Wednesday, June 25, 2008
You know you're from Tolland when...
So...I'm moving. And in going through some of my old purses, I found this list. I believe it was compiled at a happy hour, at Friday's last year, with many a Tolland folk. With many a friend and acquaintance. My nostalgia continues. I'm starting to see that I truly will have to wade through some of the muck (good and bad) before really being able to forge forward. Hopefully I'll be able to do so quickly. And painlessly. ...Ish.
Monday, June 23, 2008
More "This I Believe"
Writing prompts suggested for student writers as a pre-writing strategy. I plan to answer each of these questions for myself, working towards the composition of my own “This I Believe” essay. This is as much for myself as it will be for my students, if not more so. And I challenge any other writer out there—take a look at yourself long enough to decide what it is you believe.
___________________________________________________________
1. Most of us have been in a situation where we made a promise that for one reason or another we were unable to keep.
When were you disappointed because someone made you a promise that they failed to keep? Or when did you break a promise that you made to someone else?
2. All of us are works in progress with a long way to go before we reach our full potential.
In what skill or area are you still working to make progress?
3. Our society uses the word hero in many different ways.
How do you define hero, and who is a hero in your life?
4. We all tend to judge people by their appearances, even though looks can be deceiving.
Have you ever prejudged someone incorrectly based on their appearance or has someone ever prejudged you unfairly based on how you look?
5. Everyone has problems or challenges to overcome.
What obstacles are you proud to have faced and conquered?
6. There is a famous adage: “To err is human, to forgive is divine.”
When did you feel divine because you were able to forgive someone for their mistake? When did someone act diving by forgiving you when you were wrong?
___________________________________________________________
1. Most of us have been in a situation where we made a promise that for one reason or another we were unable to keep.
When were you disappointed because someone made you a promise that they failed to keep? Or when did you break a promise that you made to someone else?
2. All of us are works in progress with a long way to go before we reach our full potential.
In what skill or area are you still working to make progress?
3. Our society uses the word hero in many different ways.
How do you define hero, and who is a hero in your life?
4. We all tend to judge people by their appearances, even though looks can be deceiving.
Have you ever prejudged someone incorrectly based on their appearance or has someone ever prejudged you unfairly based on how you look?
5. Everyone has problems or challenges to overcome.
What obstacles are you proud to have faced and conquered?
6. There is a famous adage: “To err is human, to forgive is divine.”
When did you feel divine because you were able to forgive someone for their mistake? When did someone act diving by forgiving you when you were wrong?
Hmmm. I see a new project a-brewin.
The Original Invitation from 'This I Believe'
This invites you to make a very great contribution: nothing less than a statement of your personal beliefs, of the values which rule your thought and action. Your essay should be about three minutes in length when read loud, written in a style as you yourself speak, and total no more than 500 words.
We know this is a tough job. What we want is so intimate that no one can write it for you. You must write it yourself, in the language most natural to you. We ask you to write in your own words and then record in your own voice. You may even find that it takes a request like this for you to reveal some of your own beliefs to yourself. If you set them down they may become of untold meaning to others.
We would like you to tell not only what you believe, but how you reached your beliefs, and if they have grown, what made them grow. This necessarily must be highly personal. That is what we anticipate and want.
It may help you in formulating your credo if we tell you also what we do not want. We do not want a sermon, religious or lay; we do not want editorializing or sectarianism or 'finger-pointing.' We do not even want your views on the American way of life, or democracy or free enterprise. These are important but for another occasion. We want to know what you live by. And we want it in terms of 'I,' not the editorial 'We.'
Although this program is designed to express beliefs, it is not a religious program and is not concerned with any religious form whatever. Most of our guests express belief in a Supreme Being, and set forth the importance to them of that belief. However, that is your decision, since it is your belief which we solicit.
But we do ask you to confine yourself to affirmatives: This means refraining from saying what you do not believe. Your beliefs may well have grown in clarity to you by a process of elimination and rejection, but for our part, we must avoid negative statements lest we become a medium for the criticism of beliefs, which is the very opposite of our purpose.
We are sure the statement we ask from you can have wide and lasting influence. Never has the need for personal philosophies of this kind been so urgent. Your belief, simply and sincerely spoken, is sure to stimulate and help those who hear it. We are confident it will enrich them. May we have your contribution?
Adapted from the invitation sent to essayists featured in the original 'This I Believe' series. Excerpted from 'This I Believe 2,' copyright © 1954 by Help, Inc.
This invites you to make a very great contribution: nothing less than a statement of your personal beliefs, of the values which rule your thought and action. Your essay should be about three minutes in length when read loud, written in a style as you yourself speak, and total no more than 500 words.
We know this is a tough job. What we want is so intimate that no one can write it for you. You must write it yourself, in the language most natural to you. We ask you to write in your own words and then record in your own voice. You may even find that it takes a request like this for you to reveal some of your own beliefs to yourself. If you set them down they may become of untold meaning to others.
We would like you to tell not only what you believe, but how you reached your beliefs, and if they have grown, what made them grow. This necessarily must be highly personal. That is what we anticipate and want.
It may help you in formulating your credo if we tell you also what we do not want. We do not want a sermon, religious or lay; we do not want editorializing or sectarianism or 'finger-pointing.' We do not even want your views on the American way of life, or democracy or free enterprise. These are important but for another occasion. We want to know what you live by. And we want it in terms of 'I,' not the editorial 'We.'
Although this program is designed to express beliefs, it is not a religious program and is not concerned with any religious form whatever. Most of our guests express belief in a Supreme Being, and set forth the importance to them of that belief. However, that is your decision, since it is your belief which we solicit.
But we do ask you to confine yourself to affirmatives: This means refraining from saying what you do not believe. Your beliefs may well have grown in clarity to you by a process of elimination and rejection, but for our part, we must avoid negative statements lest we become a medium for the criticism of beliefs, which is the very opposite of our purpose.
We are sure the statement we ask from you can have wide and lasting influence. Never has the need for personal philosophies of this kind been so urgent. Your belief, simply and sincerely spoken, is sure to stimulate and help those who hear it. We are confident it will enrich them. May we have your contribution?
Adapted from the invitation sent to essayists featured in the original 'This I Believe' series. Excerpted from 'This I Believe 2,' copyright © 1954 by Help, Inc.
From images to words...
More activities from writing courses. I provided the students a series of black and white photographs, asked them to list observations, and then asked them to freewrite a scene. These are starts that I did with them...
__________________________________________________________
Notes:
hot sticky air
stagnant
until a train blows through
suctions the air
shakes it up for a moment
then it settles back
smothers
fluorescent lights
makes faces glow/look flat simultaneously
Freewrite:
The ground rumbles. Babies cry. Nameless faces crackle under fluorescent light. The air is stale. It is hot, sticky, stagnant. It settles over me like a down comforter in July. I drop my bag to the ground, ignoring the inner voice, probably my grandmother's, "Do you have any idea who or what has been on this floor?"
Doesn't matter, Gram. My arm is falling off.
I watch the people across the tracks. As they rush into the underground station, they screech to a halt at the end of the platform. An inconvenience. A forced halt in their day. They avoid eachother's eyes. So many people, so many stories that few will ever know. They stand there willing the minute hand to stop, to slow down, to give them a moment's reprieve from the ceaseless deathnell of their day.
__________________________________________________________
Notes:
wheels cutting through puddles
water splashing
muffled sounds
misty rain
not quite raindrops
enough to know they're there
Freewrite:
Everything changes when it mists. Not rain, mind you. Mist is different. The raindrops are indistinguishable from each other, but you know they are there. Like a premonition, like one of those lurking bad feelings, the mist makes its presence known.
My footsteps echo on the cobblestone, sounds muffled, street lights glowing. And as a car rolls by, I jump to the side. My ears tell me I should be soaked, but there's not enough water. Instead, everything is thinly veiled by the omnipresent something that let's us know we're alive.
__________________________________________________________
Notes:
hot sticky air
stagnant
until a train blows through
suctions the air
shakes it up for a moment
then it settles back
smothers
fluorescent lights
makes faces glow/look flat simultaneously
Freewrite:
The ground rumbles. Babies cry. Nameless faces crackle under fluorescent light. The air is stale. It is hot, sticky, stagnant. It settles over me like a down comforter in July. I drop my bag to the ground, ignoring the inner voice, probably my grandmother's, "Do you have any idea who or what has been on this floor?"
Doesn't matter, Gram. My arm is falling off.
I watch the people across the tracks. As they rush into the underground station, they screech to a halt at the end of the platform. An inconvenience. A forced halt in their day. They avoid eachother's eyes. So many people, so many stories that few will ever know. They stand there willing the minute hand to stop, to slow down, to give them a moment's reprieve from the ceaseless deathnell of their day.
__________________________________________________________
Notes:
wheels cutting through puddles
water splashing
muffled sounds
misty rain
not quite raindrops
enough to know they're there
Freewrite:
Everything changes when it mists. Not rain, mind you. Mist is different. The raindrops are indistinguishable from each other, but you know they are there. Like a premonition, like one of those lurking bad feelings, the mist makes its presence known.
My footsteps echo on the cobblestone, sounds muffled, street lights glowing. And as a car rolls by, I jump to the side. My ears tell me I should be soaked, but there's not enough water. Instead, everything is thinly veiled by the omnipresent something that let's us know we're alive.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
My ghosts...
Something I wrote as a model for my students. The goal was descriptive writing, using sensory detail, metaphor, and simile, all mashed together illustrating one of the steps in an epic hero's journey. Now, some of it may be corny (or undeveloped, at the very least), but it deals with some real things. Things that have not fully happened yet. Things that should happen if I'm ever going to let go and move on...
________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________
My green Honda civic crawls to a halt and I yank the emergency break a little too hard.
Just breathe, Tina, I have to remind myself.
My eyes are pinched shut and my fists grip the wheel. I fumble through my purse, searching for my Burt’s Bees and for an extra moment before the inevitable. To my right, on the passenger seat where loved ones should sit, is the dried rose—once a deep, pulsing blood red, but now a shriveled leaf brown—the one Mom and Dad saved from the funeral that I couldn’t attend. With a trembling hand, I bring the flower to my nose. It smells like autumn leaves, fallen to the ground, dead, kicked around, forgotten.
I step out of my car and slam the door. The crisp, cool October wind whips into my body, and sends my hair flying. I lift my eyes and, through blurred vision, I see the stones sitting there, an army of them, in rank, at attention, eternally patient—waiting for me. Well, at least one of them is.
It’s been entirely too long, I think, and I feel my feet pulling the rest of me forward, as if they know I can’t do it on my own.
Amidst my indecision, I feel a flurry of wings above my head, as a dove, a perfect dove, leads me to her stone, to the stone. The bird lands and waits. My feet, now like lead, finish the journey for me.
And there it is: In loving memory—Deborah O’Briant.
I drop to my knees. A solitary tear rolls down my cheek and tries to run away from the unfinished hurt in my heart. The fibers there remain unhealed. The scab there threatens to rip away any progress I’ve made trying to forget and forgive this woman, this woman’s husband, this woman’s child, and this woman’s niece—me. And I sit there, fierce in my determination to keep the scab intact, to finally move past this grief. Three years have passed and this is my first visit to her grave. My mouth is bitter with guilt.
Coo, coo…I look up. The dove cocks her head knowingly, as if she knows me.
Coo, coo…she repeats, and I close my eyes. The wind is gentle now; it has lost its bite. It circles me, dries my tears, and calms my racing heart.
My skin tingles, and I feel her here. My aunt, she’s here. But it’s not just her. It is her and it is everyone else buried under the ground. It is the dead and it is the living. It is everything visible and invisible. It is the feeling we have around us every day, but we rarely notice. It is the breath of fresh air as we leave a crowded space. It is the ever-present knowing, the essence of everything and nothing.
My skin tingles with the feeling of that something we can always count on, like a mother’s touch or a lover’s kiss. Like a shiver and a sigh. Like the longing and the loss. Like the comfort found cuddling in a down blanket or spooning with your dog.
My skin tingles, and I wake up. I start to remember, to realize all of the things I forgot.
It’s time to stop this, Tina. I don’t just hear these words. I feel them seeping through the pores of my skin.
Now is the time for forgiveness, the feeling tells me. Remember that I love you and that I’ll always be with you, but let me go.
Let this go.
The dove swoops down, takes the dried blossom that has fallen from my hand to the brown grass, takes one last look at me, and flies away.
She’s right. It’s time to let this go.
I take a long, deep breath.
This time, though, I don’t have to remind myself to do it.
Friday, June 13, 2008
From an email sent long ago...
March 16th, 2003, to be exact.
As I watch the worn, string-tied bracelet float away in the ship's wake, I think back through the past twenty-one days. Twenty-one days have gone by since the sensory whirlwind of Calcutta tore through my being and, even now, I can barely trace the imprint it has left.
It's March 16th and we're about half way through a supposed monumental, life changing "voyage of discovery." That's what everyone keeps calling this trip.
"Such an opportunity!"
"You'll never be the same."
"Find yourself."
"Take it for all it's worth."
And that's what I want to do: take this experience, this trip, for all that it is and for all it can offer me. I left home in search of something, although I wasn't really sure what that meant or if this program was the answer. Maybe in some sick way I was initially hoping for a picture perfect, cliche-ridden, Real World-esque experience to bring home with me so that I could say, "Look, I did that! I was there!"
At this point in the journey, though, I know for certain this is not what I'm after. That type of thing is not "me," whoever that is. I certainly want something real, however, an Americanized, MTV junk program definitely would not fit that criteria. But what exactly is it that I'm looking for? And will I actually ever find it?
Wanting to separate from the Semester at Sea infestation of Chennai and experience an uncensored, undiluted India, my friend and I ventured to Calcutta with little more than an enticing travel guide description and 24 hours to explore. Before arrival, we were warned that India assaults; during those 24 Calcuttan hours, we'd begin to truly understand the paradoxical truth to that statement.
The day remains a blur of images, but this blurred vision is the most clear I've ever seen.
Muggy. Heat. Sticky. Jasmine. Bindhis. Saris. Beggars. Children. Cripples. Incense. Religion. Faith. Devotion. Hands. Beggars. "Aunty, aunty!" "Rupees!" Cows. Bulls. Dogs. Horses. Baboons. Strays. Dirt. Dust. Garbage. filth. Tears. Laughter. Glares. Bangles. Jingles. Flowers. Colors. Turbans. "Good price!" Playing. Crying. Pleading. Praying. Howling. Growling. Lightness. Darkness. Rich. Poor. Selflessness. Greed. Survival. Limitations. Car horns. Bike bells. Motorcycles. Abandonment. Loneliness. community. Castes. Discrimination.
Beauty mixed with ugliness.
Love mixed with hatred.
Constant contradictions...
Begging. Grabbing. Pulling. Pushing.
Silence.
Hand.
Slap.
Blood. Tears. Confusion. Frustration.
Detachment.
Within the blend of negativity and hope there stands a kind, gentle Brahmin priest. One of our first stops of the day, the Kalighat Temple remains a spark of light shining through the thick conglomeration of stimuli. The temple is alive and bustling. Devotees are urgently trying to pay respect to their gods on this day of celebration.
Guiding us through the crowds of people, our priest shows us each place of worship and blesses us at all of them. He offers us information and explanation of his tradition and faith. He makes us feel welcome, comfortable in a place alien to anything we've ever known.
Before leaving, he guides us out of the temple to an adjacent cleansing area. With two marigolds in our right hands, we are brought one at a time to a statue of Vishnu. When my turn comes, I am told to think of loved ones whom I wish this blessing will reach and then throw the blossoms onto the god's figure. The priest then wraps a bright orange and yellow string around my left wrist. I am to leave it there for either seven or twenty-one days. On the final day, I am to take off the bracelet and dispose of it in a clean, pure place like a stream, river, or ocean. If this is done correctly , the blessings will come true.
In the long, hot hours that followed our visit to the Kali Temple, the yellow dye bled on my wrist, the sweat bled from my skin, the helplessness bled from my heart, the tears bled from my eyes...and the blood bled from my nose.
At the end of the day, though, I was able to get on a plane and fly back to the safety bubble that Semester at Sea provides. It is a form of escapism. Escape from the intensity and the reality I finally found.
Calcutta wouldn't let me forget, though. She sent this string, tied by the hands of a welcoming spirit to stay with me. This bracelet, that bled along with me, has served as a constant reminder of those images, those paradoxes, and it has literally tied me to a day that is and will be with me everyday.
Now that this connection is afloat somewhere between Japan and Korea, I am left only with an emotional, intellectual bruise that may never fully heal. In fact, I hope it doesn't.
As I watch the worn, string-tied bracelet float away in the ship's wake, I think back through the past twenty-one days. Twenty-one days have gone by since the sensory whirlwind of Calcutta tore through my being and, even now, I can barely trace the imprint it has left.
It's March 16th and we're about half way through a supposed monumental, life changing "voyage of discovery." That's what everyone keeps calling this trip.
"Such an opportunity!"
"You'll never be the same."
"Find yourself."
"Take it for all it's worth."
And that's what I want to do: take this experience, this trip, for all that it is and for all it can offer me. I left home in search of something, although I wasn't really sure what that meant or if this program was the answer. Maybe in some sick way I was initially hoping for a picture perfect, cliche-ridden, Real World-esque experience to bring home with me so that I could say, "Look, I did that! I was there!"
At this point in the journey, though, I know for certain this is not what I'm after. That type of thing is not "me," whoever that is. I certainly want something real, however, an Americanized, MTV junk program definitely would not fit that criteria. But what exactly is it that I'm looking for? And will I actually ever find it?
Wanting to separate from the Semester at Sea infestation of Chennai and experience an uncensored, undiluted India, my friend and I ventured to Calcutta with little more than an enticing travel guide description and 24 hours to explore. Before arrival, we were warned that India assaults; during those 24 Calcuttan hours, we'd begin to truly understand the paradoxical truth to that statement.
The day remains a blur of images, but this blurred vision is the most clear I've ever seen.
Muggy. Heat. Sticky. Jasmine. Bindhis. Saris. Beggars. Children. Cripples. Incense. Religion. Faith. Devotion. Hands. Beggars. "Aunty, aunty!" "Rupees!" Cows. Bulls. Dogs. Horses. Baboons. Strays. Dirt. Dust. Garbage. filth. Tears. Laughter. Glares. Bangles. Jingles. Flowers. Colors. Turbans. "Good price!" Playing. Crying. Pleading. Praying. Howling. Growling. Lightness. Darkness. Rich. Poor. Selflessness. Greed. Survival. Limitations. Car horns. Bike bells. Motorcycles. Abandonment. Loneliness. community. Castes. Discrimination.
Beauty mixed with ugliness.
Love mixed with hatred.
Constant contradictions...
Begging. Grabbing. Pulling. Pushing.
Silence.
Hand.
Slap.
Blood. Tears. Confusion. Frustration.
Detachment.
Within the blend of negativity and hope there stands a kind, gentle Brahmin priest. One of our first stops of the day, the Kalighat Temple remains a spark of light shining through the thick conglomeration of stimuli. The temple is alive and bustling. Devotees are urgently trying to pay respect to their gods on this day of celebration.
Guiding us through the crowds of people, our priest shows us each place of worship and blesses us at all of them. He offers us information and explanation of his tradition and faith. He makes us feel welcome, comfortable in a place alien to anything we've ever known.
Before leaving, he guides us out of the temple to an adjacent cleansing area. With two marigolds in our right hands, we are brought one at a time to a statue of Vishnu. When my turn comes, I am told to think of loved ones whom I wish this blessing will reach and then throw the blossoms onto the god's figure. The priest then wraps a bright orange and yellow string around my left wrist. I am to leave it there for either seven or twenty-one days. On the final day, I am to take off the bracelet and dispose of it in a clean, pure place like a stream, river, or ocean. If this is done correctly , the blessings will come true.
In the long, hot hours that followed our visit to the Kali Temple, the yellow dye bled on my wrist, the sweat bled from my skin, the helplessness bled from my heart, the tears bled from my eyes...and the blood bled from my nose.
At the end of the day, though, I was able to get on a plane and fly back to the safety bubble that Semester at Sea provides. It is a form of escapism. Escape from the intensity and the reality I finally found.
Calcutta wouldn't let me forget, though. She sent this string, tied by the hands of a welcoming spirit to stay with me. This bracelet, that bled along with me, has served as a constant reminder of those images, those paradoxes, and it has literally tied me to a day that is and will be with me everyday.
Now that this connection is afloat somewhere between Japan and Korea, I am left only with an emotional, intellectual bruise that may never fully heal. In fact, I hope it doesn't.
From a trip long ago...
Spring '03, to be exact.
Version one...
The air is thick. It has substance. As we walk through it, we have to push, putting forth considerable effort to get through. My long, baggy pants--"Made in India" but "Bought at Buckland Hills Mall, Manchester, CT, USA"--cling to my legs. Jasmine suffocates the city--insense that I would later buy at that same store in the mall and try to recreate at home. Rickshaws whip past us. Bare feet, cracked, dirty, and needy bustle around the crowded streets...and our leather sneakers.
Children with deep wells of experience in their eyes, much more than I had at their age, watch and inquire silently. What are they thinking? Hoping? Dreaming?
With hands outstretched, palms up, they demand rupees. I wonder if their screaming bellies let them think of anything else.
________________________________________________________
Version two...
"Aunty, aunty," she mumbles, almost inaudibly. Her eyes, deep wells of experience that I never had at her age, or ever.
"Rupees, ruppees." Her feet bare, cracked, worn. Her skin coated in dust, sticking to her with air that acts as adhesive, that chokes if inhaled too deep. Her frail body wrapped in a crimson sari, the threats fighting to stay together, clinging to her for support.
Around her Calcutta swirls, blurs into a cyclone of senses. Daring you, taunting you to make sense of her. Begging for you to give her just one moment of relief, one reason to believe that this is not all that she is. That this is not all she can be.
Version one...
The air is thick. It has substance. As we walk through it, we have to push, putting forth considerable effort to get through. My long, baggy pants--"Made in India" but "Bought at Buckland Hills Mall, Manchester, CT, USA"--cling to my legs. Jasmine suffocates the city--insense that I would later buy at that same store in the mall and try to recreate at home. Rickshaws whip past us. Bare feet, cracked, dirty, and needy bustle around the crowded streets...and our leather sneakers.
Children with deep wells of experience in their eyes, much more than I had at their age, watch and inquire silently. What are they thinking? Hoping? Dreaming?
With hands outstretched, palms up, they demand rupees. I wonder if their screaming bellies let them think of anything else.
________________________________________________________
Version two...
"Aunty, aunty," she mumbles, almost inaudibly. Her eyes, deep wells of experience that I never had at her age, or ever.
"Rupees, ruppees." Her feet bare, cracked, worn. Her skin coated in dust, sticking to her with air that acts as adhesive, that chokes if inhaled too deep. Her frail body wrapped in a crimson sari, the threats fighting to stay together, clinging to her for support.
Around her Calcutta swirls, blurs into a cyclone of senses. Daring you, taunting you to make sense of her. Begging for you to give her just one moment of relief, one reason to believe that this is not all that she is. That this is not all she can be.
More from the archives of my heart...
...I'm trying to clear the cobwebs, the dust, the clutter...
_______________________________________________________
I'm that girl.
The one I never wanted to be,
But I keep being.
And only you can turn it around.
Because I don't know if I can cut you loose.
I'm that other girl.
The one you wonder your what-ifs about,
A traiter in the life you're choosing.
Wanting to be more.
Wanting to be everything.
Because I'm sick of living in this melancholy,
This sick.sad.love.song of you.
_______________________________________________________
"MINIMUM," you say, "We'll be great friends forever."
MINIMUMminimumMiNiMuM.
I'm glad you are placing quantifiers on us. Glad you can measure out, inch by inch, look by look, how much we can mean to eachother. You can have a few drinks and keep stringing me on, keeping that hope hanging in a false reality.
I am not a MINIMUM.
Everyone is telling me I don't want "that guy" that has an emotionally unfaithful relationship with the non-girfriend.
Our bodies have not had an affair. Our minds, our imaginations have.
And I keep defending you.
And telling you not to worry about me.
And I'm rolling over.
Docilly surrendering to the girl you love.
The one who has rarely made you happy in the time I've known you.
Although I wouldn't really know.
You don't tell me.
Your glaring omissions infest the silence between us.
________________________________________________________
i am the anomaly:
slipping in and out of people's sight
giving a glimpse
a peep show
of my soul
rarely believing in
their capacity for true sight
i am the anomaly:
trying not to give
trying not to receive
labels
titles
constraints
boxes
words
to barricade
my essence of emotion
i am the anomaly:
tripping about
clumsily sabotaging
my happiness
i am too much the peace maker:
unwilling to fight
unwilling to defend herself
some independent woman i am:
accepting less than
my. deserved. minimum.
_______________________________________________________
This whole year has been a mirage,
a shimmering masterpiece fading on a Saharan horizon.
Reality is taking me away from you.
As I ride away in her open jeep,
with my hair whipping me, stinging me,
I look bad at the shifty mirage of us.
In a mile or two, I won't be able to see it at all.
It will be gone.
And with it, my hope for the most real thing is this world.
The ingredients that made us possible have dissolved,
taking "us" right along with them.
Nothing was permanent.
Nothing was legitimate.
"It" was only real in our minds,
in our dreamworld, our fantasy,
a place having no hold in the world existing around us.
My imagination painted a convincing masterpiece of you,
a fixture I've longed for,
a mirage I was duped into believing might come true.
_______________________________________________________
I'm that girl.
The one I never wanted to be,
But I keep being.
And only you can turn it around.
Because I don't know if I can cut you loose.
I'm that other girl.
The one you wonder your what-ifs about,
A traiter in the life you're choosing.
Wanting to be more.
Wanting to be everything.
Because I'm sick of living in this melancholy,
This sick.sad.love.song of you.
_______________________________________________________
"MINIMUM," you say, "We'll be great friends forever."
MINIMUMminimumMiNiMuM.
I'm glad you are placing quantifiers on us. Glad you can measure out, inch by inch, look by look, how much we can mean to eachother. You can have a few drinks and keep stringing me on, keeping that hope hanging in a false reality.
I am not a MINIMUM.
Everyone is telling me I don't want "that guy" that has an emotionally unfaithful relationship with the non-girfriend.
Our bodies have not had an affair. Our minds, our imaginations have.
And I keep defending you.
And telling you not to worry about me.
And I'm rolling over.
Docilly surrendering to the girl you love.
The one who has rarely made you happy in the time I've known you.
Although I wouldn't really know.
You don't tell me.
Your glaring omissions infest the silence between us.
________________________________________________________
i am the anomaly:
slipping in and out of people's sight
giving a glimpse
a peep show
of my soul
rarely believing in
their capacity for true sight
i am the anomaly:
trying not to give
trying not to receive
labels
titles
constraints
boxes
words
to barricade
my essence of emotion
i am the anomaly:
tripping about
clumsily sabotaging
my happiness
i am too much the peace maker:
unwilling to fight
unwilling to defend herself
some independent woman i am:
accepting less than
my. deserved. minimum.
_______________________________________________________
This whole year has been a mirage,
a shimmering masterpiece fading on a Saharan horizon.
Reality is taking me away from you.
As I ride away in her open jeep,
with my hair whipping me, stinging me,
I look bad at the shifty mirage of us.
In a mile or two, I won't be able to see it at all.
It will be gone.
And with it, my hope for the most real thing is this world.
The ingredients that made us possible have dissolved,
taking "us" right along with them.
Nothing was permanent.
Nothing was legitimate.
"It" was only real in our minds,
in our dreamworld, our fantasy,
a place having no hold in the world existing around us.
My imagination painted a convincing masterpiece of you,
a fixture I've longed for,
a mirage I was duped into believing might come true.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
A rant...from a not-so-long long time ago...
I’m writing in Poor Richard font. Poor me. Wah wah wah. I’ve been making bad decisions. I’ve endangered my life and others’. I’m a hypocrite. I preach being strong and unique, but all I can do is get hammered, let my emotions get the best of me, and use my impaired, damaged brain cells to make some of the worst decisions I could ever make. Ones that seem to perpetuate exactly what my parents are thinking about me. That Alcoholic Beast that takes over and makes all the goodness and purity in the world go away. Vanish. Disappear. I’ve become that Beast to them. I am an embodiment of everything they didn’t want for me.
Me: their angel, their too perfect angel who looked down from the clouds and picked this life.
I PICKED these parents? I picked this existence where I’m expected to be nothing short of a saint? "A charmed child," they call me. Born into the path. "The Path," they call it. As if it is the only possible path to salvation out there. A path followed by the 60’s and 70’s groovey, hippie, flower children – children who are now enlightened and want to give that gift to their children. This is a path I was placed on before I’d even left the womb, and one that I’m not sure I want anymore. And the real question is, did I EVER really want it?
Let’s look at this belief that souls look down from somewhere and choose the vehicle for their next earthly existence. Because, yes, amidst it all I still believe a lot of this doctrine – the dogma that claims to be flexible and all-inclusive but still seems to exclude many. Every day it feels more like I’m a little Catholic girl rebelling against the unmoving, established rules. Like the ones founded on a church, on rites and rituals. Like everything I've rejected along the way.
So I CHOSE this? Why? I feel like I’ve lost the prophet. I’ve lost the light. Do I resent being seen as one of the lucky ones who don’t have to go through the struggles to find this Path? You’re goddamned right I do. If being born to this life with these parents and these beliefs means I’m not allowed to fuck up, to make mistakes, then I want nothing of it. I am STILL HUMAN. And I feel lost.
I’m not sure I can live up to this portrait of perfection I’ve been painted in. Who could? I mean. Just because I was born onto a certain path doesn’t mean I can’t deviate, detour, and find a different way. A way that is truly MINE.
Of course that doesn’t mean I want to be reckless, endangering lives. That’s the last thing I want.
But for some reason I’ve done just that twice in a little over a month. And for some reason I’ve been spared. Someone, somewhere is trying to tell me something, I think. The obvious would be to stop drinking. But I think part of my problem has been trying to make everything a black and white issue. I need to deal in the shades of gray.
FIRST-I’ve been STUPID and WEAK, but that doesn’t mean that I’m a STUPID or WEAK person.
SECOND-I see that I’ve been terrified to let my parents see that I drink. This concept of drinking is, and has always been, an indicator of imperfection to them. They don’t condone it, in fact they despise it. Or maybe they're terrified. And they’ve done their very best to try to sew that seed of fear in me. But somehow that fear has transformed into utter contempt for myself.
How can I be so predictable? My family has been defined by fateful nights with swirling red and blue lights in the rearview, and the sick, bitter taste of alcohol, of instant, Absolut regret on its breath. Simply put, this is not ok. It’s just not. And I know that. But how can I fix it?
Is just STOPPING drinking all together a realistic goal at this point?
It might be.
I guess.
Perhaps it even SHOULD be.
I don’t know.
THIRD- I need to consider why I am doing this. I need to decide which friends need to be around me and which don't. I need to stop the bitching and make the change. I've known it needs to happen for far too long now, and I have no one to blame but me.
Instead of helping and healing myself, I've been speeding down sabotage central. And I need an exit fast.
Me: their angel, their too perfect angel who looked down from the clouds and picked this life.
I PICKED these parents? I picked this existence where I’m expected to be nothing short of a saint? "A charmed child," they call me. Born into the path. "The Path," they call it. As if it is the only possible path to salvation out there. A path followed by the 60’s and 70’s groovey, hippie, flower children – children who are now enlightened and want to give that gift to their children. This is a path I was placed on before I’d even left the womb, and one that I’m not sure I want anymore. And the real question is, did I EVER really want it?
Let’s look at this belief that souls look down from somewhere and choose the vehicle for their next earthly existence. Because, yes, amidst it all I still believe a lot of this doctrine – the dogma that claims to be flexible and all-inclusive but still seems to exclude many. Every day it feels more like I’m a little Catholic girl rebelling against the unmoving, established rules. Like the ones founded on a church, on rites and rituals. Like everything I've rejected along the way.
So I CHOSE this? Why? I feel like I’ve lost the prophet. I’ve lost the light. Do I resent being seen as one of the lucky ones who don’t have to go through the struggles to find this Path? You’re goddamned right I do. If being born to this life with these parents and these beliefs means I’m not allowed to fuck up, to make mistakes, then I want nothing of it. I am STILL HUMAN. And I feel lost.
I’m not sure I can live up to this portrait of perfection I’ve been painted in. Who could? I mean. Just because I was born onto a certain path doesn’t mean I can’t deviate, detour, and find a different way. A way that is truly MINE.
Of course that doesn’t mean I want to be reckless, endangering lives. That’s the last thing I want.
But for some reason I’ve done just that twice in a little over a month. And for some reason I’ve been spared. Someone, somewhere is trying to tell me something, I think. The obvious would be to stop drinking. But I think part of my problem has been trying to make everything a black and white issue. I need to deal in the shades of gray.
FIRST-I’ve been STUPID and WEAK, but that doesn’t mean that I’m a STUPID or WEAK person.
SECOND-I see that I’ve been terrified to let my parents see that I drink. This concept of drinking is, and has always been, an indicator of imperfection to them. They don’t condone it, in fact they despise it. Or maybe they're terrified. And they’ve done their very best to try to sew that seed of fear in me. But somehow that fear has transformed into utter contempt for myself.
How can I be so predictable? My family has been defined by fateful nights with swirling red and blue lights in the rearview, and the sick, bitter taste of alcohol, of instant, Absolut regret on its breath. Simply put, this is not ok. It’s just not. And I know that. But how can I fix it?
Is just STOPPING drinking all together a realistic goal at this point?
It might be.
I guess.
Perhaps it even SHOULD be.
I don’t know.
THIRD- I need to consider why I am doing this. I need to decide which friends need to be around me and which don't. I need to stop the bitching and make the change. I've known it needs to happen for far too long now, and I have no one to blame but me.
Instead of helping and healing myself, I've been speeding down sabotage central. And I need an exit fast.
Saturday, June 07, 2008
Why was I so paralyzed? Why couldn't I speak my mind, ask my questions, set my parameters? For someone who claims to be so strong, I've been really fucking weak. Maybe I just tried to believe I was a rock, when in reality I was crumbling, slowly and haphazardly flying away from myself. This personal disintegration happened at a snails pace, imperceptible within the day to day. Piece by piece, speck by speck, the dust of my former self simply set sail on the passing breeze, with nothing but a whispered farewell. And where has this left me?
She stood there as her world swirled around in a mishmash of colors and sounds. Nondescript. Unsteady. Nauseating. She was shrinking to the ground, to the size of an ant, and she wondered if she would ever regain the strength to carry weight exponentially heavier than her own. She used to be tireless and brave. But now all she felt was defeated. Utterly and hopelessly defeated. She wondered what happened to her high definition, technicolor life, the humble yet satisfying existence wrought with magesty. Though not the regal, Who Wants to be a Millionaire kind of magesty, but the goofy, Fresh Prince of Bel-Aire kind. The kind with laughter, crazy families, excitement, and the Carlton dance. And she stood there wanting nothing more than the spontaneous desire to bust out like Carlton. But all she could do was stand there...and cry.
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