Tuesday, December 27, 2011

Belated Christmas Post

Forgive me, the Christmas season got in the way of my writing.

I'm trying to think of a good creative topic sentence and I'm getting oranges in the stocking toes.

None of us got oranges in our stockings, but I think we discussed it during the stocking opening.
The first stocking opening. I got two this year.

This year, Christmas made me tired. In fact, I enjoyed more just sitting around with family way into the night before and after Christmas.

I received everything I wanted, and my birthday is coming up. I really can't remember what else I asked for. Turning 23 isn't so big anyway. Mostly everybody does it sometime.

Perhaps a Christmas poem inspired by my family…

12 drunkards drinking
11 Winos whining
10 unopened gifts
9 broken down boxes
8 family members
7 Friscos frolicking
6 stocking stuffers
5 darling daughters
4 sets of bowls
3 text messages
2 gag gifts
and a brand new pair of jeans.

This is how my family does Christmas…

Merry Christmas everyone! I promise I'll be more on my game next weekend.

Monday, December 19, 2011


As he pulls you from the abstract well…
Sit straight up.
Tick tick tick. Goes the wall clock.
Hear that and that.
Sirens in the midnight clear.
Clacks and hums from the heater.
Bzzzzzz. The broken freezer.
Your neighbor vomiting by your and his shared bathroom wall.
His alarm beeping. And then quiet. And then beeping for hours.
The crank of a door down the hall at two.
Creak goes the mattress as you turn over.
Hum goes the air.
Whoosh goes the air next to your ears.
He magically pulls you from the well wheel dry…
A foot.
His foot tapping in your ankle.
An elbow in your back.
A heavy breathing.
A turning, turning, sighing.
Springs in your mattress.
Blue glow from the clock.
Fluttering lights on the window pane.
The surge protector's orange switch glow.
Twisted sheets.
Turn over and over.
Along the well he magically pulls you.

Sunday, December 11, 2011


You sit and stare at the computer screen. Go on, type a little. Type: Reasons Why I've Lost My Marbles.
Sleep like a memory machine on overdrive…which means not at all.
Eat like a rabbit who eats ice cream.
Shower twice a day or not at all.
Stare at the page five times until its blankness turns black.
This is who you are. You are a crazy creepy author with no marbles and blackness for words.

You grab a cup of tea. Not grab exactly. Not pour either. Turn on the machine? Turn on the tea. Turn a cup of tea on?
So you don't get tea. Scoop a bowl of ice cream. But scooping bowls makes them break.

Go back empty handed. Scroll through text messages. Scroll through names. Schedule a date for two weeks from now and plan on emailing twelve people to let them know you'll have to rearrange things next Sunday. Occasionally glance at the document with the neatly typed heading and the soon-to-be catchy title and think: maybe there is something, anything else I can do right now.

Move the computer to your lap. Move it to the bed. Put it back on the desk and view it from the kitchen. Begin a step. Then empty the dishwasher. Try again towards the desk. Go around the corner and sit back on the bed. Glance from there. Its still blank, no mistaking it. Still blank.

Tap your fingers. Attempt to tap your toes. Whistle air and spit. Look down at your hands. Look back at the screen. Set a firm brow. Run towards it before it's gone. Sit. Settle. Lay your fingers to the keys. Smile. Type the word the.

Let the rest flow outward:
Don't stop for fear of never starting again.
Blink your eyes to be sure its really there.
Do not edit until the end.
Insert the heading.
Write the references.
Email it out.

Don't breathe until it's finished. Then take one last long look. And never go back.

Twitch until the computer screen goes blank again. Start over.

Saturday, December 3, 2011


I write in second person in general. Just so you know. This one felt different though.

That has to be him. It's his back.

The way his hair stands up just at the crown and he never shaves his neck except for when he goes to the barber.

Call him.
                        Call his name.

You yell it, those two syllables like fire on your tongue from three blocks away. Make sure he hears you. Feels the heat.

But he doesn't turn.

Call again.
His name.

The man just walks on down the block. Even pace. No twitches when you call out.

Again. For a third time.

What man wears a purple coat anyway? On a Sunday.
With a damn blackbird.
Ravens and Poe.
Poe was from Baltimore.

He was from Dallas. Couldn't of been him.
Pull out from your wide knowledge of literature and your short knowledge of sports.
Definitely wasn't him.

Poe is Baltimore.
Dallas must be something else.
Must not be him.

Reach and try to find him.
On a street corner where he's never be in the middle of the day on a Sunday. 
In a city he wouldn't go to.
In this heat.

See him at a café on Boulder, a blank billboard around the corner from your market. At the door when the UPS guy drops off the mail.

Always it must be him.
Call him.
            Call. Call his name.

Sunday, November 27, 2011

Home, or back from home? All just houses.

I found myself, upon my return from the holidays, struck by the fact that places I once called homes are now merely houses. Home has changed from this singular place with walls and a roof to a more encompassing feeling of being "home." When I am celebrating the holidays with family and taking a vacation from school, I am home. When I am tired of all of the bustle of suburban Maryland and I return to my Nashville apartment, I am home. I am home when I feel as though I am home. I don't understand it, but it won't settle down, it won't choose. 

This led me back to something I've always been so focused on, growing up. Sometimes I want it and I cherish it, and sometimes I run like hell from it. But I'm always thinking about it in terms of new discoveries I make, this "home" thing notwithstanding. 

This blog is meant to be creative, but I've been treating it more as a non-fiction journal. I think the holidays are doing that to me. Anyway, here is a piece of creativity, may there be more to come.

This whole growing up thing,
It doesn't work for me.

I miss being taken care of,
            Paid for,
                                    And housed.

Now they say I must make my own home,
            Drive myself,
                        Make my own money,
                                    Take care of things.

Now when I return to this house,
I cannot call it my home,
Nor can I call it theirs.

It is just a house where I once lived,
As are all of the houses where I once lived.

No, this whole growing part,
It is not for me.

Sunday, November 20, 2011

The Evolution of Thanksgiving...as promised.

My boyfriend is studying social work, a major filled with non-white, non-male, non-affluent people who want to make a change in the world. Many of these people are from other countries. He was telling me an anecdote (albeit over text message) that included a guy in his program from Cambodia who asked what Thanksgiving was. I'm sure my boyfriend tried his darndest to answer the guy, but concluded the anecdote with, "I realized I don't really know either." I wanted to fight him over this, because Thanksgiving has always meant so much to me. I got to thinking about it though, and this led me to the fact that no matter how historical or religiously based a holiday is, it's meaning isn't fixed and changes with the patterns of time. People change what things mean over time. Here is my best estimation of what the evolution of Thanksgiving has been:

Go back in time to when no one knew what racism was, or prejudice, or the Holocaust, or nuclear bombs, or racial cleansing, or any of those bad things we learn about in school now. Think about if all you knew was conquering for your monarch and not getting yourself killed in the process. Originally, Thanksgiving was another way colonists tricked Native Americans into cooking for them, teaching them to grow crops, and not starting wars with them, while slowly the colonists poisoned the country with new species and new diseases (read Guns, Germs, and Steel by Jared Diamond if you're interested). So imagine a bunch of people not wearing feathers or pilgrim hats but indeed trying to convert one another, eating a lot of corn, and smiling through the fakery of it all. You can imagine that the roots weren't so strong to begin with.

Several Presidents settled the date of Thanksgiving in an attempt to promote peace within the United States after most of the Native Americans were already dead or on reservations. In fact, the holiday became, in 1863, about bringing together the northern and southern states by showing them that people who never really got along (Native Americans and Pilgrims) could totally get along. This was obviously hypocritical, since the Natives were being oppressed by their kind of "help." On the other hand, the ploy didn't work anyway, considering The Civil War and Reconstruction and The Civil Rights Movement and all of that. Not so much.

I'm not totally sure when the U.S. actually became all united and "We the People" and we're a melting pot/salad bowl/cornucopia, but it certainly did a number on Thanksgiving. See, with everyone getting along, there was no reason to hearken back to the good old days of Pilgrims and Indians unless you were a kindergartener who needed to make a feathered or buckled hat. In fact, this is when people started to realize that the basis for Thanksgiving was totally racist unless you were too young to realize that, so the roots of Thanksgiving had to change.

Here is the biggest shift, in my opinion. With the world going all crazy around them and the big focus on American family values, Thanksgiving became a celebration of family. Ask anyone to describe Thanksgiving who has a good family life (this includes myself) and it will consist of the following:
- "I so rarely get to see my family that Thanksgiving is a great time to see everyone and be thankful for the people I've had in my life."
- "I'm so thankful for my family the holidays remind me to tell them that!"
- "It's a celebration of family and friends."
- "Good food, great family, and good times."
Etc, etc, etc.

The problem with this conception is that it totally ignores the billions of families that are dysfunctional. I admit, I loved to gather around the table and have twelve different conversations going on while we passed each dish around, but I've met so many other people who had no Thanksgiving memories or just saw it as a drama. For these people, Thanksgiving is about enduring family, not celebrating it. Suffering through the conversation for the yummy food (that in no way resembles the "original" Thanksgiving food) and the after dinner football watching nap (which requires no interacting). Especially these days with the high divorce rates and the recession, more and more families are not to be celebrated. People want to be left alone.

And so I come to the present day and the questions, "What is Thanksgiving? Where are its roots? What does it mean?" In the lowest terms, I would have to say we're still figuring that out. There are a few signals to me that could be a promising future for Thanksgiving. First, more and more college-age students are having Thanksgiving together, not with or in addition to with, their families. This is promising to me because the most diverse population in the United States is that in college. Not only are people from all over the U.S., but from all over the world. This is a far cry from tricking Native Americans into teaching us how to fish so we can survive while they die from our epidemics. This is a sign of what people pretend Thanksgiving is about, people of different cultures getting along and creating a future together. Long way to go, I know.

Second, Thanksgiving celebrations are becoming more and more about intimacy and less about traveling from one house to another to appease all the family members. It's the holidays, I get it, but no one is happy driving twelve hours to see one second cousin and then driving all the way back to not miss the step-family's dessert. Distant relatives aren't going anywhere any faster than the ones standing right next to you. Intimate gatherings of just my sisters and I, or even just my boyfriend any I, are becoming more common. In this way, Thanksgiving is an excuse to really sit down and talk with people you breeze by on a daily basis, to enjoy their company, and to make memories.

Lastly, I've noticed Thanksgiving starting to span multiple days with the Black Friday craziness and now Cyber Monday, not to mention the huge runs on the grocery stores beforehand and all the darn television specials and football games. Thanksgiving has been commercialized since it was labeled the start of the Christmas season (an evolutionary point I skipped until just now). Normally, I would go cynical about the commercialization of holidays like everyone else, but with the state of our economy, I don't see this week of Thanksgiving as a bad thing. If Thanksgiving evolved to represent the saving of the American economy (The Day the Dow Turned Around) we would actually have something to celebrate. The fact that food and family and football and a parade are the way the U.S. balances its budget sparks no issue with me. Use it, abuse it, get it done.

Nevertheless, for those who Thanksgiving means something to, I appreciate your tenacity (I am one of you, after all). For those of you who could give a rats patooty, look at these signs in a positive light, someday we may be celebrating the fourth Thursday in November by having a parade aimed at diversity, listening for once to those who are supposed to be closest to us, and enjoying our privilege, as American citizens, to spend our money. My conclusion for you all is that people give their own meaning to the days of the year, and Thanksgiving is no exception. If holidays didn't evolve, we'd all be stuck in one place too. Happy Thanksgiving week to you and yours!

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

Crazy ideas...they just come to me...

When I try to sleep, stuff comes to me. I could be thinking about my sister and her new boyfriend and suddenly the evolution of thanksgiving comes to me, then blogging, and then back to suppressing trying to plan a cross country road trip because I will totally suck the fun out of it...and then back to blogging.

When people ask me what I do, I call myself a writer. I don't know why I do that, because there is so much evidence to the contrary, but random ideas come to me and stories are created. Maybe writer isn't a good word...storyteller is closer. So welcome to my storytelling world....

I'll get back to you about that whole evolution of thanksgiving thing; I'm ignoring my boyfriend at the moment.