Honors Thesis: COMPLETE.

BOOM, ROASTED.

I'm good to go and I'm going nowhere fast

I feel like my neglect of this blog coincides pretty perfectly with the fact that I have been taking poetry for the last two quarters (and writing one of my honors theses) and so have had no desire to do any writing that is not strictly necessary. Maybe I'll post all of my fail poems after this quarter is over so that you can read them. Maybe I won't. Maybe I will give up writing completely for a little (or a long) while.

I haven't posted my rant about writing and careers yet, have I? Well, I won't make you read it, but the fact of the matter is this: it's been fun! It really has. But I'm over creative writing/fiction writing/poetry writing (but especially fiction writing, dear god) for now, and I'm moving on to other things. Better things. I'll spare you all of my weepy thoughts about life and my purpose in it, but it's probably enough to say that I just...don't have what it takes to be a published author. I don't have the ambition or the intense desire to do so. I'm definitely not prolific enough.

There's no law that says you must be published by the time you're 30 or it's all over. Who knows what will happen in the future? But when it comes right down to it, I value my financial security too much to try to get by on temp jobs (or worse, as a college professor) while I write my ~dream novel. I'm the kind of person who has to put all or nothing into a project. I haven't yet developed the talent of multitasking.

And I'm definitely not getting my MFA. It's a valid life choice! It's just not the choice for me.

I feel almost as if I've spent the last four years waiting for some strange epiphany to come along and transform me into the kind of person who COULD make writing a career. Or the kind of person who has the discipline and the interest in pursuing his/her dreams of being a published author. Or the kind of person who can bang out a novel and still have the will to live afterward shop it around for publication. Or the kind of person who feels at all compelled to write. I wanted it REALLY badly.

But the fact remains that this epiphany didn't come and I am not the kind of person who feels compelled to write. I'm in this weird place where I want really badly to WANT to be a writer, but I can't get past the fact that...I don't want to be a writer. It's an odd feeling.

So maybe I'm too down on myself or too lazy, but it just didn't happen for me. Maybe it will happen when I'm fifty. Maybe I'll wake up one day and decide that I'm going to write that novel and that it's going to be a bestseller, and maybe that will be true. But for now, I'm heading out into the world for other prospects. I might move down to socal after graduation. I'll probably wander aimlessly for a while, trying shit to see what sticks. If I do end up going back to school, I might get my MBA. I like money. I like financial security. I know it's romantic and nice to say that money can't buy you love or happiness, but I think it's probably pretty difficult to find love or happiness if you're homeless.

I'm good to go and I'm going nowhere fast

dear Honors Thesis, I am ON TO YOU. PREPARE TO BE OWNED.


[image via fuckyeahbrendonurie ]

Me (11:33:36 AM): idky i am finding this picture ridic hot right now, but i am
Me (11:33:43 AM): maybe it’s ‘cause i just woke up
S (11:33:49 AM): lolololol
Me (11:34:01 AM): i think it’s the ridonkulous belt buckle
S (11:34:06 AM): lmfao
Me (11:34:07 AM): like, LOL, but also, mmmm

And the sun's always rising in the sky somewhere

[image via weheartit]

I have never been a morning person, but
lately the mornings are my favorite time of day.
I drive up 101 N and see: bumper-to-bumper traffic;
shiny pre-owned minivans weaving

lane in and lane out; harried parent drivers
reaching back to quiet their quarreling children
as their vehicles drift; a man using his electric shaver
while he drives by Braille along the center

divide.

I have never been a morning person, but
the chilly gray clouds that shadow me down the highway
remind me of the me of four years ago,
whose only summer job

was playing horseback riding camp instructor
to spoiled eight- and nine-year-olds who wanted
to pet the horses more than they wanted to ride them.
They chanted, I don’t want to, I don’t want to, because

they were afraid. And while I drive to work
sometimes I think about the men
who shave while they drive; about the women
who leave their toddlers in locked cars; about the coeds

who brave a flagging job market for tuition money;
and about those frightened children, because
in these moments, more than all other moments,
I would rather not be

me.

Remix

[To the other E v.2]


[image via switchscreens]

(tenderness)

‘i love,’ her friend said,
‘to see ships sailing out toward the horizon on the bay.’
the girl imagined her friend could see
from the intimacy of the ferry building
the tactile tugboats disappearing into sentimental muck,
growing smaller and smaller as they tugged out to sea.
her friend said: ‘it makes me sad to see them sailing back in.
i want to say, you have a boat! go see the world!’

(anxiety)

the girl, being an inlander, didn’t share the sentiment, recalling this: the time she went snorkeling with her family off of Sugar Beach, when she stepped into the boat and was immediately seasick because
the floor was physically solid under her feet, but the boat rolled and dipped and she was pulled in opposite directions, while the life vest, tacky against her bare skin, flapped in the breeze like wings.

when the boat hit the shore
she threw up over the side and decided
an airplane would be a better way to see the world –
at least the cabin would be pressurized and
interior monologue, physical reactions, and obsessive behavior
would be kept to an absolute minimum.

(fondness)

to her friend, the girl said, ‘well they can’t sail forever.’

to which her friend said nothing. to which the girl said nothing.

to which her friend said, ‘i’m wearing my purple boots, you know, the ones i wore the last time we got indian food.’ in the city,
before a concert. it was a book club outing. it may have been the last time the girl wore her purple sneakers. which reminded her that they were living in the moment,
eager to connect with one other; two people, different from everyone around them: they were hell-raisers, punk rockers, pop rock enthusiasts nursing crippling caffeine addictions.

(excitement)

so they took matters into their own hands and,
stirred to. . .activity,
they put themselves in motion.
they drove south with the sunroof cracked open,
and composed a rock musical
and ate fast food
and felt good about their freedom
and felt simultaneously trapped by time constraints.
but it was a moment, and they were
in the real state of being, and

(resignation)

coming home was a good feeling. it was not the greatest feeling. it was neither regret nor sadness. it was unnamable.
they worried they would spend another year looking for the things they’d found on the open road and made plans to live in another moment in the near future.
maybe one day they’ll learn to live with what they’re given, but for now this girl and her friend are playing

the
waiting
game.

(contentment)

i got your card today, the girl said. it made me smile.

To the other E

found via weheartit

'i love,' my friend said, 'to see ships sailing out toward the horizon on the bay.' from the ferry building she could probably see the boats growing smaller and smaller as they were pushed out to sea. she said: 'it makes me sad to see them sailing back in. i want to say, you have a boat! go see the world!'

i, being an inlander, didn't share the sentiment.
i remembered the time i went snorkeling
with my family off of Sugar Beach,
and remembered also that when i stepped into the boat
i was immediately seasick. the floor was solid under my bare feet,
but it rolled and dipped and tugged me in opposite directions,
and when the boat hit the shore i threw up over the side.
man overboard.
an airplane would be a better way to see the world, i decided.
at least the cabin would be pressurized.

to her, i said, 'well they can't sail forever.'

to which she said nothing. to which i said nothing.

to which she said, 'i'm wearing my purple boots, you know, the ones i wore the last time we got indian food.' in the city, before a concert. it was a book club outing. it may have been the last time i wore my purple sneakers. which reminded me that we were living in the moment. we are trying to live in the moment, anyway.

so what we did was this:
last weekend we took a trip south.
it was warmer there, and muggier there,
and the music was just as good as it was up north.
we 'tripped down the 405 with the sunroof cracked open,
and we let our hair down
and composed a rock musical
and ate fast food
and felt good about most things
and felt just all right about others.

coming home was a good feeling. it was not the greatest feeling. afterward we made plans to live in another moment in the near future. maybe one day we will see the world for ourselves on a boat (not likely) or an airplane (more likely) or in a car (please). but for now we're playing

the
waiting
game.

i got your card today, i said. it made me smile.

It doesn't mean you're loaded.

found on flickr via weheartit
My life right now is just working working working, trying to earn enough money to keep me in lattes and Vans sneakers for the whole school year.

I'm not really a morning person, but lately mornings are my favorite time of day. Driving up 101 N is just bumper-to-bumper traffic with a few random sections of clear freeway. There are always clouds hanging over 101 in the mornings and it's usually chilly, which usually reminds me of my life four years ago, when my only summer job was playing horseback riding camp instructor to eight and nine year olds for a few weeks every summer. I'm terrible with kids, less so with horses, and I can handle adults as long as they aren't screaming in my face (it happens more than you'd think with kids and summer camps). When I'm driving to work sometimes I think about how I'd rather be riding, or graining school horses before the sun comes up, or slogging through mud in the pasture at the bottom of the hill, or even wrangling small children and leading them around a big, empty arena for an hour like that's some kind of quality lesson time.

I'd rather be riding. I'd rather be somewhere else. I'd rather have something to look forward to. I'd rather run away from everything the real world represents, including but not limited to: responsibility, availability, flexibility, dependability, ability. The ability to live. Living. I'd rather not be.

That's what the license plate frame should say, anyway.

Sending postcards from a plane crash

Oh, how I wish you wouldn't worry so. There's hope in every breath. But when fear infects the bones, I'm told, the heart is always next.

[via pleasefindthis]

the bus slows as it crests the hill. we coast all the way down into the city. smudging the tips of our noses against the glass, we can see thunderheads rolling in over the tops of the skyscrapers, wisping through power lines. we want to stick our fingers outside to catch the static cling, but the bus windows are fused shut, containing us.

rolling into the city is like ducking into a new world where the sky is gray, not blue, and the power lines are at loose ends, throwing sparks all over the city. "we'll get electrocuted," you say, spreading your fingers out against the window. your hand looks like a glowing thing, an alien thing, and the lightning flashes are electric wires spiraling out of your fingertips. "electrified," you say.

i put my fingers
in the spaces between your fingers because
it's easier to touch that way.

Hurricane streets.

The boy and girl are dancing on the sidewalk outside my house.
I can see them through the window,
half-hidden by severely-trimmed shrubs
at the foot of the driveway,
the tops of their heads just brushing blue sky.
Moving to a three-step beat, bumping knees and rubbing noses,
they waltz.
I lose sight of them for a moment,
but they stumble back into view, framed by the window,
and it is like a landlocked ebb-and-flow in my driveway.
The girl leads with her left and watches the toes of her shoes,
and the boy slips one hand down over her ass, laughing
when she swats him away. When they laugh,
they tip their heads together and clasp hands,
fingers opening and closing involuntarily.
I want to dance with them, but I am inside and
they are tripping over each other, tangled up
like a set of twisted fingers, intertwined.

And her nose starts to bleed a most beautiful ruby red

I was tagged by The Little Passenger, aka Jayne, to do this survey thing. Warning: all of my answers will be boring.


What is your current obsession?
I've been going crazy over this story I've been writing for OVER A YEAR that isn't actually very good. It's 30,000 words and counting (not to be confused with the 25,000 word story I have been writing since last Thanksgiving. Too many long stories). I currently have and have always had a love-hate relationship with this story (which I not-so-affectionately call the "journalist" story even though it has pm nothing to do with journalism). I want to finish it, though, because it would be a pretty big personal accomplishment. And because my friend is FORCING me to finish it. She's a harsh taskmistress, always demanding stories that involve rose petals and punk rockers...WHATEVER.

Coffee or tea?
COFFEE. The answer is ALWAYS coffee.

What's for dinner?
My dad is cooking some kind of pasta dish. I don't know what it is, but it smells delicious.

What was the last thing you bought?
I bought a six pack of Heineken on my way home from the Honda service place this afternoon. GREAT VALUE. You can't beat it.

What are you listening to right now?


What is your favorite ice-cream flavor?
I prefer chocolate chip cookie dough, but I'm a big fan of plain chocolate ice cream. I know, that sounds so boring, but I'm a creature of habit. I'm that person who orders the same thing at every restaurant. Routine is the spice of life! I mean, I wouldn't order it if I didn't enjoy it.

What is your favorite colour?
Blue.

What is your favorite piece of clothing in your wardrobe?
Anyone who knows me IRL has probably guessed I'm not all that interested in clothes. I actually hate shopping. But I hate a lot of things. My lack of patience for shopping doesn't necessarily mean I hate being clothed in nice things. If I had to choose an item, I'd probably pick this blouse I bought a couple weeks ago from H&M. It's so cute! It's kind of a peasant blouse/empire waist/flowery thing that I got for $5.

What is your dream job?
Novelist. If I can't be a published author, however, I'd like to work in the promotional/advertising kind of business, specifically in the music industry. I don't even know how I'd make that happen, but I think it would be fucking awesome.

How many times do you press the snooze button before you get up?
I don't actually have an alarm clock. I set the alarm on my phone and put my phone across the room so that I actually have to get up to turn it off every morning. As a result, I don't really end up hitting the equivalent of the snooze button very often. Sometimes I do reset my alarm for fifteen minutes later, but I think that generally requires more alertness and higher brain function than a snooze button does.


I'm not feeling particularly long-winded tonight, so it ends there! You're all lucky. I don't have anyone to tag. I guess I'll just tag anyone who hasn't done this survey yet.

Not wolf brendon.

picture from jackrussell-terrier.com
three cubicles away, there is a boy with red bumps wrapped seductively around his knuckles like ribbon, curving down between his fingers and then sprawling up the pale landscape of his inner arm. he has bumps on his elbows, too, and thin, ashy hair that feathers over his spotty forehead, and a dog, Lola, that hides under the desk, chewing nervously on the corner of the file cabinet. walking past this cubicle on a break room run, I notice the dry skin on his knuckles and compare their texture to the rough skin on my own, smiling at Lola around the file cabinet barrier.

later, when Lola makes a break for the open doorway,
the boy goes after her,
head down,
scabby elbows tucked tightly into his sides,
sprinting.

Practice makes [slightly less terrible]

The boy in the corner of the coffee shop is reading three books at once.
He alternates between them
like he's dealing with his children and
trying not to play favorites, assessing them all equally and
giving each book the same amount of attention before
he carefully marks his place and moves on to the next.
His eyebrows are sparse, like someone glued
granules of pepper onto his skin at the place where they should be,
a tattoo that fills in the blank spaces, and
his lips curve down toward the floor,
like there are weights at the corners of his mouth,
landing him like a bookworm on a hook, and
he is wearing a baseball cap with a brim
that might as well be fresh from the hat-making factory, it's so flat.
He pushes that cap up between books to scratch his forehead.

The boy in the corner of the coffee shop is reading three books, too, and
when I glance up, he glances up, too, almost
as if he anticipated my movement and wanted to beat me to it.
It's too early in the morning for a staring contest. I look past him,
feeling picked bare already because the Book of Disquiet
is a manifesto on the art of depression and
"how to constantly wish to be someone you're not"
and I'm reading it cover to cover.
The boy in the corner of the coffee shop is scratching his forehead
underneath the baseball cap, putting
one finger against the flat-as-can-be brim to push it back and
then questing under the band for the itch.