" speech

I was bold today, even at ninety cents short.

"Why is Bon Jovi walking toward us?"

Top-down summer afternoon drive to Spanish music, poetry in sweating rooms (the kind you can understand), meeting the third reader of my thesis, Bon Jovi and his metaphorical six-string spotted in the road, clams and serious damage and cookie dough. Bad Flomances, pure living.

..

My niece Jillian, age 5, to her twin, Matthew, who is covered in cake: "Can I clean you?"
She grabs the dish rag and chases him through the kitchen, grabbing the back of his shirt and swiping at his mouth.

..

Me: "Happy Father's Day!"
Dom: "Do you know something I don't?"

..

From the eve's tangential stalking, a line I like:

"You decide how it plays out."

What are you afraid of?

I feared the mostly-typical childhood litany, except there was always realism in the fantasy. No "monsters under the bed." These monsters were people. Always. Like the Christmas Eve I convinced myself that someone stood in the corner of my room with a gun. The weekend my parents went to Pittsburgh and a journal entry about boys hurriedly turned to a last will and testament as the upstairs creaked--clearly a sign of intruders.

And tornadoes.

After I started elementary school, I lost interest in all television besides the Weather Channel. My goodness. Vivaldi on the local weather forecast, perfectly timed with green doppler radar--the tropical storm update--disasters across the nation--really, a sunny day was a meteorogical yawn.

Tornadoes fascinated me. The beeping red warning at the bottom of the screen. The sudden plunge from black sky. The relentless, unpredictable race over the land. I knew the proper procedure: hide one's self in the basement, a bathub, a room in the center of the house without windows (which our house did not have). Bring a battery-operated radio, flashlight, water, pillows, blankets. Thousands of miles away from Tornado Alley, I was prepared.

But then the tornadoes followed me into my dreams.

I forgot those nightmares until I had one the other day. The funnel cloud down the road and my stomach drops. I turn for the basement but my legs won't move fast enough, the windows won't hold, the words won't sound.

In Technical Writing, I made a brochure for a fake tornado chasing club, Storm Sleuths, that included an artfully faded photo of a twister and a little Live--forces pulling from the center of the earth again. And that's where I prefer my tornadoes these days: gray scale and folded. Far away from bathroom tubs, basement windows, dreams.

Digital Getdown (Technology and Me)

Back when the dinosaurs walked, a velociraptor dropped its pink cell phone. I scooped it up and ran off to the Red Jug Pub. That was in 2007. Flash forward a millenium to 2010 and crikeys! I've still got the same phone!

Everyone's phones seem to have exploded or lost themselves or fallen into toilets. The rare handful who do not fall into this category have opted to move forward. Onward and upward.

I play on Flo's and Lena's iPhones each time I see them. Tony's Droid is overwhelming in all the possibilities of its little touch screen. I like the tactile approach, the ability to point and slide and direct with your finger tips to the screen.

Yet I'm already compulsive enough at my computer. Surely carrying the Internet around at all times would be worse. And while the wunderphones make it possible to contact a person in just about every manner besides calling them, I can handle my 300-texts-per-month limit. I can even handle a phone call. No video, GPS, Camp Rock apps necessary.

That's what she --

Tonight I'm on the tumble track at open gym. Outstandingly angry music blares from all corners and I drum my fingers against my stomach like I know these songs. Like they'll amp me up.

I'm a little nervous for this tumbling pass. The worst thing that could happen is that I'll fall on my head on the large squishy mat at the end, which isn't a horrible consequence. But for a hot moment my palms sweat. I drum off the sweat, raise my arms, think of what Flo Davies would say: Handle it! And I tumble away.

As with all quests in life,

I must first make an epic soundtrack.

Newtown

Last night the blue glow of televisions in chipped white houses made me nostalgic for a past that was never really mine. I miss those sagging porches one after the other, crooked floors, gas stoves that saw their cleanest days a hundred years ago. Except back then I would always rather be in than out, and nostalgia tells it the other way: a girl outside in the street, skipping past those doors, the night sent spinning.

But this afternoon I write next to the window that blows in ocean air. The wood floor smooth as windswept sand. The highway overpass sounds the thunder. The natures realign.

Instant karma

When in doubt, apply to the Netherlands.

Hubris-free philosophy

Another life goal.

I can't help feeling hubris, especially as I read. I judge. You judge. He/she/we/y'all judge. But it's one thing to judge and another to feel deserving, entitled. Desire and action are not always simultaneous. But combine them and that's where the explosion comes. Then, perhaps, I shall achieve the level worthy of feeling hubris. But I shall DENY such a sentiment!

..

And should you need a battle anthem or, better yet, '80's power ballad to light your journey:

Enjoy!

Roadside specters

Tonight on the drive home, the darkness and streetlights cast people out of shadows. Tap the brakes, lean over the wheel and they disappear. But perhaps they're still there. Moving through the spectrums. Unfazed by gridlock or drag racing. Just walking on their way.

Forty-six minutes left for the tornado

but it never showed!

(But it's all right, because as Francesca pointed out, we've only got four minutes to save the world.)

..

Now a short story coming through this evening. At its best, it'll be good stuff. At its worst, it will read as fan fiction for The Road. Does such a category exist? If not, I shall be its creator, and you shall witness its birth.

Part 2: Rise of the Cowboy?

I don't feel quite right becoming a teacher and telling students to pursue their dreams when I'm not sure I've pursued mine. At least, not to the fullest extent. I have certainly taken some of those steps. Choosing the majors I loved, going for that MFA, a raindrop of time abroad. Other dreams remain, and I wonder which ones I'll push for and the others that will fall silent from fear.

If I'm not literally in those places, I can be there in fiction. I thought of Nick going to Mexico. What would happen to him there? Suddenly, all sorts of ideas. Little stories. Maybe bigger ones. And suddenly I'm writing about him again. He's no longer a cold case.

gold coast

I hope that a full tank of gas and the night sky will always make me feel invincible.

Who's Afraid of the Mexicans?

Please enlighten me (and I'm sure Kevin has an answer!).

When you're in college seeking a degree that will lead you to a career in teaching, business, science, or when you already have a degree, what terrifies you about foreign languages? Why is it so alarming that sometimes, instructions and directions are also written in Spanish, causing you to cry out, "If you're in our country, speak our language"? What about your TV, your cell phone, your blender that came with instructions in French and German as well as English? Why are all Latinos "the Mexicans"? When you're not pursuing a career in landscaping or restaurant work, what is it that irks you about migrant workers? The taxes, you say. It's all about your tax dollars. If that's the case, then you ought to be outraged the majority of the time--park and school closings, squandered state budgets, government embezzlements.

What are you so afraid of?

Storm clearings

While I still want to paint dark thunder night over ocean, the glowing moon's more my mind. Distinct and clear.

(13) Thoughts on Writing, June (2010)

I'm no expert, and my last wish is to sound didactic, because people my age who didact about really piss me off.

But here are a few bits I've learned in the last six years.

1. You can't avoid your destiny
If that were possible, surely I would have switched my major to elementary or English/Spanish education, though the prospect of teaching Spanish to high schoolers makes my head hurt. I would have just graduated with an MBA.

Some days, I don't write. I'm busy, I'm overwhelmed, I'm anywhere but the page. I know this is a sin against the "write every day in the same spot for the same time" doctrine. Judge me. Determine me "less serious" than you.

But I can never stay away. The stories leak out. They always do. I'll be back tomorrow.

2. Write poetry
And fiction, nonfiction, screenplays, plays... I've never really understood why one would funnel one's self into one genre, and/or fear the others. Maybe your screenplay will never see the lights. But why not learn new ways to tell a story?

3. Fiction does not equal nonfiction.
Say it with me.

4. Be humble, Hubris
It's fantastic that you believe your novel will rock modern society. Congratulations on your award! Oh, is that another status update about your award? And another? Good job. I'll be sure not to buy your book.

5. And on the other hand--it's not as bad as you think it is
I hated Mexico more than a handful of times. Then I actually opened the document and read it, and then I started actually writing it, and eventually I realized, "Hey, I'm actually proud of this thing!"

6. Back that bad boy up
Or else have a Tony equivalent in your life who can rescue your crashed and burned manuscript!

7. Man (or Woman) up
True story: in the emo high school days, I became so fed up with failed relationships and non-relationships that I took to writing stories from the perspective of the male antagonists in my life. I had to get in their heads somehow; they certainly weren't letting me in.

And slowly, it all began to make sense...

I still love writing from the male perspective. Somehow, it's easier to inhabit those brains. No offense, fellas. If you prefer sticking with your gender, I dare you to try the other.

8. Not everyone is in on the party
Sometimes I post about Nick and Pete Galveston, and you can look forward to future entries about other fictitious characters. I recognize that you may not, in fact, give a shit about these made-up people, having not read the story (and even if you have). And I do not judge you.

9. Write in a room with a door that can open
I took this from Roger's Writing Everything course and it's my favorite piece of "writing in a certain place" advice. I love the idea that interruptions can in fact be convergences, small waves that move the story precisely where it needs to go.

10. Patterns much?
The next natural step would be, "Break the patterns," but so far I'm just interested in figuring out what my patterns are. I see that my stories often have a wisp of foreign language and at least one artist--painter, photographer, poet. Perhaps this means that I need to reimmerse myself in languages and participate in more arts and crafts.

11. Make 'em weird
I like to give my characters small idiosyncracies. The Luke Skywalker figurine versus Buddha on the Dean of Students' desk, the glass bottle collection for Rob, the man who sees melting orange cones...all right, that one's a bit larger.

12. Don't underestimate the world you know
I wrote eight pages about my gymnasts for the Manhattan workshop. 'Twas no fantasy thriller nor work of international intrigue. But my classmates and teacher were excited, and the discussion quite animated. "Give us more!" they said. The back handspring in class probably didn't hurt, either.

13. Just play with it
Who can resist the advice of Dr. Boynton???

Oh, Southampton, I love your way...

...sometimes.

River dogs

The fear's started again and even my canoe paddle isn't much good. I excuse myself from the night but the night's still watching.

It thickens.

If I've learned one thing from gymnastics, it's that the fear never really goes away but if you beat back at it long enough, eventually your shadow stands taller.

like cold ocean to the face

We dance in and out of the waves, feet sickeningly cold as we scramble to warmer sands.

But one by one they dive, surface breathless, hair slicked back and mouths wide.

"Let's go, Dee! I'm coming with you!"

Knee-deep in the water and suddenly the waves curl higher--not this wave--no, not this one--too cold, too cold--"Let's go!"--we run--she pauses--I plunge--stand up with one triumphant fist in the air, the other clutching my bikini top.

Victory.

Poker Faces, Roses With Thorns

"Do you ever miss competing?" Kayleigh asks out of nowhere today, face on the beam, looking at me.

"I do," I say.

"Can't you still compete?"

"Aren't there, like, alumni meets?" adds Maddie.

"I'm thinking about it," I say. "For old people like me."

"You're still so good," Kayleigh says. Then she adds, "And you're not old. You're nineteen."

Carpe Diem, circa December 2007

I just found this list. Please note that it was made during a time of personal despair, as well as a defeatist, "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em" mentality toward the standard Cortland student. Now I reflect on what I have and haven't accomplished.

Things I Can Only Do At College/Cortland:
(Edit: I'll include Southampton as "College," too.)

-get drunk and walk home (check)
-keep liquor around (yes, and then it skunked when I forgot about it - I'm clearly meant to be a heavy drinker)
-tumble on a sweet floor!!! (CHECK)
-visit Oswego (in October - ballin'!)
-visit Christina (check!)
-COMPETE! (YES!)
-CWA/Transition mayhem (Fo' obvi)
-Radio! (Keep it locked)
-seduce a professor…(haha fail)
-play Mario Kart (of course)
-DATE a boy who is actually at school with me…(T-PAIN FTW!)
-go to Price Chopper (had a near-emotional breakdown when I had to throw out the frozen PC stir fry I brought home)
-explore random small towns (check)
-go skiing!/learn to snowboard! (fail, thanks to yet another injury!)
-attend crazy theme parties (indeed)
-attend cheap movies/bowling (yes)
-go streaking (does getting jumped upon by naked Deana count?)
-hook up with people that I don’t have to see ever again (lol)
-go to Cornell (si)
-go to random cultural events (indeed - thanks, Emeline!)
-sleep on a random couch (haven't we all?)
-learn to actually be a good cook (lol, burning a pot with boiling water)
-be independent (yes!)
-NOT have to fear running into certain people (I'm not sure what this was in reference to, but I think I succeeded)
-wake up and not remember what happened the night before (no, but many wonderful morning-afters at Southampton)
-drink more boxed wine (not the same without Jenny)
-become awesome at Spanish (yes! Espero :-)
-partake in linguistic research (check!)
-partake in open mics (yes!)
-experience far too much snow (emphatically yes!)
-read books like the Communist Manifesto and get ENLIGHTENED! (still working on said enlightenment...and reading material)

The boulevard is not that bad

I wake up from a dream in which someone's question is, "How should my head be?" and my answer is, "Thrown back in laughter."

This is the train to RonKONkoma.

Home thus far: I continue my breakneck speed of unpacking three bags a day, concoct possible PhD dissertations, make bucket lists, enjoy the outside air and sinking suns, imagine Shelter Island 10Ks. I keep moving. That's all I've ever really needed.

And if I ever get too lonely, there's a big city just down the tracks.

She sees the man inside the child

As the classes stretch at Flip-Flop this afternoon, "Mysterious Ways" comes on the radio.

Young male gymnast, approximately age 6: "I know this song."
Rob: "Yeah? Who sings it?"
YMG: "U2."
Rob: "How'd you know that?"
YMG: "I'm an Irish boy."

"You really hit a home run today."

I want to keep today forever.

After the monsoons, we wake up to clear blue sky and warm breezes. Shower, straight hair, pink nails, stroll into Chancellors at the stroke of 9 a.m. We process. We sit and hear speeches. Mary Pearl makes mention of my student evaluations. More speeches.

Then I go up to the podium.

"I attended Southampton due to an e-mail I received two weeks before the Fall 2008 semester. At this point I was courting graduate schools the way high school girls court boys: say yes to all, lead them on, and then reject them one by one.

The e-mail from Southampton Residence Life was simple: We need Resident Assistants. Please apply.

So I did.

My two years at Southampton have embraced two very different worlds. On the one hand, courses with esteemed teachers who treat your work with respect, scrutiny, and humor. Brilliant classmates and fellow writers whose insights are often just as valuable as the teacher’s. I left each class with synapses on fire. From Roger Rosenblatt I learned the value of concise language. From Matt Klam, how even the darkest stories deserve a glimpse of light. From Lou Ann Walker, how to make one’s life story matter to others. From Stephanie Wade, how to be a teacher. I would rush back to the dorms ready to sit down and write the night away.

Then I would enter my building and, from within the depths, hear the call of the wild: 'Dude, man, where’s the beer?'

It was as if I was waiting my whole life to live among seventeen and eighteen-year-olds, chiding them for shouting at three in the morning, dumping their beer, being asked out on dates to avoid a write-up, coloring pictures and playing Scattergories on the weekends, and running around campus at night in the name of 'Humans versus Zombies.' Once in awhile, I’d get some writing done.

So where do these two lives intersect? Well, in rhetorical strategies to draw residents to my dorm programs, like writing 'Free Food!' in a bigger font. In petitions to protest of the cuts to Southampton. In the steps toward sustainability here, seeing that each motion forward, every recycled can, every sentence and word, brings the story closer to where it wants to go. And in the bushes with my Nerf gun, ready to fire at approaching zombies in the form of freshmen boys, knowing that while I ought to take many parts of life seriously, I don’t always have to be one of them. "

The feeling of nailing a routine in competition and nailing a reading are exactly the same.

As I walk back to my seat, the laughter and applause roll over me.

--

A personalized graduation ceremony. Knowing just about everyone there. Bob Reeves inviting my parents to come hang out at the conferences. And the ocean afterwards -- spinning around in the sand, throwing frisbees and falling down and blanket love. I haven't finished packing. Sand's still on my toes. Today is perfect.

speechwriting break

Kayleigh, age 11: "Diana, do you have a Facebook?"
Diana: "I'm not being your Facebook friend."
Kayleigh: "What! You mean if I friended you, you'd click no?!"
Diana: "Maybe when you graduate high school. Right now it's too weird."
Jenny, 10: "Will you be friends with my aunt on Facebook?"

What We Talk About When We Talk About Water

Well, this evening was far less romantic than the prior post, and I look forward to never seeing some of these youngins again, but doesn't that go for all things?

Let's talk about:
-Flo Davies' SUCCESSFUL COMPLETION of the portfo'!
-Liz Wolff appearing out of the blue in my comments!
-The Thesis, Bound and Ready!

This is a nonsense entry, but after floods and elementary nonsense and chicken McNuggets for dinner at 12:30am, I suppose there's no real need for coherence.

I do, however, encourage you to participate in this!

You're a hot mess
and I'm lovin' it
Hell, yes!

Don't let the sun go down on me

It rains on Southampton as the kids pack up their cars for the last time from this place, carry boxes and cartons as their rooms lose color and texture. It rained on Move-In Day, too, water plastering the cheap ponchos to our skin as we raced from building to building, room folders held close, trying to keep cool. Rain like there was something the sky wanted to forget.

shadowboxers

I feel quietly victorious when I write a poem, like something important has happened.

4'8" and rising

I have spent the years creating all sorts of selves. Sometimes I split into three or four in one day. Diana the public relations specialist who hands you your reimbursement check, Diana your semi-crazy coach, Diana your RA in pajamas and teacher in boots, Diana in circles around the track, Diana the secret actress, Diana of poetry fiction nonfiction playwriting screenwriting composition Spanish German literature history now future. Diana upside down, horizontal, writing, restless. Diana, countless.

I live for the balance of so many selves. I feel complicated when one starts to vanish and another takes the lead, one that had hung back watching and knows its time has come.

I want to forge new. That is the way to keep going. But sometimes I dip back.

Yesterday:

Five o'clock sun on the Southampton High School track. I thought it was red when I came here for track meets in high school. Maybe I don't remember or maybe they did tear it up in the past six years, replacing earthy red with manly black. I ran the 3,000 here and wanted to fall asleep midway through. Won the 4x800 relay as anchor leg. Racewalked and ended an essay with the story. Pole vaulted for easy points because Southampton had no vaulters and Mr. Sullivan and one of Lauren's man friends had to hold the bar in place for us. High jumped. I had glorious and terrible jumping days but I don't remember these mats on the near side of the field for either.

I walk to them. One tape mark on the black rubber. Left foot first. A family bikes from the field onto the track, father, mother, son, mother's bike with a basket, her smile pleasant--isn't this a beautiful day?

There's a bar but I don't put it up. I remember rice cakes and nights in the high school gym, leaving gymnastics half an hour early to get here at 9:30pm, already tired, the gym lights too bright, jumping over the bungee cord with Jill, Lauren there laughing with us. The way we practiced before the sun shone on the field this way, before our uniform tank tops and short shorts were tanned to us, before we drove to Friendly's after the meet, exhausted but exuberant.

I run the old curve, take off my right leg, lift and arch and roll onto my shoulders. And again. And again.

Class of 2010, or All I Want For Graduation Is...

In Ireland, I lost something I love: my 2004 Level 9/10 State Championships t-shirt. I e-mailed the hotel. No response.

After bombing the entire season beforehand, senior year rolled around and I realized it was possible to enjoy gymnastics once again. So I did, and qualified to States, and finished off my club career on a high note.

I know 2004 was quite some time ago. But if somehow a leftover T-shirt from that competition can be unearthed, you, yes, you, will be the indisputable hero of my life.

Let's do this!

An MFA, Flo Davies, and Blueberry Pancakes

Remember that soul-searching about the MA versus MFA? How each day I picked a different grad school and it was never Southampton? How my thesis, wherever I did it, would be creative nonfiction? And living in a dorm again? I remember Beth's pros/cons list for my grad school life. In the Southampton cons category was "weird bio major friends."

Foreshadow?

I found a freedom here that I never experienced at Cortland. At Cortland I had laughter and injuries and wonderful teammates, but I could only be real around a few friends and my PWR-ers, and that only came in the late-middle to the end. Maybe it was my existential crises, maybe it was just everyone around me who wanted to get wasted and stand in crowded bars every weekend. (Now, dancing with Emeline or throwing darts with Rachel as we tried to avoid our emo lives yet always complicated them further -- those were good nights at the bar!)

Maybe I came here expecting I wouldn't fit in. Twenty-two compared to seventeen and eighteen. What could we have in common besides being in the same place? How could they like me when I'd be the one pouring out their beer?

After crying and dancing with Deana, Sarah, Caralyn, nearly all of Shelter one night, being hit on by Jeremy, ice cream trips, weekend nights coloring and playing games, nights in Suite 1 with Dom, Dusty, Fernando Jason, Paul, LOU (so notorious), roaming in sweats and pajama pants, prancing outside for kickball and zombie attacks, Lauren living here, Deana and her tequila and vulgarity, this pretty fantastic boy I happened to meet, bursting into song whenever someone's statement triggers a lyrical connection--it's safe to say that I'm more a me here than I ever was there. "It's like Diana Gone Wild!" as Kim once said.

This year's been a bit of a letdown. The caliber of freshmen decidedly poor, the destructive derelicts outshining the intelligent, inquisitive ones. The "omg I'm eighteen and this is the first time I've ever drank!!!" The "omg I love weed!!!" So I've more or less hidden. In some ways, I wish I did more. At the same time, I had this thing called a thesis to do. So I suppose it balances. On the plus side, we've gained Flosef, Bryan the soon-to-be Escort, John who rivals Sassy Gay Friend, and beer pong with 21-year-old residents and Sean with his "cream soda."

Whoa.

..

At the end of the day, I want to write and to teach. My degree will let me teach. But I want life experiences that inform my stories and my wisdom. I will be better at both for living more.

On to the next adventure.

..

It's pretty awesome that my students gave me such high ratings.

Although I wonder what prospective employers who ask to see student evaluations will think when they read,"This class was good because it taught me to write good" or "let us no when things are due"...

They call him Flipper

Love it, hate it, question it, check it out. Especially the final scene. You'll see what I mean.

fiyahburnin'

You know times are tough when a shaman needs to sleep outside by the volleyball court to cleanse your school of evil spirits.

P.S.

I wrote a poem today.

What would you do if it was about you?

I feel dangerous.

"Every something has a storm?"

I love dorm half-blackouts!

"I'M FREAKIN' OUT ABOUT MY BABIES BECAUSE THEY'LL HAVE NO AIR AND I'M A NEW MOM!"

"You can tell by the sound of his voice if he's wearing clothes or not."

..

As per ProQuest/UMI, I had to pick one category to define my thesis.

It was difficult to pass up options such as "Baltic Studies," "Education, Tests and Management," and "Therapeutic Recreation." But I think "Literature, American" with an emphasis in "Sociology, Individual and Family Behavior" was spot-on, as were my six keywords:

-brothers
-coming of age
-death
-family dynamics
-grief
-gymnastics

Uplifted yet? :-)

midnight trains in miscellaneous directions

Let's not get too ahead of ourselves, but I'm pleased with the idea that there exist jobs I might actually want to do. Imagine: just a small-town girl...

..

Despite my lack of patience for pompous speeches and sitting around, I'm sad that we don't have a department ceremony. I would have enjoyed wearing the ridiculously shiny red gown.

I'm considering borrowing Regina's cap and gown and running around for a photo shoot.

Suggestions?

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!