shut your eyes

and think of somewhere...somewhere cold and caked in snow. (Here and at home) By the fire we break the quiet, learn to wear each other well.

"Shut Your Eyes" by dear Snow Patrol.

Oh, the winter storm that had been forecast and doubted and warned and doubted and here. Oh, the wind. Oh, the fact that I might be grounded in Hutchinson for another day.

At least I have a new green iPod c/o the best little brother there is. At least I have final projects left to grade. At least I have plenty of clothes. At least I fed Snickers through Friday night. At least I now have my trusty old foam mattress pad on this hardest of hard beds. At least I'm healthy and safe this Christmas.

Cheers to you and yours!

good

It's been a good morning, though the nerves are still there. I'm convinced it's from being overwhelmed at what's before me. Two and a half months until my thesis is due. If I think about it that way--which is the only way I'm able to think of it--it's frightening.

I entered the New Letters essay contest this year and lost, rightly so. I read the winning essay today: "Three Hooks" by Robyn Anspach. Beautiful. Broken. Imaginary. Hard. I longed to be broken like her work.

I'm broken in other ways, more local.

I have nineteen pieces in the works. 19. NINETEEN. And they continue to accumulate, unfinished.

No no

As a celebration of the end of the semester, we planned a Bathtub potluck for last night. Now, I don't do much cooking. Really, I don't cook at all. But baking? That I can do. That I love. So I was concerned about finding anything to cook for the potluck. I searched through potluck recipes online but found nothing that sounded appealing and took less than ten ingredients that I didn't have. The idea of cooking a casserole sounded horrible. I considered getting a couple Little Cesar's Hot-N-Ready pizzas. Lame, I know. I mentioned this cooking plight to Amy while we were in our office yesterday, and she gave me permission to bake. I bake good cookies, she said. And that was the word I needed. So I baked a double-layer Devil's Food cake and baked chocolate chip cookies.

We had a lovely time, the five of us, chatting in my dining room. We ate cookies and Amy's rice but no cake. So now I have this big, whole cake to eat. Who wants it? Well, I had one slice earlier. But I'm revolutionizing my health habits again, so I can't eat the whole thing.

"Winds are whipping waves up like skyscrapers, and they harder they hit me the less I seem to bruise."

It's a KT Tunstall kind of morning. The morning hasn't been entirely productive, but it's getting there. Again, I keep staring at all of my writing ideas and thinking how it would be great to write on all of them, but then I don't know where to start.

Now let's go back to John Mayer for a minute. Listen to "War of My Life."

What am I going to read first this break? Technically, I have to read my students' projects, but that is the last thing I want to think about. I keep forgetting that I have to grade them. Can't I just be done? Can't I just keep these students and not grade anymore? For the record, 11:00 am is the best teaching time.

My tree. I refuse to admit that Christmas is one week away. I haven't soaked in the tree yet. I haven't enjoyed the holiday season yet. I have a feeling the tree will be up through January. Not out of laziness but out of pleasure.

Additional

And, just over a week later, here's an article about Great Grandma: Children Cherish 'Dearest' Mother.

Yes, here I am keeping her memory alive. I'm writing about her, too. Writing about that slumber party. Writing about lawn care.

I have so many writings going about so many things...I'm a bit overwhelmed. Where do I begin? Where do I continue? Business cards? The dash? Black hole? I'm a lot overwhelmed.

Actually, I just discovered that my mom has not thrown away my business card collection. I couldn't believe it. I thought they were gone. But now I can go through them at Christmas and write from the real thing--not just what I remember or imagine they were.

I was a strange, organized child. I could give you the number of a Stain Master representative in Hutchinson. And so much more.

Glow

It's been a strange week. Up and down. Cold.

But at least I have a Christmas Tree. I got it right before Thanksgiving--on sale at Target. A $20 6-ft Canadian Fir. Skinny. Small. When I put the three parts together and flocked out the tips, it still looked skimpy. Then I strung clear lights around it. Then I hung a few inherited ornaments and balls collected from previous years' post-Christmas clearance. Snowmen inhabited the tree. I found a tree skirt for $1 at Dollar Tree.

And so it glows. Snickers, partially bald right now, immediately took to lying underneath and kicking at the skirt.

This Christmas, there probably won't be any presents underneath. Someday, either this tree or a larger one in a home will oversee a family of gifts. Someday.

Not that future but another is on my mind. Three months until my thesis is due. Can you believe it? Three months of writing and editing. Well, actually only two more months of writing and then one month of solid editing. It's scary again. And then there's graduation (conditional upon successfully writing and defending my thesis) and a job and movement.

Is there hope? Oh, yes. I am looking forward to the challenge of something new. And right now, I'm disappointed that I only have two more days with my 101 students this semester. This time of the semester is hard--it's saying goodbye after just really getting to know one another. We mesh, and then it's over. And this is my last time teaching 101 at KU, which is sad. I don't want to not teach. But what to do?

One hundred five and more

And so the era ends. My great grandma, Clara Jackson, died Friday morning at the age of 105.5. Or, more specifically, one hundred five years, eight months, and one day. March 26, 1904 - November 27, 2009.

You can see her and read more about her here. As well as her obituary.

Ever since she turned 100, since she moved in with her son and daughter-in-law (my grandparents), since I moved away and began the tradition of only returning to Hutchinson four or five times a year, I have been considering every visit with her my last. I would hug her, kiss her on the cheek, and let her know how pretty she looked in her purple shirt. Her short-term memory got worse in the last few years, but she would reminisce about her childhood, her children's youth, and her 70+ years of marriage like it was the day before.

I have been reminiscing, too, over the last couple of weeks. We were pals, me and great grandma, particularly when I was young. She babysat me. We did calisthenics in the living room. She helped me build a fort out of blankets and chairs. She let me eat a whole bag of marshmallows. She let me help her make her famous cinnamon rolls. She let me stand on the floor heater to warm my feet. She taught me to sew. She let me go through her jewelry. She let me start her car and back it out of the garage before I was old enough to drive. She brought cinnamon rolls to my class on my 12th birthday. She went to the 4th of July parade with us, sat in a lawn chair on Main Street, and then treated us to Church's chicken afterward. We helped her decorate graves with fresh peonies from her backyard on Memorial Day. I mowed her yard in patterns, in diagonals, in squares, in rows, in a heart once.

She spent her last week in Hospice in Hutchinson. I didn't see her again. She kept saying, "I should have died yesterday." She wanted to go. She has wanted to go for some time.

It snowed on my thirteenth birthday, in the middle of April. It was nearly a blizzard. I was having a slumber party at Great Grandma's house. After a series of pyramid photo shoots, one girl on top of the other with Elmo or teddy bear in joyful hand, we settled down in my great grandfather's former bedroom. The furniture was solid. The bed was a queen. It was low to the ground, headboardless. In a drunken exhaustion from the laughing, we collapsed in sleeping bags on the bed. I reach up to turn off the overhead light but nothing happened. I tried it again. It didn't work. I went across the room and flipped another switch. Lights off. We slept. We shivered. Through the open door, the woman in a slip and bra, peach satin. I looked up at her, ghostly in the dark cold. She flipped the switch back down. It was the heater, she told us in the morning, stern. We shouldn't have touched it. We had turned off the heater and were shivering.

obsessed

Yes, that's right. I'm obsessed with John Mayer's new album Battle Studies, particularly "Edge of Desire" and "Do You Know Me," with 15 and 19 plays, respectively, since Tuesday. I'm in love with the songs. I think this album is my new "companion."

I can't stop listening to it long enough to get anything done consistently. I think about it and miss the songs. So I have to play the songs. And then I smile. Oh, good work, Mr. Mayer.

I might have to take my mom up on offering to buy me tickets to the March show at the Sprint Center for my birthday, even though I've already seen him in concert twice. Never inside, though, and it's been two and a half years.

Nerd

"I hate my name. It has 'nerd' in it. Leo-nerd." As said by Leonard in The Big Bang Theory tonight.

The stereotypes are too much. A nerd is more nerd than anyone ever could be on this show. The stereotypes lead to a lack of funny.

But the name thing I can identify with. Kari is "carry." A verb. I hated my name when I was younger. My name "does." I wanted to be Kara, something that made sense as a name. I wanted to be Whitney, and I was for a week in second grade when we got to change our names. Officially, I was Whitney Jackson for a week. I wrote it on my assignments and homework. Around the table with my classmates, they called me Whitney. Whitney was a cool name, and then I lost it.

Rearranging

Essays begin with something that exists and has meaning before it reaches the page, establishing a different contract between the reader and the writer, a different set of literary obligations. Essays are not arranged by plot, but by anxieties. They don't wonder, "What's next?" with a groan. The anxieties are relieved not so much by the telling, like confession, but by the arranging, the way some of us fix a problem at work by cleaning up the desk. "Getting it right" or an essayist means putting events and details into a revealing--a revelatory--relationship with one another. Strolling through the museum of love and change, the essayist rearranges for all to see the treasures we cannot keep. --"The Art of Translation" by Steven Harvey

 
Rearranging. The art of rearranging for me began when I was quite young. It began in my room, with my furniture. I kept moving things, trying and trying to get it right. I would find a satisfying arrangement, move into it with a new perspective, a new way of looking at the world, and be happy. Until I got bored or realized what it was lacking. Arrangement meant everything to me, especially in a small space. Once I experienced the pleasure of rearranging, I moved onto other rooms in the house. I drew a new floorplan for my brother's room. Then I drew another and another. He only let me implement one. That's all. It left me wanting more. I cleaned and rearranged the basement, which was satisfying, until it was taken over by my mother's recycling and more toys. I suggested new arrangements for my parents' room. They never moved anything. And still haven't. I moved the couch in the living room, the only thing not tied to the wall. It was moved back by my father in a matter of hours. I changed the orientation of the dining room table. This was allowed, on occasion, for a month or two at a time before it reverted back to its origins. 

Rearranging. I've done it in my apartments. Frequently. Those small apartments left me troubled and rearranging was the only way to attempt to relieve the troubles. Knowing that this current apartment, large with defined spaces, would be mind for over six months before I actually moved in, I obsessed over arrangements on an online room planner. I put in the specific dimensions of my furniture and future furniture (yes, I knew that, too) and moved them around in a simulated space. I would go back to it several times a day to make small adjustments, try new arrangements, to get it perfect before moving in. It has worked, so far. I can't envision a better arrrangement for the furniture. I'm happy with the way it is without an itch to try something different. 

That is the hope with essays, that the arrangement will work perfectly, that the pieces will fall where they should in order to equal a whole. Especially with the braided essay that I write--multiple sides or experiences put together in the small space of the essay--the pieces have to be in the perfect location. Otherwise, it's just a narrative. Or just a chronological story without meaning. Or disjointed ideas. How you put them together makes the meaning. If you know how they work in relation to one another, what the purpose of each is, you can lay them out to create cohesion, an understanding. 

I'm beginning to realize that, in a way, by writing essays I'm doing what I originally desired: interior decorating and design. What do you know, it's coming together.

Stiff

Jedsen, during a phase, was into wearing bracelets. He called them "stiff." They were mostly thick and leather-like. Some studded. Then he stopped wearing them in favor of simplicity.

I wish I could get rid of this stiffness in my shoulders and neck. Why am I stressed? Why is my body feeling stressed?

I could go into the possibilities, but I won't. Basically, I have a few attendance issues with a couple of students that is worrying me (I carry their burdens even though I shouldn't) because I care too much. And then my great grandma has stopped eating and getting out of bed. She's 105 1/2. She's earned the right to stop getting out of bed. For the last four years, every time I've gone to Hutchinson and seen her, I've treated it as the last time. You never know when it will happen. She's mad tough, though. I don't know how it will go.

I need to sleep. That's probably going to be important. Sleep and exercise. Have I mentioned those before? Oh, yeah, and no more Mrs. Freshlies brownies.

Because

Last summer, I created a Can't be Down playlist in iTunes. Just songs that brought me joy. Well, they bring me joy. I want to share them with you. Some of them, anyway. There's a lot of Snow Patrol, Josh Rouse, and Coldplay, of course.

"Shut Your Eyes" by Snow Patrol

"The Heart of Life" by John Mayer

"Concrete Bed" by Nada Surf

"Perfect Time of Day" by Howie Day

"Postcards from Far Away" by Coldplay

"Bunnies" by Howie Day

"Someday Soon" by KT Tunstall

"Strawberry Swing" by Coldplay

"All We Are" by Matt Nathanson

"Chocolate" by Snow Patrol

I like baseball?

More than once, I have commented here about my dislike and lack of understanding of baseball. I mean, the one time I liked baseball was when I was twelve and sang the national anthem with the Kansas Youth Choir at a Twins/Mariners game in the Metrodome. It was exciting to be there on the field, to sing, and to watch the game...to a point. The excitement didn't last. The baseball I bought sat in its case until it eventually got moved to a box somewhere.

So when the World Series was on last weekend and Jedsen wanted to watch a few minutes of it, I winced. Ew, baseball. How boring. What's the point of it. They look gross and silly with wads in the cheeks and the frequent spitting. Well, that last point remains true, but, you know what? I actually got into it. I rooted for the Phillies, of course. I began to understand how batting order worked, what an RBI was, why pitchers mattered, and that all of the hitters were also defensive players. The four games that I watched in earnest made me appreciate baseball. (Well, last night I fell asleep during the Yankee domination, so I guess I shouldn't count that game.) Though I no longer think baseball is a dull sport, I don't see this brief enthusiasm carrying into next season. No, I don't think you'll find me at a ball park or at home night after night watching the Phillies. Nor will I be participating in the intense rivalry between any teams. I was just a baseball fan for nearly a week. That's rather poser-ish of me, but, hey, it's a start.

What I think about the sun

1. It's warm.
2. It warms me.
3. It makes Snickers lick herself more.
4. It's far, far away.
5. It's on my floor.
6. It's never on its best behavior.
7. It's the reason.

First

I have been harried as of late. No time for blogging, I guess, or no energy. The writing has been coming on more, though still is some starts and fits because of teaching and other things that I can't identify. I think I figured it out the other day: I've been making it too hard.

When I decided upon a collection of essays as my thesis, I went wild with enthusiasm. I created a word document titled "My MFA Thesis." I had grand plans. I started a list of all the essays I would write. It got up to twenty-three, many of them with five or six numbered ideas below them. Some were simple words: ghosts, restaurants, marriage, meteorology, tennis. Others were concepts or ideas: obsession as a coping mechanism, working the press, becoming Maria. Under "ghosts," I listed what I could write about: "Cuddles, Lois" (my ghosts), the ghosts of ourselves (rather vague and lofty), Council Grove's hermit cave that would never give me a clear picture, and a final note: "wind?" I was making the connections I thought I could make before even writing the thing. I was planning it out. I was going to write all of these essays because I had had all of these ideas. They needed to be good, complicated, advanced.

Turns out, it paralyzed me. I took the entire writing out of the writing. All the ideas stood there, waiting to be written, but there was too much to consider. Where to start? I have the ideas, but I don't know how to write them. As I got started, finally, in August, after the summer of starts and unfinished pages, I put together something that I thought all came together. With so much to include, so many ideas, I lost the "heart" of the essay, as Dr. Atkins pointed out. I was writing down the information, the connections, but I wasn't really writing to write. There was no surprise. I was not "essaying." No, the piece already had a goal that I was writing to, and that took all of the journey out of the process. It happened in earnest on the next two pieces that I put together. I didn't like them, knew they weren't mine or finished in any way, but I had them.

With my recent realization of the root of the problem, I'm getting back to basics. I'm trying to get back to just writing. How about that. This one that I'm working on (on meteorology of sorts) is just going. I'm not pushing it but letting it take its course. And you know what? I keep thinking of things I can connect it to, but I'm not writing them down in outline form as a finish line. It will happen how it happens.

This is most evident in an essay that I typed out by Scott Russell Sanders last night and this morning, "Feasting on Mountains." This practice of typing out an essay that I love is inspired by Jedsen's recent adoption of the practice. It's something that I taught my 102 students last year and knew would be good practice for me but never took it on. Now I think I'm addicted. I started yesterday and have already copied three.

What "Feasting on Mountains" does is describes Sanders' ascent to the top of Mount June, his walk. He stops along the way to ponder what he finds, and that's where the meaning comes in. It's not pushed toward one goal, but it all adds up to a larger meaning as it goes, not culminating in one final summation of meaning either. He finds it as he goes in little aha moments rather than one larger goal. It taught me, especially by writing it out and having to notice what was being typed by my fingers and why.

Next, I chose a piece by Ryan Van Meter from the 2009 Best American Essays titled "First." Read it here. It's short, but I can't think of another more timely and perfectly presented narrative about one evening in a child's life. It works on you in bits into an ultimate mass of powerful emotion. Love. What is it? Who is it for? How can you deny it to someone? You can't. If you doubt anyone and how they love and if they should love, read this. Tell me you would deny him.

And you should listen to what I'm listening to. Nothing hits me like essays and songs. Reading and listening reminds me why I want to write. I just read "My Mother's Theories of Child Rearing" by Kathryn Starbuck, and it hurt. Her hurt made me hurt and made me realize a little bit of something about my relationship with my mother.

And with Snickers here on the desk next to my hands, eager to walk across the laptop, I will write today. As I have been. As I want to. As I will do. I will revise, too. Those broken, forced essays of late will be cracked open with revision, new eyes. I can see where the heart is. I can know why it came out and why it was important and what it can say. Revision is best. That is where the words come into meaning. But it needs to be a balance of journey and reflection. Here I go.

how to love a brother

These are in no particular order.

1. Slumber party in your room. At the age of four or five, your brother adores you. You read to him and play Trouble with him. He does not want to sleep in his own bed tonight. Your floor will do just fine, the floor parallel to your bed. He will sleep, snoring, in his Toy Story sleeping bag. You sketch him as he falls asleep not because you are creepy but because you are nine and love to draw and need a subject. He serves just fine on many a drawing occasion.

2. Play Barbies together. Don't hate him when he bites all the hair off of the Mike Barbie (teenage boy) and leaves teeth marks in the skull. Go with it. Tell Stacey and all her Barbie palls that Mike's sporting a new look. Let the GI Joe and Barbie go out together in the tractor. They can take the convertible out another night.

3. Offer to clean his room, paint his room, rearrange his room. He will like it, theoretically, but will bar you from entering his room with his very own arm. He will knock you down if he has to. You will not enter his room, he says. But you will, and you will sketch a new layout. You will make his dream of street walls with screeching tire marks in places come to life. You would dust his dresser, if he wouldn't notice, and put all of the quarters laid out in a football formation into the neon green piggy bank you bought him. Because he kind of trusts you, he will let you help him rearrange his room once. Not again. Not because he doesn't like your concepts but because the concept he did let you carry through was too good.



4. Take him to a K-State football game for his birthday. But make him buy both tickets. It's not that you don't enjoy football and spending time with your brother when you now live 134 miles apart--you do--but you don't enjoy spending $55 per ticket on 3 hours of your life. Let him hang around the stadium for as long as he wants after the game. Let him play your Game Cube when you get back to your apartment and stay up all night watching who knows what. Drive him back the next day and wish he'd like school enough to want to go to college near you.

5. Play defense. After your dream of becoming a basketball star dies (because you're five feet tall and clumsy running with the ball), defend him on every shot he tries for on the driveway. Challenge him to shooting contests from the middle of the yard, from the porch. Assist him in dunks; toss him the ball at the perfect height at the perfect moment. Photograph him flying into dunks on the playground. Buy him a basketball for his birthday. Buy him a ball return thing for the rim. Buy him an indoor miniature hoop that goes over the door and watch him use it until his palm is twice the size of the ball. Keep throwing him the ball.



6. Try to kill him. Out of love for being an only child, push him in his infant walker to the ledge of the basement stairs. Give it another nudge and watch it/him tumble to the bottom. Good riddance. Hear your mom's screams as she catches him before the walker actually goes a notch down and be relieved that your brother is still there and that he won't remember this because he's too young. Do not kill your brother.

7. Buy him birthday gifts. When no one else does, keep buying him things like iTunes gift cards and sports stuff and t-shirts and those movies he loves. Help him pick out a big screen tv and arrange his new living space in your parents' basement because you know that he wouldn't do it for himself. Buy him birthday gifts not because he needs anything but because you want him to know you still know him.



8. Hug him. Even though he's now ten inches taller than you, much more muscular, much quieter, and much more wealthy, think "aw" when he leans over to hug you and says "Thanks for coming." It doesn't happen often. You try not to be too loving-sibling-like because you're a girl and it can too easily get on his nerves. You let him do his thing, and sometimes he comes to you, big sister, and that is when you remember why you like each other, why you get along, why you wanted to take him on his first plane ride and big city trip to Chicago last summer. Not because he was a good travel companion (bless his heart, he's not) but because you wanted him to experience life outside of Kansas and life off the ground. Hug him, and rub his buzz-cut head for the way it's felt for the last sixteen years. Text him because that's how he gets and gives all his messages these days. A text can do the hugging. But not really.

Happy twentieth birthday to my brother.

like baseball

"And what the great American game of baseball seems to me to demonstrate most obviously is that those who 'have what it takes' must nevertheless work hard at their craft all the time and that many who might have been judged not to 'have what it takes,' through hard work at their craft, can also perform well. Recent years of World Series and league championship games have shown us great hitters and pitchers hitting and pitching badly while players we've never heard of perform beautifully. What veteran baseball players and writers know is that constantly working hard will produce a respectable batting or earned run average, a stack of pages of substantial literary value, an acceptance from a good journal.

"I am not describing a method of achieving happiness. I am describing what seems to me a necessary and healthy way for a few people to carry out their lives; happiness has nothing to do with it. What seems to me the only legitimate goal of any would-be writer is to achieve a circumstance of ongoing work, the serenity to carry out the daily writing and revising of what poems, stories, or novels are given one to write. On those rare occasions when one's serenity seems about to collapse, I recommend that one step out into one's back yard and vigorously spit."

--from "Let's Say You Wrote Badly This Morning" by David Huddle

I don't much care for baseball. I don't know what a batting or earned run average is. I don't really care to know. But Huddle compares athletes and writers here, in this piece anthologized in The Bread Loaf Anthology of Contemporary American Essays. It's the having what it takes--the making yourself work to have it. I'm still struggling.

At this point there's a three-way tension. Teach well--write a kick-ass thesis/book--get thyself prepared to get a job (as in a career) next summer. I can't let the teaching down, and I have to figure out what I'm going to do with my 2010 self. I want to write, to shut it all out and write. How do you write in the moment? Live in the moment?

Here's my working list of goals for my work, in content, language, and totality:

Metaphor

Zest

Contradiction

Philosophy

More explanation to come.

open spaces

"Space has a spiritual equivalent and can heal what is divided and burdensome in us. My grandchildren will probably use space shuttles for a honeymoon trip or to recover from heart attacks, but closer to home we might also learn how to carry space inside ourselves in the effortless way we carry our skins. Space represents sanity, not a life purified, dull, or "spaced out" but one that might accommodate intelligently any idea or situation.

From the clayey soil of northern Wyoming is mined bentonite, which is used as a filler in candy, gum, and lipstick. We Americans are great on fillers, as if what we have, what we are, is not enough. We have a cultural tendency toward denial, but, being affluent, we strangle ourselves with what we can buy. We have only to look at the houses we build to see how we build against space, the way we drink against pain and loneliness. We fill up space as if it were a pie shell, with things whose opacity further obstructs our ability to see what is already here."

--from "The Solace of Open Spaces" by Gretel Ehrlich.

The essay as site: literature and philosophy. I read it and I love it and I want it and I want to do it. Somehow, I'm still hesitant to take the philosophical step. I'm building my references here. SRS, Gretel Ehrlich, Anne Fadiman, EB White,

darn, no tragedy

When I researched my ancestry in the past (for family trees for school or for the genealogical website Geni), I was anxious, yes anxious, to find tragedy or strangeness. I found a little:

Mary Jane Shannon (my great-great grandmother) was married seven times and gave all of her children away to the Arnold family in Illinois. She drowned in a creek.

Mary Whittenburg (another great-great grandmother) left her husband and family and moved to Wichita in the late 1800s to become a prostitue.

(I see a pattern with women named Mary leaving their families in the late 19th century. Remind me to never name my child Mary.)

Daniel Lentz (great-great grandfather) died in a house fire in 1902.

His mother, Catherine, (great-great-great grandmother) was a full-blood Pawnee living in Arlington, Kansas.

John Kliewer (great-great-great grandfather) was a much-in-demand coffin maker in Russia. Then he was a Dietrich Gaeddart immigrant to America in 1874.

This generation lags in drama. I mean, my family has so much drama--just like yours, I'm sure--but there have been no fires or great abandonments.

INFP

(Introverted Feeling with Intuition)

"People with INFP preferences have a great deal of warmth, but may not show it until they know a person well. They keep their warm side inside, like a fur-lined coat. They are very faithful to duties and obligations related to ideas or people they care about. They take a very personal approach to life, judging everything by their inner ideals and personal values.

"They stick to their ideals with passionate conviction. Although their inner loyalties and ideals govern their lives, they find these hard to talk about. Their deepest feelings are seldom expressed; their inner tenderness is masked by a quiet reserve.

"In everyday matters they are tolerant, open-minded, understanding, flexible, and adaptable. But if their inner loyalties are threatened, they will not give an inch. Except for their work's sake, INFPs have little wish to impress or dominate. The people they prize the most are those who take the time to understand their values and the goals they are working toward.

"Their main interest lies in seeing the possibilities beyond what is present, obvious, or known. They are twice as good when working at a job they believe in, since their feeling puts added energy behind their efforts. They want their work to contribute to something that matters to them--human understanding, happiness, or health. They want to have a purpose beyond their paycheck, no matter how big the check. They are perfectionists whenever they care deeply about something.

"INFPs are curious about new ideas and tend to have insight and long-range vision. Many are interested in books and language and are likely to have a gift of expression; with talent they may be excellent writers. They can be ingenious and persuasive on the subject of their enthusiasms, which are quiet but deep-rooted. They are often attracted to counseling, teaching, literature, art, science, or psychology.

"The problem for some INFPs is that they may feel such a contrast between their ideals and their actual accomplishments that they burden themselves with a sense of inadequacy. This can happen even when, objectively, they are being as effective as others. It is important for them to use their intuition to find ways to express their ideals; otherwise they will keep dreaming of the impossible and accomplish very little. If they find no channel for expressing their ideals, INFPs may become overly sensitive and vulnerable, with dwindling confidence in life and in themselves."

Do you want to know me? You pretty much do now. I took the Myers-Briggs test in middle school, and this is what it told me I was. I just found it in a folder marked "career stuff." As I read it, I was continually dropping my jaw lower. Yes, this is me. Wow, it even suggests writer? teacher? This is who I've been all along, huh? It's funny that I found this because today I realized something I knew but didn't really know: that I am diligent about keeping promises/deadlines for everyone and everything...except when I'm the one making promises to myself. It's like I don't take myself seriously enough or respect myself enough to hold myself accountable for goals or promises. This is a flaw. It's the reason the writing hasn't kept up. It's the reason I'm still flabby. It's the reason I keep spending more than I make. It's the reason I feel so disjointed.

That's a beauty. Realizing yourself by looking from the outside. This explains a lot, actually. Thank you, silly little career-personality-test-thing that I thought was cool but irrelevant a decade ago.

quoting SRS

I think, perhaps, I should have been born his daughter. Or niece. Or neighbor. Yes, neighbor, that would do.

"Meanwhile my eyes are also feasting. That is a favorite saying of my mother's: Something-or-other is a feast for the eyes. Like most proverbial sayings, it has been worn slick by too many tongues; and this is because, like most sayings, it names a truth. The truth here is one the mountain reminds me of: I have a hunger for nonhuman spaces, not out of any distaste for humanity, but out of a need to experience my humanness the more vividly by confronting stretches of the earth that my kind has had no part in making. I feast atop Mount June, on a jonathan apple, on vision."

--from "Feasting on Mountains" by Scott Russell Sanders.

This is how I feel when I'm in the mountains. This is why I crave it. I crave the silence, the big. I love the city (Chicago) because of the energy and beauty of water amid metal and glass. Man-made H&M and all those other shops and buildings, I love and wonder at. I feel there; I feel confidence and the power of doing. But I cannot feel awe and true power and understanding except in the nothing of man. The mountains, the true earth, that is home. Mountains and water running down hill, all down and life and the living of souls. My soul. Whatever soul I have is not in any city but sunlit sides of hills and mountains and over and under green.

and again it begins

The last fall semester of my career as a student started today. But I am done with coursework and am only taking a practicum in the teaching of creative writing for one hour a week. That wasn't today. So my semester of teaching starts tomorrow at 11am.

It will be good.

I met with the career counselor for an hour today, and my homework/research is looking into the publishing world.

Here's an article that was very helpful and informative about going into publishing. It made me feel better about this option (I already felt good--I just didn't know anything about it). Working in Publishing by Hope Smith.

I wish the day wasn't over. I have more writing I want to do. But tomorrow is going to be a tiring day of teaching directly to Lenexa for work directly to Jedsen's for love. I remember being exhausted after my first day of teaching last year--even though I wasn't actually teaching them anything yet. It's the standing up there and talking all the time and thinking constantly.

where i'll be

I was given a serious dose of reality earlier today, and I appreciated it. Thank you, Joe Harrington.

What kind of academic do you want to be?

I enjoy writing. Ideally, I would write all the time and get really good and make a living at it. I want to be surrounded by writers. I need to be surrounded by writers to inspire me and keep me believing that people do write even in the middle of lives like mine. (Thank you, Bathtub!) Now, does that put me in the academy or someplace else, like book publishing?

I don't know.

That's why I'm going to my first career counseling appointment tomorrow morning. I want to know what I want to do. What I can do. I want to know where I'll be in nine months. Still here in Lawrence? On the job market? Headed for a non-academic job? The career counselor is hopefully going to help me figure out my specific trajectory, and then I will take that knowledge to the job placement adviser, who will help with the actual job-getting, if need be.

But the immediate thing, the thing that will help me get a job in the end, is my thesis. My book. That's the business. I have to get on it, get back to it. Ben Cartwright wrote a pertinent and target-hitting blog this evening, inspired by the same meeting: What kind of habit do you have?. My new habit is writing a blog entry every day because, hey, it's writing. And then that frees up my mind for more writing, more creation. It's a habit I'm starting because other things haven't turned into habits. I need the every day habit that I don't have.

And now I'll quote Michael L. Johnson who reminded us today of his experience in a psychologist's office. "How's the writing going?" the psych. asked. "It's not," he replied. "Well, that's your problem." And he never went back to the psych.

All the anxiety, the stress, the imbalance, could that be because I'm not writing? Because I haven't even been journaling for the last four years like I did for my first twenty when I didn't have anxiety? Could it be that choosing to write has made it less of a necessity for me in everyday life? That's backwards. Let's turn it around, I say. Turn it upside down and write for the need and the want and the have to.

Okay, now I'm going to quote Oprah quoting Gary Zuvak in The Seat of the Soul: "When we align our thoughts, emotions, and actions with the highest part of ourselves, we are filled with enthusiasm, purpose, and meaning... When the personality comes fully to serve the energy of its soul, that is authentic empowerment." Is it wrong that Oprah is my spiritual guidance? I'm not aligned. Once I lost my faith, the Methodist faith that I had lived for twenty-one years, not knowing how not to believe, I lost my center. You can be spiritual without believing in God. Spiritual for me is nature, mountains, living Earth. Yoga may be spiritual (I'll find out soon). I feel so disconnected from everything--I give everything to everything else and am left with a not knowing me. I'm left without me when I give all of my time to work and school and not me and being and writing. "Writing is selfish," Johnson reminded us again today. I need to be more selfish in that way. It's too important.

pretend

I pretended to be a new KU student tonight. I went to the Hawk Week RecFest with my friend Beth (a new student but not freshman) and her boyfriend Adam (a KU alum). I fit in but didn't feel it. I got free things. I got bombarded by sororities and Christian groups. I learned, again, that I don't like big crowds, especially when I feel out of place.

All in all, though, it was fun with friends on a lovely evening. I'm not as scared of the Rec Center now. I was only intimidated of it before because it's large and full and somewhat crowded in place. I will conquer it. Yes, on the treadmill, track, yoga class, weight machines, and Zumba.

blurry

Or, eye strain. Or, my shoulders and neck are so stiff that my eyes can feel it. Why? Lesson planning, syllabus editing, schedule finishing. All afternoon and evening except for a break to go to work and ship lots of books and another break to watch Friends (which turned into a 1.5 hr break because I got caught up in the Great American Road Trip). Eye strain is not good. At least it's better here, at home, though, than in the office at The DB.

So I'm feeling good about the upcoming semester. I have a grasp on it all, on how it all fits together...except for the yet-to-be-determined final unit...but that's a worry several months away.

The writing. Meteorology. Let's focus.

RecFest tomorrow night and the start of my yoga life. I'm finally going to do it: buy a KU Fit pass and go to group workout sessions. Mainly yoga, sunrise yoga. I need it badly, and I've been wanting to do it but haven't found an affordable option until I decided to brave the mass of undergrads in the rec. It will be good. Great. Refreshing. Enlivening.

I can't focus on anything right now because I'm thinking about bed and how the last time I looked at the clock it was already 11:00 and I thought that was late but now it's 11:48 and that's too late for a good night's sleep but there's no sense in worrying about that now because that's just how it's going to be. Again. And with that, I'm shutting down.

hidden lawrence

I've been on walks in Lawrence before. Not as many as I should have been on in the last two years I've lived here, though. I usually walk north, to the river or around there. This morning I took off headed west on 9th street, up the big hill to where it meets Iowa, with no particular destination or direction in mind. Just after starting the climb, I crossed Avalon, a street that I have never looked south down. I decided to try it.

As I walked down the tree-lined, foliage-flanked street, I looked at the houses and the landscaping. I looked at the trees. I saw a neon orange bug or spider cross in front of me. I should have stopped to observe it, but I was caught up in the hidden part of Lawrence. Or, it's not really hidden, but it's not a street I would ever need to drive down, and it made me realize how little I look around when I am driving (which, I guess, is actually a good thing). I saw one house in particular that looked practically new and was for sale. It was set back and down, surrounded by trees, with three levels and loads of windows. It was empty and beautiful. I didn't stop to stare like I wanted, and I didn't go up close to it to look for fear of looking suspicious (I was wearing a baseball cap after all), but I looked left as I walked straight and nearly fell several times, not looking down at the drops in sidewalk. I could live there. Jedsen and I have been talking lately about houses and locations (not for "us" but just wants). I don't want to live in the country, in a rural area, and I thought I wanted to live in a city. More and more, though, through my reading and reflection this summer, I have decided that I don't want to live in a suburb or a neighborhood with house next to house, with touching, fenced backyards and no windows on the sides for the sake of privacy. My house needs to be set off. Nature will be my neighbor. If/when I have kids, I want them growing up not on pavement but wildflowers and vines. I want them to appreciate and care for nature and know a world beyond buzzing streets and malls. That is my wish.

So while the house I came upon is still very much in the center of Lawrence, it has some of those elements. And, actually, as I discovered today, many parts of the neighborhoods directly to the west and south of my apartment are set right in the thick of wood-like nature. Oh, all the mature trees and flowers and little creeks and green, all green. My apartment is at the base of a hill, and while I new there were houses lining 9th street on the side of it, I thought they all ended shortly in dead ends like my side of Avalon does. I found out this morning that that is not the case at all. I actually thought there was a golf course up there, (and there may be, but I didn't find it) but there are houses, interesting houses probably built in the 1970s but again all surrounded in vegetation.

You learn your home on feet. I've known it, I've experienced it before, but it came to life for me in earnest this morning. I've been ignorant and deprived by not exploring my home and knowing it. Scott Russell Sanders tells of the importance of knowing your town, your state, your neighborhood in A Conservationist Manifesto and in places in Secrets of the Universe.

I know you a little better today, Lawrence, and I appreciate you better for it. I appreciate the conservation in the middle of the city. The new west Lawrence doesn't have that. West Lawrence may have beautiful, new homes, but they're close together and tree-less, lifeless. I'm satisfied with the part of Lawrence I've made my home, the hilly, covered part with a more retro flair.

saturday

Back to Josh Rouse: "Saturday." I can't post a link to the song/video because there isn't a good one on youtube. There isn't enough Josh Rouse on youtube. You know how for many artists you can type in a song and there will be some montage of photos or the album art as background for just the recording of the song. That's what I wanted for you, but you're not getting it.

I'm thinking of "Saturday" because it's Saturday and because I keep going back to Switzerland at the end of May 2005 when I was listening to his album Nashville on the top bunk of our hotel room. It was an "extra" room, set off from the hotel, and three of us girls got it. It was just outside Lucerne, and it was raining when we got there by bus. (It's raining today.) When it stopped raining, we went walking and found cows and nice houses by a lake. The house on a lane on the lake had a fancy alarm system, and we were impressed. You have to be rich to live in Switzerland. And that was proven to be fact the next day when we took a walking tour of Lucerne and were told just how expensive it is to live in Switzerland. I want to be able to afford to live in Switzerland. So that night, after our walk and dinner at the outside tables, I listed to my tape player (yes, no CD player at this point, much less MP3 player). I was to be going home on a Saturday from London, back to Jedsen at Wichita's Midcontinental Airport. I didn't want to go home; Europe was bliss. But I did miss Jedsen and couldn't help but sing "Saturday I'm on that plane I'm flying home to you" along with Josh.

Jedsen's not here today, and I'm not there with him. This is the last weekend before the semester begins, and I have a lot to catch up on. We have to say that, now and then, unfortunately. I can't spend the whole weekend with you because I have too much to do. Also unfortunate is the fact that we can't really get any work done when we're together in the same apartment. Going to separate rooms doesn't even work. So we have to stay in our separate cities. I love the rain, and I love Saturdays. And I wish Jedsen and I could work and write together so we could sit here and smell the rain together.

So I'm sappy. Sometimes.

I also love shopping, though I've slowed it down, way down, recently. I went out to get necessities earlier--like underwear and food--and knew that something was different when I pulled into the Walmart parking lot. Of course this is the weekend when everyone comes back. Well everyone was at Walmart, and I feel instant dread when I walk into a crowded shopping place like that. I like my space when browsing. I managed to get half of my shopping list before hurrying out. I can go without orange juice until, perhaps, early Sunday morning when people aren't out yet.

And an update on breakfast. Well, I'm calorie conscious now. Not just fake interested but seriously concerned about trying to stay under 1200 calories/day. I won't lie: I loved my morning sausage biscuits, homemade. They were delicious and kept me full longer than cereal. But then I actually made myself look at the calorie counts on the biscuits and sausages and realized, with horror, that I was probably consuming an 800 calorie breakfast for nearly every day for a month. This prompted a look into my favorite fast food breakfast: sausage and egg biscuit from McDonald's. 550 calories. That makes me sad, McDonald's. So when I had breakfast there with my friend Beth last week, I got an egg biscuit without the sausage, and it took me back to the days when my mom would walk to Braum's many mornings and get us egg biscuits or hot cakes. It may have taken me 24 years, but I'm starting to truly understand food now. And the physical consequences on my body.

I sat outside on the patio earlier when it started raining. God, I love it here. I did laundry, and when I went to get my clothes out of the dryer, the hallway where the washer and dryer is was smokey. I think the dryers are faulty here, and that's not my only evidence. But that's outside the apartment. Here, I love.

overflowing bathtub

First of all, get this:

http://bathtubcollective.blogspot.com/2009/08/you-know-how-we-do.html

We're presenting at AWP in April 2010 in Denver! Agh!

We're pumped.

breakfast

For two years, I haven't had a dining room. At my last, tiny, dark apartment, I had a small living space that was supposed to serve as both living and dining room, right next to a kitchen that took up a third of the apartment but had no room for a table. So when I moved there I put my tiny table and chairs for two (an entirely mismatched grouping) in the living room and moved it around, along with the furniture, in frustration, until at last I took it down, returned the table and one chair to my grandparents who had lent it to me.

At that point, I decided I would rather have a few extra feet of space in the living room for living than a weird table in weird places to eat at. Leaning one arm on the back of the couch while eating spaghetti just didn't feel right. So for about a year and a half, I had no table to eat at. I had the couch, the coffee table, the kitchen counter. And during that time, I pretty much stopped eating meals. Everything I ate was easy, quick, not fixed. I didn't eat meals--I just put food in my mouth while standing up or leaning over the coffee table or sitting at my desk. I didn't save time for breakfast. Life was jumbled. Food was just stuff to keep me alive.

I have lived in the new apartment for nearly two weeks now. I have a breakfast bar, which I was overjoyed to find, and promptly bought two handsome stools. I have an adjoining dining room, too, so I took my brother (and his truck) to Nebraska Furniture Mart (as planned) and bought a five-piece counter-height dining set. I have a table! I have a place to eat! I have two places to eat! I can't tell you how much that thrills me. How much having friends over for game night and pizza last Friday--at a table--thrilled me. We can sit! We can eat!

I must admit that first full week here (last week), I didn't eat breakfast at home. I was hurried, still getting settled, so I drove by McDonald's or Burger King several days that week for cheap sausage biscuits. But I had the foresight Friday night to pick up canned biscuits and a package of Jimmy Dean sausage when I was shopping. So Saturday morning, my first settled non-work morning, I got up early and baked biscuits, cooked sausage. I made breakfast for the first time in I can't remember how long. I made my breakfast and ate it on the patio (at a third table!) while Snickers sniffed around and lounged in the morning humidity. Sunday morning I got up later but reheated two biscuits and two sausage patties and ate breakfast at the breakfast bar, a pleasant start to the morning.

This morning before work, I got up, started the coffee, took a shower, cooked more sausage, reheated the biscuits, and ate breakfast and coffee at the breakfast bar. It's perfect. This simple act of sitting down to a solid breakfast, for taking that time, for having a place to sit and eat and notice the food, starts the day admirably. I wasn't starving by 10am.

So, my friends, I have discovered the value of breakfast sitting down. I plan on keeping it up. I might need to find an alternative to sausage biscuits, but I'm not worried about that right now. I might add fruit to my meal. Or a glass of milk (maybe chocolate) in addition to the coffee. I'm actually starting the day with a meal, and I feel real again.

for you

Thank you, my friends, for your responses/comments. I'm grateful for your thoughts, encouragements, attention. Sometimes it helps me to write about not being able to write. Like a journal on my own doubts about my path and abilities. It comes around. It is the recognition of the worthwhile in my head.

"People love pretty much the same things best. A writer looking for subjects inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all. Strange seizures beset us." --Annie Dillard, "The Writing Life"

perfect

I am looking out again. This time, the view is different. In fact, it is a view. It is a new view on life and writing and reading and smiling and health and being. So here I am all moved in to the new place, to this place that really feels like a first home. It's homey. Homey apartment that is not a box. With a room for everything I need. With rooms that flow together, open rooms. With windows, tall windows that cross, diagonal, from one side, one side of one side, to the other. Furniture that belongs, that belongs to me and represents me. Furniture I bought and built. Snickers running through the place, turning corners, sleeping at my feet and on the patio.

Now that I'm settled, my mind is settling. I'm back at it. Things are right. I read "The Writing Life" by Annie Dillard this weekend. It changed things, or reaffirmed things, or made me change or think. I'm reading "At Large and At Small" by Anne Fadiman. She changed things, reaffirmed things. Familiar things. The familiar essay is right, is what I'm doing. I'm working on five essays right now. I'm back at it. I'm at my desk, looking out the window, writing, thinking, believing again. I exercised on my indoor bike in this office watching an episode of "The O.C." online and then sat down to the writing again. I've discovered that there is this one spot at the meeting of two cushions on my couch that is perfect for reading. It feels right.

I turn off my bedroom light at night and open the blinds so I can see the sky. I've done this for as long as I can remember, but I haven't been able to see the sky for three years. My first night sleeping here, I opened the blinds and nearly cried at the sight of the moon through the slats, from my bed. I fell asleep following the moon again. Last night I saw lightning. It flashed through my room. I fell asleep to thunder and the flashes of lightning.

I'm home. And it's changed things. I moved in and felt the immediate dread of leaving. Only a year here, huh? That's sucks. I don't want to apartment search again in six months. I don't want the anxiety of it all again just yet. I want to enjoy it here. It's made me reconsider my urge to leave Lawrence immediately after I graduate in May. I could stay another year or so. I don't have to rush, right? I'm thinking about my possible book (thesis) and the job market and how I already have a job here and a good place and good people. And maybe I could stay here--not forever--but for another year. When the job market unfreezes, when I have a book and publications to my name, when I have a degree and a life outside of classes. I could stay here for a bit. For a little bit. Take it a bit slower. I'm open, more open to it. See? This place has changed things.

Josh Rouse

One of my favorites. Everything he does is amazing, beautiful, right. Listen to him. Now. You can't go wrong.

World's Largest Community Workout

I took part. For some reason, as they spoke about Red Dog and Red Dog Dog's Days and Live Well Lawrence before we started the workout, I got emotional. Emotional, I think, that nearly 3,000 adults and kids came together for this event. I was so thrilled that I decided to go on my own, miss Zumba for a second week in a row (at the Zumba instructor's suggestion, too), and do leg lifts in the grass and itch all over.

looking out

It's a lovely morning here in Lawrence, though quite steamy at 8:30 in the morning. I'm on my patio, sitting at my plastic table and chairs, surrounded by hostas. I got the gardening bug last weekend, did research about container gardening, and then pulled Jedsen through the gardening center at Home Depot as I picked out perennials. I spent too much but justified it with the fact that they were perennials and will last forever. And then Shannon broke my heart this week and told me they're only perennials if they're in the ground. Oh. So it looks like I'll be having lots of houseplants in the cold months...which I wanted, but I also wanted patio plants to just survive all year long. I must wish for too much.

So I'm outside writing while Jedsen's sleeping. We have officially been together for 4.5 years today--we're spannies, as we say. We span time together. He is such an integral part of my life--even though we only see each other for approximately two days a week. I don't like to write about romantic love, but this man is special. He is so smart, so talented, so handsome, so sweet and caring. And he loves like nobody I've ever known. Lucky. That is what I am.

So the writing thing hasn't gotten better. I know what I need to do, have to do. And I will do it. Here's the thing. Sometimes everything feels trapped inside. I can compose in my mind--I know what I want to write about--but the idea of sitting down and writing it paralyzes me sometimes. But I think it's tied to the environment. I have felt trapped in this apartment. So this morning I move outside to the patio (which has been underused these two years), and I'm already more open. There's the sky. Ok, I can write, think. There's a tree. I love trees. I can write. There's the breeze. A real breeze not from the a/c. There's the sun making me squint. Ok, I'm alive. I can write. So here's what's going to happen starting on Wednesday when I move. (Yes, the move is finally here!) The small bedroom will be my office. My desk will be in front of the window, looking out on the patio. Looking out is key. Or I can sit in the kitchen at the breakfast bar (a place to eat again!) and look out on the patio through the sliding glass doors. And if I end up having space for a real table and chairs, I can sit there and do the same. I can look out. Or I can go out onto the patio like I'm doing now and write. And Snickers can stare at me enviously from the window like she's doing now. Open up the space, change the space, feel the breeze, and write. I have written about this before in my first real essay--"Within the Frame." I just didn't take the step outside the window.

The last month with the new furniture has actually helped me not hate this apartment as much, though. Just being surrounded by what is me, and the furniture really is a reflection of me, has made it more of a home. But it didn't change the darkness or the smallness. Wednesday marks the start of something different. My brother Tom is coming up from Hutchinson on Tuesday to help me. We're going to get my cousin Mandy and have a slumber party on that last night in C3. Then I get the keys at 10am on Wednesday, and then we have a Uhaul for the big things in the afternoon. This move will be different in many ways from the others: 1) No parents--just brother. 2) Mandy! 3) Jedsen! (because no parents) 4) Uhaul. 5) a 7 day overlap of apartments for extended moving and cleaning time. 6) I'm moving only 4 blocks away.

Cottonwood floats all around me, settling on my sweaty skin, white fluff ready for seeding. It rises up more than down, horizontal more than succumbing to the slight pull of gravity. It has nowhere to go but with the wind's will. I used to be allergic--back in Hutchinson--but my allergies have mostly gone away in Northeast Kansas. I don't understand the change, but I'm grateful for it. A different altitude? level of allergens? mindset?

not to say

There is so much not to say. What does that even mean? It means, I think, if I understand what just popped out of my mind, that writing is hard. That there's so much to say that it's hard to know what to say. That's not to say that I don't want to. I want to. More than anything. I want to write. I want to. I'm doing it. I'm living this dream that I started nearly three years ago. The Writing Life. Now it's a matter of making the Writing work every day in the Life. It's hard. It's supposed to be. You don't choose this occupation for the ease of sitting down and writing what matters. Don't make it easy. I make it too hard, I think.

Keep it down. I need the quiet to think, to settle, to breathe. But I learned something today. Something that I have to remind myself of too often, remind myself to have human contact. Human contact. Seems simple, but for me it seems to be hard.

"I went broke believing that the simple should be hard." Yes. That's what I'm doing with a lot of my life. My instinct is that things are not simple. That having fun and being myself are hard. That having friends is hard. And that's a quote from the song of the summer that's reminding me that "every day is a start of something beautiful." "All We Are" by Matt Nathanson.

oh what a thing to've done

I'm just going to say it. This has been one of my favorite years of life so far. Teaching has changed my life. Yes, there is the insane amount of stress and the constant horridness of grading and the classroom failures. But then there are those students that I'll never forget. There are those students who I'm just so pleased to have known. Those students who have so much potential that I hope I have helped them to see. There are those moments in front of the classroom when everything clicks. For me and for the students. It's the confidence. It's the way it has changed my outlook on my future. Yeah, it's just changed things. And then there's the camaraderie among the teachers (GTAs) that is just so good. Thanks to everyone who has made this year special.

Now, I'm looking at the summer and next year. Well, I still have to grade all of my students' revision projects over the next week, so it's not quite summer yet. I haven't had a good summer in a long time. I'm determined for this one to be different. I'm determined not to go crazy working in the "office" at the bookstore. I'm determined (and have to) write and read every day. I'm determined to get into shape (for real this time)--and I'm taking a Zumba class! I'm determined not to let the tv consume my short evenings (digital box is broken right now anyway, which means no tv). I'm determined to listen to more music this summer, get back into the discovery mode. I'm determined to stay in touch with all of the cool people in Lawrence and not live like a hermit. I know I'm going to love my new apartment. Well, I have to because I've built it up so much. I get my new furniture tomorrow, and it already feels like a new start.

So right now the living room is empty in the center. Friends took away my loveseat, chair, desk, and coffee table that were consuming the room, and so for most of the day I have had an open area in my apartment. It feels different, better, without the furniture. The open space affects me (and Snickers), and part of me wants to just sit on the floor for a few weeks before more furniture comes in. But I already don't have a bed to sleep on right now because Snickers decided (due to an infection, hopefully) to pee on my bed three times. It's right now soaking in Nature's Miracle, and the bedroom is off limits to this little kitty.

It feels so good to go through my possessions. Purging. I'm going through a "I don't want to spend any money" phase. (well, on anything but furniture, but I'm pretty much done with that) I want to save. I want to not bring in more things. I want to be surrounded by what makes me happy but not mere things.

And with that, I'm off to make a bed on the floor and receive a furniture delivery in the morning. Have a lovely May.

gracious

Last Saturday morning Jedsen and I were cozied up on his loveseat eating Cheerios and watching "Man vs. Food." He actually got up early with me, and we had one of the best collections of moments together in a while. We sat, snuggled, and watched. We laughed, gagged, and loved.

This morning I'm facing 22 papers. 22 papers to finish grading by Monday, only to get 35 more in the middle of the week. But after that point, it will be fine. I'll have a deadline but won't have to write comments on every one of them. So, as you can imagine, my anxiety's freaking out about it. I need to go for a walk. Walk somewhere in Lawrence. I want to walk to the river. The Kaw River. But I fear for those who sleep under the bridge. I fear the mosquitoes that ate me last time. I fear spending an hour walking when I could be grading or working on the two essay revisions that are also due Monday. But then I think about the benefits of exercise on the body and the mind. I should go walk. I should put on those new shoes and walk. I need to lose this fat and reclaim my mind.

in my arms

This is strangely fitting for me and Jedsen. No, I didn't make this video. Just love the song. It's Snow Patrol day. (And fajita day.)

warmer climate

It's starting to heat up. Snow Patrol sure doesn't hurt.

tuesday

It's Tuesday. It's a fajita day. Not that every Tuesday is a fajita day. Ideally, every day is a fajita day. Go make fajitas.

crafting

I should be grading or critiquing something. Instead, I'm crafting. Well, for the last hour I have been planning my classes for the rest of the week, but now I'm going to finish my crafting. It's really lovely to create something visual, tangible, sometimes. And then go back to writing. But, you see, I got this new book: The Big-Ass Book of Crafts. I put post-its on every page, every craft, I want to try. So far I've done two. Only twenty or more to go. Too bad crafting costs money. Not writing--well, just the ink and the paper. Perhaps I'll post pics of my crafts for you.

Building Arks

Scott Russell Sanders, from his new book A Conservationist Manifesto.

"The ark-builders don't rush from one sensation to the next, as the media propose, but instead they relish the pleasures of an unhurried pace. They hang their laundry outdoors, enjoying the sunshine, instead of stuffing it in a machine. They cook their own food instead of grabbing a sack of sugar and fat in a drive-through lane. They take walks or sit for talks with people they love, instead of buying a ticket to the latest craze. They meet the world in the flesh, instead of through a screen. They remember how to dream and laugh without benefit of electricity."

He touches me. Makes me want to swear off the television and go to the farmer's market right now. Read him, please. All of him.

quiet

It's Saturday afternoon, quiet. I'm sitting here eating carrots and dip and drinking Pepsi. I'm sitting here thinking about dinnerware and wanting to do crafts and write and move. I'm sitting here wanting to move not in 67 days but today. I want to move today and sit on my new furniture and eat in my new kitchen on new dinnerware. I want to put new things on the walls and think about how good life is. I want to sit in the quiet and write in one of the four rooms I will have the option of writing in. Four rooms. I want four rooms instead of these two. I want Five Guys Burgers and Fries, but they're so darn busy. I want more money to buy things, but I don't have the time or energy to work any more than I do. I want to make more envelopes and sew them. I want to hem up my new jeans so I can wear them. I want to lose fat so I can comfortably wear those new jeans. I want to rest and relax and not worry about getting things done--like grading and planning and writing papers. I want to be done writing this one last grad school paper so all I have left is writing my thesis. I want to write my thesis, which will be a book. I want this book to come together, fit together. I want to keep working on this book right now, but there's so much to do I can't decide what to do. I don't want any more carrots. I don't want any more ants in my kitchen. I don't want Monday to come. I don't want to think about moving--I want to move. That wasn't so quiet after all.