Work

So I have a job, a real one that pays real money as opposed to those college jobs that pay you in fake money. I'm doing something I actually like doing, which is awesome. However, as a result I could give a rat's hindquarters about my last semester of college. I have 3 classes left--one online, one independent study, and one night class. Hopefully I will summon the gumption to do well.

Knowing me, I will get a couple weeks into it and decide I need to rock house as per usual. I'm just really ready to be done with college. I'm sure I'd miss the atmosphere and the relatively lack of real responsibility (writing homework down in your planner and doing it is not exactly what I call responsibility--I call that ingrained training).

Also, I am in love. Absurdly so. It is a wonderful feeling and I am pretty sure I could wax poetic about it until I vomit rainbows and unicorns but I won't. So farewell for now, Blogger.

Willow Trees

It would seem I have been on a nature kick. I have written no less than 3 poems in the past month of an arboreal nature. In my ENGL 397 class I was required to put together a chapbook in which I encase all three of these. This is the second chapbook I have made in the course of my studies but it will not be the last. Next semester, my last semester (oh my, the real world is looming in the near distance) I will be doing an independent study resulting in the creation of a chapbook. But I digress. Below are the arboreal innards of my chapbook

Carnivorous

I saw the Willow droop its leaves
into a cup of tea, frigid and prim
I heard the tea scream at the
intrusion and the tree chuckle
as its fingers soaked up
the constant comment, burnt
umber in color, citrus in taste and
abandoned by its holder:
cozy hands to cup its sides
warm lips to caress its rim
The Willow soaks the dew and I
pluck at its newly infused leaves
the crunch is more sweet
than bitter, more citrus than soil

If I had an Airplane

My knees ache I wonder if
I am getting old
like the last kamikaze leaves of fall
Are my roots brown, my head
green? I leap frog and dive bomb you
I get lost in the air and die
My last mission admittedly a failure
(I missed my target)
Leaves don't have knees and
I would rather be brown bodied suicide
arboreal foliage
than woman with chronic aches
and no airplane

Kamikaze Leaves

                                 Unwanted memories.
They are sad,  the last leaf alone on a tree                                           
brown at the base.
                                a kamikaze leaf that stood no chance and chose to leap,
            that last fragment of arboreal decoration gave its life for its mother
its mother would not return the favor.

               My memories have died

                                                                          they jumped to their death
                and they will rot
                                              until no one remembers to

                                                         mourn them.

The formatting of the final poem is a bit odd within blogger so to see the proper formatting visit the link (click the title).

Huzzah, a poem I say

I love The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, I really do. It is the only poem I was ever forced to read in high school that I enjoyed and half a decade later (oh my, has it been that long since junior year?) I am still in love. My favorite lines from the poem change from time to time, but one that always sticks out in my mind is "I have measured my life with coffee spoons" because it is so very true. Every morning, coffee.

This line has been a source of inspiration for years but I have never been able to really produce a work out of it that I enjoyed. I could not harness the creative potential. Honestly, I think I just didn't have the talent for it yet. Perhaps I do now for I have made another attempt and it has produced Error: Unknown User

I am quite fond of this poem. I was in fact still fond of it over 24 hours after writing it which is a masterful feat in its own as typically I am a doting mother until I realize my poetic offspring have blemishes and like a true Spartan, I toss them over a cliff ne'er to look again. This piece is up to muster so it gets to live. For now. Sometimes it takes me a week or so to lose my sentimental coddling of poetry.

HTML, my secret love

Back in my freshman year of college (which was not so long ago) I took an IT 103 class: generic html, make a website, learn some nonsense about bytes and get overly familiar with Microsoft 2007. Needless to say, it was boring and I hated it.

Flash forward to now, my senior year, and I am in an Electronic Literature class, which requires a website. So I revamped the one I made for IT 103 and discovered my secret, well buried love of HTML.

I've been writing for quite some time--poems, essays, flash, nonfiction, fiction, etc. I made a chapbook and will shortly be making another. This kind of creation is satisfying but familiar. HTML is exotic. I can type seemingly nonsensical code (after all, what is an "a href," really?) and then, after some mystical magical uploading, that code becomes a link, a picture, a table, a button, color, anything really. It is not hard and there are countless books on the subject. Mine was by Kamalajeet Sanghera--a name I know by memory because it is so wonderfully odd. it was tedious at the time and the work I was posting on the web was dull and semi-low brow for me. The topic did not interest me and thus HTML slipped through my hands.

That is different now. Now I know the subtleties of tables and borders set to zero. I know how to bypass the need for templates and create links to nowhere just to be a smart ass. My pictures are links to other pictures which may very well link to a poem. I have embedded video and fiddled with creative commons. I have photo manip'd (however badly) and saw my codings and tags transform from gobbledygook to glory on a screen. I do not know java and am by no means an HTML master (if anything, I am an apprentice--this is as nerdy as I will get, I assure you) but I have rediscovered the glory of learning and creativity--of design and html ingenuity. Throughout my college career (which is rapidly coming to a close) I have lost my wonder. Quite frankly, I am not even sure this mysterious "wonder" survived elementary school. But it has reignited and I am awed by my education. Should someone ask me the one thing I learned in college, the one thing I took away from my four years, it will be recapturing my imagination--even if I had to harness it in HTML.

I am an English major with a minor in history, in love with an art that has a tenuous connection to my field at best. But this is fine, I have the whole world of electronic literature unfurling before me--a new media (well newish anyway) gaining a foothold among those who matter (those mysterious "those" who determine your curricula for instance). Perhaps, my primitive HTML skills will not go to waste.

College, college everywhere

So for my final year of college I am finishing off my mandatory requirements with 1 class I do not like and 2 classes I do like. I also have random electives, but I don't really find any of those interesting.

Anyway, of the 2 I do like one of them is called "Electronic Literature" and I find it to be fascinating. The class text is written in Sanskrit and class time itself is so-so but the projects give me endless entertainment. I have rediscovered my lost love: html. I had forgotten how absurdly pleasing it is to write coding that looks utterly like gobbledygook and turns into colors and text and buttons etc etc. I created a website my freshman year of college for an IT course and have since added an ENGL 344 section. It will be hosting some of my old works as well as some originals. Check it out if you get the chance :)

Have a Mommy Issue? Well Here's a Daddy Tissue.

My mother and I, we have an interesting relationship to say the least. My brother and cousins and friends and insert other sources agree it is because she is jealous of me. I would not go so far as to say she loves me. I am not sure you can love the thing of which you are jealous. She has most definitely hated me from time to time. I have hated her more than that, but I will not go to far into detail. Suffice it to say her weight gain, general aging in appearance and lack of success in life are somehow mostly, if not entirely my fault. Or so she seems to believe.

She has of late taken to trying to repair our relationship. Which, really, just makes things awkward. I do not like her. I have not liked her since I was 5. We have very little in common. As I strolled through my gallery of literary pieces I have constructed I realized a good deal of them are about mothers and daughters and most if not all are negative. It would seem the creative juices that flow through my veins are tainted with my mother. Perhaps we are all tainted by our mothers when we come down the birthing canal. Perhaps they imprint some kind of symbol or design upon our blood cells that marks us.

Anyway. Of the mother stories/poems of woe and misery I have Maternal Caress, Mothers Don't Want Their Jills, 20 Weeks, Premature, The Faces Inside My Coffee Cup, Belly Fruit, and Jack and Jill

Now, granted, most of these are not about my actual mother. All the poems about fathers, however, are about my actual father. My relationship with him is far more complex. I can not boil it down into a simple feeling of dislike. It is rich and has layers. It is miserable and full of treachery but every now and then, the gleam of love shines through the grime of mistreatment and negligence. My father loves me, this I know. I have always known it. I can feel it pulsate from him and it makes me feel so awkward. I do not know if I love him or not. I know I do not dislike him most of the time. But can you love someone who is content to watch neglect and abuse without intervening? Can you love someone who was not present during your childhood for various reasons, none of them good enough and all of them pathetic excuses? I do not know. I know I feel tender toward him sometimes. I know I enjoy his company sometimes. I also know he embarrasses me. It is conflicted and therefore requires the truth. The brutal truth that strips the breath from your lungs and pulls the tears unwillingly from your eyes--that punches you in the gut like only the truth can.

My father has taken up poetry and nonfiction; I have never written a fictionalized version of him, for how can I? How can I fictionalize that which is so deep and multifaceted. No. I must stick to the truth and tell it as it is, not as I would like people to see it. My mother, in her simplest form, is a monster. A maternal monster, but a monster all the same. My father does not have a simplest form. I cannot boil him down or condense him into bouillon cubes. Here is what I have written on my father: Mary J and The Imperfect: Past Continuous.

I have a non-fiction piece that is long and brutal. It started as a tale of my family and morphed into something more about my father. It goes into my mother and my brother, but my father is the only multidimensional character. My mother is a monster, my brother is my psuedo-child (or rather, someone I try to save from his inevitable future) but my father is an unknown. I have never posted it and I don't know if I ever will. For now, this is enough.

We Are Zoo Creatures

My body is in fact defunct. My primordial clay was improperly handled and sent down the assembly line too soon. Perhaps in being born a month early (apparently I was tired of the womb and ready to kick the bucket as I wrapped my umbilical cord around my neck three times)I permanently scarred my chances of having a fully functioning body. All of my organs are fully formed but a few of them seem to malfunction quite a lot of the time--every few days or so.

Oh yes, my organs, how they do hate me.

I have since grown accustomed to not being able to eat without fear of painful intestinal/stomach episode. I have grown accustomed to my joints not lining up properly. I have grown accustomed to my twisted spine.

Or, more accurately, I have grown accustomed to chronic pain. It's odd to hear people six decades older than me complaining of the pains I have now. I fear old age. I fear I will be wheel chair bound. But mostly, I fear the unknown. Some of my ailments have names, like scoliosis. Others do not. For a brief, terrifying summer I believed I had cancer of breast and intestinal natures. Eventually, it was discovered the issue was not cancerous, but quite heretofore unknown. I was sent home, not necessarily living or dying or knowing which of those two labels was more accurate but in a limbo I continue to exist in.

Cancer is terrifying. Everyone has an expiration date but the glory of not knowing how soon or far off it may be is often underestimated. Cancer patients can morbidly watch death approach on a speeding train, BigRig, or whatever vehicle of their choice. Either way, they watch the end approach. I am lucky in that I cannot see mine.

However, when in limbo you have no such comforts of "I eat healthy, live healthy and am not cancerous and therefore will live to be old barring car accident or freak lightning storm". I have: It could be nothing. I could be the next new disease that causes slow, lingering death. It could make me live to be 150. I could die tomorrow.

Limbo is terrible. I now understand why the Pope got rid of it. I wish he could banish it from my body.

And on that happy note, I leave you with Summer Surgeries, a full and far more amusing account of the above ramblings