anticipated pride

Ross: what are you up to tonight?
Me: thesising
Ross: word
how's that going?
Me: ha
I have a stack of shaky research and nothing incredibly solid just yet. but getting there. slowly slowly
the proposal that is. but so much of the proposal is actually the research that must be done for the thesis itself
it has a title now, and chapter descriptions!
I have a feeling finishing this will be the proudest I've ever been of myself. which is a strange thing, anticipated pride. but a good one.

strive to be happy

I have a quote on my fridge from Max Ehrmann that says:

Be gentle with yourself. 

You are a child of the universe 

no less than the trees and the stars. 

In the noisy confusion of life, 

keep peace in your soul

It's actually a carved up bit from a larger poem, Desiderata. The whole poem is pretty wonderful.

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible, without surrender,
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly, and listen to others,
even to the dull and ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons;
they are vexatious to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain or bitter;
for always there will be
greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career
however humble;
it is a real possession in the
changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs,
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you
to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals,
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself.
Especially do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love,
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit
to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore, be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace in your soul.
With all its sham,
drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

old poems and love songs

Also, while studying for the English Lit. GRE, I found this poem in one of my old notebooks from 2005 and it's not so bad. Not the best thing I've ever written, by a long shot, but not bad.

You told me how you felt
lonely when you listened
to "Strawberry Fields Forever"
how "living is easy with eyes closed"
made you feel useless,
as we sat on your floor
with legs aching.
We haven't moved for hours.

Sometimes I feel like I'm drowning
sucking your apathy into my lungs
sweet toxic gas,
you're putting me to sleep
with your self-righteous
uninvited talk about how
you feel, what you think.

You're making me sick
with your pretension, your lack
of original thought. Maybe I just feel
guilty because the song makes me
feel lonely too.

a favorite

Happiness by Raymond Carver

So early it's still almost dark out.
I'm near the window with coffee,
and the usual early morning stuff
that passes for thought.

When I see the boy and his friend
walking up the road
to deliver the newspaper.

They wear caps and sweaters,
and one boy has a bag over his shoulder.
They are so happy
they aren't saying anything, these boys.

I think if they could, they would take
each other's arm.
It's early in the morning,
and they are doing this thing together.

They come on, slowly.
The sky is taking on light,
though the moon still hangs pale over the water.

Such beauty that for a minute
death and ambition, even love,
doesn't enter into this.

Happiness. It comes on
unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really,
any early morning talk about it.

poesie

Alyson and Cain came over tonight for dinner and drinking, after an eventful thrift store trip (I bought a dress and a book titled 'Socialism' that is going to make a lovely faux-gift for my old co-worker. I ALMOST bought a black lace sleeveless jumpsuit, but resisted the urge). While they were here, we got to talking a bit about writing and I mentioned that one of my friends has been on me to submit some poems for publication. The thing is, I only have 2 poems I could even submit and one of them is just an old reworked one. I can't find it in me to really write anything lately and when I do, it's never anything I'm proud of. Though, the poem I had published in the Delta was something I wrote on more of a whim than something I really poured my heart into. That said, it's also a poem I've never really been all that into (I'm dissatisfied with the line breaks and the last verse, but was persuaded into both by my professor and some classmates) I've decided to try reading some more poetry and see if that kick starts me. And maybe do some more-than-halfhearted investigating into a writing group around here.

Sometimes I still toy with the idea of doing a MFA in poetry or non-fic. But I just don't think I have the drive (or really, the talent) to see it out, despite what others seem to think. Maybe if I could pen something I thought half-decent, that would change.

For fun, here's my old Delta poem:

mai 1968
I have this fantasy
of running into the grocery store
past the produce and into the aisles
over-turning shelf after shelf
stacked with neatly arranged
jars and cans
watching them drop and explode
or roll towards the feet of
stunned shoppers

Liberez les haricots!
Detruisez la politique de classe d'epicerie!

then jumping into
a hot pink Ferrari
clouds of sandy dust
choking off my trail
as I race the sunset
into the desert

Free! Free! Free!

and while we're at it, here's the non-fic piece as well:
Made in America (TM)
I didn't feel like drinking, but since no one else felt like leaving, I went to the bar.
"What you want, baby?" The bartender's eyes never made it up to my face.
Cringe. "Can I get a Franziskaner?"
"Red one or gold one?"
"Red one."
"Man, what kinda beer is that?"
The man on my left pointed at the bottle in front of me. The bartender rolled his eyes and walked off.
"It's a German beer, it's like..."
"Girl, I know it's a beer! How you pronounce that?"
"Franz-ah-skaner."
"Franta-scanner? Sounds like Frankenstein!" He pointed at the cooler. "Tell me where them beers are from."
"Where do you want to start?"
"What's that one with the owl?"
"Hitachino Nest? That's from Japan."
"All right, what about that one? Foster's?"
"Australian."
"Chai-may?"
"Cha-may. Belgian."
"Delirium Treemans?"
"Tremans!" yelled the bartender. "That's what New Orleans public school education gets you!"
"Man, that shit ain't English!" He turned back to me. "TRIMINS. Where's that one from?"
"That one's Belgian too."
"Marid-sous 8?"
"Belgian, again!"
"Damn, Belgium must be the beer capital of the world! All right...Taddy Porter?"
"Hm...that's English."
"Finally! I'm gettin' tired of Belgium. Okay, what about that one?"
"Which one?"
He leaned across the bar, carefully avoiding his glass of Taaka, and squinted at the bottom of the cooler. "Dead...Dead Guy Ale."
"Oh. That one's American."
"American, huh? Yeah, that figures."