Stolen Lines, Abandoned Selves

I dated this poet once that used to steal my lines. Can you imagine that? Sometimes I'd write them or text them or say them and then, suddenly, as if they were his own, they'd make a guest appearance in one of his poems. Not the Hilary Duff-like guest appearance on Gossip Girl, where she's scheduled for a handful of episodes in a season, but Blair's-employee-Dorota-guest appearance on the same show. The kind where she pops in for a minute and just as seamlessly pops back out and we don't see her again for the rest of the season. He inserted them in as if he had written or even just thought them up when he hadn't. Don't get me wrong, he had a masterful command of language, but it felt a little like creative theft to me. 

One time, during a reading he gave, someone seated a few feet away actually whispered to the person beside her, "I love that. Did you hear it? I love that." After said poet read: "I am on sabbatical from the world." 

Yup. That was mine.

At that moment, I wasn't upset, I was still rationalizing the emotional conflict I felt about being written and read aloud about. I was still hoping that my existence, if it had to be used in someone's poem, might have the ability to spark some sort of genius that I doubted my own life would be suspended long enough to create. On the first count, I'm fairly sure it didn't. On the second, I've now come to the realization I was wrong.

I have since decided I don't mind that I was written about and I've come to this conclusion because that person that was written about all those years ago is like the narrative self in creative nonfiction: chosen to serve a purpose, to tell a specific truth, not to make sense of or define a whole. That person, who was broken and depressed has remained just where he knew her and committed her: to paper..to the past.

Last semester, a student of mine from a class I taught his poetry to years ago emailed and asked me for a copy of his work saying, "I think my class would really enjoy it and I need to bring something in. Do you have it? Can you send it to me?" I didn't, but I directed her to the last email address I had for him, one I found in my old email account that serves as a receptacle for junk mail, forwards and the rare significant note from a long-lost friend, the one he used to write to when we still cared for one another in a way and with weight only letters could carry, around the time when he started to steal my lines and I started to fill my belly with bottles of rum and pills. When I found the address among the graveyard of my old life, those emails were there, too, shoved into a folder called "Ebay and Stuff" along with purchase confirmations and tracking numbers for vintage clothing from the 40's that I no longer wear. Those dresses of pink, black, white and plaid hang somewhere in the closet I share with my husband. I had forgotten I even had them.

When I navigate away from the email account, I leave the contents untouched, unopened, not willing to visit the girl that I was, afraid to hear what destruction she spoke, what lines he stole, how unknowing and desperate we were: he in his love, me in my despair. I think it's better, not feeling bad for what happened between us, not trying to make sense of that self I can't understand or excuse. I abandoned her there out of fear. How frightening it was to be left alone with her! Anywhere with her was like death! Even then, with so much time passed, I decide it's best to leave her there, amid the unwanted emails and unworn clothes, an age that defined an era, a movement of tragedy. Unopened, unread, unstirred. Sometimes its best not to linger on what scares us most. 

When I send my student the address, I wish her luck, apologize I can't do more and hope he understands that by sending her instead of me I'm letting him know that I'm sorry and that he can keep the lines.

N

Two Years

Today is our two-year dating anniversary. In other words, two years ago today we decided we would stop dating other people and just date each other. Six months after this day two years ago, we were engaged. Now we're married...for exactly 151 days. In 31 more days, we will have been married for exactly six months. I could continue with these numbers, but to calculate them, I keep needing to pull up my desktop calculator and I'm losing track of what I'm calculating (that's what you get from a literary person).

For the last few months, I've been busy writing and revising answers for my comprehensive exam. This has rendered me useless to the rest of the world, for the most part. The oral is schedule for December 7th which is the last week of regular classes for the semester, 11 days before D's 32nd birthday, 20 days before my 30th (ouch) and, has a 50% possibility of being the last important day of my 25 years of education. (I know. I'm doing it again! The number thing!) WOW! 

For the last few months, D has been studying for his comps, teaching, and holding down the Michael fort (which is no easy task with a pair of humans, dogs and birds, plus visitors! and a wife that is not allowed to drive in the state of Missouri for another thirty days or more).

I'm not saying we're "back" yet, since catastrophe or tragedy could occur at any moment (keep in mind that orals day)...but we're, at least, thinking about it.

Mainly, I just wanted to let everyone know that two years ago today I began dating the man I would inevitably marry and couldn't let the day pass without mention.

I love you, D. Happy Two-Year-Dating Anniversary! Here's to many more!

xoxo

N

Yes, Virginia...

I don't have much time for a real blog, but as I was perusing the news today, I noticed some info about this 1897 editorial, better known as "Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus." A movie is being made about this editorial in which an 8 year-old girl wrote to the New York Sun to inquire as to whether there was a Santa Claus or not, having been told by classmates that such a thing did not exist. The response has become one of the most reprinted pieces in new history. I felt ashamed that I'd heard this quote "Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus..." before, but never knew where it came from or what the significance was. I suppose I thought maybe it was written in a tone where the rolling of eyes would be appropriate, but found myself in a mist of touched tears when I read it through, recognizing such beauty and care in the response the author wrote. So, with Christmas a little over a month away and Black Friday, the season kick-off and cue for sheer insanity and greedy chaos to ensue just around the corner, I thought I'd post this as a reminder of innocence and beauty and faith.

"DEAR EDITOR: I am 8 years old. 
"Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. 
"Papa says, 'If you see it in THE SUN it's so.' 
"Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus?

"VIRGINIA O'HANLON.
"115 WEST NINETY-FIFTH STREET."

VIRGINIA, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except [what] they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's, are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.

Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no VIRGINIAS. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You may tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, VIRGINIA, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding. 

No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.

The Smell from the Fridge

We have been catering to this horrid stench coming from the refrigerator region for the last week. It began, as most things do, quite suddenly with just the slightest subtle bit of rancidness. Each day, I'd go through the remnants of leftovers, guessing at what might be causing the odor, throwing things out and flushing them down the garbage disposal. For the most part, I'd notice that the smell was gone until about twenty minutes later when I'd re-open the refrigerator, sniff the air and think, "Man. Seriously? What could it be?"

It got to the point that I was throwing things out that I'm not even sure were bad, but had no other choice. It was like sacrificing to the leftover Gods...and their hunger was insatiable. Something had to be causing it! There must be some way to relieve the scent.

We went home to Cape Girardeau this weekend and D left the "instructions note" on caring for the dogs, birds...etc...with a note that the weekend inhabitants could eat anything in the fridge. I "P.S.-ed" that everything smelled, but nothing was bad.

When we returned, none of the food had been touched and the scent was now lingering OUTSIDE of the refrigerator. So with a vengeance, I tore through the fridge again at 10:30 last night. D and I looked UNDER the fridge thinking maybe something had gone under it and died...nothing. 

"Maybe it's time to clean out the whole thing and just wipe it down all over," D suggested.

"I just did that last month," I groaned, removing beer bottles and condiments from the shelves, nosing around freshly purchased veggies and milk. "It's still clean!"

Then it happened: my hand landed on a ziploc bag with three lone brussel sprouts in it. We'd eaten these sprouts a week ago or so and I'd, clearly, forgotten about them since they got shoved off the back of a shelf and were dangling precariously between shelves. No wonder I didn't find them sooner! They'd hidden in the balance between levels of food and beer. Bastards!

It was with dread that I entered the kitchen this morning. D sat up on a stool at the breakfast bar reading his book beside the chirping birds. I faced him on the other side of the bar at the sink and filled up an oversized mug with black coffee. "Does it still smell in there?" I asked sipping at the scalding liquid. "I don't think," he said hesitantly, "But I'm stuffy." He referred to his allergicly reacting stuffy/runny nose.

Slowly, I opened the door to the fridge and took a deep breath. Finally! We have success!

So "Sunday Dinner" tonight will be odor free. More on Sunday dinner another time.

Thank you leftover Gods! It seems we have FINALLY reached their quota!

N

Whoops.

Dustin here.

A little follow-up to that last post. I didn't run away from home. I was just playing racquetball with our pal Robert Klick; I'd told Neesh about the plan, but forgot to tell her when, and apparently she didn't notice when I kissed her goodbye and slipped out that morning. That was totally my bad. Next time, I'll leave a note. Sorry for panicking everyone (especially you, Neesh)!

We're at It's a Grind cafe now. Neesh is writing and reading for comps. I'm writing a poem that I hope will make it into tomorrow's update at www.asininepoetry.com. Fun fact: Poetry was like, my specialty while I was in grad school at Southeast; since there was no nonfiction writing program there, it was all poetry and fiction workshops, all the time. So I know my way around a rondeau, but up in these here parts -- especially with only two allotted public readings in five years -- there's really no occasion for one such as me to put that out there. Besides, the poets here got that mess staked out hardcore like the Neil Armstrong's U.S. flag on the moon. They're all, like, yoink. 

But that's okay, because Neesh and I got somethin' in the pipe for the creative types in these parts whose voices maybe aren't getting heard so much. More on that as it develops. I'm stoked about it, though. I can tell you that much. 

Back to the matter at hand before they close and kick us out of here. Peace out until next time, loyal reader.

--D

Two Strange Occurrences at Piranha Court

The full first week of school is not yet under our belts (D teaches MWF so he still has tomorrow, and I teach today) and all kinds of strange things are happening. One-a student of mine missed the first day of class (he was the ONLY one to miss it). The class is for students majoring/minoring in English. He then wrote me an email claiming "scheduling conflicts." Out of curiosity, I facebook him (is "facebook" a legal verb yet?) and find out that his status claims he not ONLY missed class, but he missed the WINERY!!!, too. I planned to say nothing about it and just kindly point toward the attendance policy in my syllabus so he had an idea. D thought I should call him out. What can I say? I cave under peer pressure exerted by my husband, so I casually advised him, at the end of the informative email, to alter his facebook page to a more private state so his claims of having "scheduling conflicts" could be more believable. Followed by a "see you in class tomorrow!" I'm still not sure whether I actually WILL see him in class today.

When I woke up this morning, my husband was gone. Seriously. He still is, as a matter of fact. All of his things are here, though, and so are his running shoes so I have crossed "running" and "leaving me" off of the list. However, he's not in the house. I once woke up to find him gone and decided he must've gone out for something, but found he was really closed into another room whose door we usually keep shut. I checked those doors, though. And this time, he's really gone. I have faith he'll be back, even though he's not answer his phone. But where could he have been at 8am? Weird.

More to come on the first week of school sometime after I find my husband.

-N

The Demands of the Kitchen and Other Tales

When did I get so boring?

I have been toying with the Great Removal, as in, the Great Removal of my Myspace Page as I don't ever use it and it is kind of pointless to have that space on the internet devoted to me when I'm not devoted to it. However, it is home to my previous blogging. A blog that tells the story of a girl who came before me: confused, uncertain, depressed, seeking and falling frequently. It takes place in a mind that roams, is sometimes witty and, mostly, quite odd. I'm no longer that person, of which I'm glad, but I do appreciate some of her writing as it's really kind of quirky, engaging, and, at times, enlightening. So I made this attempt to copy/paste it all into a blog on here, but it's over 1mb (or something like that). Then I tried to save it in a document on my computer, but Word physically and flat-out refused to do it. As a last attempt, I emailed it to myself, but I'm not convinced it will ever see the light of day again if I keep it in my old email account. What to do with a past self? A blog that reveals a journey to the now? I don't know. Do you have any other ideas?

Other than reading books (they're for my exam, Kelly!) by the score, I have been drinking coffee like it keeps my heart pumping. D, God bless him, must find me even more boring than I find myself. Last night he tore out of the house to go see a movie that he KNEW was going to be bad, though I tell myself it was the company of his friends he was really interested in, not in parting ways from the Book-Eater that he's apparently married.

However, this alternate universe I'm living in has its own interesting moments. For example, the other day I looked across the room at Dustin sitting over in the kitchen. He was reading intently and, from where I sat, it looked as though he and his giant brick-colored coffee cup were floating. For a good hour, every time I glanced in his direction, the coffee cup appeared to be hovering near him, waiting for him to grab hold of it's handle and sip.

A spider crawled up to me while I was reading the other day and I would bet money it was the exact same spider I saw earlier in the week. On the first occasion, it was near Dustin who, I think, doesn't love spiders. Mostly the spider was yellow with a distinct black stripe on him. Not huge, but fuzzy-looking. I didn't get a chance to tell D about it before the spider scurried off and then reappeared, days later, beside me on the couch. For a minute, it was like me might saddle up and ask me how Mary Rowlandson's "Captivity" was going, but when I returned his attention, he took off in the other direction. I knew this wouldn't do either of us any good...all this running amok on the couch business, so I scooped him up using an envelop as a shovel. He ended up folded inside of the envelope and I set him free out on the patio, much do the dogs' dismay.

Lastly, all this reading has forced me to confront the issue of the paint on the walls of our home. The color is a greenish, but was supposed to be a yellowish, a mistake I've lamented since the day I moved in. I have never stopped wanting it to be yellow and so for the last four years, I've tried to ignore the proud green walls that stare me down from every direction and room. Once, I though I'd paint the study a deep burnt orangey-red. I haven't given up the idea, just haven't gotten around to it. But the kitchen is beginning to get awfully pushy about me painting it yellow. Do you know what that's like? First, the kitchen demanded a pot-holder that would dangle from the ceiling over the sink and breakfast. It kind of insists that the holder will bring a new artistic feel to the room. It has a point. Then, when I began to look around for such a piece, it began hinting at wanting a new color. Mostly this began last Sunday when Dustin, my most wonderful, thoughtful husband, brought me home a shock of yellow roses. I adore them and put them on the breakfast bar in the kitchen so I can see them from where I study. The kitchen has really become quite taken with them itself and now thinks it's THE color. I got some swatches when we bought a can crusher the other day. We, (Dustin and I) are discussing. The dogs don't like it as their hair will lay claim to the wet paint and we know it, but we're still turning the idea on its head to see if it takes or not. Mostly, we're just waiting to see if the kitchen backs off or stands its ground on the color change. You know how kitchens are.

This is what you get when you put a writer in a house and force her to read for weeks on end. Thankfully school starts next week and I'll finally be able to leave the house for a reason!

Otherwise, more to come.

N