The Shapes You Need

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2009-08-05T21:20:00.000-04:00

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Ten Word Memoirs

2009-01-20T20:50:00.003-05:00

In late 2008 I tried to get myself to write more by using a prompt I've heard many times before (though sometimes the word count varies). I didn't get very far—three entries to be exact. Maybe this will be something I eventually pick back up this year as well.

Oct 25
Blood blooms on my eyelids
and beneath—
body stamping itself.

Nov 26
Four letters have burned out.
Now it reads: "fun home."

Dec 5
Another dream in which smashing
a champagne bottle wakes me.

These are all very telling, even the last, in which a champagne bottle—normally reserved for popping, for celebration—is smashed so violently it actually breaks my subconscious.

I'm trying to make 2009 more like 200Mine, but if that's the case, I really need to set some goals. I blame winter for the most part.

Merry Christmas, New York!

2008-12-22T23:02:00.004-05:00

A blind man walked onto my train tonight, and wouldn't you know, started singing "The Christmas Song." It was sweet, certainly seasonal, and, being that this is the night before I fly home to Pennsylvania, a little emotional I'll admit. But then, as his voice wailed and his head shook with ferocity, the gears inside my dusty brain started spinning and I thought, "Hey, he seems familiar...."

Just as I had begun to mentally place where I'd heard this gentleman's crooning before, he switched songs. It went a little something like this:

Though it's been said,
Many times, many ways,
Merry Christmas,
Merry Christmas, to you...
(beat)
If you want my body,
And you think I'm sexy,
Come on, baby, let me know.

That's right, from caroling to "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy?"

Nowhere else, but on the New York subway. See you in 2009! Tomorrow at this time I'll be resting in the chimney of my house-shaped home-state.

Flight Tattoo

2008-12-17T17:07:00.003-05:00

Once I save up enough money, I want this image of the birds attached to strings on my right arm and wrist. I've finally decided.

White Winter Hymnal

2008-12-16T22:13:00.003-05:00

I find it baffling that I once fancied myself a writer when I can barely string together a coherent, confident, and declarative sentence these days. Other than, say, "I'm a mess." How else to explain the pit in my stomach that won't go away? I thought moving to New York would be the change I needed, when truth is, I find myself falling into the same patterns as I experienced in Boston. Inherently, there is something wrong with me.

I haven't written a complete poem in months. I haven't taken a photograph in weeks. In fact, I don't think I have much of anything at all to show in the way of creativity. Now I realize there is something worse than a "creativity block," and that's emptiness. Because at least with a block you're trying to work through it. I can't even bring myself to lift the pen or camera.

I think one of my biggest problems is that I can't handle extremes. My life is so stagnant that when the highs are high, I'm in love. But then, when it's over, the low hits so hard I forget all joys and fulfillment.

Perhaps my line of thinking has some correlation to the upcoming holidays. (I am dreading traveling to PA.) But that just seems like another excuse.

All I know is that today, at work, it began to snow, huge flakes just drifting to the wet sidewalk. I'll never get over the power it has to quiet everything, even a city. And then Sylvia, my coworker, told me how she likes to play the piano when it's snowing. Something about the flakes moving like music notes across the page.

Wake Up, Shake Up

2008-11-30T22:15:00.005-05:00

You probably thought I'd forgotten about this old cyberspace muse of mine, huh? On the contrary, not at all. I've had a whirlwind four weeks since I last updated. Let's see:

1. Went on a cruise as part of my good friends' wedding. They decided to bring the honeymoon with them to Florida, and then all around the Western Caribbean. When we weren't on Carnival Legend (clubbing in Medusa's Lair, strolling through the Enchanted Forest, sitting in the casino), we had time to stop and explore Cayman Islands, Cozumel, Belize City, and Roatan Islands. I've never been on a cruise before, and while I didn't know what to expect, I enjoyed myself once I accepted that I wasn't in Kansas anymore. I just don't know if I'd do it again any time soon.

2. While on the cruise, I got a job. I was baffled when I found out. Somehow, against the odds of the economy and other qualified candidates, I nabbed my dream job. I've now re-adjusted to the 9-5 routine of working in an office in a cubicle, but this time I'm right where I want to be: as an editorial assistant in children's publishing. I love it, but it has certainly taken up most of my time, and explains the majority of my silence around here.

3. Finally, after so many months, I am also enjoying another old routine that brings me sanity: reading and writing. Yes, all, I am back to writing. Granted, I can't claim to be writing as much as I once did, but even if I am producing small fragments, they're more than I can say for July-October. I'm also enjoying adult books on my commute and before bed, and buying more poetry! With a job that requires tons of reading (and children's at that), it's understandable that you'd want to get as far away from that as you can in your downtime. But that is a terrible habit to fall into, so I'm fixing it.

4. I just had a wonderful Thanksgiving. My second in New York. Slowly but surely, this city is feeling more like home. Which brings me to . . . .

5. I don't want to jump the gun, but I was talking to a friend tonight about my Christmas travel plans, which immediately led me to thinking about New Year's, and the fact that it is already almost 2009. I won't say anything yet (we still have December to get through after all!), but 2008 has been a huge year for me. Sometimes I can't believe how much I've packed into it, but all I can hope for is more years like it.

Here is a poem by Victoria Chang from her newest collection Salvinia Molesta, which is my current obsession.

Ars Poetica as Birdfeeder and Hummingbird

All winter I watched the empty feeder
and the God light pummel

its stained glass in a sieve. No
hummingbirds, no

humorous little body with a tent stake
as a nose.

Look, little bird, how do you know, how
do you know

your brilliance is what I seek? The way
you lance a honeysuckle’s

heart, take the blood in your bill. I wish
I knew how to punch

a center, inch in and in, lance something
to death, that flowers and

flowers light. You in your array of vibrating
attire. I am not

a weed, I need your praise to survive.
The field will consume me.

The field has chosen sides. The field is
not hungry for the middling.

How I hate the field and what it sees, its
teeth digging out the ochre

of mediocre, what’s left but medi—a non,
a nothing, no-one.

O tiny bird—medicate me, convulse me,
punch holes in me so

some of my light leaks out.

- Victoria Chang

Graveyard Smash

2008-10-15T12:18:00.001-04:00

To get you in the Halloween spirit:

Insatiable Appetite

2008-10-13T15:39:00.004-04:00

Not only do I love Dee Dee Sharp's song "Mashed Potato Time," not only do I want to learn how to shake my groove thang like her backup dancers, not only do I love her sassy "yeah, yeah, yeah" at 0:56 and her come-hither finger-hooks at 1:00, but every time I hear this song, I automatically crave mashed potatoes. All in all, this is a win-win scenario.

Corners of the World

2008-10-06T11:07:00.000-04:00

One of the scariest assignments I had to face in two (count them, two) personal essay classes was writing about a place. In my introductory class I completely bombed it, unsure as a college freshman what one place meant to me more than any other. In my advanced class, I improved, though I would by no means call it a success.

I know that certain places have had an intense effect on shaping who I am and where I've ended up. But those places are almost as intricate as my DNA, so implanted in me and naturally part of my system that deconstructing them is almost unfair. I have obvious feelings toward them, of course, be it anger or contentment, hatred or adoration, respect or . . . disrespect. It's hard to settle on one overall theme, and again, most likely unfair.

Now that I've moved out of Boston, my mind often wanders back to it, convinced that when I walk outside I'll be back in familiar territory. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Anyway, here's an incomplete list of those places in Boston that are forever etched in my memory.

1. The corners of Boylston and Tremont Streets. Famous to any Emerson alum. I remember every angle of this four-corner block. Looking from the Starbucks side, the Dunkin Donuts side, the Masonic Lodge side, and the Boylston T stop side. Every one evokes this strange nostalgia in me, not because it was a particularly inviting or warm corner of the world, but because it was inescapable for four years. All of college rested on that axis, and sometimes I still picture myself standing there, waiting for the lights to indicate that it's safe to cross diagonally.

2. Elm Street in Davis Square. How much time did I spend on this street my freshman and sophomore years? If I counted it would probably total more than a few months. But it was such a sweet escape for Cheena and me. All the hours we studied (and didn't study) in Diesel Cafe, or browsed the bookshop next to it. The Chinese restaurant we ate at on our second Thanksgiving together, sophomore year. The Hollywood Express where we visited friends, the concerts attended at Somerville Theatre, the ice cream from J.P. Licks . . . eventually my time in Davis Square decreased. I'm not sure why exactly, but having my own apartment was probably a big reason. Living in the dorms, Davis Square was an escape. Once I had my own place, I nested until it was the most productive environment. Either way, I'll never forget this neighborhood that had such an impact on me.

3. I remember the first time I ever looked up and really noticed the Back Bay skyline was in my freshman year, December. A bunch of us were going to Wendy's for dinner, but it was already dark. We needed to fill our stomachs with food before embarking on a night of drinking (of course), and this seemed the cheapest option with an added bonus of walking there together. I just remember it being this new awakening for me. (Wow, that is really pretentious, but let me explain.) I was fresh from a Thanksgiving weekend with Cheena, and suffering from this ridiculously minor heartbreak that I couldn't shake for some reason. After the holiday I bounced back and felt that I'd come into a new group of friends that motivated me and inspired me, and this simple walk to Wendy's cemented that notion. There was just the right amount of cold in the air, and the lights from the John Hancock building glowed so perfectly, as did the rest of Copley Square and the streetlamps that guided us to the Promised Land (of Wendy's, duh). Sometimes I miss that walk, and I know I'll miss it in December, when it's dark by five p.m. and there's a chill in the air that only the presence of good company at the right time and in the right place can counter.

Rabbit Rabbit

2008-10-01T10:14:00.003-04:00

It never fails that I hold out hope for the current month to be better than the previous. October is already filling up with good things. Now it's just a matter of seeing how they pan out.

I have yet to see the documentary about Philippe Petit, the French high wire artist who's famous for his walk across the Twin Towers in the early '70s. But I am extremely fascinated by him and other tightrope walkers. Thinking about their feats creates a pit in my stomach.

Two Weeks

2008-09-29T21:40:00.004-04:00

I still can't get over this song. Even though it reminds me of summer, I think I'll carry it long into winter.

Nervous Tics, Physical Responses

2008-09-26T16:27:00.001-04:00

(Warning: This post is unorganized, unpolished, and unsure of itself. It doesn't work to resolve anything. It just rambles.)

Last night, determined to help rid my eyes of their purple bags, I applied cucumber slices over each of them, rested my head on a pillow, and put on some music.

After about two songs I gave up. I forgot how much I hated having alien objects anywhere near my eyes. Not only did the cucumbers’ cold temperature frustrate me, but the residue—the very thing that probably helps alleviate tired eyes—made me tense.

That’s why today I’m rubbing my eyes and looking more fatigued than ever.

Well, that’s probably not the only reason. Some suggest I need better or more sleep. Other resources tell me I’m doomed: This could all be the fault of genetics.

What this got me thinking about were nervous tics and physical responses. Like a lot of people, I mutilate my fingernails at the mercy of my razor-toothed mouth. Frequent nail biting is not so odd, but my other tic doesn’t seem as common, though, who knows, I could be in great company.

I often tend to wrap my right hand around my left wrist whenever I’m anxious or nervous or uncomfortable. Once I’ve got a firm grip, I ring my poor wrist like a wet washcloth, taking pleasure in being able to feel my bones and arteries.

I had to stop wearing a watch because it interfered with this habit. I found myself pushing the watch as far up my arm as it could go, which, in and of itself, was a rather gratifying tic, but better than that, it allowed me access again to this vulnerable region of my body.

Why do this? Is it a physical manifestation of my anxieties? A bad habit I’m capable of breaking? Or a defense mechanism? A way of “closing” myself off, a physical hint to back away.

Mostly this probably reveals that I’m a nutcase, and an insecure one at that.

But at least it’s getting cold, so I can always use that as a disguise. “Sorry, don’t mean to cradle myself in front of you. Just trying to warm up.”

I made a deal with myself to stop letting things get to me and to start getting over myself, but man, no wonder the cliché “easier said than done” exists. Right now reinvention sounds so much simpler. Lately my mind wanders into nomadic territories, how I am this close to packing up and moving out if I didn’t already have things to take care of where I am already.

For now I browse other cities’ Craigslist profiles, trying to figure out which one is most likely to accept my nervous disposition and ever-changing ideals. Just in case.

Fickle

2008-09-18T10:28:00.006-04:00

Ignore my last post. Forgive me, Blogspotty. I'm back for good.

I have to laugh at myself for thinking Tumblr was a suitable alternative. As if I could find the material to post something every day, even if it is small. I belong to way too many online communities as it is—what's the point of re-posting pictures I've already uploaded to Flickr?

But back to laughing at myself: Huge theme in my life lately. On September 1st I permanently moved to Brooklyn. (Well, for at least a year, says my lease.) I live in a very cute but very expensive apartment that doesn't quite feel like home yet. Yet. I know I have to give it some time.

The problem is that I am drawn to stability, and there's nothing like moving to a new city and trying to find your footing in it that says "stability." I like to think that I can adjust to change, but there is nothing about the process that I particularly like. Yes, I enjoy discovering new places and the quirks that lie within, but it's such a lengthy procedure until I finally feel comfortable. I guess that's what happens when you move to the largest city in the United States.

I was finally used to Boston and then I left her. For as much as I hated it at times (terrible subway system, awful sports fans, and sometimes not enough to do), there were as many good things to counter the bad. Namely, friends. A place to call "home" is nothing without the people you care most about in it. Four years of friendships and now I practically have to start over.

That's not fair. I have people here who care about me. But not four years' worth. I'm lucky that I'm only a four-hour bus ride away from some of them, but realistically, how often can I make that bus? Especially when I'm trying my best to save money, yet it still manages to disappear faster than I can track.

I sound like I'm having a terrible time, and that's not true or fair either. There are moments that whisper, You made the right decision. But I'm waiting for the exclamations!, the shouts!, the tintinnabulations! (which I just learned from Dictionary.com's Word of the Day) of bells in a cacophonous swelling that says I'm where I'm supposed to be, at least for now.

But I'm just spoiled. Instantaneous gratification is a nice fantasy, but rarely happens. (Except for eating. Food satisfaction is always instantaneous.) So I spend my time idly enjoying life post-BFA degree. I haven't found a full time job yet, which is disheartening. I have a feeling that my dedication to a new job that I care about would greatly curve my apathy and give me something that is mine. The longer I wait, the more confused I become about my future. I said MFA programs were off my radar, but sometimes I have to at least entertain the idea. I miss the deadlines of writing, which seem to be what I need in order to produce anything. I'm trying to kick the habit.

Otherwise I'm going to be knitting and watching too much TV-on-DVD. Not that I'm complaining. I'm going to have a warm fall scarf and be able to quote Jerri Blank even more. I guess, for the first time in a while, I'm experiencing the "What's next?" phase. I've never been great at dealing with everything when it's up in the air. I like to have points A and B every now and then. But it doesn't seem like there are many options now. Or maybe there are too many! I just have to embrace the confused twenty-two-year-old that I am.

And embrace it I will.

There's a Bandwagon . . .

2008-09-04T21:19:00.003-04:00

. . . and I'm jumping on it! Tumblr does seem easier for me to update with, though I'm sure it will come to suffer from the same neglect my other online communities know.

cardiogram.tumblr.com

Adieu, Blogspotty.

Eighty Days

2008-08-08T15:10:00.004-04:00

It's been 80 days since I graduated. Between then and now I've: Visited Florida, had a great time at the Bucknell Seminar for Younger Poets, all but moved to New York while interning full time at Scholastic Press, and had another vacation in Cape Cod. It's been a summer unlike any other.

After a serious creativity drought (I couldn't squeeze anything out at Bucknell it seemed), I'm writing again. I've started a series on serial killers. Morbid, yes, but that's what a four day fever will do to you: Keep you in bed reading crime libraries and Wikipedia. Death isn't a subject I've explored a lot in my poetry, but it's more about giving someone else a voice (the killer, victims, witnesses, etc.). I'm so used to working from autobiographical accounts that it's nice to get away from that.

Out of boredom I started sketching again. Disclaimer: I'm not good, but I like working in other mediums sometimes.

May Day

2008-05-01T10:28:00.003-04:00

It's almost time to put a period at the end of my college years. Tuesday at 2:00 p.m. I will be done until commencement on the nineteenth. I give it two thumbs up, but it's ending at the right time. I don't think I could handle anymore. I learned a lot, mostly about myself and all that stuff college is apparently about, but I also figured out what inspires me creatively and professionally. Now I just have to convince myself and my parents that all the tuition bills were worth it.

The last few weeks were challenging and stressful, but I survived. I'm proud of my thesis. Twenty-one poems from freshman to senior year that have been revised countless times. And the BFA thesis reading was the culmination of all four years of hard work summed up in seven minutes. It felt really, really good, so good that I'm ignoring everything I've learned in copyediting to include two "reallys." I was disappointed that a lot of my friends couldn't make it, but I've learned to move on. I was the one that needed this reading for myself. (And I was in such good company of other readers.)

I turn 22 on Monday. And then where the period ends, I guess an ellipsis (four-dot method, don't worry copyediting, I know!) begins....

Senior Creative Thesis Reading

2008-04-19T08:52:00.003-04:00

If anyone is reading this, will have some free time, and lives in Boston, you should seriously consider attending the 2008 Senior BFA thesis reading at Emerson College. It will be fun! And I bet there will be bait, i.e., Aramark snacks and refreshments.

Where: Emerson College, 80 Boylston St, Beard Room (formerly Emerson Room)
When: Tuesday, April 29th
Time: Begins at 2:00 p.m. (probably lasts until 4:00 p.m. at the longest)
Directions: Green Line to Boylston stop
Featuring: A tremendously talented cast.

Adam Ahmed
Steph Appell
Elizabeth Casal
Kira Cowan
Jess Del Balzo
Evan Fleischer
Cheena Marie Lo
Raphael Luckom
George Mote
Rebecca Nison
Jessica O'Byrne
Brett Wright

The Latest Toughs

2008-04-10T22:08:00.013-04:00

All right, here is what I hate about being sick:

I can never identify what, exactly, is plaguing my body. Is it a cold? Merely sinuses? A combination? A doctor could solve this, but...
I hate doctors. Quit testing me for hypothyroidism.
Low energy levels that force me to stay in bed. I know this is contradictory to everything I love, i.e. rolling around in my bed, but when it's 70 degrees out, I'd prefer to be sipping on a margarita and rolling around in the grass.
Blowing my nose. I'm almost 22 and I still don't know how to properly hold a tissue to my nose so that snot doesn't hit my mouth.
Not knowing what to eat. I don't want to live in a world where the sound of pizza, bacon cheeseburgers, hot dogs, or chicken tenders doesn't excite me. That's sick.
On that note, passing up ice cream even though it's 70 degrees out. I know, right?
Loneliness. Voluntary quarantine forces me to re-evaluate my life and listen to Michelle Branch. If you want to, I can save you. Still waiting, Michelle.

Speaking of my life, here is the (mostly accurate) breakdown of the upcoming weeks until graduation:

~~Complete copyedited chapter and style sheet for Copyediting, due 4/16~~
~~Final draft of publishing glossary for Book Publishing, due 4/17~~
~~Must be prepared to present final book proposal for Book Publishing by 4/24, present either 4/24 or 4/29~~
~~Senior BFA Thesis reading, 4/29~~
~~Design poetry thesis for Desktop Publishing, due before 4/30~~
~~Bound poetry thesis, due 4/30~~
~~Prepare for first major life crisis, 5/5~~
~~AKA celebrating my 22nd birthday, 5/5~~
~~Copyediting~~ ~~final exam, 5/5~~
~~Present final project (poetry thesis design) for Desktop Publishing, 5/5~~
~~Book Publishing final exam, 5/6~~
~~"Well, that happened." Getting that diploma, 5/19~~

Even though I just typed all of that out, I still don't know where to begin. I don't have the slightest idea how it will all play out. I'm just taking it step by step, day by day, a fresh start over, a different hand to play, the deeper we fall, the stronger we stay, and we'll be better, second time around.

I'm losing any grip I had on reality.

Paper Wishes

2008-02-11T23:09:00.000-05:00

As ferocious wind gusts continued to ravage the area these past two days (my bedroom window was powerless against its beastliness—I woke up encased in ice practically), I couldn't help but think back to something I always did as a child. I forget where I first heard about it (probably on Nickelodeon), but I remember learning about a Japanese tradition in which people would write down their wishes on pieces of paper and then tie them loosely to tree branches with the hope that winds would carry them away and in effect cause them to turn true. I could be grossly manipulating this idea in my head, but that’s the way I interpreted it back then at least. (Tanabata seems to be what I'm butchering.)

I became obsessed with this idea the same way people gamble with the lottery. But I quickly realized that it was almost as improbable as randomly selecting arbitrary numbers. Setbacks plagued my wishes from being granted. I’d wake up in the morning and sadly see that the paper was still tied to the tree. Or I’d find it in the mud a few feet away. Determined as ever, I decided I must have been choosing the wrong weather days. I had to wait for stronger winds. So I did, and when that failed I caved and accepted my fate. I wouldn’t get the new toy I wanted. My brother wouldn’t stop beating me up. My dog that ran away wasn’t coming back.

I’m gullible. I’ll believe in almost anything, place my faith in everything, and put all my chips in if I sincerely think that something will work out. It took me longer than I’d like to admit, to recognize that my paper dreams weren’t a plausible solution to what I wanted. I was too young to know how much work, dedication, and elbow grease were needed to make things happen. A healthy portion of faith is necessary, but not absolute.

Paper and trees aside, a lot of my dreams are coming true lately. And it’s nice because up until recently my life felt too stagnant to be healthy. I like routine, but it’s as if I’d used up all the fun left in me.

So many things are working out for me that my next question is always “What’s the catch?” That’s the pessimist surfacing in me, but I think it’s natural for people to feel that way. However, I will say that those feelings are fleeting. And that’s what gives me hope for the future. Place a check next to another thing I’ll believe in.

I’m somehow lucky enough to have the affection of someone like Nick, a one-in-a-million chance that I never thought I'd get. I’ve fallen into one of the most supportive networks I’ve ever had thanks to my friends. And every now and then the future seems secure, that, who knows, maybe I will land a legitimate job to pay off my college debt so I don’t have to resort to less glamorous means of moneymaking. (I ruled out a business in paperweights when I was six and found out my mother had been throwing them away as I gave them to her.)

And then there’s this, one of the most exciting things to happen to my poetry:

“Dear Brett,

It is our pleasure to inform you that you have been selected to attend the Bucknell Seminar for Younger Poets, 2008. Congratulations! The fellowship you have been awarded covers the expense of tuition and accommodations, including housing and meals.

Dates for the 2008 Seminar are Sunday, June 8, through Sunday, June 29.”

One of those paper wishes must have been carried away far enough to make all of this real.

What the Body Told

2008-01-25T21:09:00.000-05:00

Though I rarely talk about the body, anyone who has read any of my writing knows that I am obsessed with and infatuated and mesmerized by the physical human body. The fact that the body is able to endure so much throughout one's life yet still maintains a sense of gracefulness is inspiring. On a poetic level it's beautiful. My body's boundaries have been tested with wild adventures as a child. It's been through emergency surgery. It even survived how many years of physical education? But it still has the power to conceive new shapes, to withstand restlessness for as long as possible, to have incredible sex. On a physical level it's wholly miraculous that the body is able to be tested with such binaries: that on one hand it fights off so much harm and on the other experiences such great pleasures.

Of course, the body does break down as we all know. Sometimes we're able to overcome, and other times we're not so fortunate. The unluckiest ones don't even get a chance to resist.

I have limited knowledge of how the body actually works. I passed health and biology classes, but there's a reason I'm not studying medicine. I'm a commoner who just happens to think about the mechanics of the body daily. Every morning when I walk to the subway my mind wanders to my legs. I mean, they're just two skinny (some might say "chicken-like") limbs, but they take so many strides and steps and sure, they're tired at the end of the day, but they get up and do it again and again.

Amputees often experience the sensation of a phantom limb. Imagine waking up because you feel an itch on your leg and when you go to scratch it you realize it's still missing, same as the day before. I have a few of my own phantom limbs in my life. People and places and things that I miss uncontrollably when they're not around. Those things are probably more related to my heart, however, while phantom limbs have been directly linked to brain impulses.

And that's another thing: heart vs. mind. Both are endlessly amazing for the life they provide us and the metaphors they offer artists. And they've been on my mind lately because of a passage I read out of a book where someone was quoted as preferring the heart over the mind because of its ability to repair itself more easily. Once the mind breaks down, it's seemingly broken forever. The heart is broken an infinite amount of times, but with the same amount of energy it has the ability to feel newfound compassion again, so long as the person wants it. This, I believe, is what keeps me from surrendering, from ever letting myself turn too bitter or cynical.

And really, this is what life is like recently: a heart that feels so much. A longing, a yearning. A happiness, a warmth. Most of all, a sense of "home." A place to unpack my things and rest. Yeah, that's it. Home.

Sometimes I'm afraid my body will give out on me. When my right eye feels blurrier than my left, I panic that I may be going blind. When I feel my heart literally skip a beat, I worry that I ate one cheeseburger too many. When my ear won't pop after I get off the airplane, I pray that I remember what I learned in ASL. But that's all background noise to the feats my body proves daily. One day maybe I'll give it some healthier exercise as a gift, but let's not get ahead of ourselves.

Turtle

2008-01-13T14:46:00.000-05:00

Today is the twenty-second year of one of my favorite's. Happy Birthday, Cheena!

We've shared a lot of experiences. First there was moving into college. Then we spent three consecutive Thanksgivings together. Our first summer in Boston involved many late night retreats on her roof for wine. We've read poetry together, listened to music in bed together, and planned walks just for photography and gossip. When I'm craving a hot dog, she accompanies me to Spike's Junkyard Dogs. When I need to complain about school, she takes me to Happy Hour. And no one I've met is as talented and creative yet equally modest as she is. No one is more genuine and loyal. No one makes me laugh and enjoy life more than she can.

If it sounds like I have a big ol' crush on her, it's because I do. And I have since 2004.

Growing Up in the Late '80s

2007-12-28T13:21:00.000-05:00

Inspired by a recent post from Cheena and winter break boredom (ex: I'm currently sitting between a snoring Dad and a snoring cat), I went to work digging up some childhood pictures for a glimpse into Vintage Brett.

Cleaning up the earth since '89. Check out my partner's pants.

Listening to some jams while waiting for food. Still a theme in my life.

Waiting for the bus on the first day of kindergarten, showing off my awesome name tag.

Don't ask me. Probably just getting ready to dance the night away. Curse the curfew that kept me in my pj's.

The closest my brother and I have ever been, as you can tell from my expression. Nice dino sweater though, big brother.

Just graduating from preschool (I leaned on the red crayon because it went with the outfit).

I have the same haircut, basically.

Lessons on Softness

2007-12-08T18:33:00.000-05:00

Today was surprisingly warm considering these past couple of snowy weeks. I had to run some errands in the Square and I thought I'd take advantage of the sunny afternoon to walk around my neighborhood.

Whenever I'm hanging out with myself, I always meet the most interesting people. Today it was a brother and sister team handing out free cups of hot chocolate outside of an art gallery for local artists. They said "business was slow" because of the weather, but they were having fun, sneaking in snowball fights between customers. I also talked to a friendly older man who was carrying around a Nikon as well, which was a gift from his daughter. He was still trying to get a handle on it, so I showed him the few tricks I know and in return he let me look at his pictures, which I thought was nice. There were lots of tree branches and empty birds' nests. I was so happy.

Despite finals, despite lack of motivation, despite migraines, it's nice to be reminded that life exists outside of my head. If these are my only setbacks, then I have a lot to be thankful for and excited about. And I am.

It Gets Dark Early

2007-12-04T21:54:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I had a poem workshopped that consisted of three parts. The end of the second part described a dream I'd had, which fell under the scrutiny of some people in my seminar. The obvious question arose: to use or not to use a dream in a poem? One classmate told me, "No, never!" Another told me he didn't have a problem with it, insinuating that typically he's wary of their appearances. Others left it unmarked.

I've never had a problem with dreams in poems. In fact, I rather enjoy them. I don't know if this is strictly a personal aesthetic, or if there is more to the debate. Is using a dream too cheap of a way to include metaphor? An easy image? A dramatic ploy to engage the reader or exaggerate the mood?

I decided to include my dream in my poem because it was, as I felt, applicable and appropriate given the emotions. It was the first time I've incorporated an actual dream into a poem. I always have such vivid dreams, though this wasn't always the case. Sleep used to come easily to me--I could pass out within minutes and not wake up until morning. Then, Summer 2006: I began waking up every night at 2 a.m. without fail. Since then the pattern has only continued, even reaching its current point when I'll wake up again at 4 a.m.

In those valued hours of uninterrupted sleep, I often dream. Some are pleasant (think of the late Selena singing "Dreaming of You"). Some are terrifying (you know, the ones where you actually die and know you're dying). The rest are either fun (I really do wish I had a second floor to my apartment but with slides instead of stairs) or mystifying. But isn't that part of the excitement of actually remembering your dreams?

Anyway, I have no idea where I wanted this to go, but I'll bring it back to poetry. Below is one of my favorite poems by Nick Flynn that doesn't hide from using a dream as a device.

Bag of Mice

I dreamt your suicide note
was scrawled in pencil on a brown paperbag,
& in the bag were six baby mice. The bag
opened into darkness,
smoldering
from the top down. The mice,
huddled at the bottom, scurried the bag
across a shorn field. I stood over it
& as the burning reached each carbon letter
of what you'd written
your voice released into the night
like a song, & the mice
grew wilder.

Teenage Hopes

2007-11-28T21:34:00.000-05:00

Friends, I'm still alive! Let me double check (____). Good news: I checked my pulse in that pause and it's still beating regularly in my neck, my wrist and chest. It has plenty of reasons to be stronger than ever. I'm reporting post-Thanksgiving break, which was amazing thanks to the hospitality of some amazing friends and one particularly tender boo. Senior year is almost officially halfway over. And one of my poems was selected to be entered into the Association of Writers & Writing Programs Intro Journal Project. If I were to graph life right now, you could expect an upward trend, and apparently I'm really into graphing lately (i.e.: Venn diagrams).

Last night I had a strange but sweet dream about my mother. I don't think I realized it until this semester—when I was writing more poems about her—that I have this odd, almost unsettling, intimacy with her. There's a borderline obsession I have with making her the subject of my writing, yet I feel like sometimes this is the only way I can genuinely be close to her. I want to work on fixing that. Real, emotional relationships > any emotion(s) my writing could convey.

In her honor, here's a short excerpt from a recent nonfiction essay that I wrote. This scene is pretty true to the majority of my childhood, even though I specifically mention second grade.

I spent most of my time growing up beside Mom. Her job—as a first grade teacher—was so much more exciting than the business Dad worked in. I was overjoyed the day I officially became a second grader. It meant I had enough experience and knowledge to help grade Mom’s papers, my favorite assignments to correct being math and spelling. After dinner I’d sit on her bed with a stack of papers split between the two of us while she indulged in all of her recorded ABC Daytime soaps, watching “All My Children,” “One Life to Live,” and “General Hospital” in succession. When a paper was perfect, she taught me how to write a cursive “O,” which stood for “Outstanding,” and could easily be transformed into a smiley face with the decorations of two circles for eyes and a large, semi-circle for a grin. When Dad couldn’t be bothered, she even pitched me baseballs in the backyard when I wanted to practice, which is probably part of the reason I was so bad at the game. Mom could barely get the ball to the plate.

For more on my lack of athleticism, scan the previous entries of this blog.