A Home Away From Home Away From Home

My husband and I have been married a little over six months now… and yeah, that’s still weird to say. It seems to me that much of our generation is having a hard time picturing ourselves as “grown-ups,” which is probably not unique to our generation, but we feel like it is our personal struggle because we’ve got social media and Buzzfeed to document and hashtag it. I won’t claim to be immune to any of that, but as a nod to an older time and in a show of solidarity, I did change my last name to my husband’s. It was a very “grown-up” decision I would absolutely make again, but it’s a part of the newlywed experience that is still a bit foreign. It’s a constant reminder that life will never be exactly the same again – and it’s never the most common occurrences that are the most jarring. My new “teacher name” (Mrs. New Last Name instead of Ms Old Last Name, but always with the same, slightly whiny tone) washes over me as it constantly comes in waves. Signing my name isn’t difficult… unless I can’t remember whether or not I’ve had time to change that particular account yet. No, it’s always the little things that still stop me in my tracks: the new name on a prescription from the pharmacy staring at me in its bold, all-caps official way; the new introduction as “my wife, Amanda” at a social gathering, or the subtly surprising pangs of nostalgia when I encounter a piece of my “old,” pre-husband life.

I don’t run into my past self too terribly often since we’ve been together almost four years now and we’ve integrated our lives fairly smoothly. But once or twice a year, we go visit my parents in my hometown. It’s an objectively terrible place to be most of the time; there is absolutely nothing for a visitor to do there in the winter (and we are always there for Christmas) so I usually spend most of the visit worried that my husband may leave me over some idiot thing a family member said, or perhaps just out of sheer boredom. I always feel like I’m the less interesting one in our relationship, so in the craziness that comes at the end of a ten-hour drive, I worry that maybe it will just take him seeing me in my natural habitat for him to realize the error of his ways and leave me sobbing on my parents’ doorstep.

That’s the thing, though… It IS my natural habitat. My head understands every argument against EVER living there again, and believe me, I still never will – due to the abysmal, unrelenting cold if nothing else – but my heart still aches every time we leave because subjectively, there is so much to do there. Memories lurk in every closet, around every corner, and even where I’d least expect them, embracing me in a rare and bittersweet familiarity until the car door slams and it’s time to go because it’s no longer solely my choice to stay. It’s a very odd kind of heartache, too, being torn between things you love and knowing that they are mutually exclusive. Not the kind you experience when you’re single and pining, or when you’re dating and waiting… This is a gentler, fleeting, yet more profound kind of hurt.

It’s an experience made more difficult because it’s a feeling my husband – the person who knows me best in the world and is often nearly identical to me – cannot understand. I was a transplant before our relationship began, so this is really only a new iteration of the journey that began for me when I moved away for college. But this life we have created together is more a permutation of his past because we still live where he grew up, basically. He doesn’t have to get nostalgic for home – in fact, he never gets the chance because we see his parents almost every week. It’s not often that we have these disconnects (we are quite happily married for numerous reasons, after all) but when it does happen, that just makes it all the more lonely.

Now we’re looking to buy a house of our own – yet another definition of home – and that prospect is terrifying on an entirely different level. My head swims with the names of financiers and inspectors, and I’ve developed an irrational fear and hatred of Homeowner’s Associations. Yet, I am filled with an overwhelming sense of hope. Perhaps this is the step that will make it all real: the prescription bottles, the party introductions, the whole grown-up shebang. I hope it will be a place where we can showcase and harbor our strengthening marriage. I hope it will be a place with more good memories than bad ones. And most of all, I hope it will be a new place we can both be nostalgic for when we’re away, so that leaving home can truly mean coming home, regardless of the direction we’re driving.

***This post was originally created for and posted to a dear friend's collaborative blog: www.curesforcuriosity.wordpress.com Please go visit and check out the other "curious" categories!

Losing It

Hi, blog. It's been awhile. Probably too long. I certainly wish it was under better, more creative circumstances. You see, about 11 days ago now, I found out I am losing my job. (That present progressive verb is used on purpose here because I have to keep DOING my job - my ridiculously difficult, emotional, and overwhelming even on a good day job - for another two months. All is not yet lost.) Needless to say, that was pretty devastating news for me, seeing as I absolutely love my job and I've been assured by everyone (including the bearer of bad news) that I am very good at it. Even though my love for my work had kind of been in doubt for awhile now (I had seriously thought about what it would be like to pursue a different career, even fantasizing at times about the "luxury" of working a desk job where I could listen to my own music, work at my own pace, and go to the bathroom whenever I damn well pleased), I remembered precisely how much I love my particular job the instant it was taken away from me.

I've already spent way too much time thinking about all my regrets, the people I will miss, the graduations I contributed to but won't see... so I won't use this space to cry about that. I'm done crying. Besides, I came here this evening for a different reason. Obviously, I'm applying for new jobs (I am definitely not marrying a sugar daddy... mama's gotta work), so even though I don't use my full name there and I'm practically unsearchable, I checked my Facebook privacy settings. Upon viewing my profile as the general public would, I noticed something odd - the only thing they have access to is the notes section of my profile. I haven't posted a note to Facebook in years. A. and I weren't even dating yet when I posted the last one, and we're getting married in 87 days, if that tells you anything.

Anyway, I naturally started reading through some of those old posts to see whether I should delete them or if they were safe to leave. It's mostly innocuous; lots of those dumb surveys that were popular back when Facebook was first really taking off, a few observations of daily college life, and one particularly feisty rant about Kansas' inability to clear snow properly (in my defense, KU had just lost, so I was quite irritable already). The most interesting thing I found, though, was a writing exercise I used to make myself do when I was feeling stressed and had time to kill at my reference desk work-study job. I would force myself to make (and publish, via notes) two simple lists: the things that made me happy at that moment, and the things that didn't. The goal was to list more happy things than unhappy things. Simple, yet effective. It nearly always worked to put things in perspective and forced me to look on the bright side. I can't think of anything I need more than that right now, so here goes. Indulge me, if you will.

Things that make me happy this evening:
Our incredibly warm and snuggly couch, a warm blanket, a stomach full (and relatively settled, thank goodness) of white chicken chili, leftovers of said chili packed and ready for lunches, an evening of good re-runs of Top Gear on BBC America, a cold beer, Cadbury Mini-Eggs (a surprise from A.), good news today on the job search front, A. getting really excited about Dr. Who commercials on BBC America, goodnight kisses, literally everything about my dear fiancee including how he just glued his fingers together while assembling his nerdy dudes, remembering words of encouragement from dear colleagues, my students were more pleasant than normal after a week's rest, a load of laundry is running, ridiculous Buzzfeed articles (seriously, I'm a sucker for a good set of autocorrects, and today's is gold), knowing I was strong enough to not tear up in front of students today, @FakeJoeDooley and his ridiculous tweets, my Jayhawks are in the Sweet 16, my ring is still extra sparkly from a spring break cleaning, texts from my BFF checking on me, and Pinterest!

Things that make me unhappy this evening:
Having to look for jobs at all, being nervous about going to work every day because I don't know how I'll react, being worried that I'll get another poor night's sleep, feeling like a failure despite everyone's best efforts to convince me I'm not, the gigantic pile of grading that should have been done over break but wasn't because of all the crying/staring/sleeping/puking etc. that happened instead, the draft that perpetually runs across our living room, job websites that won't load properly, a generally unclean apartment (see previous crying/staring...), an unfinished book I know I'll love but still can't concentrate on due to previously mentioned worries.

Well, the unhappy list has some seriously heavy hitters on it, but the happy list is still longer and prominently features the ultimate trump cards: my friends and my family. Time to focus on that and let them help me hope for the best.

SWF seeking man of her dreams

One of my colleagues posed a challenge to our department over the weekend: write a personal ad describing what you are looking for in an ideal relationship. She will be giving the same assignment to her creative writing students this week, and wanted to see what we would come up with. Here goes.

Single white female in her 20's seeks single male also in his 20's for long-term relationship. Dealbreakers first: No smoking (of any kind), must want kids (3, ideally, but 2 is negotiable), and must pursue an honest, equal relationship - no playing games. Must be smart, funny, handsome, and kind. Requests: Should push me out of my comfort zone but not mock me when I choose to stay in it. Sometimes Kraft Macaroni and Cheese really is where it's at. Should be an excellent and willing cook, though, or that's all we'll eat. Money is not a requirement, but ambition is, and you'll want to have a strategy in place for calming me down when mine overwhelms me. Should tell me I'm beautiful even when I'm disgustingly sick - and mean it. No playing games, remember? Should be willing to have fun, even at the expense of looking foolish, in any situation. For example, are you down with throwing bacon into a shopping cart ten feet away? Should come from a loving and supportive family, preferably one which fostered a healthy appreciation for the Muppets. Must be able to put up with my screaming at the television during sporting events, but joining in is not required. An appropriate understanding of personal space and alone time is helpful, but so is an understanding of the long, silent, supportive hug. Should be willing and able to squash bugs. Bottom line: must be willing to love, be loved, and show it every day.

Just for the record, no applicants need apply. Position filled. (Love you, A.)

A Change Will Do You Good

Dear New Resident of A10,

Congratulations! You’re probably very excited to start a new phase of your life, or to make a clean break, or perhaps simply to get the process of moving all your junk from one place to another over with. The good news is, you’re very lucky to be getting the apartment they assigned to you. I should know; it was mine for the last two years. There’s not really any bad news, but here are some helpful tips you should know.

-         Invest in accoutrements for your amazing new bathtub. It’s big, deep, and perfectly engineered for aquatic reading. I suggest a waterproof pillow and a good bubble bath mix.

-         You will absolutely need a new showerhead. The one that comes with the place will peel your skin off.

-         I think I got all the hairspray off the bathroom fixtures – all I know about the tenant before me is that she drove a red car, parked it too close to the garage walls, and must have had a bouffant to rival Marge Simpson that was hairsprayed within an inch of its life. If there’s any left, try a mix of shampoo and water on it.

-         The acoustics in there are perfect for making you sound like Adele, by the way. The stairs are good for that, too.

-         Speaking of sound, the bedroom only shares about 1/3 of a wall with any other apartment, so it’s very quiet. Enjoy that.

-         You should also enjoy the bedroom closet – I only hope that one day I can have another closet big enough that it has a window.

-         And speaking of windows, I hope you have budgeted for a big utility bill. The living room walls are almost entirely windows, so the insulation is horrible in there. Keep the blinds pulled as the sun goes down, but you'll still roast.

-         The view more than makes up for it. Especially when it storms.

-         The view is great from the balcony, too, but you’ll have to win it back from the birds. The babies should be gone now, so have the maintenance guy take the nest down and power wash the deck. Put up some wind chimes. They help a bit, but you’ll probably still find yourself cursing at the birds in the spring.

-         You’ll curse at the bugs in the entryway all year long. I recommend the heavy-duty spray that creates a bug barrier, but even that won’t eliminate Jiminy Cricket’s descendants. They rarely come upstairs, though.

-         If you don’t have one, get a man friend (or a manly lady friend - that's cool, too) who can curse at the birds and clean up the bugs for you. I didn’t have one when I signed the lease, but he came along soon and that’s why I moved out. Things might change a lot for you while you live here.

-         The garbage disposal smells a bit garlicky. Sorry, my fiancée does, too. Try running orange peels through it.

-         In the event that you should start a kitchen fire, don’t use the fire extinguisher if you can help it. Look carefully at the back left burner and you’ll understand why. Don’t make meatballs in a shallow pan, for starters.

-         Only turn the icemaker on when you really need ice. The noises it makes will scare the crap out of you when you’re home alone. Just keep enough for a drink by the pool, which is awesome.

-         If you get any of my mail, just bring it out to the pool with you. I’ll be the one with the book and the big drink. See you there.

Silly poem is silly

In American Lit 2 yesterday, we were reading Imagist poems to kick off our Modernism unit. While our textbook can be the bane of my existence at times (I can't wait until I have time and energy again to go out on my own and supplement that sucker!), it does have a fun little selection from Des Imagistes. The kids enjoyed the short and sweet (and accessible!) images of poems like "In a Station of the Metro" and "Heat," and they got a good laugh out of my personal favorite, "This is Just to Say." One class finished a bit earlier than the others (that will happen when there's only ten enrolled and six who show up regularly), so I had them try to write their own "non-apology apology poems." Here is mine, lovingly dedicated to A. :)


This is just to say

The computer froze
While you were out
I'm sorry
I thought I was fixing it
But it deleted all your games

Silly thing

-February 7, 2012

Already waiting for May

I didn't even know the Poem-a-Day topic today was "waiting," but as the rain came pouring down, this came pouring out and well, turns out it fits. So here it is. It's rough due to lack of time spent and it reveals a weakness for alliteration, and please be careful not to trip over the chunks of rust that were knocked off, but here's to waiting through one last winter alone.

rain crashes on screen windows

audibly foreshadowing the ice to come

while flashes of friction

signal summer’s last desperate gasp

wintry air seeps straight through both

rented walls and pale skin like paper

and I begin to wage war on the cold

swathed in scarf and blanket

worn slippers shuffle and

guard against glinting floor tiles

to make a microwave earn its keep

but no amount of swirling soup and cocoa

no vanilla flickers of candlelight

no artificial source of heat can warm

the space beside me as the wind howls

east down the highway corridor

which separates as easily as it connects

November 7, 2011

Requited

I can’t get it through my head that someone loves me. Actually loves me. In a happier-when-you’re-around, reach-for-you-in-my-sleep, sweep-the-nasty-bugs-out-of-your-entryway-for-you-without-complaining kind of way, and he shows me and tells me every day. This blows my mind.

My name literally means “loved one,” or “lovable,” so in theory this should be a frequent pattern, easy to understand, but over a decade of serial unrequited and/or poorly timed loves has me classically conditioned to believe that there is absolutely no way someone could return my feelings for them – especially if those feelings are so intense as to be overwhelming and incomprehensible.

So I’ll try to write about it and hopefully it won’t be overwhelming or incomprehensible. ;)



the mirage of waving white satin
and a diamond sparkling in the sunlight
was always an oasis only accessible for other girls;
those far less thirsty and desperate than this weary traveler

sent down the wrong road too many times
by those who may have meant well
but how can those who are lost give directions?
those too clumsy and careless to realize the damage they’ve done?

little did I know that one particularly bad turn
would divert me down your long, lemniscate road
and now that you’ve caught up
all passersby sink into the sand

September 6, 2011

Change: 24,001; Amanda: 0

The time has come, friends. As much as I loved the original title of this blog (“Tales of a Sixth Grade Something”) and am naturally averse to change, I am now preparing for my new role as high school teacher (yay!), so it is no longer accurate. Frankly, I’m not sure it was ever a great name for the blog since I wrote far less about my first year of teaching than I might have liked or originally intended. But the nice thing about the transitory nature of the intertubes is that the title can continue to change to reflect my ever-changing life and authorship (I feel myself heading in a much more prose-y direction… stay tuned).

I puzzled and stewed over the new name for awhile, as I never have much confidence in my naming abilities (God help me if/when I’m a mom-to-be), but like with all good names, I knew it when I heard it. At the end of a largely silly but mostly reassuring meeting with my new co-workers (SO EXCITED TO CALL THEM THAT), the phrase “middle of the middles” was tossed about. The comment was made somewhat in jest and in relation to curriculum-mapping strategies - not any kind of deep or particularly inspiring discussion - but it hit me as an oddly perfect way to sum up the stage of life I find myself in.

A. and I joke about having our respective quarter-life crises, and I’ve read a plethora of new studies showing that “millenials” (or whatever the hell we’re agreeing to be called) are having difficulties transitioning into adult life in any of the ways an older society expects us to… and I can’t say I’m immune to all that. Everything about my life feels middle-esque right now. I’m no longer in my first job, but most likely not in my last either, so I’m about to begin a middle job (where I do plan to stay for a relatively long time, believe me). I’m no longer an ever-present part of my immediate family, but haven’t yet created my own, so I’m doing my own thing here inbetween. This is neither my first apartment nor my dream home; one year into a no-longer “new” relationship but not moving forward just yet; still feel like a kid but expected to be the adult… you get the idea.

So, “Middle of the Middles” it is, at least for now. Try not to get Jimmy Eat World songs stuck in your head every time you visit.

Weekend "off"

I've been working more than not this weekend, including working to clean up the aftermath of a (small) kitchen grease fire. Good times.

I'm at work even now, in my classroom, frantically finding more poems to use for my read-around lesson tomorrow since I'm suddenly pushing it up a day. Don't let people tell you I'm inflexible.

Anyway, Poetry Foundation suddenly strayed from the children's section and led me here... and it might be my new most favorite thing EVER. I'll need to read it several more times, and not ALL of it applies directly, but it almost knocked me over on the first read. So much of me is in this poem, it's ridiculous. For one thing, she is SPOT ON about peanut butter. The rest is more open for interpretation.


Peanut Butter

By Eileen Myles Eileen Myles

I am always hungry
& wanting to have
sex. This is a fact.
If you get right
down to it the new
unprocessed peanut
butter is no damn
good & you should
buy it in a jar as
always in the
largest supermarket
you know. And
I am an enemy
of change, as
you know. All
the things I
embrace as new
are in
fact old things,
re-released: swimming,
the sensation of
being dirty in
body and mind
summer as a
time to do
nothing and make
no money. Prayer
as a last re-
sort. Pleasure
as a means,
and then a
means again
with no ends
in sight. I am
absolutely in opposition
to all kinds of
goals. I have
no desire to know
where this, anything
is getting me.
When the water
boils I get
a cup of tea.
Accidentally I
read all the
works of Proust.
It was summer
I was there
so was he. I
write because
I would like
to be used for
years after
my death. Not
only my body
will be compost
but the thoughts
I left during
my life. During
my life I was
a woman with
hazel eyes. Out
the window
is a crooked
silo. Parts
of your
body I think
of as stripes
which I have
learned to
love along. We
swim naked
in ponds &
I write be-
hind your
back. My thoughts
about you are
not exactly
forbidden, but
exalted because
they are useless,
not intended
to get you
because I have
you & you love
me. It’s more
like a playground
where I play
with my reflection
of you until
you come back
and into the
real you I
get to sink
my teeth. With
you I know how
to relax. &
so I work
behind your
back. Which
is lovely.
Nature
is out of control
you tell me &
that’s what’s so
good about
it. I’m immoderately
in love with you,
knocked out by
all your new
white hair

why shouldn’t
something
I have always
known be the
very best there
is. I love
you from my
childhood,
starting back
there when
one day was
just like the
rest, random
growth and
breezes, constant
love, a sand-
wich in the
middle of
day,
a tiny step
in the vastly
conventional
path of
the Sun. I
squint. I
wink. I
take the
ride.

It Gets Better

If you have never heard of or read any of Dan Savage's work, immediately stop reading this joke of a blog and check out his. Up until last summer when A. first told me about him (he's been a long-time reader), I was sadly unaware of Dan and the great work that he does, but I am now a quick and devout convert. I read the column every week, listen to the podcast most weeks, and regularly check out my Savage Love app on my phone.

For those who are faint of heart or just adorably well-mannered, reading tales of people's dirty, dirty problems and exploiting a human tendency toward voyeurism are not the only reasons to consume the words of Dan. Do people write in about their fetish questions and kinky/sticky situations they've embroiled themselves in? Yes. Does he regularly make me blush and giggle like a middle schooler? Yes. But more importantly, Dan's answers convey a rare blend of honesty and realism that is absolutely fascinating. Even when he's being an asshole about it, Dan tells it like it is, and he's usually right. He's ultimately very relationship-positive and very people-positive, which I regularly appreciate in my own life and relationship. We saw him speak in person at KU tonight, and no matter what subject was broached (religion, sex, politics, education, you name it), I found myself generally agreeing and wishing that everyone could be at least a little bit more like Dan.

My favorite example of this actually has nothing to do with the sex advice column at all. Last fall, as the rash of LGBT teen suicides hit the national media, Dan was launching the It Gets Better project. The premise is simple: adults telling kids that despite how hopeless it all may feel at times, life gets better. People make videos and tell their stories to document themselves as living proof that good things can and do happen to LGBT kids who then often turn into successful and happy LGBT adults and that suicide is not the best/only choice they can make.

As an ally of the LGBT community, this makes me happy because of the potential which movements like this have to inspire real change on a larger level - it puts thousands of faces to the human/civil rights needs of the LGBT community and can hopefully make a difference in the attitudes of people around the world. As a teacher, I am thrilled to have a tool for my toolbox if the need should ever arise - if I ever see a kid struggling or if a kid reaches out to me, I have a website to send them to, and as soon as financially possible, I'll have a book to hand them. If nothing else, whenever I feel helpless in the fight against the bullying that occurs in my classroom and breaks my heart, I have the right words to say to the kid who doesn't even know how to ask for help: It. Gets. Better.

And tonight, as a poet, it gives me a moment to reflect on all the ways it has gotten better. As the project grows, it is beginning to encompass ALL the ways in which it gets better, and that's certainly something we all can relate to and hold on to. This is rough and disjointed, but I wanted it out there tonight to help me process the awesomeness that was meeting Dan and thanking him for his work. Enjoy and critique to your heart's desire, and then go read more Savage Love. You know you want to.


It Gets Better

Hopeful in its realism,
the simple phrase proves
that any three words –
not just those three –
can have the power to change lives.

Warm and reassuring,
your hand in mine
is the love letter I would send
to selves past; selves who doubt
their faith in love and beauty
when the loneliness is crushing.

Sardonic yet grateful,
the advice columnist thanks
awkward young educators –
inspiring an optimism for change
in a battle that often seems so
one-sided.

April 19, 2011

Undone

I'm sure I'll be returning to this one since there's really a lot more to it and it's been lurking in my notebook for some time... but I'm oddly drawn to this short, ambiguous, unedited (slightly e.e. cummings inspired?) version that just came out. So I'll throw it to the wolves and call it an entry for today. Look for some edits after 27 more commutes are done (who's counting?).


coulda woulda shoulda

funny how things work out –
the universe has a way of taking care
of itself, its inhabitants
call it karma, fate, faith, what have you
but don’t pretend for a second
that we hold the reins

April 18, 2011

Together

The purpose of poetry is to remind us
how difficult it is to remain just one person...
-- "Ars Poetica"

We are better together.
-- Jeff K.

This one has to count for two, but I think it's appropriate since combination and togetherness ended up being the theme of my weekend in just about every way. Over the last three days, I appreciated being together with old friends, new friends, and my very best friend. My growing to-do list prevents me from exploring this topic with my own words just now, but in this late Sunday solitude, I did have time to go back to one of my favorite e.e. cummings poems. I quickly discovered that it rings truer now than when I first dog-eared the page ten months or so ago, and it speaks to the kind of togetherness I am most thankful for this evening.


skies may be blue;yes
(when gone are hail and sleet and snow)
but bluer than my darling's eyes,
spring skies are no

hearts may be true;yes
(by night or day in joy or woe)
but truer than your lover's is,
hearts do not grow

nows may be new;yes
(as new as april's first hello)
but new as this our thousandth kiss,
no now is so

Learn something every day

Did you know/realize that rubber bands get hot when you stretch them out? I feel like I'd noticed that before but always assumed I was just crazy. It's usually a safe assumption, but it turns out there's some kind of bizarre thermodynamics involved based on the way they're made.

Although I'm not experiencing that heat on this chilly evening, I am feeling decidedly rubber band-like. I've been stretched a lot this year, in many ways, so this particular metaphor has been in the back of my mind for awhile. I'm not sure one evening has done it any justice, but here goes.



rubber band

distance between two points stretches,
tension increases, fibers flutter under stress

when sides snap back together,
resistance relaxes, evaporates with the heat

April 15, 2011

Another day, another cop-out...

Better day at work, good (hard!) workout after, then a delicious dinner and movie night w/A. means no time for poetry. I feel a bout of inspiration coming on this weekend, though. :)

Speaking of movies, we shared one of my favorites tonight: American Psycho. It was a big part of my high school years, so it was fun to re-visit. I think it's quickly become a favorite of someone else's, too. Movies are a big thing for us, so I did a speedy search and found this poem. I rather liked it, so I'll share it with you.

The Film
by Kate Northrup

Come, let’s go in.
The ticket-taker
has shyly grinned
and it’s almost time,
Lovely One.
Let’s go in.

The wind tonight’s too wild.
The sky too deep,
too thin. Already it’s time.
The lights have dimmed.
Come, Loveliest.
Let’s go in

and know these bodies
we do not have to own, passing
quietly as dreams, as snow.
Already leaves are falling
and music begins.
Lovely One,

it’s time.
Let’s go in.

See Spot Read

I needed something goofy tonight. I needed something to remind me of good, warm, happy things tonight. Work is becoming almost more than I can bear right now, but after A. reminded me about his favorite poet, I discovered this and was reminded that if nothing else, I can count on enjoying my new metaphorical puppy, and that's enough to get me through.


Falling in love is like owning a dog
an epithalamion by Taylor Mali
www.taylormali.com

First of all, it's a big responsibility,
especially in a city like New York.
So think long and hard before deciding on love.
On the other hand, love gives you a sense of security:
when you're walking down the street late at night
and you have a leash on love
ain't no one going to mess with you.
Because crooks and muggers think love is unpredictable.
Who knows what love could do in its own defense?

On cold winter nights, love is warm.
It lies between you and lives and breathes
and makes funny noises.
Love wakes you up all hours of the night with its needs.
It needs to be fed so it will grow and stay healthy.

Love doesn't like being left alone for long.
But come home and love is always happy to see you.
It may break a few things accidentally in its passion for life,
but you can never be mad at love for long.

Is love good all the time? No! No!
Love can be bad. Bad, love, bad! Very bad love.

Love makes messes.
Love leaves you little surprises here and there.
Love needs lots of cleaning up after.
Sometimes you just want to get love fixed.
Sometimes you want to roll up a piece of newspaper
and swat love on the nose,
not so much to cause pain,
just to let love know Don't you ever do that again!

Sometimes love just wants to go for a nice long walk.
Because love loves exercise.
It runs you around the block and leaves you panting.
It pulls you in several different directions at once,
or winds around and around you
until you're all wound up and can't move.

But love makes you meet people wherever you go.
People who have nothing in common but love
stop and talk to each other on the street.

Throw things away and love will bring them back,
again, and again, and again.
But most of all, love needs love, lots of it.
And in return, love loves you and never stops.

Lazy Sundays past

Surprise, surprise... while my beloved is exponentially more skilled than me in the kitchen, he is equally as clumsy and accident-prone as I. His stand mixer decided to fight back one day a few months ago, and the result was a lot of laughter and a good image for a tiny poem.


Powdered sugar smoke floats
past a worn door, framing
a glittering spiderweb
in the afternoon sun.

April 10, 2011

This home is not a house

This one has been almost a whole year in the making (location/space/place ring a bell?), but today was the first day I tried to put it all together. It also still needs a title. All suggestions/criticisms welcome.


Ahh, home, let me come home
Home is whenever I’m with you
Ahh, home, let me come home
Home is when I’m alone with you
- Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros

Kindergartners discuss the word “home”
as a concrete object: a noun with one definition.
Names and numbers are recited,
shaky hands draw pictures with firm boundaries.
Home is what’s then hung on the refrigerator,
a stable place of safety.

Over time, that concept broadens - as many do -
from a simple shelter to a complex abstraction
full of ambiguity and desire
as the search for familiarity begins.

What makes the picture complete?
A certain color carpet or style of chandelier,
furniture swiped from garage or basement,
or windows that gaze onto a landscape full of possibility?

“Home” now demands more than materials –
more than the predictable pattern of potholes
leading back from the grocery store,
more than the drone of ceiling fans
or a collection of comforting objects.

That esteemed title is reserved for moments –
wrapped in the span of broad shoulders,
surrounded by the sound of dueling heartbeats,
indifferent to location beyond arms’ reach.
The details will fall into a particular place
which may be carved out in Crayola years from now,
but for now, the search is over.

April 9, 2011

Country Mouse and City Mouse

The third picture could have taken me in many different directions; remembering my past as a child of the Dakotas, or speaking about being drawn back to my Kansas roots, or some combination of the two. But when I sat down to really look at this picture, I couldn't help but feel like the farmer was experiencing a moment of blissful freedom - and that was certainly something I could relate to.

As I mentioned in yesterday's post, A. and I made the decision that I should keep my apartment in Lawrence for another year. Many of my friends and co-workers have stared at me, wide-eyed, insisting that this is a huge mistake, and do I really want to keep making this ridiculous drive, and I could be so much closer to work and to A. ... but sitting here in the quiet of a warm and windy spring morning with windows open wide, I know I made the right choice. Although my second home is in midtown KC, Sunday mornings there never smell this amazing or feel this peaceful. Maybe I should just show the naysayers this poem.


Metropolitan Claustrophobia

You have taught me to appreciate
being wrapped, not only in your arms,
but in the busy, noisy rhythm
of your beloved city.

I see, now, how a place so tightly packed
can also be open and loving,
and that sounds of happiness
can drown out the sirens.

But like a northern Dixie Chick,
I need my wide open spaces

where, eating breakfast,
all you can hear is the wind
and the crunch of granola.

I breathe easier
when my left elbow hangs out the window
(far more naturally than yours)
and my bass beats loudly –
not to impress, but because
I assume no one else will hear.

I am from the city, too,
but in my city, I could always see the sky,
smell the earth, and hear the changes of the weather.
Open prairie is an undeniable part of me, even now.
So though it pains me each time I leave you,
nothing beats the freedom of coming home.

April 3rd, 2011

A night at the K

I chose the second picture in an effort to reach some of my sports-obsessed boys, and sure enough - there were happy exclamations and looks of relief on many faces in my 5th hour, which I regularly compare to a frat house. (19 boys and 6 girls, right before lunch. There is a lot of discussion centered on food, action movies, and Call of Duty. Heaven help me.) There was also a lot of eye rolling from those who initially saw no way to relate to the picture, but I encouraged them to think about what else could be going on in the stadium or to write about how they DON'T like sports. I thought that I, too, might struggle with this one since I don't particularly care for baseball, until I remembered...

Last summer, I moved. Goodbye craphole student ghetto apartment, hello palace on the west side. (I'm very happy to report that I signed an extension on my lease last weekend, so the palace and I will have another year together and I'm guaranteed another TWO summers in Lawrence!) Obviously, I was going to need some help moving, so my dad drove down to assist with the heavy lifting. It's a long drive, so he stayed for several days and there was the obvious obligation to spend some of that time with the grandparents as well. So Grandma hooked us all up with cheap Price Chopper tickets to see the Royals because Grandpa wanted to show off the new renovations at the K (as if he had done them himself or something...).

It was mid-July, and I had only been dating A. for a little over a month at this point. But being the patient, open-minded good sport he is, he was completely willing to come along for the crazy ride that is an evening with my relatives. So Grandma Price Choppered an extra ticket, and we all had a great night watching the Royals do their thing (lose). It was buck night AND fireworks night, and the peoplewatching was truly excellent. It's a special memory for me because it was one of the first (of many) times that A. and I discovered our ability to make ANYTHING fun when we're in it together (ask me about our UFC fights experience sometime). So, I'm happy to remember a bit of that evening in a poem.

Anticipation

Players perch on the edge of their collective seat,
expectantly eyeing the pitcher
whose back is turned to the runner
sneaking onto third.
High above, where noses are meant to bleed,
we lean back and laugh at our surroundings
as my hand sneaks into yours,
hidden from less sharp yet equally expectant eyes.

April 2nd, 2011

Windfall

I'm really disappointed that the Borders in Lawrence is closing soon - I love going to bookstores whether they're corporate establishments or holes in the wall with dusty bookshelves, so I mourn the demise of any book seller. I'm also sad to lose the location of some great college memories - the free wi-fi lent itself to many hours in the cafe slaving over midterms, final portfolios, and a few poems when the required work wouldn't come. I even met up with A. there for our first date out on the town - I found him drooling over cookbooks when I arrived. Typical. If nothing else, downtown nightlife will be in big trouble if anything happens to restrict access to that parking lot! (For the record, I always made it a point to at least walk through Borders and consider future purchases before heading to the bars. But I also always buy a soda or candy bar if I use a gas station for their bathroom.)

The one good thing about a bookstore closing, though, is liquidation pricing. A big thank you to the federal government for the safety bubble created by my tax refund, and a thank you to Borders for giving me the opportunity to work on that "read more, dammit" goal I made for this year. (Still working on the "write more, dammit" goal... one thing at a time.) So, here's the list of new acquisitions - I've only read two of them before, so feel free to pester me about any one of these to make sure I'm progressing. :)

Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad
Alice's Adventure in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass - Lewis Carroll
The Scarlet Letter - Nathaniel Hawthorne
The Sound and the Fury (audiobook) - William Faulkner
100 Selected Poems - e.e. cummings
Bright Star: Love Letters and Poems of John Keats to Fanny Brawne
Poet's Choice - Edward Hirsch
Middlesex - Jeffrey Eugenides
The Reader - Bernhard Schlink
Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier

All for well under $100!!! But before I can start any of these, I have to finish the books I've already started or borrowed from students and friends. Currently reading: We, Yvgeny Zamyatin; The Amber Spyglass, Philip Pullman. On deck: Cat's Cradle, Kurt Vonnegut; Catching Fire, Suzanne Collins.

Time to clean off my glasses and settle into some spring break reading... but first, there's a new Lego set that needs building with my sister. :)