You try not to love them because they always leave. And kissing, well, kissing always makes it even harder. Don’t mix, don’t mingle. Just make drinks, serve sweets, and high tail it back up the mountain to keep at the writing. But of course, the draw of working at the craft school is the community that comes along with it. We’re all pushing and striving for something, together, and we express that in different mediums. As varied as everyone’s art is, perhaps the language of the heart is the one place we find our most common ground.
So when the Israeli (my unsuspecting gallery date) leaves me a lovely clay pot and note, signed, “Thank you for sharing a small part of your life with me. I’ll return home with a small part of you within,” I’d be lying if I said my heart didn’t skip a beat. And as we continue to nurture such lovely connection this week, I’d be lying, too, if I said I could watch him leave without a second thought. Indeed, my heart has hardened some in the past year (and perhaps for the better), but with this Spring’s thaw has come a little warming in my chest when I least expected it.
And so it goes—this latest batch of 64 students will leave in two days. They’ve been here for two months and I know many of them by name, even more of them by drink, and a few of them by their artwork. In a month we’ll be thrust into our summer schedule with 180 new students every two weeks. They move so quickly and keep us so busy behind the counter there is but time to look and they are gone.
It would not be accurate to say that I have fallen for someone…not at all. What is true is this: For a night or two, I was seen for who I am and appreciated for that. Someone took the time to see the whole person, hear the whole story, nurture the whole body. Likewise, I took the time to explore a new connection, cherish a new friend, listen to his whole story. Two days remain. I cast a cold eye to Hope, cling tightly to Resilience, and bid bon voyage to Communion, knowing that somewhere in Israel, a small part of me is carried within. I like to think that for now, that is all this writer needs.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Monday, April 28, 2008
Celebration!
My.
Thesis.
Is.
Done.
…And my gallery date is coming up the mountain for dinner. What lovely auspiciousness!
Thesis.
Is.
Done.
…And my gallery date is coming up the mountain for dinner. What lovely auspiciousness!
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Lone Star
For so long, it barely crossed my mind. In fact, the feeling I subconsciously nurtured was one of non-attachment. Live and love by your heart but do so moment to moment. Do not expect anything. I had persuaded myself of this much. But tonight that brave and sensual Katey came back (she lives eternally at the bottom of two glasses of wine and on the fringe of ovulation, never too far away).
I’d been holed up all day doing homework but it could have been all month. I showered, played Norah Jones, dressed my sexiest/casual for a local opening at the gallery in Tinyville featuring work by students at the craft school. “Yes!” my outfit seemed to say, your barista can be sexy, the girl who makes your coffee is more than the apron behind the counter, that smiling face who rings you up lives locally, has work of her own, dresses well when prompted, and looks damn good in a coral and turquoise necklace.
I could have skipped the shower. I could have played Metallica, something, anything other than Norah Jones, to roughen rather than prime the senses. I could have worn Carhartt’s. I could have smelled badly. I could have fussed. I could have skipped the whole gig alltogether.
But all the voices of lonely and woman and mountain pushed forward to propel me into the gallery in my Dansko heels and damn if I didn’t walk out of there two hours later with a genuine, handsome, five o’clock shadow, dark haired potter at my side. Yes, a student at the school. Yes, leaving in one week. Yes, lives far, far away (abroad, in fact). Yes, impossibly smart, honest, and sweet with an accent to boot. And yes, above all else, I know his drink (double shot of espresso, customarily consumed around 3pm, no cream, no sugar).
“Would you join me outside,” he said and that’s when I knew it was on.
“Yes,” I replied. Followed.
And it’s not necessarily that what we had to say to each other was spectacular, but it was real and not for anybody other than ourselves, by which I mean he did not simply ask me what my favorite, books were but, “Which authors are you currently obsessed with?” Artist to artist, we understand the notion of obsession. “Steve Almond,” I say, “and Thom Jones, Aimee Bender, and always, Didion.” By which I mean also that I did not simply ask him what he was doing after the class ended but, “Can you make room for clay in your life after this?”
It’s a simple moment of connection, but the fact that we’ve been nearly anonymous to each other for two months somehow magnifies its significance and there, right there on the back steps of the gallery, I want nothing more than for him to lean in, kiss me because he knows of nothing else, and then I want the sun to set and for life to be simple and for tomorrow to be another day.
Of course, it works out differently. When it is time for me to go he walks me to my car and there is that moment (he’s blushing), and we both lean in and click-click-click the heels of his teacher walking by us in the parking lot. We both pull back, un-satiated, embarrassed and I am feeling oh so school girl. I believe I actually leaned my back against my car and groaned in frustration, which made him laugh, lean in again, and we settled for the sweetest kiss on the cheek. I rushed away—did I leave a Dansko heel behind? All the way home I could smell him, smiled at the thought of how silly our flirting, and churned inside for what might have been.
Too riled up to do homework, I put The Waking Life (dvd) on and made it only thirteen minutes into the film when one of the female characters said this: “So much of what we perceive cannot be expressed; it’s unspeakable, and yet, when we communicate with one another and we feel that we have connected and we think that we’re understood, I think that we have a feeling of almost spiritual communion and that feeling might be transient but I think it’s what we live for.”
I stop the movie. Return to the desk. And try once again to find myself on the page.
I’d been holed up all day doing homework but it could have been all month. I showered, played Norah Jones, dressed my sexiest/casual for a local opening at the gallery in Tinyville featuring work by students at the craft school. “Yes!” my outfit seemed to say, your barista can be sexy, the girl who makes your coffee is more than the apron behind the counter, that smiling face who rings you up lives locally, has work of her own, dresses well when prompted, and looks damn good in a coral and turquoise necklace.
I could have skipped the shower. I could have played Metallica, something, anything other than Norah Jones, to roughen rather than prime the senses. I could have worn Carhartt’s. I could have smelled badly. I could have fussed. I could have skipped the whole gig alltogether.
But all the voices of lonely and woman and mountain pushed forward to propel me into the gallery in my Dansko heels and damn if I didn’t walk out of there two hours later with a genuine, handsome, five o’clock shadow, dark haired potter at my side. Yes, a student at the school. Yes, leaving in one week. Yes, lives far, far away (abroad, in fact). Yes, impossibly smart, honest, and sweet with an accent to boot. And yes, above all else, I know his drink (double shot of espresso, customarily consumed around 3pm, no cream, no sugar).
“Would you join me outside,” he said and that’s when I knew it was on.
“Yes,” I replied. Followed.
And it’s not necessarily that what we had to say to each other was spectacular, but it was real and not for anybody other than ourselves, by which I mean he did not simply ask me what my favorite, books were but, “Which authors are you currently obsessed with?” Artist to artist, we understand the notion of obsession. “Steve Almond,” I say, “and Thom Jones, Aimee Bender, and always, Didion.” By which I mean also that I did not simply ask him what he was doing after the class ended but, “Can you make room for clay in your life after this?”
It’s a simple moment of connection, but the fact that we’ve been nearly anonymous to each other for two months somehow magnifies its significance and there, right there on the back steps of the gallery, I want nothing more than for him to lean in, kiss me because he knows of nothing else, and then I want the sun to set and for life to be simple and for tomorrow to be another day.
Of course, it works out differently. When it is time for me to go he walks me to my car and there is that moment (he’s blushing), and we both lean in and click-click-click the heels of his teacher walking by us in the parking lot. We both pull back, un-satiated, embarrassed and I am feeling oh so school girl. I believe I actually leaned my back against my car and groaned in frustration, which made him laugh, lean in again, and we settled for the sweetest kiss on the cheek. I rushed away—did I leave a Dansko heel behind? All the way home I could smell him, smiled at the thought of how silly our flirting, and churned inside for what might have been.
Too riled up to do homework, I put The Waking Life (dvd) on and made it only thirteen minutes into the film when one of the female characters said this: “So much of what we perceive cannot be expressed; it’s unspeakable, and yet, when we communicate with one another and we feel that we have connected and we think that we’re understood, I think that we have a feeling of almost spiritual communion and that feeling might be transient but I think it’s what we live for.”
I stop the movie. Return to the desk. And try once again to find myself on the page.
Buckeye Blooms!
I couldn't resist. The porch on my house extends almost 30 feet out over the edge of the mountain at about mid-tree height. If I reach off the edge, I can touch the softest, lime-green buckeye blooms that seem to expand and grow by the minute. In accordance with this spring celebration, I have updated my website with a new photo on the main page. View it here.
Friday, April 25, 2008
One Step at at Time
Everything about the blue belt is different. No longer do I pull my fists back to the trigger point after each punch—instead, I keep them up at my chest/face level for protection. In basic movements, we’re not always in a classical horse stance or a classical front stance, rather, something in between that looks more like a reasonable fighting stance. This is like moving from print block letters to cursive, learning to flow, losing the rigidity of the original forms for the sake of more realistic fighting. In short, I learned the basic rules and now I’m being asked to break them.
Here’s the catch: Perfectionists don’t break rules. Capricorns don’t “manage” surprises well. Obsessively efficient people don’t learn one way, then practice another. And yet…as Hanshi paced back and forth in front of his line of karateka on Thursday night, I felt my resistance slip away like old skin. There were just two black belts and one green in class, so I felt the move may have been more geared towards them. After all, I’ve never moved across the dojo with a repeated series of front, round, then side kicks let alone done this at lightning speed with a kiai (“Hai!”) at the end. By the end of the night, Hanshi’s message was clear: move faster and move smarter and move like you mean it.
My biggest challenge right now is speed, and if I don’t have speed then I don’t have power (form + speed = power). While I no longer believe that practice makes perfect, I’ve replaced that mantra with another one: practice makes you more aware, and awareness in the dojo is like enzano-o-metsuke, perceiving the whole mountain. Hanshi’s demands in Thursday’s class made the mountain quite clear. I can see what I have to do. Now I just need to put one foot in front of the other and build enough physical strength to get there.
Here’s the catch: Perfectionists don’t break rules. Capricorns don’t “manage” surprises well. Obsessively efficient people don’t learn one way, then practice another. And yet…as Hanshi paced back and forth in front of his line of karateka on Thursday night, I felt my resistance slip away like old skin. There were just two black belts and one green in class, so I felt the move may have been more geared towards them. After all, I’ve never moved across the dojo with a repeated series of front, round, then side kicks let alone done this at lightning speed with a kiai (“Hai!”) at the end. By the end of the night, Hanshi’s message was clear: move faster and move smarter and move like you mean it.
My biggest challenge right now is speed, and if I don’t have speed then I don’t have power (form + speed = power). While I no longer believe that practice makes perfect, I’ve replaced that mantra with another one: practice makes you more aware, and awareness in the dojo is like enzano-o-metsuke, perceiving the whole mountain. Hanshi’s demands in Thursday’s class made the mountain quite clear. I can see what I have to do. Now I just need to put one foot in front of the other and build enough physical strength to get there.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
More Than You Asked For...
Here is my bibliography from my entire time in the MFA program. I have read all of these books except for six of them, which I will finish reading by the end of May-ish. This bibliography hasn’t been proofread or double-checked for alphabetical accuracy, but it’s a start…and it has to go into the final draft of my thesis in just a few days.
Ackerman, Diane. A Natural History of the Senses. New York: Random House, 1990.
Allison, Dorothy. Bastard Out of Carolina. New York: Plume, 1992.
Allison, Dorothy. Two or Three Things I Know for Sure. New York: Plume, 1995.
Allison, Dorothy. Trash: Stories. New York: Plume, 2002.
Almond, Steve. My Life in Heavy Metal. New York: Grove Press, 2002.
Bank, Melissa. The Wonder Spot. New York: Viking, 2005.
Barnes, Kim. In the Wilderness: Coming of Age in an Unknown Country. New York: Anchor Books, 1996.
Bass, Rick. Winter [Notes from Montana]. New York: Houghton Mifflin, 1991.
Bass, Rick. Hermit’s Story. Boston : Houghton Mifflin, 2002.
Bausch, Richard. The Stories of Richard Bausch. New York: Perennial, 2003.
Baxter, Charles. Harmony of the World: Stories. New York: Vintage Books, 1984.
Beard, Jo Ann. The Boys of My Youth. Boston: Little, Brown, and Company, 1998.
Bell, Marvin. Rampant. Port Townsend, Washington: Copper Canyon Press, 2004.
Bell, Marvin. Mars Being Red. Port Townsend, Washington: Copper Canyon Press, 2007.
Bender, Aimee. The Girl in the Flammable Skirt. New York: Anchor Books, 1998.
Bender, Aimee. Willful Creatures: Stories. New York: Doubleday, 2005.
Benjamin, Walter. “Hashish in Marseilles.” The Art of the Personal Essay: An Anthology from the Classical Era to the Present. Ed. Phillip Lopate. New York: Anchor Books, 1994. 370-375.
Blew, Mary Clearman. All But the Waltz. New York: Viking, 1991.
Blunt, Judy. Breaking Clean. New York: Vintage Books, 2002.
Boyle, T. Coraghessan. Without a Hero and Other Stories. New York: Viking, 1994.
Burroughs, Augusten. Running with Scissors. New York: Picador, 2002.
Burroway, Janet. Embalming Mom: Essays in Life. Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 2002.
Carver, Raymond. Will You Please Be Quiet, Please? The Stories of Raymond Carver. New York: McGraw-Hill book Company, 1976.
Cisneros, Sandra. The House on Mango Street. New York: Vintage Books, 1984.
Cisneros, Sandra. Woman Hollering Creek. New York: Vintage Contemporaries, 1991.
Collins, Billy. Questions About Angels. Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1991.
D’Agata, John. Halls of Fame. St. Paul: Graywolf Press, 2001.
Davis, Claire. Winter Range. New York: Picador, 2000.
Davis, Claire. Labors of the Heart. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2006.
Defrees, Madeline. Spectral Waves. Port Townsend, Washington: Copper Canyon Press, 2006.
Didion, Joan. “Goodbye to All That.” The Art of the Personal Essay. Ed. Phillip Lopate. New York: Anchor Books Doubleday, 1994. 680-88.
Didion, Joan. Slouching Towards Bethlehem. New York: Farrar, Strauss, and Giroux, 1968.
Didion, Joan. The White Album. New York: Farrar, Strauss, and Giroux, 1979.
Dillard, Annie. “Seeing.” The Art of the Personal Essay: An Anthology from the Classical Era to the Present. New York: Anchor Books, 1994. 693-706.
Dillard, Annie. For the Time Being. New York: Vintage Books, 1999.
Driscoll, Jack. Wanting Only to Be Heard. Amherst: University of Massachusetts, 1992.
Driscoll, Jack. Lucky Man, Lucky Woman. New York: Orchard, 1996.
Driscoll, Jack. How Like an Angel. Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 2005.
Dubus, Andre. Dancing After Hours: Stories. New York: Vintage Books, 1996.
Dybek, Stuart. I Sailed With Magellan. New York: Farrar, Strauss, and Giroux, 2003.
Eco, Umberto. Six Walks in the Fictional Woods. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1994.
Flynn, Nick. Another Bullshit Night in Suck City. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 2004.
Frasier, Joelle. The Territory of Men. New York: Random House, 2003.
Fromm, Pete. Indian Creek Chronicles. New York: Lyons & Burford, 1993.
Fromm, Pete. Night Swimming. New York: Picador, 1999.
Fuller, Alexandra. Scribbling the Cat: Travels with an African Soldier. New York: Penguin Press, 2004.
Gailey, Jeannine Hall. Becoming the Villainess. Bowling Green, Kentucky: Steel Toe Books, 2006.
Galloway, Lisa. New Poets Short Books: Liminal: A Life of Cleavage. Ed. Marvin Bell. Sand Point, Idaho: Lost Horse Press, 2007.
Galvin, James. The Meadow. New York: Henry Holt and Company, 1992.
Goodwin, Doris Kearns. Wait Till Next Year. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1997.
Gutkind, Lee, ed. The Best Creative Nonfiction: Vol. 1. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2007.
Hegi, Ursula. Floating in My Mother’s Palm. New York: Vintage Contemporaries, 1990.
Hegi, Ursula. Hotel of the Saints: Stories. New York: Simon & Schuster, 2001.
Hoagland, Edward. Compass Points: How I Lived. New York: Vintage Books, 2001.
Howell, Christopher. Just Waking. Sand Point, Idaho: Lost Horse Press, 2003.
Jones, Thom. The Pugilist at Rest: Stories. Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1993.
Jones, Thom. Cold Snap: Stories. Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1995.
Karr, Mary. The Liar’s Club. New York: Penguin Books, 1995.
Kimmel, Haven. A Girl Named Zippy. New York: Doubleday, 2001.
Kimmel, Haven. She Got Up Off the Couch And Other Heroic Acts from Mooreland, Indiana. New York: Free Press, 2006.
Kinnell, Galway. The Book of Nightmares. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1971.
Kitchen, Judith and Mary Paumier Jones, ed. In Short: A Collection of Brief Creative Nonfiction. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 1996.
Kitchen, Judith and Mary Paumier Jones, eds. In Brief: Short Takes on the Personal. New York: W. W. North & Company, 1999.
Kitchen, Judith, ed. Short Takes: Brief Encounters with Contemporary Nonfiction. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2005.
Kittredge, William. Hole in the Sky. New York: Vintage Books, Inc. 1992.
Kwang, Casey L. B. On Blue Felix Paper. Wellstone Press, 1998.
Lamb, Charles. “Dream Children: A Reverie.” The Art of the Personal Essay: An Anthology from the Classical Era to the Present. Ed. Phillip Lopate. New York: Anchor Books, 1994. 169-172.
Laux, Dorianne. Awake. Rochester, New York: Boa Editions, 1990.
Laux, Dorianne. Smoke. New York: Boa Editions, Ltd., 2000.
Laux, Dorianne. Facts About the Moon. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 2006.
Lesley, Craig. Burning Fence: A Western Memoir of Fatherhood. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2005.
Levertov, Denise. Making Peace. Ed. Peggy Rosenthal. New York, New Directions, 2006.
Levin, Dana. In the Surgical Theatre. Philadelphia: The American Poetry Review, 1999.
Markham, Beryl. The Splendid Outcast: African Stories. San Francisco: North Point Press, 1987.
McCarthy, Mary. How I Grew: A Memoir of the Early Years. New York: Harcourt, 1987.
McCall, Catherine. Lifeguarding. New York: Harmony Books, 2006.
McCourt, Frank. Angela’s Ashes. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1996.
McNally, John, ed. When I Was a Loser: True Stories of (Barely) Surviving High School. New York: Free Press, 2007.
Millar, Joseph. Overtime. Spokane, Washington: Eastern Washington University Press, 2001.
Moehringer, J.R. The Tender Bar. New York: Hyperion, 2006.
Moffat, Mary Jane. The Times of Our Lives: A Guide to Writing Autobiography and
Memoir. Santa Barbara: John Daniel and Company, 1989.
Moore, Dinty W., ed. “Hot and Cold.” Brevity: A Journal of Concise Literary Nonfiction Issue 26 (Winter 2008): Online. Internet. 13 March 2008. Available: http://www.creativenonfiction.org/brevity/.
O’Connor, Flannery. A Good Man is Hard to Find. New York: Farrar, Straus, and
Giroux, Inc., 1955.
Oliver, Mary. Blue Pastures. New York: Harcourt, Brace & Company, 1995.
Orwell, George. “Such, Such Were the Joys.” The Art of the Personal Essay: An Anthology from the Classical Era to the Present. Ed. Phillip Lopate. New York: Anchor Books, 1994. 269-302.
Parker, Michael. Don’t Make Me Stop Now: Stories. Chapel Hill: Algonquin Books, 2007.
Purpura, Lia. On Looking: Essays. Louisville: Sarabande Books, 2006.
Quammen, David. The Flight of the Iguana: A Sideline View of Science and Nature. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1988.
Ray, Janisse. Wild Card Quilt: The Ecology of Home. Minneapolis: Milkweed Editions, 2003.
Rember, John. Traplines. New York: Vintage Books, 2003.
Robinson, Marilynne. Housekeeping. New York: Picador, 1980.
Rogers, Pattiann. Splitting and Binding. Hanover, New Hampshire: Weslyan University Press, 1989.
Sears, Peter. The Brink. Salt Lake City, Utah: Gibbs Smith Publisher, 2000.
Sedaris, David. Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim. New York: Little, Brown and Company, 2004.
Selzer, Richard. “The Knife.” The Art of the Personal Essay: An Anthology from the Classical Era to the Present. Ed. Phillip Lopate. New York: Anchor Books, 1994. 708-714.
Smith, Alison. Name All the Animals. New York: Scribner, 2004.
Snyder, Gary. Rip Rap, & Cold Mountain Poems. San Francisco: Grey Fox Press, 1958.
Stafford, William and Marvin Bell. Segues: A Correspondence in Poetry. Boston: David R. Godine, 1983.
Steele, Richard. “An Hour or Two Sacred to Sorrow.” The Art of the Personal Essay: An Anthology from the Classical Era to the Present. Ed. Phillip Lopate. New York: Anchor Books, 1994. 126-128.
Trussoni, Danielle. Falling Through the Earth. New York: Henry Hold and Company,
2006.
Vonnegut, Kurt. A Man Without a Country. New York: Random House Trade Paperbacks, 2007.
Walls, Jeannette. The Glass Castle. New York: Scribner, 2005.
Watson, Brad. Last Days of the Dog-Men. New York: Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc., 1996.
Williams, Terry Tempest. Refuge : An Unnatural History of Family and Place. New York: Vintage Books, 2001.
Wolff, Tobias. The Night in Question: Stories. New York: Vintage Books, 1996.
Wolff, Tobias. This Boy’s Life. New York: Grove Press, 1999.
Woolf, Virginia. A Room of One’s Own. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1957.
Woolf, Virginia. “The Death of the Moth.” The Art of the Personal Essay: An Anthology from the Classical Era to the Present. Ed. Phillip Lopate. New York: Anchor Books, 1994. 265-267.
Ackerman, Diane. A Natural History of the Senses. New York: Random House, 1990.
Allison, Dorothy. Bastard Out of Carolina. New York: Plume, 1992.
Allison, Dorothy. Two or Three Things I Know for Sure. New York: Plume, 1995.
Allison, Dorothy. Trash: Stories. New York: Plume, 2002.
Almond, Steve. My Life in Heavy Metal. New York: Grove Press, 2002.
Bank, Melissa. The Wonder Spot. New York: Viking, 2005.
Barnes, Kim. In the Wilderness: Coming of Age in an Unknown Country. New York: Anchor Books, 1996.
Bass, Rick. Winter [Notes from Montana]. New York: Houghton Mifflin, 1991.
Bass, Rick. Hermit’s Story. Boston : Houghton Mifflin, 2002.
Bausch, Richard. The Stories of Richard Bausch. New York: Perennial, 2003.
Baxter, Charles. Harmony of the World: Stories. New York: Vintage Books, 1984.
Beard, Jo Ann. The Boys of My Youth. Boston: Little, Brown, and Company, 1998.
Bell, Marvin. Rampant. Port Townsend, Washington: Copper Canyon Press, 2004.
Bell, Marvin. Mars Being Red. Port Townsend, Washington: Copper Canyon Press, 2007.
Bender, Aimee. The Girl in the Flammable Skirt. New York: Anchor Books, 1998.
Bender, Aimee. Willful Creatures: Stories. New York: Doubleday, 2005.
Benjamin, Walter. “Hashish in Marseilles.” The Art of the Personal Essay: An Anthology from the Classical Era to the Present. Ed. Phillip Lopate. New York: Anchor Books, 1994. 370-375.
Blew, Mary Clearman. All But the Waltz. New York: Viking, 1991.
Blunt, Judy. Breaking Clean. New York: Vintage Books, 2002.
Boyle, T. Coraghessan. Without a Hero and Other Stories. New York: Viking, 1994.
Burroughs, Augusten. Running with Scissors. New York: Picador, 2002.
Burroway, Janet. Embalming Mom: Essays in Life. Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 2002.
Carver, Raymond. Will You Please Be Quiet, Please? The Stories of Raymond Carver. New York: McGraw-Hill book Company, 1976.
Cisneros, Sandra. The House on Mango Street. New York: Vintage Books, 1984.
Cisneros, Sandra. Woman Hollering Creek. New York: Vintage Contemporaries, 1991.
Collins, Billy. Questions About Angels. Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1991.
D’Agata, John. Halls of Fame. St. Paul: Graywolf Press, 2001.
Davis, Claire. Winter Range. New York: Picador, 2000.
Davis, Claire. Labors of the Heart. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2006.
Defrees, Madeline. Spectral Waves. Port Townsend, Washington: Copper Canyon Press, 2006.
Didion, Joan. “Goodbye to All That.” The Art of the Personal Essay. Ed. Phillip Lopate. New York: Anchor Books Doubleday, 1994. 680-88.
Didion, Joan. Slouching Towards Bethlehem. New York: Farrar, Strauss, and Giroux, 1968.
Didion, Joan. The White Album. New York: Farrar, Strauss, and Giroux, 1979.
Dillard, Annie. “Seeing.” The Art of the Personal Essay: An Anthology from the Classical Era to the Present. New York: Anchor Books, 1994. 693-706.
Dillard, Annie. For the Time Being. New York: Vintage Books, 1999.
Driscoll, Jack. Wanting Only to Be Heard. Amherst: University of Massachusetts, 1992.
Driscoll, Jack. Lucky Man, Lucky Woman. New York: Orchard, 1996.
Driscoll, Jack. How Like an Angel. Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 2005.
Dubus, Andre. Dancing After Hours: Stories. New York: Vintage Books, 1996.
Dybek, Stuart. I Sailed With Magellan. New York: Farrar, Strauss, and Giroux, 2003.
Eco, Umberto. Six Walks in the Fictional Woods. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1994.
Flynn, Nick. Another Bullshit Night in Suck City. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 2004.
Frasier, Joelle. The Territory of Men. New York: Random House, 2003.
Fromm, Pete. Indian Creek Chronicles. New York: Lyons & Burford, 1993.
Fromm, Pete. Night Swimming. New York: Picador, 1999.
Fuller, Alexandra. Scribbling the Cat: Travels with an African Soldier. New York: Penguin Press, 2004.
Gailey, Jeannine Hall. Becoming the Villainess. Bowling Green, Kentucky: Steel Toe Books, 2006.
Galloway, Lisa. New Poets Short Books: Liminal: A Life of Cleavage. Ed. Marvin Bell. Sand Point, Idaho: Lost Horse Press, 2007.
Galvin, James. The Meadow. New York: Henry Holt and Company, 1992.
Goodwin, Doris Kearns. Wait Till Next Year. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1997.
Gutkind, Lee, ed. The Best Creative Nonfiction: Vol. 1. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2007.
Hegi, Ursula. Floating in My Mother’s Palm. New York: Vintage Contemporaries, 1990.
Hegi, Ursula. Hotel of the Saints: Stories. New York: Simon & Schuster, 2001.
Hoagland, Edward. Compass Points: How I Lived. New York: Vintage Books, 2001.
Howell, Christopher. Just Waking. Sand Point, Idaho: Lost Horse Press, 2003.
Jones, Thom. The Pugilist at Rest: Stories. Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1993.
Jones, Thom. Cold Snap: Stories. Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1995.
Karr, Mary. The Liar’s Club. New York: Penguin Books, 1995.
Kimmel, Haven. A Girl Named Zippy. New York: Doubleday, 2001.
Kimmel, Haven. She Got Up Off the Couch And Other Heroic Acts from Mooreland, Indiana. New York: Free Press, 2006.
Kinnell, Galway. The Book of Nightmares. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1971.
Kitchen, Judith and Mary Paumier Jones, ed. In Short: A Collection of Brief Creative Nonfiction. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 1996.
Kitchen, Judith and Mary Paumier Jones, eds. In Brief: Short Takes on the Personal. New York: W. W. North & Company, 1999.
Kitchen, Judith, ed. Short Takes: Brief Encounters with Contemporary Nonfiction. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2005.
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Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Update on the Knees, Please
It’s as I suspected. My core muscles and my inner thigh muscles are not strong enough and my higher level of physical activity (karate) it is exacerbating an already developing condition called patella femoral syndrome, quite common in, ahem, wide-hipped women. Hah.
I’m asked to take glucosamine chondroiton three times a day for at least three months ($21 per bottle/month) and see a physical therapist for regular sessions ($70 copay to get in the door). Likewise, I need to follow up with my regular MD in six weeks ($35 to get in the door).
I say thumbs up to the glucosamine chondroiton, I schedule 2-3 PT treatments and ask for a home plan, and I decline the follow up with the MD, saying I’ll schedule it separately if I do not see improvement.
Observations: It could be much, much worse.
Gratitudes: Despite the fact that copay costs seems to be going up as fast as gas prices, I am grateful for the health insurance that I can buy into as an employee of the craft school.
Grievances: “Syndrome” is officially my least favorite word.
Goals: Get the job done and keep on keepin’ on. I’m not geriatric…yet.
I’m asked to take glucosamine chondroiton three times a day for at least three months ($21 per bottle/month) and see a physical therapist for regular sessions ($70 copay to get in the door). Likewise, I need to follow up with my regular MD in six weeks ($35 to get in the door).
I say thumbs up to the glucosamine chondroiton, I schedule 2-3 PT treatments and ask for a home plan, and I decline the follow up with the MD, saying I’ll schedule it separately if I do not see improvement.
Observations: It could be much, much worse.
Gratitudes: Despite the fact that copay costs seems to be going up as fast as gas prices, I am grateful for the health insurance that I can buy into as an employee of the craft school.
Grievances: “Syndrome” is officially my least favorite word.
Goals: Get the job done and keep on keepin’ on. I’m not geriatric…yet.
Update on the Knees, Please
It’s as I suspected. My core muscles and my inner thigh muscles are not strong enough and my higher level of physical activity (karate) it is exacerbating an already developing condition called patella femoral syndrome, quite common in, ahem, wide-hipped women. Hah.
I’m asked to take glucosamine chondroiton three times a day for at least three months ($21 per bottle/month) and see a physical therapist for regular sessions ($70 copay to get in the door). Likewise, I need to follow up with my regular MD in six weeks ($35 to get in the door).
I say thumbs up to the glucosamine chondroiton, I schedule 2-3 PT treatments and ask for a home plan, and I decline the follow up with the MD, saying I’ll schedule it separately if I do not see improvement.
Observations: It could be much, much worse.
Gratitudes: Despite the fact that copay costs seems to be going up as fast as gas prices, I am grateful for the health insurance that I can buy into as an employee of the craft school.
Grievances: “Syndrome” is officially my least favorite word.
Goals: Get the job done and keep on keepin’ on. I’m not geriatric…yet.
I’m asked to take glucosamine chondroiton three times a day for at least three months ($21 per bottle/month) and see a physical therapist for regular sessions ($70 copay to get in the door). Likewise, I need to follow up with my regular MD in six weeks ($35 to get in the door).
I say thumbs up to the glucosamine chondroiton, I schedule 2-3 PT treatments and ask for a home plan, and I decline the follow up with the MD, saying I’ll schedule it separately if I do not see improvement.
Observations: It could be much, much worse.
Gratitudes: Despite the fact that copay costs seems to be going up as fast as gas prices, I am grateful for the health insurance that I can buy into as an employee of the craft school.
Grievances: “Syndrome” is officially my least favorite word.
Goals: Get the job done and keep on keepin’ on. I’m not geriatric…yet.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Wearing the Belt
I've been in the dojo twice wearing my (new) blue belt and it's starting to feel like something I can commit to. After the initial high of the belt test, followed by the low of letting down once I found out I passed, I did a lot of thinking. In karate, we incorporate the body-mind-spirit mudra into many of the movements we do. I feel rock solid in mind and spirit when it comes to my practice. I am committed cerebrally and spiritually, if you will. However, when it comes to my body, there are limitations (we all have our stories--past surgeries, injuries, etc.), some of which I can control and some of which I cannot.
My entire core and all the inner muscles of my legs need to be strengthened if I want to achieve more in my karate practice. My stances will never widen, my knees will never stop feeling the strain, and my kicks will never entirely be what they could be if I do not address this issue. Everything in karate, I mean EVERYTHING, comes from the center--even the slightest movement of the shoulders or pivoting of the feet, you name it, it's grounded through the core and into the ground.
Now that I've earned the blue belt and been forced to think about what that kind of commitment means, I understand that it means something different for each person. For me, it means a commitment to body health. Not just eating healthy foods, but eating well--balanced meals, less of everything (in my case), and sweets only in small doses if at all. I generally eat healthy, but I probably eat too much and on the rate occasion that I discover a sweet treat I am not allergic to (rare), I usually overdose on it. This can no longer be the case.
I've started a regimen of crunches, pushups, and light arm and leg toning exercises since I passed my test. I'm journaling what I eat and what I do for a work out, and sticking to my goals. In short, getting fit will be my commitment to my blue belt, and I have a feeling I will wear it for at least a year. A new color, a new vision. A new goal, an new karateka.
My entire core and all the inner muscles of my legs need to be strengthened if I want to achieve more in my karate practice. My stances will never widen, my knees will never stop feeling the strain, and my kicks will never entirely be what they could be if I do not address this issue. Everything in karate, I mean EVERYTHING, comes from the center--even the slightest movement of the shoulders or pivoting of the feet, you name it, it's grounded through the core and into the ground.
Now that I've earned the blue belt and been forced to think about what that kind of commitment means, I understand that it means something different for each person. For me, it means a commitment to body health. Not just eating healthy foods, but eating well--balanced meals, less of everything (in my case), and sweets only in small doses if at all. I generally eat healthy, but I probably eat too much and on the rate occasion that I discover a sweet treat I am not allergic to (rare), I usually overdose on it. This can no longer be the case.
I've started a regimen of crunches, pushups, and light arm and leg toning exercises since I passed my test. I'm journaling what I eat and what I do for a work out, and sticking to my goals. In short, getting fit will be my commitment to my blue belt, and I have a feeling I will wear it for at least a year. A new color, a new vision. A new goal, an new karateka.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Cover Story!
Well folks, it’s my first cover story for a national magazine and I couldn’t be happier. They didn’t edit a single word I wrote, the images are spectacular, and the artist I wrote about is pleased as punch. The mag is available in most bookstores nationwide or check it out online by going to my website and following the link. It’s an exciting day in this writer’s life!
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Advice
Here is advice that came from a friend I talked to right after my test: “My father taught me that when big things come - and then go - we often feel a let down. Think about the word "depressed". De-pressed. Un-pressed. Pressing is pressure in. Un-pressing, or de-pressing, is a release of the pressure inwards…Perhaps after your test, all of the inward pressure is now looking for a place to exit. So of course you do not feel excited yet, because right now, your body and your heart and your soul is looking for a place for that energy to disperse. After you figure that out, I will bet that you will become excited.”
Here is advice from Lis, the black belt, that came in an email today: “You grow into the belt for which you test. You never feel worthy of it. And when you do, you test for the next belt.”
I couldn’t agree more.
Here is advice from Lis, the black belt, that came in an email today: “You grow into the belt for which you test. You never feel worthy of it. And when you do, you test for the next belt.”
I couldn’t agree more.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Blue Belt Business
I had to answer questions. Some of them I knew, others I didn’t. I had to demonstrate punches and blocks while in a horse stance and then I had to answer more questions. The wall of karateka faced me, standing beneath the kamiza, and Hanshi paced around me as I moved. When I did something wrong, he corrected me.
Sometimes, he turned it into a lesson for everybody else as well. Moments where he demonstrated something eased my mind, because it took the pressure off of me and took his gaze elsewhere.
Everything I did he wanted me to do it faster and, most of the time, I could not. Every stance I stood in he wanted me to make it wider and, most of the time, I forgot.
After moving basics with punches, kicks, and blocks, I demonstrated my kata. Shino kata went ok, except my stances weren’t wide enough and my kicks weren’t aimed properly. He didn’t say any of this…I simply thought it all as I was moving about the tatami. Wunsu kata was ridiculous. I did the best I could, then he had Sienna come out and do it at a faster pace, a black belt pace, and asked me to keep up with her. We did this several times. In both kata my double brakes looked hideous. They were the best I had, but they were incorrect. He had me correct them several times and made a lesson out of it.
Then, he quizzed me on the kata as well.
Then we moved onto waza, self-defense techniques. He had me take down Nate, Jeff, and Lis (Sienna is too small) with three different techniques. The third technique, a side-choke that moves into a groin snap nose flip take down thing, I had only practiced about four times and not once within the past month. He had mercy on me with that one, although I had to do it over and over to show any signs of progress. This was basically the jui jitsu part of the test and that last move ended with an arm bar and both Jeff and I on the mat.
I had little to no emotion throughout the entire test. My anxiety was so high a few days ago that I knew I wouldn’t be able to function at the level. So today I effectively worked my brain into a sedated space. Every time the anxiety welled up, I just told myself: “You’re going to do fine.” I practiced for half an hour before I showed up for the test and probably did better in those moments then I did in the dojo this evening. In my opinion, anyway.
And at the very end he had me drop to the floor and do as many full sit ups as I could in one minute (41) and as many round kicks into a pad as I could in one minute (40 – very sloppy). In both cases one minute felt like two. For the sit ups, Jeff stood on my feet to keep me from sliding forward. Each time I came up I saw the patch on his gi. In my peripheral vision I saw Hanshi, bent low in a near squat, and I could feel his eyes peeling into me. For the round kicks Jeff held the pad and when I faltered my balance at 26, spinning all the way around to complete the kick as best I could, he cheered me on. When my form started to fall apart, he coached me, “C’mon, make it to 40. You can do it.” This support was a godsend.
By then I was noticeably out of breath. Hanshi told a story while I caught my breath and everyone laughed. I stared at the grainy wood on the kamiza behind his head. I found a spot there, right there, where one splinter of wood was lighter than all the rest. I prayed then for a yellow belt, hoped that he would change his mind and give me a belt that I feel I deserve. Realizing I was done with the physical part of the test, I could feel myself wanting to cry and the only thing to keep me from doing that was to repeat in my own head the words that Hanshi was saying. I have no idea what the hell he said, but I said every syllable to myself and that allowed me to keep a straight face.
When the time came, everyone lined back up and I faced him and he read from the America Budokai International award and handed me my blue belt. He said lots of nice things but I can’t remember them. Something about dedication and spirit and my ability to learn kata quickly. He untied my white belt and asked me to put on my blue belt. He gave me a hug and that was the best part of the whole test. I finally smiled. Everyone congratulated me and we bowed out.
And even now, I can only talk about the experience in total flatline. There is no story here. I trained. I went. I did it. I’m overwhelmed by the pressure of a higher belt but I’m hoping the honor that was intended by such a gift will come to me in a few days. Right now, I’m not feeling it. Everyone else was really happy. I was too, especially when I got to give Hanshi a six pack of Samarai Ale and he opened them right then and there and put the Doobie Brothers on over the loudspeakers. We turned most of the lights off and he told stories for a while as we all sipped, then everyone said goodnight.
I gave him a card: “4.17.08 Hanshi, Words are how I make sense of the world. Stories are how I write my experiences into coherence. I have been keeping a karate journal and selected a few entries to share with you. It is one way I thought I might be able to show you my gratitude. Thank you for your inspiration in the dojo and at the keyboard. Best, Katey.” The card was attached to 15 pages of my favorite entries (all of which were posted here). I figured there was no need for him to read all 65 (!) and re-reading my journal proved to be an excellent study tool all week long.
And I don’t know what else to say. I feel, like I said, flatline. Tomorrow is a new day. And tomorrow I have to earn my blue belt. Where will I begin?
Sometimes, he turned it into a lesson for everybody else as well. Moments where he demonstrated something eased my mind, because it took the pressure off of me and took his gaze elsewhere.
Everything I did he wanted me to do it faster and, most of the time, I could not. Every stance I stood in he wanted me to make it wider and, most of the time, I forgot.
After moving basics with punches, kicks, and blocks, I demonstrated my kata. Shino kata went ok, except my stances weren’t wide enough and my kicks weren’t aimed properly. He didn’t say any of this…I simply thought it all as I was moving about the tatami. Wunsu kata was ridiculous. I did the best I could, then he had Sienna come out and do it at a faster pace, a black belt pace, and asked me to keep up with her. We did this several times. In both kata my double brakes looked hideous. They were the best I had, but they were incorrect. He had me correct them several times and made a lesson out of it.
Then, he quizzed me on the kata as well.
Then we moved onto waza, self-defense techniques. He had me take down Nate, Jeff, and Lis (Sienna is too small) with three different techniques. The third technique, a side-choke that moves into a groin snap nose flip take down thing, I had only practiced about four times and not once within the past month. He had mercy on me with that one, although I had to do it over and over to show any signs of progress. This was basically the jui jitsu part of the test and that last move ended with an arm bar and both Jeff and I on the mat.
I had little to no emotion throughout the entire test. My anxiety was so high a few days ago that I knew I wouldn’t be able to function at the level. So today I effectively worked my brain into a sedated space. Every time the anxiety welled up, I just told myself: “You’re going to do fine.” I practiced for half an hour before I showed up for the test and probably did better in those moments then I did in the dojo this evening. In my opinion, anyway.
And at the very end he had me drop to the floor and do as many full sit ups as I could in one minute (41) and as many round kicks into a pad as I could in one minute (40 – very sloppy). In both cases one minute felt like two. For the sit ups, Jeff stood on my feet to keep me from sliding forward. Each time I came up I saw the patch on his gi. In my peripheral vision I saw Hanshi, bent low in a near squat, and I could feel his eyes peeling into me. For the round kicks Jeff held the pad and when I faltered my balance at 26, spinning all the way around to complete the kick as best I could, he cheered me on. When my form started to fall apart, he coached me, “C’mon, make it to 40. You can do it.” This support was a godsend.
By then I was noticeably out of breath. Hanshi told a story while I caught my breath and everyone laughed. I stared at the grainy wood on the kamiza behind his head. I found a spot there, right there, where one splinter of wood was lighter than all the rest. I prayed then for a yellow belt, hoped that he would change his mind and give me a belt that I feel I deserve. Realizing I was done with the physical part of the test, I could feel myself wanting to cry and the only thing to keep me from doing that was to repeat in my own head the words that Hanshi was saying. I have no idea what the hell he said, but I said every syllable to myself and that allowed me to keep a straight face.
When the time came, everyone lined back up and I faced him and he read from the America Budokai International award and handed me my blue belt. He said lots of nice things but I can’t remember them. Something about dedication and spirit and my ability to learn kata quickly. He untied my white belt and asked me to put on my blue belt. He gave me a hug and that was the best part of the whole test. I finally smiled. Everyone congratulated me and we bowed out.
And even now, I can only talk about the experience in total flatline. There is no story here. I trained. I went. I did it. I’m overwhelmed by the pressure of a higher belt but I’m hoping the honor that was intended by such a gift will come to me in a few days. Right now, I’m not feeling it. Everyone else was really happy. I was too, especially when I got to give Hanshi a six pack of Samarai Ale and he opened them right then and there and put the Doobie Brothers on over the loudspeakers. We turned most of the lights off and he told stories for a while as we all sipped, then everyone said goodnight.
I gave him a card: “4.17.08 Hanshi, Words are how I make sense of the world. Stories are how I write my experiences into coherence. I have been keeping a karate journal and selected a few entries to share with you. It is one way I thought I might be able to show you my gratitude. Thank you for your inspiration in the dojo and at the keyboard. Best, Katey.” The card was attached to 15 pages of my favorite entries (all of which were posted here). I figured there was no need for him to read all 65 (!) and re-reading my journal proved to be an excellent study tool all week long.
And I don’t know what else to say. I feel, like I said, flatline. Tomorrow is a new day. And tomorrow I have to earn my blue belt. Where will I begin?
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Like I Said
Ok, so maybe I’m mildly freaked out. Maybe I had un-saintly visions all afternoon of my tibia and fibula bursting through my own skin and jutting up into the air as the femur in my upper leg burst through the skin and thrust down to the ground. And somewhere between, I day-mared (like a nightmare except you’re awake) would be a mess of blood I used to call my knee. Then I day-mared this on my other knee and all that was left was me in my gi, lolling around on the tatami, never to set foot in a dojo again.
And ok, so maybe it’s this whole notion of a blue belt that’s adding fuel to the fire. There’s one blue belt in our class and he’s excellent. He’s also a teenage boy and therefore physically immortal but still, he basically kicks ass. I can hear his gi snap when he moves. He rarely seems to sweat (does he?). He is, effectively, beyond human—of this I am certain—I really shouldn’t compare myself to him.
Another ridiculous day-mare and not one that is going to get me anywhere in this belt test of mine (T minus 45 hours and counting). Clearly, this test will be as physically challenging for me as it is mental. I believe I said, “What the FUCK?” approximately 3.5 times under my breath in class tonight, unbeknownst to Hanshi, thank god, yet apparently loud enough for the black belt next to me to notice and say under her breath, “You’re doing fine, Katey.” Oops.
What’s killing me is Wunsu kata, which is full of horse stances that berate my knees. I do not “own” this kata, as Hanshi says. I’ve just barely learned it and there is nothing more anxiety producing than giving a perfectionist (a.k.a. a Capricorn) something to perfect and then testing her on it before she has perfected it. Add excesses of the lovely hormone we call estrogen (a.k.a. crack cocaine) to the mix and basically you’ve got this semi-trained karateka on homebrewed drugs (PMS) in need of pain killers (but refusing) who is supposed to enter the dojo and act as though a) everything is fine and b) she knows exactly what she is doing and c) she can save the world and all its inhabitants.
Like I said: So maybe I’m mildly freaked out. I felt prepared to earn a yellow belt everyday. Earning a blue belt? All I can do is trust Hanshi, who believes I ought to wear blue, and thereby I ought to trust myself. If my knees were 100% my mental state would be different. On Thursday, I’ll have to move the best I can while also adjusting for and protecting my knees…and I’ll have to hope that Hanshi knows I know the difference between the proper technique and the modified version. I don’t want any forgiveness. I don’t want any brownie points. I just want two strong knees, zanshin, and 60 minutes I can be proud of.
And ok, so maybe it’s this whole notion of a blue belt that’s adding fuel to the fire. There’s one blue belt in our class and he’s excellent. He’s also a teenage boy and therefore physically immortal but still, he basically kicks ass. I can hear his gi snap when he moves. He rarely seems to sweat (does he?). He is, effectively, beyond human—of this I am certain—I really shouldn’t compare myself to him.
Another ridiculous day-mare and not one that is going to get me anywhere in this belt test of mine (T minus 45 hours and counting). Clearly, this test will be as physically challenging for me as it is mental. I believe I said, “What the FUCK?” approximately 3.5 times under my breath in class tonight, unbeknownst to Hanshi, thank god, yet apparently loud enough for the black belt next to me to notice and say under her breath, “You’re doing fine, Katey.” Oops.
What’s killing me is Wunsu kata, which is full of horse stances that berate my knees. I do not “own” this kata, as Hanshi says. I’ve just barely learned it and there is nothing more anxiety producing than giving a perfectionist (a.k.a. a Capricorn) something to perfect and then testing her on it before she has perfected it. Add excesses of the lovely hormone we call estrogen (a.k.a. crack cocaine) to the mix and basically you’ve got this semi-trained karateka on homebrewed drugs (PMS) in need of pain killers (but refusing) who is supposed to enter the dojo and act as though a) everything is fine and b) she knows exactly what she is doing and c) she can save the world and all its inhabitants.
Like I said: So maybe I’m mildly freaked out. I felt prepared to earn a yellow belt everyday. Earning a blue belt? All I can do is trust Hanshi, who believes I ought to wear blue, and thereby I ought to trust myself. If my knees were 100% my mental state would be different. On Thursday, I’ll have to move the best I can while also adjusting for and protecting my knees…and I’ll have to hope that Hanshi knows I know the difference between the proper technique and the modified version. I don’t want any forgiveness. I don’t want any brownie points. I just want two strong knees, zanshin, and 60 minutes I can be proud of.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Inhale on Preparation
The question isn’t whether or not I will pass the test. At this level, instructors see when you’re ready to test, and then invite you to the challenge to see you succeed. And even though it totally intimidates me to think of having other karateka watching my every move, it would feel too insignificant without them there. Everyone in the dojo wants everyone else to succeed.
The question is, how well can I perform for my test? Can I do the best I’m capable of at the time? Will I feel proud of what I’ve done in the end? Will I know I couldn’t have done anything differently? That is all I hope for. My knees, however, beg to differ. They (yes, now both of them) have been hurting since Thursday’s class and I’m worried but there is nothing I can do except be careful and wait until I see the doctor (4/23).
I suppose, as my dad suggested, I could stop practicing karate.
Hah. That’s like asking me to be someone other than I am and therefore, not an option. He only says that because he cares and doesn’t want to see me in pain (or in surgery) and yet…I simply cannot stop. I will find a way. There are people in there with far more complicated physical challenges than myself.
The question is, how well can I perform for my test? Can I do the best I’m capable of at the time? Will I feel proud of what I’ve done in the end? Will I know I couldn’t have done anything differently? That is all I hope for. My knees, however, beg to differ. They (yes, now both of them) have been hurting since Thursday’s class and I’m worried but there is nothing I can do except be careful and wait until I see the doctor (4/23).
I suppose, as my dad suggested, I could stop practicing karate.
Hah. That’s like asking me to be someone other than I am and therefore, not an option. He only says that because he cares and doesn’t want to see me in pain (or in surgery) and yet…I simply cannot stop. I will find a way. There are people in there with far more complicated physical challenges than myself.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
After White Belt Comes...Blue?
I spend two hours tossing and turning last night, stewing over the situation at work. I finally get up around 1:30am and write for a little while, and I think I went back to sleep by 3am. Then up a while later to check emails, organize my thoughts, and stretch before heading to the dojo.
I arrive at 11am and find that Jeff, Lis, and Sienna are thoroughly warmed up from whatever they’ve all been doing in the kids’ class. Warmed up is perhaps putting it mildly…they’re dripping sweat and even Hanshi is a little worked up—I can tell by the tone of his voice—and I can barely bow onto the mat in time before he has us doing this whacked out round kick-side kick combo.
I’m barely through the second kick and I can feel anger surge inside of me. It’s a moment where I can make a decision—I recognize that much. There are a million stories I could tell myself right now: But they’re already warmed up, they all outrank me, they just practice this double kick drill before I even got here, I drank half a bottle of wine last night, I didn’t sleep well, my knees hurt so bad yesterday I took at Aleve, I am mad at work, but, but, but.
Or not.
I remember Jeff’s words: When you take your socks and shoes off in the hallway, you are taking off the rest of the day, any baggage you have, all of it. When you bow onto the mat, you’re leaving all of that behind.
I work the kicks and I am barely half the speed of everyone else but I don’t care. If I practice it fast it’s just going to be wrong and that won’t be me anywhere. I’m still angry but now it’s a sort of Minestrone soup anger—some beans here (work), some noodles here (eating too much sugar yesterday), some spices there (PMS), some tomatoes here (my body isn’t warmed up)—all of it swimming around in me in this mess of indistinguishable energy.
I try to harness that energy. Lis and I are paired up for some “light blocking exercises” but as soon as I try them for myself, they’re more like “medium.” She kicks, I lift my leg to block. Our shins collide. We repeat the motion. It’s an interesting stinging sensation but not enough to make me flinch. By the end of class, I’ll have two bruises the size of peaches on my shins but I could give a fuck. Drop it. Leave it. It doesn’t matter. This isn’t an abusive mindset. It’s a mind-body spiritual practice. Bruises seem a low price to pay when you look at it that way.
Then we’re up against the wall, facing off with a partner, shuffling across the tatami throwing kicks and punches at will, the other person blocking. We switch, move back and forth, repeat. My anger comes back and this time, it has voices: You can’t do this, you haven’t learned enough to do this well, you’re doing it wrong, you look sloppy, you’re hunching, you’re missing, you’re losing your form, your move are ineffective. All of my brooding about work, it seems, is finding another way out of me and it’s attempting to do some internal damage in the process. But I know this tone of voice—it comes from the same family of censors that all the anti-writing voices come from. Which means I also know the antidote: Don’t ignore them, don’t stuff them down—that only makes them grow. Name it for what it is. Yes, voices of doubt. Yes, anger. But rewind, before that, and it’s the same old thing: energy.
Again, I try to harness it. We’ve been in the dojo all of twenty minutes and already, this microcosm of life’s endless ups and downs is replayed half a dozen times. Next, we work kata, the practice I most enjoy (so far). Lis goes over Wunsu with me again and we work together, then separate. I’m forgetting to be distinct with my hammer fist (versus the low block) at each direction in the form. My stepping and moving into and out of the shuto block needs serious work. And most of all, my stances are all too narrow. I’m almost 5’10” and Hanshi says if I don’t correct this now, it’s going to hold me back. There are, it seems, approximately 1,000 things to correct but I don’t feel deflated by this…only more aware.
Awareness. Perceiving the whole mountain. Just by coming to class perhaps I’ve come up a few more feet in elevation, able to gain a slightly wider view. And like most things, it will probably be two steps forward, one step back, but that’s fine. Our training together is a gift.
We bow out of class but, like many days, Hanshi keeps us after to tell stories. By the end of it (half an hour later?), Jeff and I are the only ones left on the mat and he turns to me, says: “I’d like to test you on Thursday night this week. Will that work?”
“Yes, Sir,” I say, closing my notebook and adjusting my posture.
“And I’m going to let the cat out of the bag here, but we’re not going to test you for yellow. We’re going to test you for blue. The reason I started training you on Wunsu kata wasn’t just because you were ready, it was because you’ve got a spark. You’re ready for more and you have been, and I’m not going to put you in a yellow belt at this stage. That won’t do anything for you—you’re already doing the first few moves of Anaku, the blue belt kata, as it is. ”
I stare at him. Every neuron fires and wants me to leap up, run, and give him a hug. I hold my posture. Is this a trick? Skip a belt? I should say thank you, but I forget to talk.
“I skipped my yellow belt as well. It’s not a cheating thing, it’s an honor. Every once ina while, someone can skip a kyu rank, and we’re going to get you in a blue belt. Thursday night.”
Debbie pops her head out of the office. “We’re out of blue belts right now.”
“We’ll get you one,” Hanshi says.
“Thank you, Sir,” I say.
“Don’t worry. This doesn’t up the stakes any more than what we were already going to test you on.,” he laughs. Pauses. Laughs again. “It’s not like doing double time. You’re ready.”
“Yes, Sir. Thank you.”
It doesn’t hit me until I get home and can’t sit still. I look at my karate journal—sixty three pages and counting—I guess. It’s time to hit print and review as much as I can, and then some. Blue belt, here I come!
I arrive at 11am and find that Jeff, Lis, and Sienna are thoroughly warmed up from whatever they’ve all been doing in the kids’ class. Warmed up is perhaps putting it mildly…they’re dripping sweat and even Hanshi is a little worked up—I can tell by the tone of his voice—and I can barely bow onto the mat in time before he has us doing this whacked out round kick-side kick combo.
I’m barely through the second kick and I can feel anger surge inside of me. It’s a moment where I can make a decision—I recognize that much. There are a million stories I could tell myself right now: But they’re already warmed up, they all outrank me, they just practice this double kick drill before I even got here, I drank half a bottle of wine last night, I didn’t sleep well, my knees hurt so bad yesterday I took at Aleve, I am mad at work, but, but, but.
Or not.
I remember Jeff’s words: When you take your socks and shoes off in the hallway, you are taking off the rest of the day, any baggage you have, all of it. When you bow onto the mat, you’re leaving all of that behind.
I work the kicks and I am barely half the speed of everyone else but I don’t care. If I practice it fast it’s just going to be wrong and that won’t be me anywhere. I’m still angry but now it’s a sort of Minestrone soup anger—some beans here (work), some noodles here (eating too much sugar yesterday), some spices there (PMS), some tomatoes here (my body isn’t warmed up)—all of it swimming around in me in this mess of indistinguishable energy.
I try to harness that energy. Lis and I are paired up for some “light blocking exercises” but as soon as I try them for myself, they’re more like “medium.” She kicks, I lift my leg to block. Our shins collide. We repeat the motion. It’s an interesting stinging sensation but not enough to make me flinch. By the end of class, I’ll have two bruises the size of peaches on my shins but I could give a fuck. Drop it. Leave it. It doesn’t matter. This isn’t an abusive mindset. It’s a mind-body spiritual practice. Bruises seem a low price to pay when you look at it that way.
Then we’re up against the wall, facing off with a partner, shuffling across the tatami throwing kicks and punches at will, the other person blocking. We switch, move back and forth, repeat. My anger comes back and this time, it has voices: You can’t do this, you haven’t learned enough to do this well, you’re doing it wrong, you look sloppy, you’re hunching, you’re missing, you’re losing your form, your move are ineffective. All of my brooding about work, it seems, is finding another way out of me and it’s attempting to do some internal damage in the process. But I know this tone of voice—it comes from the same family of censors that all the anti-writing voices come from. Which means I also know the antidote: Don’t ignore them, don’t stuff them down—that only makes them grow. Name it for what it is. Yes, voices of doubt. Yes, anger. But rewind, before that, and it’s the same old thing: energy.
Again, I try to harness it. We’ve been in the dojo all of twenty minutes and already, this microcosm of life’s endless ups and downs is replayed half a dozen times. Next, we work kata, the practice I most enjoy (so far). Lis goes over Wunsu with me again and we work together, then separate. I’m forgetting to be distinct with my hammer fist (versus the low block) at each direction in the form. My stepping and moving into and out of the shuto block needs serious work. And most of all, my stances are all too narrow. I’m almost 5’10” and Hanshi says if I don’t correct this now, it’s going to hold me back. There are, it seems, approximately 1,000 things to correct but I don’t feel deflated by this…only more aware.
Awareness. Perceiving the whole mountain. Just by coming to class perhaps I’ve come up a few more feet in elevation, able to gain a slightly wider view. And like most things, it will probably be two steps forward, one step back, but that’s fine. Our training together is a gift.
We bow out of class but, like many days, Hanshi keeps us after to tell stories. By the end of it (half an hour later?), Jeff and I are the only ones left on the mat and he turns to me, says: “I’d like to test you on Thursday night this week. Will that work?”
“Yes, Sir,” I say, closing my notebook and adjusting my posture.
“And I’m going to let the cat out of the bag here, but we’re not going to test you for yellow. We’re going to test you for blue. The reason I started training you on Wunsu kata wasn’t just because you were ready, it was because you’ve got a spark. You’re ready for more and you have been, and I’m not going to put you in a yellow belt at this stage. That won’t do anything for you—you’re already doing the first few moves of Anaku, the blue belt kata, as it is. ”
I stare at him. Every neuron fires and wants me to leap up, run, and give him a hug. I hold my posture. Is this a trick? Skip a belt? I should say thank you, but I forget to talk.
“I skipped my yellow belt as well. It’s not a cheating thing, it’s an honor. Every once ina while, someone can skip a kyu rank, and we’re going to get you in a blue belt. Thursday night.”
Debbie pops her head out of the office. “We’re out of blue belts right now.”
“We’ll get you one,” Hanshi says.
“Thank you, Sir,” I say.
“Don’t worry. This doesn’t up the stakes any more than what we were already going to test you on.,” he laughs. Pauses. Laughs again. “It’s not like doing double time. You’re ready.”
“Yes, Sir. Thank you.”
It doesn’t hit me until I get home and can’t sit still. I look at my karate journal—sixty three pages and counting—I guess. It’s time to hit print and review as much as I can, and then some. Blue belt, here I come!
Thursday, April 10, 2008
How Do You Feel?
When Hanshi turns to me in the middle of class and says, “How do you feel?” I do not reply for what feels like an eternity.
We’ve just finished working Anaku kata, way ahead of the game for me, a little white belt, and the green and two blacks I’m practicing with move like they’re floating. Most of the kata is in honbon kabadachi (45 degree horse stance—a low stance where you’re basically squatting as though you were on a horse, except there is no horse there to support you) and at one point I had to close my eyes and exhale obnoxiously loud just to hold the stance. We’ve done the kata a few times—and did I mention that I foolishly practiced kicks for 20 minutes before class tonight?—and my legs feel as though they are on fire. My knee? I don’t know where it is on my body, except that when I look down, I am glad to see it is still there. My shoulders? My center? I’m too tired to pay as much attention to them as I should be.
“How do you feel?” he says.
I stutter: “You mean how do I feel right now? As in here, now?”
A pause. Thick silence. All I can hear is the sound of my own brain, heavy with the weight of overthinking. Hashi looks at me, waits, blue eyes expectant.
“I’m fine. I feel just fine.”
“Good, he says. Come to the front. Jeff, you too, so she’s not alone.”
And then we work Shino and Wunsu katas and answer in-your-face questions and practice our blocks and punches (in honbon kibadachi). The black belts watch us and I can feel their eyes through my back. Not in a bad way, but it’s their perception and experience I can feel. It’s their job to watch at this juncture, as Hanshi is trying to see where I’m at in terms of readiness for yellow belt test and Jeff’s brown belt test could be a few months away. That’s why we’re in the hot seat.
After more moving basics from one end of the dojo to the other, we come together for a bow. Bantering all the way out the door, the four of us have a lovely energy at the close of a good class. I can feel how we each want to linger in the buzz and cut of hard mind-body-spirit work. It’s a beautiful thing, to get to practice being “fine, just fine” in the moment. We can spend so much of every day building stories around the answer to that one question, “How do you feel?” when what really matters is what you’re going to do with the present moment.
We’ve just finished working Anaku kata, way ahead of the game for me, a little white belt, and the green and two blacks I’m practicing with move like they’re floating. Most of the kata is in honbon kabadachi (45 degree horse stance—a low stance where you’re basically squatting as though you were on a horse, except there is no horse there to support you) and at one point I had to close my eyes and exhale obnoxiously loud just to hold the stance. We’ve done the kata a few times—and did I mention that I foolishly practiced kicks for 20 minutes before class tonight?—and my legs feel as though they are on fire. My knee? I don’t know where it is on my body, except that when I look down, I am glad to see it is still there. My shoulders? My center? I’m too tired to pay as much attention to them as I should be.
“How do you feel?” he says.
I stutter: “You mean how do I feel right now? As in here, now?”
A pause. Thick silence. All I can hear is the sound of my own brain, heavy with the weight of overthinking. Hashi looks at me, waits, blue eyes expectant.
“I’m fine. I feel just fine.”
“Good, he says. Come to the front. Jeff, you too, so she’s not alone.”
And then we work Shino and Wunsu katas and answer in-your-face questions and practice our blocks and punches (in honbon kibadachi). The black belts watch us and I can feel their eyes through my back. Not in a bad way, but it’s their perception and experience I can feel. It’s their job to watch at this juncture, as Hanshi is trying to see where I’m at in terms of readiness for yellow belt test and Jeff’s brown belt test could be a few months away. That’s why we’re in the hot seat.
After more moving basics from one end of the dojo to the other, we come together for a bow. Bantering all the way out the door, the four of us have a lovely energy at the close of a good class. I can feel how we each want to linger in the buzz and cut of hard mind-body-spirit work. It’s a beautiful thing, to get to practice being “fine, just fine” in the moment. We can spend so much of every day building stories around the answer to that one question, “How do you feel?” when what really matters is what you’re going to do with the present moment.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
So Be It.
If you point at something in your life and say, “This is bad, this is hollow, this is unjust,” there are two things that can happen. One, the universe will collaborate with you. This can be a self-fulfilling prophecy. Two, the universe can respond by saying, “Yes, but over here, this is good, this is full, this is worthwhile.”
The past few days have afforded the latter, and in the true spirit of spring, I am blossoming into hopefulness. (Thanks, especially, to those who have left kind comments and sent supportive emails.)
Some say this is a simplistic view, an overly optimistic outlook. I say, “Whatever works!” And I mean it. For now, in my short history on the planet, this is the view that works for me. Things line up, the world starts to make sense, I can begin to decipher meaning and a path through it.
The past few days have afforded the latter, and in the true spirit of spring, I am blossoming into hopefulness. (Thanks, especially, to those who have left kind comments and sent supportive emails.)
Some say this is a simplistic view, an overly optimistic outlook. I say, “Whatever works!” And I mean it. For now, in my short history on the planet, this is the view that works for me. Things line up, the world starts to make sense, I can begin to decipher meaning and a path through it.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Perceiving the Whole Mountain
“No,” Hanshi says. “Yame!” (Stop! )
Nate has just moved forward into a reverse punch aimed at my head and I’ve stepped into a left upper block to block his punch. Except that this ippon kumite kata, and the next move I’m supposed to make is a right ball-of-foot kick but I’m too close to administer the kick.
“This is anzano-o-metsuke,” Hanshi says. “Perceiving the mountain or looking at the big picture…Watch…” Sempai Sienna steps up and they do the ippon kumite kata, but when Hanshi steps back into his front stance to execute the block, he shifts his left foot back as well, keeping the proper ma (distance) between himself and the attacker. This sets the stage for the kick. “What did you see?”
“You moved your foot back,” I say, pointing.
“Yes, but did I look at her feet when she moved?”
“No, Sir.”
“That’s right, I kept my eyes on the attacker but I perceived the whole mountain—I moved my feet the instant that she moved hers in order to maintain proper ma. That is anzano-o-metsuke, the big picture…Do it again. Ready? On guard, and, GO!”
Nate moves in, I move back. We work this and switch places until it makes sense.
Ippon kumite kata is the first of eight performance categories of Shuri-Ryu karatedo. These are a series of set moves (like kata, our most formal form) that are practiced in response to a single move from an attacker. The idea is that the attacker comes at you with only one move, and your response is to deliver five ippon moves, or moves that could stop the attacker from any continued moves.
“Now…Stop again,” Hanshi says. Then: “Nate, did she hit your gi?”
“No, Sir.”
Hanshi turns to me. “Hit him. Hit the gi. I want to hear it snap.”
“Even if I think I don’t have good control, Sir?” I ask.
“A light touch, but a touch. He’s expecting to feel it, he can take it, so do it…Ready? On guard!”
We work the series again, and I get to hit Nate. Nothing hard, but I mean, there are moments when I look down and I see my fist into his gi, my wrist lined up square behind my fist, my elbow supporting that, and I hear the snap of the my skin on his gi. It’s no big deal to him, he is black belt after all, but I can tell he tenses his core (this is the “Towh” part of the kiai) as you would in a real fight to lessen the impact.
The lesson is clear: For every blow that comes to you, you respond fivefold and with clear and precise determination. My integrity is challenged at work by unfair compensation, I am responding fivefold with 1) a letter, 2) focusing on the customers, 3) focusing on the beautiful view and setting, 4) focusing on the high quality espresso, and 5) focusing on the food and health benefits I receive. Perceiving the whole mountain. Indeed.
Nate has just moved forward into a reverse punch aimed at my head and I’ve stepped into a left upper block to block his punch. Except that this ippon kumite kata, and the next move I’m supposed to make is a right ball-of-foot kick but I’m too close to administer the kick.
“This is anzano-o-metsuke,” Hanshi says. “Perceiving the mountain or looking at the big picture…Watch…” Sempai Sienna steps up and they do the ippon kumite kata, but when Hanshi steps back into his front stance to execute the block, he shifts his left foot back as well, keeping the proper ma (distance) between himself and the attacker. This sets the stage for the kick. “What did you see?”
“You moved your foot back,” I say, pointing.
“Yes, but did I look at her feet when she moved?”
“No, Sir.”
“That’s right, I kept my eyes on the attacker but I perceived the whole mountain—I moved my feet the instant that she moved hers in order to maintain proper ma. That is anzano-o-metsuke, the big picture…Do it again. Ready? On guard, and, GO!”
Nate moves in, I move back. We work this and switch places until it makes sense.
Ippon kumite kata is the first of eight performance categories of Shuri-Ryu karatedo. These are a series of set moves (like kata, our most formal form) that are practiced in response to a single move from an attacker. The idea is that the attacker comes at you with only one move, and your response is to deliver five ippon moves, or moves that could stop the attacker from any continued moves.
“Now…Stop again,” Hanshi says. Then: “Nate, did she hit your gi?”
“No, Sir.”
Hanshi turns to me. “Hit him. Hit the gi. I want to hear it snap.”
“Even if I think I don’t have good control, Sir?” I ask.
“A light touch, but a touch. He’s expecting to feel it, he can take it, so do it…Ready? On guard!”
We work the series again, and I get to hit Nate. Nothing hard, but I mean, there are moments when I look down and I see my fist into his gi, my wrist lined up square behind my fist, my elbow supporting that, and I hear the snap of the my skin on his gi. It’s no big deal to him, he is black belt after all, but I can tell he tenses his core (this is the “Towh” part of the kiai) as you would in a real fight to lessen the impact.
The lesson is clear: For every blow that comes to you, you respond fivefold and with clear and precise determination. My integrity is challenged at work by unfair compensation, I am responding fivefold with 1) a letter, 2) focusing on the customers, 3) focusing on the beautiful view and setting, 4) focusing on the high quality espresso, and 5) focusing on the food and health benefits I receive. Perceiving the whole mountain. Indeed.
Monday, April 07, 2008
Shaping a Vision
I went to bed at 6:45 p.m. last night. I woke from 1 a.m. – 2 a.m. and wrote the blog, plus a few other things. Then I slept from 2 a.m. to 6:45 a.m. I woke with a new vision, seeing as how that’s twice as much sleep in one night as I’ve been getting most nights for the past month. And I’ve conjured responses to my own griefs:
1. I decide that I am quite pleased with the fact that I don’t want a relationship with the smooch buddy. This is not who I used to be, but maybe it is who I am now. That I can pace myself with affection, that I can be one way or another, that I’m not constantly setting myself up for heartache.
2. I am honest with that other person who is reaching for me. The push/pull is wearing me out and the only thing I know to do is name it and say how it makes me feel. Time is of the essence, and for once it’s not in a way that makes me want to label things or box them in. It’s of the essence in a way that makes me happier with the unknown. That’s a new view, and it’s not something to mourn. It might, even, be something to celebrate.
3. I put my concerns in writing to the craft school, concluding with the following statement: “I believe it is my right to earn a respectable wage and a wage that [the craft school] would not be ashamed to advertise in local papers…a wage that our director or board members would not be shocked to learn about or embarrassed to see on paper…a wage that is livable…a wage that does not make me feel like a dispensable member of [the craft school] staff.
And I just brushed my teeth. And I will get eight hours of sleep tonight. And I will find sanity in the present moment, because that’s all there is.
1. I decide that I am quite pleased with the fact that I don’t want a relationship with the smooch buddy. This is not who I used to be, but maybe it is who I am now. That I can pace myself with affection, that I can be one way or another, that I’m not constantly setting myself up for heartache.
2. I am honest with that other person who is reaching for me. The push/pull is wearing me out and the only thing I know to do is name it and say how it makes me feel. Time is of the essence, and for once it’s not in a way that makes me want to label things or box them in. It’s of the essence in a way that makes me happier with the unknown. That’s a new view, and it’s not something to mourn. It might, even, be something to celebrate.
3. I put my concerns in writing to the craft school, concluding with the following statement: “I believe it is my right to earn a respectable wage and a wage that [the craft school] would not be ashamed to advertise in local papers…a wage that our director or board members would not be shocked to learn about or embarrassed to see on paper…a wage that is livable…a wage that does not make me feel like a dispensable member of [the craft school] staff.
And I just brushed my teeth. And I will get eight hours of sleep tonight. And I will find sanity in the present moment, because that’s all there is.
The Truth Is...
Here is why I haven’t been able to write in scene or in narrative exposition for the blog lately:
1. The smooch buddy spends the weekend on the mountain with me. I find that we can share the space quite nicely—not an easy thing to do since I am so patterned in this house right down to how I move in the space, where I put things, and the silence I must keep in order to write. And yet I want him only for his physical affection and the fact that we can share this space. Nothing more. Who am I?
2. That other thing—the new and fast love—remains, yet the distance and emotional nature of it exhausts me. I can feel the other person reaching for me, almost clinging, and then bucking against the fear that comes with such attachment. I used to be that person. Now, I experience such intensity and I want it to stop. Who am I?
3. A bus boy is hired to help out at work. He is 21-years-old and makes $9 per hour. He’s been employed by the craft school for all of three weeks. I have been employed there for 3 years and I earn $7.73 per hour. The injustice infuriates me and I make my stand at work only to be told to be quiet. Effectively, I am a dispensable employee. It’s a hard truth to hear after three years of putting your heart into a place. I’ve put my foot down but they will not offer a raise, especially since if I walked out today they would hire someone to replace me at a higher wage than what I currently earn. How can I keep my job and maintain my own personal dignity? And yet, I must…there will be loans to pay soon and there is no other work her. Stuck between a rock and a hard place, who am I?
How I love has everything to do with who I am.
How I work has everything to do with my moral integrity.
And I find myself in this place where the universe is telling me that I shouldn’t care where it’s not my place to care. The message is, in fact, that caring about things makes them complicated rather than fulfilling.
All of this goes completely against whom I thought I was, how I thought I lived, and where I thought I was headed. All of this also makes saying anything new (on the page) impossibly un-enticing. If I don’t know the ground beneath my own feet—heck, if I don’t even know whose feet hold me up—where is the foundation from which I may write?
1. The smooch buddy spends the weekend on the mountain with me. I find that we can share the space quite nicely—not an easy thing to do since I am so patterned in this house right down to how I move in the space, where I put things, and the silence I must keep in order to write. And yet I want him only for his physical affection and the fact that we can share this space. Nothing more. Who am I?
2. That other thing—the new and fast love—remains, yet the distance and emotional nature of it exhausts me. I can feel the other person reaching for me, almost clinging, and then bucking against the fear that comes with such attachment. I used to be that person. Now, I experience such intensity and I want it to stop. Who am I?
3. A bus boy is hired to help out at work. He is 21-years-old and makes $9 per hour. He’s been employed by the craft school for all of three weeks. I have been employed there for 3 years and I earn $7.73 per hour. The injustice infuriates me and I make my stand at work only to be told to be quiet. Effectively, I am a dispensable employee. It’s a hard truth to hear after three years of putting your heart into a place. I’ve put my foot down but they will not offer a raise, especially since if I walked out today they would hire someone to replace me at a higher wage than what I currently earn. How can I keep my job and maintain my own personal dignity? And yet, I must…there will be loans to pay soon and there is no other work her. Stuck between a rock and a hard place, who am I?
How I love has everything to do with who I am.
How I work has everything to do with my moral integrity.
And I find myself in this place where the universe is telling me that I shouldn’t care where it’s not my place to care. The message is, in fact, that caring about things makes them complicated rather than fulfilling.
All of this goes completely against whom I thought I was, how I thought I lived, and where I thought I was headed. All of this also makes saying anything new (on the page) impossibly un-enticing. If I don’t know the ground beneath my own feet—heck, if I don’t even know whose feet hold me up—where is the foundation from which I may write?
Friday, April 04, 2008
The Light at the End of the Tunnel
After a generous, hour-long phone conference with my advisor (at her suggestion), she told me that my thesis “could be turned in today and be approved…The only thing that remains now is to work with those two essays and that one story because you owe it to the stories and yourself. You’ve come a long way…”
Oh, happy, happy, near-victory dance!
One week to make those revisions, then wait a week (or so) to hear back, then one week (or less) to make the final changes, and tad-dah—final draft turned in by April 30th. This is the home stretch, everybody!
Oh, happy, happy, near-victory dance!
One week to make those revisions, then wait a week (or so) to hear back, then one week (or less) to make the final changes, and tad-dah—final draft turned in by April 30th. This is the home stretch, everybody!
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
The Pictures We Take
The camera is unscathed, but when I hooked it up to my laptop it automatically started downloading pictures that Terrell had taken during this few days of “ownership.” It was sad, really, peaking into his life in that way.
Most of the images were shots he had taken of himself reflected in the mirror as he posed flexing his muscles and flashing a West Side gang symbol. Other shots were of a star he fashioned out of folded bandanas that he seemed quite proud of. There are a few pictures of kids at school and a teacher, and one of his foster family’s dogs.
The one that sticks out the most, however, is the silly one: he must have taken all the red bandanas he had and unfolded them, then flopped them loose-like on top of his head. They hung below his eyes and covered his face. Then he put his hat on and took a picture of himself looking into the mirror. A joke, surely, to see what he looked like when he couldn’t see himself.
Joke or not—I couldn’t help but wonder if anyone has ever really seen that boy in his entire life.
The metaphor came to my quickly—what does he see in himself? His own reflection? What are others seeing? What image was he trying to create with that camera, if he could fashion any version of himself that he wanted?
Most of the images were shots he had taken of himself reflected in the mirror as he posed flexing his muscles and flashing a West Side gang symbol. Other shots were of a star he fashioned out of folded bandanas that he seemed quite proud of. There are a few pictures of kids at school and a teacher, and one of his foster family’s dogs.
The one that sticks out the most, however, is the silly one: he must have taken all the red bandanas he had and unfolded them, then flopped them loose-like on top of his head. They hung below his eyes and covered his face. Then he put his hat on and took a picture of himself looking into the mirror. A joke, surely, to see what he looked like when he couldn’t see himself.
Joke or not—I couldn’t help but wonder if anyone has ever really seen that boy in his entire life.
The metaphor came to my quickly—what does he see in himself? His own reflection? What are others seeing? What image was he trying to create with that camera, if he could fashion any version of himself that he wanted?
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