Dearest friends, a change.

This blog has sadly been defunct for awhile–life happens, you know? Shit gets in the way. Given the times & climes though, I’ve been thinking more about writing again. No promises that it’s going to be a steady thing (I’m trying this new thing called, don’t make promises you can’t keep), but I’m going to try. (And, I have a few friends to blame/thank? who have asked me to start writing here again.)

However. This blog belongs to my high school / college-aged self. Very much so. So I’m turning over a new leaf, in honor of my professional lady self/being a grown-ass woman now. You can find me at:

https://amylizwritesblog.wordpress.com/

Nothing up yet, but I’ve had a few new ideas brewing.

Thank you all for reading, always. I never thought I would have *gulp* 700 followers on a blog (literally, HOW), or people who liked my writing enough to ask me to keep going.

Onwards, as my boss says!

Leave-Taking Gifts

It is once again, the leave-taking time.

I’ve been running thoughts of restarting this blog (haphazardly, none too dedicated) as a space to clear out my mind. No social media sharing, just a blank space where I’m not pressured to think much about line breaks or form or coherence. Sometimes a writer needs a space like that. Someone I don’t know also recently gave me the nicest compliment-she asked when I was going to start writing again, because she really enjoyed this blog. I’m glad (and a bit surprised) someone enjoys my personal musings!

But here we are. So much has changed in the last year. I’m about to graduate from what is often known as “the best four years of my life,” although a professor recently told me she wasn’t sure they were the best years of her life, but perhaps the most fun. The time to do things with abandon, where you can sit on your porch drinking wine at 2 p.m., or jump in the Main Street fountain or stay up late watching Harry Potter with the six other girls you live with. A time when you live with your closest friends in a small bubble called “college.”

**

i’m trying to de-clutter. I’m moving to NYC in about a month (O, the terror, the elation, the not-quite-believing!) and know that about three-quarters of this shtuff can’t come with me. Most of it has to go. Preferably not into boxes that I’ll open once in the next five years. It’s hard-I get attached to things. My clothes, my books, the small mementoes people give me and I can’t bring myself to throw away.

This actually led me to tonight’s post. I reached for a medium sized square box that has been sitting on top of my overflowing jewelry box case for a year. I’ve carried this battered thing with me for five years now. I know precisely what it is (the contents were a little more debatable: two magnets, a flash drive, a Panera’s discount card, a mini flashlight, a Birchbox ad, three nose rings, etc.,). The box was given to me by a friend as a going away gift before I left Germany.

I am sad to say I didn’t think much of it at the time. I also was not as kind to this friend as I would have liked. I made him nervous, I think, and his nervousness made me nervous. I think he liked me and that made it ten times worse (at twenty-two, I am still horribly and undeniably awkward around people who I suspect like me in a romantic sense. It is a strange and drunken wonder that I’m currently in a long-term relationship). He was terribly sweet–took me to my first concert in Germany, walked me around school the first week, gave me countless thoughtful little gifts. But I didn’t know how to behave around him and so I tended to shy away from him. I had other things to do, other people to see, and one tall and dashingly handsome boy (think your classic European male) that I was chasing (that one didn’t work out, predictably).

In other words, I thanked him for his gift and didn’t look much at it after that. The gift itself was a medium square box, wrapped in sticky black tape. On the front is pasted a picture of the woods behind my first host family’s house and the caption “Leave the suburbs behind. The Goodbye.”

As I pawed through all the crap I’d tossed in the box over the last four years, I discovered the actual git. A series of Polaroids he had taken and captioned himself. With five years of hindsight, I realized that these were all places we had been together, places that probably held much more special meaning for him than at me.

**

There are eighteen photos. They span from the woods in my backyard to the red light district of Hamburg. My host family had put a swing between two large trees in the woods and he took a picture of that titled “Memory.” Another picture: the bunker turned music store that we had visited with another friend, flipping through old records in a mish mash of broken German and fragmented English. This picture is titled “Oasis.” Another, simple in sepia colors: a sign reading Große Freiheit 37–where we went to the Wir Sind Helden concert during one of my first months in Germany. He has titled that one “Punch-Drunk Love.”

I have no idea how long it took him to take these photos, develop them, edit them, and assemble this. It’s a massive effort and one that quite frankly, is heartbreaking to me, five years later, knowing how unkind I was. It comes with the stunning realization that a boy I thought knew me very little actually knew me very well. Knew the songs I loved and places I’d fallen in love with and my need for photographs, for the tangible. I messaged him on Facebook to tell him (five years too late?) how much his gift meant to me. His handwritten note is still in the box as well. He signed it, Yours faithfully V. I wish I could say I had responded in turn.

**

The picture he drew on the inside cover of the box is of a girl surrounded by trees, her back to the viewer. She’s staring at the collection of tall buildings in front of her. Country girl to the city. One arm is crooked as if she’s about to start a race or a step forward. She looks vulnerable, brave. More ready than I feel. In bolded turquoise letters under the girl, the words “Take care” are underlined several times.

It is leave-taking time. And this, I think, is a reminder to myself to be kinder, to believe that people know me better than I deserve sometimes, to say thank you to the friends we have.

“We Will All Be Changed”: Last Night Songs & Sentimentality

I get sentimental at night.

I’ve had lines from Sara Bareilles’s song “Breathe Again” threading through my mind throughout the day (“Car is parked, bags are packed/but what kind of heart doesn’t look back?”). The night before any new move (whether to a foreign country, back to college, vacation), all my childhood seems to twinge reminders into my heart about what I’m leaving. No matter how desperate I’ve been to get away from my parents, my tiny town, the monotony of a summer job routine, the night before, everything settles into a kind of dusky already-missing. I think it’s partly due to the fact that during these moments, I see how quietly proud my parents are of me, which just wrecks me every time.

But it’s been a lovely last week home. At the beginning of the week, twelve or thirteen of us from high school all got together at a friend’s house, out in the country. There is something about driving down empty, winding gray roads lined with trees & fields & the sun beginning to set behind you that makes me feel like everything is right in the world. The fullness & contentedness of the moment is precious to me. Everyone brought a dish to pass & beer & it was the perfect night to cram onto the deck & barbecue & drink & make cracks at each other from high school. We’re like family now. We feasted (grilled clams, shrimp, jalapeno poppers, steak, pork chops, potato, pasta, fruit, & green salads, & more!) & caught up & met significant others & gossiped about what our classmates were up to these days. Bullfrogs croaked their own conversations in the mirror-round pond a few feet away & when we made a bonfire, the smoke backdropped against the mountains & close-set trees. We set off fireworks with first a 66% success rate, then a 50% success rate, & then we stopped trying altogether. I drove home with a friend around 11, sleepy & sober, with smiles lanterning my entire inside.

Second summer bonfire of the season!

This morning, I got up at 6:45 am to go on a super early morning hike (a last adventure!) with a dear friend. She had called the previous night, asking if 8:00 am (& then 7:30) was too early. I’m realizing I like the early morning more & more, so I said that was fine (my 6:45 am self did not immediately agree with last night self’s assessment of that). At any rate, once I’m up, I’m up, so I ran over to her house & then we took about a 5 mile round trip hike up to Star Field, which I’d actually never been to. We took Oscar, her large, joyous Labradoodle, who set to chasing chipmunks & other various wildlife once Anna let him off the leash. The hike is mostly straight uphill on your way to Star Field, up a rather vertical road & then through the woods. 

Oscar in question. 

Naturally, as we worked our way up the hill, we panted out (okay, it was mostly me huffing) feminist discourse, book suggestions, gender/race discussions, & the usual things we usually talk about when we get together. Also lighter things, like laughing at Oscar & getting enthusiastically greeted by a hulking chocolate Lab & his owner, another early morning hiker like us. The view when you clear the woods is breathtaking:

And it just gets better when you walk down the hill & face toward town:

I dropped by her house for a cup of coffee afterward, greeted her father & watched her make muffins. There’s a certain comfort to being in a familiar kitchen & her kitchen is everything that I think of when I think of Cooperstown, with an earthy organic & elegantly functional feel to it. I took the long way home, down Brooklyn Ave., to be in the middle of a road that has wildflower fields bordering both sides of it. I’ve been soaking in wildflower fields & stars lately, thinking I won’t get many of those where I’m going.

My aunt dropped by after dinner & we promised to write letters to each other & my parents said that they would write back if I wrote. I can think of nothing better than handwritten correspondence from my parents (as something to treasure both now & in the future). I finished packing & cleaning & brought everything out to the car & there was an air of finality to shutting the trunk & turning back to face our candleglow house, with my parents’ figures only dimly visible in the dining room & the two cats milling about the steps of the deck.

My friend Alexandria sent me a song today–an “I love you, safe travels” song & I think I’ll close with lines from it & a link:

And we will all be changed/Oh, oh, oh, oh— /Oh, oh, oh, oh—/Speak now don’t carry on like it’s /Always gonna be/Hold child this expectation /But don’t forget to love /We can shape but can’t control/These possibilities to grow.

I’m ready to take NYC by storm–to see how these possibilities to grow will make me grow & shift & put down roots in sidewalk pavement. A writer friend recently asked in a letter what things we would write down to make sure we don’t forget later: I am writing down this expectation & this rollercoaster thrill & all this love, brimming, brimming all around me.  I will be changed.

Lucky-Penny Blessed & Apple-Blossom Bursting

My heart has been apple-blossom bursting right along with all the rest of the spring flowers this month.

Spring is always a signifier of goodness barreling down a dirt road to bowl me over with warm breeze happiness & a sunshiney temperament. This spring though, the goodness has been overwhelming. Everyone remarked on what a long winter it had been & how ready they were for spring. I always rabbit-hole into myself during the winter & this one was no different (but tempered by a beautiful close-knit group of friends & professors, good food, & poems). Still & all: warm temperatures & hints of sun were a blessing to breathe in.

I feel like I’ve just been spinning in a dizzyingly vibrant & merry vortex, stretching out my hands to collapse all the good into myself–saving up for winter months ahead. I will be in NYC this summer (follow my NYC blog to keep up-to-date on adventures!) interning at a literary agency, something that felt planets away last summer. Last July I informed my parents that this was my last summer home & proceeded to pack the entirety of my high school room up & tetris it into my mom’s art studio. I reflected on how easy it was to consolidate a life into cardboard & plastic & left for junior year empty-shouldered & terrifyingly free. I had, of course, no idea how I was going to manage not coming home next summer. I was thinking loosely about moving to NYC but had no idea how finances would work out. But here’s the funny twists of the universe: it worked. One of my friends wrote to me this summer about employing the idea of “thoughtful recklessness,” quoting something one of her professors had said. There are moments when it is impossible to do anything but shut your eyes & leap, praying that someone or something will catch you, that the universe has decided to safety-net you. I have noticed a strange & beautiful pattern in my life: for all my worrying & nail-biting & journal angsting & midnight sobbing that precedes an act of thoughtful recklessness, things work out. 

Paying for senior year was like a screw turning at a bad angle in the back of my mind, especially upon finding out that I wasn’t going to get a college-wide scholarship from the Geneseo Foundation for next year–money is tight everywhere. I was blowing my savings on this city summer & already trying to put a good spin on finances for my mom, just to avoid tongue-clicking & worried eyes about going deeper into college debt. But then: a scholarship from the English department for a substantial amount, because God bless my mentor, who had taken time out of her crampacked schedule to nominate me, knowing my financial difficulties. I think I teared up when I got that email, pressed my hands to my mouth in overwhelmed gratitude & stared in shock. It’s not covering everything, but it’s helping so much. Every little bit helps.

Frantic poem submissions in mid-March flowered open to inform me in May that all three of my poems had been accepted for next March’s issue of The Susquehanna Review, an international undergraduate literary magazine. All three. It was another hands-to-mouth moment & feeling like a million balloons were swelling inside me.

And then, like a final flourish on a four-tiered wedding cake: a heart-soaring boy dropped into my life by casually dropping into a seat across from me at a Starbucks table. A surprise so strange & lovely I still don’t quite believe I get to call him every night & share a part of his intricate & new world.

It’s been a spring of surprises & feeling lucky-penny blessed. I described junior year as a wildfire: chaotic, warm, encouraging new growth, something overwhelming & beautiful. I am thrill-scared, like I’m waiting at the top of a rollercoaster to plummet into the new things waiting, thinking about rolling more of my life into suitcases & wandering down city streets with wide eyes & open hands. Thinking also about the people I have yet to meet–invitations into complex & thrumming life stories, paths winding together for awhile–the words waiting to be discovered in sidewalk cracks, subway performers, a summer downpour, the swelter of summer heat & a six-story walk-up apartment, in getting lost & becoming found. I envision myself at this crossroads, touching hands with a multitude of people & trying to choose which path to walk.

Spreading my fingers wide today to send my love to everyone who holds a piece of my heart in their hands. I couldn’t do any of this without you.

Reflections over 10:30 p.m. Dinner

It’s 10:36 p.m., and I’m standing in my kitchen at college, holding a lukewarm mug of tea in one hand and stirring pasta with the other. College dinner at a college time. My mother’s old sweater is thrown over running shorts and leggings and my hair is still too short to braid, but long enough that I’ve started bundling it up in ponytails out of annoyance.

I’m taking a break from writing a reader’s report for an internship application to actually eat dinner, while my housemate hollows out a dozen limes in our living room for a fancy drink she’s making. I won’t be in bed until at least 1 am. So much for early bedtimes. Like usual, I’m splitting my time: running back and forth from kitchen to bedroom to stir pasta and type a few more sentences of this post. I notice a bottle of cheap vodka on our kitchen counter, next to our hot pot.

“Is someone doing shots?” I ask my housemate, running fingers through my hair and pulling more hair from the loose braid. Dammit, I need a haircut. I glance at the clock. “I mean, it’s 10—it’s Thursday—” It wouldn’t entirely surprise me.

“No,” she says, laughing. “I’m making jello shots for my date party tomorrow.”

I woke up from an 8:30 p.m. nap groggy and already overwhelmed by the stack of short stories on my floor, my half-read reader’s report book, emails that needed to be answered, the three text messages beeping insistently next to my head. I considered turning my phone off for the night. It’s a week where I don’t want much to talk to anyone—a week full of ups and downs, all blurring together like a merry-go-round that’s gone too fast.

We’re all in deep mourning, I guess, for a wonderful, life-changing professor who is leaving us at the end of the semester. It’s a lengthy and complicated story and not precisely mine to tell. But I’ve remembered waking up every morning this week, often from stress dreams about her, our department, the entire shebang. Winter is clinging insistently, stubbornly, to the landscape of this tiny Upstate New York town, and I want spring so badly that I went running today. 28 degrees felt warm and the sky was October blue. Good enough. I ache already, but I have a sneaking suspicion I also run for punishment, to feel some kind of physical response, some kind of burn after I finish.

My phone bleeps again. I mute it without looking. I can’t take care of one more person today. I can’t think of anyone but myself this week. Selfish, selfish, selfish, the conscience that lives under my breastbone sings. Selfish girl, bad girl, be kind to other people.

My mentor looked at me across her desk on Monday, with concern etched into her face, as I sat sniveling into a wadded ball of tissues.

“Be kind to yourself,” she said, in a way that only made me cry harder. “Don’t forget to be kind to yourself, Amy.”

Inside, I whispered Thank you, thank you, but out loud I said, “I know—I’m trying. I’m trying.”

I’m not sure if she believed me. I’m not sure if I believe me.

As is their right, my internship team wants things written up, layouts done, I work thirteen and a half hours a week, I have assignments due for classes, I’ve assigned myself internship applications, organizing various projects, submitting my work to journals, the list goes on.

“Amy,” one of my bosses said to me today, looking up from her desk as I dropped off mail, “I just wanted to tell you—if I ever have a daughter, I hope she’s exactly like you.”

I blushed and stammered, flattered and lost for words. I don’t know her quite as well as I know some of my other bosses, but we always smile and say hello in the hallway and ask how each other’s days are going. I’ve done a few small projects for her, but nothing huge.

“Thank you,” I say finally. “That’s so nice, thank you.”

“I told my husband that last night,” she said, “and I thought I should tell you. You’re always so put together and professional.”

I try to remember compliments like that when I’m making spaghetti at 10:30 p.m., getting anxious about how messy my room and all the things I haven’t done yet.

Breathe. Relax. It’s going to be okay.

My mom called this morning, at 7:30 a.m., which made me panic when I got it at 8:10, tucking the phone under my chin so I can hop on one leg to put my boots on. I’m going to be late for class, I’m going to be late for class. Shit. Shit.  My parents never call—not because they don’t worry an unreasonable amount, but because they have a very hands-off policy now that I’m out of the house. A year abroad in a foreign country between high school and college worked wonders in terms of expanding the parent-child relationship. But because they never call, I worry when they do. My mind skyrockets to a death in the family, another announcement of cancer, Sweet Jesus, what’s happened now, please don’t let it be anything too bad.

“Hi honey! Did you get my message?”

There was a message?

 “Uh, no, I saw you called—” I’m about to tell her I’m dashing out the door, as I wriggle, one-armed, into my coat. “Why, what’s up?”

“Uncle Dick’s going into the hospital today, I just wanted to call and let you know.”

I forget that I’m going to be late for class. “Wait, what, why?”

“Oh, heart surgery. I called him last night—you know Sue, she’s frantic, but Uncle Dick just laughed and said ‘Well, I’m on my fourth beer and we had steak for dinner tonight.’” Typical Great-Uncle Dick. Typical Great-Aunt Sue. I can just imagine my birdlike great-aunt fluttering nervously around her well built husband, who just turned 80, talking a mile a minute in her thick Boston accent. We share a birthday, Uncle Dick and I, and he called me on our birthday to pass me off to 17 members of our extended family, most of whom I’d only met this past summer. Second cousins, once removed, the McSorley family, on my grandmother’s side.

“Okay, but it’s a routine surgery, right? Like—nothing can really go wrong?” My voice rises at the end, as I stuff my keys, cell phone, and lipstick into my pocket.

A painful memory stabs hard in the chest: My grandfather was in the hospital for a broken hip and the day after we saw him, he was gone. Anything can happen.

It’s too early to be grieving. Jesus fucking Christ, I have been grieving all week, for someone who isn’t even dead. Enough. Enough.

“I mean, there’s always some risk.” My mother sounds cautious. “Uncle Dick’s 80, you know. But it’s pretty routine, yes.”

“Okay, will you let me know what happens?” I collect my water bottle and jar of Earl Grey tea, glancing at the clock again. 8:21 a.m.

“Yeah, I’m going to call him tonight.”

“Okay, well I don’t get out of class, meetings, or work until 5 pm. But I’ll leave my phone on for you.”

“Sounds good. Love you. Have a good day.”

I don’t turn my phone off after my nap, just in case. She hasn’t called yet. I’m operating on the assumption that no news is good news.

It’s 11:02 p.m., and I’m doing this instead of writing that goddamn reader’s report. I’m half tempted to scrap it and just not apply, but I know I’ll hate myself on Saturday if I don’t. The chances of me getting anything from them aren’t good—I mean, I’m submitting my application on the date it closes. How does that look? Pretty shitty. But why not try?

Tomorrow is Friday. There’s always the promise of a new week dawning. The promise of a Monday to make myself into a better, more tolerant, kindhearted person, who isn’t itching with stress, feelings of inadequacy, impatience, with a healthy dose of hormones whomped in there. When I say TGIF to my co-workers tomorrow, we’ll all sigh with relief and think what the weekend means to us. Maybe I’ll sleep. Maybe I’ll spend all of Saturday in bed finishing up business with tea. Maybe I’ll write some poetry and clear some of that raging in my head, or go for a run, because it’s supposed to be warm.

I’m reminded of a particular few lines from one of Anna Journey’s poems (“Letter to the City Bayou by Its Sign: Beware Alligators”):

“I’m made//of so many girls I can’t get them all/drunk at once or they’d mutiny.”

I half suspect they’ve been sneaking bourbon behind my back.

Are we adults?

As well as pretending that I’m actually a lady (the kind that crosses her legs when wearing a dress and doesn’t fart, burp, or swear in public, and sips from her wine glass daintily), I also pretend to adult really well. Like, this morning: I got up, made waffles and coffee for myself and a friend, did dishes, revamped my resumé, cleaned up my email inbox, proofed a friend’s resumé, put away laundry, cleaned my room, and updated my calendar. I have a frittata and a bean salad in the fridge for dinner tonight, giant Mikasa wine goblets under my bed, and a nice bottle of Chianti on my counter. To all appearances, I’m adulting really well. And then we consider where I am right now: still in bed, unshowered, with glasses on, and wearing a gigantic old man sweater I found at my local thrift store, and seriously debating whether or not getting out of bed again today is worth the pain (I went for the first run of the season yesterday and my body is yelling STUPID STUPID STUPID at me, every time I so much as twitch).

Actually, I’ve spent most of this weekend in not real person clothes and glasses, because a) I’m one of two people in my house right now, b) it’s the weekend, and c) I wear business casual all week for work and my slobby side is crying for sweatpants around 4 p.m. every day. Also, my brain has been operating on insane levels of FUTURE PLANNING all weekend and I tend to have my most creative time in bed with pajamas on. There’s also a whole list of things that have been grabbing for my attention all week and I’ve been too tired/lazy/otherwise engaged, to get to them. (I have about seven or eight articles that have yet to be edited for a journal and a scholarship application and multiple cover letters going “Please love me and hire meeee for the summerrrr because I can’t be at home again and I need job experience so please think I’m awesome and great and shit kthanxbai”.)

I changed my Mac language to German yesterday because I need more practice, something glaringly unavoidable after a two hour Skype date with my friend in Germany yesterday. Hey Self, I said. Yikes, you’re out of practice. Little did I know that my Mac changes things like webpages and surveys to German as well. So that’s been fun. And the week is getting better: I’m not ragingly angry more and I’ve stopped banging pots and I finally finished all that mac and cheese up. A ton of my friends come back this week. I had a lovely evening last night with a good friend, over frittata and Pinot Grigio, and a fuzzy blue blanket. I think I’ve hit upon the answer to the Great Mystery (aka: what I want to do with my life). It feels settled and snug around my bones, a good gut feeling. Like the universe is saying, Yes. Yes, this is right. A feeling I got when I applied to Rotary and a feeling I got when I left the United States for a year abroad in Germany. And a feeling I got after having spent a night sobbing in my host family’s bathtub, which ended in me withdrawing from my beautiful, expensive, first-choice college, and sending in my application to Geneseo. There’s something about having your bones feel comfortable.

I was talking to my friend last night and we were talking about how the older you get, the more you realize that adults have none of their shit together. Fake it til you make it, is basically the motto. It’s kind of terrifying, because I’m aware my younger cousins think I’m sort of superwoman. I’m the impossibly old twenty-one year old who is moving out of her house and is 99% financially independent and I’m the shit to them. To which I laugh hysterically, start crying about my future, and then start laughing again at the thought of me being an adult, and try to stop before anyone sees me and actually decides it’s really in my best interests to commit me to an insane asylum. I assume most of our parents have also done the same thing, but when you’re five or six or even ten or eleven, your parents are heaven and earth and they can do anything. My mom keeps remarking on how much people mellow with age (she’s one of eight volatile siblings and I can only imagine their house growing up), and the more I think about it and talk to post-graduate friends, the more I think she’s right. We’re so uptight and tense about stuff in high school and even in college, but then somewhere along the way, the stuff that drove us absolutely fucking nuts and the people we wanted to throw out a window turn out to be kind of okay. Or at least you’re happy to see them when they come visit for a brief period of time.  OR you learn that the people who turned out to be not okay at all need to be out of your life for good. And you swing that door shut with a resounding bang and are maybe sad for awhile, because cutting people out of your life is sad; drawing a big black X over all that history and shared time is hard. But it’s necessary. It’s important to surround yourself with people who make you happy, who make you your best self, and who value you as much as you deserve. Big things happen–parents die, friends get married, someone loses their job, other various personal tragedies– and the little things like people leaving milk on the counter or not putting the toilet seat down truly become little. Perspective, you know? In high school, there’s this incredible standard that “friends don’t talk behind each other’s backs” but here’s the thing: everyone talks behind each other’s backs. And there’s a line between trash-talking or talking maliciously and viciously about someone with the intent that it gets back to them or with the intent to ruin someone’s reputation or malign someone’s character, and discussing mutual concerns, seeking advice, or getting something off your chest in a productive way. All of our friends, no matter how dearly we love them, have small things that drive us bonkers. My friend and I were talking about this whole thing and I know some people are going to say “Well you shouldn’t talk about people behind their backs, period,” but realistically? Those people have probably done that at some point in their life, intentionally or unintentionally. But there’s the difference between doing it with the intent to hurt and doing it for a more productive purpose. I’ve been reminded of Cheryl Strayed’s marvelous piece on this a lot lately. You can find it here. (Also I still maintain that everyone should read Cheryl Strayed’s Tiny Beautiful Things, because it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve read so far in the new year.)

I’m not sure where this whole blog post was going. Spending a week alone (or almost alone) has been good for hashing out a lot of future plans/thinking about priorities, and cooking good food. I’ve been lighting candles and singing alone in my room, and spending time in bed. Haven’t seen many people and that’s okay. Taking some slow days just for me. I went for a run yesterday around 3 p.m., just as the sun was starting its downward descent. There’s one hill where you can see this gorgeous view of the Genesee Valley and the sun was all goldy-red fingers streaking down across the gray winter sky and because classes haven’t started yet, there’s no one around. I had the campus all to myself. After a week of sitting at a computer 8-4 and the whole polar vortex thing, being out in the fresh air, moving in 40 degree temperatures was like having a little piece of heaven all to myself. I need that. I need that space and that quiet and that burn in my lungs. I came home and spread-eagled in the middle of my living room floor and tried to remember how to breathe properly. Reflected that our carpet could use a good vacuuming.

The craziness starts back up next week. Everyone floods back into Geneseo, classes begin, and Spring 2014 begins in earnest. Trying to get all my ducks in a row before the semester starts. A little bit of early spring-cleaning.

Stephen Elliott sent out A Daily Rumpus email a couple of days ago titled “You will probably fall for someone who loves you”, and I think I want to write a poem with that title. I haven’t been doing a lot of creative writing lately, which is sad. But hopefully as the semester begins, I’ll start writing more again.

I saw this quote on Tumblr that I feel is pretty applicable to everything in this post. Someone asked their roommate “Are we adults?” and the roommate’s response was this:

“We’re adults, but, like…adult cats. Someone should probably take care of us, but we can sort of make it on our own.”

Accurate and awesome.

Also, if you want to find me on Tumblr, click here. I reblog a lot of writing quotes and artsy fartsy pictures, the occasional selfie, the wardrobe I want, pretty flowers and lots of wordy shit.

-15 With Candles Lit

I spent my last night at home driving home slowly, taking all the back roads. The radio volume was up 10 notches higher than my mother likes it and I was singing along, tapping the heel of my hand on the steering wheel. The noise and brightness of the restaurant were fading into the snowbanks on either side of me. I’ve been having a hard time figuring out time lately. Somehow the stillness and the dark made it less irrelevant. The songs on the radio sounded like they had a direct wire to my brain. I kept switching back and forth between stations–some songs hurt enough you can’t listen to more than a few bars. I fishtailed going up the hospital hill, swore, caught my breath and control, and went a little slower. Leaving always has been such a tragedy for me. It always means turning down another road before I go home, doing another loop before I turn off the radio and resign myself to pulling in the driveway. The lights at the gym shone a bright square as I came down the hill towards my house. This might be my last Christmas at this house; we have potential buyers coming on Wednesday. Part of me tries to not think about it too much. Part of me is already reaching out to the change.

I had just come from a small restaurant in my hometown, surrounded by my aunt and five cousins. Tomorrow I’d be back at college and in two weeks, they’d be flying back to Australia. I hadn’t seen them in two years. My fifteen-year old cousin is taller than I am, by a good six inches. He’s into surfing and good music and a sweetheart of a kid. My thirteen year old cousin is turning into the kind of young woman who’s going to turn heads, with a kind soul, and starry gray eyes. It’s been fun to hang out with her, to have chats, like big sister to little sister. My eleven year old cousin is the sensitive one of the family, content to curl up in the corner with a National Geographic, and an avid outdoorsman. The nine year old is a terror, with a penchant for blowing stories wildly out of proportion and a completely innocent look that swears they’re 100% true. And my five year old godson is feisty and independent. His lack of one arm doesn’t hinder him in the least and he’s the craziest of the bunch. I feel like I’ve just got back into knowing them and now they’re leaving again. I don’t know when they’re coming back.

Tonight, I banged around the kitchen, on the phone with various people, trying not to wallow in my empty house like I did last night, tucked up under blankets with How I Met Your Mother and tea. It’s all about keeping your hands busy, trying not to listen for the rhythm in the shrieking wind, turning on the porch light to say “Welcome home.” So I stirred cheese sauce for homemade macaroni and shouted on the phone and forgot to preheat the oven before everything was done, and there was a pause between conversations. I turned Anna Nalick off, turned on Grace Potter and the Nocturnals. Threw my phone onto the couch and made tuna salad. Worried about all the things I had to do that I couldn’t face just yet. Drained the pasta, answered the cheerful ringtone and paced the floor. Being home alone is not always the best thing for an unquiet mind. I washed the dishes, dragged out the blanket my mother made in the 1970’s, and looked at the list of movies I had to watch. Settled on Lost in Translation, with a quieter, more melancholy Scarlett Johannson and a serious Bill Murray. My mother called as I was dialing my home phone. It’s like she has a sixth sense. I was on my second bowl of macaroni. Trying to eat a 9 x 13 pan of comfort food by yourself is also lonely. I like to cook for other people, communal meals, and I forget how to cook for just me. I forget how to do a lot of things for just me. In the last two days by myself, I’ve been talking a lot more on the phone. The house is too quiet on winter nights. I think I could live by myself in the summer, with long-fingered days and balmy nights. But winter nights are too harsh and solitary to spend alone.

It’s like everywhere I look, I see pieces of people. Of a person. Like everything in my life is linked to some common experience, some shared memory, tied to some person. Maybe that’s why leaving is so hard for me–you can’t just snip people out of your life as easily as you’d like to. Four years later, there’s still songs that reminds me of someone I used to love. And there’s scents tied up in there too. What do you do with a great boundless love that can’t help but spread from your fingertips, make new constellations in your eyes, and squeeze your heart so hard it runs dry? And what you do with the ghosts in your closet, moaning through your silken scarves, and histories you’ve buried underneath mismatched pairs of socks, and all the songs you can’t listen to anymore? And what happens on a Monday night when you’re listening to “Sweet Winter Songs” on Spotify (which is a great playlist, by the way), and watching the candles you lit three hours ago burn down to nubs, and trying to make sense of the roaring chaos fire in your head?

Well I guess my solution was to write. And have a melancholy night, huddled up against the -15 degrees outside, wrapped in something my mother made. To make tea, just for myself. To reclaim all the cluttered space in my mind, just for myself. I guess it’s just a day of “having the mean reds”, because I’m in my 20’s and I feel like that’s common, but also because I’m human, and we’re all scared of something–even if we don’t know what it is yet.

I’m trying to be better at watching movies. Trying to get lost in other people’s stories to maybe find a little insight in mine.

On Letterwriting & Why We Should Do It

Yesterday at work, I was sitting at my boss’s desk trying to make labels for the new items that had just been delivered to the store. Luckily, the POS system was as easy as my boss had made it look in the five minutes before she dashed off to her other job. Skimming her desk for a pen, the packing list, and scrap paper, I was surprised to find a small pale pink note card with a bird on the front—my note card, in fact. A thank you note I’d written her two summers ago after receiving my final paycheck and an unexpected gift in the mail upon returning to college. I was surprised she’d kept it. I mean, yes while  I keep every written thing I’ve gotten ever, I know not everyone does. My mother looked at my mountains of paper with disgust and the very practical view of cleaning out and decluttering and not being so sentimental about notes I passed in eighth grade to my best friend when bored in Biology class.. (However, she may be onto something–my hoarding nature was also a source of my disgust this summer when I was cleaning out my room and dumped what was probably the equivalent of three full grown trees into our recycling bin.)

The funny thing is, I’ve noticed my notes popping back up to blink knowingly at me from their spots on desks, walls, or tables. While talking to one of my professors, I noticed my pale blue birdie card perched against a can of pens. I’d given it to her last winter for Christmas. One of my bosses tacked my thank you note up on her desk, next to other little cards she’d received. I find myself wondering: are these little things so rare that people feel like they have to keep them when they’re received? I realize that for a 21-year old, I receive a staggering amount of mail. Having been home for four days, I have five letters on my desk and have sent out three. I have a good six inch stack of letters received since May on top of my printer at school. At work, one lady caught me in the middle of a heartfelt six-page letter to someone I’ve never met (everyone should go check out The Rumpus’s Letters in the Mail; it’s fantastic). I was telling Ray Shea about what it was like to be in your twenties, how we deal with death and sadness, and apologizing for being kind of a bitch in my last letter–I didn’t realize I was in the throes of Seasonal Affective Disorder, and I was generally kind of nasty to everyone between October-November, including myself. Six pages to a writer who lives in Texas who wrote eight pages to countless people about his dad dying and steel shutters rolling up inside him to keep him from crying. And admitting he’s scared–that’s a big thing, to admit you’re afraid of something. I think that’s the beauty of letter-writing: being able to admit things on paper you might not tell people in conversation.

One of my friends who I consistently write to–she lives in California these days–told me that in writing to me, she often works things out in her own head. I agree. I write about scary future things, like MFA programs and trying to throw myself into what I love even though there are days I seriously contemplate my cardboard box future and question my sanity. And in writing to my California friend, I block out step-by-step ways I can deal with this overwhelming anxiety about “THE FUTURE”. She writes me her frustration with her college and the way institutions run things, and I want to tell her how big and beautiful her spirit is, and how I know she is going to change the world. I have lots of friends who I think are going to change the world. I end every letter telling her how proud I am of her–I think everyone needs to hear that more–and that I miss her. I write other friends about my complicated love infinity symbols, where there’s so much love getting all caught and confused in the loops and somehow in writing to these people, I understand where it’s all supposed to go. I write very haltingly in German and try to envision my friends there moving on without me, moving on in their own lives, and I get a little sad. But we keep writing and we keep promising Skype dates, even though we’re fantastically bad at keeping those promises.

When I was still in elementary school and living in Maryland, my very best best best friend moved to New York. Lockport, NY. I don’t remember exactly how old I was–maybe, seven, eight? But to a seven or eight year old, Lockport, NY was three planets away. She wrote me countless letters, trying to keep our friendship afloat. I will admit: I sucked. I was the worst at writing back. (This was also about the time my mother was trying to impress upon me the importance of writing letters/writing thank-you  notes, and in true bratty kid fashion, I balked. I threw tantrums, I sulked, I refused to sit down and write thank you notes, and my poor dear friend went for months without hearing from me.) We didn’t talk for awhile–not because we had a falling out, simply because I was not interested in writing letters and she (rightly so) gave up. Our families exchanged Christmas cards & a newsy Christmas letter every year, but that was about the extent of it.

“Don’t you ever talk to Anna anymore?” my mom would sigh.

I would shrug and tell her we fell out of touch.

In eighth grade, my family moved to New York. Anna and I found each other on Facebook some years later, in our teens, and started reconnecting again. I went to Germany and realized how amazing getting a handwritten letter was. And then I started writing to Anna. And like she always had, she wrote back. We got the opportunity to meet up last winter, after having not seen each other in eight years. We shrieked and hugged and danced in the snow and looked at each other and shrieked some more and caught up on the last eight years of our lives. Our moms were still parenting about the same. We’d both had a wild phase (kind of). We were still childhood friends, with the kind of relationship that could bounce back after intermittent correspondence and eight years apart. 

I have three boxes of letters stashed away in plastic boxes in my mom’s art studio. I’m keeping them for me, but also for my future kids. I don’t know if they’ll have any interest in reading their mom’s old letters to friends, but I’ve always been interested in family history, in things that were happening in my mom and dad’s generation, and in the kind of the people they were in their teens, twenties, thirties. And it’s wonderful to get something other than bills or junk mail in your mailbox. A letter always brightens my day–it’s a labor of love. Someone took the time to sit their ass down and scratch out 1-11 pages (the longest letter I’ve written was 12 pages?) to you. And seeing their handwriting on the page makes it all the more beautiful. When one of my best friend’s and I were abroad–she in Belgium, I in Germany– and sometimes feeling lost, as one is wont to occasionally feel in a foreign country, we swapped the occasional letter and Christmas cards. Every time I saw her loopy handwriting on an envelope, we were back drawing silly cartoons in Anatomy & Physiology senior year. I was comforted and I was not alone.

I joke that I am trying to singlehandedly keep our postal system afloat. I moan about the rising price of stamps and one of my housemates recently remarked that “The world would end if you didn’t have stamps on you”–which she very conveniently needed. In our world of texting and emailing and chatting and messaging, a personal touch is often lacking. I found out people love getting things in the mail. I’ve gotten some of my friends into letter-writing. And this is why things like The Rumpus’s Letters in the Mail and The World Needs More Love Letters are so kickass. Try writing a letter to someone this month–it’s the holiday season, after all! Maybe family, friends, someone you see every day at the office, or someone you fell out of touch with over the years. Sometimes writing to other people presents us with clarity in our own lives. And, of course, if you want to write to me, let me know! (There’s a comment box-y thing that WordPress calls a “contact form” at the bottom of this post for your convenience.)  I’ll always write back. That’s a promise I can safely make now.

Also, totally off topic: everyone should read Cheryl Strayed’s new book Tiny, Beautiful Things. It’s magical and human and heartbreaking and I can’t stop calling people “sweet pea” now.

Merry Christmas or Happy Chanukah or Happy Holidays, dear readers! Here’s my Christmas wish for you: that your holiday season is well and blessed and full of light and things that make you smile.

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Thankful (for being home & other things)–Happy Thanksgiving.

There is something rather blessed about returning home.

It’s 1:34 p.m., on a Wednesday and I’m still nestled in bed (with heating that actually works, so you know, I’m warm), staring out at the snow spotted field across from my house, and debating whether or not I want to shower and start my day. I could write more of my research paper….or I could bake…or I submit to gravity again and wind up on the couch with a book…the possibilities are endless.

The trip home–which usually takes 3 1/2-4 hours) took a whopping 6. This was partly due to a tire going flat (in the middle of a three-lane highway), but luckily  because the threat of the “first big winter storm” was looming, we were all crawling along at a leisurely 15 mph. It had been an hour and we were barely out of the Rochester area. One woman honked at us, rolled down her window, and pointed. “Your tire blew out!” she said, repeating it loudly to make sure we understand. I gave her a thumbs up and a “Thank you”, and she let us move over to the side of the road.

“Goddammit,” Alex said, glancing back at our other passenger. “I’m sorry.”

We both assured her it was fine–I told her I would have rather had this happen now, in daylight, on a pretty busy highway, rather than at night on a back road close to home. Especially with there being three girls in the car.

When the roadside assistance came (thank goodness for Triple A), we unpacked the back of her car to get the spare tire, and then stood out on the side of the road, waiting. Alex suddenly cracked up.

“We’re those sad, miserable people on the side of the road!”

“I always wanted to be one of those,” I shot back, also starting to laugh.

Just three girls on the side of the road, clutching bags and suitcases, getting snowed on, cracking up, as three lanes of traffic inched by us, probably staring out the window for some roadside entertainment. We’re nutjobs. The poor girl we drove home had no idea what she was signing on for–Alex and I tend to exacerbate each other’s sarcastic nature.

(This stop also warranted us calling our parents. I called my dad first–he’s less excitable–and asked, “Do I have to call Mom??” in a tone reminiscent of my whiny sixteen year old days. He just laughed at me. “Ugh, fine.” I called Mom, who took it surprisingly well–even though I accidentally started out the conversation with, “So we’re stuck on the side of the road…”—soo, my interpersonal skills could use a little work. I think a lot of the leeway I’m getting has to do with the mentality of “You turn 21 in less than a month, you’re a college junior, and pretty much an adult, you can now drive, so there is literally nothing I can keep you from doing anymore, so make good choices, don’t get pregnant, and come home in one piece. I love you, love, Mom.”)

The other reason the trip took six hours was because we averaged 40 mph most of the way home. The first big winter storm thing had everyone pretty well freaked out–and while I was thankful everyone was driving cautiously and not like raging maniacs, it made for slow-moving traffic, and as we got closer to home, and the roads got slushier, we slowed down even more.  This is not to say that there were not raging maniacs on the road. At one point, a frustrated Alex who was trying to monitor what two cars in front of her were doing, exclaimed, “I can only deal with one moron at a time!” Directing her frustration at the car on our left: “You have to wait your turn!” At any rate, I slogged up my driveway to my back door, dramatically flung open the door, and groaned, which was enough to send my parents flying off the couch with an exuberant, “YOU’RE HOME!”

And thus began vacation, with potatoes stuffed with feta and spinach, a big salad, a roaring fireplace, two cats curling up next to me, and an episode of NCIS: Los Angeles. The big cat had gotten a bath and a blow dry–both things, I was told, that he strongly objected to–and the little cat had gotten even fatter and more belligerent than the last time I saw him. He settled for rubbing his face all along mine and then burping on my lap to show how happy he was that I was home. Standard.

My favorite part of break is getting to come home and talk to my dad. We were up until 12:30 a.m., as he looked over my paper proposal, I explained two texts I had read this semester that I was making him read over break–Beloved, by Toni Morrison, and Gardens in the Dunes, by Leslie Marmon Silko–and we talked about professors (he teaches chemistry at SUNY Oneonta) and teaching methods and all the wonderful support and love I receive at my college. We talked about new initiatives that are starting at his college, and things that were happening at mine. When I think about it, we mostly talked about blessings and future plans.

It’s really easy to get overwhelmed at college, and I find myself submerged in that “Oh God oh God oh God what am I doing” mentality a lot. I’ve decided on grad school, but as my mom says, that opens up a whole different realm of difficulties and stress. And that’s okay, she tells me, it’s all part of growing. Says the woman who found out in Mexico that she was accepted to follow her dream–she got into a tiny nursing school and has been a nurse for 40 years. Says the woman who served in Cuba as a nurse with the military for a year, who ended up living in a drug-infested hollow in rural West Virginia, because she wanted to work with coal miners, and wasn’t taking any shit from anyone who thought they could tell a 5’2 young woman from Boston what to do. And says my father, who was a “disabled child” for most of his childhood and young adult life, who the doctors didn’t think would make it at birth, who beat the odds, who is one of the most fiercely intelligent people I know, who now holds a Ph.D in biochemistry, and has been teaching for thirty years. I come from a fearsome legacy of people who refuse to be overwhelmed.

They remind me to count my blessings, thank God, they say, for what you have. For the opportunities you’ve been provided with. Remember that you are always better than you think you are. Winter will be over soon. Come home.

So I am home, and I am thankful. I am thankful for my college education, for the professors there that love and push and challenge me, who serve as mentors and guides and inspiration, for the friends and support system I have there, for the memories and the struggles, too. I am thankful for my family, that they are healthy and there and loving and supportive. I am thankful for so much, because I really do have so much. I think every day, I’m going to start counting one thing I’m thankful for, just to remind myself, to put it back in perspective, that things are good. Things are going to be okay. There is always something to be thankful for.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

Some New Poetic Speakers

Lately, the speakers in my writing (in my poetry, especially) have been feisty. Feisty and pissed off and not afraid to let everyone know it. In a recent poem, I have the speaker mailing back a blanket to an ex-lover, after a cat has given birth to six kittens on it. In another, Enya goes out the window to be replaced by Green Day shaking the neighbors’ walls. (For the record, I actually like Enya. Part of my childhood and new age-y aunt influences.) I don’t know where they’re coming from, these angsty, taking-no-shit, (and I think) very frustrated females. Because they’re distinctively female in my mind. (I’m still waiting for a good male speaker to show up, he’s there, just very deep and very quiet for now.)

Maybe one cause can be attributed to a quote I saw on Tumblr recently, taken from Scott Lynch’s Republic of Thieves that went thusly:

A boy may be as disagreeable as he pleases, but when a girl refuses to crap sunshine on command, the world mutters darkly about her moods.

I dabble in feminist readings/articles–I’d like to get more into it, the way some of my friends are. They know stuff. I know a little bit. I’m taking a Women’s Literature course this semester which has been phenomenal. Our white Western male perspective frustrates me, as much as I  know there are so many people working to bring new perspectives, new voices into the mainstream. It feels like swimming upstream–changing centuries of history. Sometimes it’s  hard to identify it in yourself–I caught myself wondering if I should post one of the more vengeful poems on Tumblr. Well hey, I said. The speakers in your poems aren’t you. If people read them as you, well, tough. And why be apologetic for having an angry female speaker? Buck up, buttercup. I posted them.

Another cause might be one of my female professors talking about how some of her male colleagues don’t understand why walking alone to the parking lot after her late class makes her nervous.

“Women really worry about that kind of stuff?” one asked.

Deep, deep sigh.

Here’s a third for possible female speaker frustration: in the last two months, various family/family friends (including my mother) have asked if I’m in a relationship, if I’ve “found” anyone yet, and expressed anywhere from mild surprise to profound shock at hearing that I am not, nor am I looking that hard. (My mom hastily countered her response with, “Well good. Don’t settle,” but there’s still a little bit of asdjf;kajs;sjdsa panic there too behind her eyes.)

And lastly, In the latest InStyle magazine, Jennifer Lawrence was interviewed and the journalist made the mistake of asking if “Have you given any thought to having kids?” The following scene ensues:

Her eyes go dull. “I love kids and I hope I have kids someday, but not now,” she recites.
“So you’d like to fall in love and have some babies? Any immediate plans?”

She glares at me. I’m reminded of her character in Winter’s Bone the scene where she’s showing her two younger siblings how to skin a squirrel and pull out the guts. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she says. (InStyle, December 2013)

I gave a giant eyeroll at the interviewer’s question. Like, really? REALLY? Lawrence’s response cheered me up though–I think I’m going to start using that tactic. I don’t want to talk about it. I have other, more important things to do than answer nosy questions about my relationship status, thank you. I also dislike that this question had to come up. It was unfortunately inevitable and I was waiting for it, and sure enough. Ta-da.

So yeah, I guess it makes sense that the female speakers in my poems are a little on edge. Kind of fed-up with the gooey romance stuff and the six rows in Walmart dedicated to make-up and other beauty products, and that so much of society is oblivious to the pressures put on women, 21st century notwithstanding. I’m lucky–I have some incredible male friends, my father identifies as a feminist, and I go to a pretty liberal school. But I repeat: I’m lucky.

At any rate: be on the look-out for some feisty speakers in the next few weeks. They’re here and they are loud.