Palpable Existence

Whilst skimming through AOL headlines (yes, I still use AOL, thank you), I came across an article to "finally get rid of all those old photos lying around". It was more of an advertisement really, but AOL likes to make those look like legitimate articles to fool us dumb folk. With a new, state of the art scanner you too can get rid of all those tangible memories you have stored around the house and condense years (perhaps even decades) into a file on your hard drive. Of course, once you get it there you'll realize that it takes up too much space and you will then be motivated, perhaps by another "article", to save that file to an external hard drive or flash drive.

This idea of being bothered by the physicality of life is beginning to weigh on me (ironically, it's a metaphoric weight, not a palpable one). The question that keeps coming to mind is: what is so wrong with concrete, tactile life? What is this insatiable need to digitize all aspects of life from memories to music to friendships? We click to view Grandma's 90th birthday like we click to view the latest status update. I am not anti-technology (obviously because I am typing my thoughts to post online), but I am opposed to technology as type of prison. I am opposed to my entire life being on laptop. I am opposed to managing friendships like I manage my banking. I am opposed to virtual tours replacing actual experiences.

I like rummaging through my old photo albums. Shoe boxes full of friends and family smiling and laughing and posing and living: this I love. I love the fact that these things take up space in my closet, on my bookshelves, and on my walls. I love the fact that these sentimentalities and memories have a physical demand of space, a reminder that I need to make emotional space in my life for the things that are truly important.

We have multiple senses, shouldn't we enlist as many as possible to enjoy the precious, irreplaceable things in life? Am I the only one that longs for stacks of photos, CD's, books (don't even get me started on electronic books), and handwritten cards?

Road Blocks

I teach about authors that have transcended their own time with voices that speak more to human nature than current fads. I teach about style and text and subtext and universal themes and relatable characterization. I teach about truth through words. I teach about learning from these amazing (albeit often troubled) voices that line the shelves of a bookstore. I teach about the importance of making your voice heard, taking a stand, creating new perspective. I teach about these things passionately and yet I have failed to truly learn these lessons myself.

I have a friend who tends to despise blogs and writes them off as "emotional vomit" and I cannot say that I totally disagree with her. And yet (again) I find myself here with my well intentioned hullabaloo with the intention of finding a voice. A voice that is mine. A voice as unique as the ones I try to help my students find.

Perhaps that is a part of my problem. I should cease to be afraid of producing emotional vomit. I need to take Ann Lamont's advice and simply get through my crappy first draft in order to get to one workable line. I need to stop being such a gold star kid with my need to master a task before I ever think about sharing with anyone. I need to realize that some of that confidence I have in my students needs to be reserved for me too. I need to get off my over analyzing, under disciplined butt and get to work.

I teach about finding a voice that adds to the world. I am learning how to follow this advice one crappy first draft at a time...please bear with me as I also learn to bear with myself.

Another Oldie

Graceful Killer

Your moves, your walk, even
your countenance may change,
but your stripes, they never do.
Your fierceness leaves
your prey in a vulnerable admiration
-a kind of supernatural awe.
Your eyes can look through me,
past my strong appearance -
into my trembling insecurities.
I know I should run, but
your beauty is enticing.
Mesmerizing.
I know how dangerous you are;
Your strength draws me in.
You have the ability to tear my
Heart out with your graceful charms.

Defenseless to save myself, exposed,
You, the hunter, make your way closer.

A bit of a cheat really...

Okay, my double dog dare me buddy not only matched my blog, but he one upped it by already having two posts. Both fun and entertaining. Dang it. So, as is my nature, I am forced to post again. However, my confession is this: I am pulling from something that I have previously written. It is a poem in prose (untitled) that I wrote quite a few years ago, but few have actually seen it. Of course, since I have two followers (hello), few will still see it. Huh, comforting. Well here it goes:

I remember the day in a hazy arrangement of specific detailed emotions, those of confusion and sadness. A sunny, slightly breezy, spring Sunday, my dad and his friend were filling the back fo a strange pick up truck with chairs and clothes and furniture that wasn't suppose to be moved - my dad's work desk and his computer, the one we could never touch. When no more could fit in the truck, my dad kissed my forehead and walked away; I looked to my mother, but instead of her usual smile, she turned her tear stained face towards the house and walked away.

One more to litter the blogoshphere

Ruth Brown sirens as I finish my Boudin bread bowl all the while convincing myself that I will, in fact, work out today. So begins my blogging experience...

While at Barnes and Noble today, I picked up The Writer's Idea Book by Jack Heffron; this thing is filled with so many prompts that I am at a loss for an excuse not to write. The book is to get me motivated. The blog, however, is because I am still a child and respond with force to a "I'll do it if you do" type of proposition. I suppose it's a bit of my competitive-I-can-do-anything-you-can-do attitude lovingly developed by two older brothers.

You see I have this friend who is also trying to be motivated to write and so we became writing buddies - you know the kind that sends each other things we've written for feedback and for accountablity. The problem is that we've both failed. Epically. After one exchange, neither of us have been very productive, so he came up with the idea of blogging. It was a sign, I'm sure of it. Almost. I have been toying around with the idea for a while and the friendly challenge was apparentley what I needed.

As of right now, I do not have an organized,systematic plan of attack. I have a book of prompts and am simply in need of an avenue for words, my words, such as they are.

So here they are, out in the aether, for any and all to see. It's very Julie and Julia (without the aroma of French Cuisine).