How much does a hipster weigh?

Yesterday's Photo-A-Day May prompt was: Someone who inspires you...

My first reaction is always: ATWOOD! So I was creepin' (as usual) on the great interwebs and found this stellar interview with her. I like it. I like the questions and her short, quirky responses. She's loveable in most every way.

Not only was I inspired by her answers, but I was inspired by the questions, and so... like in the old days when questionnaire-type blog posts were socially acceptable, I decided to answer for myself. See what the lovely Atwood and I have in common. (:

This interview first appeared in The Guardian on October 28th, 2011. The author: Rosanna Greenstreet.

MY INTERVIEW

When were you happiest?
Who's to say? Life just keeps getting harder, and so life always seems best or happiest in the past. Maybe.

What is your greatest fear?
Losing the marbles I have left.

What is your earliest memory?
Waddling about with a cast up to my hip, trying to get on the couch.

What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?
My restlessness. Not the productive kind, the other.

What is the trait you most deplore in others?
Contagious, jealousy-laden self-loathing.

What is your most treasured possession?
Just one? I suppose my jump drive (with all my writing!)

What would your super power be?
Saving all the people. Or invisibility. I'd love to watch people. Creepy.

What makes you unhappy?
Being bombarded.

Image thanks to: blogs.discovery.com

What do you most dislike about your appearance?
Chubs.

If you could bring something extinct back to life, what would you choose?
Woolly Mammoth. Hell yeah.

Who would play you in the film of your life?
Someone sassy. And awkwardly cute... until she opens her mouth. Can it be a cartoon? Daria.

What is your favourite word?
"And/&"—which is oddly enough, Atwood's favorite word. CRAZY! It's nearly infinite.

What would you wear to a fancy dress party?
A tux, duh. With a bowtie. Black. 

Is it better to give or to receive?
To give. I'm bad at receiving. In all ways.

Which living person do you most despise?
I don't know, actually. I suppose I'm annoyed primarily by conservatives and their ignorant hatred. But a single person? Nah.

Who would you invite to your dream dinner party?
Shakespeare, Margaret Atwood, Tina Fey, Hilary Clinton, Maura Tierney, Tori Amos... shit, I gotta stop somewhere.

hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com —best EVAR!!1

Which words or phrases do you most overuse?

Um... "all the things." As in: "Yes, I do all the things." Or... "Have you cleaned all the things?" And... "I want to buy all the things!"

If you could go back in time, where would you go?
Civil War era. The Underground Railroad fascinates me. Go, Harriet!


How do you relax?
If you knew me, you'd know this is nearly impossible. But the ocean does it sometimes.

What is the closest you've come to death?
Geez, I don't know. When you're sensitive, near-death experiences are a weekly occurrence. Hm. A wheelbarrow flying at my car on a back road, 2009.

What do you consider your greatest achievement?
Probably becoming a professor. Mostly because I was absolutely terrified and had planned on spending my life just dreaming of teaching. Otherwise, losing 70 pounds. Maintaining a mostly healthy diet/exercise routine.

How would you like to be remembered?
Clearly I'm not famous, but I'd like to remembered for being passionate, funny, selfless and determined. That's kind of generous, huh? Ok. Someone just remember I liked ice cream.

What is the most important lesson life has taught you?
To swim. Every struggle is a wave. Just keep remembering that it'll pass. Oh, and CoCo Wheats—no matter how catchy the ditty—does not taste as amazing. Hardly. Cocoa.

Where would you most like to be right now?
Nags Head, NC. Familiar but foreign. The Atlantic always sounds good.

Tell us a joke
How much does a hipster weigh? An Instagram.

Feel free to post and respond. Would love to hear some responses!
mt

Verse-fil & "Things"

Ever since the dawning, or near-dawning of Livejournal [y'all remember that one?] I've been following a Poem-A-Day blogger by the name of exceptindreams. While I don't check-in every day, I catch myself going there for inspiration often. It's always good to get a mix of words—words you might not find sifting through your typical venues. Get outside of your little world, you know?

What I love about this particular poetry blog is that most posted poems seem more modern than not, which, for a hep cat like myself, is sort of a breath of fresh air. It's not that I don't dig the classics, but it's like music, you know? You want someone to show you something fresh, new. After you've had the same song on repeat for lifetimes, you want a new beat to dance to.

What prompted this post is my coming across a poem there. For my love of Mars and this simple, yet stunning, idea of looking from the outside in—I'm posting this nugget by Wyn Cooper. I've been fascinated with space for forever, but only within the last 5 years have I been so... consumed? Mars is one of my favorites. I fell in-love with Mars after happening upon a National Geographic photo: a tiny white sun setting in blue hues. How small the sun was! I promptly taped it to my wall, rising and falling near it for years.

But those aren't the only reasons for this post. That poem stirred something in me for other reasons. About a week or more ago, I was having quite the conversation with a friend's husband. We were all out to dinner waiting to stuff our yaps at Max & Erma's when I asked:

"So, let's say you didn't have any kids or anyone dependent on you that way... would you travel the world's first mission to Mars, knowing that you wouldn't be coming back? You would be—hopefully—gleaning tons of insight about space and helping advance our knowledge and technology, but... it's a suicide mission. You can't come back when it's all over."

I got quite the look for this one.

"What, am I stupid?" he blasted from across the table. "What a stupid question! Why in the hell would I want to do that?!"

I tried to explain that it would probably be incredible, even just the experience: sites and sounds and feelings. Still, he had a pretty cross look on his face.

"Well, would you?" he asked, turning it around on me.

"Yes." And then I mumbled something sarcastic about having a football field named after me or something.

This isn't the only fight we've had over a dinnertime discussion. In fact, we spent days arguing, stopping then picking back up at our next encounter, about why "I don't want to be rich." Once more, I got the what-are-you-stupid? face.

"The only people you ever hear saying that they don't want money are poor people!" he spat.

"Not true. There is more to life than money. Yeah, it would be nice to be more comfortable and less stressed come bill time, but I know myself well enough to know that kind of excess would depress me."

"Then you buy drugs to make you happy! You can afford it!" was his answer.

I've got a whole diatribe in me. Trust me. And I want so badly to calm this indignant heat in me over his stereotypical "male" response, but just explaining it here has me all fiery again. Spare me the lecture about being an ignorant and sexist ass for blaming it on his "maleness," because there are reasons that stereotypes are stereotypes, as my roommate would say.

Cliche as it is: there's more to life than things. This isn't to say I don't enjoy "things"; however, I know my limits. I know that my want of things—whether they are gadgets, careers or personal goals—keeps me determined and pushing. I need to have "want."

That said, anyone who'd like to help pay for my mountain-sized debt from school, please find me on PayPal. I'll repay in doodles and kisses.

Best,
mt

"Mars Poetica"
Wyn Cooper

Imagine you're on Mars, looking at earth,
a swirl of colors in the distance.
Tell us what you miss most, or least.

Let your feelings rise to the surface.
Skim that surface with a tiny net.
Now you're getting the hang of it.

Tell us your story slantwise,
streetwise, in the disguise
of an astronaut in his suit.

Tell us something we didn't know
before: how words mean things
we didn't know we knew.

Auto-Bio | Your Homework

One of the most difficult feats I have yet to really master as a writer is the bio. For most journals, both online and in-print, it's typical to be asked for a "brief bio." Shit, even if you aren't a writer, how many social media sites these days are speckled with an array of text boxes that require some condensed verbiage of yourself. Likes and dislikes. Authors. Movies. Books. Music. Television show. Ice cream flavor. C'mon. Technology has not only allowed us to connect with the world, but in a way, define ourselves for the world. In words. Scary!

And so when people scoff at writing, in particular, English Composition, I have to wonder what in the hell world they live in. The Internet, smartphones included, has made life more interesting, certainly, and to the surprise of many: language both more important and somehow... it's gotten worse, skill-wise?

I'm sure it began with the short snippets of text messages. U no txts r quick n make room 4 errors & short sloppy spellings 2. But when did we become so lax as to allow for this? I mean, I'm not sure I could even consider dating someone with a horrible vocabulary, much less a lazy language of text-speak and misspellings. LMAO! (;

I'm off topic.

What I wanted to speak to is the laborious task of summing up oneself. When was the last time you had to do this? Have you ever? What did you say?

For writing submissions, it's easier. Really, any specialized venue in this way, at least, gives you some focus. But, for example, what does one do with the small info box at the top of his or her Pinterest page? Twitter? Facebook? I usually go about it randomly. Whatever pops into my head—which usually ends up being completely inane, you know?

My homework for you, those who dare attempt: write a general bio for yourself. Three to four sentences. Pretend your audience needs to really KNOW you. Not only is this a study in using language in a concise way, but really picking yourself apart to extract what you think it most important about you.

I want to know you! Go!

mt

The Sestina

Who chooses it? What it is that they want, that is. I tap my brain for hours wanting and desiring, and then hours more wondering why it is that I want what I want. Pretty unproductive, no? It can be as simple as choosing the type of syrup you want in your Dunkin Donuts Latte Lite or as overwhelming as that horrible what-do-I-want-to-do-with-the-rest-of-my-life decision. As autonomous beings, we have the right to choose (most times) but why—that's my question. And it's "loaded." And it "depends." And some are just riskier in their choices than others, am I right? Musing here.

I think that's the problem with thinkers—and by thinkers I'm not speaking about the cerebral type necessarily. I don't mean SMART people. You don't have to be smart to be a thinker, necessarily. Over-analytical. But yes, back to the problem. I've met so many people that spend more time in limbo (to be or not to be?) than actually doing anything. Now, I'm not going to come down on myself and say I don't get shit done. Because trust me, I'm busy. I get lots done; however, I think I'd get more accomplished if I could be more definitive in my thought process.

Where is this going? Sestinas, of course. What is it in me that feels this great need to keep writing these stupid things? Do you know what a sestina is? Do you care? Probs not. I know most people don't even perk up at the mention of poetry, let alone a lost form like the sestina. I mean, look at this chart, man. It's scary enough to picture a 39-line poem in your head (with repeating end rhymes!) but to witness it as this monochrome maelstrom of lyrics... shit.

Here is the point in this nonsensical entry where you tell me about what you want... things that don't make sense. Is it part of human nature to want what is seemingly unattainable? Better yet, are you decisive? How do you think you've come to be.

And if you're a good person, you'll respond to this guilt trip by filling me in. I need filled in.