I realized today that even if I go my full day and complete everything on my calendar, it is not enough. It is that damn "to-do list" that gets me every time. I think I am doing well and that I have everything covered, when BAM! I am hit with a reminder of some deadline that has past, some work that should have been completed, a letter of recommendation that needed to be written, a festival application that should have been turned in, a staff parking pass that should have been acquired, or placard of my office hours that should have been posted on my office door. (Yes, it is already week three and I have yet to update them from last semester! I know! Don't judge!)
So, I need to learn this lesson. Check one more thing off the list. Just one. Before I go to bed. I need to make a habit of completing one more thing than I am used to in a day. Getting through my day is simply not enough to keep me sane in the long run.
For instance I have crazy Mondays this semester. I start teaching at 8:00am. Today I taught a total of 6hrs of dance technique before running another 5 1/2 hour rehearsal for the Musical. (I'm actually really impressed that I made it through). So, I left the house at 7:30am and got home at 10:45pm. A long day by any standards.
And, perhaps enough for any individual. But. . .
Thinking this way lands me regularly in a hole of being frustrated and overwhelmed. I feel perpetually behind as a result because I am barely staying afloat. Luckily I tend to rally and get thing done on time, but I don't want to live this way. Always, perched precariously on the edge of disaster (which we all know would result when you don't post your office hours is time).
In all seriousness, I am going to experiment this week, with doing one more thing (small thing) so I can feel more on top of my game and less like a puppet grasping at strings I can't control. Tonight I checked my email. I didn't have time to finish that task earlier in the day, and it is something I dislike doing to the extent that I will easily let it go 2 or 3 days if I am not careful. (Free Advice: Leaving your email for 3 days is highly unrecommended as a teacher); and I think it brings me more anxiety and uneasiness that checking the darn thing. So today, I checked it. It wasn't that bad (and I had the energy buzzing from rehearsal to do it).
Tomorrow I don't know what to-do item will be checked off, but there are plenty of them. And, I figure in 7 days I will have checked off 7 of them. That's a pretty darn good for me. I'll take it.
Showing posts with label funny. Show all posts
Showing posts with label funny. Show all posts
Monday, January 23, 2012
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Recipe for a New Semester
Yes. The days are counting down and the start of the new semester lies just around the corner for many of us.
As a student it was always my favorite time. I was excited to learn to new things. I had the books ready and had already glanced through them cover to cover to see what is in store for me. I purchased new spiral bound notebooks and organized my classes according to color coded three ring binders with matching tabs. I selected my favorite pens and then bought brand new ones just in case. I prepped my backpack with back ups for all the important items (just in case): Pencils, pencil sharpener, highlighters/ colored pencils, erasers, permanent markers, baby wipes, socks, extra tights or dance pants, underwear, bobby pins, 5 or 6 hair ties, lipgloss and mascara. Then of course my entire dance bag full of shoes and more dance paraphernalia than you can imagine.
Yes, the beginning of the semester was pure excitement for me. Even better than Christmas in some ways, because the gift of the semester was going to last my entire lifetime.
But, now as a professor. I find the start of semester a little less sparkly than before. Now, I am faced with looming and overwhelming questions: How can I make it better? How can I clean up my grading system? How can I be better organized? How can I keep better attendance? How can I get through with the fewest headaches possible?
Yes, starting the semester as an instructor takes on a different flavor, and it wasn't until tonight (while lying in my savasana in yoga class) that I realized I need to change my perspective and think more like I did as student. I need to get excited and recharged.
So I have developed this Recipe for a New Semester:
1. Get a New Purse: nothing is more refreshing than organizing a new purse. Clean out the old receipts lingering in the corners of forgotten pockets, manage the number of pens that have either accumulated or disappeared over the last year, and throw away the smashed lozenges and Hershey's kisses that have ground themselves into unrecognizable state.
2. Get your Syllabi Done: at least 3 days before the start of classes. Write them, and send them off to be printed. If you are like I am, then they will never be perfect so don't sweat it.
3. Buy a new iPad (or other gadget): Ok. So this is a luxury, but still, having a a new "toy" to play with makes it more fun to input your attendance rosters or configure your email groups. Plus, it can make you look and feel hip. That's what I'm talking about! I plan on trying an attendance app for my rosters, and I plan to try garageband for some of my dance class accompaniment. It is something for me to learn and play with. PS If you hate gadgets or technology in general, ignore this ingredient for the recipe.
4. Input your Calendar: for the semester and block out times for things you want to do. I really wanted to find time to go to the gym, yoga and my meditation center each 2x/week. I have input it into my calendar and blocked it off. I am making myself unavailable so when I get asked to do something additional I can more easily say "no" if needed.
5. Test your pens: Satisfaction by definition. Throw away the ones you hate and keep the ones you love.
6. Plan two of your favorite classes: create the lesson plan you want to have, not the one you feel you should have, but the one you wish you had gotten as a student or perhaps could really use for yourself now. Let them be unencumbered and passionate.
7. Steel Yourself: if you are like me, perhaps you are too compassionate? Or perhaps you are too rigid? too monotonous? too spontaneous? too frustrated? too frustrating? Yes, we are teachers, but we are still human beings. I have to remember to set the tone for the semester in the first few weeks. For me, I need to draw the line and stick to it. Being too accommodating just makes the students more lax (and makes me crazy as a result).
8a. Option 1: Take a long bath with aromatherapy and a good short story (preferably from The Sun Magazine).
8b. Option 2: Make yourself a stiff drink. Hot Toddy's are especially effective in cold weather.
9. Be Hopeful: it can only help make it easier.
Have a great semester everyone!
As a student it was always my favorite time. I was excited to learn to new things. I had the books ready and had already glanced through them cover to cover to see what is in store for me. I purchased new spiral bound notebooks and organized my classes according to color coded three ring binders with matching tabs. I selected my favorite pens and then bought brand new ones just in case. I prepped my backpack with back ups for all the important items (just in case): Pencils, pencil sharpener, highlighters/ colored pencils, erasers, permanent markers, baby wipes, socks, extra tights or dance pants, underwear, bobby pins, 5 or 6 hair ties, lipgloss and mascara. Then of course my entire dance bag full of shoes and more dance paraphernalia than you can imagine.
Yes, the beginning of the semester was pure excitement for me. Even better than Christmas in some ways, because the gift of the semester was going to last my entire lifetime.
But, now as a professor. I find the start of semester a little less sparkly than before. Now, I am faced with looming and overwhelming questions: How can I make it better? How can I clean up my grading system? How can I be better organized? How can I keep better attendance? How can I get through with the fewest headaches possible?
Yes, starting the semester as an instructor takes on a different flavor, and it wasn't until tonight (while lying in my savasana in yoga class) that I realized I need to change my perspective and think more like I did as student. I need to get excited and recharged.
So I have developed this Recipe for a New Semester:
1. Get a New Purse: nothing is more refreshing than organizing a new purse. Clean out the old receipts lingering in the corners of forgotten pockets, manage the number of pens that have either accumulated or disappeared over the last year, and throw away the smashed lozenges and Hershey's kisses that have ground themselves into unrecognizable state.
2. Get your Syllabi Done: at least 3 days before the start of classes. Write them, and send them off to be printed. If you are like I am, then they will never be perfect so don't sweat it.
3. Buy a new iPad (or other gadget): Ok. So this is a luxury, but still, having a a new "toy" to play with makes it more fun to input your attendance rosters or configure your email groups. Plus, it can make you look and feel hip. That's what I'm talking about! I plan on trying an attendance app for my rosters, and I plan to try garageband for some of my dance class accompaniment. It is something for me to learn and play with. PS If you hate gadgets or technology in general, ignore this ingredient for the recipe.
4. Input your Calendar: for the semester and block out times for things you want to do. I really wanted to find time to go to the gym, yoga and my meditation center each 2x/week. I have input it into my calendar and blocked it off. I am making myself unavailable so when I get asked to do something additional I can more easily say "no" if needed.
5. Test your pens: Satisfaction by definition. Throw away the ones you hate and keep the ones you love.
6. Plan two of your favorite classes: create the lesson plan you want to have, not the one you feel you should have, but the one you wish you had gotten as a student or perhaps could really use for yourself now. Let them be unencumbered and passionate.
7. Steel Yourself: if you are like me, perhaps you are too compassionate? Or perhaps you are too rigid? too monotonous? too spontaneous? too frustrated? too frustrating? Yes, we are teachers, but we are still human beings. I have to remember to set the tone for the semester in the first few weeks. For me, I need to draw the line and stick to it. Being too accommodating just makes the students more lax (and makes me crazy as a result).
8a. Option 1: Take a long bath with aromatherapy and a good short story (preferably from The Sun Magazine).
8b. Option 2: Make yourself a stiff drink. Hot Toddy's are especially effective in cold weather.
9. Be Hopeful: it can only help make it easier.
Have a great semester everyone!
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Poems from various journals
So, I have a tendency to write little poems in random journals. Basically I will write in whatever journal is at hand. And did I mention I have more than one journal? I have at least three. Don't ask me why. But I do. One my the bed, one in my backpack, one laying around the house or taken on trips or lost and then found at various times.
I decided it was time to type out the poems for one of the journals. These are largely unedited/unrevised, but let me know if any stand out to you.
Thanks for reading!
Beth
Johnny Varble (12-1-11)
Big slick file folders
full of notes that were once important
But now he is gone
and their hieroglyphics are yet to be deciphered
Will they ever?
So, we look through sheet by sheet
saving what we can,
what is discernible,
what reminds us of him without making us cry,
His notes on how to make an excel sheet,
a brochure for last season's performances at the local theater.
It's all gotta go
as he is gone,
but without the surprise of his leaving
over the edge of the road
with his dog in the passenger's seat.
We can't hold on to these papers forever
but we can't help but feel guilt for ripping his memory apart
page by page.
We shred the once valuable stacks of information
one file cabinet at a time.
Keep or throw?
These items with his handwriting scrawled in the margins
old papers worn at the edges and yellowed with years
and accidental stains of morning coffee.
This paper on which I write is his
top sheet of notes and memories already discarded.
I couldn't let the last few pages
go to waste.
Office papers, were not the heart of Johnny.
His heart is outside
with the horses in the barn and the cattle in the fields.
This cowboy forced to fill out the forms
we now hold in our hands
our young hands unwrinkled with time and still warm
from the afternoon coffee.
We make the decisions
paper by paper
memory by memory
making sense of what he left behind
making sense of his lost time
and our days ahead.
11-28-11
Spinning not unlike the earth
Spinning not unlike
the earth off kilter on its axis.
Round with rounded edges
smoothed by years of seasonal rains.
This stone looks more like a button on my nubby, woolen sweater
my favorite, not itchy at all
The shiny buttons of which pull against the the thread bare seams and the
deep pockets, in which I warm my hands
away from this frigid night air.
My palms press deeper into the cloth
closer to the warmth of my skin
I spin.
In time, keeping time
with the seasons as my metronome
each revolution brings me in closer
until I can feel the warmth of my own breath bounce back at me
with each exhale
It reminds me of snuggling up to you from behind
so close that I can breathe in the scent of your neck
then exhale the warm moist air onto the fine hairs at the base of your scalp
tiny droplets forming on each one
Tonight there is a chill and your body heat is a sweet treat.
Along the road
dried tumbleweeds from last summer
scamper across the lanes
the wheel softly turning
I roll, along gentle curves into tomorrow's night
Looking up I swoon
the stars spinning before me
and inside my head
As they shine
I can see the mist of my breath
in an icy fog.
This night will spin and turn to day
just as it did before
and I will wait and watch my steamy breath turn cold.
There is a point
There is a point
when blue turns black
where today becomes tomorrow
and today becomes yesterday.
There is a point
when smiles turn sour
when laughs turn dark
and he begins to turn pale.
There is a point when blood stops flowing
and the heart stops pumping
and the sky yawns
and the stars fall.
There is a point
where I end and universe begins
where hopes turn to lost opportunities
and shame to cancer.
Suddenly (No. 1)
Suddenly
I catch a whiff of my mom's apple pie
a boom of sweet sugar, cinnamon and apple
It's almost time to enjoy, but first
I put my nose back in the book
words whizz by and I evaporate
into the story of magic lands and unlikely characters.
Encountering myself in each chapter of fantasy,
I flip page to page
until it is time and my mom calls me back home
Suddenly (No. 2)
Suddenly
The lights went out and my sister sang
her voice carried through the darkness
accompanied by the click of the grandfather clock
wound to its coil and unnoticing of the dark
I lay in the still-warm bathwater
not sure whether it is safest to stay put
or risk a slip on the tile floor
to find a light.
Her voice soars up the stairs
unharnessed, unknowingly beautiful
She sings melodies
calls out to the shadowed corners and pitch black of the living room.
My mom lights a candle
I see the flames flicker in the bathroom mirror
"Charlotte, are you OK?"
I somehow want to blow bubbles in response
instead I lift my head and call
"Yes"
But, as I resumberge my chest and chin,
I hardly know.
And, my sister still sings
still haunting me with her memory.
Suddenly (No. 3)
I put in another coin
and roll the ski ball
Perfectly timed, angled, released
Lights blink as I win
tickets pour of the machine's mouth
vomit for useless coinage and cruddy "prizes"
neon green sunglasses I will never wear
a coloring set, a squishy ball with no purpose
The bells and dings and rings and beeps
are all beeping and ringing and flashing
obnoxiously
An ADHD fantasy of rushed moments,
forgotten focus and
new beginnings without endings
The hush, then quiet
then suddenly we whisper into the dark
the world stopped around us
We stand and sit with ourselves in the dark
afraid to move
for fear we might break our bones
or our timeless sense of immortality.
Thursday Night
Hushed sounds
whispers out of chapped lips
once painted bright
It could be time to call it quits
or not
I put in another coin and
a fresh tune starts up.
Oven Timer
Gosh darn it! I want to do something
crazy!
Like to sky dive, get drunk or
actually use real profanity!!
Instead I tell my stories in rhyme and stanza
stories of adventures never had
and words never spoken.
Could I bother you to allow me this one,
very small,
momentary,
indulgence?
Fuck You!
Oh, no.
That doesn't make me feel better at all.
Excuse me. I'd better so see if
the casserole top has browned.
Notes on a Nightstand
In a book in the drawer
next to the meds
which hum tough tunes
of reality.
A cage for thoughts,
this journal's pages include the
important details
dates, but no names
sentiments and expletives
circled, underlined and in caps.
The book is sinking, sunken and drowned in thoughts.
Notes hide under the water's reflective surface
mirroring life's day that plays above.
How many journals live in drawers like this?
Notes on a nightstand
trying to explain away the need
for the little, plastic orange container
that lives there too.
Dear Lower Back,
You are so sweet to call me up so regularly.
Well done, I'm listening.
Feeling.
Oh, how you love to talk,
and talk and talk and talk
Which I appreciate,
But, I asked you here today because
I am feeling ready
to let you go.
For us to go our separate ways.
You don't need to check in on my quite so often
I feel ready to forget you.
Is that too harsh to say out loud?
I don't mean to be mean.
Its just that
I could really do
without your constant reminding.
Like a parent you hold me back and
warn me against my instincts
Don't do that! Don't go to far!
Let's be reasonable.
Can't you just let me be?
For a month or so? a week? a day?
I don't think I can handle it much more.
You shouting at me daily as I wake up and when I go to bed.
Each time I want to do anything
you are right there to stop me.
Don't you think it's getting a little old?
Don't you have something better to do?
Because I do.
So, go ahead. and take a long
extended vacation.
and let me be for a while
unconcerned, uninhibited and unrestricted
for once.
Evening Happening at the Oak on Peppertree Lane
A long, blue-green feather on the road
Harrumph! I flutter to the bottom branch
Grip and claw into the rough bark,
pull myself up, through the maze of branches up to the canopy
where the acorns are still green
I settle in to roost for the night.
Eee-ahhl!
Footsteps fall below
Two of them, one stoops to pick up the feather.
How odd, don't they know?
That's no longer good. Shimmering green, gold and blue.
Those feathers were only in good fashion for last spring
Clearly they won't do any good now.
Once a part of a corona
Peacock pride
meant only for one reason
but that is all done
they are now abandoned
Deemed useless.
As it goes with we who are luckless in love
I now have to wait for next spring
To try and find her again
To show off my four foot tail of brand new feathers.
Eee-ahhl! Eee-ahhl!
Don't mistake my warning for a serenade!
They jump and laugh in response
clinging together now holding hands.
It seems this couple must mate in fall.
Being Blue
Stunned Blue in silent thoughts that
have no end
a shade of near gray that washes over my ears, cheeks and chest
blood drained from my cheeks
empty of their glow
Like a match that can not be unstruck
the blue burns out all the kindling it can lays hands on
My worries catch fire with ease and burn
in unforgiving pyres
Being blue is not a mood, nor emotion
nor a feeling
Blue is a way of existing
as mornings wash into afternoons wash into evenings
onto darker nights
Blue is a shadow waiting patiently behind me
a faux friend with a false promise to keep me company
Blue sits on my brow,
making it hard to keep my eyes open,
even when I want them to.
Blue hangs from hooks on my cheeks pulling down,
pulling, pulling down
Blue calls me to close my eyes
close out the world
sit in the blue darkness.
Heavy lids bind this bright afternoon to Blue's gravity
Today's particular shade is steel blue
tomorrow's is not yet announced.
I'm resistant
I am resistant
and the resistance clings to me like an oily residue that won't wash off
knees refuse to bend
Hips stick
full of loud pops
clicks and crackles
But I have to sit
the work is in the staying,
sitting in the thick of it
enduring the winds that threaten to topple my folded origami legs.
I'm resistant
despite myself and my desires.
I'm looped with the lasso of untamed fears
to stay despite it all
despite your leaving, again
after how many years of coming and going?
I stay, cross legged and resolute
despite my want to run
so many "aways" to go to.
Vacancy signs in neon pink and blue
tempt me with their playful blinks
like batting eyelashes.
The backs of my knees and creases of my armpits get sweaty.
The familiar heat rush of anxiety
washing through me in waves.
I feel sweat beading at my temples but
my eyes remain half closed in inner reverie
turned nightmare.
I sit.
Hands folded into each other
against all odds
against the odds that you'll come back
or
be gone forever.
I decided it was time to type out the poems for one of the journals. These are largely unedited/unrevised, but let me know if any stand out to you.
Thanks for reading!
Beth
Johnny Varble (12-1-11)
Big slick file folders
full of notes that were once important
But now he is gone
and their hieroglyphics are yet to be deciphered
Will they ever?
So, we look through sheet by sheet
saving what we can,
what is discernible,
what reminds us of him without making us cry,
His notes on how to make an excel sheet,
a brochure for last season's performances at the local theater.
It's all gotta go
as he is gone,
but without the surprise of his leaving
over the edge of the road
with his dog in the passenger's seat.
We can't hold on to these papers forever
but we can't help but feel guilt for ripping his memory apart
page by page.
We shred the once valuable stacks of information
one file cabinet at a time.
Keep or throw?
These items with his handwriting scrawled in the margins
old papers worn at the edges and yellowed with years
and accidental stains of morning coffee.
This paper on which I write is his
top sheet of notes and memories already discarded.
I couldn't let the last few pages
go to waste.
Office papers, were not the heart of Johnny.
His heart is outside
with the horses in the barn and the cattle in the fields.
This cowboy forced to fill out the forms
we now hold in our hands
our young hands unwrinkled with time and still warm
from the afternoon coffee.
We make the decisions
paper by paper
memory by memory
making sense of what he left behind
making sense of his lost time
and our days ahead.
11-28-11
Spinning not unlike the earth
Spinning not unlike
the earth off kilter on its axis.
Round with rounded edges
smoothed by years of seasonal rains.
This stone looks more like a button on my nubby, woolen sweater
my favorite, not itchy at all
The shiny buttons of which pull against the the thread bare seams and the
deep pockets, in which I warm my hands
away from this frigid night air.
My palms press deeper into the cloth
closer to the warmth of my skin
I spin.
In time, keeping time
with the seasons as my metronome
each revolution brings me in closer
until I can feel the warmth of my own breath bounce back at me
with each exhale
It reminds me of snuggling up to you from behind
so close that I can breathe in the scent of your neck
then exhale the warm moist air onto the fine hairs at the base of your scalp
tiny droplets forming on each one
Tonight there is a chill and your body heat is a sweet treat.
Along the road
dried tumbleweeds from last summer
scamper across the lanes
the wheel softly turning
I roll, along gentle curves into tomorrow's night
Looking up I swoon
the stars spinning before me
and inside my head
As they shine
I can see the mist of my breath
in an icy fog.
This night will spin and turn to day
just as it did before
and I will wait and watch my steamy breath turn cold.
There is a point
There is a point
when blue turns black
where today becomes tomorrow
and today becomes yesterday.
There is a point
when smiles turn sour
when laughs turn dark
and he begins to turn pale.
There is a point when blood stops flowing
and the heart stops pumping
and the sky yawns
and the stars fall.
There is a point
where I end and universe begins
where hopes turn to lost opportunities
and shame to cancer.
Suddenly (No. 1)
Suddenly
I catch a whiff of my mom's apple pie
a boom of sweet sugar, cinnamon and apple
It's almost time to enjoy, but first
I put my nose back in the book
words whizz by and I evaporate
into the story of magic lands and unlikely characters.
Encountering myself in each chapter of fantasy,
I flip page to page
until it is time and my mom calls me back home
Suddenly (No. 2)
Suddenly
The lights went out and my sister sang
her voice carried through the darkness
accompanied by the click of the grandfather clock
wound to its coil and unnoticing of the dark
I lay in the still-warm bathwater
not sure whether it is safest to stay put
or risk a slip on the tile floor
to find a light.
Her voice soars up the stairs
unharnessed, unknowingly beautiful
She sings melodies
calls out to the shadowed corners and pitch black of the living room.
My mom lights a candle
I see the flames flicker in the bathroom mirror
"Charlotte, are you OK?"
I somehow want to blow bubbles in response
instead I lift my head and call
"Yes"
But, as I resumberge my chest and chin,
I hardly know.
And, my sister still sings
still haunting me with her memory.
Suddenly (No. 3)
I put in another coin
and roll the ski ball
Perfectly timed, angled, released
Lights blink as I win
tickets pour of the machine's mouth
vomit for useless coinage and cruddy "prizes"
neon green sunglasses I will never wear
a coloring set, a squishy ball with no purpose
The bells and dings and rings and beeps
are all beeping and ringing and flashing
obnoxiously
An ADHD fantasy of rushed moments,
forgotten focus and
new beginnings without endings
The hush, then quiet
then suddenly we whisper into the dark
the world stopped around us
We stand and sit with ourselves in the dark
afraid to move
for fear we might break our bones
or our timeless sense of immortality.
Thursday Night
Hushed sounds
whispers out of chapped lips
once painted bright
It could be time to call it quits
or not
I put in another coin and
a fresh tune starts up.
Oven Timer
Gosh darn it! I want to do something
crazy!
Like to sky dive, get drunk or
actually use real profanity!!
Instead I tell my stories in rhyme and stanza
stories of adventures never had
and words never spoken.
Could I bother you to allow me this one,
very small,
momentary,
indulgence?
Fuck You!
Oh, no.
That doesn't make me feel better at all.
Excuse me. I'd better so see if
the casserole top has browned.
Notes on a Nightstand
In a book in the drawer
next to the meds
which hum tough tunes
of reality.
A cage for thoughts,
this journal's pages include the
important details
dates, but no names
sentiments and expletives
circled, underlined and in caps.
The book is sinking, sunken and drowned in thoughts.
Notes hide under the water's reflective surface
mirroring life's day that plays above.
How many journals live in drawers like this?
Notes on a nightstand
trying to explain away the need
for the little, plastic orange container
that lives there too.
Dear Lower Back,
You are so sweet to call me up so regularly.
Well done, I'm listening.
Feeling.
Oh, how you love to talk,
and talk and talk and talk
Which I appreciate,
But, I asked you here today because
I am feeling ready
to let you go.
For us to go our separate ways.
You don't need to check in on my quite so often
I feel ready to forget you.
Is that too harsh to say out loud?
I don't mean to be mean.
Its just that
I could really do
without your constant reminding.
Like a parent you hold me back and
warn me against my instincts
Don't do that! Don't go to far!
Let's be reasonable.
Can't you just let me be?
For a month or so? a week? a day?
I don't think I can handle it much more.
You shouting at me daily as I wake up and when I go to bed.
Each time I want to do anything
you are right there to stop me.
Don't you think it's getting a little old?
Don't you have something better to do?
Because I do.
So, go ahead. and take a long
extended vacation.
and let me be for a while
unconcerned, uninhibited and unrestricted
for once.
Evening Happening at the Oak on Peppertree Lane
A long, blue-green feather on the road
Harrumph! I flutter to the bottom branch
Grip and claw into the rough bark,
pull myself up, through the maze of branches up to the canopy
where the acorns are still green
I settle in to roost for the night.
Eee-ahhl!
Footsteps fall below
Two of them, one stoops to pick up the feather.
How odd, don't they know?
That's no longer good. Shimmering green, gold and blue.
Those feathers were only in good fashion for last spring
Clearly they won't do any good now.
Once a part of a corona
Peacock pride
meant only for one reason
but that is all done
they are now abandoned
Deemed useless.
As it goes with we who are luckless in love
I now have to wait for next spring
To try and find her again
To show off my four foot tail of brand new feathers.
Eee-ahhl! Eee-ahhl!
Don't mistake my warning for a serenade!
They jump and laugh in response
clinging together now holding hands.
It seems this couple must mate in fall.
Being Blue
Stunned Blue in silent thoughts that
have no end
a shade of near gray that washes over my ears, cheeks and chest
blood drained from my cheeks
empty of their glow
Like a match that can not be unstruck
the blue burns out all the kindling it can lays hands on
My worries catch fire with ease and burn
in unforgiving pyres
Being blue is not a mood, nor emotion
nor a feeling
Blue is a way of existing
as mornings wash into afternoons wash into evenings
onto darker nights
Blue is a shadow waiting patiently behind me
a faux friend with a false promise to keep me company
Blue sits on my brow,
making it hard to keep my eyes open,
even when I want them to.
Blue hangs from hooks on my cheeks pulling down,
pulling, pulling down
Blue calls me to close my eyes
close out the world
sit in the blue darkness.
Heavy lids bind this bright afternoon to Blue's gravity
Today's particular shade is steel blue
tomorrow's is not yet announced.
I'm resistant
I am resistant
and the resistance clings to me like an oily residue that won't wash off
knees refuse to bend
Hips stick
full of loud pops
clicks and crackles
But I have to sit
the work is in the staying,
sitting in the thick of it
enduring the winds that threaten to topple my folded origami legs.
I'm resistant
despite myself and my desires.
I'm looped with the lasso of untamed fears
to stay despite it all
despite your leaving, again
after how many years of coming and going?
I stay, cross legged and resolute
despite my want to run
so many "aways" to go to.
Vacancy signs in neon pink and blue
tempt me with their playful blinks
like batting eyelashes.
The backs of my knees and creases of my armpits get sweaty.
The familiar heat rush of anxiety
washing through me in waves.
I feel sweat beading at my temples but
my eyes remain half closed in inner reverie
turned nightmare.
I sit.
Hands folded into each other
against all odds
against the odds that you'll come back
or
be gone forever.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
In Over My Head. Again.
I agree to things before I realize exactly what that means. I throw caution to the wind an say yes regardless if I am either:
a) am capable
or
b) have the time
It is my modus operandi really. It seems to be what makes me tick (and go crazy all at the same time). So, while I am prepping for 3 presentations I will be giving at the next NDEO conference (National Dance Educators Organization), producing a dance concert, choreographing 3 pieces on my students, planning a special halloween tap dance performance for my Tap I class, and finishing a 52 minute dance piece for my company. . . .
(inhale)
I have also agreed to go on a poetry tour.
Let me remind you that I am not really a poet. Sure I call myself a poetess. But that is more of a dream identity that an actual one. I write poetry because I know nothing about it, how to do it, history of it nor whether I am making a complete ass of myself. Basically, I do it because I can write really bad poems and have no real-life repercussions. It is just fun.
Well. Until now.
Now, I am obligated. I am actually going to have to write something that I will then memorize and perform in front of unsuspecting audiences in the Bay Area next May. I hope they aren't paying. But I am getting ahead of myself.
What plague me currently is a project we poets are organizing to raise funds for the trip. A Poet/Pinup Calendar. Yes, you read right! We poets from the ages of roughly 20 to about 70 will be dressing up for your pleasure (and belly laughter) in a brand-spanking-new 2012 calendar. Oh, yeah.
Alas, our theme is fantastic: S/heroes and Villians.
I have decided to be a Garden S/hero. Mostly because I like dressing in gingham and like getting dirty. None of this troubles me. I can put on fake eyelashes and hold a bunch of carrots, no problem. The hitch comes in that I have to write a garden poem to go along with my Garden Hero character. And, I have yet to even try.
So, I hereby dedicate myself to writing at least one garden poem a day and posting it here for your reading pleasure (and daily laughter medicine -- because it may be funny or more likely so bad you will have to laugh out of pity). I promise they will be terrible, perhaps ridiculous, funny if I'm lucky, irrational and only maybe good. Read because it will make you feel good about yourself and your own art. Let me be your sacrificial lamb to the creative gods. I don't mind, really.
The poem needs to be done by Halloween. So, I had better get crackin'.
Garden Poem #1
Bugs
Again
They seem to be of a different variety
Not quite the usual white aphids or black beetles
Brown spiders of Black widows
I like the tarantulas I see every once in a while.
Crawling.
Fuzzy. Kind of Cute.
No, these bugs are blue.
Unlike any bug I've ever seen.
Creeping in
Nesting under leaves in invisible webs of confusion
The garden soil gives them all the nutrients they need
Fertile, dark, moist and healthy
They feed on whatever crosses their paths
But I never see them swallow
They grow and multiply whether I ignore them
or expose their bellies to the sun.
It doesn't make sense
Sensing time pass
They are blue
But blue sometimes feel closer to black
Patterns obscured by morning moods and recently upturned soil
Deep blue.
Blue of a time that does not fit in today
Shiny exoskeleton, armored from my pesticides of care
This bug,
Bugging me
On days
Making days I don't want
Days that make my Hydrangeas wilt and my zucchini leaves turn yellow
I take my spade and fight them off
Falling through the finger of my rake
Not to be captured
Not to be tamed
I feed my plants with extra Nitrogen
but even the lavender grows crisp and brittle from their bites
Blue bug
Deep blue and shiny
Hiding in shadows
Mocking me on my sunny sidewalk.
I throw down the shovel
I dedicate tomorrow to stamping you out.
But today
is blue.
(Didn't expect it to take that turn. Did I mention I just write poems without editing them? Well, I do. I just let them flow. So, this is what you got for now. But. . . at least the poem is done for the day.)
a) am capable
or
b) have the time
It is my modus operandi really. It seems to be what makes me tick (and go crazy all at the same time). So, while I am prepping for 3 presentations I will be giving at the next NDEO conference (National Dance Educators Organization), producing a dance concert, choreographing 3 pieces on my students, planning a special halloween tap dance performance for my Tap I class, and finishing a 52 minute dance piece for my company. . . .
(inhale)
I have also agreed to go on a poetry tour.
Let me remind you that I am not really a poet. Sure I call myself a poetess. But that is more of a dream identity that an actual one. I write poetry because I know nothing about it, how to do it, history of it nor whether I am making a complete ass of myself. Basically, I do it because I can write really bad poems and have no real-life repercussions. It is just fun.
Well. Until now.
Now, I am obligated. I am actually going to have to write something that I will then memorize and perform in front of unsuspecting audiences in the Bay Area next May. I hope they aren't paying. But I am getting ahead of myself.
What plague me currently is a project we poets are organizing to raise funds for the trip. A Poet/Pinup Calendar. Yes, you read right! We poets from the ages of roughly 20 to about 70 will be dressing up for your pleasure (and belly laughter) in a brand-spanking-new 2012 calendar. Oh, yeah.
Alas, our theme is fantastic: S/heroes and Villians.
I have decided to be a Garden S/hero. Mostly because I like dressing in gingham and like getting dirty. None of this troubles me. I can put on fake eyelashes and hold a bunch of carrots, no problem. The hitch comes in that I have to write a garden poem to go along with my Garden Hero character. And, I have yet to even try.
So, I hereby dedicate myself to writing at least one garden poem a day and posting it here for your reading pleasure (and daily laughter medicine -- because it may be funny or more likely so bad you will have to laugh out of pity). I promise they will be terrible, perhaps ridiculous, funny if I'm lucky, irrational and only maybe good. Read because it will make you feel good about yourself and your own art. Let me be your sacrificial lamb to the creative gods. I don't mind, really.
The poem needs to be done by Halloween. So, I had better get crackin'.
Garden Poem #1
Bugs
Again
They seem to be of a different variety
Not quite the usual white aphids or black beetles
Brown spiders of Black widows
I like the tarantulas I see every once in a while.
Crawling.
Fuzzy. Kind of Cute.
No, these bugs are blue.
Unlike any bug I've ever seen.
Creeping in
Nesting under leaves in invisible webs of confusion
The garden soil gives them all the nutrients they need
Fertile, dark, moist and healthy
They feed on whatever crosses their paths
But I never see them swallow
They grow and multiply whether I ignore them
or expose their bellies to the sun.
It doesn't make sense
Sensing time pass
They are blue
But blue sometimes feel closer to black
Patterns obscured by morning moods and recently upturned soil
Deep blue.
Blue of a time that does not fit in today
Shiny exoskeleton, armored from my pesticides of care
This bug,
Bugging me
On days
Making days I don't want
Days that make my Hydrangeas wilt and my zucchini leaves turn yellow
I take my spade and fight them off
Falling through the finger of my rake
Not to be captured
Not to be tamed
I feed my plants with extra Nitrogen
but even the lavender grows crisp and brittle from their bites
Blue bug
Deep blue and shiny
Hiding in shadows
Mocking me on my sunny sidewalk.
I throw down the shovel
I dedicate tomorrow to stamping you out.
But today
is blue.
(Didn't expect it to take that turn. Did I mention I just write poems without editing them? Well, I do. I just let them flow. So, this is what you got for now. But. . . at least the poem is done for the day.)
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Being put to use
I have had the joy of feeling very helpful for the past few days. And, let me tell you. It is great!
It started when my sister who is directing a show with tap in it called to see if I knew what "double up" meant (I think they meant double time). She was blocking a scene in which the tap dancing character is demonstrating toe taps while calling out "double up and switch sides." I told her to see if it worked and if not just change the step (or she suggested the dialogue) to make it match. The audience won't know.
Then my dear (and ever inspiring) choral conducting friend Vail calls me up to see if I can decipher a dance step from a video of gumboot dancers which she is having her students perform in the next concert while singing a South African song. It took me all of ten seconds to watch the video and figure out the stepping and slapping pattern. Success! I broke it down for you her, and within 3 minutes my job was done. I am on fire!
But, the greatest experience of feeling helpful was last night as a guest speaker in my friend Joelle's English composition class. She had invited me to speak on dance and my creative process. Her students are preparing for a field research paper including a personal interview and my visit was to demonstrate how to interview someone (in a group setting) as well as shed some light on how making dances and writing share a similar creative process. First let me tell you: I had a straight up great time. Perhaps a better time that some of the students. I felt like I was able to really share. No restraints or inhibitions. Because I wasn't their primary teacher I could speak openly and freely without worrying about whether they liked me or not (Yes, it does matter to me whether my students like me or at the minimum respect and trust me). I would never see most of these students again. It was time to let her rip!
As I was talking about dance, my company, depression, dance notation, time management, hitting a slump, working through challenge, taking time to reflect and observe and other bits and pieces of my dance and personal life, I realized that I actually knew a lot. I was impressing myself in the process. The thing is, after pushing against the constant struggle of the daily grind, feeling always overwhelmed and underwater, I still feel like I need to learn more. I still feel like I am somehow behind or uninformed in my field. So, this was a great relief to feel like I possessed useful information that was both exciting and interesting for this class of English students. I felt like an expert. Strange but intoxicating.
I was putting my years of dance education and experience to use in a single situation all at once. I answered questions without missing a beat, jotted down Language of Dance© symbols on the board without hesitation, performed mini improvisations from a spontaneous score and made the students laugh and be playful in their inquiry and learning.
I liked seeing them lean forward in their seats. Their eyes focused and alive. I admitted that making dances (like writing) is tough at times, but worth the challenge because of the long term pay off. Something we do "only for fun" or only "when we feel like it" usually yields flimsy results that are as fickle as our approach. But, when we return to something again and again, we can experience moments when it becomes so powerful and real that we know we have created something valuable and precious.
I wish I could recall everything I said to this class. It was like all my wisdom poured out of me at once. It all seemed so perfect, true, exciting and urgent. But, my memory fails me as I try to recapture it all now. It was a stream of consciousness experience never to be exactly recreated.
-sigh-
I do remember this one point with great accuracy: They as artists need to trust themselves because what we feel as normal human beings in our humdrum lives and/or creative endeavors is truly unique and can be fascinating to others. I reminded them that only we live in our own skin and our own lives. We must share what we know and what we experience, because it opens a window for others to peek inside to our inner workings, and it invites them to reflect on their own. Complex, intricate, spastic, fragile.
I hope that this blog serves you in this way. The window into who and how I am is open. I won't always be fascinating, but I promise to always be true. And, when I can, inspiring. . . or at least funny (every once in a while).
Some very cool gumboot dancing
(no this is NOT the one I figured out. If it were I should get a prize. But it is still way cool and worth watching):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iSgFAG0mtac
It started when my sister who is directing a show with tap in it called to see if I knew what "double up" meant (I think they meant double time). She was blocking a scene in which the tap dancing character is demonstrating toe taps while calling out "double up and switch sides." I told her to see if it worked and if not just change the step (or she suggested the dialogue) to make it match. The audience won't know.
Then my dear (and ever inspiring) choral conducting friend Vail calls me up to see if I can decipher a dance step from a video of gumboot dancers which she is having her students perform in the next concert while singing a South African song. It took me all of ten seconds to watch the video and figure out the stepping and slapping pattern. Success! I broke it down for you her, and within 3 minutes my job was done. I am on fire!
But, the greatest experience of feeling helpful was last night as a guest speaker in my friend Joelle's English composition class. She had invited me to speak on dance and my creative process. Her students are preparing for a field research paper including a personal interview and my visit was to demonstrate how to interview someone (in a group setting) as well as shed some light on how making dances and writing share a similar creative process. First let me tell you: I had a straight up great time. Perhaps a better time that some of the students. I felt like I was able to really share. No restraints or inhibitions. Because I wasn't their primary teacher I could speak openly and freely without worrying about whether they liked me or not (Yes, it does matter to me whether my students like me or at the minimum respect and trust me). I would never see most of these students again. It was time to let her rip!
As I was talking about dance, my company, depression, dance notation, time management, hitting a slump, working through challenge, taking time to reflect and observe and other bits and pieces of my dance and personal life, I realized that I actually knew a lot. I was impressing myself in the process. The thing is, after pushing against the constant struggle of the daily grind, feeling always overwhelmed and underwater, I still feel like I need to learn more. I still feel like I am somehow behind or uninformed in my field. So, this was a great relief to feel like I possessed useful information that was both exciting and interesting for this class of English students. I felt like an expert. Strange but intoxicating.
I was putting my years of dance education and experience to use in a single situation all at once. I answered questions without missing a beat, jotted down Language of Dance© symbols on the board without hesitation, performed mini improvisations from a spontaneous score and made the students laugh and be playful in their inquiry and learning.
I liked seeing them lean forward in their seats. Their eyes focused and alive. I admitted that making dances (like writing) is tough at times, but worth the challenge because of the long term pay off. Something we do "only for fun" or only "when we feel like it" usually yields flimsy results that are as fickle as our approach. But, when we return to something again and again, we can experience moments when it becomes so powerful and real that we know we have created something valuable and precious.
I wish I could recall everything I said to this class. It was like all my wisdom poured out of me at once. It all seemed so perfect, true, exciting and urgent. But, my memory fails me as I try to recapture it all now. It was a stream of consciousness experience never to be exactly recreated.
-sigh-
I do remember this one point with great accuracy: They as artists need to trust themselves because what we feel as normal human beings in our humdrum lives and/or creative endeavors is truly unique and can be fascinating to others. I reminded them that only we live in our own skin and our own lives. We must share what we know and what we experience, because it opens a window for others to peek inside to our inner workings, and it invites them to reflect on their own. Complex, intricate, spastic, fragile.
I hope that this blog serves you in this way. The window into who and how I am is open. I won't always be fascinating, but I promise to always be true. And, when I can, inspiring. . . or at least funny (every once in a while).
Some very cool gumboot dancing
(no this is NOT the one I figured out. If it were I should get a prize. But it is still way cool and worth watching):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iSgFAG0mtac
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Tall for this world
I love visiting Mexico. To see the diversity of this country reminds me of the variety of life and in the importance of history, beauty, hard work and good food. However, being a 5'11" Caucasian in Mexico is nothing short of difficult (no pun intended). Not because of the pinpointed approaches of beggars or street vendors, but rather because my ruddy skin was not intended for such sun exposure and most importantly because my statuesque height at 5'11" was not meant for the dimensions of this city.
I constantly find myself looking into mirrors on walls and instead of seeing my face, I see a clear display of my chest (a bit sunburned but not painful). I have to hunch more than usual to spit in the sink after brushing and of course find my knees bumping into the bottom of every table while my feet hang off every bed.
It is a challenge to stand up straight only to find your gaze thrown downward over the nose in an unintended glare. That is not the way to look at a friend or generous host. Of course there are the perks of being tall, namely the ability to see over everyone in a crowd. But, aside from that, The toilet seat seems miles away, and the ceiling much too close. In fact I can touch it, and I often do.
All of this does not diminish the enjoyment of my time here. But it does make me grateful for the luxuries of space I enjoy at home in the United States. I am a sucker for shoes, however stores here simply don't carry my size. And even the largest women clothing, is not made for my height and general girth. A bummer to say the least.
Being tall changes things. While it literally changes one's perspective, it also shapes one's understanding of one's place in the world. You can't help but feel a little like an outsider knowing that everything around you was not made for you or your proportions. It sends a subliminal message that you don't fit and perhaps even don't belong. While I don't feel depressed by this (because I am not Mexican), it is a constant reminder of how we as individuals are constantly faced with challenges in which we have the option to mold ourselves in order to come out on the other side.
In this way, life's situations are not unlike getting into the back of a two door chevy. One has to bend and fold, reach and angle, balance oneself gingerly between two sprawled legs at awkward angles and then duck and cover before finally becoming situated and for the time, measurably comfortable (knees apart to accommodate the seat back in front of you and avoid unnecessary bruising when riding over speed bumps or potholes).
We are constantly uncomfortable yet we are incredibly malleable. And, we put ourselves in awkward positions because from there we can discover new and exciting things about ourselves and the world around us. In fact, I will go so far as to say, we seek discomfort because through that process we are forced to grow (thankfully not literally in my case).
But being in difficult or awkward positions or situations is a reminder for us to acknowledge how and who we really are. It is a chance for for us to choose to adhere to our ways or to invite change. Just tonight, while brushing my teeth I noticed again that I was unintentionally hunching forward and jutting my chin forward and down just to see my face in the mirror. Here is a glimpse of my mental process:
". . . Wow. I really have to slouch down to see myself in the mirror. My neck hurts. My back too. Why am I slouching? So, I can see myself in the mirror while brushing my teeth. Why do I need to see myself in the mirror while brushing my teeth? Well, I don't. . . (straightening up). . . Wow. I am really much taller than this mirror. Perhaps 5-6 inches past the top. Past the lights at the top of the mirror. Look how far down the sink is from here! If I spit from here it would splash all over. Gross. And look how far away the towel and towel holder are. Was this all made for children? I can't reach it while standing straight, hands at my sides. I could pitch forward from the hips and keep my back straight. . . . Or not, because then my butt hits the door. Ok. Well, then I will stand as straight and tall as I can until I have to spit. Which is right now. . . "
I can only imagine how this place feels for my burly boyfriend. Lots of challenges for him to say the least. He seems to be taking them with remarkable equanimity. I admire that in him.
Off to bed (with sock covered feet to keep them warm off the edge). Hehe.
Life is funny.
I constantly find myself looking into mirrors on walls and instead of seeing my face, I see a clear display of my chest (a bit sunburned but not painful). I have to hunch more than usual to spit in the sink after brushing and of course find my knees bumping into the bottom of every table while my feet hang off every bed.
It is a challenge to stand up straight only to find your gaze thrown downward over the nose in an unintended glare. That is not the way to look at a friend or generous host. Of course there are the perks of being tall, namely the ability to see over everyone in a crowd. But, aside from that, The toilet seat seems miles away, and the ceiling much too close. In fact I can touch it, and I often do.
All of this does not diminish the enjoyment of my time here. But it does make me grateful for the luxuries of space I enjoy at home in the United States. I am a sucker for shoes, however stores here simply don't carry my size. And even the largest women clothing, is not made for my height and general girth. A bummer to say the least.
Being tall changes things. While it literally changes one's perspective, it also shapes one's understanding of one's place in the world. You can't help but feel a little like an outsider knowing that everything around you was not made for you or your proportions. It sends a subliminal message that you don't fit and perhaps even don't belong. While I don't feel depressed by this (because I am not Mexican), it is a constant reminder of how we as individuals are constantly faced with challenges in which we have the option to mold ourselves in order to come out on the other side.
In this way, life's situations are not unlike getting into the back of a two door chevy. One has to bend and fold, reach and angle, balance oneself gingerly between two sprawled legs at awkward angles and then duck and cover before finally becoming situated and for the time, measurably comfortable (knees apart to accommodate the seat back in front of you and avoid unnecessary bruising when riding over speed bumps or potholes).
We are constantly uncomfortable yet we are incredibly malleable. And, we put ourselves in awkward positions because from there we can discover new and exciting things about ourselves and the world around us. In fact, I will go so far as to say, we seek discomfort because through that process we are forced to grow (thankfully not literally in my case).
But being in difficult or awkward positions or situations is a reminder for us to acknowledge how and who we really are. It is a chance for for us to choose to adhere to our ways or to invite change. Just tonight, while brushing my teeth I noticed again that I was unintentionally hunching forward and jutting my chin forward and down just to see my face in the mirror. Here is a glimpse of my mental process:
". . . Wow. I really have to slouch down to see myself in the mirror. My neck hurts. My back too. Why am I slouching? So, I can see myself in the mirror while brushing my teeth. Why do I need to see myself in the mirror while brushing my teeth? Well, I don't. . . (straightening up). . . Wow. I am really much taller than this mirror. Perhaps 5-6 inches past the top. Past the lights at the top of the mirror. Look how far down the sink is from here! If I spit from here it would splash all over. Gross. And look how far away the towel and towel holder are. Was this all made for children? I can't reach it while standing straight, hands at my sides. I could pitch forward from the hips and keep my back straight. . . . Or not, because then my butt hits the door. Ok. Well, then I will stand as straight and tall as I can until I have to spit. Which is right now. . . "
I can only imagine how this place feels for my burly boyfriend. Lots of challenges for him to say the least. He seems to be taking them with remarkable equanimity. I admire that in him.
Off to bed (with sock covered feet to keep them warm off the edge). Hehe.
Life is funny.
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