The Love Project

Year in Review

2008-12-26T12:33:00.006-05:00

A Maudlin, Juvenile New Year That Needs to Grow Up

The beginning of 2008 was rather awful. This is an understatement. Mostly I slept, cried, drank too much, and threw up whatever I tried to eat. There's nothing like a close friend almost dying, then verbally assaulting you because you got sad after listening to two months' worth of his tragic stories.

It was much meaner than that, from my perspective. But I already posted all of the truly mean event and unposted them. It was therapeutic, although I sense no one probably read what I wrote and he likely doesn't remember what he said.

At any rate, those good times ended when said individual requested a "respite" from me. Although he has contacted me since to tell me that he's getting married and that I shouldn't forget that I'm an artist and other nonsense I don't care about, I plan to continue the respite, because I'm just maudlin and juvenile like that.

Technology Brings Us Closer(ish)

This year introduced me to such wondrous technological innovations as gchat, facebook, and (sigh) World of Warcraft. (WoW is entirely the fault of my little sister, who hoped I would play so that we could spend quality time together online. It's always helpful to be able to lay the blame for your addictions at the feet of another.)

Sure, I've had people discover me online that I had rather hoped would remain buried, but I've resuscitated old friendships and grown closer to several people I didn't think I would ever really get to know well. It's hard to imagine, but this year would have been infinitely more difficult for me without gchat. I would give gchat a big hug, if it had arms or a body.

No Nebraska

I just couldn't do it, at the end of the day. Really, I wanted to go to graduate school in Nebraska because I had given up entirely on love, and I needed a distraction.

Given what happened immediately after I decided not to go, I suspect that I made the right choice.

Cinco de Mayo

Everything changed on Cinco de Mayo, when my Knight in Shining Interpol T-shirt arrived. My knight's name is Chuck. (And so is his father's, and my father's, and my grandfather's.) More on this later.

Tim Russert

In May, Tim Russert passed away. Anyone who knows me decently well has probably heard me discussing the degree to which Tim affected my life. He was my Sunday, every Sunday. I was at my parents' house introducing them to Chuck when I learned that Tim had died. Friends called offering condolences. I cried into my new boyfriend's chest for days. I teared up seeing Tim's face on the cover of People in the grocery store. I never met Tim Russert, but his intelligence and humor and compassion will be with me always.

David Gregory is a suitable host for Meet the Press, but Sunday will never be quite the same to me.

The Axis of Evil

Continuing this year's theme of betrayal, I was outed by a close friend to some colleagues at my old place of employment as having referred to them as the Axis of Evil.

I denied it when confronted, but I'm willing to confess to it now. Because they deserved it, and it's wickedly witty.

Entertainingly, one of the Axis felt that I was referring to only her, and claimed that she "didn't even know what it meant!" I guess this explains why she thought she could be a triumvirate of potential nuclear threats to the United States of America.

This event reinforced for me that I will never, never, never be friends with anyone who was born on October 28 (see entry #1 for another offender born on this date). At least, they will have to provide compelling evidence that I should be their friend, and possibly cheese.

I Quit!

I didn't really intend to quit my job and leave Culpeper. It just happened. I went to visit Chuck in Richmond in the middle of June, and never went back. Radar enjoyed playing with his new friends, Charlie (who, as an adopted dog, my boyfriend did not name after himself, he swears) and Nomi. I interviewed at a community college and got the job. I unceremoniously dumped the prestigious middle school job that I had held for the past three years, and left.

I miss my old friends who now live two hours away, and I know that I don't communicate with them nearly enough. I'll be sure to add that to my list of New Year's Resolutions.

Good Rejections

After a streak of publishing success in the past few years, this has been the year of the Good Rejection for me as a writer. I was a contest finalist and quarterfinalist. I received a series of encouraging notes about poems that didn't get published.

So, while I suck this year as a writer, I could definitely have sucked worse.

In fact, the only thing I got accepted was a pedagogy paper for the annual AWP conference, which I plan on attending next February. Look out, Chicago, as I prepare to unleash my lesson plan on writing about ugliness.

30

I turned 30 this year. Honestly, it wasn't a big deal. I was teaching my second day of classes at the college, and some of my students wondered how old I was.

"How old do you think I am?" I asked.

"I dunno. Like, 24?"

As I grow increasingly older, I'm sure I'll appreciate these incidents still more, even when I'm getting carded trying to buy Bacardi Pomegranate Mojitos at the grocery store for the bazillionth time.

Jamie

When I met Chuck, one of the first things he wanted was for me to meet his cousin Jamie. Actually, what he said was, "If you want to be with me, you need to meet Jamie."

Jamie had serious medical problems since she was born, and they grew progressively worse until she finally lost the ability to walk. By the time I met her, strokes had left her unable to speak, either. Still, she laughed watching Chuck pretend to fall down (apparently something that had entertained her for many years).

Jamie died in September. She was 23. I'm grateful that I knew her.

Obama

Like many others I know, I became excited about Barack Obama after the Democratic Convention in 2004. I remember sitting in Ex-fiancee's apartment listening to the speech and feeling as though, in some small way, something had changed.

After the election was finalized, Chuck told me that he remembered watching the convention with his ex as well, feeling the same sort of elation I had felt then.

This just goes to prove that, while love doesn't always last, Barack is Forever.

2009

It's been an uneventful fall. I'm glad to be beyond the drama that usually follows me from place to place, to be sitting contentedly with Chuck's feet in my lap and the dogs loudly protecting us from squirrels (or neighbors on skateboards, or leaves, or whatever they're barking at).

It's refreshing that, as I write The Love Project's final entry for 2008, I am actually in love.

How I didn't get killed

2008-05-20T19:41:00.005-04:00

This is the story of how my parents called the cops because they thought I had been abducted and murdered by a stranger.

In a way, the story begins at Cinco de Mayo.

In another, it begins with the efforts I made to pick myself up off the floor in the aftermath of the Pseudoboyfriend Incident of 2008--primarily, venturing out in to the magical land of online dating once again. Perhaps I should have been wary, because that's how I ended up meeting Pseudoboyfriend in the first place, and that didn't exactly leave me unscarred.

But, on the other hand, I figured that I had an entire summer before me, and I wanted adventure. I wanted to meet some new people, explore new places. Get someone to buy me lunch maybe. Nothing serious.

(Anyone who is wondering why I would try online dating instead of meeting real-life men obviously has never visited Culpeper. But I can explain if anyone would like.)

Long story short, I was really enjoying talking to this one guy about our dogs and music, when he stopped talking to me. When he came back, I realized that I'd missed him. In an entirely unSanuvial maneuver, I actually told him. (Normally, I might blog about it or something similarly passive.)

We realized then that we'd like to meet each other. But he lives in Richmond, which isn't necessarily close to Culpeper, and it was going to take some planning.

But then it was the day before Cinco de Mayo, and my friends thought I should invite him to their party. It seemed a safe bet that he wouldn't attend, since it was a Monday night and, like most people, he had to work the next day.

And then he showed up. I really liked him. My friends really liked him.

This could have turned out creepily, but we got along so well that I agreed to go visit that weekend, which coincided with Mother's Day.

I turned off my cell phone to attend a comedy club and neglected to turn it back on.

When I got home the next day, I had several very sad sounding messages from my parents, and one from my sister, explaining that my parents thought I had been killed by this marvelous man I'd just met.

They had called the cops and everything.

Over a month later, I am still not dead, and I am ridiculously content with my new boyfriend.

Maybe that stupid saying is true sometimes, and love finds you when you're not looking for it.

Happy Birthday, Tim Russert

2008-05-04T10:29:00.004-04:00

Tim, you know there's no 58 year old network pundit that I love more deeply than you.

Congratulations on your birthday, you sexy, sexy thing.

Just so this will now be googleable: Tim Russert is sexy.

There. I said it.

There's far more interesting news than Tim's birthday (sorry, Tim), but it's going to take more time to write than I have before bedtime. So you'll just have to wait.

For Those Who Are Wondering...

2008-04-21T19:07:00.002-04:00

I decided not to go to Nebraska next year, but did take full advantage of my deferment option.

In the final analysis, it made the most sense to take some poverty-reducing measures this year, and petition for funding from every possible department in the winter.

And, perhaps, to apply to a few other programs.

Or do something entirely unacademic.

Or marry a rich man, as my grandmother always dreamed I would.

See here, Nebraska. The world is full of possibilities for me. Of all of them, you were the only one that would cost me.

Perhaps next year will find me hidden in the corn.

Perhaps not.

Commenters should feel free to offer crazy suggestions for what you think I might do with myself. The crazier the better.

I'm all ears (bad corn pun not intended, I swear).

A Letter to Jason Mraz

2008-04-21T18:44:00.002-04:00

Jason, I remember the first time I heard you singing on the radio.

I said to my boyfriend at the time, "I really like this song. This guy has a great voice."

He said, "I think it's stupid."

It should surprise no one that he is long gone, and you still remain, a little flame warm under the skin.

It's safe to keep feeding this particular fire. We've practically met, now, pressed our palms against each other on a sidewalk in Richmond (and your palm was cool and soft). But we didn't really meet.

I was standing there with my girls, far too early for your concert, when you came out with your little guitar. Who could believe it was you, so close? We had never imagined it was possible. We didn't even have cameras.

You sang "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," (which is becoming a bit of a theme song for me these days) and even in the open air the notes rang like the purest of bells from your throat. But I couldn't tell you my name, or how I think we might fall in love, if we ever did meet.

There was just your palm against my palm, your palm against all the other palms of all the other strangers standing there, all the intimate skin of those dozens of hands touching and withdrawing. And how safe it is to love you, whom I can never lose, who will never remember me.

Thank you for that moment. Thank you for your song.

My (Literal) Knight in Shining Armor

2008-04-14T19:28:00.002-04:00

I have finally recovered enough from my "fun-filled" school trip to New York City to tell you about it.

I had not been to New York since the tender age of ten. All I remembered of New York from that visit:

1. Actual homeless people
2. Dirt
3. The world's worst pizza (Pizza del Ponte) -- so bad, I still remember the name
4. Taxis are real, and yellow!
5. Seeing buildings that were featured in Ghostbusters

I hate to say it, but it appears that Rudy "Nosferatu" Giuliani really did clean things up. Although I do sincerely and honestly wonder where all the homeless people went. I sense that somehow they're not safe in homes now.

Why was I in New York City, one might ask? The choir teacher at my school, who is quite lovely, decided to take her students to a singing competition on Staten Island. I play the piano for them. Last year, she announced that we were going to New York, and I thought, "We?"

I did not precisely relish going into a large city with a batch of middle schoolers. I relished it less when I learned that I didn't really know any of the children, and would be rooming with some of them.

But I'm not one to abandon the team.

So there I was, emerging from the Lincoln Tunnel, with a strange sense that I was not actually in New York. It was like reading a novel about someone in my situation. I usually pride myself on living in the moment as much as possible, but I was floating above Manhattan. Children chattered. Buildings loomed. Nothing touched me.

At some point, I eased back into my skin. I realized that I could probably live in New York, that it was enormous and strange and full of life, but it wasn't too large for me anymore.

We went to Ground Zero and I started crying. I tend to cry at any tragedy, but being in that place had its own weight and gravity.

Everyone else's eyes were dry.

Eventually, one of the parent chaperones befriended me (we are similarly snarky), and she spent the entire evening at Medieval Times (that classic staple of New York night life) snapping photographs of hot knights in tights for me. But that wasn't enough for her. After the show, she manhandled me through the crowds of screeching school girls, and forced each of those poor, beleaguered knights to take a picture with me.

If I ever get copies as promised, perhaps I will show you. They were lovely, those men. And I will never see any of them again. And I'm fine with that, for now. It's really the first time in my life (since puberty, anyway) when I could honestly say that my desires are directed inward and not outward. There are no men looming on my horizon.

Really, it's their loss:

Somewhere on YouTube you may be able to locate a video of our choir teacher beautifully singing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" on the stage of the Apollo Theater while another teacher performs a(miserably, intentionally poor)n interpretive dance in the background. I vehemently deny that I had anything to do with it.

I Still Love You, Brian Krakow

2008-03-22T19:33:00.002-04:00

For Christmas, my baby sister and husband purchased the My So-Called Life DVD box set, which I have finally gotten around to watching. Apparently, at once point I declared this to be my favorite television show, hence the gift.

I do love it. Even though I wasn't really anything like Angela as a teenager (excepting the flannel, which--give me credit--I am woman enough to admit to), there was something so universal about her longing and awkwardness that made me believe, at the time, that I practically was Angela.

In retrospect, I think I understand what I really liked about the show back then. Brian Krakow. Why, in my life, did I never have a curly-haired nerd on a bicycle living next door? Believe me, I would not have been mooning over Jordan Catalano if I'd had Brian in front of me. I hope.

Random factoid: Devon Gummersall, who played Brian, guest-starred on one of my other favorite angsty television shows, Roswell. He married one of the actresses from that show, Majandra Delfino. (Steve, are you reading this? Brian Krakow married Maria!)

So, well, I guess he's unavailable. Which frankly sucks.

To Nebraska or Not To Nebraska

2008-03-22T08:39:00.002-04:00

So, I got accepted into graduate school.

Because such things are normally meant for public consumption, here is my pro/con list for attending the University of Nebraska, Lincoln in pursuit of a Ph.D. in poetry writing (highly useful) in the fall:

Pro:

1. I could leave Culpeper
2. I could leave teaching middle school
3. I could leave Culpeper (did I say that twice?)
4. I would be around actual smart people
5. I like corn
6. I would end up with a doctorate
7. I could work on my writing
8. I have friends in Denver and in Iowa I could harass
9. Jude says there are sweet pancake possibilities in Nebraska

Con:

1. I am currently and would likely be unfunded...again (and, no, I don't have a trust fund)
2. The professor I wrote to made it sound like it's extremely hard to get funding after the first year
3. My family is in Pennsylvania and North Carolina
4. I've never been to Nebraska
5. I hate being poor

It is the official Month of Internal Conflict in my life.

My thought right now is to defer my admission until next fall, and hold a lot of bake sales in the meantime. I feel confident that my constant companion, Radar the Dog, would rather be in a location with sidewalks and the potential for finding empty beer bottles by the roadside to lick, but he doesn't really get a vote.

I am wondering:

1. How does one beg for funding?
2. Do you know anyone who is independently wealthy and wants to support a nice girl who wants to be a writer?

Judgement Call

2008-03-19T20:25:00.002-04:00

Hypothetical unrequited love story:

1. Man clearly states to woman that he doesn't want to be her boyfriend.

2. Man continues to call every night. Woman reiterates to herself regularly that the man doesn't love her. He's just her friend. She knows she should learn to love him less, but he's wonderful. He's a miracle to her.

3. This can end, she surmises, in three ways: A. He loves her one day (unlikely) B. They find other people to talk to and grow apart (likely, painful) C. It goes on like this forever (impossible).

4. She decides that when he meets a woman he might want to love, she'll leave. Better one enormous heartache than a hundred small ones.

5. Time passes.

6. Physical distance and disease and sadness. Ugly words are spoken on both sides.

7. He tells her he's in love (not with her) and asks to take a break from her until the summer. But she's been accepted into a doctoral program in Nebraska (he doesn't know) and by summer she'll likely be gone.

8. She tells him she doesn't want to talk to him anymore.

Did she do the right thing? Where should the line be drawn between being selfish and self-preserving?

The Kite Crasher

2008-03-16T19:44:00.002-04:00

Unlike recent Sundays, I did not stay in bed and take lengthy naps for the majority of the day. Instead, I roused my friend and coworker Package (not her real name, but a pointless nickname that we actually use), and dragged her to the gym with me.

Going to the gym is a habit with us now. I'm generally one to venture into the world by myself, but going to the gym with an associate has had definite advantages. Mostly, I'd feel like a sissy if I quit while doing something difficult. After a month of mutually imposed torture, we're both looking quite fabulous.

I noticed at some point that a decent wind was blowing over the landscape of Culpeper. It made me think of my kite.

I've had this kite for over five years and never opened it. It was an impulse purchase. I'll admit it: I bought it because it's a unicorn. There. I said it. I'm not into unicorns like I was when I was eight and hoped I might one day grow a horn, but it was so novel that I had to have it.

I also strongly associate kites with my father, in the same way that I also think of him in association with zoos, badminton, and sawdust.

I know why I haven't tried to fly my kite. I presumed that I would need help, particularly due to my status as one of the vertically challenged. But there I was this afternoon, unrolling my unicorn's wings and legs, bending its wires according to the diagram. Assembly complete (and this, on its own, is quite a feat), I ventured out into the backyard. I held the kite aloft and waited for the wind.

There was one pristine instant, after several (dozen) tries, in which the unicorn, legs hanging with eerie limpness, ascended into the air, whipping back and forth. This moment lasted for about five seconds, before my unicorn took a nose-dive onto the thickening green of the lawn. Eventually I had to admit defeat and go back inside.

In a way, I wish that this were a story about my success in flight. In another way, I'm even more glad that it's a story about my contentedness in crashing.

Left Behind

2008-03-15T17:24:00.004-04:00

Because one must have something to do after the landfill--and after the sweet high school boy who helped me stack my recyclable cardboard and asked if I needed any help, which I didn't--Radar and I packed ourselves into the car and went to the park. He enjoys the children, the smells, the geese, and what the geese leave behind.

While navigating the pine trees and fallen branches, I found two clam shells, pearl-side-up, in the grass. I had never noticed this in prior visits to the lake, but as we continued to walk, we found shells everywhere. Since I feel confident that clams cannot climb the kinds of hills on which we found the shells, I presume birds have been lifting them out of the water, dropping them, and eating the soft parts out. I don't know why it felt so foreign to find them, but I was transported to some other place entirely. Given how things have been recently, it was lovely to forget where I was or ought to be for a moment.

Although I know that technically it's the remnant of something that lived once, its shining bones, I stuffed a shell in my pocket and took it home, where it now sits beside me, glimmering and welcome.

Adios, Amigo

2008-03-15T12:01:00.003-04:00

Having just kicked yet another man out of my life who viewed me as one of his closest friends, I will now celebrate by visiting the landfill.

Dare to Love Completely

2008-01-27T21:31:00.002-05:00

Today's title derives from my recent exposure to that most honored sage: a Dove chocolate wrapper. Considering that my girlfriends all acquired shiny bits of tin with such advice as "You deserve a bubble bath," I think there may be a little fate involved.

Still, I'm not sure how good that advice is. I'm that idiot who does dare to love completely, every now and then. Now approaching the ripe old age of 30, I'm not sure that I want to take my chocolate's advice anymore.

Not that I think there's necessarily anything I can do about it. Knowing that so much of what we feel is chemical, I suppose it's possible that I'm merely hard-wired to spring open the hinges of my ribs when I'm in love with someone.

Look at how my lungs breathe. My heart pumps blood like this. Do you like it? Could you love it? Please try.

When I was last talking to a friend of mine, we mentioned about something like this. He says he tends to compartmentalize himself, and on his separate continent, has been thinking of all the things he has and hasn't told me about himself. It seems he's making an attempt to decompartmentalize in a rush of stories like needles, like breezes, although to what end, who knows.

I work that way about ninety-nine percent of the time, parceling myself into little glass boxes, but now and then I feel compelled for some reason to allow no walls between myself and someone else. They can walk around in my backyard at 2 a.m. They can paint my house different colors, enter my bathroom without knocking. I'm starting to think, though, that I have some magical ability to choose exactly the person who will guilelessly come in, assess his surroundings, and then spill his drinks on the carpets and break the mirrors, all on accident.

And there is this. When I'm not eating or sleeping and drifting from one end of my day to the other like a ghost of myself, sometimes my friends invite themselves over to my house wielding pizzas and cheesecake and make me watch The Princess Bride with them over a table full of red and silver bits of foil. I actually eat, and we drink several bottles of wine together. We dare to love, if only in pieces.

We laugh until it aches a little.

The Year of Living Ferociously

2008-01-05T14:23:00.000-05:00

When we last left off in our story, my long-term non-boyfriend had unveiled information so painful to me that I wanted to hammer my heart shut.

And then it got worse.

The day after Christmas, he called to say that he was going to England for a week or two months, or however long.

"Fine," I said. "I could use a break."

"What an awful thing to say," he replied.

Then, he called me from London, asked if I still felt wrecked.

I did.

He wanted to know my New Year's plans, and I said I'd be alone, wallowing and drinking, as usual. He said he was skipping some wild party to catch a train out to Wales, to be alone by the ocean. It wasn't good news, but did I want to know why?

Punch me, I said. Go ahead.

So he told me. His last medical tests showed there was a good chance his stomach cancer had come back. He'd tried to tell me a dozen times before. He didn't tell anyone else, not even his family.

There's a very good chance he's going to die. He told me that, too. I checked the statistics, and I'm afraid he's not exaggerating.

He also says it would be foolish for me to go to London, in case you were wondering.

While I was driving through the night to my parents' house, I had decided that this would be the Year of Living Ferociously. To flee my rural Virginian outpost. To explore strange and new locations, to aim for goals I didn't think I could achieve. To write and live and love as if on the edge of a precipice.

And now I'm so full of rage and sorrow that I don't know what to do but attack, build up my muscles, to hone the razor's edge inside myself. To become as beautiful and dangerous and sharp as I always dreamed I would be.

And staring down this cliff, dizzy, face in the wind, I'm surprised. There's nothing holding me, but I know I'm not going to fall.

a thousand endings

2007-12-22T23:00:00.000-05:00

It was just that I made a self-destructive choice, and I didn't want to talk about it.

And I felt stupid, for falling in love and being tossed aside a week later. Because I couldn't make him love me back. Because I felt somehow that I should have known already that I'm not someone to inspire passion.

Because the night I met him, I knew he could wreck me, and I chose it.

Because I kept talking to him, nightly, even knowing how he didn't feel, nestling into the comfortable web of his words, even though I knew I was offering myself up for injury twice.

A decade later, I keep doing this, allowing a man to be my best friend. My epidemic. My sweet little contagion.

By now, I should know better. When I can hear my tiny disasters creeping up the front steps, I should greet them and breathe, invite them inside. I shouldn't flinch when the walls begin to crumble.

I know what happens when a man who doesn't love you takes up residence in your heart, how fragile it is. I know that sometimes, suddenly, he'll decide to love you. But usually, you wait, knowing one day that you will look down and find his little space in your heart vacated, all the windows boarded.

Nailed-up little heart. The hammer in my hands.

Dear Pittsburgh:

2007-05-07T17:10:00.000-04:00

These thoughts for you, from one of the world's most pathetically non-updated blogs:

Today I remembered walking through the South Side, peeking into the shops, feeling the energy that comes up from the river. You know that little hot dog shop on the corner where you can get any kind of ridiculous toppings that you like? It's just that I was thinking of you, darling Pittsburgh, and suddenly I wanted to walk with him into all the secrets your streets hold for me.

He wouldn't appreciate the hot dogs, since I've turned up yet another vegetarian. But he loves you, Pittsburgh, knows you from some restless months of driving the country, investigated your Indian restaurants and movie theaters. We love you, dear city. It is something that we have in common.

I am being unfair, really. I could have told you every little detail about him, every sentence or thoughtful gesture. I could have told you how he teaches me boxing, or dances with me in the kitchen. How he wonders if the man who left me behind knows about him.

It's just that I want to keep him to myself. Or perhaps that being too excited, feeling too much, might just drive him away.

I'm being unfair to him, too. In my heart, there is a terrible, sudden spring, exactly when I expected some dramatic desert in winter. Sometimes, a fragrance, one errant bloom, will escape, and that's all I'm willing to tell him now. I spend my days negotiating eighth graders blooming into social butterflies, and this sense that I contain a rare treasure inside myself.

In the plainest English, it's spring in Virginia, and I'm falling in love, whether I was ready to or not.

i rilly lik him! by Radr

2007-03-16T17:04:00.000-04:00

Hay evrybody! This is Radr! Im a litle dog!

I no i havnt ritin in a wile, but ive bin bizy with feching and my othr hobys. I thot mebe i wud rite abot my mom and how shes doin.

she is gud! yesterdy she wint to a cwier festivel with 150 middl skul studints and playd peeano. She wuz tird wen she got home! And sez shel never ride on a buss with stidents fer to houers agin. Wun of the judgis at the festivel thot she wuz a studint. Thats funny.

And thin she got a lot of fone calls. i think it wuz the man that come hear last wekind, and the wekind before that. I hop so! Sumbuddy calls evry nite but i dont no hoo it is sins im def.

but i wanted to rite abot this man becuz i rilly lik him! and this iz the luv projict and so this iz wut we rite abot hear!

he throhs the bal for me and plays tug and givs me treets and pets me i rillly like him! he brot a cake and mom made us lunch and i sat on my chare and wated until i got sum to and it wu zgud. Latter i got cake too. But thats a seecrit.

I stol the nife an licked it. Thats how i got cake.

I lik cake!

wen I met him frist i liked him rite away becuz he piked me up and i got him muddey and he wasint mad! he sez i am a superhero and a athleet.

enyway, mom sez its importint to not lik him to much becuz we onlie met him a month ago. but its hard! i lik to put my hed on his chest and stair at him becuz he is nice to me. And to mom!

So I want to no wen its okay to lik him a lot! Becuz I don't no! And can it be tommorow.

I Miss You, Uncle Robert

2007-03-06T17:41:00.000-05:00

Coming back to Pittsburgh remains a bittersweet experience for me. It's where I received my first kiss, got drunk for the first time, fell in love and out of love and into love and out of love and into love again. It seems as though every corner of every street is imbued with some hint of a memory, a scent you can't quite place. No matter when I arrive, I think it will always be home for me now.

Before I left for Pittsburgh on Friday, I knew two things were inevitable about my visit.

1. I was going to a wedding reception.

2. I would have to talk at length about my ex-fiancee.

There was also an outside possibility of The Ex attending said wedding reception, but I didn't think it was likely somehow, even though I felt he had more claim to the friendship of the bride and groom than I did. (He would be invited to their parties, and I would tag along, bearing macaroons.)

I didn't care if he came or not, honestly--except that, had I known he would be attending, I would have worked yet harder to look absolutely fabulous.

As it was, he was a no-show. This is a shame, since he would have really enjoyed the frosting on the cupcakes.

After a long afternoon rolling around on K.'s floor, coating myself in dust while helping her pack her belongings and move in with her charming boyfriend, I put on my favorite dress and maid-of-honor heels (from my younger sister's wedding), and drove off. I valet-parked my car for the very first time, and felt like, at the very least, a C-list celebrity.

When I got to the reception, no one had arrived yet. I should have learned this lesson long ago from countless MFA parties: no one in Pittsburgh is ever quite on time. But soon, everyone began to trickle in, and the storytelling began. I think that my Ex is under the impression that I am vindictive and cruel, waiting to lash out and eviscerate him, that I am secretly concocting screenplays that will portray him in the worst possible light. It's just not true. I'm over it--somehow, quickly, miraculously.

But I did have to change my thinking a little in Pittsburgh about the character of my loss. In my own grief, it hadn't occurred to me that I wasn't alone in mourning the man I had intended to love for my entire life. I wasn't the only one who had to watch his warmth dwindle and vanish, wasn't the only one unsure whether I should try to embrace him or not. In talking about him, I discovered that I am not alone in missing the person that he once was.

I still have a few tears to shed for him.

I don't know whether he will regret losing me for the rest of his life, as one of our mutual friends posited. I am glad that he is communicating with the people who care about him; learning that brought me a little bit of ease, because I knew I couldn't have born having no one to rely on in the past month and a half.

A month and a half later, and there I am, straightening Uncle Robert's tie and hearing, in the back of my head, as an echo, The Ex mocking me for my "old man fetish." A month and a half later, and I'm dancing badly among the people I love and left behind in my old city, Prince is singing, and everything just might be right in the world, if only in this place, if only for a moment.

And yes, back in Virginia, I'm doing exactly what I do worst/best--holding out my messy heart to see if he might like it. He might, I think. At least, he said so. I would afraid if he weren't showing me a messy heart of his own.

More later on exhibitionist love tactics and how to make candles fly.

Open Letter

2007-02-26T20:15:00.000-05:00

Dear Ex-Fiancee,

Asalaamu alaykum. I hope that you are well.

I'm sure, if you are reading this at all, that you disapprove of my writing to you in this way.

It's only that I wanted to thank you. Yes, our relationship ended badly. But in the process of knowing and losing you, I learned some important lessons about myself. I've grown closer to God (although not in the way that you wanted). I learned that I could be loved for myself, in all of my ridiculousness and passion and error. I learned that I could not compromise myself--not for love, not for you, not for anyone.

You taught me what it means to love, even though, at the end, you did so through lessons in opposites.

If I had not been so miserable, so alone, as a result of your decisions, I could not be so surprised at my happiness today.

Today I am happy. Even if it doesn't last, I'm happy--within myself, and in my relationships with those around me.

And I wish for as much happiness to come to you, with all my heart.

as if everything led to this moment

2007-02-18T02:30:00.000-05:00

It's 2:32 a.m.

I just got home.

Three hours ago, I was waiting on Main Street for a man I first wrote to on Tuesday, picking out his shape from the end of the block.

Every now and then in my life, I've felt a compulsion to do something, to go somewhere, as if it were a necessity, as though a magnet were embedded in this one moment in my life.

While it made no logical sense, I had to go tonight, in the same way that I knew I had to write to him. I couldn't say why it had to be tonight, at 11:30 (or why he even thought this was a good idea), in a town where we had no other option than to walk in the cold, or go to a bar. (We did both.)

I remember, the morning after breaking up with The Ex, asking God why this had happened to me.

I think God actually answered me.

I realized about an hour into our conversation that this man was trying to tell me he was a Muslim, and was desperately afraid I'd find it creepy. Given the fact that we'd both just been in a bar, this was actually rather comforting--although he initially thought I was joking when I told him that I had converted a year and a half ago.

He also thinks that Radar is adorable (in photographs).

In conclusion, I just went on a date with a dog-loving, liberal screenwriter who enjoys boxing, James Joyce, and appears to be the same sort of Muslim I proclaimed myself to be in my last post.

Also, he thinks I'm really funny.

When I awake from the coma that I must be deeply within, someone please remind me of this dream I had. I want to remember it.

Positive Self-Therapy Results

2007-02-16T22:15:00.000-05:00

It is now the fourth snow day in a row for my school district. The roads are largely clear, although the ground itself is covered in a layer of frozen slush inches thick. It looks like snow, but it is, in fact, merely a snow imposter.

What have I been doing on my days off? Largely, I've been drinking liquids and staying in bed to combat the sinus infection I woke up with on Tuesday. But I've also been working diligently at my Getting Over Him Campaign.

The Campaign entails:

1. Finish CD.
2. Look fabulous.
3. Search for new man.

Where does a girl go to look for a man in Culpeper, Virginia? Since everyone in Culpeper is either married or unappealing, I decided to look online. This would horrify The Ex, because he felt it was imperative that I look exclusively in the Muslim community for a new man.

Right. Because that worked out so well the last time.

(What I am thankful for, in the absence of an impending wedding, is the luxury I now have to explore my own religious inclinations without having someone breathing down my neck explaining everything that I should be. I never really desired to be more Muslim than I ever saw The Ex being back in the day. Therefore, that is what I am going to do, in addition to considering dating non-Muslims.)

I figured that, by looking around for men online, I could get a sense of what was out there. At the very least, I thought I could reenter my single life knowing there are, in fact, men out there in the world who are decent, intelligent and single. I needed to have that kind of hope. After the break-up, I was consumed with the notion that all of the good men were taken, and I would be left alone, childless, and wrinkly.

It should be noted that I engaged in a similar project in the summer of 2002, and that I know how to operate with caution. I made a friend that summer that I still keep in contact with. If I could find one more good friend, I thought, I would consider the therapy a success.

I have learned several things during my snow days. First and foremost, there are still good men out there--interesting men with proficient grammar skills. If I play my cards correctly, I may end up wrinkly in someone's company.

Secondly, I've learned that there are some real duds out there. For example, a man wrote to me to see if I was interested in him, even though he had listed "brainiacs" as his one and only turn-off. I responded to let him know that I was very much a brainiac, and that he probably wouldn't like me. He wrote back, "i dont care that you got brains."

Well, then.

The last story is superseded only by the man who listed, under three things he could not live without: Sexual Touching. Yikes!

Lastly, I have a definite crush. I like my crush. It's like a fledgling bird that I have to cradle in my hands to protect it.

Evidence exists that my crush is not a one-sided crush.

More details as they become available.

Final Mix

2007-02-13T16:25:00.001-05:00

When I have some sort of difficulty in my life (i.e. breaking off an engagement), I like to spend preposterous amounts of time organizing music to reflect my feelings. Usually, once I can listen to how I'm feeling, I can better deal with it. This was true long ago, when I was organizing music to tell my former fiancee that I loved him without actually saying it out loud. (I skipped this phase in high school.)

I really appreciate all the suggestions for break-up songs that people gave me here. I still have to check a few of them out. I didn't end up using any of them because they weren't quite right (it's amazing how each relationship has its own specific imprint), but I'd love to hear any more suggestions. Music is the most inexpensive therapy out there.

Here's my setlist:

Prelude

1. "Set Fire to the Third Bar," Snow Patrol featuring Martha Wainwright

Miles from where you are
I lay down on the cold ground
I pray that something picks me up
And sets me down in your warm arms.

2. "Hey Jupiter," Tori Amos

3. "You Only Disappear," Tom McRae

Tom McRae is a genius--and he's British. I wonder if he's single? This
is the best song no one's heard.

4. "How It Ends," DeVotchka

You already know how this will end.

Ceremony

5. "Last Goodbye," Jeff Buckley

6. "Let Him Fly," Patty Griffin

It would take an acrobat
But I've already tried all that.

7. "Delicate," Damien Rice

8. "Into the Ocean," Blue October

9. "Ocean Breathes Salty," Modest Mouse

For your sake, I hope heaven and hell are really there
But I wouldn't hold my breath.

10. "Dare You to Move," Switchfoot

This is the song I listen to when I'm sad in any situation. It actually makes me move.

11. "Sailed On," Landon Pigg

12. "Forget It," Breaking Benjamin

Forget it--just memory
on a page inside a spiral notebook.

13. "Smoke," Ben Folds Five

Leaf by leaf and page by page
Throw this book away.

14. "U + Ur Hand," P!nk

Yes, everything that the title implies. This is the token Angry Song.

Postlude

15. "Country Feedback," REM

Crazy what you could've had.

16. "Headlights," Albatross

17. "Always on Your Side," Sheryl Crow and Sting

When this song originally came out, I would hear it on the radio while driving to work. I was embarrassed that it moved me so much, much less that I always cried.

18. "The Guy That Says Goodbye to You is Out of His Mind," Griffin House

The first time I heard this song was live, on the South Side of Pittsburgh, just before I started my relationship with The Ex. He was planning on going to Egypt at the time, and hearing this song made me think, for the first time, that its title was true.

There is Always Reason to Hope.

2007-02-06T17:48:00.000-05:00

One of the joys of being student council advisor at my school is the organization of candy-grams. Here are the (essential) contents to two cards, each sent from the same child to the same recipient, that we read while previewing them for negative or derogatory comments.

First card:

I wanted to ask you out today but I was too scared. I hope that you will think about it. I really like you.

Second card:

I'm sending you this card to make sure that I get my point across.
***
A little obsessive, but you have to admire the persistence.

I remember when the possibility of falling in love had all of that same sharpness, all of that danger.

Unfortunately, it was today.

Here's hoping that all works out well for the middle school lovers, and the rest of us.

Wind Chill Delay

2007-02-05T21:23:00.000-05:00

Given the blessing of a two hour wind chill delay tomorrow morning, I thought I would take this opportunity to reflect on some of the events--and triumphs!--that have occurred in the last two weeks, since I've been single.

First of all, just moments ago, I finally managed to get the sock out of the vacuum cleaner. It took about an hour of adjusting a coat hanger with a pair of pliers. That's the triumph part. I like knowing that I'm a young woman who can figure something like this out without too much assistance.

As luck would have it, Valentine's Day looms around the corner. While I was shopping this weekend, I couldn't help but notice all the signs for bridal shows, all the glittery jewelry sales. All the couples walking hand-in-hand. But I don't actually feel angry or bitter. This may be because the best Valentine's Day of my life remains the time that I was in Toronto, eating at Burger King with my (then) best friend Mike. When the height of Valentine's Day romance for you happened with somebody who doesn't find girls sexually attractive, it's hard to be disappointed.

Valentine's Day. The other teachers at school are throwing a bridal shower for the other two girls in my hallway who are engaged. It was supposed to have been my party, too. Hence, the guidance counselor pulled me into her office to warn me in advance, and make sure that I was okay enough to handle it.

Of course, whenever anyone asks me if I'm okay, I burst into tears. I could win the lottery, and if someone asked me that question, I'd still cry. After getting my head examined for a while, she pronounced that I am dealing in positive ways with my hurt.

Here are some ways that I am doing this.

1. Eating chocolate.
2. Talking to my friends.
3. Taking mini-vacations.
4. Exercising.
5. Snuggling with my dog.
6. Writing.
7. Reading good books.
8. Napping.
9. Taking baths with fizzy bath salts and confetti.
10. Buying fuzzy socks.
11. Watching romantic comedies. And Million Dollar Baby.
12. Developing an inexplicable crush on Clint Eastwood.
13. Cruising the internet for available men.
14. Planning parties for five hundred middle school students. I am not making this up. It was actually a big success.
15. Organizing a mixed CD of break-up songs (forthcoming).
16. Applying for new jobs and prestigious writing fellowships, just for fun.
17. Staying hydrated.

I am wondering: A. If anyone has any other suggestions that have been helpful for them in dealing with the end of a relationship and B. If you might have any song ideas to contribute to my CD compilation.

And, please, stay warm.

Girl in a Pink Coat

2007-02-04T14:55:00.000-05:00

I went to the library to return my books the other day, and then to locate a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird for one of my students (his mother had returned it before he was finished, and he insisted that he could only read this particular copy).

As I was turning down the K-M aisle, I noticed a little, brown-skinned girl in a pink, puffy coat entering the aisle next to mine, her black hair done up in pigtails, dragging her fingertips of her left hand along the spines of the books. In general, I'm fascinated by watching children in public, but I found myself smiling more than usual at this one. She seemed so focused on the books, so content to be in the library.

She looked like I had imagined my daughter would have looked like, if.

Thankfully, the seven copies of To Kill a Mockingbird were located on the very bottom shelf where I could actually reach them. I crouched down and started looking for the version with "big print!" that would signal I'd found my student's preferred version.

I heard footsteps, and turned to see the same little girl, plodding her way down my aisle, still touching the books with her left hand. She seemed oblivious to my presence, so I moved closer to my own shelf to let her by.

When she passed me, she patted my back with her hand. As if comforting me. Or saying goodbye.

The Wrong Frequency

2007-02-01T20:00:00.000-05:00

I am not making this up. I swear.

Since I moved to Virginia, I've been frustrated by my inability to set my radio alarm clock to a station that I could actually hear. I would get strange weather reports from New Jersey, muffled with static.

Sometimes, R&B hits. Sometimes, classics from the seventies.

All this, without ever changing the channel.

Quite frankly, it disturbed me.

Last week, when I woke up, I looked at the clock and realized that it had been set to AM instead of FM. For a year and a half.

I flipped the switch, and the sound came through clearly.

At Least I Still Have the Dog

2007-01-23T21:03:00.000-05:00

There are probably multiple reasons that I never really went public with the fact that I got "officially" engaged to my former Significant Person back on November (I had asked him in September, but had to keep it quiet), the most primary of which was this ominous sense in the back of my head that it was doomed in some way. Me and my stupid ominous senses.

I saw it coming. I just hoped maybe it would lose its way before it got to me.

In honor of the premature death of the one great romance of my life (so far), I offer you a Brief Synopsis:

Me: Welcome to Pittsburgh!
Him: Want some rice?
Me: Sure. (He's cute...)
Him: I really have no interest in dating anyone. (She's cute. She probably wouldn't give up her dog for me, though.)
Me: I'll date this Other Guy, then.
Him: Oh well.
Me: No, I don't think I can marry you, Other Guy.
Him: My hands are made this big so I can hold both of yours when I comfort you.
Me: (I love love love him.)
Him: Let's spend all our time together, but not date!
Me: I think I might want to be a Muslim.
Him: Really? By the way, I like you a lot. Maybe we could date?
Me: And just when I'd given up, too.
Him: I'm going to Syria!
Me: Oh. Okay.
Him: I'm back, but I can't see you. We're not married.
Me: Oh. Okay. Can we get married?
Him: I'll ask my family.
Me: Oh. Okay. (Months pass.)
Him: Alright. We can get married.
Me: That would be nice.
Him: Oh. But you have to get rid of your dog. I hate him.
Me: I can't. He's been my only companion for years. I can't abandon him now.
Him: You would if you loved me. I'd do it for you.
Me: I can't. He's my dog.

And that is why I am now single.

Perhaps it seems that I'm dealing with this flippantly, but since I've been crying in anticipation or as a direct result of my breakup for a week straight, and I've been sad about it for nearly two years, I might as well see the humor in my situation. Then, maybe, I'll be able to patch myself up and try to start my life over again.

If only I could figure out how to stop loving him.

Five Months Later...

2007-01-21T21:01:00.000-05:00

Every time I try to write in my blog, I'm afraid that I'll regret what I write. I suppose when that happens, you get a five month gap.

Hence, this is the fourth attempt in the last hour to say what I want to say, and I think, as a compromise, I'll just avoid what's really on my mind by discussing my latest musical purchase instead.

Have you ever listened to the Decemberists? I just bought The Crane Wife on sale, after having purchased their previous recording for Significant Person on the basis of "The Engine Driver." The rest of that CD was kind of ambling, but this new one is quite arresting. Each song is completely distinct from the others, but there isn't a dull moment here.

The entire Crane Wife song sequence deals with a man who finds an injured crane, rehabilitates and marries her, then forces her to weave until (unbeknownst to him) she almost kills herself.

Then, the crane leaves him.

Or dies. It's kind of ambiguous.

Sometimes the stories that begin with the most promise don't end that way.

In completely unrelated news (since I'm not discussing my more largely looming issue), I accidentally vacuumed a sock today while cleaning, and the sock is lodged in my vacuum hose. I've tried to dislodge it with a clothes hanger to no avail. I'm open to suggestions...

The "Greatest American Rock Band"

2006-08-03T12:28:00.000-04:00

Because I promised that I would say who it's supposed to be.

Granted, this was in a commercial for said band.

The Greatest American Rock Band is...

(drumroll)

Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers.

My response to this commercial was, "That's all we have?"

Discuss.

Into and Out of the Cornfield World

2006-08-03T12:05:00.000-04:00

On Saturday morning at 7:15, I brought my car to halt in the middle of the road, a few miles from home. A woman in a teal baseball cap had pulled to the side of the road, blinkers flashing, and was standing in the road.

In her right hand, she held a box turtle who'd been trying to cross.

Any day that starts out witnessing the saving of a turtle's life--and a kindred spirit doing it, no less--cannot be approached with anything else than optimism.

Three hours later (more or less), I arrived at my destination. Cate and I graduated from grad school the same year, and she now lives with her husband and two young daughters in the middle of what is apparently an endless cornfield in Pennsylvania.

I was excited about this visit for a variety of reasons. I get very few opportunities to talk about writing, and I've only rarely seen Cate since she left Pittsburgh. Also, I wanted to spend some time with little people, especially after the last year with middle school students, which had made me forget why people have wee ones to begin with.

I got to spend a lot of time holding kids, and making up various scenarios for barnyard animals. I went swimming, visited an Amish vegetable market, made fruit salad. In between, I did get to talk to Cate. No offense to the residents of Culpeper, but Cate's smartness was so refreshing. I'm consistently amazed by her practical brain, since mine is more like a globe full of drunk moths.

My sadness has dissipated a bit (thanks, Cate). Maybe I just need to spend more time with kids who aren't tweens. Or take more weekend trips. Or write more. Or call my friends more than once a year.

Also, I think I left my favorite blue bra there. I guess that's a reason to go back.

In my best moments, I get to realize that I'm never as alone as I want to believe that I am. And even when I am alone, I know that I'm not lesser for having no one around.

In my best moments, I am incandescent. Even if no one is there to see it.

Road Trip(s)

2006-07-28T17:22:00.000-04:00

This weekend, I will be heading out to visit a friend and contemplate life and art amid the cornfields of Eastern Pennsylvania. I look forward.

Then, I return for a few hours, and drive to Roanoke for a conference about "interactive notebooks," which I don't find to be particularly useful for my students.

Then, I'm squeezing in a week or so with the family.

I will try to send some postcards.

Meanwhile:

http://www.archipelago.org/vol10-12/khan.htm

Significant Person got a whole bunch of poems accepted. Read away.

I also promise to post the name of the "Greatest American Rock Band" according to a commercial I saw once no later than August 14, 2006. In the meantime, keep the lists coming.

Recap and Survey

2006-07-26T20:54:00.000-04:00

Snapshot (with sound, motion):

The dehumidifier with its mild indigestion. Dog whining. The usual disarray of my life--empty used mugs and glasses, ripped-open envelopes, a pack of green apple sugarless gum (quite good). So good I actually decide to have some and, miraculously, throw the wrapper away. A photograph of Significant Person, smiling last summer in Powhatan, VA. A ticket stub from a movie he took me to see, also last summer. Scraps of paper with e-mail addresses. Receipts. Digital audio recorder. Paper clip. Lip balm (passionfruit). The detritus of bachlorettehood, loneliness, disorganization.

I've had a busy several days. Little Sister (AKA "Yavie"--the Elvish word for her real name [we were raised Nerd]) came to visit and see a Switchfoot concert with me last week. Yes, Switchfoot is a Christian rock band, and I'm not terribly Christian. Neither is Yavie. They are appealing to me for several reasons:

1. Great chord progressions (the music major in me loves a skillful key change)
2. Interesting and complex lyrics
3. They never mention Jesus per se
4. Significant Person introduced me to them, so they induce Nostalgia

Actually, I asked Significant Person to name the five greatest American rock bands (this used to be my standard ice breaker) shortly after we met, and Switchfoot was on his list. Then he played me "Only Hope," which was his favorite song back then. (Is it now?) I was hooked.

The concert, being held outdoors, was delayed for two hours by torrential downpours. Despite our umbrellas, Yavie and I were soaked, mostly likely because the wind was blowing horizontally. Finally, the rain let up, to a backdrop of rainbow.

Yes, it was a good concert (much better live than recorded, Switchfoot is). I loved watching the sea of soaked and muddy people--parents with their children propped on their shoulders, lovers pressed wetly in each other's arms. I felt the compression of loneliness in my chest, how much I wished that Significant Person would have been there with me, even though I'm not sure of his opinions about music in general these days.

But I had my adorable little sister. Who could feel real sorrow?

Although, granted, everything is tempered. The one thing that I can't stop thinking about is watching the news last week, and seeing a story where a solitary victim of a rocket explosion lay in a field, flattened, almost like a spot of oil. Not even human. A woman in a bomb shelter nearby kept trying to call her husband on her cell phone, but he wouldn't answer. Eventually, they could hear ringing from the field.

How do we negotiate our lives in the face of such violence and grief? We move. We have to.

And so Radar visited the veterinarian on Monday for his check-up, and then I had to rescue my Sister Friends from Syria (VA), where they had ended up as a result of a wrong turn in Shenandoah National Park. (Once, when Significant Person was in Syria, I drove to my Syria, as though five letters could cross the distance between us.)

Today I had a more or less complete physical, including blood work and nasty female examinations. I found it amazing that I could carry on a perfectly ordinary conversation with the doctor while wearing, essentially, a piece of paper. Tomorrow, I'm supposed to get my very own HPV vaccination.

None of this should suggest that my whirlwind of luscious sadness has passed, since it seems only to thicken. I could ask you the questions that I'm considering myself, but they seem so private (and it should be apparent that I don't find much to be private).

I would be really interested to see some lists of your opinions of the Five Greatest American Rock Bands, though. Only American. Forget the Beatles, the Stones.

Seriously. I'm waiting. I could use the distraction, couldn't you?

I Know What I Know

2006-07-16T16:53:00.000-04:00

Part I. Reunions

Last weekend, I drove myself home for my tenth high school reunion. (Yes, writing that makes me feel alarmingly old.) I hadn't been home to see my parents since school let out, and it seemed as good an excuse as any to head back to Pennsylvania.

Amazingly, for most of my former classmates, life has been kind. The class troublemakers became productive citizens. The class conservatives turned into hoochie mommas. The teen mothers found happiness, jobs. Almost everyone gained a ton of weight.

And me? The verdict on my change was that I was somehow bolder and more relaxed than I used to be. At least, until one of my old friends said I was always that way, but no one ever really talked to me.

Everyone wanted me to go out to the bar with them afterwards, and I think when I went home to check on my dog, I had intended to go. But then the Sadness crept over me, and I stayed home, watching Canadian television, alone in my parents' house while they were at a party of their own.

Part II. The Sadness

The Sadness is what the Sadness is. I could give you its full genealogy, track it back to its parentage, its birth. I could show you its footprints in the Virginian earth, and where my own steps have followed it. But I won't, not until it tells me its last secret, the one hidden in the darkest recess of its throat.

What I know about it is that it will lead me to the place where I am past it. I can see its vanishing point from here. Only I don't know if I have the strength to walk there.

Part III. Summer School

Otherwise, I'm teaching summer school. I have children from the middle school where I don't work. They are beautiful children, who seem to want to learn. The days fly past. Before long, I'll be back, slogging through my job, waking up every day before the sun. You can see how much I'm looking forward to it.

Part IV. Blackberry Jam

The beautiful thing about my Sadness is how it lifts me into joys that I have to find for myself. The sound of a vulture launching from a tree branch is like an arrow shot from a bow. There a tiny purple flowers growing in my compost pile. Tadpoles are growing feet in a puddle down the street from me. I rearranged an entire room of my apartment, cleaned it with a precision that even my OCD former roommate might approve of.

I've come to love the simplest of domestic tasks, especially the ones that I doubt I can perform for myself.

If you want to make blackberry jam, you can put on your old jacket and jeans, socks and shoes, and walk through the rain-damp grass. Pick for two hours for the ten cups of berries you'll need, get a dozen light scrapes on the back of your right hand--one across the wrist. Buy the jars, the sugar (organic, since the berries are), the pectin. Crush the berries, strain the juice--dark violet, almost red. Stand over the hot stove in the already stifling air, until the five tiny jars are finally full, finally sealed, on your counter.

The several thorns in your skin will fester and make their way out again.

When you go outside, the air will be filled with light and a breeze will blow over your face, clean and sincere as a promise that you will be alright, even if it isn't today. With each breath of wind, you feel hope, the sweet, forward movement of your life.

Chocolate Milk

2006-07-02T17:32:00.000-04:00

It's been a typical Sunday. Wake up. Walk the dog. Watch Meet the Press. (This is usually for the purpose of watching Tim Russert calling out politicians on their hypocrisies. Tim wasn't on today. Andrea Mitchell was a good substitute, but it wasn't the same. I deeply adore Tim, and I may be the only woman in America who feels that way. Chime in on your Tim fetish, if you have one.)

I had lunch with my friends who are sisters (this is a deviation from normal routine). I bought a newspaper. Went to the gym. Did my now standard daily hour of cardio, lifted weights. Watched the fat on my thighs, mocking me, refusing to budge.

And when I came home, what I wanted, more than anything else, was a glass of chocolate milk.

The last time I had chocolate milk, I had shown up on my friend's doorstep, bawling, because the night before, I'd told my boyfriend (ring nestled in his pocket) that I didn't want to marry him. You wouldn't necessarily think that turning someone else down would hurt, but it did. Terribly. I couldn't think of anything that I wanted to do but talk to my friend, so I'd called him in the morning, afraid I wouldn't catch him before he left town.

I had reasons for not wanting to get married. The longer my relationship lasted, the more I felt it was compressing me, turning me into someone smaller. Someone I didn't recognize. My ex-boyfriend (a great friend now, someone I respect) and I had little in common. He had expectations for who I should be, how I should behave, that I knew I couldn't live up to.

That, and it was obvious to just about everyone that it was my friend that my inner heart yearned for.

My friend held me in the doorway to his apartment building, didn't complain about the snot and tears on the front of his shirt. He took me inside, made me a glass of chocolate milk, and held my hand while I cried.

And that's the fairy tale ending: the girl leaves the boyfriend, waits, waits, waits, and somehow, her friend finally sees what everyone else sees. I wish everyone could have that moment, when you practically expect to see cameras and boom mikes there to catch the finale, so unexpected it could not be real.

But a moment is only a moment. I know that I rarely discuss love any more. What could I say about it? I really wish that I did have it all figured out (sorry, Richard).

Some days are better than others. Some days are awful. Mostly, there's nothing to say. In the past year, I've spent approximately twelve days with him. And this is what I did not expect: there are still expectations, compromises. And I believe that some expectations should exist--that we should be kind, loving, compassionate, patient, understanding, that we should clean up our own messes, that we should listen to each other. Still, what do you do when someone else's expectations for you are not the ones that you have for yourself?

Maybe it's not a typical Sunday. I'm here, in humid Virginia, thinking about a man very far away whom I love and desire. Probably I'll take Radar down to the stream and scout for turtles, log a few more pages in my alleged novel, and wait for enlightenment to come. I already drank the last of the milk.

Fantastical Exploits in...Reading

2006-06-18T22:01:00.000-04:00

Although my summer vacation is a mere five days old, already I have been a good reader. In theory, this is the summer in which I will actually begin work on my "murder mystery" novel, which isn't really quite a murder mystery at all. Consequently, all reading activities are officially classified as "studying".

I am providing reviews for the books I read, since I was solicitous for reviews and recommendations myself. (I'll still take more, if anyone has ideas.)

The first book I read was Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits by (I think) Laila Lalani. I picked it up because the title was marvelous, and it seemed like it was about Muslims (which it was, I guess), and there's a lot that I still don't understand about Islam. My view would be that the best part about the book was the title. This book gave me hope for my own novel being published, and I wouldn't categorize myself as naturally hopeful.

I also read The Stone Diaries by Carol Shields, on the recommendation of my dearest Kristen. (If you come to visit me here in Virginia, I'll probably do something exciting like take you to the library. That's what happened to Kristen, anyway.) This book was richly constructed, both in prose and overall structure. I guess this makes sense, since it won a Pulitzer Prize and all. I would read more of her work, enthusiastically.

I also finished the audio recording of Maeve Binchy's Circle of Friends. The radio stations around here are abysmal, and books on tape are my way of entertaining myself in the car these days. I chose this book because I'd seen the movie ages ago, and remembered being unsatisfied with it. Now I know why I was unsatisfied. They changed the ending. Stupid, stupid movies. You won't find any mouth-watering language in this book, but if you're stuck with awful radio stations, it's not a bad listen on tape, especially if you like listening to Irish people talk for sixteen odd hours. It's also full of Important Moral Lessons. And there are lots of nuns in it! I like nuns.

Goodby Panda!!!!

2006-06-18T19:17:00.000-04:00

This is Radr with a quik note abot my freind, Panda.

Iv had Panda as a toy fur a long time. Mom throes him, and I bring him bak!

Today I chood off his leg and pulld out his stufing. It wuz fun!

I hop I git a nu Panda. My brithday is offishly June 30th, and I lik presints!

lov,
RAdr

Wild Kingdom

2006-06-15T21:48:00.000-04:00

In what will be a rare break from the domestic and yet oh-so-solitary bliss that will be my summer, here is a story about death.

It's pretty gross.

I'm just letting you know in advance, so if you're sensitive, you can skip it and read all my cute baby animal stories where nothing dies.

Okay.

I was taking Radar out for a walk yesterday evening. Our general practice is to walk down the road, since I (typoed "we," but since dog is deaf...) can hear a vehicle coming about two minutes in advance of its arrival. Walking toward the road, with our neighbors' dog, Budro, following us, I noticed a brown lump in the middle of the driveway.

"Hmm," I thought. "What's that? Grass?"

Then I realized that it had pointy ears. A diamond-shaped face. Tiny hooves. And a big chunk missing out of its spotted side.

I stopped and tried to figure out what to do. How does a dead fawn get in the middle of the driveway? More importantly, how was one to get it off the driveway? I had some thoughts about both the first and second questions, but I didn't really want to think about either.

Because I was sad, and didn't want to look at it any closer, Radar and I took a short cut through the grass out to the road. After taking a longer-than-usual walk to the stream and back, I had finally steeled myself to getting the snow shovel from the shed, placing the body in the woods, and covering it with some of the branches my landlord has piled all over the property.

We arrived back at the house just in time to see my neighbor's dog grab the fawn by the neck, drag it into the grass, and begin eating it. I could hear bones snap in his mouth.

My feelings about this were not at all what I would have expected. I wasn't repulsed or disgusted. If anything, I registered mild anger, and surprise that our mild-mannered neighbor dog would be acting this way.

My first thought was relief that I didn't have to move the body on my own. The second was that I was right in my initial suspicion that the neighbor's dog had killed the deer, which was, as much as I hated it, the only logical explanation I had for how it had come to be in the driveway. The third thought was that I was reminded very much of all those nature shows I watched as a child, except that, instead of a lion and a gazelle, it was a dog and a fawn. I thought about how easy it is to forget that the line between domesticity and wildness is so thin.

Then I thought, "I'm pretty sure this is illegal in Pennsylvania."

Dogs killing deer is also illegal in West Virginia, but not, apparently, in Virginia.

Here is my dilemma. I feel fairly confident that my neighbor has no idea what Budro is up to. Should I tell her? It's apparently common for dogs that chase deer to be shot by landowners, and I'm also nervous that he might try to take down one of the calves who live nearby.

So, do I tell her? And, how does one go about telling their neighbor that their dog eats baby deer?

Advice is appreciated, needed.

Hey, Lynn. That bamboo steamer you gave me? I finally used it.

2006-06-15T21:28:00.000-04:00

I am officially immersed in that time-honored American tradition, Summer Vacation. Nearly the entire reason (plus that whole issue of wanting to make a difference in the sea of stupidity that is our public education system) that I decided to be a teacher was summer vacation. "I'll write," I told myself.

Weirdly enough, I have been writing. I have a novel project, and perpetual poetry projects. I'm a bit more confident in my abilities since nearly hitting pay dirt in the Lynda Hull Memorial Poetry Prize. I'm trying to squeeze out about a page in the novel a day, and am currently researching police procedures for homicide investigations. I feel studious. It's absorbing work.

I have also been cleaning. And cooking. Today, I cooked two meals. Granted, the first one came out of a box, but the second I made all by myself. While I was visiting my parents for Christmas break, my father showed me a recipe for salmon cooked in a bamboo steamer that he'd found in a grocery ad.

"I have a bamboo steamer," I said, congratulating myself. Of course, I hadn't used it. The recipe called for leeks, and other vegetables, but, as is typical, I could remember only the leeks.

Six months later, I finally managed to steam salmon. After copious research, I discovered the length of time for the salmon that I had. I bought a leek. I also bought asparagus, broccoli, and carrots, but opted for just the asparagus, since I swear that I have a full pound of it, and only myself and Radar to feed it to. (Radar, unfortunately, is not known to eat asparagus, which, yes, I have tried to feed to him.)

I decided to put some lemon juice and salt in the water for the steaming, since I'd read a recipe that put ginger and anise in the water for flavor. Because my mother always includes a starch with dinner, I defrosted some basmati rice (I freeze everything sooner or later), and heated up some Light Smart Balance and dill in the microwave, intended for the fish, but inevitably mixed into the rice.

About twelve minutes later, there was dinner. The fish wasn't fishy, and the asparagus wasn't bitter, and I have enough leftovers to last six months until I steam something again. I was happy, at least until I realized that I'd managed to mildly burn the edge of the steamer. No, I don't know how I did it.

Welcome to a summer of boring updates on writing and domesticity. You've been warned.

My Life as a Smurf (and a baby animal story)

2006-06-02T22:15:00.000-04:00

Today was Field Day at my Institution of Learning.

What Field Day entails is taking first the entire eighth grade, and then the entire rest of the school (900 children) out to the football field, and letting them play sports, dunk teachers, etc. ALL DAY. I signed up for gate duty, because I am not a joiner.

Actually, Field Day would not have been all day, were it not for the fact that 80% of the eighth grade passed their SOL (Standards of Learning for Virginia) Writing tests. Last year, 68% passed them. The administration thinks that we all are geniuses. Secretly, I think that standardized testing of writing is wrong, since the judgement of writing is inherently subjective. Case in point, my student who began every paragraph of his essay with "This paragraph is going to be about..." passed the test. (A former teacher told him to do this, and he wouldn't stop. We begged him.) Regardless, I successfully taught some kids how to pass a test. Hooray.

Back to Field Day.

I had a good time at gate duty, making sure that children didn't leave. It was a blast. I got to hang out with my hallway neighbor, Mr. S., a veteran teacher and former military man. He's actually very funny. You'd never guess by looking at him.

To top the day off (because running around outside and eating barbecue was not reward enough) children who read a lot of books and accumulated points for it through the Accelerated Reader program got to throw whipped cream pies in the faces of chosen teachers.

Flashback (an important SOL term!):

Me: Mea.
Mea (the top reader in the school, my student, and a swell kid): Yes.
Me: I was wondering. Since you're throwing the first pie, maybe you could pick me, so I could get it out of the way. And then maybe a not-nice child wouldn't pick me.
Mea: Okay.
Me: Because I was thinking, maybe you could miss.

To the present:

I noticed right away that the whipped cream was actually...blue. I smiled at Mea.

Me: I love you, Mea.

She didn't miss, but she was very gentle. It tasted like raspberries, and if it hadn't been on my face, I would have really enjoyed it. Some day, I can post some pictures, once they're all developed. It should be noted that some teachers refused to be pied.

Those teachers are lame.

I was very blue (although it finally came off, after my shower). The kids all said, "You look like a SMURF!"

"I'm short enough," I retorted.

***

Otherwise: have you ever seen a baby groundhog? Groundhogs aren't naturally the cutest of creatures (unless it's in a tree, in which case, it's adorable). The other day, driving home from work, I saw two bumps in the road--a big bump, and a little bump. I thought it might be some wood or hay, since those are the most common road obstacles. As I got closer, I recognized the groundhog's shape. And the little bump? A teensy tiny puff of groundhog baby.

I stopped the car. They turned around, and retreated into the grass by the side of the road.

I have decided to quit teaching, and devote myself to the breeding of miniature groundhogs. Please let me know your opinions on this field of employment, and whether or not you would be interested in purchasing tiny pet groundhogs.

Thank you.

Two words: Baby. Turkeys.

2006-05-31T20:11:00.000-04:00

In my continuing babblings about wildlife, here is a new and, I'm sure, highly anticipated entry.

Not far up the road from my first turtle rescue, I saw a large male turkey (a tom, right?) plop out of the thick grass on the left side of the road and slowly bobble his way into the grass on the other side (which is, incidentally, an abandoned graveyard featuring a tombstone reading: Gone but Not Forgotten. Ha!).

Being a country girl from way back, a turkey is no big deal. I've seen tons of turkeys. (My grandfather shot a turkey in his front yard two weeks ago, it being turkey season and all. Turkeys are part of our heritage. As is eating them.)

Next, a little gray bit of fluff hopped out of the grass, with a hen next to it.

"Oh, a baby!" I thought. Still, no big deal. I've seen baby turkeys before, too, and while their cuteness melts my heart to near-turtle levels, it's nothing to get ridiculous about.

But they kept coming. When the sixth baby tumbled into the road, I was impressed, and getting a bit wiggly with happiness over all the tiny fuzzy creatures.

But there were still more turkey babies. (For all you trivia buffs, a wee turkey is actually called a "poult". But don't feel sad if you didn't know. I had to look it up. Also, I was right about the toms.)

By the time the twelfth little one bounced out of the grass to bring up the tail end of the Turkey Parade, I was downright giggly. It was a good way to end the seventh-to-the-last day of school (not that I'm counting).

Conclusions:

1. Poult = cute. 12 poults = immediate joy.
2. Turkeys in Virginia are very fertile.
3. Turkeys expect you to wait for them to cross the road. Really.

I was going to write about something else, but Radar is whining and whining because I took his stuffed throw-Panda away from him because he was being impolite about it. If it occurs to me, I'll let you know. I'm about 100% sure that it wasn't about turkeys. Maybe.

Summer Reading List

2006-05-28T16:12:00.000-04:00

After reading Richard's comment about Bridge to Terabithia, I had a brilliant and self-serving idea. I've been trying to locate book titles that I could read this summer--really, really good juvenile fiction is fine (research for the young adult novels I may never write), but I'm looking primarily for accessible, literary kinds of adult fiction. I like books that surprise me.

In theory, I'm looking for pointers about the novel I'm supposed to be writing, even now, this very moment.

I'm in the midst of reading Jonathan Safran Foer's Everything is Illuminated, and then his other novel. My favorite novelist on most days is Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

So. Read any good books lately?

Turtle Crossing

2006-05-26T17:51:00.000-04:00

As I turned onto the dirt road where I live, I said to myself, "That's a big rock in the road."

Then I realized. It wasn't a rock at all. It was a turtle.

A cuddly, adorable, plodding little turtle.

I braked the car, put it in park, and clicked on the four-way lights, intent on saving my shelled friend from a highly-unlikely-yet-possible demise. I was vaguely nervous because I'd never picked up a turtle.

As my shadow fell over him, he shuddered, and began to pull his legs and head inside the shell. "Cute!" I thought. I bent down and picked him up. I had expected the turtle would be heavier. I thought I felt him breathe--or maybe his heart beating. He must have known, as I set him down in the grass on the other side of the road, that I was a friend, because he began to emerge from the shell even before I put him on the ground.

Saving turtles feels good, it turns out.

Otherwise, I've signed a contract to work here in Culpeper next year, since in my fifty million interviews I didn't manage to land a position anywhere. (I suspect all the offers will be coming in now that I've signed.) It's depressing, but I don't see that I could have made a different choice.

Some day, I may have other, important news, but for now, it's turtles, turtles, stupid job, turtles, turtles.

Finaly!!!!!!

2006-05-08T20:50:00.000-04:00

The naybors fond the puppys a good home!

Free! Im free!

i hope noone is to sad but probly i wont rite as much now that the puppis ar gone sins rilly i jus lik to complane.

to tide yu ovr until i rite agin, heres a pikshur of me snifing my naybor dog gipsy. she smels good and shes not anoying lik the fatpuppys.

arrividerchi! syonara! goodby!

Luv 4 evah,

Radr

Remnants of the ice storm (December in Virginia)

2006-05-07T20:07:00.000-04:00

That day, I awoke to a call from Maureen, my predecessor on the calling tree.

"No school. Ice storm."

I hung up, looked out at the darkness outside. Couldn't go to sleep.

Slowly, the sun crept up. I'd been listening to the clattering on the trees all night, all morning, and the sun began to unveil the ice, to scatter sparks across the landscape.

I put on a sweater, grabbed my complete manual SLR camera, prayed its penchant to double-expose wouldn't kick in. I thought of my love in Syria, the unbearably cold nights, the scorching days. I thought of him trudging up the mountains at night, sitting in his classes, the immediate world at once wholly foreign and utterly familiar.

I took my pictures, and with every snap of the lens thought of moving just one second closer to him, of holding a pearl-string of moments together, both of us in worlds that were entirely ours and entirely strange to us.

This Wun Gos Out to Richurd

2006-05-07T17:15:00.000-04:00

Hay Richurd.

Luk. Its the fat puppys.

Arnt thay cute?

There suppost to go the the pund tomorrow, my nayber sez. But I don't beliv her.

Thay ar stil heer! (Fat puppys updat)

2006-05-05T22:52:00.000-04:00

Hey yall. This is Radr agin.

Just wantid to let yu no that thos puppis ar stil heer. Thay where suppost to be gon tosday. And thin today. May be mom wil tak them to the pund.

Thay ar stil here, and thay git fattir all the tim! The gurl pupy evin came into my hows and rolld arund luking cute.

Did I menshin I hat thim?

As I promsed erlier, i am runing away frum home. Probly.

All this takl ov the puppys has got me thinking abut my tim in the pond. I wuz verry sik and skiny. I almost ded! And my name wuz Marvin. That suked.

Then on day Mommi came and tuk me on a wak. She wuz nice! And then she becam my mom. She sed, "Marvin, do you want to be my dog?" I likked her! And then I wuz her dog.

Evin tho I hat the fat puppys. I know its hard to be in the pond. I hop thay find gud homes. Wich thay probly will becuz there so cute and furry I hat them!

Love,
Radr

P.S. Mom sez she shood have puppi picshures tomorow. Stay tunned!

Invasion of the Fat Puppies, By Radar

2006-04-25T17:15:00.000-04:00

Hay evrbody!

This is Radr. Im Gails dog. This is my secind blog intree.

Im writin abut these fat puppis somebuddy dropt off hear. Thay r fat! Thier r 2 of thim & thay r so fat I thank thay wil eat me!

I hat them becuz they whant to play with mee whin I don't want to and also becz Mommi liks them. I'm gellis! I hat is whin she petts the fat puppies. They r evl!

Im tryin to giv them way but if nobuddy wants them i wil run way frum home.

Othr than the fat puppies I'm ok. I wint to c my ant atam and unkil jermy in nort carlina becuz Mommy wint to sea olvr and hiz famly. It wuz fun. I playd wit the cats all day. Thay wer not evl lik theez puppys! I wish Momm wood of takkin me with hur but she sed no.

Mommi seems happy becuz she saw olivr and becz his famly wuz nice. shes stil lookin 4 jobs but shes not shor shes leving after all. Sumthing abut wate an see whut happins. Whut happins with whut? shes so wird. I dont care to much as long as i cen still eat lots of fud and their r no fat puppys!

The Week in Review

2006-04-07T17:30:00.000-04:00

Because those who know me know that I love little more than I love lists:

1. I need only one dental filling after a few years' vacation from that whole dentist thing.

2. My dentist was really, really hot. This made me think of talking to a friend of mine a year ago on his back porch, and he told me a story about his fiancee, and how she felt guilty when she realized that she had developed a crush on a coworker. I wouldn't say that I feel guilty. But if things don't work out with my guy for some unbeknownst reason, I'm going after my dentist.

3. Speaking of the guy, we celebrated our one year anniversary of togetherness this past April 6. We celebrated by IMing at length about why I don't want to wear a hijab, and why I should. I figure that if that's my biggest difficulty in Islam (or my biggest failing), I'm probably not doing so badly.

4. I was thinking earlier in the week (shortly before the accident) that Islam is kind of like jazz. When I first started playing jazz piano in college, I was so abysmally out of my element that our jazz band director called me "Mozart Playing Jazz". Three years later, after practicing and practicing, I had finally developed a semblance of soul. But it was hard, hard work, and it wasn't something that grew naturally in me. It occurs to me also that I would never call myself a jazz pianist, but I don't know that it's accurate to push my analogy quite so far.

5. My sister and brother-in-law got a ton of money for the accident from their insurance company, and the punk's company all but admitted fault to me over the phone.

6. Sister and brother-in-law will be hosting their nephew, Radar, while I go to Ohio to visit the family of afforementioned boyfriend beginning next Wednesday. I'm not yet nervous.

7. Perhaps I'm not nervous about being rejected by boyfriend's family because already this week I've been rejected from a job that I wanted with my entire heart, one poetry magazine, and I received the official announcement that one of my former peers in graduate schools just won a prestigious poetry prize. (I'm not naturally annoyed by such things, but it was a peer whose writing didn't seem worthy of much recognition, much less winning several big prizes.) I live in rejection. It is my invisible skin.

8. But who's complaining? Only one cavity. And I'll go back to the dentist in mid-May.

9. If anyone knows of any English teaching positions in high schools, please contact me. I swear that I am good and smart, even though I'm not especially experienced. I also have good dental hygiene. Thank you.

Strange Light and a Vertical Rainbow, or How We Wrecked My Sister's Car

2006-04-04T16:43:00.000-04:00

The good news is, nobody got hurt, unless you count my really sore neck, which I do.

This is especially good news because, knowing my sister and the fact that she did very little but learn karate for two years, there would have been some butt-kicking going on.

How did we wreck the car? That depends entirely on whom you're asking. Either I had "no idea where I was going" because I'm from "out of town," and I used a right turn signal and began to turn right when suddenly I veered to the left, and that's why the backwards-baseball-cap-wearing guy hit us.

Or.

I was turning left, which I've done probably a hundred times in going to either Pittsburgh or Virginia from my parents' house, and he hit us.

Regardless, the punk was trying to pass me in an intersection, which strikes me as perhaps the wrong thing.

However, on the way back from the scene of the incident (the car was still driveable), we did see the sky turn the darkest shade of blue I've ever seen, forefronted with white clouds; the trees turning red with their first budding leaves; the landscape turning pale orange with the strange light from the gathering storms; one perfect rainbow curving across the sky; another, later, shooting straight up into the clouds.

I would never have imagined feeling so content while driving in a damaged car. Grateful, maybe, but not content. But I was. I wouldn't have traded it for anything.

Except maybe a new car for my sister.

Hire Me

2006-03-04T19:20:00.001-05:00

As I was sitting here, nibbling at cheddar-flavored Chex Mix (actually pretty good) and scanning news headlines for something of interest, I thought, "You could blog."

This little blog--or, more aptly, my adventure in blogging, since I've moved it--is reaching its one year anniversary. What more appropriate way of celebrating than actually writing in it?

Honestly, I haven't been writing because whatever is happening in my life seems completely insignificant when I think about what's going on in the lives of those close to me. There are new children being born, about to be born. I sit here and throw tennis balls for the dog, dread returning to work. I've been practicing the piano more, since I'm accompanying the Floyd T. Binns choirs. I've missed it. I'm still good at it.

One of my students wrote an essay about why I am the best teacher she has ever had. She says that I am a strong person because being alone, without my boyfriend here, has made me independent. She writes that she can see the sorrow in me that I hide from everyone. I don't know what any of that has to do with being a good teacher, but she is far more eloquently discussing the elements of my life than I ever could these days.

Sometimes the wind blows through the trees outside my window in a way that reminds me what joy is.

For those of you who are wondering what's happening in the news, there's a pending investigation into Pat Tillman's death; a beautiful young graduate student was murdered in New York and everyone is mourning her; a young woman who was not as beautiful died horrifically somewhere and no one reported it; the war on terror continues; I am still afraid.

My new hobby these days is looking for jobs. On my table is an unsigned letter of intent for Loudoun County Public Schools. I have had seven interviews in three weeks. All have gone well. I'm left with the impression that I could get a job just about anywhere that I wanted to. It's a little unnerving when someone looks at your resume and says, "Wow." I don't know how to respond to that.

You can't really say, "I know. I don't how I live with myself, being this amazing."

If any Virginians stumble across this: if you could live in the DC or Charlottesville areas, which would you choose, and why? I have no idea where I want to be. Except, probably not in Loudoun, because even with the bazillion dollar salary, I don't know how I would afford to live there. That, and the "Gang Free School Zone" signs made me a little suspicious.

Otherwise, I'm planning on jaunting out to Pittsburgh the weekend of March 18. There is allegedly going to be someone else coming to meet me there from the west. I'm giving enough advance warning this time that I can find people without relentlessly and creepily stalking them.

Here We Go

2006-01-22T18:55:00.000-05:00

A little tumult in the brain today.

And what else to do but publicize it to everyone? (To Lynn's confusion, which is, of course, a valid reason to do it.)

A history of a mild panic attack:

My teacher of all things Islamic asked me to meet her at a forum she was presenting at this morning on cross-religion communication, since she knew she would be late to Sunday school. I hopped into my little car and drove the hour into Charlottesville, and followed the directions until I arrived at an Episcopal Church where the parishioners were shifting between services.

I sat in my car, paralyzed.

From my musical experiences in high school, I've been in countless different denominations (and non-denominations) of churches. Everyone in their dressy clothes, dragging the children off to church, was about the most normal scene I could imagine.

Except that I now had no place in it. I watched a woman in a knee-length skirt walk by. A woman with her dark hair tied up in a pony tail. All the while, I stared at the hijab, carefully folded on the passenger seat (I haven't figured out how to actually drive a car and see while wearing one.) I don't normally wear the hijab, except to prayer and Sunday school. In some way, this has made me feel increasingly like a fraud, as if this particular part of my life is compartmentalized into a few hours here and there.

I didn't know exactly where I was supposed to meet my teacher. And I couldn't decide whether I should put on the hijab and go out into a crowd of Christians and, in some sense, publicly expose myself, or if I should keep my hair uncovered and demonstrate how I truly act in the world.

In the end, I pulled up the hood of my coat tightly, so that I could fit in as anyone, and walked up to the church to investigate. I didn't find my teacher after all, and drove off relatively unscathed to school--unless, of course, you consider that I started crying so much that I had to actually pull off to the side of the road on the way there. I've always been one for melodrama, but in that moment I had absolutely no idea who I was and where I fit into the world.

I'm still floating a bit in that stratosphere, hours later.

I thought certainly that watching the Steelers game would help, but it didn't.

I'm sure that it does not goes without saying--so I'll say it--that a certain object of my affections did finally drag himself home about two weeks ago. I don't know how to make that into a newsflash that's worthy of your reading time (both of you). And it's hard to be truly excited, since the only pleasure I've extracted from it has been talking to him on the phone. A sweet luxury to hear his voice after five months, but no substitute for actually seeing him. And I have no idea when that will happen.

At the very least, I'm less of a mess than I would be if I had not intrepidly ventured to Pittsburgh last weekend, camping out on the floors of various kind friends, and partaking of a marvelous dinner at sster's home. For a moment, I looked out at the world around me--a world of writers and familiar streets--and I could see, if only for a few days, somewhere that I belonged without question.

Possible commentary starters:

1. Do I need a therapist?
2. Do you think the Steelers will win the Super Bowl?
3. Am I overreacting to my own sense of displacement?

How I Met Nancy Kerrigan

2006-01-08T08:26:00.000-05:00

It all began on December 21, when one of my friends named Becky here in Culpeper (hereafter referred to as Becky 1) called me at midnight.

She told me that she'd met the perfect guy for my other friend Becky (hereafter referred to as Becky 2), and asked me what her phone number was.

This all resulted in Becky 2 having a profoundly random message on her answering machine when she returned home from break. I found it all to be highly amusing--and almost identical to a scene in a screenplay I was working on under the tutelage of one Carl Kurlander, screenwriter of St. Elmo's Fire and Saved by the Bell.

It turns out that the character I most resemble is Screech. No surprise there.

But I digress.

Becky 1 hatches a scheme to introduce Becky 2 to said person. This scheme involves taking a truck load of people to go...ice skating.

It should be noted that I have never gone ice skating before, and that my prior roller skating forays were notable to my mother because she would see me speeding around the rink, then vanishing when I fell, then getting back up, then speeding around. Apparently this was hilarious.

I arrive at the skating rink with Becky 2 and her older sister. No one else is there thirty minutes later. Then, finally, Becky 1 and her boyfriend arrive, claiming that the alleged date would arrive soon. In the meantime, we watched many tiny people learning to skate by pushing buckets around the ice to keep their balance.

"I need some of those buckets," I thought. But they were only for children, it turned out.

When we finally went out to skate (the date still absent), I discovered one thing quickly: ice is slippery. I avoided doing anything silly like falling in front of thirty speeding children by pushing myself along the wall. Then, suddenly, I figured it out.

I was thinking two things as I proceeded at a slow but graceful glide around the ice.

1. Where is this guy, anyway?
2. Why on earth is that woman over there wearing age-inappropriate black lace tights and skating around on one leg like she's Nancy Kerrigan?

I was still thinking these things when the guy arrived nearly an hour and a half after the scheduled meeting time. To make a long story short, I got really good at ice skating (all things considered), Becky 1 dragged everyone out to a bar (I didn't drink), and The Date got kicked out by a bouncer because he's TWENTY and had been kicked out the NIGHT BEFORE from the SAME BAR.

In summary:

1. I can ice skate!
2. I didn't fall!
3. It was kind of exciting seeing someone get kicked out of a bar.
4. I can ice skate!

The Brief Dreams of Insomniacs

2006-01-04T17:32:00.000-05:00

Since returning to Virginia, I've been plagued by insomnia. I stay awake for hours at night, rolling to look at the clock every so often and watch the hours ticking by.

Why can't I sleep? I wish I knew. I've been working hard to get my apartment organized, and I've been approaching the task with more than my usual vigor. I've started writing aggressively, since I now think I have a better direction for my planned series of essays on love, and a decent idea for a novel. And it's true that a certain man I'm rather fond of is due back in the United States in six days. (He was originally supposed to be back this past Sunday [edit cranky thoughts here]).

Last night, I actually got a few hours of sleep. My dream:

A ham sandwich (thinly sliced, on white bread), floating before a backdrop of soft pink and gray clouds. As I watched it, the sandwich would rotate slightly, so that I could look at it from a variety of angles. Yes, that was the entire dream, and yes, it went on for a while--until my lucid dreaming kicked in and I said, "Woah. I'm dreaming about a ham sandwich. I should wake up."

I have enjoyed some ham sandwiches in my lifetime, but not enough to dream about them. And I haven't found myself overly craving ham since becoming Muslim.

So, my questions:

1. Does anyone know any good cures for insomnia?
2. What do you think this dream means, if it's worth interpreting at all?

Happy sleeping to you all.

Don't let nobody change u for the world

2005-12-15T20:36:00.000-05:00

I wish I could say that I have been so busy, that life has been so scintillating, that I just didn't have time to write anything for you. (Modified, with horror, from "you all". Truly I am becoming Virginian.)

In reality, I suppose I have been busy. Most days, I find that teaching drains every drop of energy out of me. There are brief, beautiful moments. For example, the note I got from one of my students, which provides us with the title for today's blog entry. An English teacher's nightmare, and an English teacher's dream.

Nothing of real note has happened, though. Imitation ladybugs began sprouting in the corners of my apartment--dozens of them, piled on top of each other. I broke up the orgy with a broom, and have been finding their bodies all over the apartment ever since.

I gave the dog a bath.

I caught a student with a knife in my class.

I watched rain fall and turn to ice twice in the last two weeks. Even now, the neighbor's lights are turning the trees to silver. All day I've been home, making biscotti, reading a book for the sheer pleasure of it.

I've been working through my religious conversion/reversion, trying to come to terms with the slight variations on my everyday life that it requires. I'm proving to be stubborn on some minor details, like the lengths of skirts and shirt sleeves.

I went to Williamsburg and saw a candle shop where the indoors are made to look like the outdoors.

I've watched the calendar days drain down. It's possible that I might be able to see my favorite man within a month's time, if all goes well. (Inshallah -- God willing -- as they say.)

I counted and realized that I have 71 poems in circulation to various magazines. It turns out that I have been a prolific writer; I have more of them that could go out, if the mood struck me. I am awaiting my rejection letters eagerly these days.

It will be a year of changes next year for me, as this year was.

What are you looking forward to in the new year? What have been your great joys this year?

I may be able to sneak through Pittsburgh during the coming break. Will anyone be around?

I miss everyone. I hope your holidays (should I not write again soon) will be lovely and safe.

Republican Party Census Document

2005-11-09T18:23:00.000-05:00

Warning: I'm not quite sure if the way that I came about the following information is completely legal. Still, it seemed unfair not to share.

One of the prior occupants of my apartment (not even the previous one, but long, long before) received a letter from the Republican National Committee. On the envelope, it said: REPUBLICAN CENSUS DOCUMENT ENCLOSED.

Fortunately, they didn't seal the envelope, and I didn't have to feel completely guilty in taking a peek.

Here are the contents of the survey. I presume that these will be of interest to Republicans, Democrats, and those members of neither party, who are at all wondering what the Republicans are thinking about these days. It should be noted that the results of this survey will help to steer the Republican platform for the next ten years.

I'm hoping that by typing this out, it will stop me from filling it out and sending it in.

Also, you should be very grateful that I am typing this for you. It costs eleven dollars to tabulate each survey! I am saving the RNC a lot of money. (And, I'm not even asking you for a donation. You're welcome.)

Please answer honestly. For each question, we should reply: Yes, No, or Undecided.

Domestic and International Security

1. Do you support President Bush's initiatives to promote the safety and security of all Americans?

2. Do you support the use of air strikes against any country that offers safe harbor or aid to individuals or organizations committed to further attack on America?

3. Do you continue to support increasing the amount of security at airports, train stations, and all government buildings, including monuments and museums?

Economic Issues

4. Should the inheritance or "Death Tax" be permanently repealed?

5. Do you support President Bush's pro-growth policies to create more jobs and improve the economy?

6. Do you think Congress should focus on cutting the federal budget deficit by reducing wasteful government spending? Blogger's note: Wasteful? Like what? One wonders.

Education Issues

7. Do you support President Bush's plan to make our schools more accountable to parents and to stores local control of education?

8. Should students, teachers, principals and administrators be held to higher standards?

9. Do you agree that teaching our children to read and increasing literacy rates should be a national priority?

Social Issues

10. Do you support President Bush's initiative to allow private religious and charitable groups to do more to help those in need?

11. Do you support the law, passed by the Republican Congress and signed by President Bush, that bans partial-birth abortions?

12. Do you support the President's efforts to save Social Security for future generations?

13. Do you think Congress should pass legislation on the Federal Marriage Amendment?

Defense Issues

14. Do you think U.S. troops should have to serve under United Nations' commanders?

15. Do you agree that our top military priority should be fighting terrorists?

16. Should the U.S. continue work on building a defense shield against nuclear missile attack?

I look forward to hearing your responses on any of these issues.

Dear Trent Lott,

2005-11-06T17:05:00.000-05:00

I understand that you don't read blogs, and never will. I read this in Time magazine. I wanted to commend you on your open-mindedness, and your acute understanding that there are no blogs whose main topic isn't exposing your misdeeds.

Obviously, all blogs are about you. You, and only you.

I admit it. You're the only thing I think about, day and night. Night and day. You are a smoldering tower of masculinity and political prowess and I carry you around inside me like an extra organ.

I need you, Trent.

Please, I beg of you.

Read my blog. If you did, I'd update it more than once a month like I do now.

Love always,

Sanuvia

Dear Elle, or, Why I Became a Muslim

2005-10-25T19:18:00.000-04:00

I keep forgetting that when I write in my blog, technically anyone can read it.

So, to Elle, who wanted to know why I became a Muslim (and because I think even the people who know me probably don't know), I present the following. I apologize that it took me five bazillion years to write it, but I was in the midst of reading a bunch of ridiculous SOL (Standards of Learning) writing prompts about how my students would have their family from a runaway tiger in a zoo, and I was walking around with a little storm cloud of self-pity over my head, and I just couldn't do it yet.

I'm feeling better today.

This probably has something to do with the massive stack of pancakes that I consumed this morning.

Regardless, I probably started becoming a Muslim when I quit being a Catholic, at the age of sixteen. (In an unlikely turn of events, when I told my mother of my decision, she replied, "That's all right. I never liked it, either.") I had many complaints about Catholicism, largely stemming from the inferiority I felt as a female member of the congregation, and because there were some questions that I had about the logic of Christianity.

Although I stated this before, I will say it again. I have no problem whatsoever with Christianity. If that's the path to God that works best for you, and you find it helpful, that's wonderful. It's just not something that worked for me.

The main complaint that I formed went something like this:

If Jesus (and consequently, God) had to die for our sins and be resurrected, doesn't that necessarily mean that God is not omnipotent?

In other words, it made no sense to me that the creator of the world, who should know all that will happen, would knowingly allow Adam and Eve to bring original sin upon us all, and then later realize, "Oh, wait. I guess it's time to undo original sin." God should have just been able to make that happen without all of the rigmarole of becoming human, dying, and ascending into heaven.

Really, this is the story of how I became agnostic, too, because I had no idea what Islam was until I met this very lovely man in graduate school. He never really talked much about his faith, but I kept doing embarrassing things, like calling during prayer, and trying to feed him during fasting, and so I started to read about Islam to stop making a fool of myself.

The more I read, the more I found I agreed with.

The more questions that I had, the more it seemed that Islam was providing answers.

And I admit that there are some things that I am still adjusting to, and some things that I'm not sure I'll ever really like. I'm still figuring out exactly the position of women; I know that there is a great deal of respect given to women and motherhood, and women have far more rights than Westerners tend to realize. Because right now I still feel a little more outside of Islam than inside, because I'm still learning, it's hard for me to judge.

If anyone is interested in hearing more about that topic, let me know and I'll see what I can put together.

I'm open to any questions or discussions, which I will presume in advance will be kind-hearted. I'm not the best person to explain Islam, but I can explain more about my decision if need be.

Cleansing Ritual

2005-10-23T20:28:00.000-04:00

Often, I need to drown in my sadnesses a little before I get back to the air.

At least I have a quiet place in the country to live. And at least I have a stove to heat it.

And the closest neighbors are quiet.

At least I have a sweet little dog to play fetch with every hour of every day.

I have a family who loves me. A long future ahead of me with a man who even continents away makes me glad to be alive (if not every hour of the day, most of them). I have the ability to choose the shape of my life, even if I'm not always sure what shape I'd like for that to be.

I feel better. Sorry for the sorrow-fest earlier.

And now, to throw a tennis ball for the aforementioned canine.

Visitations

2005-10-23T15:02:00.000-04:00

Fall has come quietly to Virginia, touching first one leaf, then the next. The red has held off until the last minute, erupting rarely amid the flat browns and yellows, the dull orange. Fall in Virginia is a yawn, a breath of chilled air.

My parents breezed through yesterday on their way home from visiting my sister in North Carolina. While here, we dismantled my broken dryer (now still in pieces, awaiting the repair-person), added coolant to the radiator, finally got the Pennsylvania license plate off my car where it had been rusted on.

We cooked dinner, watched The Royal Tenenbaums, told stories. My mother thinks that the fasting of Ramadan is cruel because she can't see how someone can go twelve hours without water, but seems supportive of my decision.

It's cold enough now to need heat, but my propane isn't attached to my heater yet. "Use the stove," said the landlord. And so I am.

Some days my own panic alarms me. I nearly convinced myself yesterday that my dearest associate was dead when he failed to write to me by his usual scheduled time. I always risk the danger of falling into fiction: creating stories to fill in what is unknown at any moment. Fiction is easy these days, although reality is not so difficult, either. Most days I'm content. (I tend to exaggerate.)

Unfortunately, I enjoy teaching probably 55% of the time. I hate to yell. I hate discipline. I hate that many of my students have already given up on themselves, and there seems to be nothing I can do. I hate that my kindness is like an arrow shot through a cloud, for all the effect it has.

Sometimes loneliness comes in, sits down, pours itself a glass of water and goes to sit in the other room.

I find most of the inhabitants here bore me. I'm starting to consider going back to graduate school, picking up a PhD, pursuing the professorship I didn't think I wanted. Two months into school and my brain is already itching for a challenge, someone to talk to about subjects beyond "Why is this a verb?" and "What is plot?"

I wish I had my best friend here to talk this out with me, to determine what decisions are best for us both. But until then, it's just me, loneliness, and my dog. And the blanket of Virginia fall gathering around my knees. And one cup of orange and jasmine tea, thick with honey.

Special Request Photos

2005-10-23T13:48:00.000-04:00

Beyond Shrinking the Kids

2005-10-16T22:04:00.000-04:00

One of my sick obsessions is figuring out what happened to the celebrities of yesteryear.

I've often wondered in the past few years what became of Rick Moranis, beloved star of Honey, I Shrunk the Kids and Spaceballs.

Wonder no longer.

I'm sure you'll all rest easier.

2005-10-15T23:30:00.000-04:00

First Steps

Yesterday I officially became a Muslim.

I decided on Wednesday to actually contact the mosque in Charlottesville, since the one in Fredericksburg never called back. By Thursday, I had three enthusiastic emails offering help and many exclamation points. Friday after school, I drove myself the hour down to the mosque and finally found it. It turns out that I had found it before, but it never occurred to me that the little white house was anything but a little white house. This time I was tipped off by a woman wearing a hijab on the front porch, who turned out to be one of the people who had emailed me.

I showed up in time for dinner and then hung around through the women's prayer group. Everyone that I met was positively wiggly about meeting me. And I had four separate women offer to teach me Arabic.

The process was both more nerve-wracking and far less than I had imagined it would be. Essentially, I got to sit in front of a group of about forty people and repeat Arabic sentences that affirm my faith. I didn't feel an ounce of nervousness about it. And then everyone ate cookies.

The only thing I found nerve-wracking was how much everyone wanted to talk with me, and hear the story of how I made my decision. I'm always uncomfortable being the center of attention (especially when people are so happy they're crying). Much advice was thrown around, although most of it was for me to be patient with myself as I learn, and to take only the advice that was helpful.

Apparently, all of my prior sins have all been washed away (and thank goodness--I've been involved in some pretty serious mistakes). I don't feel as pure as everyone says I am. But I feel that I'm headed in the right direction.

Now I just have to tell my family.

In other news, Landlord let himself into my apartment yesterday while I was becoming Muslim and turned off the light I deliberately left on so I could actually see the way to my door. He also moved some things around while he was in here. I know that Landlord has the right to do this thing technically, but I felt very violated by it nonetheless. I'm feeling guilty about feeling so annoyed. So, is it okay that I'm so growly about this?

Today, I visited Syria, Virginia, because I was missing my visitor to Syria terribly this afternoon. It seems to be a little town that's built around a fancy country resort where they're currently having an apple festival. There were goats, and women riding horses down the road. I think I'll have to find out how my Syria got its name. There's nothing about it that resembles the Syria I've been hearing about. The leaves in my Syria are changing (but only yellow), and the air is lukewarm and smells of sweet, damp earth.

2005-10-07T18:05:00.000-04:00

FedEx Is Evil/ The Search for God/Acceptance

Yes. I swear these things are all related. But really only temporally, in that I want to talk about them today.

First of all, FedEx is evil for the following reasons:

I was contacted on Tuesday with the message that FedEx could not locate the address at which I lived to deliver a package to me. FedEx has not discovered the miracle of MapQuest.
I called them back to confirm my address and directions to said address.
The lovely woman I spoke with promised to make sure that these directions got to the carrier.
The next day, I received no package. I called, and was told I should call back the next day because all the carriers had left. Well, obviously, but apparently they forgot the directions to my apartment.
Today I received a postcard from FedEx to the effect that they did not have my phone number (despite having called), my address (to which the post card was delivered) or the directions to my apartment (which I gave them on the phone).

I would not be so annoyed about this, but I have been waiting for over a month for this package, which contains two cute head scarves that I would like to wear when I officially become Muslim.

I haven't particularly discussed this topic on my blog, or really anywhere. I know. And I think, given the political climate of the United States, that becoming a Muslim (or accepting that you already were, as it technically works) is not particularly popular. I could understand if my readers (all six of you, whom I love madly) thought I was a little mentally unstable.

There is the argument that I have only made this decision to please my significant person, since Islam happens to be his religion. And I can see how people might get this impression, except for the fact that I didn't start dating him until two months after I made up my mind. At the end of the day, the more that I studied Islam, the more that I found my complaints about Christianity were being answered in a way that I could accept.

I have great respect for Christianity. It's just not something that worked for me.

So there I was, sitting at an educational conference all day and, hijabs or none, I was in such proximity to the mosque that I thought it was a good day to take my shahadah.

It should be noted that I have looked for this particular mosque before and failed. Today counts as strike two. The mosque is allegedly on 10 1/2 Street SW. I could find 10 1/2 Street NW with no trouble, and 10th Street SW. I drove in increasingly maddening circles (and met up with at least four dead ends) for about an hour before I decided that the whole thing was a hoax and went home.

Up until today, I had appreciated the metaphor of the literal and metaphorical search for God in my life. Now, I really would like to profess my faith and work on improving it.

Otherwise, I got a poem accepted by Natural Bridge today for their Spring 2006 issue. It's a poem about a girl with a halo who's obsessed with vultures and being in love. I've always liked the poem myself, since I'm a morbid sort, but never imagined that anyone would actually publish it.

Then I discovered that it was for their DREAMS issue. And the acceptance became stunningly clear. It was a nice end to a day of preposterous misdirection.

I hope for you that your journeys will take you where you're trying to go today.

2005-10-04T19:08:00.000-04:00

Relative Distances

A few days revolving around heights and measurements, the amount of miles/hours/months between here and elsewhere.

My beautiful friend Kristen drove down to Virginia for the weekend. I hadn't seen her since vacating Pittsburgh at the cusp of July. What I realized quickly was the distinct difference between her and the new friends that I've made here, and I suddenly, desperately craved my little academic neighborhood in my medium-sized Knowledge Town. To be able to talk about navigating heaven and earth and be understood cannot be undervalued. Or found here, so far.

The Shenandoah National Park will take your breath and not return it. The altitude dizzies you. Miles and miles of forest and paths and quiet down deep beneath the canopy. Here, the leaves are just beginning to turn. We climbed up a rock scramble to a spot where the rocks broke out over the trees, over the entire range of mountains, and clouds were wetly grazing our limbs.

Meanwhile, my lover's plane lifted from this country and landed much later, elsewhere. He still does not seem far from me. Perhaps because I have so rarely seen him since May. (Since May.) Perhaps because he is truly much closer than I feared he would be.

Possibly, also, because Syria is only just down the road. Granted, it's Syria, Virginia, but I find comfort in it nonetheless.

What distances are you trying to cross these days?

2005-09-26T21:43:00.000-04:00

Michael Jackson

Each Monday, the students who have the privilege to be with me in "enrichment time" (aka "remediation for those who are failing") get to reflect on character education or study skills. This week's character education asked them to consider the differences between reputation and character.

In particular, they were told to consider someone who had a good reputation but inevitably displayed bad character, and write about how their minds changed about that person.

"I don't get it," they said.

I explained that they might want to choose someone famous who once had everyone's respect, and then lost it.

"Like Michael Jackson!" one said.

"Sure. Like Michael Jackson," replied their instructor.

They became suddenly spirited in their conversation, and all was going well until they began to discuss Michael Jackson's skin color.

"He was alright until he started bleaching himself."

"Yeah, no offense, but he totally wants to look like us, right, Miss G?"

One girl looked at me in surprise, then back to the girl who had spoken. "Miss G's not white."

I wasn't quite sure what to say. "I am," I said. What I was thinking was, is there anyone who is more "white"? And more importantly, what difference does it make?

My student could not be convinced; it apparently meant very much to her. "But you're not all the way white. There's definitely some not-white. Where're you from?"

And that is today's commentary on the social creation of race. Thank you.

2005-09-25T18:53:00.000-04:00

Shadows, Dust, Peace

Early one morning last week, I was walking Radar just before dawn. The stars were still thick and precise, the moon impossibly bright between the branches of pine.

Something moved just behind me in the grass. I started. My heart shuddered. And I stood perfectly still.

After a moment, I tugged on Radar's leash and kept walking. Again, something moved.

When I looked down at my feet, I could see a darker spot against the night darkness of the grass. It was my shadow being cast by the moon.

Literally, I was afraid of my own shadow.

***

Saturday, up to Washington DC on a school-enforced trip to the National Book Festival ("sponsored by the Library of Congress and Laura Bush"). A block away, a protest for peace was being held. As my fellow teachers and I trudged through the remarkable inches of dust on the National Mall, people walked through with their placards and signs denouncing the administration.

("I wonder if Laura Bush is here," I wondered aloud.
"I doubt it," said my friend.
I looked at the dust on my feet, encrusted on my shoes, lining the threads on my jeans. "No, probably not.")

My fellow teachers, being Virginians, didn't exactly approve of the peace protest. I have been careful not to align myself too closely with my own politics at work, so I don't think it even occurred to them that I might, in my heart, be marching right along with those same protesters that they were belittling.

The odd thing is this: I actually like these people. Obviously, they won't be affecting my beliefs, but it's been a long time since I've been exposed to people whose allegiances were so far away from mine. I was surprised by my response, that I still wanted to be their friends, that I wanted to listen to their opinions, even though I disagreed so strongly. I wanted to understand them.

***

To their credit, they did very much seem to enjoy Donald Hall's new poem, "We Bring Democracy to the Fish." Easily one of the most brilliant things I've heard all year, that poem.

***

Bumper sticker: Imagine whirled peas. It took me three rereadings to understand what it said. I was imagining peas in a circles.

***

For those of you who might potentially be reading my blog for information about others: For my lover, now it's Syria for two months, with credits to be applied to his graduate school. Potentially, I will see him in December, for a day.

I am happy for him. And the timeline of two months is immeasurably better than the two years that it might have been.

Still. The weeks and months have chains on their legs and drag them through my hours.

2005-09-19T01:58:00.000-04:00

Forbidden Error

Who knows what happened? Regardless, no one, not even me, can access my old blog.

In case it ever comes back and you can't see how forbidden it is anymore, the message reads:

Forbidden

You don't have permission to access /the_love_project on this server.
Additionally, a 403 Forbidden error was encountered while trying to use an ErrorDocument to handle the request.

Life finds me (forbidden) dealing well with my grandmother's loss, and my family trudging along with equal resilience. You might also find me not vacuuming regularly, eating occasional community dinners with a small group of teachers, grading seventy notebooks over the weekend, cleaning Radar's ears, not washing my dishes regularly, dealing with rude eighth graders. Giving lunch detentions. Writing office referrals.

Call me the Punisher.

You might also find me right on the brink of becoming exceedingly happy. After months of hair twisting and near panic, Lover landed himself a very late admission to a school right here in the States that will occupy him only for a year or so. So, no Egypt or Syria or Jordan for the time being, and we'll actually see each other in the interim.

I wish I weren't so happy about it, though. It's astonishing how much I want this person to be near me. I pride myself on my ability to be patient, but my impatience to be with him borders on being shameful.

At least we're starting to talk about the What Happens Next. Just the thought that I might potentially get to be an old person right next to him makes me feel like I'm a buxom woman on a windy day on the cover of a tattered romance novel, my satin dress falling from my shoulders like impossibility.

Now, back to grading, and away from the forbidden...