in a way, i need a change

This was supposed to be a year to ignite. Instead, I'm still pacing, waiting for the emailed answers to tell me if it's time or not. And what if it's not? There's the rub. Always, always, I have heard "yes" when it comes to academic conquests. I spread my applications widely this time around, thinking that this'll be my last go of it.

I think. I hope.

Today, as the kids eat their snacks and scroll through Instagram, I wonder if I should have aimed higher. Law school. Something with clout and the instant eyebrow raised in approval. Nuclear chemistry, I think as I scroll through the Wikipedia articles that detail too many crimes against humanity. You could argue that I am aiming high in this manner, going the artist's way, but whether or not my work will have any profound effect on any human remains be seen.

Human remains. I don't like the reverberation of those words together. Context clues. Slipping in, slipping out.

apropos of heavy snow

I can't stop reading stories of people stuck on the highway in their vehicles, crawling into the backseat and sleeping as the snowdrifts pile around their tires. No exit, no entrance.

We're lucky out here. Maybe half of the anticipated snowfall reached us, and while a cleared driveway is a long way coming, it's not an impossible dream. I dug out the back of my car although there's hardly any clear path for it to back down. A tiny flake of freedom.

That's the most concerning thing about natural disasters, besides the obvious potential loss of life and property. Snow falls in a gentle but persistent paralysis. We are pristinely immobilized, confined to windows and icicle reflections. Time churns. My mind drums, drums.

The shovel brought back a whisper of the old calluses, padded yellow and soft orange discolorations. Flex knees, heave snow. The wind and I play catch; I toss the snow over my shoulder and it whips back into my face, sticking to my too-long ponytail. We become bolder, start playing chicken. I throw the snow recklessly. We dare one another to turn away first.

What they don't tell you about storm preparation

Buy enough milk so that you don't run out for hot chocolate. Tortilla wraps will be going, going, get yours at last. Take in the trash, one lid missing. Find the lid in the neighbor's driveway and run it back home through the slush, like a lost puppy. 

Shower while you can. Shave your legs for the days ahead. Run to the library under thick-falling flakes and obtain your finest haul, a medley of things, because when the electric sizzles out, you'll want an entity without batteries. Hug the Internet close for as long as you can. Vacuum your room, do your laundry, clean your sheets like a guest might be slipping into them tonight, a guest called windchill and cracked shingles. 

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each

Someone's calling my name, but they are not calling for me. The three syllables bounce across the chilly courtyard and hit brick, distorting, someone laughing.

No matter. I like it here. Black jacket pulled close, ponytail whipped by wind. I don't look old enough to have any sort of authority, but nobody seems to mind.

The Floo Network's being watched

is a phrase that keeps rolling through my mind, as such phrases are wont to do.

Two men inspected our chimney and returned with a penciled list of everything that needed to be adjusted. The word "extremely" was used numerous times, and not once in positive terms. So it goes, I guess, living in a seasonal town in unseasonable times. Straight down the floo.

But I enjoy it out here in this company. I feel I'm finally starting to get living arrangements right. Holding up the roof with the clacking of keyboards and flipping of cards. Your ace, my queen. I'm making the right moves.

Do you hear the people sing?

I miss blogging.

This kind of blogging, where every public word wasn't meant to sell something, or create a persona, or try endlessly, endlessly, to join that inner circle of inanity. It was just me, flying solo, with friends popping in and out supportively over the years to comment and occasionally break out their own blogs.

I miss playful language. Being allowed to play, to dip in and out of perspectives and up and down avenues. Ignoring the undertones of What's this mean? and Clarify here. Some of the play has been beaten out of me, whether from my quest to be published "traditionally" or from the overall calming of my emotions, I can't say.

But I'd like to try again. I know that much.

Is it hubris to say

that I'm annoyed by a rejection?

Fortuitous is

waking up one minute before your alarm on a teaching day, and as you roll over to shut it off, not needing that noise to herald in your day, you realize that you'd never set it to begin with.

Hands down

It was as good as a day with your best friends, except you're alone on the bridge with your music and your neon shirt and the cars that drive up, drive down.

There was so much light that maybe some sort of photosynthesis filled those legs, sped up that old rhythm. You came to a stop at the ocean because that's what everyone else did, too: stood and stared at the thick volley of white crests. A respectful vigil.

And for once, you allow yourself the credit of making a good decision. Of being in the right place.

Link and unlinked

Goals for the next year (starting today; December 31 isn't the only time to make lists):

1) Embark on a full court press to
2) obtain an agent;
3) if the second doesn't pan out, I will at least know that 1) did the most that it could;
4) be established with life plans for the subsequent year (PhD or job, or both, knowing me);
5) in order to do so, apply to those entities (1 PhD in the bag, but how about the rest? And that expired GRE & damnable critical essay, taunting me when I just want to run around in fall sunshine);
6) and relax a little, maybe, sometimes.

additional notes 2 self

“INSERT THE STAKES AND THE STEAKS.”

And to all, a good night!

The 18-yard drive

It's a sunny day and I'm inside on the computer. Not so unusual from my teen years onward. But my focus is sharper than normal days, reminisce of the lock-yourself-in-the-library-and-finish-this thesis afternoons. I keep going today because I'm afraid if I don't, the wheels will slow and I'll be aimless again instead of pushing ahead.

As my emotions have calmed down in recent months, years, even, we haven't met much, Word is Bond. But I always come back for you.

notes on a novel

Summarizing scenes in my manuscript:

“Marcos is like, WTF is your deal? with Juliana joining in, and Savannah’s all, STFU, you don’t know my life.”

To your pre-dawn running and writing sessions:

We might as well accept now that for all my efforts to be a "real person who maintains the schedule of such a personage,” I will always prefer to run in the evening and write in the night. Two a.m., and this is the best I've felt all day.

rationale

The sky’s brooding over something that it’s not ready to talk about. It’s done this all week. I won’t prod, though the night is windless and I dangle one leg up into the air to keep it from sticking to the other.

“You’re good with people,” one of my gymnasts told me tonight.

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

She shrugged. “You just are.”

I appreciated that, especially on a day when I felt like the sky: sometimes a crack of light, other moments eyes squinted shut.

the word & the right word

Seeking: a noun for accident, neither good or bad.

esperanza, like rain

Winter mornings spent saying, What are you doing with your life? turned to spring nights of I'm getting there. 

I've pushed the pieces into position. Some point in contradicting directions.

Now, we wait.

excerpts from the notes on my computer

• Amazing realization: I’m only 28:10 into this thunderstorm. 
• I’m afraid that if I sleep, I’ll miss Flo’s play-by-play of 50 Shades of Grey.
• my psychic stomach 

Happy Saturday!

throughways

That's the way of luck, isn't it? Sometimes the splash of water over the side and then other times you're the one leaning over, tipping the boat, looking for your reflection in the waves.

The ship rights itself.

Life advice from my father

"You could buy cheap houses and become a slumlord."

deep thoughts on campus

Student walking ahead of me: "I can't wait for the day when talking shit is going to help me resolve things."

Sing it, boy.

the georgia mud

In an ongoing extension of Bold Moves 2012, I have decided to "real"-ify my website with blog posts about writing. So if you've any interest in my writing life, you'll want to take a gander/follow me over there.

This space, up on the second shelf, will remain what it was always intended for: life, in whatever form.

many mountains moving

Victories:

• Driving through a missile range
• Frolicking in the dunes of White Sands
• Seeing a camel, a roadrunner, and a vulture
• Inadvertently running through a triathlon
• Hiking a mountain
• Visiting a beautiful gym
• Eating delicious sour cream ("Las altos mexicanos," as Tony would say)
• Finishing Game of Thrones and hovering in the local Barnes & Noble, reading Daughter of Smoke and Bone at a kiddie table hidden behind a fake tree
• Finding time for blog posts with Flo

Defeats:

• Sporting a sweet sunburn on one arm post-White Sands
• Stepping on cactus while hiking
• Falling down trail
• Breaking camera while falling

I'll take the mountains.

Give me the beat, boys, and free my soul

After a few years, I'm back in the southwest today. Incessant sun and cracking skin. Pale winter limbs that will never take on the smooth brown of Italian ancestors. So be it. Few trees, no grass. Nothing to bind me to the ground.

equinox

"That woman has brought me to dark places," she said.

Fire is catching

As Flo would say, it’s like Christmas, my birthday, and Lord of the Rings all at once.

(Yay for being at least ten years out of the target audience! Hey, haters gonna hate and all of that.)

That’s why they call it the blues

Last night, I came home from work a little cranky. In the mood to hide out. You know those nights. The query and writing blues kicked in, which of course led to, “And what am I doing with my life?”

Thanks to the power of social media, I learned that my favorite collegiate gymnastics team was streaming its competition online.

As I watched, continuing to feel glum, a girl from the opposing team fell off of beam. She was clearly rattled and climbed back up, only to straddle the beam on her next skill.

Suddenly, my night didn’t seem so bad.

the bailout

This is what we call a life post:

I know how to flip out of the boat. No, no, thanks. Sudden change of plans. Different order of operations than anticipated. So sorry. I roll into the water and swim for the shore.

I can tell when others will do it. I hear the splash before they've made a move for the side. I imagine the hasty excuses.

But lately I want to take that waterlogged vessel out farther. Sit with bare feet as water rises over my ankles, over the bench. Take my chances. 

It was a tricky day to wear a dress.

February ended up dedicated to the querying/synposing/revising/sending/crossing fingers for the YA nov. Truth be told, it was a fun ride. And there's more to be done.

In terms of new material, though, I'm stepping back to the screenplay. That old chestnut. We've made it to Act III and now the two men are in the same room, and one has murder on his mind.

I write it one line at a time, very carefully.

I know that I can go back and take out all of the stupid stuff, revise the heck out of it, make it shine. I don't have to get it right on the first try. But I want to. As close as I can. The words might change, but I want the tone and the tension to be just right.

...

Read: Kayak Morning, Roger Rosenblatt

The Crossing

When those eyes and the nation to which they stood witness were gone at last with their dignity back into their origins there would perhaps be other fires and other witnesses and other worlds otherwise beheld. But they would not be this one.

One thing I admire about Cormac McCarthy: he writes on his own terms. Punctuation, dialogue tags, sudden large words--they're all used at his discretion. It doesn't matter what everyone else is writing. It doesn't matter what's trendy. He writes the way he chooses to.

Frequency

On the radio: something worth loving.

The heat and the sauce.

Today’s revision goals: Turn up the heat.

There’s sideways love in the YA nov. “Sideways” in the sense that it’s not in the driver’s seat, but it’s certainly in the backseat leaning forward. Though the character has a hot streak that’s crucial to the story’s climax, he’s fairly laidback.

And so he should be. I don’t want him running the show. But I’d like him to be a little saucier. Make moments a little more tense.

Connor McDermott, help me to channel your unending hots.

Note to self:

Editing is not merely the elimination of words. I tend to do that: strip down until the sentences are clear and bare. But I have to not be afraid of expansion, though I worry it will appear meandering and fluffy.

The story begins to feel like a body patched together. A snip here, a new layer of skin there. Blazing pink lines and soft white scars.

…

Additional note to self: putting in thirteen miles over two days after weeks of not a whole lot leaves one’s legs tender. Very tender.

Copperhead Road

Firing new synapses is one way to turn mental traffic from one direction to another. Like teaching yourself this dance last night when you saw the way everyone else kicked, and you felt your toes start to tap.




...

Read: The Fault In Our Stars, John Green

may the odds be ever in your favor

February has been a month of bold moves.

The only way to better the odds is to give yourself enough options. Within two days, I had entered five different lotteries: a writing contest, two movie premieres, a marathon, a concert. The first was most important. The marathon, well, I could live without gaining entry. In fact, I probably have a better chance of living if I don't participate.

I tend to lurk. Not in the back alley way. More like quiet reading and research without raising my voice. Or without saying anything at all. I wait. And wait.

Until now.

104 meets 24.

I thought it was a river, but it turned out to be a road instead.

self, meet self

I have to accept that some days (and, sadly, weeks), I am not going to run. I will try to wake up early, but it won’t be enough. There will be something else that I need to do. The voices of so many children who all need something immediately, hands reaching for me.

Soon, though. A time for black and electric blue sneakers. The hiss of cold air on surprised legs. The old slow way of rebuilding.

Real people, fake arms

The prompt: Rewrite "The meal was tasty" with a sound.

The response: "The morbidly obese man grunted as he bit into his eighth cheeseburger."

Inversions

We sat the kids down today for an inspirational talk. At one point, my fellow coach compared the practice and time required to be a successful gymnast to the preparations needed in school to attend a good college. “In fact,” he said, “gymnastics is harder. Fear, pain, injuries.”

I used that same logic when I had to make a long drive by myself at night several years ago. I was afraid that my Internet maps and mix CDs and ice cream that I promptly spilled on the seat wouldn’t be enough. I’d wind up lost or struck by another car or just…I didn’t know, but just worse off than I’d be if I’d stayed put.

When I sat in the driver’s seat, I thought back to practice. Anyone can drive. Not everyone can do aerials on beam, I told myself, and turned the ignition.

After the talk today, I thought about my present fears. About how reluctant I am to press “send” on an email and receive no, thanks, not right for us or silence.

Anyone can click a mouse. Not everyone can turn upside down and back up again.

Here we go, February.

the fangirl riseth

Whilst sitting maturely in the office at my computer, looking all important-like, I'm reading this.

Happy Friday!

Boom!

Did it. Wrestled down the query. Started from the heart and worked outwards.

I entered the problem-solving zone. Noise became too much. I could hold conversations, but I didn't contribute much. I could sense where the soft areas were and had to figure out the way to navigate through them.

I wouldn't sleep until I did it.

...

Read: Divergent, Veronica Roth; Fahrenheit 451, Ray Bradbury

the ice will do it to you.

Wanted:

Someone to write this query for me. Dear Lord. Nothing is working!

La historia proxima

Can't you see it? Noon on the town square, boots kicking up the desert dust. Here she is, girl and pistol. Stranger comes to town.

electricity

What's the difference between a deadline and a live wire?

Instead, freezing rain.

They say it takes one week to adapt to a new technology and I wonder if that science works for situations. To the left a bit, that's right, there you go, get a look at that view. Feel the skin crack in snowless winter air. Remember that.

disembodied

I float through the past three days. Blink to wake up, shake my head. It's not enough. I have to remind myself to look before I move across the dotted yellow, exaggerating the twist of my head as I search for nearby headlights.

Yesterday, between sessions of coaching, I walked through a mall both with purpose and no plan. Nobody bumped into me. Nobody looked at me. I didn't want either. I walked into one store, thought it was too hot, and circled back out.

Some things cause sensations, like the fall of a single snowflake on a bare foot. The cold metal chair on a colder night. A high score, yes, we'll take it.

Back on the highway, I wonder how to make these things last.

everybody's working for the weekend

dream dwellers

I want to hide in fiction. But there are voices above me. Break out, break out. Come to the surface. 

Will you please be quiet, please?

Blogger is so very silent.

Is it time to seek out other blogging lands?

...

1-11 always makes me think of:

It was a pleasure to burn

I don't want the music. I need it. I consume it like it might disappear somewhere between green exit signs or under the root that catches my sneaker. There's always the warning: Don't exhaust it or else you'll never love those songs the same way again and I listen, but not always.

...

Read: Jurassic Park, Michael Crichton

When seven eight nine

Eight miles is much different than seven, or maybe that's the effect of having run the day before. Either way, at the end of it, I feel that same wobbly sensation as the spring. It's not in my head, necessarily, but in my entire body. The feeling that I could drift off at any moment. 

I run for time, not distance, and at fifty-seven minutes, I inexplicably began to run the way I would to finish a race. There were twenty-three minutes left. I don't know why, but I followed it. I followed myself over the roots with rapid steps like football players pummeling through tires in training and around this bend and that bend and it felt like it never really slowed, the feeling, until the clock hit twenty and I ran an extra ten seconds and stopped.

I steady myself with music. No, I am not ready to leave this world yet.

I can't believe that we would lie in our graves

"I don't want to sit here a year from now having the same conversation," she said.

Promise?

To reInvent fire

Separation brings out the best on me.

...

So does a good writing partner.

Lena encouraged me last night to dust off the old screenplay. I have 53 pages and the journey plotted out. I just need to get there...which I've yet to do in two years.

I've had a few excellent friends over the years with whom I have collaborated. We understand each other's beats and build off of each other's rhythms. Lena is no exception. Moments after reading, she was already roasting the main character in a Michael Scott fashion. We threw a few ideas around. She understood the heart of the story and her suggestions reflected such.

Now, I just might finish it.

el dia de los reyes, and a forgetful sandwich

"When you weren't here on Monday, Rob and I got into a fight about him spotting my back handspring on beam," Sarah says.

"Why?" I say.

"We have trust issues," she says.

...

I've gained a certain kind of resolve since the beginning of November. No need for a new year. In my mind, there's an estimate of how many days per week I should run. Sometimes I meet it and sometimes I don't. No matter. The bigger matter is that each time I run, I do no less than four miles.

For as long as I've been running, I've been the queen of small runs between the tougher workouts. Twenty minutes, thirty minutes. Break a small sweat and call it a day, hit the showers. But I realized in November that instead of saving my body for those longer runs that happened sometimes, the small runs were just boring.

No more.

There's a difference between three and four miles. Three miles is just about a 5K, a distance most people can show up and run. Four miles requires a bit more concentration. A little more commitment. It's a look toward longer races.

I figure: four miles becomes the new twenty minutes, six miles becomes the new thirty minutes, and now we're building to something.

something, something about this place

You find it charming (and, though you'll never admit it, probably a little weird) that I read the same stories over and over. The hero reminds me of you.

I think we make a good team, you and I. I think we have the right kind of magic.

...

Read: Ender's Game, Orson Scott Card

"To fly is to be perfectly ourselves."

No vertigo from these heights. Rolling hills keep me grounded, make that burning almost too much. I bear it.

...

A new year, a new lack of resistance for a list.

Read: The Golden Compass, Philip Pullman; Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me?, Mindy Kaling; High Fidelity, Nick Hornby; Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, Philip K. Dick. Many rhetorical questions to be answered in these titles.

Seen: Winter's Bone; The Kids Are All Right

Adonde vamos

Where have we journeyed this year? The usual haunts and new locales.

-la isla de Puerto Rico
-la isla de Culebra
-El Yunque
-Alexandria, VA
-WaWa! and
-Stewart's! (Both of these are worthy of exclamation points, trust me.)
-Amtrak, north and south
-a resort in Florida -- an unusual turn of events for me, but by no means a bad one
-the ESPN Wide World of Sports
-Wildwood, New Jersey
-New Paltz, New York
-a return to the ice skating rink. Beyond a random day in college, that hasn't happened since I was, oh, say, 12.
-a return to the college classroom (oh, snap!)
-Central Park
-FAO Schwarz for the first time since I was approximately 10. It was, in fact, more outstanding as an older person (and late at night, sans crowds).
-Wing night, many an eve
-Emeline's pimping apartment/Christmas tree
-Storm King
-Scranton, PA...in a metaphysical sense

More interestingly, where to voyage to in 2012?

I don't feel fatalistic about the coming year, as interpretations of the Mayan calendar would have me feel. As opposed to the way I feel when my birthday arrives, it is but a day. Another year. Things will happen. We go on.

So for 2012, I can anticipate the following:

-Journeys to the southwest, specifically El Paso, land of my dreams.
-An undisclosed locale for a potential half marathon?! Lord help us all. 
-If not London for the 2012 Olympics, another country in its place. Spain? Germany? Un lugar en Sud America? Si, I say, a todo.
-At some point in life, I'd like to catch these in person:

See you there!

Before the year runs out,

I will sneak in my final songs!

What have we learned about the music? Apparently I really like country music these days, although I'm not afraid to try something new.

However, when it comes to choosing music to listen to as I run, I'm as picky as I am with meals: Something particular at a certain time and no deviations. I want a particular song or genre, be it slow and nostalgic or fast and dancy, and I will not stop pressing the "forward" symbol until I find it.

Next year's memes? I don't forsee one. However, I will occasionally keep track of movies, books, and songs that strike my attention, or that I want to keep track of. I look back on 2011 and while I know that I read a number of books, I can't remember any of them outside of Captain Corelli's Mandolin and those I banged out in the past month (oh, and Interview With the Vampire). I want to remember.

...

#361: Florence + The Machine, "Shake It Out"
#362: EWQL Symphony Orchestra, "Sherlock" (potential floor music, Emeline?)
#363: Sherlock BBC, "Moriarty Suite"
And to conclude the year in Coach Kim's honor:
#364: Girls' Generation, "Gee"
#365 (the grand finale!): DJ Earworm, "World Go Boom" (if you have any interest in pop, worth checking out)

Ewan and Harrison

"Don't let Tony back on the market, or I'm going to scoop him right up." -Dan

Christmas: amongst typical present-like activities, reading the IMDB trivia section on each LOTR film. Merry day!

...

In the twilight of still-sleeping and swimming awake, I was struck by this:

Nothing is going to change unless I actively do something about it.

There's nothing hanging over my head like graduation or the end of funding (one hopes) or an otherwise obvious end point which will force a transition.

I need to take control.

...

#359: The Twilight Singers, "On the Corner"
#360: The Twilight Singers, "She Was Stolen"

6.67

Usually I throw on a sparkly sweater or long denim skirt for Christmas Eve, something that I break out once a year, along with a suede jacket that's actually rather nice but also participates in the once-per-annum dance.

This evening, I dressed like I was heading out for a business meeting with God. We'd sit across the desk from each other, maybe share a few laughs, shake hands at the end of it. "Email me that paperwork, would you?" he'd say on my way out. "I seemed to have misplaced the hard copy."

In other years, I walked down the hill to the church with the satisfying clack-clack-clack of heels on pavement, already uncomfortable despite the lovely sound and already fantasizing of sweatpants and bare feet. Tonight, no discomfort. I could walk up and down that hill several times if I had to. I could break into a jog. I could duck away just as God said, "There is the matter of your attendance."

I am becoming real.

Real or not real? I am on fire.

A little of this action for your holiday Friday:

...

I crept onto what's visible of Mark Zuckerberg's Facebook last night and came across this quote:

"All children are artists. The problem is how to remain an artist once you grow up." - Pablo Picasso

It sums up everything I've noticed about musical friends who turned to careers in auditing, writing friends who look back at their old work with a heavy sense of past tense, acting friends who became just one version of themselves. 

It's not easy to make a living in such a way, and that's fine. We all get that. Real jobs have real use. But when I talk to some of these folks, it's clear that they've left those crafty days behind. No dabbling in the old screenplay or novel after hours. They sound a little wistful, they say they really should start something up again, but those embers are reluctant. 

I beat against it. I still burn. 

...

#358: "Safe and Sound," Taylor Swift & The Civil Wars

y eso me hace feliz

"Miss Diana?" says Valentina, looking up at me. "Why..."

Oh, boy.

"...Do we have the best coach?"

"Aww," I say. "Now try that one again during strength."

...

I've been doing this magical thing lately called "lying around in my free time and reading." There has not been nearly enough of it.

I use activities as a means of checking out from the world. Reading and otherwise. I say I've got plans, prior engagements, but really I'm just tapping the glass screen periodically and the page turns. I'm sitting at the desk in crisp gray pants with the attendance book and the pencil raised, but really I would rather hide in other words--especially if I've read them before--instead of stringing my own together.

Occasionally I shower just out of boredom, because water is a better means of filling time. I still think while running, but everything feels distant and pleasant and I create this mental heroic narrative for myself. When I started coaching during grad school, I used to tell people that it gave me a new set of problems to worry about, ones that distracted me from the new school setting and all that follows such a situation (and at this particular school, 'twas a unique setting indeed). I dip in and out of the world.

...

Apparently I'm more or less caught up on the songs, though I wouldn't be surprised if I tripped up somewhere along the way.

What did I learn musically this year? That I'm still not inclined to sit down and listen to music as I write and surf about. It can feel like sensory overload. But sometimes, it works.

Also, it would seem that a sudden but strong love of country music has swept the soul of one who used to say, "I like everything, but really just alternative because I sound cooler that way."

#345: Coldplay, "Paradise"
#346: Jo Dee Messina, "I'm Alright"
#347: Keith Urban, "You Gonna Fly"
#348: fun, "We Are Young"
#349: Noisettes, "Don't Upset the Rhythm"
#350: Cascada, "Pyromania"
#351: Chino y Nacho, "El Poeta" (The rare song that earns an instant download from one D.M.G. Spanish and writing! What more could you want??)
#352: Willow Smith ft. Nicki Minaj, "Fireball"
#353: "Snow Miser & Heat Miser," The Year Without A Santa Claus
#354: Skillet, "Awake and Alive"
#356: Breaking Benjamin, "I Will Not Bow"
#357: Skillet, "Don't Wake Me"

Car wash songs

We meet again, 12/18 and I.

This year, I went from questionably employed to having a juggling act of jobs. I’m grateful for all of them. I returned to the college classroom as professor, not student. I walked into the gym in the navy blazer, not the leotard or the warm-up jacket (though certainly there was plenty of the latter, too). I re-dabbled in journalism, that old chestnut. I gained an office and also started watching The Office, which means that my Dundie Award has a loving home.

My gymnasts made me especially proud this year. All-around champions in abundance. State and regional victories. Two weekends ago, their first-ever first place trophy as a team. Every day, their humor, their resistance, their successes, their incessant commentary that rolls the story along.

I survived air travel post-blizzard, which is more difficult than you’d expect. A fall journey brought me back to a Spanish-speaking land, place of my roots, and although I am not from there nor from that language, it felt right. Sometimes I think that your roots choose you.

There was a great deal of soul-searching. I felt bitter for a while, or maybe a watered-down version of the emotion. But still, I did not look well upon some aspects of the past until recently. Then it loosened. The water broke through.

I finally did that thing I claimed I wanted to do, which was to run ten miles, and it was a pretty horrendous experience. I was trained and ready, but sometimes, it comes down to the day and an overabundance of Gatorade post-race. But I rebounded. I still run. Maybe even farther in this coming year.

There were small successes in my publishing world. I finished the story of Katie/Savannah and continue the story of Nick in Mexico, walking the streets at night in search of the right words.

Right now I am having my typical anxiety about aging (let’s not forget the mental drama when I went from nineteen to twenty), but as always, I feel the old age slipping away like the snakeskin, outgrown, ready now for the new rawness.

accents

This morning I am my own earthquake. I wake up before the light and tremble. A small dance that grows in vibration but not in warmth. I step over the puddles of sleeves and hoods. Keep moving.

First call

On Saturday at the gym, Gia inquires as to which Disney Channel shows I watch, then offers her recommendations: "You should watch Victorious. And Shake It Up. And--"

"How old do you think I am?" I ask.

"Seventeen," she says, with complete confidence.

...

Man, I love epic music.

#337: Pierre Gerwig Langer, "Call for Heroes"
#338: Shattered, "Trading Yesterday"
#339: Linkin Park, "Iridescent"
#340: Short Stack, "Jack the Ripper"
#341: Lana Del Rey, "Video Games"
#342: Hunger Games trailer song that doesn't appear to have a title yet
#343: Vitaliy Zavadskyy, "Hunger" (Emeline will enjoy the second half of this.)
#344: Groove Addicts, "Mercury"

The Empire Strikes Back

The best part of reading blogs and online articles? The comments.

The crazies, the armchair academics and experts, THOSE WHO TYPE IN CAPS come out in one cyber playing field at all hours of the day to have at it. There are run-on sentences and typos. There are insults and rebuttals.

But once in awhile, someone says something interesting.

I've read interviews with actors who talk about how excited they were to perform in a play that they've always loved, or to take part in the film adaptation of a beloved novel. They know the story. It's become internalized in some fashion.

Tonight, I read comments that bemoaned The Office's subpar eighth season, and one person suggested that the new staff writers had probably been fans of the show before they joined, "and that's never a good thing."

I wonder: why is that? No problem if the actor has long admired a work and then has the chance to play the role, but an issue if a writer is a fan of the show's previous seasons and has watched previous arcs unfold?

Discuss.

...

Has an ample amount of time passed? I say yes.

#326: Fanny Lu, "Fanfarron" (Laurel, pienso que vayas a disfrutar esta cancion.)
#327: Milly Quezada y Juan Luis Guerra, "Toma Mi Vida"
#328: Mikail Aslan, "Xatune" (who can say no to a song whose name begins with "X"?)
#329: Pitbull ft. Kelly Rowland and Jamie Drastik, "Castle Made of Sand"
#330: Ahmed Romel, "Only For You" (Arctic Moon Remix)
#331: Further Seems Forever, "Snowbirds and Townies"
#332: 30 Seconds to Mars, "Capricorn (A Brand New Name)"
#333: The Gaslight Anthem, "Blue Jeans and White T-Shirts"
#334: Kate Nash, "Habanera"
#335: Girls, "Honey Bunny"

#336: Karmin, "Crash Your Party"

Space debris

Recently, I used the term “space junk” in conversation. I’m not sure why. But it’s pretty applicable to my organizational skills.

Spreadsheets, I can handle. Essay and story organization, I’ve got it down.

Physical stuff?



That’s about right.

For lack of better word, “stuff” occupies small piles on my floor. It rests in the backseat of my old car, hanging out like an old man on the porch with a brew. It’s not going anywhere. My email accounts are filled with useless messages that I keep anyway.

Somehow, I find the sentimental value in everything. A receipt, a note someone left tucked into my windshield wipers, the one-line email from a friend or teacher. A T-shirt I haven’t worn since ninth grade. Pants that I *might* wear one day. People on Facebook that I’ll never talk to again but leave them on my Friends list anyway, just because.

But now, I’m fighting back.

Folders, folders, folders. Move those emails and push that paper. “My Documents” never looked so tidy, cover letters now in their own space and drafts of articles in another. The documents left in the main folder are the strictly creative ones. As it should be.

I deleted or moved over one hundred emails last night. Old meet line-ups and memos: balled up and thrown away. I finally worked up the nerve to toss out the yellow poncho from Puerto Rico, which I would have kept had it not ripped as we walked/ran through the hours-long downpour.

(There’s still time to yank it from the garbage.)

(Now, from writing this, I probably will.)

Because sometimes, the softer side gets the best of me.

I drove up to the church drop-off bin for clothing donations. The plastic bag waited in the passenger seat, ready to go.

I took it out of the car. Hesitated.

Pulled out a pair of periwinkle flip-flops, tossed the rest of the bag into the bin, and drove back.

You never know.

La Ley de Laurel

Y para ella? El mundo, senor.

NaNo to the left, NaNo to the right

All right. Slightly over two thousand words to go and then we’re outta here, kids.

Then I’ll return to my “normal” writing schedule and maybe, you know, making note of recent music and the like.

Immediate similarities recognized between this year’s novel and the last: both have central characters who have difficulty remembering.

Another six-word memoir, in honor of a dream two nights ago:

Why did you touch my face?

Seven six-word memoirs as I charge/sleepwalk through the last 8,000 words of NaNoWriMo

She said, "Small or medium?" C'mon.

Ghost left, but the dream didn't.

Dancing with socks on slippery surfaces.

My mouth is on the phone.

Pink tomboy from down the circle.

He saw you, but didn't speak.

Can it be louder? This works.

single-sentence memoir

My father warned me not to drive this road, but on the nights I was late, I took it anyway.

exigence

Sometimes (not enough, but at least it happens), I am shot with the sudden fire of clarity: This is what I ought to do, there is the exact place I'd love to be (literal and non).

I need more of that urgency and less mental twiddling of the thumbs. But I am working right now. I am pounding back at it.

Below 50

I have issues with dying notebooks. You know the kind: you've been writing all along and traveling together, and just now you've become aware that the full pages outnumber the blanks. You keep going, but your pace slows markedly. You bring along a new notebook now, the fresh kind, one that won't run out on you just yet. And if you're me, eventually you let the dying notebook live on the floor or in the blue box in the corner, those final pages still waiting.

...

On that note, happy Thanksgiving!

On Facebook, I posted, "I'm grateful that I didn't throw up at the finish line" as friends posted their gratitude for the various individuals and circumstances in their lives. Cheeky, but I meant what I said.

I ran a comfortable race today because finally, I found the right songs and the right stories to tell myself. They kept my head out of the race instead of up on the course and around the curve, looking looking looking for the finish. I exhaust myself that way. I give not enough and then too much at the end, and then I bend at the waist and hope that my fear of embarrassment is stronger than the need to throw up.

But not today.

Remember those two days where we thought about transferring to Cornell?

A week since the last post, yet it feels like Monday still to me.

Realization as I started writing: my birthday is in exactly one month, and what have I accomplished in this year?

I feel weird lately, the on and off weirdness that had toned down in the beginning of fall but now comes back loudly. My feelings are hurt easily. I resent quickly. I'm supposed to listen to one song per day, but instead I hear the steady track of what others might say about my life and my rebuttals. Constant, constant. I would say that I'm tired of it, but it's the noise I've come to know.

When I fall out of the loop, I don't want to do it ever again. It = just about anything. Like NaNo, which I slacked on this past week but forced myself into tonight (and I'm glad I did -- I will finish on time, dang it!). Or running. Or going back to college after regularly scheduled breaks, back when that was relevant. Checking work email. Writing, at times.

But I come back.

But perhaps that is the problem. There should be more departures than arrivals, except I don't know where to go and if I need to go there in the first place.

...

#319: DJ Fresh, "Gold Dust"
#320: Adele, "Rumour Has It"
#321: The Beatles, "Eleanor Rigby"
#322: The Beatles, "Maxwell's Silver Hammer"
#323: The Beatles, "P.S. I Love You"
#324: The Beatles, "From Me to You"
#325: The Beatles, "Rain"

I've got the magic in me

courtesy of 11/11, of course!

...

I have a particularly hilarious young gymnast who is funny primarily because she makes comments that are off the beaten track. They're rather adult-like observations for a tiny 7-year-old.

Yesterday, I decided to learn more.

Me: "Sophia, do you spend a lot of time with adults?"
Sophia: "I watch a lot of darn stinkin' FOX News. NOT BY CHOICE."

...

While all has been quiet on the Word is Bond front, I've continued to fight the NaNo fight. Two of the past three days have dragged. I have a sense of where the story will go, but getting there felt tedious on those nights.

Solution: get the two characters into an argument. Keep them there.

CatFIGHTS!

...

#313: Adele, "Hometown Glory"
#314: Montgomery Gentry, "Where I Come From"
#315: Alan Jackson, "Where I Come From"
#316: Kenny Chesney, "Back Where I Come From"
#317: Jason Michael Carroll, "Where I Come From"
#318: Digable Planets, "Where I'm From"

11:11:11!

sometimes there's airplanes you can't jump out

(of).

Several times a week (less if it's a good week, more if it's not), I try to unravel the ever-present riddle: What am I supposed to be doing? The brain and the good grades -- what were they meant to lead to? Did I ever know? I don't know that I did, which is a small comfort, because then I can't fully disappoint myself. But I can be mostly disappointed, which I am on the bad days.

Then there are the moments like today, when I stand in the black suit and the high heels, and out of all the teenage girls lined up and waiting for this to begin, one of them breaks formation to wave at me and grin. Like we're in on a secret. Like she's genuinely thrilled that I'm here, that we're existing in the same space.

At those times, I feel like I'm circling closer to the answer.

...

I wrote this post on the sixth of November, but I'm changing the published date to the fifth. Just because I can, y'all.

However, here are two songs:

#312: White Lies, "To Lose My Life"
#313: White Lies, "Farewell To The Fairground"

And a last line:

"There must be something wrong with the man."

thoughts on extracurricular activities

Down by the dock yesterday, with a wind that wasn't too cold and a sky that was just right, he told the story of how she'd said she had too much going on. So busy that it affected the way she interacted with people, she said, but that was it, really, no hard feelings.

Months later, the big reveal: No, that hadn't been the case after all.

I knew that line was coming.

The perks of growing up: illumination where there used to be mystery in the ways that people behave. And, especially, in the ways they avoid, skirt around, try to escape.

...

I opened up the NaNoWriMo document at 10:30 p.m. the past two nights and went to work immediately. By midnight, I had over the recommended 1,667.

It's not a sprint, but certainly a brisk run. And I'm really enjoying it.

The first year I signed on for NaNo, I didn't actually go through with it. I had vague notions of finishing my thesis in that month. Extracurricular activities and jobs (see above: avoidance), as well as a general sense of despair toward the story, kept me from doing so.

Also, I was a snob: Who can really turn out a quality novel that quickly? What's the point of putting forth something shoddy? It's not for me, no.

Last year, my job situation was in flux and I knew I really ought to spend more of my time writing, anyway, so I jumped in four days late and made it to the finish. And I enjoyed myself immensely along the way. Former snob, now convert.

This year's goals, besides finishing (that's what she...): Allowing myself to be playful with language. Remembering that I can write in the third person past tense. Experimenting. Yes, more of that.

...

Last night's final line:

"She was the one who had the potential to be dangerous."

...

#309: On a recommendation, "Colours" by Grouplove
#310: Crystal Castles ft. Robert Smith, "Not In Love"
#311: "Bigger Than Us," White Lies

NaNoWriMo Day 1, or Finish What You Started

If I say I'm going to do something, and I have multiple witnesses, I will do it.

Running a race. Keeping a blog. Visiting a country. Writing a novel.

Others will start with me. They will not all make it. I will.

It's just who I am.

Except that today, I almost didn't get there. Seven hundred and seven words into the novel, I thought, Screw it. Do that nonfiction book instead. In fact, maybe write nothing at all, since what's dribbling out isn't doing anything for me.

I opened a new document and started to write an essay about Mark Sanchez, although I didn't get to Mark just yet. I wrote my way over to him, and the process wasn't too painful, and just when I arrived, I decided that I'd give the novel another try. Why not.

Weep not, Mark. We'll meet again in .docx form.

I conclude today at 1,691 words. The story may eventually be parceled into parts and shopped around, it may work magnificently as a whole, it may be nada, but I'm doing something. Not just talking about writing, or thinking about how I ought to submit, or letting ideas romp around. I am actively writing outside of this space, and I've needed more of that lately.

What are you doing? Will you stop, or do you have the endurance for the journey?

...

#308: Pitbull, "Pump It Up"

12:12 on 11/1/11

NaNo. It's happening!

More Lore

Happy Halloween!

After middle school, I was never a tremendous fan of Halloween. I felt silly trick-or-treating and, as high school progressed, found that I'd rather dress as Frodo Baggins than a hooker.

In college, turns out students are nutso about Halloween. Crazier than I ever was as a kid.

I also learned in college that I'm not a huge fan of holidays where I feel socially obligated to do something. I'm not talking about doing good for the sake of the world. I'm talking about big, public plans that will provide fodder for Facebook photos and OMG that night was the best lulz.

In the aftermath, the subtle implication: if you weren't doing it up like us, you clearly weren't having fun. And if you weren't having fun, well, you just don't know how to enjoy life.

But eventually I decided to roll with it.

Turns out I was meant to bond with these girls:

Beth will kill me if she sees this. Hi, Beth!

...

As the youngins gear up to head out, I wonder which story I'll tell tomorrow.

I have several novel ideas in mind, but I can't stay that one is winning favor over the others.

Last year, I was very clear on the story I wanted to pursue. This year, there are options:

1. YA novel
2. Adult novel
3. YA fantasy novel
4. Novel in short stories

I've never done the latter two, which intrigues me. However, I feel that the fantasy novel deserves more planning and thinking than I've yet to grant it.

I really liked the "novel in short stories" idea last night and this morning. There would be a common theme and connections from story to story. Except the theme started to depress me, and I haven't even begun writing it yet. Hmm.

Then there's another option:

     5. A collection of creative nonfiction essays, also on a common theme.

Is that considered cheating?

I've actually thought about this collection (there's a list in a notebook somewhere) and felt quite excited about it. However, as with much of my recent writing, I've been poking around rather than digging in.

What sayeth the bloggerverse?

...

#307: "Tubular Bells," Mike Oldfield

And in honor of the holiday: Rocky Horror Picture Show, "The Time Warp"

Whose line is it, anyway?

I know it's still October, but my mind's already in January.

Wake up, wake up, wake up.

...

Signs of a productive evening: changing profile photos on my various Internet locales. Spent far too much energy reducing and reducing a photo for the NaNoWriMo profile page, and after successfully doing so, the page's view box cut off my head. Sexy.

But I don't think I will change this blog's avatar. Not the large photo on the right, but the small photo that appears when I log into the Dashboard and comment on blogs. The girl in the purple leotard, upside down on the low bar.

I remember the exact competition and the precise skill. I never loved uneven bars. It was something to get through rather than to savor. Not like floor, which I loved to compete, and beam, which I loved to practice.

In the photo, I am in the midst of a skill I sometimes missed in the season. Didn't make it up high enough and had to swing back down and turn around quickly. My teammates would clap but the judges knew it was a mistake.

But that night, with my friends cheering from the front row of the bleachers, as one of the first girls to compete, I hit that handstand and knew I would make it over to the other side. Just the way I intended.

And when I landed, there was applause.

...
#305: Toby Keith, "Red Solo Cup," in honor of college students everywhere
#306: AWOLNATION, "Sail"

Life advice at 7 a.m.:

"Don't drive too fast, but don't drive too slowly."

...

From Twitter:

"Resign yourself to the lifelong sadness that comes from never being satisfied." - Zadie Smith

...

Sounds from the sideways rainforest in honor of a rainy day:

...

#304: Amy Winehouse, "You Know I'm No Good"

The satisfyingly slow sound

in the quiet night of your just-repaired car exhaling. But this is no normal sigh. This is the continuous whoosh of all the air seeping out, quite literally.

It's too late. But you crouch down anyway, wrap the sweatshirt over your fingers, begin working your way out of this.

...

#296: Katie Herzig, "Lost and Found"
#297: Katie Herzig, "Wish You Well"
#298: Katie Herzig, "I Will Follow"
#299: The Killers, "Boots"
#300: Yes, "Arriving UFO"
#301: The Killers, "Tranquilize"
#302: The Killers, "Shadowplay"
#303: Sea Wolf, "Winter Windows." I found this song by typing "hipster music" into the search.

Is the year really running out? Already?

PR: Into the Rainforest

We headed out to El Yunque a little wiser and a little savvier. We knew that if we saw a time posted somewhere, we shouldn't believe it.

But could we trust signs with unicorns?

The road rose into the mountains. The lanes narrowed and the curves spun us in and out of thick greenery as we climbed up, up...

We were in the rainforest now.

The map showed dotted lines that indicated hiking trails. My goal for the day was to swim at the base of a waterfall, which we'd heard we could do. Thus we began to walk.

Yokahu Observation Tower.

The ocean, a world away.



As we walked, we heard the coquis chirping. But we saw little wildlife. No flapping of wings through the palms. No monkeys swinging from the vines. Turns out no monkeys live there. Instead, it was the trees that climbed over us and the fog that met us as we moved higher.

And the rain.

...

Blogger is a little feisty in regards to how many photos I'm attempting to upload, so I will pause here and instead catch up a bit with musics.

#291: "Put Your Hands Where My Eyes Can See," Busta Rhymes
#292: "Gangsta Nation," Westside Connection
#293: "Guantanamera," Julio Iglesias
#294: "This City," Patrick Stump
#295: "Spotlight (Oh Nostalgia)," Patrick Strump

Yessss!

Just found the YA fantasy novel I started when I was ~16!

Dusting it off for NaNoWriMo? I think so, babycakes.

Intro to Puerto Rico, Part 2

There was no time to waste the next day. We woke up and drove to the east coast town of Fajardo, using our signals although others did not.

I'm glad we rented a car, for then we were able to see the Puerto Rico that, I suspect, is much more a reality than the sun-bathed hotels on the ocean.

Once in Fajardo, we scampered over to the ferry bound for Culebra.

The last ferry.

In Culebra, we learned more lessons:

1. On the mainland, the brochure in the terminal says that the return ferry times are 1 and 5 pm.
2. On Culebra, they tell you that it's actually 3 and 7 pm.
3. The ferry departed Culebra at 4 pm.

I also learned a life lesson:

1. Although I am not, by nature, a beach person (I'd rather frolic on the sand at night, or go swimming, than lie in the sun for hours), that can change under the right circumstances.

Flamenco Beach. Unreal.

We eventually paused for lunch:

Refueled, we made our way over to the Sherman tanker. The beach was once used by the U.S. Navy/Marines for "military exercises," quoth Wikipedia. The guidebook led us to believe that the beach was, in Lena's words, "littered with Sherman tankers." We saw two. But as Matthew pointed out, compared to a normal beach, "littered" works.

And so we frolicked until it was time to wait for the phantom three o'clock ferry.

...

Tonight on the radio, I caught bits of two stations meshed together. The mash-up of these particular songs was quite wonderful: "Just A Kiss" by Lady Antebellum, promoting chastity, and "Only the Good Die Young," in which our hero Billy Joel does his best to dissuade that Catholic girl.

#286: "Sexy and I Know It," LMFAO

#287: "Diamond Eyes," Deftones

#288: "You've Seen the Butcher," Deftones

#289: "I Would Do Anything For You," Foster the People

#290: "Dreamtime," Sunburns

Intro to Puerto Rico, Part One

Prior to journeying to the PR, you can see that I was up to all sorts of shenanigans.

Namely, watching The Office on Lena's iPhone in her car.

But we navigated morning traffic, slim seats, and small patches of turbulence for a new adventure. One that led us to Burger King chicken wraps, wild left turns, and a room with a view.

Not actually our room, but nearby!

From the get-go, we learned three valuable rules of the Puerto Rican highway:

1. Nobody signals.
2. Nobody is afraid to turn, switch lanes, or wiggle in front of you.
3. Few people seem to honk in protest. This is not NYC, lean-on-your-horn-into-the-night. They're comfortable with this aggressive way.

But there would be more of that in the coming days. For now, it was time to enjoy a calm, warm ocean. No stones in the sand. For the first time, real tropical warmth.

...

Omg, less than twenty songs behind!

I won't get all caught up tonight. But I'll make a start:

#281: Andra ft. Pitbull, "Something New"

#282: Kaskade ft. Mindy Gledhill, "Eyes"

#283: Flo Rida and Avicii, "Good Feeling"

#284: Lil Wayne ft. Drake and Birdman, "See Right Thru"

#285: B.o.B. ft. Lil Wayne, "Strange Clouds"



lulls

So what's the next adventure?

...

In the interim, learning how to use the Snipping Tool has enhanced my p.c. experience.

...

#280, "Storm Warning," Hunter Hayes

Return the favor

(That's what she...)

I've become annoyed when folks ask to read my work (namely Mexico, as many friends have been told of it), and then I send it to them, and the rest is silence.

At first, I thought this was because they read it and found it so terrible that they didn't dare mention it again. This is certainly possible. But there's another reality: people just haven't read it.

They're under no obligation to read the work, of course. Or to enjoy it upon reading. But now I will assert myself. If I send it, I will ask, "What part are you up to? What do you think so far?" The litmus test. I'm not going to wait around in silence.

But this means that I have to man up and read what's sent to me by friends. I too have been a slacker on this front. I receive attachments, and then I tend to forget about them.

So here we go. Building up the reader's karma.

...

Here's a cute chipmunk.

Nom nom nom

...

Here are less than twenty songs!

#277: Edens Edge, "Amen"
#278: David Guetta with Sia, "Titanium"
#279: Sia, "Soon We'll Be Found"

Sooner rather than later,

I'd like to try my hand at writing a love story. Of course, there will be complications and probably a lengthy courtship. But maybe there will be a better ending for this duo than some of my past pairs.

Like this happy, healthy, totally realistic couple.

...

How many consecutive days can I go without the need for a twenty-song-catch-up list?

#276: "Somebody That I Used to Know," Gotye

I know I'm a little late to the party on this,

but I'm slightly obsessed with Pam and Jim.

Judge away! I don't care!

...

Also, I'm now using Facebook's "ticker" to creep on what people are listening to on Spotify, though I don't use the service myself. Here's one:

#275: "Stay With Me, Baby," Terry Reid

Preliminary research shows that

my 2011 NaNoWriMo novel will likely take place in or around Steamboat Springs, Colorado.

As Deana would say, "So majestic."

I feel good this week. Making the time to make things happen. Running up that hill.

I'm also, finally, being proactive with the YA novel. Señor Tony did the first read-through and now the Bahlin' one has taken on the task. Though neither is the target audience, I know they'll have astute feedback.

I want to get that story out into the world.

...

And now, we dance:
#262: "Glass," Thompson Square
#263: "Getaway Car," Thompson Square
#264: "Find Out Who Your Friends Are," Tracy Lawrence
#265: "Helena Beat," Foster the People
#266: "Solar Sailer," Daft Punk
#267: "Raise Your Weapon," Deadmau5
#268: "I Might," Wilco
#269: "You and I," Wilco
#270: "Moving to Mars," Coldplay
#271: "Sing Out," The Grand Magnolias
#272: "American Dreams," Paul McDonald
#273: "Welcome to the Black Parade," My Chemical Romance
#274: "Tattoos On This Town," Jason Aldean

all work and no play makes Jack...

All of this work has helped me get a better grasp of what it is I like to do, and what it is I tolerate, and then the final category, what it is I do not want to pursue.

This comes in handy because I like to maintain the childlike sense that Well, I can do whatever I choose to do. That could be true, besides being a professional male basketball player or algo asi.

But I am honing in on the realization of which tasks I prefer over others within my fields of writing and living. That, although I succeed at them, I don't need to do the things that make me wake up in the morning and realize, Damn, I need to do that today and then Oh, God.

...

In keeping with labor, a sudden fond flash to the RA life: "managing" the "Quiet Study Lounges." The lounges were used, on average, by about two people per semester. Tough times.

buckle down

(Buckle up? I suppose that's the appropriate metaphor for an adventure.)

Sunday morning. Back to work. But the kind of work where you don't need to leave, except if you want to, and you don't need the professional pants or the heels that ache after twenty minutes. You also don't need a bag full of your life for the rest of the day at 10 am: notes for here, notes for there, textbooks and essays, water and lunch and snack and possibly dinner, a change of clothes, a laptop charger. You feel a whole lot of things, including despair and anxiety and envy, but you don't feel exhausted.

This is a start.

contact solution, 1:30 a.m.

I am confident that tonight, I am the only customer here.

The soft whine of floor cleaners. Every lantern shut above every register. Even so, these aisles are comfortable. I move from mouthwash to toothpaste and wonder what they think, the few working tonight in their green uniforms: What is this girl looking for? Then: Where is she going?

.

Afterwards I dreamt of driving down a road without dotted yellows. Reeds lined the pavement and the fog and rain made headlights useless. I kept going, hoping nobody would come from the other direction.

Then something happened. The fog cleared. The rain came down more distinctly and the wipers worked to clear it away. But I could see the road now. I could see everything.

.

Read today about Oktoberfest: "refined bitterness"

.

#261: Thompson Square, "I Got You"

The curve and the clearing

Which do I do more of: working, or driving to work? Is it cyclical or am I moving upward (or downward)?

Regardless, I chose to drive by the bay this afternoon. I would take the extra two miles and the stop lights to see the sun on that stretch of water through the trees before the curve and the clearing, and I would do it again. She is singing out of one speaker in my car and so I stay tuned in.

I have to make this day count in some small way.

...

#260: Rascal Flatts, "Easy"

midnight cowboy

I hit that numbness on the drive home. That feeling when you've worked all day here there all over and you should feel relieved, maybe even a bit accomplished, but your mind's muted. Not a twitch in the hand or a foot. Pure stone at the wheel.

From somewhere in the night, a DJ presses "play" on the next song and it fills the car.

"It's all the same, only the names will change."

Windows rolled down a crack and the passing fields smell like bagels, and I don't know how that could be, but I do know that while this song plays, I am awake.

...

#259: Matt Nathanson, "Modern Love"

sudoku exposure

It makes me wonder: What's the story we're not telling?

I have posted about the story we're meant to tell. Is that the same one that, for whatever reason, we're not writing?

A friend of mine has primarily written poetry until recently. I told her several times that she ought to write a memoir, as she has the life experiences and the voice for one. Now she is. She says the writing is difficult for her, but when read, the words fly. It is an honest story, one that makes most sense in prose.

I don't know if it's necessary to bare it all. But are we keeping what makes us innately us from the page? If so, why? And will it one day find a way through?

...

"I used to play Sudoku. But a woman I worked with played it, and I hated her. So I stopped playing because I didn't want to have anything in common with her." - the D.Q.

...

#254: VNV Nation, "Genesis"
#255: Eric Church, "Homeboy"
#256: Eric Church, "Love Your Love the Most"
#257: Jason Aldean, "Big Green Tractor"
#258: Chris Brown and Justin Bieber, "Next 2 You." Yes, this just happened.

a day at the fair

The things we do for free T-shirts.

Soldier: "Are you interested in joining the Army?"
Me: "I'd like the exercise. I'm not really good with confrontation."

But I am good with size XL T-shirts.



///

#243: Journey, "Feeling That Way"
#244: Journey, "Anytime"
#245: Journey, "Lovin', Touchin', Squeezin'"
#246: Sparks, "This Town Ain't Big Enough For Both Of Us"
#247: Sparks, "When I'm With You"
#248: Bjork, "All Is Full of Love"
#249: Bjork, "Army of Me"
#250: Sonic Youth, "Superstar"
#251: Sonic Youth, "Do You Believe In Rapture?"
#252: Beck, "Where It's At"
#253: Whitesnake, "Love Will Set You Free"