I am a Winner

No, really! I won NaNoWriMo today, about ten minutes ago. Maybe twenty. I was too giddy to look too closely at the time. At any rate, I wrote a novel, in 27 days, and now begins the time of editing. I have some beta-readers, but let me know if ya'll want to read it NOW, or if you want to see the finished project. (Choose now ;) I'm impatient).

Being Happy

Often, it involves skipping through the streets of New York, singing. It can also involve late night coffee, Jersey Shore transcripts gone Wilde , learning new things about Billy Joel, bacon chicken pizza, antique boots, friends, NaNoWriMo, Bible study with darling girls, and unexpectedly wonderful blind dates. :)

Let the Noveling Commence!

NaNoWriMo started yesterday. 5205 words down, 44795 to go. Wish me luck!

Themes and Learning

So, earlier this week, I went to a poetry reading which is just about as exciting as it gets. Especially because of Jerry Williams. Go get his books from your local library, and try not to pee your pants. But also, I realized that my poetry is incredibly narrative, and not as thematic as it could be. What I've done with this next piece is taken different instances with similar feelings (both in my experience and in the experiences of other people, from my viewpoint) and synthesized it into one piece. Let me know what y'all think!

Interdit

When I was born
I imagine you were reading Salinger;
I imagine it was simultaneous:
your teenage angst, my infant struggle.
Your dreams were made of ideas
intellectual prowess academic progression.
I am your interruption.
I am the idea that chases your fingers
around and around in your hair;
I am the voice that spills your coffee,
forming perfect rings on an essay
left over from before my entrance.
I imagine a lot of things.

Remember when we shared an ipod?
By plugging our ears in,
we wired our brains together,
but you weren't allowed to hold my hand.
You could do it now,
If you could reach across
all of these rivers,
if I could stop
burning all of these bridges.

Every time I kissed you
I tried to narrate it in my head:
How did we lead up to this?
What brought your face so close to mine?
Do we leave imagination any room to wiggle?
This is why you stopped kissing
(me).

This puts all the coffee
back into your cup, and
runs a comb through your hair,
slicked back with river water;
This places brick on top of brick,
not a bridge but a wall:
a solid, tangible obstacle.
I don't bother reaching towards it.
Your fingers will never
graze the rough red surface,
nor wish it were my face.
But I can put my back against it,
and sneer at all those phonies,
fingers interlocking tightly,
and pretend that
I don't believe in love.

For Real, I Want Answers!!

The email went out this morning: they are officially accepting submissions for the literary magazine. I have a few weeks to pick three poems and get them ready for submission.

Pretty please, will y'all comment with your three favorites from this blog, or others of mine you've read if that applies to you? I want accurate feedback; this means a lot to me!

Thank you!

Cardigans

I cannot escape it:
The Daily Whine, with Boyfriend Steak
accompanied by a side dish of offensive behavior,
finished by a dessert of inappropriate laughter.
It does not matter-to you-
if I am in the cafeteria
slowly slurping scalding soup,
or nestled in the library
privately practicing punctuation;
You will trail after me, following me
like a parade of Ugly Ducklings
who believe I am their swan.
I want to glide peacefully across my lake
letting my iniquities settle to the bottom
to become the slime another generation will get between its toes.
You want me to ruffle my feathers again.
You want me to stir the lake with my own toes.
You want to believe that inwardly
I am just like you.
You wear your hearts in your mouths,
tangled in your teeth,
then blush as though you thought they were secrets.
You paint your outsides dark
Not because you are sad, but because you wish you could be.
I do not.
I wear cardigans like lightbulbs.
No one is afraid of the light, the surface of the placid lake;
That's not where you look for secrets.

NANOWRIMO

Don't know what it is? Google it, I'm lazy and having internet woes like you wouldn't believe. But anyway, I'm going to try to participate this year! And if I finish in November or not, I'll have 5 weeks of winter break in a city where I have no friends to finish and edit. Then I very well may publish it serially on this blog. Now how about that?!

Between 8th and 9th Avenues, Right Across from the Hospital

I couldn't sleep last night (probably the chocolate frosting, but I digress), and this little poem floated into my brain, and came out of my fingers.

When I think about that house
I am reminded of a discarded exoskeleton:
The utmost protection and structure,
so easily crushed between my thumb and forefinger.

I imagine some other family
will eat breakfast in that kitchen,
spilling milk across the table
and reminding each other of their manners.

On Sunday nights they will likely
gather in the basement,
chairs across that squishy place in the carpet,
to watch old movies, over and over.

Chore days will find a petulant child
crouching over the toilet upstairs
cursing whoever it was who thought
intricate black and white tiling would look nice on that floor.

I imagine a girl will open those west windows
and let the curtains flutter in the breeze.
She may use the barre for ballet or for displaying her scarves,
But will she ever notice the outlines of where I smeared poetry onto the mirrors in soft blue wax?

What if the shelves by the fire
are filled with knick-knacks instead of books?
What if the yellow walls are painted white?
What if music never fills the kitchen at Christmas,
and the porch light loses its supernatural glow?

What if I forget how it looked like then,
and all I can see is what it looks like now?

What if, in a moment of carelessness,
I close my hand into a fist
and hear the horrible crunching sound
of old beetle flesh becoming dust?

Input?

So, my college puts out a literary magazine once a year, and submissions are due in mid November. That may seem like a long way off, but there are midterms between now and then, and I am very much already thinking about what to submit. Of course, new stuff will be posted, and there are some things I haven't posted that are under consideration as well, but if anyone has any input, I would love to hear it! Just leave a comment or shoot me an email. I promise I'll post something more interesting soon, but this week has been busy and full of school and all that entails.

Two Nights

Have you ever accidentally gone on a date? I don't recommend it, particularly not when you are new to a city, and therefore must rely on your accidental date's knowledge to prevent getting lost, even though they are making you increasingly uncomfortable. True story. We went to a show on Broadway, and I paid for my ticket which caused him to insist on buying me cake and a cab ride home. What an awkwardly silent cab ride it was. Eventually, I started composing poetry because the cab driver's French phone call was getting too fast for me to understand.

i.
Sometimes-
in the corner of my eyes-
I think you are
Someone else.
Those particular glasses,
The way your voice
pitches when impassioned-
a subtle perfume
of clumsiness and pretension.

ii.
Last night-
it was almost this morning-
I was huddled in a blanket
and he was giggling madly.
Beside me.
I wanted him
(both to stop and to hold)
but I could not reach out.
I would not speak.
Even in sleep
I am afraid.

iii.
Now-
that I am sitting across from you-
I see you have
that same 5 o'clock shadow
speckled by acne,
broken by a sneer.
Your hands are the same shape,
nails trimmed identically.
I am not speaking;
on the inside
I am determined not to give you
a reason to comfort me.
I do not want to feel your hands.

iv.
Later-
crawling from a bumbling taxi-
I understand.
You have two eyes
that can't see everything;
a voice
that knows its birdsong;
an air
that colors your actions;
a cleft chin
that spouts oil and hair;
and ten fingers
that grow strong from listing facts.
You are human.
He is human.
I am lonely.
It is all the same.

The Pig of Happiness

The Pig of Happiness

That's all, really.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes

Remember that time I moved? Yeah, me too. Well guess what? I moved again. Today. Yup. Twice in 10 days. Bringin' back the Nomad Life. I'm here for a good long while, though.

Today's issue? Hurricanes. This one, named Irene, is supposed to be ravaging the city I'm in (Manhattan) as of 40 minutes ago. It has yet to even rain. This is silly. If you're going to be a natural disaster, you ought to at least be on time...Ah well.

There's a hurricane watching party on the 24th floor in a bit. We're going to hope nothing smashes through the windows.

Things I Love About The South

These are mostly food. Because if you have ever had Southern food, you know that it is to die for.

I'm already trying to gain a natural-sounding accent. I'm retreating so far into my roots I might as well be running backwards.

• Grits, every morning if I want. Yes. :)
• Barbecue, like the real stuff.
• Hush puppies.
• Caribou Coffee
  
• GoodBerry's Frozen Yogurt, and the cute, scruffy employee
• It's green all over here :)
• The bugs make silly noises
• Most of my extended family is an hour and a half away, maximum
• The Accents. Need I say more?
• Humidity. I like it, ok? I'm weird.
• The general Southernness.

If you've no idea what the South is like, I recommend you either get your butt down here, or at the very least do some research via books and movies. Although I will have to warn you that in Southern movies, someone usually dies. Fried Green Tomatoes is my current favorite.

Unresolved Issues With the Animal Kingdom: The Monsanto Link

Every once in a while, I get an additional glimpse into the world of evil that is the deer. Their plans are not always clear to me, and rarely do they give themselves away, but sometimes, I get some insight.

Last week, my mom, sister and I packed up our belongings and drove across the entire country. Yes. The whole thing. Well, all but Nevada and California, but I feel we've driven that stretch enough times that it counts. Back to the story.

Everything was going swimmingly until we got to the end of Nebraska. Iowa, it turns out, was full of construction, detours, and closed roads. So we spent several days winding our way down rather pleasant country highways through Iowa cornfields and soybean patches. All this pleasant country life seems, well, pleasant from the outside. But I know better. And not in the crazy Deer-and-pigeons-are-evil way that many of my friends frown upon. No, in the well-researched, people-who-are-not-me-believe-this-also-because-it-is-a-fact way. (Not that deer and pigeons aren't evil.) You see, the life of the American farmer kind of sucks because our government favors corporations over the individual, and corporations, as it happens, can be really evil. Don't believe me? Watch Food Inc., stop eating for a week, cry, wail at the injustice, get hungry and try to grow your own food, then return to this blog. Done? Good. Now, back to my Iowa story.

There's a particularly evil corporation, Monsanto, that is doing it's best to monopolize soybeans. As Food Inc. will tell you, there is either corn or soybeans in pretty much everything Americans eat these days. Monsanto copyrighted a gene.Why is that even legal??? Ugh. Anyway. Their soybean crops have to be treated specially- farmers cannot reseed their fields with their own crop-they have to return it to Monsanto and buy new seed. It's expensive and wasteful, and frankly, I think it's wrong. But can you get soybeans without this Monsanto gene?Yes, yes you can. It's difficult, and many have tried. But there's this little snag-if ANY of your beans have the gene, you're out of luck. It's just like having all Monsanto genes.

By this point, you're probably wondering what on earth this has to do with deer, and why I went off on such a tangent. On the Iowa/Missouri border early last Sunday morning, I saw two deer in a soybean field. Eating the crop. You know what that means? They have soybean poop. My brain started working and I realized with a jolt the deer are inadvertently helping Monsanto spread their evil. If a deer eats a Monsanto bean, then goes over to a non-Monsanto field and takes a nice Monsanto-laden crap, Farmer Joe's Pure Unadulterated Field is suddenly tainted by Monsanto impurities and indiscretions. Joe's life is ruined, all thanks to Bambi & Co.

I hate deer. I really do.

Learning

So, remember that time I was a dork, but it turned out to be ok? Well, I went back to that coffee shop for the 3rd and final time tonight, and I was not a dork. I actually was awesome. Really awesome, as the open-mike coordinator lady said. I am kind of glowing with pride. See, said open-mike lady read some poetry from this woman, Sarah Kay, last time I was there, and I thought, "She's amazing! Imma google her!" Then I didn't. So, about three days later, I was watching TED talks (ummm...the cool kids were doing it? ...eh...fine. I have no excuse. I am a nerd. Ok!!! I'm a nerd! I said it! Happy now?!?!?!?!), and I just so happened to click upon this thing of beauty. I didn't think of three things I knew, largely because I am lazy and defiant, but also because I was fascinated by her. Her talk made me think, and that led inevitably to poetry, and so tonight, (er, technically last night...) I performed it, and people actually responded positively, during and after. Proud moment.

Learning

They keep telling me, "You learn something new everyday,"

Although they never specify what,

Which probably means they're not talking about

the things you try to learn,

the things that take concentration,

and instead they're talking about the much hazier

Learning of Experience.

But if that's true, I don't think we learn

one thing a day.

I think we are constantly learning small pieces of a bigger puzzle,

bit by bit,

like gathering sea glass to make a mosaic:

we might not be able to see the final outcome in our minds,

but somehow we know where each piece fits into the others,

working our way towards something complete.

For instance, I've been learning,

that sometimes the facts are harder to say than the fictions,

facts like:

I don't need pointe shoes to be happy;

I never really loved you; and

I'm moving 2,153 miles away so the my father can dress up like a panda bear and teach children about Jesus;

instead of the fictions:

I didn't make it, but of course I want to try again;

It was fun while it lasted; and

It doesn't matter, I was leaving anyway.

I'm learning that we can have our rites of passage,

mark off the days on our calenders with big, red Xs,

but real maturity is not so cut and dried.

I'm learning that life is a little messy, always,

and not just when we're little (and messy).

I'm learning a lot.

All of these lessons point to something bigger

and still partially obscured,

but that, too, is becoming clear,

the iceberg of my naivete is slowly melting.

So far, I've figured out

I am just like my dad,

(minus the black & white fur and the desire to interact with children on a spiritual level).

We know that it doesn't matter how long you believed in something,

if it's not true anymore, it's not worth the heartache it takes to keep believing.

We know that it's never to late to make a drastic change for the better.

We know that in any relationship,

being happy is more important than being "right."

We love grocery stores,

so full of possibilities and options for exploration,

but always familiar enough to feel safe.

I don't know if these are the things I'm supposed to be learning,

if these are the pieces of glass I should be picking up and putting down,

but I know, without a flicker of a doubt,

my mosaic is beautiful.

Sometimes You Win. Sometimes You Drive Into Retaining Walls.

I usually like driving. Sometimes, I love driving. Today I did not love driving at all. Picking my mom up from work, there was some horrible traffic weirdness. First, this loser cop pulls across three lanes and blocks off an entire city block...for no reason. There was nothing behind him. The other direction of traffic kept going. Then, he stands in front of his squad car, wiggling his fingers the way moms do when their kids are misbehaving. This apparently means "Large truck!! Turn right NOW, but make sure you're not the first car in the lane, so you have to dodge a bunch of others first." Eventually I made the turn, dumb truck aside. Next, construction shuttled me into the LONGEST left-turn queue onto a one-way street I've ever seen. One light cycle, the only thing that got to turn was a bus. Of course, when it is finally my turn, some horrid Subaru decides that because it's a one-way, it's totally ok to make the left turn from behind me. He's lucky I'm a ninja and didn't squash him under Beluga's mighty tires. After turning the trip from my mom's office to the bank which should have been 2 minutes into a 15 minute ordeal, I finally got to the parking lot. Where a giant black pick-up truck lurched suddenly across the lot in front of me from a parking space. They clearly had important things to be doing, and couldn't wait for me to actually park. Once again, it was lucky my foot was ready to ninja that brake. As at last I turned into a parking space, I said to my mom, "These people all just suck. They are awful at driving. AW. FUL." And that, my friends, is when I drove into a retaining wall.

My brake ninja foot deserves a medal. I didn't damage the car. Or the wall.

I hate driving, especially when it's done by other people.

Spices

I wrote this story as a joke with a friend, but part of that joke involves it being posted on the internet. Enjoy!

The smudged glass doors swung open, cueing a mournful “ding-dong”, dragged reluctantly from the overworked, exhausted intercom. He sighed, setting down his damp rag on the counter, feeling rather overworked and exhausted himself, and arranged his features into a falsely cheerful grin to greet the customer. When he saw her, however, a genuine smile broke out beneath the veneer, creating tiny crinkles in the corners of his mouth and eyes, imperceptible individually, but collectively brightening his appearance.

She had long, smooth dark hair, a mouth made for giggling, and large, round blue eyes which glittered when she laughed. She came here often, but did not keep a schedule. Like her smiles, her visits were a welcome surprise, a golden break in the monotony of fast food. He’d seen her debit card enough times to know her name, but he never let himself use it; to name her would be to make her real, to unravel the fantasies he created about who she was.

“How can I help you today?” he said brightly, stepping behind his register, his hands hovering above the keyboard, ready to type in her usual order.

“The usual, please,” she replied, offering up a small, somewhat sheepish smile.

He gave her the familiar total while she dug in her bag for her familiar wallet, just as they had the first time she’d walked through those doors, as they had every time since.

There was nothing inherently remarkable about her the first day. She was just another customer. It wasn’t until after she’d placed her order that he’d really looked at her, giving an identity to someone who was once just another faceless consumer. She had ordered eight tacos and water. It did not seem to be a joke, nor was there anyone with her who could have dared her. In amazement, he watched surreptitiously from behind the counter as she delicately ate each taco, dabbing daintily at her mouth with the paper napkin. Nothing so dignified had ever spent so much time in The Taco Hut and it fascinated him.

Sometimes she brought other people with her-a group of giggling girls, a somber friend, even the occasional disappointed male- but most of the time she came alone, quietly eating her tacos in a shallow booth by the largest window. She took her time, savored each mouthful, and shut out the rest of the restaurant while she chewed. It was peaceful, like a meditation or a prayer.

There had to be a reason she spent so much time in that taco dump-heap. It was not known for either its cleanliness or the superior quality of its food, it wasn’t on any main thoroughfares, and it wasn’t a chain. Usually he imagined she was a famous actress, hiding from her press, seeking refuge in plain sight. Occasionally he would suppose she came from an abusive family, that these calmer moments were her only source of respite. His imagination ran wild with her image, but each story found a way to block his reality from touching hers. He imagined himself into corners where if he dared to step beyond, to ask her name, to develop a friendship even, something foul would occur. The press would find her, her father would beat her for trying to escape with another man, or she would be frightened and never come back.

Someday, he told himself while he waited for her next arrival, someday I’ll get out of my head. I’ll ask her what her name is so I can stop pretending I don’t already know. Someday I’ll know why she keeps coming back.

As he handed back her card, he resolved, not for the first time, that upon her next visit he would introduce himself. She smiled as though she could read his mind and sighed a little before grabbing her water cup and ducking over to the fountain to fill it.

Soon she was ensconced in her booth, and he had returned to his thorough wipe-down of the counter tops. He took his turn in sighing before sliding back into the kitchen to clean up a cheese spill. As he swept the sticky orange strings into a garbage can he heard the door’s lugubrious song once again. Glancing out into the dining room, he saw her paused, her hand on the door handle, holding it open a few inches. She caught his eye.

“Goodbye.”

He smiled and lifted his hand in farewell as she disappeared.

She didn’t come back. Not that week, nor the next. It was not unheard of for her to disappear like this, but nonetheless he was disappointed. Every sound of the doorbell spiked his heart rate, but the face of every stranger pulled him down until he could feel his pulse pumping dimly in his feet. A month went by, and then another and it became clear that she was never coming back. It was as if someone had taken a giant eraser and scrubbed her out of her booth, then replaced her with a bevy of screaming toddlers and scruffy bums scarfing tacos and dripping sauce onto the sticky tabletop. She had escaped, and so he moved on.

“You’re wasting your time, kid,” his wizened manager grunted from the corner of his crusty mouth. He spit into the sink before continuing, “no one is gonna buy some damn gourmet taco. Go ahead, go to night school, blow your money on a fruitless dream, but don’t bring your whining back here when you fall on your ass.”

When he didn’t respond, eyes glued to the floor, his manager grunted once more before shuffling back into his tiny office, slamming the door. He continued sprinkling spices into the giant pan of sizzling meat. The right blend could make or break a taco, a fact his manager was keen to ignore. He ignored the gruff criticism of his superior and the ignorance of the old sod, because one day, he would own his own restaurant, and his perfect tacos would be his ticket to freedom, his chance to escape.

The day he turned in his uniform, the manager didn’t say a word, just shook his head as he grudgingly handed over the final paycheck.

*************************************************

“She’s here,” squeaked a waiter, a kid about as old as he had been when he started his job at The Taco Hut. “Madame Cutler,” the boy sighed, in awe of the famed food critic who was apparently now seated in the restaurant. “Do you think she’ll like us, boss?”

He peered through the window in the kitchen door at the back of Madame Cutler’s head. She could hardly be more than a mademoiselle; her sleek, dark hair was twisted into a glossy chignon and delicate pearls dangled from her ears. She sat perfectly straight in the soft velvet chair, shoulders exactly parallel to the floor, but she did not seem tense. Her posture and her attire conveyed an air of relaxed dignity, a woman who knew her power and her limits equally.

Swallowing a lump in his throat, he clapped his waiter on the back and said, “If our service is spectacular, I’m sure she will,” and with that he pushed the quaking boy back out onto the floor.

He watched as the waiter took her order with a nervous smile. As soon as the kitchen door shut behind him, the boy let out a sigh of relief. Then he was off again, a perfect taco in the center of his tray. Fifteen minutes later, when the waiter approached his boss his relief had vanished.

“She wants to see you, sir,” the boy whispered, wringing his hands. “This is it, isn’t it?”

“You did well, kid. Wish me luck!”

His heart was hammering as he walked slowly towards her table. He hadn’t remembered this much distance in his restaurant. Suddenly his suit felt too shabby, his ginger beard too scruffy, the furnishings too lurid, the place settings too cheap, and the ambiance too fake. When at last he reached Madame Cutler, he couldn’t look her in the face, his eyes fixed on the swirling pattern of the tablecloth.

“I’m impressed,” she said, her voice a strangely familiar lilt. “I admit I was not expecting to enjoy this, but I have a fondness for tacos, and I had hoped so strongly that yours would be satisfactory.” He nodded, still not looking up. “Frankly, they’re wonderful. The spices are just right. The right blend can make or break a taco, you know.”

Her last sentence made his head snap up. Then he froze. “I…I’m glad you enjoyed them, Madame Cutler,” he choked, barely above a whisper, unable to believe his eyes.

“It was my pleasure. It always was,” she replied, her large, round blue eyes glittering as she laughed.

This Poem Has a Horribly Long Title

There Are Other Dimensions Where This Never Happened, Probably Because We Died in a Horrible Car Accident or Because We Simply Never Met, But I'm Sorry, Regardless

The first night was bliss.

The car smelled like make-up and stale perfume,

and my pulse was building in sync with my anticipation.

You weren't there, but I could tell it was a place you could belong to.

This was the kind of place where I want to be anonymous, loudly.

That is why I painted my face and covered my body in silk (barely).

I drank in the atmosphere like precious water in a barren desert.

I felt alive, every cell burning with energy and healing light;

He was there, an old wound still waiting patiently for a suture.

On fire, I grabbed a needle and made the first stitches, starting over.

I came home with the scents of the evening tangled in my hair.

I've never wanted to touch a cigarette, but I liked the way I smelled like they'd been touching me.

It was a brand-new happiness

And it lasted for days.

The second night was turmoil.

The car was warm,but static, like a foul green pond.

My anticipation was beginning to smell an awful lot like dread.

I felt like we'd entered the wrong dimension, the one where bad decisions get made repeatedly.

The aura of smoke turned my stomach and made me hungry for a change and violently ill, alternately.

I overcompensated for your melancholy and drove deeper your pain, clumsily, cruelly.

Your eyes were too clear and too sad to ignore, your suspicion palpable.

Who could blame you? You never saw the silk-fueled happiness on my face.

You only saw my face and his face, the image of those faces together.

This isn't the dimension where he takes my hand and we fall in love.

This is the dimension where I find an unlikely friend.

This is a wound in my heart.

And it will last for longer.

There will not be a third night, chronologically.

But the fourth night will bring an uneasy peace.

I Am A Dork (But this is ok)

So, sometimes people who like to imagine themselves poets (Lars) will be coerced by well-meaning friends to go to open-mike nights at local coffee shops. This is acceptable, and not terribly hard to do. Then, said poet ("poet"?) will sign up to recite a piece, without actually thinking about the fact that there will be a multitude of other, more experienced, arguably more talented poets and musicians who will take the mike first. This will FREAK HER OUT. In a very calm, internal way. You can't freak out while eating crepes. It's not cool. So,, when it comes time to recite her piece, Lars will forgo the longer, more polished piece, and spit this out:

This Morning

I woke up

unbraided

my still wet hair,

and thought of you.

I am not laughing

the way you were

last night.

This will be followed by an awkward silence that lasts for probably only 5 seconds, but actually it will feel longer. Lars will then awkwardly sit down as people realize that was it, and clap. Commence the jokes about brevity.

BUT, it was the first time. And I did it. So you know what? I can be a dork. Next time will be better.

Resolved: IB

Up until 28 minutes ago, the status of my IB Diploma was unresolved. Now it's resolved, because, that's right, Lars is an IB Diploma holder, not just a candidate. BAM. Who can write 4,ooo word essays and get A's on them? ME. Who can dance her way to a full points score in a higher level art? ME. Who can BS her way through a foreign language test and STILL get one point above passing? Still me. History is also now bowing at my feet (ask me a question about 20th century Europe-especially Russia-or Communist China, and I might just be able to write a 5 page essay on it). I am skipping in happy circles. Take that, International Baccalaureate.

In a Sick Way, Karma Is Always Good to Me

Prepare For the Uprising

My friends, it is upon us.

Deer are chasing children. Through churches. In the city where I will be in approximately one month.

They know I'm approaching. Get your shelters ready. It's time.

Calling All Lovers of Lars' Poetry

Ah, my two followers, and however many secret stalkers I have who may be reading this, the time has come for a very important event.

I have entered a poetry contest. Because it involves Billy Collins.

If you don't know about my Billy Collins obsession, do not fear. I'll share! But first, pretty pretty please click here, and create an account (if you don't have a figment.com account that is) and "heart" my poem. The top ten will be read and judged by Billy Collins. I am definitely not giggling in excitement every time I think about that.

See, my love for this American poet began with an animal issue. Yes. It all goes back to my animal problems, doesn't it?

My neighbors had this poor, neglected, mean old mangy dalmatian named Jake. He was about 1000 years old, and he could not stop barking. Ever. It was as if he literally had to make noise to survive. I seriously have never hated a dog so much as that one. He would growl if you looked at him over the fence, and whine if he was feeling particularly sorry for himself.

Then one day, my aunt, who is a writer herself, came to visit. Jake was displeased. My aunt, upon hearing the dog we'd all complained so much about, directed our attention to the copy of Sailing Alone Around the Room by the fireplace and read aloud Another Reason Why I Don't Keep A Gun in the House.

A year later, I met Mr. Collins at a poetry lecture at the library. I was 11. The rest, as they say, is history.

Let's All Be Uncomfortable

This week is officially Let's All Be Uncomfortable week. I've had awkward experiences literally everyday of this week. Let's break it down.

Monday: Actually, let's not talk about this one. We'll just say it started with me reading library books in a park because I couldn't be in my house, and it just got more uncomfortable from there. Some things are better left unsaid.

Tuesday: Ok. Confession. I drown my sorrows in Taco Bell. And I eat there a lot when I'm not drowning my sorrows. My bff and I often go there for Taco Bonding Time, where we sit and spill our guts while eating tacos. Fun fact? The employees recognize me. I'm pretty sure they know all about my life. I'm also 100% positive I applied for a job there. Ginger Drive-Thru Employee Man gives me this knowing smile every time I go in. He definitely gave me one on Tuesday when I ordered the 1/2 lb potato burrito.

Wednesday: The Realtor forgot to call. I was patching and painting when the Potential Home Buyers arrived. After a quick escape, my sister kindly informed me that I'd been walking around in public, waving at people we knew, with an enormous amount of paint on my butt. Yay.

Thursday: Beluga decided she needed a new engine. For a one-car family, this is a disaster. When the mechanics simultaneously inform you of the time frame of the repair and ask you to fill out paperwork for a ride home, you often look like an idiot. The silent twenty minute drive home in the courtesy van is fun, too, particularly when you manage to get lost.

This will all be really funny. Next week.

To the Robin Who Came to Visit This Morning...

Dear Scruffy Bird,

It was ever so kind of you to drop by this morning. Just imagine my surprise to find you sitting on my porch, glaring at me as though I were a trespasser when I went to empty the compost! Squatting there with your horrible beady eyes, panting like a greedy dog, and oozing liquid, I suppose you were just resting; how silly of me to think you were slowly dying in my presence. If your behavior were not enough, the fact that you appeared to have been mauled by an unfortunately unsuccessful cat added to your incredibly disturbing nature. I do apologize for screaming and forcing my mother to come take care of you, but did you really need to take a dump before you flew away? Furthermore, your return visit to the lawn was not appreciated. As you can clearly see, we are trying to sell our house, and the presence of angry hobo robins does not increase our chances of doing such.

It's not that I dislike your species; on the contrary I find your brethren lovely. You, however, are the avian equivalent to a lecherous old man far past his due date in an asylum somewhere. I hope the neighbor's cats finished you off, because should I ever lay eyes on you again, I may be forced to bring the cats in myself.

With all due respect, get out of my life.

Sincerely,

Lars

Hmmm...

I seem to be putting a great deal of poetry up...

Oh well. It's my blog. I can do what I want to. :) I haven't named this one yet...suggestions?

With each hug

I am filled with meaning.

Each pair of arms

speaks to me,

tells of the journeys

the shared laughter

communal tears.

Every one bittersweet,

but I am not sad

I do not weep.

Then you hug me.

Your embrace is not

inside of your arms;

they are silent.

You embrace me

with your words

and the jar of my heart

is cracked,

leaking these journeys,

allowing them to swirl

and push behind my eyes.

This is the last time

we will dance together...

(eyes closed)

For a while.

For a while.

Unresolved Issues With the Animal Kingdom: Butterflies

Ok. I know what you're thinking. Pigeons are understandable, if a little extreme. Deer? A bit of a stretch. But butterflies? Those pretty winged creatures that grow from caterpillars? The ones that represent hope and beauty and freedom and delicacy and all things feminine and sweet?

Yup. Those are the ones.

They're awful, and here's why:

They are too big to be insects, but conversely too small to be animals. SO WHAT ARE THEY? Creepy. Yuck.

They are fragile. This relates to being a weird size; they can die too easily, but when they do die, their remains are large enough to be seen in disturbing detail. If one of those suckers gets squished on your windshield, you're likely to run off the road and crash as you will be screaming in horror, the way you would be if a bird were to smear itself across your car.

They're specifically designed to look like eyeballs, so that predators think they are large scary beasts. Oh wait. They are.

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, they eat the carcasses of dead animals. They are carnivorous tee-ninecy beings which feed on the flesh of grizzly bear leavings. If that doesn't gross you out at least a little bit...I don't know what will. Probably only really brutal serial killer evidence photos.

"Redemption"?

While packing, I found a host of bizarre things in my bedroom, including but not limited to: a rape whistle, a clarinet, an unimaginable amount of shiny ribbon, lots of hats, and enough knit gloves to last a lifetime.

I also found a poem entitle "Redemption"? and immediately took a trip down memory lane. Here's an unresolved issue if ever there was one! Maybe three or four years back, my church was celebrating the 50th anniversary of the completion of the building's construction, and so we had a special service where everyone donned 1950s garb and we had a party. It was rather marvelous! My friend and I, being a lot younger than 50, decided to go thrifting for appropriate dresses downtown. We found this store called "Redemption Roses" and decided to give it a try. Most of the stuff was horrible-cut up and covered in screen prints of zombie children and bleeding animals. There was, however, a rack in the back that caught my eye: a row of untouched dresses. In the middle was a bright yellow dress with a full circle skirt, and a cute little collar. It was perfect and it fit perfectly. It also did not have a price tag from the store we were in; it had a $3 tag from D.I., a local thrift store. I was terribly excited until the store manager insisted that I give her $25 for it, $75 if she were to screen print and cut it. I was furious, and left the store in a huff to write this poem.

As soon as I

close my eyes

I know I'll see:

She's wearing my dress!

the perfect yellow dress,

clutching her scissors,

spilling her ink,

twirling the skirt-

and laughing,

flimsy wisps of

bleached-blonde hair

sticking to her face

along with her

triumphant grin

as she surveys

her perfect destruction

of the perfect yellow dress.

Unexpected Loveliness

Sometimes, you have days that are just, well, lovely. Today, I am taking a leaf out of my best friend's book, and posting a list of the things that made today absolutely fantastic!

• I got to draw dancing bears and lions on my final IB exam. This will not harm my score, but help it.
• I finished said exam about 40 minutes early, and thus was able to go to Dairy Queen with two of my closest friends to eat peanut butter chocolate treats and talk about boys, college, and our relative ages (one of my friends is my five year old twin, and the other is our 35 year old mother, if you were wondering).
• We had a sub in psychology, allowing me to practice microflow, a component of positive psychology.
• Today was the last time I ever have to dedicate more than an hour of my time to rehearsing the African Jazz number for recital. No more yelling, no more wounded gazelles, no more getting blamed for the mistakes of others. None!
• This video. And Edward Monkton in general.
• To top it all off, my aunt gave me a year's membership to the Metropolitan Museum of Fine Art. That's right. I can go whenever I want to for no monies, instead of twenty monies. Happy. Happy happy happy!!!

Periphery

We are peripheral,

And our eyes do not meet.

I feel you

Sinking into my spaces

Filling those gaps,

Plugging ancient holes

With nonchalance,

Detached.

Our fingers intertwined,

Their form and texture

Is as familiar as the

Slow churn of disappointment

Dripping from head to stomach.

We are connected,

But we are not one.

We are tangled,

But we are not touching.

We are peripheral,

And our eyes cannot meet.

To My Dear Friend

Dearest Balthazaar,

For the past 7 years we have been close, weathering the ups and the downs, facing the unknown together. You've been loyal and loving, but unfortunately, unless your behavior changes drastically, I may no longer be able to call you my best friend. I know that your psyche is delicate and easily damaged by stressful events, but you have truly gone off the deep end, and it is time you had a little help in reigning yourself back in.

First of all, although I love you, this does not mean that I want your company while I pee. That is not an appropriate time for cuddling. Licking magazines is also not a suitable past time for the bathroom. Nor are leaping from behind the shower curtain towards my face, or turning the door knob repeatedly. Please don't take it personally when I lock you out; plaintive cries will not increase your chances of being allowed in the bathroom.

I know that you crave my company in the morning, but the first thing I want to hear in the morning is not the thump of your body running into my door frame, or the sounds of your claws frantically scratching at the hinges. This is both ineffective and weird. Eventually I will indeed emerge from my bedroom to feed you and give you some attention, I promise. Just be patient.

It seems to wound you deeply when my father and I lock you out of our rooms while we are trying to get work done, but to be frank my dear, you are annoying. Sitting on my head, rubbing your teeth on my legs, and knocking over everything that you can reach are not activities that promote good work and study habits, or increase my regard for you. Dad feels the same way.

You've made it clear that life as a house cat is difficult, but surely you can find more productive activities? The boxes around the house and the strange people removing our furniture do not signify your abandonment. Oh no. You're coming with us. So just sniff your cat-cheek pheromone spray, chill out, and prepare for the move.

All my love,

Lars

Your Smile is Like Springtime

The corners

resemble tiny caves,

warm and perhaps cozy,

certainly full

of some dormant creature,

poised to emerge.

The center

is like a promise

about to be fulfilled,

a flower

about to bloom.

The break is a crash of waves,

sending the sands of my serenity

into frenetic dancing.

The crests send fire

through the stars.

Springtime

is my favorite season.

Fishing

This keeps coming back to me. I choreographed it back in December, it's been performed twice now, and the final performance is on Thursday. Perhaps, after this finale, it will be resolved...

This is What it Feels Like, 2.0

A film I made inspired by the poem I wrote.

Unresolved Issues With the Animal Kingdom

They're disturbing, and not just to me! Here are some videos featuring those animals which give me the heebie-jeebies.

Katy Perry = deer???

I haven't yet talked about butterflies, but it's coming...

Yes. This exists.

Tell me this isn't creepy. I won't believe you.

Anemia, The Crying Baby

This past fall was a rough time for me. I’m not going to go into details, but I was having a lot of problems in my family and personal life. There was, however, an event I was looking forward to: donating blood. I had been trying for several months to gain enough weight to be able to donate. My friends were plotting to force-feed me cheeseburgers until I outweighed them. I did not have to resort to that, but I really wanted to be able to donate when the blood people came to my school in October, so it was definitely a conscious effort. I figured I was healthy and therefore ought to do what I could to help those who were less healthy. I was wrong.

I’m not a fan of needles, so I wasn’t surprised when I started to feel faint even before they stuck me. The last thing I heard as I lost consciousness was “Oh, she’s a spurter!” I came to quickly only to fill a unit in 4 minutes, which is about 3 minutes too fast. I fainted again when they pulled the needle out, but as I sat on the floor in the corner munching cookies and slurping juice, I figured it was just the needles. For the second time, I was wrong.

For the next three weeks, I had horrible, skull-splitting headaches, every day, without fail. Due to various issues, as previously mentioned, my planned doctor visits were pushed back until fate decided I really needed to see someone. During church the Sunday of the fourth week of headaches, a woman fainted in the middle of the service. Unfortunately, I am a sympathy fainter. Luckily there are a number of doctors and nurses at my church, so while the woman who fainted initially had to be taken out on a stretcher by the ambulance drivers, much to her protest, I was simply given water and made to sit down for the rest of the day. The next morning I found myself in the doctor’s office, being diagnosed with anemia and being scolded for donating my blood when I couldn’t produce enough blood cells for myself, let alone donate any. I’d lost almost 10 pounds, which was more than I had gained in the first place.

I have an iron deficiency-caused anemia. My doctor said the solution was to eat a lot of protein to balance out the gratuitous amount of exercise I naturally encounter on a daily basis. This works, to a point. I gained the weight back, my cheeks no longer look like paper, and the headaches stopped, but every month is two steps forward, one step back. If you know what I mean…

How is this a food issue? Well, it drastically changed my diet. I had been eating what I thought was a balanced and healthy diet, fruits, vegetables, grains, light meats like poultry, occasional red meat, lots of beans and rice, and of course, obscene amounts of junk food. I now eat beef jerky, protein bars, nuts, and eggs in addition to many of those other foods; the ratios just shifted. Here’s the catch: if I stop eating these foods, my anemia rears its ugly head, and punches the inside of my brain. So when I had to have FES surgery and lost a lot of blood, slept for four days without eating much more than yogurt and a burrito, I got the headaches again.

What have I learned from this? The medical people are like vampires: they suck your blood and leave you anemic. Anemia is like a screaming baby in your head, only the screams are silent, and the only thing that shuts that baby up is a nice, juicy hamburger. Looks like my friends were right all along.

This is What it Feels Like

Scene one:
moist grass
heated faces
magnetic air
no eye contact.

This is what "doubt" feels like.

Scene two:
cold grass
focused vacant stares
the blurring and smearing of tears
self-loathing bitterness
a warm hand on a fragile knee.

This is what "heartbreak" feels like.

Scene three:
soft fingers
red empty plastic cups
warm hearth
hollow laughter
buttercream frosting
a tight embrace
a horse with blinders.

This is what "denial" feels like.

Scene four:
empty desks
agitated bees
racing heart strings
frozen tongues against their throats.

This is what "anger" feels like.

Scene five:
sleepless eyes
intuition
crowded church
week-old release
tears, heavy tears
wheezing ribcages
familiar room, without the monument.

This is what "grief" feels like.

Scene six:
a placid lake
downy feathers
dizziness
meditation.

This is what "acceptance" feels like.

Scene seven: (blending with Scene eight)
familiar classrooms
static air
attention to detail
a recipe for quiche
tumbling from a stool
bitter buttercream frosting
sincere compliments, given with hesitant eyes
uneasy bridge walk
broken bracelets, broken promises.

This is what "replacement" feels like.

Scene nine:
full belly laughter
maniac grin
harshest words
opportunity
rubber shield.

This is what "vindctive" feels like.

Scene ten:
adrenaline screaming
panic, panic
sick coincidence
hysterical giggling
unecessary guilt
guilty pleasure
new beginning.

This is what "karma" feels like.

Epilogue:
stationary afternoon
dry, rough, patchy
an eggshell
overcooked spaghetti heaped on a plate
an airplane running over the sky
wax sliding over glass
anticipation of improvement
lies, secrets, secrets, lies
warmer eyes
greater risks.

This is what I feel like.

Unresolved Issues With the Animal Kingdom: Deer

I like to believe I am a rational person so I will explain this as rationally as possible: I am afraid of deer.

Yes. Bambi-and-friends-frolicking-through-the-woods-eating-grass deer. They unsettle me the way horror movies disturb toddlers.

Did you know that more people die in car versus deer accidents than deer? A Park Ranger in Yellowstone told me that. They’re just small enough to be flung up onto the windshield, but just large enough to smash through the glass and lacerate you with their razor-sharp hooves. That’s right. They have razor-sharp hooves.

Why, you may ask, does a deer need sharp hooves? They do not need to kill to eat, nor do they dig, or do anything with their feet but walk-anything but fight, that is. Their sharp hooves are supposedly for “self-defense”, so clearly they are fighting something. All the members of the alces family attack threats to their young in a specific manner: they rear up on their hind legs, then smash their pointy front feet into the hapless victim’s skull with the force of their entire body. It’s true; it happened to my great-great grandmother. She survived by waiting until the animal reared and then stepping calmly just outside hoof range, over and over again. Eventually the ungulate’s hamstring was bitten by a dog and the fight ended. This doesn’t seem like a defensive maneuver to me.

Deer have no concept of personal space, or dignity. They wander into people’s yards and eat the grass off of graves in cemeteries. They clearly have no respect for our dead or our living. They’ve been left by the side of the road bleeding to death at the mercy of cruel motorists too many times and now they’re out for revenge. When they’re munching the lush green on grandma’s grave, they’re using those uncommonly large eyes to say “You killed my great-grandfather, and now you must pay. Om nom nom.”

We’ve pushed them off their land and destroyed their food sources, eaten their brethren, and hit them with our cars. It was only a matter of time before a major uprising began. It is my firm belief that they are gathering together to fight the ultimate fight against mankind. Soon, they will control us with their hypnotic eyes, hooves to our backs as we slave to restore their forest and protect them from other natural enemies. They will find every last trophy head and place them over our beds, a sick reminder of how the tables have turned.

Slowly, they will become more sadistic. The ritual killings will increase and deer will control all species. These plans have been in the works since the first deer-human battles, and the deer will stop at nothing to reclaim their pride. When the deer apocalypse comes, and you don’t have your bear-guarded shelter prepared, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Bambi’s mother had it coming.

Food Issues: Nasty Fruit Chunks

Yogurt is exceedingly difficult to buy. There are so many choices, and so many ways you can end up with something disgusting instead of something wonderful. This issue is compounded with a universal inability for yogurt manufacturers to properly label their yogurt.

I have a problem with the hunks of fruit so commonly found floating in innocent yogurt. It’s not even really fruit by the time it makes it into the little plastic cup. Instead, it’s the hollow, tasteless pulp of what used to be a delicious strawberry. There is no flavor to those leathery excuses for food- it’s all been squeezed out into the yogurt already. Nobody wants it anymore. It’s gross. If I wanted pieces of fruit in my yogurt, I would put them there myself, using fresh fruit, pure fruit, unadulterated by a food processor.

Usually avoiding these nasty fruit chunks is easy, like when the yogurt people put the words “Fruit on the bottom!” on the outside, as though it’s something to be proud of. There are also those horrible, sneaky, good-for-nothing yogurt manufacturers who write NOTHING on the outside which indicates the level of nasty, leaving the poor consumer in the dark about whether or not their pina colada is chunky and full of hairy coconut bits. But they are not the worst offenders. Oh no. The worst are those yogurts which claim to be “whipped” or “smooth” which seem to imply that they are, well, not lumpy, but when you open the yogurt, there sit those poor, lifeless fruit droppings you’ve come to detest.

I’m telling you, yogurt buying is a dangerous mission. You best watch your back, and know your brands.

Nostalgia

When I see
your neck
It is too easy to
Slip
and remember how
my left hand
fits on the
right side,
cradling your face.

If I focus
I remeber where you could put
both your hands
(around my waist)
to pull me in for a
Kiss.

It is also easy to
Slip Out.

I can remember how
your neck
twisted out of
my left hand
to keep your eyes
locked away from me.

I can feel the void
from where
both your hands
no longer tug
(my empty waist).

Unresolved Issues With the Animal Kingdom: Pigeons

I was in New York City for the first time the summer before 8th grade. It was magical; the city was so new and different and exciting. My hometown couldn't hold a candle to its radiance. Unfortunately, there was a similarity:

Pigeons.

I loathe pigeons. There is not a single creature on this earth which I find as hideous as the pigeon, and they are everywhere on this planet. You cannot escape them. That is one of their most unattractive features-they have such vast numbers that there is no escape. They stare at you with their round, watery eyes, make that chilling cooing noise, and you can immediately tell that they are plotting something nefarious involving fecal matter.

Pigeons crap wherever they please, whenever they please, but only after eating something difficult to digest. Then they locate a target, usually someone doing something exciting, who is wearing an outfit that is either expensive, difficult to clean, or both. For instance, a pigeon will see a girl in the audience for the Today Show wearing a brand new white t-shirt and think to itself, "That violently green pesto I just consumed is making my tummy feel weird. It's time for it to move on. That pretty girl in white surely understands my sorrow." Then it will let loose and you are left covered in warm, green, stinking bird feces that will leave a horrible grey shadow on your shirt as a painful, permanent reminder.

The last offense I take with the psychology of pigeons is their (lack of) intelligence. Birds who sit on busy thoroughfares and do not fly away when approached by SUVs deserve to be crushed under the wheels of the vehicle. This is called "survival of the fittest" and rumor has it that's what makes the creatures of this earth maintain standards. These standards are important. After all, no one wants a dog that can't fetch, or a city populated by birds too stupid to use their God-given wings to save themselves from automobiles, particularly not me.

It's not just their behavior is off-putting, however. There's also the problem of their appearance. Once enough of these animals are crowded into an area populated by fools who feed them and garbage cans line the sidewalks, even the dumbest of the dumb survives. There are incidents of horrid inbreeding and terrifying accidents. This leaves us with deformed pigeons. Regular, oil-spill green birds are unattractive enough, but add goiters, extra toes, and bulbous tumors, then suddenly pigeons are infinitely worse. It may make me cruel, but I find deformed pigeons repulsive.

Unfortunately, there is no way to escape these vile creatures without moving to a remote, and likely undeveloped, part of the world, where the climate is too dramatic for lowly pigeons. That, or we use them to feed the world's hungry until we can effectively reorganize food distribution and solve world hunger. Perhaps I have a new life goal.