tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17310145955059449192024-03-21T18:33:01.924-07:00snow crumbsThe blog that's not afraid to ask for an "A" in advanced poetry writingautumnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09784545505992802536noreply@blogger.comBlogger64125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1731014595505944919.post-14020116139773994862008-03-26T01:00:00.000-07:002008-03-26T01:17:31.116-07:00the end of a very long journeyAnd, of course, when she <a href="http://snowcrumbs.blogspot.com/2007/07/beginning-of-end-of-very-long-journey.html">wasn’t looking for it anymore</a>, she found it in the most peculiar spot. It didn’t look anything like she had imagined, but she recognized it immediately.<br /><br />So the the ever-questing seabird went home—for the first, and the last, time.autumnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09784545505992802536noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1731014595505944919.post-68711357449547907242008-03-19T00:21:00.000-07:002008-03-19T00:22:54.752-07:0032. 224. 1.I went out with the Russian guy,<br />he told me he was rich.<br />I went out with the bartender<br />but all he did was bitch.<br /><br />I went out with the thespian,<br />his name was Thakery,<br />but he became a lesbian <br />and he looks better than me.<br /><br />I dated the lonely poet, and<br />he promised he would pay<br />tomorrow if I could just stick<br />around for one more day.<br /><br />I wish that Walter was well groomed,<br />and this I must confess,<br />I wish that Howard had more hair<br />and Lou a little less.<br /><br />I had dinner with the dancer,<br />I had drinks with the drunk,<br />I stayed out all night with the smoker<br />and played music with the punk.<br /><br />I’ve been diving with David<br />and snorkeling with Stan.<br />I play tennis with Timothy<br />and lose chess games to Chan.<br /><br />Andy was an airline pilot,<br />Matt was a musician.<br />Justin was a big ol’ jerk and<br />Philip a physician.<br /><br />So many lines that it would take<br />before my list was done.<br />So many lips I could mistake,<br />but I have loved just one.autumnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09784545505992802536noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1731014595505944919.post-32613290263274730342008-03-12T00:45:00.000-07:002008-03-12T00:47:57.491-07:00changeI wish your burdens were coins<br />so you could empty them from<br />your pockets each day,<br />like your change.<br /><br />Separate out the silver,<br />stack the quarters on the counter,<br />feel glad to have sufficient<br />laundry money<br />and think nothing more of them.autumnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09784545505992802536noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1731014595505944919.post-33682963742526241812008-03-05T23:52:00.000-08:002008-03-05T23:59:49.061-08:00tengo miedo de amarte y no amarte<span style="font-size:180%;">C</span>orazón mío, tengo miedo de amarte<br />Y no amarte. No puedo dormir<br />En la oscuridad y solamente puedo<br />Dormir en la oscuridad. <br /><br />Deseo llenar tu insomnio con<br />Mis cabellos de madreselva y<br />Mi fresca, piel de otoño. Quiero<br />Dar las sombras debajo de los ojos<br />Mis dos perfectos, senos blancos<br />De peonías para descansar en.<br /><br />Respiraría para ti en la noche terrible,<br />Hasta que los pulmones se conviertan en<br />Las alas de la mariposa y vuelan lejos.<br /> <br /> Por eso,<br />Tengo miedo de amarte y no amarte.<br />No puedo decir estas cosas y<br />Solamente puedo decir estas cosas. <br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">M</span>y love, I am afraid of loving you<br />And of not loving you. I cannot sleep<br />In the dark and I can only<br />Sleep in the dark.<br /><br />I wish to fill up your sleeplessness with<br />My honeysuckle hair and my<br />Cool, autumn skin. I want to<br />Give the shadows under your eyes<br />My two perfect, white<br />Peony breasts to rest upon.<br /><br />I would breathe for you in the terrible night,<br />Until my lungs turn into<br />Butterfly wings and fly away.<br /><br /> For these reasons,<br />I am afraid of loving you and of not loving you.<br />I cannot say these things and I<br />Can only say these things.autumnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09784545505992802536noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1731014595505944919.post-53046504681718696052008-01-20T02:39:00.001-08:002008-01-20T02:49:25.929-08:00have you ever re-rented a movie that you just paid a late fee for?I am so busy that I am paying late fees for movies I don’t have time to watch or return. But more distressing is that I most recently rented a movie that I don’t even want to see, which I decided after I brought it home, so I refuse to see it and now it’s late. And even more distressing is that I did want to see it when it came to the theaters but then I saw <em>Once</em> two weeks ago and I’ve been so depressed since then that I can’t stand the idea of watching any movie that has anything to do with love, so that pretty much rules out movies all together. Especially <em>Waitress</em>, which is still on my desk, never seen, and three days late.autumnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09784545505992802536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1731014595505944919.post-81998502997175331702008-01-11T00:41:00.000-08:002008-01-11T00:45:22.412-08:00pullThe plaid woman picking oranges<br />smells like dinner for her husband. <br />I wonder if I smell like selfishness,<br />or mushrooms. <br />Nutmeg, parsley, paper towels, garlic press—<br />the plaid woman probably remembered her list.<br />She probably knows how to make biscuits from scratch,<br />and has more than one use for her almond extract.<br /><br />This is the way, this is the way, this is the way<br />of wedded things. This is how we come to be<br />lasciviously eyeing the cheese graters. This is how<br />we come to be wrestling with plastic wrap,<br />trying to save the leftovers. This is how we become<br />eternities of Teflon queens, lovingly filling the ice trays.autumnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09784545505992802536noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1731014595505944919.post-14851096427378311442008-01-07T13:43:00.000-08:002008-01-07T13:45:35.894-08:00smart girlI have more wit<br />than I have tit.<br /><br />I have more quip<br />than hip.<br /><br />I have more crass<br />than I have ass,<br /><br />and more blunt<br />than I have wunt<br />or need of.autumnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09784545505992802536noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1731014595505944919.post-37245495337674775502008-01-05T14:27:00.000-08:002008-01-05T14:35:10.421-08:00penguin dreamsBecause he wanted to fly, the little penguin fashioned himself some wings. <br /><br />He gathered twigs, some downy moss, and string, and whatever else he saw that he thought might make a wing. That he had been cold for a very long time was enough to make him believe that a penguin could fly. He spent endless hours watching the way the wind moved the clouds across the sky and he thought, <em>Why can’t I?</em> <br /><br />While the dawn was just beginning to loose fiery tendrils streaming through the air, the little penguin trekked up to the top of a snow peak, and stood there. He put his wings on, those made from the scantest of things, and he thought, <em>I don’t’ know if they’ll work, but I’ll try.</em> <br /><br />Hope is the dream of a flightless bird whose only wish is to fly.autumnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09784545505992802536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1731014595505944919.post-14291165712929384222007-12-29T12:59:00.000-08:002007-12-29T13:16:29.950-08:00podrías decirme otra vez<span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:180%;"><em>A</em></span>mado mio ¿podrías decirme otra vez<br />Que seamos dos personas que<br />Van a enamorarse?<br /><br />Deseo oír la historia antes del<br />Viento frío entre por la<br />Ventana y apaga nuestra vela.<br /><br />Quiero escucharla como si<br />Yo fuera una semillita que no sabe<br />Los tormentos o las estaciones.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:180%;"><em>M</em></span>y love, could you tell me again<br />That we are two people<br />Who are going to fall in love?<br /><br />I wish to hear the story before the<br />Cold wind comes in through the<br />Window and blows out our candle.<br /><br />I want to listen as if I were<br />A tiny seed that does not know about<br />Storms or seasons.autumnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09784545505992802536noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1731014595505944919.post-76933317923334770682007-12-20T21:31:00.000-08:002008-01-07T13:47:19.736-08:00pretty porcupineChris said I was pretty like a bowl of granola,<br />and I never quite knew what that meant.<br /><br />David said I looked pretty with make-up on,<br />but don’t think it was a compliment.<br /><br />André called me <em>mon petit chou</em>,<br />which, I think, is French for “my little cabbage.”<br /><br />And I thought that Kevin thought I was beautiful,<br />but one night he told me that I was just average.<br /><br />Brian said I was pretty even with a mop on my head.<br />The mop, however, was my new hair cut.<br /><br />Justin told me I was absolutely gorgeous,<br />but he was a notorious, conniving male slut.<br /><br />Juan Carlos told me I had beautiful blue monkey eggs,<br />so I said maybe we should just speak Spanish instead.<br /><br />Paul said I had unusually small nostrils,<br />but who really cares what Paul said?<br /><br />Kyle told me I was the prettiest older woman<br />he had ever seen in his young life.<br /><br />But Jason said I was his smallest porcupine,<br />and now I am his wife.autumnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09784545505992802536noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1731014595505944919.post-10859157659325391512007-12-19T09:53:00.000-08:002007-12-19T09:55:02.587-08:00cookie poemThere is no thing<br />so painfully sweet<br />as the taste of a cookie<br />you cannot eat.autumnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09784545505992802536noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1731014595505944919.post-51468584618926854582007-12-18T12:02:00.000-08:002007-12-18T12:04:28.440-08:00in the beginning: a study in grammatical timePart One: The Long Version<br /><br />This is the story about the beginning of the stars, except there really was no beginning so to speak, at least not in the way that we say beginning, because that would imply that time existed before time existed, which it could have, semantically speaking—I mean, we could ask, “What was there before time began?” but this logical lexography just can’t hold up to empirical evidence, which is to say, it was more like a non-beginning with a lot of stuff going on all at once, but the stuff wasn’t there before in the same way that it was there after the big non-beginning of the beginning of the stars and then stars were born, and from star dust, on a molecular level, your hands, my eyes, this page, these words.<br /><br />Part Two: The Short Version<br /><br />This is the story about the beginning of the stars. There really was no beginning, so to speak. At least not in the way we say beginning. That would imply that time existed before time existed. It could have existed, semantically speaking. We can ask, “What was there before time began?” But this logical lexography leads nowhere. It just can’t hold up to empirical evidence. In other words, it was more like a non-beginning. But there was a lot of stuff going on. And everything was happening at one time. But the stuff before was different from the stuff after. After the big non-beginning of the beginning, stars were born. And from star dust came hands, eyes, words, this page.autumnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09784545505992802536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1731014595505944919.post-16811572665725853212007-11-02T09:44:00.000-07:002007-11-02T09:53:55.436-07:00the most important event of the yearIf you live anywhere near Portland, or can reach Portland by means of any available transportation, you belong at the spectacular SUPPORTLAND event on Sunday night Novemenber 11th for the most important event of the year. <br /><br />Please feel free to forward these websites to everyone you know! If you need directions or have any questions, leave a comment and I'll be in touch. See you there.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://chadschild.com/">http://chadschild.com/</a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.supportland.info/" target="_blank">http://www.supportland.info/</a>autumnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09784545505992802536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1731014595505944919.post-46337729269085923652007-10-22T10:11:00.000-07:002007-10-22T10:20:23.974-07:00i’ll have a bug sandwich with that latte, pleaseI am in the middle of a Puerto Rican rainforest eating a bug sandwich because a tree frog landed on my arm when I was four. We exchanged petrified glances, it leapt away, and I spent the next twenty-plus years of my life believing that the tiny red-eyed amphibian was some manifestation of The Great Cosmos, sent to instill in me an insatiable sense of wonder at the natural world, and bestow upon me my duty and calling in this life: Save the rainforests.<br /><br />I lived in San Juan, Puerto Rico until I was five and I remember Puerto Rico well; although the memories are distinctly, and unalterably, from the perspective of a child who was too young to be unnerved by giant flying cockroaches, and who was thrilled when the little geckoes scampered off, leaving their tails behind in my hands. The Puerto Rico I knew had a coconut tree, a banana tree, a couple of pet parakeets (all named Charlie), some fireflies, and a tree frog. It also had a tropical rainforest, the place where said tree frog came briefly into my life and unwittingly changed the course of it forever.<br /><br />Growing up, and continuing into my adult years, I studied plants, biology, and rainforest everything with intense passion and dreamed of returning to the rainforest one day. I also longed to return to Puerto Rico—the Puerto Rico that consisted of a coconut tree, a banana tree, a couple of Charlie’s, some fireflies, and a tree frog.<br /><br />In December of 2005, I returned to the first place I knew as home. I came to Las Casas de la Selva, the site for the Rainforest Enrichment Project, as a volunteer research assistant with the EarthWatch Institute. I had signed up months in advance and happily maxed out credit cards to purchase plane tickets and requisite jungle gear. “I’m going to be a botanist,” I repeated to myself every time I left the outdoor store with another bag of camping miscellany and truly ugly outdoor clothing, “I’ll <em>need</em> all this stuff.” The opportunity to become actively involved in rainforest conservation was a dream come true, utterly priceless.<br /><br />After arriving at base camp in the southeastern mountains of Puerto Rico, it took less than two minutes for me to realize that Puerto Rico had changed a lot over the last two decades. Namely, it had a lot more bugs than I remembered, and a lot less indoor plumbing.<br /><br />I stepped off the bus transporting the volunteers to the site, strolled toward the dining hut, took in the grand sight of fresh salsa and yucca chips, and THWACK! Big, black bug in the eye. It was huge, not your average garden variety fungus gnat. And I have eyeball phobia—I’m afraid of mine <em>and</em> yours. My hands flew up to my face and I blindly asked whoever-was-there-no-one-in-particular where the bathroom was.<br /><br />I felt less than comfortable in my rainforest surroundings given that I just had to hold my eye open and pull a giant insect out of it, but I had only been there for a couple minutes, and I knew I had a full ten days of dodging insects ahead of me. I figured I’d wash the bug germs off my hands and rejoin the group as if I were a rugged outdoorsy type who was used to this sort of thing.<br /><br />It’s difficult to get that clean feeling from an icy cold trickle, roughly the diameter of a spaghetti noodle, and a bar of natural soap that, until your unsuspecting hand came upon it, served as an overstuffed sofa for a squishy little lump of baby lizard. <em>Baaadd neeewws</em>, I reflected, <em>I’ll just dry my hands on this old pink towel, carefully avoid the sleeping towel frogs nestled in the folds, and make haste for my hand sanitizer</em>. Now, I realize that facing the prospect of not being able to wash one’s hands for the next ten days may not induce the same hyper-neurotic, paralytic dementia in everyone. It just so happens that if I were asked to describe what I thought hell was like, I would answer that hell is having perpetually dirty hands combined with an eternity of inadequate water pressure.<br /><br />After the first fairly challenging day, I was able to adjust to my surroundings as well as any plumbing-loving urbanite could reasonably be expected to. I was secretly proud of myself and continued to harbor visions of botanizing in ugly jungle pants. Then I went frogging.<br /><br />We had been frogging all night in the rain, and when the rain subsided we gathered on the forest floor for a nice packed-lunch dinner of fix-it-yourself sandwiches and granola bars. I was fond of the fix-it-myself sandwich because it meant that I never had to suffer the wretched substance that is mayonnaise. I could skip it and opt for the mustard. I could also forfeit my portions of deli meat and elect to subsist on cheese alone. On this night, we had worked hard and I was extremely hungry—so hungry that I was tempted to barter bandanas and duct tape for crusts and lettuce.<br /><br />I first noticed the sandwich being eaten by a fellow volunteer sitting across from me. The narrow beam from my headlamp became a spotlight on the grotesque. The sandwich was no longer a sandwich, but rather a veritable menagerie of swarming organisms. I quickly turned the spotlight to the half-eaten sandwich I held in my own hand. It was covered with a thick, dark layer of moving insects. No white bread in sight.<br /><br />Staring down at the abhorrent spectacle I held in my hand, two opposing forces battled for supremacy: Everything I Believe To Be True and Hunger. EIBTBT declared, “That. Is. Dis. Gus. Ting! Throw it into the trees, now!” But Hunger countered sensibly, “You’re hungry, you’ve already eaten half of it, and it doesn’t seem to be bothering anyone else. So what’s the big deal?” Much to my surprise, I switched off my headlamp and finished eating my bug sandwich.<br /><br />As we made our way toward base camp that evening, tromping through razor grass on steep, muddy slopes, the rain returned in full tropical force. It cleared the atmosphere of the congested flying insect traffic, and I could finally breathe. I could smell the rainforest smell I remembered from my childhood, there’s nothing like it. Looking out through the rain-induced clarity, I noticed that I could identify plant species even in the dark. I could differentiate between the shapes of leaves in shadows, and between the subtle, myriad shades of green. And amid tumbling gallops through tangled understory, I was struck with that sensation I had upon my first meeting with a tree frog: pure wonder. This forest is home to an inconceivable variety of life. It is extraordinary. And the truth is, it may not survive civilization.<br /><br />I have yet to reconcile my city-mouse sensibilities with my impassioned devotion to rainforest conservation since, it would seem, to be a good conservationist, I would actually need to spend more time in the rainforest—with the bugs and without plumbing. Could I ever learn to get used to it? Could I go back with an open mind, cast off my preconceived notions of cleanliness and expand my definition of edible for a higher purpose? for justice? for the rainforest? My mother, who has remarked that I could never live in a city that didn’t have a certain famed, ubiquitous coffee shop on EVERY block, thinks this is highly improbable. “You have never liked camping,” she reminds me. And she’s right. Sometime between my first encounter with a tree frog and my last, I developed into an obsessive-compulsive city-girl with eyeball phobia and an incorrigible desire to do something good for my first true love, the natural world.<br /><br />When asked recently if I would go back, I answered with a hesitant, “Ummm, yeah . . .” Then, suddenly remembering that I’m still paying for the abundant stash of jungle gear at the back of my closet, I added, “of course I would.”<br /><br />With plenty of bug repellent.autumnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09784545505992802536noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1731014595505944919.post-67789908018871911302007-10-01T01:46:00.000-07:002007-12-29T13:14:08.828-08:00dropped off the edge off the world?Actually just the continent. But I'm back and I'm way up in my Spanish vocabulary and minus all my luggage. Which would you rather have?autumnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09784545505992802536noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1731014595505944919.post-61159118433127893672007-08-30T00:16:00.000-07:002007-08-30T00:35:33.189-07:00a brief history<blockquote><em>I like relativity and quantum theories<br />because I don’t understand them<br />and they make me feel as if space shifted about like a swan that<br />can’t settle,<br />refusing to sit still and be measured;<br />and as if the atom were an impulsive thing<br />always changing its mind.<br /></em><br /></blockquote><br /><blockquote>~ D. H. Lawrence</blockquote><br /><br /><br />I have a Swiss cheese kind of science background—substantially rich in some places, holes in other places. Explain why a clock ticks faster as it nears the event horizon, no problem; add numbers larger than the amount of fingers I have, that’s asking a lot. Bifurcate a logistic equation, sure; multiply fractions . . . I have no idea how to multiply fractions.<br /><br />Among the many and varied causes of this Swiss discrepancy are two major contributors: The first is the jerk who sat behind me in 7th grade math class. Jerk put bugs in my hair unbeknownst to me until sometime toward the end of class when the bugs migrated from my head and commenced roaming the rest of my topography. The discomfort caused by the insects was negligent compared to the devastating humiliation caused by sneering, pointing peers, so, I never went back. Hence, a mathematical education that does not exceed the 7th grade level, and, holes. I quit going to the rest of my classes shortly thereafter, having concluded that school was for learning about humiliation, fear, and self-loathing, and not where I could learn about what makes clouds look the way they do or how those rings around Saturn got there in the first place. A few bad years and a lot of dangerous substances later, I re-entered school as high school student, where I met the second major contributor.<br /><br />Pete taught science classes at the alternative high school I attended, introduced me to what would become an insatiable, absorbing passion for scientific understanding, and saved my life. I was fortunate enough to attend Pete’s Space Science class where I discovered that I was not stupid, just miseducated, and that science, more than anything else, yielded the most satisfactory answers to my insufferable and growing tower of mostly unanswerable questions. Thus began some filling in of the empty spaces.<br /><br />I became addicted to <em>Scientific American</em>. I read Asimov, Feynman, Hawking, Gribbin, and Davies. I read about atoms, relativity, quantum theories, chaos theories, Gödel’s incompleteness theorem, the paradox of self-referential systems, history of science, and philosophy of science. I even received a [fancy tech school] “Medal of Achievement in Math and Science” and a small scholarship because the admissions committee assumed I had the mathematical qualifications due to the high level of promise I demonstrated in my science classes.<br /><br />In college I took all the chemistry, physics, astronomy, biology, and botany classes I could take without calculus prerequisites and taught myself the math I needed on a case by case basis. I am in love with covalent bonding, I dream chemical reactions, and I have a veritable encyclopedia of astronomical and botanical lore and nomenclature stored in my brain.<br /><br />When I enrolled in college for the first time (a long time ago), I fully intended to be a Physics major and go on to become a Professor of Physics. I registered for pre-algebra three times and finally passed on the fourth try. I was yet undaunted and still cultivated dreams of theoretical physics notoriety. I would say that naivety is the mother of courage. During the subsequent decade of my on-again-off-again college career I would register and withdraw from college algebra more times than I have fingers. However, because I understand now that learning mathematics requires a step ladder process, and I could not seem to leap up even to the bottom rung, I finally gave up trying to take college algebra—bye-bye Physics major, hello Arts and Letters.<br /><br />I still want to become a Physics Professor. I took Complexity in the Universe I with the noted physicist Dr. Semura and more than once he suggested I become a Physics Professor. I take this to be the greatest compliment I have/will ever receive in my life-time. I followed up with Complexity in the Universe II and discovered that I really enjoy writing science based, big questions, what-does-it-all-mean-reflection stuff. So, what does an Arts and Letters major who loves science but can’t add, and who loves writing but wants a steady income, grow up to be? A restaurant manager. An art school applicant. An avid “science for the lay person” reader. And maybe, someday, a poet.autumnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09784545505992802536noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1731014595505944919.post-72176259467232133432007-08-23T23:18:00.000-07:002007-08-23T23:29:51.025-07:00letting go: a lesson in resumptive modifiersShe couldn’t have known how the stars would burst behind her eyes when she finally let the night fall, a night that would have been thankful for a moon or two to keep it from collapsing so utterly.<br /><br /><em>So this is the way it comes down</em>, she thought, <em>heavily</em>.<br /><br />So with the night fallen to its knees all around her, and stars exploding, she resolved to finally pick up some of the pieces of the day, pieces that had broken up and scattered themselves years ago in the pallid litter of a languishing room. But beneath the unbearable dark, her hands were <em>hers</em>, were responsible for letting go of the rope, were gathering shards of light and slivers of remembrance.<br /><br />She searched for solace. She searched for some consolation.<br /><br />She sought string and tail feathers in the ruble and promised to fashion a proper kite, a kite that was tangible enough to pull the night up off its knees, and fly through the prevailing headwinds, trailing the heft of time behind it.<br /><br />Wings.autumnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09784545505992802536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1731014595505944919.post-38259096448027596182007-08-22T23:26:00.000-07:002007-08-22T23:33:18.808-07:00the orreryRound and round<br />the planets go, the planets go<br />without a sound. Without a sound,<br />the planets go, the planets go<br />round and round.<br /><br />Round and round<br />the moon circles, the moon circles<br />without a sound. Without a sound,<br />the moon circles, the moon circles<br />round and round.<br /><br />Round and round<br />the sun spins, the sun spins<br />without a sound. Without a sound,<br />the sun spins, the sun spins<br />round and round.<br /><br />Round and round<br />the planets go, the planets go<br />without a sound. Without a sound,<br />the planets go, the planets go<br />round and round.autumnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09784545505992802536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1731014595505944919.post-78439692162099979302007-08-21T22:41:00.000-07:002007-08-21T23:28:07.183-07:00so, what am i going to do with my bachelor's degree in arts & letters? exactly what i should've done fourteen years agoDear Admissions Committee:<br /><br /><br />My life goals and career goals are intertwined: wake up on most days and create something (life), and get paid for my creation (career). Actually, I have to wake up and be creative or I devolve into a melancholic killjoy who doesn’t get invited to art openings or cocktail parties. I know this to be a fact of my existence and therefore am confident that my career must involve creative pursuit.<br /><br />I need a job that allows me to reconcile my internal inclinations with the demands of living in reality, to any extent that this is possible, and I strongly believe that self-employment is the answer to this conundrum. Also, I am certain that I excel when I combine my analytical skills and artistic faculties to communicate abstract ideas. So, ideally, I would like to become a self-employed, skilled communicator of abstract ideas rendered in aesthetically pleasing ways. I have known this for many years and pursued writing as one avenue toward this goal; however, it seems to me that words alone are fairly limited in what they can say. But a single word set in a stunning font, or paired with a particular shade of green, can be a very powerful messenger.<br /><br />I believe an education at [fancy art school] would give me both the artistic foundation and technical training that I need to pursue a career as a creative professional. I am also excited about the opportunities provided by [fancy art school] to learn from experienced professionals and become involved in Portland’s art community. I think there can be no substitute for peer critiques to foster growth and generate quality, and looking at a sample of the work produced by students at [fancy art school], it is obvious that excellence presides in the learning environment.<br /><br />I feel I have a strong creative intuition, but I know that I am lacking the skills necessary to execute a visual message to the best of my ability. I believe that my education at [fancy art school] will give me the skills to become the artist that I am. E. E. Cummings said, “It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.” It also takes time and a lot of money, but it sure beats growing up to become who you really aren’t.<br /><br />Thank you very much for your time. Sincerely,<br />Autumnautumnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09784545505992802536noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1731014595505944919.post-36539647811043412902007-08-16T01:33:00.000-07:002007-08-16T13:42:04.217-07:00the day before my last day of a fourteen-year Bachelor’s degree: order of events9:37am: miss the bus, walk/run to my first job<br />9:45am: realize that I rubbed make-up remover all over my face instead of moisturizer<br />10:05am: arrive five minutes late to my first job<br />10:05am-1:00pm: teach writing, my students thank me and hug me, I cry. I love my students.<br />1:22 pm: miss street car, run/walk home<br />2:00pm or so: eat gigantic bowl of chili with half a diced onion on top while writing final paper<br />2:thirtyish: notice my kitty’s eye is swollen shut and watering<br />2:thirtyish: minor kitty freak-out, call vet, resume paper writing<br />4:14pm: not finished with paper, not dressed for second job, call work and tell them I’ll be five minutes late, finish paper<br />4:19pm: walk out the door and see bus going by, RUN, look down to make sure I have put pants on<br />4:35pm: arrive five minutes late to second job, fully dressed. Brush teeth (at work).<br />4:35pm: manage a restaurant, train a manager, host a restaurant, train a hostess, make people calm and happy in high-stress situations (can I put that on my resume?).<br />7:15: trusted colleague offers mints, I accept.<br />Around 9:00pm: fire manager trainee, go home<br />9:46pm: eat fried plantains, the most delicious food I have ever eaten<br />11:42pm: drink glass of wine, revise and edit final paper<br />1:33am: can’t sleepautumnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09784545505992802536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1731014595505944919.post-42162331341201795302007-08-10T00:28:00.000-07:002007-08-10T00:50:23.883-07:00senior thesis: not sure if this even remotely answers the questionI will be graduating this term with a BA in Arts and Letters because I never could pick just one discipline in which to focus my academic study. When I began my college career over a decade ago, I knew exactly what I wanted to do. The problem was that, at the time, Harvard was the only school offering a degree program in Ethnobotany. Harvard does not accept poor kids from alternative High Schools who haven’t taken a math class since the seventh grade and who still think SAT is short for <em>satisfactory</em>. Denver Community college does. So I began to study biology (the “botany” part) and anthropology (the “ethno” part) with great determination and even greater delusions. I wanted to become The Best Ethnobotanist in the World.<br /><br />The idea is simple: Save the rainforests. The only way to save the rainforests is to find something that the world will recognize as a valuable commodity and sell it, without destroying the forests in the process. Medicine yields an extremely high return on investment and can be extracted from the vegetation with minimal impact. And everyone in the world needs medicine. So the really interesting thing about plant medicine from the rainforest is that the indigenous rainforest people are the experts. And the really interesting thing about indigenous rainforest people is, well, everything; not the least is a perception of reality that is completely foreign to a poor girl with a questionable education.<br /><br />So, one discipline led to the next in my quest to become The Best Ethnobotanist in the World: Biology led to chemistry led to physics led to astronomy led to logic led to philosophy, etc. And on the Arts side, anthropology led to politics led to language led to literature led to writing. . . Throw in a bunch of full time jobs, a couple moves across the country, military service, marriage, divorce, and a life-time of debt, and all this culminates in a Bachelor of Arts in Arts and Letters.<br /><br />So what can be said about the perceptual lens of my discipline? My “discipline” came about haphazardly as a result of the desire to protect what I love. Throughout my studies I have encountered obstacles and opposition, but the original intent is still intact. I will graduate with a BA in BS, failed attempts, hard feelings, no math skills, my goals unreached and ultimately unattainable, but I still want to save the rainforests. And I know just how many disciplines it may take to reach the world.autumnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09784545505992802536noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1731014595505944919.post-45953961616217110522007-08-07T22:42:00.000-07:002007-08-07T22:45:35.714-07:00my prayerGod (or whomever) grant me a sense of humor<br />To accept the things that surprise me,<br /><br />The ability to laugh<br />When I surprise myself,<br /><br />And a great smile<br />When I have nothing else.autumnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09784545505992802536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1731014595505944919.post-46725636468408628752007-08-06T00:25:00.000-07:002007-08-06T00:31:21.322-07:00taming of the shrewd perfectionistI have a secret weapon against the shrewd perfectionist. A little tid-bit I was lucky enough to come across in a book about the publishing business written by a prominent New York editor: A good writer will write 98% total crap in his or her career and only 2% not total crap. That 2% comprises such works as Moby Dick and Sons and Lovers. But I suspect it took Melville and Lawrence a whole lot of crap to get there. This same editor (whose prominent name escapes me at the moment) also divulged the following gossamer shred of aspiring writer hope. Referring to the majority of manuscripts he receives, the author claims that “Yoda better syntax had.” Ha! Take that deliverer of non-encouraging words.<br /><br />Since I now wield a nice percentage ratio, I figure I can commit to writing total crap for most of my career and somewhere therein should be a nice 2% of not total crap that I can extract, put on display, and say, “See, I’m a good writer!” and no one else will ever know the depths of the foul language from whence it came. Also, I’m quite certain I syntax have better than Yoda.<br /><br />And so do you.<br /><br />As a writing tutor, the most common introduction I hear is, “I know this is really awful. I’m a terrible writer.” Not even a <em>hello</em> or <em>my name is</em>. And this I have learned to respond to with complete silence. I hand over a pencil and explain that sometimes it’s easier to see things with a pencil in your hand. Something about putting the physical activity of holding a pencil together with the isolation that normally accompanies the writing process seems to bring about a keener awareness of the connection between the words on a page and the ideas in the mind. I try to make it clear that when we look over a piece of writing, we are trying to make sure that the sentence on the page actually says the sentence that’s in the head.<br /><br />This is a two-way journey, of course. Sometimes you don’t know what your head thinks until you see it on the page. This is why I write: To figure out what the hell it is I want to say. And this is precisely where that 98% crap comes in handy. It often takes an entire essay of really bad writing to find out just what, exactly, your point is. And if you don’t spend that valuable 98% getting to the 2% that actually says something, how else will you ever get there?<br /><br />Certainly not by believing that you don’t know how to write or that your writing is really terrible. Writing is a skill, just like cooking, that can be learned. Sure there are probably better cooks out there than you, a writer always has Shakespeare to live up to, but no one else can make exactly the same thing, ever. And no one else can ever think the same things in the same way. So, don’t stop yourself from finding out what you think before you begin. And then, when you know what you think, try to make your sentences reflect your thoughts as accurately as possible. We’re not aiming for world-changing grammar; just a sentence that makes sense. The rest will follow.<br /><br />Remember, we have a nice and friendly ratio to work with. Commit to your own 98% crap with clarity and accuracy. Try to connect the act of thinking with the act of writing. Tell the shrewd perfectionist that you’ve got work to do. Then go to your writing tutor and learn about semicolons.autumnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09784545505992802536noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1731014595505944919.post-52754084809230398242007-08-03T09:23:00.000-07:002007-12-29T13:13:13.808-08:00una estrofa para mi insomniodoro (translation follows, corrections welcome)<span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:180%;">A</span>mado mío, por la madrugada,<br />Tu no dormir es un pájaro dañado,<br />Asustado de sus propias alas que baten.<br /><br />Mi despertar es un nido<br />Musgoso y húmedo por rocío—<br />Esperando, pero demasiado pequeño<br />Para contener todo tu insomnio.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:180%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:180%;">M</span>y love, in the early morning,<br />Your un-sleeping is an injured bird,<br />Afraid of its own beating wings.<br /><br />My waking is a dew-damp,<br />Mossy nest—<br />Waiting, but too small to hold<br />All of your sleeplessness.autumnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09784545505992802536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1731014595505944919.post-40419317719422035442007-07-30T16:50:00.000-07:002007-07-30T17:04:15.386-07:00paul thinks the moon is boring<blockquote><em>O cold marred magma, O turning pitted gibbous!<br />Your elliptical eccentricity, your diurnal libration,<br />Is strikingly inconsequential<br />To our insipid imagination.<br /></em></blockquote><br /><br />I was first introduced to astronomy when my father told me to walk in a circle around a small fern to demonstrate how we see the phases of the moon from Earth. This was the most incredible thing I had discovered in my four years on this planet, and the only thing to trump the small green lizards whose tails came off in my hands and then grew back again.<br /><br />Two years later my father built his own telescope in our attic. He even ground his own lens. That was a couple decades ago, but I can still recall the smell of whatever the sticky-smooth, orangish substance was that he used to polish the glass.<br /><br />Then I saw the rings of Saturn. They were really out there, just like all the books said they would be. What about Pluto? Or comets? Were they really out there, too? And how did those rings around Saturn get there anyway? And why are there craters on the moon? I remember believing then that all the answers were already known, and that all I had to do was read enough books in order to discover them. This belief soon proved false, but not before I had come across enough unanswerable questions to lead me to General Relativity at a relatively young age.<br /><br />For some reason, the notion of gravity as a consequence of the curvature of space-time was much easier for me to grasp, and a lot more interesting, than some other more fundamental concepts immediately applicable to life. Fractions, for example, were completely lost on me, as was the generally agreed upon notion that science was not cool and MTV was. Even now, I can’t add fractions, or dress the fashion, but I can explain why a clock would tick faster as it approaches the event horizon.<br /><br />And even though I’ve been thinking about the fabric of space-time and event horizons for longer than some of my classmates have been alive, I still find the subject matter infinitely fascinating. In fact, I don’t know what could be more fascinating than an impossible-to-ponder-all-the-possibilities universe right outside our window—except, maybe, those tiny tail-falls-off-and-grows-back-again lizards.<br /><br />So, speaking of infinitely fascinating subject matter, I was shocked to hear a friend of mine say recently, “The moon is so boring, it would be better if we could project movies on it . . . or something.” I do realize that I am a prisoner of my own perception paradigm, but even so, it had never occurred to me before that someone might find the moon to be a boring thing. To my way of seeing things, this was blasphemy, absurd, and untrue. All my wonder, curiosity, passion for science, appreciation of the natural world—my solace within the confines of unnatural surroundings—it all began with the phases of the moon. When I look up at the glowing, pitted gibbous today, I am no less astounded than I was when I was four.<br /><br />I felt sad for my friend and for our closest lunar relative. I wondered what it would be like to be a prisoner of a perception paradigm that did not include moon-magic. Was Saturn boring too? The constellations? I felt like I was in sixth grade again, when all the kids thought that I was boring, and I thought, <em>Sometimes</em> <em>I am more at home in the universe than I am among my own peers.<br /></em>autumnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09784545505992802536noreply@blogger.com1