Mental Drought

 I am very excited to announce that I have bought my name as a domain name and have a professional website! Check out jordanalam.com to have a more in-depth look at my creative and professional work.

***

I woke up and it was loud in my head.
I woke and the heaviness that sat on my chest prevented me from rising.
I woke and it was silent as a grave -
The smoke curling upward from a fire recently extinguished.
I woke to find myself on a bed of rustling papers, covered in tiny handwriting;
When I looked closer, it was just an endless list of names.
The heaviness sat on my chest and prevented me from rising.
I woke and I woke and when I woke again,
It was night.
                    (a poem of mine, inspired after days of mental drought)

Everyday for the past two months, I feel like I have been fighting fires.

The creative drought I have been in is pretty unsurprising, given the amount of hours I have been putting in to my day jobs and recuperating in between. I've been trying to be more gentle with myself and yet more disciplined, which is a tightrope act in itself. I struggled to eke out a short story in time for a deadline in August and I have been teaching some writing workshops in the interim, but it doesn't feel quite the same to steal these moments. Compared to last year when I was running around on my own creative journey, I feel like I'm not devoting "enough" to the craft. It was comforting to recently hear from other writers about their own experiences with this. They reminded me that it's a fiction in itself (one meant for people with immense privilege) to have the time to write without any of these other nagging thoughts about paying the bills and feeding the cat. But it's easier to be up in your head with anxiety about the work you're not getting done when there's so much other life keeping you away.

A few days ago, I picked up a collection of Wislawa Szymborska poems. I admired her work in college though I learned about her only after she had passed away. It was on a day when I was playing hooky from all my responsibilities -- technically it was a day off, but one filled with the self-filling task list that overwhelmed me until I just had to escape the house. Sitting in a nearby pizza shop, I read her Nobel speech and teared up at the part about inspiration:

"When I'm asked about this on occasion, I hedge the question too. But my answer is this: inspiration is not the exclusive privilege of poets or artists generally. There is, has been, and will always be a certain group of people whom inspiration visits. It's made up of all those who've consciously chosen their calling and do their job with love and imagination. It may include doctors, teachers, gardeners - and I could list a hundred more professions. Their work becomes one continuous adventure as long as they manage to keep discovering new challenges in it. Difficulties and setbacks never quell their curiosity. A swarm of new questions emerges from every problem they solve. Whatever inspiration is, it's born from a continuous "I don't know."

Though I may not have a lot of words to show for these past few months, I have been exploring that curiosity. I've been learning about cheese making with Harold McGee, playing tabla, getting trained on evaluation tools and drug rehab referrals, swimming at the local pool... Nothing is too large or too small. It's all too easy for me to forget that this is an essential part of my creative process -- a fallow season before the buds come up. In the meantime, I must cultivate gratitude even when it's uncomfortable or hard to see.

Convulsions, Premonitions

I feel like I have had a certain conversation on repeat for the past few weeks, but I can’t stop myself. The words are there right under my skin.

“it is this time
 that matters

 it is this history
 I care about

 the one we make together
 awkward
 inconsistent
 as a lame cat on the loose
 or quick as kids freed by the bell
 or else as strictly
 once
 as only life must mean
 a once upon a time”
        -- June Jordan, “On A New Year’s Eve”

I have sunk deep into this text. There is an awful but necessary type of witnessing that happens there. In June Jordan’s poetry, we hear clearly the continuity of violence and the preciousness of human life. In Melissa Harris Perry’s note, we read raw grief. I’ve curated myself away from Facebook posts, away from mainstream news, and have instead immersed myself in artistic responses and music. I have been reading aloud poetry by friends and strangers to my empty room, finding myself too often in tears. I want to have the energy to organize and make meaning but the part of me on loop keeps circling around and asking the same unanswerable questions. Why? What is the point of continuing forward?

The majority of my work is intangible. It’s about making connections between people and resources, people and ideas, people and other people. Even my writing work, the most concrete and visible part of the process, requires so much connective energy that I often feel overwhelmed by its weight. It’s very easy for me to feel too much – whatever that means – and yet at the same time desire to compress it all into a short period of time and space.

I took great time for myself last year to process burnout. I took great time for myself to travel and make space for my writing practices. I took great time, and now I feel like it has disappeared. Dried up. Just a few weeks ago, visibility took prime focus in my life. Now there is an impulse to fold in on myself and hibernate till the long winter is over. But really, when is it ever over?

Outside there are new plants reaching towards the sun. My immediate safety is not under threat -- a significant privilege. I’ve come off a month of extra shifts and moving at high speeds; what once felt productive now feels unsustainable. So I have been hardcore nesting and making my space as comfortable as possible, being selfish with the ways I use my time outside of work. I am consoled by my own gratitude for this life, for the reminder that we return to Allah’s light at the end of the journey, whenever that may be. It is our time to bear witness to those who have died and not turn away from the reality and the ritual of it. Orlando, Istanbul, Dhaka, Baghdad, Medina, and further. Philando Castile and Alton Sterling and…

Flooded

Project As[I]Am has re-opened its call for submissions! Submit your work by July 5th for a chance to be included in our issue, themed "Our Greatest Resource," on emotional labor and solidarity through love.

This week, I wanted to write about something completely mundane. I moved into my new apartment this week, putting everyone who helped me through hell. I started working on a bunch of fantastic spreadsheets this week. I interviewed young people about their experiences with arts programs...

But all of that got overshadowed by the obvious, by the tragedy that Orlando and hit our communities at large. I wrote a very personal piece about the experience of grief and media management over at CultureStrike, and I did two interviews about the incident as well. It was the only way that I felt useful, offering my words in place of anything more material. It still doesn't feel like enough. I mention it only briefly here because I have felt spent; it's worrying to me that on one level we are carving up every conceivable angle of the thing, but on the other the news cycle has already moved past it. It's a weird time to celebrate Pride. It's a weird time to forecast any sort of future...

In the past week, I also flew out to New York and attended the Kundiman writing retreat for Asian American writers -- perhaps because I was going through so many life transitions in the past month, it didn't fully register that I was going until I arrived in Newark off the red-eye and had to navigate my way into the city (hint: don't get stuck going the wrong direction on the AirTrain, it takes forever to get back). Little did I know that the retreat would be such a gift. It was so vital to me to bond with Asian Americans doing creative work and who have been doing creative work far longer than I have. Too often you have to hunt down Asian American literature in bookstores, and rarely do I feel connected to any sort of legacy. I walked away with not only a community of incredibly generous writing folk, but a long list of books to read all through the rest of the summer -- when I'm not furiously typing out my own additions to that canon, that is.

I'm leaving off this post with a few examples of my outlet writing for these past few weeks; though the form I wrestle with most is prose, I've been doing a poetry-a-day group for Ramadan as an outlet. Here are a few of my favorites from the month thus far:

Pantoum #1 
Bloodstained sheets, early morning,
Bound volume of poems,
Yellowed at the edge.
She carries it all with her.

Bound volumes of poems,
She never opens,
She carries it with her, always;
Reminding her of bloodied things.

She never opens,
Never tells the stories,
That remind her of bloodied things.
Instead, she carried them tightly bound.

She never does tell the stories,
Preferring to wash,
The things she carried tightly bound,
Bloodstained sheets, each early morning.



Water
Red snake headwrap,
Blue round headphones,
Tongue perched on the edge of her mouth --
Nearly silent laughter.
Public places,
Work meetings;
She speaks volumes with her eyes.
At night, she performs ojhu alone at the sink,
In shorts with unshaved legs exposed,
Water on the tongue passing dangerously close,
To her throat.

Makorsha
He lived in a broken down house,
With peeling paint and shredded carpet,
Magazines and old newspapers taped up over the windows.

they come here to die, he said, and then repeated it.
I took a seat and listened.

at the end of their lives, he said,
they come here.
pale translucent skin,
running clumsily on broken legs.

Do they go quietly? I asked.
He didn’t seem to hear, or didn’t want to.
i just can’t ever put them out of their misery…

I watched one trail down the drain as he was speaking,
Turning, quivering, pausing,
The mere suggestion of an animal more than its flesh.

Seeking the Spiritual During Ramadan

Eid Mubarak, all!

This year has been a time of seeking intentional spirituality in my life. Ramadan has been really varied for me; there was no consistency that I could find in it, other than a renewed sense of wanting to move towards spiritual wellness. I fasted; I didn't fast. I felt grounded; I snapped. I was with family; I was alone with the roaches (my new struggle on the home front). Overall, I am proud to say I was more conscious of my personal health and needs throughout the whole month.

Just about the only thing that has been consistent is that I've been writing -- more importantly, writing dangerously. I wrote a poem every single day with an amazing group on Facebook, and I felt an intimate connection with several of them by the end. Sharing writing -- especially in a form you don't use often for show -- is one of the most vulnerable things I have done recently. That space existed as a way for me to start the process of leaning on others' support, even if we did not directly talk about our hurts.

It made up, at least in part, for all the ways in which I've felt unsupported these past months. Going back to Seattle and San Diego was a healing wake up call. I got to spend the last few days of my cat's life with her. I got to read more full books than I have in the rest of this year. My family and friends cocooned me and made me feel less alone. Coming back to NYC, conversely, felt like I was the only person on the planet. The water closed over my head again.

There are things that have kept me sane -- a new job, an amazing conference -- but ultimately I have had to return to the principals of faith this Ramadan in a very concrete way. Fasting kept my mind clear, and when I chose not to fast, I chose it with the intention of healing my spirit from other sufferings. Fasting in hardship can also be a weapon used against yourself; when I found myself being too perfectionist about the practice of my faith, I decided enough was enough.

I have been thinking about what it really means to be nourished. As a healer, I need to trust my own instincts in that -- it is so incredibly hard for me to feel like I have given myself as much care as I do other people. This Ramadan, for a number of reasons, has given me the chance to reflect on that.

I don't have the answers of where things will take me next, but I am working to pare down my commitments and just be with me more often. Me and my writing. Me and my art. Me and my healing, before trying to reach out that hand to others. Until then, I'll share with y'all a poem written during this holy month:

#23
When I sleep,
The visions,
Hum.
The divine lodges,
In my throat.
And when I dream,
I see,
I am just one part of you --
The part,
That sings your praises.

A Plea for Gentleness

we have all hurt someone tremendously, whether by intent or accident. we have all loved someone tremendously, whether by intent or accident. it is an intrinsic human trait, and a deep responsibility, i think, to be an organ and a blade. but, learning to forgive ourselves and others because we have not chosen wisely is what makes us most human. we make horrible mistakes. it’s how we learn. we breathe love. it’s how we learn. and it is inevitable. -- nayirrah waheed

A lovely friend sent me this quote over text, and I want to consume it.

I am not always myself. When I put words to the page, I find myself transported to another place where some combination of images (thoughts, memories) have formed a world I've never experienced. I usually call this a gift.

But the gift became a problem a lot more publicly when I was in high school and it felt like everyone around me was at some stage of collapse – we’d come from abusive homes, were abusing drugs, or just had general anxieties about being futureless. High school is hardest when you’re not taught any coping mechanisms. You either learn to hide it well or you don’t. Then that expression of emotion puts you into a compromised situation – do you want to see the counselor or the detention hall? I have the privilege now of knowing many people trying to resist that narrative, in schools and in the broader justice system.

Being able to so clearly imagine someone else's grief can sometimes go way beyond empathy. It becomes your own suffering. You are consumed by it. My domestic violence training would call it vicarious trauma. It sounds serious, and it is serious, but it is also something that is routine amongst care providers. Burnout tastes sweet when you know you’ve done exactly what you’ve learned to: give your all to the person or people in crisis.

I admit that I’m not always so vigilant about keeping boundaries between myself and the people I care about. It doesn’t mean that I want to care about them any less, but it means that I have to learn to take exquisite care of myself in order to do it, as I have been the past week. I’m sure that there are many who have called for this before me, but this is a plea for gentleness. For ourselves and others. Too often I blame myself for emotional expression, wanting to move on from it, but more often those are the moments I need to pay attention to for my own growth.

I’ve been working on a poem about violence. For the first time in a long time, I’ve been reading again. It’s nice to hear other voices in my head besides my own.

I've found Maya Angelou's interview in The Paris Review and her reading to be very nourishing:

Changing My Own Life

I have recently been entertained by a phrase my friend Jess told me, quoting another poet, "If you are too consumed by grief and have to watch bad TV shows, then you are with your ancestors." Glad to know that my ancestors are not disappointed in me for watching days and days of House on Netflix.

I have been suffering from moments of defeat recently, personal and professional. I moved too far into possible futures and instead ended up just where I started -- stuck. Life is not so easily changed, no matter what my fantasies.

I don't know how often most people give themselves permission to hide under the covers and feel overwhelmed by the doors shutting all around them. Facebook tells me that I am meant to have a montage of successes, near-professional photos, and funny cat video re-posts. And it's easy to feel like I'm burdening even my most well-meaning of friends when none of the material things have changed. My life situation isn't any better, but it isn't any worse. I am exactly where I've been before.

I've been thinking about resilience. It takes tremendous strength to change your own life. But I have been meeting more and more people who, despite their burdens, have been making that effort. It's not glamorous, but it deserves praise. And while I'm stewing and scheming, pushing back deadlines and spending time "with my ancestors," I must remember that I too am one of these people.

Until I can feel well again, I have been listening to poetry that inspires me. Check out these poems -- inhabiting very different emotions -- by Stacey Ann Chin, Tarfia Faizullah, and warsan shire.

Shaking Me Out of My Skin

"How do you honor people in your pieces?" I asked two different poets these past few weeks.

I've been struggling with this question as I think about writing and publishing more publicly. I always have ownership over my own stories, even when they include other people - family members, friends, and people who look suspiciously like them. Who gets visibility when I write them into my stories? My writer self or the subjects that I sit with? I've been asking for an easy answer, but I only get more complexities.

I've been writing in my head, but I've been writing badly. After the Eyes on Bangladesh event, I was fried. I started to describe my stress in waves. All the stimuli of having weekend after weekend of events made it hard for me to concentrate on anything but practicalities (did I send that email/write that post/eat today?). I love all of my work, but because I love it so much, I have not learned how to adequately say 'no'. To only get rest when someone cancels is no way to live your life. Something had to change.

What I needed was poetry.

And movement.

My friend of many years, Jess X. Chen, came to stay with me and since she is a poet, upon landing she had a list of events for us to go to. I inhaled Tarfia Faizullah's poetry collection Seam after seeing her perform. I listened to Cathy Linh Che and Jenna Le in Ocean Vuong's living room, humming and asking questions. It helps to have friends who can drop you a casual invite to an unfamiliar community.

Poetry influences a lot of my writing style, in part because that was the first form I wrote in that integrated my art and activism. These days, I don't keep up with poetry as well as fiction, though whenever I need inspiration I turn to my well-worn Pablo Neruda collection. More and more people of color poets are doing amazing work and getting noticed for it. These poets shook me out of my writing skin. This period of writing badly has reminded me of another lesson:

My art is slow. In form and content, I need to spend more time with my pieces. I need to draw inspiration from a wide range of sources. I need to listen to the people in my head before I can even think of honoring them.

I encourage you to also try drawing some other inspirations apart from your usual. I'm a fan, of course, of fabric arts (hence all the in-progress pictures in this post!). It's been immensely helpful

Made in Public

Moments of public creation:

1. Walking through a movie set on the streets of Manhattan, where they're changing the storefront signs out or have put old cars lined up on one side of the street to transform it into some time far in the past.

2. Drawing geometric shapes in full color pencil on the backs of postcards while a children's band sings to a café full of laughing (and occasionally bawling) 4-year-olds.

3.Taking a photograph of a subway mural. Holding your breath so that you don't shake the phone camera, knowing you look like a tourist the whole time. Breathe. When you exhale, the bustling comes back and the passerby - impatient with your motionlessness - gently knock against you with their bags and dangling arms. So you flow back into their midst.

4. Writing long missives on the train to your destination; completing whole novels that you dutifully scratch out when you get home to type them up, afraid. Your mind goes free in transit, and you don't know what it's going to bring up.

5. Knitting anything, anywhere. Try it and you're bound to get some stares - even more curious than the children in the café - at the way your hands are moving. Another knitter will often come and start up a conversation, so be prepared.

6. Lingering too long in a bookstore because, in picking out the title of the next book you want to read, you've stumbled upon the topic of your next bestseller/short story/blog post, and you simply can't help but scribble down notes. On a napkin, because you have no paper. With the nub of a pencil, because your pen's run out. But the words are there, the images are there, pushing at the far edges of your skull cavity and threatening to leak out and float away like specters on the wind.

This is the draw of public creation.

The time crunch pushes you; the people engage you; you are no longer constrained by expectations of perfection because hey, you did it on a train.

In my head, I heard a cliché list poem - very common at slams - and wanted to catch it and turn it into a post. When have you been caught creating in public? Let me know on Twitter.

I finished National Novel Writing Month! I wrote 12,000 words in one day to finish a short story collection that I will be editing throughout December - once I've gotten some more sleep. I'm very proud and ready to keep up my writing work. Speaking of which, have you seen the interview I did with Kavita Das over at As[I]Am? It's an enlightening piece about social justice work and getting your hands dirty, so check it out.

There Will be More than Enough Time to Explore

I've been treating this year as if it were my last (on earth, that is, not just my last in college).

Sometimes that's a positive - when it spurs me to try out for new things and make new connections and deflate the excess worry that builds in my chest when I feel overwhelmed. But the flipside is overdrive. I must write more, read more, get things done in advance so that I can fill my newly formed hours with even more crafts and more clubs and more outings. I'm not one for a slow-paced life, but when I can't fall asleep due to my anxious whirring thoughts, then something needs to shift. Check out the poem after the jump.

Writing Live: Nuyorican Poet's Cafe and The Moth

Last week, I had the fabulous opportunity to attend not one, but two literary events in NYC: The Nuyorican Poet's Cafe Friday night slam and The Moth's StorySlam at the Brooklyn Museum. After getting a healthy dose of Snoop Dogg, I took a 180 degree turn in my live entertainment consumption. And, to put it mildly, it was amazing.

As writers everywhere know, most of the time our work will not be read aloud. We will not be asked to come on television or the radio and act out our pieces - nor would most of us want to. The boundary between spoken and written word is not often crossed: we are writers or speakers, but there is an inherent challenge in being both. In these two spaces, however, so many people proved that they could bridge the divide with fantastic results. And - equally amazing - they attracted major crowds! Although it is often said that literature is dying and the printed word is on its way out, you wouldn't know it from the audience at both slams. And that's essentially what I wanted to get before I left for summer - an energizing reminder that writers were and still are appreciated for their work, which is not just for themselves, but for all those listeners and readers out there that appreciate them too. Here is a brief recap of both events and their impact on me.

Committed

Or, in its full title, Committed: A Poem of a Heartier Nature.

I make the cool concessions;

Perched on the pretty little branch, I am sweetened by the sun,

I am blissful, lazy, downright crazy -

This is the time for work to be done.

I give you up, I hunker down;

I risk tripping over my syllables, letting consonants fall out of place,

I risk leaving out the last period of the final sentence of this final paragraph...

Leaving you in a bolstered sense of self-grandeur.

You've created this, simply by reading it.

I make the tongue lashings happen;

I am firebrand and pit-ready,

Spitting flames.

I dog at your heels like the last moment of empathy,

When you received that final check, that final kiss, that final reassuring word -

I was there to drown you in your misery.

But bliss is agony at some point,

Too much hem-hawing to get to the edge,

Too much rhetoric-passing, kite-flying, lambasting;

Here we are, we could make a difference -

If we could just give up that pretty little branch.

I am the rock amidst the waves;

Battered, rubbed out, fodder for the chopping block and the explosion all at once,

I am resting, waiting, watching,

Never without the conversation of the water lapping at my shore.

More poetry is also available for your perusal.

Haiku Moment

Pressure building up,

Holding on to my reason,

Storing up my time.

Still working on the NaNo, and all my other projects - I hope to take some time for myself to just calm down, so Thanksgiving break will be that time. Let me know if you want to hang out because I'll be in New York City the entire time!

More poetry is also available for your perusal.

Nerd Girl Inc: On a Lighter Note

Ode to Food at A Fancy Restaurant: A Detailed Account of My Dinner
 Bread selection, bread selection, hit the spot just right -
Tomato basil's bright but ciabatta wins the night.
Merry merry start with the ravioli tart, with some sweet cranberry, no pancetta if you please -
Middle, hit the middle, with a tender tender loin,
Mashed potatoes - called puree - with some great and goat-y cheese,
Corn adorns the plate, stewing merrily beside,
A wave of jus, the finest beef, skipping pig with this tide.
Ending off, ending off, oh how I wish it'd never end -
Mango passion in a shot glass leaves impression for the guest,
But sink your teeth into the chocolate and you'll surely be impressed,
By the souffle - light and fluffy - hissing steamy with the cream,
Earl Grey chilled and poured in heavy stream.
Then we're sitting - what is next? - and waiting for some news -
Lo, behold, what about the caramel chews?
I am blushing, truly glowing, with this lovely lovely meal,
What better portions could there be? What surprises they conceal,
And then, as we are leaving, the madeleines just seal the deal.

Today is one of my longest days yet, so this post is coming to you in the margins of my free time. I got up today at 5:40am to go to English sign-ups - Barnard's method of weeding out the meek from the strong in getting their beloved English classes - and now have a full day of work, class, meetings, and Well Woman ahead. Hopefully I won't fall asleep in the middle of it.

If you liked this post, read my writing in strange places reviews.
You may also enjoy reading Why Eating Can Make Me Depressed, or perhaps some more poetry.

Out of Work Slam Poet

My job at the library is reading zines. For 8-9 hours per week, I am forced (forced!) to read and write up descriptions of zines from the 70s all the way through the present. And, unlike other mundane jobs, it actually makes me want to do many things - like roller derby, feminist activism, writing up a South Asian dictionary (not of a South Asian language), read a million books about lesbians and trans people and multi-racial people and black people and white people and Asian people...
But the most recent of my inspirations has been to write a slam poem. And actually perform it. Since most of the zines I have been reading are intensely personal and talk about their experiences through personal essay, fiction, and - obviously - poetry, it has made me wonder about expressing myself in that way once more.
But I feel like a lion that has lost its fangs. I have been wondering about where my rhythm went as of late. In high school, I was unafraid. I wrote whatever the hell I wanted to and somehow it worked. I would read it at Hugo House and feel some sparkly confidence after the audience started applauding. But somehow... after my high school graduation speech (which was, itself, a slam poem), I have felt that I've used up all the beats. I get anxious when thinking of the stage. I worry about what people will think and I worry about whether there's even a venue for my type of stuff.
I know that a lot of my fears are unfounded, but I feel like this post is a good starting point to work on it. There are a lot of things I want to say and I know that if I work on it, they'll fit. It's all a matter of time...
To make this a little more interesting, I'm going to post up my graduation speech slam. I wish I had a video of it... it must be out there somewhere!

Grad Slam
I had a crush in the eighth grade.
Thought we could be forever,
Through stormy Washington weather,
Through bad pop music and TV clichés,
Through all the internet abbreviations – lol, rofl, omg – that became our new phase
Through all the cheesy movie musicals and awkward first days…
I was in love with high school.
And not Highland Middle School, no,
That place was a joke.
I was too old for the activity bus-riding, Yu-Gi-Oh gaming, Reflections-writing, D.A.R.E. abiding hoax that tried to tie our elementary days with all of the other grades.
Now that seems like light years away.
My love affair with high school lasted much longer than that.
9th grade wasn’t that cool.
High school and I were like buddies on AIM chat who thought we knew each other but were just strangers meeting for the first time.
He was a fan of Calvert 5 page essays and I was a fan of sleeping in on Saturdays.
Still, he tried to be nice;
Linked me up with a Crew to show off the new two-story school,
Taught me to bark at football games,
But as soon as we found the breakdown of senior, junior sophomore, and… us (the little freshmen with the whole maturity thing comin’ our way)
We stayed wrapped up in the insecurities – the awkward shuffle at tolo, the braces, eyeglasses, gym class miles and stuttering
The answers just trapped… on the tip of our tongues
Who wasn’t lost when they told us we’d eventually end up getting such strange diseases?
Like School Spirit, Spring Fever and Senioritis?
It was confusing enough even without all that MLA formatting. Uh, how do we cite this again?
But then it was sophomore year, and we had no time for any of these questions.

High school and I, we had some better dates back then.
Homecoming and its glossy thrill – the light rain and freezing temperatures on the field (we’d learned that the cheering was mostly for drill; high school wasn’t the best football player)
We were still kind of kids back then.
Joining our first AP classes and fancying ourselves little women and men
But it wasn’t so long ago when we wouldn’t have dreamed, wouldn’t have schemed
To skip classes or copy notes at the age of 15.
We were good kids, more or less.
But add on some stress and the morning math tables just couldn’t express
The interest of Halo and pointless internet quests
(Myspace and Youtube are guilty no less
Than our crazy parents who always wanted to test
Whether we could take on the WASL and Ms. Boness
Without our foreheads exploding and leaving a mess)
And high school and I? We learned how to argue.
My parents thought him a bad influence – taking the precious sleep I had left,
Dinner or vacation or even “conversation” all became things of the past,
I had no time to put together syllables and sentences; we were hermits studying for the next big exam… or tuned out in front of the television, trying to trip that final security switch and pass the next level without a hitch
There were shouting matches, indeed, but the sound of our yelling finally receded
AP World finally retreated
And the summer broke open that repeated desire that, at the time, very few knew.
College, that trickster, was about to ensue.

So when high school and I met again, as upperclassmen I knew where we’d been.
Now AP and IB would blend
Our mood swings and social deprivation – leave the fortunate ones laughing at our desperation
To spend hours and hours on school work and clubs
We begged and we pleaded, but the teachers’d say ‘tough’
As we filled that 24 hours with Millhollen’s math packets, an essay or two, a physics lab, a makeup test, some theater work, and then – maybe – some rest? Alas…
High school always wanted more – but I’d had enough.

To tell you the truth: I knew.
That those lyrical voices were about to ensue,
All the friends who came out of hibernation to advise,
That high school had been feeding more than a spoonful of lies;
He’d want me to work for him, and I’d said sure,
But now…
I didn’t know where we were.
He was the master at his own chess game,
Telling me to make a move, take another test, never rest,
Until the school year seemed like it was surely a jest – what kind of life was it when you were only a guest?
Barely staying overnight in your own bed and chained more often to that high-tech desk.
Finally, we asked for guidance, and here came the reply:
College.
Just work for college, we were told, the almighty counselors and past seniors would preach;
Start early, don’t look back,
But at that time with high school, all we knew was the past.
So we were old soldiers before we knew it.
Battling down through a hallway of freshmen and spewing word vomit to complete the next oral presentation, the next essay, the next line of code, about to explode… then,
Then the dust cleared, June came, and we knew where we stood.
High school, remember when I came in saying, that I’d never catch senioritis?
Haha, well… it caught me.
It was the downward slide,
In a relationship that’d lost all it’s steam.
Now we relinquished our hold on the work we had done – essays weren’t exciting, in fact, neither was class. Seriously, we only had to pass. {}
We thought we could breathe when we were blessed with snow – no!
High school still drove us to work for the next moment, the next second counts,
But hey, procrastination felt all the sweeter,
When it was taken with a snowball fight and some hot cocoa.
Over the years, this little freshman girl had grown more rebellious,
Now, owing my ammunition,
To the armies from the pages of novels and violent video games,
The arsenal had built up to buck the Man, the system, in any way, shape, or form.
But our parents, well, they still threatened (or “asked”) us to toe the line.
So instead, we huddled up, put our fingers to keyboards, pen to paper, and applied ourselves into the future realm,
Of dorm rooms, sleepless nights, and foreign lands…
People we hadn’t known for years at a time and…
COLLEGE! It was on everyone’s lips like a delicious secret to be kept from high school at all costs; a tasty tidbit of the “real world” (if there ever was such a thing)
But we were careful to trip over our own tongues and mask our delight with knocks on wood and plenty of shaking – we still had tests to take after all.
We started counting on June 5th, which became June 22nd, which became only a few months, weeks, days away, until…
Graduation. The end game, crash-land paradise, that emptied us into the pool of a new summer, a new situation. Not just a vacation, but an escape from the ordinary – and who didn’t want that after so many years?
So here’s to celebrating the moments:
Prom on a warm night in Seattle – subjecting ourselves to an onslaught of photographic nostalgia, parents and faculty reminding us to “be safe” and “have fun”
The final minute of your final (last, latest, penultimate) final, finally come to meet you with a hoot and holler.
The crying/laughing hysterics of the going-away party, the roads all spreading out in front of you and your friends… but there’s an epilogue to the story that just has to end.
So, high school and I, we’ve gone our separate ways.
Our head-butt drag-out relationship just wasn’t going anywhere.
He wanted me to stay, but I had to leave,
The cramped hallways, 7 periods a day, claustrophobic 35 minute lunch – hey, I don’t know about you, but this dog just got too big for her cage.

Congratulations class of 2009, you’ve earned it! Have a great summer!

More poetry is also available for your perusal.

Creative Lessons

I have been bursting at the seams to just do something other than school. Thankfully, we only have 7 days left, and I've finished all my projects up to now - but that still does not mean I have been sitting pretty with the whole "spending seven hours of my life" thing. However, I will just pray that this week moves as fast as I believe it will and look towards a summer of crafting and personal time.
My mission is to consolidate myself; focus on the creative and work with less. I amassed a lot of stuff during the years due to either creative ventures or packrat habits. So, in focusing on a new era of my life, I am moving away from the old clutter and towards simplicity. I really like having space in my room these days. But, enough about all my plans, now on to some writing!

I found a memory box that was in the living room (which is code for "kept away from J's crazy cleaning episodes") so I really wanted to write a poem about it. Unfortunately... it didn't come out as well as I thought it would. Oh well, life's a journey! Here it goes.

Ode to a Missing Box
In small spaces
Where old papers are often shoved
In the attic
Or basement
Or closet, untouched
The minute hand ticks
Raking in the moments before...

I pass out these gifts
Collect wizened acorns
And jaunty hair bands
Bring buttons, umbrellas, letters, and crayons
Back to life
Then send them, once again, to silence.

When does a memory
Stop being an object?

When I close its doll eyes
And press it snugly to sleep
Thence it creeps
From the glowing vibrations of being "now"
Into the immeasurable heap
That wide expanse
Of teal papers, crimson hats, empty promises,
Shrugged shoulders, sighs and rats;
"What were you thinking?" comes to mind.

My mystery box, a missing box
A wickerwork/cardboard/metal creation
The lazy foundation
For the years after the formative years;
Youth ignores you
Not callously, but without guide
Big boys and big girls let you dwindle and fade
Jobs now, babies, and still getting laid
But!
In the waning years of our ever-waxing moon
We wish to unearth you
Remember all your details, plot holes, and character devices
Like all those pleasant novels that we heard about when we were kids

Sometimes...
We seek out the embrace of stuffed toys
The cardboard-bound books
The makeshift craft fairs and first attempts
(Then, of course, we curse ourselves for not being so diligent)
You open for us
That whole hidden world

Missing box, mystery box
Shoved away in blank spaces
Reappear on blank pages
Save us shame later by exploring us now
(Who's to say what's adult anyway?)
We crack open your lid
Shake the dust from your sides
Bring you close to the eye...
And let the moments before pour out every last drop

The spell has worked!
Mystery box, missing box
Now we are free...

I am grateful for...
Being able to take a zine class at Richard Hugo House! On a whim, I asked my dad to sign me up and now I'm going to learn how to bind books; I always do better with an instructor. Go dad!


Check out some more posts featuring my photography.

Another Self

I felt like I should be hot today, so I wore the shirt featured in the photograph for the spring sports assembly [it's a homecoming t-shirt that I cut up to expose my shoulders - obviously in a more extreme way here]

Aside from that, I think I have decided to do NaPoWriMo, which is a version of NaNo that involves Poetry. From my last post, I have tried to get back into it. But I failed miserably - trying to eke out words was like trampling kittens until they would stay on the page.
Fortunately, that was yesterday and today is today! I picked up Pablo Neruda again and spent an hour sitting outside in my car (a quiet place to enjoy the sun without the freak hailstorms - and if you think I'm kidding you, I'm not). Here is one of my productive poems, in it's rough state:

This is where poetry speaks;
It lives in your breast like
100 bad decisions, and it is the one
Looking for a paycheck.
This is where poetry lives;
The festered lyrical lips
Like two burn victimes
Huddling together
Like the buzz of a motor car when the engine has sputtered out
And the lights won't turn on...
This is where poetry breathes;
It's not glamorous - far from it
Poetry opens its mightly lungs
And warbles out of
Box catacombs and cardboard screens.
Poetry.
It exists in the palm of your hand when you sleep
But when you wake - it's gone.
Poetry...
It twists your sick phrases around and pulls you, partially complete, from your thinking space
Poetry.
It's like a beat
A constant 'ta-ta-ta-ta-tap'
Ringing in the back of your skull (a migraine on steroids)
Poetry-
It paints the memories
In mal-formed lines
And strokes that hidden instrument
Of song.
Poetry
It is where it lives, where it breathes
Where it succumbs
To the endless hysteria
Of unmarked parenthetical citations
Poetry!
Is a laugh and a half and there's no going back when-
You've inhaled it.
Poetry...
The slow-speed stop
A stride in the right
Direction...
Poetry
Brings us...
Home.


Check out some more posts featuring my photography.
More poetry is also available for your perusal.

Poetry Rising

So, I didn't post here for a few days partially out of lack of time and partially out of lack of inspiration. I think I'm going to cool my dogged daily determination for posts and just try to get it all out when I need to. I am going to do probably a mondo-post [or a few mondo-posts] concerning these Memoirian Highlights: Group IV Night, Abby's Birthday, and the Bellevue Tennis Match (definitely not in that order) but tonight I wanted to reattach myself to something that I well and truly love. Poetry.
I have not been able to write poetry for a really long time and, as spring break approaches, I really want to get back to it! I am speaking at graduation and hoping to do Interlake Live with a poem of some sort - to earn me some sweet street cred and all that (haha). But seriously, slams would flow out of me during the summer, and now I just have this regulatory check on my brain at every minute. "That's not good," "You'll never get anywhere with that," "Who the hell wants to read that crap? It's so whiny!"
So I guess I just have to kick myself in the proverbial buttock and just push out a poem for the sake of it coming into being - maybe after that it'll get easier. Here it goes.
***
After much deliberation (though I did write a poem), I will not write it here because of personal attachment to its inception. My inner editor says it's not ready for public eyes...
Vive la poesie! Vive le mois de la poesie, aussi - d'avril!

Check out some more posts featuring my photography.
Poetry that was actually written is also available for your perusal.

Photographs

Today is just a photo and this brief self-worth poem [written by me]:

"I will make my days make meaning,
Even as the darkest skies do cross,
That long horizon."

Check out some more posts featuring my photography.
More poetry is also available for your perusal.

Here It Goes

I haven't been able to write in a few days or so, and I think it's really throwing me off. I guess I am going to just write a completely rough draft in less than 20 minutes.
So, here it goes:

The Crash Course
RING!! Here the parting shots,
Of your distant dissonance, barely waking you up from the sleep of the grave;
Is that my alarm clock singing or am I floating haphazardly down the hall?
Trippin' over freshmen like freshmeat or worse - nothing at all.
We've seen it all before, or so we think,
That theater has our fingerprints all over the walls,
Those door handles, these hallways, those elevators,
Yeah, we've seen it all before.
We trudge into your classroom like the end of days - blessed,
When the final bell herds us onto old pavement.
Yeah, we've seen it all before.

Skip the lip service, we've been through this all before;
The aftermath, it rings, like the sound of your cell phone going off at just the wrong time,
In your skull like a sadist trying to burn you alive.
But we stay here, we breathe,
We ask ourselves questions that make little sense,
And I'm not talkin' 'bout the "Ohdoeshelikeme? Wherewillwegoout? Willwebe2gether4ever?" kind of crap that leaks out of your brain on a Wednesday afternoon.
I'm talking about the "Where do we go when we die?" kind of stuff,
The subjects in English class that actually make you think - contrary to whatever you thought was real.
"Where are we going? What's wrong with society? Why are my parents doing this?"
Or maybe, most important, "Am I going to graduate?"

I will finish this later. Now it's time to go to tennis!

More poetry is also available for your perusal.

Talk

This is my -ish idea about Midsummer. I don't know why I would write a poem... but hey!
Also, Darryl the test-taking penguin, made a debut today - and hence his face is immortalized now forever. Forever.

Either side? It will displease.
These wheezing wedding words were thrown,
Upon the ground where no man's trail,
Would seize upon this sore unknown,
Of lover's flight through hill or dale.
Now, when all is quite begun, those wedding words would oft appease.

Soft by day and cured by sense,
Neither I and neither you, in this sordid avenue,
Could predict their fancied flight,
As caution marked the morning dew.
Those lovers fled by blackened night,
But found no savior waiting hence.

And upon their fated stroll,
The lovers, wearied till the dawn,
Slept near the end of shallow day;
Their sleep did not decide to fawn,
And cast the poor man others' way.
Only our hearts' softness takes the toll.

Now followers, quite black and blue,
Were struck to trouble in the shift,
From one to other craggy cliff,
And, in their callous mocking, sift,
Between thoughts and desires quite too... stiff.
And all with only such a problem as to woo.

And finally, that fair prayer resides,
Amidst the heart and heat of escape,
The sweetness it does not parade,
As jealousy does shed its cape;
Only joy comes when love is bade,
And they were each as much in love - and more besides.

Check out some more posts featuring my photography.
More poetry is also available for your perusal.