"As our lives change, come whatever..."

When you grow up in a town of 24,ooo people, it is not at all surprising to have known your high school friends since childhood. What is surprising, however, is successfully holding onto those friends as the distance between you grows to span a world full of over 6 billion people.

I may have been one of the eight luckiest high school students the world has ever known - at least as far as friends are concerned. I followed a couple of girls from my 2nd block class to the lunchroom on the first day of ninth grade, and the rest is history. As it turned out, I already knew everyone at that table (or who would eventually come to that table) from past lives, but we needed the perfect storm of timing and circumstance to make the group gel. Over the next four years, hardly a day would go by for any of us without seeing at least one member of our lunch crew - we took most of the same classes, participated in the same activities (we were evenly split between debaters and dramatists, which was nearly always the cause of any fights we had), and spent more than a significant portion of our free time together. Movie nights were nearly a weekly (sometimes bi-weekly, tri-weekly...) occurrence, every birthday and holiday was celebrated, and even if we were just playing on a swingset or driving in (very small) circles around town abusing our stereo systems and our voices, life was great when we were together.

Since all eight of us are hilarious, brilliant, attractive (humble), and extraordinarily ambitious over-achievers, we began to realize that what we had in high school could not last forever. We all had dreams that necessarily extended past the city limits of our little town, and one by one, we chose our distant destinations: Brookings, Fargo, St. Peter, Lincoln, Lawrence, and three different sections of Washington, DC. Like all high school friends do, we promised to keep in touch and to stay friends forever, but then things got weird: we actually did. I can only speak for myself at this point in the story, but I know that in the sitcom of my life, although the cast is continually growing, these people are my co-stars. They are my extended family, my eventual wedding party, and my first call/email/text when things go wrong.

The visits get fewer and farther between as the years go by and responsibilities pile up and we continue to spread out on a now international scale, but nothing else seems to change. When we do get the chance to be together, we pick up right where we left off - knowing a person for fifteen years will allow for that, I suppose. This week, three of us got one of those opportunities. For a precious 37 hours, Adrienne got to play hostess and welcomed us into her home, which of course, already felt like our home. We had an amazing time, took some truly ridiculous pictures (look for those on Facebook soon), and took care of each other mentally, emotionally, and physically - the way only the best of friends can. So, thanks go to Addy for planning a fabulous day, and thanks go to Kiki (teehee) for his infinite patience for things that are girly. This is for you guys (and our absent friends) - I love you all. :)


Homecoming

Senses awaken, each in turn: coffee brewing, laughter trickling in;
this morning immediately seems less painful than most.
Yawn, stretch; bare feet meet a warm floor.
Round the corner to greet grinning faces with a sleepy smile.

Squeeze in tight to share space and time, cozy like an old Beatles LP.
Settle into giggles and snorts between comfortable silences,
memories tossed about like Frisbees on an early summer afternoon;
no performance to consider - we can just be.

Prepare for the day, accomplish routines and tasks -
dishwasher full, contacts in, did you find your phone?
Domesticity is false and fleeting, but no less comforting.
Grab shoes, keys, and each other as we walk out the door.


May 28, 2010

...aaaaaaand, we're back!

I just finished writing 36* pages of reflections and explanations and justifications… and I’m exhausted. Mentally, physically, emotionally, “spiritually, ecumenically, grammatically…” (Name that movie!) and so on.

As I struggled to find new words to say the same things in seemingly different ways and made tenuous connections between what actually happened and what some far-removed executive body envisions as “ideal,” I found that my growing fear and aggravation had nothing to do with the impending deadlines. Despite the massive amounts of work and the absence of a social life, my internship gave me a great gift that I am now terrified of losing: I’ve been reminded of how much I truly love to read, love to write, and love to be smart with other smart people. These things had nearly been beaten out of me by years of reading drivel (“academic” drivel, but drivel just the same), writing hundreds of pages of b.s. that could be summed up in about five sentences, and being forced into artificial discussions with disinterested interlocutors. I still identified myself as a reader and a writer, but I wasn’t bringing the goods anymore. This spring, LHS happily re-awakened the beast, but the last two weeks threatened to shoot it with horse tranquilizers as the familiar headache slid back into place like the lid of a roll-top desk.

The work was torturous. Each sentence felt more painful than the one before; I had to stop and rest for a few minutes after each mental contraction as if I was giving birth, but to someone else’s child. There is nothing of me in those lines, and yet I feel empty. The page count grew, and I could feel the numbness and apathy creeping back into my writing as the newly-resuscitated joy seeped away. Books that had unrelentingly captivated my attention just a week before remained nearby, but their pages held little comfort as my eyes strained and my mind failed to focus. I wondered if this experience might once again bury my creativity and curiosity under the weight of a bureaucratic academia, but even in the darkest hours at the library, there were moments – moments where a happy turn of phrase was woven in amongst the tedium, or half an idea for a poetic line was scribbled on scratch paper before it was lost in the fray.

Now it is done. Now it can be summer. My first – perhaps of many – in Lawrence. I plan to take a few days, or maybe a week, to recuperate from my battle with the printed word; movies and TV shows will be watched, an apartment will be cleaned, and celebrations will be had. But as I settle into new, less strenuous routines, I expect myself to come back to those books left unfinished and to come back here often to read and write and exercise my smarts. Right after I catch up on LOST.




*Yeah, I didn’t fix it when Word 2007 set my margins at 1.25” and I might have spent more time intently looking for adjectives and adverbs just lengthy enough to bump each paragraph to one more line than the time it would have taken to develop one more original idea, but it can’t be argued that I just completed a ridiculous task. Let’s just say that the next time I write something the approximate length of a thesis, it had better be far more interesting and I had better take more than two weeks to do it.

Repeat Track

I don’t know how driving has so quickly become a form of therapy for me – I’ve been doing it for less than a year. Somehow, I went for 22 years without any desire to get behind the wheel; this seemed rational at the time, but I no longer understand. I suppose I was driven by the fear and intimidation bred by avoidance. Nowadays, I rely on the point in each day where I slide into the familiar grooves of leather, adjust the windows and vents to bathe in the proper mixture of fresh and manufactured air, and find just the right track (be it via radio, disc, or auxiliary) to free something within me as I fly over hills and careen around corners.

I abused my beloved car pretty badly this evening after an atrocious shift at work. I slammed the pedal to the floor at every green light and onramp – 6000 rpm borders on the red zone. 64 maxes out the stereo volume and the subwoofer dangerously shakes the rear windshield – I half expected it to shatter like my sanity as I screamed angsty lyrics with the window down, unseasonably frigid air rushing through my hair and lungs. Thankfully, Maria spent her formative years in the tender care of a nun, so she’ll have no choice but to forgive me, especially when I take her for a spa day at Crown Toyota next weekend.

This is the first, very rough draft – please suggest changes. I’ll appreciate them in the morning.



“the scene ends badly, as you might imagine
in a cavalcade of anger and fear”
- The Mountain Goats, "This Year"



Relief

floats

like a balloon,

nowhere to go but up -

swelling,

seemingly invincible,

but always so fleeting and fragile.



A sideways look, an ill-placed word…

the outside pressure overwhelms again and

collapses back to a more natural state.

Tension wrinkles what once was smooth;

anger tingles just beneath the surface.

Goosebumps rise as

pores tighten to keep it all inside.



Minute hand delivers on its promise -

leather and plastic absorb the curses

as rhythms of the road and

rhyming rants

coalesce -

building toward

release.


May 7th, 2010 (edits May 9th, 2010)

Re-public

As we discussed the general awesomeness of the infamous Jon Harrison scissor-kick picture over coffee and Pink Box baked goods at the generally awesome LHS Focus Film Festival this afternoon, the idea of making things from our pasts public again was humorously pitched – and I’ve decided to take a break and have some fun with it in the form of a quickie photo essay.

Last year in Methods class, we started the semester by telling the story of our “literacy history,” so I had my mom scan and send me these pictures, which I will now "re-public" here. They are also the only truly good pictures of me in existence, I believe; sometime after this, I transformed into the least photogenic person on the planet (don’t ask about the “Kid Rock face” pictures).

8 months - Dang, that's a cute baby! And no, this wasn't posed - I really did pretend/attempt to read, and I really did lay around holding the books with my feet. The weirdness started early, folks.

1 year-ish - This one has nothing to do with reading, it's just ridiculously adorable (except the Mizzou hat... I was obviously being brainwashed at the time). We refer to this time period as the "Cindy-Lou Who" years.

Just shy of 2 years - I've got my parents to thank for my frequent and early exposure to the wonderful world of words. More than just about anything from my childhood, I remember the books. I remember the library. I remember being read to and loving it. My mom remembers me reciting the alphabet at 15 months, recognizing new words at the grocery store at 2 years, reading the pool rules off the wall at 3 years, and reading Charlotte's Web to her (without seeing it before) at 4 years. I don't know exactly how it happened, but I literally cannot remember what it feels like to not be able to read. Thanks, Mom.

5 years - Once an English teacher... always an English teacher. My stuffed animals knew their Dr. Seuss backwards and forwards, let me tell you.

Blue Moon rising

You’re not here.
You’re not going to be here.
I knew that coming in, really.

You’re not the kind of guy
a girl like me
would meet in a place like this.

You’re waiting
in some laundromat
or grocery store
or maybe a coffee shop,
although we both know
that’s a little pretentious.

“Tonight’s gonna be a good night,”
we chant in unison with the canned legumes –
but those words taste bitter in my mouth.

Hold on –
is that you hiding behind those emo bangs?
Nope, false alarm again.

Wait out the buzz amongst the masquerade –
silently begging sluggish metabolism to wake up.
Car keys rustle impatiently within a purse’s depths.

My better judgment begrudgingly takes the keys from others;
well-earned rest is delayed a few hours more
as I seek sober refuge scribbling verse in a bathroom stall.


May 1, 2010


Suggestions are welcome as always - it still feels pretty rough to me, but so did last night, haha.