i know more than i knew before

Today I had a full blown anxiety attack about the GRE and doctoral programs...mostly along the lines of "I haven't studied enough I'm going to blow it and not get into grad school AND THEN MY LIFE WILL BE RUINED OH MY GOD."

But this weekend, I got to (unexpectedly) see a fair amount of friends. I cooked delicious Indian food and baked brownies. I got a TON of reading done. I got to help three friends out in major ways. I had a mini dance party in my kitchen. I got a foot rub. I took naps while it rained. Someone told me I was beautiful. Three different people made an effort to calm me down when I lost my shit. Someone told me they missed me. I helped someone make a big decision. I met a dude from L.A. I ate an amazing homemade breakfast that I didn't cook. I took a long walk after the storm.

Not getting into a Ph.D program can't even touch that.

P.S. Who can be sad with this in their life?:

from the office of "things we'll never say in real life"

I always laugh and look away when you catch my eyes, because I don't want you to realize how much I adore you.

"because I want to"

i do it for the joy it brings
because i'm a joyful girl
because the world owes me nothing
and we owe each other the world
i do it because it's the least i can do
i do it because i learned it from you
i do it just because i want to
because I want to

everything i do is judged
and they mostly get it wrong
but oh well
'cuz the bathroom mirror has not budged
and the woman who lives there can tell
the truth from the stuff that they say
and she looks me in the eye
and says would you prefer the easy way?
no, well o.k. then
don't cry

and i wonder if everything i do
i do instead
of something i want to do more
the question fills my head
i know that there's no grand plan here
this is just the way it goes
and when everything else seems unclear
i guess at least i know

i do it for the joy it brings...

-Ani DiFranco "Joyful Girl"

a marvel

To D, with mirth.

"You imagined him something he wasn't. That's just what a woman is. She thinks she knows what's good for a man, and she's going to see he gets it; and no matter if he's starving, he may sit and whistle for what he needs, while she's got him, and is giving him what's good for him."
"And what are you doing?" she asked.
"I'm thinking what tune I shall whistle," he laughed.
And instead of boxing his ears, she considered him in earnest.
"You think I want to give you what's good for you?" she asked.
"I hope so; but love should give a sense of freedom, not of prison. Miriam made me feel tired up like a donkey to a stake. I must feed on her patch, and nowhere else. It's sickening!"
"And would you let a woman do as she likes?"
"Yes; I'll see that she likes to love me. If she doesn't--well I don't hold her."
"If you were as wonderful as you say--," replied Clara.
"I should be the marvel I am," he laughed.
There was a silence in which they hated each other, though they laughed.
"Love's a dog in a manger," he said.
"And which of us is the dog?" she asked.
"Oh well, you, of course."
So there went on a battle between them.

-D.H. Lawrence, Sons and Lovers

we should've left you.

Today is apparently the 10 year anniversary of Aaliyah's death. Aaliyah always reminds me of one of my more humiliating middle/high school experiences.

When I was in 9th grade, I was in that stage where I wanted to stand out and be cool, while also fitting in (a feeling I was thankfully relieved of when I started private school at Racist Private School the next year...seriously, our mascot was a motherfucking Confederate General). My friends at the time were possessed of similar notions, so we decided to start a flag team. Note, this was not the dance team or the cheerleading squad. We were way too uncool and physically awkward for that. We found a faculty sponsor and crafted a "routine" to Aaliyah's "Try Again" (this was 2000, the year the song came out, so it was pretty popular). After a few after school practices, we performed the...routine (I don't know what else to call it. It wasn't quite a dance and we didn't even have flags...it was just kind of stepping back and forth with hand motions) in the courtyard at break (break at that school was a 15 minute period for all grades to go outside). We didn't have costumes, so we wore gym shorts and t-shirts with iron-on transfers. I was singing the song to myself the entire time to remember the moves and, when we finished, we got some half-hearted applause, some jeering and a bunch of snickering. The guy I had a crush on, a junior, looked embarrassed to know me. A friend of his told me to quit counting the steps because it was "super obvious." As much as I hated switching schools the next year, that memory helped me be okay with it.

I'd attach a picture of what I looked like in 9th grade, but I'm fairly sure I destroyed most photo evidence of that time.

So, thanks Aaliyah. Your music inspired some young women to make assholes of themselves. But I'm still sorry you're dead and when I hear "Try Again," I still mentally do that routine in my head.

all that feeling

After the wake, I went to Barnes and Noble. I wanted to browse the poetry section and see if I could find some new poets. As I was scanning, I noticed Codrescu's It Was Today out of order, in between two Blake collections. I pulled it down to scan through it and the first poem I opened to was an elegy titled "for lynn luria sukenick." The first few lines are:

What if there is no story
only a feeling?
Of course there are many stories
in that feeling
only they didn't happen to me

I stopped and held the book for a bit, feeling almost overwhelmed. Being at the wake of someone you're not particularly close to produces that kind of feeling. I didn't know all of Sandy's stories or even many of them, but there combined was a wealth of memories that created a feeling of love and, with it, a cutting loss. The person those stories happened to is gone. And now, we are left with a feeling.

I grabbed the book and decided to purchase it, on the strength of that poem. As I was walking off, another cover caught my eye and I kept walking but then turned back around to see who the poet was. Laura Mullen, my other poetry teacher. Sometimes I like to think that God is coincidence.

After that, I had an insane urge to write. RIGHT NOW. When I walked downstairs, I saw a sketchpad and some graphite pencils, so I grabbed them because they were the first writing materials I could find. I need to get back in the habit of carrying a pen and notepad. Then I stood looking out the window for a minute and, because my mind was in a morbid place anyway, I took a photo of reflection because I thought it looked ghostly.

I checked out (after having a conversation with the cashier about the color of my blouse--she thought it was coral and I maintained it was a dusty pink and either way, I felt ambitious wearing it because I rarely wear colors other than black/gray/purple) and walked outside in all my sad girl glory: clutching a poetry book and a notepad, in mourning, into the night. And I almost got hit by a kid flying through the parking lot, blaring "Smack My Bitch Up." I laughed.






for lynn luria sukenick
by: Andrei Codrescu, from It Was Today
What if there is no story
only a feeling?
Of course there are many stories
in that feeling
only they didn't happen to me
they either just happened
to someone else
or happened a long time ago
and so recent and ancient
the stories hung in that feeling
like clusters of grapes
refreshing and intelligent
& I had the honor to drink in
their presence on one or two occasions
in the sap-filled and haunted
days of the late nineteen sixties
in the haunted late city of Santa Cruz
in the soon-to-be haunted state
of California just waking up
in those days in the embrace
of Ronald Reagan future
President of Star Wars winner
of the Cold War
& in that sexy intelligence
of Lynn's there was both wisdom & escape
through there was no story
only a feeling
& in those days most feelings came
before there was a story
so we bumped into stories
just to have something to hold
all that feeling
there were many stories
but with Lynn & for Lynn
only a feeling

in peace

My cousin's wife, the one with cancer, died yesterday. Her memorial is here.

As I've written about before, this whole situation was pretty heartbreaking for me. The idea of dying so young and knowing your children will have to grow up without you, watching your wife or mother die, the fact that her mother died of the same thing...it's just terrible. I'm driving to Baton Rouge tomorrow evening after work to attend the wake on Monday night and the funeral on Tuesday morning. I hate funerals. I hate the fact that I have to plan out what I'm going to wear (which feels disrespectful and distasteful in a sense, even though it's necessary). I hate the logistics of it. Something about making death neat and tidy and well-dressed and organized just strikes me as totally fucked. We come in screaming and bloody and we leave nicely dressed in a proper box.

But. I hope it serves well as a memorial to her life and grieving of her death; that it puts her family at peace. I hope her sons and her husband don't remember the face in the coffin, but the face of their beautiful and vibrant mother. I hope that her death doesn't destroy them, but inspires them to live their life in a wonderful way.