process...

Ug. I hate looking back over a piece of writing that I cherished only to realize the extent of its badness. And no, I don't want to use a stronger word. Badness will do; somehow it fits perfectly.

Still, this realization of badness is not a complete negative. When I look at work from a few years ago, especially, especially, fiction that I've (thank goodness!) never shown anyone, I realize how much I've grown. I realize my expectations have grown. I have a higher standard for my own writing. I also realize that I'm a saner person than I was a few years ago, generally. So that's...nice.

a more solid joy

We could do this always

I suggest,

kiss your wrist with abandon.

You sway my hand, grasped tight.

Breath a short gasp,

Tone on tip-toes,

recalculating, balance exact,

no sudden motions:

You're happy?

Yes.

Shameless grins,

Incredulous.

My answer floats above us

one of those giant soap bubbles

we blew on the beach at sunset.

We watch it undulate; transfixed.

A week or so

later, you'll go,

across oceans, even,

and pursue a more solid joy.

One which does not waver,

A joy which you can master.

One not prone

to burst, to shatter.

school's in session...

Teaching writing, man. Today I'm looking at 138 persuasive essays introducing my students and their personal character. I've graded exactly 12. Grading is, of course, a nightmare, but I enjoy it. It's a masochistic, stubborn sort of a thing. I try not to write in red pen, or write novels of instruction on the side of the page, or write scarring terms like "AWK" or cross whole phrases out, even though sometimes I think those actions would serve the sense of the paper. Writing is so personal. It's so emotional. It's a very hard subject to teach, because even 7th graders know that writing is pulled from a source inside of a person, it's individual, and even if it flat out sucks (to employ the 7th grade vernacular) it still belongs to someone. Math problems don't belong to anyone. They belong to the universe, and by junior high most have figured out the universe can be an annoying and shittily unfair place. Math makes you angry (or ecstatic) at the grand Order of things. Writing makes you angry at yourself.

So grading is a delicate balance. It's also a crazy amount of work, for what sometimes feels like a ridiculously tiny pay-off.

But sometimes you come across a world in a sentence, and that's gold. It's a good thing I'm such a nerd about language...I mean I can't imagine most people enjoying the treasure hunt of one powerful sentence in a knee-high stack of general, meandering pulp.

I can never express what I love about student writing; it's usually sentences that were not intended to stand out. My favorite sentence so far is this one:

Since childhood, I have had the ability to create things. For example, a house complete with pool and lounge chair, and entire factory, and a fleet of 17th century sailing ships, all out of paper and tape. (All of these were miniature, of course).

Happy Saturday. Go create things.

cycle

I wonder when he told her

about Kodi,

his favorite German Shepherd.

While they studied? Or

driving to the church pot-luck?

They must have discussed pets; that's such

a good ice-breaker. I mean, I know

she wrote out a list of questions

before date #1. She's shown me

that paper; it's tattered,

the crease 30-years worn

but still crisp.

He used to tell me

with that wolf-grin of his:

I'd hurl that tennis ball

against the basement wall

thunk it

again, again, again.

and Kodi never caught on.

Headed straight for it

every time.

Whimpering when the cement siding

rose up

from seemingly nowhere.

I guess

it never got old

to watch that dog

trust.

I wonder, when she heard it

if it sounded off anything.

A warning,

echo-y, like that basement.

For me, it always echos

behind scribbled prescriptions,

the 50 minute sessions

the cracked plastic pill case

the stashes of day-old medication.

his looping question:

is there really nothing more

you can do?

September Psalm

Praise God for angled lines,

the punch-out mountains, black and white

cast in relief by the neighbor's light

resting on ebony, autumn sky.

Praise Him for fatigue

after long, full days of peace.

Alleluia for the re-paved street

for the acrid asphalt steam

just-poured, sticky sweet.

Selah,

Praise the Lord

for persistent metaphors.

The kind Reality cannot hold

though it twist our spinning worlds

right-side up to shake our souls.

Selah,

Sleep singing

praise for relentless believing.

Day-ending, day-beginning.

All the coming kingdom

glimmers,

safe from time's keeping.

wrong-side up

I learned early

how to lift off the ground

my fondest memories--

the back porch shrinking

the receding of cold white cement

the dryer door hinge singing

waving a startled goodbye

It takes a formula

--not hand clasping or

phosphorescent dust--

just a lifting of the brain

to the exact middle

of the skull

A momentary vertigo

a concentrated lightness

Or a strong sneeze

You feel it first in your arches

The promise of freed soles

a delightful itching

I loved the tops of telephone poles--

dancing three inches above them

I'd mimic the tightrope artists

whose feet still cling with that ludicrous

dread of density

Flying is a peaceful sport

no puddles of sweat, loss of breath

But courage is necessary

to keep all the impossibility from aching

No one told me to stop

I just realized it was not the wisest of pursuits

So I set about a planned forgetting

and then nothing mattered much

Lately that learned loss

floats back up

my soles have begun itching

the telephone wires

hang wrong-side up

from way down here

a little summer reflection

Who forgets how to ride a bike? Isn't there a cliche based on this very thing not happening?

If someone claps your back and chortles, 'just like riding a bike,' that's supposed to be a comfort, right? An assumption that buried knowledge will leap to your rescue, right?

The nice man in The Open Road bike shop gave me a bike to test-ride and sent me outside into the swelter and I stood, jeans melting onto my legs, sandals flapping off my feet, contemplating the bike seat's insurmountable gap between bike seat and ground. I circled the handlebars for about five minutes. When I finally jumped on, I think I may have closed my eyes. Sure enough, that inner knowledge gurgled up; I peddled, and I did not keel over.

I did fall later, though, while taking Bianca for her first real ride. (As I suited up, my roommate snickeringly dubbed my helmet "adorable," and I told her to shove it. Under no circumstances could I be considered adorable in this helmet. But I look alive. In the literal sense. And some, I'm told, find that an attractive attribute.)

Anyway, the fall: all knowledge of gear shifting left me. I lost all momentum and panicked. Realizing too late that my foot alone could not steady me against the concrete, I relaxed, tumbled down onto my hip, rolled a few inches down the hill. The girl walking behind me let out a soft gasp. I bounded up without making any eye contact, beaming a weird smile to try and look competent. I was shaking so hard that I had to walk it a few blocks. All the neighbors watered their lawns intently, sneaking glances when they thought I wasn't looking.

I know I'll figure the bike out, but right now it looms in my room, its menacing shadow haunting me even after I hit the lights.

It's been a summer of this sort of thing. No, not creepy bikes coming alive whilst I sleep. No, the other part, the metaphor in it all. I know, I know, I'm a sucker for a good, obvious metaphor. Still, I think I'll indulge: It's been a summer of leaping, closing my eyes and hoping what I need will rise up in me.

It's been a good, good summer.

Of course, if I end up breaking a leg while trying to meet my next goal (bike to work 3 days a week) this entry will be far less of an inspiration, and the metaphor will definitely lose some oomph. Let's just hope that's not the case.

To expand the metaphor and complete my truly self-centered blogpost, (what other kind is there, really?) here's my list of jumping things, the things I've wanted for a long time but avoided out of fear. Please only read them if you love me alot; otherwise I think they might be pretty boring. I just want to write them down because I'm happy with what I've accomplished.

1. Leading a fitness class at Elizabeth House. The last thing I'd picture myself doing is leading an aerobics class. But every week, the workout has been filled with laughter (go figure), joy, a little sweat, and a lightness of spirit that simply couldn't come from me.

2. Applying to (and being rejected from ! ) the Advanced Poetry Workshop at UCLA extension. Dusting off my ego and joining a class that would have me. Reading my first poem aloud in workshop. Learning from other poets. Learning to talk about poetry as something valuable in my life.

3. Running a 1/2 marathon. Two years ago, I trained heavily for the Pasadena 1/2, which was "smoked-out" by wildfires. I was horribly disappointed, and frustrated, and I really never believed I'd train and run another, but I did. My shiny medal is hanging above my desk as I type. It was an absolute blast, in the worst possible sense of that word. Quite impossible to describe--just do one.

4. Choosing to go to therapy. Talk about a jump-on-that-bike moment, admitting I can't handle the pressure of my Dad's illness on my own and seeking out help was the hardest leap I've ever taken. After a summer of wrestling and praying and observing and being really patient with myself, I feel...well, no, not healed, but healing. I feel healing.