Now is the Summer of Our

It is cold and rainy here, but by Wednesday night, summer, whatever the weather, will have arrived. I can't say ti has been a hard semester, what with only two classes, but it will still be nice to have a break and refocus my intensity for a while. It is at this happy time of year that I hear students speak gleefully of the end of their academic careers, and I simply never understood that. Yes, there are lots of things to hate about school, but what would summer be without it? Hot and stikcy and punctuated by a few holidays and sparks of light.

Farewell Dear Friends

It is time to for re-evaluation. I just spent the last hour watching the latest installment of the Real World Road Rules Challenge and holding my breath as though it really mattered and I really cared who won the challenge of the day. From there I only sunk lower by watching ten minutes of an old episode of Home Improvement before remembering that I do in fact have many reasons to live and a few more minutes of the show might possibly kill me. It's been known to happen. And so feeling that I have hit rock bottom, I am going cold turkey. That's enough TV. I hung in there for a long time. I will miss so much of what you were and so little of who you became. We all sit around and wonder how once upon a time fortunes and careers and families and whole histories of civilizations and books that defined lifetimes were made and created by the time someone was twenty. We'd all sit on the couch, surfing channels and ask, how could they do so much? Simple, no television. I am done wathcing other people do a por job of leading their life on television. I am tired of caring who wins what prize, who loses what weight, who is the best intern, who owns the most expensive shoes, who loves who, who can strip their way to true love, how many crab a crew of burly men can catch on the open seas, what mysery illness some girl somewhere mysteriously contracted. I am going to live my own life. I have a bocce ball set and I am going to use it. I know caligraphy and I have a beautiful feather pen and ink well. I can sew and knit and paint and write. I have a half completed 2,000 piece puzzle that has been long neglected. I have music to hear and miles to run and shoes to break in and diners to visit and a perfect picnic basket just waiting for the green grass of the bank of a beautiful pond. I have recipies for pies and soups. I have biographies of famous men to read. I have coffee to brew and letters to write and vacations to plan. I have hikes I want to take. There is a hostel in Georgia where I can stay in a treehouse. I have old friends to talk to and new ones to make. Somewhere there is rain to find shelter from and sun to shine in. I don't know when I'll be back, tv. I am sorry it had to be this way. But I have a life to live.

LW

Brother, Can you Spare a lot of Dimes?

It's finally that time of year to get tax money back. Maybe some of you already got it back. Maybe you filed early and have already enjoyed a little bonus. Maybe you just had a enough for a nice dinner or maybe you paid off a bill or maybe you had enough to put toward a computer. I have to imagine what people would so with their tax returns because in a recent phone call with my own tax man, my dad, I found out I won't be getting any money back. Me, a student who earned less than 10,000 the last year won't be getting anything back. But oh, it gets better. Not only do I not receive a return, but I owe money. I owe the federal government $250. That's practically a whole paycheck. How can that be? I'm baffled. Bamboozled. I feel as though I've been swindled. And I'm not normally a complainer on such matters. If I made more money than I would understand. I think that's fair, but this is not fair. However, I am willing to recognize that I'm lucky in many respects and if I need help with money I can get it-from my parents, from loans. I have options. But what if I didn't? What if the only money I had was the poverty level amount of less than 10,000? Something's up there.

Not a Poet. Now I Know It.

I was once a poet. I was a poet when poetry was easy and bad and all good poetry had to be was typed in a nice font and situated next to a neat picture inside a plastic folder with an equally neat picture on the cover. But now I find the more I study poetry, the more I read it and the more I write it, the worse I get. And not only that, but I don't feel like a poet anymore. I feel like a poser. Maybe that's because I write fiction. But poetry was my first love. It was what I filled up journal after journal and notebook after notebook of with horrible mopey self-indulgent poems. Of course I did alliterate quite nicely. Then again maybe I feel that way because the study of poetry has still not given my any hard criteria by which to judge what is good and bad. Some stuff is obviously bad, everyone knows that, but then there is poetry I am supposed to love, but can't see why. And of course there is no reason. It is a communication of the soul and is seemingly just as elusive.

Gettin' Some Help(!)

Yesterday I had the delight shall we say of seeing the Beatles' Help! up on the big screen at the much beloved and often defunct Senator Theater. It was a campy little romp with a weak plot and cheap thrills, but how could you not love it? It's the Beatles. And the Senator makes any movie better; the wide auditorium, the art deco fixtures, the mauve and gold drapery, the gigantic screen, and the ceiling of a cathedral where the angels sing, or the Beatles depending on when you go.

It's sad to see the place on such shaky ground. In the lobby you can find movie memorabilia on sale, which is fine and pleasant and full of nice memories, but you can also find film reels and marquee letters and I'm hoping I don't have to see the chairs auctioned off. Not to mention the place is a mess; boxes of junk everywhere. The whole place feels like a sinking ship except the auditorium itself. That place is full of so much wonder. It transports me back in time. other people feel the same way yes, everyone loves the place, but no one seems to know what to do. And no I don't have any bright ideas, but I have to believe there is still space in the world for an old theater and its movies. I have to believe there is still a place for technicolor.

And now to blog about the MFA reading series, which featured poet Adam Z on Monday night. Let's see, he was a little hard to understand and he read in a manner a bit too slow for me, but I know there was power in his words and I think if I sat down and read his poetry on my own I might appreciate it more. And it was a long reading and some of the poems were very long and as much as I tried, I just couldn't pay complete attention, and so while I think he is a very good poet I didn't walk away from the reading feeling amazed. In fact, what I like more was a comment made during his introduction in which it was said that when reading his work it seemed so perfect that it seemed that it had to exist, that it had always existed. I grabbed onto that sentiment and thought how perfectly it describes the things we love and are impressed by; we just can't imagine life without them.

Lincoln Lincoln I Been Thinkin'

I sometimes say that if I did not want to be a writer, I would want to be a dentist, but I think I would be just as happy teaching history. I am a history geek. But I don't have an area of expertise, just a wide area of interest. Of course high on that list is Mr. Lincoln and yesterday I got to go and see the man. By that I went to the Smithsonian and stood in a room full of Lincoln portraits. My goodness what an odd looking man, but although his contemporaries and his followers are quick to denounce his appearance, I can't think of a more impressive looking human being. They say he had grey eyes and that explains the vastness of them, the depth, the sorrow. I had always known he aged badly during his presidency, but the exhibit showed the staggering degree of how hollow and sunken and old his face became in just over four years. The first photograph taken of him as president hung on the opposite wall to that of one of the last taken of him and I hardly believed what. I collect a number of his portaits just to hang on my own walls, just to have around, just to look at and get lost in. Oh Lincoln Lincoln I've been thinkin. Thinkin about you and everything else.

In the Land of Ugly Sunglasses

Oh springtime and the birds are chirping and the sun is shinning and all around the world people are protecting their eyes with the ugliest eyewear they can find. It is no longer a bad thing to wear shades that harken back to Elton John's sequin days. We actually want to know again who that is behind those ray bans. If they look like they once belonged to your grandmother then your status is secure. The universe is all topsy turvy and bad is good and ugly is pretty and everything old is all of the sudden new, as though it never was once before. I'm just waiting for monocles and eye patches to be the next big thing. Wait! I got it. I'm going to head over to the nearest opthomoligist and pick up a paur of those disposable box shaped glasses they give you after you get your pupils dilated. Behold! I will be wearing the crown jewel of ugliness. All others bow to my greatness.

Hello Charlie

The other afternoon I found myself with a rare bit of free time, as in time that I should spend doing pertinent yet not required activities, and I decided to use that time to watch the last hour or so of Charlie Chaplin's classic Little Dictator. I think it holds up to its reputation. Ok, so it had its corny moments, and yeah the train moving through the station is a cardboeard cut-out and yes the ending, as inspirational as it is, was a bit heavy-handed. But I was amazed notwithstanding, by the cleverness of the movie, the genius of the comedy. It's a comdey that isn't low-brow. Imagine such a thing today. A comdey with intelligence. There was a part of me that didn't want to laugh at some of the 3 Stooges like slapstick, but I am willing to recognize the brilliance behind physical comedy; it's much easier to crack an audience up with sarcasm and lewd situations and who knows, pie fights, then it is to get them laughing over the way you move your body. Couldn't you just watch Charlie walk all day long? Or balance on a beam from the roof of a house? Or slather mustard all over bread? He has such a way about him on film.

A Love Letter to TCM

Happy Birthday TCM. You are 15 years old and I feel as though I cannot remember life before you arrived. That's probably becuase I was only eight, but still, you seem to have always been there with your classic movies, your upstanding hosts in suits leaning casually on an armchiar before the fire, your love of all things draped in old Hollywood glamour. You really are the most chraming channel and the one I am most grateful for and dare I say it, but you are the reason I have cable. Last night you played Gone With the Wind followed by Singin' in the Rain and I wonder if we are best friends you and I. And today you are all about Charlie Chaplin and a little Double Indemnity thrown in there. I admire the way you have stuck to your guns over the years and continued to broadcast and protect the classics as well as the forgotten would be classics. You remind us of what a move can do, of what a really good movie can do, of what a certain camera angle, a certain line, a certain scene of a sunset or a desert, or a certain note on the piano at just the right moment can do. I could not devote my whole evening to the saga of Scarlet O'Hara, but I did catch the last bit before the intermission, the great scene where she vows to never be hungry again and I cannot imagine my life without those words and that scene. It is a thing that always must have been and always must be. And it reminded me that when I got my wisdom teeth pulled it was Gone With the Wind that I chose to watch as my mouth was packed with gauze. It was the sounds of Tara that put me to sleep and the sounds of Tara that woke me up. It is a movie that is a close friend of mine. And TCM, you bring those close friends to me when I least expect, which is the most wonderful of all your attributes. You see, I love the ability to own movies on DVD and watch them whenever I want, but they always lose a little luster that way, they lose the luster of serendipity, of turning on the TV just in time to see exactly what I would watch if I could choose.

A Legend Made in Mid-April

Today is a very important day that raises very important questions. It was on this day in 1865 that Abraham Lincoln was assassinated. You all know where and how and who and what and you might even know, like me, what play he was watching and what were the last words he heard. But the question is, can I celebrate this day while maintaining my love of Lincoln? Maybe I can observe this day and celebrate his life. That's how it's done, isn't it? Except, is it not also fair to say with Lincoln as with many other greats who are cut down in their prime, that the cutting down is part of what makes them great? I'm not saying Lincoln was important becuase he died, but that his death preserves his greatness and his memory and it made him legendary the way that only an untimely death can. Now he belongs to the ages, doesn't he? Would he belong to them that same way if he died in 1885 from the flu somewhere out of the way and quiet? Of course William McKinley and James A. Garfield also met a similar fate as Mr. Lincoln and have retained non of the popularity or mystique. Was that becuase even their deaths could not lift up uneventful lives? I suppose I just want to know why I love Lincoln the way I do. Maybe I just love the story. Know one really knows Lincoln the man, they know the hero, the legend, the myth, the creation, and then really the story of his life seems only like one that could be written. And so today I'll neither celebrate the death or the life of Lincoln, but the story of it all. The poor log cabin born rail splitter who grew up and saved the country.

I like to pretend that I have decent music taste, well it's all subjective I know, but yesterday I embraced what I know to be simple unadorned bad music. After spending last Friday night watching all 5 hours (I don't know where the time went) of VH1's 100 Greatest One Hit Wonders of the 80's, I had a craving to infuse my ipod with a few not so classic throwbacks. And say what you will about my choice, but yesterday I bopped to school to the tune of General Public's Tenderness. Us younger kids, not aware of it in the 80's probably know it from the Soundtrack of Clueless. It's crazy how good that song made me feel. I don't mind saying that I danced just a little bit. I tapped my fingers against my jeans, I bobbed my head, I did, yes, I did mouth the words. Call it a guilty pleasure, but however you want to classify music, however much sugar pop choruses annoy you, there is something to be said for infection. There is something to be said for the way a shallow catchy song from the 80's can make me realize all the happiness at my disposal. I wash the dishes to ABBA on occassion. I have a cassette tape of Barbie and the Rockers with possibly one of the most fantastic songs ever recorded by a doll and her backing band. I love Belinda Carlisle. I just bought Madonna's hits collection from the mid 90's becuase couldn't we all learn a little something from vintage Madonna? Is that even a question?

No News is Good News

I make a lot of vows to turn over a new leaf. I set goals like flossing more often, drinking water, moisturizing my elbows on a regular basis, and most recently catching up on the news. Now I don't have a subscription to the newspaper, which I know I should get, but I do dabble a bit in online news such as the New York Times website. I try to read a little of everything, even the boring sections, like business, but I find the more I read, the less I want to. I don't want to be ignorant of the world around me, but the news is depressing. I don't think I can read another shooting massacre story. I can't read any more about people killing each other. When I was little I would try to watch the news with my parents until my mother decided it was too upsetting. I don't want to ignore the world because it upsets me, but I find it hard to reconcile who I am with what the world is.

Don't Eat This Book

I've been hearing a lot about lead lately and frankly I haven't been listening. But then a few weeks ago the recent lead hysteria that has gradually been growing in the country over the past year finally peeked in my kitchen. I was grinding coffee beans in the evening for a nice cup when I noticed a warning label on the cord of the grinder. It has been there since I bought it several months ago, but I've never bothered to read it assuming that it was warning me not to try to use the grinder in the sink or bathtub. But no! The label told me that the cord contains lead and that I should wash my hands thoroughly after each time I touch it. I suddenly thought back to all the times I had touched that cord and then made breakfast or touched my face or my lips, or the edge of my coffee cup. I thought perhaps I had already been poisoned. So I called my dad, explained the situation and he told me not to worry. He said back in the 1980's when he was making stained glass windows he handled loads of lead without gloves and never tested high for it. As quickly as the panic came it passed, but then just hours ago I was speaking to my mother and she told in fractured bits what she remembered hearing about school libraries in my dad's school district being forced to throw out books published before 1985 because of possible lead used. I have yet to get the full details, but I'm pretty upset and angry that such a thing is actually being considered. I don't claim to understand the lead panic, but fine, ok, in certain situations I can understand the caution. I can understand that small plastic toys made for toddlers that often get chewed on should not contain lead, but I don't think books belong in the same category as toys and I certainly don't think that books should just be thrown out. Think of all those wonderful books. I won't eat them! Can I have them?

Goodwill Gone Bad

I've had some strange experiences at the Goodwill before, but this Saturday tops the pops. I don't know why exactly, but the good people at Goodwill have decided to revamp their operation. There are no more clothing racks, no more hangers, no more neatly organized departments, no men's, no women's, no outerwear. What they have instead are bins. Giant green bins on wheels that are stuffed with a random assortment of everything clothing. I go to the Goodwill to do a little hunting, sure, I love flipping through the racks and racks of outrageously ugly stuff to find the stuff that is either pretty or just ironically ugly. So it isn't that I mind having to do a little digging for the good stuff, but something about grabbing through bins of clothes is more than degrading. And of course I am not the Goodwill's target shopper. I have the luxury of not shopping there. I have a choice, but their mission is to help people without choices. Their mission is to provide an affordable and dignified shopping expereicne to people with very little money. The Goodwill is suppossed to help the community. That's the reason they exist. And now they want shoppers to root through heaps of clothing like searching through the dumpster? As I picked up a few flannel shirts among the wreckage, I went from feeling uncomfortable to feeling angry. I think everyone deserves a better shopping experience. I'm pretty dissapointed.

Rain on Me

It's cloudy and overcast and rainy outside and I wish so much that I could put on Billie Holiday and curl up on the floor by a window just like a cat and read and doze and drink coffee or maybe eat a bonbon and watch the sky get so dark with rain that I need a lamp to read by. Everybody has parts about themselves that they share with everyone, everybody has that one story they tell a hundred times becuase it defines who they are, everybody has one tired attribute. For me it is this love of a gloomy day. It has become such an intrinsic recognizeable part of me that friends and family in all parts of the country will inform me when it is gloomy their way and say they thought of me.

I can remember so many perfect gloomy days. The edges of those memories are so crisp like the outline of a tree branch on dark sky. Someone once asked me about the best day of my life and despite all my other options, like the day I first arrived in Rome, or got accepted to grad school, or kissed a boy, or whatever, I chose the rainy day in ninth grade when I listened to Semisonic on repeat and read Anne of Green Gables underneath a big warm comforter and the rain kep falling and from downstairs the sounds and smells of a big family dinner in preparation floated up to me. And when I emerged from my sanctuary of rainy reading, the house was bright and warm and became Home, with a capital H, like true home.

Or there was that Friday morning my senior year of college when I got up early and sat on the fifth floor of the student union in an empty cafeteria drinking coffee and staring out the window at the leaves just begining to turn red and orange in backdrop of raindrops. I remember really wanting to remember that moment. I remember knowing it was important, that it could bring me an unstoppable joy even in fifty years.

Men Live on Mars Bars

I am sitting here sipping a nice thermos of coffee, entering data, memorizing a poem, trying to write a new one, and munching on a small package of low calorie cookie crackers. They are a sensible snack choice in many ways: sweet, satisfying but not filling, portable, aerodynamic, and of course trendy. So I'm all for snacking smart and all for companies making it easier for ordinary people to make better choices, but if I have to watch another ad like the recent one of a stampeeding herd of women chasing after, overturning, and ransacking a truck carrying 100 calorie cookie packs, then I might just have to start a boycott. And that would be a shame becuase I like the taste, especailly the little lorna doone ones, oh my. But shouldn't we be offended? Are women (only women remember becuase there wasn't a single man in that mob worried about his dress size) really that obsessive and ravenous and crazy when it comes to food? Well, maybe, in a way. Women are repressed eaters. They are allowed small packages of perfectly portioned food, they are told to indulge in premade desserts served in small plastic bowls. They are told in many advertisements not to feel guilty about eating such and such nutritiuos product, which of course implies that women do feel guilty and should feel guilty about everything else they eat. Meanwhile men are still to eat like men and this too is a disservice if it encourages them to eat more than is healthy. But these marketers know what they are doing clearly by tapping into the seemingly ancient ideas of the ways men and women should eat. I'd like to think that as the organic natural health food craze slowly takes over ideas about food will level off, but I fear that the indulgence of sweet things like chocolate will become shameful and thus secret and only done in miniature sized cubes made from a sugar free coco like powder. I think it would be better if both men and women were allowed to realize there is a balance to everything and that bad greasy food stuffed with peanut butter ripples can be off-set and deserved when paired with fruits and vegetables.

In Sunlight

Oh the beauty of the world! It's Monday and maybe too early in the week for exclaimation points, but at about seven o'clock this morning I got to take a moment at work, take a breath, a sip of coffee and look out the window at the street. I saw a tree just breaking into bloom illuminated by the low early golden sun that only comes at seven o'clock and only on certain mornings. The light streamed down the street so bright that I actually thought it was a spotlight or a searchlight or a silently hovering helicopter. Later, I saw that smae tree from the terrace of a neighboring building and the sunlight was gone, but the white blossoms stood out against the grey sky and that's almost too much inspiration for one day.

Fear of Death and Apricots Before Bed

I was having trouble sleeping last night when a sudden terrible fear gripped me, the way they always tend to do when I stare at the fridge too long or catch a rain drop lose its light against a window pane or whenever I settle into a comfortable memory of late afternoon sun. It was that old death fear again. That wave of panic that is always ebbing and flowing, chasing at my heels. Never mind that I'm too young to worry about it (here I am overlooking that fact that age has absolutely nothing to do with it) because last night the fear was specific and driven by age. You see, like many young girls, young women, ladies, I have worked very hard to attain what I consider my optimal level of achievable attractiveness, the level that nature allows me, and I have spent a long time doing this. I went through bowl haircuts and purple hair dye and chunky sweaters and sweatpants and blue eyeshadow smeared across my face. I have earned whatever look it is I have now and then last night I remembered the slow decline of it all. I am now saddled with the job of maintenance. Of wrinkle cream and olive oils, fish oils, apricots and mangoes and avocados applied to my skin in some sort of theatrical arrangement best suited to block out the effects of a fluorescent bulb. But because I understand the inevitable, I shufled off the fear as I do with all those great big elephant fears and decided I'd have to keep cultivating the inside. The soil there lasts so much longer.

Bodies in Motion

It wasn't the prettiest thing you'd ever see, but I did finish the Shamrock 8k run in Virginia Beach. Not only did I finish, but I ran the whole thing, which is more than I thought I could do. And ran it in a respectable 50 minutes. I really enjoyed the run, especially when I realized how many ordinary people participated in it and the half marathon the following day. I watched as people of all ages and sizes and abilities and speeds made their way across the finish line and I don't know that I have seen many things as encouraging as that. I was worried that I would embarrass myswlf, that I would be caught in a swell of very serious runners leaving my lumbering and chugging away behind, but it just wasn't the case. And if it had been, if I had struggled, as some did, the crowd was gracious and encouraging. It's pretty nice to feel that a group of total strnagers want you to succeed, want you to push yourself, want you to just make it across the finish line. What is it about applause that feels so good? How is it that two hands clapping together suddenly make the impossible seem possible? I can't say that I'll ever be dedicated and determined enough to make running a true hobby, but I think I'd like to work my way up to a half marathon. You see I misjuged the body. I forgot that there is glory in the strength of the body and that accomplishments aren't only made through thought, but through action. There is something, more than something poetic about a body moving.

The Epistolarian

I take great pleasure in very simple things. Today I sat underneath my bedroom window, on the floor with the light streaming in and the sun shining and though generally the sun and I are at odds, it was a late day sun and so brassy and orange and that color I always fall in love with. I wrote a letter to a friend and wondered why I don't write more letters. I mean, frankly in comparison to most people my age, I write and receive quite a few letters, but imagine writing them everyday. My hand gets too tired for that. But I do have this box full of correspondence that I've saved over the last five years or so and wow how beautiful a worn envelope feels. Sometimes I spread all the letters out in front of me, I flip through, I feel the paper and the ink, I look at the dates, at the signatures, I think I would give up everything I own for those letters. I would sell everything I own for the pages and pages of words written down just for me. Why is it gold is so popular?

Every Breath You Take

Here she comes here she comes. I am back and it is one week exactly, less a few hours, that I will be in Virginia Beach running an 8k. I am not a runner, I am a plodder. I can walk, and walk pretty briskly, brisker than plod implies, for miles and miles. I'm all about walking. But running involves breathing and I've never thought I've been a particularly good breather. Is it possible I have very small lungs? Restricted bronchial tubes? In any case I'm more than nervous about this run mostly because there will be people around me. I'm not a graceful runner. But I do remember, long ago when I was in second grade, before the year that I vomited in gym class after the presidential fitness two minute drill run, I do remember that I used to race against kids in my class and win. I do remember that I wanted to be an Olympic sprinter.

Call Me Kermit the Hermit

Hello my baby, hello my darling. I have been away for a while, haven't I? I've discovered, or myabe I always knew it and simply realize it more and more, but I am something of a hermit. I frequently go off the grid. I'm not good about answering emails, or returning phone calls, and as a penpal I am subpar. I usually blame it on a lack of time, but really I always have plenty of time, I just spend it in the wrong way. And it isn't that I want to ignore people either, but maybe I can again blame my introverted nature here and claim that for me communicating is somteimes exhausting. That's exaggerating it a bit, but I have to be in the right mood. That and I can never finishe what I start. Friends of mine have piles of letters addressed to them with only an opening paragraph completed. I hit reply to emails only to change my mind and say I'll do that later. I've tried to get better at these things, but as of yet I am unsuccessful. And it isn't as though I mean to make excuses, but simply explain or try to figure out for myself why I am the way I am.

If we're lucky Ill be back again tomorrow.

LW

The Cinema Firmament

I am a sucker for the movie montage. I never cease to be enthralled by classic film clips taped together to the accompaniment of a cresendo of violin music. In fact, I don't even mind watching previews or film trailers. I get goose bumps. I do. Of course I'm only thinking about these things becuase of the Oscars last night and no, I don't want to talk about who won or who didn't or what they were wearing or who they were wearing, but I am all for talking nostalgia. I watch the Osacrs now more out of obligation than actual interest, out of hope rather than genuine faith. I watch them on the chance that I might come away infused with some of that good old movie magic, that tingly feeling that means something wonderful has happened. I made it my mission a few years ago to watch all of the films on the American Film Institute's Top 100 list just so that I could catch all of the references, all of the lines, the glances, the subtle nuances of the numerous movie montages dedicated to classic films. And what it comes down to is the instant pay off you get when you boil down a classic to one scene, one moment, one orchestra blaring up over the backdrop of Georgia sunset, one look across the room, one flick of the hair, one dress. I've never minded much the way our emotions are manipulated by those kinds do things, the way we're forced to feel a certain way because the music tells us to. I've always thought it rather wodnerful that we have the ability to be molded that way. Yes, rather wonderful that I can still know something of magic, of make-believe, of Hollywood.

Could I Get the Window Without the Doggie?

I am learning about windows. I want to walk down the street and say ah yes, there is an oculus, that nice oval one there, whereas that, that is a sign of the suburban seep, the casement window. I want to talk about dormers and diocletians and paladian windows. I want to tell you all about them beucase I want to know all about everything. I want to know that hard hats were invented by workers constructing the Hoover Dam. Look at that, I do know that after all.

So I heard that maybe secretly, in some dark cement like place, writers want to be architects, that writers envy the physical, the creation of an actual object versus an idea, a word blurb, a thought bubble. Here I thought all writers, all people on this Earth only ever really aspired to be rock stars. I don't believe writers want to build buildings, not in the literal sense, but it's encouraging to think that people could pine away after such a calculated, intellectual, thin black tie and glasses, kind of lifestyle. I also heard that fifteen year old boys don't dream of becoming essayists, but then maybe they do. Are there people who always wanted to be accountants? I toyed with, still toy with, becoming a dental assistant. I have multiple friends who want to be farmers. Funny that dreams need not be glamorous.

I'm sure it has been said before, many times and more eloquent, subtle ways, but Chicago rises out of the Midwest like the Emerald City. All that green and blue glinting glass. All that steel and wide open sidewalks and space. Everything shimmered there, looked royal there. Of course I have faith in brick and stone because their inherent strength emanates outward. I find beauty in the course red hue of brick, but I am willing to imagine the way Chicago must have felt like several decades ago, like the city of the future, the city rejecting the age old stones rolled up mountains on bent backs and instead built itself like a beacon of light and air.

Taking Flight

So I am off to AWP in Chicago to see what all the hubub is or is not about. I hear it's raining there, and I don't own an umbrella, but I won't let that spoil the trip. The biggest concern really is that my beloved black Chuck Taylors will not be making the trip with me as they are now ripped beyond repair. So little canvas left to them. I don't know how that happened, just a few miss-steps, a few hundred miles up and down and up and down Charles Street last year when I lived far away from campus and had no car and was too afraid to ride the bus. I did give up that fear though and gave public transportation a try. It was like the school bus all over again; the same people every morning except some of them were drunk or homeless, some of them were crazy, some of them told me from time to time to have a blessed day. You know a place that way, what is it they say, about going where the people are, the people on buses, on the light rail, waiting at the crosswalk.

Talk about diving deep into a labyrinth of paths in which every road leads you back to a beginning in a way you can't believe since you made it a point to go in different directions, or in this case, use different search terms. Yes, that's what is has been like trying to find more sites on The Garden of Forking Paths. Every search in some way brings me back to the geocities site I have already commented on. While it's funny considering the story that that should be the case, it's also frustrating that more people haven't taken advantage of the story. I think about this especailly in What turn places us and our narrator in a different part of the story? Or what about objects, such as the letter or the crucial telephone or the encyclopedia that transport us to different sections of the story? Granted the idea behind all of these scenarios is exactly the smae as clicking on a simple word, but I think that because the process of endlessly clicking and reading can be a bit cumbersome, being able to entice the audience with playful visuals would be a great help.

The first site I found about The Garden of Forking Paths was http://www.geocities.com/papanagnou/cover.htm. The gist of the site is that the story is written with various words appearing in color and when those random words are clicked on the text jumps to a different section of the story. The opening paragraph always appears the same, but the remainder of the story can be read in dozens of ways depending on what words you click. It works as an interesting, can I say neat, way of illustrating the story's point about an infinite story, but at the same time it is an impossible site to read. So while it is interesting conceptually, it isn't something you would really want to sit down and read seriously without losing interest. Of course at the same time this layout gives the reader the opportunity to function as the writer and change the story with a click of a button.

I just finished reading The Garden of Forking Paths and having already read it previously in a literary sense, I am now trying to look at it in terms of presenting a story through various mediums. The story itself is fairly straightforward (as well as completely unbelievable) but the ideas about infinite time and unending novels in which characters make not one choice but all choices, fits in perfectly with the internet and the infinite capacity to click on links and be continually transported. What really works for the story is the fact that it is one filled with so many important choices that the narrator must make: where to go when he knows his life is endanger, how to communicate his information to the Germans, whether or not to kill Mr. Albert, the man who knows so much about his ancestry, and so on. Because these choices are so pivotal, it makes it all the more interesting to think about what would happen if they were made differently, if all the possibilities were explored, if the narrator could, as in his ancestor's novel, make every choice.

A deceptively spring like day in the city today. A day when even with no snow, it smelled like thawing, like snow had melted everywhere, like it might rain in the late afternoon and start everything all over again. You can say what you want about winter, about ice scrapers and frozen car doors and salt stains on the bottom of everything you own, but isn't it amazing when it ends. I'm all about winter and not much for spring, but even I like the interim and the transition, that moment like standing in a train station when all the platforms and times flip over and you feel once again like you're going places.

As part of a class assignment, I was asked to search the internet for websites telling narratives, such as the one I hope to create here with my own stories. But, I must confess I am much better at using the web to buy things I don't need with money I don't have, than I am at using the internet as a research tool. Therefore, my finds are not stellar, but I enjoyed them.

The first is Post Secret, which I'm sure most people already know about, but the idea is brilliant and once you start reading people's secrets, it's impossible to stop. What makes the site effective is that the concept behind it, the gimmick of anonymously sending in secrets is, powerful enough to tie readers to people they don't know. Within the space of a postcard we are told a story, and because the story is so short we want to keep reading, keep acquiring secrets, and keep identifying with other people. The internet is all about identification, about a wonderful way to discover all the other people out there like you.


The second site I visited is called Travelogues.net. It is exactly what it says it is, a travelogue of one man's journeys around the world. The site is fairly low-tech, but I love reading first-hand accounts that deal with travel because of the rich opportunities they present to learns about people and places and culture. What I think this site has going for it is its candor. It presents the places in a way that is too informal for a guidebook and thus perfectly suited for the internet.


I have to admit I had a lot of trouble finding good narrative sites, and so my last one is perhaps more of a last-ditch effort, but still worth checking out because of the content. The site is for the quarterly webzine Cafe Irreal, which attempts to challenge the traditional notion of a realistic story and goes against created believable characters and situations. It is not necessarily my kind of fiction, but the point again is that is has found a forum in the internet that it might not have had in print.

Up in the Air

Shoulders back. Head up. A phrase repeated like the mantra of my childhood, and though I cannot say it has improved my posture much, it has allowed me to see a great many things. I have recently fallen in love with rooftops, with scallop shaped shingles, with shutters, with an angle of my neck that reminds me of my small perspective. I pass under oval attic windows set in a frame of beautifully carved stone and my mouth hangs open a little. I start wanting to take pictures of everything and start researching historical societies.

I've Been Out Walking

Almost everywhere I go, I walk. And in my walking I am invigorated by the smallest things. I dream sometimes of living in Montana and enjoying all that wide open space and big sky and winding rivers, but until then I will have to be fascinated by the nature of a city. If Montana is the epitome of a world untouched, than the city is the epitome of evidence, of a world built up and broken down.