What Would (Your Venerable Teacher's Name Here) Do?

Lisa wrote this poem for me. It includes all of our favorite spiritual teachers with things they preach, and the last three names are her, and then two mutual friends. Chris is a great guy from my writer's group; Adam is one of my craziest, but closest friends.

What Would (Your Venerable Teacher's Name Here) Do?

The greatest minds on earth

have planted

the seeds of wisdom in your heart.

When trouble comes,

ask yourself,

"What would Annie Dilliard do?"

Look. See.

"What would Buddha do?"

Be present in the moment.

"What would Rumi do?"

Dance the Universal Love.

"What would Thich Nhat Hahn do?"

breathe in, calm

breathe out, smile

"What would Natalie Goldberg do?"

Keep the hand moving.

"What would Anne Lamott do?"

Find beauty, pain, lessons and questions in the struggle.

"What would Julia Sweeney do?"

Let God go.

"What would Karen Armstrong do?"

Be nourished by good teachings from many traditions.

"What would Elizabeth Gilbert do?"

Eat.

Pray.

Love.

"What would Jesus do?"

Feed the poor.

"What would Chris Matthias do?"

Gather with friends. Play. 

Go on a vision quest. Sweat.

"What would Adam Deline do?

Sing and dance. Barefoot.

"What would lisa eddy do?"

Transform through ceremony.

The seeds of wisdom are in your heart.

When trouble comes, ask,

What would my venerable teachers do?

Then do it.

Signs

I had the best experience with my writing workshop the past five days. I learned a lot and made some amazing connections. It was fantastic, because it was such a variety of people ranging from 20-72. There were fifteen-year-old boys and a 92-yr-old man in the memoir class, but the 20-72 range is referring to my class and the people who hung out after class. I went out for "drinks" with them, but had to admit I was not 21. I had rice and beans instead. Last night we went to a nice restaurant; a 72-yr-old nun (who was in charge of the workshop) payed for all of our dinner. It was incredibly generous of her. I learned at dinner that she just published an anthology of Catholic short stories. I asked her if I could meet with her to talk about my anthology idea and she was very supportive of it. My teacher is a very well-established author http://philipfdeaver.com (if you want to check him out yourself). He won the Flannery O'Connor award for short fiction. He was very supportive of my work and gave me a free signed copy of his book. It made me feel so good. Everyone gave me a surplus of compliments, because I was the youngest one there. I needed something like that. Confidence is a good thing.

One of the women was a Social Worker on the South side of Chicago and I really admired her free-spirit. She talked about all of these trips she has taken alone, sort of spiritual pilgrimages. I told her that I am an anxious person and should try something like that to overcome it. She said, "The most important thing I've learned is to pay attention to signs." I laughed because we were driving and had almost taken a wrong turn. I also laughed at how I fail to notice signs. She said, "I mean literal signs, but metaphorical ones too. I would have missed so much if I would've missed some signs." I reflected on this. I am oblivious to all signs. I think her saying that was a sign that I should pay attention to. To add to this sign, my teacher told me today, "I wouldn't say this to most people, but because you are so young don't feel like you're not a writer if you stop writing for a couple months or even a couple years. The most important thing is to stay up on reading and live. Do something crazy like go to Turkey." The nun interrupted and said, "And while you're there take a Turkish bath." I thought more about this, and I do need to do some spontaneous traveling alone. I can't live in a bubble my whole life. I'd like to slowly progress into it, though. I figure there is no need to throw myself into situations where I have panic attacks.

I meant to do so much more reading and writing tonight. I didn't read at all, but I did write four pages of a journal entry. I guess, that's acceptable. I need to go to bed. I have to wake up early. I took a long nap today, though, so I probably won' fall right asleep. Oh well, what can ya do?

I'll Write a Novel, Run a Marathon, and Save the World

I shouldn't be blogging. I am in a five day writing workshop. It started last night and ends Sunday morning. I was assigned an 8-page fictional story to start and finish before then. I am terrible at fiction, but I love writing challenges. I'm excited to see where it takes me. I should be investing any free time into the story, but I just got back from a run, and am taking a few moments to debrief. In class I felt so jittery and excited. I think it's from working all day and then sitting in a classroom for two hours. I enjoyed the lecture and writing exercises a great deal. After class I was so jittery that I was excited to get home and run. When I made it home, I started my run much too fast, but I was just full of energy. It died, though. My run was good, but not any better or worse than normal. My energy to write a novel in one night is gone, which is good, because my instructor reminded us of all of the excuses and traps we can fall into in order to avoid finishing a story. He said 8 pages. No more. No less. I'm curious to see where I will go with this project.

Work is going well. I love the kids, but we don't have very many yet, which makes me sad. It makes for a slow day, and the kids don't have as many others to play with. Today we took them swimming. That's one of my favorite parts of my job--when we take them to the pool. Their reactions are just priceless. I should blog about so much more, and put more thought into this, but I'm tired. I need a shower. Plus, I really need to get going on that story!

Tragedy

I received this mass message from a friend who is in Palestine. It broke my heart.

Hi Folks,

A semi-quick message--I really need some support and a little time from all of you right now. This morning, we received notice that two university students had been shot and killed last night during an Israeli raid into Nablus, the city in the West Bank that we are staying in right now. We toured the flat less than 12 hours after their deaths. The Israeli army had used small explosives to enter the room and shot and killed one confirmed member of Islamic Jihad and a suspected affiliate of Hamas (the locals and university students I am working with all claim that the 2nd student was not an activist and as apolitical as a student under military occupation can be). Both men were unarmed when Israeli forces entered their apartment. One was shot 16 times while he was still in bed, naked, while the other was shot in the chest several times. The explosives used to enter the apartment had already torn through both of his legs and his arms. The first witnesses to the scene told us they believe he was executed after he was wounded.

I saw the flat. I saw the blood next to the shattered pieces of furniture, appliances, and debris. There were no explosives, no weapons, nothing. Just your ordinary student flat.

They could easily have been arrested. Another one of the students in the apartment building, the one who answered the 1st floor door, was arrested without a struggle. Instead, the Israeli forces deprived the Palestinians, themselves, and the world of justice by executing suspected militants without a trial or conviction. This is not unusual.

For a sense of how twisted the reporting on this situation can be, please check out these links:

http://www.nytimes.com/reuters/world/international-palestinians-israel-violence.html?_r=1&ref=world&oref=slogin
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/middle_east/7470530.stm
http://english.aljazeera.net/news/middleeast/2008/06/20086246582657247.html

Again, I witnessed this scene less than 12 hours after the students were killed, saw videos and pictures taken directly after the raid, and heard the eye-witness accounts of those who lived, worked, and went to school with these students.

Needless to say, I'm a little shaken, but I care more that you are able to benefit from what I saw today. A quick little note from you, though, would make a big difference for me...as well as your time checking out those stories.

I love you all..

Anne Lamott

This is what truth sounds like to me. It's a long interview, but worth it--even if you only can watch a couple minutes.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PhP5GmybvPM

All My Life's a Circle

Tonight I gathered in a circle with a few people from the South Dakota trips to reminisce and reflect on our intense experiences. A group usually goes to the reservation every summer, but this summer the trip fell through. It's heartbreaking for so many people. It's crazy how many lives are affected by these trips. Tonight I was reminded how intense the energy and connection is between all of us. We are still very much connected to the people on the reservation. Many of them are just as sad as we are that we cannot make it out. The energy fades when I don't see the group for extended periods of times, my life challenges me, or I feel down. I discovered that this is a defense mechanism, because the spiritual energy from my experience last summer with the kids is too much to carry around alone. Other people don't want to hear about it 24/7, and it's an experience that words will never do justice; that gets frustrating. The energy fades, and I think it was some fluke that I will never understand. Then I get back together with the group, and we feed off of what little energy is left in each other, and when I leave I'm high off of the experience again--unable to sleep and experiencing life with a new, temporary lens.

We agreed that there has to be a reason this energy is so slow to die. We have seen real, positive change in lives here and on the reservation. It's hard to keep going, because we are all so wrapped up in our own lives, but it's even harder to just let it die.

Last year, after our life-changing week with the kids from the reservation here in Michigan, "Let it Be" was one of our mantras and a song we associate with the week. I was moved when the song came on the radio as I drove away from Jon's house tonight. I sang loudly and let the music take me away, because when the kids were here, there were many night drives from Jon's to my house alone. It's not a very long drive, but long enough to process the amazing experiences before going home to bed. It was a wonderful flashback to be able to have a few moments alone with just me and the radio after a spiritual experience.

We talked about how our lives have changed over the year, and what is the same, because we view life as a circle. We have always sung Harry Chapin's "All My Life's a Circle" when we are together. We even have silly dance moves, that freaked me out and made me want to run away when I was 16 (dancing during prayer times is so NOT cool). Now, I have grown to love the silliness we feel while enjoying the connection and wisdom the song sparks.

I start work bright and early tomorrow. I guess, that means I have to start functioning on a normal schedule. I took a two-hour nap today. I knew I shouldn't, but I couldn't find any reason to make myself wake up. I'll feel the sudden change of sleep schedule hard tomorrow. Until then, I will try to relax and be okay with my inability to fall asleep. Maybe I will read or write a bit.

Goodbyes

I said goodbye to April and Evan today. It was unreal, because it's hard to imagine them being on the other side of the country. I was telling April that, even though I'll still see them at holidays, the fact that they are three time zones away is the worst part. Time zones separate people emotionally-- in addition to the physical separation created from distance. I reflected on this same idea when I was at the O'Hare airport in Chicago on the way to Las Vegas for Spring Break. We landed on a Saturday evening, and I thought about how I was in the same city as Adam (the atheist--not the priest). It's funny, because Chicago is not that far away. If he lived in Traverse City, I wouldn't think much of the distance, but all I could think about was how it was nice to be in the same time zone as my brother. I just take for granted the idea that I am in the same time zone and connected by similar everyday events to the people I love. Most of us all eat lunch or dinner within a few hours of each other. We usually have several hours of sleep at night that overlap. One hour is not that big of a difference, but I still notice it when it comes to chatting to Adam online or calling. We're certainly on different schedules. It will be really tough having April and Evan three time zones away. It will make calling a pain in the ass, but we've always e-mailed pretty regularly. 

It's funny, because saying goodbye to them forced me think about how our relationship has evolved since I first met April on my way to South Dakota when I was 16.  I went to breakfast with Jon recently; I mentioned that I was still close with April and Evan. He said it brought a tear to his eye, which is funny, because it's a classic Jon moment, but it was nice that he recognized the sacredness in the growth I've experienced in the past few years.

I can't stop thinking about how many people I've had dramatic goodbyes with in the past year or two. It seems like I say a lot more goodbyes; it's the long ones that kill. I hate when I don't know if or when I will see the person. Saying goodbye to my writing professor was hard for that reason, because I knew I could learn so much more from her, but I might not see her again. It made me think of saying goodbye to my favorite English professor from the year before. I still e-mail her from time to time, but I didn't expect to see her again when I said goodbye. I wonder if I ever will. Kristin is going to Spain for the ENTIRE year next year. Saying goodbye to her will be heartbreaking, I'm sure. April's sister, Val, is also moving out-of-state, so I am preparing to go to coffee with her in the next couple weeks to say a final goodbye. Even saying goodbye to Adam before he goes back to Chicago,  saying goodbye to my family before I go back to school, or saying goodbye to my friends at school before I come home for the summer is emotionally draining. I am fortunate, because I keep meeting wonderful people, but the more people I meet, the more goodbyes that brings. 

I'm always especially awkward when I say long goodbyes. I ruin the moment by being silly or stupid, because it keeps me from being sad until the person actually leaves and allows me to laugh a little longer with them. I should work on my goodbye behavior. How does one practice that? I seem to do it a lot these days, so I should get smoother at it, but sometimes I feel like my inappropriate and awkward behavior in sad situations helps ease the intensity of the sadness. It does for me, at least.

We Stand Alone

**This is a work in progress

Indie music plays
like colorful dots
dancing on a white wall.
We turn it up
until the bass
owns our hearts.
We sit silent,
surrounded by noise,
driving across our dark dead town
like we did
years ago,
before we stood alone.

Car doors slam.
Stiff hugs and stiff drinks
reunite forgotten friends,
summing up years
in short sentences.
Silences tainted by time
tear freshly formed masks.
I giggle glue
we’re no longer
patient enough to let dry
like we did
years ago,
before we stood alone.

Join

http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=29360338496&ref=nf

Invite ALL of your friends =)

If you don't have facebook, I will post the official "call" for this project when i get it okayed by my professor.

cReAtiVitY

I'm creatively frustrated. I've had bursts of creative energy throughout the past couple days; I've even jotted stuff down on a notepad with the "Lady of Guadalupe" on it. I look at the notes. They inspire me to write, but when I actually start typing it feels meaningless. The Lady of Guadalupe notebook is really cool, so that in itself motivated me to write. Also, I finished the book about the woman with Bi-polar disorder. It was the same woman who wrote, "Wasted," the book on living with an eating disorder when she was 23. It was good to see how frustrated she gets with writing. She goes weeks without writing when she gets depressed. It's been a couple weeks, and all I've written is a few journal entries and a poem. My writer's group is meeting for the first time on Sunday morning (at my house). I hope to talk about goals with them and work on fixing up my two poems.

I waste a lot of creative energy on making playlists. When I'm inspired to write, I have to have the perfect playlist first (excluding my disciplined writing time). This is only for my spontaneous attempts to write. In my writing class, my professor always said being a writer means combining creative, spontaneous inspiration with discipline and technicalities. They don't blend together very nicely most days. 

I've spent a lot of time the past couple days at the hospital with my grandma, who had her kidney removed. She is recovering nicely. I'm going back tomorrow morning. The hospital certainly evokes creative feelings. There are so many unhealthy, unhappy people, yet so much love. It's nice to witness how people bond together so selflessly in times of struggle. It made me think about human beings' benevolence as an evolutionary benefit. We touched on that a bit in my "Religion and Psych" class. I was also reflecting on how amazing it is that the doctors can cut a person open, remove an organ, and the person's body heals at tremendous speeds. The human body is amazing, along with the human mind; I'm especially grateful that we have the ability to connect and help each other because of our advanced minds. I was thinking about how miraculous it is that we can read words--just black and white symbols--and feel a specific emotion that the writer intends. We can control each other's emotions with black and white symbols. I can make people laugh, cry, or angry. I can recreate any emotion and make a reader feel actual EMPATHY, because I can describe the feeling with the countless words available as tools to me. I I love the power writing has. I'm not being proud; anyone can write (how well is another story). The pen is mightier than the sword. Write on.

Change and Growth

I spent last evening with Kristin and her brother, John. We dropped in to see some friends from high school. Several of them dropped out of college and are working decent, but repetitive and depressing jobs. We conversed uncomfortably about all of the people from our class with kids. One of the boys seemed so down and apathetic. Kristin and I talked all afternoon today. We couldn't help but admit to feeling sad after leaving the boys last night. I'm used to things changing, and I don't keep in touch with many people from my class. It's easy to forget about their struggles until I see them again. I think I feel the most sadness for the people who haven't changed--or the ones stuck at jobs where they will be the rest of their lives. The monotonous jobs where happiness is drinking a six pack on the weekend. I guess, some people are content with a simple life, but that seems so depressing to me. It seems like they are just numbing themselves with mind-altering substances and trying to "survive" instead of live. I shouldn't assume they aren't legitimately happy. It could be that I know too many unhappy people, and that taints my view of happiness in humanity.

Kristin is living in Spain all of next year, so she is trying to come home to see her mom a lot. It's been nice. I think I've seen her more in the past month than I have in the last two years combined. It is amazing how much we both have changed since high school. I considered her one of my best friends then (I still do), but we were in all of the same classes, soccer captains together, same clubs...we were constantly competing, and that made it difficult to fully trust one another. We both have grown so much. We have totally different interests and lifestyles; I barely see her, but I realized today that she is one of the rare people I think I will be friends with for life. Even if that means, only talking on the phone once a year. I don't think she will ever completely fade out of my life. At least, I hope not. There's very few friends I feel that confident about. I love all of my friends, but I'm not so naive to think that we will be friends forever. Life tears people apart. I am terrible at goodbyes and letting people go, but I'm learning. Jenn (from the South Dakota group) said "we are never as far away from someone as our thoughts." I like that idea, because I think about all of the people I care about often. I think of the most random people sometimes. Last night, I thought about a good friend of mine from fourth grade who moved away. I wonder what happened to him.

Things change. It's sad, but beautiful to be able to reflect on life as a circle. John's band is signed now. They still have a long ways to go, but they're playing pretty big shows and opening for killer bands. I can remember when he was pestering his mom to let him buy a guitar when we were in middle school. People, things, and places change. Friendships do too, but there's just something really powerful about keeping friends throughout life and changing together. My friend, Adam, and I were recently talking about how he and I have both changed so much since we became friends a year and a half ago. We both have evolved and grown closer to the center of our beliefs. While we used to be on nearly opposite sides, we are both pretty laid  back and moderate--either that, or we're both just crazy together.

I've had trouble writing for the last couple weeks. It's been enough to drive me mad. I have a first draft of a poem, though. I'm unbelievably happy about it. I will post it if I ever finish it (or get a solid enough of a draft to post).

Identity & Maybies

I’ve been reflecting on life. I feel like I’m always waiting for it to get better instead of enjoying the moment. It's like when I have my ipod on shuffle. I keep skipping tracks to get to a "better" song, only to realize I passed far too many good songs along the way to get to a mediocre one.

I just watched “Leaving Las Vegas” and then “The Last Kiss,” both incredibly depressing movies. It made me think about how everyone talks about college being the best time in life, because there is so much possibility. I don’t think that’s it. I think they look back at college, because it’s a time where people are adult enough to live in reality but inexperienced enough to dream unrealistically. I think I will always dream big.

People have mid-life crises because they realize, “Wow, I’ve been waiting for something spectacular that’s never going to come.” “The Last Kiss” talked about how people are having their crises much earlier, which probably is just an identity crises. The character was saying that we are moving at such a faster pace that we have these panic-stricken realizations earlier in our lives. It reminded me how I jokingly left my friend a voicemail in the fall telling her I needed her help, because I was having a “quarter-life crisis.” I laughed about it, at the time, but it was just an identity crisis. I think I will have flashes of identity crises all throughout my schooling. My friend (the one I left the voicemail to) is several years older and she said she thinks that we are supposed to have them forever.

INDENTITY…

What does it even mean? We all have so many different slivers of ourselves that we expose. It doesn’t mean we are fake--because the slivers are all from the same board. We can’t fake the quality of the board. I’m thinking about that quote “Character is who you are when no one is watching.” I suppose, that’s true, but it makes it sound so easy. I don't even know who all of me is. I can think of a few rare individuals in my life who make me feel like they see all of me. That usually scares me. Sometimes I push them away, because I don’t like seeing myself reflected off of someone else. For example, I wrote an essay about my friend, Adam. He is comfortable enough with himself and outrageous enough to be able to inspire an honest essay. I didn’t have to make him look like a saint. He was flattered and didn’t mind seeing his flaws included with his attributes. He recently told me he wants to start writing again (he hasn’t written since high school). He said he wants to write an essay about me, because I’m so neurotic (in the lovable way—or so he says). I confessed that I don’t think I can handle seeing someone’s honest reflection of me. It scares me. 

Most of my thoughts are consumed by trying to find truth--especially truth in myself. It feels hopeless some days. Everyone says how I over-think things. It’s true. It’s a vicious downward spiral—I think about how awful it is that I over-think things, then I think about how I need to stop, but then I get frustrated when I can’t stop thinking, and I get mad that I’m over-thinking it all. Everyone says, “Try meditation.” I do. It helps, but I’m beginning to think I will always be a little crazier than the rest of the world. While that is bad on many different levels (poor health, anxiety, etc…), I think that’s why I connect with people easily. I am a compassionate person, because I’m always thinking about what different situations would feel like. I couldn't write if I wasn't compassionate, and writing is such a huge part of my identity. I wouldn't give up my wild mind if it meant giving up writing.

Maybe I should just stop feeling bad about the fact that I over-think things until I feel bad. 

Maybe I should just breathe the sanskrit mantra “ham-sa" or “I am that.” 

Maybe I should just let it be. 

Maybe I should just let me be. 

Maybe I’m working on it, and that's all I should demand of myself for now.

God Says Yes to Me

We read this in my writing class and I fell in love with it. 

God Says Yes To Me

By Kaylin Haught

I asked God if it was okay to be melodramatic
and she said yes
I asked her if it was okay to be short
and she said it sure is
I asked her if I could wear nail polish
or not wear nail polish
and she said honey
she calls me that sometimes
she said you can do just exactly
what you want to
Thanks God I said
And is it even okay if I don't paragraph
my letters
Sweetcakes God said
who knows where she picked that up
what I'm telling you is
Yes Yes Yes

Energy

Today I was talking with a friend about how I believe everyone has energy. I surprised myself when I said this, but I think I finally have something to believe in. I think when we die our energy lives on in the people we love, which is why people can feel the presence of their loved one so strongly after that loved one dies. I believe the idea of tapping into people's energy is a way for me to make prayer work without making it like talking to an imaginary friend. Harold Kushner, a rabbi, wrote about prayer as a way to tap into ourselves and be connected to other people. I think we can pray for help and there will be people in our life who pick up on that vibe and help us. I think we can pray for strength or courage and surprise ourselves with what energy we can tap into. Some people call that God. Other's argue it's just the miracle of the human mind. I don't really care what it is. I just like having a way to articulate how I feel about it, and not let other people define it for me with a three letter word.

I also am discovering that I pick up on other people's energy a little too much sometimes. I'm one of the most oblivious people I know (it's discouraging, really). Despite being oblivious to the real world, I am crazy perceptive about people, their mannerisms, and energy. I tend to let other people's negative energy bring me down more than I let people's positive energy bring me up.  I am working on that. Being home while everyone is stressed and experiencing existential crises, is really forcing me to dig deep into myself and try not to stray too far from center. It seems to go better earlier in the day, and then I struggle around dinner. I think it has to do with the fact that Im home alone all day, and then all of the stressed family members come home around dinner time. I've been trying to take a walk, rollerblade, or bike after dinner to clear my head. It helps somewhat. I don't know why I didn't do it tonight. I felt like writing, but then I got down about writing and started blogging. It seems I'm not the most proactive person about my mental health.

Flashback

Today I came across some of my old writing from elementary school. I forgot how much I loved writing as a kid. I often tell people that I believe kids are much more self-aware than we give them credit for. I was looking at a lot of my awards and comments from teachers, and I realized what a nerd I was. It's funny, because I became "too cool" for all of the stuff I loved as a kid, and it is not until recently that I am returning to my old passions. For example, as a kid, I loved being outside and learning about nature. In High School, I told lisa I didn't like learning about nature. I'm back to being a nature-geek these days. I used to want to be a writer, then for a while, I hated English classes, and stopped writing. Now, I'm back to being dorky passionate and naively optimistic about being published someday. I wanted a pair of Chuck Taylor's as a kid, because of the show "Zoom" on PBS. All the kids wore them. My friends told me they were stupid, so I never got a pair until my senior year of high school when I stopped caring so much about what my friends thought. I still love Chucks. I need a new pair. Mine have holes in them. I am copying a paper I found from fifth grade. I'm misspelling all of the same words and punctuating it just like I did then. It made me laugh, because my teacher wrote a note at the bottom saying she believed I could do this too. I ended things rather confidently. I wonder when that confidence faded. I'm thinking it might have been sixth grade. Adolescence is when I really lost myself. I think everyone does, though. It's such a strange time.

"My Life as an Adult" (fifth grade-1998)

When I grow up, I would like to go to University of Michigan, because it is near home and a good school.

 

I will take a class on creative writing, a computer class, an art class, and a chemistry class.

 

When I get out of college I would live in a small, quiet, apartment with a swimming pool, so after a hard day of doing my job (wrighting and illastrating) I could go swimming.

 

After a hard time of my rent and student loans, I would publish my first book, and make a lot of money. I would have enough to pay all of my student loans, move into a nice house and be able to pay my house and car payments.

 

Soon I would begin writing a series to go with my first book. My series would have 21 books, and I would make millions. By the time I turn 35 I would have a mansion with an indoor and outdoor pool, a spa, two Jack Rusel Terrier puppies named Max and Jack, I would have one Calico cat named Crayons, two convertables, one silver and one red, and one black mercedes.

 

This dream will be very hard to make come true but if I set my mind to it I can do anything.

"Believe in me, 'cuz I don't believe in anything"

And the days are not full enough

And the nights are not full enough
And life slips by like a field mouse
Not shaking the grass.

- ezra pound

After not sleeping well for many nights, I have had two nights in a row of normal sleep. I feel extra tired, though. Catching up on such a large amount of missed sleep is never fully effective. The days have been slipping away. I am always disturbed by the way time slips by after midnight. It always feels like some sick joke. Every time I look at the clock, another hour has passed. I'm not nearly as productive as I'd like to be during my days off. However, I don't feel like I've been lazy either. I stay fairly busy, and I'm trying desperately to write with the discipline of professional writers. 

I e-mailed my former advisor/professor about a book idea. She responded with a beautifully written, very thorough e-mail about what I need to do in order to go through with it. It's the first time I feel like anyone's really believed in one of my big ideas. Usually people say, "maybe" and smile at my naive and youthful passion. I kind of expected my professor to do the same. I just asked if she thought the idea was worth pursuing. She said yes, it's an excellent idea, and then gave me a step-by-step of what to do. It never fails to amaze me how much more I can accomplish when I know someone believes in me--not just in the vague, "I care about you; I believe you will do something great," but in the specific, "you are great at_______; I think you should pursue it," kind of way. 

I am not the most confident writer, but after this year I think I am a decent one. I would not be a decent writer or even a writer, if lisa would not have told me that my writing was amusing, and I should try independent study with her when I was 17. Every other English teacher gave me occasional A's on papers, but never said, "wow, you have a talent." In fact, I didn't even like English until 10th grade. I didn't  feel like I was any good at it until just this last semester. It took: getting a job at the writing center, getting an essay published, a really supportive professor/entire writing class, and the support of my writer's group at home to make me feel like I could hold my own in the writing community. I did have some confidence from a few classes/professors the year before, but then I got a B in English 201 (A general, required English class) in the Fall. That was so upsetting, because I worked hard. In retrospect, I believe I deserved better. 

At the time, I let that grade kick down my sense of self-worth in general, and my confidence in English. It's stupid how one letter on a piece of paper can do that--how one negative professor can overpower all of the other English professors who liked me  and supported my writing. When I saw that grade, I felt like I was back in High School, when I found out I failed the writing part of the MEAP test, after I thought I had written a great essay (creativity is not a good thing on standardized tests. I learned that the hard way). Situations like that have made it so I can't accurately judge the quality of my writing. There have been too many times where I think I am writing something nicely, only to find out that it's terrible. There's even more times where I start to quit something, and someone will see it, and say, "This is really good." Why do I base the quality of my writing off of what other people say? After they tell me the "crap" is really good, I reread it, and start to see the good. Then it gives me the energy to keep working on it. My former professor said this is my biggest weakness as a writer--my inability to accurately judge my own writing. I don't know how to improve at that. I guess, keep writing and getting feedback.

Some people might not need anyone to believe in them. Take Jack Kerouac. He refused to change his book for anybody. He lived in his mother's basement and was a loser by most people's standards. Now, we learn about him in literature classes and he inspires tons of writers and musicians every year. I am not one of those people. I need people to believe in me  in order for me to feel I can achieve my full potential. Hopefully, one day, I will believe these people and no longer need to listen to any new criticism. Then I can say, "No, I think it reads better the way it is," and refuse to change anything. Until then, I will keep working my ass off to impress professors, advisors, peers, and anyone else who might read my writing. 

If you were wondering...

I rave about Anne Lamott often, because she inspires me creatively and spiritually. This interview reminded me why I love reading her thoughts. If you haven't read any of her books, this is a quick way to see what she's about.


http://www.beliefnet.com/story/167/story_16714_1.html

Under Construction

This is a poem I'm playing around with. Poetry is not my strength, but my writing class in the fall is "Advanced Poetry Workshop," so I figure I should start practicing. I'm sure I will change this a thousand times more, and I will look back and regret posting it this early (or just change it). I'm open to feedback, though. Plus, it shows where I am right now. Things don't come out perfect right away. Poetry is hard work. I still have a lot of work to do on this, but check it out.

Under Construction

Michigan
freezes, thaws
freezes, thaws,
leaving
open-wounds in once
solid sidewalks.

The roads,
blatantly
broken like people
who drive them slowly,
rolling by orange
cones and politically incorrect,
“Men Working”
signs, in dust-covered
cars that can’t
stay clean.

Writing About Writing (Again)

"A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people."

-Thomas Mann

My writing has been going really well the past two days, which was much needed, because I was losing faith in it. That's what keeps me writing--the way I never know when it's going to get good. That's why I have to write every day. Sometimes I mope and complain about it, but I keep dragging that stupid pen on paper and typing meaningless thoughts to keep the discipline. Then, once in a while, instead of looking at the clock and watching the time pass, I can't stop writing. During these rare occasions, I write abnormally fast (and sloppy) to keep up with the ideas, then look at the clock and realize hours have passed by without the slightest hint of disappearance. I probably shouldn't have messed up my flow to blog, because I don't know if I will be able to jump right back into it, but I had to get it in writing (I like how things only feel true if I see it in writing), that my writing was going well. Hopefully it will continue going well, because I have lots of goals and ideas. 

Oh and I'm dropping that psych class. On rate my professor, most of my classes said things like, "good class, but lots of papers and prof. grades tough." I decided I couldn't do 19 credits, but I HAVE to have a writing class. I will go crazy without one. I can try to take a summer class, and if that doesn't work I will take a different semester off of writing to get out in 4 years.

I intend to pick a topic to blog about soon and stop rambling about my life. I like to have a decent, meaningful entry every now and then. I just don't feel like it. Maybe when my writing starts getting discouraging again I will put effort into a blog entry. I'm just trying to keep up blogging, because when I get out of the habit, I end up taking months off, which is lame.

My First Publication

http://www.chsbs.cmich.edu/creative_writing/aimee_lewis.htm

I am even more excited for it to come out in the official journal version. As vain as it may be, my favorite part is my Bio. at that bottom. It makes me feel like an "official writer," finally. It's sad, but true.

I'm Back

My cord finally came in the mail. It is wonderful to be back on my computer. I felt lost without it for multiple reasons, but I think the biggest was probably because all of my writing is on here. I write in a notebook too, but my notebook is, generally, for freewrites. I've been writing meaningless entries just to keep writing, but it was horrible. It took me over an hour just to write four pages in my notebook this morning. That's unacceptable. Writing is one of the most frustrating things I do sometimes.

I have such high expectations for my writing this summer, which might not be good, because it only leads to disappointment. I told myself if my writing went well this summer, I would drop my writing class for the Fall. I'm signed up for 19 credits, and I worry about it a lot. However, if I am successful, I will be able to take a writing class every semester I have left (despite that I only need three more), and I will get out in four years. It seems like I have so much to gain. I am signed up for a poetry class with a poet who is starting to get into essays (so maybe I might be able to get a little help on essays).  Then, even though I really don't like fiction, I figured I would take a fiction class in the Spring. That would really diversify and strengthen my writing so that I could just focus on writing essays my last two semesters of my senior year, which supposedly will be possible, because they are supposed to hire an essayist after this year. My former advisor/professor gave me a name to contact so I can have a say in which essayist they choose. However, if I'm taking 19 credits, on the e-board for two RSO's, and working, I don't know if I will have time to attend all of the readings. I would really like to, though.  My other option, is drop my psych class and just try to take a summer course. I worry it won't work out, though, and I'd hate to have to come back another semester just for one course. I know my next four semesters of Spanish are going to be hard, so I am well aware that this first semester of it will be the only tolerable one. Therefore, it's the last semester I will be able to really push myself without failing Spanish. I, kind of, feel obliged to push myself while I still can. I could give up the writing class, but that's what I'm going to school for. I want to take advantage of being able to take a course with published authors every semester I have left. I want to be the best writer I can before I'm forced to go off to grad school or get a real job. I hope I can get into a good grad school. I want to go to one where I can teach so I don't have to pay for classes. That's super competitive, though. All I can do is hope I'm a killer writer by then and lots of schools will want me to write under them.

I was also stoked about getting my cord so I could finally buy the new Death Cab album. I'm listening to it right now. So far I like what I hear. They always inspire me creatively. I love writing while listening to them. They are soothing and simple, but not in the annoying pop music way. Their lyrics actually have meaning (they aren't about clubbing or dancing--sorry Britney Spears).

I've been stuck inside for days because of my sickness. I feel so cooped up and useless. I want to start running again. I might be well enough to start tomorrow. Maybe I'll start rollerblading in the mornings instead (if it stops raining). I did go rollerblading for a little bit last night. It totally wore me out. I feel like I'm 70-years-old.

This entry got way longer than I intended. I'm just so happy to have my computer back that I couldn't stop typing. I'm out.

Technical Difficulties

My computer cord died. I won't be blogging until a new one arrives in the mail, which will hopefully be tomorrow or Tuesday. Who knows, though.

I <3 Death Cab for Cutie

I am stoked for the new Death Cab album out on Tuesday. I rarely get excited about new albums, but I got a preview of it from a friend who somehow got it early, and this article by the lead singer is awesome. I don't want to build it up to be outstanding, because it's not world-class writing (or maybe even music) but it's real, and there's some obvious thought put into the article and their music. I admire that. It seems to be harder and harder to find.

http://www.pastemagazine.com/action/article/7074/feature/music/the_meaning_of_life?

Maybe I Prefer my Veins Closed

"[T]his business of becoming conscious, of being a writer, is ultimately about asking yourself, How alive am I willing to be?" 

— Anne Lamot

The book Wasted by Marya Hornbacher is incredibly raw and honest. The more I read, the deeper this woman digs. It’s disturbing because it has forced me to realize that I’m not digging deep enough in my writing. I’m still protecting and hiding so much, and what is the point? I think I am  afraid of what I will see…like it’s not true if it's not in writing—like maybe I will forget if I don't see it on paper. Repression. I can’t afford to do that. I need to open all of the old wounds. It’s like this famous writing quote, “There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein." Metaphorically speaking, I don't know that I can witness the blood and not pass out. I don't know that I am ready to open that vein, but I need to bleed all over every page. It should be stained and ugly, but still have something pretty about the deep red. Instead I type/write bland, colorless words. I keep thinking about all of these big ideas to write on, but not tackling them. I make excuses and try to escape just facing them head on. I feel like I am pretty honest in my writing, but I am only beginning to admit that I am not honest enough--only beginning to scratch the surface. Wasted slaps me with the cold reality of how self-aware and comfortable one must be to write a memoir--how far I have to go, yet. Readers can tell when an author’s not genuine, not self-aware, not wise. Even this entry isn't raw enough. I keep saying “I am going to do this,” but only writing about what I’m going to do isn’t good enough. I need to write truth, dig deep, bleed.

“The invariable mark of wisdom is to see the miraculous in the common.”

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

Robins and Rabbits

I’ve enjoyed keeping a low profile this weekend. I didn’t tell anyone I was home yet. I slept in, spent time with family, and read. It is so wonderful to read for fun. I feel like I haven’t done that in forever. I have, but it always feels so rushed, because there was normally schoolwork hanging over my head. Now, I have time to properly reflect on what I am reading. Reading good books is probably the best way to be creatively inspired. I’m reading a memoir about a girl who almost died from Anorexia and Bulimia. It’s a crazy and tragic story, but she does such a good job at recollecting the littlest details that were all common threads throughout her life—like how food was always a problem. I can’t relate to the food aspect, but just her talent for remembering minor instances has really brought out a lot of memories for me today. The secret to recollecting such memories is to do free writes. Those are probably the best (if not the only) way, because they force you to dig deeper than the stuff your brain is comfortably throwing out.

It’s amazing how we do not know how to access all of our memories. It often takes an outside trigger to release them. For example, I just saw a robin. It reminded me about the baby robin that Adam and I saved as kids, Spike. I got really attached to Spike; he was a cute little guy. He fell out of a tree, but we nursed him back to health. I was devastated when he flew/hopped away. Adam made me feel better by telling me any of the robins I saw flying could be Spike. As I write this, I am sitting outside on our porch, and a robin is looking at me. It makes me laugh. They are such funny birds. Aw, there’s a little bunny looking at me, too. He just stretched his back. It was weird looking. He hopped away, though.

I was looking over my last few blog entries, and it was like I had to start over with getting used to blogging. I noticed that I kept commenting on how I felt the need to say something insightful. With a blog, it’s even harder to get rid of my usual critical voice, because I know people actually read it. But I’m done trying to be insightful—for a while anyway. It disrupts creativity. I found myself trying to be insightful in my notebook too, because everyone puts their ideal self in their writing. Insightfulness is essential and beautiful in writing, but it’s not good in free writes—it slows my thoughts down and keeps my critical voice on high. Plus, those who are truly insightful aren’t trying to be insightful—they are trying to convey truth.

I have set a goal to handwrite four pages of free write every day. In addition, I will try to construct “official pieces” for writer’s group and blog fairly regularly. I have a feeling this will all overlap, and I will give my self a lot of leeway, but it’s good to have some type of goal.

Crisp Night Breezes

I think I'm sick. Exams seem to do that to me. I get to sleep in tomorrow, though. I'm looking forward to it a great deal. It's weird for me to think that I will be sleeping in as much as I want in a week. I can't believe summer is already here. Today I thought back to a summer memory of making breakfast with my writer's group early one Saturday morning and walking to the farmer's market. I thought, "wow, I am looking forward to doing that again this summer." Then I realized, my summer begins this weekend, and it will not be long before the farmer's market opens. This memory seems so recent, but it was almost a year ago. Time is so strange.

I've been reflecting on the process of getting to know someone lately.  I don't like putting effort into being social and getting to know people, which is a shame, because I love when I do get to know people.  It never fails to amaze me all of the baggage people have. I've reflected on this a lot in the past year or two, because as I mature, people reveal more with me. For example, older friends, parents, or former teachers are more honest with me. I'm most amazed to learn about people's lives who I have seen every day for a while and, sort of, taken for granted--because I am wrapped up in my own life--so I don't think much about theirs. A huge example of this is teachers or professors. They put up this professional front and it's easy for me to forget that they have histories, which involve tragedies I can't even imagine. It's so cool to be reminded of everyone's humanity. It reminds me why life is beautiful. It's easy to forget and get caught up in the struggles, but really, we are all connected. We have unique experiences, but feel the same human emotions. Why are we not more compassionate toward one another?

I say "so" a lot. I don't realize it until it shows up in my writing. I begin writing conversationally and one time lisa noticed that I used the words "so" and "beautiful" like ten times throughout one essay (it was a first draft, of course). She likes to make fun of me, and describe everything as being "so beautiful."  I had the thought to go back, and delete some of them above, but the whole purpose of a blog is to be conversational, right? I guess, Adam does more academic and topic specific posts, and Jordan does songs, but mine is just rambling. I always thought rambling was bad, but my writing professor recently told me I need to ramble a little more in my essays. That's what non-fiction is about--connecting ideas that aren't necessarily blatantly connected in real life, finding deeper meaning in everyday situations. 

I went to coffee with a friend from my writing class, and we ended up hanging out for four hours. How does that happen? He's into sci-fi, so I usually can't connect with sci-fi writers, but he is just as passionate about writing as I am, and he isn't socially awkward like the stereotypical sci-fi writer--so it's cool to have someone to talk about writing with. For example, only with a writer can I look up at the dark sky and say, "I like crisp night breezes," and not be laughed at for randomness.

I feel like I had something insightful to blog about. I was inspired after my four hour conversation, but I'm so tired (there's "so" again) that I can't follow my train of thought. At least, I'm blogging again. It's nice. I feel like it helps center me a bit, because it forces me to do free-writes. I just sit down and type what comes to mind. I'm supposed to do this kind of thing everyday as a warm-up for writing, but I don't have the time. This summer, I will both blog and write more regularly. I'm not just saying that either. Last summer I wrote a ton...enough to keep me ahead in my writing class all semester. I will do that again... This got long for a ramble. Oh-and I intend to post more cool quotes as the summer gets here. I need to go back over a lot of my favorite books and underline my favorite things for writing models. I'm sure I'll find good quotes in the process--those writers are insightful folk.

Isolation?

"Life is like a recycling center, where all the concerns and dramas of humankind get recycled back and forth across the universe."

-Anne Lamott (from Bird by Bird)

So Close...

Less than one week until I am DONE. I can't wait. I can't even fully comprehend this. Life just blurs together, and eventually the stress is over. There's always a new stress, though. It forces me to really appreciate the brief seconds in between stresses. I'm looking forward to having time to sleep, run, and write every day. That's what I love about the beginning of summer--everything seems so free. It isn't long before I get used to it, though, and the days slip away just as fast and I am not even doing half of what I used to. I guess, it's important to have a little time to not be too hard on myself. It's not really the kind of thing that turns on and off at my command.

I stayed up all night for the first time in a long time. I lost track of time talking to a friend. I am exhausted, but I don't really mind. I was just talking with my roommate about how after I recover from the stress and sleeplessness of exams, I realize that I did have some fun in between the chaos, and I forget the emotional exhaustion. My retrospective view is like, "oh wow, that was so fun when I stayed up all night talking to a friend, or when I worked an event for WPI until 2am." Even though, directly afterward, I only notice how tired I am. In the long run, I'm always glad I do stuff like that.

I left my phone at my friend's house. It's strange, because at times I think about wanting to call people, but others it is nice to be out of reach from the world. I think I might go to bed early, because I have not done half of the studying that I should have thus far. Tomorrow will be an intense study day. I have a picnic for the former WPI president to attend. I hope the weather holds out. It says it's supposed to rain.

I found out today that my essay about confessional memoirs is going to be published in the literary journal run by grad students here at school. I looked through the last issue, and there was only one undergrad student in there, and there were writers from all over the country. I'm really honored and excited that mine was selected. It's my first official publication that I will be able to list when I try to get other things published. It's so exciting.

I don't know what my point of this entry was. I meant to be contemplative, but I'm so tired that I'm having trouble. I thought it would be good to update, because Adam was just saying how he doesn't like when people don't update their blog, and my friend and I were talking about blogging last night/ this morning. I know I will do better in the summer. One more week and I'll be there!

I'm Alive

Well, I didn't fall off the face of the Earth, but I might as well have been on another planet with as disconnected as I became from everyone. I was overloaded with school--more than normal, possibly more than ever. I'm so worn out, burnt out, and drained. I've cranked out so many term papers, short essays, portfolios, presentations, and speeches in the past three weeks that I feel like I earned my summer in that short time. However, when summer gets here, I always feel a sense of guilt for not doing anything. Probably because people who are working get jealous and make snotty comments about me trying to relax and center a bit before I have to start work. I love that I have a month off before work starts.

I feel like I should think out these entries more. They don't showcase my much improved creative writing skills at all. I just put creative energy into other things, and treat this as a debriefing type of thing.

I was feeling really good about my writing lately. I had a good conference with my writing professor; I successfully applied some of her ideas for techniques and was really pleased with the results. I started thinking about her memoir coming out and all of her cool connections (her old advisor was former poet Laureate, Ted Kooser.) I was certain that with her help, I could definitely get into grad school, and develop all of these cool connections. Today, she told me she is leaving. There will be no non-fiction specialist here at school next year. I was devastated. She gave me some great connections for next year, though, and gave me her e-mail address to stay in touch. I had the same thing happen with my English professor last year. I still keep in contact with her, too.

I'm sure everything will work itself out. For some reason, I felt both a lot of empathy and empowerment when she told me she was leaving to be able to write more, and be in an environment more creatively inspiring for an essayist; and she doesn't know where she is going yet. Leaving like that is such a bold decision. It's empowering to think one can do that, but it has to be scary as hell. It sucks, because I felt like she really understood my writing style and the direction I wanted to go. Now, I worry about how other professors will respond to my writing. I've had very good English professors here, though, so I'm sure it will be fine. It just made me think, "Oh my god, this is the lifestyle I'm choosing." It's so risky and unconventional. Most people don't get it or support it. I think that's why I felt empathy about her decision, not because I can relate to making such a bold decision, but because I can understood being misunderstood, and creatively stunted by that. To make matters worse, it's not just the isolation that comes along with being a writer that essayists deal with, but it's isolation from inside the writing community. Everyone is into poetry or fiction. Writers don't really get creative non-fiction. There's a big demand for it in the bookstores, though. People like reality wrapped up and served pretty. That's what I love about non-fiction, even if it's about something really depressing, there is always something beautiful in it. People need someone to help them see beauty in real life situations. Writers are great at that.

I got a job at our writing center on campus. I wanted to get a job there since I realized it was even a possibility. I was going to say since the first time i went there, but the first time I went there, I didn't know I could excel at English on a collegiate level, so I didn't even dream about it. I don't know when I actually thought, "hey, maybe I could do that," but I know it's something I've really wanted for a while. It's exciting to achieve goals. I should establish some good writing connections there.

I'm exhausted, and even though I don't technically have class in the morning, there is a review session for my Shakespeare class. It's at the same time as class would be, so I, basically, have class at 9:30 in the morning. It's not mandatory, but that class never was. Just another day of getting up to listen about Shakespeare.

Spring Break Wisdom (Or Lack There Of)

I am back from a week of traveling 1700 miles all over the South West. I saw so many things in one week that it was almost too much to take in. I'm far too exhausted to be too contemplative in my reflections on the week, but it had been far too long since I blogged. I am including a few pictures.

It was an interesting week, in the sense that I didn't have any friends on the trip, know any of the professors, or know anything about Geology. It turned out surprisingly well. I signed up for the trip to be inspired creatively by beautiful scenery, and I was. I haven't had time to actually attempt writing anything worthwhile, but I jotted ideas down in a notebook all week and have generated some good ideas. Hopefully between that and the three hundred pictures I will be able to recreate specific moods and mild epiphanies. I think the biggest epiphany was that I didn't have a dramatic sense of enlightenment. I guess, that's what growing up does--complicates things. There's no right or wrong answer that illuminates itself nicely. I think the fact that I felt okay with that all trip is a type of acquired wisdom.

Being surrounded by these mountains that are hundreds of millions of years old blows my mind. I can't even comprehend that much time. It makes me feel so trivial and in awe of the Earth's beauty and power. I feel like it could eat me up in a second. I saw volcanos, mountain peaks that were a couple miles tall and covered in snow and pine trees, Arizona red desert rocks, all sorts of crevices and cracks in the Earth, and was able to be humbled by its beauty all week. I needed something like that. Then there was the contrast to all of this with our time spent in Las Vegas. Las Vegas is the craziest experience. All of the flashing lights and crazies roaming creates a type of unnatural high. I feel like it reflects our culture too honestly--Nothing is in moderation, sex is everywhere, then there's the wasting countless amounts of light and energy without hesitation, and yet still some form of beauty emerges. The beauty doesn't make it right, but it reminds me that no matter how severely we are messing up that we can and need to find beauty somehow.

I made a few new friends, which I certainly can use up here. I'm so busy that I don't feel lonely, but after I go home and have too many friends to try to see and fit in, and then have nights like my birthday here, which consisted of celebrating with a very small group, the contrast makes me miss having a lot of friends available at all times. I have a lot of acquaintances here and I love my classes and clubs so it keeps me going without much thought about in depth friendships or a lack there of. I usually have a party or some type of way to be social, so it's okay. I am thankful to have a few more people I can have decent conversation with after this trip, though.

Overall, I learned some interesting things, got to know some fun people, went to a bunch of new places, and was able to experience some warm weather and creative inspiration. If only I didn't have so much homework tomorrow, then I would be ready for the week on Monday. Unfortunately, I think that I won't be. It will be an exhausting week, but I am really looking forward to going home Thursday night and seeing the family and a few friends.

I just woke up from a 2.5 hour nap. I can't believe I slept that long, but I was so worn out. I feel groggy, but still good from resting up. I had another crazy week that flew by before I could blog about it. My Wednesday and Thursday were the most challenging, but it was such a relief when they were over. Wednesday I had to give the second out of my three big speeches for my speech class. It is comforting to know I only have to give one more. Unfortunately, I thought I would feel so much relief when it was over, but as soon as I sat back down in my chair when I finished, I felt anxious again, only, about the Shakespeare exam, Geology quiz, and essay I had the next day. It was like I didn't have time to stress about them until I got my speech out of the way. I returned from speech class at quarter to five where I had to eat a fast dinner and take off for my World Peace Initiative meeting at 515. I still had not received my Nikki Giovanni poetry book in the mail, and I was going straight to the auditorium to see her after WPI, because it is located near where WPI meets and I wanted to get there an hour early to get a good seat. I checked the mail at 5:15 and it was not in yet, so I disappointedly went to the meeting.

When I was in line to get a seat, I called my roommate, Gabby, who informed me I had a package in the mail. I was so disappointed, but I figured, "She's so big that she probably won't even sign books anyway." Before she came out they announced that she would sign books afterward. My heart dropped. Her speech was amazing. She is this tiny 64-year-old woman who is incredibly sassy. My professor referred to her as a little fire ball. Hearing her read her poetry was incredible."It's always ten times better to hear the poet read their poems in person that to read them yourself," that was my quote in the NewsPaper about the last poet who came to Central. It is true though. Nikkie Giovanni's poetry flows so smoothly and the way she uses sounds is wonderful. It is so smooth, it is almost like she is rapping. During question and answer time I left my backpack with Beth and sprinted back to my dorm. I made it to my dorm, where I signed for my package, and back to the auditorium in less than twenty minutes...and it's normally a 15 minute walk one way. I didn't even open the package. I came sprinting into the auditorium with the package in hand. She was just finishing answering questions so I slowly opened the package trying not to be noisy, but I was able to get in line by my writing professor and I got the book signed. It's exciting to have such a well-known poet sign my book and put my name in it. She has won countless awards and known so many incredible people. She was friends with Rosa Parks for 20 years and wrote a book about her/with her. She talked about Gwendelyn Brooks, and all of these other literary or civil rights people. I had to stay up that night studying for Shakespeare. My lungs still burned from running in the cold, and my ankles and back are still sore today. I was wearing these huge Sketcher shoes and khakis when I made the long dramatic run, because I had not had time to change out of my nice clothes from speech. It makes for a funny story--sprinting across campus on a cold night with a package in my hand all to get a book signed. It was totally worth it though. It was such an honor to meet her. She is probably one of the most influential living poets.

Thursday my Shakespeare exam went better than I expected, which is good, because I have been doing poorly on the quizzes in there. The quizzes are all multiple choice, and the exam was a lot of short answer and it had a 45 pt. essay question. I hope I did decent to help bring my grade up a bit. I was able to get my essay done in time for my 12:30 class, but I did fail my Geology quiz so that was disappointing. From there I had to go get my speech and hearing tested at the Health professions building for my speech class. The line to get in took forever. I then had my meeting for the Geology club, dinner, and a study session for speech. It made for a long day that was such a relief to be done with. I was worn out from the week, but I stayed up until three talking to my friend Dashon on the phone. He is such a great guy, but is having a tough time again, which breaks my heart because he doesn't deserve it. I then woke up early to get my writing around for my one on one conference I had this morning with my writing professor. It went so well. It was exactly what I needed to pick my spirits up and give me energy to write more. She was pretty tough on my last essay I turned in. She said she didn't want me to be upset, but that she did it because she thought I could handle it and that it's a good essay so she wants to push me. I'm glad she thinks I can handle it, because that takes practice and is a skill I attribute to writers group. I hadn't been upset about it at all. There is always that initial reaction when I get a lot of feedback where I feel crappy, and think, "man, there's so much work to do. Is it even worth fixing up?" but then I reflect and realize the reader is right. She saw so many things in the essay I hadn't even noticed and gave me some great ideas for expansion and implying metaphorical meaning. It is so nice that she requires us all to have this one personal conference with her, because that takes up a lot of her time. I was there for forty minutes and the whole time it was just talking about MY writing. How cool is that? I got to have a professional writer sit down for forty minutes with me and just go over a bunch of my writing. I feel pretty lucky to have such successful, yet accessible professors. I showed her this poem I had written playing around with these tetrameters we learned about in class, which is when each line is four syllables. I had thought about scrapping it, but she was really supportive and gave me some great ideas to save it. I also showed her this poem I found from last year that is a concrete one. I asked her if it was something I could save for my portfolio, and she looked at it and liked it. She said she has only liked one concrete poem ever, so that it was a huge compliment that she liked mine.

The sun was shining brightly when I left the conference so I felt like I could write anything. It is so rare that I get those bursts of confidence about writing, so I really appreciated feeling so good about my writing. Anne Lamott writes about how writing makes us all jealous and I go as far to say as it makes me regress to middle school where all of the self-consciousness and jealousy that I have grown better at dealing with as I age, returns. It is nice to have moments where I feel like all of the hard work and time I feel I "waste" on writing is worth it. Self-confidence is good.

Tomorrow I am going to lunch with my soccer coach from high school and family friends who will be in town for a coaches conference. I have an intense weekend of studying and homework in front of me, so I am looking forward to having some time to relax with some people from my past. Sometimes it feels like I have two different lives so when people from my home-life visit here it is always a nice blend of the two. Tonight I am going to a improv comedy musical with Beth and possibly my roommate Gabby. I hope to wake up early to work out tomorrow and do some homework. Next week is going to be another intense one, but next Saturday I leave for out West! I am looking forward to a week of hiking and beautiful scenery. A birthday will be nice too :)

The Morning After St. Patrick's Day

in bed
head
spinnin'
stomach
turnin'

grab phone
dial dad
gotta pay 

for drugs 

again

Nikki Giovanni

I was incredibly excited to learn that Nikki Giovanni, the poet, will be here on Wednesday. We just read a poem of hers in class, and my professor said, "She's really good. I've heard her read several times." She also explained that she was the writing professor of the boy who did the shootings at Virginia Tech. I guess, she was on TV a lot for that. She was a big Civil Rights poet and has tremendous respect in the writing community. I couldn't figure out where I had heard of her, and today I figured out it was in a Kanye West song. I'm listening to it right now. It's the song about his Mom called, "Hey Mama." He says, "You're like a book of poetry/ Mya Angelou/Nikki Giovanni/turn the one page and there's my Mommy." I hadn't listened to the song in a long time, and out of nowhere it hit me that was the reason I knew her name. I just ordered a small book of her recent poems on-line. I heard her old poems from the 60's are pretty racy. I thought about getting those, but just in case she is willing to sign books I wanted to have the latest one. Not to mention, there is a lot more references that I know. I hope it comes before Wednesday. I would have got the two-day shipping, but it cost twice as much as the actual book, so I just got the regular and decided to cross my fingers. It's going to be a big crowd, because she appeals to so many different people. I don't even know if she will sign books, but I want to have one just in case. I am copying a few of her poems to give you an idea of her style. The first one is the one we looked at in class:

Legacies

her grandmother called her from the playground
"yes, ma'am"
"i want chu to learn how to make rolls" said the old
woman proudly
but the little girl didn't want
to learn how because she knew
even if she couldn't say it that
that would mean when the old one died she would be less
dependent on her spirit so
she said
"i don't want to know how to make no rolls"
with her lips poked out
and the old woman wiped her hands on
her apron saying "lord
these children"
and neither of them ever
said what they meant
and i guess nobody ever does

************************************

I Wrote A Good Omelet



I wrote a good omelet...and ate a hot poem...
after loving you

Buttoned my car...and drove my coat home...in the
rain...
after loving you

I goed on red...and stopped on green....floating
somewhere in between...
being here and being there...
after loving you

I rolled my bed...turned down my hair...slightly
confused but...I don't care...
Laid out my teeth...and gargled my gown...then I stood
...and laid me down...
to sleep...
after loving you
*****************************************

Alone


i can be
alone by myself
i was
lonely alone
now i'm lonely
with you
something is wrong
there are flies
everywhere
i go
*********************************
For Saundra


i wanted to write
a poem
that rhymes
but revolution doesn't lend
itself to be-bopping

then my neighbor
who thinks i hate
asked – do you ever write
tree poems – i like trees
so i thought
i'll write a beautiful green tree poem
peeked from my window
to check the image
noticed that the school yard was covered
with asphalt
no green – no trees grow
in manhattan

then, well, i thought the sky
i'll do a big blue sky poem
but all the clouds have winged
low since no-Dick was elected

so i thought again
and it occurred to me
maybe i shouldn't write
at all
but clean my gun
and check my kerosene supply

perhaps these are not poetic
times
at all

The Bathroom Sink

The bathroom sink
reawakens
tired blood shot eyes
and
drinks spat toothpaste.
It burns hands that
act for absent
minds.

The white porcelain’s
tinged with filth from
the past; it shines
when
toxins wash the
scum down the drain,
but by morning
the
goodness is gone
and all that’s left
is the struggle

to shine again

Smart About Ignorance

The last two nights I have gone to informational discussions. Last night was a panel discussion about the Michigan economy. I knew two of the panelist. One was my former Sociology professor and the other one was an undergrad. who served in Iraq and is now a Political Science major. He went to Boston in the group I went with. He was socially crazy, but is very smart and a good person. Tonight I went to hear a Political Science professor speak about the post-election violence/genocide going on in Kenya. Another one of the guys from the Boston trip is actually from Kenya and he was in charge of getting this set up. I had heard good things about the professor, so I went even though I knew nothing about it except that people were dying in Kenya.

The Kenya one did not have a good turnout, because they did not advertise in time. Out of the few people there, I was one of two white people and the other one had lived in Africa. I think all of the others were from Africa, because all of the ones I heard talk had accents. I was clearly the most ignorant one in the room, but I think they were glad that I took an interest. A guy held the door for me, and then we realized we were going to the same place so after he introduced himself he asked me why I was there. I said, "I'm a friend of Daniel's, and I wanted to learn about this." He was like, "Oh so you just came to support Daniel?" When I answered "No, actually I came mostly to learn about this because I know NOTHING about it." He seemed surprise. He was like, "REALLY, Aimee?" He smiled when I said that I felt entirely ignorant about it and thought it was important to learn about. It made me realize how no one seems to take much notice of Africa. He seemed so surprised that I even cared. We look at it as one hopeless continent, when there are respectable places. The worst about Kenya's recent troubles is that they were supposed to "have their act together," but the professors said that was what the West wanted us to think, but if you looked closely corruption has been going on and we are just as involved.

I enjoy these type of things on campus. We have them pretty regularly. People complain, because we don't have big celebrities here often, but we have very smart and successful people speak here pretty regularly. Some of them teach here. I can't say that I walk away from some of them feeling like I could even participate in an argument about the issues, because often the things are over my head, but someone once told me how great it is to surround yourself with things over your head, because you pick it up quickly. I can at least say that I am not clueless about the issues and would get more out of such a discussion next time. I feel like there's all of these "free classes" that are these cool seminars and speakers. I don't know why more people don't go.

I love college, because as exhausting as it is I feel like I learn more and more by the week. I am learning so much about myself through my death and dying class. It is incredibly fascinating what a big part of life that death is and how we try to repress it all. My writing class is still so wonderful. We wrote three poems in class the other day. I don't know if you have tried to write three poems using difference techniques in a short time, but it's intense. I love it though. As dorky as it is, the class feels like a party. We are all so weird and nerdy and love to play with language and articulate things in weird unique ways. I was feeling inferior and bogged down, but I went to talk to my professor about my project. I had some things highlighted on a REALLY rough draft to ask her about. She offered to look over the whole thing. She was really supportive. She even seemed impressed/surprised at a few places. That made me feel better about everything, but I still feel inferior when we do all of these in-class/on the spot writing assignments and have to share stuff. Mine is always so bad, and I feel like everyone else is better. I guess, I'm used to that, though. I've never been a naturally gifted writer. In Independent study with two other girls, I would say I was the least naturally gifted. I had more passion though. Last I knew one stopped writing, and the other one was taking a break. I think I may have gotten better than them now. I suppose my writing class will require me to put more effort into it than other people, but when I do, I think I could stand out.

On a negative note, I think I failed my Shakespeare quiz this morning. That class is driving me mad. The professor is nice, but I just can't stand the reading and the specific questions on the quizzes. It makes me feel like I catch on so slow. I often feel like I catch on slow, but when I do catch on I'm golden. I remember in the past (especially Elementary and Middle school) people called me smart. I actually do not think I am that smart. I had a professor tell me I was intelligent last semester and I was surprised to hear it. He said I shouldn't believe him that I should prove it to myself with all of my work. I really am trying to do that. My Death and Dying teacher is incredibly smart. She does not give any exams or quizzes, yet her class is challenging me the most with reflections and discussion, because we really have to grasp the concepts. She checks our notes from reading as a part of our homework. She has us do the method of reading where you underline the subject in EVERY paragraph and then write a summary in the margin. It takes twice as long to read, but she said that it will make you seem so much smarter than everyone else. She told us we can learn to be smart. Some people think it's some natural gift, but it doesn't have to be. I catch on slow, but I'm determined. That is giving me more confidence to in my intelligence, and that is what college is about--finding confidence in our own intelligence. I still have a long way to go. I don't know where I got such an, "Inferiority Complex" as ms. eddy used to call it, but I am learning a lot and I can feel it. I hope that my confidence will continue to grow.

Tomorrow night is one of my friends 21st birthday. I haven't had an actual party to go to in a long time. I am looking forward to going out. Then it will be homework the rest of the weekend. Yay.

I am not my writing. My writing is not me.

I have become terrible at blogging. I think it's because I write all of the time now. Almost any free time is spent writing, but it's all brainstorming and writing practice...none of which makes good blog entries. I'm reading all kind of instructional writing books and it's driving me mad. It seems impossible to be unique, because it's all been done. There's so many writers in the world it's hard to feel like I have anything important to say, but I'm still finding my voice like many beginning to intermediate writers. I would say I'm now an intermediate level writer, but it depends who is judging. I am in an intro writing class, so I guess I could be a beginner still. I like to think the whole intro writing class is intermediate, because to be in the class requires experience. It makes me paranoid, because I want to stand out, but I don't know how. I guess, I should mind my own and just write what I want. It will be my first time having critics who are not emotionally involved with me. Everyone in my writers group cares about each other as people, so even though they are tough on my work I never feel offended. I worry since these people don't know me, that their criticism will be harder to take. Lisa kept reminding me, "I am not my writing. My writing is not me." I told her that should be my mantra and I should hang it up on my ceiling so I have to see it everyday, because I get emotionally involved in it all and forget that.

I saw Kerri and Grant from Mythbusters speak here last night. They were very funny to listen to and they have such interesting jobs. They just travel the country doing crazy science experiments and they aren't even scientists. I love that show, and a lot of people must, because it was sold out.

I feel so emotionally uninvolved in these blog entries. I will continue to write them, because I think it is good for me to get out of the creative mindset to write and reflect a moment without worrying about technique or word choice so much. That kind of thing is enough to drive a person mad--all the counting syllables, transitions, and attention to word choice.

I am going on Spring Break with the Geology club. We will fly into Las Vegas and take a tour of the Southwest including Southern California and the Grand Canyon. I will get to really make good use of my new hiking boots, meet new people, see beautiful scenery--the kind that is so beautiful it makes life seem perfect for a moment. I am also hoping to do a lot of writing: mostly journaling and field notes that I will be able to use in material later.

The snow has been really pretty here. I didn't have morning classes Tuesday due to a snow storm. It's powdery snow that looks like glitter when it falls, and the ground sparkles in the light. It does get old though. It leaves me extra excited for Spring Break. I am off to write. I will try to do better at blogging. I'm so busy during the week, and then burnt out by the time Thursday night comes around. My weekends are refreshing though. I could get used to these three day ones.