I had lunch with a good friend weeks ago and what she meant as somewhat of a passing comment ended up burying itself inside my skin and has burned there ever since. She looked through me as if she had just turned the key to my core and said, "You're not as together as I thought you were... You always seem so confident." These words were uttered in the tone of someone commenting on the dry humid weather we were enduring, except it isn't the atmosphere in question...it's my character.

together.
confident.
seem.

These words swam around each other and messed with my psyche, striking me inarticulate. At that moment the waitress came with our drinks and the conversation naturally moved, but I didn't. Which no doubt proves her point, I'm certainly not together and am still forever working on the confidence card. And to be honest, I'm somewhat surprised to have ever given that impression in the first place.

My heart travels to the shakers of the facade and finds fear. I fear that they'll always leave, because they always do. I fear my worth because of the need to look elsewhere for its confirmation. I fear truth because despite mutual commitment there are always borders and limits. I fear imitation because of habit.

I'm 25 years old. And if you were to ask another good friend of mine, that's not old enough, nor do I have the status (like one of a first lady per say) to have any reason to write about my life or my thoughts. This opinion is probably largely due to the fact that the blog/memoir writing process reads as a service more for the self than the audience which can alienate people who rightly feel they deserve more. After all, they are giving their time and energy. They are engaging just to be treated like a brick wall.

Listen up wall. I'm talking to with you.

Faking confidence is worse than not having any; to be vulnerable is courageous. I'm embarrassed that it took a mediocre movie (ahem: Eat pray Love) to encourage the contemplation.

Here's to burning words
to open cores

to feeling the fear and doing it, being it, loving it, overcoming it anyway.

life is like a box of chocolates

I had a history professor who once voiced his opinion on the great American drama, “Forrest Gump” by saying, “I liked the movie just fine, but what I don’t understand is why Hanks had to have a mental handicap?” The professor expanded on his frustration noting that if one of the purposes of the movie is to convey American history, through an American’s perspective, why that voice? What larger commentary is at play?

His questions popped into my head as I watched segments of the film the other night as it was on TV and as absolutely nothing else was on TV. And I mean nothing. I’m not much of a TV-watcher, so I realize that this lens is limited; however, I was left flipping between the movie and “America’s got talent.” Oddly enough, both shows could work their way into a hearty discussion concerning media commentary on all things American, that is, if I were ever to encounter that professor again, and he would remember me, and remember the comments, and perhaps also have an affection for lattes. Until then…

YES DRILL SERGEANT screams from my set. And like so many of the scenes from this movie, the Vietnam ones have stuck with me. Whenever the film is referenced my mind jumps to and from a variety of moments and dialogue, though invariably, Forrest's service to the military is forefront. I don’t know why. I’ve never been particularly passionate about war. I’m rather sure that had I been born in another generation I would be bra-less, in a tie-dye dress, ferociously smoking and wildly dancing to “I am the walrus” ultimately filled with a higher purpose of preaching peace and love.

Yet it's 2010, and I adore my undergarments (though play "I am the walrus" and I can't say there wouldn't be dancing). I re-watch with heroic admiration as Forrest pulls his rank out of the flaming bushes and bramble and runs them to “safety” yet where they will suffer in complete agony (I still groan and throw my body at the sight of the soldier’s skin flapped up over his face, where it looks like a phony Mrs. Doubtfire mask, except this guy can’t call up his gay brother to make him a new one. The left side of my face burns in sympathy pains.) When Forrest goes back into the danger zone for his fifth or sixth time, hoping to discover his shrimp-talking-friend-Bubba, he happens to stumble upon frantic, dire, dying, Lt. Dan.

Even though the images of explosions, injured men and the very last conversation Forrest has with Bubba were retained in my memory, I sheepishly admit that I had forgotten a very important subplot that negates a major relationship within the film: Lt. Dan’s legacy. His father’s and his father's father, and his father's father's father…you get it…had died in every American War. It was Lt. Dan's destiny to die under the American air raid that Forrest subsequently saves him from.

Being saved from your destiny is a complicated notion. And when I wonder whether or not it was the "right" thing, for Forrest to save Lt. Dan, it all comes down to the way you look at it. His road to recovery afterward was anything but pretty; however he marries at the end and is able to benefit from improving technology that provides him with metal legs and thus the return of some normalcy. At that point, does Lt. Dan consider himself saved, or does he still feel robbed?

Most would argue that there isn’t any use in entertaining these dialogues, especially as we relate them to real life, questioning what we did or what we should have done, said or should have said, etc. and how it would have all turned out differently had we...etc. Most would argue that whatever is done is done and all you have is the present…so move on.

What happens though when you don't have a present to move on to? Recently I've lost a relationship in my life. It's a complicated one. And while I watched this film, and listened to the cries of Lt. Dan, I wondered, from her perspective, what did she think we were "supposed to be." You could say that Lt. Dan and Forrest Gump have vastly different perspectives on life at the beginning of their relationship. Overtime, Lt. Dan seems to do more of the conforming, he isn't as angry or intense and he seems to appreciate the life that he has, even though it's not the one that he thought he would have.

I wonder, I hope, I even sometimes pray to a god I'm not sure exists, that she might one day change the way she feels. That even though it didn't all happen like perhaps we thought it would, there would still be something there worth valuing.

Until then...you never know what you're going to get.

the world

I told her to look up. Given the choice, I say, always look up. With my finger I traced the outline of an upside down elephant and his misshapen trunk. In between her gasps and sobs she said she saw it and wondered if I saw her dinosaur to the left of my elephant. The clouds were on the move so I lied, worried that I would miss it anyway. "Oh...yeah" I said and she seemed satisfied. The game had momentarily taken her mind off of the fact that she couldn't breathe, but she was back at it again. "I'm going to die. And I just keep thinking about how my dog died, and about how my grandmother died five years ago..." She wanted something from me. I laid back on the hot, prickly grass that poked my arms and neck like needles. "Look at them...one second an elephant, the next a dinosaur, the next..."

If you give anything time, it can be something else.

"And you, you have all the time in the world."

get out to get in

The woman behind the words is a recovering dependent, finding solace here, in these lines and pages.

Replacing one with another, I don't think they call this progress.

Lost between worlds living all loving none and when it stops all that remains is edges frayed

Finding comfort in consistency of this and that though there is nothing comforting about THAT consistency.

Wanting to test how much they care(at the risk of never finding out). Instead,

I sip my bourgeois brand of tea coupled with a reduced-fat coffee cake and wonder, just how commercial will life get?

His voice is therapy sought. Singing the pieces back from the cracks where life touches our fingertips.

We're all living fictions.

the writer, unknown,

has placed it in

an unflattering light.

tryna find the words...

Mark Twain once wrote, "The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug." You can imagine then the vast difference between the right word and the absolute wrong wrong wrong word...lightning and a flicker so minuscule that it might not even exist.

Poor David Guetta illustrates this struggle most prominently in his hit single, "Sexy Bitch." He sings:

I'm tryna find the words to describe this girl
without being disrespectful

The right word is difficult isn't it? Especially when you find yourself in circumstances that evoke such awe. All descriptions seem to fall short but us writers, that doesn't keep us from tryna...I mean, attempting.

The frustrating piece as an audience member is when it's blatantly obvious that the author has settled for something cliche or in this case really ridiculously unnecessarily offense. Guetta sings the struggle and concludes with this refrain:

Damn Girl!!!

Damn, you's a sexy bitch, sexy bitch!
Damn, you's a sexy bitch!

Damn Girl!!!

Writer's block? Laziness? Insight into the pig-headed mind of this macho-maniac? I'm not quite certain. What I do know is that this singer/songwriter requires a little assistance complimenting a woman from one of my favorite friends, thesaurus.com

Substitute out "Sexy" for any of the following:

adorable, alluring, beautiful, beckoning, bewitching, captivating, charming, comely, enchanting, engaging, enthralling, enticing, fair, fascinating, fetching, glamorous, good-looking, gorgeous, interesting, inviting, looker, lovely, luring, magnetic, mesmeric, pleasant, pleasing, prepossessing, pretty, stunning, taking...

Substitute out "Bitch" for:

girl, lady, lass, female, woman...

Combine and sing:

fascinating woman, captivating lass, lovely lady, charming girl...

To claim something as difficult solicits evidence of attempted endeavors. If the desired result is more than a slap in the face I would suggest some major editing (to perhaps more than just these lyrics).

And Guetta, just so you know, girls won't be flattered if you note that there is such an apparent contrast between them and your neighborhood whore. If they are then I would wonder if there actually is.


New add to the shit list: all who ask to be called Mr. Flintstone. (see Lil' Wayne).

never is the less (the less you have nevered)

i'll tell you a story
though not mine
i'll tell it just the same
made up places, faces and pains
but all truth, nonetheless.
i'll tell a story
though not yours
i'll tell it just the same
made up names, dates and frames
but certainly fact, nevertheless
(never. the. less. haven't you come to expect as much)
i'll tell you this story
though not ours
i'll tell it exactly the same
made up motives, emotions and
yet certainly that's your shoe size

i'm positive of that.
when it's not, it always is

tell it like it is
find me in the knot.

find me.

retell this story with a different color brick
if you give anything time it can be something else

i am not the dough meant for the cookie cutter

pushing and pulling just to fray the edges

kneading what it all really means

is to justify that

the inability to solidify

has purpose.

I'm all out of luck but what else could I be?
I know he's yours and he'll never belong to me again
I did him wrong
So don't brag
Keep it you yourself
I did him wrong

I was never, no I was never, no I was never enough
But I can try, I can try to toughen up
I listened when they told me, if he burns you let him go
Change is hard
I should know

So I'll keep my head down if you keep it quiet from now on
In the halls I'd rather hear silence
Than the bells of new love
So don't brag
Keep it to yourself
I did him wrong

I was never, no I was never, no I was never enough
But I can try, I can try to toughen up
I listened when they told me, if he burns you let him go
Change is hard
I should know

Writers are afraid. Almost all those whose instrument of work is language are afraid: journalists, critics, university teachers, almost all of them. Fear and lies govern their tastes and their activities. Fear of what? Fear of death by social starvation, fear of not being invited to the dominant banquet, fear of not immediately receiving a pittance of compliments, fear of not being published, of not winning prizes, of not being invited onto the greatest possible number of TV programs. Fear of not belonging to the powerful cliques that reign over institutions private and public, fear of not belonging to the inquisition clubs. Fear for their reputation, fear of not being cited in the maximum number of papers, fear of not always being congratulated, of never being congratulated, fear of being unmasked and called inferior, fear of not getting in touch with the establishment, fear of never getting a taste of power, fear of exile, of cold, of solitude, of that sever climate that follows the artist, as Joyce well knew. Fear of being honest and of this old fashioned virtue costing them very dearly indeed.

Helene Cixous, We who are free, are we free?

searching for certainty,

starting with this.

see how it ends.

a wall.

boundaries,

reinforcing

reinforcing

boundaries,

but where to punctuate?

(move your foot please,
i'd like to end where you're standing)


sifting through files

and in a soundless sorting,

a wall.

boundaries,

reinforcing

reinforcing

but where to punch-you-at?


in the midst of all this

her unheeded advice

don't overlove

it's demeaning

boundaries

reinforcing

reinforcing


i ask,

though it doesn't matter what you write here,

what if all of these years

you've been punctuating air?


but she can't hear it.

not over the

reinforcing.

reinforcing.

we scapegoat

up up

clenched fist

cheeks flushed

we scapegoat

up up

lost hope

left home

we scapegoat

up up

a regret within itself

“He who spends time regretting the past loses the present and risks the future”

I came across this today and wondered if I was the only one who thinks regretting isn't the most terrible thing in the world. I believe it is in fact healthy, proof of metacognition and growth.

Okay, I get the sentiment. Don't dwell. Make peace. Move on. Fine, I agree.

BUT

I regret decisions - the lack of decisions. I regret words - the lack of words. I understand that this thought will not fix what has happened, but I also understand that if the situation were to arise again I should say yes, I will take you to the doctor. Without hesitation.

And I wonder, if we don't regret...how will we know next time to silence our angry mouth or say goodbye to a love that is dead much much sooner rather than watching it rot into unrecognizable entities.

Regret can be heavy. But lack of regret can be too light. Find a balance I say: Regret. Evolve. Then live.

even though i'll never be able to write You

not truly

not to where it makes sense

not to where the keys stop pulling strings

everything i write, i write to You.

2010 Found Poem

I'm not who I was even just two years ago and I wish my students would see me growing along side them rather than peg me as some seemingly all-knowing hypocrite. When their agenda turns to pointing out my mistakes and when they act as if this observation has made them one up, I try to gently and patiently remind them we aren't playing that game. I am human. I bleed. I also shop at Jewel on occasion and try to enjoy a tasty cup of broccoli cheddar soup from their local Panera. I try to remember how I felt in 8th grade when I saw my teachers out of the context of their classrooms. Was it weird? Did I respond awkwardly? How about when I thought of something my teacher hadn't. Did I feel overly proud? Was I rushed with a sense of elitism?

So maybe their reactions aren't their fault. Maybe I'm operating in a system that perpetuates them. We stand; they sit. We talk; they listen. So my question is, can my philosophy hold up against the system? Will my peaceful reminders ever sink in?

It's a difficult task, this education business. 1.) To get the students on board with a perspective that they aren't used to and 2.) to actually learn something.

Wishing it were different is step one to willing it that way...now I just have to figure out step two...





*This is an assignment I give my students every year. A "Found Poem." They are asked to cut out interesting/poetic words randomly from magazines and newspapers. Afterward they are asked to arrange them meaningfully in a poem that should shape-shift before their eyes. Meaning exists within words and within our experiences with them. I want them to feel the power of the craft as they create something out of what they might consider "nothing." This is the first one I ever made...two years ago...and now I sit with these words, their meaning not quite foreign yet not at all familiar. I'm in the process of making my 2010 version. I'll keep you posted.