starting in second gear

Oh Look, She's Back

2007-01-30T09:11:00.000-06:00

So, it's been ages since I've blogged. In fact, I'll be entirely surprised if anyone is still reading this thing. I'm just feeling sort of introspective lately, I guess. Sure, things have been happening, things I could talk about. The Jeep is back, fixed after the Deer Incident of 2006. It now sports a white and chrome grille, as I did not rank painting to match as a priority, that says "eep" Sweet, eh? Somehow, it seems perfect (besides the fact that my initials are "ep," and so it seems to hold special significance for me). When I drove by J's work to show him our mechanic's handiwork, he walked out saw it, laughed, and then said, "eep. Perfect." I felt just the same way.

Other than that, let's see. I'm back at school and have started the headlong push for my master's. Did a little backwards counting and realized I have about 10 weeks to finish my thesis (that would be a minimum of three more stories that I haven't even written yet, yep). I started working on one of my comps yesterday, and actually think I'm going to try to do it this weekend. It would be lovely to check something off my list.

Read Persuasion this past weekend for my European Novels class. Jane Austen is one of my favorites, and I think this may be, in some ways, my favorite of her books. I've read it before, but for some reason it struck my particularly this time. I've noticed that happening with all my old favorites since I started writing. When I read them, they are like completely different books. I think because I'm so aware of style, structure, and all the little tricky tricks that the great writers can pull off. Now I see something like that and I can truly appreciate it, because I know there's no way I could do it. Anyway, Persuasion was good. I love reading Jane Austen out loud. So proper and yet so wickedly witty.

Next is Jane Eyre - another of my favorites. I can't wait to devote a few days to curling up in this horribly bitter weather and read and watch the frost creep across the windows.

The Waiting Game

2007-01-16T17:22:00.000-06:00

So now that my MFA applications are all mailed off, and have all been received, it's all about the waiting. It'll be at least six weeks until I begin to hear from them. It's already driving me crazy. I've been receiving a steady trickle of letters from my prospective schools, all of which say, in one variation or another:

"We've got all your stuff, don't fret. And please leave us along until such time as we will contact you. DO NOT contact us."

I do understand their sentiment, especially after a few weeks of waiting. I'm sure that, no matter how hard they resist, each year there are swarms of phone calls and e-mails from applicants wondering how the decisions are coming along. I'd hate to become one of their number, but I can understand how one might bow under the pressure of the fretting, and just have to call. HAVE TO.

And to top it off, now that I’m not dealing actively with the applications, I have this huge chuck of time and brain space that, until recently, was dedicated to this stuff. Now there are gaping holes waiting to be filled. I’m trying to fill them with my thesis, but it’s slow going. It’s like trying to switch a train going full-speed.

Oh, God. How am I going to make it until March? It’s like waiting for Christmas when you were a kid – but in this case for Christmas Santa is giving me my WHOLE FUTURE.

A Bus, Two Trains, Two More Buses, Two Planes, and A Car Trip Later...

2007-01-13T15:11:00.000-06:00

I'm home from Dallas.

Have I ever blogged about how much I love getting mail? It's something I've just never really grown out of. Most of the time, mail is sort of dull: flyers, catalogs, junk and bills. But every once in a while, you get a surprise. I love surprises.

So today is your average Saturday around Toad Lake. The dog is snoozing in her chair, J and I are both working, but with frequent breaks where we meet in the living room for tea and/or snacks. I just got back from the mailbox. It's the daily trip, Zoe and I head down the driveway, no matter what the weather, for the mail. It's not a particularly long driveway, but when it's 20 below it can seem like a long trek down there. However, it is worth it for days like today, when I go down to the mailbox and get a long overdue check for work done this past summer. Not only that, in fact, not even primarily that, but I got a little package from Swampgrrl. Talking Heads! We are, at this moment, in our respective offices working, but the Talking Heads blare through the house, and I'm finding myself very productive. It's that sort of music. I think it will also be good cleaning music.

I'm back from Dallas, in fact have been back for a few days, but just haven't been inspired to blog. Sort of settling back in, I guess. We went to see our new physician, a homeopathic MD (became a doctor, then studied homeopathy in Switzerland). It was our first trip to see him, so we didn't really know what to expect. The office visit was very different from your traditional exam. The initial visit was two hours long, during which time you just talk to him. He directs you with questions, but it is not all about your health. He was interested in everything about me: my childhood, my writing, sleep patterns, food likes/dislikes, warm/cold, introvert/extrovert, everything.

It was actually pretty exhausting talking about myself for that long. I told him everything I could think of. After all, if you're going to try it, you might as well go all out, right? So I just sort of started at my head and worked my way down. At the end he said, "We can help all that," and poured a remedy from a paper cone that he had fashioned and filled, under my tongue.

That was a couple of days ago, and I have been noticing something interesting happening, and J agrees. It's like the things that were there are still there, but they're different. An example: I carry all my tension in my shoulders and neck. That fact, plus three major head/neck injuries, one shoulder dislocation, a severe case of shingles as a child, and some other stuff, results in a chronically tight neck, shoulders, jaw, painfully tight. Well, after the remedy, I woke up the next day really tired and a little stiff. Like if I had done a bunch of pushups, or lifted some heavy weights or something. The next day the stiffness was worse. Today I woke up and the stiffness had abated. And my neck is still tight, but not painfully so. Interesting.

So all in all, I'm happy with our choice of doctor. In the future our "visits" will be conducted by phone, and he will send us the remedies (and a bill). There are a few things we had to give up which might make it difficult for some folks, like coffee, mint, camphor, and tell the truth I'm having a hard time with the coffee one. I don't drink it often, but to quit completely is kind of hard. I have heard good things about soy coffee, as far as substitutes goes. Anyone got any suggestions?

The Plot Thickens & Nobody Knows

2007-01-05T11:50:00.000-06:00

Last night we went to the bookstore (joy!) in Fargo, and spent about five hours there. I made big headway on a story, and we left with only two purchases (we are soooo good): for me, The Plot Thickens, by Noah Lukeman, and for Jason, a movie, Nobody Knows. Both, I am pleased to say, have already justified their purchase.

The book, The Plot Thickens, is just what I was looking for. Needless to say, I was surprised and pleased when I found it in our tiny B&N in Fargo. It is a book about plot, but instead of being full of diagrams and timelines, it is about developing plot through characterization. Which is the way it should be, and is also something I've been struggling with lately, with my latest story in particular. How to juggle what one of my teachers once called "the thing and the other thing," and what Lukeman calls the surface journey and the profound journey. Anyway, it's a nice addition to my small collection of what you might consider writing how-to manuals. They are where I turn first when I am stuck, which happens with disturbing frequency.

The movie, Nobody Knows, we watched last night. It is directed and written by a Japanese director, Hirokazu Koreeda. He also directed Marabosi, one of my favorite movies. If you haven't seen either of these movies, I can't recommend them highly enough. Nobody Knows is about four children of the same mother, but different fathers, who are abandoned by said mother for undetermined periods of time. It is mostly the story of the eldest boy, Akira, and his struggle to take care of himself and his siblings. It is amazing. Oh, and go get Marabosi and watch it too.

Three bits of good news:

I'm done with my applications! YAY! Now the waiting begins. Thankfully I have more than enough to distract myself with.

I got the estimate for my car this morning (remember that unfortunate deer incident?), and it's only going to be about $800. Okay, its still a tough swallow, but since I was expecting well over a thousand, this is a nice surprise.

On Saturday we leave to go to Dallas. Have I mentioned this before? For Christmas, J's mother gave us a trip to Dallas to see a homeopathic MD. J's sister goes to him, as does his mother, aunt, and grandmother (the healthiest, gardening-est, marching-in-protests-est 84 year old I've ever met). We are going to place our various chronic aches and pains in front of him and see what he can do. I'm hopeful he can do something about the headaches that grip my jaw and shoulder in a vise. That would be a great start to the new year. So, but we're excited. Dallas will be warm(er) than here, and she gave us our health for Christmas. Could you ask for more?

Now, I'm forcing myself off the internet and into working on a story. Now that all my applications are done, I have some time to write, which is nice, but I'm finding it difficult to switch gears. Today, with the aid of my new book, I'm going to do it. So, it's time to reheat yesterday's curry, and get on with this story.

New Year's Thoughts

2007-01-01T16:59:00.000-06:00

Usually New Year’s Eve is not that important to me. In term of holiday importance (besides a day off work), in the past it has ranked about up there with Valentine’s Day. After all, it is sort of a superficial division. I mean, there is tomorrow and then tomorrow and then tomorrow. Sometimes it is a good excuse to party, but usually I just feel sort of bewildered.Why is everyone so excited?

But this year it feels important. It feels momentous. It’s the beginning of something, this New Year’s Eve. The beginning of an important year for me. As midnight approaches there is a solid tightness deep in me, between my breasts. What is this building feeling? When did I become conscious of it?

It feels important. It feels scary. And I feel ready. I think maybe it’s just plain old excitement. For a while I’ve been in a holding pattern, planning and waiting, and will be for a bit longer. But I can see what’s ahead, and I can’t wait. Just a little longer, and I’ll be in the thick of it. We’ve been in Minnesota for six years. In six months, we’ll be gone, but we don’t even know to where yet.

So I sit here with this ache in my throat. Today I wrote thank you letters. I must be feeling sentimental. I wrote one to my parents, thanking them for everything. It seems important to say it, right now. It is that sort of day. I’ve been doing, without the prompting of the holiday, all the things that one is supposed to do on New Year’s Eve. Look ahead, look back. Give thanks and plan for the future. Make resolutions, and praise myself for meeting personal goals.

I really started to like myself this year. Or rather, I think I’ve always liked myself, but I started to be proud of myself. To see who I am and what I do as worthy of pride. It’s like climbing out of a hole and looking at myself in the daylight and saying, hey, you’re not so bad. You clean up pretty good. I wish I could see like this all the time. I’m tired of being a bundle of insecurities. Can I shed it like an old skin? How does one go about systematically demolishing one’s insecurities?

It’s seven o’clock on New Year’s Eve. This coming year will be a lot of “lasts” as well as a lot of “firsts.” Something big will happen this year; however, it is very unlikely that anything will happen tonight. Despite this overwhelming feeling, I think this night will most likely pass as quietly as any average night on Big Toad Lake. Our last New Year’s here.

The Sign of the Devil

2006-12-30T16:58:00.000-06:00

I knew it, I just knew that Lucifer had a hand in all this. Just did a little math, folks, and here are the startling totals for my MFA application:

13 Applications, costing a total of

$666 in Application Fees

This does not bode well.

2006-12-29T14:35:00.000-06:00

I'm with Amber - No More!

I have written:

6 Personal Statements
5 Teaching Statements
4 Statements of Purpose
2 Personal Goals Essays
1 Personal Statement of Purpose (my favorite)

I keep trying to remind myself that really, these are only the warm-up laps to the marathon that will be graduate school. It puts things in perspective, but it doesn't really make me feel better.

And it is damn hard to come up with this shit! I do cut-and-paste a bit, but all the requirements are just different enough to make me have to basically rework and write the whole thing every time - if I was conspiracy-minded, I'd think there was a plan afoot to slowly drive those seeking higher education slowly insane.

KAXE - One of my Favorite Minnesota Things

2006-12-19T11:04:00.000-06:00

I know I spend a lot of time bitching about the difficulty of living in the Great White North. But the truth is, there are some things here that could only be here.

One of my favorites is KAXE, a community radio station based out of Grand Rapids. They do some NPR segments, like All Things Considered and Morning Edition, which is nice, but what I love best is the local programming. One Wednesday morning, at about 9 am, I was flipping through the radio stations (no satellite radio, not even a CD player for the Jeep), searching for something other than country. I checked KAXE to see if I could get a signal (usually I can only get it for about half my trip), and stumbled on a 10 minute program about ancient Egypt, specifically Amenhotep IV, or Akenhaten. A fascinating little blurb on ancient Egyptian sociology, political conservatism, religious extremism and the introduction of monotheism to Egyptian society. All this early one Wednesday morning as I'm driving through Lake George - gotta love public community radio.

However, bar none, my favorite KAXE program is Phenology Plus. It is hosted by John Latimer, a rural mail carrier in Grand Rapids, for an hour every Tuesday evening. Latimer reports on wildlife and especially bird sightings in the area. People call in and report birds that they've seen or heard in their backyards. They send pictures, which are posted on the website. A report of, say, a northern warbler (I don't know, I just made that up), will be followed by a lengthy discussion of said bird's usual habits, and hopefully a few bird calls for good measure. I always feel like I'm sitting in someone's living room talking about what we're seeing out the window.

And, my favorite part of my favorite program: The Phenology Reports from local grade schools. Each week, a couple of grade schools (I think they're third or fourth grade classes) record a report of their own and submit it to the radio station. The kids take turns doing the report. A typical one will go something like this (imagine this is a 9 year old reading a written report into a microphone):

"This is Scott in Mrs. Peterson's third grade class at Blah Blah Elementary School with the weekly phenology report. This weekend Missy saw a wolf in her backyard. Sophie's dad had to borrow someone else's ice saw because the ice was so thick on ** Lake. Josh went ice fishing with his dad, and the ice was seven inches thick on their lake. Peter saw two bald eagles fly at each other, grab talons, and then fly away. Ole (yep, they still name kids Ole here) was walking his dog and saw a bear." Etc. Etc.

Two things. One: these weekly reports are one of the most adorable things I've ever come across. And what I like even more is that when they are done, Latimer always tells the kid what a good job he/she did with the report (even though it is recorded), and I always imagine the kid with their family listening to the radio, and the thrill it is for them, and then on top of it all, to be told what a great job you did.

Two: You wouldn't believe the stuff these kids see in the course of their everyday lives. It reminds me that, although living here may be difficult in some ways, inconvenient to say the least, there is a reward. You get to see bald eagles (like the ones that fish our lake from the tree by one of our cabins), deer (like the one that we and our neighbors watched swim to the island one day), bears (luckily, haven't seen one in person, although they wreak havoc on the neighborhood bird feeders), and birds, birds, birds. We are surrounded by nature, and there is the feeling that, although we manage to operate within it, by no means have we conquered it here. And, surprisingly, that feels good.

Oh, and if you want to check it out for yourself, they do stream on the internet. Also, I can highly recommend their music programming - they play everything.

My Semester Grand Finale

2006-12-16T22:58:00.000-06:00

So, have I mentioned that I hit a deer on Tuesday night on my way home from Bemidji? Yep. Figures it would happen at the end of the last day of the semester - sort of a grand finale. The good news is that I don't have to do any driving on the Bemidji route for about six weeks. So, in some twisted way, this happened at the best possible time.

It was a little freaky, though. I hit one in the same car, about three years ago, and messed up the exact same part of my car (front drivers side). I am thankful for my clunky old heavy metal Jeep. If I had a fiberglass type car, I would've been toasted. Both times it was the same deal. Just past twilight (this is when they lurk in the ditches, gangs of deer chewing the grass and looking at each car that passes with a blank sort of disinterest). Early winter, with a fairly clear, but somewhat icy road. And - boom - all of a sudden, there is a deer in the middle of the road, standing pretty much on the yellow line. And I see her, and she sees me, and she jumps - right in front of my car. And I just take my foot off the gas, tighten my grip on the steering wheel, and (yes, I admit it) close my eyes. I hear, quite clearly, my headlight shatter, and it sounds so loud that I'm sure it was my windshield, or my window. And I'm thrown forward in my seat, and basically just try not to twist the steering wheel, but keep plowing ahead. There is another deer, standing on the shoulder, waiting, then frozen, a shocked witness. Then she bounds off into the trees. The sad thing is, that moment right before I hit her is the closest I've ever been to a deer, and then she's just gone.

And then the worst time - I feel like I should turn around, check on her. But it's dark and late and I'm in the middle of nowhere, about 20 miles into a seventy-five mile drive, with one headlight and no brights. And a car that appears to be running, but for how long I'm not sure. So I keep driving. That is hard.

But I got home in one piece. Also: I couldn't cry or freak out, because I had to drive. It was tricky. I haven't started the car since then, so I'm not sure it's still running, but at least it got me home. However, the Jeep is not looking pretty. The front fender is trashed, the headlight is missing and punched in (well, all the lights are), there is no grille. Ah, the joys of northern living. I do say this though, at least it wasn't a bear, like Jonathan and Natasha's recent run-in.

House of Sand & Wassup Rockers

2006-12-13T15:40:00.000-06:00

So, I can't figure out how to get these photos on my sidebar. It's not working somehow. But I've been meaning to write about both of them anyway.

House of Sand was one of the most beautiful movies I have ever seen. I am firmly in disapproval of the constant use of the word "hypnotic" in movie reviews, but for this one it was actually appropriate. Be forewarned, though. This movie was slow. It's a Brazilian movie that takes place in the dunes (I'm not up on Brazil, so I don't know precisely where this would be), begins in 1910 and spans fifty or sixty years. It's the story of a woman who is brought to the dunes with her husband, and then becomes literally trapped there, because it is so isolated. It goes from there, and becomes a movie of three generations of women: the main character, her mother, and her daughter.

It was a beautiful and startling movie, and had a way of sneaking up on me once in a while with surprises, but after a while I began to check the clock (it is about two hours long). Slow... slow... And I am usually a fan of the slow movie. I can put some time into a slow movie and get something out of it. However...

So anyway, I was thinking while I watched it that it would almost be better if you just watched it on mute, like a moving photograph. Oh yeah, and the wind is blowing throughout the whole thing, and after a while the noise starts to drive you crazy. Yep, definitely on mute.

Wassup Rockers is the new movie out by Larry Clark, director of Kids. It basically follows a group of punk-rock Guatemalen skater kids throughout the course of one day in their neighborhood, South Central L.A., and later in Beverly Hills. I liked this movie, but I think it was mainly because of the actors. They were amateur actors, just kids, and that's what really makes the best part of the movie. I do give Clark credit for both drawing such vulnerable and realistic performances out of the actors, and managing to capture some great stuff on camera. But the movie itself is clunky, and the plot feels forced. What starts off as a sort of psuedo-documentary of these kids, following them around, devolves at some point into a series of very close escapes from varying houses around Beverly Hills (and the inevitable run-in with a cop). As I watched it, I felt like every time there was an opportunity to for things to go in an interesting direction, Clark forced it in a different direction. After a while, I just ignored the plot and watched the actors. It was much more interesting. And the soundtrack was a little tiresome. It was all punk, which isn't a problem at all, except for the fact that it was all the same. I could see what he was trying to do, but there needed to be a little change-up; after a while it just got tedious.

That's the latest from Toad Lake. I hope I didn't put anyone off these movies, they're both worth a look. Just saying what I think.

Inland Empire

2006-12-09T21:28:00.000-06:00

We're very excited here on the Toad Lake homestead. David Lynch's new movie, Inland Empire, is out! I'm not really in a position to comment on its popularity - generally I don't like to know much about a movie before I see it. Especially a David Lynch movie - no preconceived notions, please. It's going to be tricky enough trying to figure out what the hell is going on without trying to fit someone else's understanding into it. Instead, I prefer to revel in my own personal confusion, the recurrent giggling while murmuring, "wtf?"

Anyway, apparently it's three hours long, and Lynch sums up the premise with three words, "Woman In Trouble." It's all done on digital video, on a camera that cost about $1300. But people are saying (I've heard this much at least - it's really just spoilers I try to stay away from) that the story is so engrossing that after a while you just don't even notice the video effect. That kind of thing doesn't really bother me anyway - remember Dancer in the Dark, that Lars von Trier movie starring Bjork (she wore that funky swan dress to the awards)? I didn't even mind that camera effect. Plus, I've seen the trailer and he seems to use it to good effect.

Check out below for "Nate & Matt meet David Lynch (and a cow)." It's pretty hilarious. I love David Lynch - I think he's cute. He probably wouldn't know exactly what to make of that. But what I love even more is that such a cute tender-type man could be creating such wierd, twisted and hilarious films. The perfect man.

Purple Owl

2006-12-08T13:27:00.000-06:00

Okay, so, I have to share this wierd dream I had last night. I actually got up to write it down because it was so startling and odd. I don't remember the whole dream - something involving, I think, a theater production and cast of thousands - this is fairly routine stuff for me. My dreams are always filled with complication and intrigue. Spies, too. But anyway, the only thing I really remember is what happened just before I woke up. This is the truth, no exaggeration, I swear it.

I'm eating a carrot, a fairly big one, but still within the normal realms of carrotdom - not a spectacularly large dream carrot. So I take a bit of the carrot and look at the cross-section, and the middle is dark. Yuck, I'm thinking, is the middle rotten? So I take a closer look, and it moves. And a head turns and looks at me, blinking curiously. It is a tiny, purple owl. It does that head-twisting, blinking thing that owls do. And then it shakes its feathers and flies into my ear, where it nests comfortably (for both of us, oddly enough). Then I wake up.

Okay, so now aren't all you people glad I live in seclusion in the woods? It's for your protection, not mine, folks!

One Degree

2006-12-08T12:49:00.000-06:00

So, yesterday on the way home from Bemidji, I'm listening to the radio, they're giving the weather, and the man says, "And right now, it's one degree."

One degree.

Somehow that seemed even worse than a negative number (Well, okay, not as bad as negative 42, which we hopefully won't see until January). But, one is the loneliest number, after all. That one sad, little, lonely degree made the night seem impossibly colder.

Of course, it feels like it's colder than that now, and if my computer weren't an antique I would have the space to download weather bug so that I could confirm that for you. It's probably just the fact that I live in a tiny house built in the 1920's with single pane windows and an excuse for insulation. But I know that it's cold enough that I'm going to abandon my office (in a corner of the house) for the much warmer and, at this hour, sunny living room to write my Statement of Purpose.

On a different note, yesterday I sent off my writing sample to Cornell. It was my first writing sample I've sent out for the MFA Apps. I felt like I was sending my babies off to war - be safe and stay warm. And don't let them tell you you're not good enough!

I'm going to go wrap myself in fleece. Welcome to northern Minnesota.

Beer Goggles - The Mystery Solved!

2006-12-07T15:12:00.000-06:00

Set your minds at ease folks, the mystery has finally been solved. Researchers at Manchester University have come up with an equation to figure out the Beer Goggle Phenomenon. Variables include: alcohol consumed (of course), level of light, distance between the two people, smokiness, and drinker's eyesight.

Thank goodness, because I don't know about you, but this issue has been plaguing me.

Those crazy Brits.

Somebody Gets It

2006-12-05T21:27:00.000-06:00

So, some time ago, I handed my latest story effort ever to a particular reader that is well-respected by me. We both got busy, and well over a month went by between then and now. During this time, I fretted (when I had the chance to think too much about it). My thoughts went something like this:

Tempermental Insecure Artist Voice In Head:
Shit, she hates it. She doesn't know what to say. We put her in the position of having to tell us she hates it, or having to lie. It doesn't make any sense, after all. IIt sucks. It's slow, uneven, cookie-cutter, self-aggrandizing (whatever that means, Artist Voice), pompous...

Me Voice (Just as tempermental, but ever so slightly less melodramatic):
She's just busy.

TAV:
No, we just suck.

Me Voice:
First of all, even if the story sucked, she would find something nice to tell us. She finds good stuff even in total tripe. She likes our work, anyway, she's seen it before, and we had even less of a clue what we were doing then.

TAV:
You think we have a clue now?

Anyway, it went on like that off and on for weeks. But finally we got together so that she could tell me what she thought. And... she liked it. For real. She had thoughts on a few fixer-uppers (which are always appreciated), and a lot of little editing bits (word cuts, tense problems, the like). But overall, she liked it. More than that, she got it. She GOT it!

I'm sure I don't need to tell you how thrilling it is when you're trying to do something particular with a piece of writing, and it succeeds. Especially with someone who you know is a good reader.

This is an especially good thing because I was thinking about using this particular story in my MFA application work samples, along with another story, an old stand-by. Now I know that, with a little tweaking, it's a good choice.

A good ending to a good day.

Doesn't everyone have at least one voice in their head?

Minneapolis Hip-Hop & The Doomtree Collective

2006-12-04T10:53:00.000-06:00

So, finally I have something else to blog about. J forced me into the outside world this weekend, at the expense of all the work we both had to do. But we ignored it, at least for one night, and drove down to Minneapolis to go to First Ave. and check out Doomtree.

First Ave: I love that place. I think it may be one of my favorite venues of all time. It stands, proud in all it's dive-y glory, on the corner across from the Excel Center. It's a monument to the local venue. There is no corporate sponsor, and although they can't let you smoke in there anymore, it still holds all the atmosphere of a smoke-filled dark and crusty club. It's been a long time since my sneakers stuck to the floor, let's put it that way.

And it was so good to see some local music. We went to the Doomtree Blowout, an annual celebration of, you guessed it, Doomtree, a Minneapolis hip-hop label/collective. They put on a great show, full of energy and grit, and, at the intermission, some great breakdancing. And... I found a new female rapper to love. It's rare to find a woman who can rap and command respect, and who has great lyrics as well. Dessa, of Doomtree, fit the bill. Of all the rappers present (and they were good), she was my favorite, with a distinctive style that reminded me of Mony Love (we're going way back here, folks) with her high staccato style, combined with maybe a little Lauryn Hill soul and intelligence. And her enthusiasm was contagious. The crowd was sooo responsive, not just to her, but the whole time, and the whole show thrived on it.

Aaahhh. And now I feel like a real person again, someone with a life. It was just what I needed, even though J had to practically drag me out. I was giddy with fun while I was down there, and we even killed some time before the show (after some Guiness) at Gameworks, that crazy arcade place downtown. I rode a Harley, killed some zombies with a shotgun, and watched people work it on one of those dance games (although, if you danced like that at a club, people would give you a wide berth, pinning you immediately as a demented Celtic sailor - "Lord of the Poopdeck"). All in all, a fun and silly time was had.

And it's been a long time since I've come home with one ear still ringing...

edit: I just listened to some Dessa clips on myspace.com and I have to reevaluate the Mony Love comment. I think it was just the show (don't get me wrong, I loved Mony Love, she had her charm) - it's a problem I've noticed when going to shows where most of the mc's are men, and then there is a woman. The levels just aren't set right for a female voice or something. Not that I'm an expert or anything, just something I've noticed...

anyway, if you have a myspace account (I had to poach off Liza), do a search for Dessa and listen to some clips. She plays around the Cities pretty regularly, and I would recommend her to anyone in the area looking for something new...

On To The Thesis Proposal

2006-12-01T12:27:00.000-06:00

Yesterday I discovered that my thesis proposal has to be done, well, pretty much by Tuesday, so that it can be signed by everyone in the English department, several deans and grad school officials, and possibly some other folks that I know nothing about. This is so that I can hand the proposal in on time so that it can be processed so that I can be issued another form to be filled out and signed by everyone on the planet and handed in within the first week of next semester.

I think I'm going to write a song about this experience. I will call it: Paper Chains Ain't Just For Christmas Trees (I don't know if that makes sense to anyone but me, but I like it anyway).

It's not really a big deal. It's a creative thesis, which helps because I don't have to have tons of documentation, and my bibliography doesn't have to be nearly as extensive. Thank gopdness for that. I was given a few examples of thesis proposals to mull over (and I think, in order to banish that look of panicked expectation that cried help me! help me! from my face when I appeared in my chair's office yesterday). One of them was Amber's, and it was, as everything that Amber produces, thoughtful, elegant, well-researched and constructed, lucid... well, you get the picture. It pretty much kicked ass, and my heart fell to a much lower position as I skimmed over the pages. Her proposal was for a combination research/creative thesis, and mine's just creative, so that made me feel better.

I know I sound doomsday. I don't really feel that way. This is just part of the process I go through before I dig in and pound out something like this. I work myself into a panic, doubt in my abilities, compare myself (unfavorably) to others, make a bunch of to-do lists (on which I put several things that I've already done just so I can have the pleasure of crossing them off), throw them all away, spend an hour or so reconstructing those lists on color coded spreadsheets with checkboxes, file those away appropriately and never use them again, pace around my house, make tea, put some laundry in, do some blogging (this is where I am right now), make some more tea, look into Zoe's (my dog) eyes and plead for reassurance while fondling her incredibly soft ears, receive assurance in the form of several licks on the chin, fold some warm laundry (never fails to soothe me), then get down to work. Once I actually get down to it, things always go quickly. I wish I could skip all the pre-activity, but it seems to be integral to the process.

I'm off to make some tea...

Masters Blues

2006-11-30T08:48:00.000-06:00

So, yesterday I ran into a friend who had just finished defending his thesis for his Masters in English. He was getting ready to celebrate, and of course I tagged along to the pub. He was really excited, I think, and rightfully so. It is a big deal.

That was when I realized: this is a big deal. Is this something to be just done willy-nilly, as I seem to be approaching it? I guess the whole MA process was just overshadowed in my mind by the mind-boggling MFA application process I've created for myself. And now I'm having a bit of a panic. I have one semester in which to do all this stuff. I have to write a thesis. A creative thesis. This is, for me, short stories. Quite a few of them. And I am a slow writer. Ponderously slow.

I think I have a concept for my thesis proposal. But I haven't written it yet.

*(A side note for those of you that have been following this saga: I found out that I did, indeed apply to BSU and was accepted so, whew! That's a load off my mind)

But the ink isn't even dry on my application for candidacy, and I need to find committee members, and, and, and... bit of a panic, really.

I have chosen my committee chair. She is amazing, and the great thing about her is that, when she tells me something, I get it. You know how, with the rare teacher here and there, you can actually understand what they're saying? She operates on my wavelength. I hear her loud and clear. This is good, because she is a fiction teacher, my favorite. She is blunt, yet not hurtful. She gives me what I want for my stories, a reader who is intelligent and careful and critical. She gives me criticism I can use, which is something I am finding difficult to come by. Anyway, she is great, and the fact that she has agreed to chair my committee makes me feel good, and better yet, that maybe I can pull this off.

As an example of this woman's sage qualities: The day after my little panic attack in my office, I told her I was freaking out. She told me that, throughout the process of both her Masters and her PhD, she would wake up in the middle of the night in a sheer panic. So I said, "So this happens to everyone? Everyone is hiding in their offices, hyperventilating with the door closed?"

And she said, "Yep. And it's only going to get worse."

This may seem cruel to you. I laughed my ass off and felt infinitely better. Maybe we are just twisted in the same way. But that is rare and good.

Finally, A Meme for ME!

2006-11-29T08:09:00.000-06:00

I usually don’t do the meme thing. I just can’t be clever enough, most times, to think of interesting things to say. And I get distracted. But I like this one, and even though no one tagged me, I'm going to do it anyway. Because that's just the sort of girl I am (and because Bee said I should consider myself tagged, if I wanted to). And it’s a good sort of exercise in simplification, boiling down, what-have-you. Fun. And I like words. So here goes:

One Word. No Explanation.

1. Yourself: stubborn
2. Your partner: support
3. Your hair: salad
4. Your mother: tender
5. Your father: hug
6. Your favorite item: traincase
7. Your dream last night: spies
8. Your favorite drink: limeade
9. Your dream car: beetle
10. The room you are in: dorm
11. Your ex: harmless
12. Your fear: humiliation
13. What you want to be in 10 years: writer
14. Who you hung out with last night: me
15. What you're not: mean
16. Muffins: mmmm…
17: One of your wish list items: ipod
18: Time: inexorable
19. The last thing you did: shower
20. What you are wearing: pjs
21. Your favorite weather: gray
22. Your favorite book: impossible
23. The last thing you ate: enchilada
24. Your life: fortunate
25. Your mood: saucy
26. Your best friend: far
27. What you're thinking about right now: should
28. Your car: rattly
29. What you are doing at the moment: procrastinating
30. Your summer: thought-provoking
31. Your relationship status: growing
32. What is on your TV: movies
33. What is the weather like: bitter
34. When was the last time you laughed: shower

The King: A (Sort of) Movie Review

2006-11-28T18:15:00.000-06:00

So last night we watched "The King," starring Gael Garcia Bernal (Amores Perros, Y Tu Mama Tambien), and William Hurt. Although it was surprisingly anticlimactic at the end, I'd definitely say this one is worth watching. Without spoiling any of the many unexpected twists and turns involved here, let me just say: it is tragedy, old school style. Biblical, Greek, Shakespearean tragedy, with the requisite number of bodies and a little incest for good measure. And there is that sense that everything is rolling downhill, and nothing can stop it.

Here's the set-up: Bernal gets out of the Navy and heads to Corpus Christi, Texas, where he introduces himself to his father (William Hurt). Hurt has been saved, and is now a pastor in a sort of rock-and-roll contemporary church. He doesn't want to acknowledge Bernal as his son, and turns him away. And this is where the aforementioned "downhill" begins.

One of the most redeeming features of the movie is Gael's performance. He walks a line throughout the movie and does so well. I was never really sure if he understood all the implications of his actions or not. He was either Machiavellian in his revenge, or not-that-bright and struggling to be a part of this family, no matter what the cost. William Hurt also turns in a pretty stellar performance as the pastor. Really, everyone does a pretty great job.

And the cinematography is interesting and at times beautiful - especially one scene in particular with wide-angle close-ups of Pell James' (Hurt's daughter) face.

Anyway, that's what I'm watching. I think this movie sort of slipped under the radar, and although it's not perfect, it's well worth the watch.

Recuperation

2006-11-27T10:18:00.000-06:00

My family left yesterday morning to head back to Wisconsin. I spent the day napping and falling in and out of movie watching. Today I am attempting to return to the normal (relatively) pattern of my life. Witness the blog post, which will be followed by homework, cleaning, and probably some leftover pie.

Still not feeling terribly clever, though. I will have to attempt a later post, one in which I actually say something. In the meantime, just wanted to let you all know I'm alive, and survived near death due to overconsumption...

My Bitchin' Portfolio

2006-11-20T09:28:00.000-06:00

I just finished my portfolio for my creative non-fiction class. Well, not really finished - I still have the folder to acquire and stylize, but the content is done, and prettified.

Usually when I have to put together a portfolio for a class, I am dull in the extreme. I print out all my work in Times New Roman 12 with one inch margins, staple things together, and put them in any folder I can scrounge up in my house, and am done with it in short order.

This time, for what reason I'm not sure, I've gone a little further. Maybe it's because I'm drowning in MFA applications, and the last thing I want to do is look at something in Times New Roman, or make it look like a business plan.

I didn't go crazy with it, because I know that if I was a teacher, I would appreciate a certain amount of creativity, but only if combined with readability. In my view, a portfolio should not be a challenge to the professor that has a towering stack of them on his desk. That's just asking for it (and not very thoughtful, besides). But I am planning a trip to Ben Franklin today, to their astoundingly huge paper selection, to garner inspiration for a cool-type envelope, file, what-have-you.

My favorite thing about the portfolio? The font. I likes it. I've scanned the first page, my artist statement, so that you can all share in the joys of Bodoni MT Bold with me. How is it I never saw this font before?

Toad Lake Manor

2006-11-17T14:59:00.000-06:00

I couldn't find any pictures, and this was more fun...

Homebody's Going Home

2006-11-16T11:30:00.000-06:00

Thank God, you're saying. For once it's not panic blahblahblah, school blahblahblah. No, not today. Because today I get to go home. To Big Toad Lake (and how could you not be happy to be going home to such a place - it's like living in The Wind In The Willows).

I am a homebody. If I'm not in Bemidji I am home, and that means I hardly leave our property. I wear pjs all day long. I walk down our gravel road with the dog and look at the reeds and the skeletal trees in the marshes that line the road. I walk down the driveway to get the mail. I do dishes. I do laundry (my favorite chore, because it is the coziest one - I love burying my arms in fresh warm laundry). I bake bread and other bad-for-us goodies that j chastises me for making and then devours. I putter around and try to write. I read bad fiction and good fiction. I snuggle up with the pooch in our favorite armchair and read, read, read (this is harder than it sounds - she is a 70 pound chocolate lab who thinks she is a lap dog). I don't answer the telephone (much to the consternation of my mother, who, although she has known me for 32 years, still cannot accept that I hate the phone, have always hated the phone, and will not talk on the phone).

As per a request from Kassandra, I will soon be posting pictures of Toad Lake Manor (as I refer to our home). I just drew her a pretty nice aerial view, which, if I can get it scanned, will be appearing shortly.

Just one more reason to stay tuned!

Okay, We're Back To School

2006-11-15T20:35:00.000-06:00

If you need to blame someone, blame Jessie. She told me it was okay to keep talking about this stuff.

In a spectacular show of masochism, I have decided to get my MA before I leave Bemidji State. It has almost just fallen into my lap, and I don't see how I can not do it. So after applications I have that to look forward to, ensuring that, as a newly christened drama queen, I will have plenty of drama to freak out about.

But here's the thing I just realized today. I'm not at all sure that I ever applied for graduate school here. When I started here, I was just taking one class, with no intention of continuing, and so got "special status." Then I got the assistantship, and just started right in (still with no intention of completing a degree).

Today as I started reading over what I needed to do to graduate, it struck me. Hey, did I ever even apply? I don't remember doing the transcript/ recommendation/ application form dance. Hmmm. I guess I can't exactly apply for graduation when I never even applied for admission.

This is a quandry, and it may not be all my fault. How did this slip by everyone? I'm a graduate assistant, for chrissakes. It is a question I will pose to my advisor on the morrow, that's for sure.

And I can't help but laugh. This is the most humor I've gotten in a while. I love irony

Talk about Something Different, Dammit!

2006-11-14T22:34:00.000-06:00

This is what I keep telling myself. Every time I go to the nifty "create post" area, I try to think of something else to write about. Not writing. Not school. Not headaches, or whining, or panic. And my mind goes blank. How pathetic is that? There just doesn't seem to be anything else right now.

I could write about another walk with my dog in the unseasonably warm weather this week. I could write about hauling scrap lumber down our yard to the firepit, and spending the afternoon presiding over a blazing bonfire all by myself. I could write about any of the movies I watched this weekend (and there were a lot).

But maybe I should just face facts. My life is boring right now. One-dimensional. Hopefully soon I will have something else to blog about. But right now its not looking good.

PS - this does not count as whining. Them's just the facts.

Miles Davis Saved My Life (Again)

2006-11-12T15:06:00.000-06:00

I've been having a bit of a rough time lately, as you may be able to tell from the ups and downs of my posts. There's just an awful lot tumbling through my head right now: MFA applications, current classes, my assistantship, whether to get my MA, oh yeah, and my writing. I seem to be in a productive period right now, for which I am always thankful, but why when I am in the middle of so much other crap? Probably because my brain is on overdrive.

Anyway.

So, I've been stressed. I've seen the signs that point to panic mode, but I wasn't really paying attention. I should be learning by now. On Thursday I hit major panic, and had a small anxiety attack. I say small because I was able to control it, to push it down and get home to safety. I didn't hyperventilate, although it was a near thing. I am glad for this because when it happened, I was in Bemidji, just about to head home for the weekend, and I knew that if I couldn't control it, I wouldn't be able to drive home. My drive home is isolated, dark and winding, rife with deer munching by the side of the road. I generally do not mess around on the way home, drive carefully and slowly, and with a wary eye. I knew that if I could not put away the anxiety, or at least postphone it, I wouldn't be able to get home, which was what I wanted more than anything.

I can thank two artists for making this possible. The first is Van Gogh. I stood staring at the print of this painting that I have in my office. It never fails to comfort me. It's as close to being home as I can get sometimes.

But the bulk of my thanks goes to Miles Davis, hands down. This isn't the first time he has pulled me out of something, but it was definitely the most dramatic. Off and on, all day that day, I had been listening to 'Round About Midnight, possibly my favorite Miles Davis album. When I went into my office and shut the door, feeling the impending panic, I put 'Round About Midnight on again. But just the first track, 'Round Midnight, over and over. It soothes me like no other piece of music I've found. It's like a hand rubbing my neck, brushing my cheek, running down my hair. This feeling is so palpable that if I close my eyes I can almost feel fingertips on my cheek. It is, I am convinced, the only reason I was able to slow my breathing, and stop those awful herkyjerky sobs that hurt my chest (I am not a pretty crier, especially at times like these, when there are no tears involved, just dry sobbing noises and hiccups and little pitiful whines and sniffles).

Thank you, Miles Davis. I love you.

Coffee with Jessie

2006-11-09T09:25:00.000-06:00

I miss coffee with Jessie. Every week, the renewed pledge to "actually get some work done this time." Setting up our laptops facing each other, giant mugs of coffee set carefully to the sides. Then spending four hours ignoring the flashing cursor as we talk about what's out the window, what's in our minds, what's on the radio, what's on our minds, what we are wearing, what's on our minds...

you get the picture. I drive by Dunn Bros. on my way into town every Tuesday morning, and right then, every week, I miss Jessie.

Tuesday Headache

2006-11-07T19:41:00.000-06:00

I'm such a whiner. Feel free to stop reading now. Consider yourself warned.

Here it comes again. The Tuesday headache. It will now begin developing into a sickly feeling in my head and stomach that will have me waking up before dawn tomorrow. I will try to ignore it, to bury my head further into the pillow, to turn it over to the cool side, over and over, until there is no cool side.

Tuesday is not a hard day for me, in the grand scheme of things. It signals the beginning of my very short week, the beginning of my weekly stay in Bemidji, the beginning of the shuffle of bags and books and computers and clothes, from house to car to dorm to car to house (and to office and back in between).

But it always ends with this headache, this tightening of bands around my head, my shoulders, the taut cables running up my neck behind my ears. Tuesday isn't really the hard day. Wednesday is the hard one.

I have no classes on Wednesday. It is my homework day, my wandering day, my thinking pondering day. That part I like. But it always starts early, and with a battle. These headaches make my eyes hard and shiny, small and slitted against the light. My jaw is forever clenched on Wednesday. I am not myself. I am brittle.

There are some things that help: shopping at the thrift store, lunch with friends, a walk along the rocky little path on Lake Bemidji's shore. These are the therapies I use (along with copious amounts of Exedrin Migraine and my heated herb bag). Sometimes they work. But sometimes I just get tired of preparing for battle.

GRE Debrief: Some Thoughts in the Aftermath

2006-11-02T20:29:00.001-06:00

So. The GRE is done. I got my tentative scores when I finished, consulted a few professors, and found out I probably won't have to take it again, unless I really messed something up in the essays (those scores are sent later). Thank my heavenly stars, is all I have to say.

It wasn't as horrific as I had made it out to be the night before, when it had loomed over my pillow like a skyscraper. Once I sat down at the computer terminal and began to calm down, it occured to me: oh, yeah. So this is really just another test after all. Same old shit. Well, slightly different for reasons I will describe briefly below. But basically, same old thing.

There are three parts to the GRE: the essay section, the quantitative (math) section, and the verbal section. This is the order they are taken in. It worked well for me because of my strengths and weaknesses. The essay section is 75 minutes long, and is comprised of two essays: persuasive (45 min.) and argument (30 min.). The time was adequate for both, although I had to act pretty fast for the argument essay, and didn't have much time to proofread. But basically they are looking for the good old five paragraph essay.

I thought taking this part first was going to be terrible - writing the essays cold, without a warm-up, so to speak. But the essays actually functioned as a rather good warm up in themselves. By the time I was done with them, I was comfortable with the environment, the icky orange headphones I was wearing to cut sound (similar to what baggage handlers wear at the airport- so trendy!), the computer, and all that jazz. I even managed to work Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle into one of the essays (something I've been reading up on a little lately) - so I felt very clever by the time it was done. And this was a good thing, a confidence booster. I needed it, because the math section was next, and that was the part I was really worried about.

You know it's bad when the first question appears on the screen and the only thing that runs across your mind, like a screensaver, is - shit, shit, shit... etc. I stumbled through the best I could though, and evidently did much better than it seemed I was doing. This made sense in light of a little tip I read in my Kaplan's book. Here's the theory:

The GRE is an adaptive test. This means that each question you receive is chosen in light of the way you've answered previous questions. So, if you get a question right, the next question you get will be harder. If you get it wrong, the next question will be the same, or easier. The hard questions are worth more points. You get the picture. Well, I was reading the pep talk "night before" section of my book, and they presented an interesting idea:

If you get a question that is hard, it must be because you're doing well. So, I figured, if you look at a question and your mouth dries up and you get the urge to vomit, it probably means you're doing really, really well!

Okay, so it's a serious rationalization with the slightest kernel of truth to it (if you angle everything the right way). But during the quantitative section I clung to this little bit of twisted logic. Every time I got a question where the first thing through my head was WTF?! I would soothe myself by thinking about how well I must be doing to get such a mind-boggling question.

I know, I know. But it did keep me calm. And desperate times, as they say...

The verbal section was difficult, but at least it wasn't in a foreign language like the math section. I muddled through fairly well, although it was sincerely depressing how many words appeared that I had no flippin' clue as to their meaning. Definitely should have spend more time studying word roots.

The perfectionist part of me wants to take it again anyway, even though I don't think it is necessary. I know I can do better, having been through it once now, and it's sort of an intrinsic part of my nature to want to seriously kick ass on standardized tests. I don't know why, what I'm trying to prove, or to whom. But, at a $130 bucks a pop, I think I'll try to restrain myself, and simply take pleasure in crossing the GRE off my list of MFA Things To Do.

Yay!

Again with the Morning Thing!?

2006-10-31T08:12:00.000-06:00

An update on my recent efforts to get up at 5 am and write brilliant original fiction:

It's going pretty well - the 5 am part, not necessarily the brilliant fiction part. Some days its more like 5:30 (so don't be too impressed, Jessie), and some days it's more like 8. But out of the past week or so that I've been doing this, I've managed to get up 6 out of 8 days. This ain't bad, considering there isn't a fire or a paycheck involved, both of which qualify as good reasons to get out of bed (well, paycheck depending on the job).

I am writing this cool story that sort of came out of the dark (literally) at me. Before, a couple years ago, when I was doing the early morning write, every morning I would write something new. A couple pages of dreamland, a bizarre scene straight out of the depths of my brain. Then the next day it was something else. But this time around, something different is happening. I'm working on the same story every morning.

I think part of me is afraid, since it was conceived this way, that if I try to bring it out into the daylight before it is done it will vanish. Or, more realistically, that I won't be able to duplicate the style of the earlier pages unless I am in the same state of mind. I worry about trying to write it during the day, or the evening, or late at night. It is a pre-dawn story, and I don't want to break the spell.

I read J what I had written after he woke up the other morning, and he told me he thinks its the best stuff I've ever written. He said that it's like the stuff you read in a book, a published book, a book you buy (I'm paraphrasing here, J, it was early, give me a break). Although I can't remember what it is he said exactly, this is what it meant to me. I hug that compliment and save it - it's a good one.

So this early thing is okay. And a side benefit of rising early is I that every morning I have a choice. After a few hours of writing I can: 1) crawl back into my flannel-licious bed and cozy up to a snuggly sleeping J or 2) keep writing, and revel in the fact that, when you get up early, the days are so very long.

Pre-GRE Freak-out!

2006-10-31T07:54:00.000-06:00

I feel sick. The GRE is today, this morning, at 9:30. I've never had test anxiety before, so this is new, and I don't like it. For all you out there who have always felt this way - bummer. it sucks.

I got to school too early, because of reports of impending snow and my own miscalculations (due, I think, to confusion caused by Daylight Savings Time, which always messes me up for about a week). So I've got over an hour to kill before I have to head over the the testing center (a laughable name, as it is a closet filled with boxes and a desk with a computer). So I'm trying to de-blog my anxiety.

I'm not sure what exactly I'm nervous about. This is, in fact, a trial run - an extra test I scheduled so that if I really screwed up I could just take it again in November. So what's the deal?

I guess it's just been so long since I've been put under standardized testing conditions. Last time I took the GRE was so long ago that it was still a paper test. Maybe that's part of the problem. The computer thing. What about the computer sheets with the bubbles? I liked the bubbles - we understood each other. This sliding scale test that adjusts itself to be harder if you get questions right just seems a little scary.

Plus it's a four hour monstrosity that I get to begin with 75 minutes to write two essays. Then the verbal and math, and an extra section that they stick in to try out new questions - they don't tell you which one it is. Somehow that doesn't seem fair.

I have to say, I feel much better about all this after venting on the blog. I am, after all, very good at talking myself in and out of things. So, now, all that remains is to banish this sick feeling in my stomach, and get on with it. I'm listening to Bill Evans right now, which usually does wonders to calm me, so Bill, work your magic!

Tallyho!

This Morning Thing

2006-10-29T06:21:00.000-06:00

Off and on throughout my life, I've been forced to be an early riser. High school golf practice (5 am), lifeguarding (5 am), baking (4 am), suitcase factory (5 am), and doughnut frying (1 am - and don't ask, its a sordid period of my working life).

But I am not naturally an early riser. I am a 2 am to bed kind of person, and have been for as long as I can remember. But I've started a new resolution to get up at 5 am every day. Okay, so maybe every 4 out of 5 days would be good. There is a good reason for this. I am getting up to write.

Getting up early, for me, doesn't result in jaw-cracking yawns all day. Once I manage to pry myself out of bed (which is the bulk of the difficulty with getting up early - I love bed), after that, it's really not so bad. I wake up pretty quickly and am fairly alert. But it puts me in a wierd frame of mind, one that will permeate my day. My thoughts are disconnected and dreamy. My imagination basically takes over both halves of my brain and leaves me an absent-minded fool for most of the day.

I have discovered something about this state of mind, though. I produce bizarre stuff while in it. Good writing stuff that I read later and say, "Did I write that? I can't believe that came out of my brain. Who knew?" I get, by far, my best stories by writing at 5 am. The only rule I have is that I can't think about what I'm going to write, oh, and another rule (that's two, I guess) - I can't stop writing. I think it was Natalie Goldberg's Writing Down the Bones where I first got that suggestion. It was one of those writing tips that normally I'd say "yeah, okay" to, and promptly brush off. But I tried it one day sitting on my deck, and actually came up with an entire story.

Pretty wierd stuff.

So anyway, that's why this post is coming in at 6:30 am. Because it's Daylight Savings Night, and so I actually got up at 4, which is pushing it a little, in my mind. Out of the past seven days, I've managed to get up at 5 for 5 of them. So far so good, but every morning is a fresh struggle.

A Big Dilemma

2006-10-27T14:15:00.000-05:00

I have a problem. Should I spend my weekend studying for my upcoming GRE,

or

watch the entire Twin Peaks television series, on loan from a friend? Hmm, tough decision.

Jackpot at the GoodWill

2006-10-21T11:41:00.000-05:00

I had an exciting find at the thrift store, which is, to me, one of the best thrills to be offered - thrift shopping is like panning for gold.

On Wednesday I took a trip to the Bemidji Good Will with Kasandra. It really is one of the nicest GoodWills I've been to, not the largest, but clean and well-organized and cheap, and most of all, lacking in that thrift shop smell. That thrift shop smell, while part of the experience, somehow always has the effect of making me, and everything I touch, feel slightly unclean. Anyway, so thumbs up for the Bemidji Goodwill, which I've been to before, but never in such detail. We were shopping, and K had some dorm room needs.

So we're testing out chairs, sitting, rocking, trying different reading positions, comparing. The last chair I sit in is sort of a stodgy wingchair that I had dismissed earlier because it didn't look slouchy enough, and it didn't rock. But, I figure, what the hell, sometimes the most unassuming chairs turn out to be heavenly. So I sit and bounce and look across the store to the opposite wall. There are shelves cluttered with toys and kid's books. I look up and up, and on the top shelf I see something that I had forgotten all about, but used to be one of my favorite toys:

Spirograph.

Spirograph was right up there with Lite Brite in my favorites list. Spirograph!! So I jump up from the chair, actually gasping with happiness (I am sort of a gasper anyway when surprised, so this is not that unusual) and run over to the shelf, dodging clothing racks and little old ladies. K, mystified by my delight, follows behind. I grab it off the shelf and open immediately, unable to belief that a Spirograph in the thrift store actually has all its pieces. But once I get it open I realize that it does indeed have all the pieces, and, as K pointed out, this is duly noted on the front of the box, right under where it says "Don't Open."

So for the bargain price of $1.99 I brought it home. This weekend has been thrilling, needless to say, sheets of paper cluttered with swirls all over our house. As a result, be expecting some changes to the blog soon. Oh, and I found this online spirograph too, so those of you that had one can relive the dream.

A Well-Balanced Meal

2006-10-18T21:34:00.000-05:00

Hmmm... a dinner consisting of one box of Le Petit Ecolier cookies (damn I love those things), and a 20 ounce Coke. I think I can hear my stomach rotting.

Moonlight Mile, Buffalo 66, and Clean

2006-10-17T18:33:00.000-05:00

Or perhaps the subtitle: Two of My Favorite Movies and One That Didn't Quite Get There.

This weekend I watched, yet again, two of my favorite movies, Moonlight Mile and Buffalo 66. And, as mentioned above, I also watched Clean, a 2004 release directed by Olivier Assayas. But more about that one later. First, my favs.

Moonlight Mile is a 2002 release directed by Brad Silberling, whose more recent fame came from his Lemony Snicket movie. I'm not a big fan of Silberling's other work, but I find this movie amazing. I know a large part of it is the acting: Susan Sarandon, Dustin Hoffman, Jake Gyllenhaal, and Ellen Pompeo. It's basically a story of grief: getting through it, overcoming it, and taking responsibility for it. But it's not a sad movie. In fact, the best part of this movie, in my opinion, are those moments that have you giggling, and feeling badly for doing so (in the middle of a wake, when Jake's character goes into the pantry to get away from everyone, for example). The characters are all flawed and problematic and lovable and frustrating, and each come to terms with their own grief in their own individual way. Anyway, yeah, if you run across this one in the video store, take it home.

On to Buffalo 66. Oh my God, does this movie make me howl with laughter. Director, writer, and star Vincent Gallo is hilarious (Gallo's name may sound familiar if you remember the more recent "Brown Bunny" fiasco, with Chloe Sevigny performing oral sex on him at the end of the film). He plays Bobby Brown, a man who is so incredibly insecure and hurting that he is a complete asshole to just about everyone, most notably Christina Ricci. She is blond, plump, and falling out of her dress for most of the movie, and she is just what Bobby needs. He kidnaps her from her tap dancing class and takes her to his parents house to pretend to be his wife for the day. Enough said. I don't know, the character may bug some people, but I just find the whole story so touching and sweet. Also, the cinematography and the editing are just really incredible (a side note: the trailer is even cooler). There are some really great scenes: Ricci doing a sad, dreamy tap routine at the bowling alley, the two of them in a photo booth, the list goes on. Add to that the fact that Gallo seems to have a preternatural ear for matching music to scene. For me, this movie has it all.

Now for Clean. This is one of those movies where I checked the time about 45 minutes into it, and kept checking about every five minutes from then on. Maggie Cheung (Hero) plays Emily Wang, a heroine addict trying to get over her addiction and pull her life together so that she can see her son again. The thing is, nothing really happens. You know the whole concept of plot reversal? Well, this film doesn't seem to subscribe to that theory. The story is what the story is, all the way through. If it weren't for Cheung's pretty amazing performance and great cinematography, I probably wouldn't have even finished watching it. Saying that, Cheung is awesome, and the cinematography is great, so maybe that would make it worthwhile for some folks. Or maybe they would find something in it that I just didn't see. I hope there's something there I didn't see, because if not, there ain't much there. Truthfully, I wouldn't bother.

That's the latest Film Watch from Toad Lake. If you have any recommendations, I'd love 'em. Saturday nights are a little dull out in the boonies, and this is the season to cuddle up with good movies!

Pssst! Wanna buy an almond - cheap?

2006-10-12T12:52:00.000-05:00

So, as a break from worrying about the impending threat of North Korea, I've been reading about these almond heists that have been plaguing California. Yes, apparently robbers have been making off with almonds from farms in California, to the total tune of 1.5 million so far. They are calling them "nutnabbers" (which I won't even touch, as it's too obvious for even me to mock). These guys are not amateurs - they are not clipping the cyclone fence in black clothing and shoveling nuts into garbage bags, then sneaking away. They steal whole trucks filled with them - the last robbery was 44,000 pounds of nuts.

So the first thought that occurred to me - where does one find a fence for almonds? I mean, it's not like you can go downtown and sell them out of the trunk of your car under an overpass or something. We're talking a specific market here. The police say that they must have a buyer already lined up, someone overseas, because there's less paperwork. Sort of like lining up a buyer for the Mona Lisa before you steal it.

Anyway, that's it for the national news. Now, back to the latest impending threat to the world's greatest bully: the U.S. of A.

In Limbo About Limbo

2006-10-07T18:47:00.000-05:00

Today, in a stunning move by the Catholic Church, Limbo was abolished. The Pope informed the public that there would no longer be a Limbo, that popular eternal resting place between heaven and h-e-double hockey sticks. While Heaven and Hell are reserved for the good and evil, respectively, Limbo traditionally is home to those who do not seem to deserve hell, but can’t get into heaven either: those born before Jesus’ resurrection, unbaptized babies, and the like.

Martha Jones, a Catholic resident of Baltimore, was shocked and appalled. “What’s going to happen to all those unbaptized babies now?” she sobbed. “Where will the refugees from Limbo go?” The Church has responded to these concerns, voiced by many, by stating that all current residents of Limbo will receive an upgrade to Heaven. “After all,” said a Catholic Church spokesperson, “they’ve been in Limbo long enough. It’s not really fair for them to keep paying for something that was not their fault.”

Critics have questioned this move, stating that the Pope has no authority to actually change the fabric of the universe. “This is not a question of politics. It’s not like reversing the Church’s stance on birth control,” stated Petula Smithers, president of PAPAL, Parents Allied to Prevent the Abolishment of Limbo. “Next they’ll be saying that they’re going to abolish Hell because no one is inherently evil, it’s all a matter of upbringing. For hundreds of years, they’ve said Limbo exists. Now, because they want a kinder, friendlier God to attract constituents, suddenly Limbo doesn’t exist? Would that I could shape my world and my God to fit my marketing concepts.”

**Author’s note: The Pope has not abolished Limbo, although the Church has apparently considering doing so for a while now. Said Author was overcome with mirth and a deep sense of irony when she discovered this. Here’s a link to NPR’s recent article about the issue. It was just too good to pass up.

Anti-social? Me? Pish-Posh!

2006-10-06T10:19:00.000-05:00

Ah, friday, the end of the week. Oh, wait, that's right, I didn't really have a week. I was home, skipping out on classes and other responsibilities with the flimsy excuse that my car has been in the shop since Tuesday. Okay, the excuse isn't that flimsy when you live 20 miles from any town. I'm as stranded as I would be on an island, except that instead of water surrounding me, it's a lethal combination of marshes, thick woods, and highways where people (who are asked, legally, to go 55) are actually going about 70, passing on the shoulder, and doing all sorts of crazy things. This means: no bike riding or, god forbid, walking, on the shoulders of the roads, even though they are broad and paved, with those scored rubbity-bumpity things along the edges. Still, to be on the roads here without the protection a car is to take your life in your hands. This means: yep, I'm still stranded.

It's been nice. The week has passed in a fog of writing, blogging, studying, walking (with pooch, down my nice long safe gravel road), and a lot of staring out the windows at the leaves changing and rattling down from the trees. I've never been one to mind solitude. In fact, it is a preference for me. I can go days without seeing a soul, without talking to anyone on the phone, and that is just fine.

My record for going without any companionship except that of my dog is 11 days, accomplished two summers ago with J was on a month-long backpacking trip in Montana. I did not go anywhere by car (which means I didn't go anywhere), I did not talk to anyone on the phone, I saw no neighbors, no one stopped by the house, I had no television, no internet. The only person I talked to was my pooch, Zoe, but after a while even that stopped. It was serene. That's the only way I can describe it. I went through the days without saying a word. It made me realize that speech is a sort of burden. Vows of silence must feel like a respite, to permanently relinquish the responsibility of speech.

Eleven days seemed like months. I read for hours, sitting on my back steps, walked down the road and back again, painted old furniture, watched movies, baked, rowed our little boat to the island to go swimming. It was like, for those eleven days, life was enchanted. I was under a spell, a bubble that protected me from the world and put me back to when I was eight and rowing my grandfather's boat into the channel to look at the flourescent molds and algaes, and catch turtles.

This week is a little different. I am still working (studying for GRE, etc.). But I find myself slipping into that bubble of timelessness. When I stand under a birch tree, the trunk glowing white against the crisp blue sky, round yellow leaves like chips of sunlight. The wind runs through them and they rattle like paper, like rustling windchimes. The rusty colors of reeds, lying over in tossed bundles, bumping and rolling across the marsh. Intermittent spikes of an unknown plant, dark red at the bottom, lightening towards the top into pink-orange-yellow, like thin columns of flame shooting up through the reeds, like otherworldly fires spurting up from below .

These are the thoughts that get lost in the everyday.

Unbirthday

2006-10-05T10:50:00.000-05:00

So, today I'm just another 32 year old. Milestone passed. Back to studying for the GRE and doing laundry. Which isn't so bad really.

But first... must take a minute to wax rhapsodic on my birthday dinner. Because, well, I love food, and I especially love to talk about it. I'm one of those folks that reads cookbooks, and for me imagining the recipe is almost as good as eating it. I said almost. Anyway, we didn't go out for my birthday dinner, because we never do, because there are no good restaurants less than an hour away, and the ones an hour away aren't that good. Oh, yeah, and I'm really lazy, and would rather eat cozily at home than get in the car and ride endlessly through the Minnesota countryside to get to a restaurant that has like one vegetarian dish (alfredo pasta, usually). So anyway, I made the dinner and J made the dessert, which is a switch from our usual and one that I think we should seriously consider making permanent, as you will see.

For dinner, I made: Vegetarian chili (with a little bittersweet chocolate... mmm), and cheddar chive scones. Nothing fancy, but I was in the mood for chili, birthday be damned. It was delish, although the chili was so rich. There was just a little chocolate in it, an ounce and a half, like you could smell it more than taste it, but still very rich. J pointed out that some ancho chile would be the perfect complement to it, so next time that gets added to the recipe.

For dessert he made: Poached pears with port wine syrup and ginger marscapone cream. This is why I think he should become the permanent dessert maker. Because my apple crisp is damn good, but poached pears?! You should know about me: I usually don't care for cooked fruit, the skins of cherries or apples floating around in there, and for some reason warm seems to make it worse. I'm very selective of my pies. But poached pears, which I'd never had before, seem more like candy than fruit. And they get a thumbs up for texture, which I'm very fussy about. My eating likes and dislikes have more to do with texture than taste. For example, bananas. Just the sound of someone near me eating a banana will literally send a shiver down my spine. Ick.

But here I am off-topic. What was the topic again? Oh yes, the return, or the resumption (is that a word?) of normalcy. Which doesn't actually differ that much from my birthday day. I'm still at home, the car is still at the shop, I'm still alone for the day. But something is different. I don't have that me-day feeling. Although I am still feeling me-day enough that I used a bit of leftover whipping cream in my coffee this morning instead of skim. So decadent.

But Kaplan's is calling my name, and I doubt I'll be feeling very me-day with a hefty dose of algebra under my belt. The trade off, I've already decided, is an afternoon to work on my latest story. And maybe a nice hike, since time is limited before people start stalking around in the woods with guns. After that point, I tend to stick to my own road. I could wear orange, I guess, but last I heard, that color still wasn't bulletproof.

Another Year, Another Trip to the Mechanic

2006-10-04T10:21:00.000-05:00

So, this birthday, my 32nd, has so far been unexpectedly lovely. Yesterday when I got in my car to head up to Bemidji until Thursday, my car broke down (well, more like it never started up). It is currently in the shop, and I am awaiting the bad news. This has had repercussions that affect my whole week. One is that I missed the workshop of one of my pieces. This is not a big deal, as the professor is not a stickler, and we will just do it next time I am there. But still, I always look forward to workshop day. Another thing is that I missed having drinks with a friend for the second time in two weeks. This sucks, because we've been trying to get together. And the third is that I will miss my birthday celebration in Bemidji, which likely would've consisted of pints and a veggie melt at Brigid's with friends. This, too, sucks. Plus, for my birthday, I was going to buy myself some sandalwood lotion, which is (of course) on sale in Bemidji. So all of those things are unfortunate. But here is the nice.

I am stranded at my house today, just me and the pooch. I have no method of transportation, and so am forced to stay here and do whatever I want all day long. For no good reason at all J and I both woke up before sunrise this morning (this is not a regular occurence in our house - not even annual), and so just snuggled and talked and watched the sun rise through the windows. Then he made me coffee just the way I like it - very strong with lots of milk. Then he gave me two chocolates for my birthday - a truffle and a mint meltaway - which I promptly ate because, well, chocolate for breakfast. That and it's my birthday. When I was a kid we always got to have cake and ice cream for breakfast on our birthdays, and I guess I've never grown out of that.

So then, J left for work, and I took a wonderfully long shower, scaldingly hot, just the way I like it, and put on the brand-new lounging outfit my moms sent me for my b-day. I may be the princess of loungewear, but I learned from the queen. Softer-than-soft cotton pj pants and shirt, a fleece hoody to go over it, and fuzzy chenille socks for the feets. If I had my druthers (I've always wanted to have my druthers), I would wear this gear every day. Who am I kidding? I do wear this gear every day, except those three days per week that I am student and graduate assistant extraordinaire. That's right. I wear pjs more days a week than I wear clothes. Perhaps the coolest thing about being a student/struggling writer.

Anyway, and now I have all day, in my cozy clothes, to myself. I know that a mud mask and painting the toenails are in order - it's not often I'm so deliciously girly, but my b-day does that to me. Also, nice long sunny walk with the pooch. Also, pick something delicious to make for dinner and call j with my grocery list (he has promised to take care of the cake). Those are my only plans. The rest, I think, will unfold.

It is shaping up to be another breezy, cornflower blue fall day, my favorite kind. I love that my birthday is in the nicest part of fall (of course, that's just my opinion). I think perhaps jumping in leaf piles might be in order. But wait, then I'd have to rake the leaves first. Although, that might be fun. Plus, then I could light them on fire (after I'm done jumping in them). The smell of burning leaves would be an excellent birthday present to myself. And so would fire. Leaf fires are another favorite fall tradition of mine. I think some of it stems from a childhood in Chicago followed by a move to the remote suburbs when I discovered, to my delight, that you can just burn stuff in your yard in the country. How cool is that? It still feels slightly illicit to me, which is probably part of the appeal.

That's right. I'm a rebel.

Upcoming GRE Spooktacular

2006-10-02T20:51:00.001-05:00

So I signed up for the GRE today. I’m taking it on Halloween, which seemed appropriate for some reason. But it is also the last day of October (which you may or may not be aware of). I actually strategically chose that day due to some fine print that I only discovered yesterday, stating that you can only take the test once per calendar month. That only gives me two tries: one in October, one in November. It was a bit of a panic when I discovered this, because it means that I have to really kick ass this month. But also something of a relief, because, after all the planning and the waiting for deadlines, at last something is zooming up. The process is beginning, and now I don’t have to drive myself crazy sitting around thinking and waiting anymore (since we all know about my thriving need for deadlines and resultant procrastination).

I also took the Diagnostic Test that came with the GRE book that I picked up at B&N on Sunday. I did poorly, but somehow it made me feel better. I missed a lot of math questions, which did not surprise me, and mostly showed me that my skills are rusty as hell. Usually the math problems can be solved using logic if you go about it right. Except the ones that involve 2 &pi r and &pi r2 and the eternal question: which one of these is circumference and which is area?

It’s strange, re-entering the world of standardized testing after a 10 year hiatus. It amazes me that my brain used to function so well in this environment. I had the system down, I was skilled at the bureaucracy surrounding the education system. I knew just what they wanted me to say, even when it was multiple choice, even when I didn’t know the answer.

Things are different now. My brain does not operate that way anymore. Or maybe I’m rusty. Or maybe I killed too many brain cells during college and the following four years in Aspen. But mostly now standardized tests just strike me as lame. What a lame way to decide if someone can get into your school. I realize they need a method, but standardized testing really says so little, especially when you’re talking about people entering graduate school, law school, etc. All it really shows is how well someone operates within the system. Maybe that’s their point. The cynical side of me says, yes, yes, all they really want is someone who they know will perpetuate their system and work smoothly and easily within it. Clearly, I will have to set these feelings aside and jump through the requisite hoops to get to where I want to be. Ah, well, compromise again.

Another thing today’s Diagnostic Test showed me: no matter how many times it pops up on standardized tests, I will never remember what abstemious means.

Getting Sidetracked

2006-10-01T18:16:00.000-05:00

So yesterday we took the Grand Tour of Fargo, which we do about every three or four months. This consists of going to the cooking store, Barnes and Noble, and usually Bennigan's because I can get a veggie burger (joy! to order burger and fries in a restaurant), and because we can also get very large mugs of Guinness.

Anyway, in Barnes & Noble, the plan was to get a GRE study book, which I did, before I promptly got sidetracked. This does not upset me because it always happens in bookstores, and really isn't that the point of a bookstore? It's not like a hardware store where you go in and get your doorknob and your caulk or whatever (whatever you might be doing with a doorknob and caulk, that's certainly your own business). Bookstores are for browsing, and unfortunately for me I rarely walk out of B&N without suffering the consequences. I tell myself that there are worse things to spend money on than books (in fact, most things are worse, don't you think?), and that helps soothe my fevered checkbook and rationalize the way for another spending spree.

Yesterday I got lucky. I managed to limit myself to two books (other than the GRE book): Rule of the Bone, by Russell Banks, and A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, by Dave Eggers (see sidebar for links). Both for very specific reasons.

I bought Rule of the Bone because it is a first-person narrative of a 14 year old boy. I'm writing something right now from the same age, and it is first-person as of yet, so I wanted to see how it worked. Call it research. I spent the better part of today sucked into it, and am about halfway through. Very compelling. IIt's difficult to sustain a novel with a voice like this one - first person, young - without the reader tiring of the eccentricities of the narrator's speech like slang, etc. And as far as writing convention goes, you hear (or rather, I hear) stuff about first vs. third person, and how third-person is the most often used, and sometimes the implication is that it is what one should use. So I was swaying towards shifting my story to the third-person. But this book has sort of renewed my faith in the first person. Yes, it can be done, and done well!

The other book, AHWOSG, well, it has the kind of reviews on it that make you think that this book may indeed solve world hunger. Or rather, sort of make you think it'd better, for all the fuss that is being made about it. But they're all reviewers that I respect, and I'm sure it's incredible, so I'm looking forward to that. I have to admit, that the reason I went looking for it was because I read an interview with Dave Eggers in Stop Smiling magazine, and found out that he is from Lake Forest, which is the rich kid suburb that is right next to Libertyville, the not-so-rich-but-upper-middle-class suburb that I lived in from age twelve on. No, that wasn't the only interesting thing he talked about, of course, not even the most interesting. But I'd been planning to get his book for a while, and then this article made him stick in my head. Because, in a way, he's from the old neighborhood. Okay, so he was from the part of the neighborhood where everyone looks like those Abercrombie and Fitch catalog people (only not quite so gorgeous), but Lake Forest actually had some cool folk there. Enough already about Lake Forest. Anyway that's the next book on my list.

And the GRE book? Oh yeah, I suppose I should be hitting that. Right after I finish with these two...

Application Anxiety

2006-09-27T15:11:00.000-05:00

So I'm starting the application process to go to school to get my MFA in Creative Writing. Or rather, not really the application process. Let's say, the preapplication process. I'm sorting through schools, figuring out what I need to do, etc. There are a few really freaky parts to this:

1. I have to take the GRE. Okay, I've taken it before. Standardized tests have never freaked me out. In my past life as a student I excelled at them, not so much for my knowledge, but for a lucky intuition when it comes to multiple choice. But... the last time I took the GRE was ten years ago. Christ. When I took it, it was still a paper test for chrissakes. Back in the age before the computer GRE. And this is what freaks me out. Taking it on the computer will totally fuck my patented test-taking strategies. Not only that, but the analytical part is now essay, which sucks because I really kicked ass at that part. I'm really good at those - there are twelve people at a dinner party. Chris can't sit next to Angie - questions. So, the GRE thing is freaking me out.

2. And here's something else that is freaking me out in a more abstract way. How do I know what schools to apply to? By that I mean, which are within my range, which are hopefuls, and which are safeties? This is something that was pretty easy to determine when I was applying for undergrad. But I have no idea how my writing stacks up with the writing of other applicants. I'm just plunging blind into the applications, and all I can figure to do is pick a wide range, apply to a bunch, and see where I get in. But I don't like that. I don't like it at all. The sucky thing about writing is, you are accepted on the strength of your portfolio. The grad school may care about GREs and recommendations, etc. But the English departments don't really give a shit. All they want is to see your writing. And if they see that indefinable thing in it that makes it compelling to them, you're in. If not, you're not.

Arg! I want to be able to quantify my skill and talent somehow and place it alongside other skill and talent. What if I overestimate myself and don't get in anywhere? What if I underestimate and end up in some program that's not going to further my writing, but leave me treading water and in debt? And no teacher will give me the answers I want, because they're not going to tell me how good they think I am. They never do, and that's fine, it's not their job. But (whine) I wish they would. This is important and I want to do it right, but I feel horribly uninformed, no matter how many websites I read, or research I do.

reading the classics you feel like you've read but have never, in fact, read

2006-09-23T08:56:00.000-05:00

Like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. I read it this week. I got it out of the library on the way to get a pint, because there really is not much nicer than sitting in a bar by oneself in the afternoon with a pint of Guiness and a good book. I headed to the library because I was in the mood for something I didn't have. I wanted Robert Louis Stevenson. Don't ask my why he popped into my head. I think I was just in the mood for an adventure story. A pirate story (Pirates, samurai, I don't know what this says about my swashbuckling state of mind lately, but at least I'm entertained). So I went into the library thinking I would get Kidnapped, not Treasure Island, because I read that one just one to many times as a kid. But I've only read Kidnapped a few times, and probably not since I was about twelve.

So anyway. I'm in the library, I find Kidnapped, and stashed right next to it is Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. I guess I knew Stevenson wrote it, but never really put it all together. Standing there looking at it, I realized I've never actually read the book, even though we all know the story. Right then, I was intrigued, and felt like I should remedy this omission. Plus, the book was palm sized, and hardcover. I opened it, and the text was set in one narrow column down the center of each page. At the beginning of each chapter, the first letter of the first word was scrolly, and fancy, and red. And every so often, there was a cool woodcut, with a caption underneath, things like "Dr. Jekyll's hand" and "Mr. Hyde's hand." How could I resist? I felt that somehow this was the perfect book to enjoy sitting at a polished wood bar with my favorite beer in front of me. So I checked it out and headed to said bar.

It was around three o'clock, and the place was empty save for one guy sitting at the bar, talking to the bartender. I settled in with my pint at the other end of the bar, and began reading. I expected a good story, but man, it was good shit. I was immediately engrossed - after all, the story is told through a guy named Mr. Utterance. I was about fifteen pages in when the bartender went outside for a cigarette. And the guy at the end of the bar, well, I could just feel his attention shifting to me. You know those people at the bar that think that everyone is there to be social, and being in the same room is invitation for random chatting? Yeah, like the people on airplanes, the ones that force me to immediately don headphones upon boarding, and to keep them on even when there's no music playing. So I sat, looking totally involved in my book, or at least trying to, when in fact the guy was already distracting me and he hadn't even said anything. But I knew it was coming, it was like the room was holding its breath, waiting for him to speak. Sure enough,

"What're you reading?"

I look up begrudgingly at him, then at the cover of my book, like I'm not sure (I don't know why I do this, but I always do).

"Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde," I say, and look back down at it. After a minute he says,

"I've always thought there was a little of both in all of us."

This catches me off guard. I mean, duh. So I say,

"I think that's kind of the point."

What a bitch! I didn't mean to sound snotty, but come on. I felt bad about it, but not bad enough to keep talking to him, so I turned back to my book. It did shut him up pretty effectively, and allowed me to down two pints in silence, and get about fifty pages into the book. Man, I wish I could be a bitch on purpose - it would be so handy! Usually it's like this occasion, accidental bitchiness, which gets the job done, but can't be counted on to just appear when needed.

Samurai Sunday and Sidebar Glory

2006-09-18T12:49:00.000-05:00

I love the fall. I love the colors, the crisp air, pulling out sweaters and jeans... all that stuff. But here's another reason I love fall: rainy chilly Sundays. The kind of day that allows you to stay inside curled up on the couch with slipper socks and tea and movies, with no guilt involved (did I mention I'm a recovering Catholic? So, I'm guilty when I'm outside - not working - and guilty when I'm inside - not taking advantage of beautiful weather. Guilt is omnipresent, and rainy days are like a short respite). This whole weekend has been rainy and 50's and windy and gray. Puuuurrrrfect (that is my curled-up-on-the-couch purr).

So it was a slow day. I've been on a samurai movie kick lately, and revelled in the pleasure with both Rashomon and Sanjuro. Delightfully, I've found that the Bemidji Public Library has a small, but really excellent selection of DVDs, lots of foreign stuff, and lots of Japanese stuff, some of my favorite film.

Oh yes, and as Seredne pointed out (thanks for noticing!) I figured out the sidebar thing, with a little help. And thanks Vinny, for your comment, which provided the illuminating clue I needed to untangle the problem. So that was another thing that pleasantly occupied my time yesterday (pleasantly, that is, after I'd finished banging my head against the monitor in frustration).

But back to samurai! Next week I head back up to Bemidji, where, at the BSU Library, I get to pick up my requested movies, the second and third parts of the Samurai trilogy directed by Hiroshi Inagaki. I rented Samurai I: Musashi Miyamoto on a whim a couple of weeks ago, and that's what started me on my current trend. Can't wait to watch the next two, cleverly titled Samurai II: Duel at Ichijoji Temple, and Samurai III: Duel at Ganryu Island. If they're anything like the first one - a misunderstood exiled hero, the woman he's forced to leave behind, and a clever priest who orchestrates his training - I'll be happy.

Deadlines, please

2006-09-16T18:13:00.000-05:00

In order to get anything done, I need deadlines. This has been the case since I was in second grade and I waited midnight the night before my project on volcanoes was due to wake up my mom and announce it. Being the good mommy that she was, she got up with me, made hot chocolate, and we put the project together. But, that night, we set a dangerous precedent. Ever since then, I've been hooked on deadlines.

Thing is, I'm not sure this is a good thing for a writer. Sure, a journalist. Definitely, a grantwriter, the career that I believe honed my penchant for deadlines into a dependency. Because I don't seem to be able to finish anything without them. Is it possible that I cannot be self-motivated?

So, the reason this comes up is that I was literally unable to finish this one story until the very postmark deadline day for the contest I wanted to send it to. I can't help it. I love that rush, the way everything becomes crystal clear when you're down to hours, even minutes. The ruthless prioritization that must accompany this last-minute dash, because you just know you can't dither over things. I am able to focus in a way that is just not possible most of the time.

This is probably unhealthy. I will spend the rest of my life setting up fake deadlines for myself to force me to finish stories. There must be a prescription for this kind of thing.

Stupidhead

2006-09-13T17:59:00.000-05:00

Blargh! I'm trying to add some stuff to my sidebar, and it is becoming apparent to me that I am just far too dense for this web crap. Once upon a time, I could do it. But that was probably five years ago, and now I am utterly outdated. And, I think, dumber. I even tried to check my code by looking at Vinny's code, but to no avail (however, I do love to use the word "avail," and that gives me joy, even in the midst of my cursing and head-pounding). To me, mine looks just like his (well, pretty much, just not as fancy). But his is functional, and mine is dysfunctional, or non-functional. All I get are those stupid broken pictures which mean "you did something wrong, but you'll never figure out what." How hard can this be?

Don't answer that.

Poet Schmoet

2006-09-12T18:28:00.000-05:00

Today, for the first time, I workshopped a piece of poetry. I mean, my own poetry. It was a new and startling experience for me, but no less startling than actually writing poetry. It has always seemed to me that poetry is one of those things that you are born with, or you are not. And poets, well, they are some sort of otherworldly breed that can channel emotion and move words around like three card monty. Of course, you'd think I'd know better, as, up until recently, I thought the same of writers. That it was a club that I'd never belong to. I was known to say such asinine things as, "I'm a reader, not a writer." Cripes.

Of course, looking back I can say that this was some major avoidance on my part. Because, by defining myself as such, I never even had to try, did I? Someone said to me today that being a cynic is safe. I had never thought about it in those terms, but it struck me. That is why I do it. If you're not open to possibility, you don't have to explore and possibly fail. That is one thing that I've avoided most of my life: failure. Not healthy, I know, but fact is, that's sort of what I was taught. And it works. But it is sort of boring. So is being a cynic. In fact, that is one of the qualities of cynicism, of being jaded. You have to be bored. Nothing is new, nothing is exciting, and nothing is waiting to be discovered.

Well, I discovered something today. Poetry gives me something that none of my other writing does. There is a latitude within it that I do not allow myself with my fiction and creative non-fiction. I'm allowed to rest in a moment, to toy with it, to please myself by exploring it. I'm not required to hold together the forms required by narrative, and I can make leaps that I just can't do in fiction.

Anyway, it was cool. And I'm still pretty jazzed. And further jazzed because I managed to overcome the anxiety I experience when reading my work aloud. I remembered to breathe (big plus), and so read without a crack or a quiver. That was a breakthrough. And now I'm tucked up in my dorm room for the week, which smells like new carpet (ick). But I have a bowl of homemade alphabet soup for dinner, and some pita bread. So I got no complaints

Ah, Lime-a-licious

2006-09-11T17:37:00.000-05:00

I love lime green. And my blog definitely needed a change. Navy blue is just so... Navy Blue. I needed something clear and bright (edelweiss, edelweiss). Hopefully the new face of my blog will somehow reflect its clarity onto the rest of my life. Or at least, my desk. So, yes, the white was what I was aiming for. But the lime, ah, that was just a bonus for me. Still, I think a little tweaking is in order, especially that silly banner along the top, and maybe my profile picture - somehow doesn't seem to suit the new look.

Being Wrong

2006-09-10T09:23:00.000-05:00

An old boyfriend of mine used to quote the movie “Love Story” whenever he fucked up: “Love means never having to say you’re sorry.” That infamous quote has surely plagued more relationships than it has helped (yeah, thanks a lot, Ali McGraw, for giving us women that character to live up to). I thought it was a load of tripe, and told him so, and then refused to say I’m sorry, on the grounds that, according to him, I shouldn’t have to. So there!

Yeah, okay, I’m childish, but at least I don’t go looking to movies for relationship advice. We had our problems. He was an unrealistic romantic, someone who thinks that love conquers all and all that crap. I was a pragmatist with a deep seated secret romantic side – I wanted to believe all the things he thought were true, but couldn’t quite make that leap, for the same reason that I can’t believe in God or the afterlife. It just doesn’t have the ring of truth about it for me.

Here’s my slight modification to the quote: “Love means being very good at saying you’re sorry.” Anyone who has been in a long-term relationship will understand that the ability to say I’m sorry when you fuck up is crucial to the success of said relationship. For a very, very long time (and still sometimes) I felt like saying 'I'm sorry' was the same as saying I was wrong, which is something almost impossible for me to do (say I'm wrong, not be wrong - that is all too possible, very often probable). I have this notion, planted deep within me during childhood, that to admit I was wrong is a weakness, a chink in my armor that will allow people to get to me. It gets easier, the older I get, the more I do it, but I still have that gut reaction when I realize, in an argument, or a discussion, that I am in fact, wrong. The instinct to hide that fact with some bravado and some accusations, turn the tables, change the subject, and if worse comes to worse, use my sarcasm to hurt, hurt, hurt. After all, if someone is hurting, they'll probably forget that I am wrong, and in fact, will probably be too hurt to hurt me.

Yikes. This is getting way too deep for Sunday morning. I'm still on my first cup of tea. Yeah, that's it, I'll blame my brooding state on a lack of caffeination. After all, I couldn't just be wrong.

2006-09-07T12:19:00.000-05:00

Hello again blogland, gee I missed you. I'm back in school, second week now, and thankfully, things are beginning to feel routine. Two nights a week I stay in Bemidji, in the dorms, which is sort of nostalgic, and at the same time, one of those 'thank god I don't have to do this all the time' things. Plus, they are laying carpet in all the rooms surrounding those they rent out to commuting students like me, so the banging and the classic rock starts around 8 am. This is okay, for it gets my ass out of bed, and in a wierd way reminds me of living in the city, where it seems you are perpetually awoken by some kind of construction all summer long.

Also, cute perk: the rooms are above the day care playground, and the high little voices drift up to me as I lay on the bed and read - the Power Rangers theme song (which, as far as I can tell, goes something like this: Power Rangers, da da da, Power Rangers, da da da), shouts and songs, and inevitably, tears. It's nice, after the isolation of Toad Lake, to live in a populated zone, to hear the cars rumble and bump by at night, catch snatches of conversation from people walking below.

Yeah, I think I'm ready to live in a city again. When we moved out of Chicago when I was a kid, I couldn't sleep for weeks in the cricket chirping silence of the way north 'burbs. Where were the sirens, the voices, the cars, the purplish streetlight drifting through the curtains? Even though we left when I was twelve, whenever I get back into a city, lying in the bed at night with the window open, sound drifting through, it still feels like home.

Vinyl Nostalgia

2006-08-27T02:46:00.000-05:00

Okay, I’m going to date myself with this post. Remember records? You know, those huge, heavy, fragile disks that popped and scratched and hissed through every song? Yeah, digitally remastered is pretty cool, but I’ve always been a fan of the record. At the ripe old age of 6, I was trained by my parents on our record player, and was set loose among their albums, stored in an old wooden orange crate under the stereo. I still have the crate, which has served me well over the years, and could be considered an heirloom, as it was my parent’s first piece of furniture after they got married. I’m quite fond of it. And it is currently filled with my albums, a great many of which I inherited from my parents.

But just as fun as listening to the albums was looking at the album covers. While the record was playing I would sit on the green carpet in our living room, and look at the album covers, trace the raised lettering. Of course, I had favorites, albums that mesmerized me as a child for one reason or another, albums that were usually my favorites in terms of music as well. Here are a few of my top choices, my favorite album covers from childhood:

Sly & The Family Stone could probably be considered the anthem of my youth. And I loved the people, the multiples of everyone in the band, their bright funky clothing, and especially the woman with the white afro. On the inside cover there is a huge picture of Sly that I also used to adore.

Big Brother & The Holding Company. Some of Janis Joplin’s finest stuff. The album was drawn by Robert Crumb, which I didn’t know at the time, but makes it even cooler now. It tickled me that each song had a cartoon, and I could follow along on the album with the drawings. Of course, I missed the nature of many of the drawings, and the subtle, and not so subtle drug references, but the cartoons were still just really cool.

The Band. I loved this picture, and although I couldn’t have defined it at the time, I found it so haunting. There is this gaunt quality to the men, hollow cheeks and eyes, and an indefinable sadness that I was so drawn to. Plus, it’s a seriously great album.

Led Zepplin, Physical Graffiti. The coolest thing about this album was that the outside cover was just the building, with cut-outs where all the windows are. The inside sleeve had pictures printed on it that, when inserted in the cover, lined up with the window cut-outs. I loved to “look in the windows,” and pretend that it was a real apartment building. In which case, it would have been a seriously weird one, seeing as there were cartoons, naked people, Elizabeth Taylor as Cleopatra, and some things that I probably just didn’t even understand yet.

There were more – a really cool Wes Montgomery Album, Dylan’s Blonde on Blonde, Sgt. Pepper’s, but these were the ones that I pulled out time after time, the ones that got battered from use. Looking back, it was awfully cool of my parents to give a little kid free reign with their albums. I can’t say that I’d do the same, but it definitely set up my musical education at an early age. I still like spending a Saturday afternoon sitting on the floor, surrounded by albums, looking at the pictures while I listen to the hissing, skipping records. You just don’t get that from an Ipod.

Deep Breath Day

2006-08-25T23:42:00.000-05:00

My mother-in-law left this morning. Did I mention she's my landlord as well? Luckily, she's cool. She left in her wake a washer, a new fridge, a door to our sunroom, and a new deck. She also worked us like slaves. For two weeks.

I don't mind hard work. Especially when it's all to my own benefit. Our old refrigerator was about forty years old, one of those rounded jobs with the pull lever handle and a freezer the size of a shoebox that we defrosted once a week. It looked cool, vintage, but really sucked the electricity. Plus, it didn't keep anything cold, and so I have lived for years without ice cream. Or ice. Now, I have a lovely little fridge that has two ice trays and a pint of Haagen-Daz Dulce de Leche ice cream (my fav). Heavenly.

But there's a trade off. I'm a solitary soul. I need frequent periods of aloneness to replenish my energy, my goodwill, my serenity. Entertaining for two weeks is definitely a drain. She left this morning and I spent the rest of the morning doing laundry with my new washer, reading and drinking coffee. Then, out of the blue, I got a whopper migraine. It caught me upside the head, I wasn't paying attention to the signs. It just came because it could, because I was alone and had no obligations. I'm also one of those people who usually only gets sick on vacation because I have the time. Yup. So, then, I spent the rest of my solitary day with the shades pulled on the couch with my microwaveable herb bag wrapped around my head. Finally, by using all my hard-learned Jedi tricks, I banished it before it could blossom into a multi-day affair. So here I am, up all night probably. I think I'll take my solitary time now and curl up with my book and some mac-n-cheese (my ultimate comfort food).

Okay, that's like three whiney posts in a row. I promise, I'm done being a big baby now. Thanks for putting up with me.

And it all comes crashing down…

2006-08-22T18:25:00.000-05:00

I’m freaking out. This is my process. I freak out, I cry, then I get down to business. I’m still in the freaking out stage. You see, I’m going up to Bemidji to start school tomorrow. TOMORROW. And suddenly it becomes apparent that we don’t have the wherewithal to send me to school. I should be working. I mean, I work up there, but basically with my travel expenses, I break even on the deal. So, I’m not so much contributing to the household, or our savings, or our future moving expenses. And now, with budget cuts at J’s school, and his loss of one class to teach, we are suddenly not sure we can pull it off. Oh, yeah, and J’s car is broken down, and, we fear, dead. We will find out tomorrow.

Yes, we have enough to live on. But, we will not be able to save enough money to move. Of course, the move is all dependent on me getting into a creative writing program somewhere. And we don’t know where yet – I’m working on that this fall. I have two freelance gigs which will bring some money in, but I hate to depend on freelance jobs, especially for non-profits, because they tend to be unreliable at best, and at worst, they disappear. So…

I started looking for part-time work. Found a potential part-timer at a cute shoe store in Park Rapids (which is probably a bad idea, as I will have to daily restrain myself, with shoes dangling in front of me like so much ambrosia). If I pick it up, this will bring my job count up to four. Four jobs. And school. And grad school applications. And, oh, yeah, writing, which is the whole point of this debacle, and is something that gets pushed by the wayside far too easily.

I’m freaking out. Soon, I will have a good cry. Then, I think I will make chocolate chip cookies, eat dough until I get sick, wait for J to come home and give me a hug. Then I can figure this out.

My Uncles Brian

2006-08-19T22:17:00.000-05:00

I have two Uncles Brian, my dad’s brother and my mom’s sister’s husband (with me so far?). They are both dying. Not in the sense of “we’re all dying, day by day.” These guys are dying. They are both in stage four of cancer, the “we’ll just try to keep them comfortable” phase. One has malignant tumors on his spine, the other has them cropping up all over, but the ones that are going to do the deed are those that have sprouted in his lungs.

Whenever I talk to my parents, I get the updates on both of them (one lives in Wisconsin, the other in Florida). And I see it in my parents, their burgeoning realization that their friends, their peers, are dying. My dad, especially, is not dealing well. His brother Brian is his younger brother, and I think somewhere down deep he thinks he has failed to protect his younger brother. I just ache for him. He is not an emotive soul. He buries it down deep, and does his best to appear to be handling it.

As his child, and someone who uses the same techniques, I don't know whether to pierce the shell, or just let him try to find some peace behind it. I have a general rule: I don’t ask. If someone wants to talk, I will listen all night, but I don’t ask. I don’t like to dig into someone’s buried feelings without their permission. Even asking if someone is okay sometimes feels too intrusive. Although upfront and blunt about some things, I’m a pretty deeply private person and I try to respect that in other people. I want to be the one person that doesn’t ask what is wrong, the person who will simply recognize that all is not great, but allow you to exist for a moment in silence, or talk about something else.

But sometimes that feels like the wrong thing. Obviously, this is my dad, and I’m allowed to pry. I’m allowed to dig in there, to tell him up front that I know what is going on and I’m thinking of him. But it’s so counterintuitive for me. It feels awkward to me, and I'm sure to him, since we’re cut from the same cloth. Rusty lines of communication. For years, for most of our lives, my dad, my brother and I have existed with minimal communication, trusting completely in the love and loyalty of the others, so much so that we don’t affirm it very often. Maybe that’s wrong. I don’t know. When I brought it up to my brother, he said, “we know how we feel, we don’t need to say it for it to be there.” Which is exactly how I feel. But I don’t know if it’s right. In fact, I know it’s not right here. But I’m rusty, and I’m sure my dad is too. How do we start to talk again, or for the first time, about death and love and siblings and mortality and health and afterlife and religion. How do you begin?

Glutton for Punishment

2006-08-17T22:05:00.000-05:00

So I've taken another job that I don't know how to do. I didn't lie or anything, in order to get the job. It is stuff that I have some experience in (archive inventory - excitement!), so I have not misrepresented. But I do have this habit of picking up jobs that are right on the fringes of my experience and knowledge. Like, "well, I pretty much know how to do that... after all, I did this..."

The details are these: I got into inventorying the archives of the Tamarac Nat'l Wildlife Refuge, my favorite hiking spot near my house. They have documents and photos going back to 1937, when the land was originally being acquired. It's a difficult job to focus on when faced with sheets of photos from the thirties of people in snowshoes and plaid jackets with pheasant tied to their belts, people in canoes wild ricing, people maple sugaring. Cool. At least, cool to me. It reminds me that I actually did like some of my job when I worked at the Museum from Hell. It's only recently that I've recovered from running the Museum from Hell. I certainly haven't been in the frame of mind to consider the things that I liked about that job, at least not until recently. Any love I had for any of my activities at the museum got sucked out of me through frustration until everything I felt could be described by one word: apathy.

Anyway, this project has reminded me that, oddly enough, one of my great loves is to try to organize vast amounts of unorganized material. I've done it with artifacts, I've done it with photographs. I've never done it with archives, and I'm having to try out a whole new set of parameters for this project. Which leaves me blundering around most of the time, despite the fact that to most people, I appear to know what I'm doing.

Point is, I've realized something about myself: I love to bite off more than I can chew. In some way it is comforting to me to know that a project is so insurmountable that any success can be viewed as a big success. And on the flip side, with a project that is almost certainly doomed to a certain degree of failure, there is the comfort of knowing that you can't really fail.

Mother-In-Law

2006-08-16T22:15:00.000-05:00

The blog has gone by the wayside for the past few days, coinciding with the day that my mother-in-law rolled into town. Don't get me wrong - she's about as cool as you could ask a mother-in-law to be. In fact, she did a little matchmaking at the beginning of my relationship with J, not getting us together, but just nudging us along, you might say. I knew her, and worked with her, before I even knew J. He has a theory that she matched us up because she wanted me for a daughter. That's a nice thing to think, but there was a little more to it, I suspect.

Anyway, she is cool, but she keeps us hopping. Usually we are a pretty low-key household, but in the past three days we have torn apart a deck, bought and unloaded materials for a new deck (to be done tomorrow), hooked up a washer, shopped for a refrigerator and materials for shelves, gone to the dump, mowed the lawn, let's see, what else... (did I mention that she is our landlord, technically speaking?) So, although I am not blogging, I am definitely keeping busy. Oh, and did I mention that she brought us a case of homemade chokecherry wine? I think we'll let her stay...

Toad Lake Blotter - Cougar!

2006-08-05T10:05:00.000-05:00

So yesterday my neighbor, JB, informed me that there has been a cougar sighting in the area, more specifically, on Harland Olsen’s property, just across the road from me (I wouldn’t make these names up, now, and feel no need to change them because I cannot conceive of anyone from my neighborhood stumbling across this blog).

Normally I take JB’s stories with a grain of salt, seeing as he’s of the old local school, and takes neighborly gossip as truth and spreads it with the fervor of a sixth grade girl. As the cougar spotting followed hard on the heels of JB telling his buddy Deke that I write books (JB’s dream for me is to be featured by the Oprah Book Club), I take it with little or no importance. Especially since we’re sitting in his garage at a card table drinking Crown Royal and Pepsi out of insulated mugs. But after checking around a little, I am forced to admit that apparently this is the real deal, confirmed by the DNR. And I do know, from my former life as a museum director and giver of too many Rotary speeches, that cougars were once prevalent in this area, and are still occasionally spotted.

Later that evening I couldn’t help remembering this information as I stood on my deck, at 2 am, checking out the amazing stars, and suddenly heard crashing around down in the reeds at the lakeshore in front of our house. A water source that is almost a direct line from Harland Olsen’s property. A big crashing. This was not a deer, or a beaver, or any of the number of woodland critters that parade regularly through our yard to get to water every night. This was something big. I stood on the deck, squinting at the stars, trying to ignore the sounds, while my id screamed “Cougar! Fucking Cougar!” and sent adrenaline pounding through my veins in classic fight-or-flight reaction. I have to say, I was leaning heavily towards flight. But I played tough, standing on my deck, knowing that I was hidden by a massive lilac bush and standing about ten feet from my back door.

So, of course, when I got back inside (forcing my feet to move slowly, instead of skittering through the back door as every nerve was shrieking at me to do), I hit Wikipedia. According to their comforting article, and I quote, “Due to urbanization in the urban-wildland interface, pumas often come into contact with people, especially in areas with a large population of deer, their natural prey. They have also begun preying on pets, such as dogs and cats, and livestock, but have rarely turned to people as a source of food.” Gee, I feel so much better now.

Knight Rider for President!

2006-08-03T11:55:00.000-05:00

So I just woke up from one of those wierd dreams that you have when you wake up and go back to sleep. Those drifing nonsensical dreams. I only remember the end, but it's worth remembering.

I walked through a strip mall parking lot and went to Dunkin Donuts, where they made me pay $12.87 for six donuts. Of course, I couldn't find my wallet, and when I did it was full of change and no bills. But then when I looked again, it was chock full of bills, the smallest of which was a hundred (A lot of my dreams involve confusion regarding money, but you don't have to look deep into my subconscious to know that all that confusion is real). So I paid with the hundred, which had a picture of David Hasselhoff where a president should be (Kitt, I have to break a hundred for donuts). Of course, immediately upon leaving I crossed the parking lot and saw a tiny bakery, just a service window with wooden tables behind it and a Bavarian grandmotherly type working the window, handing out fresh and beautiful baguettes. But when I tried to get one the woman told me they were closed, and pulled a metal grate down over the window. Oh, well, I guess things could be worse. At least I still have donuts.

And I just had to post this picture, because: 1) how can you have too much David Hasselhoff (and his sweet eighties shoes)? and 2) wtf?

Sweet Corn & Porch Sleeping

2006-08-02T16:47:00.000-05:00

These are two of perhaps the finest delights for me, and the best things about moving back to the Midwest. Sweet corn is in! Pickup trucks by the side of the road, a dozen for three dollars, slip your money through the rolled down window and take it out of the back. I love that. Mmmm. Sweet corn.

And the other object of this post: porch sleeping. Ah, the delights of porch sleeping. I'm aware that by no means is the Midwest the only place where you can porch sleep in the summertime. But really, in my opinion, the best part of summertime here is the nighttime. Light breeze, damp and cool, through the screen, loons and frogs and birds burbling around, critters crashing periodically through the trees. Faint sounds from parties and bonfires drifting across the lake. Sincerely one of my favorite things in the world, porch sleeping. When I was a kid we sometimes slept out on my grandma's pontoon boat tied to the pier. And when I was lucky, and my cousin wasn't around, I got to sleep at my aunt's house in my cousin's bed, which was on a big screened-in second story porch at their cottage on the other side of the lake. Of course, in general I'm a big fan of porches. In fact, among family and friends I am famous for commenting on every house we drive past, "Look at that great porch!" That and gushing over every lilac bush I come upon in the spring.

It takes so little to make me happy.

Headed for Quakerdom

2006-07-29T19:12:00.000-05:00

So, most people who know me know that I don’t get television. I mean, at my house. Our choices are either no channels or a dish, and to be honest, it’s just not worth the dish. This does not mean we are virtuous, nor are we promoting a lifestyle choice (ie, kill your television, which got old really fast, did it not?). It simply means that we are too tightfisted to spring for a dish. We have a tv, and rent lots of movies, and own some tv series dvds. And so anyway, there we are, without television.

Oh, and did I mention I live out in the sticks? That, after six years I got an internet connection for the first time this summer? Oh, yes, I’m isolated, all right. Anyway. I’ve gone without television for small periods throughout my life – like in college, senior year when I lived in a basement apartment and couldn’t get any channels except for Fox when we arranged the tin-foil just so, which we did every day at six o’clock for the Simpsons. For the most part, that year was television-less. But I was constantly at other people’s houses, the way you are in college, gathered on couches, snacking and watching television, usually with at least one person who is trying to get drunk. So there wasn’t this sense that I have now, after missing television for six years. This sense that I’ve missed things.

I can safely say that I think I am a different person because of it - so removed. And ignorant. I don’t know what TiVo is. I pretend to, but I don’t. I know it’s some new-fangled thing for the television, but that’s it. It’s like I’ve already skipped into my seventies, and have to lean forward and ask people to speak up as they try to explain current technology, at which point my eyes glaze over and I nod off.
I stopped watching television just as reality shows were starting to be on. I don’t know when Survivor started, but I never saw an episode. As a result, the very formatting of television has been basically revolutionized since I’ve stopped watching it. Everything is set up differently. Commercials, news shows especially, prime time, everything.

But here’s what I’ve noticed, and I know it’s been said before, but you can take it from me, someone who really actually likes tv, and is a would-be regular junkie: television is fucked. I mean it. It’s really messed up. It’s flashing, screaming, roaring, rapid scene after scene. That’s what I see when I watch television. All I can see is flashes of stuff, color, lights, and the noise. It’s so friggin’ loud. I can’t focus on whatever the show I’m watching is actually about, because I’m dealing with sensory overload (and too many jump cuts). And I even like loud stuff, as is evidenced by our stereo’s current volume setting. But television is messed up, and sort of spooky. Sometimes it reminds me of the Thunderdome, and the creepy emcee. It wouldn’t surprise me if they started having game shows where people bet their lives, or families or whatever. After all, they already trade families, spouses, houses, whatever. Again, pretty fucked.

Am I the only one who feels like television is spooky in a sort of mesmerizing way? Or maybe I should just become a Quaker. Embrace the simple life.

Radiohead & Insomnia

2006-07-27T05:02:00.000-05:00

I’ve never found better music to write by than Radiohead. I can describe their music using adjectives I wish I could describe my writing with: compelling, devastating, elegant.

What about music when you’re writing? It seems to be a thing that everyone has a distinct opinion on. For me, it’s Radiohead, John Coltrane, Beck (Sea Changes or Mutations, NOT Guero, Mellow Gold or Odelay. These three have the opposite effect, in that I usually end up dancing around my office, then going to the kitchen for something to eat. Not what one looks for in inspirational music), Modest Mouse, Bjork, The Shins (only sometimes. Other times they bug the crap out of me), not usually Miles Davis (except for the super mellow golden stuff), Campfire Headphase, Thelonius Monk (same rule as with Miles) oh, and reggae. Reggae is surprisingly good to write to (Burning Spear, Bunny Wailer, and Dennis Brown. NOT Toots & the Maytals, not Peter Tosh, not Bob Marley or Lee Perry. They are in the same category as Guero), except for the fact that I rarely write something that feels reggae to me. But reggae is sort of entrancing, and I guess that’s the effect that I look for in the music I listen to while I'm writing. It’s the kind of music that feels like it's just happening in your head.

I often feel this way with Radiohead. To further this feeling, which I like, I habitually wear headphones when I’m at my computer. And also, I think, to make more complete my disconnection from the world. I used to be really good at blocking out the world when I was a kid. I still rock at it while I’m reading. Bombs could be going off around me, and I’d probably wander into the other room without lifting my nose from my book, and fumble around to put on my gas mask one-handed. It must be really annoying to live with.

Yet, when I’m writing, I’m so distractable. Why is that? I don’t want to be. I’m really enjoying myself, but it’s like the whole time there’s this part of my brain that is just searching for a distraction, a temptation, a worry, an obligation. Stupid brain. So I just use the headphones (they're big and cushy) as a little basic sensory deprivation, with the side benefit of mood enhancement. I have even been known, on occasion, to wear the headphones when no music is playing. Not often, and I know it makes me sound weird, but I like that muffly sound to the world. The world is far too noisy anyway. I wish I could just wear headphones everywhere, and the world would just hum away around me and I could just sort of walk around in it without actually taking part.

Um, yeah. Let this be a lesson to you all. No blogging during severe bouts of insomnia.

Back in Minnesota... again

2006-07-26T21:33:00.000-05:00

yup. I'm back from the second of my two whirlwind vacations this summer. This one to Wisconsin and then Ohio, on the train. Oh, yes my friends, the journey was a blur of green fields and well, more green fields. And some trees. But I do love the train. Even when it's so late that you might miss your connection and they threaten to put you on a bus!?! Yuck. I hate the bus. And the bus from Chicago to Detroit Lakes? Long yuck. But I did make my connection, did end up on the right train.

As usual, I thought I would do all sorts of blogging during my vacation about my fun vacation activities. Ha. When will I learn? I had access to a computer for a good part of my trip, but it remained stubbornly peripheral in my vision. I had no impulse to check my e-mail, much less blog. I was too busy doing fun things I do far too little of, such as waterskiing, and going to baseball games. And shopping! Yay for shopping at cute import stores conveniently situated next to vegetarian restaurants in lovely little hippie towns in Ohio. Specifically, I'm talking about Yellow Springs. If you ever find yourself passing through the area (not too far off I-70), it is definitely worth a stop.

And as for baseball, I checked out the Dayton Dragons game with friends one night. Very cute little park, hometown crowd, and when a Dragon player hit a home run, the red eyes of the dragons on the scoreboard would flash and steam would roll out of their nostrils to the tune of an extremely loud foghorn. Does it get any better?

Anyway, I have more tales to tell, one of which has to do with a music festival, a migraine and a heavenly grilled cheese sandwich (sounds like a joke: a migraine, a music festival and a grilled cheese sandwich walked into a bar...). But another day...

One Of Those Days...

2006-07-01T17:50:00.000-05:00

You ever have one of those days when it seems that, even though you don’t believe in a higher power (or maybe because you don’t), that higher power is thwarting your every attempt to be productive, efficient, or dammit, just get one thing done today?

Well, I’m not having one of those days. But J is. Everything he has tried to accomplish has been thwarted in a singular manner. It is relentless. I found him, twenty minutes ago, sitting on the couch with a toothpick between his lips, staring into space in abject misery. I could tell he was at the brink. The breaking point. The point at which I would’ve succumbed to tears (I cry easily and without much provocation even on a good day). He just looked miserable and angry and frustrated and sad.

You know how it is – you try to accomplish something – you have big plans. Your every move is blocked like there is a bully that has you backed into the corner and keeps saying, try to get out, and when you move to scoot past him, shoves you back.

So what do you do? Well, what I usually try to do is back off. Pick another project, smaller, less complex. More accomplishable. And I keep inching my way down until I find the thing that I can accomplish (which, by that point, is usually finding the Kleenex box by feel because my eyes are puffy and blurry with tears of sheer anger).

But, and this is one reason why I love the man, he does not succumb to tears, or slamming things around (another of my favorite venting methods). He sits and stares into space, then takes a deep breath, and heads back to the self-same project which brought him to such misery. No down-stepping to easier projects for him. I like to see this as evidence of his boundless persistence, although in fact it may be plain stubbornness, a quality, take it from me, he possesses in spades. Either way, it is admirable. I think.

Sometimes, Mother Nature Bites

2006-06-29T17:16:00.000-05:00

This is the disclaimer: I love nature. Hell, I'm surrounded by it. On good days, I feel lucky to live in a place where the racket that the birds make is louder than the traffic from the highway.

On bad days, its "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em," because, well, the truth is, nature can be a little overwhelming at times. It scratches around in your basement, nibbles on your doorway (see Toad Lake Blotter), and dangles cobwebs in your corners. In the summertime, I feel like we have to fight just to keep our little corner of the property. Given one unrestrained summer, the vegetation would gladly take over and creep up and over the house, while the bunnies frolicked in our sunroom and the mice claimed our countertops. This makes the contrast even more great in the wintertime, when the fauna and flora retreat, and the elements do their best to batter us into submission (or at least severe depression).

Yeah, so, maybe I'm feeling bitter right now. I'm a city kid, but I spent summers in Wisconsin, in a rowboat chasing turtles, catching frogs, and being fascinated by the vivid molds and funguses that grew in the channel near my grandma's house. So you could say I've had a little of both worlds. And I know that nature is a delicate balance, and takes care of itself, and does what it needs to do.

But my birdies are dead, and right now, Mother Nature, I'd stay out of my way if I were you. There were six of them, all fuzzy with oversized yellow plastic-looking beaks, in the nest outside my window. I didn't open that curtain for a month, so as to avoid scaring the parental birdies away. We snuck through that door so as not to disturb, and used the other door whenever possible. But while I was gone, all the baby birdies died (this sounds like a twisted Ween song, I have to admit). And that happens, and its sad, and I cried. But the worst part is, we think the momma killed them. It's possible, I guess, that another bird swooped in and did their thing, but normally, don't other birds steal eggs and stuff? This was just birdie extermination. There were three dead in the nest, and the others had been dropped out of the nest onto the concrete steps. The parental birdies are still around. I see them hovering on the power line, on the handle of the rake. I don't think they use the nest anymore though.

Nature ain't for sissies, that's for sure. Part of me longs to head to the city, where people prey on other people, but at least you don't wake up on the mornings and find dead birdies on your stoop. Winos, maybe, but not birdies.

Back from Ioway

2006-06-25T10:31:00.000-05:00

So I'm back. I got in early yesterday afternoon, and tried to catch up on my blog, but my brain felt dried out by the workshop, and then cured by the seemingly endless drive home into some kind of brain jerky. Yeah, yesterday I was a blank. I got home, and J and I had passed somewhere on the expressway. He was heading down to the Cities to just get the hell out. Some of his friends were going to the Mason Jennings show, which he wasn't going to, but wanted to just head down and see a good movie, shop at Utrecht, and mostly I think just breathe in the energy of some other folks. I, having gotten my fix, decided not to meet them in the Cities, but head right home. This worked fine for both of us, but it was a curious feeling arriving home without him to greet me.
Anyway, about the workshop. First let me say: Iowa City is a great town. It is the perfect size (30,000 without students, 60,000 with them), and features all those things you love about a college town: funky little shops, arty theaters, great bookstores, and kiosks selling grilled cheese and crepes. I felt curiously at home there, which is something that happens to me in a college town. I feel like I can breathe, and there is a strange sense of elation. The other thing - Iowa City has lots of green space. Parks, trees, green stretches of grass, winding paths. Oh, yeah, and the University of Iowa Museum of Art. Holy shit folks. I went, expecting something similar to most college art museums: beautiful collections of work that someone who knew something about art would probably recognize. I did not expect this:

Yes. According to what I've read, this painting, Pollack's Mural, is what started it all. And there's more - I saw Rothko, Miro, Gaugin, Chagall, Picasso, Lasansky, and a whole lot more beatiful and amazing art that I'm sure someone in the know could recognize. I got one-third of the way through the first time and had to leave. My brain was full. Needless to say, I'm a museum nerd, but this one quickly became a haunt for me during my stay. Enough about that - this post is already disturbingly long.
Let's talk about the workshop. I took Katherine Min's Advanced Short Story workshop. There were seven of us in the class. And here's the surprising thing: we all seemed to be at about the same place. You know how, when you're in a workshop, you hope to find one, or maybe two, people (if you're lucky) who are in the same spot you are, have similar insights and sensibilities? Well, not to say that everyone in there was trying to do the same thing. But I was amazed to find that just about everyone in the class (with one exception) was similarly well-read (different books, but same sensibility), intelligent, and insightful. My story was workshopped first (lucky me) and I expected awkward critiques and dancing around the subject. There was none of that. No one trying to figure out how to tell me, without hurting my feelings what was wrong with my story. We immediately dispensed with all those social niceties and got down to brass tacks. So refreshing! And it was that was for everyone's stories. The thing that was wrong, the thing that the author couldn't put her/his finger on, was promptly nailed by the workshop, and interesting discussions followed on how to work with it. Interwoven in this were lesson plans that used the strengths and weaknesses of our stories to discuss elements of the story, etc. I've never been in such a well-oiled workshop, where I walked out with energy, enthusiasm for my work, and concrete ideas on how to make it more complete. It was pretty thrilling.
That said, now I am here. Is this enthusiasm translating across 600 miles? Yes. I'm still excited. The distance between me and the workshop has not diminished that. Plus, I met some cool people, and we have a plan to do our own weekend writing retreats and workshops.
Okay, I admit, I'm a little cynical, jaded, and otherwise pessimistic and overcritical. But I really didn't expect this workshop to be a success in so many ways - in all the ways you hope it to be.

Toad Lake Blotter

2006-06-16T19:41:00.000-05:00

News from the Wierd and Wonderful World of Big Toad Lake

The baby birdies outside my window are coming along nicely. Of course, I haven't been able to open the curtains on that window since they were born, because the momma won't fly to the nest when there's a big gaping window with dark shapes moving around behind it. Can't say I blame her. But you can see the little ones now, three of them, with fuzzy gray heads. They like to prop their heads on the edge of the nest, and sometimes when I go out there, all I can see is three little yellow beaks poking over the edge of the moss.

The other night, a porcupine tried very hard to gain access to our home. I was up late, late, reading, and around three a.m. I started hearing these noises, sort of rhythmic bumping and scraping. I didn't really think twice about it until I realized that I no longer live in a crappy apartment in Aspen, and it wasn't just one of the surrounding neighbors getting lucky after the bars closed. So I walked around the house and tried to pinpoint the noise, but couldn't figure out where it was coming from. Eventually it stopped, and so I chalked it up to the dog having wierd dreams (she runs often in her sleep), or some mousy type activity going on down in the basement (yeah, I love living in an old house). The next day, when I woke up, J took me outside and showed me what was causing the noise. He hadn't heard it, but was perceptive enough to notice that something had gnawed quite a dent into the trim around our mudroom door. Honestly, that critter was working. I can't imagine what he was after, I don't think we have any porcupine-type foodstuffs in the mudroom. Oh, yeah, we know it was a porcupine because as we were standing in awe of the havoc wreaked by one critter, we noticed that we were standing, barefoot, among a scattering of porcupine quills. We collected what we could and then tiptoed back inside. Massive potential for ouchiness. Some days nature just smacks you in the face, reminding you just who is on whose turf.

Third and final notice: J planted some lovely little cauliflower plants, and some strawberries too. Zoe ate them. Cauliflower seedlings. Who knew her palate was so refined? They were potted, and out on the deck for sun, and she just plucked them right out of the pots. The only trace that remained of the poor brave seedlings were the little rectangular indentations from the flats he popped the plants and dirt out of. Luckily, the strawberry plants were out of reach on the railing. But she was definitely checking them out, trying not to look suspicious as she stretched her nose up to sniff them. Sneaky bitch.

Final news: I'm getting ready to head to Iowa on Sunday for a week-long writing workshop. Pretty excited about that. Knowing me, I'll probably be more excited when I get back. And hopefully full of new ideas!

Wild Strawberries

2006-06-13T18:04:00.000-05:00

No, not the Bergman flick. In my backyard, an area that has gotten mowed every year but this one because we have been too lazy. And now we get to reap the benefits of our laziness with those tiny magenta wild strawberries that each pack a punch equal to a carton of the store-bought ones.

And the birds that nested in the eave outside my office window had babies, and when I stand quietly by the window I can hear tiny cheeps from the nest. Jason peeked at them, he says they're still hairless, and basically lack the strength to do anything but open their mouths. The male bird sits on the handle of our rake and keeps a weather eye while the female bird flies back and forth to the nest with food. I spend a lot of time watching them.

Some days I really do believe it's as good as it's ever going to get.

Back Inside

2006-06-12T22:37:00.000-05:00

Oy. Slowly returning to electronica from about 10 days of semi-enforced computer abstinence. I forced myself to get outside and enjoy the summer and blow off some work. Yup. It was tough to talk myself into that one, but I twisted my arm, you know? Anyway, basically I've been doing things like mowing the lawn, cleaning the house, transplanting pine trees, good stuff like that. Then all of a sudden, today, while I was mowing the lawn (again - we have a lot of lawn), a story that's been hovering over my head finally came down to say hello. You know, when you realize you're narrating and you're not sure if you've been doing it out loud? I was trying something new, because I was scared and stuck (see earlier post). Instead of just sitting in front of the computer feeling miserable for not accomplishing anything, and simultaneously feeling guilty and miserable for not being outside enjoying the beautiful weather (two whammies with one stone), I was just utterly ignoring my work, to see if it would creep out to me, like the chipmunk that lives under our deck and likes to lick the milk out of my cereal bowl. And it did! Granted, not a very efficient or productive way to work, but it was nice way to pass the time during writer's block.

Finally, My Vision Will Be Realized!

2006-05-30T00:55:00.000-05:00

All I have to do is get my hands on one of these invisibility cloaks. Now I will be able to fight with true heroic effectiveness, speed and aplomb, the dastardly forces that threaten all humanity!

Invisibility cloak. Sweet.

Stuck? Scared? Stuck, therefore Scared? Scared, therefore Stuck? Crap.

2006-05-27T21:08:00.000-05:00

I'm stuck. Or maybe I'm scared (maybe you got this from the title). At any rate, I'm definitely intimidated. I'm writing a new story, well, actually I've got about three on the stove right now. And they're all stuck in the same spot. Arg. So frustrating. All three of them are just out of my reach, like when you're going after that bowl that you don't use often but is gorgeous and sits atop your kitchen cabinets, and your fingertips keep brushing the rim, but you can't quite grab it. Of course, maybe someone else would do the sensible thing, get a stepladder and calmly retrieve the bowl. But not me. That would make sense, indicate logic and proactive problem-solving. What I usually do is keep jumping, keep brushing it with my fingertips until it wobbles and falls, and then hope that I can catch it before it shatters and/or kills me. Right now, I feel like any one of these stories could tumble, shatter and/or kill me in the process.

The problem is, I have to make decisions. Usually when I am writing and it is decision time, if I don't know what to do I take a deep breath (wait a few days, a few weeks, whine about it to friends like jessie and amber), then jump in like it's a pool that I know is really friggin' cold, come up gasping, and start doggy-paddling. That has been a pretty good system. But this time, not to belabor the pool metaphor, but I am in way over my head. I need to make decisions, but have no basis from which to make them. I feel like I know just enough about writing to get myself in trouble. You know how sometimes, the more you learn about something, the more difficult it gets? I try not to make writing to much of a conscious process in terms of mechanics, at least until a certain time, after which I become painfully meticulous.

But this is about changes in time and space more than anything else, and I'm not sure what to do. I know that any changes I make don't have to be permanent, I have saved a copy as an alternate version that I can mess with, and still have the previous draft to go back to if I have to trash my efforts. But I still can't do it. I can't make the changes. There's this part of me that knows that even though the changes on the paper aren't permanent, if I change the story, the change in the way I see it will be permanent. I won't be able to see it the way I saw it before. And that scares the crap out of me.

And so I blog, and I make fruit salad, and I weed my garden and check the mail, and paint furniture and make pants. But the whole time, in the back of my head, in the back of my throat, there is panic. I tiptoe around it, dance up to it to see if it is still there, and retreat quickly when I find that it is, that as soon as I approach it the feeling in my throat slides down into my chest. So I tiptoe away and force it back where it was, knowing that I should meet it head on, but lacking the strength. What a wuss.

Protector of the Pack

2006-05-24T16:16:00.000-05:00

This is my pooch, Zoë. This is her worried look. She worries a lot, and with good reason. We rescued Zoë when she was three, and she is nine now. When we got her she was 96 pounds (70-ish now) with a huge weeping sore on her neck and rampant ear infections. Life had been rough, just one of neglect mostly, and she had been forgotten about too many times. Sometimes they would forget to feed her, then remember and feel bad and feed her too much. Sometimes she got left outside overnight, and sometimes it was storming. She’s had bladder stones, infections galore. The dog is allergic to grass, and most of the summer we have to keep her on doggie Benadryl. We call her diphenhydra-dog.
She worries for her own safety, but she especially worries for ours. When one of us is sick she sticks close by, and licks hands for comfort. When there is a thunderstorm, as there was last night, Zoë stays awake, trembling, sure that the ramparts are being stormed, concerned for the security of our little pack.
Today she is snoozing in the armchair in my office, making up for lost sleep last night. As she gets older, she sleeps more of the time, and grunts and groans like an old person when she lays down and gets up. She also sighs in disdain at many of our antics (young whippersnappers), and her eyebrows shift and twitch in disbelief at the silliness of humans.
In a way, she reminds me of Nanny, from Peter Pan (I should get her a mobcap). It’s sort of nice knowing she’s there, watching out for me, saving me from the onslaught of woodland creatures that breach the security of our yard on a regular basis, and all the other threats the outside world has to offer.

Today

2006-05-22T20:20:00.000-05:00

The oak trees are blooming now, blooming golden, as if already aged, looking wise next to the pert lime green of the new birch leaves. It is blue skies today, and in Minnesota, that alone is a reason to call it a fine day. The wind is brisk and strong, coming straight off the lake and up our yard. The clouds stream overhead as if on an interstate, and me, a hitchhiker hopeful by the side of the road. The group of bass trees on the edge of the yard are fairly young. They stretch over the lawn and almost touch the older, dying basswood in the center of the yard, a span of inches between tip of branch to tip of outermost branch. It’s almost like they’re reaching for each other. And the yellow finches flit across the space between the branches, streaming between them as if there is an invisible connection, delicate as cobweb, like a bridge so fine that from a distance it seems to disappear in the center. I, planted on the ground, am not privy to those features and landmarks that are so obvious to the birds from their aerial view. I look up through the trees to the sky as if I’m looking up from underwater. To them, the whole world is topography that they dip into and swoop through. I'm too far down in it.

Treasures from the Basement

2006-05-21T22:00:00.000-05:00

Oooh. I’m so excited. Jason dragged me down into the basement tonight (I hate the basement and avoid it when at all possible -there’s some serious bad mojo down there) to look in my many Tupperware tubs (4 of fabric, 4 of yarn, 3 of soapmaking supplies) for some fabric to make him boxers. And to find his soldering iron so that he could put his electric razor back together (don’t ask - things get dull out here).

But when I got down there, I unearthed a huge stash of summer clothes in need of minor modifications. I had set them aside last summer and never gotten around to fixing them up (you know how it goes). I was also looking for material to make some cool summer pants, but what I found (and had forgotten about) was this: some time ago, some friends and I happened upon the leavings of a huge rummage sale that some of the older ladies in Detroit Lakes had put on for some charity or another. One of my friends, who helped put the sale together, brought everything that didn’t sell to the theater one night, and we just dumped out garbage bags full of vintage sixties and seventies gear. Polyester lives! And while I was completely enamored of all of it, everyone else wasn’t quite in the same frame of mind. Therefore, I got pretty much everything I wanted. We’re talking those high necked long sleeved floor length seventies dresses in crazy florals, yards of fabric. Now it’s all piled in the middle of my office, smelling a tad like cool musty basement, and waiting for me. And I am scheming, my scissors are gleaming, and finally I have a table to put my sewing machine on.

A whole summer of groovy pants awaits.

A New Favorite

2006-05-20T19:27:00.000-05:00

Don't you love it when you find a new favorite?

I just recently did: Me and You and Everyone We Know. It's just poignant and funny and touching and sad and happy and ridiculous and all the things that I love about a movie.

The first time I saw this movie, I suspected it could be in the favorites category. I've sort of been auditioning it for the role since then. This is how I do it: every couple of months I rent it. Three times. If after I've seen it three times, it still holds something for me, it goes into the category of movies I want to own. Sometimes, like this time, the movie slips right into the favorites category. It is rare, but it makes me so happy to find out that people are still making movies that I love.

Five Things

2006-05-20T19:15:00.000-05:00

In my fridge

Fruit salad
Big Tex pink grapefruit juice (the kind in the can)
Peanut butter cookie dough (chilling before I put it in the oven tonight – yum!)
Corn tortillas (bought in those big bags of fifty or so - a staple at our house)
Guiness

In my closet

Guitar
Bathrobe
My favorite belt with the big flowered buckle
Sleeping bag
Box of hats, knitted by me, that I don’t know what to do with

In my purse

Homemade lip balm
My “random thoughts” notebook
Approximately $14 in small change (or so it feels)
Excedrin Migraine
My prize collection of ancient ATM receipts

In my car

WD-40
My favorite big red sunglasses
Minnesota DeLorme topo map
A roll of toilet paper (you just never know)
The Grapes of Wrath

Perenially Geeky

2006-05-19T11:13:00.000-05:00

I love perennials. I’m a novice gardener, and don’t have much money for it. As a result I am a scavenger, taking clippings from other people’s gardens (with their permission, mostly), digging wildflowers out of the edges of our yard and moving them into my garden, an elliptical slice of dirt along the side of our house. For the past couple of years it hasn’t looked like much. Things just didn’t seem to be taking that well, and I got discouraged. Then, last weekend, I pulled on my gloves and pulled all the dead leaves and grass, all the weeds, out of the garden plot. And to my wonder and delight, it actually looks like a garden! There are clumps of healthy green plants spaced evenly (well, at least in the part the dog didn't dig up last year). I’ve got dwarf daisies, bee balm, columbine, yarrow (which grows uncontrollably all over our property), lily of the valley, one lovely little blue-green hosta plant, one behemoth hosta plant, a wild rose bush that I can’t control, yellow irises, and last but not least, my mint plant that I thought I had lost because it didn’t come back last year, but is the best mint tea I have ever had. When I was pulling out the comfrey (the planting of which had been a huge mistake), I kept smelling mint, even though last year it hadn't come back (or at least, I couldn't find it). I located a tiny little patch under a bunch of grass and leaves, and have been nurturing it since.

Fascinating, I'm sure. Okay, now I feel like a geek.

Art Is Hard

2006-05-16T12:20:00.000-05:00

Poor Jessie. That is a sad and lonely feeling. I think one of the hardest things about any art is that it is usually entirely self-motivated. No one else really gives a shit if you press on through or decide to give it all up. It only really matters to you, and that has to be enough.

But sometimes it is not. It is so important to feel that we are being appreciated, validated. Not necessarily the art itself, but a recognition of the difficulty of what we are attempting, the effort involved, and the fear and vulnerability that go hand in hand with the creation of something entirely new and completely personal.

And it stinks. To feel like, after two years of hard effort and a high level of personal and emotional involvement, you really are just another student to them. To you, it has been life-changing. It has been a deep and meaningful journey of self-discovery and awareness. To them, you are another paper to be gotten through. (Although, I must admit, one would necessarily expect a higher level of involvement and respect, for chrissakes, for a thesis proposal). That's a little slap in the face, especially when you have really put yourself into your work, instead of taking the easy way out (which you could have done).

So, girl, here’s what I say: Screw the bastards. If they’re so caught up in the intricacies of administration and bureaucracy that they start treating students like numbers and forgetting that the most important thing a teacher can do for a student is be involved in the relationship, they don’t deserve your best effort. Reserve that for yourself alone. You deserve your best effort, your writing does, and your art does. It is the fact that you are so involved in your work that makes it great, and will make you a great teacher as well. Maybe you’re in love with your work (which is only right, for an artist and teacher). And we all know, love hurts.

Rejection Makes Me Happy

2006-05-14T20:10:00.000-05:00

I got my first rejection slip yesterday - from the Alaska Quarterly Review. It came so speedily, a mere couple of weeks after I sent it, that it startled me, sitting there in the mailbox. Now I kinda feel like a real writer.

Ah, grasshopper, in rejection, at last we find acceptance.

One Small Step for Toad...

2006-05-13T20:59:00.000-05:00

We begin our broadcast day!

Big Toad Lake has moved into the twenty-first century (or thereabouts). After six long years, we finally caved in and got internet. It’s a slow and primitive connection, but it is there, and we are in touch with the rest of the world. Or should I say the invasion has begun? The relative isolation of our home (no internet, television, radio or newspaper) has been breached. The internet, possibly the most insidious of all these (well, television is probably the worst, but anyway), has found its way in. And it’s all my fault. Or rather, my blog’s fault. It’s true. One reason I finally broke down was that, after eight days around the homestead, I began to miss my blog. And other people’s blogs too. And now, from the convenience and privacy of my little home, I can blog away. Bloggity blog blog. See?

Go Ahead - Judge a Book by Its Cover

2006-05-02T13:11:00.000-05:00

I got two books this weekend from a friend – both slim little paperbacks printed in the early seventies – both 1971, I think. Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas, and Richard Brautigan’s The Abortion: An Historical Romance 1966. There’s something nice about reading a book that is of the original vintage, so to speak. These books were conceived in the 70’s and printed in the 70’s, and so the sensibility of the book: the cover, the font, etc., is such a part of the time. The Brautigan book has this great photograph on the front.

The point is, I don’t care what they say. I do judge a book by its cover, all the time. The pleasure of the reading is all wrapped up in the physicality of a book, isn’t it? Reading ugly books is difficult, or books of an awkward size, or icky paper. I don’t like books that are shiny in that sticky plasticky way. My favorite books tend to have that smooth satiny matte finish. I also like the pocket sized old school pulp paperback. These two fall in that category, most definitely. Anyway, very exciting happenings at Toad Lake over the weekend. New books are always exciting – especially cool vintage free books. Or is it just me?

Resolutions

2006-04-27T13:24:00.000-05:00

This is why resolutions suck. I have always been anti-resolution, because they set you up for failure. I learned this early in my life, as is evidenced by an old picture frame I have. I was given this frame as a birthday present when I was 8 or 9. On the back, there were lines for the owner to write a nice little bit about the picture, or what have you. Here is what I wrote (mind you, I was eight): "I will try to change this picture every year. But I probably won't be able to." What an attitude for an eight-year old, eh? Jason claims this says a lot about me. I don't know where my attitude came from; even I think I was a little young to be so fatalistic (okay, maybe pessimistic, although I prefer not to think of it that way). In fact, this still appears to me to be mostly just realistic...

But back to resolutions, and the trouble they cause. Like the one I made last week that said I was going to think of something wonderful and witty to post on my blog, and do so regularly and with vigor. Yep, I set myself up. Even before I got Jessie's snide little comment (teasing, I'm teasing you, Jessie), I was thinking the same thing. Another resolution down the drain. Is there anything more depressing? Even when I was eight, I was wise enough to know the value of giving yourself an out, a loophole, an admission of possible failure right up front.

Oh, and by the way, this is my sorry excuse for a post this week. Someday I'll have something to say...

Bad Blogger, Bad!

2006-04-20T13:31:00.000-05:00

I am a rotten blogger. At first, I felt like I had all kinds of things to say. Now, when I look at this little window, and the Title bar, I go blank. It just doesn't seem like anything I might have to say will be that interesting. Especially since lately, I feel like I do nothing but whine, with really no right to do so. And right now, I think I'm whining about whining, and that's really pathetic. This weekend, I will come up with a plan. A plan for a fresh, new, exciting blog, one with wit and candor, and all that crap. Of course, I will be doing this after I revise seven essays for creative non-fiction, and write a short story. If there is anything left of my brain at that point, I will think about the blog. Of course, my blog may be imminently more interesting after I lose my mind. So there's a plus.

Workshop Love

2006-04-11T13:39:00.000-05:00

Has anyone else ever gotten this in a workshop critique:

"Overall, even though I didn't quite understand the storyline, or the point, the detail made it interesting to keep reading."

It's a first for me. I have to appreciate his honesty, and can't really be offended. At least he liked the detail...

Content Today

2006-04-06T07:30:00.000-05:00

A friend told me the other day, "you always talk about how you hate people, but inside you're just a big softie." Or something to that effect. She's right. I don't hate people. I am easily annoyed by them, by people as a whole, in groups, as a general term. I am just as easily moved by them (that is the 'softie' part). Annoyance is part of my basic make-up. A teacher wrote on an essay of mine once, "I love your annoyance with the world." She probably thought it was youth, or angst. But that is just how I am, whether I like it or not.
I've always wished I was one of those people who woke up with thoughts like, "Today is a brand new day, and it's going to be great!" I wake up in a stupor and walk around in a fog of immediacy. I can't think it's going to be a great day, because I'm not thinking that far ahead yet. And because, honestly, I don't know what kind of day it is going to be yet. People say it's all about attitude (these would be the people that annoy me), but I'm just not sure that with my attitude I can control the events of a day.
Here's the point of all this: Today I find myself content. I have only been awake for about an hour, but already so many things have made me happy already. Little things. Cool morning, smell of spring soil, an e-mail from my brother (compared to whom I am positively chatty), the amazing and somehow satisfying massive tires on a tractor outside the building, a snatch of classic rock from the construction next door, a poem from a friend. I like these things. They make me happy, right away, today.

Slackjaw

2006-04-04T13:53:00.000-05:00

I just finished reading Slackjaw, by Jim Knipfel, again. It's been a few years, but it's just as funny and sad as I remember. For those of you who don't know the book, Jim Knipfel writes (wrote?) a series of articles called "Slackjaw," as well as a few non-fiction books, and now The Buzzing, a novel. This guy is like Charlie Brown with really bad karma. I think the Chicago Sun-Times says it best, on the back cover of the book: "For a guy who has attempted suicide several times, he sure is funny."
But this book isn't about his suicide attempts (or at least, not mainly about them). Nor is it about his time spent in a locked psych ward (for that experience, check out his book Escaping the Nairobi Trio- also worth a read).
No. This book is about him slowly going blind due to genetic disease. Could things get any worse? Yes. Add drinking problems, suicidal tendencies, a love of reading and writing, an ill-advised marriage, rage seizures, and the Nihilist Worker's Party, and you've got the general idea.
Somehow, through being brutally honest and absolutely refusing to be melodramatic, Knipfel emerges heroic, wielding his Blind Man cane (as he calls it), which, when you try to beat someone with it, goes flubbity flubbity.
Kinda puts things in perspective. I feel like an asshole for bitching about my shoulder.

Should I be flattered?

2006-04-04T13:14:00.000-05:00

You Are Thai Food

Trendy yet complex.
People seek you out - though they're not sure why.

What Kind of Food Are You?

Green Tea and Vitamin I

2006-03-30T07:30:00.000-06:00

Waiting for the ibuprofen and green tea to kick in this morning. That's right, when things get rough, I go for the hard drugs...

a little merwin

2006-03-29T11:32:00.000-06:00

The Unwritten

Inside this pencil
crouch words that have never been written
never been spoken
never been taught

they’re hiding

they’re awake in there
dark in the dark
hearing us
but they won’t come out
not for love not for time not for fire

even when the dark has worn away
they’ll still be there
hiding in the air
multitudes in days to come may walk through them
breathe them
be none the wiser

what script can it be
that they won’t unroll
in what language
would I recognize it
would I be able to follow it
to make out the real names
of everything

maybe there aren’t
many
it could be that there’s only one word
and it’s all we need
it’s here in this pencil

every pencil in the world
is like this

Wicked Cool

2006-03-28T10:40:00.000-06:00

this may be the coolest bit of flash animation i've seen.

that's all.

Down Here at the Pawn Shop...

2006-03-23T07:32:00.000-06:00

Yes, it's true. With the help of the stalwart Vinny, I picked out a kick ass black guitar at the pawn shop last night. Not that I know how to play it of course, but that's just details. The important thing is that I will look cool trying. Hell, it even looks cool leaning up against the wall in the corner of the room. Last I night I got it home, relatively tuned, and leaned it up against the wall. I turned on my laptop and opened the assignment that is due at 8 am this morning. I looked from one to the other: guitar....paper....guitar....paper....
In the end, I picked guitar (typical). I convinced myself that I could think about my paper while I plinked, thereby accomplishing everything at once (I rule at this kind of rationalization). Papers come and go, and get handed in regardless. As this one will be, in about 15 minutes.
Speaking of Johnny Cash, a little wisdom from the man in black: "You build on failure. You use it as a stepping stone. Close the door on the past. You don't try to forget your mistakes, but you don't dwell on it. You don't let it have any of your energy, or any of your time, or any of your space."

2006-03-07T13:23:00.000-06:00

Thank god for Spring Break. My energy is just petering out, dribbling away throughout the semester. I could actually use spring break this week, but it's kind of nice that i will actually be as far at the end of my rope as I can be, and then will be rescued by some serious time off. I have to admit it, I'm a wimp: the commuting thing is starting to get me down. You'd think it'd be harder during the dead of winter, when I'm leaving in the dark and such. But no, it's right about now, halfway through the semester, when my shoulders begin to protest ill-usages. I have to admit, they have a point: books and laptops and duffle bags and skis and extra boots, etc. etc. My car has reverted back to my second home (more than it was already): extra clothes live there, music, overdue books, empty coke bottles and coffee cups. I've never understood people whose cars aren't full of stuff like that. Who are these people, and how do they keep their cars so clean? More to the point, what does that say about them (or me)?

Inspiration

2006-03-02T10:51:00.000-06:00

I have discovered something important: inspiration comes in small doses fairly frequently. I always thought inspiration was big, was always waiting for that lightning bolt to smack me on the head. But inspiration is little, mundane, and if you’re not watching for it, it can slip by you. Unfortunately, recognizing it is only part of it; then you have to record it.

Every time inspiration strikes you will tell yourself – That’s so cool. There’s no way I’ll forget something like that. But you will. You will. You will. You have to get it down somehow. This is the hardest part for me, because I am unforgivably, unapologetically lazy. My best ideas come in three places: cozy in bed on the edge of sleep, in the shower, and while driving. In each of these situations it is so easy to just brush the ideas off. I am not one to relinquish a cozy bed in the middle of the night (I would use a chamber pot if I could bring myself to). Nor am I the type to jump out mid-shower when the phone rings, much less when inspiration calls. Usually I have something in the proximity of the bed that I can use to take notes, because I know this about myself. If I am in the shower, I holler for Jason, and he (if I ask nicely) will bring pen and paper, and has even, on occasion, taken dictation while sitting on the toilet lid (God, I love that man. He gets me, he really does). If I am driving I have this little notebook that floats around my car, and if it’s a short thought, I will write it while I’m driving (with a pencil so there are no ink/gravity issues as I brace the notebook against the steering wheel). If its more than a few words, I will probably pull over.

Paradoxically, you only realize the importance of doing stuff like this after you do it for a while. Because these scraps are probably some of the coolest shit you will ever think up. If you don’t capture it, if you only write stuff that you’ve carefully constructed, you will miss all those brilliant flashes your mind is capable of. You will be recording your second-rate thoughts, the silver medals, the ones whose routines were technically flawless and aesthetically perfect. Not the gold medals, the difference being that spark, the charisma, the unexpected triple axel (ugh, I hate that I'm using an olympic ice skating metaphor, but there it is), the ballsy thoughts, the ones where you hang out over the edge, knowing that if you fall you’re going down hard. These are the ones.

The ones that you find a year later and read, not remembering or believing that they came out of your head. You accept the fact that it is your handwriting, it must belong to you, and you smile, proudly, foolishly, like a starry-eyed first-time parent. This is from me? I created it? Well, what do you know, it’s not bad (followed by another foolish smile). Finding these little scraps is one of the few ways that I surprise myself regularly.

My First Poem

2006-02-23T10:42:00.000-06:00

My very first poem, in honor of prehistoric penguins

Prehistoric Penguin

Two hundred twenty pounds
Sealed tight in four layer feathers

Waddling like chapel windows
Milling on the floe
Children in tow

Deadly intent bellying down the slide
Slipping under beak first
Dive bombing the deep blue

What is black and white and red all over?
Bloody penguin battle
Bald eagle's second cousin in the sea

Tuxedoed birds are nothing to mock
When they've got seventy pounds on you.

When Penguins Roamed the Earth

2006-02-22T20:45:00.000-06:00

How cool is this - giant prehistoric penguins!? These guys beat out the Emperor Penguin by about 6 inches and 40 pounds or so. Apparently they've been found before, but this may be the largest. I don't have much to say about this whole thing - just wanted to share. Because giant penguins are cool.

I'm What?!

2006-02-21T15:05:00.000-06:00

What Classic Movie Are You?
personality tests by similarminds.com

If I were a classic movie, I'd be Apocalypse now? Really? I mean, there are those great hallucinogenic scenes of Martin Sheen's, and the bizarre behavior of Marlon Brando, but still... this is the film that almost pushed Francis Ford Copolla over the edge. Seems a little deep and intense for me. I've always thought of myself as a simpler sort - Philadelphia Story or His Girl Friday - something witty and urbane.
But it's official. After beginning this post, I decided to go back to the test and tweak a few answers to see if I could get a different result, while remaining basically honest about things. And, yup, I am Apocalypse Now. Again. What does this mean?

How a Rough Day Gets Smooth

2006-02-21T14:36:00.000-06:00

Today I took a page from Jessie's book, and got myself extra cream cheese for my bagel - one for each side! I know, I'm too crazy. This day had all the hallmarks of a chaotic anxious day, considering its my "leave the house at 6 am and don't stop running until evening" day. Also considering that I literally left my fiction writing assignment until the very last hours before class. But, so far it's been a banner day:

I found $15 in the pocket of my jeans.
Just as I was wishing for coffee instead of green tea, Jessie appeared at my office door like a caffeine fairy and made me the best cup of joe I've had in a while.
I acquired not just one, but two PJ Harvey discs, and a killer Wes Montgomery 2 disc set
I actually did manage to put together a semblance of something good for my writing assignment (as long as you don't look too closely).
All that, and I managed to scrape together enough change to get said bagel (and extra cream cheese), and a Cherry Coke (my soda pop weakness), without dipping into my treasured $15
Oh yeah, and today the temperature at 5:45 am when I went out to start my car was (slightly) above nose-freezing-shut cold

Does life get any better?

Revolution!

2006-02-14T11:15:00.000-06:00

Aaargh! My stories are turning on me. They are staging a bloody coup, and I'll be lucky if I survive this one. Can you die from sheer confusion? Two of my stories have recently up and decided that they are in control of their own destinies. Who knows how many will jump on the bandwagon?

One of them has decided that it is not about the character I thought it was about. A peripheral character has taken over and he's holding on tight, insisting that this is his story, dammit. Although the story continues to be told by the same narrator (formerly protagonist), she has deferred to the authority of this other guy. Now everything is slipping and sliding around, motives are changing, dialogue is disappearing, and huge chunks of text are flying into the dustbin. I was going to try to workshop this story this week, but after this happened, I decided the story didn't deserve it, citing lack of loyalty as my reason.

So I turned to another story, a story that I thought loved me. A story that was "almost done" (hah!). A story that, although I felt that it was a little flat for reasons I couldn't pin down, I thought had gotten it as far as I could by myself. I felt secure, and maybe a little cocky, that I had this story in the bullpen. It was my safety, and I loved it like it was my gifted child.

As it turns out, a DEMON gifted child (as so many of them are). This story decided that, in actuality, it wants to now start in the middle of what I have already written. The middle. Not only that, but one of the characters has been relegated to mostly flashback and summary, and another has stepped in to perform most of the scenes he was involved in (primadonna). So what I have on my hands is a major remodel here, involving cramming major chunks of story from the first half into the second half somehow, while rearranging dialogue and several key scenes. For a story that’s due on Thursday.

It might be okay if I actually knew what I was doing, but every time something like this happens I usually have to go through a period of readjustment, study, etc. Now I don’t have that luxury. I tell you, its all part of their plan to slowly drive me insane. Maybe they’ve teamed up with the Jeep. Maybe its bigger than I even realize, a global conspiracy on the part of my possessions and creations to take over. Maybe I should let them. It might be easier that way.