agoraphobia

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

How now brown cow

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

Warming up to be a human.

Hey, blog, hey

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

S.O.S. SBS

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

I'm impressed.

Sustain Our School

The story that began it all:

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


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

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

longhorn

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


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

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

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

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

One.

(Unless you're Dom/Flo.)

Two.

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

All others better start running.

--

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

"Diana! You look darling!"

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

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

That's what I call a champion!

you see all the bad luck rinsed away

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

--

Dear Flo:

Your dreams are too big even for Tejas!

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

WHOA.

fruits and vegetables

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

a quarter after one

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

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

Whomping willows!

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

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

dynasties & di-nasty

I miss that sense of us against the world.

The other Cabo

Spring break plans:

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

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

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

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

Yeah. I went there!

True time compression

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

"Finals week

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

Destiny is calling me

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

your eyes are the size of the moon

I need a dream to affix myself to.

It's sitting by the overcoat

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