One of the assignments my narrative writing instructor gave us was to write down 10 questions per day. He said they'll help us generating story ideas and start thinking in narrative.
So I did. Every day. 10 questions typed into the memo pad function of my Blackberry. But this was getting tedious, and felt too advanced for such a pen and pad gesture in thinking.
And so I grabbed a mostly empty pocket sized notebook off my shelf. I emailed myself the first 5 days worth of questions. I printed them out, cut them in stripes by day, and began Scotch taping them into my notebook. These questions, for narrative writing class.
Curious as to what already embodied the pages beforehand, I skimmed to the first page:
4/27/09
Sunshine in April
Your smile on the pages of my story
Narrative is something
Sacred these days
The sentiments have shifted
It's something indigenous now
And I feel it with my heart.
There it was. A short poem about narratives.
And then the next page:
For Emily Dickinson
What gentle breezes...
the kind that linger
just until the sunset...
found you nestled in your
garden of possibility
yet so boldly shared...
the way sharing equals
honesty of the most
vulnerable form...with
those of us far more
skeptical of a recluse
existence and daydream
Did you ever question in
your sleep...what of
those moments...are
they charcoaled in the
burlap layers of your
infancy juggled free of
horticulture classes and
plant growth...did you
feel them...the vines...
intertwined inside your
spirit...I've often
wondered how you danced
if sitting silent on a
Thursday night...we don't
make those anymore...
those quiet moments...
not in New York at least...
there is always someone
screaming for mercy...
although justice is
making a comeback these
days.
But did you think about
that...even...the
notion that time can
spare the honest...
wrinkle out Velcro collections of
fuzz and dust...clean
slated accuracy and
understanding the way
turnips soak upside down
but always end up shining
beautiful...how they lay
there...both the vegetables and
your poems...of course I
recognize the difference...
the ruffage turning into
ashes...reincarnating back into
compost soil...while your
words shimmer life like on
the published pages of a
Back Bay paper back.
So what is to be trusted and...
what is infinite if even
Alexander burned the
library in Alexandria...
they are burning books
again and calling it
Internet...and even I
sent in my deposit check...
albeit on paper...for
Columbia yesterday...I've
chosen New Media...
would you call this artistic
suicide if I want the
pages to exist far
beyond the rotting
vegetable garden of a
once tradition...
What answers can you offer...
like the lines in your stanza
campfire...it isn't all
that magical
And there it was. A poem to Emily Dickinson. Asking questions. Asking for stories. Maybe, just maybe, a little bit magical.
Tuesday, February 09, 2010
Thursday, February 04, 2010
The Perfect Storm
At some point it all became calm. Like the awareness. Or rather the awareness of how it can all be calm just seemed to seep into the obvious, having otherwise been in the oblivion.
I basically realized, or decided, or accidentally slipped into a state of calm. And it happened somewhere in the January snowfall. I'm not sure if it was a moment of epiphany, or a series of gradual events and feelings culminating in a subtle drift towards ease.
But it happened. And it had nothing to do with yoga, or meditation, or prayer - despite my mother's desires. It had nothing to do with breathing deeply or chanting or aligning my chakras. I mean, that was how I used to think it was supposed to happen. Maybe it used to happen - sometimes - that way for me. And maybe it happens more often - or even always - for other people.
But I realized it had to do with my own pace. My own time. My own authenticity and voice.
And so I listened to myself. I made a decision that panicking and hysteria and hyperventilating emotions bottle-necked inside my chest was just a silly way to cultivate a happiness of life.
I mean, I'm really just shocked most days. Witnessing myself experience what I've always known as stress in a non-physical way. Watching myself be overwhelmed with little reaction to the situation. Just acceptance. And thus an inner calm resonating through the rest of me, and my tasks at hand.
Maybe it was the years of yoga and meditation and my mother nagging me that if I just went to the space between my breath - the inhale and the exhale - I'd find peace and inner tranquility.
Or maybe it had nothing to do with any of that prep. Maybe it really is a matter of mind over matter. Maybe it really is about the thoughts we think and the actions we thus think into existence. The feelings we actually do get to control.
And I know I shouldn't probably question this space of peace and quiet into which I've tapped. Or maybe I should. Maybe it is worth the abstract prose and banter. Because something changed. And that is always worth a moment.
I basically realized, or decided, or accidentally slipped into a state of calm. And it happened somewhere in the January snowfall. I'm not sure if it was a moment of epiphany, or a series of gradual events and feelings culminating in a subtle drift towards ease.
But it happened. And it had nothing to do with yoga, or meditation, or prayer - despite my mother's desires. It had nothing to do with breathing deeply or chanting or aligning my chakras. I mean, that was how I used to think it was supposed to happen. Maybe it used to happen - sometimes - that way for me. And maybe it happens more often - or even always - for other people.
But I realized it had to do with my own pace. My own time. My own authenticity and voice.
And so I listened to myself. I made a decision that panicking and hysteria and hyperventilating emotions bottle-necked inside my chest was just a silly way to cultivate a happiness of life.
I mean, I'm really just shocked most days. Witnessing myself experience what I've always known as stress in a non-physical way. Watching myself be overwhelmed with little reaction to the situation. Just acceptance. And thus an inner calm resonating through the rest of me, and my tasks at hand.
Maybe it was the years of yoga and meditation and my mother nagging me that if I just went to the space between my breath - the inhale and the exhale - I'd find peace and inner tranquility.
Or maybe it had nothing to do with any of that prep. Maybe it really is a matter of mind over matter. Maybe it really is about the thoughts we think and the actions we thus think into existence. The feelings we actually do get to control.
And I know I shouldn't probably question this space of peace and quiet into which I've tapped. Or maybe I should. Maybe it is worth the abstract prose and banter. Because something changed. And that is always worth a moment.
Friday, January 01, 2010
Bathtub Gin
Several years ago I sat in my therapist's office. I had graduated from college. We were discussing graduate school - if I'd ever go, why I might go, where I might go, in what field I might specialize. At the time, I was thinking an MBA, in non-profit management - maybe Stanford, or Harvard, or Berkeley.
My therapist - herself of course a doctorate graduate - told me about a friend of hers. The friend realized how overwhelmed she'd been in graduate school. How she'd perhaps missed out on several other things she'd wanted to do with her life during the time in which she was in graduate school. The friend took a legal pad and began making a list of all the things she wanted to do - but did not have time to do - while she was in graduate school. My therapist said that by page 8, the friend was in tears.
I thought a lot about that story when I applied to graduate school a year ago - mid-December 2008 - even though I only applied to one school, a year long program. I thought about it a lot when I got into said school and program. I thought about it more when I began graduate school in mid-August 2009.
And I've thought about it frequently - during the infrequent breaks I've had to think about anything other than my school deadlines and assignments - throughout the last four months of classes.
What is it about graduate school culture that encourages students to fall consumed into an abyss? The tuition? The professors? The schools? The programs? Some societal hazing ritual of the graduate students that came before us?
I don't have answers really. I don't have regrets either. But I do have a goal: to be radical. To go against that current of exclusivity whereby graduate school is the all consuming thought and aura surrounding my life and soul.
I spent the past semester exhausted. Constantly questioning my self worth and identity and well-being and existence. I spent the last week of my winter break resisting actually being on vacation. But I realized that I'm human first. I'm myself first. What I do is go to graduate school...at least until this May.
Is there not a way to master - no pun intended - being a calm graduate student? Is there not a way to enjoy the experience without the self doubt and self pity? Is there not a way to - perhaps - obtain and monopolize more from the program by simply letting it be what I do rather than who I am?
Or is it just a year to suck it up, say "see you later" to everyone and everything else in my life, and pull back together my broken pieces in late May?
My therapist - herself of course a doctorate graduate - told me about a friend of hers. The friend realized how overwhelmed she'd been in graduate school. How she'd perhaps missed out on several other things she'd wanted to do with her life during the time in which she was in graduate school. The friend took a legal pad and began making a list of all the things she wanted to do - but did not have time to do - while she was in graduate school. My therapist said that by page 8, the friend was in tears.
I thought a lot about that story when I applied to graduate school a year ago - mid-December 2008 - even though I only applied to one school, a year long program. I thought about it a lot when I got into said school and program. I thought about it more when I began graduate school in mid-August 2009.
And I've thought about it frequently - during the infrequent breaks I've had to think about anything other than my school deadlines and assignments - throughout the last four months of classes.
What is it about graduate school culture that encourages students to fall consumed into an abyss? The tuition? The professors? The schools? The programs? Some societal hazing ritual of the graduate students that came before us?
I don't have answers really. I don't have regrets either. But I do have a goal: to be radical. To go against that current of exclusivity whereby graduate school is the all consuming thought and aura surrounding my life and soul.
I spent the past semester exhausted. Constantly questioning my self worth and identity and well-being and existence. I spent the last week of my winter break resisting actually being on vacation. But I realized that I'm human first. I'm myself first. What I do is go to graduate school...at least until this May.
Is there not a way to master - no pun intended - being a calm graduate student? Is there not a way to enjoy the experience without the self doubt and self pity? Is there not a way to - perhaps - obtain and monopolize more from the program by simply letting it be what I do rather than who I am?
Or is it just a year to suck it up, say "see you later" to everyone and everything else in my life, and pull back together my broken pieces in late May?
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Backwards Down the Number Line
I rolled slowly through the parking lot past a large truck and turned right, yielded at a stop sign, then went left towards Route 3 for our drive around Acadia National Park, Bar Harbor, and the rest of Desert Island.
I held the remaining fourth of my otherwise eaten breakfast in my left hand and continued eating as I shifted the gear into drive.
He began to eat half of his sandwich.
I crumbled the wax paper and tin foil coverings from which I had been eating my breakfast sandwich, and put makeshift ball in between the seats.
He asked, was he really going to eat half of his chicken salad sandwich before nine o’clock.
I ate. We talked.
Another lady walked by – no yoga mat.
I ate. We talked.
We watched a lady walk by with a yoga mat.
I ate. We talked.
I took the first bite. He drank most of his juice in one gulp. I gave him a bite of my food.
He said we should turn on the car, warm it up, and stay there for a few minutes while I ate my breakfast sandwich: English muffin, fried egg, and pepper jack cheese.
We got back into the car.
I held the remaining fourth of my otherwise eaten breakfast in my left hand and continued eating as I shifted the gear into drive.
He began to eat half of his sandwich.
I crumbled the wax paper and tin foil coverings from which I had been eating my breakfast sandwich, and put makeshift ball in between the seats.
He asked, was he really going to eat half of his chicken salad sandwich before nine o’clock.
I ate. We talked.
Another lady walked by – no yoga mat.
I ate. We talked.
We watched a lady walk by with a yoga mat.
I ate. We talked.
I took the first bite. He drank most of his juice in one gulp. I gave him a bite of my food.
He said we should turn on the car, warm it up, and stay there for a few minutes while I ate my breakfast sandwich: English muffin, fried egg, and pepper jack cheese.
We got back into the car.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Diff'rent Strokes
I spent a lot of my life in my head. Daydreaming. And making up fantasies. And borrowing scenes and scenic views from movies and books and television shows. Mostly romantic comedy films. Sometimes classic novels. Occasionally sitcoms.
And in this way, I planned my future. The characters. The moments. The plots. Setting and climaxes - forever awaiting manifestation from my frontal lobes.
In many ways, the last several years of my life have been an exercise in allowing these preplanned, preconceived notions of happiness to deteriorate. To gradually melt from the confines of my expectations and sift into the abyss of misguided assumption. And in their place, I began to live in the moment. And let the narrative write itself.
Like today. I visited one of my favorite spots on earth: the rocks leading down to the ocean, at the edge of the parking lot, across the street from Barnacle Billy's in Perkins Cove, Ogunquit, Maine.
Usually I visit this spot in the summer. But today, at the ocean's edge, on the rocky incline that I call home and inner sanctity, I stumbled through speckles of snow and outbursts of wind. I shivered in the cold and attempted to take artsy photos of the waves crashing the frosty shoreline. I stared at the Atlantic Ocean, and I let the presupposed narrative deteriorate.
See, for years, I'd decided - in my romantic comedy infested head - that this was the spot. The proposal spot. The spot that "every girl" in America is supposed to have picked out. With the shoes. And the dress. And the flower arrangement. And perhaps, even, the groom.
And as the winter cold carried away my warmth, leaving remnants of chattering knees and leg bones, so too did the desire to let this spot linger in the proposal story. In the same way that the wedding in my backyard plan dissolved when my parents put our old house on the market. Now, the house having been sold, the setting belongs to someone else anyhow.
And today, I realized that this particular story would in theory belong to two people. Not just me. Not just my daydreams. I mean, sure, the ideas, the concepts, the considerations of these future ideals are useful and helpful, and maybe necessary at times. But the need - the nagging need to have them undoubtedly come to fruition - well, why envision some future experience that belongs to two people via terms that only matter to one?
And then I realized that this is a microcosm. This thing about envisioning spaces and stories - that will ultimately involve multiple people - in a context that only includes myself.
Meaning sure, the fantasies may come and go. May be born and grow and linger - but why more than briefly?
Meaning sometimes these huge magnificent expectations are not necessary. This living in my head thing.
Because sometimes, sometimes my ego gets in the way. With maybe a little sprinkling of fear. And then less tranquil images plant movie scripts in my brain cells. And those aren't worth pursuing. Or even having given birth to in the first place.
I wonder what happens to a brain that lets go of living in the future. I mean, sure. Dreams, aspirations, plans - these are necessary. These are essential most often. But the living - the part where the present moments are lost because the living is happening in the future, in the head - well, perhaps these can disappear.
And in this way, I planned my future. The characters. The moments. The plots. Setting and climaxes - forever awaiting manifestation from my frontal lobes.
In many ways, the last several years of my life have been an exercise in allowing these preplanned, preconceived notions of happiness to deteriorate. To gradually melt from the confines of my expectations and sift into the abyss of misguided assumption. And in their place, I began to live in the moment. And let the narrative write itself.
Like today. I visited one of my favorite spots on earth: the rocks leading down to the ocean, at the edge of the parking lot, across the street from Barnacle Billy's in Perkins Cove, Ogunquit, Maine.
Usually I visit this spot in the summer. But today, at the ocean's edge, on the rocky incline that I call home and inner sanctity, I stumbled through speckles of snow and outbursts of wind. I shivered in the cold and attempted to take artsy photos of the waves crashing the frosty shoreline. I stared at the Atlantic Ocean, and I let the presupposed narrative deteriorate.
See, for years, I'd decided - in my romantic comedy infested head - that this was the spot. The proposal spot. The spot that "every girl" in America is supposed to have picked out. With the shoes. And the dress. And the flower arrangement. And perhaps, even, the groom.
And as the winter cold carried away my warmth, leaving remnants of chattering knees and leg bones, so too did the desire to let this spot linger in the proposal story. In the same way that the wedding in my backyard plan dissolved when my parents put our old house on the market. Now, the house having been sold, the setting belongs to someone else anyhow.
And today, I realized that this particular story would in theory belong to two people. Not just me. Not just my daydreams. I mean, sure, the ideas, the concepts, the considerations of these future ideals are useful and helpful, and maybe necessary at times. But the need - the nagging need to have them undoubtedly come to fruition - well, why envision some future experience that belongs to two people via terms that only matter to one?
And then I realized that this is a microcosm. This thing about envisioning spaces and stories - that will ultimately involve multiple people - in a context that only includes myself.
Meaning sure, the fantasies may come and go. May be born and grow and linger - but why more than briefly?
Meaning sometimes these huge magnificent expectations are not necessary. This living in my head thing.
Because sometimes, sometimes my ego gets in the way. With maybe a little sprinkling of fear. And then less tranquil images plant movie scripts in my brain cells. And those aren't worth pursuing. Or even having given birth to in the first place.
I wonder what happens to a brain that lets go of living in the future. I mean, sure. Dreams, aspirations, plans - these are necessary. These are essential most often. But the living - the part where the present moments are lost because the living is happening in the future, in the head - well, perhaps these can disappear.
Monday, December 28, 2009
One Thousand Paper Cranes
I mean, it seems they've severed these days. The triumvirate. The trio. The threesome with the seemingly impenetrable relationship and bond.
And the thing is. I don't know where to start. Well, in the peace making that is. I don't know how, where, when, and maybe even why I have to drag the three of them into the same room and sit there. Facing one another. Staring into the multiple sets of eyes. Confronting whatever it is that spawned the alignment hiatus in the first place.
I mean. The thing is, the task feels daunting. I mean, totally and utterly dominated and contaminated by and with fear. Like this chalk filled overabundance of ridiculous trembling and terror.
I don't know. Maybe I'm afraid to be in sync. Maybe I'm afraid that I've become quite the juggler, and if I switched to audience member, or ring master, or trapeze artist, I'd lose my identity. Or maybe I've never really found a way to live outside the circus anyhow.
But it seems to be the more logical and pragmatic way to exist. I mean, not that pragmatism should dominate decisions or anything. But like. I don't know. Maybe I'm just afraid of what I might lose. Even if it's the bad stuff - which is really the good kind of stuff to lose. Maybe I'm just that scared of letting go.
Because the thing is, if I sit the three of them down - this cliche mind, body, soul configuration - what if I really don't have any control over all the other situations over which I'm mimicking control?
I mean. It's like I feel really alone. Like the disjointed, disfigured trio mess has left me in three different states and different times. Meaning like I'm in all combinations but the unified one - where all three parts coexist harmoniously.
It's like I'm either totally in my mind and body. Or spirit and mind. Or spirit and body. Or body. Or mind. Or spirit - but rarely that even. And then it's like. Well. I just get lost on the journey. Begging for some answer or explanation or map.
And there doesn't seem to be one. I mean, the quiet - nearly silent - voice in the back of my whatever keeps saying something about time. Like giving myself the space and time will be the explanation or map.
And I just keep avoiding it. Again, terrified of what I might find out about myself or my journey or my life.
I mean, people keep telling me about surrender. And telling my brain to shut up. And stuff like that. Like I think too much or something. Or over-analyze. I mean, I know. I know I do that.
But I'm a little stuck. Sticky. Stuck. Dormant.
Just totally discombobulated.
Which is fine I guess. Maybe a portion and part of the journey anyhow.
And maybe on the other side of the expression, the cathartic out pour and igniting of words, there is a peace. One thousand paper cranes worth and the likes.
And the thing is. I don't know where to start. Well, in the peace making that is. I don't know how, where, when, and maybe even why I have to drag the three of them into the same room and sit there. Facing one another. Staring into the multiple sets of eyes. Confronting whatever it is that spawned the alignment hiatus in the first place.
I mean. The thing is, the task feels daunting. I mean, totally and utterly dominated and contaminated by and with fear. Like this chalk filled overabundance of ridiculous trembling and terror.
I don't know. Maybe I'm afraid to be in sync. Maybe I'm afraid that I've become quite the juggler, and if I switched to audience member, or ring master, or trapeze artist, I'd lose my identity. Or maybe I've never really found a way to live outside the circus anyhow.
But it seems to be the more logical and pragmatic way to exist. I mean, not that pragmatism should dominate decisions or anything. But like. I don't know. Maybe I'm just afraid of what I might lose. Even if it's the bad stuff - which is really the good kind of stuff to lose. Maybe I'm just that scared of letting go.
Because the thing is, if I sit the three of them down - this cliche mind, body, soul configuration - what if I really don't have any control over all the other situations over which I'm mimicking control?
I mean. It's like I feel really alone. Like the disjointed, disfigured trio mess has left me in three different states and different times. Meaning like I'm in all combinations but the unified one - where all three parts coexist harmoniously.
It's like I'm either totally in my mind and body. Or spirit and mind. Or spirit and body. Or body. Or mind. Or spirit - but rarely that even. And then it's like. Well. I just get lost on the journey. Begging for some answer or explanation or map.
And there doesn't seem to be one. I mean, the quiet - nearly silent - voice in the back of my whatever keeps saying something about time. Like giving myself the space and time will be the explanation or map.
And I just keep avoiding it. Again, terrified of what I might find out about myself or my journey or my life.
I mean, people keep telling me about surrender. And telling my brain to shut up. And stuff like that. Like I think too much or something. Or over-analyze. I mean, I know. I know I do that.
But I'm a little stuck. Sticky. Stuck. Dormant.
Just totally discombobulated.
Which is fine I guess. Maybe a portion and part of the journey anyhow.
And maybe on the other side of the expression, the cathartic out pour and igniting of words, there is a peace. One thousand paper cranes worth and the likes.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Blinded by the Light
At some point, I forgot about the lights. I forgot about the tunnel situation - the one where there is always a light at the end of the tunnel.
For starters, the tunnel seemed and seems endless. Like some quick sand version of a pipeline. Totally disfigured. Discombobulated. Disassociated.
And then the light thing - well, if the tunnel was amorphous, thus the light meant to be at said end, well, amorphous too. Even though light is often without shape. It often is with context. And without a concrete and concise tunnel, the light was hopeless as well.
The thing is. I don't remember a time like this. I mean, I asked my father at dinner a few weeks ago - or rather begged and pleaded that I might be right - if he'd even seen me like this before. Like, wasn't this - isn't this - the worst he's ever seen me? Stressed. Overwhelmed. Disillusioned. Terrified.
He said no.
Which was of course not the answer I wanted.
He said it had happened before. Like in high school. Or college.
But something feels different. And new. Like with some older perspective and years, maybe it's different.
Or something like that.
For starters, the tunnel seemed and seems endless. Like some quick sand version of a pipeline. Totally disfigured. Discombobulated. Disassociated.
And then the light thing - well, if the tunnel was amorphous, thus the light meant to be at said end, well, amorphous too. Even though light is often without shape. It often is with context. And without a concrete and concise tunnel, the light was hopeless as well.
The thing is. I don't remember a time like this. I mean, I asked my father at dinner a few weeks ago - or rather begged and pleaded that I might be right - if he'd even seen me like this before. Like, wasn't this - isn't this - the worst he's ever seen me? Stressed. Overwhelmed. Disillusioned. Terrified.
He said no.
Which was of course not the answer I wanted.
He said it had happened before. Like in high school. Or college.
But something feels different. And new. Like with some older perspective and years, maybe it's different.
Or something like that.
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