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.