Stopping to Watch the Moon Rise.

ah, I've missed writing. Tonight the world feels peaceful. As though there has been just too much pain for one week. So many deaths, not only in Red Lake, but aquiantances too. All young people.
But tonight the moon rises, held just above the horizon as big as I've ever seen it, pale orange. Deer running in herds, another standing quietly out on the frozen swamp. For just a moment--peace. The world around me feels tired. But now it is time to just be. To breath, to listen to silence, to take in the beauty that surrounds. The moon tethered by invisible strings, held close, as if for comfort.

I find myself wanting to do nothing else other than sit deep inside myself. To write, to paint, to think. It was a warm and sunny day this morning in class. With half the students gone, we aborted mission and just talked. For nearly 45 minutes we just talked about writing. I didn't care that people were gone. The small class was nice. It felt good to have a conversation. Not to lecture, not to be separated by my position at the front of the classroom.

Next week I will be meeting with the Voyager highschool students in my studio. They are learning about the creative process and thier teacher decided that the best way for them to learn about it is to talk to artists. So next Wednesday that is what I'll do. I'm looking forward to it and am honored to have been asked. This, and an upcoming show (next week), has made me realize how much I've been away. What is creative process? It means being involved in your art. It is making it a part of your everyday life. I have been away and miss what happens with complete devotion... the way my mind works-- the way thoughts settle, and come naturally. It is an active, yet peaceful state of mind. I look forward to talking to a group of young people about creating art-- especially a group of highschool students whose education supports such notions.

The opportunity to talk and to be part of another show has reopened my eyes to the necessity of creation in my life. I have not allowed myself the space to write creatively or to really involve myself in a painting from beginning to end in many, many months. Yet it is what makes me happy, it is what makes me a better person, and it is what will make me a better teacher. To live from the center. That is the only way I know how to make the world a better place to live.

My monkey mind has begun to eat me up. But my dreams lately have been filled with a need to return to the creative. Like I talked with a friend about the other day... doors open up when you are ready. I've been away from myself-- and now I am ready to return.

I love strong, dark coffee. 

Ode to Barb...

The happy dance:
I'm done.. I'm done... I'm done, I'm done, I'm done!


... and my bags are packed.

coffee, cigarettes, tea, wasa crackers, water, pizza, pretzels, and malia kofta...

... and still only 6 pages. Another full day down the tubes. 10pm...do I continue, or quit and hope for a fresh mind in the morning? I fear that the last page might take me another full day if I put it off. I fear everything that I have is garbage if I continue.

But the best part of today... was picking fights with Vinny about sun-block and vitamins and whether or not a spray-tan would turn me orange. It was nice to focus on something other than my essay. But when we ran out of things to be ridiculous about he sent me back to my room.

Here I sit. Waiting for something good to happen.

97 degrees in Texas today. 50 miles from the airport is the Padre Islands. We'll be there in less than an hour once the plane hits the ground. Bare feet in the sand.

3rd day of spring break...

... and I am still working on that Virginia Woolf paper. I have 3 pages to show for a good, oh, 15 hours of work. Vinny's analogy: Watching me write is like watching ice melt on a cold day.

The question I'm trying to answer: Why does Virginia Woolf use stream of consciousness in her two short stories, "Monday or Tuesday" and "The Mark on the Wall"???? (the first part of my question anyway)

If she were alive I would just ask her. I'd get on a plane, go to England, and bang on her door until she let me in and gave me some answers. Unfortunately I'm left to my own devises. Seems like an easy enough question... ha! that is, until you actually sit down and try to figure out the workings of her mind. I have my theories... and good ones, but trying to explain them in a coherent way is another matter.

So the fuck what, is the question I keep getting hung up on. Every time I try to make it seem important I lose my train of thought. How the hell did Woolf manage to create such strange and wonderful stories... yet still write kick-ass essays? A woman in control of both sides of her brain. I have complete respect.

I'll admit that an entire book could be written on these two very short stories (one is less than a page long)... but somehow I've managed to make quiet a mess of it. I was not prepared for the complexity involved in this task. I've been humbled.

ok... but today, if I am lucky I will write the remaining 4 or so pages and have tomorrow to revise at a more leisurely pace... and have time to grade papers so I don't have to bring them with me to Texas. I am amazed just how long I can spend trying to get each sentence right... and amazed at how much I am capable of getting wrong. I keep telling myself-- just write!! Yeah right, but you should see where that got me. chuckle chuckle.

ok...enough complaining. I'll get to work.

2:30 pm

...I've decided to take a nap instead.

Good for me.

The first day of Spring Break...

...beginning at 9:15 am that is. That's when I left school and headed down to the Spanish grotto to do some writing. Well, that's what I've decided to pretend the back room at Moose-a-Brew to be anyway. I planned on doing some dialectic note taking for my Virginia Woolf paper, but got side-tracked by Poetry Pete's Europe story. Its the part that he's sitting at the back of the bus next to the toilet, then in a purple hostel sewing pants, exchanging gender roles with a Moroccan woman. Afterwards I took a long look at my yellow legal pad and decided that dialectic note taking is only good in theory. I wrote in my journal instead. I wrote until my coffee was gone and I was ready to face the world again. Leaving, I was blinded by white snow; I walked away from the Spanish grotto and across an icy street.

Once home I took a short nap and ate Mac-n-cheese. ick-- it makes me want to take another nap. But it is already after 2pm with nothing accomplished on the V.W. paper. Maybe I'll try an outline...and then work on it in chunks. It's too overwhelming otherwise. Just bite size pieces, maybe that will work better. Anyway, I was given advise today: to give myself time to relax. Good advise. And I think I will. My arms feel floaty... but first I want to get something down on paper, just something.

But instead of working I've been wearing flip-flops around the house and trying on shorts to make sure they still fit. I'll be in Texas in 5 days. I'm hoping to sit down next to a big cactus and write some real poetry. Maybe sun-bathe in the prickly grass outside my grandparent's trailer house, read a book, visit the trailer park hot-tub all afternoon. I'm looking forward to going for late night walks in the warm air with Vinny or my grandma or all of us. I don't care what we do. It'll feel good to be gone. We'll eat challupas with my grandpa, buy cheap bananas and onions and hopefully avoid any old people birthday parties or bridge games. We'll walk to Mexico, drink beer, and maybe, if I can talk everyone into it, drive to San Antonio to visit an art gallery that houses a Gauguin painting.

Oh god... I can't wait. I've never looked forward to visiting an elderly retirement community so much in my life. It will be fun. They might even make me feel like I have a lot of energy.

In the meantime, I just want to get done with everything else... so I can forget about it.

a poem...

You can't read poetry in a hurry. Therefore, I'm in the mood for poetry.

What does this have to do with anything? Well, nothing and everything. I said it because I don't have anything else to say. My feet are cold. But that's not interesting.

Here's a poem instead:

Silence.

*****

yes, that was the poem. It's the first poem I've written in over a year. And it reads best if you sit with it for awhile.

This day is dedicated to V.W.

I woke up with sunshine blanketing my body, my cat at my head and my dog at my feet. I've concocted a brew of greasy French roast coffee with cream and sugar and cinnamon... and today I am going to attempt that seven pager (a good start anyway) on that Virginia Woolf paper. As for my thesis statement, I still need on explanatory metaphor and to change a passive sentence into an active one... but I'm close enough to get started with it.

I have a plan... I'm going to take V.W.'s two short stories and write "between the lines." Her words in black, mine in red. I'm going to try to figure out what she is doing sentence by sentence, thought by thought. I'm going to plant myself smack dab in the middle of her mind and hope that she reveals herself to me. What I'll do with it afterwards is still undecided. I guess I'll just cross my fingers and hope her ghost whispers in my ear, moves my fingers across the keyboard. Fuck epistemic...I'm going all out expressivist... an exorcism will be in order when I'm done. Call the priests.

As for my preoccupation with passive thought (as revealed through word choice)... where did I pick that up from? Do women write more passively than men? If so, why? Oh, but that's a different topic. Today I'm going to stay on task.

Tonight while driving home...

... I saw a shooting star and then a coyote. Both ran across the road. The coyote, the second I've seen 3 days, or maybe the same?

Keeping me from saying: I give up.

Instead I will go to bed and hope that tomorrow works out a little bit better. Light a candle for the muses and hope that a possession takes place. Virginia Woolf... I'm calling you.

And I'm talking about more than just painting here.

Spent the afternoon watching the gallery. It was busy and therefore I didn't get to sit in the X2 and read all day. Usually it's dead around there on Saturdays... but not today. I spent the day talking... first my mom, then Dallas, Monica, Ben, Vinny, Dada, Abbey, an out of town skier.... some good conversations, but no reading, not as much bathing in color as planned. Not surprisingly my mom wasn't as impressed with Natalia's work. I'm glad I'm not her. She has a hard time finding beauty in anything she can't buy.

Then I got home, made tacos, ate, and exhausted, I fell asleep. So much for today. Before coming home I sat in my studio wanting to paint... or something... and instead attempted a photo transfer, painted a page of my "art journal" and decided to call it quits because I had too much to do (not that I got anything else done). Found myself wanting to just sit and daydream ideas, which I did for awhile. It reminded me of those months preparing for my India show... all those long hours of painting, but also of just sitting, thinking of what would come next. That mental down time, such an important aspect of creation. I had forgotten the true necessity of it. Well, actually I am constantly aware of it... I had just forgotten what an absolute luxury it is.

I've recently acquired an approximately 5'x6' framed canvas. An old painting that needs resurrecting. I'll restretch the canvas and start over. Oh the possibilities! I have little wall space in the new studio, but have devised a plan for an impromptu easel. 2"x4"s to the rescue. But what to paint on that big beautiful space?

I was talking to Dada today about how, since starting my master's degree, my painting has changed. I used to be obsessed with realism, always trying for a more expressive form of realism. But in the last year, my brain and body (and the challenge of time) seems only capable of abstract. Abstract, which to be honest, I don't know how to do. I haven't figured out what place it comes from. I've experienced it for moments at a time, but it is fleeting. Like closing your eyes and trying to hold a picture in your mind that keeps disappearing. I find it difficult to know how to finish what I start in terms of artistic vision.

And so on that big canvas, I am trying to decide whether to go realism or abstract. It kind of feels like trying to decide whether I should do a scholarly or creative thesis. Not that I ever consider painting to be "scholarly." But there's a difference in approach.

Today, between visitors, I studied Natalia's paintings. I was trying to memorize them. Trying to find a place inside me that they will hold. Her use of color and texture. Her ability to make a flat surface jump out as though it is 3 dimensional. Her ability to tap into her memory and imagination to create form.

In between these musings and talking with visitors I snuck pages of Orlando. Amber was right. It's hard getting into, but once you're there it sweeps you away. I have an image of Orlando laying on the ice, looking through its clearness at the frozen scene below, a woman with her apples.

There is another part of the book than I marked in ink because it is a scene I'd like to paint.

To the oak tree he tied it (his heart) and as he lay there, gradually the flutter in and about him stilled itself; the little leaves hung; the deer stopped; the pale summer clouds stayed; his limbs grew heavy on the ground; and he lay so still that by degrees the deer stepped nearer and the rooks wheeled round him and the swallows dipped and circled and the dragon-flies shot past, as if all the fertility and amorous activity of a summer;s evening were woven web-like about his body.

Maybe this is what I will paint on that big canvas. To combine reality with imagination. An image to hold in my mind until it finds completion on the canvas. Perhaps the most natural step in my progression as a painter... to find the middle ground between realism and abstraction.

Strange the way life's experiences constantly leads one to the moment. Detours that frustrate and exhaust... and in the end make the rest happen. Ok, fine. Maybe I just need to quit fighting so hard. Every experience lending to the next.

"To write is difficult. To write about art is more difficult." ~Natalia Klyova Himmirska

Tonight I visited an art show at the BCAC that I find hard to write about. Natalia Klyova Himmirska, is an artist from Russia and a professor at BSU. I have met her before-- and thought her an extremely intimidating woman. But tonight I proved myself wrong. I met her again, this time through her paintings.

I felt like I had been away from the sun for a long time, as though I had been in the darkness, a long winter... and the color from her canvases fell on me like the sun itself. Greens, blues, oranges, reds, sienna... my skin instantly became thirsty, so thirsty for that color. It was the teal that I drank in the most. I only wish I could describe it the way it felt; I am failing miserably.

I was so, so thirsty. And I drank, and breathed, and drank. I would have liked to lay down on the floor and bathe in it, except it was an opening and I shared the small 10 foot square room with several others. I had a jacket on, my scarf still wrapped around my neck... but I felt its warmth as though my body was bare.

Her artist statement said something about time. Time being a theme in all her work. The past, the present, the future--a realm melded, transformed, imagined...transcended.

I was instantly glad that I agreed to work at the gallery tomorrow... and greedily made plans to spend the entire afternoon in that room. I will sit there and read. I will soak in those colors until I am no longer thirsty.

Because I am so thirsty for color. Just so thirsty.

Something happened in that little room. But words swim away. Stumbling over language to describe. The sun, those colors... I have missed them dearly. But there they are, I can still feel it, a body memory.

...and I realized just how much there is to learn. Will I ever? Does it matter? Can I really believe that I won't?

Today was a strange and heart-felt day. Intimate, honest conversations about writing with my students during conferences. We sat and talked for a long time, not rushing. The struggle. with writing, with school, with what stunted them in the past-- they poured their heart out. And we talked. and we talked.

Afterwards I went out for lunch with V. and as I told him about my day I was surprised by a welling of tears. I don't know why except that everything today feels so real. so real. on the surface of the skin. we talked and talked.

and like the colors of those paintings... everything feels so real.

Tonight I drove home thinking about that thirst. Thirst for color, for life. Surprised by how deeply I needed to drink, to satisfy that something I've been neglecting.

...as though these words touch any of it. Why is it so hard to explain? That color that exists and does not exist in so many ways.

don't forget to write.

I am feeling restricted in two ways (in terms of writing).
#1 time
#2 self-censorship.

I haven't figured out how to resolve the first one in a reasonable manner. And as for the second, I guess I should just get out my journal made of paper. But my life feels a little disjointed and writing in several places makes it feel even more so. Which means that often I don't write about certain things at all. Mildly important thoughts that I find myself wishing I could write about.

But on another note...Ashleigh is in town. It was good to see her. Yesterday we sat in the art lounge and talked and laughed. I felt more relaxed than I have in a long time. I left feeling incredibly inspired. And this morning we met for coffee. Sat in the sunshine with big mugs, surrounded by a friend's art, and enjoyed each other's company. An alter world in comparison of where I sit now. How nice it was.

But as for the rest that I've been thinking about will have to wait until I someday have time.

Reminder to myself: write about everything. ha!

Monday Night Club

Another good night of Virginia Woolf. How lucky to have a class that, even though it's the most work of all, is enjoyable. So enjoyable that I leave feeling energized. Completely amazed by the insights that fall from the others mouths. There they go... just tumbling out into the middle of the room... these wonderful thoughts that, when voiced, I find myself saying, "Oh yeah..." Connections running further than most of us make on our own come together in silence and in laughter.

Where I've been...

Thanks S. That was fun. But dang, I thought I had lived more places than that. Maybe I just fully inhabited them while visiting

bold the states you've been to, underline the states you've lived in and italicize the state you're in now...

Alabama / Alaska / Arizona / Arkansas / California / Colorado / Connecticut / Delaware / Florida / Georgia / Hawaii / Idaho / Illinois / Indiana / Iowa / Kansas / Kentucky / Louisiana / Maine / Maryland / Massachusetts / Michigan / Minnesota / Mississippi / Missouri / Montana / Nebraska / Nevada / New Hampshire / New Jersey / New Mexico / New York / North Carolina / North Dakota / Ohio / Oklahoma / Oregon / Pennsylvania / Rhode Island / South Carolina / South Dakota / Tennessee / Texas / Utah / Vermont / Virginia / Washington / West Virginia / Wisconsin / Wyoming / Washington D.C /

Go HERE to have a form generate the HTML for you.

Jessie should just go to bed...

It's snowing outside. Big beautiful snow flakes. I'm beginning to feel like winter is almost over-- and it always makes me feel a little bit sad. It's probably a feeling that I don't share with many people. Winter is my favorite season. Call me crazy. I like being able to hibernate without feeling guilty about it. This is why I like rainy days too.

And other than this I have nothing to say. I just finished watching a ridiculous movie and my brain has gone flat.

Or maybe it was trying to write that thesis statement that did this to me. God, to have it all figured out before I even start writing. It is a foreign notion to me. Maybe that's why half the stuff I write is crap. But then again, writing is about the process of discovery. I don't like trying to have it all figured out before I begin. Ugh... I can't believe I asked my students to turn in a thesis also. Due tomorrow. It sounded good in pedagogical discussion, but... well, now I don't know. I hope I haven't done damage to any creative potential. My class and I... we need a break. We need to have some fun. The movie was good and I have a feeling their next papers will be too. But we need to shake things up a little. Writing thesis statements just doesn't seem like the right way to do it. I can think of 2 students that it will help. The rest? I don't know.

Even though it is late and winter... it feels like a rainy day right now. I want to curl up with a good book and a cup of tea. Instead it is time to go to bed. To bed so I can get up early and revive my class from their thesis statements.

Why do we do this to ourselves?

Thesis statements, that is.

Saturday morning

This morning the trees have bloomed with frost. Stems of white bark holding up these delicate flowers to the sky. I got out of bed, put on my boots and jacket and went for a short walk with the dogs. Anu came out of her house stretching and yawning. The trees creaked with a slight wind. I can feel the moisture in the air.

What I really want to do is just go back to sleep. But I don't want to miss out on any of this silver-grey.

An evening alone...

Tonight I am home alone... listening to music and drinking coffee that came from dark, oily beans. The dog is asleep on the bed in the next room. The cats are curled together, their black fur dissolving into each other, only an ear and a tail allowing me to see that they are two, not one. Settling into a relatively relaxing weekend with only Virginia Woolf homework. Homework that doesn't feel like homework. The house has found some order after several hours of cleaning. My clothes are ironed, folded, hung, and stuffed in drawers for the first time in months. I look forward to the next week of being able to find matching socks, of having at least the little things in order. Life so easily flies out of control. I am easily set adrift.

The moon rises big and full in the east. An orange orb tucked behind lines of bare popal. It seems like it was a full moon last week too. Or maybe that was last month? Or two days ago? I don't know... but tonight my wolfie is laying spread out and content in its strange light. The warm days are good for her. She sleeps well. But I look at her and see that she is a little bit sad. A little bit lonely I think. I go out often to hug her and give kiss her nose, to snuggle my face in her fur. She smells like hay and winter. She returns me to center. She is the biggest sweet heart I have ever met. Sometimes I wish people smelled that good... but they never do. Tomorrow I am promising myself and her to take that walk in the woods that we both need.

Today I cleaned house instead of playing outside because my uncle and his wife will be visiting from the cities. I am hoping to get a chance (one that I've been procrastinating) to ask them if they want to buy my house. Sometimes I just don't care anymore. But other times, like today, I feel the weight and pull of this decision. I built this place with my own hands. My hands and my dad's. We built this place together. I love my dad for that. I wonder if he realizes just how hard this is to do. I can only hope that he does. This place is more than a house. It is blood, sweat, tears, memories... and it is beautiful... this place with its elm tree holding up the roof, the windows and more windows, the hand-crafted railings, split log stairs, the open loft, this writing room, the big diamond window that I watch the moon rise through, the porch that I've spent many rainy days enjoying, the winter night's warmed by the woodstove, the open loft where I feel a sense of breathing space, the high ceilings, the warm-colored wood floors. Putting the floors in was my favorite part of building this place. I'll remember that day forever. These little memories that surround me. And such magic outside. The field that mist rolls across every summer morning, the ridge that sparkles with frost in the winter, the swamp filled with tamarack that turns a fiery gold in the fall. These are the things that break my heart to consider leaving.

I told a friend of mine my intentions of selling. She tried every angle to talk me out of it. But the thing is that it is more complicated than can be readily fixed. She suggested boarding horses to pay for what we can't afford. Once upon a time I would have thought that was a wonderful ideas. Who wouldn't want to dedicate their life to horses? But the thing is that I don't want to, as incredible as it might be. I want to teach. In another year or two V. and I will have to move away in order to make that dream happen. It complicates everything. But I am not willing to give it up, or even put it off.

When I was in high school I promised to never sacrifice my life for material possessions. As beautiful as this place is, as much magic as it holds, that is what it is, a material possession. I've seen too many people give up their lives to this. I've seen it ruin too many lives. It used to be easier to live life fully. Now it comes with compromises. Sometimes big compromises.

My life has changed many times in many ways. I would never trade it in for anything else. I remember walking down the cobbled Himilayan streets of Ladhak. After being there only a month and a half, I remember crying for a week straight because it was so hard to leave. I think it might have been then that I realized that if a place makes you cry because it is so hard to leave then it was a good place. A place to be thankful for having found. A place to be thankful for having experienced. This place is like that. Eventually when I have to leave I will cry. I will cry a lot. But I'll know that those tears are because it was a good place. It was a place that gave me supreme happiness. And I'll remind myself that not everyone is lucky enough to have experienced that. Not even people with "enough" money.

Because when it comes down to it, it is never about money. It is about what you are thankful for. It is about what you carry around in your heart.

I'll move forward, but I'll always have this and everything before. Always. Because life has been lived fully. And that is a way of living that I never want to give up.

A poem for happiness.

A poem for living not in the past or the future... but in the center, the present. A place of simplicity. A place that only dogs are wise enough to know of...but willing to share.

This is a poem for my friend Rita. I thought of her when I heard it. It is a poem written by a dog. Well, actually it was written by Mark Doty, but it was his dog Beau that told him what to say.

R., I suggest reading it out loud to the dogs.

Beau: Golden Retrievals
Fetch? Balls and sticks capture my attention
seconds at a time. Catch? I don't think so.
Bunny, tumbling leaf, a squirrel who's—oh
joy—actually scared. Sniff the wind, then

I'm off again, muck, pond, ditch, residue
of any thrillingly dead thing. And you?
Either you're sunk in the past, half our walk,
thinking of what you never can bring back,

or else you're off in some fog concerning
—tomorrow, is that what you call it? My work:
to unsnare time's warp (and woof), retrieving,
my haze-headed friend, you. This shining bark,

a Zen master's bronzy gong, calls you here,
entirely, now: bow-wow, bow-wow, bow-wow.

— Beau

As though I could magically pull TIME out of my ass...

that's all i have to say on the subject.

Reading Mrs. Dalloway...

Page 48... and already I am blown away. Oh, how does she do it?! After writing this, how could she write another word? It is all there. What more is there to say? But then again, this is only the beginning of the lives, the lives, the lives... each one connected to the next to the next to the next... in a glance, a question, an exchange; in love, in jealousy, in comfort, in aloneness.

What is it about Virginia Woolf that makes me feel like I could write the world and at the same time as though I do not dare put down another word again? She inspires me and makes me feel as though I will never even touch the surface of her depths-- all in a single breath. But this is the exhilaration of finding one's voice. And as I read I begin to realize just how far away from that I am. If ever I felt that I was getting there, I feel it flying away from me, further and further away. Maybe when I'm 40 the world will settle itself in my thoughts just long enough for me to capture even a second of it. But that is only ten years away... and I can't imagine how so much could change as to make that possible. Life flying, flying by and me being spun out into space along with it. Then 52...62...72... and I will be an old woman with the same thoughts rattling around in my head. A bird, knowing not what kind. Sometimes a bird with no sky.

My mind haphazard, reckless, flailing with both arms, my nose just above the water while I stand on tip-toes.

I am feeling very dull. Dull indeed.

ramblings...

Today I am wishing for new space. A space that is free of clutter. I was imagining this in my mind perfectly just a moment ago. But the second I started to type it went away. Too bad...I was completely inhabited by these musings. There were lots of windows, a book shelf, an old wooden table to write at, paintings stacked up against each other here and there. But no clutter. It was wonderful. I was writing on clean white paper with a pencil. A whole world perfectly placed. And me sitting perfectly in my mind--not outside it like I am now. But now I am typing and wish I had the energy to show you that space with words... instead you get this... the slop; the left-overs; the oozing, formless goo; the clutter.
*******
I dream of a life without clutter, of a life that I can inhabit fully. To write, to paint... completely...without having to stretch myself so ridiculously thin. To give myself over, as R. and I talked about at last night's "meeting"-- to give myself over 100%.

*******
Earlier today I took the dogs for a walk. Finally, a long one. If it weren't for the sun, the absolute blueness of sky, the large snowflakes laying lightly on the ground reflecting so many dazzled colors... if it weren't for these things I would have been sad. Because one day the loggers came and two days later several hundred acres of trees were gone. I could hear them still working somewhere in the distance, their whine of machinery moving like an invisible vapor through the air. I walked down the trail that used to be forest; the type of forest that encloses you, wraps its arms around you. But today it was just snow and sun. No longer any trees to cast shadows. Just a warm sun and Anu, the wolfie, looking as beautiful as ever as she ran back and forth down the trail. I love watching her run. I love seeing her in her natural environment. She is something else. Beautiful. And Abe, always at my side. Barking. Barking because the three of us were happy. Completely happy. And because of the sun, a new space, leaving me not so sad of what is gone.

thorns, pollen, and dirt...

I have only fifteen minutes before I have to go back. Back to Valentine's Day that is. Back to the flower shop. Of my father's 3 children I am the only sucker to #1: have stuck around; and #2: have learned floral design. It's a good thing that Valentine's Day only happens once a year.

On another note, I do have good things to say about flowers also. But it will have to wait until someday when I have time. For now, I can only say that my eyes have been thirsty for color. It is the hot pink dianthus that is most visually flavorful. The calcinia, wax flower, pink roses, and eucalyptus wins for having the best scent. Yum.

But this entry is making time feel like a hopeless endeavor. A hopeless endeavor indeed.
HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY EVERYONE! xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Please Blog forgive my sins...

...for I have not blogged in 3 days.

Kingdom come, thy will be done
on earth as it is in cyber-space.

My commitment to you has been weak. Please, Blog, forgive me.

I am lame.

There were some things I missed...

...like V. and Abe and Anu and Vico and Moonshadow and dark skies and stars and quiet.

But it felt good, really good, to be away.

I ate Indian and Greek and Middle Eastern and Thai.
I drank coffee and wine and tea and a mango lassi.
I read a book and looked at an art magazine from beginning to end and wrote in my journal.
I walked and drove and watched movies and slept.
I browsed in a bookstore, bought supplies at an art store and purchased frivolous items at a gourmet grocery store.
I hung out with my brother and sister and niece and my 5 year old nephew who fell asleep in my arms because he didn't feel well.
I talked and relaxed and had fun and laughed and talked some more and had wonderful quiet company.

Yes, it was good to be gone and, now, it is good to be back.

I'll write about Woolf later...

I don't remember what I was going to write about this morning, but I was laying in bed thinking about it. Then I got to school and checked my e-mails (one of which was a .gov address) which led to slight panic concerning the web-site I built last semester. Slight panic-- yeah right! I've been paraniod about trouble ever since Catholic school. It was deleted immidiately. Call me a wuss. Something about legal ramifications. I don't want to have anything to do with it.

Update: ******(censored)? me? No, not me... just some nice government official making sure everyone is safe. Thanks Bob.

I won't bother to explain the rest. It's been taken care of. I just hope they let me *** censor censor censor. So much for my career in politics.

Good god. What an interesting morning.

It's Tuesday morning...

... and I am feeling oddly energized. We had, what I would concider, an excellent class. I mean really excellent. Time was up... I could have stayed there talking all night. I am fascinated by Virginia Woolf. I am fascinated by the effect she has on people. I am fascinated by each individual in our class. The comments made were surprising and honest. Oh, sometimes so honest. I noticed that it seems people pull out of Woolf what is most a part of their life. I pull from her words her struggle with time, her love of color. The others... they each had another angle. So many facets, so many angles in her writing.

The fudge was good too.

But good god, I am so frustrated with myself when I try to write. I wish so much that I had the space of mind to give it energy. Remembering sitting in Seattle (was it Seattle?) at an outdoor cafe, a coffee shop, looking upwards to the building across the street, an old building, carved scrollwork around the edges and windows, odd shapes on walls, gargoyles and fruit; a window was open. I lost myself to that moment completely. Not wanting to let go of the laughter dripping, dripping . I sharpened my pencil so as to leave leave imprints of the city on white paper. Laughter echoing-- echoing, from windows in the sky, dripping down leaves
into my coffee...
Silver sidewalks the same as clouds. No petals, perhaps only oysters and pearls.

Instead of being a writer lastnight... after several glasses of wine, I went to the studio. Really, I went there to make sure it still existed. The dark morning hours of night, I knew I should go home cuz V. would be worried, but I could not pull myself away. The next thing I knew I had a piece of board on the easel, my palette knife dipped in greens and blues. What color would the sky be? Night with stars set unbroken. What color would that green be? The green that swept the length of the mantelpiece, an ocean, a mirage, a caravan of camels, a snub-nosed monster, slushing the water, polished pebbles for eyes. What colors would those be? My hands in the paint, caressing it across the canvas. I fell in love with those colors, fell outside of reality, of time, fell into blue and green. Stepped back and forward again to surprise myself with a frustration of red. Bright red, in the corner, a welling up of something that seeped through my veins, weighted only by the cool slipperiness of lily pads and dark sky.

Only half returning from the possession. I went home. I slept. And awoke to today. Feeling purged and alive and aware of the strange silver sky hanging upwards, upside down, making puppets of aspen, invisible string... that faint veil of blue. Virginia Woolf, I love you.

The "to-do" list...

I'll never make one on my blog again because I don't get the satisfaction of crossing anything out. Anyway, can't there be one place where I can pretend that I don't have a list that is a mile long; a list, by the way, that grows longer everyday. complain complain complain. I am wondering how in the hell I am going to accomplish everything this semester. How?

Stop blogging and get to work. ya-da, ya-da, ya-da.

I think I'll put on my woolies today and go go out in the woods and lay in the snow with a thermos of coffee and my Virginia Woolf book. Kew Gardens inspired me to do so.

For the weekend:

• Respond and grade 13 papers (the first half).
• Read 70 pages of Virginia Woolf (plus make a few notes to refresh my memory on everything I already read).
• Then figure out what the hell she means by "blue" and "green" (a worthwhile endeavor). What are these fascinations of hers?
• Then write a 500 word essay explaining it.
• Plan class for next week including writing up the next essay assignment, library exercise and voice/style/persona exercise (this could take some time).

Stop there. That is more than enough. Will bulleted lists help me to accomplish more than I did today? Why do I constantly have to remind myself that it is impossible and unhealthy to be working on things 24 hours a day?

Wanna hear my theory on Blue & Green? Would you ever guess that it is actually very simple? Nice words to describe the simplest things. Virginia Woolf-- you "rock". (that's a hint).

Yeah-- so back to my list.

What's your secret?

Get it off your chest.

Another dark morning...

...and I am one of the first souls in the halls of H-S. My coffee tastes stronger, darker than usual. Hmmmm. Listening to Indian music once again. I could listen forever and never tire of it. Realizing that my mind works better when I let it relax. Been agonizing over how to keep my class going strong, but when I finally let go of trying to figure it out things started falling into place. Quick--write it down before it goes away. Strange-- it feels like an honest to god writing class. Like the kind I'm used to and have been missing. I'm thankful to have such an incredible class. I've been waiting my whole life for this. Thankful also for the fellow GA's and professors that I work alongside. This could be lonely without them. Conversations yesterday were good.

I heard on the radio that there are foreign films played every Sunday at the Reif Center in Grand Rapids--for free. This Sunday is a film called "The Center of the World" (or something like that). A Brazilian film. I'd like to go to it. I'll tell my students about it too. I wish I had more time. Maybe I should go anyway.

The sun began its ascent 2 minutes ago. And now... it is time for class.

I should be planning class...

...but instead I am sitting in my office with the lights a low amber color listening Hans Christian's Capricorn Child and Ichi's Tilopa (a mix of east Indian, cross genre music). I feel warm and with no desire to be a part of the bright coldness of the outside world. The scent of Earl Grey tea softening the edges of file cabinets, desks, and tense, tired muscles.

My mind wanders on the rythme of the music. Like a wave, a magic carpet.

I met three women today. They were in the lounge.
One was named Cynical
One was named Ambiguous
When the third walked in Cynical and Ambiguous turned to her and asked, "And who are you?" She held out her hand to Cynical and replied, "Well, hello. I'm Restless."

Foggy walked away laughing to drink her tea.

Blog thoughts...

I've spent the past hour analyzing the blogs of strangers. An assignment. And although I have nothing to say, here I am--exhausted, but feeling obligated to write having not posted for a couple of days.

Looking at blogs has got me thinking about Walter Ong and his theory on the fictional construct of audience. This blog began, for me, as motivation to write on a regular basis. Actually, I began writing for myself. No one had my address and no one knew I was writing here. Then I gave my link to a friend. I knew it meant my writing would go public. I told myself I would write everyday and since others would be reading it, this was my motivation to keep going with it. Even so, at the time I my only real imagined reader was her. Simple. We were used to writing long winded e-mails to each other. But over time various people told me, "hey I read your blog." My fictitious audience has grown more complicated--grown into a diverse group of people. I find that I censor myself more than I did in the beginning. I think this ties in with the notion that we are a myriad of selves. We are one way with our friends, another with our parents, another with co-workers, ect ect... you get the point. But this is for anyone to see. So what do I include and what do I omit? It gets perplexing at times and I end up not writing anything. Or... I go back to my paper and pen to record those secret little thoughts I sometimes want to express.

My fictional audience has grown slightly out of control. It's frustrating and thought provoking all at the same time. Then you add the comment option and it adds a whole new slant to blog writing. It becomes "conversation" rather than simply personal journaling. hmmm... interesting.

It leads me to wonder what other people think about me, about my writing. Fictionalizing once again. It's one thing to get bored with myself. It's another thing to start worrying if others are too. Oh the tedium of our everyday thoughts. What is this strange fascination we have with it? What have I gotten myself into anyway? My writing has traveled a long way from the guarded notebooks that I filled like a maniac. A private writer gone public. Have I no shame?

So Walter... what do you have to say about blogs? I'm curious. Did you ever imagine such a thing?

Aaaaaaaaaah yes...

I just went for a walk. A real, live, actual walk. Not just to the mailbox and back; not just from my car to my office. Nope, it was the real thing. To the studio, the bank, the post office, the coffee shop, and back again. I was starting to get a little stir-crazy from all the cold and snow. Thank god for legs and feet and boots and weather you can actually breath in. Felt good.

It's been a long day. I needed it.

And now...back to the books. Hour 9.

Where is the time going?

Ouch. No time to blog. I feel bad for neglecting words. This is going to be a busy semester. I can feel it in my bones... my heavy, tired bones. I feel like I've been spinning, stopped, and then got dizzy. But it is all good. I like my classes. I like my students. It's just a matter of getting settled into this strange schedule. I leave home at 6:30am and don't get back until 10pm. My dog is sad and misses me. I've been living in my office and in between classes have been spending time at my dad's or the studio. My existence has been spread thin lately. I'm here, I'm there... but never really anywhere.

Ahhh-- but the snow falls. Eventually I will settle into a groove. For some reason this semester seems more exciting than the last. Maybe it is the lack of sleep that makes my heart flutter.

I think I'm going to start doing yoga again. I miss it. Feeling the need to come back down to earth. Yes, like a snowflake... softly.

The anti-technology...

Yesterday and the day before I was involved in some very serious anti-technology.
The assignment:
Create a writing technology using only things found in nature.

Well, it turns out that in -20 degree weather, this can be more difficult than one might assume. What is there to use? Sticks? Boring. Snow? Vinny's going to. Dog poop? Yuck. Looking out my window, options seem limited.

After racking my brains I decided to take this as an opportunity to do something that I've wanted to try for the last several years, but didn't have time to: make paper. I spent the entire afternoon and evening in my endeavors. I froze my ass off collecting birchbark and pine needles. Then went to the studio to begin my concoctions. The result... a nice wet pile of pulp. I made 7 sheets of paper. One, I must admit, is sprinkled with brightly colored sequence, another I screwed up and is in the garbage. And I must say I enjoyed myself more than I have ever enjoyed any form of technology. Yes, it involoved physical, mental, and creative involvement. Renee knows why this is important to oddballs like us.

But then what to write with? Aha! I knew I collected that iron rich clay from the North Shore for a reason. It's been sitting at the back of my closet for a couple of years now. Collecting dust and waiting for me to make a glaze out of for ceramics. Instead it is being used as an invented writing technology. Mixed with some egg-yolk and water and wallah-- iron rich, red tempera paint.

I am feeling ready to be deposited on a deserted island. If I had a bottle I would make paper and paint and write a note to throw into the sea saying: "Don't bother to come find me. I'm perfectly content." I'd use the solitary time to get some writing done. Luckily I would have the means to do so.

I have a lot more I want to write, but unfortunately I am not on that deserted island with time to do so.

Mental note: write more later.
For now: do everything else that needs to be done.

Yes, Renee, I think you are right. It has something to do with being pulled in too many directions. However, I do suggest trying the paper and paint experiment. It has the effects of making one forget about everything else, wasting a lot of time, and enjoying it.

Rambling thoughts on technology...

Reading other peoples blogs... people I don't know, but feel like I should. What a strange community they create. In my case, a community of mostly strangers. Makes me feel somewhat isolated. Then I read the blogs of people I do know and I wonder why we rarely admit the things we write about to each other-- in person.

This technology has got me thinking. Along with the hundred pages or so that I just finished reading for Teaching With Technology. I have to admit, I like technology to a certain degree. I like blogging. I like reading other peoples blogs. But I can't help but wonder how it changes how we act face to face. Do we still remember how to communicate honestly together? Or do we need computer screens between us as a safety barrier? Once removed. Once removed. Once removed.

The world is changing fast. But then again, it has always been changing fast.

My problem is that I have lived several years of my life without computers, without running water, without even electricity. Maybe it is just my world that has changed fast.

I spent an entire year of my life living in a shack in the middle of the woods. I had to hike in a half mile. I carried my drinking water in jugs; I bathed in a lake (until it froze over); I cooked my meals on an open fire; the only music I had was produced by yours truly; I read books by the light of an oil lamp; I listened to wolves howl outside my door; I ate wild plums plums for breakfast.

I spent another half year living in the high desert of Arizona in a hogan that we built ourselves. Once again, no modern conveniences. We dug a hole in the ground to keep our food fresh; we had a "fireplace" with a chimney made out of old coffee cans; the door was a scavenged piece of plywood pulled across the entrance at night to keep the critters out and the dog in; I slept in my sleeping bag on a dirt floor; I had to check my bed every night for snakes and scorpions; the stars glittered there like nowhere else.

Before all of this I spent 5 months living out of my truck. Sleeping in mountains, side-roads of city streets, on beaches of the Pacific. Every night was a new home, the only conveniences found in gas-station restrooms. But I found a lot of beauty in those 5 months. It was after that that I took up residency in the old shack.

A few years later I hopped freight trains to Alaska, then spent 9 months in India. No running water, no electricity.

While building my house I lived in a camper. I had electricity that time, but my water was clean, fresh rain water collected in buckets from the awning. It was then that I took my first writing class. I wrote on an old 1920's Smith and Corona typewriter. Clackity-clack. I took bucket showers outside, drank tea, and almost froze to death.

And now look at my life. Computers, computers, computers. Lights turned on with a switch, a toilet that flushes, a bathtub with hot water, phone ringing, refrigerator humming, stereo playing, furnace ticking, Christmas lights plugged in, guitar collecting dust, microwave preparing dinner, electric coffeepot gurgling.

And people wonder why I have such a hard time figuring out computers. My head is just not in it. True, I enjoy them. But it is not how I am naturally wired. I still haven't figured out how to put a side-bar link on this damn site! Let alone figure out how to post pictures.

Yes, I feel isolated from the technological community of today. And when I feel lonely or bored I enjoy reading other peoples blogs. But the thing is that once upon a time... I never used to feel lonely or bored. I was too busy building a fire to boil water on.
Back then I cooked dinner--delibrately. I drank tea-- delibrately. I washed dishes and clothes-- delibrately. I bathed-- delibrately. I wrote-- delibrately. I conversed with friends around the dinner table-- delibrately. I was a part of every step of my day. A part of every need. My life was forced to be slower. I wasn't nervous or jumpy around others. I wrote long letters to stay in touch with far-away friends. Friends, many of them, that I no longer know their where-abouts.

So what has changed? And how much does it have to do with this thing I type on and stare at? No wonder my eyes sometimes hurt. Too much time looking at this screen, and not enough time looking up at stars. Maybe I'm overreaciting, maybe I'm generalizing too much, but sometimes it scares me how removed we become from ourselves, our lives, our environment. It's not just technology... it's society. So where's the division? I don't know. But I am reluctant to give up life as I once knew it. I miss knowing about my friends... the old-fashioned way.

Technology connects us. But it also removes us. Will we ever find a happy medium?

Reveling in a 6 hour nap...

What more can I say?

I think I just slept off whatever it was that was trying to take hold of me. Yesterday I survived a 12 hour day at school complete witih 2 migraines and way-too--cold weather. I felt miserable.

Today began once again in darkness and a headache, but then an excellent class. I'm looking forward to working with this group. I wonder if I will always be this amazed by students. I hope so. Wow-ed by not only their writing, but thier insight and willingness to step outside of themselves. I came home feeling good... in time for breakfast even! Hey, that never happens. Then 2 pages of Virginia Woolf in bed before the sunshine put me to sleep. The book dropped and bang, I was out. Didn't wake up until supper. I needed that. Feeling confident that whatever sickness was manifesting itself has been defeated.

And now... maybe I'll do some writing. Some good old-fashioned fiction writing. Oh glory-- it's not rhetoric! :)

But wait. I have to admit something. I learned something in rhetoric. I learned about Peter Elbow. I was listening to myself talk in class today... and I heard his influence in the things I was saying. Thank you Elbow. It might have even been worth the pain and suffering just to learn about you.

Wrapped in a blanket of winter...

Woke up at 5 am this morning to a surreal world of darkness and snow. I decided that I am going to enjoy teaching early, getting up when it still feels like night. When I went outside I was overcome by the sheer silence of snowflakes falling softly from a heavy sky. I felt my feet on the ground, the snow on my face. The darkness of winter felt good. A perfect place from which to emerge for a new semester.

I got to school early and it was so quiet. Snow with no foot prints, I felt each deliberate step. Lights still not turned on in the buildings, I began to wonder if school had been canceled. No, eventually the rest of the world came alive. Eventually the sun reluctantly turned the sky from black to shades of pink and grey.

A surreal day. Ending with a fever. What luck... to get sick at the beginning of it all. But I've got my tea close at hand, the bed calling my name.

So much more I wanted to write about, but not the energy to do so.

Don't flood the gardens!

"Don't run the water until Thursday. You'll flood the gardens in the P13 district."

That's what the large woodchuck like animal said in my dream last night before he fled for cover from the dogs below ground. The dogs where digging up gopher holes because the gophers were making a mess of the yard. I was going to flood them out. But there is a whole civilization below ground that this woodchuck type creature came to warn me about. There are districts, streets, gardens, whole communities. And while the gophers might be making a mess of things, there are others to consider. He spoke in clear English. Looked me straight in the eye. We would have talked more, but Abe was biting at the earth this animal had disappeared into. He sent messages on biscuits. Urgent messages asking me to wait until Thursday. They'd be prepared by then.

Is this what happens when I let my mind relax from studies? Yes, it gets more and more interesting every night. Maybe it's a good thing my blog was lost yesterday. Readers will begin to know the true workings of my mind. I do love dreams though. Always something interesting.

When I was a kid I truly believed that there was an underground world-- just below the bridge that goes over the railroad tracks into Wilton. It was always sunny down there. I never visited, but I would have liked to. There was sun down in the tunnels to. Enough sun for lush gardens, well kept with fuscia and yellow flowers. When I was a kid there were other worlds beyond the back of my closet, in the woods, and on my bookshelf. These days I only notice these places in my sleep.
A very strange place my mind is, yes, indeed.

And today is the last day of break. It has been nice. I could go back to sleep. Not sure what to do next, or first, or to save for last. It's a bottle-neck-- everything I want to do on this last day. Can't it last for just a little bit longer?

It's probably a good thing that I have a job and things to do. Just imagine what I'd be like if my mind was left free to roam. ha! I'd probably be a great artist by now. ok... I'm just kidding. Now I'm daydreaming. I was thinking when I woke up though... that this hedgehog/woodchuck creature could be a children's story. Two summers ago Vinny and I talked about creating a children's book together. He was going to write it, and I was going to illustrate it. The story he came up with was something about anarchy in the garden. The tomatoes got out of hand. There was mutiny. I'm sure something bad would have happened with the string beans and the cucumbers. Anyway, it never became of anything... I'm sure you can see why. And the funny thing is that, yes, life is as strange as the things we make up. Everything is based on a reality within us-- even if we won't admit it.

Anyway, I liked that fat, slothy creature. There was a wiseness about him. It was in his eyes.

Lotus in the snow

I just finished a good and very personal memoir. What is it about being so completely honest that it changes everything? I have read so many words that speak only around the edges. But it is the stuff that breaks beyond that, that goes further, palms open... that is the stuff that matters. It is more than admitting pain; it is also about admitting beauty, love, confusion, loneliness, passion. It is the stuff that we do our best to keep our eyes, our ears, our minds, our bodies, all our senses closed to. We create distances and then are surprised by the loneliness.

I am thinking of the lotus flowers that I used to (and sometimes still do) draw at the end of letters written to friends or family. It is a drawing of curves and lines. Inside it is half empty, the stem swirling out from underneath itself, surrounded by the blankness of paper, and further beyond that, words; words written but barely touching the surface. Anything more: held fully in a simple drawing of a lotus flower. An act of faith to give words life fragile as five petals. Daring to be simple, direct, and honest. Daring to be humble, vulnerable, and a little bit more alive.

A lotus blossoms even in the coldest of winters. Even in incongruity. The landscape of language takes on strange forms. We try so hard to protect.

What the hell?

I just wrote a long and very interesting blog about a dream I had last night and then lost it in the act of trying to publish it. Ah- technology sucks.

snow...

floating
down
softly silently

floating
with a sense
of weightlessness

lost in dreams of lastnight. i think i will convert to the religion of snow. to float gently. to fall from stars. i have been sleeping for a hundred million years. my shape, an abstractrion. spirit traveling far in the night for a conversation. a sacramental landscape. friendship. i drift on...
endlessly.
a moment of reprieve held gently
in a moment. so innocent, harmless. with the ability to change everything.

the snow falls. on heavy eyelids. wrapped in comfort.

Self-portrait # 12.

". . . I knew that a day I took away from the work did not make me too happy. I just feel that I’m in tune with the right vibrations in the universe when I’m in the process of working. I always felt right when I was right here. And even if I didn’t want to compose, so I painted or stacked the pieces or something. In my studio I’m as happy as a cow in her stall. That’s the only place where everything is all right."
~ LOUISE NEVELSON

Last night I painted in my studio until 2 am. I don't know what happened, where time went. I began a self-portrait with the intention of doing it alla-prima. I got it all down on canvas, but I got to a certain point, where I started laying down blue skin-tones that I wasn't sure where I was going with it. In the portrait, it is just me... with no real expression of any kind. The mood dictated simply by color. I was using a lot of turquoise, mint greens, and blues-- colors I rarely (if ever) use. There is a coolness about it, except for the oranger-than-life hair. I felt like it needed something and today I realize it needs fuscia, yellow, purple. I didn't finish it. I decided to let the rest of it sit around inside me for awhile... until I figured out what it is trying to say. And now I know what it is about, but I am having a hard time finding words for it. It's about that hidden part of me. Not hidden-- that's not the right word. It's about that part of me that exists underneath or outside the layers of my life right now. I am realizing that it is hard to write about. I have been limiting myself. hmmmm.... not that's not quite right either. I've been existing in a very small world. Feeling confined in a very small set of thoughts. In my painting there is an energy trying to be expressed. In odd combinations of colors. I find myself wanting to make connections between thoughts that are not available to me... not present in the world existing around me.

I have been thinking a lot about things... about possibilities. With no words for it yet. The painting though... might be my first successful self-portrait. We'll see. It's not finished yet. We'll see where it goes. Then maybe I can say what it is really about. Whatever it is... it's about making connections. That is what I'm working on. In more ways than one.

My first and true love...

I just want to say...that I love writing. I really do.

A secret place among tamarack and spruce trees...

Before supper I took an hour long walk in the swamp. I left the old dog at home because his legs and indoor feet can't go far. It was just me and wolfie. A rarity. It was beautiful down there. I looked up from the tracks I was following to be confronted by a wall of camouflaged. Tamarack, covered in moss and snow, creating a screen that my eyes had to adjust to see through. Most the time that we were down there I couldn't see Anu. Several times I thought she had left me to hunt on her own. But then I would stop, be quiet, and hear the jingle of her collar. I made a game of trying to find her. My eyes scanning the silver greys and greens of the trees and snow. Then she would emerge; standing still, her eyes meeting mine... every time only several feet away. Her grey and white coat blending perfectly with her surroundings. She is beautiful. Especially when I catch glimpses of her so completely in her element.

We found deer beds, three, and snow snuffled up where green shoots of grass poked through. That life hides beneath this cold layer of winter, surprises me every time.

There is something strange and wonderful that I love about the swamp that I am only able to visit in winter. It is another world. A sheltered place that swallows you up and keeps you hidden once you break past the brush that separates it from the rest of the world. I stayed out there much longer than I planned. I couldn't pull myself away. We followed deer and rabbit tracks; looping, criss-crossing, pulling us further from home. I kept feeling this sense of a secret place-- always behind me. I stopped often, turning around to admire where I had just come from. Wanting to back to it, but curious to see what was beyond the next bend, what was beyond a cluster of spruce, heavy and bent with snow.

We follow our paths thinking that we are headed somewhere in particular only to find that we have wound up in a place that we never planned for. Never intended. Always looking back, always pulled forward.

When I finally emerged, reluctantly, from the quiet enclosed world of the swamp, Anu stood waiting for me. Walked easily by my side through the woods and to the field where she took off running to a boulder where she stood, watching me, watching everything. The sky a darkening pink. I trudged through the hard crusted snow behind her effortless sprint back to the house. Slowly. Not wanting to leave any of it behind.

Echo in the woods...

Since beginning to plan my class yesterday... I have called Amtrak, calculated gas costs for a 2,500 mile trip, sought out plane ticket prices, daydreamed about a summer trip to Canada, and searched for travel grants. This is not good. I am inspired! I think I picked out the right topic to revolve the class around-- travel. Pico Iyer's Best American Travel Writing 2004 was a good find. Today I traveled to Patagonia in search of a favorite spot, the West Coast on an eventless family vacation, and visited the tundra, cliffs, and pine forests of Nova Scotia. Good book.
And believe it or not, I'm getting things done. I have the first 3 weeks planned, my syllabus finished (and on the web), and my first assignment written: Why do you travel?... inspired by Pico Iyer's "Why We Travel", a wonderful essay written in 2000.
When Vinny came home I didn't even look up. Lost in space...writing in my journal. It's been a long time since writing has taken me that far away. And it felt good. I eventually returned to greet my husband and serve up some nice minestrone soup... like a good wife (from a can).
But all this traveling, writing, and hot soup made me tired... so I took a nap. I just woke up now... right when I should be going to bed (and maybe I will). The wolfie is asleep downstairs. Safely behind closed doors, away from the cats. It is -26 degrees out there. It's been a cold week. Tasha, you are wise to be in Hawaii right now. It got "warm" out today though (-1)... and so the dogs and I took a walk in the ice and sun. The dogs barked the whole way because they are stir-crazy. I threw snow at them and was yelling too. The neighbors must think we are crazy. Well, yes-- we are. That is why we live out here in the sticks... where the only thing people hear is our echo. We'll have to change our ways if we become city dwellers. Either that or spend lots of time in the state forests. That is one thing I like about living here in this cold tundra forest... the land. There is always somewhere to go to find nature and solitude. I remember when I lived in Madison, WI how I missed the secret places of home. Wisconsin is mostly farmland. No place for dogs and crazy people to yell and bark and run around in the woods without leashes. That's part of the reason I moved back here-- well, that, and sheer misfortune. In many ways a very fortunate misfortune. And for all my dreaming, I must admit, I do love it here... and there is no where else in the world I would rather live. Even if it is DAMN COLD!

birch trees and travel dreams...

oh yeah... I forgot. In 2004, I also graduated. How could I forget? 2 degrees that get me nowhere on their own. Well, add that as #8. But today I don't really care about accomplishments. I would rather lay in bed and read. It's cold, cold, cold outside. My mature friends (and husband) are reluctant to go sledding with me. Come on people. I have a sled. haha!

ok... but today I am going to buckle down and get some class planning done. Last night I began reading the text I chose for my class-- a collection of travel essays. This could be dangerous. I felt myself getting restless and excited to go somewhere. Yesterday I sat in my studio reading about an artist grant that I would like to apply for to travel back to India. I was completely present in my dreaming state of mind. Yes, this is the danger. Because, for now, I am not going anywhere. But maybe after I graduate (again). I am thinking of taking a year off of school before I go for ANOTHER degree-- and taking that trip. I found another grant, offered by the Jerome Foundation that offers big bucks for traveling artists. Although, I'm sure it is much more competitive. R2AC, our local arts supporter, offers grants of $1,000. That would buy more than half the plane ticket. How nice. I want to go back to take more photographs-- of people. I am in love with painting people. There is an energy, an aliveness that does not exist in other subjects. I've been trying to think of ways to bring painting and writing together. Of ways, to meld my life together. It seems easy and obvious to me, but the world outside of myself likes things neatly compartmentalized and planned out. The balance easily is tipped out of proportion. Ah well, why do I care? I do what I do what I do what I do.

But today I need to pull back the reins on my dreamy little head and do some planning for next semester. Why do I all of a sudden feel so sleepy? I am reluctant to leave my shell of vacationhood.

The birch trees shine with cold. I tell myself to stay present. Maybe I'll drink some tea, light a fire. To be honest, I don't want to go anywhere today. It's a good day just to read about travel. And to come up with some writing assignments that I am excited enough about to do myself.

I am a geek a geek a geek. Good morning everyone!

It's a good thing for...

New Year's resolutions. What kind of pathetic shlumps would we be without them? I haven't been inspired myself... until I looked in the mirror. But really, I haven't made a New Year's resolution in 8 years. Because that is when I started making a list of what I ACCOMPLISHED in the past year, rather than a list of things I wish I could change. I like to consider it a positive approach to list making. Unfortunately, this year my list is very short. The first time I did it, it was three pages long. This year:
1. I taught writing, my life-long dream, for the first time-- and loved it!
2. I had my first solo painting exhibition-- and made my life that much more confusing with realizing a second love in life.
3. I survived the hardest semester of college I have ever experienced (barely).
4. I started blogging (lame).
5. I celebrated my first wedding anniversary-- and am still 100% in love.
6. I quit a job that I've hated for 8+ years.
7. um... this is where it gets depressing-- I can't think of anything else.

Ok... so this year I can't boast any world travels or grand adventures. But there are a few things I've waited most of my life for... that happened this year. I can't complain. When I was in high school, a teacher had us write 100 things that we wanted to accomplish in life. I've looked back at that list since. The amazing thing is that I have done almost every single thing on it. From planting a garden, to building a house, to traveling to India, to finding true love, to teaching writing. Yes, life has been good. It has been full and exciting. One of the only things left to do on that list is to write a book. What then? I suppose I will have to write another 100 things to accomplish. Dang-- I can only hope for a long life. I am thinking of my great-grandma... she lived to be 105. When she got old she always said that the reason she was still alive was because she had everything she wanted in life. She lived to be that old because she was happy. I'm glad she was such a big part of my life. She taught me a lot. My grandma (her daughter) is the same way. I can only hope I inherited some of their genes... and their outlook on life.

And anyway, in terms of New Year's resolutions... here's one I like a lot. Yep, another positive approach. The only thing I need for a list like that... is cable. :)

but since I don't... back to Virginia Woolf. I'm in love with a character. Her name is Lily.

What is it?

Is it rain? Snow? Rain? Snow? I don't know but it looks like winter out there and sounds like summer. Today I am going to hole up with my cup of coffee, slippers, a blanket... and read Virginia Woolf's To the Lighthouse. It is another grey grey day out there. Perfect weather for the book I started last night. I want to read some of the books for next semester's class BEFORE I get stressed out with whatever will be expected of me. Yes, I want to enjoy them...leisurely. Anyway, Rita's got me inspired.

In this book there is a character named Lily. She is a painter. Was Woolf a painter? I think she was. She had to have been. There is no other way she would be able to write about globs of paint, color, and brush strokes the way she does. My favorite part so far is when Lily is walking down the road talking to a man when all of a sudden she sees the white wooden table of her father's in the crook of a tree. Just like that... things manifest them so strongly in her imagination that they appear as real as the silver bark of a tree. She gives no explanation. I think that is why her work is so difficult to read-- the lack of explanation for what she sees with her mind's eye. I like that about her. Why do we always walk around trying to explain ourselves? The mind is full of abstractions. Woolf allows those abstractions their full presence. This is why her stories are, at times, confusing. She travels great distances within even the ordinary. Maybe we'd all be crazy if we allowed ourselves this sight. But crazy is over-rated. It's a matter of where we allow our minds to go.
There is a line that she repeats:
"But what had happened?
Someone had blundered."

Ha! I love those parts. I have no idea what she is saying, but I have a feeling it is the parts that her mind spun out of control and was her only way of reeling back in. Someone had blundered. Stop. Take note. What is the question? Is it snow or is it rain? Something shifts. She is a strange one. I admire her for letting it show through. She hides nothing. She walks around in her novels with her mind split wide open. Yes, like Rita said... and egg split open with her insides spilled out. My guess is that her favorite color is green. The world unravels itself. This is the difficulty in holding it all together.

jumping off into the unknown...

I haven't been blogging much because I've been writing long e-mails to friends... my long lost friends who I feel the need to share my time and energy and thoughts with. It feels good-- as though there is the possibility of regaining a sense of connection with the outside world. Yesterday I watched movies and ate potato chips until I went to bed feeling sick at 1 am. I won't need to do that anymore this break. I have all the movie and junk food time in that I needed to make up for from the past several months. However, I watched a very interesting movie: Angles in America. It was good. At moments offering incredible insight and wisdom. It was the kind of movie that made me feel like I could sit down and write page after page of thoughts with no end. But like I said- I did myself in and was only able to go to bed instead of recording any of the fleeting, insightful thoughts that I might have been having.

The last couple days I have been obsessing over finding a new house. I say obsessing because that is what it is. I have one of those obsessive natures that manifests itself in strange ways. As we drove around, Vinny reminded me that I don't have to figure all of this out right now-- not until we're actually ready. I was thankful for that. At that moment I put it to rest a little bit. This compulsive need to make a decision, to instigate change is a direct result of everything that has accumulated up until this point. It is a direct result of my inability to just relax. I guess my brain just had to rattle around for awhile before it could settle. Anyway, I'm not sure that any of the houses were right-- it will be there when the time comes. That is one thing that has always very apparent in my life. It is strange the way things fall into place when they are meant to. The right people, things, opportunities have always come to me when it was meant to be. Yesterday I was reminded of this... and felt comforted. I know I am lucky indeed to be blessed in this way. I feel like I need to quit worrying so much and just let the extraordinary fall into place. That is the only way I have ever gotten anything good out of life. And it has worked every time.

Last night I got an e-mail from my friend Nicole saying that she couldn't do the show-- our collaborative exhibition. I was relieved. I felt sad for her and wanted to give her a big hug because, like me, she is suffering from a much too hectic life. She doesn't have the energy to put into it... and neither do I. So now I have what I asked for-- time to experiment and play with my art. Time to go inside myself and not worry about what is produced or not produced. I told her about how hard this past semester has been for me too, that I understand where she is coming from. She graduated last year and is trying to find her place in the world being both an artist and a technical designer. I am trying to find my place in the world being both an artist and a writer. I am trying to find a place in the world and in myself where those two aspects of myself can exist together. I constantly feel like I'm being ripped in two directions. But it doesn't seem like I should have to-- but it is not easy. I told Nicole that I too am trying to find my footing. And it is taking more energy that I ever thought possible. I'm glad Nicole is in my life. I imagine us inspiring each other to keep painting far into our lives. Even if that means deciding together that we need to approach it from a different angle-- not always pushing so damn hard.

So now I have the time to get those big canvases built that I've been thinking about-- the size of an entire wall... to do abstract. Wordless paintings to journey through... to search for myself inside color. I am thankful for all the artists in my life, writers and painters, who have carried me to this place in life-- where the only where left to go is to jump off into the unknown. This is the territory I have always felt most comfortable with-- most alive. The unknown is tugging at me... in wordless, figureless landscapes of pure soul. It is always a hard place to travel to, with many detours along the way... but those times in the past that I have gotten there, have been the most important and memorable of my life. Here I go.

feeling relief...

Right now I am drinking the best cup of hot chocolate in the world. It has real vanilla from Madagascar, natural processed cocoa from South America, cinnamon from China, and a little bit of sugar. My sister treats me well. Yum, a box of spices that elevate the sensations of my tastebuds, making me feel like I've traveled the world... all in one little cup. Warming my winter bones. I am already a coffee snob... my sister is turning me into a spice snob as well. These expensive tastes could grow on a person. But, mmmm, it tastes so good. She gave Vinny some fat lil' vanilla beans to cook who-knows-what with. I am looking forward to breakfast.

But now I am ready for sleep. Tiredness has finally caught up with me. The kind of tired that I can enjoy, because I have time to.

Merry Christmas everyone. And sweet dreams. The day is done. It feels good to be home.

I used to like Christmas...

but I'm liking it less every year. I remember the first time I missed Christmas, I was in India, sitting on the dirt floor of my palm frond hut on the Arabian Sea. Who could complain about that? I sent christmas post cards home to all my friends and family with a picture of the cockroach I was living with. It was as big as an ornament. But cockroaches aside, I pulled out the christmas card my friend had given me before leaving... the one that said "DO NOT OPEN UNTIL CHRISTMAS!" I loved her for that. Because it turned out I needed it more than I thought I would. That night I slept on the beach, looking at stars, and realizing how much I missed everyone. I haven't talked to that friend in a long time. And family... well, that has gotten pretty complicated. Christmas plans have changed one to many times. But this year, Vinny and I will spend Christmas Eve alone. It will be wierd, but I am looking forward to that part of it. We'll eat cannolies (his specialty) and play scrabble by the fire and pretend we're in a country far away from everyone else's problems. We decided not to exchange gifts this year. That part feels good. But I can't help but buy a tennis ball for Abe. Yes, the dog loves opening presents. He loves tennis balls. He lives for them. It is how he expresses love. Snuggle? Tennis ball? Those are his favorite words. I wish other people could be as easily satisfied. I've always loved tradition. But it seems to be getting in the way these days. It's not about what it should be. Actually, it's turned into something that people cry and get upset over. Tonight my grandma called and started freaking out on me again. I tried explaining to her that, at that moment, Vinny and I were decorating the tree. In other words, couldn't it wait? I am wondering if there will ever be peace. Yea, I love tradition, but not unrealistic expectations. There's a difference. If only I could fix everyone's world. I would. I am trying hard to go with the flow. Just be there when I can, but know when to say enough is enough. It is never an easy task.

But on the positive side, yes, we finally got our tree up and decorated. I cleaned the basement which had turned into a disgusting hole and rearranged the bedroom. There was about an inch of dust on everything. And I won't mention how big the dog/cat hair balls were that lurked in the corners. I'm having a hard time coming down from all the work I've done in the past few weeks (months actually). I took it out on the house. I'm hoping that relaxation will find me soon. In the process, the house is a little bit nicer place to be.

Yesterday, I hung out at the studio most of the day. But I only painted for maybe a half hour. A block of hot pink, and a little red. A wall and a fire-hydrant. I wrote, and looked through books, and basically just putzed around. Putzing-- that's all I really wanted to do. At this rate I am wondering if I will actually be ready for the show I have planned at the end of January. I wonder also if my collaborative partner will be ready either. I haven't gotten far, she hasn't even started. Yesterday I just felt no desire to push myself any further. I find myself wanting to do abstract paintings instead. Wordless colors... merely emotional responses, nothing more. In my putz mode I also did a Tarot reading. It didn't help to motivate me, rather justified my lack of forward momentum. The card representing my past said that I have just finished a very stressful part of my life. The card for the present said that what I need to do now is sleep, to rest, and renew my energy. Well, that hit it right on. Unfortunately, I didn't understand the meaning of the card representing my future. Nothing except that I need to appreciate what I have. hmmm-- interesting. I don't hold full stock in what a tarot reading might say. I believe that we are responsible for our own past, present, and future. It is not dictated by what card may say. But it does provide a window of thought, a way of examining your life. And so yes, at face-value, I feel that I should use this time to relax. Not to feel guilty about what I am or am not doing. What I really want to do now is explore my art freely, without worrying that it will be hanging on gallery walls and that it will be seen and judged by others. I need to just go inside myself for awhile-- explore, experiment. And not worry about deadlines and reactions.

Sometimes I feel like my life is heading in a direction that I did not plan for. My art has played a big part in this. I feel the need to be open-- towards possibilites, towards the future. Pushing myself so hard has made me feel like I'm wearing blinders, like a beaten and submissive horse.

Today Vinny gave me a suitcase. It is old and brown. He didn't want it anymore. At the dinner table, I asked him-- if he was going to leave his life as he knows it now and he could only pack what fit in that suitcase... what would he bring? He got hung up on what the weather would be like where he was going and if I would fit in the case. Ok... but assuming that we'd be leaving together and that anything we might need along the way would be provided, what would you bring from your old life?
I decided that I would bring:
my photo albums
my old journals
what ever books that would fit (but which ones???)
and my little buddha for good luck.

that's all. I could easily walk away from the rest. Life is interesting that way. Why do we carry around so much baggage, collect so much junk, when in truth, most of it is of so little use?

Tonight I hope to dream of wild horses. Wild and free and living each spontanious moment as though there was nothing to weigh it down. I wonder where I would end up if I didn't bring the suitcase at all.

Water, words, and stars...

Today I moved into the new studio-- the corner one with two windows instead of one. Painted the walls white. White! I've never painted anything white before. I am a woman of bold colors. But I was feeling in need of white-- simple, like snow. But color got the best of me and I painted the pipes (it is an old building) orange and magenta. It felt good to get settled into the new space. I came home tired and Hungry. I slept good. Woke up once to stars bearing down on me through the cold sky. Was I dreaming, or was it really that surreal? Now that I am awake, I see that they really are that amazing. It must be the cold-- doing something to the atmosphere that brings the stars a little closer, making them shine brighter, bigger.

I was also dreaming of paintings. One was of water, one of words, and one of a Mexican woman wrapped in a red shawl. I am looking forward to the coming week. I have a feeling that Vinny is going to get lonely. It is all I can do to keep from driving back to town in the dark of morning to get my dreams down on canvas. But I will wait. I want to have breakfast with my husband. I want to lay around in the sun with the cats for a little while. I want to lounge and not move too fast. I'll go to the studio later. Listen to good music. Enjoy myself. Yes, life is feeling as surreal as the stars. I am enjoying getting used to it.

I'm done, I'm done, I'm done!

The "I'm done" song comes to you from the one and only Barb, the one who taught me this dance in the dark halls of Hagg-Sauer one quiet Sunday night. I am happy to say I can finally join along in the chorus.

Needless to say, my eyes are puffy and tired. The mirror does not lie-- I look like shit. But now-- oh-now... it is time for the best sleep I've had in forever. No clenched jaw. No biting of my lip... just a deeeeeeeeeeep peaceful sleep. And in the morning I will make a pot of coffee and head for the studio. Oh joy!

After my last class tonight I came home and rearranged the living room to make space for a christmas tree...which Vinny and I will adventure into the woods for tomorrow.

I'm floating. I think it's time for some sleep. I've done enough complaining for one semester.

It's over! :) :)

It's snowing!

I want snow. I want a dark day to ease the strain on these eyes of mine that I tired and hurt from staring at this computer screen for so long. I feel like I got lost on Mango Street somewhere. Took a turn down a dark alley. Yes, it's hard to believe that it would snow in a place called Mango Street... but it is Chicago after all. I am such a slow writer. Shoveling words at this point. My head is floating. My eyeballs feel like separate entities. I can only hope that this cup of coffee-- strong and in a favorite cup of mine, will put my thoughts back in place. The paper is due today, and I must admit, I have enjoyed writing it.

I have stumbled upon something else that feels good this semester... and that is writing by hand. With paper and a pen. Writing becomes a physical act, not just a mental one. When I write on paper, I can feel my mind keeping time with the ink moving across the surface of my thoughts. I feel as though I am actively participating with the words on the page... something that sitting at a computer sometimes lacks. Yes, I have come to appreciate this form of writing, longhand, very much. I have a stack of old journals 3 feet high. But writing on paper feels different now... better.

This has been the hardest semester in my life. And I never want it to be this way again. Writing, pen on paper, might be the only thing that saved me.

4 more days and it will be over. I hope for lots of snow. I look forward to going into the woods in search of a Christmas tree. I look forward to moments of peace. To creativity. To having a little bit of my life back.

eating mangos and feeling sneaky...

or at least like time is sneaking away from me. I should be working on my paper... not blogging. But just quickly, I need to make a mark saying, yes, I still exist.
The last couple of days I have been working diligently on a critical essay on Sandra Cisneros' The House on Mango Street. I never in my life would have thought I would enjoy this kind of writing-- but I am! There is something about her language that absolutely sweeps me away. I stop occassionally to let Spanish words swell, turn into satin, then slip smoothly off my tongue to land here and there. Silvery threads. I say the name, Esperanza, out loud and let the letter "r" roll around in my mouth before it falls to the page.
I am amazed by Cisneros' ability to take such simple language and with it create level upon level of meaning... a house of cards-- fragile, and multi-layered. A world both internal and external, both beautiful and ugly. And lil' ol' me, well obviously, I am inspired.

A blizzard of noisy dreams...

This wind is going to drive me nuts today. It is about ready to rip the screens out of the windows and pull the roof right off. I'm hearing some shifting creaking sounds coming from places where silence would be preferable. The things on the porch are knocking around and wolfie's locked up in V.'s room. The cat's are smartly in the basement. And I'm sitting next to my window freezing to death like an idiot tied to the computer.

On the other hand I wish this wind would whisk me up and send me flying back to India. Swoop-- she's gone. Last night I had a dream that I was back on Chandni Chowk in the Old City of Delhi. Oh- the chaos was blissful. The smells, the broken down shops, the samosas... and best of all the graffiti written a cement wall and shards of corrugated steel. I wrote back to this graffiti which is when it happened... when I found my words again. I couldn't stop. A feeling of elation. Is that where I have to go to get that part of my brain back? Yes, I want to go back. It felt so good to return... if even just for a dream. Someday I am going to go back. And I promise I will not come back the same.

Sometimes I feel like my college education is turning me into something I'm not. Or maybe it is just the expectations surrounding it. Before I went to school I decided to travel the world. I knew I had nothing to teach until I learned something about myself. And what I found I consider to be the best part of me. Now I spend more time thinking about where and how and if I'll get a job. I feel like a drone, a cog in the machine at times. There's something about India that has always felt like it could save me from that. Yes, someday I will return. And I look forward to that day. In life I am not willing to settle for anything less than the extraordinary. I have a great fear of living a "normal" life, of slipping into a homogenized comatose.

Let the wind blow this house down. Fuck it. I'm ready to wear words, bold colors, and an uncertainty of tomorrow. India, I miss you. This place rattles too much in the wrong ways. One of these days soon it is going to be time to move on...

I'll write for old times sake...

This blogging thing is going down the tubes. So much for doing it everyday. Anyway, I've noticed that my creative writing muscles have turned to absolute mush. I'm a bit dismayed. I wonder what I will have to do in order to get that part of me back. All I wanted to do today was watch TV. It's a good thing we don't get any channels out here.
Instead I have successfully waded through about 50 pounds of portfolios and journals. It took me three times longer than I thought it would (becoming the case always). But now I can (briefly) celebrate (with a glass of water and some sleep). It's done.
And now I no longer have a brain of my own. I am capable of only gibberish. I have V. for a witness.

* * * * * * * * *

This morning I woke up early. It was still dark out when I made coffee. But as the light shifted I was able to make out the forms of several deer moving slowly across the field. They looked dark dark green against the snow. Color is an amazing thing. Our minds try to trick us out of seeing the way things really are. Anu (the wolf) didn't even see them. She was too busy hunting mice. Even so, she surprises me. When she notices the deer, she likes to just watch them. A couple years ago she even befriended an adolescent fawn.
Yes, life is peaceful out here. The woodstove has once again kept us warm through another winter day.
Tomorrow I think I will get up early again. This time to journey into the world of Latin America. On to the next subject of my endeavors.

...Until then I can only hope that sleep will repair this brain of mine.

I am a glutton for punishment...

Reading student essays. These are about art. I told myself I wasn't going to spend as much time on these. But I find them intriguing. They pull me in and I can't help but write them long notes at the end of each essay. Now I know why Carol spent such long hours in the painting studio, writing responses to our artwork. She couldn't help herself! And neither can I. Some students put so much energy into their essays... I can't help but give a little back. Unfortunately it is going to eat into my precious BIRTHDAY time tomorrow. Oh well, art is a good thing. I'm glad to see my students have an appreciation for it. I am amazed by some of the connections they make. Yes, they amaze me all the time.

But now... it is time for bed. To dream about my own art-- the stuff I am too busy to make.
Maybe I'll float around in Van Gogh's starry night. Talia's essay blew me away.

It is cold...

inside and out. It's cold. I am sitting in my flannel pajamas, slippers, and wrapped in a blanket. Too lazy to fire up the woodstove. Grey light falls through the window, leading outwards to wind and ice. We live in a field. The combination of conditions creates a broad expanse of mind that today I am going to try to use to my benefit.

Yesterday I had a good conversation with a professor. I, for the most part, spent most of the conversation fumbling with my thoughts. But I walked out of his office and into my classroom feeling better about this process of becoming a teacher. It was one of the best classes yet. I felt present. My students were present. We spent the entire hour really talking. I saw a side of them that they had not shared before. And they in turn saw a side of me they had never seen. It was good. It felt like what teaching and learning is really about.

Today I am going to write the paper I've been struggling with for the past two weeks. I'm going to get it done. And this time I am going to try to approach it differently-- not to try to solve the "Great Inequities" of the teaching/ learning process, but simply to explore a few ideas that I have found comfort in. This semester has been hard. But it has made me all the more thankful for those that have helped make it a bit easier.

I should be doing a million other things...

like writing the content for Web Design, taking notes for Rhetorical Theory, or writing about Sandra Cisneros. But first just a moment of writing for myself. And even though I don't have much to say... it feels good.

I got to my office this morning and checked my e-mail. There was one from a student with the title "Guess What!" I was so happy for her I that I got a bit misty eyed walking down the hall with a big beaming smile to show Vinny-- she got an editorial published in her hometown newpaper that she sent in for a class assignment. There is something exciting about seeing your words in print-- and I'm excited for her.

Today my pant cuffs and socks are wet from all the snow we got last night. I wish I had my big fuzzy blanket here in the office to snuggle into. I slept good last night. Today I feel like accomplishing things.

... and believe it or not, I'm even looking forward to writing that 20 page paper on Cisneros. It's what I've been wanting to do for some time now. Interesting, the ways I've changed.

I was on a mission to write for this blog every day-- but it is becoming difficult. My brain is full of everything that needs to be done. Today I worked in my office, with the lights low. It was quiet in the hallways. Everyone is working hard on thier end-of-the-semester business. I feel a sense of accomplishment after writing 2 assignments and planning my class through to the end of the semester. My to-do list is far from crossed off, but tonight I will concentrate on reading short stories and even though it is for class, it is a welcome break.
My wolfie scratches at the door. I feel bad. She's lonely, but it is always dark when I get home. No moon to go for a walk by the light of. Maybe tomorrow. Tonight it is snowing. There's a fire in the woodstove. My belly is full on a wonderful meal that Vinny made. I do love winter. It creates a certain kind of "hardship" that makes me appreciate all small things even more.
Making the tea taste especially good tonight.