Shadows Bring the Starlight

just call me angel of the morning

2010-11-03T22:02:00.005-04:00

Brooch. Brooch. Brooch.

One word, one syllable. So much more.

Yes, it's a little sparkle. But. It's also a throwback to another era...

It's class, joy, a ruby-lipped pout, a sepia still, pinned to a cardigan sweater.

It's beauty in a moment, and I'm thankful for that.

(THXTHXTHX, Oh Joy!)

in the wee small hours of the morning

2010-10-26T22:49:00.003-04:00

I'm thinking about Sleepless in Seattle, and peeling an apple in one long, curly strip. Like magic.

You know my problem? I want to be in love in a movie. Houseboats and radios, tiramisu and teddy bears...bring it on. Let's catch that last elevator, shall we?

how do I get you alone

2010-10-21T23:44:00.001-04:00

I love this. I love its whimsy, its soothing tones...but most of all, its message.

Thank you India, thank you frailty...

2010-10-06T21:06:00.003-04:00

Honestly, the last few days have not been easy. I've alternated between poles of feeling fine and comforted, and then utterly depressed and despondent. I've gone between thinking myself beautiful and admiring my independence, to bemoaning my failings and looking at his profile...with a relationship status and wall postings that he's still (still!) neglected to tell me about. Thank you, social networking newsfeed, for messing with my mind.

But no matter. I've forced myself to start completing daily gratitude lists so that I don't forget that even though some big aspects of my life have strayed from the desired path, there are still plenty of daily joys. I am lucky, even though I may not acknowledge it sometimes.

I'm reading Our Town with the ninth-graders right now, and I can't help but see its applicability to my current circumstances. On the surface, my life may seem mundane, but it still has unique jewels that shine through; I have attempted to relive the past, but like Emily Webb, I've come to learn that there is beauty in the present: "Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it-- every, every minute?"

I have to believe that things will get better, a faith in the future which may negate my attempts to live in the present. This mixtape illustrates those hopes, so I call it "Better."

1. "Better Things" by The Kinks

2. "There's Gotta Be Something Better Than This" from Sweet Charity

3. "Today Will Be Better, I Swear" by Stars

4. "Good Times Gonna Come" by Aqualung

5. "This Is Where It Gets Good" by Eels

6. "Better" by Regina Spektor

7. "Feeling Good" by My Brightest Diamond

8. "It's Gettin Better (Man!)" by Oasis

9. "The Good Stuff" by Schuyler Fisk

10. "I'm Gonna Make It Better" by She & Him

11. "Pretty Good Year" by Tori Amos

12. "Closer to Fine" by Indigo Girls

13. "Daydream Believer" by the Monkees

14. "Nobody Does It Better" by Radiohead

15. "Be Good to Yourself" by Journey

16. "Beautiful World" by Coldplay

17. "Good Heart" by the Mynabirds

18. "Better Days" by Goo Goo Dolls

19. "For Good" from Wicked

20. "At My Most Beautiful" by R.E.M.

21. "On Top of the World" by the Carpenters

22. "They Can't Take That Away From Me" by Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong

23. "Don't Dream It's Over" by Crowded House

24. "Up on the Roof" by James Taylor and Carole King

25. "Darlin Do Not Fear" by Brett Dennen

26. "Don't Look Back" by O.M.D.

27. "Learnalilgivinanlovin" by Jens Lekman

28. "What Me Worry" by St. Vincent

What songs would be on your "Better" mix? Please share! I need as much magical music as I can get.

"you always said I was a dreamer

but now I know who's dreaming deep"

~stars~

We have no past, we won't reach back, keep with me forward all through the night...

2010-10-04T00:05:00.003-04:00

My friend Louise hit it right on the nose today: I live in the past instead of in the present.

On one level, this is good for my career: after all, a literature teacher has to not only understand but appreciate the past, not only understand context but live in it by loving it. However...

I remember too well. I hold onto memories like they're sign-posts, like life-preservers. I stay still instead of moving with the current. Every story that I tell, every reference point, is to college, or England, or New York, (or ex-bf). I haven't formed any new stories in the last three years. Well, I'm not exactly sure how to go about it...but it's time to take care of myself in more than one realm. My entire life cannot be my career. And honestly, I think I've used exbf as an excuse to avoid moving forward, and now that he's moved forward-- for real this time-- it brings my pathetic reliance on him into too-harsh light. My anger's not at him for being happy: it's at myself for not doing enough to make me happy.

How do you let the sign-posts and life-preservers go, though, when you've gotten used to being stuck? I can't even picture myself doing something crazy, like dating, or like re-structuring my life so that a boy who got it wrong a lot of the time is not the locus of my romantic orbit. I really have fallen into a rut: my life resembles Our Town not just in its simple joys but in its supreme absence of risk and its reliance on routine. How do I start? How do I get back some of what I was in the past without dwelling in it, but while propelling myself forward to the future? I just don't want to be Blanche DuBois, fictionalizing and falsifying, dwelling in a beautiful dream of yesteryear at the expense of joy, sanity, and the foreseeable future...

"And the seasons they go round and round

And the painted ponies go up and down

We're captive on a carousel of time

We can't return, we can only look behind from where we came

And go round and round and round in the circle game."

~joni mitchell~

"Can't repeat the past? Why of course you can!"

~the great gatsby~

"I was blinded from the constant looking back: Lot's wife. I only ever saw the gathering clouds."

~the poisonwood bible~

like the cactus tree...being free...

2010-09-26T22:35:00.002-04:00

I bring it back again-- the metaphor of the cactus tree, full and hollow, according to lovely Joni's words. I hope that you've had the chance to listen to the song, but in a nutshell, it's about a girl who avoids commitment in favor of self-actualization and freedom. I always come back to it: the idea of the beauties and treasures relationships can bring, but the paralysis they sometimes cause; the competing tensions of security and wanderlust. A heart that's full and hollow, indeed.

This image has borne down especially heavily upon me this weekend. Without revealing too much about myself, I'll say that this weekend marked the nupitals of one ex-best-friend from college, a toxic friend who caused me much insecurity in the past and is the major reason that I've resisted having an all-consuming "best friend" ever since. In college, I was the one who dreamed smaller and pictured myself settling down sooner rather than later; she dreamed of Ph.D.s and shining seas, a successful career and exotic locale. Then I introduced her to her now-husband. Then we had a falling-out when I realized the crushing nature of her friendship and her sabotage of several of my romantic relationships. Then I went abroad and grew and thrived, moved to Manhattan, then to DC, then back to the midwest, all the while dreaming about new lands to conquer and new adventures to be had. I loved and lost and finally loved myself more. My need for adventure outshone my desire for marriage, while she moved to the suburbs, abandoned professorship, taught the lower grades (when she'd always rebuked my desire to teach high school), got engaged and now married...to the man she would not have met were it not for me. Odd, huh?

Three things have preoccupied me in the last few days and have led to several soul-sucking nightmares. First of all, if I consider my wanderlust and dedication to my career a choice, than why do I consider her marriage a "good thing" that happened to a "bad person"? What does that say about me that despite everything I've achieved, I still consider my life to be incomplete because a ring "gives a woman's life value"? Second, assuming I've reconciled the "good thing" question, why do good things happen to bad people? Whatever happened to karma, and when will I get my due? The last few years may have been exciting, but they have never been easy or stable. Third, is a desire for adventure and travel and self-reliance incompatible with security and marriage? I keep having these nightmares that I get married but I know intuitively that it is wrong: either I can't fathom "forever," or I know I've chosen the wrong person, or I feel like I'm being untrue to myself by allying myself with somebody else. Still, despite these anxieties, I still find myself peering at other women's engagement rings and wondering if others judge me to be deficient in some way because I don't have a man. My best friends are all either married or in a serious relationship that will lead to marriage, and I often don't fit in with their discussions or gatherings. It's a tough battle to face, especially alone. And then I wonder whether my life is really that free...most of the time, my head seems absorbed with other people's concerns and more and more demands pressed upon my energy.

I wish these thoughts weren't on my mind. I wish that my ex-best-friend had gotten her karmic dose and fooled fewer people (even though I then feel terrible for wishing someone ill). I wish I found someone who would allow me my freedom. I wish that I were less drained of energy and could therefore force myself to see the beauty in my life. I wish that sleep soothed me instead of plaguing me. I just wish for answers and for a semblance of resolve that I have made the right choices and that good things are in my future.

"You don't want to love-- your eternal and abnormal craving is to be love. You aren't positive, you're negative. You absorb, absorb, as if you must fill yourself up with love, because you've got a shortage somewhere."

~d.h. lawrence~

"Let yourself fall in love, if you haven't done so already. You are wasting your life."

~d.h. lawrence~

"I want to live my life so that my nights are not full of regret."

~d.h. lawrence~

catch a falling star (don't let me fall, stars)

2010-08-22T23:04:00.005-04:00

I can't sleep, so I feel the need to hide in the poetry of it all.

I long for gold shimmer glinting off smooth canal waters and soft words whispered in my ear.

Hands clasp my waist and suspend me, Phoenix-like, off railings and over ripples.

You may turn me to ash, but I will rise up in renewal and joy.

You may break me, but my ruins will be my rebirth.

Raise me up: let me gaze upon you from on high and let all traces of soot fade to cool green.

In reflection, upside down, my world makes more sense to me; an inverted hourglass under the bridge.

An undying balance, acres between me and raw and cruel.

I am and will be the center of my story.

"Let the world forsake me,

Let them do their worst,

I shall withstand it all,

They will not break me."

...And so it is

Just like you said it should be

We'll both forget the breeze

Most of the time

And so it is

The colder water

The blower's daughter

The pupil in denial...

You won't get too far from me believing everything you read

2010-07-31T21:03:00.002-04:00

Leaving for Amsterdam tomorrow! It's going to be rainy, but I'm sure the old stone streets reflected in puddles will be doubly lovely. Pia's photographs have been providing welcome inspiration and excitement.

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked

2010-07-29T21:59:00.003-04:00

I can't wait. September 24th.

"angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night..."

On another intellectual note, I have not yet met my summer goal to finish reading Lolita, and it's almost back to school time! (and I'm woefully underprepared) It's a good thing that I have 9 hours on a plane on Sunday.

That's right, dearest readers-- I'm going to AMSTERDAM! I've never been before, and I'm so excited. It will be a whirlwind trip, because I have to go to a wedding in Poland after, but I'm hoping to absorb as much culture-- and a bit of obligatory tourism-- as I can in 3.5 days. Do you have any words of advice, suggested itineraries, or "must see" places? Or phonetic pronunciations of Dutch words?

we're all the same, the men of anger and the women of the page

2010-07-28T23:58:00.004-04:00

I promised to publish the second "manifesto" that impressed me. Now, forgive the writing; I will say that the sentence structure leaves something to be desired and sometimes have the philosophical wordiness of an art history textbook. (Have you ever tried to read one of those? Pure torture.) However, the sentiments ring pure: sharing the joy of the written word, recreating the fleeting nature of poetry through their own mobility, spreading the self-improvement institution that is the library, and growing wisdom throughout the world. I'm talking about the Itinerant Poetry Librarian.

In terms of the project’s philosophy: it touches on so many things that to try and sum it up in one neat sentence just isn’t possible. But now that we’ve had some time to sit down and collate our thoughts, if you will, we can tell you that the major issues we touch on, and are seeking to negotiate, are: the idea of poetry as a unique form of human communication, and thus a unique form of knowledge; and the idea of the public library as both recycling-knowledge space and civic space – concepts which we believe can also be used as models for sustainable growth in order to oust ourselves from the current cul de sac that is consumer-led, maximum profit-centred culture.

Surrounding these two core theories is the concept of liminality, both in the architectural sense: the conceptual, ephemeral relationships between people and spatial environments (installation and live performance art as a practice of liminality, library practice beyond physical building environments); and in the post-feminist (Luce Irigaray) and post-structuralist (Michel Foucault) sense of the hybridisation of forms of knowledge, experience and practice, that is, an exploration based on where and how ‘things’ meet, rather than where and how ‘things’ become ‘separate’ or are examined on the basis of differentiation. The blurring of borders and boundaries: that’s what we’re interested in exploring, the periphery of the periphery – or, as one recent new member of the library put it, the event horizon, in fact.

In terms of the ‘liminality’ of our library, this is essentially represented in both the library practice itself – operating without the confines of a building, so we literally install the library pretty much anywhere we manage to get to – and in the ‘liminal’ ethos of the library’s collection of items. The collection ethos – our acquisition policy, seeks to recognise and re-negotiate the ephemeral nature of poetry, in the sense of both its oralcy, and its continued existence in the outer realms of the ‘literature’ world. So, as you see, we’re back to the periphery of the periphery again.

Floating amongst all this are several further conceptual and literal explorations of sustainability: which centre on the core concepts of sharing and redistribution (of resources, knowledge etc.) and collectivity (working together, sharing together). These ideas have been generated, and expanded, throughout the project’s timeline, as we continued to explore, and find ourselves necessarily negotiating, these ideas (and thus their practical applications) in order to quite literally operate the project, in and of itself, and to maintain the ongoing growth and development of the project through time.

All of these ideas feed in to, and seek to help address, what we see as the key issues of our time: recognising the limits of our world’s resources, recognising that we may live ‘alone’ but that we share this world with others, recognising that the answers we seek are best addressed by a collective, civic-mindedness, that places health, education, lifelong learning, and ‘life experience’ above and beyond the pearly gates of simply making money.

Anyone can make money. It’s what you do with it that counts.

Essentially, we see that our work is about re-placing these notions of humanity, these values, back into our cultures: for if we do not, our cultures, our world – we – will not survive. Bertolt Brecht asked “What keeps mankind alive?” All the world over people have been answering his question, but the answers have been getting quieter and more and more subsumed by the burble of consumer-led culture.

It’s time to reclaim the conversation, and sing a song for (wo)mankind once again.

In homage to Brecht, our recent engagement with all things library-related and Germany, and our vision of the library as the curated collective mind and knowledge-space of our species, we’re christening this movement, this mindset, this concept and practice as:

Gymendecology.

It investigates human development from a systems analysis point of view, starting with the:

D (Data) ---> I (Information) ---> K (Knowledge) ---> W (Wisdom) model.

It encompasses:

Sustainability (Ecology of the Library)
Collectivity (The Commons / Copyright / The Library)
Recycling (The Library)
Alternative Distribution (Publishing / The Internet / The Library)
Redistribution (Publishing / The Internet / The Library)
Liminality (The Library / Poetry)
Civics (The Library as Civic Space / Democracy / Human Rights)
Civility (The Library as Citizen Space / Collective Social Minded-ness / Democracy / Human Rights)
Welfare (The Library as Knowledge Portal for Lifelong Learning and Development)
Society & Culture (The Library as Collective Cultural Archive / Knowledge Curator)

It is about exploring knowledge, and how we ‘attain’ or ‘acquire’ knowledge, as humans, from birth to death, and how this feeds and sustains our evolution, our development, as a species.

hear my song, it will show you the way you can shine

2010-07-27T01:18:00.003-04:00

Generally I am not a fan of the manifesto or "mission statement," if you will; they get too close to standing on a soapbox. Being polemical or belligerent, often being narrow-minded and damaging in their speech...it is impossible to argue with someone on a verbal rampage, because they never seek to learn, but rather seek to reassert their own "correct" opinion. Ad hominem, etcetera. If there's one thing that I think could destroy our world, it's human beings with reductive thoughts and hate in their hearts.

Phew. Excuse my own little manifesto.

Anyway, the point of this post is point out two people who get the manifesto right-- it's about what they believe, not what is. It's a way of life, a preferred way, but one that is still personal to the believer and anyone else who might self-elect into belief. It is not the only way; it is not denigrating to others; and most importantly, it comes from a place of love and beauty and learning. Anyone who seeks to be a life-long learner and purveyor of wisdom is a-ok in my book.

The first of these? Miss (now Mrs., officially!) Katie Armour, whose neotraditional style is after my own heart (although mine might have a bit more bohemia thrown in). It's a philosophy of loveliness and simple beauties:

We believe…

We believe in being glass-half-full sorts of girls.

We believe that often times, granny is chic.

We believe in peddling vintage Schwinns with flower baskets.

We believe in poetry, picnics, and piñatas.

We believe one is never too old to keep a diary, the secrets only grow more scandalous.

We believe in arranging fresh flowers unruly like an English garden.

We believe in adventure and traveling the globe, be it to Marrakech or Malibu.

We believe in mixing lucite with oriental rugs. Thrift store finds with heirlooms.

We believe in handwritten thank you notes, better late than never.

We believe in needlepoint, letterpress, decoupage and forgiving Martha Stewart.

We believe in piggy banks and cookie jars.

We believe in book clubs full of Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Austen and Woolf.

We believe station wagons are hopelessly chic.

We believe in recycling our Grandmothers’ names. Eloise, Jackie, Faye…

We believe in collecting: stamps, shells, books, big glittering diamonds…

We believe in marrying the boy that writes us the best love letters.

We believe in highly competitive board games—Chess, Scrabble, Chutes & Ladders.

We believe in spontaneous road trips and charming, chintzy bed & breakfasts.

We believe there’s something to fortune cookies, wishbones and 4 leaf clovers.

We believe in classics, shaken and stirred.

How can you argue with that? But the best part is, if someone does and peddles Philip Roth and Dan Brown, or even if someone differs slightly (like me) and wouldn't mind being the one writing the love letters instead of the other way around, that's just fine. Either we can shake our heads and marvel at the differences in others' tastes, or we can invite all the chipped teacups under the umbrella (that's a mixed metaphor if there ever was one!) and appreciate them for what they might be able to offer us. Maybe the manifesto will even change with time...

Check back tomorrow for the second manifesto-maker-made-good. I'm sleepy, and I have a meeting with Sir Department Chair tomorrow that will not permit me to laze the day away. Goodnight, dear ones...

Thought bubble: I'll take the ride, and you may not hop into the driver's seat, but maybe you'll be an occasional travel companion, or at least a slightly-unwilling-but-still-smiling-because-my-enthusiasm-about-randomness-is-what-makes-me-me listener to my tales.

"Of shoes-- and ships-- and sealing wax

Of cabbages-- and kings--"

a moment, a love, a dream, a laugh, a kiss, a cry, our rights, our wrongs...

2010-07-25T00:43:00.008-04:00

To know where you're going, you must know where you've been.

Seeing you last week...I knew that half of my heart is still yours. We fit together...like dessert spoons. Like pinkies.

But our lives will never be compatible. Nor can I trust you. Sometimes, though, I worry that I've exhausted my supply of love-- and then I tell myself that we are in the past, a different us ("not as we") is in the present, and I-- and someone special-- will be in the future.

What has been will be...but right, this time. You and I...we'll be fine. And in the meantime, I'll climb peaks and precipices and make masterpieces wherever I go..."like a cactus tree..."

"I want to speak with you in the round vowels

of your own language

to tell you how

I've named you myth and memory,

how I've made you a half-god."

~Patricia Fargnoli~

"The woman who follows the crowd will usually go no further than the crowd. The woman who walks alone is likely to find herself in places no one has ever been before."

~Albert Einstein~

"In Greek, nostalgia literally means the pain from an old wound. It's a twinge in your heart, far more powerful than memory alone. This device isn't a spaceship, it's a time machine. It goes backwards, forwards. It takes us to a place where we ache to go again. It's not called a wheel, it's called a carousel. It lets us travel the way a child travels. Round and around, and back home again. To a place where we know we are loved."

~Don Draper, Mad Men~

"It would be magical. There'd be a tree fort involved. And Christmas lights."

2010-07-23T00:54:00.004-04:00

I know, it's been a while...but to make it up to you, here is a new mixtape tracklist! It's called "I Like Bikes."

1. "Don't Worry, I'm Yours" mash-up by DJ Dain featuring Jason Mraz and Bobby McFerrin

2. "King of Anything" by Sara Bareilles

3. "I'll Try Anything Once" by Julian Casablancas

4. "Tonight the Streets Are Ours" by Richard Hawley

5. "Touch Me" by the Doors

6. "I'm Into Something Good" by the Bird and the Bee

7. "Grace Kelly" by Mika

8. "Don't Stand So Close to Me" by the Police

9. "Better" by Regina Spektor

10. "Little Lion Man" by Mumford & Sons

11. "Last Request" by Paulo Nutini

12. "Rambling Man" by Laura Marling

13. "Haven't Met You Yet" by Michael Buble

14. "Nightingales" by Sondre Lerche & the Faces

15. "Bravedancing" by Rachael Sage

16. "Tangled Up In Blue" by Bob Dylan

17. "Islands" by the xx

18. "Kisses Over Babylon" by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros

19. "Jungle Drum" by Emiliana Torrini

20. "Luckiest Guy on the Lower East Side" by the Magnetic Fields

21. "Say Goodbye to Hollywood" by Billy Joel

22. "Home" by She & Him

23. "Trouble Comes Running" by Spoon

24. "Caught Up in You" by .38 Special

25. "The Only Living Boy in New York" by Simon & Garfunkel

A you're adorable, B you're beautiful

2010-06-09T19:15:00.008-04:00

Did anyone else know that sloths were this cute? Precious.

I'm trying to get down to the heart of the matter

2010-06-05T21:57:00.003-04:00

I know I've been absent for a while, but...

I SURVIVED MY FIRST YEAR OF TEACHING!!

I'm utterly exhausted right now and already missing my kiddos, and it's difficult for me to not dwell in everything I could have done so much better, but I know that the two months to just BE and to actually develop a life outside of my teaching will be vital.

Rejuvenation, here I come.

"The power is in the balance: we are our injuries, as much as we are our successes."

~the poisonwood bible~

why does it always rain on me

2010-05-21T18:05:00.003-04:00

How incredible! You can literally live in a shoe...in New Zealand. Tasman Bay, Nelson, New Zealand, to be more specific. It stirs up my wanderlust, which has been irrepressible lately. More information on The Boot, yours for $160 a night:

The Boot is a retreat ideal for romantic weekends and special occasions. Our private boutique bed and breakfast accommodation is a two storey cottage in the shape of a giant boot, furnished especially for two. It is located in the heart of the beautiful Tasman region, centrally between the Able Tasman National Park, Kahurangi National Park and Nelson. A perfect position for exploring the highlights of Tasman Bay, Nelson, New Zealand.

The Boot stands nestled within a grove of hazelnut trees. Outside, the courtyard, surrounded by a fragrant garden, offers sun loungers for relaxing on hot afternoons and an alfresco dining area for spending lazy evenings beside the outdoor fireplace. Inside luxuriate on the comfy couch in front of the open fire, or enjoy an early night in the comfort of the upstairs bedroom. In the morning your choice of breakfast will be delivered to the door.

Our relaxed, quiet bed and breakfast adopts sustainable practices without deterring from the luxury experience that we want all our guests to enjoy. We use organic produce as much as possible, including our own free-range eggs and fresh fruit from the orchard. Guests are welcome to wander the paths of our 2.4 hectare garden during their stay.

Whether in Nelson and Tasman on holiday, or for some special time together, the two of you will enjoy your nights of escape from the world at The Boot.

There are two chairs at the table, two champagne flutes, two coffee cups. There is space for two on the couch, space for two on the bed, space for two in the shower...

The Boot, with its unique shape and tranquil, secluded surroundings, offers the utmost of romantic, hideaway accommodation for couples. Be it a special occasion or simply time alone The Boot is the perfect lovers retreat.

Downstairs there is a comfy couch in front of the open fire, a kitchenette with mini-bar and tea and coffee making facilities, and a tiled bathroom equipped with toiletries, soft towels, hairdryer and a shower built for two. Up the spiral staircase is the bedroom with regal queen-sized bed, dark curtains for late morning rises, and a Juliet balcony with views into the courtyard and across the pond. The courtyard itself is a sheltered outdoor space surrounded by a fragrant garden, ideal for soaking up the Tasman sunshine on sun loungers or enjoying long evenings of alfresco dining beside the outside fireplace.

Fresh flowers, fine Nelson Art, candles, complementary chocolates, a stereo and no TV complete the romantic scene. Breakfast of your choosing is delivered to your door any time before midday.

The wee small hours

2010-05-11T20:29:00.002-04:00

I find myself up, nights, crossing my feet in creases of sheets and squinting at the ribbons of light cast diagonally from the window.

My thoughts twirl.

Wee small hours, solitary, can play tricks with our heads...

oh to roam the streets of Manhattan, find dog-eared creased-leather-covered books of poetry left like arrows pointing to someone else's story.

To visit Lady Chrysler's moon-dust glow again.

MAY 11, 2010, 4:13 PM

Insomniac City

By BILL HAYES

All-Nighters is an exploration of insomnia, sleep and the nocturnal life.

Tags:

insomnia, Manhattan,reading

Todd Heisler/The New York Times

I moved to New York a year ago and felt at once at home. In the haggard buildings and bloodshot skies, in trains that never stopped running, like my racing mind at night, I recognized my insomniac self. If New York were a patient, it would be diagnosed with agrypnia excitata, a rare genetic condition characterized by insomnia, nervous energy, constant twitching, and dream enactment. An apt description of a city that never sleeps, a place where one comes to reinvent himself.

I brought very little with me, in part because I wished to leave behind reminders of the life I’d had, but also for more practical reasons. My new home was a virtual treehouse, a tiny top-floor walk-up apartment at eye-level with the Ailanthus boughs. There was not room for more than a desk, a chair, a mattress. Nor, a need: You see, the place came furnished with spectacular views of Manhattan.

What I didn’t know when I rented the place was that the French restaurant located straight below my apartment had outdoor seating till 2 a.m. Lying awake in bed, I could literally hear glasses clinking, toasts being made, six stories down. This was irritating at first. But it wasn’t long before I discovered a phenomenon heretofore unknown to me: Laughter rises. Hearing happy laughing people is no cure for insomnia but has an ameliorative effect on broken-heartedness.

If you are lonely or bone-tired or blue, you need only come down from your perch and step outside. New York — which is to say, New Yorkers — will take care of you.

Sometimes I’d sit in the kitchen in the dark and gaze out at the Empire State and Chrysler buildings. Such a beautiful pair, so impeccably dressed, he in his boxy suit, every night a different hue, and she, an arm’s length away, in her filigreed skirt the color of the moon. I regarded them as an old married couple, calmly, unblinkingly, keeping watch over one of their newest sons. And I returned the favor. I would be there the moment the Empire State turned off its lights for the night, as if getting a little shut-eye before sunrise.

Here’s another wonder I discovered about life here: In the summertime, late into the night, some leave behind their sweat-dampened sheets to read in the coolness of a park under streetlights. Not Kindles, mind you, nor i-Phones. But books. Newspapers. Novels. Poetry. Completely absorbed, as if in their own worlds. As indeed, they are. I had never seen anything like this until I took a shortcut through Abingdon Square Park one night while walking off my own mild agrypnia.

First I saw an old man reading a newspaper from which someone (his wife?) had snipped numerous articles; it looked like a badly botched doily. I tiptoed past, as if wearing slippers, and he, as if at home in his La-Z-Boy, did not glance up.

Next I spotted a young man reading a paperback with a distinctive brick-red cover. I was pretty certain I knew what classic he had in hand but had to make sure. I fake-dropped my keys nearby and crouched down for a better look. Just then, the young man shifted in his seat, denying me absolutely proof. That’s O.K. I was left to imagine him imagining himself as Holden Caulfield.

Only hymns upon your lips

2010-05-07T19:36:00.005-04:00

"Just too unreal, all this..."

"Still you know they will fill your heart and mind

When they say, there's a way through this..."

"Another dream, another love you'll hold..."

"Had a sweetheart on his knees, so faithful and adoring

And he touched me, and I let him love me

So let that be my story..."

I don't do sadness.

my heart is riding on your wings

2010-05-03T16:43:00.003-04:00

You would have been 95 today.

I love you, Grandma.

P.S. I have a million dollar hat, too.

P.P.S. Your storm lamp turns my bedside reading aglow. Your needlepoint adorns my wall. Your handkerchiefs cover my countertop. You are missed, but still are very very present.

where do we go from here?

2010-05-02T03:50:00.007-04:00

4 AM. Awake, at turns amazed and disturbed by the inconsistencies in my life and in the world. Overwhelmed, by beauty and by ugliness and by my inability to fix it.

Somehow, art and music recover my missing piece. They resurrect my soul.

"I am folded and unfolded and unfolding

I am colorblind

Coffee black and egg white

Pull me out from inside."

"and miles to go before I sleep...and miles to go before I sleep..."

There's a moment you know...

2010-04-30T22:55:00.002-04:00

Crush

By Ada Limón

Maybe my limbs are made

mostly for decoration,

like the way I feel about

persimmons. You can't

really eat them. Or you

wouldn't want to. If you grab

the soft skin with your fist

it somehow feels funny,

like you've been here

before and uncomfortable,

too, like you'd rather

squish it between your teeth

impatiently, before spitting

the soft parts back up

to linger on the tongue like

burnt sugar or guilt.

For starters, it was all

an accident, you cut

the right branch

and a sort of light

woke up underneath,

and the inedible fruit

grew dark and needy.

Think crucial hanging.

Think crayon orange.

There is one low, leaning

heart-shaped globe left

and dearest, can you

tell, I am trying

to love you less.

Was I out yonder somewhere blinking at a star?

2010-04-26T22:25:00.003-04:00

For some reason, I really miss my grandfather today...

He died unexpectedly right before I turned 18, two days after my grandmother passed away. I've never met two people who were more in love. They fought, but that made their love even more realistic. They could both be infuriating, but they were infuriating together. They were also beautiful. My grandfather remained statuesque, golden-tan, and muscular even as he passed age sixty-five. His hair maintained its dark chrome with just the slightest scattering of grey caressing his temples. My grandmother continued to move with effortless grace, commanding the attention of every eye as she glided past with her reddish hair swept off her lineless forehead.

My grandfather was the type of man who valued imagination and silliness. He never failed to make us laugh, even when I got jaded and rebellious in my teenage years. One of my most vivid memories is the lofted upstairs of my grandparents' house, my grandfather's secret haunt where only the most special were invited in (and I was on that list). He kept the Gummi candies that fed his sweet tooth placed rather precariously on his leather ottoman. However, they never seemed to fall, no matter how many times my impatient, active feet tapped at the ottoman, kicked it, or just thumped at it in the process of climbing into his lap. I would snuggle next to him in one leather recliner, and that is where I became introduced to some of the figures who have inhabited my dreams through adulthood. We watched Judy Garland or Gene Kelly follow the yellow brick road or sing in the rain; we introduced ourselves to an incorrigible girl called Gigi and hummed Gershwin tunes in An American in Paris. My grandfather even taught me how to ballroom dance, with tiny me balancing on his toes; a mass of contradictions, he had been both a star baseball player and an Arthur Murray dance instructor.

One of my biggest regrets is that in his final days, even in his final year, I let my teenage anger get in the way of my love and of forming new memories I could have cherished when he was gone. I can't even remember if I told him I loved him that night. My grandmother had lost the ability to speak, but she still loved to hear me sing, and my grandfather requested a song before I left for the night. I sang "You'll Never Walk Alone" from Carousel and then left; the next morning, my grandmother was still dying and my grandfather was in a coma. The closing refrain of that song was the final words he heard from me while he was conscious.

My grandfather was a truly remarkable man, a jack of all trades, a Renaissance man. I miss him more than I can say, and today, when one of his favorite songs crept onto my playlist as I graded papers, I couldn't help but hope that he was and is proud of me.

"As shaded as his eyes might be

That's how bright his mind is

That's how strong his love for you and me

A friend to all the universe

Grandfather of the future

And everything I would like to be

What one man can do is dream

What one man can do is love

What one man can do is change the world and make it young again

Here you see what one man can do."

If I should live forever and all my dreams come true,

My memories of love will be of you.

what do you say to taking chances

2010-04-25T20:14:00.001-04:00

I love this. It makes me want to have a mass Glee performance in a public place:

how your ivy grows

2010-04-22T18:47:00.005-04:00

I had a king dressed in drip-dry and paisley

Lately he's taken to saying I'm crazy and blind

He lives in another time

Ladies in gingham still blush

While he sings them of wars and wine

But I in my leather and lace

I can never become that kind.

And in that moment, I swear we were infinite

2010-04-17T00:37:00.003-04:00

I can't explain how incredible it is to watch a student reach his potential right in front of you. Today one of my darlings starred in the school musical, earned a standing ovation, and still shuffled backstage to accept his hug from me while mumbling that he messed up his final lines. Students like this one both warm and break my heart: his growth is impressive to observe, and yet I doubt he realizes how wonderful he is. This is the type of kid who always says hello to me in the halls and welcomes me with a genuine smile. He spends hours trying to improve his schoolwork, never complaining about the fact that many others earn stellar grades while giving only a cursory glance at the material. Never seeking to boost his own pride while denigrating others', he offers kind words to every student and is an approachable presence, even to the youngest students. He has also taken an impressive risk here: this is the first time he's sung in public, and some of his more boorish friends don't exactly consider musical theater to be something worthy of their praise. Instead, he risks mockery, something that in high school (or even later) can be devastating. If I could write this student a letter that he could take out and look at every time he doubted his gifts, I would assure him that he is one of the lucky ones-- he has what so many people lack, a balance of empathy, charisma, humor, intellect, sensitivity, and sheer originality. From the beginning of the year to now, he has already pushed himself to such an impressive degree that even though I don't teach him, I just look at him and want him to know this:

If every one of my darlings could realize his or her infinite wonder...then my life would be one step closer to being complete.

art for art's sake?

2010-04-13T22:39:00.007-04:00

I know that I've written this before, perhaps as one of my first blog posts, but I can't help but look at many of the works of fiction that surround me and be reminded of Kathleen Kelly's line from You've Got Mail: "So much of what I see reminds me of something I've read in a book, when shouldn't it be the other way around?" The sheer fact that I'm invoking that quote speaks to the influence fiction has had in my life: in a rather meta-like fashion, I can't explain my reliance on stories without calling upon these words from my vast storehouse of arcane quips, quotations, miscellany, potpourri, flotsam...and so on. I wonder if a day will come when I'll be able to see my life as the reference point, rather than some world made up out of an author's head. Or maybe my eternal summoning of the Literary Gods and their creations-- characters who resonate throughout generations, ink-smudged fingers, technological advances, and student complaints-- just speaks to the inevitable reality of a good book. It may become a mirror through which others see their lives; it may be an instruction booklet, flagged with "do not do this!" sticky-notes by passages describing the lovelorn and depressed; it may be a beacon to which readers can aspire; it may be a hand-holding presence to lovers unhappy and happy, nostalgic or prescient.

Lately I've been seeing myself in The Sun Also Rises, which I've been rereading with some of my students. I never pictured myself in a Hemingway saga, but here I am, strapped to a Hemingway hero on an up-and-down taxi voyage that readers have misunderstood for decades. Look, I'm no Lady Brett Ashley-- far from it, in fact, and anytime I attempt to make this personal identification known my students pipe up with "But she's slutty!" (So much for being open-minded.) The overall message that I take from Brett and Jake, though, is that love is often illogical and far from simple; people have wounds, and wounds become scars, and scars lead to twisted loves, on and off for a long time. Sometimes they make little sense. Sometimes others view them as making us weak. More often than not, our "pretty" relationships remain just as ambiguous to us as they do to everyone else; but somehow, as the parties involved, we see the value that other people fail to notice. It's in the shades of gray.

What does this say about me, that I can hold books up and see my reflection, like in a mirror? What does it say that I've often felt more kinship with figments than with flesh and blood? Is this the case for everyone, or will this always be a stumbling block for me? Another quote from the story-world is the only way to close: "I just want to send this cosmic question out into the void. So, goodnight, dear void."

you with the sad eyes, don't be discouraged

2010-04-07T23:02:00.003-04:00

I love thunderstorms, but tonight for some reason I feel like each lightning bolt rattles my bones! I'm like a little girl again, needing to dive under the covers of Fraulein Maria's bed...boys aren't scared, I say to myself, as I swathe myself in satin sheets and cuddle up to my nears and dears. Not true, apparently. Maria chases the scary thoughts out of our heads with lilting tunes of snowflakes and sleighbells. If only we would always sing a song to protect ourselves from storms. If only all we had to to do succeed or chase away demons was to ask ourselves, "What would Julie Andrews do?"

"What will this day be like, I wonder...

What will my future be, I wonder..."

"Oh darling, make it go

Make it go away

Give me these moments back

Give them back to me

Give me that little kiss

Give me your hand."

"There is freedom within, there is freedom without

Try to catch the deluge in a paper cup"

Next year in peace, and love, and civility (and Jerusalem)

2010-03-29T18:08:00.003-04:00

This makes me love our President, and what he stands for, even more. In addition, it makes me look at the recent bullies of Democratic supporters of healthcare (in Ohio, a Republican yokel spit on a Parkinson's sufferer who praised the passing of healthcare reforms) with even more distaste and-- I'll go ahead and say it-- shame. Years ago we left Egypt, but we still have not left behind intellectual servitude and slavery of human decency. Thank goodness for Barack Obama and other kindred spirits. Next year in Jerusalem-- and all that it stands for-- indeed. Happy Passover.

Next Year in the White House: A Seder Tradition

By JODI KANTOR

WASHINGTON — One evening in April 2008, three low-level staff members from the Obama presidential campaign — a baggage handler, a videographer and an advance man — gathered in the windowless basement of a Pennsylvania hotel for an improvised Passover Seder.

The day had been long, the hour was late, and the young men had not been home in months. So they had cadged some matzo and Manischewitz wine, hoping to create some semblance of the holiday.

Suddenly they heard a familiar voice. “Hey, is this the Seder?” Barack Obama asked, entering the room.

So begins the story of the Obama Seder, now one of the newest, most intimate and least likely of White House traditions. When Passover begins at sunset on Monday evening, Mr. Obama and about 20 others will gather for a ritual that neither the rabbinic sages nor the founding fathers would recognize.

In the Old Family Dining Room, under sparkling chandeliers and portraits of former first ladies, the mostly Jewish and African-American guests will recite prayers and retell the biblical story of slavery and liberation, ending with the traditional declaration “Next year in Jerusalem.” (Never mind the current chill in the administration’s relationship with Israel.)

Top aides like David Axelrod and Valerie Jarrett will attend, but so will assistants like 24-year-old Herbie Ziskend. White House chefs will prepare Jewish participants’ family recipes, even rendering chicken fat — better known as schmaltz — for just the right matzo ball flavor.

If last year is any guide, Malia and Sasha Obama will take on the duties of Jewish children, asking four questions about the night’s purpose — along with a few of their own — and scrambling to find matzo hidden in the gleaming antique furniture.

That event was the first presidential Seder, and also probably “the first time in history that gefilte fish had been placed on White House dishware,” said Eric Lesser, the former baggage handler, who organizes each year’s ritual.

As in many Jewish households, the Obama Seder seems to take on new meaning each year, depending on what is happening in the world and in participants’ lives (for this group, the former is often the same as the latter).

The first one took place at the bleakest point of the campaign, the long prelude to the Pennsylvania primary, which was dominated by a furor over Mr. Obama’s former pastor. “We were in the desert, so to speak,” remembered Arun Chaudhary, then and now Mr. Obama’s videographer, who grew up attending Seders with his half-Jewish, half-Indian family.

No one led the proceedings; everyone took turns reading aloud. Mr. Obama had brought Reggie Love, his personal aide, Ms. Jarrett and Eric Whitaker, another close friend, all African-American. Jennifer Psaki, the traveling press secretary, and Samantha Tubman, a press assistant, filtered in. Neither had ever been to a Seder, but they knew the Exodus story, Ms. Psaki from Catholic school and Ms. Tubman from childhood Sundays at black churches.

They peppered the outnumbered Jews at the table with questions, which the young men sometimes struggled to answer. “We’re not exactly crack Hebrew scholars,” said Mr. Lesser, now an assistant to Mr. Axelrod.

Participants remember the evening as a rare moment of calm, an escape from the din of airplanes and rallies. As the tale of the Israelites unfolded, the campaign team half-jokingly identified with their plight — one day, they too would be free. At the close of the Seder, Mr. Obama added his own ending — “Next year in the White House!”

Indeed, the group, with a few additions, has now made the Seder an Executive Mansion tradition. (No one considered inviting prominent rabbis or other Jewish leaders; it is a private event.)

But maintaining the original humble feel has been easier said than done.

Ms. Tubman and Desirée Rogers, then the White House social secretary, tried to plan an informal meal last year, with little or even no wait staff required. White House ushers reacted with what seemed like polite horror. The president and the first lady simply do not serve themselves, they explained. The two sides negotiated a compromise: the gefilte fish would be preplated, the brisket passed family-style.

Then came what is now remembered as the Macaroon Security Standoff. At 6:30, with the Seder about to start, Neil Cohen, the husband of Michelle Obama’s friend and adviser Susan Sher, was stuck at the gate bearing flourless cookies he had brought from Chicago. They were kosher for Passover, but not kosher with the Secret Service, which does not allow food into the building.

Offering to help, the president walked to the North Portico and peered out the door, startling tourists. He volunteered to go all the way to the gates, but advisers stopped him, fearing that would cause a ruckus. Everyone seemed momentarily befuddled. Could the commander in chief not summon a plate of cookies to his table? Finally, Mr. Love ran outside to clear them.

Mr. Obama began the Seder by invoking the universality of the holiday’s themes of struggle and liberation. Malia and Sasha quickly found the hidden matzo and tucked it away again, so cleverly that Mr. Ziskend, the former advance man, needed 45 minutes to locate it. At the Seder’s close, the group opened a door and sang to the prophet Elijah.

In preparation for this year’s gathering, Mr. Lesser and others have again been collecting recipes from the guests, including matzo ball instructions from Patricia Winter, the mother of Melissa Winter, Mrs. Obama’s deputy chief of staff.

“We like soft (not hard) matzo balls,” Mrs. Winter warned in a note to the White House chefs, instructing them to buy mix but doctor it. Use three eggs, not two, she told them; substitute schmaltz for vegetable oil, and refrigerate them for a day before serving (but not in the soup).

The Seder originated with Jewish staff members on the campaign trail who could not go home, but now some celebrate at the White House by choice. Participants say their ties are practically familial now anyway. “Some of the most challenging experiences of our life we’ve shared together,” Ms. Jarrett said.

No one yet knows exactly what themes will emerge this year. Maybe “taking care of people who can’t take care of themselves and health care reform,” suggested Ms. Sher, now Mrs. Obama’s chief of staff.

The evening might also reflect a group that has settled into the White House and a staff more familiar with the new custom. Last week, Ms. Sher was leaving the East Wing when a guard stopped her.

“Hey, are you bringing macaroons again this year?” he asked.

Correction: March 27, 2010

An earlier version of this article misspelled the last name of Herbie Ziskend.

I shouldn't love you

2010-03-28T00:58:00.004-04:00

Standing alone, wild and somehow out of place, at home amongst the winds

But maybe you and I just fit into one another, like measuring spoons

...It's not meant to be. But somehow I'd rather fit with you, no matter the tears that follow, than be alone on that hilltop on my own, wondering why you would not stay and dance...

"And I am a writer, a writer of fictions

I am the heart that you call home

And I've written pages upon pages

Trying to rid you from my bones

My bones

My bones..."

You're the reason why the opera is in me

2010-03-25T22:48:00.002-04:00

Here is a secret thought that makes my heart sing:

Even though it may be out of place, even though it may have snapped strings to its flock,

a duck can still find a puddle in a field somewhere-- or alongside a road, or in a parking lot--

and make it home.

only you can cool my desire

2010-03-21T23:21:00.007-04:00

If you are a dreamer, come in.

If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar, a hoper, a prayer, a magic-bean-buyer.

If you're a pretender, come sit by my fire,

For we have some flax-golden tales to spin.

Come in! Come in!

the state of the world

2010-03-19T21:49:00.009-04:00

If I'm Anne Shirley, then I have met my Pringles.

I could go on and on. In the words of Anne Shirley, "Cantankerous, prejudiced old creatures! How can anyone possibly succeed against such tactics?"

Books are lovely and meaningful. If only people wouldn't take their ignorance and blacken books. And blacken the hearts of the teachers who only try to make this new generation more altruistic, more worldly, more sensitive, less egocentric, than the generations that have preceded them.

tea for two, and two for tea...

2010-03-15T19:28:00.008-04:00

"Oscar, Toby, and I are the founding members of the Finer Things Club. We meet once a month to discuss books and art, celebrate culture in a very civilized way. Sometimes the debate can get heated, but we're always respectful. There is no paper, no plastic, and no work talk allowed. It's very exclusive."

She was Lo, plain Lo in the morning

2010-03-13T19:04:00.004-05:00

"When I received the book as a fourteenth birthday present from a friend, it was, to paraphrase Alan Bennett, as if a hand had come out and taken mine. Lolita was an “exasperating brat” and a sucker for cheesy gift-shops, and she was vindication. Looking back on my own past, I could never quite conjure the requisite image of innocence lost. I conjured loathing, despair, and wanting to shrink until I caved in on myself and would no longer have to think about anything, sure, but I could also remember being an exasperating brat myself. I could remember the initial affection I had for the man who became the first to rather spectacularly betray me, and how hard it was to make sense of that affection in light of what was happening. I could remember, very vividly, fretting over the fact that I had “impaired” his “morals,” in whatever confused internal language was available to me at the time. It didn’t matter that I was seven years old and couldn’t fully grasp what was going on, what mattered were the feelings I had to live with.

Reading Lolita at fourteen, I was only beginning to make sense of my experience. I did know that the ordeal of the title character made me feel pity, but not self-pity. There was nothing sentimental about it, despite, or perhaps because of the sublime prose. More importantly, I was angry on behalf of Lolita and the horrible banality of her situation, and anger, it turned out, was a useful emotion, far preferable to pathos. Humbert’s calculated desire to appear as a victim of Lolita’s frail shoulders and gray eyes was infuriating:

I recall certain moments, let us call them icebergs in paradise, when after having had my fill of her — after fabulous, insane exertions that left me limp and azure-barred — I would gather her in my arms with, at last, a mute moan of human tenderness (her skin glistening in the neon light coming from the paved court through the slits in the blind, her soot-black lashes matted, her grave gray eyes more vacant than ever — for all the world a little patient still in the confusion of a drug after a major operation) — the tenderness would deepen to shame and despair, and I would lull and rock my lone light Lolita in my marble arms, and moan in her warm hair, and caress her at random and mutely ask her blessing, and at the peak of this human agonized selfless tenderness (with my soul actually hanging around her naked body and ready to repent), all at once, ironically, horribly, lust would swell again — and “oh, no,” Lolita would say with a sigh to heaven, and the next moment the tenderness and the azure — all would be shattered.

Here, Nabokov does more than write about a self-contained world of horror in a beautiful way. He also presents a curious way in which the human mind can experience that world of horror. One of the things that always bothered me most was how my awful recollections could come back to me in exquisite wrapping: how I could recall overripe apples thumping to the ground in the night, a shooting star, or Bach being played on the piano in an adjacent room. In attempting to make sense of what happened to me, I seized on those moments as “evidence” of the fact that I “liked” what had occurred. If I could focus on the loveliness of Prelude No. 1 in C Major as something disgusting and illegal was going on, wasn’t I just reveling in that which was disgusting and illegal? I punished myself for a way of thinking that, reading Lolita, was revealed to me as a survival tactic. I realized, for the first time, that there was nothing wrong or strange with how I had been coping, by stepping out of the horror and into the beauty that was running parallel to it."

~Natalia Antonova~

Reader, I married him

2010-03-12T23:12:00.010-05:00

"I knew that Jane Eyre would work its magic upon you someday."

~An Education~

If there were one book that both merits favorite status and guides my life path, it would be Jane Eyre. I have read the book multiple times and even wrote my thesis on it...but every time I read it, I'm struck even more to the core how much of a pioneer Charlotte Bronte truly was. It's the creation of Jane, not the spinning of the dark gothic romance between Jane and Mr. Rochester, that is the true feat here. I love the imagery of Jane's passion and desire for liberty as a bird beating against the caged walls of her chest.

I like to think that we've all felt out of place at times-- iconoclastic, yes, but also irreparably alone. I read about Jane sitting obscured by curtains in the Red Room, seeking comfort in a cherished book, and I can identify with the feeling of an interloper, an uncongenial alien finding a moment of refuge (only to have it be interrupted, too soon, by the jarring blow of reality). I too have felt the sensations of passion radiating out of my pores, threatening to inundate me and my surroundings. Like Jane, the restlessness was in my nature; like Jane, I assert my dissatisfaction with tranquility, believe that women do indeed feel just as men feel.

I've had my moments of restless pacing along banisters and rooftops, gazing out at the panorama before me and longing to be a part of it. Jane, in 1847 no less, opened up that cage for us. She allowed us not just to long for liberty but to make it our own. She allowed us to put our powers in play and in force. And she also provided transportation, on the wings of imagination, to English woods on rainy afternoons, comforted by a cup of tea and a warm shawl.

"I desired liberty; for liberty I gasped; for liberty I uttered a prayer; it seemed scattered on the wind then faintly blowing."

gossamer threads...far from this

2010-03-11T19:41:00.009-05:00

Lily I hope you picture me in your dreams

Put down your King James Bible

You don't need no kings

Close your eyes, baby I'll try mine

Echoes through the phone

Far from this

Lily dreams on

Think back to fields of Catherine

You used to play

I swore I heard you laughing

And almost say

Put your marrows down, take away the past

And let the past be gone

Far from this

Lily dreams on

what a beautiful mess it is

2010-03-03T19:59:00.007-05:00

I'm so sorry that I've been missing. Today I found that my head was so crowded with unaired thoughts that it was all I could do not to scream them out, inchoate and incomprehensible. Instead I ate a chocolate-cherry Godiva chocolate bar and bought a copy of The Help.

Dearest readers, I love teaching, but lately I find myself to be just exhausted. It takes all of my energy to arise in the morning and even more to remain upright all day (without betraying to my students that, in fact, their teacher is a mess of nerves and stress). I want my life to be Glee, full of teachable moments but without teacher burnout (and with plenty of Mr. Schuester kisses-- I'm in love with a fictional character).

It was my birthday last weekend (well, the weekend before last), and my best friends surprised me with a flight to DC to spend my birthday with my soulmates. We spent nights cuddling and eating delicious food and drinking champagne-- imbibing and thriving. Sunday we went to brunch where they had a dazzling dime-store-variety candy buffet! I'm taking malted milk balls, Pixie Stix, caramels, Tootsie Rolls, Necco Wafers...Eastern Market followed, where my friends bought fresh ravioli and I acquired a chartreuse cocktail ring. On the plane ride home I read The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society-- a new favorite! It reminded me of another cherished tome, 84 Charing Cross Road.

With a St. Louis trip having occurred the week before (and being entirely glorious), returning to reality and the work accompanying it has proven...daunting, for lack of a better word. I keep trying to tell myself I'm happy, and overall, I am. It's just that I miss knowing my community, having places where I can settle with a chai latte and a book and stay for hours (Kaldi's even has containers of Red Hots affixed to the wall, and we all know about my love of chandeliers in unexpected places).

I miss creperies and walking from place to place (peripatetic, poetic, and chic) and stately homes behind wrought-iron gates.

"Cause what if I'm a mermaid

In these jeans of his

With her name still on it

Hey, but I don't care

Cause sometimes

I said sometimes

I hear my voice

And it's been here

Silent all these years..."

"Give to me your leather...

Take from me, my lace..."

"Yet Irina had once tucked away, she wasn't sure when or why, that happiness is almost definitionally a condition of which you are not aware at the time. To inhabit your own contentment is to be wholly present, with no orbiting satellite to take clinical readings of the state of the planet. Conventionally, you grow conscious of happiness at the very point that it begins to elude you. When not misused to talk yourself into something - when not a lie - the h-word is a classification applied in retrospect. It is a bracketing assessment, a label only decisively pasted onto an era once it is over."

~lionel shriver, the post-birthday world~

"See us winter walking after the storm

It's chill in the wind

But it's warm in your arms..."

I'll be that fool for you

2010-02-15T22:53:00.002-05:00

I remember watching this in 2002 and just being heartsick that Sale and Pelletier lost the gold. The universe righted itself (Sale and Pelletier were eventually granted the co-gold after the judging scandal surfaced), but at the expense of the sport...with this new point system, the artistry seems to have faded and beauty has segued into one big checklist.

Is there anything in our world that is simply beautiful and free of automation?

It seems like we've devolved, and art has suffered...

Can it be that it was all so simple then?

Or has time re-written every line?

If we had the chance to do it all again

Tell me, would we? Could we?

"she was madly in love with Charles Darnay and no other man measured up"

2010-02-09T19:32:00.008-05:00

"If you haven’t seen The Philadelphia Story, stop what you are doing, rent it, and watch it. It’s probably overstating the point to say that until you watch it, you will have been living a partial and colorless life. However, it is definitely on the list of perfect things. You know what I mean, the list that includes the starry sky over the desert, grilled cheese sandwiches, The Great Gatsby, the Chrysler building, Ella Fitzgerald singing 'It Don’t Mean a Thing (If You Ain’t Got That Swing),' white peonies, and those little sketches of hands by Leonardo da Vinci.

If you have seen it, then you know there’s a moment when Katharine Hepburn as Tracy Lord steps from a poolside cabana. She’s got a straight white dream of a dress hanging from her tiny collarbones, a dress fluted and precise as a Greek column but light and full of the motion of smoke. A paradox of a dress, a marriage of opposites that just makes your teeth hurt it’s so exactly right.

I was fourteen when I first saw it. It was three days before Christmas, which in my family’s house meant, means, and will always mean, Yuletide sensory overload: every room stuffed to the gills with garland and holly, the whole place booming with Johnny Mathis, and a monstrosity of a tree towering in the living room, weighed down with ornaments of every description, including dozens defying description that my brothers, sister, and I had made in school over the years.

Fourteen was not a good year for me. I was the latest of late bloomers, of course, about two feet high and scrawny as a cat, still shopping in the children’s department, profoundly allergic to every member of my family, and convinced that nothing could make me happy.

But then my grouchy channel-surfing landed me in the middle of a black-and-white heaven: Tracy, the dress...

I slid my fingers over my face, feeling for Tracy’s winged cheekbones. And when Dexter (Cary Grant) took Tracy to task, saying, 'You’ll never be a first-rate woman or a first-rate human being until you have some regard for human frailty,' I recognized it as wisdom and wondered whether I had it, that kind of regard, and just how to get it if I didn’t.

In college, I took a film studies class subtitled something like 'Turning the Formula on Its Head' in which the professor talked about the trick The Philadelphia Story pulls off. It should never have worked: creating a fantastic love scene between two characters whom you know are not in love with each other, getting you somehow to root for them wholeheartedly during the scene, but then to feel completely satisfied when they end up with other people.

Before you get the wrong impression, you should know that I’m not and never was one of those film people, the kind who argue into the wee hours about the auteur theory and whether Spielberg is the new Capra, or whether John Huston impacts, in unseen ways, every second of American life. I don’t know from camera angles, and I don’t have an encyclopedic knowledge of pre-World War II German cinema, but I fell a little in love with the film professor when he looked upon us with shining eyes and proclaimed, 'No, it should not work. But work it does!' because he was so passionate and right.

When I heard Mike (Jimmy Stewart) say to Tracy in that tender, marveling voice, 'No, you’re made out of flesh and blood. That’s the blank, unholy surprise of it. You’re the golden girl, Tracy,' I clasped my hands under my pointy chin, prayed that she would run away with him, and swore to God that someday a man would say those words in that voice to me or else I would die. But then, at the movie’s end, my father heard cheering and left water running in the sink to watch his lately distant, disaffected teenage daughter bang her fists on the arms of her chair and turn to him crying, 'with a face as open as a flower' (my dad’s own improbable words), saying breathlessly, 'She’s marrying Dexter, Daddy.'

I’ll admit it. I’ve always been more than a little proud of myself for having been fourteen and deeply benighted about almost everything, but having had the sense to recognize what is surely a universal truth: Jimmy Stewart is always and indisputably the best man in the world, unless Cary Grant should happen to show up."

~Love Walked In, Marisa de los Santos~

"oh, I assure you, they exist."

2010-02-08T21:02:00.012-05:00

new love: the thinking tank

"My choice is to do something hard and boring or to marry [and] go to Paris and Rome and listen to jazz and read and eat good food in nice restaurants and have fun. It's not enough to educate us anymore, Ms. Walters. You've got to tell us why you're doing it."

~An Education~

oh for purple nights and lazy mornings

2010-02-07T22:35:00.010-05:00

I squeeze my eyelids shut, tight, and I dwell on infinity and objets d'art and passion...

"As I began to write our story down, I thought I was writing a record of hate, but somehow the hate has got mislaid and all I know is that in spite of her mistakes and her unreliability, she was better than most. It's just as well that one of us should believe in her:

she never did in herself."

~Graham Greene, The End of the Affair~

"She thought it was part of the hardship of her life that there was laid upon her the burthen of larger wants than others seem to feel-- that she had to endure this wide hopeless yearning for that something, whatever it was, that was greatest and best on this earth."

"Saints and martyrs had never interested Maggie so much as

sages and poets."

~George Eliot, The Mill on the Floss~

"I am never quite alone. Members of my family keep turning up and collecting luggage and going away again, but the white

raspberries are ripe."

~Evelyn Waugh, Brideshead Revisited~

(photos from a variety of unremembered sources. please credit them in your hearts)

It's the little things we do together

2010-02-05T16:12:00.010-05:00

A couple of things that are brightening my day (as I lay on my couch for the second day straight, home sick as a dog...and completely stir crazy)...

These purchases from Target that I picked up this morning on a juice and cold medicine run

I won these on ebay for a steal

This cracks me up. I'm currently watching the entire third season

of How I Met Your Mother (another Target purchase),

since that's what we do whilst ill

And these lyrics to a fantastic song:

They made a statue of us
And it put it on a mountain top
Now tourists come and stare at us
Blow bubbles with their gum
Take photographs have fun, have fun

They'll name a city after us
And later say it's all our fault
Then they'll give us a talking to
Then they'll give us a talking to
Because they've got years of experience
We're living in a den of thieves
Rummaging for answers in the pages
We're living in a den of thieves
And it's contagious
And it's contagious
And it's contagious
And it's contagious

We wear our scarves just like a noose
But not 'cause we want eternal sleep
And though our parts are slightly used
New ones are slave labor you can keep

We're living in a den of thieves
Rummaging for answers in the pages
We're living in a den of thieves
And it's contagious
And it's contagious
And it's contagious
And it's contagious

They made a statue of us
They made a statue of us
The tourists come and stare at us
The sculptor's marble sends regards
They made a statue of us
They made a statue of us
Our noses have begun to rust
We're living in a den of thieves
Rummaging for answers in the pages
We're living in a den of thieves...

midnight in marrakesh

2010-02-04T18:30:00.008-05:00

We finally did Moroccan.

Morocco, tinted red.

If only it were the real thing.

la vie en rose

2010-02-01T20:13:00.003-05:00

I wonder into what category obsessive date-keepers fall. Are they like list-makers? Clean-freaks? Those obsessed with memorizing all the digits of pi?

I keep track of dates so that I can remember what used to be....I like to think that it doesn't prevent me from moving on, but I think that it's more difficult than we could ever imagine to find the balance between honoring the past and dwelling in it.

1/31/09. My heart still has a chip in it. Worst of all are the days I forget you're gone.

I hope you're watching and guiding me. I hope you're proud of me. Miss you.

she loved her flowers...but she loved us best of all.

it's the only way to lose ourselves

2010-01-26T21:07:00.004-05:00

Let's journey before sunrise, through carafes of roses and cobble-stoned streets, and strains of German we don't understand. Let's drink red wine from the bottle and toast our enlightened, philosophical minds. Let's sing songs of ghosts and trip our way through our fears. Let's throw off our terror and play telephone and lounge on plush cushions, revel in our anonymity and kisses at great heights and discuss paintings' edges dissolving into mist. Let's appreciate angular architecture (angels in the architecture) and be poems leaning on streetlamps. No delusions. I pledge my transience to you by violin songbursts and hazy focus. Graze my cheekbone with your whisper-soft face, and then leave me. Let's be dreamy slackers for a day, no questions, nobody to answer to but us and this and yes.

"Daydream delusion, limousine eyelash / Oh baby with your pretty face / Drop a tear in my wineglass / Look at those big eyes / See what you mean to me / Sweet-cakes and milkshakes / I'm a delusion angel / I'm a fantasy parade / I want you to know what I think / Don't want you to guess anymore / You have no idea where I came from / We have no idea where we're going / Lodged in life / Like branches in a river/ Flowing downstream / Caught in the current / I carry you / You'll carry me / That's how it could be / Don't you know me? / Don't you know me by now?"

"I always feel this pressure of being a strong and independent icon of womanhood, and without making it look my whole life is revolving around some guy. But loving someone, and being loved means so much to me. We always make fun of it and stuff. But isn't everything we do in life a way to be loved a little more?"

“You need to resign yourself to the awkwardness of life. Only if you find peace within yourself will you find true connection with others...You are both stars, don’t forget it. When the stars exploded billions of years ago, they formed everything that is this world. Everything we know is stardust. So, don’t forget, you are stardust.”

Oh let not time deceive you, you cannot conquer time.

(but that's okay)

Give the cat a name

2010-01-25T19:55:00.003-05:00

I'm ashamed of how selfish I've been lately. Things bigger than me, bigger than this small life, are churning out there, and all I've done is stay in my cocoon wrapped in my own ignorance. Here's a secret: I called in to give money to the Haiti relief effort during the telethon on Friday, but only half of me did it in order to help. The other half wanted to talk on the phone with a celebrity (which didn't happen anyway). How terrible is that? I can't stand it...and yet I know, this blog is about me, it's a place for me to bounce my thoughts into the cosmic void and therefore reach catharsis. The balance, however, between reflective and between self-absorbed continually eludes me.

In my desire to be a better person and also to tell my personal truth, I've decided to write about a cause that is dear to my heart, one that I hope many of you know: To Write Love on Her Arms. I remember a few months ago, when we had To Write Love on Her Arms day, and I was amazed and moved by the number of students who showed up to school with "love" written in loopy letters on wrists, elbows, hands...because it was to acknowledge a cause that has often been the silent destroyer, one associated with shame and isolation because nobody believed it merited attention. I speak of depression and self-injury (in the wide-reaching sense of the term). TWLOHA bears the following mission and vision:

"To Write Love on Her Arms is a non-profit movement dedicated to presenting hope and finding help for people struggling with depression, addiction, self-injury and suicide. TWLOHA exists to encourage, inform, inspire and also to invest directly into treatment and recovery.

VISION:

The vision is that we actually believe these things…

You were created to love and be loved. You were meant to live life in relationship with other people, to know and be known. You need to know that your story is important and that you're part of a bigger story. You need to know that your life matters.

We live in a difficult world, a broken world. My friend Byron is very smart - he says that life is hard for most people most of the time. We believe that everyone can relate to pain, that all of us live with questions, and all of us get stuck in moments. You need to know that you're not alone in the places you feel stuck."

I remember a few years ago, my senior year in college, when I took a Writing and the Representation of Pain course. For our final assessment, we had to compose a portfolio of writing about our own personal pain. I'm lucky in that I've suffered from little physical pain, and I've suffered few life-altering events from which people would understand my being...well...off. The relative ease of my life, however, leads many to doubt the validity of the emotional waves that have wracked my life since I was 14 years old. I've had mornings when I could not get out of bed due to tremors. I've had tears that seemed to have a mind of their own. I've destroyed romantic relationships, or they've destroyed them once they proved their inability to be the supportive lover I needed. I've lost friends, regained them, then lost them again. I've almost failed my senior year of high school and almost had to be hospitalized in New York. Throughout all of these experiences, relapses and recoveries, I've never lost the sense of shame that, to some extent, my emotions have the better of me. So when it came time for me to craft this portfolio, I worried about whether my writing about depression would be seen as brave or as indulgent. Was this truly pain, after all, in a world where we have orphans buried under rubble, females being mutilated, and genocides based on arbitrary distinctions? I'm lucky in that my professor was inspirational and told me I was brave, that by writing about my pain I might prevent others'. Here is a bit from the essay that earned his praise:

"Some people imagine depression as scientific or biological, a physical fact of neurotransmitters and brain chemicals that need to be stabilized. Others think about it as emotional, choosing adjectives such as “sad” or “miserable” to describe their feelings. I think of depression as wholly spatial, about places in which the “me” objects that used to inhabit the room disappear and are replaced with foreign, destructive objects: the objects of depression. Interestingly, one of the spatial adjectives often used to describe depression is “empty,” and even though I have used this adjective in the past, when I think about what I feel when I am depressed it is more that I am full of something foreign. I think about depression in terms of rooms and houses. If I could describe what I am like when I am not depressed, it would definitely be an aestheticized scene—I would be a room with beautiful useless objects, such as glass bird paperweights and unmatching floral China teacups, perfume bottles, and intricate lamps, arranged on a background of clean, light green walls and lace curtains.

When I am depressed, that room ceases to exist as I know it. Foreign objects invade it and the room becomes dirty, cluttered, and dark. Andrew Solomon’s friend Laura describes one aspect of my version of depression when she says, “[A]ll the color had drained out of my soul, all the me of me I loved; I was a little doll-shell of what I had been” (Solomon 98), but this is only half of the process, one for which Andrew Solomon has found a perfect vocabulary. He insists that depression is both “degrading” and “eclipsing,” the destruction of the objects that used to inhabit the room and the supplantation of those objects with new ones that are foreign and ultimately un-you. It is both birth and death, “both the new presence of something and the total disappearance of something” (Solomon 17). Furthermore, the new objects in the room are much less defined than the objects of the self, vague because they are tied to emotions and incidents that are almost impossible to describe in words. Solomon describes his depressive feelings as “it,” although he states that “I could not have managed even to be so specific as to say what ‘it’ was” (Solomon 51). While the eclipsing objects are undefined, their presence causes the pre-existing self to become foreign and lost as well as the newly laid-out room threatens to overtake all memories of the beautiful, aestheticized room of the past. This total eclipse of the self is best evinced by F. Scott Fitzgerald in “Winter Dreams,” whose protagonist is unable to even name the self he used to possess: “‘Long ago,’ he said, ‘long ago, there was something in me, but now that thing is gone. Now that thing is gone, that thing is gone. I cannot cry. I cannot care. That thing will come back no more.’” That “something” seems irreversibly gone, turning from familiar to foreign, and replaced by something just as foreign but ultimately destructive."

I wish I could say that writing about my pain proved to be the final push I needed, that everything ceased to matter and that I never relapsed. New York proves that wrong, and every now and then, I worry that it's coming back again. In general, though, I don't feel that shame anymore-- I know that there are people out there to help me, who know me, who do not think me weak. I have friends who understand when I'm bottling up my sadness and those who listen when I need to release the pressure. Not everyone is that lucky, unfortunately, and even I forget that I have kindred spirits in my life that I can rely on. Movements like TWLOHA honor that pain is beautiful, and real, and occasionally infinite, but assert that it is something that should inspire art and perseverance rather than allowing sensitive souls to descend into the depths of despair. In the ten-plus years that I've battled, the world has made headway, but for every enlightened person there are 10 ignorant, destructive voices. We need to help to bolster the wrecked, the needy, the hopeless, and as we build gardens out of lifeless arms and legs they will gradually grow to bloom and flourish on their own, into the people they once were. They will regain that "something" they have lost.

I've just ordered this shirt after seeing it on a lovely former soulmate, one I distanced myself from during one of my "bouts." She and I have made efforts to reconcile recently, and I hope that our shared dedication to writing love on our arms will make that possible.

"My hands are small I know

But they're not yours, they are my own

And I am never broken."

"Maybe I'm a kite that's flying high and random,

Dangling on a string..."

"My dear, we're slow dancing in a burning room."

"Hope" is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—

And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—

I've heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me.

~Emily Dickinson~

Look at the stars, look how they shine for you

2010-01-24T21:33:00.007-05:00

My head is filled with thoughts of Regent's England and men with manners, voices as caressing as a sigh...It seems that in my life I may have found my Mr. Wickham, but not my Mr. Darcy? My John Crawford, but not by Edmund? My Frank Churchill, but not my Mr. Knightley? Not to say that my past was faulty...my past was perfect, and that's why it's hard to let it go. But more the thought that something wondrous and lovely might come along, out of the dust and the shadows. (Thanks to darling Chesley for reminding me of this. I had forgotten...I still forget every few hours or so.) I'm currently watching the latest Masterpiece Theater adaptation of Emma, starring Romola Garai (I've always wondered if she's named after George Eliot's novel...) and Jonny Lee Miller. I love him. I loved him in Mansfield Park, I loved his soulful gaze on Eli Stone, and I love him here-- for proving Emma wrong that "men don't like girls who argue." Thank goodness, because then I, the one who questions and questions to no avail, would be discarded by society.

"I cannot make speeches, Emma": he soon resumed; and in a tone of such sincere, decided, intelligible tenderness as was tolerably convincing.--"If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more. But you know what I am.--You hear nothing but truth from me.--I have blamed you, and lectured you, and you have borne it as no other woman in England would have borne it.-- Bear with the truths I would tell you now, dearest Emma, as well as you have borne with them. The manner, perhaps, may have as little to recommend them. God knows, I have been a very indifferent lover.-- But you understand me.--Yes, you see, you understand my feelings-- and will return them if you can. At present, I ask only to hear, once to hear your voice."

I tell myself that I need to remember my sparkle, despite everything, and to remember the beauty. I might have to look a little harder lately, but it's still there. I took these photos of some of the apartment decor to remind myself:

Look at the stars,
Look how they shine for you,
And everything you do,
Yeah they were all yellow,

I came along
I wrote a song for you
And all the things you do
And it was called yellow

So then I took my turn
Oh all the things I've done
And it was all yellow.

till now, I always got by on my own

2010-01-21T17:58:00.007-05:00

To me, the scariest thing is not that he (exbf) and I are really over this time. It's the possibility that I won't find someone new, that I've lost my "chance." Yes, I've dated since, but every time I've found the process repulsive, and I've made an excuse for why things couldn't continue. I'm picky, and I don't want my pickiness to be my downfall. I just don't know how to be in this city, the heart of the good ol' Midwest, where there seem to be no people around my age, where people get married as soon as they leave college, where finding a sensitive, attractive Jewish guy is about as likely as an avalanche.

It's funny-- even though I swore I was okay, some of my coworkers suspected otherwise. "I'm fine," I said, over and over, "it's no different, just permanent this time. We need to preserve our friendship. Yeah, three years, but it was on and off. Yes, he knows me better than anyone. Yes, I can predict what he will order and the position he'll sleep in that night. But it's fine." I know I've said it before, but how do I build up from scratch? I never realized how much I counted on us eventually finding our way back to each other permanently. I feel like part of me has been yanked from my body.

I legitimately thought I would just go on, without any display of emotion or anxiety over change, until I misplaced my driver's license when I got home. I'd taken it off of my dresser and put it in my wallet, and then it was nowhere to be found. I searched everywhere-- my purse; between couch curtains; my car; the parking lot next to my car; coat pockets. Per exbf's suggestion, I then check the irrational places that I, of all people, would be likely to put an ID in a moment of lapsed attention-- the freezer, bathroom cabinets, lodged in spines of books, in my computer case, in my jewelry box. Nowhere. It was as if it had disappeared, and I had no recollection of where it could have travelled. Suddenly, the driver's license took on symbolic value, and I collapsed into tears-- who am I, I wondered. What do I have here, in Indiana, in a place where all I do is work and I'm surrounded by strip malls? How has my life shifted so much in the last few years? Agata and Valentina no longer sells heart-shaped pasta-- when did that happen? Exbf's apartment hasn't changed, but our relationship has. In DC my friends' lives go on, while I race to keep up remotely with engagements and parties and weeknight gatherings over cocktails and television. It was like I was the one who was lost, not just my license. I cried for what I'd lost and for what I feared I'd never find.

I don't know where my life stands right now, but I know that getting it back on track won't be as easy as getting another license (even though I have to re-take my written test). It will always be easier for exbf and harder for me, but I wish I had a solution for that; resignation is simply not good enough. It's just too easy to lose myself, to lose him, to lose myself because I've lost him and what I've counted on for the last three years.

And now it chills me to the bone.

But I want desperately to re-emerge, triumphant and in love and surrounded by beauty and satisfaction. I'd like to think it's like stardust-- you believe in it hard enough and it drops on your shoulders and suffuses your life in warm light.

"Then, after a while, I won't have to think about how I had it great and perfect for a while."

Well, it kind of hurts when the kind of words you say
Kind of turn themselves into blades
And the kind and courteous is a life I've heard
But it's nice to say that we played in the dirt
Cause here, here we are, here we are
Here we are
We're still here
What a beautiful mess this is
It's like taking a guess when the only answer is "Yes"
Through timeless words and priceless pictures

We'll fly like birds not of this earth
And tides they turn and hearts disfigure
But that's no concern when we're wounded together
And we tore our dresses and stained our shirts
But its nice today. Oh the wait was so worth it.

"How perilous is it to choose not to love the life we're shown?"

I know him so well...

2010-01-18T23:07:00.004-05:00

After 3 years and 1 month (almost to the day)...

we've finally lowered that curtain for good.

"Looking back I could have played it differently

Learned about the man before I fell

But I was ever so much younger then

Now at least I know I know him well...

It took time to understand him

I know him so well."

(more on this at a later date. Soon. I'm sorry, dear readers, to not go into it all now, but I'm exhausted and my feelings on the subject are nebulous. But if I didn't post something at least, I knew that sleep would never come...)

moons and junes and ferris wheels

2010-01-06T17:55:00.005-05:00

Dear Joni Mitchell,

I ponder your given name: Roberta Joan Anderson. Roberta. You, my sweet wildflower, are not a Roberta. Robertas are practical, brunette, chocolate-eyed, with perhaps the vim of a teenager and the tenacity of a crusader. You are lithe, languid, like your songs...Joni suits you infinitely better. You have just a "little green" in your eyes, "pretty green" and "blue," "ink on a pin." You, my dear, are a lady of the canyon, a singer, a skater, a drifter, a seer, a cactus tree. No offense, no regrets to the coyote, but that ferocity, at least thrust outward, was never your trademark. A cool dark stone, the weight of lead, the weight of disappointment and dreams lost-- that is your only demon.

I wish I had your quiet strength, Joni, your teflon toughness (even though cacti hide fragile fruit underneath). But I wish that you had kept your stone, that toxic weight, to yourself. I don't need any enemies, let alone myself and my own foolish quest for perfection. What did you say? "Songs are like tattoos?" Well, so are expectations and swallowed words and 3 AM swirls of uncapturable thought. How I mourn that I lack your uncanny ability to speak the right words, and how I detest the knowledge that I am the only one who makes me stumble.

Perhaps I should grow my hair to be a bohemian veil, a shield of mystery, a beautiful obscurity to keep others out and my insights in. Maybe then I could have your bravery and conquer the anxiety I feel when I stand in front of a room and others await my wisdom with bated breath.

How did you stay so beautiful for so long, with so many cigarettes a day and so many lovers who broke your heart? Lately I look in the mirror and feel begrimed. I feel like that stone, like lead. How can I expect my thoughts to ascend skywards when my body sinks, sinks, sinks to the ground? Yes, I know that it's silly and shallow, but Joni, you were once a beauty queen. You know what female anxieties can be, and you were slender as sunshine with lips like tulip petals. I wish that life were simpler, that we could return to a time of styrofoam-cup-telephone lines and candy floss. But my heart is full and hollow...

Sincerely,

Oh, I think I understand
Fear is like a wilderland
Stepping stones and sinking sand
Sometimes voices in the night will call me back again
Back along the pathway of a troubled mind
When forests rise to block the light that keeps a traveler sane
I'll challenge them with flashes from a brighter time

We've only just begun...

2010-01-02T23:19:00.002-05:00

Happy 2010, dear readers. I have good feelings about the upcoming decade (although not so good feelings for the upcoming teacher week, for which I'm woefully underprepared!), especially since I rang it in with my little Lu, a conversation about the role of art and memory, apple/cranberry/granola pancakes, cake towers, bubbly, a long lost kindred spirit, sheer black polka-dotted stockings, duplicate copies of The Virgin Suicides, vintage typefaces, a Taylor Swift dance-off, the first brush-off and classy escape, Victorian cocktails, new book recommendations, and a (albeit failed) pursuit of Mr. Pocket Square...

A story for another time, loves! Wishing you a year full of effervescence and peacock-colored splendor.

Deep greens and blues are the colors I choose

2009-12-30T23:48:00.005-05:00

How lovely?

These perfumes, from Ineke, have perfectly wonderful names like "After My Own Heart" and "Balmy Days and Sundays" (cue The Carpenters) and notes of raspberry, lilac, heliotrope, plum, angel's trumpet, and cinnamon bark. Cinnamon bark!? It sounds like it has my name written all over it, in big lissome cursive letters. An evening edged in gold...it sounds like a Klimt painting.

Happy almost New Year, dear readers! Usually I find New Years to be an anticlimactic holiday one often filled with disappointment and thoughts of "Is this what I have to look forward to for the rest of the year?" But this year, I am hoping for an evening of sparkles and feathers, old friends and possible new ones, and a chance to dress up as quirky and carefree as I want. I will be in Chicago, surrounded by masquerade (paper faces on parade) and hopeful harbingers of good tidings to come...no expectations for anything grander.

snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes...

2009-12-27T17:07:00.007-05:00

Snowed in! To venture out or not? It's quite white outside...and it's still coming down!

I find beauty here

2009-12-27T01:29:00.008-05:00

(loveliness)

so come on courage, teach me to be shy

2009-12-25T19:39:00.005-05:00

There's still a little bit of your taste in my mouth

There's still a little bit of you laced with my doubt...

There's still a little bit of your song in my ear

There's still a little bit of your words I long to hear

You step a little closer to me

So close that I can't see what's going on...

My eyelids and curls and deepest thoughts are bubbling with the joy of champagne and apple cinnamon candles and luscious chenille. I wish I had more to write...but the truth is that life is relatively uneventful right now. I'm so thankful for a moment to breathe, and yet I feel guilty that I have yet to do any work over this break. I have, however, read one and a half pleasure-reading books, seen Julie & Julia, The Brothers Bloom, and Invictus, bought a gorgeous antique lamp and a crystal bowl that looks like sunshine and is shaped like a swan, listened to Damien Rice live and unscripted, avoided email like the plague, adored the quirky neighborhoods of Baltimore (Federal Hill) and South Florida (Atlantic Avenue in Del Ray)...

Life is uneventful, but good. Now I just want a sensitive poet-pirate without emotional issues to stumble my way...to make 2010 my year in the sun...

"This was a story about a girl who could find infinite beauty in anything, any little thing, and even love the person she was trapped with. And I told myself this story until it became true. Now, did doing this help me escape a wasted life? Or did it blind me so I didn't want to escape it? I don't know, but either way I was the one telling my own story..."

sepia-toned loving

2009-12-05T21:44:00.003-05:00

Sometimes what you really need is a day of sleep and a night of blog loving, Mexican hot chocolate, Simon & Garfunkel, The Weepies, and Pete Yorn on my itunes Genius mix, and The Merchant of Venice in my lap while curled up on the couch...an old issue of McSweeney's bought for a song at Half-Price books on my wrought-iron table...

(here)

you don't know what I fear

2009-12-04T23:13:00.002-05:00

I'm completely lacking in inspiration. I don't know what to write about or where to find beauty. I'm tired and stressed and either imagining or experiencing doubt from my superiors at school. I'm dreaming of sparkly eye dust and twinkle lights and fire pits and hydrangeas and peacock feathers and fur muffs and lovely literature and wings of poetry and satin slippers and sepia tones and rose-colored glasses and words like "nebulous" and "ephemeral" and jazz vocals and full-throated ease and half-light and Bardot curls and British dandies and porcelain keys and key-lime gelato and little princess and chiffon swirls and capelets and raspberry coulis and Audrey and Grace and papercuts and eyelash flutters and soft caresses and zephyrs and snowflake droplets and lavender and hummingbirds...I feel like I haven't seen a hummingbird in ages.

In my dreams I'm bathed in violet light, and I have my pirate by my side, who whispers poetry to me in a voice so soft that it feels like a petal brushing my cheek. I'm light and airy and my insecurities are gone. Popsicle lips. Snow-dusted lashes. A velvet cape.

It's not about the pirate, although his company lends peace and pleasure, that deep-seated swoon from the inside out that I recapture in memories now. It's about me and my poetry, my voice, my crooning of Joni Mitchell ballads that float from mouth to sky like Sebastian's smoke in Brideshead Revisited.

I remember Oxford, stopping by The Grand Cafe for champagne tea and passing by the Botanical Gardens on my way to tutorials. I remember channeling Oscar Wilde and as I sipped tea and slipped into cushioned corners at The Old Parsonage. I want the Oxford of John Fowles, Graham Greene, and Evelyn Waugh. I long to fit again, to be certain of my place.

What do you do when you feel blue? Dearest readers, I am filled too much with longing and too little with satisfaction in being.

2009-11-30T22:42:00.003-05:00

Some days I feel like if I don't write I'll just explode. On a day like today I'd probably burst into a blue flame of book pages and student essays. I need to keep telling myself that I'm happy because otherwise I'll forget. It's easy for me to forget how good I really have it when I get myself into one of my stirred-up moods. I was just feeling oddly homesick today, which is strange. I'm homesick for all of my homes from the last 5 years-- St. Louis, where I have so many wonderful memories and with so many artistic marvels within arms length...New York, where I have exbf and Bryant Park and so much activity and culture...DC, where I have the best friends a girl could possibly ask for, true soulmates...and Cleveland, with my family, where I discovered some hidden treasures this weekend and where I oddly feel myself drawn, even to teach at my former high school.

When I started this blog two years ago, I remember remarking that this time of year is hard for me. I think it might be that I always feel slightly on the outside of the holiday cheer, because I'm so often transitioning to a new city and trying to find my "home," and this time of year is really all about loved ones, memories, and special places. It's also the time of year when exbf and I first became friends and, not too soon after that, more than friends. It's always difficult to be flooded with those memories when things are so different now. This time of year, and the accompanying chill, always makes me long for body heat and familiarity. It makes me long for lighting candles together and eating holiday cookies, and being so overwhelmed with joy that you actually twinkle. Then again, I recognize that I'm working on developing myself as an individual right now and that romance will follow. I'm supposed to be with somebody; it just always happens when I'm not looking.

(here)

And high above or down below

When you're too in love to let it go

But if you never try you'll never know

Just what you're worth

Lights will guide you home

And ignite your bones

And I will try to fix you.

We passed the hash pipe, we played our Doors tapes

2009-11-29T21:53:00.002-05:00

This still remains one of the best things I've ever seen:

Who knows what tomorrow brings

2009-11-28T23:35:00.008-05:00

You're not a dream

You're not an angel

You're a man

I'm not a queen

I'm a woman

Take my hand

We'll make a space

in the lives

that we'd planned

And here we'll stay

until it's time

for you to go

Yes we're different

Worlds apart

We're not the same

We laughed and played

in the start

like in a game

You could've stayed

outside my heart

but in you came

And here you'll stay

until it's time

for you to go

Don't ask why

Don't ask how

Don't ask forever

Love me now

This love of mine

had no beginning

it has no end

I was an oak

Now I'm a willow

Now I can bend

And though I'll never

in my life

see you again

Still I'll stay

until it's time

for you to go

Don't ask why

Don't ask how

Don't ask forever

Love me now

You're not a dream

You're not an angel

You're a man

I'm not a queen

I'm a woman

Take my hand

We'll make a space

in the lives

that we planned

And here we'll stay

until it's time

for you to go.

"Then in the middle of my set, I'd throw in this love song that I had written, because, you know, I was in love, and I found out that, you know, sometimes you just have to leave a space in your life for life to happen, see?"

~Buffy Sainte-Marie~

(photos from here, ever beautiful)

The smoke it sank into my skin

2009-11-26T23:59:00.003-05:00

I want a man with a poet's eyes and a pirate's voice.

"Her heart was so laden

She fell by a tree

Sang of some pirate

Who haunted the sea

A wail through the willows

All hollow through the willows

She'll wail through the willows

Till she finds him."

"There's a man who's been out sailing

In a decade full of dreams

And he takes her to a schooner

And he treats her like a queen

Bearing beads from California

With their amber stones and green

He has called her from the harbor

He has kissed her with his freedom

He has heard her off to starboard

In the breaking and the breathing

Of the water weeds

While she was busy being free."

Dee dee dee dee dee

2009-11-24T22:05:00.000-05:00

Incredible.

Sunday kind of girl...

2009-11-23T20:27:00.012-05:00

An Education. Masterful. I'm in love.

I think my version would include these:

(all items from Anthropologie and J. Crew)

the strange pillows of my wanderlust

2009-11-19T21:12:00.012-05:00

Some things I love/lust after right now:

The lovely Abbie Cornish, looking ethereal on this cover-- and memories of Bright Star, from which images are displayed below.

Ben Whishaw's notes for Bright Star-- how lovely is his penmanship?

I love these magical words

As always, Anthropologie beguiles...

It never gets old-- I cranked up the radio today in the car so I could sing along:

This incredible article about Joni Mitchell's "Amelia"

The anticipation of seeing "An Education" tomorrow

Weekend. Almost. Finally.

God that was strange to see you again

2009-11-18T20:43:00.003-05:00

There's one thing I want to say, so I'll be brave

You were what I wanted, I gave what I gave

I'm not sorry I met you

I'm not sorry it's over

I'm not sorry there's nothing to save

I want dresses that look like cakes

I want dusted eyelashes

I want a moment to close my eyes and dream and wake up refreshed

I want sugared violets

I want cool clear streams

I want glossy lips and sweet tastes on the tongue

I want to have my thoughts and words come easily

I want to stroke the softness behind your ear, that feels like clouds

I want unicorns to exist

I long for the moors

this time I as I, and not as we

2009-11-16T22:05:00.011-05:00

Today I was talking to one of my 11th graders who is having trouble writing her essay that's due Thursday. She feels like her thoughts are all tangled and she has no idea how to get out on paper what she is trying to say. Obviously, this is a problem I've had over the years, more with oral communication than written...but I've had to read my writing with a critical eye, piling words and arguments like a child would blocks until all of my components are present. Getting started was always the hardest. I had to learn to pour myself out onto the page, unfiltered and raw, and worry about purity and structure later. That's when I found myself saying to her, "That's why I have my blog. It's my raw space." Of course, she then wanted to know the URL, which is not happening. First of all, I'm uncomfortable with my students knowing my personal thoughts to that degree, and secondly, there's something so reassuring about sending my thoughts out into this vastness, touching immaterial forms, like they're flowing into the sea. I write here what I can't say to anyone, and it's so important that I have that sounding board, because otherwise I bottle it up and get want-to-cry headaches that pain me throughout the day.

Sometimes when I have a moment to breathe, I wipe away the negativity and the stress and the words of the haters and realize that overall, I'm in a good place right now. I still lack balance, and I wish I were better...I wish it came easier. I wish my words flowed like a stream instead of like debris projectiling from a wrecking ball. I wish that I had friends here and that I had more hours in the day. But my students are loving, and for all of the problems that come with the 10th graders, I know that I've positively affected at least one child every day. I may be too exhausted and cranky to realize it in the moment, but afterwards, I can take a step back and realize that on the disaster continuum of first-year teachers, I'm probably doing pretty well.

I took these photos today. Dried roses + glitter + teacups + crochet + crystal garlands= lovely.

Just to say

2009-11-14T00:42:00.003-05:00

that I think that sleep is magical, as are confetti picture frames, glitter-dusted rose-petals, miniature houses, vintage buttons, bows, a good biography, and a moment to breathe.

Exhale....

Goodnight.

drip drip plop

2009-11-13T18:07:00.003-05:00

I want a bowl of sweet red plums on my dining table, like these from Pia's blog. How lovely!

This Is Just to Say

I have eaten

the plums

that were in

the icebox

and which

you were probably

saving

for breakfast

Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet

and so cold

Beware of fainting fits...beware of swoons...

2009-11-11T19:37:00.006-05:00

Run mad as often as you like; but do not faint.

I feel like I'm drowning in my own bottled-up tears and my own inadequacy. I know that I am just beating myself up for nothing-- for my lack of perfection-- but it's also a lack of

preparation. I know I can be doing better. But the fact is, I get home at 5 PM after being up since 6 AM and having been on my feet all day, and I'm overwhelmed with the urge to be still. To not think. To light candles and eat heart-shaped pasta and dream of canopy beds. I long for the moors...and for unicorns to exist.

I have a black-tie "do" for school on Saturday night, so I plan on gett

ing my hair styled by a professional. An updo, I think, to complement the sweetheart "neckline" and crew-neck top. It's oddly like Emily Deschanel's dress below. Of course, it's the Deschanel sisters whose styles inspire me. I need something with some volume at the crown to detract from my round face, with a sweep of my bangs to add a retro edge, and something on the simpler (and lower) side in back. What do you think?

indie girl in indy

2009-11-10T19:42:00.001-05:00

I know I just posted, but I can't help it...this is incredible:

ashes and wine

2009-11-10T19:18:00.005-05:00

I have the best exbf ever. He is getting me a housewarming present for the new apartment (new pictures to come, I promise-- I am now the proud owner of a sapphire blown-glass flower, a jade garden stool that holds up my DVD player, a copper wrought-iron table with delicate lattice and leaf scroll work, and a gorgeous peacock painting to decorate my previously empty hallway), so in a few days, these will be mine. They are so Holly Golightly meets Ophelia, it makes me swoon.

Castles and cathedrals crumble

Pyramids and pipelines tumble

The failure keeps you humble

Leads us closer to peace

"The love was so right but the timing was so wrong...which may be the corniest thing I've ever said to anyone."

take the phone off the hook and disappear for a while...vienna waits for you

is that alright, yeah

2009-11-08T23:14:00.001-05:00

Give my gun away when it's loaded

This is not what I do...

lover, you should have come over

2009-11-07T22:51:00.002-05:00

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,

While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue...

~Keats, "To Autumn"~

Proust, please

2009-11-06T23:01:00.004-05:00

Adapted from here

Your most marked characteristic? passion.
The quality you most like in a man? artistic sensitivity.
The quality you most like in a woman? quirkiness.
What do you most value in your friends? their complete dedication to being good people and supportive friends.
What is your principle defect? anxiety that can cause a life-blockade.
What is your favorite occupation? teaching.
What is your dream of happiness? Happiness is when I won't have to dream of happiness, because I will finally be content with my surroundings.
What to your mind would be the greatest of misfortunes? not finding true love (again), not having children.
What would you like to be? myself.
In what country would you like to live? England, without doubt. I long for the moors.
What is your favorite color? forest green, bordeaux.
What is your favorite flower? black magic roses, lavender roses, sweet williams.
What is your favorite bird? peacock.
Who are your favorite prose writers? Thomas Hardy, Charlotte Bronte, A. S. Byatt, Evelyn Waugh, F. Scott Fitzgerald.
Who are your favorite poets? Keats, Tennyson, Neruda, Cummings.
Who is your favorite hero of fiction? Sebastian Flyte.
Who are your favorite heroines of fiction? Tess Durbeyfield, Jane Eyre, Anne Shirley.
Who are your favorite composers? Debussey.
Who are your favorite painters? Klimt, Waterhouse, Kandinsky, Chagall.
Who are your heroes in real life? Audrey Hepburn, Charlotte Bronte, Decca Mitford.
Who are your favorite heroines of history? Queen Victoria, Evelyn Nesbit, the Garman sisters
What are your favorite names? Tessa, Sophie, Audrey, Holly, Jacob.
What is it you most dislike? apathy.
What historical figures do you most despise? Hitler.
What gift do you most admire? patience, altruism
What natural gift would you most like to possess? the ability to clearly speak my mind.
How would you like to die? after meeting my great-grandchildren, but when I still have grasp of my memories.
What is your present state of mind? stressed, overwhelmed, exhausted, hopeful.
To what faults do you feel most indulgent? emotional over-involvement.
What is your motto? 'There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in." ~Leonard Cohen

burn, cinnamon candle, burn. permeate my soul.

2009-11-05T19:36:00.009-05:00

Do you remember that sunny day?

Somewhere in London

In the middle of nowhere

Didn't have nothing to do that day

Didn't want to do nothing anyway

You got a way of walking

You got a way of talking

And there's something about you

And now I know I never ever

Want to be without you

I want to be haunted by the ghost

Of your precious love

The first time I saw you

Standing in the street

You were so cool,

You could have put out Vietnam

My girlfriends ask me, "What's he like?:

I say, "He's kind of shy,

But that's the kind of girl I am,

He's my kind of guy."

I'll build my world around you

I'll bless the day that I found you

I'll stand beside you, I'll never leave

Or tell you all those lies

That you'd never believe.

I dream of warm baths and sea glass / peacock portraits and tender poets

pictures from here, here, here

just a little green

2009-11-01T21:50:00.004-05:00

Load the car and write the note

Grab your bag and grab your coat

Tell the ones that need to know

We are headed north

One foot in and one foot back

But it don't pay, to live like that

So I cut the ties and I jumped the tracks

For never to return

Ah Brooklyn Brooklyn take me in

Are you aware the shape I'm in

My hands they shake my head it spins

Ah Brooklyn Brooklyn take me in

When at first I learned to speak

I used all my words to fight

With him and her and you and me

Oh but it's just a waste of time

Yeah it's such a waste of time

That woman she's got eyes that shine

Like a pair of stolen polished dimes

She asked to dance, I said it's fine

I'll see you in the morning time

Three words that became hard to say

I and love and you

What you were then, I am today

Look at the things I do

Dumbed down and numbed by time and age

Your dreams to catch the world, the cage

The highway sets the travelers' stage

All exits look the same

Three words that became hard to say

I and love and you

6 observations

2009-10-30T23:51:00.002-04:00

1. I think Natalie Merchant's voice is magical-- it has the same effervescent (or, in Natalie's case, phosphorescent) quality as champagne.

2. Last night I ate Ben and Jerry's Half Baked ice cream for dinner. Sometimes you need to have an "ice cream for dinner" night.

3. I cried for 2 minutes today due to some parents who needlessly attacked me during parent-teacher conferences. Then I cried for another 2 minutes due to another parent who told me I'm changing her child's life.

4. Lately I feel guilty when I do pleasure reading...but I think it might be necessary for my survival right now.

5. Nothing says comfort like an apple-cinnamon candle lending its scent to my living room, while I enjoy a cup of Hot Apple Cider or Mexican Hot Chocolate.

6. I greatly under-appreciated the 90s for their contributions to fashion and to music. I'm having a bit of a 90s alt-rock-emo revival: bring on 10,000 Maniacs! Bring on REM! Bring on ditsy floral slip-dresses, colored tights, and flannel blazers!

a loveless fascination

2009-10-29T18:15:00.007-04:00

Sometimes when this place gets kind of empty

Sounds of their breath fades with the light

I think about the loveless fascination

Under the milky way tonight

Lower the curtain down on Memphis

Lower the curtain down all right

I got no time for private consultation

Under the milky way tonight

Wish I knew what you were looking for

Might have known what you would find

Wish I knew what you were looking for

Might have known what you would find

And it's something quite peculiar

Something that's shimmering and white

Leads you here despite your destination

Under the milky way tonight

(photos from here and here)

Daisy hopes her daughter is a beautiful little fool

2009-10-19T19:04:00.002-04:00

New love:

From Jane Eyre's News Feed:

Jane has a new servitude.

Jane took the Quiz: How Would You Snag a Byronic Hero? with her top method being "Wander listlessly down a lane, distracting him so he falls off a horse."

Rochester was blind but now he sees.

Jane commented on Rochester's status: Reader, I married him.

Keep holding on, cause you know we'll make it through, make it through

2009-10-14T22:09:00.004-04:00

I don't think my brain is big enough to contain all of the different strands of thought I have right now. I'm feeling a bit lost, like a bad teacher. Where is the balance? How do I remain planned out and organized while not sacrificing my evenings and my sanity? How do I display knowledge when I frequently feel more clueless than my students? It's all so hazy-- I have no idea where I'm headed for the most part, so no wonder I feel confused.

I feel lost. I miss people who know me. I don't want to constantly feel like I'm a step behind.

New apartment pictures!

2009-10-07T19:15:00.013-04:00

View from the door-- still a bit empty, and my coat is strewn across my desk chair. Any suggestions for rugs or wall art?

Closer, my lovely couch and exposed brick. I made the pillows from Anthropologie cloth napkins. On the table is my beloved Audrey Hepburn book, the best gift I've ever received.

Isn't she lovely? She hangs over my vintage secretary desk.

I made the Victorian-style silhouettes. They hang on the wall adjacent to the TV.

New armchair, lovely bird table, antique key to add some Victorian charm.

The TV rests on my grandmother's vintage dresser. The photograph is of Portabello Market flowers in London-- I took it a few years ago and enlarged it. I love the colors@!

Exposed brick and wire shelving.

My lovely kitchen-- note the vintage handkerchiefs that "patchwork" the countertop.

Lovely paintings in the kitchen.

Ceramic birds, crystal hearts, and lovely crystal "flowers" that never go bad.

The lone bedroom picture-- it's a bit unruly right now!

Far from finished, but I think it's loverly.

"my parts, my title, and my perfect soul"

2009-09-30T00:04:00.007-04:00

Insomnia strikes. I wear a mermaid-green satin eye mask and try to shut out glinting light and whirling thoughts. Tomorrow will be another long day if I don't get some ZZZZZZs. It's too lovely taking one spare moment for myself, though, and checking out the newly-revamped Lula website. I must get my hands on the fall copy...

Baaaaaack

2009-09-16T17:05:00.003-04:00

I'm so sorry for my blog-cation. I have been way overwhelmed with the move and the new job. I just moved into my new apartment on Friday, and I'm still living surrounded by boxes and chaos, but overall I'd say I'm happy. I've been struggling a lot with feeling inadequate and being-- oddly-- the only woman in the English department. English was always a touchy-feely subject for me, whereas the other members of the department are rather no-nonsense, but I'm given the freedom to do what I like, for the most part. My kids are sweethearts. And now it's momentary rest time, before I begin planning like crazy again. PS, during my next unit for the 9th graders, I intend to show clips from both Amelie and Stranger than Fiction in the same day! Better than Bavarian sugar cookies, indeed...

update

2009-08-13T23:58:00.002-04:00

Well, it looks like my dreams came true...just last week I was devastated and thinking I would never have a teaching job. Now I have a job that starts on MONDAY. I will be teaching grades 8-11 IB English and will be moving to Indianapolis in a few days! How things change. I'm so sad to leave my friends, but I'm excited for the school year and to meet my new students! It's going to be a big adjustment, though. I don't know a soul in Indy, don't have an apartment yet, and have to read 4 books before Monday...but I'm happy. Here's to possibility.

hopeful?

2009-08-05T23:26:00.007-04:00

It's wearing thin...but it's still there.

In my dreams, when I think about my first day as a real teacher with my own classroom, I'm wearing this:

I'd teach The Lovely Bones and Tess of the D'Urbervilles and have my students hang photos of themselves reading their favorite books on the wall using string and clothespins. We would immerse ourselves in our texts prior to reading them, decorating the classroom with Corinthian pillars for studying mythology, learning the Charleston and reenacting a (virgin) speak-easy for The Great Gatsby. We would write everyday and have guest speakers about the value of writing in real life and how to adjust for purpose and audience. And I'd return home, exhausted and ready for ginger tea, to this: