the country and the city mouse...the beginnings, at least

NOT JUST A ROUGH DRAFT, REALLY MORE OF A THOUGHT PROCESS GOING ON HERE:

country mouse and city mouse were very close in age. they both had a profound impact on me as i grew up, but in some ways greater now that i held my distance from them.

city mouse was always in my life, from the time i was born. she was fashionable and a social butterfly. she was fun to be around, but definitely not a matronly kind of mouse.

country mouse came into my life when i was 3, so she wasn't "original". she wore whatever was comfortable, after all, she lived in the country, why not? but she, too, was a social butterfly, i just never realized it.

i regarded country mouse with a certain amount of distaste in my mouth. i don't know why, perhaps my own snobbery, but it was there. like a film left on your teeth after you've eaten something sweet. it's there until you wash it away and forget about it until your sweet-tooth strikes again.country mouse was nice, definitely. matronly? sure. but she was "uncivilized". she belched loudly (never a drop of alcohol did i see her take). she said phrases like, "Well, I'll be.." she knew everyone in the bingo hall. and she wore socks with her flip flops. she lived in a dilapidated old house (that used to be a church) on some land outside a ridiculously small town in Texas. there was a pasture, a barn, pigs, chickens, dogs, cats...and a tractor.

city mouse was my favorite mouse to visit. she would fly me out to see her and i would brag about it to everyone i knew, because i got to fly alone. i was so cool. i always looked at city mouse with a certain amount of awe. oh,to be as cool as she when i "grew up". city mouse drank gin and tonic with a twist of lime. she said "Darlin" but with her southern accent it sounded more like, "dahhhhhlin". she knew all the "important people" and had pictures with them or notes from them to prove it. and she wore lots of gold or silver jewelry (never mix the two). she lived in a chic apartment on the outskirts of the city, but not quite the suburbs. there was a pool, tennis courts, palm trees, parties, friends...and antique furniture.

TO BE CONTINUED...

still.....nothing

that's right. nothing. i spend a good portion of my summer in writing class all day--learning what is necessary to be a writer. what's the most important thing? TO ACTUALLY, PHYSICALLY WRITE--and not wait on inspiration to strike. i know this. it is ingrained into my psyche. and yet here i sit, day after day... not writing. why? i don't know. i am not making myself do it. i am not choosing to spend my time, pen in hand, journal open. there is no rhyme or reason behind it.
i've had time.
i've spent my time in the following ways instead:

• wasting time in cyberspace..gaming, or researching things
• reading books
• doing crosswords
• watching TV/movies
• painting--but only a little
• sleeping...a lot
• thinking about Jaxon

now, that's not to say that i am berating myself here, because i'm not. some of what i was doing was entirely necessary. and some of it was mentally necessary. i just wish i had spent some time writing. i'm not sure how much time i'll have for it when little man is born...

Q: What have I done lately?

A: Not much.

I spent 4 weeks out of my summer participating in the Heart of Texas Writing Project summer institute, basically postponing my summer "vacation" we teachers are so lucky to get. I learned all sorts of techniques to create a life of writing for myself, with the idea of pasing that on to my students. And what have I written? Practically nothing.
Did I waste my time and the time of my fellow colleagues? Was it all for naught? What's my deal, yo?

sleep deprivation

can't sleep tonight/this morning for some reason....
my brain keeps going i guess...
some thoughts/lines in my mind for future pondering:

• every sunday i call you to talk. you always talk about your ailments. i am tired of hearing about them. but i love you. so i keep calling.
  (where this is going i know not--not even about me)
• writing into the darkness can be a scary thing..you find out things you never knew were issues for you--or ones you thought you had dealt with
• i miss your little eye kisses where your cold little nose would slowly, deliberately, softly tap around my eyes. and i miss your nudges. and your musky little smell.
  

damnit-i forgot the other one!

officially finished! well, at least for now...

i *think* i just finished my personal piece--one of the requirements for the HTWP institute i've been attending for the last 4 weeks. tomorrow is the last day, and i've got to read it aloud. i would post it here, but @ 4ish pages, it's a bit long...
so, instead, i'll try to share it with a link...
if you read it, like it, have advice, whatever, let me know....

Untitled

personal piece of the pie of writing....

my essay is currently ~4 pages. it's personal. honest. but valid...
i got some good feedback on it today. just need to tweak a few things here and there to make it more. more what? not sure, but i'll know it when i see it.
and then i find out i have to read it aloud next week. i think i'm gonna cry. not only is it pretty personal, i have pregnancy hormones wreaking havoc (LOVE that phrase!) on my emotional psyche right now.

and i'm off and... well, strolling, really

i've begun my personal piece. it took me quite a while just to get the 2 pages i have right now. i had to spend soooo much time writing to think inside my writer's notebook. it was kind of scary to think that i took pages upon pages, days upon days, and all i've got are two type-written, double-spaced pages to show for it.
i mean, i guess i have thoughts on paper that i could somehow at some point go back to. and it WAS really eye-opening as a writer. to think that i have to ask children to do this same thing...but yet, i don't have as much time--at least not in class--to give them.

decisions...

for my personal piece... i have to have a draft written by next tuesday. the biggest problem i was having was defining what i would write about. after something i witnessed @ the river this weekend that inspired a conversation with Josh and reminded me of some things from my past, together with my ideas about how my life will be changing to due Jaxon's impending future i think i have a base for my piece.

granted, i still have to get some exploratory writing done to really think it through--i don't know yet what it will be in its final embodiment, but i can see the common thread between the different pieces.

i will be writing about my thoughts, hopes, aspirations and fears on becoming a parent coupled with lessons i have learned from my father/stepfathers and through teaching. it should be an interesting piece.

i'll play with it and see what happens.

personal writing piece required for HoTWI

HoTWI (Heart of Texas Writing Institute)---it's a mouthfull, yes.


i'm trying to decide what i should write about for this personal piece... while at the same time trying to decide what to write about for my research piece as well. i've been listing ideas on my mind lately and trying to see what keeps coming up. what am i noticing?

at the top of my list are:

• the little baby growing inside of me

and

• who i am now versus who i will be when he is born

those are so personal--i guess hence the name. but in some ways, i'm not sure i would want everyone to read it... as will be the case when it is finished--i will be sharing it with my class. it just seems that these are topics that keep repeating in my mind, so these are things i, obviously, need to talk about.

inquiry project

so i'm participating in the Heart of Texas Writing Institute this summer--it's a 4 week intensive class @ UT and is part of the National Writing Project. in some ways it's kind of "crazy" to start a writing class the Monday following our last day of school. i literally got NO BREAK.

but i feel empowered in this setting. i am reminded again why, many times, i have spent well over an hour picking out a journal sometimes to come away empty-handed. i am reminded why i enjoy the product that comes from agonizing over word choice. i am reminded that i have a lot of work to do with my writing.

but it is also a good thing, because not only does this class seek to help me become a better writer, it seeks to enable me to do the same with my students. to help them see their lives and their writing through the lense of a writer--they DO have something vital and worthwhile to say.


all this being said, we have 3 major assignments--aside from all the reading and writing we are already doing.
the first is an inquiry project--

• what from my teaching concerns me or bothers me when it comes to writing?
  

the thing is, that is such a difficult question to answer. not because i am the best teacher in the world. trust me, i know i'm not. but really, because sometimes it's hard to admit one's own deficits... and when i contemplate and write them down, i'm not sure that these deficits are ones that easily lend themselves to research... which, by the way, is the 2nd major assignment--to research a topic and analyze student work.

ideas i've come up with are:

• autism and personal narrative writing (per our curriculum)
• crafting better conclusions
• various strategies for working/dealing with a variety of learners as writers
• helping students find their voice more readily in their writing
• quality peer conferences
• the variety of time needed to complete a process paper
• grading of writing
• just because you're done, doesn't mean the piece is completed
• quality revisions
• continuing the notebook throughout the school year
• dealing with "how long does it have to be" questions without completely avoiding them
• my own deficit thinking in regards to different writers in the classroom

as you can see, the topics are many....

and so i am left with the question--which one?


(oh, and btw-- the 3rd assignment is a personal piece... of whatever we want. THAT i can do.)

yes...

so the previous postings are not new, nor are they exclusive of this site, but they are favorite pieces of mine from the last year or so. looking back on them they still catch my eye and seek to remind me that i AM a writer, regardless of what my inner critic tells me. we are all writers, in some way. some of us write strictly to inform others. some of us write only in our heads or our journals. and some of us have a longggggggg way to go (me). but regardless we are writers.
i think if i can repeat this mantra in my head, i will begin to value my writing in that way and do a better job of making a habit out of it.

The Gravedigger

By the light of the pale, not quite full moon, with stars shimmering in the night sky, the fog rolled in. The mist seeped into the mind of a hopeless, forgotten soul who paced along the shadowy path, shovel weighing heavily on his shoulder, and his cold heart. He yearned for another chance to answer the question and to find the truth, but his time was fading as the moonlight waned. Mindlessly toiling through the dark night, the gravedigger's eyes grew accustomed to the lack of light and his ears tuned in to the whispering voices around him:

"Awaken to see what you are."

"Awaken to see what you've become."

"Awaken to see what you could be."

The last voice, always the most powerful, gave new meaning to the night that lay before him. It spoke to his soul, exciting him. He turned around to peer behind the aged oak whose leaves rustled in the wind, knotted fingers beckoning him. He hoped the time had finally come. As he climbed out of the finished tomb, he felt the slightest sense of foreboding. It was dangerous to be the one. But he knew the key to his future was just beyond.

In a daze, he trudged slowly across the midnight graveyard. The lure of what could be revealed pulled his heart further ahead and he forgot any sense of malice. Through the arbor gate he crept, whispering words of encouragement to himself. There, just ahead! A glint in the fading light. Just a hint of something to be treasured.

A seed.

Could it be? There was no precedent for this. He knew the dangers; he had studied them well, but he coveted it at once. For therein lay all he knew; all he sought and all he could possibly hope to know.

He fell to the ground in revered respect for the power contained in the tiny husk—all the knowledge of the universe—in this one place. He could not bring himself to rise. The air weighted him down—the hopes of all mankind standing on his back. On hands and knees he labored to reach the future. Past brambles tearing through the flesh on his face and gravel that shredded his skin, he dragged himself onward.

"The future is ours," he mumbled, as if a creed, under his breath. He hoped he hadn't spoken it aloud! He prayed it was only inside his head! But the instant the words tumbled past his dry, cracked lips, the wind grabbed on and carried the words to the heart of the Earth.

And she opened her ears, as she opened her eyes, and with a trembling and a low rumble, the gravedigger knew he had been too greedy. The seed would not be for him or any man. It was not fated. Succumbing to the will of the Earth, he closed his eyes for the last time, arm outstretched to grasp that which would not be. And as the seed returned to its rightful place, for the first time, the Earth smiled.

originally posted on 11.25.07 on myspace

the freedom to be

i sit.

the sun's flakes fall lower on the horizon

drops of sunlight still glistening on my skin as the light fades

an ethereal glow, though brighter than most

and yet, substantially transparent in these eyes

as the light of that fire wanes into dusk

night canvas, stretching out, draping over my awareness

fingers curling around the twilight, grabbing hold of the remnants

of a life yet to lead, when so much of it has flown past

whisking me away from this darkness,

a new awakening emerges,

cat eyes glowing as one by one stars shine through

with my eyes closed

i see the halo of the moon in my mind's eye

pulsing with the intensity of intention

i grasp the wisps of moonlight dripping into my thoughts,

seeping through the black lace of the trees

and

i sit.

originally posted on 1.13.08 on myspace

vIRTuAL iNSANiTY

this room...

so blinding white

you can’t discern the floor from the ceiling or the walls,

making you dizzy and disoriented

it’s so silent, you can’t even hear your own footsteps

your breath—raspy and ragged, is full of anxiety

YOU FEEL LOST

then suddenly a door opens, but where did it come from?

the sounds intruding on this deafening stillness are welcome,

but almost a sensory overload after being deprived for so long

you turn toward the sound, opening your eyes—

and notice you didn’t realize they were closed

the scene before you is alive and breathing

you feel as though you’ve stepped back in time—

a time before greed and progress had laid siege on the natural world

pristine and untouched by humans

the buzzing of insects, flitting butterflies

the call of a northern-spotted owl, and so many others create a chorus

a beautiful melody—there’s so much you cannot distinguish one voice from the next

you feel a touch of synaesthesia…

hearing colors and seeing all the sounds around and abound

this beautiful reverie brings tears to your eyes—

it’s the NIRVANA you’ve sought

a smile opens your heart and you breathe in the…

"I’m sorry. Time’s up. You only paid for ½ hour, remember?"

AH, YES. REALITY.

"But, are you sure there isn’t anywhere to find such an untouched piece of nature? Maybe you’re mistaken…?"

"No. Even if we were on earth, you’d see nothing exists like that anywhere anymore. Nothing left but desolation. Believe me, we’ve looked! It was destroyed many years ago and rendered useless. But, we’ve recreated it with the help of some old footage we found in the historical archive vaults; that and the history books. You’re welcome back anytime. Just make another appointment at the front desk with Suzie. It’ll be here anytime you need it! But, don’t forget about the best part of the deal…"

"What’s that?"

THERE'S ALWAYS A CATCH…

"Well, it’s even better than the real thing. You don’t have to take care of it at all. It simply takes care of itself!"

THE PROGRESS OF CONVENIENCE

originally posted on 4.08.08 on myspace

A Question Mark

He walked down the street, for what he knew not.

He followed his instincts, drawn by fate and a question mark.

The drifting music pulled at his battered soul,

its tendrils caressing his heart as he ambled aimlessly along.

A light in the window, soft and beckoning, calling to his inner, unknown desires.

Your voice, he heard, expressing your renewed spirit upon awakening

after being entombed, trapped, for so long inside the negativity of your past.

And in your voice, he found that fate was showing him the faith he thought he had lost.

That--and a question mark.

originally posted on 6.18.08 on myspace

I Am

I am a dancer

liquid groove

gliding across the stage with flowing elements

I am a dancer

drum beats and bass grooves signal a movement

I am a dancer

sometimes even I don't know what will come next

But, I am a dancer

creating the melody as I move

close my eyes

feel my heart swell as my soul sways with the wave of rhythm and life

I am a dancer

originally posted on 6.16.09 on myspace

brainstorming

pale firestorm striking in my dreams, an awakening within me

dawn breaks, and with it, the faith existing in our preordained destiny

the tyranny of reality opens my eyes to see the corpse in my arms

your silhouette in the fog, clouding my mind

a system of uncertainty makes me feel unnecessary to the days' success

an epiphany i need; i search for, yet none will come

originally posted on 5.11.08 on myspace

Captured

….whirrrrr…ching!

The camera came to life as his lens extended out from his front. "Hello, world!" he exclaimed to himself, ready to take it on--whatever it held. "What's on the agenda today? Vacation in Rome? How about Paris? Family reunion in Tallahassee? Birth of a child? Oh…what's this? Graduation?! Yea!! Way to go!" He held a very important job. And he knew it. Capturing memories for humans. This was his contribution to society.

He had seen so much in his short lifetime. More than he ever thought possible when he sat on the shelf in his cozy cardboard home, dreaming of his future, waiting for selection. With each thing he saw and collected, he experienced true emotion, a camera's version of emotion. But he longed for more.

He didn't know what it actually felt like to laugh hysterically like a human, or to be a wild animal swinging through the trees, or a dazzling sunset with brilliant colors, or the endless ocean with its perpetual motion. He couldn't hear or smell these flecks of life. But he could see them. And he knew what he thought it might be like to live another life. He wanted to know that feeling. He wanted a true existence. He wanted to feel real.

Each picture he processed had a tiny breath of him in it so he could become part of the memory in some way, and in that, feel. That was some sort of consolation, he guessed. He felt more alive each time one of his pictures made someone smile or laugh. Even the silent chuckles made him proud of his work. The feelings he imparted on the humans pleased him. In that way he felt a bond with those organic creatures. They held so many mysteries for him and he longed to connect with it all. He wanted to understand.

But, at times his subject wasn't smiling or giggling, or… happy. Some moments made him want to scream. He couldn't believe it, but sometimes humans snarled! Reminding him of…what was the word? Ah, yes. Animals--the only way he could think to describe it. Other times, he wanted to simply cry. Just break down and have the salty tears pile up and pour down his front. But he couldn't. It didn't matter how hard he tried. They didn't manufacture him to cry. He never would. And that knowledge filled him with sorrow. But a camera's sorrow would never live up to what he imagined of a human. To cry equaled true feeling, in his circuits.

He remembered the time when he captured moments from a little girl's birthday party. According to the number of dripping wax candles on the cake, he knew she was turning two. The crowded house overflowed with more people than he had seen the entire time he lived there; filled to capacity with grown humans and small ones like the birthday girl, excited and giddy as they tottered awkwardly around the house. All the colors of the rainbow vividly came together in one room decorated with so many balloons and streamers. He never imagined that a birthday celebration would look like a piñata had exploded! He loved that image and processed a lot of it.

When it came time for the cake, the birthday girl, giggling and laughing, smashed her little hands into the sweet frosting. She made such a mess all over her pale pink dress! But he mused, "That must be part of what happens at birthday parties," because all the grown humans laughed and captured the scene with all the other cameras brought to the party. Then he noticed someone not quite as carefree as the rest. She was grown and had purchased him from the store shelf all those months ago. The birthday girl's mother… Her demeanor confused him.

Shouldn't she be delighted at all the excitement for her only daughter's birthday? Shouldn't she exhibit joy? Wasn't that the point of a celebration? Of course, what did he know? He was a camera after all. Surely he could find a valid explanation for her lack of smile.

He hoped he wouldn't have to capture her mournful expression. Sharing himself in that memory would drain his battery, he was certain. One day the girl would grow up and see the photograph and wonder why her mother didn't smile. He worried it would make the girl sad, and he didn't enjoy making people suffer; especially not when he had a part in helping them remember those unhappy times. That hurt him.

As irony would have it, he did capture a memory with the mother, the little girl and an older man he thought must be the grandfather of the birthday girl. The grandfather seemed to be a very kind man and doted on the little girl, wrapping his arm around her protectively. He was very happy to celebrate the girl's birthday and be captured for the memory. But when the girl's mother entered the frame, the sadness seemed to leap out of her eyes and into the camera. It overshadowed the smiles on both the grandfather and the birthday girl's faces. The camera could sense the pain and loneliness emanating from her. He had never felt an emotion that strong before and he suddenly realized what true misery and disappointment felt like for humans. "I've changed my mind! I'll find contentment in myself!" His circuits buzzed. He did not want to collect this. But he had no choice in the matter. "Please don't make me…" he whispered. His voice faded and drowned as the hand depressed his button and his light flashed. He clicked and created the photograph.

He did it. He had captured this moment in time. The one he didn't want to. The one he wished he could take back. It was then, with the mother's eyes boring into his lens, that he understood the reason for her melancholy. Her eyes said it all. He knew her pain and pitied her. But most of all he felt sorry for the little birthday girl, sitting on the car with her noisemakers in her hand. Posing so sweetly in her pink dress with the frosting stains. He knew she would spend this birthday and countless others without her father. In that moment, the mother told her story to the camera to be forever imprinted in the captured memory.

orignally posted on 6.30.08 on myspace

The Final Sentence

I sat there trying to listen attentively as others shared their personal narratives, or variations thereof. But my mind was on my own story—the words I had put together...words from my heart and soul. I had worked so hard to create this piece, and it had taken a turn I hadn't expected. I realized I was nervous to share. My hands were shaking as I fidgeted. I kept re-reading the lines on the pages in front of me, hoping to lessen the blow. But, now it was my turn. I took a deep breath and let the words flow.

And I listened. It was as if I was hearing it for the first time. For some reason hearing my own voice speaking the very same words I had written on paper, seeing all those faces, non-judgmental in their observation, I felt the memory of the truth of those precious words. I felt the years of wondering and the poignant questions simmering just under the surface of my heart, so close to the edge I could see over it. And looking into that expanse, I peered back into my own soul and realized there was pain. It wasn't that I hadn't known it existed. It's that I thought I was beyond it. But there it was. Buried under selfish desires and memories of childhood, existing. Even though I had read those words aloud countless times…listened to my voice, foreign and unrefined, whispering them under my breath so I could listen to their sounds… Still, I felt the pain and loneliness and questions and confusion and anger bubble up. Seeming to boil over the edge—tumble into the crevasse and fall.

The tears began to spew forth, threatening to endanger the words as they flowed past my lips, as if simply not saying them would render them false. As if becoming mute would take back everything I had already said and make me forget again. And they almost won. I could have given in—let them take over and engulf me. Succumb to the truth of those words and let the pain reign over me. But with strength, I pushed them away, knowing that in speaking them aloud, I could truly move beyond. Wiping away the complex feelings of abandonment and un-want, real though they are and always have been, I finished my final sentence, and I felt free.


originally posted on 08.12.08 on myspace

2 six-word memoirs

#1) Positively balanced, dance to the music.


#2) dreamer. reader. writer. dancer.
Happy Me.

originally posted on 1.27.09 on myspace