The Year of Being Still

2004 has been a stellar year. Whatever disappointments cropped up were short-lived, for the most part, and do not compare with the satisfaction of meeting the goals I met, or with the sense of personal accomplishment that came from taking the one step I'd previously been scared to make, going to grad school.

Poised on the edge of 2005 (I can see it from here), I am again in the Valley of Decision. It will be a year of facing more things that make me terrified, I'm sure. Discipline has been defined as a long obedience in the same direction, and the Bible says that no discipline is pleasant at the time, but painful, but in the end it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace.

The discipline that I must exercise is that of patience and relinquishing control. I know of no harder place to be (for myself) than in the place of holding my ground. The Bible also says that a patient man is better than one who takes a city, that a person who can master her own anger and arrogance is to be lauded more than a fierce warrior.

Patience is active. It will require significantly more strength and spiritual accuity than I currently posess. It is not a resolution so much as it is a revolution of one. "Lastly, I war with myself the most..."

There Now, that's better...

For those who are interested, when I asked Jesus, in my last post, to let me be with him... that was not a serious indication that I am ready to leave the earth. More like "I am over it... temporarily speaking." Jesus understands me. He knows I wasn't saying "okay, I'm ready to die."

I am in a good mood, which is curious given that 1) I got very little sleep last night, and that 2)There is no ostensible reason for this spike. But today I won't be looking gift horses in the mouth. I'll just be saying "thank you, gift horse, thank you. You always know just what I like."

My sister Caryl and the dog, a one Ms. Babygirl, are headed to my house to help me ring in the new year. What could be better?

Post Holiday Depression

Things just didn't connect on every level this year; something felt "off" and did not right itself by December 25th. I know that December 26th (if the 25th is the day you celebrate) can feel like a let down to many, but it usually finds me still reveling in the giving and receiving and the family and friends that I enjoyed all through the month.

I saw friends this December. I was with my family. I bought and ordered presents. I made every provision to ensure that things happened on time, and it was for naught. I will be mailing out presents into next week and potentially the week after because of a colossal display of human error at every turn. That doesn't feel like Christmas. It feels like a disorganized mass of trouble.

I am not exempted from this by any means. Through a misunderstanding, I bought my best friend a present that she is in no way interested in--and upon further discovery, another gift that I gave her, which she did like, appears to be marred.
Have you ever been caught in a downward spiral in which whatever choice you make is the categorical wrong one?

Not 24 hours after receiving a lovely turquoise sushi platter from Sarah, I chipped one of the edges, and managed to bruise my shin (and I never bruise) in the process.

Being at my mother's house depressed me, I realize, because she is knee deep in a psychological ailment--she calls it being a "pack rat." I call it a fire hazard--and psychosis on parade. This woman has been trying to "tidy up" since I was born. I told her that there comes a point when you can't clean up until you throw out. Being there made me want to come home and trash everything I own. That kind of clutter and resulting filth messes with the mind, makes you feel like climbing the walls, like nothing is possible. No where to go. She has never experienced the freedom of an empty corner, for pete's sake.

And whether or not I should be, I am depressed about my relationship landscape, particularly as it pertains to one person. Every day I vacillate between feeling that I was absolutely right to tell him how I felt about his dismissal of me as a friend, and chiding myself for even letting it "go there." At the moment, I don't see this working itself out. Not because I don't want it to, but because I can't imagine him feeling anything other than that I've lost my mind. If he thinks of this "incident" at all, it's probably in the context of feeling that I am unreasonable. Impasse. If I give in and e-mail, I'm done for. He never ever has to even consider me in any situation again. If I don't, I may never see or hear from him again. You may think "okay, well screw him. So What?" But if you've ever loved anyone, even as a friend, you know that is painful fork in the road.

And to top it off, the morons at Gateway keep billing me for something I cancelled months ago. Jesus, I beg of you, let me come to be with you...

Anna Karenina

I have been meaning to read this novel for a long, long time. Because I already know how it ends thanks to numerous movie and literary references, it seemed especially fitting reading for me--what with my preoccupation with trains and all. The now defunct book club of which I was a part wanted to take it on this winter. I still work with one of the girls who was part of that unsuccessful foray into the world of literary pursuits, and she left it for me, as a gift, in my top left drawer at the office on Thursday when I was out.

I was truly delighted by her thoughfulness. I began the 923-page journey yesterday and have calculated that if I read 35 pages a day, it will take me about a month to complete. When school stars back up, I may drop to 20 pages, which will push me over into the month and a half bracket. It shall be my wintertime companion. That and Netflix.

Coffee was mine in abundance this year. I will not soon run out between my Starbucks gift card and the bags and tins that I received. So I will hunker deep on my couch and read and read and sip and sip, and get lost in Russia, thousands of miles away.

All is Not Lost

About 3 months ago, I thought I left my favourite bra in St. Mary's City, MD. It was the weekend of my youngest sister's school's Family Weekend, and in the hubbub of checking out of our hotel and saying our good-byes, I left it behind. I didn't notice for some weeks....and as much as I was bummed (it was not only my favourite, but also a recent purchase, and therefore doubly disappointing), I was resolute and gave it up as permanently gone.

As I sat up late on Christmas Eve watching DVDs with my sisters, Caryl turned to me abruptly and said "Crystal has your purple bra." Apparently, she saw it and took it home to upstate New York with her, and forgetting she'd done so, never mentioned it to me...but she did remember to bring it back to MD. Something that in the scheme of things was not that important, so completely given up on by me, returned in an instant.

On Friday night, My thumb ring slid off my hand and dropped almost soundlessly in Jim's car. He and my mom came to get me that evening after I spent the day waiting for UPS (one successful delivery, but unfortunately not the package containing my sister's present). I did not worry at that time that I couldn't find it, because I knew I'd have a chance to look for it before they took me back home on Sunday...but I began to fear that I would never see it again as I sat in the back seat last night, wordlessly scrounging for it, and not finding it anywhere. I enlisted mom's and Jim's help in the search when we pulled up to my apartment, but we came up empty.

My mom helped me get some things inside and when she left, she asked me if I wanted to walk her back down to the car. I felt on a visceral level that I should, because if I did, my ring would be waiting for me, but I said no--not wanting to be disappointed. Before my mom got out of the door, the phone rang. It was jim saying he'd found it.

I remember once that I lost a grey beret outside on St. Paul Street. I was going to the movies at the Charles Theatre to see Amelie with Victoria and a couple of other guys. Once inside the moviehouse I realized I didn't have it, and deduced that I must have dropped it someplace between the car and the theatre. I was preoccupied that night with some other internal angst, and losing my favourite hat was a crushing blow.

When we walked back to the vehicle later that night, there was my hat lying on the ground outside the car, perfectly kept, and unsoiled. In that moment, I heard God say to me "everything you thought you'd lost, I have kept for you."

This is our shorthand. I lose an object that is important to me, make my peace with the loss, and when I genuinely no longer expect it, it comes back. This is His way of saying "I have the final word on what's gone forever and what's not..."

Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. God restores all things, great and small. He who is concerned about my soul is also concerned about my bras and my dimestore treasures. He cares about all of it. He cares for me.

Catherine and I finally got our opportunity to watch "Napoleon Dynamite" together--it was somewhat surrealist humour. Maybe that isn't the right term--it's definitely somewhat absurd, but not in an existential way, not totally. I guess what matters is that it was funny.

Speaking of existentialism, apparently my 20th Century World Lit Instructor did not turn in grades in time for the report card, because when I received mine in the mail yesterday, beneath the A- I got in PW was an "M." "Great," I thought. "I failed so badly I got an M..." but when I looked at the code on the back I saw that this curious mark is my university's way of saying the professor is negligent. Terrific.
I wonder how long I'll have to wait to find out how I actually did.

Anyway, back to my visit with Catherine. She gave me some truly wonderful presents. One being a stellar cook book filled with recipes that are right up my alley, and then two original print publications from the 1920s (a political commentary and a composition rule book) to go with my 20s era apartment. So creative and original. I'll have to be very careful thumbing through them. One chapter title is "The Munitions of Lingerie." Stellar.

Workmen have been banging away at the apartment next to mine and it sounds like someone is knocking down one of my walls. They are replacing the windows in the unit, and it's so riotous that I've not been able to concentrate on much in the way of work (I logged in hours from home today).

So now I'm just waiting for the UPS man... hoping he has a delivery for me. 2 days out from Christmas feels mighty lonely.

Christmas Wrapping

I set about the daunting task of wrapping presents last night, at least the ones that have shown up, and even with my online orders still outstanding (and yes, I am getting nervous), there was a lot to do, and it was exhausting.

To make matters worse, I am positive that I heard some scurrying behind or in my stove. I saw nothing, and I have been rather paranoid of late, but still... and just when I was getting comfortable again.

I'm trying to be philosophical about the A- in Poetry Workshop, and I wondered if it wasn't more of my overreacting, initially, but everyone who has talked with me about it understands immediately why I am upset, and registers it as a subpar grade. Nice to know that I am not off base in my feeling that something is amiss with this. I did e-mail the instructor to inquire about the mark, and she essentially told me that there were other students who "took their work farther," and that while I made "excellent progress" and should not feel that "there was any imperfection in my performance" that she had to grade not only on the basis of my personal effort, but the totality of the class's effort. So I took it on the chin and got an A- because she assessed that someone else made greater strides? I wouldn't say that this has soured my grad school experience, but I feel sobered, and do not trust people who have been entrusted with the task of making judgments and decisions to do so soundly.

I had been feeling positively about my chances of getting a solid A in 20th Century World Literature, but now expect to be blindsided by something else.

My long-back burnered romance novel has moved back to front burner and is now on simmer. I do hope to complete it over the course of the next semester.

Cold Snap

I was in Berkeley Springs, WV this past Saturday. Michael had a brass quintet gig and he invited Sarah and Myself to hear his ensemble play at the Coolfont resort (since we were with the band we got the dinner buffet for free). One of the members--the trombonist--kept referring to the "cold snap" that was heading for us--and for the rest of the night my mind kept turning over this phrase. I've heard it before, but suddenly it seemed so full of potential, poetically speaking. Cold. Snap. I said it aloud to myself, softly, throughout the night.

Yesterday morning I stood at the bus stop while winds knifed me in the back, in the shins, and sliced my fingers, encased in thick fleece gloves that I might as well not have been wearing. It slashed at my face, plunged through my black knit cap. Cold Snap. 9 degrees in the sun.

This morning the temperature boasted a tropical 17 degrees while I stood at the bus stop, and while I am dressed even warmer than I was yesterday, I also felt a naked difference--the windy gales have ceased and desisted--and there is a Warm front. moving in. Warm. Front.

I spent time with Naomi last night. She drove up from the DC area where she is visiting friends. Her return to the west is imminent and she wanted to connect before departing. I really wanted to see her too. We had a nice low key evening of anecdotes and takeout Chinese food--her treat, and before she left we got a chance to pray together. I really felt the presence of God in those moments, and felt that He did give me several revelations and impressions about matters that concern Naomi (I was praying for her, primarily). And when she prayed for me, her words were relevant, and I did feel very much that she was mindful of the various things that were troubling me, mostly my relationship with G, whom I miss terribly right about now. I woke up in a nice mood this morning.

A-

The snow, mixed with rain, flew violent and sideways. While I sat in the upper room of Minas in Hampden at a poetry reading that featured every crackpot, would be laureate in the city, or so it seemed, the December sky tore open. I was so sad to see my old enemy back in town so soon. It vexed me last year, robbed me of sure footing. It was impossible to get arms around anything, everything a trial of slush and ice.

Of the billed readers, Only Moira Egan (in this week's Featured Poet section of my links) is a poet. One woman read from her book, a long short story. I'm sorry but a short story has no business being read aloud at a poetry reading. Wrong venue, wrong type of literature. The third woman, whose name I don't even remember, was complete rubbish. Let's just say part of her "presentation" involved singing. A crackpot's crackpot. She belongs to the Diva Squad. Apparently being a member of this squad entitles you to write crap poetry and give lectures to a captive audience about your particular brand of politics. I'll admit freely that I'm not into the "slam" element of poetry. Not so into the rhythmic, singing mishmash. She and her cohorts were all about that.

I'm also not a fan of the "open mic" scene, but after the monthly readings at Minas, there is a free for all. This is the event that my Poetry Workshop Instructor encouraged us all to participate in (after I told them about it from attending last month's reading). So most of the women from my class came out and did just that--including the instructor as she promised she would. And we read, indistinguishable from a few lunatics and one woman who read a page from her nonfiction book!!! I'm sorry, but it all made me remember why I hate the idea of open mics. No dignity. No discretion. And the crowd is all wrong--you're not getting people who know what it's all about--just people who want to belong to something and think of poetry as something easy, a way to be a local nuisance who comes for the free wine and cheese.

During Moira's reading there were people talking! Talking... I am always torn, internally, about how accessible poetry readings should be. There is something to be said for being exclusive.

After it was over (more than 2 painstaking hours of that nonsense, and I only stayed till the end because I agreed to sack up and participate in the open mic where I knew my poem was going to get lost in the shuffle of chairs, dying before it reached the ears of tired, worn out people, and I stood there feeling like a joke, feeling like it was all very very stupid after all), the Instructor gave us back our portfolios and our final grades.

I stood there feeling like I'd been kicked in the chest. I met every requirement, participated in every class, even revised in a way that it is not intuitive to me in an effort to consider the possibility that I'd simply been undisciplined all this time--and it yielded an A-. I was under the impression that for something like a Poetry Workshop, where grading a work is entirely subjective, that what can be quantified is the showing up, the putting forth an effort, the meeting of outside obligations... No solid A, but an A that was nearly a B. I guess I didn't remove a line somewhere that she deemed superfluous. I guess it came down to that.

{Ding Dong Merrily on High}

Why do I do that?

I got together with Holly last night since she is Boston bound post Christmas. It was our last chance to see each other for what will probably be quite some time. Her season of bleakness in MD is coming to a close and she is going North to take on the world of Oriental Rug sales and being closer to her family is a lovely by product of this change in locale.

Among the many things we talked about was the tendency we both have to cast a negative light on things as a protection against disappointment when they don't pan out. My referring to the office "Secret Holiday Exchange" as a "debacle" midweek would be one application of this principle. Anyway, our "Culmination Lunch" at Amicci's yesterday showed me a thing or two. All week all this subversive, secretive activty had been going on, and everyone had such lovely intentions, and the final gifts were a real "hurrah," after all. My person (whose identity I knew for reasons it's not necessary to go into) gave me a double disc of classical guitar by the man who made classical guitar famous--Andres Segovia, a dark chocolate with raspberry candy bar, and a lovely Egyptian candle with a very sensual scent.

Here's the truth. I am very judgmental and easily angered. This the proverbial "fool" in the Old Testament book Proverbs. I have been known to say that if the "fools" I refuse to suffer gladly were more like me, we'd all be okay... I see now that if that were true, I wouldn't stand a chance. When I come up short, I'd much rather face mercy and compassion than the icy blast of my criticism.

When I think back on this year--the one in which I cut ties with people, either officially or unofficially, I see that I am the only constant in all of these scenarios, and that suggests a few things. In two of the situations, there were unheathly elements, so I don't feel that I made a mistake... but I know that pretty soon I'm going to run out of people to cut loose at the rate I'm going.

When is a situation truly toxic, and when does it simply require bearing through. Why do I become enraged at the first hint of disaster? And so to help disaster along, I destroy even more what I worry has become ruined.

The Office Party

I love after hours work gatherings. Seeing someone with his or her significant other brings so many other elements of who he or she is to the forefront. Spouses, partners,intendeds--people become more fully realized in light of their relationships, instead of being these uni-dimensional "work" personas that you encounter Monday-Friday. I'm not saying my coworkers aren't real at at the office, but there's so much that has to be truncated, tamped down, forced into "work mode," etc.

I spent all of my time with Michael and Sarah (she came as my guest since Michael didn't decide to come till the last minute) and L and Her guy. We were a happy fivesome, though I did make little conversational forays outside our social bubble.

I won a door prize... The President of the company who has talked to me before bastardized my name with some strange pronunciation. I was offended, to be certain. I took the prize but gave it to L (tickets to a show at the Hippodrome that I saw at the Lyric in 1998 and didn't really enjoy). She won two of her own, so now she and her s.o. can take two more friends. I had been hoping for the MP3 player--I already told Sarah I would give her my prize if I won anything, because she got the major shaft from the secret santa at her job--but sarah saw that show with me in 1998 and hated it even more, hence the reason I did not bestow the tickets on her.

I'm looking forward to the "Secret Holiday Exchange Culmination Lunch" in Little Italy today. We are going to Amicci's.

Titles of Christmas Albums

If you were a recording artist and your label taxed you with doing a Holiay Album, what songs would you want to record, and what would you title your album? Let me hear from you!

My album would be called "Cafe Christmas," and I would definitely record "Christmas Time Is here (slow, melancholy tempo)" and "God Rest Ye Merry, Gentleman," which I have always loved.

The Secret Santa Debacle



There is a disturbing trend among office secret santas. Many seem to be of the mindset that candy in miniature is the only inexpensive gift available. Now, I am NOT looking to my secret holiday exchange person to rock my world on a large scale, and it has just been two days (this is day 3), but I managed to think up three really great, non candy ideas so far (one of which was free, practically)--and I did not break the bank, not even close.

We filled out questionnaires to help guide the person who drew each name--and I feel that the point of them is largely lost when your SS keeps tossing foil wrapped sugar on your desk. Surprise, indeed. No one seems to really be getting into the spirit of the thing if you ask me--but then again, I should consider the people with whom I work. All very nice, but not very festive.

Anyway, I know that the point is to be intentional, and this candy is something that I would not have had otherwise (By the way, I don't like candycanes--I find them cumbersome to eat), so I shouldn't even care that it's not interesting or original or personal to me in any way.

I am using it to decorate the table top tree that sits to the left of my computer monitor. It's all about the spin, I guess. When your secret santa hands you lemons...

Upon my initiation the team of people with whom I work are doing a "secret holiday exchange." We decided that it would span a work week--beginning yesterday and going through this coming Friday. On that date we will all go out to lunch in Little Italy, where we will exchange final presents of the week (the pieces de resistance)in a dramatic "reveal" ceremony.

Tomorrow morning, I am placing a mammoth order with Amazon.com, and going for the expedited shipping. I have a lot to get done. Have started the process of addressing Christmas cards--am thinking I will do a letter to go to closer friends this year.

My antibiotic is nearly gone. I have perhaps 3 more meals (I have to take it with food) until the bottle is empty. I will miss my antibiotic given all of the other things I've said goodbye to recently--goodbye first semester of grad school, goodbye amusing diversion of flirtation with professor, so long to another relationship (2004 seemed to be my year to shed people)that wasn't working...

Am significantly less skeeved out by the thought of the mouse. Have reclaimed apartment emotionally as well as physically. I have little comforting rituals I haven't yet dispensed with, like leaving the lights and tv on in the living room when I'm home, but in the bedroom, to give the impression of a presence, to keep the noise going. I still keep a towel bunched under the seal of my door to prevent anything small from crawling in. You may feel that I am overreacting, but I don't recover easily from things like this. I don't recover easily from anything.

To go back briefly to something I said in the first paragraph. I had a couple of clarifying moments this week. One came on Tuesday night--the night of the flat finale of 20th Cent. Wrld. Lit. As I sat there, not having read the last book, I saw that even my harmless crush on my professor was another way of stacking the deck in favour of futility. I saw that his demeanor is one of equal-opportunity bantering...and that while he may have enjoyed some of my comments, there was nothing intentional about his behavior toward me--he is exactly the same with everyone. And I sat there laughing to myself that even for a mindless diversion, that it had been rather piss poor, built on out of context moments. I am the queen of invention, I swear. Realizing this did not break my heart, thank God. It was the perfect noncommittal fantasy, one in which there is no stake in any outcome. Not actually caring is the safest place to be.

At least the paper is coming along. If not to him, I did give my heart to the instructor's class (the last session excepted); I'm hoping to get an A for my trouble. Have recently had nightmares about getting a C, because I was offbase, not only in thinking there had been intentional flirting on his part, but about the idea that I was doing well. This would actually hurt me much more.

The other moment was about my virtually ruined friendship with G. I thought to myself (and I do not want to know if others agree with this; confirmations that I am right would not be helpful) that perhpas this my chance to be happy at last. For nearly 6 years I have been in anguish over my feelings for him, worried about him dating someone else, wondering if the tide would ever turn in my favour, not sure why this kind of thing always happens to me. For as much as I have felt that there was a greater purpose in my knowing him, in us being in each other's lives, I have occasionally wished to go back to the time before that fateful dinner party in 1999--the one in which I really talked to him for the first time, and my heart opened its doors. I had known him, loosely, through Victoria from the year before. But we had never spoken to speak of, and he wasn't even a blip on my radar, save for being V's semi weird, intellectual friend (that's what I thought then)... if our friendship is indeed over now (as I suspect it is), then this could be that opportunity.

Well, have to get back to final essay. I really do want an A.

For as lacklustre as the final 20th Century World Literature class was, the last Poetery Workshop was lovely, spirited, and the best meeting we had all semester. In addition to my baguette and artichoke spinach dip, there were mini quiche, 2 bottles of red wine, two variations on the theme of olive tapanade, a spicy mozarella cheese, white cheddar, crackers, grape tomatos marinaded in olive oil and balsamic vinegar, multigrain bread, and chocolate truffles. A veritable European picnic while savoring the poems we'd each brought. The general consensus is that we should have had food at every meeting. Why hadn't we thought of that before! Food and Literature (or Poetry) are meant for each other. Poetry and Wine are the ultimate compatriots.

At the risk of sounding hoakey, there was such poetic justice for me, personally, at the last class. One of the other women said that the poem I brought reminded her of the very first poem I'd shared--because of two words that were used in both pieces. I told her how complimented I was, not that she was saying she liked it or disliked it, but that she remembered. And because I'd had a few glasses of wine, I said to everyone "And by the way, that was a real train I was on; It wasn't a metaphor."

So we are all (save for one person--the girl with the awful penchant to annoy me--who after a 3-week hiatus, came last night, about an hour in to the class)going to continue to meet up, perhaps monthly to keep workshopping our stuff together. And we have plans to meet up at Minas in Hampden for a Sunday afternoon reading on the 19th.

Unrelated.

I have been dreaming lately about a former boss--the truly awful woman I supported at the Dupont Circle job in DC in 1999. Last night she and I were shopping for handbags and Tiffany lamps.

I managed to eke out 2.5 pages of the final essay last night. I am calling it "In Search of Kafka: The quest for intimacy with the Father of Modern Literature."
I will obviously continue to work on it through the weekend; it's due on Monday, so I am hopeful that this will all go off without a hitch.

At about 1:30 today I go into an afternoon of meetings, wherein I will be tied up until it's time for me to leave. I am so looking forward to Poetry Workshop tonight. We will have light fare--wine, chocolate truffles... I, personally, am bringing spinach avocado dip and a baguette.

On December 19th there is a reading in Hampden that almost all of my classmates and I are attending, afterwhich there will be an open mic portion. Our instructor told us that we all have to participate as part of our final grade--I don't know how serious she is, but it will be good for me to do something daring, maybe get myself on the map as a local writer of note.

The Anticlimax

Last night was the last meeting of my 20th Century World Literature class (I still have the final essay to write, but for all intents and purposes, it's over), and it was such a let down...for all involved. No one really connected with the last book, Chris Abani's Graceland, or if they were like me, didn't even really read that much of it. The prof didn't much care for it himself, and his attempts (valiant) to create a discussion about it fell flat. No one really gave him much to work with. For my part, I made a few truly inane comments (and I am not being unkind to myself when I say this. It's true.).

So tonight I sit down to try to recap, with some degree of commitment and intelligence, how my reading of literature has been shaped by this semester's analysis of Kafka and those who followed him. I'll make a light dinner and get to work. No mindless tv watching for me. No preoccupation with my troubled relationship landscape. I also have to put the finishing touches on some poems for my poetry workshop portfolio.

December is shaping up to be event-filled. Parties, get togethers, more shopping. I won't have much time to ponder much of anything until the dust settles on January 1st.

You have the Vermeer girl look. A Vermeer girl
appealed mostly to the old masters of the Dutch
school, who painted pictures of everyday life
as they knew it. With her fine, fair skin, she
suited a light, natural, dewy make-up. The
Vermeer Girl loved homely things, such as
homemade soaps and candles. The following
artists would have liked to paint you; Pieter
de Hooch and Jan Vermeer.


'Pretty As A Picture' - Which Artist Would Paint You?
brought to you by Quizilla


Hi, person! You are the very long Christmas list.
That means that you could either be naughty or
nice, although you may go along with nice more.
You may consider yourself the regular guy/girl.
You don't like it, though, when people take
advantage of your goodness. You can easily get
mad and leash out the beast. You may try to
control your anger, which is a good thing.
People could like that about you. Yeah, Merry
Christmas =)


What Christmas Figure Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

The exterminator came to my place yesterday. I know this because he (or she) left a calling card and a smell so bad I thought I was going to be ill. Fortunately, by the time I got home yesterday evening, I had already planned to spend the night at Sarah's to help her procure and set up a Christmas tree. I knew she was going to end up wanting one!

I will give it to my rental office liaison. She was responsive, warm, and empathetic when I told her about the mouse. Apparently, other residents with apartments in the same vicinity (within the building) as mine have also complained of seeing mice recently, and as we talked more and more about the particular point of entry (the building's construction is such that there are entryways behind the stoves, which in colder months can lead to this kind of thing), she became more concerned, and suggested that she get the exterminator to come out specifically to treat my place. Under normal circumstances, the company comes out only once a month, and they had already been to my building this week, unbeknownst to me.

I really hope this will take care of the problem, because knowing that rodents are lurking about is seriously messing with my ability to: 1)have any peace of mind when I'm at home in what is supposed to be my sanctuary, and 2): to feel any kind of pride or joy in all that I'm working to accomplish regarding realizing my vision for the kind of home I want.

Because I spent last night at Sarah's place, I rode in to work this morning with a coworker (L) who lives pretty close to her. L's boyfriend drove us both in, and I so enjoyed their couple banter. He is one of those effortlessly funny guys, and I felt immediately at ease. I liked him right away. We mostly listened to talk radio for the bulk of the drive, but at one point he switched the station and a song came on, and both he and L began to dance in earnest (as much as possible while sitting in a car). They definitely have a nice vibe going.

As for me, I'm just looking forward to leftovers for lunch (spaghetti carbonara) and class tonight.

Things began well enough

I felt noticeably better this morning; the tight, vague soreness in my throat, which is usually bad when I first open my eyes, was practically non-existent. I felt well-rested, even after only 5 and a half straight hours of sleep. I took a long nap when I got in from work yesterday, so when my night got going at about 8:30, I stayed up till about 2 a.m. decorating the small tree in my bedroom, sorting laudry, and hanging up clothes that had been living in the chair beside my bed for the last several days.

A few groceries were delivered this morning by the time I finished my laundry, and I was all set to start revising every poem I submitted to poetry workshop this semester. The day was a clear success by noon. My youngest sister called at about one, chatting animatedly about how well her solo went at the concert her a cappella group gave last night, the flirting action with the guy she's crushing on, and some other anecdotes. With my cell phone in the crook of my neck and shoulder, I weaved in and out of rooms in my apartment listening to her tell this tale. I happened to come into the kitchen just in time to see a mouse disappear into the opening of one of the burners of my stove. Naturally I screamed, then called emergency maintenance.

I hid out in my bedroom for about two hours before I decided to reclaim the greater living space and the kitchen, but I remained disgusted. I called emergency maintenance a second time to no avail. I guess they don't bother with rodents inside stoves. I guess they don't care that there is clearly a disease carrying vermin in my kitchen that got in through some opening in their walls.

I may well be over this vintage thing.

The good news? I did manage to make significant changes to every poem for my portfolio, but in some cases, I feel that I made changes that pander to someone else's take on poetry. I'm something of an aberrant poet in that I don't usually revise. Well, I revise as I go--minimally. I don't normally have 15 drafts of something. I am too easily bored for all that. In any case, I do think many of the pieces are better for the work I did today, and I didn't compromise on anything I truly felt passionate about. Mostly I cut things out... so that's done, then.

Otherwise, I had an attack of missing Gordon, and wanted to e-mail him to tell him I overreacted. But I'm not going to do that, because I didn't overreact, and if I say that I'll never be able to expect anything more from him. I do want him in my life, but I have to be someone he can respect. It feels like we may never speak again, and the thought of that makes me want to do something to make this right... but I always make things right between us, and the only hope I have for equanimity is holding my ground...this time.

So it's going to be me and the *NSYNC Christmas Album Again This Year...

In a twist of Poetic Irony, I am not going to the ill-fated [for me] poetry reading this evening. I am still quite run down from the malaise that staked its claim on Monday night. When I woke up this morning, I felt awful,and though I seemed to get it together enough to come to work, it's clear to me that my body is still under siege. I don't know that a brisk 15 minute walk to and from the reading is what I need right now. I missed the reading on Wednesday night, too. C'est la vie.

Speaking of Wednesday nights, next semester my class with Professor Love meets that night, so I've invested in a vhs tape for Smallville, but I may abandon it altogether as a relic of a defunct friendship (I only started watching b/c of the artiste). This past week's episode left me feeling nothing much, so it may be a good time to break with the geeks in Kansas, superpowers and all...

Which leads me to the now defunct *NSYNC's 1998 Christmas album. It's still a favourite! It's jazzy (in some cases a cappella) traditional stuff along with some R&B flavoured ballads about wanting to get busy under the tree. I think I'll listen to them tonight while I put finishing touches on my own artificial Roosevelt Fir.

This weekend is all about homework. I'll be working on my portfolio for the poetry workshop class, and beginning my paper for 20th Century World Lit. This gives me an incredible sense of purpose.

Non Strep Pharyngitis

Sarah and I had a marathon shopping day on Monday, and near the end of the race, over dinner, I noticed that the right side of my throat felt "weird." I assumed that my glands were swollen because I was run down. I expected to be better by morning.

I didn't feel better yesterday morning, but I didn't feel worse, either. Once at work, I went to whole foods to buy a box of Echinacea tea and some orange juice. at 3:40 I was feeling poorly enough to leave work, and to write my professor letting him know that I would not be attending class. Somewhere between work and home, I started to feel remarkably better. So much better, in fact, that I went to class. I love the collection of short stories we are reading right now, and other than last night, there is only one more class. Even though my professor is mine to enjoy next semester as well, I wanted to see him. He wrote back to my note saying I wouldn't be there that he was "sorry to lose [me] for the night."

(Sidebar: last night I dreamed that I saw my estranged friend and she told me that she was not "mad at all..." then we chatted about what motherhood is like for her. I was conspicuously avoiding the topic of the artiste, when she said "so, you haven't told me if you have any love interests..." I knew that was her way of asking about g, so I said "No, I don't... but my professor may be in love with me.")

Surprisingly, I felt terrific and enlivened for the entire class period--something I can't always boast when I'm fine.

I expected to make it in to the office today, though I did tell my manager yesterday afternoon that it was possible I would still be feeling poorly come Wednesday. When I was conscious enough to know how I was feeling this morning, the verdict was not good. I called in, and continued to sleep until about 10:30. By 11:30 it was clear to me that I did not want to continue to be in agony every time I swallowed, so a visit to the doctor was in order. All of my pain was still localized to the right side of my throat only. I did not want it to spread. The last time I tried to "tough out" a sore throat, it was toncillitis and my body did not fight it off with rest and over the counter remedies.

The people at PatientFirst were efficient, warm, and helpful. The throat swab test was negative for strep, but I was given a script for amoxicillin (and was even able to have it filled there), and sent on my way. I took the first dose with lunch and started to experience relief on contact. I am and have always been very pro antibiotic. I never experience any negative side effects, and my system almost always responds right away.

So now I am wondering if it's foolhardy to attend this poetry reading on campus tonight... I want to go, and I've just had a long nap. I'll let you know what I decided.

It's been a delicious past couple of days. My Thanksgiving fare turned out alright. A couple of minor snafus pushed dinner back by a couple of hours. My unreliable oven went out and my kitchen sink was clogged. I was forced to call emergency maintenance for what would typically be non-emergencies, except that it was Thanksgiving. The oven has been acting up a lot lately, and that was the worst possible day to have to even think about being without it. In any case, I was not denied assistance (which they could have technically done), and though the maintenance man was put out, everything was made okay in a matter of minutes.

With the aid of my sister I found my rogue box of Christmas ornaments and lights. It was pushed back in the overhead storage compartment next to my hall closet. She got them down for me, and while the oven was being tinkered, we got the lights on the tree and placed the few baubles that I do own onto the branches. Over the next couple of weeks, I'll be purchasing some more. I started my new collection last night in Hampden (Catherine was visiting and we were tooling around on the Avenue).

Dinner with my mom, Caryl, and Jim on Friday was nice in that it was stress free. I made the macaroni and cheese casserole,and it turned out well. While I was there my mom gave me a couple of tabletop christmas trees--one green and one white. I'll buy a few tiny ornaments for those too. After watching a couple of movies mom and Jim drove me home.

Before Catherine showed up yesterday afternoon I made a morning of cleaning up for her arrival. I also made a mix of Christmas songs. Tomorrow, I am off work. Sarah and I are going to do some serious shopping! Tonight, I go to her place and we will see "The Edge of Reason" together. Absolutely perfect.

The sun is waxing rebellious and shining brightly, illuminating all the rainy, slick sidewalks. This is supposed to be a mostly cloudy day with a few showers, but when I saw the bright light punching holes through the thick gray, it seemed indicative of grace. I was a bit overwhelmed yesterday with the implications of where I left things with Gordon, overwhelmed about the fact that I am again low on money and need my next paycheck, like today... I need that Sprint rebate ASAP...but all of these things are beyond me at the moment. No amount of pondering is going to conjure up money, resolution, or anything else.

Today is my shot at really seeing the Hand of God at work, if I want to see it. My sister is sleeping, fighting every step the notion that she needs to get up so we can get this party underway. We are going to have a feast for two. We are going to watch movies, decorate a tree, talk about the new boy she likes, and listen to music.

How could I forget for an instant that I am more blessed than I can recount? Even the closed doors, somehow, lead to blessing.

Colour Me Presumptuous

I went to class last night even though Caryl was due to arrive at my place sometime around 8 o'clock. I left at the break, though, as a compromise. My professor teased me a bit about having the option to stay...simply blowing off my sister. He did let me know that I am welcome to come to a briefing, of sorts, next tuesday that he's holding with the other two members of our class who did not attend last night--so that I won't have to totally miss out on the salient points that were made after I left...

In looking over the paper he handed back to me, I see that he's asked if I mind e-mailing him the file, "in case [he] ever returns to 'Christa T.'"

Who's the patron saint of miscommunications?

Hmm. what to say about the current state of affairs...? Well, I sent out my terse, but not snide reply to Gordon yesterday afternoon. Last evening I was sent a somewhat apologetic response, but one in which it was asserted that he would basically not be coming to the reading... so there it was all laid out there. The truth of where I fall in the hierarchy of things/people that are a priority to him. So, today, late morning, I sent a reply in which I was going for a measure of genuine communication about the implications of his decision. Not asking him to change his mind, but going for the point beyond the surface of this debacle. I was met with a reassertion of his commitment to his long-standing position about e-mail ettiquette and some bs dissertation on how sometimes plans have to be rescheduled. I replied one final time letting him know that his thoughts on this did not escape me, but that I did not feel that my most recent e-mail sought to undermine the fact that he is busy and frazzled, but that it was clear to me that we are not seeing the issue the same way, and to that end, should end this particular thread of communication since it's been unsuccessful.

So, that's that then? I guess so.

I'm having a hard time right now. Basically, Gordon's follow up skills have been spotty lately, and this has resulted in several "misses" in terms of getting together with him recently. His ability to keep or make plans with me has been nil. He e-mailed today to ask about the poetry reading on dec. 3rd... how long it was going to last. essentially, he's been invited to someone's dinner party, and is trying to figure out if he can do both.

if you've ever been "better-dealed" in a social scenario, you know it doesn't feel good. I was already in a place of annoyance with him, so my reply to his rather interesting attempt at light-hearted dissing and beatific blessing on me by way of statements like "I hope you're doing fantastic," was cold and stilted to say the least.

Let's just say it involved a numbered list and a lot of questions. It's not snide, but it is straight, no chaser. I was like "before we discuss the reading, I have a few questions about some things I haven't heard from you about, such as the following..." I also encouraged him to be true to his preference, because it would stress me out to know he was basically counting the minutes until he could make a hasty exit. I don't need those kinds of favours.

Why do people think they are softening the blow of a kiss-off by saying something like "hope your day is going well," or "take care, and best of luck," after essentially saying "I don't want to buy anything you're selling." Just make your comment, let it stand out there, naked and bald. It's more respectful to the person you're blowing off. It really is.

For lunch with Quill:

sweet butternut squash puree
crab salad
(and perhaps salmon with creamy tamarind sauce)
breaded eggplant discs

Afterward, if she is interested, I thought a craft fair at the quaker school up the road would be a fun turn.

I cleaned last night as I promised myself I would, and I feel better for it. I managed to work out a new "tree schematic," and now it is happily residing in my living room. The sense of balance and reason is back.

I dreamed about Gordon again last night (I believe I have every night this week). I dreamed that I was trying to call someone, but accidentally dialed his number. This was a small-scale disaster since "the ball was in his court" in terms of contact,and by calling I was breaching an unspoken understanding. I debated hanging up before he answered, but thought that would seem even worse since my number would still show up under "missed calls" in his phone display. It was odd, also, because I had been rather painstaking about the dialing; I was trying not to accidentally ring him up.

When he answered he was very busy and decidedly peeved. His tone was one of exasperation, and my excuse that I had mistakenly called him sounded flimsy, even to me, despite the fact that I knew it was true.

O, Tannenbaum

Okay, so the tree, once put together, is bigger than the space I had allotted for it. I guess I failed to take into consideration that branches protrude behind, outward, forward... So, I moved the foyer table to a less organic spot, and the tree is taking up the lion's share of the entry way space. The good news? Entering/Leaving by way of the front door is in no way obstructed, but the feung shui? Off. Way off.

Maybe it will look better when I rig up the lights and bedeck it with glowing spherically shaped ornaments and the like. I know it'll look great with some christmas loot underneath it. Essentially putting together my artificial, pvc dream of a tree, forced me to confront the fact that my apartment really needs to be cleaned up. You can't put sugar on shit, pardon my french, and expect it not to smell. No point having a majestic Christmas decoration in a dusty room.

So tonight I'm getting on my hands and knees and am giving my kitchen floor a good scrub (along with a nice, disinfecting bath for the stove top and the counters). Then, I'll make my way to the bathroom to get that in good shape.

Am having the lovely Quill over tomorrow, so the place needs a spit shine anyway. Other than this visit, I expect to hang out with Sarah tomorrow evening, and come home on Sunday in time to go to a poetry reading in Hampden at Mina's.

Smallville was forgettable tonight, a vehicle of an episode, the sole purpose of which was to provide texture, to illustrate the villainous capability of the young Lex Luthor. So be it. There's no shame in having mere plot-moving scenarios once in awhile. The best part about the show for me was the preview of next week's episode. Looks like a must-see.

Okay, so obviously, I am not writing my sister off...not washing my hands of her...but I am scaling back the effort. It is exhausting to keep a door open when no one walks through.

The tree did not come today as I was told it would. So, I am working from home, mostly, again tomorrow. I will go in in the morning, for about 2 hours, and then make my way back here to prepare my heart and home for 7 feet of artificial Roosevelt Fir tree, frosted. I need to get new ornaments! After it arrives, I'll go downstairs to my storage unit and retrieve the lights and baubles I do possess, and take stock of my Christmas cheer.

It takes time to build a vision, but I'm making something strand by strand, year by year.

I've come to the conclusion that my sister Crystal and I don't have the relationship I want for us to have because of her, not me. With that said, I am backing off. This year, as with most other years, my mother is making her Thanksgiving dinner on the Friday following the actual holiday. She and her friend are going to his sister's house for the holiday proper, so Caryl and I are hanging out at my place. When I learned that Crystal was going to make it home after all, my joy felt complete at the thought of spending time with her, too.

But her plans are to go to the home of people to whom we are related, mostly by marriage. The very relatives with whom we spent the bulk of our holidays growing up. The very relatives that talk about us when we're not around.

I called her last night to ask her to consider coming to my place instead and she said that she felt she needed to "connect with her family." I'm not even kidding when I say this is what she said. I find it ironic to say the least that these very people do not and will not care one way or the other whether she shows up or not. I doubt she's even invited.

Then she tried to have a conversation with me about what Caryl and I are doing, what we're cooking, etc. I didn't really need her detached interest in something she doesn't care to be part of. I am washing my hands of that girl.

I have rethought reestablishing contact with my estranged friend. I realized that as the person who initiated the severance, that I have forfeited some "rights," and when all is said and done, I would not want my "acknowledgment" of the fact that something major has occurred for her to be misinterpreted as an open invitation to contact me. I don't want to be in her life again. It was very stressful and I often felt encroached upon during the course of our friendship. I also believe that it was for her benefit that we are no longer in communication. Who am I to assume she wants an acknowledgment from me,anyway? I mulled all of this over, prayed about it,and realized that the best and most considerate thing to do is leave well enough alone.

The scripture that kept coming to mind as I prayed for God to give me His insight into this matter is : "As a dog returns to its vomit, so a fool returns to his folly." In essence. Don't open closed doors.

I need to pick up a few more things in order to be prepared for Thanksgiving, but I think I will do it later this week, or on Monday. I want everything to be as fresh as possible. I have settled on recipes for Pork Loin with Mushroom Fricassee (sp?), sweet potato cheesecake for dessert, and a sausage stuffing with walnuts, and some type of dried fruit (maybe apricots?). It's a bit ambitious, but at least it will just be my sister and me if it's a horrible disaster. My secret for making truly excellent food is to be at least partially buzzed during the preparation. It removes the inhibitions and makes me fearless in experimentation.

In other news, almost everyone from my Poetry Workshop class is interested in continuing to meet over the spring, informally, to keep up the writing community. One of the members sent out an e-mail on Friday to the entire class (only 6 of us), and save one person, we've each replied in the positive. The one person who has not yet replied does not really fit in with the rest of the group--she's always just someplace else in her reading of a given piece, or focusing on minutiae. Frankly, I hope that she does not want to join us, because her comments in class usually stress me out. But, if she should, it's worth it to me. I have come a long way in trusting the sensibilities of the other writers in the group, and I don't want to lose that.
Ironic, considering how much I have kvetched about that class on this blog, and in my offline communications with friends.

It's nearly time for the office holiday party again. I may actually be able to go this year!

The Quest for Kate K.

I just finished writing a paper on Christa Wolf's The Quest for Christa T. and I feel a deep sense of pleasure over the outcome. Nursing my second cup of aromatic, double spice chai, I am reveling in the hiss of the steam heat running through my pipes, keeping me warm.

After attending a gospel/jazz benefit that was put on my by church on Friday night, I came home and watched "Cold Mountain" all the way through. On Saturday I did a double header: I knocked out both "Whale Rider" and "The Postman Always Rings Twice."
Before going to Sarah's place, I ordered the christmas tree I've had my eye on for a few weeks now.

Before coming back to my little abode early this afternoon, I grocery shopped. I got the pork loin around which I will build my Thanksgiving meal, along with some things to see me through this week.

Been thinking on my proclivity toward being alone a lot. Some of it's preference, but some of it is fear. I know you already knew this, Gentle Reader.

Devika and her El Mono were all over my dreams last night. They were coming to visit me, but were delayed. Devika called my cell, and I knew it was her because of this sonorous jazz ring tone I'd attributed to her number in my phone's directory. The apartment in the dream was the one that Sarah and I lived in, in Mt. Vernon, but I was giving Devika directions as though I lived in Montgomery County. I kept referencing roads and metro stations that are located there. The second time she called me in this dream it was to say that they were lost. I think I said something like "can't you just get on the beltway?" after trying to give her several other points of reference that weren't sounding familiar to her. She said something like "Um, Is that the only way...?"

By the time they arrived, I lived alone in my current apartment, but my mother and Jim had traded out my furniture for a white wicker set up! I was totally put upon, but did like this one corner of the room my mom had decorated. There was a desk, positioned catty corner; it was dark wood, in the same style of the accompanying pieces I have now. Seeing something that was so close to my own taste placated me, and I decided not to raise a fuss about the wicker, but I did wonder where my sage green couches had gone...

Suddenly, Devika, El Mono, two children (including one very plump baby girl)and a Russian friend of theirs, and me were in this car together. We were setting off on some kind of day trip,but El Mono missed the turn out of the Shady Grove Metro parking lot, so we were waylaid. Devika had let her hair grow insanely long and was carrying some type of hair product with her to help her manage it.

Then... back at my apartment, sans children. The three of us (Devika, El Mono, and Me) crashed a dog obedience training at a local french-style cafe. The dogs were all these scruffy looking mutt types. They were learning to say "thank you" by putting on certain facial expressions and certain gestures. They were really dirty.

The rest is a blur... oh, I do recall that I was in a scene with some Smallville characters in which I was trying out a new technique of recording songs just using water from a cooler.

***********************************************

It is so bleah out today. Why is it that no matter what time I go to bed, I wake up feeling exhausted? Anybody got any helpful hints for waking up with energy?

The Best of Chet Baker Sings...

Am listening to the singing trumpeter while drinking my morning coffee (the taste of which is best described as being "amiss"). Well, everything can't be perfect. This much I know.

Okay, so I still have not watched "Cold Mountain." Due to my busy weekend and class schedule I just haven't popped it in. It's also 2.5 hours long, which is a commitment on a weeknight. So I am bound and determined that Friday night after my outing is over, I am coming home, making some coffee, turning off the lights, snuggling on my couch while I relish watching this thing all alone in my place. Gosh, but I do like being alone. It is underrated. It is heaven to me... provided I can have limited contact with others when I'm in the mood to do so.

I read an article recently about couple, recently married (it was the 2nd marriage for both of them), and they mutually agreed to keep their individual residences. Several things about their situation made this a practical choice. It gave me hope, honestly. I have always thought that having a lair of your own to which you can retreat when you just need a break would be great.

As a writer, I find that having space of my own is crucial to the pouring forth of ideas. Living with someone stunts that process for me. I can't really open up to the page (or anything else) until I am all alone. A true introvert, others do not usually inspire me. I have to get all nice and insular before I know how I feel about anything. Maybe it's a problem? I just find that I'm much more likely to want to be with someone else if I know that I can be alone whenever I want to be.

Thanksgiving will be just my sister Caryl and me in my apartment. I am so excited. I've never made my own Thanksgiving meal before. I'm thinking short ribs or pork loin instead of fowl for the center piece.

Chai and Banana Bread for Breakfast

27 degrees out!

I received some relatively big news about an estranged friend last night, and feel that I want to acknowledge it. I will send her a card/write a letter to her at some point next week. I need some time to think through what I want to say.

Far less significant than the news I heard about my friend, Gordon cancelled plans to come over tonight. I got some e-mail from him yesterday morning saying he needed a raincheck, asking "maybe we can reschedule?" I debated not answering the note, because I wasn't sure that it needed a reply. But, as is always the case with me, I can't not follow up, so I sent him a basic response to it, acknowledging that I received word of the change.

So, I'll just snuggle deeply on my couch tonight, and watch a young Supeman make it through another hour of teen angst. That's good tv!

Keep warm, everybody!

Jam Packed

My weekend has been so satisfyingly full. This weeked was Family Weekend on campus, and even though I am not an undergrad, my mom and her beau did some research and found out about some free (or inexpensive) campus events for us to go to... they were so intentional about wanting to spend time with me, and that was awesome. They even brought me "happy Family Weekend" presents. What I realized is that there are so many things happening on campus that I can be taking advantage of on a regular basis. I was in this mindset of just going to my classes. No wonder I don't really feel connected to the community. Must rectify this bad paradigm post haste!

After church this morning, I hooked up with them again and we went to Cafe Hon for brunch, then went antiquing and window shopping in Hampden. There are so many awesome shops I've passed by a million times, but had never visited. I am so going Christmas shopping on "The Avenue," Hon!

After going to view the spaghetti suspension bridges that Hopkins Engineering students built, we went to my place to chill and watch a movie while waiting for the concert at a church in Towson where Gordon's art is showing. Minor snafu. We went out to the car at 3:15 and found that Jim (mom's friend) had left his lights on for the two hours we'd been inside. Needless to say the car would not start. I started mentally preparing myself for the fact that we just might not make it, but we gave it about 15 minutes, and finally we did get going. Arriving right at 4 p.m., we slid in right behind G and his family (His mom, dad, uncle, niece, nephew, and sister). I have never met anyone in his family, so I was a little nervous sitting behind them, but also excited.

During the intermission he took my hand to greet me and we exchanged a very nice hug. My mom hugged and kissed him, too, and they chatted for a bit. After the concert, I did walk around with him chatting with various people, and then he introduced me to his family (unfortunately his sister and her kids left before intermission so he lamented not getting to introduce me to them). When my mom and Jim were ready to go, I went to say goodbye to him. We hugged again and he confirmed that he will see me on Wednesday for Smallville.

From there, the three of us headed up to the Towson Diner, then back to my place for coffee. They just left, so I'm unwinding. I think I'll try to finish watching "The Importance of Being Earnest." I love weekends like this. No time to muddle about just thinking the same old tired thoughts.

I just finished watching "Sylvia," which featured Gwyneth Paltrow as the doomed poetess, Sylvia Plath [Hughes]. What is it about women poets before the 1970s and suicide?

For men, being a poet was currency (and still is), like being a drummer in a rock band (as put forth by a Washington Post film reviewer in one of his articles). Even though no famous women poets have committed suicide (not that was publicized, in any case) lately, it is not the same for us. Gaggles of admiring males don't bum rush the podium after readings to twitter and giggle, or to posture and preen like little sick animals.

I have known of two men that my work touched deeply, even somewhat romantically...but universal appeal of a woman poet? Not so much.

I am not suggesting that this lack of the celebrity factor is why Plath and Sexton did themselves in (or that it accounts for Millay's self-destructive behavior that led to death)...but something about the proclivity toward poetry in a woman has its root in a particular kind of sadness, or so it would seem.

Recap

I began my week by getting together with an old, albeit peripheral friend that I know from my Intervarsity Christian Fellowship days. We had the chance to hook up earlier this summer when he introduced the new SMCM IV staff person to myself and other alum. It's a long story that really doesn't need to be told in order for me to convey the gist.

Due to some perception/insecurity issues of mine from that era of my life, there were some things that I needed to discuss with him. Some small-scale tension was apparent (on my end) this summer during our get together, and he asked if I needed to process anything with him. His schedule finally allowed him a free evening to come to Baltimore to have that discussion. It was very beneficial for me in that I felt that I was heard and acknowledged. No major drama, but important for clearing the air nonetheless.

On Tuesday night I went to my 20th Century World Literature course where I feasted on the fare of some jocular banter with my instructor. I like him more and more, and feel that he looks forward to my weekly contributions to the class discussions. That's a nice feeling. It's nice to see him smile when he sees me. A smile is a powerful thing. It's acknowledgment, It's favour. Know that feeling you get when you know someone likes you? It's special, if I might use such a sentimental term.

I was making an effort to explain to Sarah that I find this man so...intriguing... It's so odd. I would be happy if this man just smiled, discussed books with me over coffee,while he smoked a cigarette, (wearing a turtleneck sweater and faded levis) and verbally riffed off my brilliance. Very different than what The Artiste calls forth...

with G, well it's all emotional and yearning. That's fine. It hasn't proved helpful to deconstruct my devotion to him. It is what it is.

Today, I, along with the rest of the world am trying to figure out where I go from here. What comes next... all the questions that we're all asking ourselves.

I am looking forward to having some quality time with my mom this weekend. Amongst other things we've planned, we're going to G's art opening at a church gallery on Sunday. But before the fun, another lackluster day at the office.

And Never the Twain Shall Meet?

It was unavoidable. I went into rabid partisan archetype mode when my mother and I were on the phone tonight. She did not call me to be contentious. She was looking forward to shooting the breeze... catching up... that sort of thing. I actually introduced the subject of the election this time, because when you're talking with family, it's safe for the talk to get vicious from time to time, because in the end you know no one's disowning anyone else. Blood is thicker than political affiliation--even if it makes you the black sheep republican in a family of die-hard, civil rights-era african american democrats.

I was a democrat for years.

I voted for Clinton in both of his election years. I voted for democrats on some levels of government yesterday (I think they are the most useful at the municipal level), but I officially changed my party affiliation in 2002.

I still hang on to the concept of myself as a moderate, but the issues that mean the most to me belong less and less to the sphere of the democratic party. It has been a natural evolution. I suspected that I was a republican, really, as early as age15, but my parents told me that was ridiculous. I am black, they pointed out, therefore, that was not really possible. I believe I got a tongue lashing and icy stares for the better part of a day... this was yet another way their daughter was "forgetting" who she was. Well, at that point, it was just a notion. In every way that mattered at that time, my sensibilities were more on the liberal end of the spectrum. I see in hindsight's perfect 20/20 mirror that what I was then was moderate.

Just two years before my 30th birthday, I came into my own as a true conservative.

In the wake of the election results the polarization of the country is obvious. Now there is the predictable rhetoric about working together... but isn't that just a bit ludicrous? Convictions won't really allow for tolerance in most areas, not as anything more than a nice idea, any way.
I see this in both subtle and glaring ways.

Something I've noticed is that most people (who don't know me) talk to me assuming that I am a democrat. I am young, black, female, I frequent academic and cultural events. I have some bohemian types as friends. There is the accepted idea that I am at least somewhat intelligent. And when people take these things together, they feel safe saying to me "Can you believe what that moron of a president has done to this country?"

I wonder if I should "out" myself as a republican in moments like that, or let them go on and on. I find that usually the people who make this assumption don't really want me to say anything anyway. They just want to voice an opinion. And because I know who I am and why I've made the choices I've made, I don't feel that my security or sense of identity is riding on correcting the misconception--all the time. I really try to pick my partisan battles. There is a time and a place for everything.

Can either party, if they are being true to their ideals, compromise on the big ticket issues?

Lincoln is credited with saying "unity cannot be created, it can only be kept." He launched a war that bore the appearance of divisiveness, and it did rip this country's heart out. He knew he had to demolish an old ideal, because in order for things to one day be right, we had to start all over again. He couldn't make nice with the south. He couldn't "work together" with them, being "unified" under false pretenses.

And what I'm getting at here is that sometimes a bridge cannot be built. The wounds are so deep, and if you're not going to punk and pimp yourself, you have to just stand right where you are....

I know there are wounds any time a man cannot win an election, twice, and not have it be suggested that something is "amiss." Even the way the pundits and news anchors frame their discussion of the outcome is telling. Phrases like "What did Kerry do wrong?" and "What happened?" demonstrate bias. It is unthinkable to many that these results could really be a reflection of what American citizens really wanted to happen.

Somehow I suspect that if things had gone the other way, no one would even think to ask if the election was stolen, to wonder if it needed to be investigated. Even television shows on the WB are blatantly endorsing the democratic party. And the message is that unless there is something wrong with you, you will too. I have heard it stated through the mouths of at least two different characters on these fringe networks that "they stole [steal] the election [elections]."

This too, is divisive, but you get the sneaking feeling that it is acceptable. This is not considered bad form or inappropriate by sponsors or the writers of these programs.

The decision seems to have been made that war is the ultimate evil. And yet the very right that you and I have to be as partisan as we want to be was won on a number of blood deep battlegrounds. The very right to put political smears in a fictional character's mouth is possible because of war.

The chasms between us in this country represent a new kind of civil war, and while a house that is divided against itself cannot stand, I don't know how either side can give in and not be crushed in the process.

Within me there has lived both a democrat and a republican, and I could not bring them together. One of them had to win.

I was a bit late to work...had to vote first thing since I have class this evening, and it would be too close for comfort to try to stand up and be counted after office hours. Fortuitously, because my last name begins with the right letter, and I live in a certain precinct, I was in a group that got pulled from the line ahead of others to vote first. Once the line (I have never stood in one so long) started moving, it wasn't bad at all--to be so close to the front--and then to be pushed even further up due to a "luck of the draw" phenomenon, I was done by 7:15. I predict utter bedlam this evening. I know so many don't have the luxury of morning voting.

I just ate a packet of cinnamon roll flavoured oatmeal. Now I'm off to make coffee. Let the games begin!

Falling Back

We missed Rita's. When we pulled up to the storefront, there were no long lines, no happy loiterers spooning gelatti into their mouths, no uniformed workers working the custard machines, but instead... a sign that read:

Thanks for a great season... See you in March :)!

I assumed that "open through the last weekend in October," meant the entire last weekend in October. I don't know if we missed that last gelatti by hours or an entire day. We ended up going to an ice cream shoppe of no repute (though it was good) for the last frozen supper. In a way it was more romantic to me that we did not get to have Rita's. It makes me feel grateful that I really savored it all summer. Now I can think of it as an impermanent joy, but imminently returning. There's such hopefulness in that.

After my groceries were delivered this afternoon I opened up the pumpkin quickbread mix and prepared it. Then I started work on my first ever macaroni and cheese casserole. Between my mother and Sarah, I have plenty of opportunities to enjoy it done up right, but I tried my hand at it this time. Not too bad. I have a way to go, but it wasn't horrible.

I am now half-heartedly watching "Adaptation," reading The Quest for Christa T., and blogging (obviously).

Upon reviewing my archives for the month of October, I see that on 10/1 I proclaimed that it was a shame that I had not purchased the coveted coat... that it was too late. Funny. On the last day of the month, I have it. I guess no one can presume to know when "too late" is.

How to Boil Coffee

My favourite method of reheating coffee is to boil it in a sauce pan. Last winter when my microwave blew I had to go back to the old ways--reheating leftovers on the stove top or in the oven. I discovered that things taste so much better that way! Who knew, but I love boiled coffee! The microwave is the metaphor for instant gratification. You may get it fast and it may be convenient, but at the expense of the superior element.

Today was a great food day. For lunch (skipped the most important meal of the day this morning) I had creamy portabella soup, crab salad (sour cream, mayo, dijon mustard, salt, pepper, lemon juice (a hint), scallions, and Old Bay, of course) and garlic and cheese drop biscuits. This delectable meal was my reward for getting that eyesore of an A/C unit out of sight and safely hidden in my closet, paying my rent and mailing off bills, and for tidying up the kitchen.

After that I attempted to watch "The Philadelphia Story," but got interrupted by a phone call--I lost my steam, temporarily, for cinematic pursuits, so I went on a long leaf walk. I collected some real beauties to decorate the foyer table.

I did finally finish the film, and have to say that I am loving these 40s era screwball romances. Hello Cary Grant! Now I undertand what all the fuss was about.

Michael and Sarah are on their way--We're going to Rita's for one last gelatti. This is the last weekend they're open until the late spring. Seasonal delight! How fitting to have a final taste on the night we all fall back...

Say one nice thing about the opposing political party and mean it.

In the most recent issue of Baltimore Magazine there is a featurette on a documentary of sorts in which an organization for political change attended both the DNC and the RNC and filmed several hundred people (some more famous--in the political sense--than others)saying "one nice thing" about the "other" party and meaning it, supposedly.

Just now, I am reminded of that couple, both political pundits, whose names I can never recall. One of them is a rabid democrat, the other a rabid republican--and they are in love. I think that is beautiful, but I wonder how it works...either way, more power to them!

With the country's most important election mere days away, I just want to acknowledge that among my set of friends there are many differences in political opinion, some of them overarching in theme, some of them granular and hair splitting(for the record, I love all of you the same).

Because I don't want my blog to be used for partisan politicking of any sort, I will say something good about both Democrats and Republicans. I appreciate and respect the "pick yourself up by the bootstraps, with hard work and determination you can do anything, everyone deserves a leg up" mentality of Democrats. I support the party's commitment to the arts, social programs, and their legacy of caring about the comman man. I respect the Republicans' historical commitment to putting action behind words--Lincoln led this country in an unpopular war, freed slaves, and aged the psychological equivalent of 20 years in the space of 4, only to die just when he might have enjoyed coming out on the other side of the horrors of war. I also respect the idea that the government should not be involved to a ridiculous degree in every element of citizens'lives.

As for the Libertarian, Green, Populist, and Constitution parties. I salute your efforts to buck the two-party system, emphasize change outside of the box. We need you, whether or not we know we do.

One final note... VOTE!

My COAT ARRIVED!!! (that would be the replacement, overnighted coat. the original one has vanished without a trace.)

His Girl Friday

I have several classic films in my Netflix queue, one of which was Cary Grant's and Rosalind Russell's "His Girl Friday," made in 1940. I watched it last night (sandwiching "Smallville" in between viewings)and was very impressed with the comedic depth, timing, and substance of the film. I also received "The Philadelphia Story," which I believe I will save for Saturday morning (some movies are Saturday morning movies, have you noticed that?) and "Lost in Translation," which I will watch tonight.

I have been pushing the echinacea hard for the last couple of days. I feel my immune system wanting to cave due to the stress I've been under and the lack of a good night's sleep. Last week's ailment was neck tension. Now, in the course of the last day, I've developed a painful sore on the back of my gum, which usually happens when I'm sleep or vitamin c deprived.

Well I'm off to read the news. There was a deadly shooting along my bus route yesterday. By the time I left work it was over and done with, but my bus driver had to detour a bit because a solid block was taped off, reporters and cops scurrying about...

After giving it "serious thought" the artiste has decided to accompany me to a poetry reading in early December. It's a student reading given by those who are at the thesis stage of the program I'm currently in. The idea to ask him to come along to something like this first dawned on me months ago--I was thinking of the various museum jaunts that he invited me to come to--and how much I appreciated participating in those outings with him. It seemed to be a great way to reciprocate and share something that is important to me, with him.

Upon the initial broaching he was less than enthusiastic--not caring much for poetry in general, having made an exception for my work. We had a frank discussion in which he asked me why he would want to go to such a thing, and I told him that from my perspective it had nothing to do with his interest in it, primarily, but had more to do with how important it was to me. I assured him that it was okay if he didn't want to go, but that in that case, he should just say no, not simply ignore the question. This was a very good-natured exchange in which I tried to make it clear that I was trying to include him, but did not want him to acquiesce if he was not inclined to do so. He said he would e-mail me.

I heard nothing from him for about a week. I almost e-mailed him to let him know that I was removing the pressure by rescinding the invitation, but I didn't. I think it's important for people to have to account for themselves, to have to say yes or no to direct questions...I didn't want to preempt my right to hear his response.

In any case, he called me about another matter yesterday, and in the course of that conversation he relayed that he has decided ("after giving it a lot of thought") that he would attend--provided the invitation was still open. So, we are going... but I hold to these questions. Just what was there to think about? Where is the gray area in "do you want to go to a poetry reading?" I guess it's just foreign to me when people have to weigh things like that, because I know immediately if I want to/will do something or if I won't/am not interested. His deliberation gave the whole situation such an odd weight.

Ah well. Just another chapter in the very weird book of this friendship.

I turned in my paper on The Woman in the Dunes during the class break, and for the first time, I had to go right up to the instructor and speak to him about a practical matter... a new, relative intimacy, however academic, given that up to that point our entire relationship consisted of the comments I've made to the class as a whole.

I said nothing during the discussion tonight, not having finished the book (because I didn't connect with it very much). I missed some hand outs last week, so the instructor gave me his books to read between tonight and next week.

The Haves and the Have Nots

The Writing Seminars Students at Hopkins (the full-time, extremely competitive counterpart to my part-time M.A. in Writing program, program) give weekly readings on Monday evenings. Last night's was the first I attended with my Poetry Workshop class. The reading was held just two floors up from where my PW and Lit classes usually meet, and it was readily apparent upon entering what the other difference is between the two degree tracks. Being a full-time grad student means sitting in oak-paneled rooms that have paintings on the walls. It means sitting in comfortable chairs. Downstairs in the dungeon of the majestic hall where my lit and poetry classes are held it looks like something out of "Welcome Back, Kotter!" or any other generic high school sit com.

My PW instructor actually brought this up. She is a former Writing Sems student, and also taught in the program after she graduated, so her comment was not coming from a bitterness at being left out. And I bring it up here, not so much because the difference bothers me, personally (at least I don't think it does), but because it says so much about how the University feels.

Maybe it's okay to differentiate between those who are paying thousands more a year, who made the cut into one of 5 slots that are available per year (Fall admission only), as opposed to those admitted via rolling admission, into a significantly less competitive program. You get what you pay for, I suppose.

Some things happen on schedule, thank God. I came home to find that my windows had,indeed, been replaced. The old, jerky vintage ones replaced with well-sealed, fluidly opening and closing ones. It was probably 10 degrees warmer inside when I came in than it would normally be these days. Last night, it was downright frigid. Additionally, I had both of the ac units removed, so that will also cut down on the draft.

I put everything back in order after I got in from class tonight, and feel more centered now that the paintings are back on the walls, the couches uncovered, and the curtains rehung.

In another stroke of good fortune, the elevator in my building was also fixed--so I didn't have to schlep my self and my belongings up 4 flights of stairs as I have for the last couple of days.

I am presently calling up the vendor daily to ask them where exactly my coat is. I set it up so that it would be sent to me at my job, figuring UPS would be the courier, and knowing the delivery would be impossible to miss that way. Well, this company uses an ineffective 2-party system. The postal service via DHL. Clearly, someone's cousin works in somebody's office, and that's how they got harangued into going with that outfit. I paid about 15 dollars for shipping on a coat that supposedly got delivered via DHL to the post office 5 days ago. It has yet to make it to me. I called the post office this morning and was told that I should call back tomorrow if I still don't have it. I tried to stress to this person with whom I spoke that an unreasonable amount of lag time had already passed.

The reps at the vendor's headquarters are making an effort at being helpful, but it is clear to me that it has not yet dawned on them that they are culpable since they have a significant amount of my money, and I do not have their product. The whole thing has been stressing me out. If I don't have what I ordered by Wednesday, I will be asking them to send me another one, free of charge, overnight.

Dismantling

The management company who owns the apartment building I live in is replacing the windows. Translation? Move everything you care about, even remotely, as far away from your windows as possible. Essentially, I have stripped my living room down to bare bones, have filled my "foyer" with G's paintings, my end table, photos, curtains, curtain rods, etc. I have pushed my couch and love seat as far away from the two window units as possible, covered them with sheets, etc.

As for the bedroom, I have similarly rearranged things, shifting all the furniture to one side of the room. The small bookshelf that holds all my cds is now in the hallway between the bedroom and the foyer. It looks like I've just moved in, or that I am preparing to move out...

What this inconvenience (for the sake of progress) has shown me is that I have come a long way. As I was forced to remove the layers of personal touches I've added to this space, I see just how much of my own vision I have brought to the picture--this apartment is really infused with my personality. So many little things I'd lost sight of...things I collected out of context, not knowing just how well they would all come together to form the picture I'd had in my mind, but could not previously articulate.

I hope that by this time tomorrow I will have been able to start putting it all to rights again. Due to a scheduling glitch, my poetry workshop is meeting tomorrow instead of on Thursday (my class is going to go to a reading that is being held on campus). I will miss my beloved UPN line up and the time I could have invested in tidying up my place, but it will be nice to shake things up a bit. I'm getting too used to my schedule... too stuck in my rut of routine events.

Maybe my coat will finally show up. I can't wait to wear it with Catherine's scarf.

You are Inspiration Soup!! You live to Inspire
those around you with your green beany, white
chunky, red soupy goodness. Many have come and
lit candles in your honor. You've inspired
them to become better people. Thank you,
Inspiration Soup... thank you.


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An Understanding

A man pulled up to the corner of the street where I wait for my connection bus. He was poised to make a right hand turn, but was forced to wait for a stopping point in the flow of traffic. His little girl, with skin the colour of cinnamon, bright, clear eyes, and such an open face, made eye contact with me. I smiled at her, remembering how much it meant to me as a kid when I could get an adult I didn't know to smile--as though we shared some kind of secret. I know that many children have been trained not to engage strangers in conversation or eye contact, but when I waved to her, she waved back. We smiled at each other for nearly the entire duration of that red light that kept her father waiting.

Skipped

I had planned to bail on lit class tonight so that I could work on my novel. I know that sounds irresponsible, but the way I figured it, I'm in a writing program. I didn't have the heart to even think about venturing out in that cold, spitting rain to discuss a book I didn't even finish (Season of the Migration to the North). Well, in an ironic plot twist, I didn't go to class tonight, but not for the reason I laid out earlier. Toward the end of my work day I started experiencing muscle twitches at the base of my neck. There was no way I was going to class or working on my novel. Basically, I slept on my love seat for a couple of hours after taking a medicinal coke and vanilla vodka. A few hours later I took some ibuprofen, and now I'm on my second cup of tension tamer tea. Am finally fanning up a bit.

Today was a lousy hair day for me. I managed to get to work on time (yesterday I overslept), but was miserable for most of the morning--just too tired to think. I'm going to bed in about 15 minutes--a momentum of soothing beverages, over the counter tablets, and sleep are the only things that keep my tension at bay.

Oh, and new coats.

You are chill!


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Super Size Me

I finally saw this docu today--twice--once with Sarah this morning and again this evening with G, who also wanted to see it. I'm by no means a fast food junkie, but I have always loved McDonald's...and I wasn't under the impression for a minute that it was a good choice, nutrition wise, but after seeing this film, it just made me feel that having even a bite of the fare will send me to my grave. I'm not saying I'll never partake again, but it grossed me out, like, totally.

I watched Mystic River on Saturday morning. Sean Penn's public politicking I sometimes find vexing, but I respect him as an actor very much. Even the usually forgettable Tim Robbins gave a credible turn in his role, and I was pleased that he (and Penn) garnered an Oscar for the performance.

At Target on Saturday afternoon procuring Michael's present (his b-day was friday; his party on Saturday evening), I also ended up scoring a new wallet and a beautiful velvet pillow and throw blanket with tassels on clearance. Today I went grocery shopping and I am so happy to have a stocked fridge and cabinets again with things like scallions, leeks, cheddar cheese, double spiced black chai, black beans, and garlic and cheese drop biscuit mix.

Now when my coat comes, it'll be nothing but bliss for at least a week. When I told G that I got it, he said 'oh, this is the coat you've been pining for...' and I was all like 'yeah, worse than if it were a man....'

I'm balls out for the balance of 2004.

All in Good Time

I bought it!

Time: After Poetry Workshop
Place: The boudoir
Lighting: Overhead/Bright
Listening to: "What a Good Boy" (Barenaked Ladies)
Avoiding: Writing out checks for bills

Well I seem to be out of the phase in which I need to watch "Down With Love" every day after work. Sometimes I go through phases where obsessive repetition comforts me. For me, that movie represented putting the 9 to 5 behind me and believing in a glossy, happy ending for an hour and a half. My love for this anachronistic film is by no means gone, but I don't need to pop it into the DVD player for a while yet.

Setting up Netflix threw my bank account into temporary peril. As is sometimes the case, when you sign up for a free trial, but need to use your credit card (or check card, as was the case for me this time), the funds are not actually removed, but they are held in abeyance for a period of time until the merchant releases them (they do this to ensure that you can actually afford what the service will eventually cost). Well, I don't technically start paying Netflix for 2 more weeks, but the "holding" of the funds meant my bank account was reading negative 9 dollars for the last 5 days! This doesn't always happen, and I didn't think of it until too late. Anyway, the money was "put back" today and I was back "in the black." I'm so glad tomorrow is pay day.

Mostly I can't wait to grocery shop. I've been existing on peanutbutter and other "desperate times call for desperate measures" fare. I ran out anything that might constitute a viable, filling meal on Tuesay. If it hadn't been for Gordon's willingness to share his dinner with me last night, I would have gone hungry. I hung out at his place watching TV (syndicated sit coms in the early evening) then we went to his art studio so I could check out something he wanted me to look at, and then back to his place for Smallville. I am such a martyr... If he hadn't asked if I was sure I didn't want anything twice I would have just waited till I got home at 9:15 to eat something meager.

Tonight, I chopped up a zucchini, sauteed it in olive oil, salted and peppered the discs, then put them into a pot of butternut squash soup with melted cheese. Delish!

Reaction to my poem I workshopped tonight was helpful, constructive. And to think, I didn't really feel like going.