Journey Home

So, I’m getting ready for a trip home to the Hoosierland, and I’m taking my beau. This is the first time I’ve invited a beau home, which didn’t stop my aunts from adding my last boyfriend, whom they’ve never met, to the Family Tree. No shit. They still have a photo of us up (we broke up in 2003) on what I call the Wedding Table. The Wedding Table is a table at my grandmother’s with photographs of all 18 million grandchildren at their weddings. Oh, and then there’s Dan and me. I haven’t laid eyes on Dan since 2004.

Anyway: There’s my family for you. Most of them live in the same area code, married before 25 and had babies. Great for them. But I didn’t do that, and while they love me and they try to get it, they just kind of don’t. (Honestly, I don’t get them either, but I try.) As a disclaimer, my immediate family—mom, dad, big sis, little sis, didn’t go down the rural-Midwestern-life-path either, and they get that there are other ways to do things.

So, S. and I are staying at the local B&B. I called the proprietor of said B&B, who is the mother of one of my old high school classmates. So I make my reservation and she says “So, have you heard? Little Eddie S. died. Surely you remember him—you did the play Grease together when you were juniors. The paper said the memorials are to go to a mental health facility. What do you think that means? Well I’ll save the obituary for you.”

And there you go: You call to make a reservation from a stranger and before you know it you have the town news and an invitation to gossip about the mental health of a kid you sat three pews behind in church for 15 years. Just in case being in Indianapolis during a huge (HUGE) NASCAR event isn’t enough to scare the pants off my tolerant and loving boyfriend on his first trip to Indiana, the obituary on the pillow of our bed and breakfast will.

Ed, the classmate who just died, suffered deeply from depression, and was the town’s only other poet. Even though we weren’t close, I’ve read his work, done theatre with him, and feel a sort of poet-kindred ship. His obituary says he’d just finished preparing his second manuscript. I’ve been saying little prayers for his family. I hope he found at least some comfort in his art.

That's right, with tassels.

I once bought pasties from a burlesque dancer during a blizzard. My friend Patrick was visiting from New York and we walked the skyways across the entire city to the only bar we could get into without IDs. Pat left his at Bryant Lake Bowl, where we had breakfast, which may tell you something about the quality of bar.

We ended up at a burlesque show in the middle of the night—you have to understand that Patrick is the variety of friend with whom you think you’re going for a cup of coffee and the next thing you know you wake up in Tijuana with a splitting headache and someone else’s underwear on your head. We met the dancers back stage after. This is where I bought red pasties handmade by CC, and had a lesson on nipple size and how to make the tassels swing, though I gave the pasties to my friend for her wedding. So I didn't get to put my swinging-expertise to good use, but what a great wedding gift.

Two years later I started dating S.A., and somehow through conversation figured out that CC lives in the apartment upstairs from him with her partner, N. They’re lovely friendly neighbors. CC leaves fliers for her shows under the door, and she shares her gardening soil with S.A. and lends me her parking spot sometimes. Once, when she and N were having a spat, she came down for a pep talk. They’re nice folks.

Sunday was the Gay Pride parade, and CC’s burlesque group had a very classy float. CC is expecting now, but only has a tiny little bump you’d never notice, and her attire was fitting for the venue (there were many families and children at the event). So we hollered for her and cheered.

We’re looking forward to babysitting. The couple that live below S.A.’s apartment are also expecting. Come to think of it, we’re the only ones in his wing that aren’t pregnant or recently made parents. S.A. and I wonder what the hell’s in the water in his building. Yikes.

Leek soup. Leek hot dish. Leek a la mode.

This summer, S. and I signed up for one of the farm co-ops that give you fresh, seasonal stuff once a week, all pre-paid and with recipes (in the event that one load includes 6 leeks, and who the hell knows what to do with 6 leeks?). The first shipment arrived last week. It was lettuce, garlic and eggs. I made a Nicoise salad and lo, it was good. I’m excited about this. In part because the conversations S and I have about food tend to go something like this:

Me: Let’s make some veggie stir fry tonight!

Him: Yeah! That sounds good. Had a lot of Asian food lately though. What if we made fajitas with the veggies instead? Mexican, mmmm.

Me: Fajitas sound good.

Him: Actually, I’ve got some great enchilada sauce I need to use up. Why don’t you chill out and read and I’ll make us some enchiladas.

Me: You got a deal, mister.

Not that there’s anything wrong with the occasional bubbling dish of enchiladas (or a man who wants to cook for me—hi, awesome), but note the swiftness with which the healthy plan turns into deep-fried cheese curds is getting a little out of control.

I wish I were one of those ladies who woke up bright and early on Saturday mornings, put on my sun dress and adorable hat and bounced out the door to load a net bag with fresh stuff from the farmers market, but that only tends to happen about once or twice a year. And I don’t garden. Gardening is on my list of “things I wish I liked but I just don’t.” So this co-op thing, it should work well. Tonight: we go pick up peas. Mmmm, peas.

Oh, Hazel.

The other night, my friend’s poor dog got into her bag and ate a big thing of chocolate covered espresso beans. Hazel’s a wiener dog. Though medical assistance was procured, Hazel spent the night tearing around the apartment, barking, and being a total spazzoid freakball.

I feel for Hazel. Hazel is a metaphor for me.

I’m happy to report that I presented my prospectus on Monday, it was slightly nerve-wracking and intense but motivational and calming and good. My advisor: totally intense and brilliant. The woman wrote 2,000 poems for her first book and whittled that down to something like 48 poems for the final collection. She’s bionic. A machine. In my meeting, this woman told me I need to chill out a little, that maybe my first assignment should be to spend a whole day on my couch watching bad movies.

It was kind of a relief—it’s been hard to get out of overdrive. But now that prospectus is done and I handed her my paper, my plan, my application, and a stack of something like 100 poems (and thesis hasn’t started yet, but this is expected), I just get to write. I’m tired of writing about writing and making a plan that I know will change anyway. Now I just get to write it on my own time and read what I want to read. I feel better.

Oh, and the haircut? Apparently I now have the same hairdo as Posh Spice. I’m told this is a good thing. Maybe people should start calling me Spazziod Spice. We could be sisters.

for my old friend Herman, gone ten years now

At the end of the day

I roll the wheel barrows in
push in the mowers inside
from the sidewalk display,

wave to Mrs. Mason
ticking tires with chalk
at the five o’clock hour

and walk toward home.
When I was a kid
I said an Our Father

forgive us our tresspasses
as I cut through the lawn
of the Methodist Church.

Home again now
after years I take care
while you die.

I keep to the sidewalk.
I pray all the time.
Your flannel hangs from the chair.

The rosary your wife made
is tangled in a dish.
Her eyes were good enough once

to thread bead after bead,
bend wire into loops,
with tools from your store.

I work hard
to keep it afloat
but we can’t compete

with big box stores.
I know soon
we’ll have to stop fighting.

Three Lessons of Haircuts

I’m chopping off my hair tonight. Actually, I’m paying a talented and lovely lady named Lindsay to chop my hair off for me.

My hair-cycle goes like so—I chop it. I grow it. I start putting it up constantly because its longness bugs me. I get hair-envy for other women’s short-n-sassy hairdos. I chop it. Repeat.

When I was a kid, it was long and blonde and wavy like the little Dutch-ish girl I was. It started turning brown and in high school I got sick of the long-with-bangs thing that had been going on forever. Remember the early 90’s? Somewhere during the grunge phase people were shaving the underside of their hair just a little bit around the neck line. Remember this? Maybe it was just my high school—after all, we were isolated from all forms of culture by a ten-mile-wide radius of cornfields. Anyway, for some God, God awful reason, I shaved off all the hair just around my neckline, leaving the rest long I’m pretty sure it is around this time that my parents laid awake in bed at night whispering to one another “Well, at least she’s not on crack.”

I soon realized what a foolish fit of blinded-by-teenage-idioticness this was, and decided to solve the problem by chopping the rest of it off. Lesson 1 about hair: Chopping it off is never the solution to a bad haircut.

I grew it out, and it was all pretty and good again. That is the good thing about hair: it grows, just not fast enough. And by late high school and college it was lovely and flowing. It was the kind of hair people walking into a salon look at and say “Make my hair do that.” Then I broke up with my boyfriend.

Lord almighty, I was insane with grief. I could not be trusted with such matters as who to date or how to dress myself—my heart had been crushed for the first time—and it is the job of a girl’s friends to monitor the idiotic urges of such a fragile teenager.

One day, roiling in my post-break-up pit-o-despair, Becky left me alone a little too long with our friend Erika, who was the least stable of the clique. Erika had been known to drink Zima and belt out country tunes while careening down the highway in her little 1991 red Ford Escort. Erika took me to get a haircut because she thought a new look would make me feel better. Lesson 2 about haircuts: Never get a haircut right after a break-up.

I took in a photo and asked the stylist for a short-ish bob, like the girl in the picture. I came out looking like my grandmother. In my small Indiana town, the hairdresser spent most of her time on little old ladies, so she cut my hair just like an old lady—a super-duper-beyond-repair short that looked absolutely nothing like the photo.

Naturally, I went home, threw myself on my bedroom floor and bawled. My life was over—I looked awful, my boyfriend broke up with me, it was never going to get better, he was going to see me like this, I’m never going to get over him, etc. etc. etc. Becky came over and sat there with me and suggested things like hats and bandanas and all the stuff that doesn’t help even though you wish it did.

Yeah. I remember that. That was awesome.

I grew it back out, then I chopped it off again. However, this time I utilized Lesson 3 about haircuts: Never, ever, ever get a drastic cut unless the stylist has cut your hair very well no less than a million times. Never. Amen. Hallelujah. Never.

My cousin Julia became a stylist, and she’s awesome. I’d trust her to cut my hair blindfolded. I had it short through the rest of college (but not THAT short) and it was very cute. I was told I could pull off short hair well. I had a pixie cut right after college. It was alright, but I wouldn’t do it again.

Then: Short, long, short, long.

Now it’s long and dried out and the color isn’t right and its driving me crazy. The plan tonight is to go have many inches cut off, but I’ve been known to walk into a salon and come out with something totally different than I had in mind when I went in, so we’ll see what happens. As long as I don’t come out looking like Great Aunt Margaret, I think I’ll survive.

Ohmmmmmm.

My good friend Kate and I were on a walk the other day and I mentioned that maybe I’m tired because I’m working a full-time job, rowing 6-8 hours a week and putting together a prospectus and residency applications and writing a book. Last night after work, a 2-hour row and shower and laundry, I revised 40 pages of poetry. I did not want to get out of bed today.

Kate asked me what she can do to help, and I said very nicely that I kind of want everyone to go away. Just for a few days. Actually, I want me to go away for a few days, but that’s difficult due to finances and logistics (I need access to humongous stacks of notebooks and books).

I’ve arranged to have most of this weekend to myself. My sweetheart, my favorite distraction, is going camping with himself. I am going to stay inside my house and click away.

I’m dreaming of a writing retreat, and all the places I can take them in the future. Over the winter I went to the North Shore for three days all alone and I stayed in a little cabin overlooking Lake Superior. It was awesome.

I love my work, but the time consumption is a pain in the ass. Then there is the part where I get paid. I may not have summers off or get to leave every day at 3 or get to sleep in and leisurely make my way to French Meadow to eat a croissant while I edit last night’s notebook entry. But I do get paid time off and enough dough, if I’m careful, to rent the occasional cabin at the lake or fly my ass to Sydney if I want to.

Now, I wonder what else is out there for writer retreats. I’d love to do some kind of yoga/nature/spa/writing kind of thing. Actually, I’d love to teach at a yoga/nature/spa/writing kind of thing. I don’t know where to begin looking for them.

Where do you go to take a break or do your pleasure-work? Escape your life? Focus?

The Grand Gathering: 109

I am in the process of collecting all the poems I’ve written in graduate school. My advisor will read them and we’ll cut a bunch and revise a bunch and I’ll write a bunch more. My goal is to have 150 poems to give to her. So far I have 109.

One-hundred-nine poems, friends. Keep in mind that until just this past November, I was focusing on fiction, not poetry, so that’s quite the shitload for someone who wasn’t supposed to be focusing on poetry at all.

My thesis—I’m stressin’. I suppose most of us are. I want it to be brilliant and perfect and I want to complete it in a year. Tall order, I realize. And at first I was going to do a collection of science-themed poems. Now, I want to take a bunch of the fiction I have and turn them into narrative poems. And I want to do another collection of poems that are just ones I like that don’t necessarily have a theme.

(Hold on! I just found another one. Make that 110. Yeah!)

Is it just me, or does that sound like three books? Yeah, I’m not writing 3 books in a year. Or maybe I can somehow combine these—do 1 book with three sections. But… doesn’t that sound random? Like, “Hey, this part is about physics and astronomy, and this part is about my mom! And over here there are a couple poems about birds.” (Oh yeah, the bird poems. Revised total: 113.)

Really.

My point is, I don’t know how my vision of my thesis looks. It keeps changing, and I’m going to have to steer my craft toward some sort of vision of a project, but I also need to honor whatever I feel compelled to write, right? Or is that just a bunch of crap?

I hope this is the part where my advisor comes in. Like, she’ll look at my stuff and say something like “Clearly, you’re doing a lot of work that is X. So let’s make that into a book. Here’s step 1.”

I do not know. What I do know is that I’m totally overwhelmed, and how it’s all going to come together: a mystery. And this mystery, I want to hide from it right now. I want to go watch TV and shop for tank tops instead of think about how much I’ll have to do to figure this out.

Should the theme/vision/narrative of my thesis project somehow seem obvious to any of YOU, please, do enlighten me.

Put the jack-hammer away, doctor.

Some of you may know that my day job is to write surgical technique manuals for spine surgery. All the nerve roots to your whole body connect through a space between moving, hard bone, right? If you screw up the bone or the discs between the bones, they can cause a world of pain. Your limbs may go numb. The muscles will tense up to compensate for misalignment of the bones. Nerves will get crushed.

Apparently one of the vertebral processes in my lower cervical spine is skewed. By this, I mean that when I went to the chiropractor complaining of muscle tension in my upper back, he took and x-ray and it looked something like this:

Spine problems that aren’t caused by trauma are usually degenerative, meaning, before I’m even an old lady I could be in the kind of pain that will make implanting something like this:

using something like this:

sound appealing. So, even though my only symptom is annoying muscle tension and a wonky knob in my back, I need to take care of it now or I’m screwed (literally—a very common surgery is implantation of a pedicle screw system that looks something like this):

So I’m going to the chiropractor, getting massages and today I had doctor who specializes in physiology do an ergonomic assessment of my workspace. So far, it's apparently working.

I’ll end with this disclaimer: The truth is (and I’ve seen in a million times) for sufferers of severe back problems that can’t be resolved through physical therapy, surgery can be an amazingly good solution. It changes people’s lives for the better. Surgeons can do amazing things for people these days, and by the time I’m an old lady they’ll be able to work even bigger miracles. I don't actually have disc herniation or anything super-dramatic at this point. Still, let’s stick with the preventative measures, shall we?

There's a slight chance I might be going to hell.

My former landlord (oh, it feels so good to say “former”) is a jackass. He broke many laws—such as not replacing appliances in a timely manner, refusing to put deadbolts on my apartment doors, giving me my rent tax forms late… He told me he didn’t want to put on deadbolts because living in fear of burglary attracts the negativity of intruders (like rapists) as though by asking for basic safety measures, I was “asking for it.” Our “included” washer and dryer costs were snuck onto apartment #1’s bills. He spent a whole hour explaining to my neighbor how to use the miniblinds like she’s some kind of idiot, but he failed to tell her that she controlled the heat for my apartment, so when she turned the heat down and left for Boston for Christmas, I had no heat in my apartment until she returned a week later—in the middle of winter in Minnesota—and my landlord had left town with no back-up facilities help, so I was screwed.

When I moved in originally, he hadn’t cleaned the apartment, so I had to scour the place before I could move anything in. It was disgusting. Now, I have moved out. I didn’t want to clean it because it wasn’t clean when I moved in and because I hate him. But he still has my deposit—and while he probably couldn’t legally withhold it for not cleaning, the last two people who moved out had to take him to court to get their deposits back. I didn’t want to go there.

My landlord is the next tenant for my apartment—he’s moving in as we speak. So what’s a girl to do? Do you clean the place, knowing he doesn’t deserve it, hoping to save your deposit? Or do you leave it crusted with gunk?

I’ll tell you what you do. You clean the whole apartment using week-old toilet water. You snap on some rubber gloves, dip a couple sponges in stagnant water from the shitter, and you scrub the inside of his refrigerator with it. Then you do the microwave, the bookshelves, the mirrors. Dip them again—give the side of the bowl a little wipe—then clean all the light switches and door handles.

I ran into the bastard on my way to get my last pieces of mail. He told me how clean it was—immaculately clean—and he seemed so pleased.

Things I would do if I had a magic wand or a bewitched nose or at least a crew of helpful mice like in Cindarella:

• 
• Magically arrange and put away all the tons of stuff in boxes and lying in piles around the new apartment.


• Remove the ugly mini-blinds in my new apartment and replace them with lovely curtains.
  




• Stop time long enough to lie on my big fluffy couch and read books until I fall asleep.
  
• Magically and neatly fold fitted sheets and put them in the linen closet.
  


• Collect all the stuff that needs to go to Goodwill and float it down the street and into the donations box.
  
• Fix whatever is wrong with my printer.
  
• Return light bulbs that don’t work and magically select the ones that do from the aisle at Target dedicated to 6,503 sizes of light bulbs.
  
• Make a big fat ice cream sundae for my boyfriend for doing tons of handiwork.


• I may as well make one for myself while I'm at it.


• Clean the old place.
  
• Type up a brilliant prospectus and residency application and slide them into the mailbox with correct postage.
  
• Install a 3-pronged electrical outlet next to my bathroom sink. (There are no working outlets in my bathroom—none.)
  
• Re-pot all my plants.
  
• Find something to put in the weird-shaped, unusable fireplace spot in my living room that covers up the electrical outlet (there IS an outlet right in the middle of the fireplace-hole! WTF?) that fits and doesn’t look funky. Candelabra? Pillows? Lamp?

Exclusive interview you've all been waiting for!

Hee hee.

My new blog-o-sphere pal over at Bleeding Espresso interviewed me, and now I shall interview you. Drop me a line in the comments if you want 5 questions.

(1) Do you have a large group of close friends or just a few? Do you like it this way?

I have some friends from various stages of life all over the globe—childhood, college, living abroad. I'm good at keeping in touch with old friends. I’d say I have a small group of really close friends and a large group of medium-close friends in my day-to-day life. I prefer a smaller group of close friends rather than a zillion semi-friends.

(2) Your teenage years: best time of your life or sheer torture?

I didn’t like high school. I lived in a small conservative town with limited educational resources and I always felt stifled, like I didn't fit in and that freedom awaited me elsewhere. I did have wonderful friends, a safe home and much love from my community, which I appreciate. I've converted most of my distain for my hometown into respect for it (even though it isn't the right place for me, at all). One of the things that united my group of friends was our desire for more, and that made for some loving friendships.

I'd say the best time of my life is now.

(3) In how many different places have you lived? Which was your favorite and why?

About 4. Probably Australia because I love the ocean, but I also love Minneapolis now and love Portland (though that period ran its course for me). I also studied abroad twice and sort of feel like I've lived in Europe. I want to live abroad again sometime soon-ish.

My favorite is usually wherever I am.

(4) Who's your most favorite person in the whole world and why? (OK, you can list a few if you like.)

Let’s assume you mean someone I actually know who is alive right now (so we can rule out the Dhali Lama and Mother Theresa, etc.).

My favorite people right now are all the ones who helped me move this weekend.

• Liza and Voix helped me paint the bedroom sky blue and the kitchen a bodacious orange.
• Scott Andrew tirelessly schlepped boxes, went on a painfully long shopping trip, arranged for a van and kept me sane--we're talkin' dawn to midnight for 3 days straight, all without whining once.
• Kate and Tim helped with several loads.
• Aunt Claire and Uncle John brought over their van and helped me pack and move furniture, all after hauling a million pounds of mulch for their own garden.
• The Two Barts helped with a kitchen table and transportation.
• Kara and John not only helped me assemble cabinets and lash boxsprings to a car, but they brought me a big old bottle of champagne to boot.

A pretty loving tribe I've got over here.

(5) You've just been granted your dream holiday. Where do you go, for how long, and who's coming with you?

Oh. Yes. I love this question.
I’d travel around the world—literally, including Antarctica—and I’d bring Scott for most of it (traveling alone is also fun) and have other join at various points on the trip. I’d begin with a tour of the pacific islands (Fiji, Cook, to which Becky, Kate, Voix, Jessi, Michelle and Lola are invited), head to Australia to see friends in Perth and Sydney. Get my dive certificate at the Great Barrier Reef. Do Indonesia, Malaysia, Japan, Vietnam, Thailand, India, Russia. I’d need to do more research on Africa for specific spots, but definitely the Gold coast, Morocco, Egypt. I’d like to go to Mesopotamia if it’s safe enough. I’d see Europe—back to the Swiss Alps, Italy (heaven) and Germany and spend lots of time in wine country. Go to the Nordic countries. Back to England. Ireland. Iceland. Then central America (maybe hang out in Guatemala long enough to learn Spanish properly), and work my way down to the tip of SA and take a cruise to Antarctica.
There, how’s that for an answer?

Your turn:

1. Leave me a comment saying "Interview me."

2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions.

3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.

4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.

5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Modern Astronomy 101

Doctor Murphy told us he doesn’t believe

in UFOs. He sketched equations over-head
showing the likelihood of aliens
coming to Earth from billions of light years away

to make crop circles, no less, and go home.

Maybe we came to class hung over,

sweat pants baseball caps. Late.

But equations. Equations can see
The Wind Cries Mary leave Hendrix’s guitar
in colors and waves, hit your inner ear and
fire the synapse that gives the urge

to close your eyes and rock.

One equation showed the likelihood
aliens could travel faster than light
without micro-waving to death.

Another showed the likelihood
they’d be able to stop a space craft moving that fast

without crashing into us.

He turned the crank and laid a transparency

of the Universe, black with blurs like bits of rice.

Murphy said with so many suns

They must exist. But

our planet’s just a boat rocking away

in a black sea. We’re a climber stumbling sideways

through snow and aliens may be a helicopter

with a search light. Even if we could feel their blades

rattle our sternum—if they bothered

to send out a search team at all—

they’d surely never find us.

Progress Report:

A couch has been purchased. Picture it in a coffee-with-cream color, minus the tacky accent pillows.

Paint has been purchased.

Old apartment is looking very post-tornado.

I'm am going to swipe more bubble wrap from the shipping room at work now.

Yeah. I don't know what the hell I'm doing.

I had the pleasure of babysitting my friends’ baby, who is the smiliest, most angelic little almost-1-year-old you could ask for.

I have no children of my own, and while I want maybe one or two of them, genetics did not bestow me with the gene that draws me to children with the same force that I am, say, drawn into a shoe store. I like kids and all, but I don’t feel a primal or automatic urge to go play games with children at company picnics or know what to say to make them giggle or get them to stop crying. I’m generally inclined to treat them like little adults, though I know better than to make them a toddler-sized martini.

Anyway: I adore this little kiddo. He’s the first I’ve gotten to see grow from teeny infancy, and he recognizes me and reaches out for me when I’m around. So last night we got to hang out solo while his parents went out.

Before the walk, I changed his jacket 3 times before going out because I was afraid he’d be cold, or warm, or maybe he should have a hood, or maybe I should put him in a fleece and bring 2 more options just in case. I loaded my pockets with 10 binkies and toys, then realized that after all this, I forgot to put shoes on him.

I had also forgotten to strap him into the stroller entirely (lest he fall out at a screaming .0001 miles an hour). Naturally there are 60,000 straps and clips all wound around and I don’t know what goes where. When I got him all finally situated realized that I’ve done all this IN the house and now have to either undo all the straps and take him out of the stroller—a contraption as large and complicated as a space ship, I tell you—and put him back in again, OR I’ll have to carry him down 25 steps still strapped in.

Then my mind goes like this: But if I take him out of the stroller so I can carry the stroller down the steps first, what if something happens in the 3 seconds while he’s out of my sight? What if he chokes on a Lego or tries to pull himself up on the bookshelf and it falls over or drinks Drain-o or follows me out and falls down the stairs or chokes on those little strings that hang from the blinds?

And the whole time he’s sitting there blinking his giant blue eyes at me like, “Lady, what the HELL are you doing?”

Note to self: Call your mother and apologize to her for all the years you teased her never, ever getting out of the house on time.

(Oh, and I carried him down the steps IN the stroller. And I didn't drop him once.)

Moving. Ack.

I woke up the day after class ended and thought “Ah, morning. I’m done with school. Why, what’s that small light off in the distance? It’s getting bigger. Hey, it looks kind of like a co—” BAM. It hit me: I have to move, um, NOW.

I have to be out of there by the weekend, need to paint, acquire boxes, buy, I don’t know, FURNITURE, schlep a ton of crap across town and naturally, I really, really want to have everything I need right NOW so I can just get it done. Not just “done” as in, “I can find a fork somewhere in one of these boxes” but I want it “done” as in Better Homes will be over with the photographer by next Wednesday. Not so realistic, I know.

When I moved here, everything I owned could practically fit into someone’s glove compartment. I had no job and had just taken out student loan money which is enough to buy one whole burrito to sustain me for the entire semester. My parents were kind enough to give me some of their furniture, and while I appreciate their generosity (love you guys!), its old an needs to be put to pasture.

So, Voix and I went on a big fat furniture shopping spree on Saturday. You know how when you have no money you can walk into a store and think “If I could afford any of this I could decorate a whole house!”? Yeah, it wasn’t like that. Now that I have the money to actually buy some moderately priced stuff, there really wasn’t much of that looked very fabulous. However: If I’m ever hired to decorate Zsa Zsa Gabor’s Nascar game room basement, I totally know where to buy gold-trimmed paisley ornate coffee tables and puffy built-in-beer-can-cup-holder couches.

Okay, so some of it was fine, but nothing that I gotta have. I need to find something soon because I didn’t think to consider that a couch that isn’t stocked in a nearby warehouse will take 8 weeks to get here.

Luckily, I found some stuff at a department store last night. I have a couch/chair combo that I really like, but there are a couple more places to check out before I commit. It’s a couch, I know. It can be sold or even returned to the store if I don’t like it, but the whole thing feels like a big decision.

A letter from me, to, well, me.

Congratulations, Self. You have completed all the coursework necessary to graduate with your MFA. You’re deemed, by the Powers that run the Graduate Liberal Studies program, qualified to write a book. Soon, you'll finish thesis. Graduate. Be qualified to teach at a University if you want to.

Remember graduating from college and getting sitting at the desk of your first job thinking “Oh my God. This is so dreadfully unfulfilling. I can’t do this. I need art. I need substance. I’m going to die.”? But then you didn’t die, you sold all your shit and moved to the other country where you mustered up the courage and determination to find some way to do your art and support yourself without wanting to die. And you decided to really start helping other people.

Remember waiting for your acceptance letters for graduate school? You were sitting in the office of an engineering company answering phones, and you suddenly knew that somehow, Melanie was with you. You didn’t know why you felt her there until you got a phone call from Regina telling you you were accepted into the program. You excused yourself from your desk and went into the storage room—the only place for privacy in the office—and jumped up and down. That is why you felt Mel’s presence—she was, from wherever she is now, jumping up and down with you.

Remember when you moved to Minneapolis for school and your loving Dad drove up a bunch of old furniture to help you with your new apartment because you had no job or car and everything you owned fit in a suitcase? Remember how alone you felt when you moved here and didn't have a single friend nearby?

Remember this last semester, and the one before that and the one before that? When you got up, went to work, listened to audio books on poetry and cosmology and physics while you worked, then studied things you had to study because they were required until 11 p.m.? Remember sitting in class for 3 hours after a full workday? Spending all weekend doing homework? Doing it all over again?

Yeah, that is over. Starting today.

Starting today you get to work on your fabulous thesis project directed by two amazing, established guru writers. You get to ask them for what you need to grow and they are going to do their best to give it to you.

You get to make your own book lists, study whatever poets you want and make your own schedule. You’ll have more time to apply for writing stuff, go to readings and send your stuff out.

You have a job that is moderately creative and many times enjoyable. It not only pays your bills, but totally understands if you need a morning off to write. And if you need a month off to fly to the tropics to revise your thesis in peace, they will work with you to make it happen. Oh, and they’re paying for your credits, as of last March.

Now you get to buy new furniture. You get to move into a bigger place. You get to not freak-out about money.

Now you have friends, a writing community, a loving partner.

Lots of times in the last three years have been hard. Finding the right job fit, getting homework done, sometimes living on a credit card. Struggling to be a better writer. Handling the emotionally taxing work of being creative on demand. Struggling to figure out what the right path is for you, how to get on it and how to get by while honoring your calling. Being afraid of being a bad writer, or being afraid of being a good one. Dealing with some other unexpected, difficult life-things. There were also many good things, but a lot of times, it has been hard.

Well, here you are. The next year also include a lot of hard work, but you can handle it, and will be better for it. You have earned all the enjoyment the results of your efforts brings you. You have done well. Keep it up.

Residencies

I’ve been working on my final class portfolio, which is due tomorrow. I’m so completely mentally and emotionally checked out of this class it won’t really matter.

I’m so very excited to start thesis. I want to put together reading lists and apply for residencies and write and re-write and send stuff out and go to whatever readings I want to go to and not have to sit in class any more.

So: I’ve decided I’m going away for a month, probably in January, to work on my thesis. I’m trying to figure out where, and I’ve found some residencies around the globe that look fantastic. There’s one in India I’m drawn to, (there’s a residency in ANTARCTICA—yeah!). Right now, I’m feeling a pull back to Australia.

I lived in Perth most of 2003, and while I was there I volunteered for the State Literature Center and took a couple classes. My writing teacher, Melanie, and I became good friends. During my time there I was generally feeling lost about what my next life step should be, and she helped me to see that it was time to seriously pursue writing. She taught me so much—basic lessons I’ve never seen another writing teacher teach—and she was such as supportive friend to my personal struggles (heard of Saturn Returns? Yeah, that was me), helping me to identify what I wanted and needed from life during a turbulent time. My life changed course completely, and she was there during the time when I was in limbo and making huge decisions.

Melanie died three months after I moved home. I miss her. Because I wasn’t there and I’ve never known Perth without her, it’s still really strange to think of her as being gone.

I was with her when I decided to go to grad school, I used material I wrote in her classes for my applications and returning there during thesis would feel like the last half-decade would come full-circle. So, there’s a residency in Perth that I’d like to apply for (I need information on it, and fast—all I know is that the deadline is June 2).

Ideally, I’d love to go in January because that works out best for my work/study schedule, and because they have a HUGE and awesome arts/literature festival that month. It’s a really exceptional writing opportunity—to go to that festival. And it makes sense to my heart—to return during my thesis to the place where I first committed to this life. I don’t know if it’s meant to happen or not. I believe that if I put in the effort, if it’s meant to it will somehow. So: I’ll keep you posted, I guess. Meanwhile, the thought of walking on my old favorite beaches and writing at the Walk Café in Subi and having the rest of my old friends and going to readings downtown at the festival—this makes me very, very happy.

So, what are you all reading?

All of you are invited to post a comment, even if you’re only reading are baseball scores. While you’re at it, tell me a story about it—that you came across the book in the dime-bin at the used book store the day you were looking for a book on re-caulking your bathtub, that you’re reading it because your spouse is dragging you to a lecture on the history of presidential rhetoric, that you’re reading it because it had a cool cover or because you’re on a beach in Florida and wanted a smutty romance. Whatever. All of you, now: That includes you, stranger-in-Germany-who-reads-my-blog.

In the works right now for me are:

Come Now to the Window by Ann Iverson
Poems put out by the Laurel Poetry Collective, a group to which my thesis advisor belongs. I got the book at Garrison Keillor’s new bookstore below Nina’s Coffee Shop on Cathedral Hill the day I skipped work. I love that they support so many local authors there, and I bought another book by a friend of mine. I wanted to show how important it is for bookstores, especially locally owned ones, to support us writer-folk. And Ann Iverson, I believe, got her MFA from my University.

Invisible Acts of Power by Caroline Myss
I finished the archetype book, and I’m on to this one, which is shorter. It’s about how giving and doing acts of service create an impact—both literally and energetically for the universe. She corresponds good acts with various chakra energies. It’s fascinating.

Fringe (et. al.): If you get the audio books, there’s no solicitation to go to a lecture. AND, all her lectures are available on audio book for free at the library. It’s all so much easier to understand when she’s talking about it vernacular-style.

The Peace Book by Todd Parr
This is a children’s book I bought for my baby friend Ellis for his first birthday. I got it at Café of the Americas, a multi-language, multi-cultural book store, when I was shopping for a kids book of rain-forest poems for SA’s niece. It’s about how peace is more than the absence of violence, it’s about making new friends, helping others, the freedom to move, and compassion. I love it, and I want my little Ellis friend to have it as one of his very first reads.

More later, but for now

Just to clairify:

Archetype:
1.
the original pattern or model from which all things of the same kind are copied or on which they are based; a model or first form; prototype.
2.
(in Jungian psychology) a collectively inherited unconscious idea, pattern of thought, image, etc., universally present in individual psyches.

Stereotype:
1.
a process, now often replaced by more advanced methods, for making metal printing plates by taking a mold of composed type or the like in papier-mâché or other material and then taking from this mold a cast in type metal.
2.
a plate made by this process.
3.
a set form; convention.
4.
Sociology. a simplified and standardized conception or image invested with special meaning and held in common by members of a group: The cowboy and Indian are American stereotypes. –verb (used with object)
5.
to make a stereotype of.
6.
to characterize or regard as a stereotype: The actor has been stereotyped as a villain.
7.
to give a fixed form to.

Regarding the Animal-Lover Archetype: I'm new to this subject, but I think its a combination of the Child-Nature archetype (think Tarzan--close to nature, protective, fully connected to the community of it), the Mother Nature archetype (nurturing, healing, etc.) There's a ton more about them here, and this is a really good book if you're interested.