It’s the meditation, or the lack thereof, that’s killing my perspective. I used to be able to let things roll off my back. Angry people, rude people, tired people, suffering people—all of them, I could generate compassion for on the spot rather than reacting and spinning into my own internal dialogue. Now, at work especially, I could care less. There are people I turn my attention to and there are people I turn away from. There are people who I allow to destroy my mood and whose negative comments play on a repeating loop in my mind. There are also people who brighten my day and make me smile, but I used to be able to generate that just fine on my own.
Being unable to generate this perspective has nothing to do with may or may not actually be going on in the workplace. It has to do with cultivating the virtues and mental pathways for letting things slide, for easing into each day, and for opening my heart. In place of effort I have been giving excuses: I’d rather be writing. I’d rather be working out. I’d rather be freelancing to try and save money faster and quit my job sooner.
My resistance to meditation feels insurmountable right now, and it’s times like these that are exactly why I never took refuge in the first place. Taking refuge, to me, is a lifelong promise. I don’t trust myself enough for that—because I know that deep down in my heart there are other things I’d rather do in the here and now than sit still and hold steady and dedicate myself to attaining enlightenment or praying for all sentient beings. It’s embarrassing to admit, but it’s true. I’d rather write. I’d rather have a life partner I can laugh with at the end of my day. I’d rather be able to travel.
I’m trained enough to know that it’s not meditation OR these other things—no, that’s hardly the case. But the façade of the here and now is winning day in and day out, and I can’t seem to persuade myself that life is timeless and that everything happens for a karmic reason and that someday I will be reborn again. All that seems to matter is getting out of my job and writing my heart out until I become the known and respected writer that I want to be. My training and hours on the meditation cushion feel lost to me.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Thursday, August 28, 2008
The Tip of the Iceberg, I Know, But...
Did you hear him say it?
Did you hear Barak Obama say he would “recruit an army of new teachers?”
He said many more moving things tonight, but that phrase—that word, army—says it all. It marks the beginning of the reclamation of our language. A language that has been hijacked, abused, and used arrogantly in our names for eight years. A language that has been usurped by a backwards morality and self-deceptive motives. A language that has been used to deceive rather than reveal. A language that has made me feel ashamed to be an American.
Homeland Security? The “Patriot” Act? Weapons of Mass Destruction? Terrorist? No Child Left Behind? Economic Stimulus Check? Operation Iraqi Freedom? Shock and Awe?
Words that imply one thing and, under President Bush’s reign, mean another. Not anymore. After all, it is teachers who shape, influence, educate, and inspire our citizens. What better defense do we have than that?
An army of teachers. The reclamation of the very words we use to communicate. The beginning of saying what we mean, and meaning what we say. Yes. Please.
Did you hear Barak Obama say he would “recruit an army of new teachers?”
He said many more moving things tonight, but that phrase—that word, army—says it all. It marks the beginning of the reclamation of our language. A language that has been hijacked, abused, and used arrogantly in our names for eight years. A language that has been usurped by a backwards morality and self-deceptive motives. A language that has been used to deceive rather than reveal. A language that has made me feel ashamed to be an American.
Homeland Security? The “Patriot” Act? Weapons of Mass Destruction? Terrorist? No Child Left Behind? Economic Stimulus Check? Operation Iraqi Freedom? Shock and Awe?
Words that imply one thing and, under President Bush’s reign, mean another. Not anymore. After all, it is teachers who shape, influence, educate, and inspire our citizens. What better defense do we have than that?
An army of teachers. The reclamation of the very words we use to communicate. The beginning of saying what we mean, and meaning what we say. Yes. Please.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Back in Action
Finally, I had my two days off and wasn’t SICK!
So I…
..,put in over 10 hours on the arts writer’s grant and have a first draft complete. It’s a lot of work justifying $33,000! I also critiqued 30 more pages of the novel I’m looking at for pay. I called three publications about the footbridges project. I made a few revisions to a short story I wrote two weeks ago. Then I baked biscuits, started a sketchbook, and practiced a new kata called Basa Dai, which means “storming the fortress.” (Fuck yeah! Storming the fortress! I LOVE IT!)
I also drank coffee and thoroughly enjoyed it. Of course.
Tomorrow? Back to work. The other work. The work I will someday get to quit.
So I…
..,put in over 10 hours on the arts writer’s grant and have a first draft complete. It’s a lot of work justifying $33,000! I also critiqued 30 more pages of the novel I’m looking at for pay. I called three publications about the footbridges project. I made a few revisions to a short story I wrote two weeks ago. Then I baked biscuits, started a sketchbook, and practiced a new kata called Basa Dai, which means “storming the fortress.” (Fuck yeah! Storming the fortress! I LOVE IT!)
I also drank coffee and thoroughly enjoyed it. Of course.
Tomorrow? Back to work. The other work. The work I will someday get to quit.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Fall Collaboration: Part 1
[While it is redundant to say this, I’m going to anyway: This writing and, in particular, this project and the posts regarding this project are copyrighted, and protected, in some cases, under contract.]
This fall, a photographer from the craft school and I will be collaborating on a project I proposed to Our State magazine, a North Carolina based publication with 110,000 subscribers that pays respectably, publishes decent writing, and is enthusiastically read by its intended audience. While the article I’m writing for them will only be about 1,200 words, Shane (the photographer) and I are so passionate about the project that we are going to make it a weeks-long adventure, follow our intuitions, and see where we end up.
In short, there are 23 swinging footbridges in the state of North Carolina. Two of them are closed, and 11 of the remaining 21 are in Yancey and Mitchell counties. The oldest one is but a few miles from my house, built in 1947 and still fully functional. These footbridges are maintained by the state highway department and the process for removing one is so complex, that it is actually easier and sometimes more affordable to simply maintain them despite the fact that they are rarely used anymore.
If you’ve never seen one of these, most of the time they cross a river or creek and lead from one byway to another. So much has changed since many of them were built, though, which means that some footbridges now go from a highway over a river and onto private property (such as someone’s backyard).
Here goes:
I can hear Shane’s Honda Passport barrelling up Fork Mountain before I actually see him. I’m busy at the stove, making stir fry and green tea, a late afternoon lunch. A minute later, I hear him at the upper entrance to the house.
“Hello?” he says.
“I’m down here,” I yell.
He’s in the loft, but slowly finds his way down the narrow steps. Backpack and maps in hand, he greets me with a smile and hug; always the gentleman in a good mood. The photographs he’s taking for this project are the first major magazine assignment in his career.
“I’ve been thinking completely differently for the past three weeks—since we got this gig,” he says. “There’s a market for everything out there! And lots of places appreciate creative work.”
“Yup,” I say, then hand him an old copy of The Photographer’s Market. “If you like this, get yourself an updated version and you’ll be blown away. Everybody wants a picture of something, and most people are willing to pay for it.”
He hops up on the kitchen counter, legs dangling over the edge, and flips through the book. “Sweet,” he says. “I’ll check this out.” Then, “Can I have some snow peas?”
I point to the frying pan, where a mélange of shitakes, spinach, peas, and carrots sprinkled with ginger and sesame seeds awaits. “Help yourself.”
Once I finish my lunch, we clear off my desk and get to work. Cross-referencing the database information I got from DOT with the map blowups and print outs Shane found, we are able to map and locate all 11 footbridges in our counties.
Over the next few weeks, I’ll be calling magazines and newspapers to try and get someone interested in publishing personal narratives and photos that document our excursions (in addition to what will be published a year from now in Our State). Likewise, Shane will ask his art mentors about potential publishing opportunities. Starting September 22nd, we’ll hit the road, spending one or two days per week driving to the footbridges, crossing them, photographing them, researching them, and interviewing nearby residents.
“I want to be a part of as much of this as I can,” he says. “Even the interviews, so I can work on my portrait shots. The way I see it, even just one image of someone will help complete our record of what we’re doing, regardless of the magazine needs it.”
“Sounds good,” I say. Shane has an independent study for his “class” at the school this fall and my days off from the coffeehouse are during the week. This is what will allow us to spend so much time on our excursions, following leads and letting the stories surface the deeper into the project we get. I’ve never had a photographer accompany me to an interview, but I trust Shane and this will be a learning experience for both of us.
Our maps complete, we talk shop for a little more and I tell him more about the other writing projects I have going on (they’re spread all over my desk, after all). As he readies to leave, we go over our mental checklists. The magazines I will call. The people he will talk to. The dates we need to keep open for our excursions.
“I want this to be big, Shane,” I say. “I mean, if you lived in BigCity, wouldn’t you just love to sit down and read the Sunday paper every day for a month or two, and read a feature like this? A little essay and beautiful photos to accompany it?”
“Totally,” he says. “This is gonna be fun, no matter what happens.”
This fall, a photographer from the craft school and I will be collaborating on a project I proposed to Our State magazine, a North Carolina based publication with 110,000 subscribers that pays respectably, publishes decent writing, and is enthusiastically read by its intended audience. While the article I’m writing for them will only be about 1,200 words, Shane (the photographer) and I are so passionate about the project that we are going to make it a weeks-long adventure, follow our intuitions, and see where we end up.
In short, there are 23 swinging footbridges in the state of North Carolina. Two of them are closed, and 11 of the remaining 21 are in Yancey and Mitchell counties. The oldest one is but a few miles from my house, built in 1947 and still fully functional. These footbridges are maintained by the state highway department and the process for removing one is so complex, that it is actually easier and sometimes more affordable to simply maintain them despite the fact that they are rarely used anymore.
If you’ve never seen one of these, most of the time they cross a river or creek and lead from one byway to another. So much has changed since many of them were built, though, which means that some footbridges now go from a highway over a river and onto private property (such as someone’s backyard).
Here goes:
I can hear Shane’s Honda Passport barrelling up Fork Mountain before I actually see him. I’m busy at the stove, making stir fry and green tea, a late afternoon lunch. A minute later, I hear him at the upper entrance to the house.
“Hello?” he says.
“I’m down here,” I yell.
He’s in the loft, but slowly finds his way down the narrow steps. Backpack and maps in hand, he greets me with a smile and hug; always the gentleman in a good mood. The photographs he’s taking for this project are the first major magazine assignment in his career.
“I’ve been thinking completely differently for the past three weeks—since we got this gig,” he says. “There’s a market for everything out there! And lots of places appreciate creative work.”
“Yup,” I say, then hand him an old copy of The Photographer’s Market. “If you like this, get yourself an updated version and you’ll be blown away. Everybody wants a picture of something, and most people are willing to pay for it.”
He hops up on the kitchen counter, legs dangling over the edge, and flips through the book. “Sweet,” he says. “I’ll check this out.” Then, “Can I have some snow peas?”
I point to the frying pan, where a mélange of shitakes, spinach, peas, and carrots sprinkled with ginger and sesame seeds awaits. “Help yourself.”
Once I finish my lunch, we clear off my desk and get to work. Cross-referencing the database information I got from DOT with the map blowups and print outs Shane found, we are able to map and locate all 11 footbridges in our counties.
Over the next few weeks, I’ll be calling magazines and newspapers to try and get someone interested in publishing personal narratives and photos that document our excursions (in addition to what will be published a year from now in Our State). Likewise, Shane will ask his art mentors about potential publishing opportunities. Starting September 22nd, we’ll hit the road, spending one or two days per week driving to the footbridges, crossing them, photographing them, researching them, and interviewing nearby residents.
“I want to be a part of as much of this as I can,” he says. “Even the interviews, so I can work on my portrait shots. The way I see it, even just one image of someone will help complete our record of what we’re doing, regardless of the magazine needs it.”
“Sounds good,” I say. Shane has an independent study for his “class” at the school this fall and my days off from the coffeehouse are during the week. This is what will allow us to spend so much time on our excursions, following leads and letting the stories surface the deeper into the project we get. I’ve never had a photographer accompany me to an interview, but I trust Shane and this will be a learning experience for both of us.
Our maps complete, we talk shop for a little more and I tell him more about the other writing projects I have going on (they’re spread all over my desk, after all). As he readies to leave, we go over our mental checklists. The magazines I will call. The people he will talk to. The dates we need to keep open for our excursions.
“I want this to be big, Shane,” I say. “I mean, if you lived in BigCity, wouldn’t you just love to sit down and read the Sunday paper every day for a month or two, and read a feature like this? A little essay and beautiful photos to accompany it?”
“Totally,” he says. “This is gonna be fun, no matter what happens.”
Sunday, August 24, 2008
The Ultimate Goal
The great thing about grant applications is that they make you cut to the chase.
In working on the most important grant application of my life this week, the Arts Writers Grant Project, I stumbled upon this realization:
“It is my greatest desire to be a writer whose words invite readers to take pause and enter a similar place of connection that the very artwork I write about does for its viewers.”
In working on the most important grant application of my life this week, the Arts Writers Grant Project, I stumbled upon this realization:
“It is my greatest desire to be a writer whose words invite readers to take pause and enter a similar place of connection that the very artwork I write about does for its viewers.”
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Back to Basics
Sarah (that’s my teacher friend and our new white belt) walked into the dojo this morning at 10:59 a.m. and just barely made it onto the mat in time to bow in. Of course, Lis, Jeff, Nate, and myself were already warmed up from helping with kid’s class, so when we moved straight into a series of spider push ups, then lined up at the mirror for a full set up full-chi basics, Sarah didn’t know what hit her.
Hanshi paced the line and called out numbers, stances, blocks, kicks, and punches. We moved together and quickly—the fastest he’s asked us to move in a while—and Anna was at the end of the line moving at a snail’s pace, eyes darting from one karateka to the next, trying to decipher the moves. I think today was her 8th class all totaled.
I felt empathetic toward her situation immediately, though I couldn’t exactly address that in the middle of an upper block and try to make her feel better. I did, however, call her after class and see if she wanted to hang out tonight and practice basics. She delightfully obliged and when I got to her house, we shared a snack of organic sliced fruits and veggies, then talked about the rollercoaster of training, the honor of it, and the ins and outs of some of the basic moves.
Then we rolled up the carpet on her living room floor, swept the hardwood, and got to work. It must have been almost two hours before we stopped, and while we never worked up a sweat, we were working the whole time. I broke down the basic kicks, punches, stances, and blocks for her. We practiced each together, then I watched her do them. I showed her how they could be used and why certain things mattered even though they looked like they weren’t doing anything. I told her some of the important words in Japanese, and encouraged her to move at her own pace in class, even if it was psychologically difficult to be the only one in the dojo with a white belt.
I pointed out that her legs are two inches longer than mine even though she’s two inches shorter, which means if she can make her kicks her strongpoint, she can keep attackers at a safe distance because they won’t even be able to reach her at that distance. I commented on her defined arms, remnants of her former potter’s lifestyle, and she smiled, appreciating the benefits.
By the time we finished her legs were shaking and her hips were sore. I tried to encourage her—it’s about muscle memory, I told her, and training in places you’ve never trained before. You’ll get to a place where front stance feels like home and you could do it with your eyes closed, I told her. You’ll start to form the Shuri fist faster the more you practice it, I reassured her. You’ll feel overwhelmed, you’ll feel like things aren’t always fair, you’ll feel incompetent, and you’ll feel uncertain.
But you’ll also walk out of the dojo smiling more times than not. You’ll forget yourself and the stress of the day for the sixty minutes you’re on the tatami. You’ll have karate dreams and when you’re unloading groceries from the car and your hands are too full to close the door, you’ll do a crescent step to kick it shut.
To all of this she smiled, asked more questions, and smiled again. Yes, she’ll make a fantastic karateka. She already is.
Hanshi paced the line and called out numbers, stances, blocks, kicks, and punches. We moved together and quickly—the fastest he’s asked us to move in a while—and Anna was at the end of the line moving at a snail’s pace, eyes darting from one karateka to the next, trying to decipher the moves. I think today was her 8th class all totaled.
I felt empathetic toward her situation immediately, though I couldn’t exactly address that in the middle of an upper block and try to make her feel better. I did, however, call her after class and see if she wanted to hang out tonight and practice basics. She delightfully obliged and when I got to her house, we shared a snack of organic sliced fruits and veggies, then talked about the rollercoaster of training, the honor of it, and the ins and outs of some of the basic moves.
Then we rolled up the carpet on her living room floor, swept the hardwood, and got to work. It must have been almost two hours before we stopped, and while we never worked up a sweat, we were working the whole time. I broke down the basic kicks, punches, stances, and blocks for her. We practiced each together, then I watched her do them. I showed her how they could be used and why certain things mattered even though they looked like they weren’t doing anything. I told her some of the important words in Japanese, and encouraged her to move at her own pace in class, even if it was psychologically difficult to be the only one in the dojo with a white belt.
I pointed out that her legs are two inches longer than mine even though she’s two inches shorter, which means if she can make her kicks her strongpoint, she can keep attackers at a safe distance because they won’t even be able to reach her at that distance. I commented on her defined arms, remnants of her former potter’s lifestyle, and she smiled, appreciating the benefits.
By the time we finished her legs were shaking and her hips were sore. I tried to encourage her—it’s about muscle memory, I told her, and training in places you’ve never trained before. You’ll get to a place where front stance feels like home and you could do it with your eyes closed, I told her. You’ll start to form the Shuri fist faster the more you practice it, I reassured her. You’ll feel overwhelmed, you’ll feel like things aren’t always fair, you’ll feel incompetent, and you’ll feel uncertain.
But you’ll also walk out of the dojo smiling more times than not. You’ll forget yourself and the stress of the day for the sixty minutes you’re on the tatami. You’ll have karate dreams and when you’re unloading groceries from the car and your hands are too full to close the door, you’ll do a crescent step to kick it shut.
To all of this she smiled, asked more questions, and smiled again. Yes, she’ll make a fantastic karateka. She already is.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Taking a Look in the Mirror
Oh my god.
Today I saw a line on my arm.
Not a chiseled line. Not a firm line. Not even a long line. But for reals – a bon a fide line of muscle, dimpling the skin at the very back of my upper arm, where the triceps nears the elbow. We’re talking at the ultra flabbiest, weakest point on most women’s arms; that soft, inner flesh just above the joint that’s so untouched it still feels like a baby’s skin.
It sort of forms a modest J shape, a nice compliment to the biceps line I already have, and now I can see how perfectly the two were meant to go together.
Really? An inkling of refined triceps? On me?
Yes. Oh Yes.
Victory lap around the dojo, please, because seriously, this is a milestone! Hoorah!
Today I saw a line on my arm.
Not a chiseled line. Not a firm line. Not even a long line. But for reals – a bon a fide line of muscle, dimpling the skin at the very back of my upper arm, where the triceps nears the elbow. We’re talking at the ultra flabbiest, weakest point on most women’s arms; that soft, inner flesh just above the joint that’s so untouched it still feels like a baby’s skin.
It sort of forms a modest J shape, a nice compliment to the biceps line I already have, and now I can see how perfectly the two were meant to go together.
Really? An inkling of refined triceps? On me?
Yes. Oh Yes.
Victory lap around the dojo, please, because seriously, this is a milestone! Hoorah!
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Forward Thinking
Despite the warm weather these past two days, I have to say I first sensed the downhill side of summer two weeks ago Friday, sitting along the walkway at the craft school late one auction night. People were dressed to the nines--high heels, platinum, hand-crafted clothing and all--and a gigantic tent had been erected outdoors with faux-walls and CAT-powered air-conditioning. But the clouds parted and the stars shown unencumbered down on the patio surrounding the tent. The air-conditioning was turned off and a few sweaters could be seen throughout the crowd.
That was the first week of August. Now, we're tailspinning into September and today I saw a red leaf. Not high up in the white ash tree, but on the ground, cradled in a crusted boot print indicative of our drought summer. If I leave campus after dark, the katydids are singing there but not in the higher elevations once I get home. Likewise, the wasps and hornets are getting anxious. My dad got stung four times yesterday by one little bugger alone!
September will be a month of preparing. It'll be time to financially commit to the Fork Mountain house for the winter, by which I mean I'll have to throw anywhere between $300 and $1,000 into the tanks for heat. There's a felled buckeye that my dad is going to buck up. (No way will I run a chainsaw by myself this far from other human beings. Really? Half a mile? I don't think a femural artery bleed would let me get that far for help.) I can split it in the lower field, get help from a friend with four wheel drive to haul it up the to the wood shed, and stack from there. Just over the state line, a friend has offered a free truckload of wood if I'll just come haul it away (they no longer heat with wood). That and all the downed branches from the trimming I had done on the maples this fall will suffice for the winter.
And so it begins; the measuring of days by temperature and sunlight. My friends say we still have one more heat wave to go and that surely I'm jumping the gun a bit. Not this year. I'll be prepared for winter on Fork Mountain no matter what. So prepared I can already smell our first frost months before it hits.
That was the first week of August. Now, we're tailspinning into September and today I saw a red leaf. Not high up in the white ash tree, but on the ground, cradled in a crusted boot print indicative of our drought summer. If I leave campus after dark, the katydids are singing there but not in the higher elevations once I get home. Likewise, the wasps and hornets are getting anxious. My dad got stung four times yesterday by one little bugger alone!
September will be a month of preparing. It'll be time to financially commit to the Fork Mountain house for the winter, by which I mean I'll have to throw anywhere between $300 and $1,000 into the tanks for heat. There's a felled buckeye that my dad is going to buck up. (No way will I run a chainsaw by myself this far from other human beings. Really? Half a mile? I don't think a femural artery bleed would let me get that far for help.) I can split it in the lower field, get help from a friend with four wheel drive to haul it up the to the wood shed, and stack from there. Just over the state line, a friend has offered a free truckload of wood if I'll just come haul it away (they no longer heat with wood). That and all the downed branches from the trimming I had done on the maples this fall will suffice for the winter.
And so it begins; the measuring of days by temperature and sunlight. My friends say we still have one more heat wave to go and that surely I'm jumping the gun a bit. Not this year. I'll be prepared for winter on Fork Mountain no matter what. So prepared I can already smell our first frost months before it hits.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Monday, August 18, 2008
Sicko
Saturday Hanshi asked me to give our basic orientation to a new white belt in the kid's class. I think he's about 8 years old. Twenty minutes into the orientation, the kid retched in the bathroom and I cleaned it up. (Interrupting class to ask your senior to clean up puke-ola is not exactly acceptable, so I just dealt with it).
Now I'm the one retching, since last night, which means no writing days for my "weekend" Mondays and Tuesdays off and no blog posts. I'm getting into bed before the next explosion.
Now I'm the one retching, since last night, which means no writing days for my "weekend" Mondays and Tuesdays off and no blog posts. I'm getting into bed before the next explosion.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Groundless
I look for the moment to write about and it is not there.
I stop looking for it and my mind is tossed here and there, forgetting itself.
There’s a lot up in the air in my life right now, therefore my day-to-day attempts at nonfiction are without foundation. This an excuse—albeit a good one—but I bet I can think myself out of it if I really try. Even if I have to write about writing for a while (which I don’t generally like to do), I’ll do whatever it takes to write from a grounded place in an attempt to make the mundane, sacred.
The first thing to do is chisel away at my to-do list, which is doubly long because of the food poisoning I had on my days off. Next, I need to give myself permission for imperfection. Add a few nights of extra sleep, a healthy dose of friends to keep my out of my head, and pretty soon I’ll be back on track.
I stop looking for it and my mind is tossed here and there, forgetting itself.
There’s a lot up in the air in my life right now, therefore my day-to-day attempts at nonfiction are without foundation. This an excuse—albeit a good one—but I bet I can think myself out of it if I really try. Even if I have to write about writing for a while (which I don’t generally like to do), I’ll do whatever it takes to write from a grounded place in an attempt to make the mundane, sacred.
The first thing to do is chisel away at my to-do list, which is doubly long because of the food poisoning I had on my days off. Next, I need to give myself permission for imperfection. Add a few nights of extra sleep, a healthy dose of friends to keep my out of my head, and pretty soon I’ll be back on track.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Taking Stock
A few days before we graduated, the Pacific MFA Class fo 2008 had a special dinner at a local pub. We celebrated with three bottles of champagne, fine food all around, and even some good old fashioned singing. We also went around the table and shared our highest high, a regret, and a goal for the next six months. During part of this conversation, someone suggested that we give ourselves permission to stop disclaiming our successes and just allow them to be the accomplishments that they are, as small or large as they may be. Likewise, we shared praise for setting small goals and keeping ourselves in check with realistic yet serious commitment to the daily effort of being a writing. In that same vein, here is tonight's post:
Small goal: Meditate 20 minutes a day. (This is how I first began, five years ago.)
Small goal: Try to evoke the perspective I wrote from a few years ago with this blog, where each day had an anecdote and a metaphor to live by and it was my job to find it and tell it in story form.
Small goal: Stop spinning thoughts in my head about how I think there is an underground plan at the school to take away the health care benefits from my job. (Even though there probably is....Um...)
Small goal: Walk the driveway sometime next week and clear the jagged rocks and clean the water bars.
Small goal: Don't schedule something for every single night of the week like I have this week (it makes for lousy writing, lousy blogging, and hazy perspective).
Small goal: Don't worry about kissing a boy from Calgary, Canada.
Small goal: Forget that August 31st exists until August 31st, at which point winners of the Narrative contest are announced.
***
Small success: I got yet another acceptance for an art essay this week. Yeehaw!
Small success: I've almost made it through my 4th summer at the craft school (tough work!)
Small success: I designed new business cards and had my friend letterpress them and they're fantabulous! They have a vintage typewriter on the front with the word, "word." and my info on the back.
Small success: Now I can do 45 full sits ups in a minute (compared to 40 in April).
Small success: I am trying. I am still trying. Everyday. To work my way toward self-employment and a sustainable writing life.
Small goal: Meditate 20 minutes a day. (This is how I first began, five years ago.)
Small goal: Try to evoke the perspective I wrote from a few years ago with this blog, where each day had an anecdote and a metaphor to live by and it was my job to find it and tell it in story form.
Small goal: Stop spinning thoughts in my head about how I think there is an underground plan at the school to take away the health care benefits from my job. (Even though there probably is....Um...)
Small goal: Walk the driveway sometime next week and clear the jagged rocks and clean the water bars.
Small goal: Don't schedule something for every single night of the week like I have this week (it makes for lousy writing, lousy blogging, and hazy perspective).
Small goal: Don't worry about kissing a boy from Calgary, Canada.
Small goal: Forget that August 31st exists until August 31st, at which point winners of the Narrative contest are announced.
***
Small success: I got yet another acceptance for an art essay this week. Yeehaw!
Small success: I've almost made it through my 4th summer at the craft school (tough work!)
Small success: I designed new business cards and had my friend letterpress them and they're fantabulous! They have a vintage typewriter on the front with the word, "word." and my info on the back.
Small success: Now I can do 45 full sits ups in a minute (compared to 40 in April).
Small success: I am trying. I am still trying. Everyday. To work my way toward self-employment and a sustainable writing life.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
OK
Ok. No more griping.
I'm doing what I can to work toward my writing goals.
And I have a pretty sweet set up in the meantime.
Period.
I'm doing what I can to work toward my writing goals.
And I have a pretty sweet set up in the meantime.
Period.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
What's Next?
(Sorry for slacking on the blog posts, I’ve had food poisoning for the last 48 hours and counting…)
Some days, I imagine living in Tinyville for a good long while.
Once the house on Fork Mountain sells, if I can afford it, I could move right downtown. I could quit my job at the craft school and work part time for Dot’s (the teensy café downtown) or part time for John and David at the gallery. I could walk to work and walk to the dojo and walk to the post office and walk to the farmer’s market. And I’d be five miles closer to the real grocery store when I needed it. I could keep interviewing artists, work on some local history projects, and keep chipping away at my creative work. I could have high-speed Internet.
Other days, that feels like the most claustrophobic plan on the planet. It makes me want to execute a more drastic plan, which would involve living in the high desert of the Colorado Rockies or mopping floors on a ship for Semester at Sea.
Another plan is this: If I don’t get any of the grants and/or if the house sells and I can’t find appropriate housing, I could box everything up and apply for residencies (which I know I can get) all over the country and hop here and there and keep working on my writing. I could stay at my parent’s house between residencies until something bigger comes along.
That kinda makes me feel itchy, too, though.
I’ve also been fantasizing about road trips: For instance, if I could be anywhere this very second I would be in Lenox, MA where Andrew Bird (my favorite musician of all time and my future husband) and Wilco are playing outdoors at Tanglewood. Beam me up Scotty, seriously, because it’s killing me to know that I’m missing that show at that venue as I type.
Hawaii and Alaska await with college friends and open doors, free places to stay and sights to see. New Mexico? Arizona? Never been there either. Canada? I’ve always wanted to take the train from end to end, take my time, check things out.
Or maybe someone will sweep me off my feet and I’ll just have to move. Sorry friends, but true love is the ultimate trump and I really have to go. Hate to leave it all behind, but I must be one my way. Right? Right.
Dreaming big for my writing life has come with dreaming big in all other ways as well. Sometimes I worry that I’m playing it too safe, calculating things too much, and that I should just say fuck it and walk away. Do what I want. Not care about money or debt or community. But oh, there’d be other sides to that life, too.
Ultimately, I think all the fantasizing about hitting the road or making big changes has to do with the fact that I’ve outgrown my job. It worked so well while I was in school. Now it feels like 32 hours away from my desk that only yields $720 a month (Ok, plus health insurance and meals, which are HUGE). At a certain point, the cost-benefit ratio isn’t going to sit well with me anymore and something will have to give.
But what and when? Oh, Life!
Some days, I imagine living in Tinyville for a good long while.
Once the house on Fork Mountain sells, if I can afford it, I could move right downtown. I could quit my job at the craft school and work part time for Dot’s (the teensy café downtown) or part time for John and David at the gallery. I could walk to work and walk to the dojo and walk to the post office and walk to the farmer’s market. And I’d be five miles closer to the real grocery store when I needed it. I could keep interviewing artists, work on some local history projects, and keep chipping away at my creative work. I could have high-speed Internet.
Other days, that feels like the most claustrophobic plan on the planet. It makes me want to execute a more drastic plan, which would involve living in the high desert of the Colorado Rockies or mopping floors on a ship for Semester at Sea.
Another plan is this: If I don’t get any of the grants and/or if the house sells and I can’t find appropriate housing, I could box everything up and apply for residencies (which I know I can get) all over the country and hop here and there and keep working on my writing. I could stay at my parent’s house between residencies until something bigger comes along.
That kinda makes me feel itchy, too, though.
I’ve also been fantasizing about road trips: For instance, if I could be anywhere this very second I would be in Lenox, MA where Andrew Bird (my favorite musician of all time and my future husband) and Wilco are playing outdoors at Tanglewood. Beam me up Scotty, seriously, because it’s killing me to know that I’m missing that show at that venue as I type.
Hawaii and Alaska await with college friends and open doors, free places to stay and sights to see. New Mexico? Arizona? Never been there either. Canada? I’ve always wanted to take the train from end to end, take my time, check things out.
Or maybe someone will sweep me off my feet and I’ll just have to move. Sorry friends, but true love is the ultimate trump and I really have to go. Hate to leave it all behind, but I must be one my way. Right? Right.
Dreaming big for my writing life has come with dreaming big in all other ways as well. Sometimes I worry that I’m playing it too safe, calculating things too much, and that I should just say fuck it and walk away. Do what I want. Not care about money or debt or community. But oh, there’d be other sides to that life, too.
Ultimately, I think all the fantasizing about hitting the road or making big changes has to do with the fact that I’ve outgrown my job. It worked so well while I was in school. Now it feels like 32 hours away from my desk that only yields $720 a month (Ok, plus health insurance and meals, which are HUGE). At a certain point, the cost-benefit ratio isn’t going to sit well with me anymore and something will have to give.
But what and when? Oh, Life!
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Checkpoint
Here is the update on my goals toward self-employment and my writing life:
I have completed one grant application and started on a second.
I have six art essays for magazines and museums in the works.
I am editing one anthology and two literary journals.
I am critiquing one novel.
I have submitted parts of my MFA thesis to 4 literary journals.
I have studied 6 top-tier literary journals and magazines to determine whether my work is a good fit for each publication.
I have saved $2,000. (GOAL = $5,000).
And most importantly: I continue to write.
I have completed one grant application and started on a second.
I have six art essays for magazines and museums in the works.
I am editing one anthology and two literary journals.
I am critiquing one novel.
I have submitted parts of my MFA thesis to 4 literary journals.
I have studied 6 top-tier literary journals and magazines to determine whether my work is a good fit for each publication.
I have saved $2,000. (GOAL = $5,000).
And most importantly: I continue to write.
Saturday, August 09, 2008
Don't Do That
Don’t do that.
Don’t come to the coffeehouse and talk to me so sweet with that smile that makes me feel like the reason. After you left, my boss turned to me and said, “Katey, are you and J going out?”
Also, don’t come after work, when I’m counting four dollars and sixty-five cents worth of nickels into the cash register, because it makes me lose count. Don’t wear so much aftershave that when we hug goodbye, I can still smell you ten minutes after you’ve left. No, especially don’t do that.
And please don’t come back after you’ve said goodbye, even though I said you could. Don’t walk across campus with me and tell me about your artwork because, in this small community, that makes it look like we’re going out. And when I’m looking at your artwork, don’t duck into the auction tent nearby and bring me back a bottle of wine to share.
Don’t sneak away after that, because you are shy or embarrassed or ignorant or nervous. And when I find you again (don’t make me come looking), don’t tell me about your aunt that has breast cancer or your plans for the next two weeks.
No, don’t do any of this. First, because you don’t mean it and I am sick of boys that don’t mean anything. Second, because you have no idea that when I love it is whole and fluid and as unstoppable as a train. That is probably something you do not want. Third, because even though I may want you to do these things, you still shouldn’t. And fourth, don’t do these things because I am ill of anything to do with two hearts beating and lately, yours is awfully close to mine.
Promise me you won’t, ok? And don’t let me see you for a good 72 hours and don’t bring me those CD’s you said you made for me and don’t, for god’s sake, do what you do with me to anybody else (especially in my presence).
You don’t know what kind of impression you make. And you don’t know the bruised heart with which you flirt. So don’t do that. Don’t start.
Don’t come to the coffeehouse and talk to me so sweet with that smile that makes me feel like the reason. After you left, my boss turned to me and said, “Katey, are you and J going out?”
Also, don’t come after work, when I’m counting four dollars and sixty-five cents worth of nickels into the cash register, because it makes me lose count. Don’t wear so much aftershave that when we hug goodbye, I can still smell you ten minutes after you’ve left. No, especially don’t do that.
And please don’t come back after you’ve said goodbye, even though I said you could. Don’t walk across campus with me and tell me about your artwork because, in this small community, that makes it look like we’re going out. And when I’m looking at your artwork, don’t duck into the auction tent nearby and bring me back a bottle of wine to share.
Don’t sneak away after that, because you are shy or embarrassed or ignorant or nervous. And when I find you again (don’t make me come looking), don’t tell me about your aunt that has breast cancer or your plans for the next two weeks.
No, don’t do any of this. First, because you don’t mean it and I am sick of boys that don’t mean anything. Second, because you have no idea that when I love it is whole and fluid and as unstoppable as a train. That is probably something you do not want. Third, because even though I may want you to do these things, you still shouldn’t. And fourth, don’t do these things because I am ill of anything to do with two hearts beating and lately, yours is awfully close to mine.
Promise me you won’t, ok? And don’t let me see you for a good 72 hours and don’t bring me those CD’s you said you made for me and don’t, for god’s sake, do what you do with me to anybody else (especially in my presence).
You don’t know what kind of impression you make. And you don’t know the bruised heart with which you flirt. So don’t do that. Don’t start.
Thursday, August 07, 2008
They Don't Know What They're Missing
He’s been flirting with all three of us, Sarah and Laura and me, and that’s precisely what we’re laughing about this evening over tall glasses of wine and fresh salad from the gardens. It’s Wednesday night and when I walked in the door of Sarah’s house, the first thing they said to me was, “What’s the word from the craft school? Any action from J?”
I smiled. J? Why, yes. He popped in this afternoon and he was there when I got off work. He was there at the concert in BigCity last week and at the Café off the parkway two weekends before that. And he gives these great hugs and his chest is like a pad of iron and when he smiles he makes you feel like you’re the reason.
All of which are things that Sarah and Laura could say about J as well. Because when he smiles at them, he makes them feel like they’re the reason, too.
The point being: We are three beautiful, twenty-nine year old, independent, successful women living in such slim pickings that same young man can get away with making each of us feel sexy and we’ll put up with it. What’s that old saying, “Get it while you can?” Except, the three of us know better than to mess with dirty laundry, as they say, and so we’re laughing because there’s not a chance that either one of us will actually take his flirting seriously. Women, be weary of the man who flirts with all of them, even if he is quite convincing one-on-one.
Laura’s just gone through a divorce, Sarah wants to find somebody to marry, and I don’t know what I want. (Translation: 80% of the time I’d rather be writing. The other 18% of the time I’m ready to get hitched, and 2% of the time I just want to fool around.)
When I tell them all of this they can only laugh more, because we all know that no matter what type of man we’re looking for, we’re up against the odds in these counties. It’s a delightful laughter and can’t you just see us there? So lovely and red-cheeked from our wine, our fingers delicate around the stems of each glass, and are eyes so bright we could burn holes through any man’s heart.
I smiled. J? Why, yes. He popped in this afternoon and he was there when I got off work. He was there at the concert in BigCity last week and at the Café off the parkway two weekends before that. And he gives these great hugs and his chest is like a pad of iron and when he smiles he makes you feel like you’re the reason.
All of which are things that Sarah and Laura could say about J as well. Because when he smiles at them, he makes them feel like they’re the reason, too.
The point being: We are three beautiful, twenty-nine year old, independent, successful women living in such slim pickings that same young man can get away with making each of us feel sexy and we’ll put up with it. What’s that old saying, “Get it while you can?” Except, the three of us know better than to mess with dirty laundry, as they say, and so we’re laughing because there’s not a chance that either one of us will actually take his flirting seriously. Women, be weary of the man who flirts with all of them, even if he is quite convincing one-on-one.
Laura’s just gone through a divorce, Sarah wants to find somebody to marry, and I don’t know what I want. (Translation: 80% of the time I’d rather be writing. The other 18% of the time I’m ready to get hitched, and 2% of the time I just want to fool around.)
When I tell them all of this they can only laugh more, because we all know that no matter what type of man we’re looking for, we’re up against the odds in these counties. It’s a delightful laughter and can’t you just see us there? So lovely and red-cheeked from our wine, our fingers delicate around the stems of each glass, and are eyes so bright we could burn holes through any man’s heart.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
I {Heart} the Juka Silver
Today was one of the best days I’ve had at the dojo in months. It helps that I had a phenomenal acupuncture treatment about a week ago that I’m still benefiting from. Likewise, Saturday’s classes were challenging but not grueling. Physically, I bowed onto the tatmi in relatively good shape tonight.
For kid’s class, Hanshi really fired it up, as there are four lower ranks testing for belts on Thursday night. We worked basics, kata, and ippon for sixty minutes straight. No bullshit. The most amazing thing? My Juka Silver heavyweight gi. Lord help me, why did I wait so long to get one? (Oh wait, it was $142, that’s why!) This thing ROCKS! I can hear myself moving, feel the wind and weight of it, and every move I make is punctuated by the sharp lines of the gi fabric (canvas). Even as the other blue belt and I worked kata in kid’s class, Hanshi leaned in my ear during one stance he had us hold, and whispered, “Nice gi. Looking sharp!”
During Tai Chi class, I bowed out to walk the creek walk in downtown Tinyville (about a mile and a half), leaving my friend “Sarah,” to fend for herself as a new visitor at the dojo. She watched kid’s class and participated in Tai Chi.
By the time I got back to the dojo an hour later for adult class, she was eager to see more karate and likewise impressed with Hanshi’s knowledge, sense of humor, and dynamic personality. Sarah, as we’ll call her, is my friend from the Montessori School. She’s my age and she’s also a Capricorn (this matters: we’re both totally obsesses with efficiency, productivity, and leading meaningful lives) and she’s a kickass teacher. She’s a great friend and finally, we’re the same age and height, and after months of hearing me talk about the dojo, she called me up this week and asked to visit classes.
We bowed in for adult class and Hanshi asked Nate to lead us in warm ups while he talked to Sarah about the history of our style, Okinawan Shuri Ryu Karatedo. He described the belt and color system, the importance of tradition and classical training, and most of all, he told her that we are a mind-centered school where the learning is whole and balance by body and spirit. For the rest of the class, he had us work basic punches, blocks, and kicks from a braced horse stance. Then we did moving basics from one end of the dojo to the other. Finally, we concluded with every kata we’ve learned to date (I did as many as I knew, then the higher ranks continued without me for Basa Dai).
All of this was for Sarah’s benefit, but also to show Hanshi where we’re each at with our basics. As he was giving a speech about forms in ippon kumite kata, he interjected a sentence almost in a stage whisper my direction, though completely audible and in front of everyone, where he said, “And you. I like you’re technique. It looks good tonight.”
This is the Hanshi that I know. A sharp-focused, honorable teacher whose praise is sparce but always worth its weight in gold. This is the art that I fell in love with. Traditional movements, timing of hands and feet, spirited kiai’s and group training. These are, almost, the knees I used to have. A karateka can only hope and keep trying. Hope and keep trying.
For kid’s class, Hanshi really fired it up, as there are four lower ranks testing for belts on Thursday night. We worked basics, kata, and ippon for sixty minutes straight. No bullshit. The most amazing thing? My Juka Silver heavyweight gi. Lord help me, why did I wait so long to get one? (Oh wait, it was $142, that’s why!) This thing ROCKS! I can hear myself moving, feel the wind and weight of it, and every move I make is punctuated by the sharp lines of the gi fabric (canvas). Even as the other blue belt and I worked kata in kid’s class, Hanshi leaned in my ear during one stance he had us hold, and whispered, “Nice gi. Looking sharp!”
During Tai Chi class, I bowed out to walk the creek walk in downtown Tinyville (about a mile and a half), leaving my friend “Sarah,” to fend for herself as a new visitor at the dojo. She watched kid’s class and participated in Tai Chi.
By the time I got back to the dojo an hour later for adult class, she was eager to see more karate and likewise impressed with Hanshi’s knowledge, sense of humor, and dynamic personality. Sarah, as we’ll call her, is my friend from the Montessori School. She’s my age and she’s also a Capricorn (this matters: we’re both totally obsesses with efficiency, productivity, and leading meaningful lives) and she’s a kickass teacher. She’s a great friend and finally, we’re the same age and height, and after months of hearing me talk about the dojo, she called me up this week and asked to visit classes.
We bowed in for adult class and Hanshi asked Nate to lead us in warm ups while he talked to Sarah about the history of our style, Okinawan Shuri Ryu Karatedo. He described the belt and color system, the importance of tradition and classical training, and most of all, he told her that we are a mind-centered school where the learning is whole and balance by body and spirit. For the rest of the class, he had us work basic punches, blocks, and kicks from a braced horse stance. Then we did moving basics from one end of the dojo to the other. Finally, we concluded with every kata we’ve learned to date (I did as many as I knew, then the higher ranks continued without me for Basa Dai).
All of this was for Sarah’s benefit, but also to show Hanshi where we’re each at with our basics. As he was giving a speech about forms in ippon kumite kata, he interjected a sentence almost in a stage whisper my direction, though completely audible and in front of everyone, where he said, “And you. I like you’re technique. It looks good tonight.”
This is the Hanshi that I know. A sharp-focused, honorable teacher whose praise is sparce but always worth its weight in gold. This is the art that I fell in love with. Traditional movements, timing of hands and feet, spirited kiai’s and group training. These are, almost, the knees I used to have. A karateka can only hope and keep trying. Hope and keep trying.
Monday, August 04, 2008
Art, Art, Write, Write
Today I got two acceptances from art magazines for more features on artists that I want to interview. Today is also the day that the AWGP application for 2008 went live, and as I read the description for the Short-Form projects (that's me), I swear to god the music in the back of my mind was "Cuz I've got the golden ticket, I've got the golden ticket!" from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Here's what the summary says:
"Short-Form Writing: This category is designed to support writers working on texts of 1,000 words or less that respond to current exhibitions, events, and issues in the visual arts (magazine and newspaper review, etc.). Applicants to this category will propose to write an approximate number of texts over a fixed period of time, not to exceed one year. Of particular (although not exclusive) interest in this category are writers who work outside established art-world centers, writers whose work is geared to non-specialized readers, and younger authors for whom the opportunity to spend an extended period of time devoted to writing would have a transformative impact on their careers."
And here is a blurb from the budget description: "The expenses section of your budget should include a 'writer's fee' for the period during which you will be working on your project. This money can be used toward living expenses, however you define them. If you will be taking time off from another from of income-producing employment, we suggest you base your writer's fee on the salary or free-lance rate you will be foregoing in order to devote your time to your project."
Yeehaw!
"Short-Form Writing: This category is designed to support writers working on texts of 1,000 words or less that respond to current exhibitions, events, and issues in the visual arts (magazine and newspaper review, etc.). Applicants to this category will propose to write an approximate number of texts over a fixed period of time, not to exceed one year. Of particular (although not exclusive) interest in this category are writers who work outside established art-world centers, writers whose work is geared to non-specialized readers, and younger authors for whom the opportunity to spend an extended period of time devoted to writing would have a transformative impact on their careers."
And here is a blurb from the budget description: "The expenses section of your budget should include a 'writer's fee' for the period during which you will be working on your project. This money can be used toward living expenses, however you define them. If you will be taking time off from another from of income-producing employment, we suggest you base your writer's fee on the salary or free-lance rate you will be foregoing in order to devote your time to your project."
Yeehaw!
Persona Prose
My Father Calls Me Pequena
My father calls me Pequena and pats my shoulders when I come home from la escuela. He says, "Tell me something that you to learn today," and I say "Learned, Papa. Something you learned." He says, "No. Ok. Fine. Learned. What you learned today." I tell him that Raleigh is the capital of North Carolina. I tell him that turtle shells will bleed like a cut if you crack them. "Por que?" he says and I say, "Papa, it's because their shells are vivo. They're real Papa. They're alive." When he frowns I take his dry, brown hands and rub his knuckles which are so cracked I can feel the five-year drought through his skin.
My abuelo's hands were crooked before he died and they were crooked when I was born and I think they must have been crooked even before that. Sometimes, I dreamed abuelo was a Peregrine falcon and every part of him was made perfectly for living. In my dreams he would take me from school to fly above the fields where my papa and my tio work. Even up high you could smell the green tobacco, and the fronds that are bigger than me in real life were like little pieces of key lime pie. They looked so bright you could eat them.
Mama doesn't ask about school. Her hands are busy with the maize and she sings to the hills because, she told me, there is always someone who wants to hear. At night when we have thunderstorms I sneak into bed with her and Papa and press my back against her belly, flat and warm as a tortilla. "Pequena," my father says from the other side of the bed, and then he snores soft, soft like the thin cotton bedsheets. Even through the darkness Mama knows how to part my hair, curl her slick fingers down the length of it, until it's straight and untangled. I'm never awake by the time she finishes, but I can feel here there, working away. It feels like floating on water, so smooth and light.
In the morning she is always up first and from my sleep I can hear Papa say, "Adios, Pequena. Tu es el sol y la luna," and then I know it is time for me to wake up. I eat box cereal for breakfast even though Mama says, "Aiy!" and she packs homemade tamales for my lunch. Nobody understands the corn husks at school. I stuff them into my pockets at lunchtime before all of them can see. When I walk home after school, I will leave a trail of them to mark my passage. Little corn flags drying up along the sidewalk, all the way home to our trailer. I like to think of them curling in the sunlight and scraping across the concrete with the breeze. From up high, the little pieces would look like people dancing.
My father calls me Pequena and pats my shoulders when I come home from la escuela. He says, "Tell me something that you to learn today," and I say "Learned, Papa. Something you learned." He says, "No. Ok. Fine. Learned. What you learned today." I tell him that Raleigh is the capital of North Carolina. I tell him that turtle shells will bleed like a cut if you crack them. "Por que?" he says and I say, "Papa, it's because their shells are vivo. They're real Papa. They're alive." When he frowns I take his dry, brown hands and rub his knuckles which are so cracked I can feel the five-year drought through his skin.
My abuelo's hands were crooked before he died and they were crooked when I was born and I think they must have been crooked even before that. Sometimes, I dreamed abuelo was a Peregrine falcon and every part of him was made perfectly for living. In my dreams he would take me from school to fly above the fields where my papa and my tio work. Even up high you could smell the green tobacco, and the fronds that are bigger than me in real life were like little pieces of key lime pie. They looked so bright you could eat them.
Mama doesn't ask about school. Her hands are busy with the maize and she sings to the hills because, she told me, there is always someone who wants to hear. At night when we have thunderstorms I sneak into bed with her and Papa and press my back against her belly, flat and warm as a tortilla. "Pequena," my father says from the other side of the bed, and then he snores soft, soft like the thin cotton bedsheets. Even through the darkness Mama knows how to part my hair, curl her slick fingers down the length of it, until it's straight and untangled. I'm never awake by the time she finishes, but I can feel here there, working away. It feels like floating on water, so smooth and light.
In the morning she is always up first and from my sleep I can hear Papa say, "Adios, Pequena. Tu es el sol y la luna," and then I know it is time for me to wake up. I eat box cereal for breakfast even though Mama says, "Aiy!" and she packs homemade tamales for my lunch. Nobody understands the corn husks at school. I stuff them into my pockets at lunchtime before all of them can see. When I walk home after school, I will leave a trail of them to mark my passage. Little corn flags drying up along the sidewalk, all the way home to our trailer. I like to think of them curling in the sunlight and scraping across the concrete with the breeze. From up high, the little pieces would look like people dancing.
Saturday, August 02, 2008
The Almighty Juka Silver
Behold, the almighty Juka Silver professional karate gi. For the hefty sum (including shipping and tax) of $142, the best-fitting gi I’ve ever tried on is now mine for at least the next decade. I have two days before the next class and there is a lot of hemming yet to be done, not to mention moving the patch on my old gi over to the new one, then washing, drying, and ironing it all, then attempting to break it in. Osu!
Friday, August 01, 2008
The Eternal Questions
Right now there is a short story I want to keep working on and another one I want to start. There are five nonfiction personal narratives I want to revise, get feedback on, and submit. There are two fellowships I need to apply for, and another grant application do work on. There are at least six more lyrical essays about adolescence that I want to write and haven’t even begun yet.
All of this makes me want to quit my job.
And yet… We’re in a recession. I have very little savings (but working on it, bit by bit) and student loan payments on the horizon. Gas prices are kicking everybody’s ass. My living situation, though it isn’t likely to change, could in fact change at any moment and require that I move with little to no notice. So how could I rationally quit?
And yet…if I had the time. The whole day. Every day. All day…Oh, the things I could get done!
The cautionary voices whisper: Balance. Patience. Money. Potential knee surgeries on the horizon ($$$).
Will the other voices be louder?
All of this makes me want to quit my job.
And yet… We’re in a recession. I have very little savings (but working on it, bit by bit) and student loan payments on the horizon. Gas prices are kicking everybody’s ass. My living situation, though it isn’t likely to change, could in fact change at any moment and require that I move with little to no notice. So how could I rationally quit?
And yet…if I had the time. The whole day. Every day. All day…Oh, the things I could get done!
The cautionary voices whisper: Balance. Patience. Money. Potential knee surgeries on the horizon ($$$).
Will the other voices be louder?
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