I have three poems coming out in the 2008 edition of Washburn University's Inscape: "Grandpa," "My Dad's Hands," and "The Battle of Buna-Guna."
Proof that good things come from poetry workshops. Thank you, Elizabeth Dodd.
You'll see a patriarchal theme with these. Two are based on my Grandpa Lentz who died a year ago and the other is about my dad. I have a need to explore my relationships with my parents and grandparents. That's why you'll see me writing about my mom and dad and grandparents a lot. Not so much my brother because, well, we have a good, solid relationship.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Monday, December 10, 2007
Wait
After having finally finished the epic paper saga on Thursday, I have since lapsed into a braindead state.
Friday was filled with icy weather and an anxious mind. I couldn't come down from the heightened state of the last month or more to just relax, plus I had a counselling session which always gets me thinking about the things that cause my anxiety.
Saturday was productive. I cleaned. You see, ever since my first semester at HCC, I have an intense urge to clean, organize, and purge at the end of every semester. It's a therapeutic event. I keep all of my old notes that I think could be pertinent in my future (I even have notes from my sophomore year in high school). I keep all of the essays that I've written in college. So I went through all of that and got rid of pounds of paper, condensed my load. It felt good to let go some of those tests from my senior Honors English class with Ms Groves. I didn't remember this, but did you know that I actually wrote essays in high school about the Backstreet Boys and my penpals associated with them? I was totally all about my KTBSPA license plate. Anyway, I was clinically obsessed. Those essays I don't file with my academic essays, but I have to keep them around so that I can pity my youthful self every time I see them.
Sunday and Monday were pretty much wasted days. My productivity level dropped to .5 on a 10 point scale. I'm exhausted, and my mind just does not want to study for a semiotics final. Plus, the weather is. . .bad, so I can't very well go out. And I don't have any money to go Christmas shopping anyway.
Now that the semester is pretty much behind me, I can look back and see what went wrong. I really don't think that the work load was any more than I had during any semester at K-State. It's the fact that it's graduate school that has skewed my mind. Ever since my senior year of high school, I have set these extremely high standards for myself, and I have met them every semester. I had high standards when the schools didn't expect that performance from me or anyone. But now, I feel like (and it's true) the school does have extremely high expectations of me, and now I have to meet them. It's not just me pushing me; it's me pushing me because they're pushing me. It's a different scenario than I've ever been in. It doesn't have to be this hard, but my anxiety came in to defend against the pressure...and it ended up hurting me. If next semester is going to be any better, I have to calm down and have confidence. Yes, graduate school is more work, but I made it harder than it actually was. So all of my complaining? It's my fault.
There's an ice storm outside. They might close campus tomorrow. That doesn't affect me final-wise--only in that we had scheduled a semiotics review session for tomorrow afternoon. But I do have to go to work. I love work, but it's going to be hard working a lot again. I know I definitely have to, though, because of the money thing. And there are books piling piling piling up for me.
I watched The Hills season finale tonight. (I know, I know. I'm lame.) I want to go to Paris. Again. I always wanted to study abroad, but I never got the opportunity. One of my life goals/dreams is to live in another country for at least a year. I want a vacation.
Friday was filled with icy weather and an anxious mind. I couldn't come down from the heightened state of the last month or more to just relax, plus I had a counselling session which always gets me thinking about the things that cause my anxiety.
Saturday was productive. I cleaned. You see, ever since my first semester at HCC, I have an intense urge to clean, organize, and purge at the end of every semester. It's a therapeutic event. I keep all of my old notes that I think could be pertinent in my future (I even have notes from my sophomore year in high school). I keep all of the essays that I've written in college. So I went through all of that and got rid of pounds of paper, condensed my load. It felt good to let go some of those tests from my senior Honors English class with Ms Groves. I didn't remember this, but did you know that I actually wrote essays in high school about the Backstreet Boys and my penpals associated with them? I was totally all about my KTBSPA license plate. Anyway, I was clinically obsessed. Those essays I don't file with my academic essays, but I have to keep them around so that I can pity my youthful self every time I see them.
Sunday and Monday were pretty much wasted days. My productivity level dropped to .5 on a 10 point scale. I'm exhausted, and my mind just does not want to study for a semiotics final. Plus, the weather is. . .bad, so I can't very well go out. And I don't have any money to go Christmas shopping anyway.
Now that the semester is pretty much behind me, I can look back and see what went wrong. I really don't think that the work load was any more than I had during any semester at K-State. It's the fact that it's graduate school that has skewed my mind. Ever since my senior year of high school, I have set these extremely high standards for myself, and I have met them every semester. I had high standards when the schools didn't expect that performance from me or anyone. But now, I feel like (and it's true) the school does have extremely high expectations of me, and now I have to meet them. It's not just me pushing me; it's me pushing me because they're pushing me. It's a different scenario than I've ever been in. It doesn't have to be this hard, but my anxiety came in to defend against the pressure...and it ended up hurting me. If next semester is going to be any better, I have to calm down and have confidence. Yes, graduate school is more work, but I made it harder than it actually was. So all of my complaining? It's my fault.
There's an ice storm outside. They might close campus tomorrow. That doesn't affect me final-wise--only in that we had scheduled a semiotics review session for tomorrow afternoon. But I do have to go to work. I love work, but it's going to be hard working a lot again. I know I definitely have to, though, because of the money thing. And there are books piling piling piling up for me.
I watched The Hills season finale tonight. (I know, I know. I'm lame.) I want to go to Paris. Again. I always wanted to study abroad, but I never got the opportunity. One of my life goals/dreams is to live in another country for at least a year. I want a vacation.
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
KIOSK 37
The University of Kansas's magazine combining design and literature debuts its 37th volume today. You should check it out. I'm in it with the poem "Soak."
I'll have to thank that spider for getting me published...that is, if he wasn't--
I'll have to thank that spider for getting me published...that is, if he wasn't--
I bite my nails.
Past discomfort but
never to blood. Just
ragged fragments
of a supposed protection.
Just jagged shingles.
I bite my nails.
My dad used to tape
all my fingers or swab them
with who knows what.
I still didn't stop.
Even when I paint
each one to perfection,
hours later chips stick
to cuticles. Color flecks
on my tongue.
I bite my nails, but don't
think I don't want to stop,
be ladylike, prim, simply
trimmed. If only they weren't
so accessible to nerves.
All these nerves that make me
chew my lip, chew my inner cheeks,
chew on anything but especially
these nails. Biting down the layers
that could protect me.
--Kari Jackson, 2007
never to blood. Just
ragged fragments
of a supposed protection.
Just jagged shingles.
I bite my nails.
My dad used to tape
all my fingers or swab them
with who knows what.
I still didn't stop.
Even when I paint
each one to perfection,
hours later chips stick
to cuticles. Color flecks
on my tongue.
I bite my nails, but don't
think I don't want to stop,
be ladylike, prim, simply
trimmed. If only they weren't
so accessible to nerves.
All these nerves that make me
chew my lip, chew my inner cheeks,
chew on anything but especially
these nails. Biting down the layers
that could protect me.
--Kari Jackson, 2007
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