Crack the Shutters

Before I knew it was true

2012-01-25T19:48:00.000-05:00

I realize now that I'd been writing the end of our relationship since I moved here. All of it was loss, attempts at returning.

At the ocean, I shut him out, wrote to myself in the sand and looked for the eyes of alligators to keep me company. I made conversation with crabs, my only companions on the beach, their legs arced and quick like spiders I would touch.

Hikes were meant to convince me I was strong, independent, and braver than he. All I wanted to do was go to the mountains, take trails to an end I could identify.

The way I looked for faces on the sides of buildings, letting their lights speak from within. The way lone fountains made me cry. The way we stopped saying good night multiple times because once had become enough.

Even before, I was composing the end. I lost the language of happiness. I lost the words to explain our relationship. And when you lose the ability to describe a love or lover even to yourself, you have reached an end. All through, I didn't realize I was crafting a goodbye. Now I do. Now I am finishing the story of our end, the essay that I've been writing for a year and a half, that took shape before I knew it was true.

A poem by Scooter

2012-01-23T21:10:00.000-05:00

Are are are are are are you where are and let the bird

(thanks to the dictation app on Cheryl's iPhone and Scooter's excessive vocality)

Incidentally, "Let the Bird" will now be the title of the first poem I've written in 2.5 years.

Glaciers

2012-01-21T19:40:00.001-05:00

She remembers sitting in an armchair with Agnes reading the nature encyclopedia, screaming over and over again, first with fright, then glee, when they turned to the magnified pictures of spiders. Her sister read that spiders have book lungs, which fold in and out over themselves like pages. this pleased Isabel immensely. When she learned later that humans do not also have book lungs, she was disappointed. Book lungs. It made complete sense to her. This way breath, this way life: through here.

--from Glaciers by Alexis M. Smith

Rarely can I say this about a novel, but I love everything about Glaciers. Everything. I started reading it at Panera this afternoon over a cup of tomato soup. I made myself stop halfway, when the dinner crowd started coming in, but I could have read it straight through right there at my little table for two, chair facing the wet cars on the lot.

I melt for her words, her phrases, the atmosphere of meaning of this book. It's delicate and deep and lyrical. It has lungs; the entire time it felt like the words themselves were breathing, a long series of sighs held high in the lungs.

I love it so much I could turn right around and read it straight through again.

That's 3 for 3 on books so far for 2012. Now I'm going to write.

For the life of me

2012-01-20T20:06:00.002-05:00

Blue eyes

2012-01-20T20:01:00.000-05:00

Fear is a friend who's misunderstood.

--from "The Heart of Life" by John Mayer

I asked a boy to prom my senior year of high school. I knew it was my only chance to go, and it would be the last dance. I hadn't been to any others. I had always said no, afraid of what it would mean to be so close to a boy. But this one was sixteen, tall, with icy blue eyes, and he made me sweat with nerves.

So that we could get to know each other a little one on one before prom, we went to IHOP after church one Sunday. We sat a square table in the middle of the crowd of families. He ordered a big breakfast platter (a growing boy), and I got the smallest stack of pancakes possible and an orange juice. I have no idea what we talked about; we had nothing in common except blue eyes and youth group and marching band. I ate three bites and nearly threw up, hiding gags through the white napkin and nods. It was nerves beyond butterflies; it was fear that this younger boy would reject me after those three or four that I had turned down over the years. Boys always equaled fear, and now they equaled nausea.

But all that summer, past prom and leading up to my first semester of college, I called him every day. I thought that's what you did when you were a semi-girlfriend. I never asked him what he thought of me, and I never told him that I thought the way he'd duct-taped the hood of his car was creative. I never reached for his hand, and he never bent to kiss me.

At the end of the summer he asked to meet me in Carey Park, in the baseball field parking lot. I was up for anything, holding on to nothing but the simple fact that he wanted to meet me somewhere. It poured, but I drove there, thought he'd lead me back to his parents' house and we'd spend another afternoon watching movies I would never remember. It poured, and as I pulled up behind his car he was leaning against it, his white shirt soaked through and head cocked back to catch the rain.

I opened the car door and he met me before I could get out. Heavy drops hit my face and legs as I squinted up at him, smiling.

"Hey," he breathed. "I don't think we should see each other any more."

And as he turned and walked back to that ridiculous blue Dodge 600 that always smelled of dust, I started the car again, picking up the song that was playing when I stopped. I let him drive away before I moved. I let the song finish. I drove home not looking at the road but the drops of wet on the dashboard that had come in through the door. I drove home and threw up, the whole summer gone, wondering how something could end if had never even begun.

Signals

2012-01-19T21:56:00.000-05:00

For it is important that awake people be awake,
or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;
the signals we give--yes or no, or maybe--
should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.

--from "A Ritual to Read to Each Other" by William Stafford

My dreams are metaphors lately. The kind that you understand because it matches up with your waking mind. Leaving something behind. Falling away. Cracking open.

I'd forgotten what it was like to feel, my body dull around the edges. But it's amazing what happens when you give yourself permission to feel, to open up, to say yes. Something that was dormant for you don't know how long may rise to the surface and surprise you in a way that brings you back, perhaps for good. There are people in your life that you don't allow yourself to let in until suddenly that's all you want to do. All in. And then you're so giddy with this feeling of giddiness that you don't know how to slow down.

In all cheesiness and earnestness, I've had a break through. I'm breaking through. I'm becoming again, trusting, and I'll let you in.

PURIFYING THE LANGUAGE OF THE TRIBE

Walking away means
"Goodbye."

Pointing a knife at your stomach means
"Please don't say that again."

Leaning toward you means
"I love you."

Raising a finger means
"I enthusiastically agree."

"Maybe" means
"No."

"Yes" means
"Maybe."

Looking like this at you means
"You had your chance."

--William Stafford

In patches

2012-01-15T22:25:00.000-05:00

I had not mopped or swept the floors in months. I had used paper towels when there was a spill and hoped that eventually the entire apartment floor would get wiped up this way. This method of cleaning the floor, in patches, I imagined was like writing a poem every day until you eventually said everything about the human condition there was to be said. But it didn't really work that way, even in poetry; grimy corners remained while certain floorboards got burnished to a slippery, hellish gleam.

--from A Gate at the Stairs by Lorrie Moore

Through here

2012-01-15T22:14:00.001-05:00

"Awesome," I said, in that peculiar way, I knew, our generation had of finding that everything either "sucked" or was "awesome." We used awesome the way the British used brilliant: for anything at all. Perhaps, as with the British, it was a kind of antidepressant inflated rhetoric to keep the sorry truth at bay.

--from A Gate at the Stairs by Lorrie Moore

I recently saw that a bookstore somewhere in America is running a campaign against "awesome." They have bumper stickers that ban "awesome." I think there are t-shirts. When I saw this I had just begun realizing how "awesome" had become my response for just about anything. (I'm having a baby. Oh, that's awesome! / See you later. Awesome! / I think that reading went well. It was awesome.) Where did it come from, this word, and how did it work its way into my every conversation? What do I say if I can't say "awesome"? I still don't know, but I'm trying to be more conscious of its use. So that the "awe" can return to the word, unless it's meant to become the equivalent of "cowabunga, dude" from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Didn't one of the turtles say "awesome" a lot, too? I should do some research on that.

But I can't say that I thought Lorrie Moore's A Gate at the Stairs was awesome from the beginning. Or, perhaps, even at the end. What I'll say is that I was impatient for the first half of the book, nodding in awe, yes, at the language--never a dull or unpoetic sentence!--but where was the plot? Why was I so in the head of Tassie Keltjin when I didn't know where she was going or why? Why, half-way through, was I looking on every page for patterns: stairs, race, names, "sounds good," brothers.

"OK," I said, not knowing what else to say. "Sounds good." It was the midwestern girl's reply to everything.

If I don't say "awesome" I'll likely say "sounds good." I believe I texted "sounds good" this morning, even. And I certainly perked up and nodded the several times that Lorrie Moore pinpoints the patterns in our language. As Luke and I walked our dogs today, I made a point to respond at certain points in our conversation with silence or a nod instead of those filler words. And though so much of this book is the thought behind the action--the thought is the response to the action, and therefore the action isn't necessarily the most important element of the book--it's the silences, the lack-of, that propels you. The questions that have no answer. This is the reason I finished the book in one three-hour sitting tonight. Because just after the halfway point I began to get it and I didn't want it to stop, or, the questions became more complicated and Tassie became both more engaged and more withdrawn.

And then the heartbreak. And then more. And the whole time reflecting the words back on the title. And the whole time seeing my family in Tassie's. And the whole time wondering why we do the things we do to each other. And thinking about women and what it means to love and what it means to lose what you love. (Because all of that is ever-present on my mind lately. I try to decide what to eat and all I can think about is love.)

And after it all, I believe this book is a writerly treasure, an artifact of word-envy for those of us who wish for the consistency of surprise in language that Moore seems to have at her fingertips. I believe that, for those of us who experienced 9/11 and all of its repercussions, even in our small towns where no act of terrorism was itself terrorism, and for whom our friends and our brothers were thrust into situations accusatory and deadly, this book will remain in our gut long after we have shut the covers and alphabetized it on our shelves.

9/11 was a beginning of a different way of life, of different lives, because we had to react to tragedy. How do you tell the real story of an event like that? You tell the after. So perhaps I can say that A Gate at the Stairs was brilliant. Certainly Lorrie Moore is genius.

I used to think that those essentially happy and romantic novels that ended with a wedding were all wrong, that they had left out the most interesting part of the story. But now I'd gone back to thinking, no, the wedding was the end. It was the end of the comedy. That's how you knew it was a comedy. The end of comedy was the beginning of all else.

On fighting for a trail

2012-01-08T11:21:00.000-05:00

It had only to do with how it felt to be in the wild. With what it was like to walk for miles for no reason other than to witness the accumulation of trees and meadows, mountains and deserts, streams and rocks, rivers and grasses, sunrises and sunsets. The experience was powerful and fundamental. It seemed to me that it had always felt like this to be a human in the wild, and as long as the wild existed it would always feel this way.

--from Wild by Cheryl Strayed

The wind still Kansas

2012-01-02T18:30:00.000-05:00

Today: Anxiety.

I keep remaking my list of things to do today and then putting them off. I spent two hours at Panera this morning working on the film festival and intended to spend the whole afternoon writing and reading and critiquing the things that must be critiqued by tomorrow. At 3 (where the 2 hours between getting home and deciding this went, I have no idea), I said I would sit down in the quiet and read for an hour. And hour and a half later I didn't want to stop reading but knew I had to get to work on everything. And that's when the anxiety really set in, the anxiety I felt before school, the anxiety of necessity. And so I decided I would fix this anxiety with a run.

It was colder than I expected, the wind still Kansas. A quarter of a mile in my lungs were burning and shallow. I had to walk, tears forming.

It's been an hour and a half since that 1.3 mile run, and I don't know what I've done. Time is always disappearing. Sometimes when you're lonely the days just evaporate. Sometimes when you haven't been touched in six months you forget how to connect with people. And when you know that it will be a long time until you're touched again, you forget where you are in life and how to complete a simple to-do list. Sometimes knowing what you've lost makes you lose all the more.

Aloneness

2012-01-01T22:56:00.000-05:00

Alone had always felt like an actual place to me, as if it weren't a state of being, but rather a room where I could retreat to be who I really was. The radical aloneness of the PCt had altered that sense. Alone wasn't a room anymore, but the whole wide world, and now I was alone in that world, occupying it in a way I never had before. Living at large like this, without even a roof over my head, made the world feel both bigger and smaller to me. Until now, I hadn't truly understood the world's vastness--hadn't even understood how vast a mile could be--until each mile was beheld at walking speed. And yet there was also its opposite, the strange intimacy I'd come to have with the trail, the way the pinon pines and monkey flowers I passed that morning, the shallow streams I crossed, felt familiar and known, though I'd never passed them or crossed them before.

--from Wild by Cheryl Strayed

Fear begets fear.

2012-01-01T22:52:00.000-05:00

I knew that if I allowed fear to overtake me, my journey was doomed. Fear, to a great extent, is born of a story we tell ourselves, and so I chose to tell myself a different story from the one women are told. I decided I was safe. I was strong. I was brave. Nothing could vanquish me. Insisting on this story was a form of mind control, but for the most part, it worked. Every time I heard a sound of unknown origin or felt something horrible cohering in my imagination, I pushed it away. I simply did not let myself become afraid. Fear begets fear. Power begets power. I willed myself to beget power. And it wasn't long before I actually wasn't afraid.

--from Wild by Cheryl Strayed

The last, the first.

2012-01-01T22:49:00.002-05:00

The scene: December 31, 2011. 9:14pm. Living room floor, hardwood. Space heater on high. The Bourne Identity (which one, unknown). Dog asleep on the couch. Cat asleep on the chair.

The image: Girl in fetus position in front of the space heater, her feet so hot they sting. Fluffy white robe covers all but below the knees. Her hair, wet and wavy and slightly darker from the dye, flopped over on the floor. She is passed out, the image of post-party exhaustion. But she never made it to the party. She sleeps, nulling the indecision of New Years Eve plans: fancy party or writing through the night. She had been thinking that she should spend this first NYE alone the way she wants to spend 2012, but she both wants to be more social (read: fun, interesting, fearless with friends) and write (read: be a writer) in the new year. The Bourne Identity was a distraction from this decision. The space heater was a necessity. The freshly dyed hair was a belated attempt at a refreshed self-identity. The robe was a comfortable placeholder for the clothes she couldn't decide to wear.

The action: Sleep, on her side, until 12:02 am. An infomercial now on the screen. She wakes, startled that she had ever been asleep, and sees the clock. She gets up, stiff from the hardwood, and limps to bed. She climbs in her bed still in her robe, perhaps thinking that she might still get up again and write in the first hours of the new year.

The action: Sleep, in her robe, until 4:54 am. She wakes, startled that the lights are still on, that the tv is still on, and that she is sleeping in her robe. She gets up, turns everything off, feeds the cat in hopes of preventing her from pawing for food in an hour, gives the dog a cookie for waking him, changes into the usual bedtime fare, and gets back in bed. She moves likes a drunk, though she's had no food in 18 hours and only Dr. Pepper to drink. She doesn't care that she missed midnight. She will have her own story to tell.

The last day of 2011
I woke late, at 7:30, and glad. We started with a hike on the trails in Duncan Park, the trails that start just a block from my home, and muddied our feet in the red ground. Fog hung low, and the sun cut through, creating a bright blur to the south, an image you can only hope for in photographs. Through the trees, shafts of light and silent puffs of cloud moving out. Over the bridge, the lake was still, and we kept on the trail until we met its edge. Mallards flapped in the mist and quacked a chorus as they kicked toward the body of the lake and out of the marshy shallows. We followed their tails through branch and limb but headed back, up through the leaves to home.

Because the humane society would be closed on Sunday, the traditional dog-walking day, my Sunday group met at 10 on Saturday, and the four of us ventured to walk them all. It seems many of the puppies were adopted for Christmas, and so they were mostly older than 6 months, all of walking age. I went down the back line, skipping only those, like Duke and Dozer and one of the Boscos, because they were too big for me to handle. I began with Mason, then Jacolby and Odyssy, down the line to Tommy and Tabitha and over to Marley. We walked and played and then had to time ourselves because we were spending too much time with each dog; it was taking too long to walk them all. I left after Marley, came home to let Scooter out on the tie out in the 60-some degree sun of the last day of the year.

I took out the new bookcase I bought last week at Ikea, taking it piece by piece out of the box from my car. I vacuumed out the hair and the rocks, sprayed air freshener. I made my car clean on the inside, something I hadn't done in likely over a year. The outside is still spotted and masked with dirt, but I care less. Scooter and I took five bags of recycling to the bins behind Krispy Kreme, and that lightened my load.

I built the bookcase and arranged my nonfiction books in its cubes. I placed my Steve Snell blue bear and former HUB-BUB green typewriter on top. This place is becoming more and more my home; the yellow walls reflect and emit so much light. The room is open; there is room for moving, for playing, for breathing.

I ate leftover pizza for lunch. I planned on getting Chinese take-out between dying my hair, showering, and going to the party that started at nine. I needed cash for the party. I needed dark hair for the party. I needed to get ready faster. I needed to decide if going to the party is really what I wanted. I ate corn chips in front of the space heater in my robe and watched The Bourne Identity as I lamented that my hair was not as dark as I'd hoped it would be. I wanted to be warm. I wanted Jedsen. I wanted New Years Eves of past. I lay down to rest as I tried to decide what to do. I lay down, and that was my decision.

The first day of 2012
I intended to spend the first day of 2012 doing what I hoped I would do all year. I started by taking Scooter to the abandoned baseball fields in south Hampton Heights, something I try to do once a week so he can run, run, faster than I can for him. He runs across the field to me and past me; he shows me how fast he can be. I hide behind piles of dirt in the middle of the diamond, and he seeks me out, excited to have found me and gets low to the ground.

I intended to swear off fast food a month ago in honor of the new motto I'd like to live by: "Why do I want to invest in?" But I wanted a breakfast of biscuits and gravy, and a friend had told me that Hardee's was the best in town.

I intended to swear off pop years ago, but at the last minute I decided I needed Dr. Pepper with that biscuits and gravy combo.

I ate my breakfast and watched the Sunday Morning program on CBS, learned how to help a hangover that I didn't have. Scooter tried to bite the end out of the paper bag to get to the hashbrowns. I gave him a celery stick so he'd leave it alone for a few minutes. I watched Face the Nation and rolled my eyes. Then church programs came on every network channel except Fox, but I wouldn't watch Fox News, so I flipped through the in-between channels that I never try and found Create. I learned that you use paint stain on outdoor wood rather than paint to allow the wood to breath. I muted the tv and continued reading Wild by Cheryl Strayed. It's about her solo hike on the Pacific Crest Trail, about her trying to recover from losing her mother, her marriage. I read myself in her, in why I go hiking and go alone. I say I am not crazy for going alone. I say I want hiking to heal me. I read until I need to go run errands. I make a list and, for once, stick to the list. While I'm shopping, all I can think of is reading and writing this. And all I can think of is that I'm so excited that all I can think about is reading and writing; I'm returning, I think. I eat lunch at Panera Bread, my "third place" and order a U Pick 2, tomato soup and turkey sandwich. I savor it and read, while sipping my second Dr. Pepper of the day. I can't stop. Outside, the clouds get dark, and the wind is a Kansas wind, foreign here, and strong. It looks like rain, cold, but it's still in the 60s. I finish a chapter, finish my plate, and drive home.

Writing. Thinking about writing. Blogging. I get to it.

Knock knock. My neighbor needs his car jumped. We talk in the drive while our cars are connected.

Good luck dinner. Celia and Randy explain the meal, the sides: pork, black eyed peas, collard greens, cornbread. All have meaning, all for luck.

I end this first day full of friends, words, and Dr. Pepper. Tomorrow, words and some work.

On War

2011-12-27T15:31:00.000-05:00

When your fight has purpose--to free you from something, to interfere on the behalf of an innocent--it has a hope of finality. When the fight is about unraveling--when it is about your name, the places to which your blood is anchored, the attachment of your name to some landmark or event--there is nothing but hate, and the long, slow progression of people who feed on it and are fed it, meticulously, by the ones who come before them. Then the fight is endless, and comes in waves and waves, but always retains its capacity to surprise those who hope against it.

--from The Tiger's Wife by Tea Obreht

Inheritance

2011-12-27T15:28:00.000-05:00

My grandfather sat beside me, drifting in and out of consciousness. Every so often, he would wake up with a start, and then take his right hand off his belly and pet the dog, who couldn't sleep, and was peering anxiously through the window. My grandfather would pet the dog, and, in a voice that made him sound like some kind of children's program puppet, he would say: "You're a dog! You're a dog! Where are you? You're a dog!" and the dog's tongue would drop out of its mouth and it would start keening.
After a few hours of this, I said, "Jesus, Grandpa, I get it, he's a dog," not knowing that, just a few years later, I would be reminding every dog I met on the street that it was a dog, and asking it where it was.

--from The Tiger's Wife by Tea Obreht

We're here. We're big.

2011-12-27T10:56:00.000-05:00

The only thing to do on my first Christmas alone was hike. I first wanted to go far, to the Smokies, to another state, somewhere I had never been. I wanted to get myself as far removed from home and aloneness as possible, to place myself on an unknown mountain and make myself climb it, to discover something new in the world and, perhaps, in myself.

But I was tired and didn't want to drive for hours, and I didn't know how much stamina I (or Scooter) had for a lengthy hike. I also wasn't excited for the hike like I would have been a year ago. Oh, how those first six months in Spartanburg were defined by hikes and exploration. That's all I wanted to do on a Saturday, my one day off. I'd get up at 6am and set out for the Blue Ridge, usually alone, for a challenge. I'd look forward to it all week. I'd say, "I'm rugged. I want to get scrapes and bleed because that will be proof I'm rugged." I'd call Jedsen from the summit. I'd brag about my strength and moxie like I was surprised to find them every time--and I was, and I wanted him to be surprised (and awed) too.

As I was preparing my backpack for the hike Sunday morning, I realized I'd forgotten to get anything to take for a lunch, and all I had was a KIND bar. I packed a bag of treats for Scooter, several pairs of gloves, an extra hat, and the usual emergency provisions of stun gun, pocket knife, folded foil blanket, and matches in a waterproof pouch. We set out just before eight, and the sun was a peek of bright through streaks of clouds. We headed toward Table Rock State Park in the far western corner of South Carolina. I tried to sing a journeying song to Scooter, but it came out in weak hums. About five miles down the highway I realized I'd forgotten my trail shoes, electing to wear my favorite blue Nikes for the drive. So I had to turn back.

I ran in and got the shoes and backed out to start again. Then I stopped and ran in to get one of Scooter's blankets to put in the backseat with him. And then we finally left, headed west. I don't remember what we listened to on the hour drive, though part of it was NPR. I don't remember thinking on the drive, just feeling saddened, reluctant but determined to go on this hike. I was relieved when the Table Rock State Park gates were open, and I was glad to remember the way. But when we pulled around to the large parking lot at the trailheads, the one that had been nearly full on my previous hike in the park in March, was completely empty at 9:15 on Christmas morning. Not a soul was around. And I was instantly afraid.

Yes, the main motivation for hiking on this day was to get away from society, from people, even from friends I couldn't talk to about what I was feeling on this first Christmas without Jedsen, so close to what would have been our seventh anniversary. But I'd told myself all those times before Scooter in those first six months, "I'm going by myself, but I won't be alone." I always chose trails that were popular, where I was sure others would be even if I wasn't with any of them. There would always be someone to run into, to say hello to, to come along if there was trouble. And there always had been. Not this time. This time as we crossed the first deck and bridges to the divergence of trails, as I filled out the card that said my name, age, trail, starting time, and emergency contact, I was actually alone. Scooter can bark, but he's small. Scooter can smell, but does he know the scent of bears? Bears. They were my fear.

Bears were all I wanted to see when I first started hiking. I dreamed about coming around a bend in a trail and looking over to see a black bear serenely loping up the mountainside. Nature, I thought, that's when I'll know I'm really in nature. Because it was difficult to believe that I could actually see a waterfall by driving to it or hiking a few miles. Growing up in Kansas, waterfalls, mountains, and bears were fantasies, things I longed for. They were mythical, subjects of fairy tales and epics. Suddenly living in close proximity to them made them, in a way, more mythical--or made me reside in some happy dream land whenever I was near. But it was that hike in March, on the last day of winter, on the Pinnacle Trail, Table Rock's neighbor, that I found fear. I wasn't alone--I knew there were others ahead of and behind me because the parking lot was full and it was a gorgeous day--but there were times when I could see no one yet heard large rustling of leaves. All I could think about was that the bears were waking up; it's bear season, and they're probably everywhere, and they probably have cubs. And I'm alone. I kept going, though, because I knew the bears would sense there more a number of people out and stay away from the trail. I reached the summit of Pinnacle Mountain that day, the most challenging hike to date, and I practically ran down the 4.5 miles out of relief.

When do bears sleep? Where do they sleep? Do they know to always stay away from the trails?

The creek was rushing, and the trail was muddy. I had Scooter on the 16-foot retractable leash so he could feel like he was walking off leash and so I could feel less immediate responsibility for him. I looked up into the bare trees, down to the creek, across to distant slopes of leaves, looking for the black bulge of a bear. I blew my bear whistle in short bursts every minute or so, hoping the sound was non-organic enough to keep a bear away while at the same time worrying that it would wake a bear up if it was sleeping. I at once wanted to make sure every creature on the mountain knew we were there and wanted to slip by unnoticed.

I made myself sing, at first holidays songs like "Deck the Halls" and Mariah Carey's "All I Want for Christmas," but they'd quickly fade because I didn't want to be singing, and I didn't want to be talking. I didn't want to hear my voice. I wanted to be silent in my sadness, to keep it within as I always do. I wanted to only hear the wind and the leaves. I wanted to see. I'd be silent for a while and then have to just start talking aloud to ensure I was making noise. I started writing this as I walked, as I came upon what looked to be prime bear caves and nearly began crying in fear. I began composing my journey into an essay as it happened because I realized this was a journey about multiple fears. Bears, yes, and being alone, yes, and being exposed, and trying to get back to something that was once fulfilling. Hiking, nature, the climb, height, the achievement of reaching a pinnacle. The fulfillment of completion.

Over the last few months, I've learned that Scooter only cares about toys and treats that he can finish. As in, a food-filled Kong that he can empty, a stuffed squeaking mouse that he can chew through to the stuffing and squeaker, a bone that he can gnaw all edible matter from. He doesn't care about balls or fake bones that are only meant for chewing. Where's the reward in that?

I can't remember now how I completed all of my homework in school, but I certainly don't remember having much fun. Each assignment, each class, each A, was another step up the mountain of success, at least when it came to school. I understood school, the steady movements toward an end, a degree, and a new start. What that new start would be I was never sure until it was upon me, but it was the completion that was satisfying, and the completion with all A's. I kept going until there was no longer anywhere to go.

I blew my whistle every few feet as we climbed higher. I yelled, "We're here. We're big."

I saw movement up ahead but couldn't focus on it. Then I saw round creatures running up: wild turkeys. Thank god. Then Scooter saw them and switched into hunter mode. He barked and yelped and pulled me a head toward them, and I just kept saying, "You cannot eat the wild turkeys. You cannot eat the wild turkeys." It took him several minutes for him to listen, for them to disappear over a ridge.

He's so good on rocks, even with his small frame. He never tires. He runs uphill. "Wait," I'd yell, and he'd stop for a moment, until the leash was no longer taught, and then go again. "Stop," I'd yell louder, "I need you. I need you to stay with me."

Whenever he would stop on his own and turn his nose to smell the air, I thought bear. I thought, he's smelling something knew, something large and wild, and he's trying to understand it. I thought, let's turn back.

I thought let's turn back the whole way. I thought it when we hit the first mile marker, thought that a two mile hike was at least something. I thought it when we hit the shelter past 1.5 miles, thought it wouldn't be a shameful stopping point because we had been climbing up, up, up all the way. I thought it when we passed the turkeys, thought that since I'd seen wildlife I could go home. I thought it passing boulder with dark overhangs that made shelters for dark things, thought it when I nearly slipped on a wet rock, thought it when Scooter's leash got tangled in trees from where he'd gone off the trail.

I knew we were in the last mile or so once we hit the marker for the Ridge Trail, though I didn't have a map. Perhaps foolishly, I'd taught myself to trust in the trail markers and my own instinct for direction. Up ahead was a sloping wet rock that I knew we'd have to go up and, just behind, a large dark cave. As Scooter went off and down to eat some poop--what kind, I don't know--I convinced myself that there was a bear in that cave. That as we came up the rock I'd see big eyes glaring at me in the dark. How could there not be a bear in that cave? It looked large and sheltered from the wind. It even had a view of the valley.

Scooter ate the poop for a long time and then got himself tangled in limbs by looking for more. I was nearly crying at this point, anxiety fully setting in. I felt fear and failure. I blew the whistle for a long time. I screamed. I tried to get Scooter to bark. "We're big!" I wailed.

When I got Scooter untangled I was about to tell him to go down, but he started climbing again and got halfway to the rock when the leash reached its max. He wasn't worried, wasn't sniffing the air. He just looked back annoyed that I had stopped him. And so I followed, my eyes on the cave the whole time. My hands shaking. My little voice whispering wait.

My impression of bears was formed by Winnie the Pooh and zoos and Teddy, the stuffed bear I've had since I was a baby. Cuddly, right. Tricks. Honey. Then, claws. Hunger. Territory. Did I want to experience nature or not? Was I proud to be hiking alone (a woman, silly and dangerous, everyone said) or had I been convinced I was foolish? Was I determined to always finish a hike, to summit, or could I be satisfied with the mileage, the beauty, the journey? Who was I going to tell about this hike that would be remembered for its solitude and panic?

All along, an absence of bears in view and empty caves. Just beyond, the trees opened up to a slope of rock and the mountains to the west. I knew it wasn't the end of the trail, but it was an opening, a window back out to the world. Over there, Pinnacle Mountain, my peak. And North Carolina beyond. The rock rolled over and off the mountain, and a braver me than today would have gone closer to the edge, to better feel the height and weightlessness of a climb. But I sat back, gave Scooter some treats, tried to breathe, and decided that this would be the end. I was too exhausted from worrying to keep going to the last half-mile or so. It wasn't a failure, I told myself, but an experience. Nearly 2,000 vertical feet of experience.

About half-way down we encountered more people, a family, and farther down, there were couples with small dogs, and in the parking lot there were about 15 cars. It had just taken them until noon to get out there.

I spent three hours alone on a mountain. I wish I could say, like my three hours alone in London, that it was liberating, that I came away stronger, that I gave myself the perfect gift on Christmas. But instead I deflated, thought of calling my mom just to tell her I was done with the hike but decided I didn't want to talk about it. When she called a few minutes later and the call dropped after about a minute, I didn't want to call back. When Jedsen texted "Merry Christmas, Kari" as I was nearing home, I couldn't be strong and write back my own reserved wishes. No, I broke down and began a conversation in common misery, a conversation of texts that would last the rest of the day, that would make me ache for him yet smile that I was somewhat near him, that would make me break a hole in the wall I'd built between us because I had to, that would leave me more alone than when the day began because there was nothing to be done and these texts of reminiscence and hurt would lead nowhere, to no different end. He, alone in the cold of Chicago, and I, alone by choice in the gray of the South, would have to stop here, most likely for good.

Roost

2011-12-21T18:03:00.000-05:00

Mark Rice's game from his line Spray the Hooray + Eric Kocher's poem "Roost" in my voice + Mark and Eric's music + Steve Snell's recorder talent + The Showroom = what HUB-BUB is all about.

My new hobby: making videos!

2011-12-20T08:05:00.000-05:00

Every vine I see

2011-12-20T08:03:00.000-05:00

Since moving to the South, I believe every vine I see is kudzu. Green leaves climbing, overtaking, must be the same plant everyone is trying to kill.

I live on a corner in a wooded neighborhood, part of a park, and most of my backyard is kudzu, now a brown tangle of hibernation. It faded quickly, and I remember last spring that it lagged in revival, that it surprisingly wasn't the first to rise in green from the dead of winter.

What is my fascination with kudzu? Allow me to be cheesy for a moment. Kudzu is persistent. It believes in itself. It overcomes obstacles. And it can kill what it claims, blocking out the sun. If we take this all in a positive bent, I want to be kudzu. I want to keep reaching for goals and meeting them; that's a problem I've had in all areas that only pertain to me. If someone came in and told me I had to reach the top of a tree, by god I'd do it and I'd do it well. But if I tell myself, Hey, I'm going to reach the top of that tree, and I wrote it down, and I put it on my mirror so I could see it every day, and if I repeated it to myself, I'm going to stand on the top of that tree, damn it, it wouldn't matter. I never keep promises to myself. I don't know how to motivate myself.

So, perhaps, mission number 1: Respect myself and my authority. Respect my thoughts, my goals, my desires for my life.

Sugar is an easy option. It's cheap, delicious, everywhere. And so that's what I've been living on for the last 3 months. I cringe to begin to calculate the pounds of sugar I've eaten, and I cringe to think what it's doing to my mind and my body. But I also haven't been eating very much at all, skipping meals. I also haven't been drinking much at all, ignoring my intense thirst. I don't drink when I'm thirsty. I don't eat when I'm hungry.

I no longer believe in New Years Resolutions. I believe in life choices. I want to be a runner, an athlete. I've wanted that all my life, actually, but I've never believed that I could be. But, hey, I could be. And I'm going to be.

Life choices: Live on plants. Run. Satiate. Be a writer and write.

A word

2011-11-12T22:37:00.000-05:00

You are not a tragedy, you are a personal essay. You must rise above and you must do it in the last paragraph with basic grammar and easily recognized words. --Christy Vannoy, "A Personal Essay by a Personal Essay"

Perhaps it's time to write about my life again. Perhaps it's time for a word or two. A word, like good bye.

Good bye black boots that I had really just fell in love with, accepted as an aspect of my style, and realized how warm and comfortable they were. Good bye at the force of Scooter's teeth.

Good bye City View apartment next week. Good bye to the lights, the sirens, the length. Good bye to the 32 stairs, the 3 flights, the double-beep of the door. Good bye to the bay window, its starring role in this apartment, and good bye to the broken blinds on the north. Good bye to short showers when it's cold, to the arches, to the green and beige, to the first wood floors that have ever been mine. Good bye walking to work. Good bye height.

Good bye silent ground. Good bye earthquake virginity; I have known two in two months.

Good bye thighs. Good bye mind. Good bye vegetables, protein, vitamins; sugar is in my veins.

Good bye sleep, and rest, and time.

Good bye Kansas, again, its straight lines and silhouettes of silos against an open sunset. Good bye friends in Kansas, some I saw and some I missed. All I miss. Good bye Lawrence, again. Good bye Hutchinson, cats, brother, shag. Good bye 1-70 and wind.

Good bye single friends; you're all getting married, you're all going forward in love, you're all doing it, seemingly, at once.

Good bye dark brown hair; you just can't stick around, can you?

Good bye chain stores and restaurants; I'm quitting you soon. Good bye debt; I don't need you around. Good bye empty refrigerator; you're going to feed me from now on.

Good bye Jedsen. Good bye love. Good bye Chicago. Good bye phone calls. Good bye best friend. Good bye places we loved. Good bye everything we loved. Good bye language. Good bye nicknames. Good bye second family. Good bye self as I know me. Good bye dreams. Good bye hands. Good bye brown eyes. Good bye curls. Good bye life as I knew it. Good bye songs we loved. Good bye Jim Croce. Good bye understanding. Good bye communication. Good bye brown chair. Good bye Anita. Good bye Chip. Good bye map. Good bye boots. Good bye "I love you." Good bye "I miss you." Everything remains but disappears. Everything hurts. Good bye Jedsen. Good bye love. Good bye.

That's the thing about life; everything feels so permanent, but you can disappear in an instant. --Jonathan Tropper, This is Where I Leave You

Metaphor

2011-10-13T22:12:00.000-04:00

It was the phone that said the final goodbye. In pink, with chimes, into black. It ended what we couldn't. The device that had kept us together punctuated our sentence. An end. The end.

I will dye my hair. When I begin to recover I will clear my face. I will run in my blue shoes. I will run in my blue shoes with the dog. I will move. I will move to woods, water. I will run alone, singly alone. To where I don't know.

Scooter's first hike

2011-10-02T10:40:00.000-04:00

Exploration

2011-09-30T11:22:00.000-04:00

Lately I have been all movement and no rest. A month, actually, today, that I've been moving daily, to somewhere, with someone: Scooter. I adopted Scooter a month ago today, this 35-pound adorable retriever/sharpei mix that stole my heart on a Sunday morning walk session with the dogs at the Humane Society. I had him by Wednesday. It was all very sudden. And this month has been a blur. 6:30 walks around downtown, insisting "no, no, no" to everything Scooter tries (and usually succeeds) to eat from the sidewalk. (I never knew there were so many stray bones laying around out there--but I guess dead animals end up somewhere for someone to eat?) Evening walks. Countless trips up and down the 3 flights of stairs (though it only took 2 days for Scooter to succeed at house training). A month of busy weekends and busy weeknights. I lost track of reading, of talking to anyone but myself. How do you manage your time with a dog? How do you give him plenty of time but still maintain a sane self-life and friend-life? Haven't figured that out yet.

Today is a comp day. A bonus day off. A free Friday. I'm at Panera, reading. I ate a real breakfast and drank hot chocolate. I am thinking about what I want to do. Because I should want to do something, right? The original plan was to take Scooter to the beach for a day or two, but Snickers has an infection and needs medication every day. I couldn't decide where to go anyway.

Restlessness. How many times have I mentioned that here? I want/need to be going somewhere all of the time. I want to explore. Yet I want to relax. I want to read. I want to write. I want to be still. How do you be still while still exploring? I have about 7 hours until my one commitment for the day. What do I do with it beyond these 2 hours at Panera? Greenville? No, I don't need anything there. Charlotte? I would only want to go to IKEA, and I don't need anything there. Asheville? Would be lovely, and I've been wanting to go to that fish lunch place again downtown, but otherwise it would just be shopping. A hike? I feel like it's too late in the day to start. That might be the agenda for tomorrow. That or a day trip to the beach if it's not too cool. And that's my exploration list.

I think back to a year ago when I was somewhere else every Saturday. A different mountain. A different town. Just me. That was my happy, my release. I haven't found a release yet this year. I haven't found the thing to look forward to. I want to go everywhere and nowhere. I want to do everything and nothing. I want to sleep and move. I want to be alone and connect. But the thing is last year I was keeping track. This year, not so much. The blur is a blur. What are my benchmarks? What are my highlights? What are my loves?

I think I'm moving in a month, hopefully to a duplex. A quiet, larger duplex a block from a lake just a few miles south of where I am now. From a box to a near-standalone in a wooded neighborhood. With a dog and a cat. Without Jedsen, still. Without him, until who knows when.

But life is good, if not stressful, if not confusing, if not quick. Life is good. It is Friday.

Lost and Found

2011-09-25T23:02:00.001-04:00

I'm everywhere and nowhere these days. Can't keep up with everything. But there have been changes and adventures that I hope i'll return to tell you all about soon.

Love from Kari, Snickers, and Scooter

Transfer

2011-07-30T18:47:00.000-04:00

How often I think about the weather. How often I long for the storm.

I haven't cried this much in months and months. I haven't been on the edge of crying so much in a year. Outside, a hot haze. Pavement. Dry. Perhaps I'm compensating for the lack of moisture and emotion out there. If only a storm would come. If only I could hear thunder, transfer the turmoil to the sky.

Right now, the clouds are getting darker while I'm inside trying to get light.

Life Would be Perfect if I Lived in that House

2011-07-28T22:20:00.000-04:00

When I think back on the places I've lived, I now wonder this: I wonder if the real measure of "home" is the degree to which you can leave it alone. Maybe appreciating a house means knowing when to stop decorating. Maybe you've never really lived there until you've thrown its broken pieces in the garbage. Maybe learning how to be out in the big world isn't the epic journey everyone thinks it is. Maybe that's actually the easy part. The hard part is what's right in front of you. The hard part is learning how to hold the title to your very existence, to own not only property, but also your life. The hard part is learning not just how to be but mastering the nearly impossible art of how to be at home.

--Megham Daum, from Life Would be Perfect if I Lived in that House

Okay

2011-06-06T22:08:00.000-04:00

I let my couch go, just so you know. It drove off to Indianapolis to the be first couch of another Kerri, a couch for the new place she got with her boyfriend Adam. It was time to let it go. And I'm okay with it. And I'm staying in this apartment because I do love it, after all, and because there isn't one part of me that wants to move again this year. Snickers and I are happy here, with our view of the sky. My heart only aches for Jedsen, for our week together, for the way he feels like home.

Welcome to Chicago

2011-06-06T21:44:00.000-04:00

Among the first things we saw when started carrying boxes up the three flights of stairs to Jedsen's new Chicago apartment on Tuesday was a full-grown mouse walking leisurely toward the parking lot. It was brown and cute. I called out to Jedsen, who was ahead of me with a load of boxes in his arms, "Look! A mouse! It's so cute!" He looked back, smiled, and grunted acknowledgement of his cute neighbor before heading up the rusted metal stairs. I thought of the other cute mice I've seen in public places, such as the mice in the London Underground. I remember calling them cute, too.

At that point in the evening, I had driven a U-Haul for the first time across the Midwest over 9 hours. It was the first time driving a U-Haul and the first time driving more than 4 hours in a day. I had led us up Chicago's Lake Shore Drive at rush hour, Jedsen close behind me in his car, and savored the city and the lake after miles and miles of farm land. I had turned off on the right street, Montrose, but had missed the street sign for his street, Beacon, because the sun was blinding. We had dropped Jedsen's car at a small corner parking lot with a Subway and Dunkin Donuts so that we only had to find parking for the U-Haul close to the apartment and not two vehicles. We had driven back into the neighborhood and found Beacon but no parking spot and had then been guided to an alley by Jedsen's sister, who was waiting for us. In the process of trying to find the alley and prepare to turn into it, I had hit the mirror of a truck with the mirror of the U-Haul and said "Oh shit!" and kept going to find the other entrance to the alley because I hoped I hadn't done any actual damage. I had driven down the alley and pulled into a fenced parking lot behind the apartment building, where Jedsen's sister's boyfriend took over and backed the U-Haul into the space closest to the stairs. We had all walked back to get Jedsen's car after his sister said, "Oh, no. You can't park it there. You'll get towed." We had gotten the car and parked it in that back parking lot next to the U-Haul because his sister said that the apartment manager said it was okay for just that one night and otherwise he'd have to pay for the spot. We had all said hello and found his apartment and started unloading the truck as airplanes passed over on their way to O'Hare.

Two more guys came to help us, friends of his sister's boyfriend, and we got everything into his little one-bedroom. Jedsen offered to take them to dinner to thank them, and so having only spent about 5 minutes in his new apartment after a 9.5 hour trip and unloading, we got into his sister's boyfriend's car and he drove us into the city to get pizza, which his sister said was "cheap."

$104 dollars later, Jedsen writes his name on the wall of Gino's East: "Jeddy Bear." He makes his mark on Chicago on his first night.

It's 10:30 when they drop us off at his apartment, but we need to get milk and cereal before we go to bed, and so we walk to the Walgreen's that I saw just two blocks away. On the walk back from Walgreen's we pass a hulking black man going the opposite direction, and Jedsen comments that he thinks this guy could take Rocky in a fight. I bet so too.

We come around the front of the apartment building and see blinking and beeping truck lights in the back parking lot.

"Is my car being towed?" Jedsen chuckles.

I go through the gate to the lot and see that his car is still there but there's a tow truck backing up to it.

"Yes," I say without looking at him. I stare at the truck backing up to hook his car.

"That's our car," I yell. "We're here! Don't take it."

Jedsen calmly walks up to the tow truck and says, "That's my car, man. The guy Chris told me I could park it here for the night."

The tow truck guy gets out and says, "Man, this guy called."

Out of the darkness, the man who could beat Rocky emerges. "You're in my spot," he shouts, emphasizing each word with his hands. "I've been honking my horn out here for two-three hours. You can't be here."

"I'm sorry, man, but we've been out. We went to get milk. I just moved in today. That guy Chris told me I could park here for the night." Jedsen touches the back of his head.

"Nah, I've lived here for three years. I've had this spot for three years. Nobody can park in this spot but me."

"We'll move the car! We have the keys!" I yell past Jedsen and the man who could beat Rocky to the tow truck guys.

Jedsen walks over to the tow truck and asks them if he can get what he needs out of the car and where he can pick it up at. The bigger tow truck guy motions east and says it'll be $200.

"But we're here!" I say, more in a whisper of disbelief.

Jedsen gets a few things out of the car and then goes to the window of the tow truck. The tow truck guys are restless, rolling their heads and saying, "But we're already here. We have your tires."

Jedsen comes over to me and says "Do you have any cash? These guys want something for their trouble."

I give him a 20 and he goes back to the tow truck window. A few seconds later the truck moves forward and releases the car tires.

"I think they wanted more," Jedsen says as he stands by me and we watch them maneuver out of the parking lot. The guy who could beat Rocky had disappeared and gone to wait in his car with the lights on to come to his spot. We know we have to leave in the car immediately.

After spending 30 minutes trying to find a parking spot for the car, we finally park it in a spot that we think is legal about 6 blocks away. After parking the car, we walk back to get the U-Haul to return it because there is nowhere to park it. I drop Jedsen at his car so he can follow me to the U-Haul drop-off.

It's midnight by the time we leave the truck, and we drive the five miles back to his neighborhood to once again find a parking spot for the car. This time even more people have come home, even more people have parked, and all of the spots we see are not spots but empty spaces in front of fire hydrants or spaces for cars with permits or phantom spaces that we dream to be spaces because we've been driving around in circles for nearly an hour trying to park a car that Jedsen's going to sell as soon as possible because, as we've proven, Chicago is no place for a car. But he was already planning to sell it because I had already known that Chicago was no place to need a car, but I hadn't known it to this extent. And after 1am, when we finally decided we take the chance on a parking ticket just to finally be parked and go back to the apartment we'd spent all of 5 minutes in since we arrived in Chicago, we parked on the north side of the famous Graceland Cemetery. And as we walked away from the car, a large raccoon bounded down the sidewalk and sat to stare at us. And that was after I had seen a large opossum cross the street to the cemetery. And that was after we finally decided to laugh at the whole ordeal because, come on, it's Chicago and we're together and we're happy, if not utterly exhausted and sick of cars.

Open

2011-05-23T22:21:00.001-04:00

I've been sleeping with the blinds open again. The window on the far side, the side with the most city light. The side with the parking lot light that blares orange even when the blinds are closed. Last night I woke and the light was brighter than I could handle, than I remembered. It's brighter than ever, I thought, and I squinted across the bed to let down the blinds a few more inches.

I've been sleeping with the blinds open again. Not on purpose, but not accidentally. I used to do it all the time, but that was when the lights seemed comforting, necessary, and less bright. Since, I've read how even a little bit of light at night can disrupt your sleep. I haven't been feeling well in the middle of the day, and I'm always tired, but I don't bother to put down all of the blinds. Just like I don't bother to wash my face at night half the time because it's easier not to. Just like I ignore my birth control pill at the hour I'm supposed to take it every night and lazily take it some time the next morning before work, so that I'm always one behind.

I always feel one day behind.

I went shopping yesterday afternoon for shorts, which took me to the mall in Spartanburg, a mall I haven't been to in months. The mall left me listless and grumpy--there were no shorts long enough for a 26 year old but short enough to make me feel tall and potentially cute. I went to Target and ultimately found one pair of shorts but no tank tops, which had been a late addition to my search. Today after work, with my one success of yesterday, I went straight to the mall, convinced I would see with fresh eyes and a fresh waist line. But it was all the same and even looked worse on hangers than the previous day. Target again, after, to buy the same successful pair of shorts in a different color. But my size was all gone except in the dark khaki, which created white rings on my things where the shorts ended, clearly a different kind of 5 than the ones I'd already bought. I debated sandals, then, because I needed something new. I debated sandals in colors I didn't want but felt good. I carried three pairs around, then only one, and then none when I realized I couldn't think of a time when I would wear them over my other sandals.

As I drove away from Target, I was immediately anxious about the two hours I had wasted searching the same places for the same thing I had already searched for and, partially, found the day before. Two hours evaporate like they were never there. And all I have to show for them is a bottle of Ibuprofen and a sympathy card in a plastic bag. Once home, I need to cook dinner. I need to cook dinner because I know there is fresh chicken in the fridge that has a sell-date of May 10, thirteen days ago. I need to use this chicken that I spent $5.13 on over two weeks ago, and I need to use the green pepper and onion I bought on the same day to make fajitas, my favorite dish that I don't think I've made once in the near year I've lived here. The green pepper feels slightly wrinkly. The onion is soft and puffed with mold.

This reminds me again that I should never go on a true grocery shopping trip and buy fresh food. I won't eat it. And when I want to it will be too late and it will be because I have to because I know it will soon be too late. I am always a day behind.

On Saturday I will fly to Kansas City to see Jedsen for the first time since the afternoon we shared in mid-February. We will move him to Chicago next week. He sleeps in the dark. In a dark so deep I wake drunk and hungover and sad because I don't know what time it is and when I find out I will be mad because I will have slept all morning. Jedsen thinks it's good that I sleep all morning, but it makes me feel behind, lost, like I have to recover who I am and what I mean. Waking to a forced dark closes me in. Tells me I should forget my love of the sun. Means I am alone even though I am less alone than I ever am.

The lights mean I'm here. The lights mean, are real. The only real time is at home or in nature. In nature, I tend to forget time.

When you don't know

2011-04-18T23:15:00.000-04:00

When you don't know what you want, it's probably time to begin enjoying what you have.

My problem has been that I want too much and can't decide what I want more when I realize that I can't have it all. I want a house. A house that my couch can fit into. A dog. New bookcases. New dresser. A yard. A kayak. A big savings account.

A few months ago I decided that renting a house and adopting a dog would be my plan for the summer. $550 was my rent-cap, and that's $100 more than I'm paying now for my adorable third-floor downtown apartment. I thought, I'll find a house with all appliances (even w/d) and a yard for under $550 in either Hampton Heights or Converse Heights and then I'll adopt a dog and then life will be perfect. Only recently did I realize that I would not want to live in any of the houses that I could rent for under $550.

So I've been trying to think of what I want more and for what motivations. I want a house because I could use my awesome couch again and garden and have a "stand alone" and get a dog and feel complete, like an adult. But, just now, I'm starting to feel like a social human being, something I should have experienced in college. Just now, I'm making friends that I feel comfortable around and will do things with on a whim because I live so close and because it feels good. Living in a house that wasn't in the middle of Hampton Heights next to everyone I know (because I can't afford that) would likely make me revert being alone all of the time, as it would make me put more effort into going out. As is, I can walk over to HUB-BUB or the Bookshop whenever I want. Plus, if I moved into a house I wouldn't be able to get a dog because I wouldn't be able to afford a dog and a house. So, if I can't have the dog with the house, is there still the motivation to move to a house. Not as much, I guess. I mean, sure, that's what I want, but do I need it? No.

So here I am always wanting wanting wanting when I have a pretty awesome apartment and a sweet, adorable cat and the freedom to leave for a weekend or a week and not worry too much. I should enjoy what I have and make the most of what I have, which is a lot. A lot of really good stuff. So I can allow myself now to spend a little on new bookcases and maybe a dresser because that's what I need here, and if I'm not spending a ton of money on moving, I can afford it. I can also think more seriously about fostering dogs and, still, adopting, though I have to make sure everything is ready and I am committed to a change in lifestyle.

You really didn't need to know all of this, but I've needed to write it out, and it only hit me today when I read that quote on a friend's Facebook page and then talked to Jedsen about my wants and practicalities that what I really want is to not want. I'm restless--not in my job--but in my living environment and situation, which I've always been. I want to constantly update and change the conditions under which I live, and I can still do that from here--only in smaller ways than moving.

Accumulation and Culmination

2011-04-16T09:46:00.000-04:00

...read it over on the HUB-Blog: Accumulation and Culmination

Such great heights

2011-04-03T16:06:00.002-04:00

Kerri & Kari on Looking Glass Mountain

She wishes.

2011-04-03T16:04:00.000-04:00

Golden

2011-04-03T16:02:00.001-04:00

Before yesterday's hike on Looking Glass Mountain with Kerri and Cheryl, I looked up what to do if we encountered a bear. Turns out you're supposed to back away slowly while making yourself big and making noise. Be orally intimidating.

We didn't see a bear, but it was good to know that Cheryl has a lot of experience with bears (in her backyard, on a trail, in trees) from when she lived in Western Massachusetts (which was until 2 weeks ago). We also had her large retriever Atticus with us. He looks like he could be a black bear.

Now I know, and I feel more empowered. Though not stupid, of course.

What I still haven't figured out yet is how to handle this intense desire to adopt a dog when I still haven't figured out if this is the right time financially, emotionally, and environmentally. Today it hit me harder than ever before. I made a lap around the kennels at the Humane Society before deciding who to work with first. When I saw Gaige, a one-year-old golden retriever mix near the end of the front row, it was connection at first site. I knew she would be the one I walked first--she had to be.

I spent a few minutes with Smokey the retriever puppy before going back to Gaige. She was quiet, calm, and didn't jump when I entered the kennel. We got the leash on and walked outside together. As soon as the door closed behind us, Gaige turned around, stood up, and put her arms on my chest. I've come to know this as a dog hug, a need for the dog to feel close to me. She didn't push, just rested against my chest and stayed there for nearly a minute, content to stand. I motioned her down and told her we should go walk.

Every few steps she would look up at me or turn her body, excited, to see I was still there. She walked steady at my side. I was the only volunteer there at this time, so there were no other dogs to play with outside. We spent a long time in the dog run chasing after balls together, and then we just sat on the bench. She just wanted to sit beside me and sometimes lay down partially on my lap. She was happy, and our connection grew more and more. She seemed like the perfect dog for me: size, activity, affection. I started trying to plan getting her into my week. I started trying to schedule her into my life. I started feeling completely torn between wanting her so bad and still measuring the "right timing." After a walk, I reluctantly took her back, only to continue wondering if this could be the dog, if this could be the time.

I went down the line of dogs on her side and walked several other precious pups, but I made sure to say hello to her when I passed. A few dogs later, I saw a young couple kneeling in front of her kennel. The guy was on the phone. The girl was smiling. I instantly knew they were thinking of adopting her. I instantly started tearing up.

When I came back around twenty minutes later, Gaige's informational paper was gone, which meant she was being considered for adoption. When I came back twenty minutes after that, the paper was still gone. When I went out into the lobby to turn in a medical form for another dog, I saw the couple at the counter with a brand new leash, and the man had a credit card in his hand.

As I was leaving, I had to ask. They said yes, they were adopting Gaige. We talked about her for a few minutes, about what I had noticed and loved about her earlier, and they were so excited about taking her home. It felt good knowing they were the ones taking her.

But I've never experienced this connection with a dog before...followed by immediate rejection. The dogs I have fallen for in the past have disappeared in the middle of the week, and I've had to believe that they've been adopted into a good home. But this, it all happened so hard and so fast. The serious consideration and then the heartbreak.

But perhaps it was a sign that it's still not time for me.

I'm almost positive I want to move to a (rental) house this summer. Jedsen got a job in Chicago and is moving there at the beginning of June. I'm having trouble keeping everything balanced, knowing what is a priority and what is a need due to restlessness.

Restlessness. That is my plight here, as I'm not really lonely. I want to do everything and all at once. Restlessness: a need for more stuff and less stuff, to move and not to move, to read and to hike, to write and to watch documentaries, to explore and to rest.

If you want to love a new song...

2011-03-27T22:48:00.000-04:00

Traces

2011-03-27T18:10:00.003-04:00

I often toy with starting over, with shucking this blog to my past and beginning again with an aim, a focus, a reason for writing. In fact, I have started over once but abandoned it after an afternoon, forgot about it because I didn't want to erase or deny the history that I'd already built here.

The truth is I need this blog in this space to know where I've been. I know that's not very convincing, seeing as I write, on average, less than once a month these days, but I'm aware of it nonetheless. There are stories and quotes and people in these archives that I want attached to my present writing. Perhaps I will start a new blog someday, but it would be in addition to this one.

As of right now, though, my attention needs to be on my own writing and not a new solo online venture.

It is nearly April. I've barely been home lately, and when I've been home I've spent all of my time in the living room. The office has been neglected, and I think it's been over a month since I sat down at my desk; my laptop and papers have cluttered the coffee table. So I was startled yesterday when I decided to pick up some papers off the floor, papers that had blown off the desk from the wild wind through the open window. I was startled because my desk, ledge, and other items in front of the window were covered in a green layer of pollen. Like powder with a flower scent, only a beautiful green and where I didn't expect it. There was water, too, because the rain was blowing in and pooling. I wiped it up, amazed by my collection of spring.

Last weekend I went on a hike, the first real hike of the season. I went alone to Pinnacle Mountain in Table Rock State Park, in the farthest NW corner of the state. I started at 9:30 and kept a good pace the first two miles, impressed at how I was passing people even though I hadn't exercised in a month. The last two miles were brutal. The last 600 feet were nearly impossible. I couldn't walk straight or even for the next three days.

But that was just the story of ascension. The story of descent was pretty memorable, too. The miles were going pretty quickly, though my feet were burning with heat, dirt, and the pressure of pointing down. I was longing for the creek that I knew I would follow for the last mile back to the trail head. Just after I hit the last mile, the dark clouds that had formed on my way down got active. I heard thunder. I was excited--my first mountain thunderstorm! I spoke aloud that I wouldn't mind some sprinkles, that I could use some coolness and refreshing.

What I got was a downpour for the last half-mile. I smiled the whole way, as I got soaked and watched the rain's effect on the rushing creek. I smiled as I wiped my eyes so I could see the rocks I crossed. I didn't run because, though, yes, dangerous, I was relishing my first true weather experience in the mountains. And you know how I feel about both mountains and weather. Together? Too great.

As I say in the video after the painful summit, it was the most challenging hike I've done to date. Even more so than Grandfather Mountain, but for a different reason. Grandfather was difficult in its ladders and cables and ledges and climbing up rock faces--and it was the most rewarding hike, for sure--but it was maybe 2 miles. Pinnacle was difficult because it was demanding for a sustained distance: 4.2 miles up (plus a 1 mile detour to Mill Creek Falls) and 4.2 miles down.

Pinnacle was also challenging in another way because it gave me the first instance of fear for wildlife. The bears are waking up. This I thought of before I went, but really this whole time I've been hoping to see a bear, a mythical creature that might appear in the distance and then disappear, an apparition. But around mile 2 on the ascent, with no other hikers in the immediate vicinity, I heard rustling up the slope. I stopped and listened, and it was then that it hit me: I don't know what to do if I see a bear. Do I stand still? Run? Make loud noises? I didn't know, and so I walked on in the hopes that it indeed wasn't a bear and that there would be others around a few more bends.

That's right, it hit me on the trail that I should probably know what to do when I encounter more than a squirrel on the side of a mountain. It's on my to-do list before the next hike. Which, unless next weekend brings an adventure, will be on the other side of Grandfather Mountain on my birthday. Turn 26 on a mountain with friends? Perfect. Only wish Jedsen would be there, too.

This week has left me without

2011-02-13T00:23:00.001-05:00

...a car that often and reliably shifts out of park.

...clear skin.

...a working computer.

...my wallet.

The world exists

2011-02-05T20:38:00.000-05:00

I've never had any doubt the world exists. Whether it could be counted on to stay, that's another story. We are never entirely settled. Time conspires against such certainty. If we're smart we count instead on the persistence of both perception and memory. --John Lane, Circling Home

I've been dreaming about houses, about a house. About a yard, a "stand-alone," a world all my own. With a dog and Snickers. With my lonely, cold, green couch that I saw today for the first time in 8 months. With bookcases and windows, a long dresser and room for recycling.

I love my apartment in Spartanburg, my city view. I love its light and wood and color and length. I don't want to move again--it feels like I'm always moving, always trying to find that happier spot. And then when I find it I move for a different reason and cross the country. This time, my reasons are more root-oriented. Though I don't feel settled and can't foresee feeling settled here when half of my heart is elsewhere, I want to live fully while I'm wherever I am. Spartanburg is home. It is sweet, lively, and close to more living. I have friends here. I have the coolest most wonderful job here. I want to inhabit it. But I can't really do that when I'm three floors up without any ground to churn, without a defined square-footage. My connection to the ground has come elsewhere, outside of Spartanburg on beaches and, mostly, mountainsides.

There are ways I'm working myself into this place. First, there's the fact that I work for a nonprofit that serves the community; that is the first rung of connection, of reason. Then, there's the connection to the humane society, my place there on Sunday mornings with the other people who walk dogs and the dogs themselves. From there, I'm spreading out. I want to connect with an environmental organization.

And then there are the goals. The goals of learning to kayak, of backpacking, of publishing in the journals I respect, of writing farther and wider, of writing closer and deeper.

My mantra--don't laugh--has become "CHOOSE THE LIVING." However much I love my quiet evenings at home alone, I can't do that every night. Seclusion breeds seclusion, I've learned. I have to get out. I have to meet people. I have to experience. I have to be more spontaneous, alive, open. Not reckless or irrational or out-of-character but a part of the world. I want to meet the world in the face, not through a tv screen or computer screen. By getting out of my home, I work to create a home because home involves more than a living space. It involves community, environment, action.

In less than two weeks I will return to my childhood home, to Hutchinson, Kansas, and its straight, flat streets and sad, struggling buildings. But I remember the life that was there, all of those twenty years of a hometown and family. What will it feel like to touch that old, torn couch after 9 months and 8 states away? How will it feel to hug my grandmothers again? Will they still feel like mine? How will my presence shift the relationship of parents to brother to cats in the house when this girl who has done things they never tried returns?

I want to recover the sense of place of Hutchinson, how it really is. Not the town I couldn't wait to leave. I want to go back to those places that are so familiar yet fuzzy in memory: Arkansas River, HCC, my block. The hill north of town that felt like a mountain--highest thing I knew--when I approached on my bike. I always made it and anticipated the cruise down, the rush of wind, and my father sailing ahead of me. I miss those bike rides with my father, our time in the country with only the wind as our friends. That was our one connection to each other. It was the thing I could do with him and he could do with me. We rode together, and then I stopped, and then he kept going farther and farther and longer until his body was too worn out from his job to go on.

He would love to ride out here in the Piedmont, but I don't know if his body could handle all the hills. Yet hills are what I crave--not on my bike but on my own feet. I crave the climb, the burn of my legs, and the rush from reaching a summit or view, of achieving a feat with my body alone. My body and its relationship with nature here is the real test of place. Leaving no trace yet leaving part of my self and coming away with a new part of my self. That is what hiking is: a journey to something new, to a new relationship with my self and the ground, the sky, the water, breath.

"I've never had any doubt the world exists," but I have to exist in it, too.

Since when

2011-01-31T22:02:00.000-05:00

Since when did I start saying "baby girl"?

Since when did I get nervous to walk around my block?

Since when did I begin thinking slaw goes on everything?

Since when did I love the fiddle?

Since when did keeping the thermostat at 55 in the winter become exciting?

Dogs I walked/loved this week

2011-01-31T21:57:00.000-05:00


Ricochet. He lives up to his name, running around like crazy. And he pees when he's excited. Like, straight out when you're getting him out of his cage. Straight out at you. But, really, he just wants to sit on your lap, even when you're outside, which isn't crazy at all.

This is Norris. I'm completely in love with this brindle terrier and have been since I first walked him three weeks ago. He's two years old but the sweetest ever, and he likes to stand up and hug you. He knows how to sit, and he walks so good on the leash. I wish I could bring him home. This face, it makes me melt. We're pals already, but I want so bad to make him my hiking and loving and everyday buddy.

Kyra is a young one, just barely over 6 months. But she's the sweetest blue heeler baby girl that I've ever been with. She's still round like a puppy but good on the leash and loving. And the softest you could ever imagine. Sweet, sweet girl that got surrendered by her owners because they couldn't afford her. I'll afford you, baby girl!

Oh, Mojo. I technically walked him last week, but he was just so good and sweet. He just wanted to be my companion--didn't so much care for balls or running with the other dogs outside. Just wanted to look up and you with love.

Play, play, play. Skip, skip, skip.

2011-01-31T21:42:00.000-05:00

After my workout tonight, I determined to update my workout playlist. It was suspiciously lacking in certain raise-the-roof songs. And so I started from the top, from the A's, and went through my library.

I had forgotten how much music I love and long for until I realized, as I clicked through and sampled old loves, that I suddenly wanted to listen to everything I loved all at once. I couldn't decide what to stick with, what to play all the way through, because I wanted to play so much all the way through. Albums, whole albums that I wanted to swoon to like I have before. But all at once. I don't have time to listen to 20 hours of continuous music tonight.

It was also startling to see that it's been over a year since I last listened to some of these songs. They still feel so present to me, so dear, so familiar, that a year feels like a week or two.

After the run-through, I pressed shuffle, as I often do when I want to hear what I love but can't decide what to focus on, start with, commit to. And then, as is iTunes' want, shuffle only wanted to play the songs that it always wants to play--songs that I like but don't love. Skip, skip, skip, skip, skip.

Sometimes I just want to be 16 again in my room, sitting on the floor in front of my stereo with albums on repeat. Matchbox 20. Backstreet Boys. The Wallflowers. Or 19, when my tastes began to expand. Keane. John Mayer. Howie Day. Or 20, when I discovered Limewire and downloaded song upon song of new music or rare songs of my favorites. Or all of these days in between, days of music in the car and through the apartment. Tired Pony in the car in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Snow Patrol on my last drive across Kansas. James Taylor on I-26 to Beaufort. The Beatles all over Manhattan, all over Topeka.

And now I want to read everything I love. All at once. How can I choose?

White night

2011-01-24T22:56:00.001-05:00

Lately, I have been falling asleep at inconvenient times. Like, while watching a documentary on stress at the dining room table. Or during the 4th quarter of a division championship game. Or, just now, while reading one of my own essays, one that I was reading to remind myself what I think I'm capable of writing.

Not a good sign, me thinks.

But, perhaps it has nothing at all to do with the stimulant that is clearly not sustaining my alertness. My head feels heavy constantly, like the substance between my ears is folding in. Yet then I wake at 4am, 5am, or somewhere in the nether regions of night that purposefully doesn't get named, I wake to a cat staring at me from the pillow. She stares, and her weight changes the pillow's weight, and my head shifts, and I stare at her white chest only as long as it takes me to realize it and then shove her off the bed. Not on the pillow, Snickers. Not now. Go.

I listen for the thud and the meows, her standing on the ground waiting for her next move. And a few moments later when again her face is looking at mine, the questioning grunts in the night.

After I shower, I come out to find her asleep on the foot of the bed for her morning nap. I poke her but she only purrs.

Holiday Letter 2010

2011-01-07T21:21:00.000-05:00

Hello, friend.

Just beyond the trees of the Piedmont, a rugged silhouette of gray stretches east to west, land that rises, rises, rounds. Mountains. Blue Ridge. When I reach the peak of a hill as I drive north on Church St. in Spartanburg, there they are. “Hello,” I say. “Good morning.”

I drive north on Sunday mornings to walk dogs at the Humane Society. Hello, walk, love, home. I fall in love every week, and I keep their names with me when I get home and greet Snickers. I practice saying a dog’s name next to hers, and it feels right. Soon, I will bring one home and keep him. Then we’ll be three here in this apartment of light in downtown Spartanburg, where my walls of windows overlook the city.

Just out of view, Morgan Square is two blocks away, with its clock tower, fountain, and, on the west end, the Masonic Temple where I work. I moved here six months ago to work for the Hub City Writers Project, a literary nonprofit organization that runs an independent press and bookstore. Our offices and Hub City Bookshop are on the ground floor of the Masonic Temple, shared with a coffee bar and bakery, and pigeons that click atop the awning with hurried feet. All this time I’ve been working part-time, mornings, and another part-time job at Starbucks, afternoons/evenings, in the hope of going full-time. And January 3 I will. Starting then, I will be Assistant Director of the Hub City Writers Project and will leave Starbucks and its endless nights gladly behind. Once again, as I did in Lawrence and Manhattan, I will spend my days among books—manuscript submissions, advanced reader copies, books new and used, books published by our press, and books fresh from the world beyond—and writers, friends.

I am far from Kansas, from the Flint Hills, from campus, from the mad world of school. Finished with my MFA degree in Creative Writing, I am free to write here—when there’s time. On my one free day a week, Saturday, I write, I read, and I explore. I cross the Carolinas in width and height, from a suspension bridge above Raven Cliff Falls in the tip of Upstate South Carolina to the edge of the continent at Hunting Island State Park, where I saw and touched the ocean for the first time. I crave hikes, crave height, crave challenges over rocks and ledges. I crave views; I will climb for them, drive for them, alone. I find trails and sometimes take friends but, when safe, I prefer to go with only my self.

"I have a hunger for nonhuman spaces, not out of any distaste for humanity, but out of a need to experience my humanness the more vividly by confronting stretches of the earth that my kind has had no part in making." - Scott Russell Sanders

When Jedsen visits next week, after four months apart, I will show him those peaks in the distance I have come to love. For him, my boyfriend of six years, I will cook my first Christmas dinner and brew cups of coffee. What was once distance is now long distance, and long-term distance. We rely on the other’s voice at the end of a day, a voice so familiar and comforting it might as well come from the next room—not eight states away.

The streets are curved here, angled, askew. They change names mid-way; they become highways, lose their words and gain numbers. My world is new here: three stories high, and flanked by crape myrtles and Southern drawl. I speak the same but am changed by clouds that drift from the mountains and a morning sun that lights every corner. You should see the way Snickers sniffs at the sky, like the air is purer up here, all full with the living.

Didn't happen

2010-12-08T21:48:00.000-05:00

New Thing December has been delayed following the change of the spin class schedule without my knowing. Try walking to the back of the gym to round the corner to the room where you think you remember the woman showing you on that day in July when you first got the tour and when you last went past the weight room. Somewhere down that long hallway past the mirrors is a locker room, a big exercise room, and a room for spinning. That spinning room was exactly where I thought it would be, yet, through the window, I saw dripping faces peddling in the dark to "ouonce, ouonce, ouonce" on the stereo. They had already started. They were even almost done. I was 40 minutes late.

But, in a minor new thing, that was my first ever evening visit to this gym. I normally never stay past 8am. Between 6 and 7am are my favorite times. It was a different crowd. The tvs were tuned to ESPN--all of them--and not FoxNews. There were people under 30 other than me. I felt out of place.

But if things work out for me, (fingers crossed) I'll have the option of going in the evening more often. And, now that I know spin class starts before 6, next week might bring my first class.

In the meantime, I'm trying to schedule appointments for my car, my hair, and my self in the next two weeks before Jedsen gets here. It's so unbelievably strange to think that I will see him--after nearly four months--in two weeks. His body will be standing here in this room with me. I will take him to my places, I will show him my sky. I will tiptoe around in the mornings, I will brew four cups of Cafe Verona. I will be held, held again, loved again in person.

New Thing December

2010-12-07T17:47:00.000-05:00

It is my new mission to write here three times a week. Doable, I say.

It is my new mission to do one new thing a month. Thus, this is New Thing December. Tonight, I try my first spin class. Scary.

It is my new mission to cook things. Like in a crockpot. And in the oven. Like, with real food.

It is my new mission to make sure everything has its place and is in its place. Clutter clutters all.

It is my new mission to sleep through a night. To sleep well. To wake well. Waking is very important.

Close

2010-11-24T21:45:00.000-05:00

I'm moon-gazing. There it is, shaded white, with romantic whisps of slow-moving clouds drifting from south to north. No one is in a hurry. No one but me. And to the right, there's my friend the BB&T building, lit. I pan for you. I pan my huge windows across east Spartanburg for you because this is what I know, this is what I see, this is what I feel.

The moon's outline is crisp. It is defined. Its edges do not blur, do not halo, do not speak of rain, even though it may rain tomorrow night. It is only bright. It is all that it is. It is more than a surface.

It is strange to think that tomorrow is Thanksgiving. There has been no homecoming for me this year. It has been a lead-up to a pause, tomorrow, between madness. I have been stressed, with life piling up for me to finish. I will not hug my grandparents tomorrow, and I don't like that. I will not tug at my mother to finish her cooking faster so we can get in the car and head to one of said grandparents' homes. I will not eat serving after serving of stuffing and sample three pies. I will not be cold tomorrow in Kansas.

But, instead, I will be in the East, in sixty degree weather, with my friends and this new city that, I must say, is just adorable all lit up for the holidays. You should visit. I'm grateful that I have a place here and I'm grateful for my place here. Snickers will get extra wet food tomorrow, and I'll let her scratch her claws into the hallway carpet a little longer tomorrow. And I'm going to walk/jog a Turkey Day 8k in the morning to benefit the food bank. I wish I could walk dogs, too, but the humane society is closed to volunteers.

Though I'm lonely, without Jedsen, without brother, without parents, without grandparents, I'm so lucky to be where I am. And I'm not really without. Just separated by a thousand miles.

Distance

2010-11-21T14:25:00.000-05:00

I say "good morning" to the mountains. I tell them "hello." I say, "There you are." I breathe a sigh and smile.

How tired I am

2010-11-01T08:31:00.000-04:00

After falling asleep on the couch while reading and watching Halloween specials on NBC, I made the conscious decision not to call Jedsen and say good night as I heavily moved from the couch to bed, electing begrudgingly to change into clothes that would be comfortable to sleep in. I didn't feel like I had the energy to speak.

And so I fell asleep at 10pm on the night before Halloween. And this is what followed, transcribed by Jedsen in the moment because he knew what was happening, though I have absolutely no recollection of ever talking to Jedsen at all that night. None.

Saturday, October 30. After midnight.

Transcript

Jedsen: Hi, dream.

Kari: (inaudible)

Jedsen: Oh no, I didn't mean to wake you. I just wanted to say goodnight.

Kari: (pause) Do you need something?

Jedsen: No, I was just saying goodnight. You never called.

Kari: Oh. I didn't know if you needed me to read something somewhere.

Jedsen: Say again?

Kari: I didn't know if you wanted me to read something somewhere.

Jedsen: (laughs) I think you’re asleep, dream.

Kari: (long groan)

Jedsen: (laughing) Well, I love you. You get some sleep.

Kari: M’gay.

Jedsen: And I do love you.

Kari: I love you.

Jedsen: Goodnight.

Kari: (groans)

Jedsen: (laughing) Mmm, bye-bye.

Kari: Bye.

Creation

2010-10-04T22:13:00.000-04:00

I'm getting back to it again. Writing. But I've been considering what it means to "write" lately. Writing. Is it a mindset, a goal, a verb? Is it creation of new or recreation or re-creation of what has already been written? Is it sitting down with a new mind every time, or is it returning to that which can work and discover? Is it love, surprise, a chore?

When you are no longer in a writing program, when you no longer have thesis, thesis, thesis, dripping down your back, when your MFA diploma is leaned against the wall, still in its mailing envelope, on the top of your dresser, are you now, or still, or finally, a writer? I wondered that all along, whether my writing was real. Whether I was writing and meant to be writing or writing to do it and accomplish and accomplish and succeed. I knew this after would be the test. Would I write when I no longer had to? Would I write by choice? What would I create?

It has been difficult here. I haven't questioned my desire to write--only my ability and discipline. And here, in this whirlwind of a life, set here in the Piedmont of South Carolina, in the distant shadows of the Blue Ridge, in the deep starlessness of a city, amid two jobs and a fractured mind, writing has been a struggle. It has been that thing that scrawled itself on my desk, facing the double windows where I wanted it and needed it, under Snickers exposed belly and the heat of a computer set on Internet. Writing has shown up and hidden itself in notebooks all over--my writing is as scattered as my self. It wants to be writing but is sometimes journal. Journal sometimes becomes writing but more often becomes complaint, list, new deals with myself, with health and love. Writing sometimes becomes something--inspired--but then I walk away from it and start anew, unable to finish, to continue, to work toward a whole. All I have are pieces, and these old pieces--pieces from the thesis that are not what I want them to be--pieces that need put together, found and matched up, fractured and re-membered.

I have been here for nearly four months, and, at last, I am working on a whole. Revisioning a piece. I have merged two pieces and am trying to discover how they work together. They do, but how. Where. What do they mean?

This return to work, though I could see it coming, is a direct response to the fact that I have to read something in front of an entirely new audience one week from today. Spartanburg will hear my voice for the first time, these kind souls who publish and sell and love literature every day and asked me to be a part of it. And my voice, my rhythm, has changed slightly in the last six months since that thesis was turned in, since I really worked. What I read needs to reflect this newness, this fresh tinge of language.

Jedsen tells me I am no longer the nineteen year old he fell in love with. I have changed, he says. He no longer feels like he has to protect me, pity me in my smallness. He thinks I am a woman, a woman he loves. A woman whom he calls every day and talks about teaching, about writing, about loving, and missing, and tennis, and his parents who still make each other blush. I certainly feel different but not old enough. My brain feels stuck in fifteen, my eyes settled on a face of acne and fright. I have been trying to wear my hair differently lately, less straight, to feel less straight. To feel loose and open and alive and wise. Like a woman. Like one who knows. Like one who can.

Tell me, words, can I at least be free with you?

On waking

2010-09-30T14:40:00.000-04:00

This morning I woke with a stomach ache, an ache that pushed into and from my back, to the sweet morning voices of NPR. They were raising money, I heard, and tried to break through to consciousness and press down into the mattress to exchange my ache for comfort. I heard that Tony Curtis had died, though I can't recall seeing him in any film other than the few minutes of Some Like it Hot that Jedsen showed me years ago. I woke to pain, fundraising, and death, and slanted my body toward the open window and the breeze, warmer now at dawn than it had been the night before.

Watching the sky change in the background of the BB&T skyscraper has become my favorite time of day. The few lights still glowing in the tower, and the pale beige of its stone, high, are transformed into this beautiful reflection or contrast or complement to the dawn. I cannot explain how it looks, only how it feels. It feels like this is the earth, new. There is this thing built by man first illuminated and changed, pulled out of the darkness through my bedroom window, each morning. It is in relief. It is surreal. It is the only living thing.

I want to stay in this moment all morning, swallow the image to keep it. But the sun comes, the blue lightens, and the tower becomes a mere tall building, its lights fading into the everything around it. It now longer glows, is distinct--beyond its height and still blinking red signals.

Snickers claws at my nose. Eats my hair. Stares. She has taken to licking me in the biting sort of way she does when she cleans herself. She leans down to my arm and pretends I am a kitten; I can feel the fronts of her teeth, her tongue pressed up against it and through for the more forceful cleaning. Perhaps this is a sign I should adopt another cat. Or a kitten. I would. And a dog, especially, if I could.

And this adoption thing, though it's been on my mind for some time now (again), is now forefront. I have just begun volunteering at the Spartanburg Humane Society, and last weekend was the orientation where we were told all of the statistics--incoming, outgoing, process, staff. I'm going to start out as a dog-walker, and training should be in a couple of weeks. I'm going to be a dog-walker for a couple of hours a week, though I don't know how I will stand to leave, how I will not have to compulsively walk every dog, how I will not, as I already have just by looking, fall in love with every dog that I walk.

I wake thinking of a morning walk with a dog, my dog. Up at dawn, at that best hour, walking for exercise, walking for happiness, walking for health and companionship. I would do it. But I already brush Snickers away at 6:30 when I should be getting up and ready for the gym. I already let NPR talk on and on without letting them complete, quickly, the job of waking they were sent to do. I already fail at going to the gym every morning now, and, mostly, making it by 7. I already lack the face of the man I love in the orange cast of morning, in the humid afternoon, in the shadowed clouds of sunset.

But I don't wake thinking alone. I wake smiling at dawn and its magic on the tower, the tower I have claimed, and grip the covers back under my neck, my head stretched up to catch the light.

We bring home

2010-09-28T21:38:00.000-04:00

It struck me that distant cities are designed precisely so you can know where you came from. We bring home with us when we leave.

--Let the Great World Spin by Colum McCann

Latte, White Mocha, White Mocha

2010-09-22T22:57:00.000-04:00

My hands still smell like lattes. They smell like the waxy cups, like frappachino roast, like matcha. My hands just move and make and the fingers remember the grip of a cup, the heat of the steamed pitcher, the splashes of syrups.

Solitaire

2010-09-11T16:11:00.001-04:00

Most of my wandering in the desert I've done alone. Not so much from choice as from necessity--I generally prefer to go into places where no one else wants to go. I find that in contemplating the natural world my pleasure is greater if there are not too many others contemplating it with me, at the same time. However, there are special hazards in traveling alone. Your chances of dying, in case of sickness or accident, are much improved, simply because there is no one around to go for help.

--from Desert Solitaire by Edward Abbey

You'll be hearing from him again soon, here, for he resonates with me and what I'm doing out here.

In time he understood

2010-09-09T18:28:00.001-04:00

In time he understood that nature was not something outside the human world. The reverse is true. Nature is the real world, and humanity exists on islands within it.

-from Anthill by EO Wilson

Literally

2010-09-08T18:31:00.003-04:00

I can tell you that, in the last week, I've been to Kansas and back. Just like that. And it feels like it, too. Like just five minutes ago I was walking from the economy parking lot down the sidewalk to the entrance of the tiny and wonderful (though suspiciously lacking in water fountains) Greenville-Spartanburg Airport. A few seconds later I was in descent to Kansas City International Airport, watching the clouds thicken and thin from my window seat. I had been watching the clouds all afternoon, the texture of the upper surface, some tall, some fast, some grey, and the way the sun hit and colored. I had been thinking about the difference of below, how the earth below would be in shadow, under white and lacking sun, while, geographically, I was in the same place yet in an entirely different place. There was sun, blue sky, white only below. I had also been thinking about how wonderful it is that on a plane ride your only job is to gaze at clouds and ponder the earth.

It was in this mindset that I looked for the familiarity of Kansas. As I studied the clouds, we passed through them and, just below, they parted. I fixed on a football stadium below and tried to match the layout with stadiums I have known. First I thought Arrowhead Stadium in Kansas City, but it wasn't large enough. Then I thought a high school, but it seemed too large. I picked up on the southside building, bright sand, without stands and surveyed its surroundings. Green with more buildings of the same hue. Red roofs on some. Scattered yet close. And then I realized. It was Lawrence.

I searched East for Massachusetts street and found a clustered, lined road. Then North to where the Kansas River should be, flowing East, and found the seemingly still brown mass curving above the town. Just above the Kaw, I followed I-70 from Lawrence to the service station in the middle of lanes to the toll booth farther down yet before Exit 410 and the Speedway. The young UMKC student sitting next to me had been shifting restlessly throughout the short flight from Dallas, occasionally peering forward to see out our window. As we passed over my former home, I pointed down with my left thumb, grinning.

"That was Lawrence," I said, and he nodded, for we had already shared our brief back stories. I smiled and followed the lines of fields and farms, highways and rays of light from the scattered clouds as we closed in on the airport. Kansas only gained this beauty, to me, when I knew I was leaving. And now I was setting down again on this ground that I had left nearly three months before, relieved in the simple curve of the earth and the plotted paths of trees, if only because I missed it and what it still held for me.

Taxiing up to the gate, I texted Jedsen, "I'm here! I'm here! I'm here!" and looked out the window once more to trace the sun down to the ground. A rainbow had formed in the few minutes since we had landed. The right side touched down, centered in my window.

"There's a rainbow," I said to the boy next to me, pointing out again that which I loved.

"There must be a pot of gold down there," he said, shifting his backpack on his shoulders, ready to be on his home ground after three months in Mexico.

I nodded and wanted to walk with him out the terminal to where I hoped to find Jedsen waiting and point to him and say, "There's the man I love."

Blown: Kansas

2010-09-07T15:38:00.000-04:00

Radial Home-Making

2010-08-30T22:36:00.000-04:00

Light

2010-08-30T22:24:00.000-04:00

From bed at night, as I try to sink my neck between the two pillows and wash my hips into the mattress, I gaze through the open blinds to the building that rises above the bank on the corner, above the library just beyond. The BB&T building, Spartanburg's lone skyscraper, stands as my nightly beacon. Rectangle with a rounded top, blinking red bulbs at either end, with jutting sculpted ledges near the top on each length, the building is the last face I see before sleep.

Always, there are lights high in the stories peeking out in the dark, somehow shaded and sketched into curves and, with eyes, a face. The first night I noticed him, from the horizontal angle of my bed, the face grinned, eyes steady and bright, with even a crease on the left side made by a phantom cheek. I smiled back. This friendly and familiar face warmed me, and I slept. Spartanburg seemed to be saying, you're not lonely, you're not alone. In the morning, at dawn, the eyes were gone but the grin remained, awaiting the sun at its back as the orange deepened.

My first weekend in South Carolina was Jedsen's last, and we spent that Saturday on the French Broad River in a raft. Neither of us had been white water rafting before, and we decided that we wanted to live our last days together until our next visit (not thinking it would be a full ten weeks) among water and trees and mountains--all of which we had little of in Kansas. In Arkansas over New Years last year, our fifth anniversary, we had stayed in a cabin on Petit Jean Mountain in Arkansas, walking along Cedar Creek and hiking in our winter coats down to Cedar Creek Falls after breakfast on our last morning. We had been at peace there, in the cool but not cold, and among the ledges, cliffs, and water flowing downhill into more water and over falls. The water had been a wonder to us, a force that calmed and excited, bellowed and hushed, and, of course, claimed Jedsen water bottle.

On the French Broad, allegedly the third oldest river in the world, we rooted our feet in creases of the raft, seated across from each other and between two other couples and, at the back, a ten-year-old and Lilly, our guide. Lilly had been our entertainment on the bus ride down from the Nantahala Outdoor Center to the river, telling jokes about the road, the tobacco growing in rows, and the way the bus driver took the switchback turns. Though she instructed us perfectly--"All forward." "All back." "Forward 3." "Rest."--she didn't stop the jokes on the water.

"What's the difference between a raft guide and a large pizza? A large pizza can feed a family of four."

I would slowly turn my head around to her and smile, but my eyes rose with the tips of trees. I wanted to tell her to hush, let us hear the water and the leaves. I could tell Jedsen felt the same way. His chin jutted out from the strap of his helmet as if he were grinding his teeth while smiling. At once annoyance and peace.

Before each rapid, Lilly explained its name, its class, and how we might have to get through it. I learned to yearn for the Class II rapids, the biggest on our trip, and the rush of a small wall of white aimed at me. I wanted to be hit by the crushes of water, dip into them at the edge of falling over and rise, wet and beaming at the living.

Then again Lilly would speak, during the quiet between rapids, when the water lapped lightly and I watched the wash of boulders affect the surface of the water.

"How do you know when your raft guide is lying to you? When her lips are moving."

That much we had learned on the way down, that the stories were largely false and the knowledge of the river itself, the way it pursed and swayed, was the only truth.

About halfway down our stretch of the river, a five mile wrap through ancient pines, we ran our rafts to the side and stopped for Jump Rock. A skinny path of wet rock led up to a small ledge, jutted out over the river. The young ones were the first to jump. And Jedsen, who cannonballed off without much thought. I hung back in the water, walking chest-deep with my life jacket on and waiting in the pulse of the river. I have never been a jumper--fine and please at heights but not experiencing the distance between the height and below. Jumping wasn't really an option, the purposeful suspension of weight and the give in to gravity. But then the guide at the ledge, pushing people off and counting down to release, called for second rounders. And Jedsen said, "You're going to do it, right?" "No, no, no." "Well I'm going again." And then that feeling of life returned, that one that soaked my $5 canvas shoes from Walmart on that one spot on the French Broad, with Jedsen, and at the start of this new Southern life. So I climbed.

It was much higher from the ledge, and the water looked like thirty feet below, a muddy and unforgiving surface licking the rocks. I felt like if I jumped I would land instead on the rocks below, impaled or gasping for breath. The guide started counting. Three. "Oh God." It was one of those times, yes, of anticipation and fear and doubt and the knowledge that in two more counts something would happen, you didn't know what, and you would feel what you have never felt before, whether it be pain or laughter or love. And by the last count you know you're going, his hand is on the small of your back, and you might scream but you don't know, and you don't feel his push, but you see brown and more brown and then hear the clap around your ears and the turmoil of turning over in the water to again see the sky and the next person on the ledge as you shake your head of water and flap to find a balance and flap to get out of the way of the next jumper whom it takes a few seconds to realize is the man you love jumping too, after you.

Tonight the smile in the dark has no eyes, has left before the moon. And there are no stars here, here in the middle of the city of kudzu and crape myrtles, only parking lot lamps and the frequent blast of swirling red from neighboring firetrucks and ambulances. But the two warning lights still blink together, in unison though apart, above the limestone and asphalt, above my heart and his heart too, until I leave this week, in the air once more, to land Kansas, the rude, beautiful surface of my youth.

The Belleville Outfit

2010-08-22T08:31:00.000-04:00

The headliners and organizers of The Music Camp, The Belleville Outfit (originally from Spartanburg but now out of Austin) rocked last night. I'd really just never seen live music like that--a big band with a fiddle, lots of instrumentals, big voices. It was a wonderful night, and now I have a few new bands to delve into--and a new genre of music.

Warren Hood and the Goods: So Good!

2010-08-22T00:44:00.002-04:00

Hear this band. Hear Warren Hood. Hear and smile. The fiddle--the fiddle!

Definition

2010-08-21T13:48:00.000-04:00

Like minds

2010-08-21T13:44:00.000-04:00

Marsh Boardwalk

2010-08-21T13:40:00.000-04:00

Marsh, with crabs by the thousands, clicking and popping upon the mud and boardwalk, their one larger claw white and folded as they floated sideways. No alligators, though I looked for eyes. I looked for eyes and the texture of tail. I waited for a strike but found none. Alone, I didn't go far down the trail, afraid of the snap and no one to hear. I was content with the tickle and rustle of crustaceans on the edge of the ocean.

August Staff Picks

2010-08-21T13:32:00.000-04:00

So, one of the perks of working in a new bookstore is the monthly "staff picks" where I get to tell everyone what I think they should read. My July staff picks were A Conservationist Manifesto by Scott Russell Sanders, At Large and At Small by Anne Fadiman, The Big Ass Book of Crafts by Mark Montano, and I Was Told There'd Be Cake by Sloane Crosley, all of which I've talked about on here.

This month I chose The People of Paper by Salvador Plascencia, A Walk in the Woods by Bill Bryson, Vacation by Deb Olin Unferth, Peace by Richard Bausch, and Reality Hunger by David Shields.

I love love love nonfiction and read and lust for it more than fiction, but Erin tells me we can't fit another nonfiction book in the store. Alas, I need to choose contemporary fiction but don't know where to start. Help? What would be your staff picks if you were me?

She sings along with her favorite songs on the radio

2010-08-17T22:19:00.000-04:00

Carolina on My Mind

2010-08-17T22:17:00.002-04:00

In relationship

2010-08-16T08:11:00.000-04:00

The Latin root religio means "to bind fast." There are lots of ways that our modern religions attempt to bind us. Ritual, collective history, mythology, and social dictates all serve to solidify our attachment. My question here is, To what? If the purpose of an organization is to help us conjoin with God on a profound inner level, then I'm all for it. If instead its objective is to tie us more firmly to identification with a particular group, tribe, or set of opinions, excluding all others, then I'm not sure I want to be bound.

--from Us by Liza Oz

I gave up religion and the Christian God three years ago. When I had been in the religion, Methodist, for twenty years, I was bound up in it as a member of a community. I loved that community, the common bond of praising and serving with friends and family. Then I moved away and lost that community and, though I tried to replace it in Manhattan, couldn't find it. I realized that my faith had been entirely wound in my own church--that I didn't actually have faith without it. It was a slow realization, and one that I'm not entirely comfortable with still.

I don't believe in a God but in some natural spirit--something tied to nature that isn't a god but an energy. But not mystic or transcendental. I don't know how I would describe it, and I honestly haven't gotten back to trying to discover what it is I feel. All I know is that I'm closer to spirituality in nature--the mountains, the ocean--than I am around other people or a city or near a church.

I don't want to be bound. But I admit I need something on an inner level. Something inside to love.

Greek

2010-08-15T09:55:00.000-04:00

Article no. 2 in the Spartanburg Herald-Journal today: "Author plumbs his ancestry."

Darius & the Clouds

2010-08-15T09:52:00.002-04:00

You can never have too much sky. You can fall asleep and wake up drunk on sky, and sky can keep you safe when you are sad.

--from The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros

Oh, Grandfather Mountain

2010-08-11T16:46:00.001-04:00

Hello from what was Grandfather Mountain. Well, it still is Grandfather Mountain, of course, but, unfortunately, I'm no longer there. I left Spartanburg around 8am on Saturday (full day off #4--see, I told you I go to the mountains on my day off) and drove some back highways--rather disappointing in their lack of mountain views at times--to just outside Linville, North Carolina. I can't remember how I found Grandfather Mountain on the map, but I decided on visiting pretty instantly. A Mile High Swinging Bridge--who can reject that?

I first stopped at the Visitor's Center about halfway up the mountain and ate an expensive lunch of pork bbq sandwich, fries (really good!), coleslaw (really dry), and coke before checking out the habitat areas. The animals in the habitats--black bears, deer, cougars, otters, and eagles--are all wild on the mountain but were in large enclosures here. It was about time for "bear enrichment" when I arrived, so the bears were very interested in the onlookers.

The one above, Carolina, stood. The worker who threw them frozen peanut butter balls said that the one with her tongue out used to have a mouth problem and would stick her tongue out to relieve the pain. Well, of course they fed her when she did that, so now it's her little trick. They want her to lose it, though. These bears shouldn't have tricks.

The clouds hung over us, moving quickly but lingering.

And then, after buying some chocolate peanut butter fudge from the fudge shop, I drove up to the lower parking area for the Swinging Bridge so that I could hike the rest of the way. It was a rocky but fairly moderate .4 mi. hike. I had my backpack, all decked out.

I first passed under the bridge and touched the springs and cables that held it.

And then I crossed it, and it giggled and swing slightly. It swing slightly from the weight of the people walking across it both ways, and slightly from the boys who gripped the sides and tried to make it move. Their mothers usually squealed. On the other side, I made my way over rocks, all natural and unpaved, without steps, to the ledge, the outermost ledge where I could be on the edge, near nothing, above everything, and sit. The picture below is the view of the outcrop just beyond my feet, and beyond, that I couldn't get to. And what follows are the views from my seat, alone, except for the man who briefly sat behind me and worried about getting vertigo. I told him I only kind of felt like I was floating, like I wasn't sure if there was anything below me, but that it was worth it. I was not scared--only felt that feeling of doubt of ground.

Then the next picture looks back at the bridge, where I started on the other side. This looks back at the upper parking lot (where I hiked up to) and, beyond, Macrae Peak, blurry in a cloud.

See the cable? I'm on the bridge, walking back across to the start of the crest trails.

I just set out, by myself, with my pack and eagerness and determination, to go as far as I could in the time I had and with the bravery and skills I had.

It was wonderful, strenuous, rocky, with cables and slick rocks and high steps and roots to grab and clouds and overlooks. (Unfortunately, you always catch me in moments of exhaustion, when I don't have a chance to truly elaborate here. Trust me, it was work and worth it.) The first ladder came, and I stood in shock for a moment. This photo is no trick of the eye; the angle is accurate. I shimmied between boulders and climbed out, up.

And up. And kept going. With only two moments of hesitation. One, which you'll see later, at a point where the climbing got vertical and where, at the very bottom of it, I slipped while trying to get my foot up on a rock and scraped my left shin and knee. Blood. I thought that may be a sign to stop, considering I don't have health insurance. But, after a moment, I decided I couldn't turn back then, when there was the opportunity to conquer the spot of injury (which, after all, only barely stung). And so I climbed and climbed up rocks and ladders until I came to a spot where there was only rock and a ladder and a cable, diagonal against the rock, connecting to another ladder. It required exposing my body to the sky and trusting the placement of my feet and the strength of my arms. I doubted and descended the ladder and waited, saw the Swinging Bridge far to my right, farther than I'd expected, then disappear into clouds. A man then came down and told his wife, sitting below me on a ledge, that it had been worth it to make it past those cables to the peak. She apologized and said hated not going but that she thought she would pass out there and couldn't risk it. I thought not of passing out but of slipping, floating back down into trees. I thought of the exposure--me and the sky and the rock at my feet. But I knew I could do it because I had watched him come down the spot with rather ease.

And so I climbed again and reached over the rock and set my feet across rock and to the next ladder, and the next, and the rock crops beyond until I made it to the final ladder to Macrae Peak. And then I climbed that and was at the top, not alone (people, couples, were laying down), but by myself enclosed but completely open in clouds.

I again crawled out to the edge, this time over 700 feet higher than before, and sat in the white. I ate some of my fudge (I've eaten fudge at 5,939 feet!) and called Jedsen. I called Jedsen and told him I was calling from a cloud, with four bars (rightly so), and then took several feet down and dropped the call.

See the person on the behemoth rock? That's Macrae Peak, and I sat for ten to fifteen minutes on the edge to his right. That was my peak--my first peak.

And then I descended, following the blue lines and arrows that had led me up. I followed the ladders back down, the ladders that gave me doubt, and because I had used them, ridden my fear of them by passing them, I stopped and took photos on the way down. The following photos are of the vertical, exposed area of doubt, and the ladders that led to and from the spot. You are looking down, then, up, then out.

And then I was back to the trail head after a three hour round-trip, solo hike to a peak. It was only .9 miles but was largely vertical, and there were 1.5 miles to go to the second peak and the end of the trail--but I couldn't have made it back in time. And one peak was a good start for a beginning but all-too-eager hiker. I didn't want to be stupid in my excitement.

So I went back to the bridge to say goodbye. You can see my shadow on the slopes.

I took a different way home, hoping for more mountains. I had heard of the Blue Ridge Parkway but hadn't been on it, so I sought out the sign for the Parkway to Asheville and decided to take it home. I learned while driving on the driving road (not a highway) that it was built along the crest of the Blue Ridge Mountains, and so I drove, over two hours (way longer than I had anticipated or planned for) past countless overlooks and through borderless clouds to Asheville. It was one of the most beautiful drives I have ever taken, and the photos below can't capture it. Want to know the best thing? One entrance to the Parkway is only an hour away.

Before and After

2010-07-28T18:16:00.001-04:00

It's a Wednesday afternoon off, and dark clouds drift East across my window. The line is above me now, the line of white and gray, and I'm anticipating the thunder. What are these clouds? I've been reading The Cloudspotter's Guide by Gavin Pretor-Pinney, but I haven't made it past Cumulus (because I'm also reading four other books). Cumulonimbus is Chapter 2, and they're the thunderstorm clouds. Did you know that "when it's mature, this cloud can be considerably taller than Mount Everest"? Not sure if that's what rolling in, but I would be happy if they were. You know how I love storms.

Otherwise, I'm at my desk with music (again! glorious!) and writing critiques. I'm proud to report that I have completely committed to working out every weekday morning and have done so consistently for nine weekdays now. My body is changing! It feels good. It would feel better if I would lay off the pastries from Starbucks. My diet is still suffering, so I need to work on my relationship with food. I'm so tempted to buy Women, Food and God by Geneen Roth because I told Erin to order two for the bookstore so that I could. (But new books are hardcovers and lots and lots of dollars, even with my discount.) I search for books to help me solve my problems. I write to help me solve my problems. Right now I'm working, mostly, on loneliness and making human connections. For this I'm reading Us by Lisa Oz. For this I'm also doing yoga. For this I'm also doing too much crying.

There has been an official shift here.

I am one of them now, or so my license plate (and driver's license) declare. I can no longer use my other-stateliness as an excuse for driving slow and switching lanes suddenly. I must admit, I haven't quite embraced this new residency, if only because I haven't had time to really consider what it means to live here and have relationships here.

With Saturday off (the first day in two weeks), I finally made it to the Spartanburg Farmers Market at the old train depot that morning. I come from a history of towns with overflowing Saturday markets: Hutchinson, Lawrence, City Market in Kansas City (unfortunately, I never made it to the Manhattan Farmers Market). Thus, I had high expectations, and, honestly, they weren't met. The people were lovely, both the shoppers and stand workers, but there were only about ten tables, some with only a dozen pieces of fruit on the table and others with bushels of peaches that intimidated me (because I would eat about two before they went bad). But instead of walking back to my car empty-handed, I spent ten minutes selecting three fresh zinnias for $1 and came home pleased with these:

The Farmers Market was my warm-up to my first hike. Corinne, Katherine, and I drove up Highways 11 and 276 to Caesars Head State Park. Starting out around 1pm, we hiked the Raven Falls Trail to the Gum Gap Trail and then down to a suspension bridge over Raven Creek Falls: beautiful, the sound of water and the dropping off. The hike was "easy to moderate" but rough at times, particularly on the way back, for its constant inclines. The trees and creek and friends and heat made for a wonderful first hike. On the suspension bridge, we were over the falls, which means we couldn't actually see the waterfall (which you'll see in the photos below), so I want to go back soon to hike down another trail to see the actual falls. I just wish there was more time because I want to see everything, and it's hard to see everything when you can get out to explore only one day every two weeks.

By the way, none of us were scared or freaked out by the bridge at all, even though it swayed. Fearless girls, we are.

Well, the clouds aren't so congestively dark as they were twenty minutes ago. It's a slow unfolding.

By the way, my first article appeared in the Spartanburg Herald-Journal on Sunday. It feels good to be in print again.

You know what else feels good? The possibility that Jedsen may come visit next week. I'm trying not to get too excited just in case it doesn't happen. But, really, the thought makes me too happy to say.

Dark to dark

2010-07-17T21:17:00.000-04:00

What do you know? I'm writing this in my office, the least used room of the last month. All of my books are in here, and the desk, and the speakers, and the printer, and, supposedly, my laptop. But mostly I've been using the laptop in the living room--well, dining room--at the table in the bay window. But then I felt guilty for not using the office as it was designed. So here I am. It feels good tonight, tv off. Music on shuffle. Lamplight with darkening Spartanburg out the window, ambulances flashing west and north regularly, two red lights pulsing on the BB&T building, the Methodist church steeple and columns glowing white. Otherwise, it's quiet.

I've been up since 4:45. And it's Saturday. Weirdly, I was excited to get up and go to work at Starbucks at dawn (6:00 am) for the first time. I agreed to cover this eight-hour shift, even though I had been excited about my first full weekend off with two jobs. I also agreed to cover tomorrow's 5:30 am - 2:00 pm shift for the thrill and, yes, for the money. Mostly, to be honest, for the money.

I showered in the dark this morning, with only the lights from Church and Henry Streets lighting the room. It was the best shower I've had in months. I can't explain why, but I do everything possible to never turn on lights here. Who needs to when the city provides enough glow? So I got clean in the dark and only turned on the light, reluctantly, to apply makeup. I got into my car around 5:45, and the sky was just beginning to lighten, to show sparse clouds. I had been thinking, while I was in the shower, when the last time was that I witnessed the turn from darkness, and I couldn't remember. Have I ever seen the sky shift? I don't remember, and I missed the moment this morning. But I enjoyed the shades of sunrise while I swept the Starbucks parking lot of cigarette butts and dug out the grossest trash can I've ever witnessed. Please tell your friends not to use the Starbucks drive-thru trash can as their personal garbage receptacle at night. Small, sensitive girls like me will have to empty it and touch your half-eaten Boots and Sonnies' shakes. And then small, sensitive girls like me will have to haul that leaking, stinking bag to the dumpster and throw it over my head, spattering, to get it in. Small, sensitive girls like me don't like this job.

One positive thing is I'm usually (am beginning to be) a closer, which means I work until 11 or 11:30 and clean a lot inside (like dishes, floors), and tomorrow I won't be the "third person" in charge of parking lots and seven-foot umbrellas but an official "opener." I will be rising at 4:15 tomorrow. Logically, I should be in bed right now. But because I'm writing and thinking about an article I'll be writing about Elizabeth Berg this week, I'm here, writing. And clinching my jaws, which I do when I'm stressed. I'm stressed because I have lingering responsibilities from Lawrence that I have to finish. And I have books I want to be reading. And...oh, boy. I'll stop there. They're petty stresses. They're only because I have put them off and, secondly, because I nap or rest too much these days.

But I'm expecting a productivity spark to kick in soon. I went to the gym at 7am on Friday, as promised. And it was good. Real good. It's probably the best possible gym that could have been put in my backyard. I mean, Scott, the trainer, goes around the machines with you. People talk to you. People care about who you are, where you came from, and why you're there. I think this will be good not only for my body but also my heart (the metaphorical one). The one that's lonely wants a family, someone to talk to.

Now, just in case I have to work bar tomorrow, could someone please memorize all of the drink recipes for me and implant them in my mind? Thanks, because the numbers keep escaping me, and numbers are nearly everything in drink-making. Since I have little faith in that, I'm going to work on expanding my Word doc cheat sheet. 2 shots in a tall Caffe Americano, 1 shot in a tall Caffe Latte, hot water to the eyes in a chai...

Have to

2010-07-15T14:47:00.000-04:00

I purchased a gym membership today. Purchased. Which means I actually have to use it. Since the privilege to use a gym is not buried in student fees this year (because I no longer have student fees), I can't ignore it. I am a gym member, and I must go. To Nautilus Fitness Center.

I've been talking about getting healthy for years, particularly the last three years of grad school. I've made proclamations of "tomorrow" I'll breathe better, eat better, move. It's been exhausting. And exhaustion and frustration and loneliness and gross-feelingness have led me here, to this big moment of paying to get healthy. Because I know if I don't use it I will be throwing away money and a better physical, emotional, and mental life.

Here ye, Internet. I will become the Tiny Toner that Jedsen proclaimed me to become some three years ago. Tiny Toner I be.

I go to the mountains on my days off

2010-07-14T22:26:00.000-04:00

In the last three weeks that I've been working two jobs, I've had a total of two days off: two Sundays in a row. I would have had this coming WHOLE weekend off (glorious!), but I agreed to cover early morning, eight hour shifts for someone both Saturday and Sunday because, well, I need the money more than I need two whole days to drive around.

But those two days that I've had, I've gone to the mountains. Now that sounds glorious to me. That I can just go to the mountains, which are 30 minutes away, on my day off. Glorious, I say.

I told you (and showed you) my first trip up Highway 176. Well, last Sunday I went back to Pearson's Falls that I hadn't stayed and paid for the week before. Oh, and I drove up a mountain on the way. I'm sleepy and can't go into it all right now--and I'm hoping to actually write about it on paper first. But, here are some more pictures of day-off mountain life. This is Pearson's Falls:

Meanwhile, here's the actual "city view"' from my apartment. This is the view to the South: the main post office and the roof of the printing business next door.

Then this is facing east, toward Church St, and I've already shown you this Methodist church before. The street running along toward it is Henry. Then there's the gas station where I've never gotten gas yet.

The next is the view just north of the gas station. You can see the BB&T skyscraper (which I gaze at from bed before I fall asleep), and in front of that the Carolina Alliance Bank, and to the left of that (the long white building) is the amazing public library, and in the left bottom corner of it is Nautilus Fitness Center (of which I will be a member in a few days, or tomorrow), and then the left side of the photo gets into Downtown.

This is the view of Downtown, to my north. That parking lot that takes up the bottom is not mine; mine is in the very bottom left of the picture.

And this is what it's like to drive down my favorite stretch of W.O. Ezell Blvd (basically West Main St.) by Powell Mill Rd. The trees! The kudzu! And the trees in the median! That's the thing about Spartanburg: the medians are lovely with trees and flowers and bushes. Yes, I took this while driving.

Mountain View

2010-07-04T20:29:00.002-04:00

This is weekend number two alone. It hit hard last weekend, and this weekend, particularly since it's July 4th, has been even harder.

Here's my new alter-identity. I can make most drinks you might order now. And if I can find the right buttons on the register, I can ring you up, too. I'm not used to this identity yet, and I don't know that I will ever be. It's quite the contrast to my Hub City Writers Project job, which I adore, and so I'm calling it a learning experience, a getting-to-know-the-people experience.

I worked at Starbucks yesterday until 2 and then had the rest of the day off, looking onto today, which has been my first day off in two weeks. I was so exhausted yesterday (and sickly, with a pounding head and upset stomach), collectively exhausted from the last two to three months of little sleep, a lot of change, and varying stresses, that I laid on the futon nearly consistently from 2:30 on. In that time, I finished Gilead by Marilynne Robinson, took a two-hour nap, watched a few tv shows, rested some more, and read the first third of Staying Put by Scott Russell Sanders. (This will be the summer of reading and writing--or, the start of a lifetime of voracious reading and writing--things I didn't have time for, truly, when I was in school.) At the end of the night, still not feeling very well, I opened the north side window of my bay window and sat at my dining table to wait for Spartanburg's fireworks show in the Northeast sky, stemming from Barnett Park just five or six blocks away. Once it got started and I had the perfect view that I predicted I would have, I went out on my fire escape and watched the fifteen minute show. So, the photo below is from my fire escape, with my bay window on the left and, of course, the show in the distance. The one pesky thing was that light on the parking lot next door that, ironically, went out about five second after the fireworks ended.

This morning, it was Breakfast at Wimbledon: one of my favorite mornings of the year. And Nadal triumphed. And I was glad. And then I got restless. After two weeks of working every day, I had a deep desire to go North, to the mountains. I studied a map online, trying to decide which road to take how far, and settled on 176W toward Tryon, NC.

Through Inman and Campobello and Landen, I made it to Tryon and kept going. Tryon is where it got gorgeous. A sweet little town and then the highway narrowed and went up, curved, flanked by giant trees and kudzu. It climbed, and I climbed, and I cheered. And I was once again affirmed how nature is my comfort, my spiritual foundation, my solace. There's something about ascending. And if I had more energy right now I would keep going with this. But let me just tell you that I kept driving, unwilling to stop or turn around, all the way to Hendersonville, where the highway widened into the town and commercial districts once again. I ate a late lunch at Subway, with a German Chocolate Cake Frozen Yogurt Waffle Cone for my holiday desert, and then I headed back the way I came, eager to stop at a few spots that I had noticed along the way. One was a walking bridge to the side of the highway bride, which, it turns out, overlooked a rocky stream:

Gorgeous. The sound of water. Peace beside a highway. But I wasn't alone (a family down the bridge), and so I didn't linger.

Just outside Tryon, I turned off on the road that lead to Pearson's Falls because I couldn't resist a waterfall--or any water at all--but when I turned onto the road to the falls I saw a gate and a sign that said $5. I panicked. And I said I would just have to turn around. And so I did, and regretted it, but told myself that I live just 30 minutes from it and could come back--tomorrow even, or later this week. I couldn't do everything in one day.

Now I'm exhausted again, probably from driving away from the mountains, which I've decided is the saddest thing in the world. That, and the Gulf Oil Spill and the slaughtered elephants I just saw on 60 Minutes. Damn disasters caused by people.

So now, pleased with my Fourth of July afternoon of driving around America's Blue Ridge Mountains and appreciating them and my freedom to decide to just up and drive to another state, I'm home and plan on working on submissions tonight. And tomorrow, I hope. And catching up on other writings that I have to do.

For now I'll watch the sunset reflect off the buildings in Downtown Spartanburg and hope for more sleep tonight.

City View: Spartanburg

2010-06-22T19:41:00.001-04:00

Hello from Spartanburg, South Carolina.

Just a few minutes ago, wind and hard rain blew sideways around the apartment building. When the storm began, my first from inside my apartment here in Spartanburg, I opened the left window of the bay window in my living room (bay window area serving as the dining room) and wanted to feel the rain, hear the thunder more clearly. But then the wind came and swirled in the alley below this window, spraying water over me and the table. I laughed, grinned "Oh, Spartanburg," and nearly closed the window as I tried to make out the city through the water puddled in the screen.

Now, the sky is mostly blue. My windows are clearing. The rainbow over the Methodist church on the corner has faded.

Storms have been sudden and short this first week in South Carolina. They come when they want and they leave just as suddenly. And always, I've noticed, the clouds pile and color at sunset. Yes, the clouds at and near sunset are glorious, mesmerizing even. The clouds are different here near the mountains, it seems. The sky feels even bigger than Kansas at times.

After two days of driving a 16' Budget truck with an auto carrier holding my car, Jedsen and I pulled into Spartanburg just before 5pm on Saturday, June 12. So much has happened since then--so many little wonders--that it will take me a while to catch you up on all of them, so, for now, just know that I am the new administrative assistant at Hub City Writers Project and, starting Friday, will be a new barista at Starbucks. I live a block from Downtown Spartanburg, with the police/fire department across the street, the largest public library I've ever seen across the street, the post office across the street, and the Masonic Temple where I work at Hub City just two blocks down.

This building, called City View, was the first divided apartment building in Spartanburg in 1919. It's been renovated since, which you'll see in my pictures, but it has more character than anywhere I've ever lived. It feels good being here, and you know that I'm in bliss with all of these windows.

How do you get up to my apartment on the third floor? These babies. 32 stairs from the front door.

There she is. 303. You know what you can get through that door? Everything I own except my beloved couch.

I was excited to have a home (with wood floors!). Snickers was interested in stretching out her stiff legs from 8 hours in the cat carrier and walking off the tranquilizer that had made her all drooly and silly all day.

I hate boxes. Get them gone.

Below, they are gone. This is my apartment now, complete.

This is what you walk into if you walk straight in from the front door. The door in the photo is not the entrance but the emergency fire exit. So, for me, it's a window in the kitchen.

This is the other side of the kitchen from the other end of the kitchen. Snickers is standing at the front door, and the refrigerator is next to the microwave. Snickers is facing the living room and the rest of the apartment.

The view of the apartment looking left from the front door. You can seen through the living room to my bedroom to the hallway with the bathroom to the books in the office.

So, yes, this is the new futon--the substitute couch. Jedsen put it together for me one evening while I baked sugar cookies and we had on The Return of the King in background. In the week that Jedsen was here, he had a part in every bit of this apartment. It's strange to be here alone now. Snickers hasn't been brushed since he left.

Bay window!

Bay window view. (Actually, it's the view from every window.) From here, you can see the Spartanburg Public Library and the BB&T skyscraper.

Bedroom in the morning.

The tiniest closets ever. But I was up for the challenge.

Bathroom, with original tile pattern on the floor and church out the bathroom window.

The office. Where writing will happen.

The view back down the apartment from the office.

Recluse

2010-04-26T11:38:00.000-04:00

I just realized how shocked you must be about what I haven't done in Lawrence in three years.

You've never eaten Downtown on a Saturday night? You've never gone shopping Downtown? You've been at KU for three years and NOW you want to visit the Visitor's Center?

Well, let me address my reclusiveness.

I've never eaten Downtown on a Saturday night because 1) I spend nearly every other weekend in Lenexa with Jedsen; 2) Jedsen and I don't drink and don't go out at night; 3) Jedsen and I are poor; 4) Jedsen and I are not big fans of crowded places, and Mass Street makes us nervous when it's busy.

How have I never gone shopping Downtown? Well, let me clarify. I strolled Mass Street back in March 2005 when Jedsen and I came up here for a night and a concert. Then, I was a tourist. Now that I live here, I still feel like a tourist on Mass Street for some reason. Yes, I've even worked on Mass for the entire time I've been here, but I come and I go. I've gone to specific stores on Mass for specific reasons, but I've never treated Mass St has a mall and just browsed. Part of that, again, goes back to Jedsen and his dislike for the street. I don't really argue. But that doesn't mean I want to shop it--I mean shop it--at least once.

As for the Visitor's Center, though it's on Iowa and very accessible, I didn't know I should go to it until about a year ago when someone said it was amazing. But, then, I've been pretty busy being reclusive and writing my thesis this past year.

Things just haven't gotten done.

But Jedsen and I took a ride last weekend. A ride to nowhere and anywhere, south and east of Lawrence, out in the hills, the green. We drove and tried to get lost in the county, but my sense of direction is too good. As we approached Highway 59, we noticed a park: Wells Overlook Park. So we went. What do you know? There's an overlook, a structure three stories high with views at every level. We saw Lawrence and the surrounding miles to the south, east, west. Perspective. That's where I live. Look at all that West Lawrence that we don't even know. It's new, and it reminds us of Johnson County. We only know Iowa, 23rd St East of Iowa, 9th Street East of Iowa, and portions of Mass St. I know my L of home to school and home to work. I don't know Lawrence.

So I'll try to explore some more in these last months, and I'll make it a goal to know my new town and to let it know me.

Word

2010-04-20T16:31:00.002-04:00

I should probably explain.

My time is running out here in Lawrence. I have successfully defended my thesis, a collection of essays titled Parts & Accessories, and I'll be "hooded" as the holder of an MFA degree on May 15. Two days later, I will be reading along with five of my fellow MFA graduates at KU...in our last reading in Lawrence (well, for some of us that may be more true than for others). Even if it isn't an official "last reading" for all six of us, it is officially SENIOR NIGHT.

So, if you're in the vicinity of Teller's Restaurant in Downtown Lawrence at 7pm on Monday, May 17, come hear me read an essay or part of one. Drink a drink. Be jolly. That's what I'll be doing with my friends, these wonderful people who have made the last two years especially absolutely awesome.

Where will I be going? Stay tuned. I have an inkling.

How's that Bucket List coming, you ask? I have officially crossed one item off of my Lawrence Bucket List:

4. ~~Eat at Runza.~~

Jedsen and I ate at Runza yesterday, and it reminded him of a drive in in Carl Junction, where he grew up. The onion rings had flavor beyond the onion and grease, which was a welcome surprise. And even though I got a value meal, because I ordered at 2:00 on the dot, and 1/2 price drinks ran from 2-4, I got a half-price Mountain Dew. And because I drank a Mountain Dew for the first time in, perhaps, a year, I had a headache and was fidgety when we watched Rashoman a few hours later. But, hey, the hamburger was juicy, freshly made. And the fries were hot. And the guy at the counter was uber-friendly.

14 to go in a month-and-a-half. Who's gonna help me out?

A Lawrence Bucket List

2010-03-14T01:47:00.000-05:00

Well, I turned in my thesis. I can now look at the pieces with new eyes and not thesis eyes. Defense will be the week of April 12th. And then I'll have one more month of teaching before my time at KU comes to an end. I think it's a good time to make a Lawrence bucket list. You know, all the things I want to do in Lawrence before I leave this summer. I've spent the last 33 months inside, mostly. The first 24 of which were awful in that awful, tiny, dark apartment. The last 9 have been lovely here in Village Square. Lovely and bright. Lovely and spacious. But I never go out. So, Lawrence, here's what I plan to do with you before July 1 (in absolutely no order but the order they come to mind):

Go to the Farmer's Market at 7am on a Saturday.
Go into a restaurant Downtown on a Saturday evening.
Walk/jog the length of the trail along the Kansas River.
Eat at Runza.
See a movie at Liberty Hall.
Walk a trail at Clinton Lake.
Go shopping Downtown.
Visit the KU Natural History Museum.
Take pictures of myself all around campus.
Visit the KU Visitor's Center.
Take Jedsen to breakfast at Wheatfield's.
Eat at Free State for the first time as a Lawrence resident.
Swim in the apartment pool.
Go into every building on campus.
Watch the sunset from the top of Fraser Hall.

Voice

2010-02-24T20:00:00.001-05:00

"This here quilt," she repeated, in her own voice. "This here quilt," she read, with punch, and the audacity to know when and where to repeat it. "This here quilt," she said, is full of pain. Or at least that's what she realized in the course of the poem, a response to a quilt block selected by Bathtub Collective member Gabriela for inclusion in the Teaching Gallery as a part of our collaboration with Lawrence High School sophomores.

This month, we began our Writers in the Schools (WITS) program, and, whenever we could, we spent time with Shannon Draper-Gard's 3rd and 6th hour literature students. Though I was only able to visit her 3rd hour once this month (thesis, you know), several of the collective members visited on two or three or four occasions to discuss the art and corresponding literature they had chosen for display in the teaching gallery, or to lead them in discussions of imagery, personification, or alliteration, or to lead a writing exercise. Last week, I sat with several of the students as they worked on their poetry anthologies for the unit. They were asked to find poems online that exemplified literary devices, such as simile, metaphor, and narrative. And they wrote their own poems in response to one of the art pieces we had chosen.

Today, Amy and I listened to them read their poems as they stood by the art that had inspired them. Though many of them were too shy to read, and several agreed only if their teacher would read it for them, those that did read stunned me.

I didn't write poetry in high school, didn't write anything creative but journal entries (and those could hardly be called creative), so I admit to being quite ignorant to the creative writing abilities of sixteen year olds. But one by one they read their poems about lost dogs, long roads, family portrait sessions, oak trees, and a quilt.

Two of the young ladies responded to the quilt: a section of probably 1" squares about one-foot long and five inches tall. It reminded me of Jedsen's mother and the way she likes patterns from the 30s--small patterns and varied patterns. The quilt block was not color-shaded like those that hang on the walls of Amish restaurants. There were no shapes. Just squares. It was simple but spoke for a larger use, one that keeps us warm, keeps us together, keeps us connected to our histories. And that, that is what "this here quilt" built up to. It began as it should have in the mind of a sixteen year old girl: what is so important about this ugly, ratty quilt on the back of the couch? She explained that every time her body brushed it (her line was striking--much better than I'm telling it here), her mother would go into "this here quilt...." Every time. Why? And then she understood. Her mother had been wrapped in that quilt when she was dying, dead. "This here quilt" was everything.

So I think of the artifacts in my family and what my mother treasures. Honestly, everything. The couch with its stuffing spilling from cat claws. The cabinet I bought at a garage sale for $35 when I was sixteen. My bedroom, preserved as I left it except without a bed.

When I got home from campus today and opened my apartment door, I stepped on a flat envelope on the rug inside. It was a photo mailer from my mother, and the postperson (who usually crumples--crumples--my mail into the vertical box at the base of the stairs) had slipped it under the door. I slipped out the contents as I sat on the couch, one hand to my ear talking to Jedsen on the phone, and on top was a faded green business envelope, the kind with the plastic-covered opening for displaying the company's address and the square where the stamp should be demanding "Put Stamp Here." In my mother's crisp handwriting, it read "Kari's golden hair," and beside it, a happy face sticker that said "Thinking of You." Behind the plastic of the envelope, a cluster of golden strands: mine, from age 4 1/2 (so says my father's more ragged note on the back).

My mother sent me my hair.

We have been at odds since I moved away for college in Manhattan 4 1/2 years ago, mostly due to the man in my life and the way I have changed since him. I am not the daughter she once had, and she has consistently reminded me of that. Two weeks ago, I finally sent her a letter, a 1500 word letter explaining how I felt about Jedsen, life, her, and what I wanted out of our relationship. We talked on the phone a week later, and a day after that I got a letter she had written me in return before she had finished reading my letter. We have made no strides. It's I want this, and I can't do that. We are not broken but cracked.

But what does this packet of my hair, now twenty years old, mean? With no letter, which I expected, to explain, how am I to take it? Has she given up on me? Or is she trying to remind me of who I once was, someone, I believe, I still largely am? "This here golden hair," what does it mean?

Or this

2010-02-12T00:50:00.001-05:00

"Every man has within himself the entire human condition." --Michel de Montaigne, the father of the essay

Also of note is an entry from Saturday, March 6, 1999, amid observations like “I’ve been thinkin’ and I’ve decided that Nick, Bri, and AJ are my ideal men,” “As far as I know, nobody likes me—I mean like-likes me,” and “My feet are freezing!” is a little ditty: “Guess I gotta write more often, huh? Ya know this could be really famous someday like The Diary of Anne Frank if I become someone special when I grow up.”

Ha.

Needless to say, it was painful enough to read my own laborious days in prose, and, especially, those incessant professions of love for unattainable boys, both real and another-dimension-real. I shall never put you through that, world. My hope is that my little piece of life in the form of a collection of essays can reveal pieces of your life: parts & accessories. That's what these pieces are. We are all made of them.

"We go to literature--and perhaps especially creative nonfiction--to learn not about the author, but about ourselves; we want to be moved in some way. the emotional resonance happens only through skillful use of artistic techniques. As Salman Rushdie put it, "Literature is where I go to explore the highest and lowest places in human society and in the human spirit, where I hope to find not absolute truth but the truth of the tale, of the imagination and of the heart." --from Tell it Slant by Brenda Miller

What you say

2010-02-12T00:30:00.001-05:00

I was reading my first journal the other day (from age nine to fourteen), reminiscing on who I once was and what I once knew. Mostly, the first half of it contains details about the day, such as what I wore, who liked whom at school, where we walked to, and what we ate. Mostly, the last half of it contains professions of love for the Backstreet Boys, and claims to commit suicide for the stress of not hearing "Everybody" on the radio in the last week. Throughout, I constantly update myself on who I like, who’s on my "like list," like Kyle Hollingsworth and Adam Lance and James Marsden. Some remain for a year, some fleet in and out like turtles rising to the surface for a gulp of air. But I also wrote some surprising things, like this on Saturday, June 20, 1998: “Tonight we went to Anchor Inn for supper and there was a young couple behind us—teenage, I mean. They were sort of arguing, but weren’t yelling, weren’t giving each other angry looks, were just questioning the other’s actions. I sat there, listening, and thought ‘I can’t wait until I can have that kind of “best friend” relationship with a guy. It’ll be so much fun.’ I can’t place myself in that situation—not yet. But, I’m longing for that day, and until then—I dream.”

Well, I can tell you that I’m living that thirteen-year-old’s dream.

Bad pony

2010-02-01T16:06:00.000-05:00

I am behind on all things pertaining to life. For example, artificial Christmas tree needles still litter the living room carpet. The thought of going to a reading or calling a friend tonight seems blasphemous. I feel guilty when I'm not writing. And I've been writing a lot, and loving it. Writing and enjoying it because it's something that I do. It's something that I have to do, but I want to do it.

I wish I had my notes for one of the essays that I'm working on. I'm at the Kansas Union watching something that looks white like snow but might be rain fall on the campus. My eyes are level with the Spencer Museum of Art's roof. I am by the window, the only way I could have it on this day of stress and not-writing--yet. Little things added up today, an accumulation of student requests, emails, and future concerns. I woke up this morning with dreams of pet ponies (indoors) and utter failure in front of my students. Those dreams set the tone for the day, and the pet pony was not pleasant. It leaned over the couch to eat out of your hand. It stood on the bed.

Snickers was missing again this morning. And then I found her buried under my covers. She burrowed into her own hole, as she's done several times lately. She was warm, and stretched when I touched her back.

I need oxygen and water. I fear the eczema is coming back.

Tomorrow, a revival of breath and the living.

Falling plates

2010-01-16T19:21:00.000-05:00

On this day of fog, I have been straightening, cleaning, and slightly rearranging (my office, anyway). And now I'm sitting down to write, at last, with a cup of foaming hot chocolate fresh from the Cocomotion. It steams on my desk in a brown mug against the deep wood background. Brown. Brown to drink, brown to see, brown to feel. Brown on brown.

Hot chocolate on the day I'm trying to hydrate myself. I've been dehydrated for months, I think. Maybe years. I don't drink when I'm thirsty. I don't drink when I'm very thirsty. This is something to remedy. With water, not hot chocolate.

In the other room, the Saints and Cardinals play on, though the Saints are doing more playing than the Cards. This has been the fall of NFL. The year I fell for professional football. I've always liked football but never followed it, and I can't say that I necessarily followed it this year, but I've enjoyed my Sundays following teams yardline by yardline. Following the ball in the air into the hands of a receiver. And now I'm waiting on the ball myself. I'm here in the January of my last semester running down the field in a pant, arms high speed pendulums. I'm running, running. The sprint to reach the target of the ball, where I need to be. I am distracted by the screaming--my own, mostly--"go, go, go!" In this run, I manage teaching two different courses, working eight hours a week, my love life, my home, the Cottonwood internship, money, and the almighty thesis. It all must be done. It all will be done. And in four months, I will have my MFA and a new destination.

I am on the job search. The goal: editorial assistant at a publishing firm or journal. I'm on it. I'm ready.

And I'll take falling plates along the way, like the one that fell on my collar bone when I was shuffling a shelf earlier. It broke the skin, though it didn't bleed. It will bruise because it hurt, because it turned red. It will bruise, but now I know not to put glass plates on a top shelf and myself below.

shut your eyes

2009-12-25T00:36:00.001-05:00

and think of somewhere...somewhere cold and caked in snow. (Here and at home) By the fire we break the quiet, learn to wear each other well.

"Shut Your Eyes" by dear Snow Patrol.

Oh, the winter storm that had been forecast and doubted and warned and doubted and here. Oh, the wind. Oh, the fact that I might be grounded in Hutchinson for another day.

At least I have a new green iPod c/o the best little brother there is. At least I have final projects left to grade. At least I have plenty of clothes. At least I fed Snickers through Friday night. At least I now have my trusty old foam mattress pad on this hardest of hard beds. At least I'm healthy and safe this Christmas.

Cheers to you and yours!

good

2009-12-19T13:02:00.000-05:00

It's been a good morning, though the nerves are still there. I'm convinced it's from being overwhelmed at what's before me. Two and a half months until my thesis is due. If I think about it that way--which is the only way I'm able to think of it--it's frightening.

I entered the New Letters essay contest this year and lost, rightly so. I read the winning essay today: "Three Hooks" by Robyn Anspach. Beautiful. Broken. Imaginary. Hard. I longed to be broken like her work.

I'm broken in other ways, more local.

I have nineteen pieces in the works. 19. NINETEEN. And they continue to accumulate, unfinished.

No no

2009-12-18T13:04:00.000-05:00

As a celebration of the end of the semester, we planned a Bathtub potluck for last night. Now, I don't do much cooking. Really, I don't cook at all. But baking? That I can do. That I love. So I was concerned about finding anything to cook for the potluck. I searched through potluck recipes online but found nothing that sounded appealing and took less than ten ingredients that I didn't have. The idea of cooking a casserole sounded horrible. I considered getting a couple Little Cesar's Hot-N-Ready pizzas. Lame, I know. I mentioned this cooking plight to Amy while we were in our office yesterday, and she gave me permission to bake. I bake good cookies, she said. And that was the word I needed. So I baked a double-layer Devil's Food cake and baked chocolate chip cookies.

We had a lovely time, the five of us, chatting in my dining room. We ate cookies and Amy's rice but no cake. So now I have this big, whole cake to eat. Who wants it? Well, I had one slice earlier. But I'm revolutionizing my health habits again, so I can't eat the whole thing.

"Winds are whipping waves up like skyscrapers, and they harder they hit me the less I seem to bruise."

It's a KT Tunstall kind of morning. The morning hasn't been entirely productive, but it's getting there. Again, I keep staring at all of my writing ideas and thinking how it would be great to write on all of them, but then I don't know where to start.

Now let's go back to John Mayer for a minute. Listen to "War of My Life."

What am I going to read first this break? Technically, I have to read my students' projects, but that is the last thing I want to think about. I keep forgetting that I have to grade them. Can't I just be done? Can't I just keep these students and not grade anymore? For the record, 11:00 am is the best teaching time.

My tree. I refuse to admit that Christmas is one week away. I haven't soaked in the tree yet. I haven't enjoyed the holiday season yet. I have a feeling the tree will be up through January. Not out of laziness but out of pleasure.

Additional

2009-12-06T17:40:00.000-05:00

And, just over a week later, here's an article about Great Grandma: Children Cherish 'Dearest' Mother.

Yes, here I am keeping her memory alive. I'm writing about her, too. Writing about that slumber party. Writing about lawn care.

I have so many writings going about so many things...I'm a bit overwhelmed. Where do I begin? Where do I continue? Business cards? The dash? Black hole? I'm a lot overwhelmed.

Actually, I just discovered that my mom has not thrown away my business card collection. I couldn't believe it. I thought they were gone. But now I can go through them at Christmas and write from the real thing--not just what I remember or imagine they were.

I was a strange, organized child. I could give you the number of a Stain Master representative in Hutchinson. And so much more.

Glow

2009-12-05T20:05:00.001-05:00

It's been a strange week. Up and down. Cold.

But at least I have a Christmas Tree. I got it right before Thanksgiving--on sale at Target. A $20 6-ft Canadian Fir. Skinny. Small. When I put the three parts together and flocked out the tips, it still looked skimpy. Then I strung clear lights around it. Then I hung a few inherited ornaments and balls collected from previous years' post-Christmas clearance. Snowmen inhabited the tree. I found a tree skirt for $1 at Dollar Tree.

And so it glows. Snickers, partially bald right now, immediately took to lying underneath and kicking at the skirt.

This Christmas, there probably won't be any presents underneath. Someday, either this tree or a larger one in a home will oversee a family of gifts. Someday.

Not that future but another is on my mind. Three months until my thesis is due. Can you believe it? Three months of writing and editing. Well, actually only two more months of writing and then one month of solid editing. It's scary again. And then there's graduation (conditional upon successfully writing and defending my thesis) and a job and movement.

Is there hope? Oh, yes. I am looking forward to the challenge of something new. And right now, I'm disappointed that I only have two more days with my 101 students this semester. This time of the semester is hard--it's saying goodbye after just really getting to know one another. We mesh, and then it's over. And this is my last time teaching 101 at KU, which is sad. I don't want to not teach. But what to do?

One hundred five and more

2009-11-29T14:27:00.006-05:00

And so the era ends. My great grandma, Clara Jackson, died Friday morning at the age of 105.5. Or, more specifically, one hundred five years, eight months, and one day. March 26, 1904 - November 27, 2009.

You can see her and read more about her here. As well as her obituary.

Ever since she turned 100, since she moved in with her son and daughter-in-law (my grandparents), since I moved away and began the tradition of only returning to Hutchinson four or five times a year, I have been considering every visit with her my last. I would hug her, kiss her on the cheek, and let her know how pretty she looked in her purple shirt. Her short-term memory got worse in the last few years, but she would reminisce about her childhood, her children's youth, and her 70+ years of marriage like it was the day before.

I have been reminiscing, too, over the last couple of weeks. We were pals, me and great grandma, particularly when I was young. She babysat me. We did calisthenics in the living room. She helped me build a fort out of blankets and chairs. She let me eat a whole bag of marshmallows. She let me help her make her famous cinnamon rolls. She let me stand on the floor heater to warm my feet. She taught me to sew. She let me go through her jewelry. She let me start her car and back it out of the garage before I was old enough to drive. She brought cinnamon rolls to my class on my 12th birthday. She went to the 4th of July parade with us, sat in a lawn chair on Main Street, and then treated us to Church's chicken afterward. We helped her decorate graves with fresh peonies from her backyard on Memorial Day. I mowed her yard in patterns, in diagonals, in squares, in rows, in a heart once.

She spent her last week in Hospice in Hutchinson. I didn't see her again. She kept saying, "I should have died yesterday." She wanted to go. She has wanted to go for some time.

It snowed on my thirteenth birthday, in the middle of April. It was nearly a blizzard. I was having a slumber party at Great Grandma's house. After a series of pyramid photo shoots, one girl on top of the other with Elmo or teddy bear in joyful hand, we settled down in my great grandfather's former bedroom. The furniture was solid. The bed was a queen. It was low to the ground, headboardless. In a drunken exhaustion from the laughing, we collapsed in sleeping bags on the bed. I reach up to turn off the overhead light but nothing happened. I tried it again. It didn't work. I went across the room and flipped another switch. Lights off. We slept. We shivered. Through the open door, the woman in a slip and bra, peach satin. I looked up at her, ghostly in the dark cold. She flipped the switch back down. It was the heater, she told us in the morning, stern. We shouldn't have touched it. We had turned off the heater and were shivering.

obsessed

2009-11-23T00:48:00.001-05:00

Yes, that's right. I'm obsessed with John Mayer's new album Battle Studies, particularly "Edge of Desire" and "Do You Know Me," with 15 and 19 plays, respectively, since Tuesday. I'm in love with the songs. I think this album is my new "companion."

I can't stop listening to it long enough to get anything done consistently. I think about it and miss the songs. So I have to play the songs. And then I smile. Oh, good work, Mr. Mayer.

I might have to take my mom up on offering to buy me tickets to the March show at the Sprint Center for my birthday, even though I've already seen him in concert twice. Never inside, though, and it's been two and a half years.

Nerd

2009-11-16T22:01:00.000-05:00

"I hate my name. It has 'nerd' in it. Leo-nerd." As said by Leonard in The Big Bang Theory tonight.

The stereotypes are too much. A nerd is more nerd than anyone ever could be on this show. The stereotypes lead to a lack of funny.

But the name thing I can identify with. Kari is "carry." A verb. I hated my name when I was younger. My name "does." I wanted to be Kara, something that made sense as a name. I wanted to be Whitney, and I was for a week in second grade when we got to change our names. Officially, I was Whitney Jackson for a week. I wrote it on my assignments and homework. Around the table with my classmates, they called me Whitney. Whitney was a cool name, and then I lost it.

Rearranging

2009-11-15T13:31:00.000-05:00

Essays begin with something that exists and has meaning before it reaches the page, establishing a different contract between the reader and the writer, a different set of literary obligations. Essays are not arranged by plot, but by anxieties. They don't wonder, "What's next?" with a groan. The anxieties are relieved not so much by the telling, like confession, but by the arranging, the way some of us fix a problem at work by cleaning up the desk. "Getting it right" or an essayist means putting events and details into a revealing--a revelatory--relationship with one another. Strolling through the museum of love and change, the essayist rearranges for all to see the treasures we cannot keep. --"The Art of Translation" by Steven Harvey

Rearranging. The art of rearranging for me began when I was quite young. It began in my room, with my furniture. I kept moving things, trying and trying to get it right. I would find a satisfying arrangement, move into it with a new perspective, a new way of looking at the world, and be happy. Until I got bored or realized what it was lacking. Arrangement meant everything to me, especially in a small space. Once I experienced the pleasure of rearranging, I moved onto other rooms in the house. I drew a new floorplan for my brother's room. Then I drew another and another. He only let me implement one. That's all. It left me wanting more. I cleaned and rearranged the basement, which was satisfying, until it was taken over by my mother's recycling and more toys. I suggested new arrangements for my parents' room. They never moved anything. And still haven't. I moved the couch in the living room, the only thing not tied to the wall. It was moved back by my father in a matter of hours. I changed the orientation of the dining room table. This was allowed, on occasion, for a month or two at a time before it reverted back to its origins.

Rearranging. I've done it in my apartments. Frequently. Those small apartments left me troubled and rearranging was the only way to attempt to relieve the troubles. Knowing that this current apartment, large with defined spaces, would be mind for over six months before I actually moved in, I obsessed over arrangements on an online room planner. I put in the specific dimensions of my furniture and future furniture (yes, I knew that, too) and moved them around in a simulated space. I would go back to it several times a day to make small adjustments, try new arrangements, to get it perfect before moving in. It has worked, so far. I can't envision a better arrrangement for the furniture. I'm happy with the way it is without an itch to try something different.

That is the hope with essays, that the arrangement will work perfectly, that the pieces will fall where they should in order to equal a whole. Especially with the braided essay that I write--multiple sides or experiences put together in the small space of the essay--the pieces have to be in the perfect location. Otherwise, it's just a narrative. Or just a chronological story without meaning. Or disjointed ideas. How you put them together makes the meaning. If you know how they work in relation to one another, what the purpose of each is, you can lay them out to create cohesion, an understanding.

I'm beginning to realize that, in a way, by writing essays I'm doing what I originally desired: interior decorating and design. What do you know, it's coming together.

Stiff

2009-11-09T22:20:00.000-05:00

Jedsen, during a phase, was into wearing bracelets. He called them "stiff." They were mostly thick and leather-like. Some studded. Then he stopped wearing them in favor of simplicity.

I wish I could get rid of this stiffness in my shoulders and neck. Why am I stressed? Why is my body feeling stressed?

I could go into the possibilities, but I won't. Basically, I have a few attendance issues with a couple of students that is worrying me (I carry their burdens even though I shouldn't) because I care too much. And then my great grandma has stopped eating and getting out of bed. She's 105 1/2. She's earned the right to stop getting out of bed. For the last four years, every time I've gone to Hutchinson and seen her, I've treated it as the last time. You never know when it will happen. She's mad tough, though. I don't know how it will go.

I need to sleep. That's probably going to be important. Sleep and exercise. Have I mentioned those before? Oh, yeah, and no more Mrs. Freshlies brownies.

Because

2009-11-08T12:37:00.001-05:00

Last summer, I created a Can't be Down playlist in iTunes. Just songs that brought me joy. Well, they bring me joy. I want to share them with you. Some of them, anyway. There's a lot of Snow Patrol, Josh Rouse, and Coldplay, of course.

"Shut Your Eyes" by Snow Patrol

"The Heart of Life" by John Mayer

"Concrete Bed" by Nada Surf

"Perfect Time of Day" by Howie Day

"Postcards from Far Away" by Coldplay

"Bunnies" by Howie Day

"Someday Soon" by KT Tunstall

"Strawberry Swing" by Coldplay

"All We Are" by Matt Nathanson

"Chocolate" by Snow Patrol

I like baseball?

2009-11-05T20:01:00.000-05:00

More than once, I have commented here about my dislike and lack of understanding of baseball. I mean, the one time I liked baseball was when I was twelve and sang the national anthem with the Kansas Youth Choir at a Twins/Mariners game in the Metrodome. It was exciting to be there on the field, to sing, and to watch the game...to a point. The excitement didn't last. The baseball I bought sat in its case until it eventually got moved to a box somewhere.

So when the World Series was on last weekend and Jedsen wanted to watch a few minutes of it, I winced. Ew, baseball. How boring. What's the point of it. They look gross and silly with wads in the cheeks and the frequent spitting. Well, that last point remains true, but, you know what? I actually got into it. I rooted for the Phillies, of course. I began to understand how batting order worked, what an RBI was, why pitchers mattered, and that all of the hitters were also defensive players. The four games that I watched in earnest made me appreciate baseball. (Well, last night I fell asleep during the Yankee domination, so I guess I shouldn't count that game.) Though I no longer think baseball is a dull sport, I don't see this brief enthusiasm carrying into next season. No, I don't think you'll find me at a ball park or at home night after night watching the Phillies. Nor will I be participating in the intense rivalry between any teams. I was just a baseball fan for nearly a week. That's rather poser-ish of me, but, hey, it's a start.

What I think about the sun

2009-11-05T13:20:00.001-05:00

It's warm.
It warms me.
It makes Snickers lick herself more.
It's far, far away.
It's on my floor.
It's never on its best behavior.
It's the reason.

First

2009-11-05T12:12:00.007-05:00

I have been harried as of late. No time for blogging, I guess, or no energy. The writing has been coming on more, though still is some starts and fits because of teaching and other things that I can't identify. I think I figured it out the other day: I've been making it too hard.

When I decided upon a collection of essays as my thesis, I went wild with enthusiasm. I created a word document titled "My MFA Thesis." I had grand plans. I started a list of all the essays I would write. It got up to twenty-three, many of them with five or six numbered ideas below them. Some were simple words: ghosts, restaurants, marriage, meteorology, tennis. Others were concepts or ideas: obsession as a coping mechanism, working the press, becoming Maria. Under "ghosts," I listed what I could write about: "Cuddles, Lois" (my ghosts), the ghosts of ourselves (rather vague and lofty), Council Grove's hermit cave that would never give me a clear picture, and a final note: "wind?" I was making the connections I thought I could make before even writing the thing. I was planning it out. I was going to write all of these essays because I had had all of these ideas. They needed to be good, complicated, advanced.

Turns out, it paralyzed me. I took the entire writing out of the writing. All the ideas stood there, waiting to be written, but there was too much to consider. Where to start? I have the ideas, but I don't know how to write them. As I got started, finally, in August, after the summer of starts and unfinished pages, I put together something that I thought all came together. With so much to include, so many ideas, I lost the "heart" of the essay, as Dr. Atkins pointed out. I was writing down the information, the connections, but I wasn't really writing to write. There was no surprise. I was not "essaying." No, the piece already had a goal that I was writing to, and that took all of the journey out of the process. It happened in earnest on the next two pieces that I put together. I didn't like them, knew they weren't mine or finished in any way, but I had them.

With my recent realization of the root of the problem, I'm getting back to basics. I'm trying to get back to just writing. How about that. This one that I'm working on (on meteorology of sorts) is just going. I'm not pushing it but letting it take its course. And you know what? I keep thinking of things I can connect it to, but I'm not writing them down in outline form as a finish line. It will happen how it happens.

This is most evident in an essay that I typed out by Scott Russell Sanders last night and this morning, "Feasting on Mountains." This practice of typing out an essay that I love is inspired by Jedsen's recent adoption of the practice. It's something that I taught my 102 students last year and knew would be good practice for me but never took it on. Now I think I'm addicted. I started yesterday and have already copied three.

What "Feasting on Mountains" does is describes Sanders' ascent to the top of Mount June, his walk. He stops along the way to ponder what he finds, and that's where the meaning comes in. It's not pushed toward one goal, but it all adds up to a larger meaning as it goes, not culminating in one final summation of meaning either. He finds it as he goes in little aha moments rather than one larger goal. It taught me, especially by writing it out and having to notice what was being typed by my fingers and why.

Next, I chose a piece by Ryan Van Meter from the 2009 Best American Essays titled "First." Read it here. It's short, but I can't think of another more timely and perfectly presented narrative about one evening in a child's life. It works on you in bits into an ultimate mass of powerful emotion. Love. What is it? Who is it for? How can you deny it to someone? You can't. If you doubt anyone and how they love and if they should love, read this. Tell me you would deny him.

And you should listen to what I'm listening to. Nothing hits me like essays and songs. Reading and listening reminds me why I want to write. I just read "My Mother's Theories of Child Rearing" by Kathryn Starbuck, and it hurt. Her hurt made me hurt and made me realize a little bit of something about my relationship with my mother.

And with Snickers here on the desk next to my hands, eager to walk across the laptop, I will write today. As I have been. As I want to. As I will do. I will revise, too. Those broken, forced essays of late will be cracked open with revision, new eyes. I can see where the heart is. I can know why it came out and why it was important and what it can say. Revision is best. That is where the words come into meaning. But it needs to be a balance of journey and reflection. Here I go.

how to love a brother

2009-09-22T23:44:00.010-04:00

These are in no particular order.

1. Slumber party in your room. At the age of four or five, your brother adores you. You read to him and play Trouble with him. He does not want to sleep in his own bed tonight. Your floor will do just fine, the floor parallel to your bed. He will sleep, snoring, in his Toy Story sleeping bag. You sketch him as he falls asleep not because you are creepy but because you are nine and love to draw and need a subject. He serves just fine on many a drawing occasion.

2. Play Barbies together. Don't hate him when he bites all the hair off of the Mike Barbie (teenage boy) and leaves teeth marks in the skull. Go with it. Tell Stacey and all her Barbie palls that Mike's sporting a new look. Let the GI Joe and Barbie go out together in the tractor. They can take the convertible out another night.

3. Offer to clean his room, paint his room, rearrange his room. He will like it, theoretically, but will bar you from entering his room with his very own arm. He will knock you down if he has to. You will not enter his room, he says. But you will, and you will sketch a new layout. You will make his dream of street walls with screeching tire marks in places come to life. You would dust his dresser, if he wouldn't notice, and put all of the quarters laid out in a football formation into the neon green piggy bank you bought him. Because he kind of trusts you, he will let you help him rearrange his room once. Not again. Not because he doesn't like your concepts but because the concept he did let you carry through was too good.

4. Take him to a K-State football game for his birthday. But make him buy both tickets. It's not that you don't enjoy football and spending time with your brother when you now live 134 miles apart--you do--but you don't enjoy spending $55 per ticket on 3 hours of your life. Let him hang around the stadium for as long as he wants after the game. Let him play your Game Cube when you get back to your apartment and stay up all night watching who knows what. Drive him back the next day and wish he'd like school enough to want to go to college near you.

5. Play defense. After your dream of becoming a basketball star dies (because you're five feet tall and clumsy running with the ball), defend him on every shot he tries for on the driveway. Challenge him to shooting contests from the middle of the yard, from the porch. Assist him in dunks; toss him the ball at the perfect height at the perfect moment. Photograph him flying into dunks on the playground. Buy him a basketball for his birthday. Buy him a ball return thing for the rim. Buy him an indoor miniature hoop that goes over the door and watch him use it until his palm is twice the size of the ball. Keep throwing him the ball.

6. Try to kill him. Out of love for being an only child, push him in his infant walker to the ledge of the basement stairs. Give it another nudge and watch it/him tumble to the bottom. Good riddance. Hear your mom's screams as she catches him before the walker actually goes a notch down and be relieved that your brother is still there and that he won't remember this because he's too young. Do not kill your brother.

7. Buy him birthday gifts. When no one else does, keep buying him things like iTunes gift cards and sports stuff and t-shirts and those movies he loves. Help him pick out a big screen tv and arrange his new living space in your parents' basement because you know that he wouldn't do it for himself. Buy him birthday gifts not because he needs anything but because you want him to know you still know him.

8. Hug him. Even though he's now ten inches taller than you, much more muscular, much quieter, and much more wealthy, think "aw" when he leans over to hug you and says "Thanks for coming." It doesn't happen often. You try not to be too loving-sibling-like because you're a girl and it can too easily get on his nerves. You let him do his thing, and sometimes he comes to you, big sister, and that is when you remember why you like each other, why you get along, why you wanted to take him on his first plane ride and big city trip to Chicago last summer. Not because he was a good travel companion (bless his heart, he's not) but because you wanted him to experience life outside of Kansas and life off the ground. Hug him, and rub his buzz-cut head for the way it's felt for the last sixteen years. Text him because that's how he gets and gives all his messages these days. A text can do the hugging. But not really.

Happy twentieth birthday to my brother.

like baseball

2009-09-16T23:22:00.003-04:00

"And what the great American game of baseball seems to me to demonstrate most obviously is that those who 'have what it takes' must nevertheless work hard at their craft all the time and that many who might have been judged not to 'have what it takes,' through hard work at their craft, can also perform well. Recent years of World Series and league championship games have shown us great hitters and pitchers hitting and pitching badly while players we've never heard of perform beautifully. What veteran baseball players and writers know is that constantly working hard will produce a respectable batting or earned run average, a stack of pages of substantial literary value, an acceptance from a good journal.

"I am not describing a method of achieving happiness. I am describing what seems to me a necessary and healthy way for a few people to carry out their lives; happiness has nothing to do with it. What seems to me the only legitimate goal of any would-be writer is to achieve a circumstance of ongoing work, the serenity to carry out the daily writing and revising of what poems, stories, or novels are given one to write. On those rare occasions when one's serenity seems about to collapse, I recommend that one step out into one's back yard and vigorously spit."

--from "Let's Say You Wrote Badly This Morning" by David Huddle

I don't much care for baseball. I don't know what a batting or earned run average is. I don't really care to know. But Huddle compares athletes and writers here, in this piece anthologized in The Bread Loaf Anthology of Contemporary American Essays. It's the having what it takes--the making yourself work to have it. I'm still struggling.

At this point there's a three-way tension. Teach well--write a kick-ass thesis/book--get thyself prepared to get a job (as in a career) next summer. I can't let the teaching down, and I have to figure out what I'm going to do with my 2010 self. I want to write, to shut it all out and write. How do you write in the moment? Live in the moment?

Here's my working list of goals for my work, in content, language, and totality:

Metaphor

Zest

Contradiction

Philosophy

More explanation to come.