Archive for January, 2007
oops-a-daisy
Jan 31st
Today started off well. I was getting a lot of work done. Things were progressing well. I was feeling good.
The BAM!
I was walking from my building to another building. I had to go visit a professor and get some information from him. I was taking some books back to a friend.
It snowed last night. Not much. I’ve walked through deeper snow. It wasn’t particularly cold so there wasn’t thick ice on the ground.
But…
I just happened to walk on a part of the sidewalk where the snow was packed down and smooth and I slipped and fell. My entire left side impacted with the ground.
I got up and kept going. But then my supervisor said I should go to the campus clinic just to get checked. Then the stiffness started setting in.
I’m bruised from the thigh up to my shoulder. My neck hurts. My head hurts.
I’ve been in bed since noon and I feel worse now than I did when I left the doctor’s office.
I’m just hoping that by morning I’m feeling better. There is too much to do to not be feeling better.
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On another note, if you can, please send some thoughts to my friend ashley. Her cat has been missing for a few days and I know she needs all of the positive thoughts she can get.
I love you, sweetpea.
clipped
Jan 30th
So this is something I worry about. Really. Just one of the many, many things I worry about each and every day (because I’m a worrier and that’s what we do — we worry).
What if one of these guys that I’ve gone out with on a date finds my blog? And what if he doesn’t like that I’ve written just a little thing about him — that I had lunch with him or that I call him “xxxxguy”?
Will I have missed out on something meaningful because I’ve shared a blurb about him or will he have missed out on something meaningful because he doesn’t understand that I would never spill any of his secrets online (because I’m a very good secret keeper)?
Should I clip my proverbial wings or is it ok to write about these things? I mean, really, it’s been one lunch with each one. Nothing more. But what if it is something more? Can I say we went on another date? I don’t say their names (I mean, eventually, I might if that’s how it worked out). I don’t tell about their stints in prison or that big mole on their…
Oops.
Heh.
Seriously though.
I’m really thinking about this because I’m taking another autobiography class. A few of us were talking and I was wondering how the other people felt about this book — the people that are discussed. We know one person killed herself after the book came out (but I’m sure the book was not the reason for her suicide).
This is my autobiography. I’m writing about the things that happen in my life and the people who pass through my life (except for those who specifically request that I don’t write about them).
If I don’t share these things, do I, as a writer, lose credibility? Do I lose authenticity? Oh, my life is swell and lovely and everything is painted a rosy pink. Is that how it would all come out if I didn’t talk about the events that happen in my life – like dating?
I don’t know. I do worry, though, that what I write may offend someone who could be someone important. But I also hope that if it was going to be something real, that person would take the time to talk to me about it and understand why I write here and why I want to share things about him. If he didn’t, he probably wouldn’t be the right person for me.
depth of field
Jan 29th
So…you know, I’ve been doing the dating thing. I meet men through our online profiles and we chat through email and then, eventually, if it all goes well, we meet up.
Last week, I had lunch with three different men. Oy. It was hectic. I had a busy work week, a crazy school week, and then I added three lunch dates on top of it.
I’m not sure that was the smartest thing I could do.
Then to top it off, I couldn’t remember if I was getting their names right when we were having lunch. Seriously. Part of that is because I call them by their nicknames: photographyguy, hikerguy, and youngguy.
Oh, yes. New guys.
And remember last summer when I asked why men my age wanted to date younger women? Oy. Vindication for them. A younger man (he’s 30) wrote to me and asked me if he was old enough for me.
So, this week, the age range was from 30 to 56. I covered it all. Heh.
And honestly, the best lunch was with the younger guy. We just had a good time. That was nice. He had me laughing. Laughing is good. The other two dates were so serious. No laughing.
I’m lucky I can remember my own name.
And now you know why I’m a slacker and not writing in my blog. I can’t remember anything and can’t think enough to actually write.
But I think I’m back on track. So be prepared.
Mwah-ha-ha!!!
for weeks after the funeral
Jan 28th
american life in poetry: column 096
by ted kooser, u.s. poet laureate, 2004-2006
Grief can endure a long, long time. A deep loss is very reluctant to let us set it aside, to push it into a corner of memory. Here the Arkansas poet, Andrea Hollander Budy, gives us a look at one family’s adjustment to a death.
For Weeks After the Funeral
The house felt like the opera,
the audience in their seats, hushed, ready,
but the cast not yet arrived.And if I said anything
to try to appease the anxious air, my words
would hang alone like the single chandelierwaiting to dim the auditorium, but still
too huge, too prominent, too bright, its light
announcing only itself, bringing moreemptiness into the emptiness.
Copyright (c) 2006 by Andrea Hollander Budy. First published in “Five Points” and included in her book, “Woman in the Painting.” Reprinted by permission of the author and Autumn House Press. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.
young man
Jan 21st
american life in poetry: column 095
by ted kooser, u.s. poet laureate, 2004-2006
Literature, and in this instance, poetry, holds a mirror to life; thus the great themes of life become the great themes of poems. Here the distinguished American poet, John Haines, addresses–and celebrates through the affirmation of poetry–our preoccupation with aging and mortality.
Young Man
I seemed always standing
before a door
to which I had no key,
although I knew it hid behind it
a gift for me.Until one day I closed
my eyes a moment, stretched
then looked once more.
And not surprised, I did not mind it
when the hinges creaked
and, smiling, Death
held out his hands to me.
Reprinted from “ABZ: A Poetry Magazine,” No. 1, 2006, by permission of the author. Copyright (c) 2006, by John Haines, whose most recent book of poetry is “Of Your Passage, O Summer,” Limberlost Press, 2004. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.
self-portrait, week #13
Jan 17th
I’m taking another class in autobiography. I have to write an introduction to my professor about myself — how I see autobiography, how I see myself, how we identify ourselves, what is identity, etc.
These courses always make me take a long look at myself. They make me question where I’m going, what I’m doing. Do I have valid things to write about? Am I projecting myself in the manner I wish to be viewed in? Is my identity clear or muddled?
I start paying closer attention (as if that is possible) to the rhetorical value of my text and my images. What do they all mean? Do my images add or detract from my writing? It matters.
In my work, I am consistently facing the needs of faculty members trying to emphasize their lectures through online mediums. We face the issues of textual and visual rhetoric on a daily basis. We assess the images we create or use to make sure that they are supporting and increasing the validity of the language the instructor is putting forth.
It is a battle. When is there enough visual media to promote a concept? When is it too much? What is that fine balance? And what if we choose an image that is not right for the text? Does that throw off the balance of the lecture? (It does, btw.)
Every image I choose to accompany my words here is thought about before being used. I want to make sure to emphasize my words — and my images. They are a pair. They go together.
So why sneakers today? It’s a part of me, a part of my identity. I get compliments every time I wear these particular shoes — and they are just a pair of sneakers. They give me an identity, though. They add to peoples’ perception of me. They see me in a certain light when I wear these particular shoes — as opposed to my Birks, Tevas, or leather boots.
The shoes, with the words, create an image of me for you. What do you see?
silent music
Jan 14th
american life in poetry: column 094
by ted kooser, u.s. poet laureate, 2004-2006
While many of the poems we feature in this column are written in open forms, that’s not to say I don’t respect good writing done in traditional meter and rhyme. But a number of contemporary poets, knowing how a rigid attachment to form can take charge of the writing and drag the poet along behind, will choose, say, the traditional villanelle form, then relax its restraints through the use of broken rhythm and inexact rhymes. I’d guess that if I weren’t talking about it, you might not notice, reading this poem by Floyd Skloot, that you were reading a sonnet.
Silent Music
My wife wears headphones as she plays
Chopin etudes in the winter light.
Singing random notes, she sways
in and out of shadow while night
settles. The keys she presses make a soft
clack, the bench creaks when her weight shifts,
golden cotton fabric ripples across
her shoulders, and the sustain pedal clicks.
This is the hidden melody I know
so well, her body finding harmony in
the give and take of motion, her lyric
grace of gesture measured against a slow
fall of darkness. Now stillness descends
to signal the end of her silent music.
Reprinted from “Prairie Schooner,” Volume 80, Number 2 (Summer, 2006) by permission of the University of Nebraska Press. Copyright (c) 2006 by the University of Nebraska Press. Floyd Skloot’s most recent book is “The End of Dreams,” 2006, Louisiana State University Press. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.
prayer
Jan 11th
My life is a series of meetings and trainings. I go from one to the other, rarely at my computer this week. I barely have time to breath before I run to the next one.
Yesterday I was working with a faculty member all morning, ran to do an errand, and then ended up at the local Catholic elementary school. I was giving a training on Literacy through Photography. It was an in-service training for a group of instructors at the school.
We had a lot of fun. I took in some cameras from work, we did some writings and some photography. We printed photographs and shared words that were written about the photographs. The teachers seemed to be having a good time and were really getting in to it. Some of them were really giving it a lot of thought and consideration.
Then the class ended. And they asked me if I wanted to join them in prayer.
I don’t talk about religion much here but I think it is safe to say that I am not a religious person. I have been baptized (in a stupid attempt to endear myself to a man, I got baptized in the church he attended even though I knew it wasn’t the right thing for me — but fervently wanted to believe it was). I don’t attend church. I don’t have any desire to attend church. My church is the church of the world, the trees flying overhead, the breeze flowing through the branches, the earth beneath my feet.
When I was asked if I would join them in prayer, I didn’t know what to say. I was the furthest from the door so I couldn’t really make a quick getaway (and that would have been rude).
So, I joined their circle, taking hands in my hands. I bowed my head, didn’t close my eyes, listened respectfully to the prayer, and didn’t say “amen” at the end (I also didn’t cross myself as they all did). The prayer was nice, actually. The principal of the school thanked me, wished me well in my future, and hoped that everyone would be able to use the knowledge I brought to the session. It was religious but not uncomfortably so (although, when my name was mentioned a few times, I’m sure I did squirm a bit).
I had fun, prayer notwithstanding. I enjoyed sharing my knowledge with others and giving them new tools to use in their classrooms. In the end, a few people told me they could definitely use this in their class. That was cool. I was glad to hear that the fun of writing and photography would be passed down to the next generation. And maybe it will inspire the next Ansel Adams.
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My camera did arrive. It is beautiful. :-)
yahoo!
Jan 10th
I know. I’m a slacker. I am the epitome of the Gen X generation. I work hard but then crash and no one sees me for a few days (if not longer).
Right now, I’m working hard. Really hard. Work is absolutely insane and I’m worn out. I can’t think of anything to write because my head is filled with too many things from work.
I apologize for that.
Also, I’ve had lunch with MBAguy. I think it might become a friendship (if he returns my email) but nothing more than that. I don’t think he’s interested in moving away for me to get my PhD and I’m not interested in the programs we have here. That is all very understandable. He has two little kids that live here. In addition, there just didn’t seem to be that spark. He seemed very reserved.
The good news is that I’m feeling more comfortable with this and not putting a lot of pressure on myself for these first dates. It’s just a meeting. Where it goes from there is anyone’s guess. I have a lunch date with teaguy tomorrow. He seems like a nice guy but I’m not sure if it is going to be more than that. Again, I just didn’t feel the spark. My brother wants me to meet one of the firefighters in his station. I told him I’d be happy to. He said I’m playing the field. Heh. Well, what is the saying? You gotta kiss a lotta frogs…
And the yahoo moment of the week? I ordered my new camera. I’m getting the Nikon D200. And not that I’m watching UPS avidly or anything but it is already in town and should be delivered today. OMIGOD!!!
I know. Silly, eh? But this is the camera I’ve been wanting for some time. And it’s the one thing I will buy for myself this year that I really, really want (besides my graduation trip to Spain/France/wherever I end up going). This is it. It’s my birthday/Solstice/whatever present to myself.
And I’m so excited (refrains from breaking out in song and dance).
If only I could have had it delivered here at work. *sigh*
common janthina
Jan 7th
american life in poetry: column 093
by ted kooser, u.s. poet laureate, 2004-2006
Newborns begin life as natural poets, loving the sound of their own gurgles and coos. And, with the encouragement of parents and teachers, children can continue to write and enjoy poetry into their high school years and beyond. A group of elementary students in Detroit, Michigan, wrote poetry on the subject of what seashells might say if they could speak to us. I was especially charmed by Tatiana Ziglar’s short poem, which alludes to the way in which poets learn to be attentive to the world. The inhabitants of the Poetry Palace pay attention, and by that earn the stories they receive.
Common Janthina
My shell said she likes the king and queen
of the Poetry Palace because they listen to her.
She tells them all the secrets of the ocean.
Reprinted by permission from “Shimmering Stars,” Vol. IV, Spring, 2006, published by the InsideOut Literary Arts Project. Copyright (c) 2006 by the InsideOut Literary Arts Project. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.
