9/11

I love baking. And sometimes cooking, too. But mostly just the eating after cooking. In the months before moving I had fallen into the bad habit of eating most of my meals from restaurants and cardboard boxes. This stemmed from a combination of lethargy and... having my priorities misplaced - as in I'd rather go out constantly than spend any time at home actually making something. This sorely needed reversing.

Last night I continued to correct this problem by cooking at home - grilled salmon (brought from my dad's house over Memorial Day) on top of Caesar salad, and spaghetti noodles with low-fat "alfredo" sauce made from cream of mushroom soup, flour, milk and a little salt. I've already got all the ingredients I need for two more meals and a batch of vegan muffins I used to make in my everything-from-scratch (bagels, tomato sauce, peanut butter...) days. Must keep up the momentum!

Behind my mock-Martha food and Fiesta plates, my new penchant for seasonal beer is prominent, as well as my grandmother's well worn Better Homes cookbook with a broken spine, and the Chicago cow I bought my mother on a class field trip in middle school. My paternal grandmother was an antique collector and her house was an antique store called The Hitching Post. I've certainly taken after her.

It's also very strange that today is 9/11... when everything happened I was going from first period to second period my senior year of high school. I was wearing a long grey skirt and a black sleeveless shirt with a sparkly Air Force logo on it in homage to my admissions packet for the Air Force Academy. I watched most of the footage on TV in my chemistry class. The next year I was in DC for college (turned down the Academy after a wait-listed admittance), and the Pentagon was still under repairs. Strange strange strange.

Officially a Resident

The past month has been spent moving into my new apartment, unpacking, getting used to a room mate's cats, and figuring how to actually do my new job - which entails co-building and running an after school program funded by very picky grant money. I've also been tied up in attending weddings in Houston, getting outrageous parking tickets in Houston (is there anything GOOD about that city...? I've turned quite cynical), eating avocados fried in cornflakes and stuffed into a cone, learning to play chess on the patio, and dealing with the same kitties thinking that my bed is their bed, (I've actually started to like them... ).


As proof of my efforts, I offer photographic evidence:

The living room from the doorway. Still more books than I know what to do with.

The only desk space I get now is the kitchen table... so any body leaving plates or food in my work space will get a stern talking to.

Itty-bitty galley kitchen, with Turkish clock and Panamanian tray - a few of the findings common to an army brat upbringing. Plus a stool for short people to reach dishes in/on the pressed-for-space cabinets.

Thelonious drinking from Bella's water bowl. He's get her in check. His sister Aretha was probably lounging on my bed at this moment. I haven't seen her leave it in days.

I got posted!

On Contrariwise! I love this website. Normally when people ask me what my tattoo says, and I explain it, they look at me like I'm weird. And while this may be true about me, it's not because of the tattoo(s).

First Thursday & South Congress

I'm going to start compiling a list of things I've seen in Austin that make me fall deeper and deeper into love with the city:


1) A white, bicycling dragon.
2) Capoeira demonstration complete with drums and singing on the street
3) Mobile drum circle (mini-parade?)
4) Dia De Los Muertos tattoos
5) skull party lights at Toy Joy
6) lots and lots of puppies
7) even more "free hug" signs. While I don't partake in such things, the gesture makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside.
8) I Love Video. I love this store. Free beer Tuesday? Um, yes please.


Really that list just encompasses today. I got to go to First Thursday on South Congress, and while work in the AM tomorrow prevented getting to sit down for a drink, it really didn't matter because there was enough visual stimulation to last me through to September. Now if I can survive commuting for another week I'll officially be an Austinite, if swimming in freezing cold Barton Springs didn't already solidify my status.

Ways To Feel Important:

1) be handed a cell phone strictly for work
2) be handed a lap top
3) be signed up to go to a conference in Dallas
4) get treated to YoYo's by family

Pay cut aside, I already feel like I matter in the world - I'm so important I have to be given my own phone to take work related calls! This is something I never experienced while teaching. Although being yelled at by a parent who didn't know the definition of "plagiarism" at 8pm on my personal cell number - this I know well.

After looking at several houses/apartments today - ranging from so horrible that there was animal excrement smeared on the walls to so super snazzy that there is a communal organic herb garden next to the gazebo and "bark park" for doggies - Eirik and I found a place in Hyde Park, walking distance to Mother's vegetarian restaurant! Forget learning to cook, it's all over. (Truthfully I'll be switching to a strict ramen and Taco Bueno diet in the near future to fit my budgeting needs).

Considering the pay cut, (again), though, I hope I can find a restaurant or bar willing to hire me for a couple evening and weekend hours. Then I hope my stamina is somewhat comparable to what it was during my days of 5AM and 5PM swim practices. I suspect this is not the case...

I have House of Leaves sitting by my bed and the urge to read it in a marathon sitting, the same way I read such classics as Twilight and Harry Potter, has snuck into my blood. This desire to spend the next several days reading voraciously after a brief lapse, in addition to finding a job, apartment, etc, affirms my (hopefully) growing belief that things happen when they want to. And no amount of rushing or cajoling on my part will hurry things up to my desired speed. Now to internalize that.

A new favorite song:

Another First Day

Part of the pieces are starting to find their way together - I am very lucky and have been offered a job with the Boys and Girls Club in Austin, which I start tomorrow. I'd like to say that in my time off I have been productive with projects and reading - but I haven't. And the triumph here is that I'm actually ok with that. Going to bed and feeling unaccomplished is an anxiety producing, albeit unnecessary, sensation I often experience after a day spent "squandered" with naps or channel surfing or drinking tea or pints in public places, (well the naps are done at home, typically). Somehow, I haven't done many of the "productive" projects I wanted to complete, but I have learned to go to sleep and just be alright with having gotten through the day contentedly.



Someone I love very much once sent me a link to this video. I'm still appreciative.


Now that I have a job, I need to find a place to live. I've gotten to explore Austin a bit with the help of some very gracious hosts - so far I've gotten to see poetry slams at the Scoot Inn, drinking on 6th Street, music at Mohawk, Red Eyed Fly, Beerland, Emos, vegetarian food at Mother's... I can't wait to be a full time resident.

Welcome to Texas

I have finally arrived in Texas. I am (salaried) jobless, have no home of my own, and know only two people in Austin and the surrounding areas. Although tomorrow I start training at my waitressing position - which I suppose is my due, since I never really waitressed when I was younger - and I get to have this whenever the craving hits me. Be jealous.It's the Mongolian B-B-Q of frozen yogurt! And yes, I got a little too excited and mixed kiwi and cookie dough on top of coffee flavored yogurt. I still ate it, and I have no regrets.



In light of current economic conditions, it might have been a less than opportune time to quit my job, seperate from my boyfriend and friends, shove all my stuff into a U-Haul, and move nine hours away simply because I've always wanted to live in a city I selected as I would a shirt out of a catalogue. But all indicators let me know that it was time to go, and doesn't the adage state, in some sequence, that life doesn't wait for us to be ready?

So now I'm in a state of transition waiting to find a full time position so I can move into an apartment, etc. But the thing I've learned from moving so much as an army brat is that transitional periods are the best periods to relax and process everything that has happened in recent months and years. Once I can stop itching to go out at night, the relax part will set it.

Lucky for me, the state of Texas made staying in easy, since they took away my Arkansas driver's license, issued me a temporary paper license with no photo, and told me I'll be able to buy a drink again in 5-8 weeks when I get mailed my laminated license, with photo. I think this is a sneaky ploy to impose sobriety on all new residents, but that's just my conspiracy theory. The DMV man even said to me, "Now you can save some money." Do I have "broke" and "lush" written on my face?


I suppose the evidence is hard for me to hide. Although in my defense, one must succesfully bring the gin to one's mouth in order to gain lush status. So I fall short, as is custom.

Late Mother's Day Posting

from PostSecret.com

e. e. cummings:

You have played,
(I think)
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and—
Just tired.So am I.

Take These Tattered Boxes

Tomorrow night is the qualifiers slam for the Arkansas national slam team, and I'm heading to Fayetteville to watch, meet people, and hopefully get to read during the open-mic. I'm taking one of my last remaining sick days, and hope I can hold out the last 2.5 weeks of school till summer comes. The thing I am most excited about for summer: being able to read a book in its entirety! Currently diving into American Jesus, and if my tenth grade history teacher at Mt. St. Mary's didn't convince me to fall in love with Thomas Jefferson already, this might push me over the edge. And it seems my concern that "denouncing" my faith in the miracles of Christianity has not actually caused my interest in religious studies to waver, which I consider a relief.

Tonight was our final Creative Writing Club meeting of the year, so Lennon brought in pizza for the kids, and my now graduated student, Whitney, made special cupcakes iced with her signature symbol. I told her she absolutley could not bring cupcakes iced like this to school, so she cleverly brought the icing with her and frosted the cupcakes in my room while I was in the computer lab with my 7th period. Blue icing, of course. Luckily, all evidence of her indiscretions have been consumed.

Whitney's signature cupcakes.

After our meeting, Whitney let me know that she had gone to receive a tattoo she had been wanting, but I wasn't sure she would actually go through with it. This is a picture she posted of her new body art:

Whitney's new ink

I'd have to say that I disagree with her sentiments. I could quote Gandhi and say, "Where there is love, there is life," but I prefer to let The Format do my talking for me in this scenario. So Whitney, here is my rebuttal.

Spring Fever

Something about May and Arkansas turning wet, lush, and green makes me want to read Henry Miller's novels or Anais Nin's journals. Charlotte gave me both Tropic of Cancer and Tropic of Capricorn for my birthday several years ago, and I bought every book Anais Nin ever wrote, from her study of D.H. Lawrence to her last diary, in a used book store on Martha's Vineyard the summer after my freshman year in DC. I had to ship every one back to Arkansas in tightly packed, heavy boxes. Thank goodness for book post. I also have the diaries of Rilke I've been meaning to read, and while on Martha's Vineyard I poured over the drawings in the journal of Frida Kahlo, which wasn't mine and I've always wanted to order ever since I left and wrote "Alas Rotas" over all of the pages of my own diary from those months. I should just declare this the summer of journals and devote myself to devouring all of them.

Speaking of summer... it' can't possibly come fast enough.

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).

Half the Day at Work, Divided by Salary Divided by Hour Equals...

Today I spent twelve straight hours in my classroom. I arrived at school at 7:45AM, (chasing the bell, as usual), and left at 7:45PM, after the creative writing club meeting ended. The fact that the kids stay after school, (which ends at 3:30), that long just to read their poetry and listen to the poetry of their classmates, is amazing. Whenever I think I don't like my job, (usually at either 5:45AM when my alarm goes off, or Sunday night when I want to stay up late, or when there's a discipline issue in the room), I remind myself of how much fun working on poetry with the kids is, and sticking out the tough parts is made easier. That still doesn't negate beingcompletely exhausted after such a long day. Running in the evening gives me more energy, but there was not time for that today.

If I wasn't fascinated by "A Very Duggar Wedding," I'd be asleep right now. No kissing until the wedding day!? I remember events in my life based on who I was kissing at the time. Learning to drive? Chris. Quitting Naval ROTC? Dave. Etc. That means my life from the first one on is broken up into about forty segments. Good classification system. I suppose marriage will merit a new system, sadly. Or not sadly, actually. I'm learning simple is preferable, most of the time. ....As are qualifiers after every statement.

Michael and I move into our new, *two story* place on Saturday. I have not started packing yet. Procrastination leads to increased productivity when it really counts.

Trying to jump-start a high school poetry league in Central Arkansas, as well as work on becoming a writer with any sort of credibility in a world full of writers with impressive verse resumes, makes me feel about like this:

from unknown flickr account - need a credit!

Community Bakery Slam

Labels poem, from round 1. I NEED to learn how to stand up straight and not hunch over sloppily. And not sway side to side nervously. And do some crunches. And memorize. If I wasn't editing my poems up until the slam started, I might have actually attempted. Lennon hosted this slam, Michael sacrificed in round 2, and we had 10 poets competing from Hendrix Colege, Cabot High School, and one new face. I need to work on my marketing skills, (and my performance anxiety), and things will be amazing.

I spent round 2 fighting to be heard over a cappucino machine. So it goes.

Sunday Afternoon Visits

• This is what I need to do. It might make moving next Saturday much cheaper.


• Controlling relationships: I'm inclined to agree with her take on Bella & Edward


• Can not WAIT to see this movie! I will be wearing my Sendak shirt to opening night.


• I hate hate hate that teacher's are expected to censor themselves 24/7. Some of these stories horrify me, (some people got what they deserved, I'll admit, but others, no). Where is the ACLU when you need them...


• "People need the courage to be lonely"


• It's never too late to change your life - posted at iCing, well worth re-posting.


• Advice for reading poetry out loud - all things I wish some of my students would consider.

from ilove

Resolve

For tomorrow's slam at Community Bakery:

I also resolve to not compete with the same poems twice. ESPECIALLY not consecutively. I have two new pieces - and they may not be too terribly awesome, but I have worked hard on them. And I can't tell my students that hard work is a good system of measurement without applying it to myself. But with poetry, it's literally hard work, blood (paper cuts), and tears (self explanatory). Oh, and an absence of stage fright... work in progress. I also resolve to ignore the numbers or else I'll revert to childhood and reject future poetic endeavors because I didn't do "good enough." That in itself is no good, obviously.

Michael and I decided not to go to Cool Shoes tonight, (first time I've ever missed), in light of rest, refraining from spending money, and - for me, at least - time to work on poems. I love writing when I feel as though I can't NOT write. But if I could be in Atlanta right now with Joanie & Julia, I would - so come on Air Tran, fly to Little Rock! Digression.

In light of my fears of being sub-par and worthy of ridicule (although I know, by default as a human, I am), I shall repeat this to myself all day tomorrow:

"the woods would be very silent if no birds sang there except those that sang best."

- Henry Van Dyke