Stop it.

This is my heart.

Worrying About All the Wrong Things

Rather than worry that my poem is fully memorized and performable for tomorrow evening, I have instead put together my imaginary perfect poetry reading outfit. Yes, I want to channel the romantics, apparently. Too bad my own closet is rather lacking in things I actually like anytime I'm flustered by something. Thus, I hate everything I own, (and solidify my girliness).

Third Eye Blind has come onto Pandora Radio. Flashback to eighth-twelfth grade and a wardrobe of character t-shirts and black. I don't envy my students; high school was hard.

We were broken, didn't know it
I can go nowhere
I burn candles and stare at a ghost
Deep inside of you.

Myself & Mr. Moon, circa 2001. Sans black.

Let It Roll

by Prescience

One day left to memorize my poem before Friday. The organizers told us there would be 400 people in attendance. I may exhibit a public projectile vomiting in place of a poem. For the sake of the first row, I hope not. Fear of a jinx aside, it seems that once I memorized the initial draft of the poem, remembering the changes and edits I've made has been relatively easy. Adding logical transitions between each stanza also made it easier from the original draft. Luckily I have people in my life willing to listen to me recite the stupid thing over and over and over and over and... etc. till I get it right.

Oddly, the most difficult part has/will be trying to accept that it's ok to take up space with my body and make large gestures with the intention of holding people's attention. My usual tendency is to try a successful disappearing act into the nearest wall. Thus, the question I get seems to be: "so, why slam?" I don't know. When I see other people slam and do it well, I get anxious and annoyed that I have to stay seated, and I want to pretend I don't have horrible stage fright and participate. And, hopefully, be as good as they are. Patience and practice.

I really, really want these:

Getting Settled

This is the new place. It's a carriage house and we have the whole thing to ourselves, so that means I can play Pandora Radio as loud as I want! We've spent the past week unloading boxes in between all of the poetry slams that went on - the Hendrix Kitty Week slam, the slam team prep meetings, and the slam against Pine Bluff High School on Friday. The poem I wrote, loosely titled "Definitive Endings" won a slot in the Mosaic Templars spoken word contest being held on Friday, so if I could only memorize it, I would be excited. With the Arkansas Literary Festival starting on Thursday, it's going to be another busy week, but that keeps me from getting bored. That, getting my credit card stolen and finding out $600 was charged to it, and drag shows at Disco at 2:30AM. Guess which of those two I prefer.

This is the outside of my last apartment. Quite possibly the most beautiful apartment complex in Little Rock. It was originally a Methodist Church in the 1800's, then the Greek Orthodox Church, and then in 1984 it was converted to the Cathedral Park apartments. It shall be missed.

The poets from both the CHS slam team and the PBHS team. All stellar. Although PBHS is holding the trophy, so that's going to have to change next time...

Moving Up

Despite arranging for movers who have a four hour minimum for payment, Michael and I spent the evening packing boxes with books and dishes to deliver to the carriage house. Michael is very methodical and measured every piece of furniture and the wall space between windows, then drew a diagram of each room to plot out where everything will go. I would never do this. I don't even know how to use a ruler. I love that he is the opposite of me in this way.

April is National Poetry Month, and I've noticed that on facebook, many people are writing a poem a day and posting them in their notes. I haven't had two seconds to sit down, until now, but I'd like to share in the NPM spirit, so here is a poem I started writing after moving my mom's things out of my parent's old house in Texas.

this is called: unloading your clothes at the goodwill.

I handed your shirts in stacks,

the slight warmth of your body
still clinging to pilled fleece and fibers.
we cleaned your closet out in one fatal blow –
ordaining the racks of a thrift store with
designer jackets and heels,
cracked leather running shoes,
your black pants with the strawberry print.
It feels like I'm stealing from you,
giving your clothes to the poor.
Creating space between each of dad's polos,
an entire bar devoted to hangers.
I look for you in your bedroom behind the door,
speak to the wire mouths of empty hangers,
the carpeted floor where your bare feet
stood to pick out a shirt every day.
They only tell me you
don't live here anymore.

Journal scan, July 2004

Goodbye, Bachelorette Pad

The books, knick-knacks, and not much else are now in boxes. By early Saturday morning everything will be packed. It's almost sad, I only moved in here November 1st. This apartment is amazing because it's in a renovated cathedral from the 1880's. This particular unit is in the back, where offices and rooms would have been. It has been dubbed "the cave," though, as it does not receive very much sunlight. This is an aspect I will not miss. Everything else, though, I will. I'm going to be optimistic and plan on this being my last bachelorette pad ever. Michael and I get the keys to our carriage house tomorrow. I'm excited for two bathrooms and sunlight. And him, of course.

My 1980's era kitchen. Complete with dragonfly lights and pretentious wine book.

Yes, that is a giant pile of clothes on the floor. And yes, it lives there.

My "dining room." Also known as my desk. Who cares for the computer armoire right next to it. I prefer dinette sets. And the boy waving from the kitchen.

The windows on the side are the original tall church windows. The stained glass windows are in the apartments that were built into the sanctuary.

Luckily, we are only moving across the highway, and about two blocks over. More space and splitting rent for lower payments each month are quite tantalizing. Plus, Michael currently rents a $600 dollar a month storage shed, because he doesn't live there, but this apartment is too small for his furniture and clothes. So, sad as I am to move out of my church apartment, a carriage house from the 1800's with original brick floor downstairs is still neat. (And yes, I said neat).