My mole, shared with three
generations of women,
I hope to pass on.
Showing posts with label original writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label original writing. Show all posts
Sunday, 15 July 2012
A Love [Haiku] to My Body
If you regularly visit my blog you know that body is something I often write about, thanks to a course I took in grad school: 'Feminist Theory - Writing the Body.' Yesterday Rachel Held Evans shared 'A Love Letter to my Body [in Haiku]', her contribution to the SheLoves synchroblog, A Love Letter to My Body. For my contribution I've written a haiku about the mole above my upper left lip that I share with my maternal great-grandmother, grandmother, and mother. I've written a poem about it before, but I composed this haiku just for this occasion. I hope you'll join in the love!
Wednesday, 13 June 2012
Antiquing and Gender Politics
Another short creative nonfiction piece I wrote for class - might as well share them now that it's over, right?
Ten Maple is an eclectic antique store I stumbled into one day when I was early for work, delightfully so. It’s located right off a bustling road, but when I parked in their gravel lot I felt like I’d stepped away from the busy world a little bit, hearing the birds chirping in the low-hanging trees and smelling the honeysuckle growing nearby. I made my way up to the front porch of the house, noticing the antiques sitting outside like they’d been there the entirety of their lives – a galvanized watering can, an assortment of terra cotta roosters, a concrete statue of a rabbit. The house has white siding with blue accents, and there’s a deep brick porch in the front, providing lots of shade for the chalkboard signs hanging out front: ‘fall down seven times, stand up eight’ and ‘learn to live, learn to love’ written in whimsically neat characters.
The screen door let out a slight groan when I opened it and I was greeted by more antiques – a menagerie of owls I nearly squealed over, miniature tea sets, and vases of all colors and shapes. The old hardwood floors creaked as I moved around the front room, and a woman appeared from the back. She had on jean capris and an easy blouse, holding a paintbrush in her hand. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail and wisps were fleeing comfortably from her face. I want to look like that when I’m her age, I thought immediately, smiling and saying hello most certainly in my mountain accent. I felt instantly comfortable in her presence. Within minutes we were talking about her son who did his master’s and worked on his PhD up until his dissertation, and had a difficult time getting a job. I told her I’d be graduating in the spring, hopefully employed soon, and my husband would begin his dissertation in the fall. We moved onto the economy and politics, the crazy weather and the unfairness of the public school system. I left with a terra cotta rooster for my mother’s birthday and, as my husband would say later, ‘a new best friend.’
I took Scott there a week or so later so we could choose a few things for his mother and grandmother for Mothers’ Day. We moved together through the rooms of the house, touching plates and pictures, picking up miniatures of cardinals and bluebirds. He picked up a white ceramic frog with his wide mouth open, ready to dutifully hold a dish sponge and stand guard the sink.
“Hey, we need one of these,” he said, sincerely. Anyone else would’ve thought this was a joke or sarcasm, a guy trying to make fun of this clearly feminine pastime – ‘antiquing.’ But he was serious. He handed it to me and I carried it around close to my chest.
The owner found us in the back trying to decide between a sunflower votive-holder and a hanging hook that looked like a bird in it’s nest for his mother. We decided on both because they were so affordable.
“This is my husband,” I said, introducing him to my ‘new best friend.’
“Oh!” she said, “Now that’s something you don’t see everyday. A man out antiquing and enjoying it.”
As she said it, Scott was still comparing the sunflower and bird hook, clearly enjoying this part of the process – deciding between these two items.
“I’ve got a feminine side,” he said in reply.
. . .
I think about what this means, that we’ve all put ourselves in these boxes from the beginning. How it must mean Scott has a special connection to his feminine side because he doesn’t find antiquing similar to watching paint dry. How I get all defensive when we meet a new couple and the wife inevitably asks whether I like to cook. I try to make some excuse like, “I don’t really have time” or “My schedule doesn’t really allow it,” (which are both only partly true) when I’d really like to say, “Hell no, I don’t like to cook. My husband does though!”
I’m reminded of the time when we left Steak and Shake for an early lunch, heading out to my car. Two old men were talking beside their trucks and they looked at us quizzically, “Why aren’t you making him drive?” they asked.
“Because it’s my car and I can drive just fine,” I replied, probably a little too defensively.
“Well, he should be chauffeuring you around,” they said, chuckling.
I wish I’d said, “It’s none of your business really. I’m out working while he’s home cooking dinner most nights...what do you think of that?” But I didn’t say anything. I just nervously laughed and closed the car door, infuriated.
. . .
“Did you see these owls?” he says, holding one up for me to see.
“Uh...YEAH! I want all of them,” I say, handing over the money to pay for our purchases. He carries the gifts and opens the door for us to walk out to our car. He puts the stuff in the back and gets in on the passenger side.
Ten Maple is an eclectic antique store I stumbled into one day when I was early for work, delightfully so. It’s located right off a bustling road, but when I parked in their gravel lot I felt like I’d stepped away from the busy world a little bit, hearing the birds chirping in the low-hanging trees and smelling the honeysuckle growing nearby. I made my way up to the front porch of the house, noticing the antiques sitting outside like they’d been there the entirety of their lives – a galvanized watering can, an assortment of terra cotta roosters, a concrete statue of a rabbit. The house has white siding with blue accents, and there’s a deep brick porch in the front, providing lots of shade for the chalkboard signs hanging out front: ‘fall down seven times, stand up eight’ and ‘learn to live, learn to love’ written in whimsically neat characters.
The screen door let out a slight groan when I opened it and I was greeted by more antiques – a menagerie of owls I nearly squealed over, miniature tea sets, and vases of all colors and shapes. The old hardwood floors creaked as I moved around the front room, and a woman appeared from the back. She had on jean capris and an easy blouse, holding a paintbrush in her hand. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail and wisps were fleeing comfortably from her face. I want to look like that when I’m her age, I thought immediately, smiling and saying hello most certainly in my mountain accent. I felt instantly comfortable in her presence. Within minutes we were talking about her son who did his master’s and worked on his PhD up until his dissertation, and had a difficult time getting a job. I told her I’d be graduating in the spring, hopefully employed soon, and my husband would begin his dissertation in the fall. We moved onto the economy and politics, the crazy weather and the unfairness of the public school system. I left with a terra cotta rooster for my mother’s birthday and, as my husband would say later, ‘a new best friend.’
I took Scott there a week or so later so we could choose a few things for his mother and grandmother for Mothers’ Day. We moved together through the rooms of the house, touching plates and pictures, picking up miniatures of cardinals and bluebirds. He picked up a white ceramic frog with his wide mouth open, ready to dutifully hold a dish sponge and stand guard the sink.
“Hey, we need one of these,” he said, sincerely. Anyone else would’ve thought this was a joke or sarcasm, a guy trying to make fun of this clearly feminine pastime – ‘antiquing.’ But he was serious. He handed it to me and I carried it around close to my chest.
The owner found us in the back trying to decide between a sunflower votive-holder and a hanging hook that looked like a bird in it’s nest for his mother. We decided on both because they were so affordable.
“This is my husband,” I said, introducing him to my ‘new best friend.’
“Oh!” she said, “Now that’s something you don’t see everyday. A man out antiquing and enjoying it.”
As she said it, Scott was still comparing the sunflower and bird hook, clearly enjoying this part of the process – deciding between these two items.
“I’ve got a feminine side,” he said in reply.
. . .
I think about what this means, that we’ve all put ourselves in these boxes from the beginning. How it must mean Scott has a special connection to his feminine side because he doesn’t find antiquing similar to watching paint dry. How I get all defensive when we meet a new couple and the wife inevitably asks whether I like to cook. I try to make some excuse like, “I don’t really have time” or “My schedule doesn’t really allow it,” (which are both only partly true) when I’d really like to say, “Hell no, I don’t like to cook. My husband does though!”
I’m reminded of the time when we left Steak and Shake for an early lunch, heading out to my car. Two old men were talking beside their trucks and they looked at us quizzically, “Why aren’t you making him drive?” they asked.
“Because it’s my car and I can drive just fine,” I replied, probably a little too defensively.
“Well, he should be chauffeuring you around,” they said, chuckling.
I wish I’d said, “It’s none of your business really. I’m out working while he’s home cooking dinner most nights...what do you think of that?” But I didn’t say anything. I just nervously laughed and closed the car door, infuriated.
. . .
“Did you see these owls?” he says, holding one up for me to see.
“Uh...YEAH! I want all of them,” I say, handing over the money to pay for our purchases. He carries the gifts and opens the door for us to walk out to our car. He puts the stuff in the back and gets in on the passenger side.
Thursday, 3 May 2012
Winding Roads and Clotheslines
So here's another short creative nonfiction piece I composed for our class blog. I said I'd wait till class was over but what the heck? I'll go ahead and share them as I go!
It’s my dad’s birthday so my husband and I are meeting my parents and brother at our designated halfway point between home in Ohio and home in Virginia – Lexington exit 108. The same exit my husband had to take when he did his master's at Asbury. Every two weeks that first year he’d speed the three hours home, praying that he wouldn’t get caught behind a slow coal truck. It’d be a Friday night and I’d get off from play practice around 11:00 and head down the valley to his parents’ house, praying I wouldn’t hit a deer on the winding mountain road.
Those weeks seemed to drag along but Sunday afternoons came too fast. I’d drive through tears back up the mountain, watching his bumper in front of me, wiping my eyes so I could see. I’d drive him out of town, watching him leave the state, leave me, knowing he’d come take me away one day.
Six and a half years later and we’re married - no more winding roads, they're straight ahead for miles, stretching along fields and towns. Our friends and family call us‘city folk’ now, living in Dayton proper where we hear sirens and cars and people nonstop. When we drive home to Virginia it takes a while for our eyes to adjust to the pure darkness, we’ve grown used to the streetlights. But we can’t get away from them. Can’t get away from the noise, the constant movement, the constant pulse.
And here’s the part where people who’ve lived here their whole lives laugh because they would never call Dayton a ‘city’ or ‘city-esque,’ or maybe they would. I guess it depends who you ask. I sometimes feel like I’m a hamster on a wheel, driving I-675 every day to Fairborn, then Centerville, then back to Dayton, school, work, play.
. . .
We’ve made it to Lexington, met up with Mom, Dad, and my brother, we’ve eaten, visited, watched a movie, walked around a mall, not wanting to say goodbye. But we’ll see each other in another month, we remind ourselves. It won’t be like this last time when we’ve gone from Christmas to April.
It’s time to give the hugs and air kisses, the goodbyes till next time. And here it comes, the part that makes my gut knot, makes me glad we’re driving home in the dark so I can wipe at my eyes and not feel embarrassed.
“You take care of yourselves. Be careful up there,” Dad says, pulling me tighter into the hug. And I know he’s seeing that 8-lane road I drive everyday. I know he thinks about it more than he should. I know the image comes up in his mind when he’s spraying down the dusty coal road on his job.
This seems silly to some, but not to people who went nearly their whole lives driving on two- and four-lane roads. Even when we’d travel south for vacation in Myrtle Beach we were on safe four-lanes, comforting trees on either side.
We’re being called back there, pulled home. My husband's fed up with driving altogether and I tell him he could never do what I do everyday, merging and changing lanes, moving with the rest of the world to the places we're all going. I've become the city-driver and I critique him when we're out together. He's in the driver seat and he awkwardly changes lanes, waits for a green arrow, "You could've gone just now," I say as it turns red.
But then I've always critiqued his driving; the first time he took me home from play practice we sat at the light together, looking at each other's lips. I saw the light change out of the corner of my eye and said, "It's green, you can go." He laughed at me; this 15-year-old telling him how to drive. I didn't even have my learners' but I wanted to be the boss. He says he should have known a lot about me in that moment.
He jokes about getting a horse to ride to school everyday. I picture this in my head, they could put him a tie-post next to the Liberal Arts building and he could carry out a bowl of water between classes. He’s resigned to walking to work for now, but I know he’s not really joking about the horse. He told me the other day he wants to buy some birdseed to have in his pocket on his way to school; he can feed the birds like Francis. I think of the picture I bought him for Christmas - a black and white carving of a modern St. Francis in jeans and t-shirt, birds on his shoulders. I draw the line when he says he wants to start walking barefoot.
I can't be too hard on him though. I've recently discovered the spiritual significance of hanging clothes on a line. My favorite writer describes this simple physical act: "After a day of too much information about almost everything, there is such a blessed relief in the weight of wet clothes...Every time I bend down to shake loose a piece of laundry, I smell the grass. I smell the sun. Above all, I smell the clean laundry. This is something concrete that I have accomplished..."
I've started hanging laundry out on our small balcony, hoping I can exchange the smell of fresh grass with potted plants. It'll do for now, until we have land and our own clothesline in the grass.
Our 22- and 17-year-old selves shake their heads and say, “What the hell are you two talking about?” “People can change,” we say defensively. We’ve seen enough of the city, we need the trees, the mountains, the quiet. We need to look up at the night sky and see the stars. We need those winding roads, the coal truck that might slow us down.
 |
| Source |
Those weeks seemed to drag along but Sunday afternoons came too fast. I’d drive through tears back up the mountain, watching his bumper in front of me, wiping my eyes so I could see. I’d drive him out of town, watching him leave the state, leave me, knowing he’d come take me away one day.
Six and a half years later and we’re married - no more winding roads, they're straight ahead for miles, stretching along fields and towns. Our friends and family call us‘city folk’ now, living in Dayton proper where we hear sirens and cars and people nonstop. When we drive home to Virginia it takes a while for our eyes to adjust to the pure darkness, we’ve grown used to the streetlights. But we can’t get away from them. Can’t get away from the noise, the constant movement, the constant pulse.
And here’s the part where people who’ve lived here their whole lives laugh because they would never call Dayton a ‘city’ or ‘city-esque,’ or maybe they would. I guess it depends who you ask. I sometimes feel like I’m a hamster on a wheel, driving I-675 every day to Fairborn, then Centerville, then back to Dayton, school, work, play.
. . .
We’ve made it to Lexington, met up with Mom, Dad, and my brother, we’ve eaten, visited, watched a movie, walked around a mall, not wanting to say goodbye. But we’ll see each other in another month, we remind ourselves. It won’t be like this last time when we’ve gone from Christmas to April.
It’s time to give the hugs and air kisses, the goodbyes till next time. And here it comes, the part that makes my gut knot, makes me glad we’re driving home in the dark so I can wipe at my eyes and not feel embarrassed.
“You take care of yourselves. Be careful up there,” Dad says, pulling me tighter into the hug. And I know he’s seeing that 8-lane road I drive everyday. I know he thinks about it more than he should. I know the image comes up in his mind when he’s spraying down the dusty coal road on his job.
This seems silly to some, but not to people who went nearly their whole lives driving on two- and four-lane roads. Even when we’d travel south for vacation in Myrtle Beach we were on safe four-lanes, comforting trees on either side.
We’re being called back there, pulled home. My husband's fed up with driving altogether and I tell him he could never do what I do everyday, merging and changing lanes, moving with the rest of the world to the places we're all going. I've become the city-driver and I critique him when we're out together. He's in the driver seat and he awkwardly changes lanes, waits for a green arrow, "You could've gone just now," I say as it turns red.
But then I've always critiqued his driving; the first time he took me home from play practice we sat at the light together, looking at each other's lips. I saw the light change out of the corner of my eye and said, "It's green, you can go." He laughed at me; this 15-year-old telling him how to drive. I didn't even have my learners' but I wanted to be the boss. He says he should have known a lot about me in that moment.
He jokes about getting a horse to ride to school everyday. I picture this in my head, they could put him a tie-post next to the Liberal Arts building and he could carry out a bowl of water between classes. He’s resigned to walking to work for now, but I know he’s not really joking about the horse. He told me the other day he wants to buy some birdseed to have in his pocket on his way to school; he can feed the birds like Francis. I think of the picture I bought him for Christmas - a black and white carving of a modern St. Francis in jeans and t-shirt, birds on his shoulders. I draw the line when he says he wants to start walking barefoot.
I can't be too hard on him though. I've recently discovered the spiritual significance of hanging clothes on a line. My favorite writer describes this simple physical act: "After a day of too much information about almost everything, there is such a blessed relief in the weight of wet clothes...Every time I bend down to shake loose a piece of laundry, I smell the grass. I smell the sun. Above all, I smell the clean laundry. This is something concrete that I have accomplished..."
 |
| Source |
Our 22- and 17-year-old selves shake their heads and say, “What the hell are you two talking about?” “People can change,” we say defensively. We’ve seen enough of the city, we need the trees, the mountains, the quiet. We need to look up at the night sky and see the stars. We need those winding roads, the coal truck that might slow us down.
Wednesday, 2 May 2012
The Bird Feeder
So...I promise I've not dropped off the face of the earth or anything (although it has felt like that just a little bit). I've been finishing my independent paper for my MA portfolio and I'm excited to say that it's finished and I turned it in yesterday!!! I don't know if I've ever been that excited to turn in a paper.
Anyway...since I've not had time to write on here I thought I'd share a short creative nonfiction piece that I composed for our class blog. It's called "The Bird Feeder"...enjoy :)
My husband bought me a bird feeder this year for Valentine’s Day. I know some people might think that seems like a gift you’d give your seventy-year-old grandmother to hang on her porch so she could watch the birds while she sits in her rocking chair, but I thought the gift was terribly romantic. My husband and I are usually found doing the activities of elders anyway – Sunday matinees, James Taylor and Carol King concerts, or browsing antique shops – so it makes perfect sense if you were to make that comparison.
The bird feeder has a forest green top and a base that provides railing for the birds to perch and enjoy their meal. The base also has a couple small attachments that look almost like leaves where the birds can sit with a little more room if they so choose. The seed itself is packed tight into a large cylinder which can be changed out every few months or so. I’d never really seen a feeder quite this big before, but then again I’ve never been much of a bird feeder connoisseur.
Since he gave it to me in February we’ve only recently begun sighting birds. What we didn’t suspect was the amount of birdseed they’d drop onto our balcony and our railing; they sure are messy little things.
We’ve been entertained not only by the birds themselves, but also with our cats’ fascination with them; they could sit for hours, watching them out the window. Although sometimes they get the dire urge to pounce, smacking their heads against the glass window – one reason we’ve tried to leave the door open for them. The screen’s not nearly is solid.
Last year they spent endless summer days chasing down wasps that would come in through the small holes in the screen door; we’d find groups of wasps lying dead on the carpet. I can just imagine my husband, ever the softy for all God’s creatures, saying a short prayer for them as he scooped them up in his hand and tossed their small bodies into the pots of dirt on our porch, to dust we shall return.
This year I’m sure Sammy and Sophie would similarly love to get their paws on those little birds – becoming rounder by the day, I might add – but they’ll be stuck on the other side of the screen door, contained from their natural instincts to chase them outside. Sophie will have to continue making her birdy sounds within the confines of our apartment, and Sammy will take it all much better – choosing to nap on the couch to keep his mind off it all. I can just imagine Sophie sitting attentively at the door, poised to strike but for the screen in her way, looking back at Sammy asleep on the couch, “We should have left those damn wasps alone.”
Anyway...since I've not had time to write on here I thought I'd share a short creative nonfiction piece that I composed for our class blog. It's called "The Bird Feeder"...enjoy :)
My husband bought me a bird feeder this year for Valentine’s Day. I know some people might think that seems like a gift you’d give your seventy-year-old grandmother to hang on her porch so she could watch the birds while she sits in her rocking chair, but I thought the gift was terribly romantic. My husband and I are usually found doing the activities of elders anyway – Sunday matinees, James Taylor and Carol King concerts, or browsing antique shops – so it makes perfect sense if you were to make that comparison.
The bird feeder has a forest green top and a base that provides railing for the birds to perch and enjoy their meal. The base also has a couple small attachments that look almost like leaves where the birds can sit with a little more room if they so choose. The seed itself is packed tight into a large cylinder which can be changed out every few months or so. I’d never really seen a feeder quite this big before, but then again I’ve never been much of a bird feeder connoisseur.
Since he gave it to me in February we’ve only recently begun sighting birds. What we didn’t suspect was the amount of birdseed they’d drop onto our balcony and our railing; they sure are messy little things.
 |
| Cleaning up the mess they've left |
 |
| A pair having their breakfast - I can't seem to catch a pic of them when they're eating from the feeder |
Last year they spent endless summer days chasing down wasps that would come in through the small holes in the screen door; we’d find groups of wasps lying dead on the carpet. I can just imagine my husband, ever the softy for all God’s creatures, saying a short prayer for them as he scooped them up in his hand and tossed their small bodies into the pots of dirt on our porch, to dust we shall return.
This year I’m sure Sammy and Sophie would similarly love to get their paws on those little birds – becoming rounder by the day, I might add – but they’ll be stuck on the other side of the screen door, contained from their natural instincts to chase them outside. Sophie will have to continue making her birdy sounds within the confines of our apartment, and Sammy will take it all much better – choosing to nap on the couch to keep his mind off it all. I can just imagine Sophie sitting attentively at the door, poised to strike but for the screen in her way, looking back at Sammy asleep on the couch, “We should have left those damn wasps alone.”
Thursday, 5 April 2012
Brian Doyle's 'Leap'
For my first night of assigned readings for my Creative Nonfiction class this quarter I got one of the authors mixed up on the syllabus and read the wrong reading. This wouldn't have been that bad if I hadn't chosen that 'wrong' reading for my first response journal. Come to find out that author's not even included in the syllabus - - 'Why yes, I am in my second year of grad school, preparing to graduate in June, why do you ask?'
Anyway, I didn't turn it in that day and make a fool of myself (although I really don't think our professor would've minded...she probably would've read it and given me a grade, but I chose not to give her the first impression of me as someone who can't even read the name off a syllabus correctly). I digress...
I wanted to share the reading because I thought it was quite powerful, and well I have this useless response journal. You can read the (very) short essay here and then I've posted my response below. The essay is called "Leap" by Brian Doyle (the 'correct' author was Doty and they're right next to each other in the anthology, so see I wasn't too far off...okay well maybe I have no excuse). We're using the Touchstone Anthology of Contemporary Creative Nonfiction edited by Williford and Martone.
Brian Doyle’s “Leap” touched me in a way I could have never thought possible from a page and a half piece of writing. As a member of the ‘9/11 generation’ it took me only moments to realize what event he was discussing in his piece. Within seconds I was taken back to my eighth grade Home Economics classroom and the visions on the television of smoke and fire coming from the Twin Towers; we all sat mesmerized, horrified, watching the cameras pan from one image to the next. Our teacher had never experienced our silence before, and she wouldn’t again. In that moment, I felt ‘American’ in a way I’d never felt before and have never felt since. Doyle’s brief, but stunning piece took me back to that moment. It also conjured up a more recent image of the photograph in Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer depicting a man jumping from the tower.
Perhaps Doyle's influence and power in conjuring up these powerful images is what makes it such a great piece of writing. It takes us back and connects us to those moments, what we thought, how we felt, what we tried to tell ourselves to find some sense of comfort. In a brief page and a half he captures the moment, the people who witnessed the powerful image of the couple holding hands, and the connection to verses in the Bible.
His weaving of Scripture was perhaps what touched me the most; he tries to give words and meaning to the positive image witnessed amid the turmoil and tragedy. Even in the way he incorporates those Scriptures – “wrote John the Apostle” or “says the Book of Wisdom” – he makes it seem less like he’s pulling them from a holy text, and more like he’s quoting wise friends who provide wisdom in a time of need.
His inclusion of people’s names – the people who had watched as they leapt from the towers – seemed odd to me at first. As I read their names silently, I wondered why he had chosen this kind of ‘reportage’ style, quoting them as one would in a newspaper. But after reading through the entire piece, I understand that what Doyle might be doing is providing real witnesses, people who could, in a sense, ‘give voice’ to the circumstance, and in turn, share those images with us, as readers.
Though this piece, and its subject matter, has the danger of sounding ‘sentimental’ or overly optimistic, his has enough realism and an underlying message that death and tragedy, though inescapable, cannot be explained or understood. Instead, he urges that in those moments when we could easily focus on the “screaming souls of the murderers,” why not remember the “extraordinary ordinary succinct naked stunning perfect simple ferocious love?” (166).
I think what makes this a wonderful example of creative nonfiction is that he tells the story of a true event, while weaving in his own speculations and reflections. He has also tried to make connections to other tragedies, guiding his readers to see that love “is everything that we are capable of against horror and loss and death” (166). Even in this terrible moment, when it would have been easy to give up on the power of love, Doyle provides an articulate example that whether these two people were “husband and wife, lovers, dear friends, colleagues, strangers thrown together at the window there at the lip of hell,” they fought against the world’s evil as best they could until their moment of inescapable death. His reflections, along with the inclusion of the witnesses and Scriptures, are what make this a powerful example of creative nonfiction.
Anyway, I didn't turn it in that day and make a fool of myself (although I really don't think our professor would've minded...she probably would've read it and given me a grade, but I chose not to give her the first impression of me as someone who can't even read the name off a syllabus correctly). I digress...
I wanted to share the reading because I thought it was quite powerful, and well I have this useless response journal. You can read the (very) short essay here and then I've posted my response below. The essay is called "Leap" by Brian Doyle (the 'correct' author was Doty and they're right next to each other in the anthology, so see I wasn't too far off...okay well maybe I have no excuse). We're using the Touchstone Anthology of Contemporary Creative Nonfiction edited by Williford and Martone.
 |
| Leap - excerpts from an essay by Brian Doyle (Acrylic, gouache, graphite on Tyvek) by Kathleen Borkowski Source: Kathleen Borkowski website |
Perhaps Doyle's influence and power in conjuring up these powerful images is what makes it such a great piece of writing. It takes us back and connects us to those moments, what we thought, how we felt, what we tried to tell ourselves to find some sense of comfort. In a brief page and a half he captures the moment, the people who witnessed the powerful image of the couple holding hands, and the connection to verses in the Bible.
His weaving of Scripture was perhaps what touched me the most; he tries to give words and meaning to the positive image witnessed amid the turmoil and tragedy. Even in the way he incorporates those Scriptures – “wrote John the Apostle” or “says the Book of Wisdom” – he makes it seem less like he’s pulling them from a holy text, and more like he’s quoting wise friends who provide wisdom in a time of need.
His inclusion of people’s names – the people who had watched as they leapt from the towers – seemed odd to me at first. As I read their names silently, I wondered why he had chosen this kind of ‘reportage’ style, quoting them as one would in a newspaper. But after reading through the entire piece, I understand that what Doyle might be doing is providing real witnesses, people who could, in a sense, ‘give voice’ to the circumstance, and in turn, share those images with us, as readers.
Though this piece, and its subject matter, has the danger of sounding ‘sentimental’ or overly optimistic, his has enough realism and an underlying message that death and tragedy, though inescapable, cannot be explained or understood. Instead, he urges that in those moments when we could easily focus on the “screaming souls of the murderers,” why not remember the “extraordinary ordinary succinct naked stunning perfect simple ferocious love?” (166).
I think what makes this a wonderful example of creative nonfiction is that he tells the story of a true event, while weaving in his own speculations and reflections. He has also tried to make connections to other tragedies, guiding his readers to see that love “is everything that we are capable of against horror and loss and death” (166). Even in this terrible moment, when it would have been easy to give up on the power of love, Doyle provides an articulate example that whether these two people were “husband and wife, lovers, dear friends, colleagues, strangers thrown together at the window there at the lip of hell,” they fought against the world’s evil as best they could until their moment of inescapable death. His reflections, along with the inclusion of the witnesses and Scriptures, are what make this a powerful example of creative nonfiction.
Wednesday, 22 February 2012
.ashes and Lent.
"...For dust you are and to dust you will return." - - Genesis 3:19b
This is a repost of a revised poem I wrote two years ago after attending a Catholic funeral service with my husband held on Ash Wednesday. Since that experience, Ash Wednesday and Lent have reminded me of the Jews during the Holocaust. The image of the ashes drawn on foreheads reminds me of the ashes of those whose lives were cruelly taken from them. For me, ashes have always brought to mind the image of the Holocaust victims (partly, I think, because I was in a Holocaust play and though we used sand instead of ashes to represent the number of deaths, the visual image of salt being poured from a bowl represented their ashes, the dust to which they returned).
Another reason is because Ash Wednesday is the one day when Christians openly display an outward physical symbol of their faith for everyone to see. Just as the yellow star of David was worn by the Jews to show their faith (though under very different circumstances; they did not choose to wear them, but were instead forced to), we wear our crosses of ash to show to whom we belong and what we believe.
Like I said earlier I wrote this poem two years ago and I've since then changed a couple things about it. For example I had a line that said they wore them "proudly and without shame," but after further reading on the subject, I don't think this would have been true. They didn't choose to wear this outward symbol of faith and heritage. Being a non-Jew (which means I can never understand this) I always thought they might proudly wear them or display them (now) as witness to their history. I think it's much more complicated than that, and I think there are probably many differing opinions and personal connections to the yellow stars. Either way, their stars - in my mind when I watch Holocaust films or read books - are powerful symbols of their faith and heritage, one that might have been forced on them by oppressors, but can never be forgotten. The stars bear witness of their history, retelling their story each time one is displayed.
ashes
This is a repost of a revised poem I wrote two years ago after attending a Catholic funeral service with my husband held on Ash Wednesday. Since that experience, Ash Wednesday and Lent have reminded me of the Jews during the Holocaust. The image of the ashes drawn on foreheads reminds me of the ashes of those whose lives were cruelly taken from them. For me, ashes have always brought to mind the image of the Holocaust victims (partly, I think, because I was in a Holocaust play and though we used sand instead of ashes to represent the number of deaths, the visual image of salt being poured from a bowl represented their ashes, the dust to which they returned).
Another reason is because Ash Wednesday is the one day when Christians openly display an outward physical symbol of their faith for everyone to see. Just as the yellow star of David was worn by the Jews to show their faith (though under very different circumstances; they did not choose to wear them, but were instead forced to), we wear our crosses of ash to show to whom we belong and what we believe.
Like I said earlier I wrote this poem two years ago and I've since then changed a couple things about it. For example I had a line that said they wore them "proudly and without shame," but after further reading on the subject, I don't think this would have been true. They didn't choose to wear this outward symbol of faith and heritage. Being a non-Jew (which means I can never understand this) I always thought they might proudly wear them or display them (now) as witness to their history. I think it's much more complicated than that, and I think there are probably many differing opinions and personal connections to the yellow stars. Either way, their stars - in my mind when I watch Holocaust films or read books - are powerful symbols of their faith and heritage, one that might have been forced on them by oppressors, but can never be forgotten. The stars bear witness of their history, retelling their story each time one is displayed.
ashes
made into crosses.
fingerprints
traveling across smooth,
and wrinkled
foreheads.
we stand like mirrors
wearing our small signs
out into the dark world -
small lights
traveling into cold court rooms,
office buildings,
and classrooms.
they wore theirs on battlefields,
on streets,
and in camps -
yellow canvas patches,
stars shining on their dark clothes.
they used needles and thread
to sew them -
to sew them -
their cross to bear.
they were piled next to their
suitcases,
their shoes,
and their
ashes.
This is a photo from the Holocaust play I performed in college - I Never Saw Another Butterfly; my character, Raja collects the stars of the Terezin children...
Pouring salt - a visual representation of the lives lost in the Holocaust
Saturday, 18 February 2012
.a new 'body' of work: creative nonfiction.
In high school and college I always avoided reading or having to write 'creative non-fiction.' I felt like the term itself was confusing since it basically, in my naive mind, described two very different writing genres. Non-fiction, to me, meant boring facts laid out in bland jargon and hard-to-pronounce terms - mostly my view of nonfiction came from science textbooks. Instead I browsed the Fiction Bestseller lists, which were a good fit for me at the time.
Needless to say, I've since learned that creative non-fiction is, indeed, a fascinating genre of writing, one that I quite enjoy both reading and writing. For my final quarter as a grad student I've decided to take a creative non-fiction course. I already enjoyed Feminist Memoir last year, my first real encounter with creative non-fiction, and I'm currently working on a creative memoir essay for my Writing the Body course.
For my 'body essay' I've decided to intersperse Sandra Bartky's theories of the female body with my own experiences, specifically describing times in my life that I've felt my body has been controlled or not controlled, despite or because of societal norms. It's made up of four different chapters, the first starting with my body image as a child, choosing for myself whether I wanted to be a tomboy or 'girly' girl, wearing dresses or dirt. The second describes the terrifying details of my first-grade classroom when we were forced to train the very movements and natural tendencies in our bodies, keeping our feet in small boxes made of strips of tape on the floor beneath our desks. The third chapter details a time in my life that my parents and I lovingly refer to as my "Butterfinger Girl" phase; I gained weight because of my changing body and metabolism. And the final (for now) describes my early high school years of rigorous physical training for sports, my body resembling that of a boy athlete rather than a teenage girl.
Some of the fascinating creative non-fiction we've been reading in this class include:
Some of the fascinating creative non-fiction we've been reading in this class include:
Plain Text: Essays by Nancy Mairs
Black, White, and Jewish: Autobiography of a Shifting Self by Rebecca Walker
And a couple books I purchased today at a used bookstore (hopefully I'll get around to reading them this summer):
Truth and Beauty: A Friendship by Ann Patchett
Sunday, 5 February 2012
.on my birth and football.
Since it's Super Bowl Sunday I thought I'd share a piece I wrote about my birth and football for my Feminist Theory: Writing the Body course. After reading a brief excerpt of Rebecca Walker's birth story in her memoir Black, White, and Jewish, we were given the option to compose our own birth stories.
I had already written a version of my birth story for the Feminist Memoir class I took last year, so I decided to write another version, one that was more male-oriented, looking more at my dad's role in my birth. I think most would agree that our mothers are often considered much more in the writing and remembering of our birth stories, because they are the ones physically 'giving birth.' But, it's also important to consider that the day of birth is the first time the father can 'physically' bond with the child outside the mother's belly (I emphasize physical because they can bond by speaking to the child or feeling the baby kick). The mother is physically and emotionally bonding with the baby as s/he forms within her, but the father is only able to physically bond with the child once s/he emerges from the womb. I hinted at this in my juxtaposition of my emergence from my mother's belly and resting on my dad's 'new daddy-belly.'
I should have known from my birth story that football would forever be a significance when it comes to the men in my life. A significance that couldn’t help presenting itself on my wedding day; my father’s toast ending with a Cowboys t-shirt given to me with the command to “wear it when you’re in our house.” To which my father-in-law started his toast with a Colts “rebuttal.” All I could do was smile to myself, glimpsing my husband’s groom’s cake – a football field with a giant Indianapolis Colts emblem – and raise my glass for a toast to a new relationship with a man and football.
I’ve seen the video of the nurses wiping me down, my chubby body shivering – how cold we must feel in that sterile, frigid room, after being enveloped in warmth and heartbeats. One of the nurses began filming then, because I saw mom, worn out but gleaming, and dad’s young face, his dark curly hair and mustache that he would soon shave because it left scratches on my face when he held me. The camera spanned the room, showing the nurses dipping my tiny paws in ink and weighing me, my fat body left on naked, natural display. I lay there, formed and ready to take on the changes of life – small fingers that would grow calluses from years of playing guitar; blue eyes that would turn green, mom swears to match the shade of my name; short tuffs of hair that would turn into stubborn fuzz for most of middle school; strong thighs perfect for swimming. The nurses swaddled me in a blanket and mom says that’s the only time my cries softened, a brief reminder of the comforting envelopment my mother’s belly had provided.
I saw my grandparents and uncle “ooing” and “ahhing,” pointing at me through the glass window – the first grandchild, such large shoes to fill with such tiny feet to show for it. When they finally brought me home, dad put in the taped Dallas game and I napped on his new-daddy belly, comforted by his breathing and the sound of football in the background. Mom took our picture, me slumbering mouth wide open, dad smiling contentedly.
I had already written a version of my birth story for the Feminist Memoir class I took last year, so I decided to write another version, one that was more male-oriented, looking more at my dad's role in my birth. I think most would agree that our mothers are often considered much more in the writing and remembering of our birth stories, because they are the ones physically 'giving birth.' But, it's also important to consider that the day of birth is the first time the father can 'physically' bond with the child outside the mother's belly (I emphasize physical because they can bond by speaking to the child or feeling the baby kick). The mother is physically and emotionally bonding with the baby as s/he forms within her, but the father is only able to physically bond with the child once s/he emerges from the womb. I hinted at this in my juxtaposition of my emergence from my mother's belly and resting on my dad's 'new daddy-belly.'
"On my birth and football"
- - -
It was a Monday night and the Dallas Cowboys were playing. My mom started having strong contractions so dad set the VCR before they drove the hour and a half to mom’s OBGYN in Tennessee. They checked her in, but I was in no hurry to make my grand arrival. They walked the parking lot together, mom in her tight Keds, her feet swollen in her shoes, dad rubbing her back and holding her clammy hand. I was their first child so everything was harder than my brother’s smooth, easy delivery. She felt me standing straight up in her stomach, stretching my legs and arms inside her, but I wasn’t coming out until I was ready. When I finally arrived Tuesday afternoon, the one thing they remember most was the scream that erupted the moment I came out. Mom says it was me, yelling, “I am Woman, hear me roar,” and I haven’t stopped since. I’ve seen the video of the nurses wiping me down, my chubby body shivering – how cold we must feel in that sterile, frigid room, after being enveloped in warmth and heartbeats. One of the nurses began filming then, because I saw mom, worn out but gleaming, and dad’s young face, his dark curly hair and mustache that he would soon shave because it left scratches on my face when he held me. The camera spanned the room, showing the nurses dipping my tiny paws in ink and weighing me, my fat body left on naked, natural display. I lay there, formed and ready to take on the changes of life – small fingers that would grow calluses from years of playing guitar; blue eyes that would turn green, mom swears to match the shade of my name; short tuffs of hair that would turn into stubborn fuzz for most of middle school; strong thighs perfect for swimming. The nurses swaddled me in a blanket and mom says that’s the only time my cries softened, a brief reminder of the comforting envelopment my mother’s belly had provided.
I saw my grandparents and uncle “ooing” and “ahhing,” pointing at me through the glass window – the first grandchild, such large shoes to fill with such tiny feet to show for it. When they finally brought me home, dad put in the taped Dallas game and I napped on his new-daddy belly, comforted by his breathing and the sound of football in the background. Mom took our picture, me slumbering mouth wide open, dad smiling contentedly.
- - -
From that snapshot on, football became a comfort for me, and a connection to the male figure in my life. Later, when I started dating my husband – the only guy I ever dated who watched football – he was amazed at the time it took for me to fall asleep once a game was on. Within seconds, he says, I am snoring contentedly, hushed by the sounds of the commentators, crowds, and ESPN theme music. One day I realized it must have become a kind of lullaby for me - - Sunday evenings with football on after church, mom and me slumbering on the couch, dad quietly enjoying his game. I grew up understanding this male pastime, an understanding that many might not comprehend. I realize most girls wouldn’t be okay with a Peyton Manning poster in their bedroom; they might think that could be a clue of my husband’s “unhealthy” relationship to a football player. But, then again, my dad taped Monday Night Football the day before I was born so he could share the experience of watching our first game together.
Saturday, 29 January 2011
.what's in a name?.
This week in my Feminist Memoir class, we devoted most of our time to writing with prompts and examples from other memoirs. It was comforting therapy for the week I was having so far (which turned out fine in the end), and I really enjoyed having to sit down and write, getting to share and hear others' stories.
One of the prompts made us first list all the verifiable facts about our name - how it's spelled, what it means, who else shares it, how we get it, etc. - and the second part required us to take the "creative leap" and make connections, writing about our names from the "inside out." I enjoyed it so much I had my own Eng 101 students do in class yesterday and I can't wait to read them when I get their midterm portfolios on Monday. Here's what I came up with! (Try it - it's fun!)
My name is Jade. J-A-D-E. Most often when I tell people they call me Jane or Jada. But it's Jade like the color, the stone, the Chinese buffet down the street. Mom got it from an 80's movie she adored when her and Dad were dating, but I can never think of the title*. The theme song was "Endless Love" - and that's their song too. For the longest time our car tags said JDE-ISRL for my name and brother, Israel's and people thought we were Jewish. I'll never forget being stopped in a drive-thru when we were on vacation and having someone ask if it stood for Judea-Israel. But it's just Jade. J-A-D-E.
*I've since figured out (by asking Mom) that the movie is in fact called, "Endless Love" also...
I love my name,
but I hate having to introduce myself.
I've almost come to the conclusion
that a green-colored name badge would be a good hint.
"Hi, my name is Jade."
"Hello Jane" -
it always goes the same way.
I'm left wondering whether I should rudely interrupt
and spell it out - J-A-D-E, not J-A-N-E!
Other times I make the mistake
of putting the emphasis on the "duh" sound
and people mistake it for Jada.
Most times I let it slide,
hoping they'll eventually figure it out,
but other times I do interrupt with a proud correction
of the name given to me by two love-struck parents-to-be,
who heard the name in their favorite 80's movie.
One of the prompts made us first list all the verifiable facts about our name - how it's spelled, what it means, who else shares it, how we get it, etc. - and the second part required us to take the "creative leap" and make connections, writing about our names from the "inside out." I enjoyed it so much I had my own Eng 101 students do in class yesterday and I can't wait to read them when I get their midterm portfolios on Monday. Here's what I came up with! (Try it - it's fun!)
My name is Jade. J-A-D-E. Most often when I tell people they call me Jane or Jada. But it's Jade like the color, the stone, the Chinese buffet down the street. Mom got it from an 80's movie she adored when her and Dad were dating, but I can never think of the title*. The theme song was "Endless Love" - and that's their song too. For the longest time our car tags said JDE-ISRL for my name and brother, Israel's and people thought we were Jewish. I'll never forget being stopped in a drive-thru when we were on vacation and having someone ask if it stood for Judea-Israel. But it's just Jade. J-A-D-E.
*I've since figured out (by asking Mom) that the movie is in fact called, "Endless Love" also...
I love my name,
but I hate having to introduce myself.
I've almost come to the conclusion
that a green-colored name badge would be a good hint.
"Hi, my name is Jade."
"Hello Jane" -
it always goes the same way.
I'm left wondering whether I should rudely interrupt
and spell it out - J-A-D-E, not J-A-N-E!
Other times I make the mistake
of putting the emphasis on the "duh" sound
and people mistake it for Jada.
Most times I let it slide,
hoping they'll eventually figure it out,
but other times I do interrupt with a proud correction
of the name given to me by two love-struck parents-to-be,
who heard the name in their favorite 80's movie.
Thursday, 5 August 2010
Cameos
Her name. Her emblem. There was a complexity for me remembering the cameo, and the more I thought about it, the more complex it became. To inscribe a profile in the cold rock. To cut a human face into what had once flowed, fiery and devouring, past farms and villages and livestock. To make a statement of something which was already a statement of random and unsparing destruction. All these acts were very far from being simple. They were ironic and self-conscious. They employed artifice and irony. They put the stamp of human remembrance on the material of natural destruction.
Cameos
Their cameos were pinned and fastened on dress collars,
clasped chains around their slender necks -
antique gold framing, fingernail-colored background,
a French tip resembling the form of a woman.
From the side, you could barely tell them apart
from their small daguerreotypes -
like a fashionable identification.
Nanny's was rounded and full,
and made in a time when it meant something
to be the real thing. So was Granny's.
Mom's was an oval-shaped reproduction,
a shade darker,
a weathered coral shell,
roughened by the sand and wind.
They were kept on top of dressers,
inside a bed of blue velvet,
cushioned and protected against the world -
hidden like the rare jewels they were.
When mom would loosen it from her neck
on Sundays after church,
I would sneak back to take a peak at the small figure -
her back straight, eyes forward, head gracefully balanced.
Turning sideways, catching a glimpse
of the little figure in the mirror,
I didn't see the same feminine profile -
only wild curls sprouting from a head slightly
cranned to the left.
I laid the cameo back in its small box,
wondering if I would ever have one of my own.
Sunday, 11 July 2010
.electronic or print?.
Kindle, eBook, iPad, Nook. vs. the "hold-in-your-hand, honest page-turning" book.
This was a highly debated subject for my Lit. Theory class this past quarter. Personally, I am in favor of print. Believe me, I love my technology and hardly ever go a day without getting on my computer (I just about couldn't stand not having internet for a week when it went down at our apartment), but I just can't give up the rows and shelves (and piles in Scott's case) of books in our apartment. I can't give up browsing the titles, touching the spines, and picking up the book to thumb through the crisp new pages at a book store (or used pages in the library). I know many respectable people, even some literary people, argue that the new electronic books allow one to carry around thousands of books with them, but who is honestly going to need to carry them around all the time? Another argument is that printed texts cost so much more to produce; but is that what it's all really about, or should be about?? Perhaps this argument will never be resolved, and hopefully it will never need to, but I just hope that the end of printed books will never come in my time.
{here's a poem I wrote on the subject}
"Ode to a Book"
I lie reading a book before bed,
comforted by the soft light of my lamp,
and the slow rhythm of turning the page.
The powdery feel of paper on my fingertips
as I lift the page up and over
to reveal more of Lily's concern with the bees
and a black madonna in a living room.
This is what reading is about, I sigh
thinking of someone else
more than likely tucked in bed just as I am
staring into a small bulbish screen.
Where is the lamp beside their bed?
Where is the comforting powdery turning of the page?
Where is the rollar coaster thrill of lifting it up and over?
Nothing.
Just a rectangular portal that can hold
thousands upon thousands, or so I've heard.
I imagine all of the books standing on their computerized shelf:
soldiers ready to serve their duty on the screen.
I lovingly take down the titles with their colorful spines;
thumbing over the pages with a faint smile
then raising it to my nose
taking in the smell of paper,
of years,
of wisdom.
My fellow reader views words backlit like flies hanging on a light.
Buzzing. Wurring.
These discomforting thoughts finally leave my mind
as I sink lower in my strawberry sheets,
and follow the small black ants skipping across my page
lifting them
up and over.
up and over.
{Another poem I've written recently after reading Walter Benjamin's "Unpacking My Library"}
"Ode to a Library Card"
"...one thing should be noted: the phenomenon of collecting [books] loses its meaning as it loses its personal owner. Even though public collections may be less objectionable socially and more useful academically than private collections, the objects get their due only in the latter." - Walter Benjamin - "Unpacking My Library"
A golden plastic ticket
giving me admission to
rows upon rows of voices whispering
under the pointed nose of the
middle-aged cardigan up front,
telling their stories,
sharing their histories,
bearing their flaws.
As a child we carried it with both hands
and reached it up to large eyes that looked through
magnifying glasses, we were granted two weeks with a dog riding in a taxi,
or an absurd breakfast of green eggs & ham.
Later it was carried in back pockets or wallets -
often cracked or broken,
caught in the wash or stolen.
We didn't care so much because it wasn't so cool to know much
so we'd stand around the magazines just to be safe.
Some of us decided the laminated treasure could save our lives
and we'd stash the bounty they rewarded us in book bags -
bring them out to hide behind,
comforted by the coffee stain on pg. 103
(evidence there was another reader out there,
an anonymous companion who shared our interest for
words and voices.)
No, we don't have rooms devoted to leather-bound first editions
and hand-painted children's books,
we can't take our guests into our studies
to wind through mahogoney bookcases
to sit in finely-cushioned chairs
and bask in the floating dust of bookcases.
Instead we borrow and share, and leave our own legacies on
crinkled pages worn from a day of beach-reading.
So Benjamin, you can keep unpacking your library, but as for me,
I'll take a public collection any day.
{photo from: http://jpsblog.org/wp-content/uploads/2009/12/ebook-vs-book.jpg}
This was a highly debated subject for my Lit. Theory class this past quarter. Personally, I am in favor of print. Believe me, I love my technology and hardly ever go a day without getting on my computer (I just about couldn't stand not having internet for a week when it went down at our apartment), but I just can't give up the rows and shelves (and piles in Scott's case) of books in our apartment. I can't give up browsing the titles, touching the spines, and picking up the book to thumb through the crisp new pages at a book store (or used pages in the library). I know many respectable people, even some literary people, argue that the new electronic books allow one to carry around thousands of books with them, but who is honestly going to need to carry them around all the time? Another argument is that printed texts cost so much more to produce; but is that what it's all really about, or should be about?? Perhaps this argument will never be resolved, and hopefully it will never need to, but I just hope that the end of printed books will never come in my time.
{here's a poem I wrote on the subject}
"Ode to a Book"
I lie reading a book before bed,
comforted by the soft light of my lamp,
and the slow rhythm of turning the page.
The powdery feel of paper on my fingertips
as I lift the page up and over
to reveal more of Lily's concern with the bees
and a black madonna in a living room.
This is what reading is about, I sigh
thinking of someone else
more than likely tucked in bed just as I am
staring into a small bulbish screen.
Where is the lamp beside their bed?
Where is the comforting powdery turning of the page?
Where is the rollar coaster thrill of lifting it up and over?
Nothing.
Just a rectangular portal that can hold
thousands upon thousands, or so I've heard.
I imagine all of the books standing on their computerized shelf:
soldiers ready to serve their duty on the screen.
I lovingly take down the titles with their colorful spines;
thumbing over the pages with a faint smile
then raising it to my nose
taking in the smell of paper,
of years,
of wisdom.
My fellow reader views words backlit like flies hanging on a light.
Buzzing. Wurring.
These discomforting thoughts finally leave my mind
as I sink lower in my strawberry sheets,
and follow the small black ants skipping across my page
lifting them
up and over.
up and over.
{Another poem I've written recently after reading Walter Benjamin's "Unpacking My Library"}
"Ode to a Library Card"
"...one thing should be noted: the phenomenon of collecting [books] loses its meaning as it loses its personal owner. Even though public collections may be less objectionable socially and more useful academically than private collections, the objects get their due only in the latter." - Walter Benjamin - "Unpacking My Library"
A golden plastic ticket
giving me admission to
rows upon rows of voices whispering
under the pointed nose of the
middle-aged cardigan up front,
telling their stories,
sharing their histories,
bearing their flaws.
As a child we carried it with both hands
and reached it up to large eyes that looked through
magnifying glasses, we were granted two weeks with a dog riding in a taxi,
or an absurd breakfast of green eggs & ham.
Later it was carried in back pockets or wallets -
often cracked or broken,
caught in the wash or stolen.
We didn't care so much because it wasn't so cool to know much
so we'd stand around the magazines just to be safe.
Some of us decided the laminated treasure could save our lives
and we'd stash the bounty they rewarded us in book bags -
bring them out to hide behind,
comforted by the coffee stain on pg. 103
(evidence there was another reader out there,
an anonymous companion who shared our interest for
words and voices.)
No, we don't have rooms devoted to leather-bound first editions
and hand-painted children's books,
we can't take our guests into our studies
to wind through mahogoney bookcases
to sit in finely-cushioned chairs
and bask in the floating dust of bookcases.
Instead we borrow and share, and leave our own legacies on
crinkled pages worn from a day of beach-reading.
So Benjamin, you can keep unpacking your library, but as for me,
I'll take a public collection any day.
{photo from: http://jpsblog.org/wp-content/uploads/2009/12/ebook-vs-book.jpg}
Sunday, 18 April 2010
Three Minute Fiction
I love npr.org. It's where I go for my news, recipes, and most importantly, suggestions for new books to read. While surfing the site a little over a month ago, I found a contest called, "Three-minute Fiction." Basically, you had to look at a picture they provided as inspiration (included below) and write a (very) short story, 500-600 words long. I decided to enter round three of the contest (round four is going on now). They said that 3,000 people entered the contest! I thought I would post it for my readers' enjoyment so tell me what you think!
He said he'd never meant to dance with her. He said he'd never meant for anything to happen. I remember hearing the panic in his deep voice as he lifted the receiver - I could tell from miles away. We had been married for eighteen years and it was the first time he had cheated on me. I sat in our house, barren and bitter for it, and told him I would see him when he returned home.
"More coffee, ma'am," the young barista says spying my empty mug. I always find it funny they call these kids, "baristas." It makes them sound so official, so distinguished. Spending their days mixing and serving coffee drinks, usually poor grad students with their eyes bloodshot.
"No thank you," and I let him take the cup from my calloused hands.
Ma'am? Do I look that old? I take a peak at my appearance in the window. My eyes seem never-ending and I realize again why I'm sitting here. She will be wearing a flannel red and black shirt with black leggings and boots. She was very detailed about that. I would never be able to do something so…sure…knowing the day before exactly what I was going to wear, especially in a situation like this. I think back to this morning when I changed several times and the pile of clothes that would welcome me to my empty house. She must be a very confident young lady, no doubt like her mother.
I remember the day that I received her email; I almost checked it as SPAM. Now I think back to how easy the last month would have been if I had. She probably would have found me anyway. I remember staring at my laptop, wondering if maybe I was having a nervous breakdown, dreaming, or imaging things. Walking over to the kitchen sink I ran cold water into my cupped hands and immersed my sweating face. I saw his picture in the reflection of the kitchen window, the giant one I had framed for his funeral. It was only several weeks before that I sat in the Catholic Church downtown and carried his ashes in a simple brown urn, meeting that same photo at the front of the alter. It all came back to me then and I reached down for more cold water. I walked back over to my computer to see if the words had somehow rearranged themselves on the screen to say something less shocking, something less difficult to deal with. No – I wasn’t dreaming.
A month later, and here I sit at the window of a coffee shop looking for a young girl in flannel and leggings and perhaps his eyes. I reach over to the next table and pick up today’s newspaper. I don’t read it now, though. I merely stare at the words and look down at the smudge my damp fingers have left on the page, feeling like this is perhaps the only mark I’ve left on the world.
A flash of red appears among the crowd outside and I see her. Her young , petite body moves confidently along the street. She is on her cell, no doubt with her anxious mother. I suddenly realize what had alluded me for the last month as I see his eyes and his nose in her face. My late husband’s daughter walks into the coffee shop only to be greeted by an empty table and a newspaper. I’ve written her a message: “I can’t do this. You have his eyes.”
Monday, 22 March 2010
Christmas all year round...
It has now been almost 80 days since Scott and I tied the knot and we are still recieving wedding gifts! Just this weekend, we recieved some items from Pampered Chef, four very cute mixing bowls, napkins, and a Willowbrook picture frame and figurine. Getting married can mean presents for months to come and it can feel like Christmas all year round! Another gift that was given to us this weekend from my dear great-aunt and her husband, was a tea set by Noble Excellence. It came in a large hat box and contains little tea cups and plates, a saucer, and a darling little pot (which I have included below). Each little cup displays a picture and a few lines from "Twas the Night Before Christmas." I'm so excited about displaying them for our first Christmas together as a married couple on our make-shift mantel (since we live in an apartment, we just bought a shelf that we are planning to use for Christmas decorations and for hanging our stockings).
In other news, along with getting two more guitar referals this weekend (!!!), today I found out that my poem won second place in the John Fox Jr. Poetry Contest. I will recieve $50 in the mail soon, along with a booklet including my poem and the other winners. I always enter my poems or short stories in this yearly contest. It reminds me of Jo March in Little Women recieving compensation for her short stories when I recieve my own check in the mail.
SHOWER
Wide-hipped women come out of their houses;
come down from their hollers and make the
religious pilgrimage.
They’ll have wrapped up
pots
pans
towels
curtains
“Why when (Roger/Harold/Thomas/Nathan/John) and I were married, we didn’t have a thing to our name.”
silver spoons
knives
forks
“Another girl gettin’ married off – seems like just yesterday she come out of her momma screamin’, curly headed with fat cheeks.”
handpainted plates
hand-written recipes
“Why she won’t even cook – probably make him eat out every night.”
television sets
movie players
music players
Some of their men have gone on to Jesus and others are there in body only.
This is what they live for – a girl becoming a wife, a woman.
Marching in with their odd-shaped packages,
print Easter dresses worn even in November – coal dust clinging to their hemlines
candlesticks
picture frames
mixing bowls
They sit around together, little hens pecking each little detail.
They’ll be chewing on this one for a while, like the tobacco stained on their men’s teeth.
telephones
address books
They’ll make a note to call up a prayer chain when they get home,
Go back to their hollers, back to their houses and tell (Roger/Harold/Thomas/Nathan/John):
“Why they won’t be half as happy as we were.”
If he’s there, he’ll smile at her, peeling his eyes away from the television set
to say, “That’s nice, dear.”
If he’s not, she’ll take his picture down from the shelf
and he’ll smile at her, uniformed and forever young.
Either way, she’ll walk in the kitchen with a handkerchief,
wiping a tear from her cheek.
Monday, 22 February 2010
Billy Collins
One of my favorite poets is Billy Collins. He often writes about the art of writing poetry. Here is one called "The Poems of Others," that comes from his new book of poems, Ballistics:
The Poems of Others
Is there no end to it
the way they keep popping up in magazines
then congregate in the drafty orphanage of a book?
You would think the elm would speak up,
but like the dawn it only inspires - then more of them
appear.
Not even the government can put a stop to it.
Just this morning, one approached me like a possum,
snout twitching, impossible to ignore.
Another looked out of the water at me like an otter.
How can anyone dismiss them
when they dangle from the eaves of houses
and throw themselves in our paths?
Perhaps I am being harsh, even ridiculous.
It could have been the day at the zoo
that put me this way - all the children by the cages -
as if only my poems had the right to exist
and people would come down from the hills
in the evening to view them in rooms of white marble.
So I will take the advice of the mentors
and put this in a drawer for a week
maybe even a year or two and then have a calmer
look at it -
but for now I am going to take a walk
through this nearly silent neighborhood
that it my winter resting place, my hibernaculum,
and get my mind off the poems of others
even as they peer down from the trees
or bark at my passing in the guise of local dogs.
And here is a poem that I wrote about poetry and writing, called "Writing Circles:"
The Poems of Others
Is there no end to it
the way they keep popping up in magazines
then congregate in the drafty orphanage of a book?
You would think the elm would speak up,
but like the dawn it only inspires - then more of them
appear.
Not even the government can put a stop to it.
Just this morning, one approached me like a possum,
snout twitching, impossible to ignore.
Another looked out of the water at me like an otter.
How can anyone dismiss them
when they dangle from the eaves of houses
and throw themselves in our paths?
Perhaps I am being harsh, even ridiculous.
It could have been the day at the zoo
that put me this way - all the children by the cages -
as if only my poems had the right to exist
and people would come down from the hills
in the evening to view them in rooms of white marble.
So I will take the advice of the mentors
and put this in a drawer for a week
maybe even a year or two and then have a calmer
look at it -
but for now I am going to take a walk
through this nearly silent neighborhood
that it my winter resting place, my hibernaculum,
and get my mind off the poems of others
even as they peer down from the trees
or bark at my passing in the guise of local dogs.
And here is a poem that I wrote about poetry and writing, called "Writing Circles:"
I say that everything has been thought of
Every metaphor and simile has been compared
And every phrase of mere brilliance has been placed within its perfect syntax
I imagine the last poet glancing at the sky and seeing life’s melody play before him in the clouds, turning to his typewriter and painting it for others to see and hear
The lonely woman in the park who sees the green grass before her and imagines the small world that plays out beneath her bare feet, writing the small screenplay in her leather-bound notebook.
And the clever college graduate who pulls out his Blackberry to discover that time is a cage that traps us all in its sad game of catch and we have no base to wait on and think for one moment, sending along his message that will be read once and tossed into a recycle bin
The poet’s typewritten words are later found within the messages of a recycled newspaper advertisement about a city whose sky is polluted by paper factory smoke
The lonely woman’s ink seeps through the ground to the ants below, who play out the script she wrote for them and carry away the small pieces of paper one word at a time
And the clever college graduate’s message is lost within the galaxy of cyberspace where moons and planets spin around a black hole and never quite find their way to the light of the sun
And I lay down my pencil, thankful for the revolving life we live and the way things must come full circle…
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