"Somethings gotta stop the flow"

I just saw a film. I want to insert an adjective like amazing, disturbing, heartwarming, dark, moving, or unpredictable. I don't know which one to choose, if any. I guess just Ink will do. I stumbled on it randomly, and almost didn't continue watching past a few minutes.

I decided to keep it playing after reading comments posted on Hulu's site like: "From watching the first fifteen minutes, I didn't think this movie was going anywhere. But thank goodness I didn't have anything else to do but watch the movie or else I would've missed a really great movie" and "it really took a while before the movie really picked up. This is one of those movies you'd really have to be patient with and stick with till you get it, otherwise, you'll miss how good it is in the end."

They were right. And I cried. Only two movies have ever made me cry (E.T. and The Secrets). I don't know if I want to watch it again any time soon. I just know I'm glad I watched it.

I just found this and thought it was lovely:

I'm staring at your words and absorbing them. I've taken them. I've swallowed them, but certainly not whole. Nobody can have all of your words, because I'm sure you're still thinking them. They just haven't made it to a piece of paper (or electronic confessional box) yet. And we can pretend to know one another, and I wonder how good or bad I am at pretending. I'm an awful liar, but wish I had time to try out for the spring production. Not because a play sounds terribly exciting, but just because I wonder what I can do. Do you ever wonder what you can do, where on the line of personal reality subjectivity becomes objectivity? I suppose it doesn't. So the me I know and the me you know--maybe they wouldn't even be friends. I wish I had your words in my hand. Not in my pocket, because they'd fall forgotten like all my lost dollars. Not in my mind, because there's too much swimming about (or maybe not enough) and your words will just drown one way or the other. Please place them in my hand, but not in the palm. Lay letters that shy away from non-ironic alliteration onto my fingertips. Symbols. I see you, but you're just symbolic of a friend I'd like to know. I'm going to stop staring at your words now.

One more final left

Fuck yeah.

From the Human Rights Campagin:

Great news today: marriage equality has just passed in Washington, D.C.!

It's a huge victory, and you should be proud – your support allowed us to invest tremendous staff time and resources into this fight. We did it, and I can't thank you enough.

But before we celebrate, I need your help. You may have heard that in a blatantly political move to prevent this vote the Catholic Archdiocese of Washington last month threatened to cut their social service programs if the bill passed.

I'm not making this up. They'd cut homeless shelters, food programs for needy families, and health services rather than provide equal benefits for employees in same-sex marriages. And now that the bill has passed, we need to make sure they don't follow through on their threat.

Tell Archbishop Wuerl not to play politics with the less fortunate – ask him to continue Catholic Charities' city-supported social services.

The Archbishop issued a very public threat last month designed to scare city officials into backing off their commitment to marriage equality.

Thankfully, heroic D.C. Council members in Washington didn't cave under pressure. They spoke numerous times with church officials in an effort to reach common ground, while moving forward with the legislation. But unfortunately, Archbishop Wuerl has refused to alter his official position.

The D.C. Council has stood up for fairness and equality. Now they need our help to make sure the neediest citizens of the city aren't forced to pay an unfair and cruel price.

Please ask the Archbishop not to use marriage equality as an excuse to hurt thousands of homeless and needy people in Washington, D.C.

Today's victory means a great deal, coming after marriage equality losses in New York and Maine. The bill now goes to the Mayor Adrian Fenty, who has promised to sign it. The U.S. Congress then has 30 days to review the legislation. After that window passes, the bill becomes law!

We will keep you updated as the bill progresses – and we will have to be vigilant even after the bill becomes law because the U.S. Congress can choose to intervene and overturn the law at any time – a loophole the radical right is bound to try to exploit.

For now, I thank you for standing strong – not only for marriage equality, but for all the citizens of Washington, D.C. during the holiday season.

Buddhist quote

In fact, everything we encounter in this world with our six senses is an inkblot test. You see what you are thinking and feeling, seldom what you are looking at.
Shiqin

This is intelligence?

Quiz result:

"Your strongest type of intelligence is Interpersonal. You thrive when thinking about people, social situations, and human interaction.

Your brain is roughly:

40% Interpersonal

20% Visual

30% Verbal

10% Mathematical"

Spring semester classes

In-depth reporting
I don't think I'll find this class very interesting, but it should still be somewhat enjoyable since Mennard is teaching it. One of my goals it improve my writing (I haven't figured out how yet), so maybe this will help. Then again, it probably won't.

Crises Public Relations
I know I usually try to avoid crises, but maybe this could be fun. I have no idea what sort of work or projects this will entail. Probably creating a crises plan for a fictional/local organization, but I don't even really know what that means. Oh, and it's a Mesnard class--I love her grading style. This is a plus.

Public Relations Campaigns
Jacque is teaching this (old boss--well not old, because she's young. Former?)! I'm pretty excited on one hand, but nervous on the other. What if I do bad? I'm not exactly the best student, and I hate it when that becomes painfully apparent to people I admire (read: I just feel like this might be Institutional Development all over again).

Approaches to World Lit
This will be my first Fitts class. Scared? Check. Ready to have my papers act as a canvas for his red pen? Check. Ready to hopefully learn a shit-ton? Check (I hope). One reason I'm actually super stoked about this class: I'll finally get to read the rest of Gilgamesh!

Technical Writing & Grant Proposals
I feel like I will learn to hate this class, but find it incredibly useful. I need to ask Mennard (yeah, I can't imagine him teaching this class either. It doesn't sound fun enough.) if we could integrate a project for Tiny Hands into the homework or special credit.

Conflict and Peacemaking
SO SO SO SO SO STOKED! Yeah, that was all-caps. With no punctuation (not that I ever use it right anyway). I've been wanting to take this class since my freshman year. Will it live up to my expectations? Probably not. Will I enjoy it anyway? Hell yeah. I just hope Mr. Blake treats this like--well, anything other than the last class I took from him. Editing wasn't so much fun.

------

I'm excited for next semester. I know each time I say I'm going to do well, but this time I really, really mean it. I've already told Chelsi my purposed schedule:

Mon-Thurs: nights, homework.
Fri night: Me-time.
Saturdays: (maybe church) homework.
Saturday night: Chelsi-time.
Sunday: (maybe Unitarian Church) homework.

I can do this. As long as I don't let myself slack off for a single assignment (because that's really how it starts), I should be able to save both my grades and my mind at the end of the semester.

Best ever:

"Today, I wore a red shirt to class. My history professor, in the middle of his lecture, stopped and pretended to shoot me. Playing along, I fell out of my chair and played dead. He then, with a completely expressionless face, told the class that if Star Trek taught us anything, it was to never wear red. He then went back to his lecture as if nothing happened. It was then that I knew I had picked the right college. MLIA"

"Let's pretend to be grown up, aware, adventurous."

Their laughter reflects awareness of an audience. Do they play the full-house to each other, or do we (sitting behind, invisible, preoccupied, silent)?

FML.

You'd think that in my third year of college, I would have learned to manage time and responsibilities. Why do I always do this to myself? I don't know how I'm going to salvage my rhetoric grade (or what's going to happen with my women & minority writer's grade). The irony? They are my two favorite classes and the two I've learned the most in. My engagement? 100 percent. Papers finished (or finish-able)? Fuck.

Not only am I concerned about having shitty grades, but getting lower than a C in Rhetoric would mean I'll have to re-take it. I can't afford that.

I thought this year would be different. At first, I was doing great. Then I met Chelsi and got behind. That new trend didn't end, just progressed despite efforts against it (not that it wasn't my fault, because it completely was. Including the reason my efforts weren't successful in the end; they fluctuated). I don't know how to deal. My mind feels a little bit like burnt, dried out toast. And it's not from drugs. Unless stress and papers are considered drugs. If so, maybe I should go to rehab.

You sing about touching the sky, instead of implications. Nobody sings about implications.

There are concepts floating around my mind, bumping into each other with such force I'm surprised each are not shattered. TropeofMarginalityEssentialismOriginoftheUniverseSymbolicViolenceCriticalRaceTheory...

The infinite lines they create press hard, through, down, around, beneath me. Can you feel the pressure building? Because once knowledge arrives, the force to do something about it quickly follows. Usually, however, the how remains MIA.

What's the Matter by Catie Curtis

I love this town you can see the stars at night
Even from downtown ‘cause there are no city lights
This town was my biggest fan
‘Til I was who I am

What’s the matter
What’s the matter
All I ask is why be afraid of this girl
What’s the matter
What’s the matter
All I ask is why be afraid of this world

I love this town the moon is dancing on the waves
And in the bars half of them are underage
People let a lot slip by
When they look a lot alike

What’s the matter
What’s the matter
All I ask is why be afraid of this girl
What’s the matter
What’s the matter
All I ask is why be afraid of this world

What if I am Black or Jew
Straight or queer mother of two
Run around in a hippie dress
Ride my bike in a leather vest
What’s the matter

I love this town where I climbed the apple trees
And that was me cheering for the hometown team
I’ve got something to give
In this town where I want to live

So what’s the matter
What’s the matter
All I ask is why be afraid of this girl
What’s the matter
What’s the matter
All I ask is why be why be
What’s the matter
What’s the matter
All I ask is why be afraid of this world
Why be afraid

I'll never get this life thing down to a science.

The Perks of Being a Wallflower is sitting on my bookshelf, pressed tightly against The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

An hour ago, Jordan* posted a quote from Wallflower on his facebook page. I find the world's dancing, twisting, looping, tangled up humor quite interesting.

Kalvin, the only person I've ever loved, gave me Wallflower while we were still dating. The only other person I've been so utterly crazy about was Alanna (which is slightly ridiculous if you compare longevity of each relationship). I still haven't returned her copy of Unbearable Lightness. She placed the worn pages in my hand before flying off to El Salvidor for a summer spent building walls. It's not that I want to keep the text. It's a great novel, but I'd rather she take her books** back and return my orange-splashed painting. When relationships end, it becomes harder to get rid of whatever the other person gave you.

She, along with Kalvin, stay on my shelf. Perched. Looking down. The books are a photograph of twins formed from contrasting and inverted colors. Yet, Alanna's books don't just look--they touch (or punch?). She's still around, and enough time hasn't passed yet to make that fact irrelevant (unlike Kalivn). Often I wish she'd take back her memories, or at least the visual reminders of them.

I read somewhere that humans naturally search for and find connections where there are none. Of course, I see connections leading from Jordan's post as if they legitimately exist (I don't know that they're necessarily ironic, but I feel the same affects as if it were ironic humor). Here is a picture of how my mind is connecting ideas and events:

(Realized I liked girls -->) Jordan (gay) --> Kalvin (love) --> figure out I'm gay --> Alanna --> Jordan's quote --> Kalvin's book --> Alanna's book --> continue cycle.

And while these memories sometimes float to the surface of my thoughts, I wouldn't return to either Kalvin or Alanna. I'm happy. I don't often think of either of them. Some days, however, I see connections between events in my past that I can't ignore. I'm dropped, plopped and pushed back into the past with dates and feelings swirling like the vegan hot chocolate I'm about to make.

Now that I've expelled my thoughts, I bet I'll stop thinking about everything I wrote as soon as I hit "publish post." Once I express a (negative) feeling, it typically dissolves more rapidly than some chemistry experiment. Then again, what do I know about chemistry?

*I dated Jordan (very, very briefly) when I was thirteen or fourteen, and is the second guy I've been romantically connected to that's come out as gay once we matured.


**I also have her vegan cookbook.

Sleepless by Kate Havnevik*

Catch me as I fly
Passing by at night
Watch me as I go, outside
It's another world
When the moon is high
And the walking keeps,
Me breathing

Sleepless,
I shouldn't be here
Sleepless,
Twenty-four hours of searching

Down the narrow streeets
I can feel the breeze
Going small and tired, like me
Drink some more of this
Feel the morning bliss
Songs of airplanes in my head

Sleepless,
I shouldn't be here
Sleepless,
Twenty-four hours
Sleepless,
I have I have to keep walking
Sleepless,
Twenty-four hours of searching
Searching for my life

Sleepless,
Sleepless,
Oh sleepless,
Sleepless,
Sleepless


(*I finally was able to fall asleep this morning a little bit after 6 a.m. Insomnia sucks.)

I seem to be a very strong mix of archetypes 7 & 8

8 - the Asserter

My Enneagram type is EIGHT (aka "The Challenger").

"I must be strong"

Asserters are direct, self-reliant, self-confident, and protective.

How to Get Along with Me

• Stand up for yourself... and me.

• Be confident, strong, and direct.

• Don't gossip about me or betray my trust.

• Be vulnerable and share your feelings. See and acknowledge my tender, vulnerable side.

• Give me space to be alone.

• Acknowledge the contributions I make, but don't flatter me.

• I often speak in an assertive way. Don't automatically assume it's a personal attack.

• When I scream, curse, and stomp around, try to remember that's just the way I am. (I don't really do much, if any, of that).

What I Like about Being an EIGHT

• being independent and self-reliant

• being able to take charge and meet challenges head on

• being courageous, straightforward, and honest

• getting all the enjoyment I can out of life

• supporting, empowering, and protecting those close to me

• upholding just causes

What's Hard about Being an EIGHT

• overwhelming people with my bluntness; scaring them away when I don't intend to

• being restless and impatient with others' incompetence

• sticking my neck out for people and receiving no appreciation for it

• never forgetting injuries or injustices (I don't really hold grudges. Except maybe against people like Hitler).

• putting too much pressure on myself

• getting high blood pressure when people don't obey the rules or when things don't go right

EIGHTs as Children Often

• are independent; have an inner strength and a fighting spirit

• are sometimes loners (this really only applied when I couldn't get my nose out of a good book)

• seize control so they won't be controlled

• figure out others' weaknesses (I have no idea if this was true or not, same with next two)

• attack verbally or physically when provoked

• take charge in the family because they perceive themselves as the strongest, or grow up in difficult or abusive surroundings

EIGHTs as Parents

• are often loyal, caring, involved, and devoted

• are sometimes overprotective

• can be demanding, controlling, and rigid

7 - the Adventurer
My Enneagram type is SEVEN (aka "The Enthusiast").

"I am happy and open to new things"

Adventurers are energetic, lively, and optimistic. They want to contribute to the world.

How to Get Along with Me

• Give me companionship, affection, and freedom.

• Engage with me in stimulating conversation and laughter.

• Appreciate my grand visions and listen to my stories.

• Don't try to change my style. Accept me the way I am.

• Be responsible for youself. I dislike clingy or needy people.

• Don't tell me what to do.

What I Like About Being a SEVEN

• being optimistic and not letting life's troubles get me down

• being spontaneous and free-spirited

• being outspoken and outrageous. It's part of the fun.

• being generous and trying to make the world a better place

• having the guts to take risks and to try exciting adventures

• having such varied interests and abilities

What's hard about being a SEVEN

• not having enough time to do all the things I want

• not completing things I start

• not being able to profit from the benefits that come from specializing; not making a commitment to a career

• having a tendency to be ungrounded; getting lost in plans or fantasies

• feeling confined when I'm in a one-to-one relationship

SEVENs as Children Often

• are action oriented and adventuresome

• drum up excitement

• prefer being with other children to being alone

• finesse their way around adults

• dream of the freedom they'll have when they grow up

SEVENs as Parents

• are often enthusiastic and generous

• want their children to be exposed to many adventures in life

• may be too busy with their own activities to be attentive

Caramelo by Sandra Cisneros

"The soul never ages, the soul, ball of light tethered to that nuisance the body." (149)

"[A] life contains a multitude of stories and not a single strand explains precisely the who of who one is." (115)

"She and Soledad rolled homemade cigarettes, because cigarettes are what people need most when they are afraid." (134) What is America afraid of, we with our smokes and swagger?

"[Soledad] understood Eleuterio because she was as mute as he was, perhaps more so because she had no piano." (151)

"Wasn't a kiss the tug of a string, a ribbon, a dance, a thread looped and interlocked that began with the lips...?" (153)

"In that kiss, they swallowed one another, swallowed the room, the sky, darkness, fear, and it was beautiful to feel so much a part of everything and bigger than everything." (154)

From an Atlas of the Difficult World by Adrienne Rich

I know you are reading this poem
late, before leaving your office
of the one intense yellow lamp-spot and the darkening window
in the lassitude of a building faded to quiet
long after rush-hour. I know you are reading this poem
standing up in a bookstore far from the ocean
on a grey day of early spring, faint flakes driven
across the plains' enormous spaces around you.
I know you are reading this poem
in a room where too much has happened for you to bear
where the bedclothes lie in stagnant coils on the bed
and the open valise speaks of flight
but you cannot leave yet. I know you are reading this poem
as the underground train loses momentum and before running
up the stairs
toward a new kind of love
your life has never allowed.
I know you are reading this poem by the light
of the television screen where soundless images jerk and slide
while you wait for the newscast from the intifada.
I know you are reading this poem in a waiting-room
of eyes met and unmeeting, of identity with strangers.
I know you are reading this poem by fluorescent light
in the boredom and fatigue of the young who are counted out,
count themselves out, at too early an age. I know
you are reading this poem through your failing sight, the thick
lens enlarging these letters beyond all meaning yet you read on
because even the alphabet is precious.
I know you are reading this poem as you pace beside the stove
warming milk, a crying child on your shoulder, a book in your
hand
because life is short and you too are thirsty.
I know you are reading this poem which is not in your language
guessing at some words while others keep you reading
and I want to know which words they are.
I know you are reading this poem listening for something, torn
between bitterness and hope
turning back once again to the task you cannot refuse.
I know you are reading this poem because there is nothing else
left to read
there where you have landed, stripped as you are.

"Closer to Nowhere" by Jen Foster

Do you know who you are?
Do you ever think about it?
If you were told it`s a place
Would you drive until you found it?

Or would you turn down a street
That you know would lead to where you were before?
You call it home, but are you really sure
That`s your home?

Do you know what you want?
Have you ever reconsidered
What a trip we are on
And it`s the only ride we`re given?

If you could fly, would you try?
Would your feet stay firmly planted on the ground?
Can you explain why the only place you go
Is to waste?

Now you go to work and you work all day
You smoke and bitch on your coffee break
You tell some jokes to kill that time
Til the boss comes back and at the stroke of 5
You hit those bars, you have some drinks
You drown in all your long lost dreams
Oh no, you`re closer to nowhere

Do you know who you love?
Can you say those words with feeling?
Or when you look in those eyes
Is there someone else you`re seeing?

Do you dream of a day
You could take the love without running away?
What is it now? Do you need a little space?
Or are you wanting out?

Now you go to work and you work all day
You smoke and bitch on your coffee break
You grab that phone, rehearse those lines
Then you call home sayin` you gotta work tonight
You hit those bars, you buy some drinks
For the first one who looks good and thinks you`re cool
You`re closer to nowhere...

You fake it so well
Nobody can tell
You buy what they sell
You`re going places....

Now you go to work and you work all day
You smoke and bitch on your coffee break
You share your plans and you swear you`ll quit
Maybe next year or the year after it
You hit those bars, you have some drinks
You take those pills, you go to sleep
You wake up someday all alone
You realize another year is gone
You`re closer to nowhere

And all these signs will be your guides
But you must pay attention
And all the lights that line the sides
Are beautiful, don`t miss them...

You`re closer to nowhere...

Thereherethereheretherehere

Can you see me?
Over here.
Right here.

But for you,
it is there.

And nothing matters
but here.

(I hear in my mind all of this music, and it breaks my heart)

You're dreaming my life
or maybe it's just
living my dream

But if God exists,
I'd just be a figment
of her imagination

What else is reality
but a stream of words?
Representations
of thoughts, of meaning

(If God exists)
She spake, thought,
brought us into
existence
we're all probably
burrowed up in her brain

Her eyes stare through
Casiopia's brow
because heaven
surely doesn't lie
through Orion's belt
if God is a woman.

Then again,
if God were a woman
and she was dreaming my life
and your life
and the lives
of humanity

Well, someone surely
should wake her
from that awful
nightmare.

Oh Platteville.

I could never (again) live in a small town. I'm at my parent's house for Thanksgiving break and want to scream.

The only coffee shop around closes each evening at 5 p.m. and isn't open on Sundays. Also, everyone (from the college age boy in head-to-toe camo (who isn't out hunting by the way, apparently it's just the fashion)to the couple in the everyone-has-one pickup truck) act like they've never seen a girl with short hair before.

Not that Lincoln is a big city. It just doesn't shut down completely on Sundays and contains a bit of variety.

On the other hand, it's fantastic being off campus. I'm so sick of being known and knowing people at Union College. Beyond a few friends I've stayed in touch with, nobody knows me in Platteville. It's awesome. It reminds me of this summer in Lincoln, except that I'm not making a ton of random friends right now--just soaking in the anonymity.

I wouldn't mind the lack of new faces at Union College maybe if there were actually interesting ones to meet. A few weeks ago I started researching other (public) universities before I again resigned myself to staying at Union. Next year is my senior year, and it would be fiscally irresponsible to transfer.

Maybe if I had time to go downtown--go to shows, meet people who think about more than what Adventist job they want to wind up with--I wouldn't consider life so lackluster.

I feel like I've blogged about this before. Maybe I did. I don't know.

There are a lot of "I don't knows" lately. For instance, what will I do this summer if I can't go to Europe? The only way I can even consider going backpacking this summer is if I get into MDS studies before then. Maybe I could go backpacking for a month in the US/Canada and make it work financially? But that's not what I want. I want Europe, dangit. So, if I don't get to go to Europe where will I go?

I really want to move to some city where I don't know anyone (or just a couple of people at most). I'm aching for adventure and new ideas wearing new faces. Ashville? Back to Madison, but this time on the other side of town? Colorado? That place in Arizona (or New Mexico) I can't remember, but sounded cool? San Fran? Stay in Lincoln and get a job at Hudson Bay?

And what about me and Chelsi this summer? If we're not in the same city, what do I say? And if we are...do I want to be? (not that I don't like her, because obviously I do).

Of course, summer is a long way from now. I've got time, at least in that department. Maybe in the meantime I just need to get off campus more often and re-connect with summer friends (or make new ones).

Tiny Hands

There are hands caressing me
Shouts of ecstasy
Like a thousand
Quiet symbols
Breaking the silence
And I scream
My voice joining the chorus
Of a million other women
Feeling this same feeling
Feeling like this moment
Will last a lifetime

Because it does.
And oh god those hands
Cause me to pause
I’ve heard that when you take a lover
What’s mine is yours
But I know his hands will never be mine
But neither will mine—can I call them that?

I remember when the promise of a sparkling city
drove the dust of a childhood hometown
out of my eyes
and my future was clean, bright,
until the day I arrived
and met it.

See they told me in the city I’d find a wonderful job
With money falling from the sky
I could send it home to my parents
Who needed food more than
They needed one more daughter.

At first the work was torture
because I refused to cave
electric shocks
traveling my body
until I gave up
gave up my body

and then I met the men
some days it’s only 25
that touch me
fuck me
and some days its 40

and everyday they are old
but I am older
with words
that begin with nostalgia

“back in my day life was beautiful”

Except, back when I was six years old
And my presentday-owners were planning
On which little ones to
Steal, cajole, convince or simply purchase
Life was not beautiful
Because these rooms were already filled
with Nepalis girl
Just like me.

Sometimes I wonder what could happen
If I owned my own hands
What sort of difference I could make

But I am just another twelve-year-old sex slave.
These body parts do not belong to me.
I do not belong to me.

I stop feeling
When I realize nobody
knows I exist
Or cares.
Why do they study slavery in history when it still exists?
When it’s not the south in America, it’s the entire world
But India is not
And I am just one of millions

Today melds with tomorrow
Like his hands on my body
Caressing me,
Each touch more violent than the last.

I have tiny hands
But not as small
As the seven year old who
May replace me
When disease has stolen my body
Away from my owners
And thirty is the age on the tombstone
Nobody will erect.
Because it erects itself
He is my tombstone
But can’t you understand
That when you watch
With apathetic eyes
Each moment you’re hands
Lay passively at their sides
You throw more dirt on my grave

And when you make no effort
to release me from the cage I am kept in--a literal cage
with bars I’ve learned to breath through

You are the difference between saving
One girl at a time
And slaving one girl at a time

But it’s not just one girl
It’s me.
My name is Asha.
I have name.
And it is the only thing that is mine.

_____________________________

To learn more, visit the website of Tiny Hands International (a Lincoln-based organization dedicated to stopping human trafficking--one girl at a time)

title goes here (but you do not)

(for me: perhaps five
for them: perhaps five.

does that make everything
five by five?
No, it just makes it all a lie.)

I am not a poet
or a muse

yet I wonder at amusement
and the way our bodies serve
to park or drive
ambition

and what would happen if
libido disappeared
before it was conceived;
would any of us have
been?

to the top of heaven
in a golden chariot
made from sallow, starved flesh
(if only for touch
if only for hope)
of another human being
we found lovely in the waning light

Do lovers ever realize?
I've read words
scribed between the inches of skin
exposed like eyes

against the burst of winter winds

Or maybe
just a Writers Cafe
that remains static
like our friendship
(if only that word
existed outside of our vocabulary
because then it wouldn't exist,
he moaned)
or maybe just Facebook messages
about creeping into dreams.

Do lovers ever realize?
I've written words too.
Yet--
none of us
(I could say neither but I speak
for you too)
none of us
are muses,
except perhaps


Unfulfilled Desire
(I hear she's dreadfully inspiring)

How average is your life?

I just saw this on MLIA.

"Today, I was looking through the bumper stickers application on Facebook and I came across this sticker that said "if Pinocchio said his nose was about to grow, what would happen?" This was by far the most fascinating thing I've read all year. MLIA."

I would have to agree with the poster. And what would happen?

EDIT:

"The other day I learned that if you say 'beer can' with an English accent, you're saying 'bacon' with a Jamaican accent. Mind blown. MLIA."

My day just keeps getting better.

More for Me by Tegan and Sara

Had a bad day
As bad as they come
Time to get a real job
You gotta stop having fun
So I got a real job
I'm working nine to nine
I'm making five bucks an hour
'til the day I die
Got a straw inside of me
And it's filled just fine
Got a straw inside of me
With the strongest wine
Well I'm one third passion
And I'm two thirds pride
Said I used to have a life once
He said I used to like your smile once
Singing silence to the world
But the stars kept marching
He said silence to everyone
I said I'm still talking
Have you got some more deep inside of you
I'll always have more for me
I take a little more for me baby
I got a picture of the way
The world has summed me up
If I could have one wish
I sure wish that I had never grown up
I got a picture of the way I looked
When I was three
I came out laughing screaming dancing
I used to be free spirited
Now I'm just free of sleep
I got a burning passion in my throat
I got a burning passion inside me
I got a job that wastes my time and gift
I got a life that needs a serious lift
And all the things I wanted
Yes all the things I want
Go on and on and on and on
On and on and on and on
Well I go on
Silence to the world
But the stars keep marching
Silence to everyone
But I kept talking
Have you got some more deep inside of you
Yes I'll always have more more me
He says all the things I want they go
So I, I take a little more for me

Tell me, what are you afraid of?

For years I've had a very...strong aversion to wrists (the inner part). I hate even typing the word. It wasn't until last year in Intro to Psych that I realized it was an actual phobia--I just thought I was a bit off (although I suppose that means I am). I completely freak out if anyone touches mine (although I've gotten a lot better at controlling my reaction). I don't touch other people's. I don't look at them. I can't handle references (visible, audible) to them.

People always ask for explanations if they notice (and so I try very hard not to let them). How can I give an explanation when just thinking of the topic--the word--causes me too hyperventilate, clutch the vulnerable bits safely against my body and throw me in a wave of silly anxiety? If people keep trying to explore the topic after I've firmly (or a bit crazily) said that I most certainly don't want to talk about it, sometimes I even cry. STUPID.

I always thought I was the only one. I mean, who else could possibly have such a random, ridiculous phobia?

Apparently, a whole horde of people. I could barely get through their stories--it was as though they crawled into my mind and emotions, spitting out everything for the world to see.

As far as I could gather from internet sources, the phobia name is carpophobia (sometimes spelled karpophobia).

I hear there's a shrink on campus. I sort of want to see if she has any experience dealing with phobias. On the other hand, dealing with it means thinking about it--and thinking about it means the reaction I'm having right now (if only you could see me).

"Fear is that little darkroom where negatives are developed."
Michael Pritchard


"What are fears but voices airy?
Whispering harm where harm is not.
And deluding the unwary
Till the fatal bolt is shot!"
Wordsworth

meaningless.

Your eyes are white
Round drops of snow
Like I drop her name
In casual conversation
Because I hate the way you
Ask
“Are you going to banquet?”
As if it means
“Do you have a boyfriend?
And I wonder if the whiteness
Is really blindness
(no, my facebook relationship status is not a joke mr.—fill in the blank—)
But then he asks
And I tell
And the vice president of student services
(don’t I pay your bills?)
Wants me to know that
She knows gasp
That I’m gay
so I pull out my
anger
backtalk
piece
peace
nod and say
“Yes, ma-am—-we won't act like a couple in public.
No, we won't sit too close.
Of course sex should be kept for marriage”
But I wonder if she realizes that’ll take a move to Iowa
And well
Union College
Isn’t in Iowa.
And I bet
Even in Iowa
the whites of their eyes
Would still be showing.

Astronomy test tomorrow

"It's never too late - in fiction or in life - to revise." Nancy Thayer

"I tried to stop smoking cigarettes by telling myself I just didn’t want to smoke, but I didn’t believe myself." Barbara Kelly

"Whenever I think to quit smoking, I need a cigarette to think." P.K.

"Nobody trips over mountains. It is the small pebble that causes you to stumble. Pass all the pebbles in your path and you will find you have crossed the mountain." Unknown

Linkage.

Haha, this facebook group (parody) is awesome. It reminds me of Questions for Heterosexuals.

So silly: the whole idea that someone can hate true (aka non-destructive, reciprocated) love, in the name of Love (G-d is Love, no?). Seems a bit contradictory to me--then again so does my decision to remain at Union College.

On another note, this website still manages to rock my world.

grading life.

I've just spent the last six hours working on Amnesty stuff (and not getting too terribly much done; mostly officer job descriptions). I should have spent it working on my two papers due...last week. Luckily there are grace periods, but I still shouldn't have wasted all that time.

Is it a waste? Maybe Amnesty will grow because of all the effort--and save lives. That's certainly not a waste. Or maybe it will do nothing to eliminate apathy--and then will I still feel grades were fine to sacrifice?

Lady by Regina Spektor

Lady sing the blues so well
as if she mean it
as if it's hell down here
in the smoke filled world
where the jokes are cold, they don't laugh at jokes
they laugh at tragedies

corner street societies
but they believe her
they never leave her while she sings
she make them feel things

she says "I can sing this song so blue
that you will cry in spite of you
little wet tears on your baby's shoulder
little wet tears on your baby's shoulder

and I have walked these streets so long
there ain't nothin' right, there ain't nothin' wrong
but the little wet tears on my baby's shoulder
little wet tears on my baby's shoulder"

Lady lights a cigarette, puffs away, no regrets
takes a look around, no regrets no regrets
stretches out like branches of a poplar tree
says "I am free", sings so soft as if she'll break

says "I can sing this song so blue
that you will cry in spite of you
little wet tears on your baby's shoulder
little wet tears on your baby's shoulder

and I have walked these streets so long
there ain't nothin' right, nothin' wrong
but the little wet tears on my baby's shoulder
little wet tears on my baby's shoulder
but on this stage I've learned to fly
learned to sing and learned to cry
little wet tears on my baby's shoulder
little wet tears on my baby's shoulder

but now it's time to say goodbye
some might laugh, but I will surely cry
little wet tears on my baby's shoulder
little wet tears on my baby's shoulder"

Lady lights a cigarette
puffs away
and winter comes
and she
forgets

Building by Audre Lorde

Gloria has a permit
to change the earth
plucks flies
from the air
while discussing
revolution
is taken for local
in a lot
of different places.

She sat kitty-corner in a coffee shop

You roll your eyes. Conspicuous yet subtle with blue cloth wrapped around your head.
“Don’t stare at me. I’m just another American,” says the secret language of your body
The way your accent lies flat—Nebraskan.

A stranger at home.

I don’t know who you worship. Is your head covering called a burka? Are you hindu?

I keep my eyes downcast. Locked to the keyboard.

Your conversation with a normalboy seems a normaldate. You hate the way people watch you as if your entire existence is abnormal.

I wonder if your name is Abby or more exotic. What counts as exotic?

Again, you catch my eyes wandering
You are a picture from national geographic, stuck on a seat in the local coffee shop.

You hate that I stare—and we’re aware of each other. No attraction, no beauty—just cold difference melded into curiosity.

You consider yourself the curiosity, and have little patience.

You must not watch the gossiping eyes follow me to the counter. My head covering, betraying me another stranger at home, is shorn close to the sides.

Lesbian. Hindu.

Whatever.

You think I stare because we are so different.
And we are.
(thank you Union College.
thank you WASP community.)

But appearances are deceiving.

You roll your eyes.

Spoken Word

How many steps do I need to take till I touch you?
Till you and I are on the same page,
reading the same novel about a girl and a girl,
or a boy and a girl
or a boy and a boy?

Alice tells me we’re all connected,
six straight lines pulling taut the names of would-be strangers.
Facebook groups claim
there are six acquaintances between me and the president.
Alfred, dear Kinsey, described six degrees of sexuality lying between me
and Billy Graham.
But who can say for certain that we're so different?

And who can say anyone else is a stranger? We could share a mother, somewhere along the line—even if it’s not ours.

But we sit far apart in wooden chairs,
opposite sides of the same room.

Your eyes are closed.
Not noticing colorful auras not in contact with your own
Not noticing disease drifting in through broken windows—
until it climbs, harsh and quiet, into the dark cavern
of your cousin’s lungs.

Your best friend died last week.
But I didn’t know her.
I don’t know you.
I am resting in the world, the rest of humanity
Tell me why should I care?

Why shouldn't I exclaim,

“That retarded, gay, lame test just raped me. It was a massacre.”

How can a test be mentally challenged, homosexual, disabled?

Please explain how a piece of paper can strip me of my freedom, put the mace in my bag, lock my doors, lock my legs, lock my heart, break the barrier held up against horror.

Tell me how an examination can murder—not be the motivation, but actually hold in its non-existent hand a gun to my twenty-year-old head.

Tell me how a series of questions for a college level course can do the damage of Hitler. Tell my grandmother, who fled before Jewish Germany became Nazi Germany. Before millions invisible and unknown became millions dead.

Yes, we say, that test was brutal.

And these are just terms, slang, no real slurs. There is no malicious intent. No one I know can be hurt by them.

No one I know.
And I don’t know you.

You're not in my world,
the tiny realities each of us are trapped in.

Tell me how many stories, details about your life must be told
before I begin to care.

How far away from me do I need to get till I can love you, a stranger?

Tell me, how many steps do I need to take till I touch you?

I//
I hear it’s just six.

Beautifully by Jay Brannan

Well, she'll burn that bridge
And build a house
And swallow the smoke in her mouth
She'll feel the burn
And then make the choice
To put the fire in her voice

Dinner at the Who’s Who by Laure-Anne Bosselaar

amidst swirling wine
and flickers of silver guests quote
Dante, Brecht, Kant and each other.

I wait in the hall after not
powdering my nose, trying to re-
compose that woman who’ll

graciously take her place
at the table and won’t tell her hosts:
I looked into your bedroom

and closets, smelled your
“Obsession” and “Brut,” sat
on your bed, imagined you

in those spotless sheets, looked
long into the sad eyes of your son
staring at your walls from his frame.

I tried to smile at myself
in your mirrors, wondering if you
smile that way too: those resilient

little smiles one smiles
at one’s self before facing the day,
or another long night ahead —

guests coming for dinner.
So I wait in this hall because
there are nights it’s hard

not to blurt out Stop! Stop
our babble: Pulitzer, Wall Street, sex,
Dante, politics, wars, have some Chianti...

let’s stop and talk. Of our thirsts
and obsessions, our bedrooms
and closets, the brutes in our mirrors,

the eyes of our sons.
There is time yet — let’s talk.
I am starving.

I can't articulate my thoughts right now.

It's 11:16. I just found out that Harla died earlier this afternoon. I don't know how to feel. And no one told me. I saw it on her son's facebook status. I knew she had two weeks to live--but it hasn't been two weeks yet. And the cancer hadn't seemed real. Harla hadn't felt real. She was my childhood secondmother. It's been a long time since my childhood. And now, now that I cannot say goodbye, it's all coming back. In her passing, she's re-entered my life.

She's my mom's best friend. My childhood best friend's mother. My cousin's best friend's mom. How do I say "I'm sorry for your loss" without sounding trite, without betraying my own tears? How do I express my own pain when it's all so distant? Years. Miles. Hugs. Truth.

My facebook status, left over from another day, is a quote from Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium.

"[We don't wait.] We Breathe. We Pulse. We Regenerate. Our hearts beat. Our minds create. Our souls ingest. Thirty-seven seconds, well used, is a lifetime."

I hope her last thirty-seven seconds felt like a lifetime. Why is it her lifetime has ended a rough decade after thirty-seven?

Why don't I ever say goodbye? Doris (another childhood second mother). Grandpa. I knew they had limited time. But I can't say goodbye. I can't aknowledge what's happening--until it's over. Until I am powerless. Yet I always wish we'd been given a warning with Estrella. Would I have found it in myself to do anything even if we'd been given the time and date of her accident?

Justin never got to see Harla before she died. Her oldest son. The one in jail for a crime he never committed.

I don't know what this means.

Do I cry for myself? For the family? For Harla? For my her best friend, my mom? Or for the thought that this could be not my childhood second mom, but my real mom? That one day it will?

I'm lost.

Chelsi is here. We're going to go watch The L Word. I'm going to get lost.

This makes me sick

Texas man faces execution after jurors consult Bible to decide fate

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/northamerica/usa/6338320/Texas-man-faces-execution-after-jurors-consult-Bible-to-decide-fate.html

Written weeks ago

I lie in a bed of pages, texts, and fiction
overlapping to create a pillow.
In this fortress of solitude, I touch the lives
of a thousand heroes
of a thousand victims
finding refuge in type writers,
keyboards, and pens.
Surrounded by sturdy walls created
by strangers' displaced passion,
I am safe from love.
Your words cannot reach me.

I let my fingers ramble--this is what my mind looks like:

I'm going to let music seep into my spinning skin, tingling like my toes do in the face--no, eyes--of excitement and sheer terror. Is terror ever sheer? I think it's dark and tangible, slipping wooden coils (because fear can create such a device) over the bitter throat of any sort of harsh word. In the end, evil in the guise of ignorance and hate, jumps off the block that looks just like the tops of heads belonging to a million of shapely (and not so shapely) blonds (I'm not stupid, they cry). Not shapely? How can they have blond hair while lacking any sort of discernible shape? Maybe they're the dark matter of the universe, screaming loudly that YES THEY EXIST. But who doesn't exist? You can't answer that, because--well, try naming someone who has never been born. Orphan Annie? Yes, but she was born into the imagination of Harold Gray who probably stole her from some other mind or some other woven basket. Isn't the world woven (just look at the concept of wormholes), and every new thought just a disgustingly lovable regurgitation of past ideas?

I'd like to continue this. And dammit, why didn't I do that case study for PR Principles instead of blog random words that actually make (much more) sense to me?

What do you C?

Life has been pretty interesting lately. Then, again when isn't it interesting? Even if I don't always find it fascinating someone else I'm sure is. Life is life, no matter where you go.

Anyways, enough ramblings (or maybe just time for a ramble-subject-change). Me and C are back together. I'm not really getting too emotionally attached (and hey, the whole bathroom stall instance inspired a new poem I might perform. Maybe I'll post it sometime).

Last Friday, I was preparing to leave town to visit some summer friends. While trying to secure a leave request ("we don't just let people go visit other colleges"), I was called into Linda Becker's office. Of course, I was very very confused. The first half of the conversation had nothing to do with the leave request (so ended up making more sense).

Pretty much, Linda (and Dean C) just wanted to let me know that they know that I'm gay. Well, I already knew that LB knew but I suppose they couldn't have known that I already knew (these last two sentences have way too many variations of "know" in it). I guess they also wanted to say more than just that, like the whole bit where I'm not allowed to try to turn anyone else gay (laughter much? YES).

Overall, I was actually impressed with how they handled "the situation" (for lack of a better word. The only time I'm a situation is when I don't have my morning coffee). They were supportive of me (not saying they endorse homosexuality, of course--don't want them getting in trouble with "good" Adventists), kind, DIDN'T KICK ME OUT, and just wanted to make sure I knew that I couldn't be having sex all over campus. Of course, when they talked about expecting the same thing from heterosexual and homosexual couples in terms of not having sex outside of marriage I couldn't help but think "riiight, because I actually have the option to get married."

Anyways, over all it was a pretty positive conversation (and LB kept saying nice things about me to soften any negativity or possibility of hurt. YAY COMPLIMENTS!)

This usage of the term "LB" reminds me of Jordy's exgirlfriend (LauraBeth or something?). I miss my summer friends. I got to see Dani, Michelle and Kyle last night. Why does everything change?

When I met that crowd in the beginning of summer, it was solid (at least in appearance--and to a new-comer, that's all that matters at the time anyway). Jordy and Kyle were dating. Dani and Cooper were still best friends. Michelle was pretty darn happy. Alexa was still around (with made for a happy Kyle). Then there was Leise and her infamous porch. Everyone that sat upon it were friends (or some variation). Tight.

Why do relationships always splinter like cracked wood? I'm not even sad about this enivitable change anymore.

I remember my first recognition of the fact that things between people always change, and you can't go back except in falsely-bright memories. I don't remember how old I was. Sam hadn't yet joined the Marines, and Paul was living with us, I hadn't left for Academy yet. I was probably around 12, and we all played Dark Age of Camelot (yes, my first recognition of loss, nostalgia and change concerning friendships involved a computer game. Shut up.)

My brother was part of the Society of Merlin, a guild in DAoC. My dad, as usual, had his Vindicator's guild, but for some reason I was drawn to SoM (not to be confused with S&M). I vividly remember the guild leader Solarene, the interplay between the members (it was small, tight-knit group), and being the guild's "favorite daughter."

After a time, I stopped played and probably switched to another game (I played way too many MMOs growing up--thanks Dad). At one point, I returned to DAoC (it still remains the only MMO I actually wanted to play solo--all others, I would only play if I got to play with my family members or friends). I returned to Society of Merlin.

Everything had changed. The new members didn't know me. Old members were few and far between, and even their presence didn't help things much. My young self felt a sense of loss I was unfamiliar with--a desire to return to "the good ol' days."

Sure, I laugh now at the sheer absurdity of it all (not to mention how stupid this makes me appear as I blog about something so nerdy). Yet, as I travel through life's cycles of friendship the lesson I learned as a nerdy kid keeps presenting itself with each new "season" (whether this an actual period of time or just percieved).

Nothing will ever be like the the past (family holidays when I had yet to be as tall as my grandma, my super secret gift club with childhood pals, the CTT, Kalvin, watching Stargate with my dad, being a cowgirl with my mom, cooking with Kaley, everday chats with Todd, late night conversations with Tiff K, getting ready for Friday night Vespers with the girls from Wisconsin Academy, the list is neverending).

I get nostlagic.

Yet, I find all these new adventures much more condusive to personal growth and mostly pretty darn awesome (not to mention, I wouldn't be able to hang on to the past even if I tried--might as well go willingly).

I wonder what current new experiences and environments I will eventually become nostalgic for. C? The Mill?

When it comes to C, I'm not expecting for it to become relatively long term. One of my friends asked why decide to date her then. Just because you may miss something (or someone) in the future, is not a good reason enough for me not to pursue said thing/person.

A book on psychology that I'm reading encouraged me to appreciate (and seek out) intensity in life--not always just things that promise longevity. After all, nothing really can ever promise longevity.

Besides, I'm living now--what good will living in the future (or past) do me? Our life is made up of tiny "present" moments...and darnit, there are so many thoughts floating around right now that I can't seem to find the proper words for.

Maybe I'll continue trying to describe the birds flying circles in my brain some other time.

The Worlds in this World by Laure-Anne Bosselaar

Doors were left open in heaven again:
drafts wheeze, clouds wrap their ripped pages
around roofs and trees. Like wet flags, shutters
flap and fold. Even light is blown out of town,
its last angles caught in sopped
newspaper wings and billowing plastic —
all this in one American street.
Elsewhere, somewhere, a tide
recedes, incense is lit, an infant
sucks from a nipple, a grenade
shrieks, a man buys his first cane.
Think of it: the worlds in this world.


Yesterday, while a Chinese woman took
hours to sew seven silk stitches into a tapestry
started generations ago, guards took only
seconds to mop up a cannibal’s brain from the floor
of a Wisconsin jail, while the man who bashed
the killer’s head found no place to hide,
and sat sobbing for his mother in a shower stall —
the worlds in this world.

Or say, one year — say 1916:
while my grandfather, a prisoner of war
in Holland, sewed perfect, eighteen-buttoned
booties for his wife with the skin of a dead
dog found in a trench; shrapnel slit
Apollinaire's skull, Jesuits brandished
crucifixes in Ouagadougou, and the Parthenon
was already in ruins.
That year, thousands and thousands of Jews
from the Holocaust were already — were
still ¬— busy living their lives;
while gnawed by self-doubt, Rilke couldn’t

write a line for weeks inVienna’s Victorgasse,
and fishermen drowned off Finnish coasts,
and lovers kissed for the very first time,
while in Kashmir an old woman fell asleep,
her cheek on her good husband's belly.

And all along that year the winds
kept blowing as they do today, above oceans
and steeples, and this one speck of dust
was lifted from somewhere to land exactly
here, on my desk, and will lift again — into
the worlds in this world.

Say now, at this instant:
one thornless rose opens in a blue jar above
that speck, but you — reading this — know
nothing of how it came to flower here, and I
nothing of who bred it, or where, nothing
of my son and daughter’s fate, of what grows
in your garden or behind the walls of your chest:
is it longing? Fear? Will it matter?

Listen to that wind, listen to it ranting
The doors of heaven never close,
that’s the Curse, that’s the Miracle.


_________________________________

Wow. Whoever this Laure-Ann Bosselaar is or was, I'm falling head over heels in love with her brain. It's like she stole my thoughts and notations (on the worlds within the world) and tied them up in a pretty little wordbow.

La-di-dah.

I was not looking forward to my 3 o'clock guitar lesson today--scratch that, I was dreading it.

These once per week guitar lessons sounded exciting when my adviser first explained how they could fulfill needed credit hours. After the first lesson, I remained stoked and eager to practice. For all of one day.

Two Sundays ago I showed up at my teacher's door and explained that I hadn't practiced at all the past week (and I was very, very sorry). He complimented me on my courage for admitting that, and said we could forget this class period and just meet next week.

3:30 a.m. the following Friday, I sat waiting in the dorm f0r my flight to Wisconsin (congratulations big brother on the wedding). I realized I hadn't practiced AT ALL (again) and so played for about a half an hour.

Sunday morning I flew back to Nebraska, exhausted from a weekend with the family and little sleep. At noon, I gave Brennan my guitar to switch out strings and took a nap. Naturally, I missed my 3 p.m. guitar lesson and didn't wake up till evening. Go me. I either slept through the alarm or forgot to set it in the first place.

Today, I started to freak out as I realized this was week three of not practicing. Sure, I went over to the music department a half an hour before my lesson to try and figure out what the heck these notes on frets were all about--but I was supposed to be doing that a half hour each day not a single time just before the lesson. I debated checking the calendar and seeing if I could drop the single-credit "class." How was I going to make it through this awkward upcoming class period, much less catch up from the three weeks I hadn't been practicing?

What was my teacher going to say about a) missing class last week (and so not having a lesson in over two weeks) and b) my obvious lack of practicing?

I stuffed my nerves somewhere deep inside where they couldn't show, and began to play. So far so good.

"Do you find this too easy?" my teacher asked.

I shrugged, and flipped some pages. "It get's harder over here," I pointed.

He laughed, and flipped past chapter after chapter. Finally, he found what he was looking for near the middle of the book and began playing.

It sounded like real music! Not like the boring la-la-la crap from the beginning sections. Even better, he wants me to try playing it (even though I haven't even learned all the notes for it yet) because apparently the other stuff "wasn't challenging enough."

I got giddy all the way down to my toe tips. Who doesn't like to feel special or feel like you've actually got talent? After everything that went down last night, I really needed this boost. It's helping me be more optimistic about not only the guitar lessons (I guess I won't be dropping them), but all the other homework and classes I'm either behind in or simply working hard to just stay afloat.

This last week I was distracted with C, and let some stuff slide. I think maybe I'm meant to be single--at least right now. I feel more centered. And maybe even a bit musical.

English Flavors by Laure-Anne Bosselaar

I love to lick English the way I licked the hard
round licorice sticks the Belgian nuns gave me for six
good conduct points on Sundays after mass.

Love it when ‘plethora’, ‘indolence’, ‘damask’,
or my new word: ‘lasciviousness,’ stain my tongue,
thicken my saliva, sweet as those sticks — black

and slick with every lick it took to make daggers
out of them: sticky spikes I brandished straight up
to the ebony crucifix in the dorm, with the pride

of a child more often punished than praised.
‘Amuck,’ ‘awkward,’ or ‘knuckles,’ have jaw-
breaker flavors; there’s honey in ‘hunter’s moon,’

hot pepper in ‘hunk,’ and ‘mellifluous’ has aromas
of almonds and milk . Those tastes of recompense
still bitter-sweet today as I roll, bend and shape

English in my mouth, repeating its syllables
like acts of contrition, then sticking out my new tongue —
flavored and sharp — to the ambiguities of meaning.

"I have learned kindess from the unkind"

I've learned that the truth spoken does not always mean honesty.

I've learned that the person said to be the most jealous can be the one with the most decency.

I've learned "we talked" does not always mean "communicate with words."

I've learned allowing myself to like someone when warning flags flare is still a bad idea.

I've learned bathroom stalls paint pictures like heartbruises.

I've learned it doesn't really matter.

Last night, I walked in on the girl I was seeing screwing around with someone else in the bathroom--after a week (and night) of convincing me she "likes me way more than her." Way to go miss "Oh yeah, I'm definitely a one-girl kind of girl." You should have been named Gabby Deveoux.

On a positive note, the person she was messing around with (who supposedly disliked me) came to talk to me, apologized, etc. Major (to use a sexist term for lack of a better one) balls. Have to say I respect her more than the girl I actually liked/trusted.

Now that it's morning and I've gotten sleep, I'm not distraught about it...well, as distraught anyway.

Paint me a picture with hollowed out bones
dripping with blue, mimicking tears left
untouched in my eyes.
Ask me what I love about you,
ask me.
I can hear only the silence
whispering like muffled kisses.
Zip.
I wonder why Silence has pants
and what she's doing with legs
twisted 'round yours
in a lonesome bathroom stall.
Lies can put on such a prettier smile,
too bad you broke the mirage in my eyes.
Too bad you left your lips in another girl's pocket.

32 Flavors by Ani DiFranco

squint your eyes and look closer
I'm not between you and your ambition
I am a poster girl with no poster
I am thirty-two flavors and then some
and I'm beyond your peripheral vision
so you might want to turn your head
cause someday you're going to get hungry
and eat most of the words you just said

both my parents taught me about good will
and I have done well by their names
just the kindness I've lavished on strangers
is more than I can explain
still there's many who've turned out their porch lights
just so I would think they were not home
and hid in the dark of their windows
til I'd passed and left them alone

and god help you if you are an ugly girl
course too pretty is also your doom
cause everyone harbors a secret hatred
for the prettiest girl in the room
and god help you if you are a pheonix
and you dare to rise up from the ash
a thousand eyes will smolder with jealousy
while you are just flying back

I'm not trying to give my life meaning
by demeaning you
and I would like to state for the record
I did everything that I could do
I'm not saying that I'm a saint
I just don't want to live that way
no, I will never be a saint
but I will always say

squint your eyes and look closer
I'm not between you and your ambition
I am a poster girl with no poster
I am thirty-two flavors and then some
And I'm beyond your peripheral vision
So you might want to turn your head
Cause someday you might find you're starving
and eating all of the words you said

fuck women.

Surprises

I met someone... AT UNION COLLEGE. Yeah, I didn't expect it either. We had briefly met the beginning of the year, but a mutual friend did us a huge favor and coordinated a re-introduction. I'm all giddy, because...well a) she's awesome and b) she goes to Union.

Enter, my hesitation (stage left).

Are we attracted to each other simply because of the setting (aka, nobody else at Union we could be interested in)? If we met randomly downtown, would we still be as interested? Even if we would not have naturally gravitated towards each other elsewhere, is that necessarily bad? Does this mean a potentially successful relationship is doomed?

I'm not sure, but I'm sure I'll figure it out eventually. I need stop over thinking this (and life in general) and just say que se ra, se ra--whatever will be, will be.

Despite my mild confusion and questions, I got sidetracked during Rhetoric class with thoughts of her.

Lips. Smile.
Flashes of identical white stones
polished to a sterling gleam
Do you clean them with purity
found in an open mind?
I never saw vices that looked
so much like virtues
as we sit on the box
our souls used to sleep in.
My fingers are pieces of tangled rope
drawing conclusions from the tilt
of your head.
What does it mean to be
the only apples on a tree?
The names and offenses screamed
by whispering leaves
leave bruises on our skin.
We find shelter in the unlikeliest of places
watching smoke drift like
possibilities through
our parted lips.

Origins (and I'm not talking the class)

Right now, I feel like crying. No particular reason, I'm just down and dissatisfied with life at Union. I'm sure it has nothing to do with reality, but instead my energy level. While the coffee is brewing to raise my mood, I'll post a happy happenstance that just happened (yeah, I just said that).

Brandon: You have a brother?!
Me: I'm the youngest of five kids. Lol, why are you so shocked?
Brandon: No one tells me anything. Haha, I always imagined you just appeared out of nowhere in the middle of some field surrounded by fairies and elves.

Best sentence I've "heard" (it was via facebook chat) all day.

Let's pull out the books

My (periodically updated) reading list
Last updated 23 Jan. 10

For pleasure

• On the Road by Jack Kerouac
  
• A mind of my own by Chris Costner Sizenmore
• Goddesses in every woman: a new psychology of women by Jean Shinoda Bolen, M.D
• Zen Training by Katsuki Sekida
• The Quran translated by M.H. Shakir
• Aimée & Jaguar: A Love Story, Berlin 1943 by Erica Fischer
  

Interesting assigned reading

• [Conflict and Peacemaking] The Irresistible Revolution: living as an ordinary radical by Shane Claiborne
  
• [World Literature] The Norton Anthology: Western Literature (currently: Tartuffe by Moliere) edited by Lawall, Thalmann, Patterson, James and Spacks
  

Needing to finish, but not currently reading

• Glancing fires edited by Lesley Saunders
  
• The collected poems of Audre Lorde
• The Pink Triangle by Richard Plant
• Do they hear you when you cry? by Fauziya Kassindja and Layli Miller Bashir
• Christianity and homosexuality: some Seventh-day Adventist perspectives edited by David Ferguson, Fritz Guy and David Larson
• Sexism and language edited by Alleen Pace Nilson, Haig Bosmajian, H. Lee Gershuny, Julia P. Stanley

Recently Read

• Watchmen by Alan Moore
• The City Who Fought by Anne McCaffrey and S.M. Stirling
  
• Sapphira and the slave girl by Willa Cather
• Paradise by Toni Morrison
• Caramelo by Sandra Cisneros
• The Woman Warrior by Maxine Hong Kingston
• American Indian Stories by Zitkala-Sa
• Background readings for teachers American literature edited by Venetria K. Patton
• The rhetorical power of popular culture: considering mediated texts by Deanna D. Sellnow
• Nonviolence: the history of a dangerous idea by Mark Kurlansky with forward by His Holiness the Dalai Lama 
• The Norton Anthology: Western Literature (selections: Tartuffe by Moliere, A Modest Proposal by Jonathan Swift, Emile by Jean-Jacque Rousseau, part of A Letter to the Women of England, on the Injustice of Mental Subordination by Mary Robinson, An Essay on Man by Alexander Pope) edited by Lawall, Thalmann, Patterson, James and Spacks

Tell me your story (or at least leave some words at the door)

I was creeping on my friend Michael's list of blogs he follows, and fell across Write In My Journal.

"I approach people who look interesting – like they have a story to tell – and ask them if they, knowing they’ll most likely never see me again, will write in my journal.

They’re free to write whatever they want. I may give them a prompt to start but ultimately it’s up to them.

There are so many people out there with such diverse backgrounds and perspectives! It’s absolutely fascinating to me. Have you ever looked at a person and thought, “I wonder what their story is? How did they get to where they are? What are their dreams?” I do. All the time. (Is that weird?) This is my chance to get to know some of them, even if it’s just a glimpse, and share their stories that would otherwise go untold."

It's fascinating. I wish I could do that here in Lincoln, but don't want to be an idea thief.

I was twenty (and I don't even know you)

Nineteen
by Tegan and Sara

I felt you in my legs
Before I even met you
And when I layed beside you
For the first time
I told you
I feel you in my heart,
And I don't even know you
Now we're saying
Bye, bye, bye
Now we're saying
Bye, bye, bye
I was nineteen
(call me)
I felt you in my life
Before I ever thought to
Felt the need to lay down
Beside you
And tell you I feel you in my heart,
And I don't even know you
And now we're saying
Bye, bye, bye
Now we're saying
Bye, bye, bye
I was nineteen
(call me)
I was nineteen
(call me)
Flew home,
Back to where we met
Stayed inside I was so upset
I cooked up a plan,
So good except
I was all alone
You were all I had
Love you
You were all mine
Love me
I was yours right
I was yours right
I was nineteen
(call me)
I was nineteen
(call me)

What do you see?

Images: in your face, at the barely-visible end of your peripheral, behind you, inside your mind. You don't need to be visually-oriented like I am to figure out that the world is pretty much a 5-course meal for your eyes.

In Rhetoric class, we're learning about the persuasive power of images (often mixed with words). While it may seem like a no-brainer, it's often the obvious, taken-for-granted concepts we ignore rather than carefully consider.

Of course, me being me, I love to consider things--roll them softly along grey coils, spin them till up and down are only intangible concepts, taste the strands of truth slowly unraveling, feel the explosion of understanding in the tips of my toes, bask in the stillness after thundering enlightenment (the stillness crying out that I still know nothing for certain).

I love to consider things. Words and images are pretty powerful entities, throwing me in a whirlwind of thought whether I'm ready for it or not.

An advertisement stole my mind yesterday. For our class investigation into the persuasiveness of images, we focused on pages found in outdated publications. I don't know what magazine the particular advertisement was from (my friend Sierra was originally looking at it) or how it relates to the product or service being sold (I think it's for a computer company).

However, it did succeed at causing me to question that "silly" decision to stop smoking. I'll upload the image later, but here's a taste.

Image: Sensual woman with a burning cigarette between her teeth.

Text:
_____________________________
some people say
that we should go through life
with our eyes wide open
those people will never see what i see
they will never experience
the joy of sitting in the dark
a darkness that gives birth do ideas.
when imagination
mingles with inspiration.
it is then that you realize
that darkness is not unlike
a blank canvas.
anything is possible
_____________________________

Today marks Day 9 of my smokeless journey. I wonder why I quit buying lovely Crushes and want to cave for artistic reasons. I haven't tried writing a poem yet without my dependable "sin stick." What if I can't do it? What's so great about keeping my eyes open to a distant, potentially cancerous reality when the world dancing in my head looks so much prettier? I cannot see death, but I can see poetry formed from waves of smoke. Dammit.

I need to remember that:
-Smoke isn't just killing me, production is also injuring the planet
-Creativity is not ignited by flames but by soul
-Frivolous outside stimuli (images) should not dictate my decisions (I can be persuasive back)
-Um, it's BAD for me--don't do it...

I will keep my eyes open to see Day 10.

Have you seen my Satori anywhere? I can't seem to find it...

Yay for Ortner Center computers and not noticing the "Please limit your time at the computers to 10 min." sign. Oops.

I started a new blog called Cosmic Enlightenment, which is centered around my spiritual journey: http://cosmicsatori.blogspot.com/

We'll see where it goes, and how that path will influence this blog. Maybe it won't.

I should probably get off this computer before campus security comes after me. Ha. Okay, maybe we should go with realistic scenerios. I better get off this computer before I waste any more time online.

Dead computers, vibrant life.

My computer has finally refused to charge. It's been on the brink (I had to twist and hold the cord to make it work) for a while, and now finally plunged into the "goodbye-for-now-laptop" arena.

Completely unrelated (or is it?):

Lately I've been thinking "I want to live simply, but not simply live."

My computer's about to die. This may be the end of blogging for a while.

Let's get ethical

Our Public Relations Principles class was assigned an interesting assignment this week: write our own Code of Ethics. Sometimes I have a hard time always living up to mine (occasional gossip? Totally guilty), and found this exercise to be eye-opening. It's not that most of these things aren't common sense, or of the general "be a good person" variety, but sometimes I don't reflect on the obvious.

I'm going to (try and remember to) print them out and hang them on my bulletin board as a constant reminder of what I'm striving for and how I should be treating existence (humans, animals, the planet, myself, etc).

Hannah's Code of Ethics

Embody Compassion

1. Respect for living beings
a. As inhabitants on this world, we are all equal
b. Abstain from causing unnecessary physical and emotional harm to animals and humans
i. Humans: Avoid violence of the body (except in self-defense), avoid violence of the lips (gossip, malicious words, etc)
ii. Animals: If I do not need to be the cause of an animals death (meat products) or suffering (non-free range dairy products), then abstain

2. Respect for truth
a. Do not deceive others (unless to present a surprise) or self

3. Advocate equality
a. Value The Declaration for Human Rights
b. Act on behalf of the socially, economically, physically, politically, emotionally, spiritually, mentally oppressed
c. Impassion and educate others

4. Advocate the Earth
a. Reduce carbon footprint/negative impact whenever possible
b. Impassion and educate others
c. Spend time in nature


Seek Personal Growth

5. Be free
a. Do not develop emotional attachment to objects or places
b. “Want,” but do not “need”
i. Do not return to smoking/addictions

6. Be open
a. Always be open to new ideas, experiences, beliefs, etc.
b. No one can be 100 percent certain they’ve found the (only) truth

7. Pursue truth
a. Use science, wisdom and personal experience to discover truth
b. Truth is relative

8. Pursue enlightenment and awareness
a. Clear the mind
i. Meditate
ii. Abstain from frequent use of alcohol
1. Takes away clarity, clouds the essence and does not promote creativity or new perspectives
b. Follow The Eightfold Path as a guide
c. Foster creativity in self and others
d. Practice active observance

Thursday's Melencholy Quotes

I wish I could believe that "Loneliness adds beauty to life. It puts a special burn on sunsets and makes night air smell better." Henry Rollins.

Virigina Casey said that "Tears are like rain. They loosen up our soil so we can grow in different directions." The world is crying today. I hate the grey.

Two conflicting views:

"Loneliness breaks the spirit." Jewish Proverb

"Loneliness is a nest for the thoughts." Kurdish Proverb

Maybe it's our thoughts that break and re-make our spirits.

"The eternal quest of the human being is to shatter his loneliness" Norman Cousins

"The palace leads to fame, the market to fortune, and loneliness to wisdom." Chinese Proverb

----------------

I feel cut off from my summertime Lincoln friends, from my summertime life, and my group of amazing best friends from last semester is not longer together. Sure, most of us are still here but we've gone our separate ways inside of Union's social construction. Dynamics have changed, they've wandered over their ways. I feel like I'm still here, waiting at some metaphorical meeting point for the others to show up. And it's lonely here.

How can I feel so lonely when I know so many people on campus, when I can't walk three steps without someone saying "hello" or blowing me kisses? I have many friends. I have no best friends. I'm not sure how this happened--is it me?

I miss Sierra, but she's always been this way (hot/cold friendship). I'm glad she found someone like Heather, another person she can really connect with and share struggles. But I miss being that person for her.

I miss Zach, communicating without even speaking. Laughing about the nerdiest of things. Always sneaking out and meeting for breaks. But I cannot be that girl for him, so does that mean our friendship must also be negated?

I miss Brennan's humor, but we're very different people with different interests. I understand.

I miss Kelly, who ran away to Colorado and is now planning for a wedding. <3

I miss feeling important t0 a group of people, someone always texting or calling to see what I'm up to. Connecting. Talking about philosophy and religion. Not wasting our minds away with small talk. Creating stories and puzzles with our bodies. Experiencing life like it's something beautiful, and like all beauty should be shared.

Alanna bailed on our plans tonight, but I shouldn't have been surprised. Maybe I just need to share the beauty I find in the world with whomever I come across--with everyone I come across.

"If you keep yourself enclosed, even if you live among thousands of people you will still feel very lonely. However, if you keep yourself open, then even if you are living alone, you will still have a very full life. So open your mind and treat everyone as your intimate, virtuous friend."
Shih-fu Sheng-ye

Wednesday's Quote

One day Ananda, who had been thinking deeply about things for a while, turned to the Buddha and exclaimed:

"Lord, I've been thinking--spiritual friendship is at least half of the spiritual life!"

The Buddha replied: "Say not so, Ananda, say not so. Spiritual friendship is the whole of the spiritual life!"

Samyutta Nikaya, Verse 2

Tuesday's Quote of the Day

"Although gold dust is precious, when it gets in your eyes it obstructs your vision."
Hsi-Tang

Day 2

I'm a quitter--my mother has pointed that out.

When I was six, I took gymnastics--then promptly decided I definitely wasn't a gymnast.
At eight I started piano lessons. Let's just say that was a fail.
Around the same time, I became convinced that one day I'd be a dental hygienist. My dental-hygienist dream lasted four years, until I realized I wanted more out of life than time with other people's teeth (as lovely as they may be).

I burn out and quit things.

I also have an addictive personality. When I find something I REALLY like, I...well, let's just say "like" is an understatement and it doesn't go away very fast. This is great, and helps me shed that "quitter" tendency.

Unfortunately, I wouldn't mind if my quitter tendencies overrode my addictive personality. Especially today.

What's special about today? It's the day following yesterday, and yesterday I decided to quit smoking. Yesterday, with my single (and last) cigarette in the morning, was difficult. I can smoke half a pack in twelve hours, easy-peasy. Just one cigarette? Not so easy-peasy.

Today is 20 million times worse than yesterday. Maybe it's the craving for nicotine (I'm not using nicotine patches or gum), maybe it's the psychological dependence--I don't know. All I know is that today has sucked--definitely the worst day since school has started (maybe of the last few months). Why did I decide quitting early in the week would be a good idea? Then again, I usually smoke waaay more cigarettes on weekends, so I suppose there was some logic to the madness.

And that's what this is--madness. I drank a large coffee, ate too many nerds, and purchased tons of blue gum to compensate for this new adjustment. Hsi-Tang said, "The secret to happiness lies in the mind's release from worldly ties."

I'm trying to do that. Eliminate this dependence on things. Yet, more dependences are created as the result. Is there anyway to truly be released from worldly (material/superficial/unhealthy) ties (addictions/dependence/bondage)?

I think about all the things we've created that manipulate our minds and bodies by causing cravings--sugar, caffeine, nicotine, fried foods, etc. I want to get away from it, and consume things at my own leisure for enjoyment--not because I "need to have them."

It's not just food or drink that I feel tie me down. It's whatever I can live a happy, full life without. Like this computer. I can survive without it, yet I'd be terribly upset if that's what I was forced to do.

I will keep what is already in my possession and useful to being a well-rounded person (like this laptop, which is great for school work). I want to clear out the excessive things that do not contribute to any sort of personal growth or centered-ness (I believe books/art/music/artistic expression can be important for a person to experience, so I'm keeping the ones I frequently use).

I want to make choices based on important factors, not say:

"But I can't live without -random item/addiction-, so I won't -dream/aspire/work toward personal or societal growth-".

I want to quit dependence and be free to grow, touch the world, understand, travel, touch people.

And so, Mom was right--I am a quitter. And for that, I'm very glad.