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.

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

Resolved

As discussed in previous posts (re: Yoga class), I tend to require a bit of external motivation when it comes to establishing habits and meeting goals. This still surprises me, too, as it doesn't fit with the strong-willed, stubborn, goal-oriented persona I generally don (and in many ways, genuinely so), but I suppose you can only ask so much of a person who still only gets out of bed if/when other people expect her to (Although, I blame that entirely on my alter-ego, "Sleep Me," who values sleep over all things, including other vital bodily needs.).

Anyway. If I'm going to consider myself to be serious about this English Teacher thing, and I usually do, then I need to get much more serious about the amount of reading I'm doing (or in my opinion, not doing). Cue: external motivation, however artificial, via blog. As I did over summer break with a fair amount of success, I will list the major works I finish here as I finish them. I am also going to attempt to match my summer pace, so I am setting a goal of 50 books in 2012. To encourage progress, I will count books I read for work, even if I have read them before, and I will count books started but unfinished before the 1st of the year. To add novelty and a bit of anecdotal research for our iPad project at work, I will note which books are read via ebook.

If I am to have any modicum of success in this venture, I have to start setting aside time for it. This is where the true challenge and the true resolution lies. It's far too easy to choose passive forms of entertainment and lay zombie-like on the futon in front of Top Gear marathons or scroll through miles of images every night on Pinterest, but by resolving to read more, I am resolving to be a more active participant in my 2012. At least until the Mayan Zombocalypse starts, when they'll have to pry a book out of my cold, undead hands.

1. My Ántonia - Willa Cather (I liked it a lot more than I thought I would. It was also fun and easy to teach, which surprised me, too.)
2. The Soothing Soak - ed. Megan Worman (This book is waterproof! So cool! And yes, read entirely in the bathtub. A few interesting pieces and some classic poems, but also a lot of fluff.)
3. Iliad - Homer, trans. Stanley Lombardo
4. Romeo & Juliet - William Shakespeare
5. The Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald
6. Odyssey - Homer, trans. Stanley Lombardo
7. Sloppy Seconds - Tucker Max (Yes. I know. But I needed something completely inane and mind-numbing and it was free to download to my iPhone, which I read it on.)
8. Death of a Salesman - Arthur Miller
9. La Bella Lingua: My Love Affair with Italian, the World's Most Enchanting Language - Dianne Hales
10. Aeneid - Virgil, trans. Stanley Lombardo *read as pdf on iBooks
11. Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? (And Other Concerns) - Mindy Kaling
12. A Raisin in the Sun - Lorraine Hansberry
13. Inferno - Dante Alighieri, trans. John Ciardi
14. Middlesex - Jeffrey Eugenides (A. Ma. Zing. Don't be surprised if his other works appear here soon.)
15. Fifty Shades of Grey - E. L. James (Don't judge me, monkey.)
16. Running With Scissors - Augusten Burroughs
17. The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini
18. The Pearl - John Steinbeck
19. Life of Pi - Yann Martel
20. Water for Elephants - Sara Gruen
21. Winter's Bone - Daniel Woodrell
22. Bossypants - Tina Fey *listened to on audiobook - very funny that way
23. Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk - David Sedaris
24. The Kid: What Happened After My Boyfriend and I Decided to Go Get Pregnant - Dan Savage
25. Girl From Mars - Tamara Bach
26. The Notebook - Nicholas Sparks
27. The Crucible - Arthur Miller
28. The Marriage Plot - Jeffrey Eugenides (less awesome than Middlesex, by far)
29. The Secret Life of Bees - Sue Monk Kidd
30. How to Tell if Your Cat is Plotting to Kill You - Matthew Ingram, aka The Oatmeal
31. Lord of the Flies - William Golding
32. The Scarlet Letter - Nathaniel Hawthorne
33. The Memory Keeper's Daughter - Kim Edwards
34. Siddhartha - Hermann Hesse, trans. Susan Bernofsky
35. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn - Mark Twain *read on my iPad for the second time

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

Yoga + Poetry = Yogetry?

15 years of dance classes in my (relative) youth may not have provided me with any kind of lasting coordination or grace, but they instilled in me a need for my exercise to be scheduled. Despite the fact that I can see the apartment complex workout room from my couch and there is a TV in there that can show me Modern Family just as easily as mine can, I can never motivate myself to work out unless I know someone is expecting me to show up (even if they're really not).

So, I bought myself a Groupon for Yoga classes (75% off!) at a studio less than three minutes from my apartment and convinced myself I could carve out the time to throw on stretchy pants and attend the 10 classes by the end of the semester. Tonight, I went to the first one.

Tonight's class was a combination of Yoga and creative writing, and although I was skeptical (possibly rightly so) about the quality of both the writing and the Yoga I was about to do, it was a peaceful way to spend an afternoon and I got the teeniest bit of writing out of it.

After working (and wobbling) through Warrior poses, we stopped to read William Stafford's "Being A Person" and write whatever came to mind. Unsurprisingly, even in the barefoot earth mother atmosphere of the Yoga studio, work was still on my mind when I read the line, "suddenly this dream you are having matches Everyone's dream," and the result adds a bit of Emily Dickinson and a lot of my current stress level to Stafford's earthy nature scene. It's completely scattered and unedited, but it entertained my fellow barefoot earth mothers, and that's got to be worth something.

Matching Everyone's dream

Everyone thinks they know
how to teach; Everyone
went to school, so
Everyone is clearly an expert.

Everyone has an expectation
of finding Everyone's dream teacher -
well, good morning, Everyone,
it's time to wake up.

This isn't just Someone's job -
it's everyone's job.
Everyone must also help themselves.
Our dreams can't match if I get no sleep.

October 5, 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.

Summer Reading!

Check back to this post often: I'll be updating the list regularly as I am unemployed for the summer and have nothing else to do. :D

Completed:
The Reader - Bernhard Schlink
It Gets Better - Dan Savage and Terry Miller
We - Yvgeny Zamyatin
Eat, Pray, Love - Elizabeth Gilbert
Slaughterhouse Five - Kurt Vonnegut
Siddhartha - Hermann Hesse
Cat's Cradle - Kurt Vonnegut
Hint Fiction - Edited by Robert Swartwood
Rebecca - Daphne DuMaurier
and just under the wire... Mockingjay - Suzanne Collins

Couldn't quite slog through:
The Sound and the Fury (audiobook) - William Faulkner (The stream-of-consciousness is really hard to follow while you're also navigating the busy streets.)

So the grand total: 10 books! I'm pretty proud of myself, actually. It's an average of a little less than a book per week, which is a pace I would love to continue... but with student essays and lesson planning looming, I know that's a very lofty goal. But I'm definitely going to try. :)

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.

Mission Accomplished

Today's read-around activity was a great success. So great, in fact, that I am now exhausted and consider my poetry-sharing duties fulfilled for the day. 123 kids read as many poems as they could in 25 minutes, which was usually between 6 and 10... so you do the math. I'll be checking out the insides of my eyelids.

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.

Rain, rain...

I'm beyond ready for warmth and sunshine. I'm also beyond ready for sleep this evening. Goodnight.

The Rain
by Robert Creeley

All night the sound had
come back again,
and again falls
this quiet, persistent rain.

What am I to myself
that must be remembered,
insisted upon
so often? Is it

that never the ease,
even the hardness,
of rain falling
will have for me

something other than this,
something not so insistent—
am I to be locked in this
final uneasiness.

Love, if you love me,
lie next to me.
Be for me, like rain,
the getting out

of the tiredness, the fatuousness, the semi-
lust of intentional indifference.
Be wet
with a decent happiness.

Potluck

I literally just grabbed a book within reach, opened to a random page, and am now posting the poem from that page. Yay for reading new things! Even more yay for reading new things that are randomly but fairly applicable to myself! I like it. Thanks, Theodore Roethke.


The Waking

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.

Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me; so take the lively air,
And lovely, learn by going where to go.

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.

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