bright eyes

Grief is where you live

it is home, with dust on the doormat.

Where you leave your boots at the end of the day,

more real than the black and white pictures in the hallway

more constant than the veins in your hands:

the way you wring them together while you're falling asleep.

I hear myself say

I am happy. And behind my bright eyes

I shudder at the audacity.

But sometimes I am happy.  Why not be? 

Why not dance on the graves of expected things

and see what comes of that mis-stepping?

the cottage

Normal people's nightmares consist of falling into dark holes or being chased by ax-wielding maniacs or getting jilted at the altar or something else kind of exciting. 

Last night I dreamed the yearbook arrived--there were blank pages, pages put in upside down, and for some reason, each student's socioeconomic status was printed next to his/her name. 

So, when I woke up awash in stained-glass light san diego morning sunlight, on the couch in one of my favorite houses in the world, and I smelled the wonderfully strong coffee that Lydia was brewing and she brought me some before I could even pop my contacts in, I thought to myself, man, I need this day.  

 

cultural casualties in 704

Yesterday, my eld students wrote a journal entry about their personal Utopia.  Today they compared and contrasted their ideal world against someone else's in the class.  

One of my hispanic students wrote that, in his perfect world, all girls would like to "kick it".  

His partner, a Chinese immigrant, upon hearing this, came up with this sentence: 

"In my world I play video games, but he like to kick girls."

snips

Writing poetry is frustrating sometimes.  It's hard to calculate what will make a good poem.  For every poem that actually materializes, good or otherwise, there are a million other ideas which just might be something.  Today I can't write anything.  But if I could, I would write about:

1. The garden of headless saints which I passed in the canyon on my run today.  Yup.  Little ceramic saints, all of whom have been decapitated.  

2. The look on President Obama's face the very second after he equated his bowling skills to that of a Special Olympian.  

here I am!

First blogposts can be awkward. They're like first dates, or first days of school: first anything, really.  Should be the most exciting of times...but also just wholloping-packed with the opportunity for awkwardness.  I often sneer at first blogposts.  They're so earnest.  And something like 74% of the time, they contain the word "welp." 

Yet I feel compelled to give context for myself here.  To write a traditional "first post".  As if whatever I type will bring me into focus for whomever is reading.  The only thing that really needs to be said is that I need a place to share what I write, and I've decided to move from my old home over at livejournal.com. 

Why? Well, blogspot is cooler, that's why.  And if there's one rule I've always upheld, it's do what the cool kids tell you to do.  

It's been about a month since I've really tended to my little blog.  I wandered over today to discover that my "friends" page is completely empty: no posts.  I feel....I feel...like the little chubby 4th grader who brought her puff-painted lunchbox over to the usual lunch table only to discover that everyone else has conspired to meet together on the grassy hill.  Lonely.  That's how I feel.  And uncool.  I'm thinking puff-paint was kind of a third-grader thing.  

So I'm moving.  Moving to the grassy hill.  Moving because I need a place to put my stuff, a place that convinces me to create stuff.  Because in the middle of my crazy, crazy life, it can get really easy not to write.  But I value my writing.  In time, I hope to put it other places.  It may be fun to push the "publish" button, but c'mon.  

So here's what I want to do on here: post my writing and writing about writing and other people's writing, and sometimes even my student's writing when it really tickles me. I want people to stumble upon it and enjoy it, or hate it, or feel better about themselves because of it, or be inspired.  Or something.  

I don't ever preach, so don't worry.  I do have strong opinions about stuff, but writing-wise, I'm not a political or spiritual ranter.  And I've actually completely stopped writing passive-aggressive poetry which expresses emotions I ought to be dealing with in a personal and non-virtual way.  So that's good.  But I do still love to write, and I need a place, a cool place, so here I am. 

Welp, that's it.