Out To Lunch

It was a mistake to go home for lunch
But, isn’t it always?
There is so much expectation built into
that hour. On the drive
the radio will not play the
song you hoped and the chairs at the
yard sale you saw will have been sold
since the morning commute.
Then there is home
with all of its expectations too—
how, how incredibly heavy, the density
of that word!
The dog will run to greet you, that is customary,
not an expectation because you no longer
think about it-- so second nature
that it’s almost surprising.
But even the pup is not enough to make
lunch a good idea. There is more at home
than a pup. There are words left unsaid from
the night before, or from weeks. There are
things too big for lunch break waiting there.
If you had stayed at
your desk and trolled the internet, or
sat and listened to public radio in your
car you would be much more content now.
This kind of introspection
will not follow you back from the sub-shop
or the Break room. Only from home. Another
hour that did not go as planned. Silently, or
with all the wrong words, eating a raw tortilla
while you pull socks off the hardwood floor
sorting them into the piles of laundry you will
scoop up later. When you come home
from work, when you can deal with them--
after that less weighty drive, little riding on it—
when there is time.
It was mistake to go home for lunch.
You always return hungry.

4th of July

I am not a particularly patriotic person. There are some major qualms that I have with the American ethic and the way we view our position in the world as well as our personal positions in the universe. Gorging ourselves and invading places, dictating rules onto others, etc. etc. But there is something about the 4th of July that really gets me.

The sticky-hot long summer days that lead up to this holiday are the stuff of Midwestern childhood memories. They're colored like intsagrams and filled with lightening bugs and sweet fresh fruit. Cousins and siblings and more cousins. My grandfather pulling up in his big red dump truck from a long day of asphalt laying. A motherless child from Jackson Michigan who built his own company, fell in love deeply once and forever, and worked double jobs to feed his seven daughters. I guess it doesn't get more 'American' than that.

He was a relic of a time when men signed up to fight in wars that they believed in-- before that could mean being militant, blood thirsty, or irretrievably right-wing. He loved the 4th of July, because he loved simple things. Cold busch light. Hot dogs. And this country. The quintessential and cliche trappings of American summer holidays. It seems strange that I should find any of it charming now.

But this holiday, unlike others, just gets me. Maybe its the idea that for one moment, across this divided country, everybody turns to the sky to watch something beautiful. There is some basic understanding that, for just this little while, we're not so awful. And we made those red hot sparks in the sky.

We sit on the cement arms of the front porch
legs curled like cats, camels in hand
our smoke drifts out from the overhang to
the rain thats been dripping steadily for hours.
She says something about how rain always reminds
her of a Gluck poem, which she proceeds to recite.
Rain as her metronome, the words
they take no effort to remember, emit from
her, fluid and independent things.

I don't need to say a word. She knows just
how rain aches. How it makes
Gluck want to take off her wedding ring.
To be naked and alone.

She reaches up and jingles the chimes I made
from forks and beads, rusting a little now from the spring.
And just the touch
means that they are loved. I love them more now
somehow.

Her father sold his sailboat to buy her mother's
engagment ring. Gave up bouyancy in favor of love.
They still hold hands.
She is a product of that.
Everything she does a little more valuable and valid
because of it.

She drips over everything in my life, slow and subtle
plasma-like, a vital part of the blood stream
and we've talked
about, nearly, everything
noting occasionally that if we could
we would be everything. I would be everything
anything for her.

She tells me that her new office is lonely
the pictures that I drew for her, wink from their
frames and remind her that life is outside
those walls.

She sees the look on my face and
puts her left hand to my cheek-- leaning her
right-hand cigarette over the porch and past
the safety of the awning--
gives me a look of acceptance

knowing
I want to be naked and alone too. Ringless.
But that the rain, the change in pressure,
is not the same for me. That my knuckles
swell with the humidity
and none of my rings will come off
in this kind of weather.

Little Dog, Big Shunts: Save Fred

My dog Fred was recently diagnosed with Liver Shunts.
This condition is extremely expensive to treat and requires surgery.
I got Fred last year after my granny died (if you read the blog, you should be very familiar with her and the closeness of our relationship). This little dog means so much to me.

Liver Shunts are essentially a condition in which blood vessels by-pass the liver, allowing un-filtered toxic blood to continually pump through the body. University of Tennessee has a very comprehensive explanation of the condition and its ramifications.
Fred has already begun to suffer seizures from the condition, as well as lethargy and loss of muscle mass.

Fred has made me a better person every day since I met him. He has been an excersize in patience and unconditional love.
If you are able to help, I appreciate it more than I can explain.

www.gofundme.com/SaveFred

this website is secure and operates via PayPal

Red Cross ramblings

Found this today, wrote it my first week at work.

My year starts with an existential question of sorts, how many ways can you tell a beautiful story?
This, like most rhetorical queries, comes down to the optimists and pessimists. The optimists say: there are an infinite number of ways to say one thing. The pessimists: there is nothing original on earth, there are a finite number of permutations and once you’ve maxed out those options—your story will inevitably become repetitive.
I don’t know the answer, dear readers, but I do know that my supervisor here in the communications and marketing office came to me this morning and said “Drum up some new and interesting story ideas, the blog is your baby now. We’ve got media and hiring and tracking to deal with.” (Lynn isn’t nearly that cut-throat, but it sounded good right?)
So here I sit, 22, freshly graduated, and faced with telling the newest chapter in the story of an organization over 125 years old. Daunting? Maybe. Do-able? Well, you’re reading this blog, so somebody was doing it before I got here.
Really, there are a lot of directions I could go with this.
The serious devastating truth of disaster and the importance of preparedness. The raw face of human tragedy, aided by the harrowing figures in mesh-vest and red marking. But that seems a little heavy… especially for 250 word blog post on a Monday afternoon.
I could take my childhood fascination with Harriet the Spy and delve deep into the infrastructure of the American Red Cross. Find out who and what keeps us moving trucks out at a moments notice to middle-of-the-night DAT fire runs all around the city. Or whose life we are sustaining with free rides to doctors’ appointments through the community transportation program.

These stories have been told before. I know that.
But look back on your favorite book, play, movie, even television show. You can trace their basic plot lines back to The Bard and the pre-raphealites, the epic poets, the writers of the parables, Aesop’s fables, Grimm’s Fairytales… everything’s been done.
Does that make them any less enjoyable?

Snow Angel

Two cars swing wide in the snowy parking lot

forming a perfect arc, in tandem

leaving lovely equidistant tracks in the

new fallen snow

temporarily renewing my faith in

beauty and coincidence.

But I am in the sub-zero hospital garage

returned from a brief break from her bedside,

during a winter where I will lose

much more than foliage.

She is suspended above me on the 5th floor,

some angel frozen in an ugly rapture

high above the streets of this town

in the hospital where I was born

struggling hard for every breath

a ventilator obstructing more than it seems to aid

barring her from speaking, so that our

only communication is the kiss she blew

through the window as I left an hour ago

and some hand signals pleading for me

to recite the rosary to her

I count the beads down

one by one, ten and one

and hope that she will

forgive my trespasses

praying mostly that the 5th floor

of this sterile skyscraper is

not the highest she will ascend.

Whats good for you

Check out Big States blog for some excellent music.

If you know whats good for you, you'll head straight for the Mississippi Record Mix Tapes.

I know whats good for you.

New things

The blog is changing shape.

During school I was whole-heartedly dedicated to poetry. And, really, what a lovely thing to be able to spend your time on. However, I am not in school anymore and there are many pressing issues I've been reading up on. My writing inevitably reflects that.

I've only been writing prose. Contemplative prose about subjects that deserve deeper thought in my daily life than I have been able to give them in many years. These pieces and topics will begin to show up on the blog. Please, please, please let me know what you think of them. Honestly. This is my first serious foray into the world of creative nonfiction. I want to deliver my opinions and observations on the world, while supporting them with serious research. And I want to know if the writing is valid.

Also, I moved to a new city. Columbus, Ohio is home now.

While I am neglecting my posts further, I will continue updating you on the cool things I come across.

I am now doing the PR and Marketing for the Columbus chapter of the American Red Cross. Justice, service, and complete impartiality-- what more can you ask for?

The Franklin Park Conservatory is a fabulous park I discovered near my new office.

They have a community garden that is busy producing every kind of vegetable and spice you can think of. And an outdoor kitchen for demonstrations. This is going to be a great place to eat lunch!

More to come.

Feeling Animated

First order of business: R.I.P Harvey Pekar

The Cleveland-native comic genius behind American Splendor passed away this week. Infamous for his late night shenanigans on the Letterman show and his self-deprecating Cleveland based comics, Pekar is a legend to say the least. If you don't know about him, you should. Check out the 2003 film entitled "American Splendor"--starring Paul Giamatti as Pekar and also the real Pekar, and also some really awesome comics.

Having become very dear friends with Chris Monday, I've deepened my interest in the world of comics. We draw them at work, between waiting tables, and have this excellent game called "switcheroo." If I ever get a scanner I will upload some of our games of switcheroo. Essentially you start with a picture, like a bug. Chris sees the bug and has to think up another name that you could call it. So in Chris's mind he says "that bug is a bee." Then Chris draws something that rhymes with the word bee. So I drew a little bug and now, next to it there is a tree that Chris has drawn. I have to then figure out what the drawing is and what word he chose to get there. With bug and tree its pretty easy, but you should have seen the game that went from Fat Kid to Arachnid.... genius. 

Since this post seems dedicated to the celebration of all things comic, let me direct your attention to some of Jed and Chris's work. These guys are good friends of mine and amazing artists... and piss-your-pants funny. Jed has been drawing a daily comic journal for 2010 called CHAMP-- it's following his journey to being alcohol-free for 1 year. He is six months along and it's agonizing, hilarious, and insightful. (Disclaimer: it's also addictive!) So thanks Jed for keeping me entertained daily with your misery. 

Jed and Chris have teamed up on a comic project that I am ridiculously excited about called "Bad Advice for Bad People." It's a comic advice column and it is spectacular. The first installment just came out on Society6  and it shows some major promise. I can't wait to see what they come up with next. Chris Monday does all of the background work on this comic (props to the Cosmos frame!) and Jed Collins draws the people. Together they give the worst advice, from the worst people, to equally awful people. And yes, the questions are real... people actually ask this shit... and not just our friends either!

These first few hours are unbearable.

I tried to drive to the lake and sit 

in the yellowing mist of the sun 

going down in the rain and 

listen to Neil Young on the warm 

hood of my car

but now I have returned

to the house because there is nowhere

left to drive

and all of the recyclables in the bin

by the door are yours, along with the

towels and I couldn’t get you to take

the macaroni and cheese with you 

so it's sitting in the cupboard staring 

me down accusingly

I know

I know

but it insists, along with the spot

you cleared in the garden. 

If those plants ever come up,

they will say the same thing

look at me the same awful way

that the ash tray-- empty-- on

the back steps does

I know

I did this 

and I've done it before

and it's easier to blame you for leaving.

The rain tapping on the leaves 

should comfort me but I’ve heard 

too much today

and you are still in motion 

with places left to drive

headlights and wipers beating 

searching for a heart of gold

and I have no idea if I will see you again. 

The dog needs to go out into that rain and 

you are not here to take him

so I will sit in the dusk with the

beetles buzzing up and slamming

themselves into the porch light,

beside the ash tray and imagine

your car pulling back into the drive

you rolling a cigarette with a grin

your legs crossed at the ankle 

a heart of gold

and I will rehash every awful thing I’ve ever said to you

Summer things

 In truth, I have not written a word since I finished my thesis and my attentions have been completely devoted to the summer, my new garden, and job searching. So now what do I write?

The legitimate fear of becoming a washed-up hyper-dramatic personal journal writer definitely lingers in the back of my mind. But I also have this sneaking suspicion that there are still important things out there that I've not yet written about. So until I figure out exactly what those things are, and how I am going to start the revolution by exposing them to the rest of the world... I will just keep updating the blog with things I am thinking about, reading, watching, and listening to.

Its Brew Week in Athens, and my oh my is it wonderful 

Last night Mike and I watched The Cove-- an oscar nominated documentary exposing the horrifying truths of the Japanese dolphin industry. This was one of the best documentaries I have seen in a very long time (better than Food, Inc. which we just watched last week). Something about this documentary took it beyond the usual documentary formula: blow the top off a big public cover up, expose the terrible realities of the industry, etc. This movie is the Casino-Heist film of the Ocean-Rescue world. Covert missions, threatening Japanese guards, high-def, high-tech military-grade equipment. It was riveting, entertaining, eye-opening, and terrifying. In two hours this film turned two people from Pescatarians to straight Veg.

Seafood lovers beware you are in serious Mercury denial.  

Re-reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, a book that makes you deconstruct your daily notions of the world around you, confront the ghosts of your past, and desperately want a motorcycle. 

OhioLink to thesis

 http://rave.ohiolink.edu/etdc/view.cgi?acc_num=ouhonors1275585545

This is the link to my thesis as it is archived on the OhioLink network. 

Today I turned in my thesis, which completes my requirements for graduation with a bachelor's degree in English from the Honors Tutorial College at OU.

It is a collection of poems (most have been on the blog at some stage of their creation!) with a critical introduction concerning the correlation between madness and writing in two confessional poets: Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath. The essay is not especially formal-- I used it as a personal reflection on my attraction to and affection for poetry and an introduction to my own collection. 

Let me know if you would like a copy!

AMI

Imagined Night In the House of My Grandmother (Revision)

Now that you are gone,

I am graduating and my 

nightmares bear no resemblance

to the ones you may have consoled

me from in youth. 

I am fleeing the tangible and

mundane terror of a bleak and

open future, the specter of

failure moaning in my ears, 

the ghost of debt creaking the 

floorboards and rattling chains. 

I go to spend the night in

your home, hoping the memory

of you may be enough to console 

me to sleep-- which only comes 

now with a struggle. 

I drink tea on your floral couch 

and eat a peppermint from the 

bowl on the table and my lids

begin to grow heavy, a wash of

sleep calmer than any I’ve known 

lately.I climb the stairs of your warm

blue house to the bedroom you

shared with Papa for fifty some 

years.

All night the golden anniversary clock

chimes to mock my awakeness, singing

at the hour and the half

you should have known

you should have known

you’d be awake here

and alone. 

Static (revision of 5 O'clock)

I wonder how you feel,

around 6:15

when you come home from work and

enter this hectic kitchen 

full of children flinging stories and jokes

at one another -- squeals ricocheting

off the cupboards and walls

a barrage of voices too immediate and loud 

for you-- under fire

And our enthusiasm sends you

into the living room, battered, 

to sit for the rest of the night

in front of the three-channeled television.

Like the strange failure of waves from the

broadcasting networks to the flimsy

antennae of the tv,

your signals are never strong enough

to decipher. A little fuzzier as the night

goes on, until they are entirely scrambled.

You switch off and lock yourself behind a

bedroom door. One thought runs in my 

head, already in syndication:

One day you will drop dead, 

and I won’t know a 

Goddamn thing about you.

Spirographs

when we went to the park a few September days
before my birthday (I am trying to remember, but
it exists in that file of memories that are Technicolor
and incomplete) what did I do to provoke you?

did I play along when you created a game where
you kicked the soccer ball at the spokes of my tires
while I drove my pink bike in loping circles ?

I thought I was so much older but the candle on the
cake in the picture says that I am only six-- the scabs
on my cheek and eye still fresh from crashing to the
asphalt, and the training wheels recently removed

meant that there were only two wheels to leave
spirographs on the church parking lot. Loops that
seem so chaotic in the making, but turn out impossibly
beautiful and intricate.

Duty

When Roguey Tom got sick,

came down to his last days,

his body no longer able to shoulder

the brunt of his alcoholism--

his girls took him in and nursed him

let him back like they did every time

he would reappear on a greyhound 

sock-less and pifficated.

When Papa's stroke robbed him 

so violently of the ability to walk and talk

and eat, my mother would wake early

and stay late each of those four years

filling feeding tubes and

changing diapers, wiping the crust

from the roof of his mouth 

with a warm wash rag

and I am your daughter

even though we barely speak

and when you are dying

I will be the first there. 

Abel

My mother recounts her 

Childhood to me, saying:

“Every night Daddy would 

light a cigar and watch the 

CBS news or Lawrence Welk

in his rocking chair,

laughing a little.

And every morning he would 

wake next to Mama, read

the paper in his undershirt and 

suspenders and drive his dump 

truck down the street and

throw bread crumbs off the 

porch, saying "The birds gotta 

eat too, Mama."

Sometimes on Sundays 

Roguey Tom would turn up

smelling like booze

and passing out 20 dollar bills

to all the kids

Drifting through the state

like a man with no ties 

his own children no doubt 

home and worried, his 

nieces reveling in the novelty

of his visit.

Mama would make him

dinner and a cup of coffee

before Daddy collected back

his brother’s money from the kids and

drove him to the bus stop, saying

"go on back to your family, Tom."--

and I wonder, now, if he ever wanted

to buy a case of beer and get on that bus too?

imagined night in the house of my grandmother

a gradeschool friend once told me that when
you are running in a dream, wherever you
run to is your real home, your place of safety.

now, not fleeing some fantastic terror: a witch,
a kidnapper, a runaway truck, but the tangible
and mundane terror of failure; a bleak and open
future, I go to spend the night where I felt safest.
In my grandmother's house.

I open the door, disarm the alarm and enter
into your living room as she left it
floral couch and lace curtains
a bowl of peppermints on the table.
The fridge is well stocked with the things
I love best:
carrot cake and vegetable soup
and after one cup of tea my lids begin
to grow heavy, a wash of sleep calmer
than any I've known lately. I climb
the stairs to the bedroom where
Papa and Granny lay side by side
for some fifty years.

All night the golden anniversary clock
chimes to mock my awakeness, singing
at the hour and the half
you should have known
you should have known
you'd be awake here
and alone.

King of the Jungle

At six years old I am not aware of the exact

implications of the word stroke.

And when you sit me on the bottom of the

oak staircase with the wrought iron banister

I can see that you have been sobbing and your

fear at 32 is more intense than any of mine.

I do not know exactly what was said during that

phone call, only that it was spoken by my grandmother

from an emergency room somewhere and heard in front

of a glowing kitchen window on a phone old

enough to have a curly cord and that it is

the hottest part of the summer and we’ve just

been to the zoo to ride the carousel and see the

lions. And that when it is finally relayed to

me I do not understand the change of life it

will imply or how unfair it is to keep a

lion in a Midwestern zoo confined to a glass

enclosure, pacing the same worn spots, gawked

at, its majesty doctored and forgotten.