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!

Don't Stop Believing?

Guilty pleasure time: I still watch Glee. I also still watch Grey's Anatomy, I watched every episode of Private Practice until it was finally and mercifully cancelled, and I love The Office and will probably cry when it's over even though it jumped the shark long ago... but none of those are relevant right now. This is about Glee.

In all honesty, I don't really *enjoy* Glee anymore; I listened to the episode I watched tonight more than I watched it, and there are many points (last month's ridiculous "school shooting but not" episode would certainly be one) where I should have bailed. But I have a crippling inability to give up on anything once I've started, and that particularly applies to stories. I finish every book I start, I can't leave a play or movie before it's over regardless of how bad it is, and I watch every episode of every show I begin. (This is why I don't take starting a new series lightly - if/when I start Mad Men, Dr. Who, and/or Parks and Recreation, each one will consume a significant chunk of time.) I like to think that this is what makes me a good teacher, too - it is a *rare* thing for me to give up on a student, and even when I do, it plagues and pains me every time I see them.

But, I've been thinking a lot about giving up lately. I've thought about giving up on job applications that seem fruitless, giving up and phoning in my job that isn't my job anymore, and giving up on teaching altogether. Why should I keep subjecting myself to this? A profession where on a DAILY basis, I deal with students criticizing me, parents questioning me, and virtually NO ONE outside my direct peers praising me? The bathroom I use at work is constantly covered in phrases like, "I love penis" and "F**k this school and this town." It's still got zip ties in it from the senior "prank" earlier this week. I bring hours worth of work home with me every night, and then I feel guilty if/when I don't do it because I choose to *gasp* spend time with my fiancee or treat myself to a longer bath than necessary. If I had chosen any other profession, I'm sure I would have other problems to complain about, but I'm pretty sure I would feel (and be compensated) more like a professional while dealing with them.

But this is about Glee.

I realized this evening that tomorrow night is the season finale of Glee for this year. I immediately remembered, with terrifying clarity, where I was when I watched the first season finale of Glee three years ago (you know, when I really did enjoy it because the writing was more clever and the singing was still novel). I was watching in my "ghetto apartment" about two weeks after my student teaching had ended, on my 14" television which was dependent on the digital-age version of an analog antenna (which still worked better covered in aluminum foil than not and depended far too much on the direction and intensity of the wind) in the recliner I took from my parents' house, in the DARK because I was trying to save on the electricity bill.

And as those kids sang their reprise of "Don't Stop Believing" for what already felt like the billionth time, after utterly failing at regionals... I bawled my eyes out. In that cruddy old recliner, in the dark, I bawled my eyes out because their teacher was watching them with utmost pride, and that resonated with me.

That all seems so long ago. I was poor as sin, tragically single, and nearly devoid of friends (or so I thought at the time). Now I'm marginally less poor, getting married in 43 days, and the one thing I'm sure of is that there are people who care about me. But I'm not sure if I'll even so much as tear up this year when Mr. Schue inevitably gets misty-eyed over the performances and prospective futures of his students. I'm not sure if I have any tears left for anyone other than myself, or if I have enough idealism left to believe the same way those overgrown fictional teenagers or their teacher do...

... but I'm trying not to stop.

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.

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.

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.

A Moderate Success

The end of April is upon us. While I most certainly did not achieve my goal of one poem/one day this month, I did much better than I really thought I would. I posted something nearly every day, and over 1/3 of those posts were originals. I easily doubled the number of total posts I had as of April 1st, and I read a lot of new things, which can never be complained about.

It's funny; in the first few days of the month, I wondered to myself, "I'm writing easily about simple, fun prompts right now... can I keep this up if some drastic, life-changing event happens this month?" The answer was no. Life-changing events repeatedly swept in and consumed my body, mind, and soul, preventing the clear head and time needed for my best writing. (Dad update: he's home and comfortably complaining about the lack of good television during working hours. Back to normal.) I guess the lesson here is that while I do still produce more under pressure (ahh, college), it is nice to have the distinctly adult luxury of deciding what's truly important to me (outside of work, anyway) on any given day.

And today, what's important is resting, reading, and readying myself for a kick-ass HoD show tonight. Thanks for reading almost every day, friends, and I'll be back again soon - 19 days left of school. :)

Something new to worry about

My dad had a heart attack today.

He's fine; Mom assures me that everything is fine and I shouldn't worry, although she should know better than to waste her breath. I always worry. Especially when my dad had a heart attack today.

The words still don't seem real - they're not words I like to own now. I've said them several times as the necessary calls and emails are made, but it still seems like I'm talking about someone else; maybe a TV character or something. So, I certainly don't have my own words yet to describe this day. I'll let someone else handle that for now, while I stay up too late and watch Letterman because I know that in an unfamiliar hospital bed 564 miles away, my dad can't sleep either and he's watching too.


Heart
By Rick Campbell

My heart was suspect.
Wired to an EKG,
I walked a treadmill
that measured my ebb
and flow, tracked isotopes
that ploughed my veins,
looked for a constancy
I’ve hardly ever found.
For a month I worried
as I climbed the stairs
to my office. The mortality
I never believed in
was here now. They
say my heart’s ok,
just high cholesterol, but
I know my heart’s a house
someone has broken into,
a room you come back
to and know some stranger
with bad intent has been there
and touched all that you love. You know
he can come back. It’s his call,
his house now.

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

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

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

Short and (bitter?) sweet

Don't read too much (if anything) into this, anybody. But it came spilling out this morning (no editing, no nothing), and it takes care of today's entry before I have to work the track meet tonight, so that's good.

In these bodies we will live, in these bodies we will die,
And where you invest your love, you invest your life.

- Awake My Soul, Mumford & Sons

Pros and Cons

The lists, like the fears,
grow uncontrollably.

Stomach sinks, tears fall,
but the head and the heart
know what must be done.

April 7th, 2011

Stoplight

Another crazy day, another short and previously finished poem. This one came out last fall, sitting across the street from a stoplight as I struggled to balance my new responsibilities as a teacher with midterm responsibilities as a grad student (a pursuit I swear I have only temporarily put on hold). I still can't say I've found my center of gravity exactly, but it does feel good to look back and say "well, at least I don't have to deal with feeling like THAT anymore."


I envy the simplicity of life as a traffic light.
If someone fucks up on your watch, it’s their own fault, not yours.
Smugly laugh and carry on with your day, counting down to nothing.
No responsibilities, just green, yellow, red, repeat.

October 10, 2010

Test day leaves time for thinking

I am frustrated.

I want to write. I want the feeling of creativity and inspiration that comes when I write. I feel like a hypocrite every day when I ask my students to write while I do not.

But I’ve got nothing.

It’s a goal of mine (call it a Resolution if you must) to both read and write more this year. I’ve been reading (We, The Golden Compass – both are excellent so far), which is a start, but I can’t write.

I feel like my brain is constantly on overdrive, and every time I think of something vaguely creative or meaningful, it immediately gets shoved out of the way by the never-ending deluge of more pressing, practical problems and tasks. Have I filled out that form yet? Did I ever make it to the printer this morning? I’m running out of clean clothes. And gas. What am I going to do about my student who is tardy every single day? When’s the last time I went to the grocery store? Oh crap, my phone is dying again. What am I going to do in class tomorrow? Should I take K-10 or I-70 to KC today? Hey, that would be a cool idea for a poem… wait, where did I leave my to-do list?

And so on.

Everything comes in fits and starts, like an engine that won’t turn over. I feel like my days are choppy, and my thoughts reflect that. When inspiration does hit, it stops short of completion, and I suddenly lack the time and patience to work and follow through. My notebook is full of half-ideas and clipped phrases, and that’s when I bother to grab it at all.

Try as I might, I can’t push down the nagging fear that I might not be challenging myself intellectually right now; that the unavoidable boredom of constructing basic sentences and simple paragraphs 5 times a day every day could be a contributing factor to the increasingly basic nature of my thoughts. It's not the only distraction or the only possible cause, but it’s always been in my nature – get bored, get comfortable being bored, settle in. Don’t rock the boat. Change is scary. Change takes work. Sigh.

Like everything else I’ve tried to write lately, I don’t know where I’m going with this, how it ends, or what I want out of it. I think I just needed to… write.

From tweet to poem

"Sitting outside KS Union, feeling nostalgic about moving away from campus, freshman orientationites passing by. A nice full circle moment."
- about 21 hours ago via web


Disorientation

Stickers peeling and glossy bags swinging – they’ve arrived.
Clutch that folder tight; it holds all the answers – for now.
I, the wizened old veteran, sit silently watching,
desperately waving through thick air
in a vain attempt to catch a few more remembered moments
of grounded familiarity – even as they slide away
into new, uncharted territory.

Cracking numbers on a pilling t-shirt aren’t all that dates me –
walking shoes well-worn, an iPod dented by Oread concrete,
and subtle impressions from a five-year furrowed brow
separate me from the crisp, shiny silk screens in their hands.
They, too, will earn their blisters, scratches, and creases,
and they will inevitably be replaced as they replace me,
but these bricks and stones will continue to keep watch
as they always have.

July 8, 2010

Quiet

Things are changing a lot right now, and you know my feelings on change. Although this set of changes is beautiful and welcome and a long time coming, I've been discombobulated and have had a hard time finding my own words lately. They've been overshadowed by the re-definition of everything around me - rediscovering music has been a particular obsession: some lyrics, long loved and hoped for, finally ring true while old standbys are suddenly strangers, which is endlessly fascinating to me... but inevitably, this lends too much credit and meaning to the words of others. So, it's been a little while since an insta-poem has visited me - but in the quiet of this evening, it's a refreshing feeling. Suggestions are welcome.



Being a solid ball of light is hardly ever easy.
Liquid energy rushing within, seeking escape;
I’m full of bees, and believe me, making honey is taxing work.
Mercifully, you instill total calm because it’s what you need from me,
and therefore what I need from you.
Like pouring smoke on a hive, the buzzing stops.

July 2, 2010

On the question of home

I hate change. Ask anyone who’s known me for any length of time and they’ll say “Amanda watches too much TV and cannot cook to save her life, but those things are okay because she’s generally pretty awesome. Oh, and she hates change more than Fred Phelps hates the world.” Or at least that’s what I’d like to think they’d say.

I know why I watch too much TV, and I know why I'm a terrible cook, but I genuinely don’t know where this bit of neurosis regarding departure from the status quo comes from; I wasn’t violently ripped away from family or home at a young age... nothing traumatic happened at all, really. But I have always stubbornly hated changes big and small, sometimes with better results than others.

I mention this because my recent visit to the Great White North - only my second since truly moving out on my own - simply overwhelmed me with the sheer volume of changes occurring in this place that had unquestionably been my home for so many years. More than the obvious transformation of my sister's graduation (the reason for the trip in the first place), it was the little things that threw me off balance. The first morning, I woke up on an air mattress on the living room floor; the only guest invited to this particular slumber party. My bed is in Lawrence now, of course, and my room has been converted to desperately-needed sewing space, not a guest room. All very logical, but still disconcerting. That afternoon, I went to run errands for my mother, and while I knew exactly which streets to take and exactly when the lights would change, and my license plates blended in with the masses for the first time in months, something felt off. I caught myself looking on the streets and in the stores for faces I couldn’t possibly find – they were over 500 miles away. Some of those that did appear were hauntingly familiar but void of any context or too far removed by time, so we passed one another in silence.

As the week went by, things only got weirder as my family went about their business (jobs, friends, rehearsals, etc.) and I realized that I had nothing to do. I spent afternoons in my pjs taking advantage of a television signal that isn't dependent on tin foil and wind, which was a nice way to recover from the stress of the semester, but after a few staring contests with the dog (she always wins), I grew restless. And so, the intense labor of this poem and sorting out the feelings behind it began. I'm still not sure it does itself any justice, but believe it or not, I'm ready for a change.




Between 1st and 3rd

Fill up the car and hit the road,
no hastily scrawled dashboard directions necessary;
left where the deer (no antelope) play,
left again at the top of the hill, and you’re there:
home.

If only it were still that simple.

Heart pulls southward,
against the cruise control
for the first time -
unclear toward what or whom,
but for ten hours, the sensation is tangible;
landmarks and reminders appear in the rearview.

Arrival never tastes the way it should –
like frosting on a store-bought cake.
Sometimes bitterly sweet,
but more often, full of air.

Within brick walls lies a paradox
of simultaneous same and different.
Everything smells right:
lilacs mix with earthy dust,
but tear-filled eyes are left disappointed.

What was solid rock is now wobbly;
a foundation crumbles,
an aging dog stumbles,
and amidst the emptiness, realization dawns:
memories at these coordinates have transformed
into a fantasy waiting to be found.

June 14, 2010