The sky might, indeed, be falling...

Yesterday, I told D: "I think the world is trying to kill me."

It's nearly the end of March and besides meeting someone lovely, 2013 hasn't been so kind. I have come to realize, perhaps just admit aloud, that this year is just the lame sequel of 2012—and it's getting old. An extension of the shit storm, as it stands.

I could depress myself with the tally, the list of nasties I've encountered thus far, but I'll spare us all. But first, not without dump-trucking on you poor folk a brief synopsis of my weekend:

It began Friday with my work computer crashing, finding out that all is lost hard-drive-wise, and then my Gram's passing. The weekend ended with me pulling something in my back and becoming a near-invalid, twinging on the floor.

Loss isn't something I yet know how to process. I thought... maybe since I was hit with it early on that I'd have learned the ropes or something. But I haven't. I wish I could describe the way it feels in a way that makes it tangible, easier to choke down in the night when it hovers above me like a wet memory. But I don't have anything to strangle. Not yet.

There are bright things to look for—one of which being April, National Poetry Month. And guess what time it is again? Poem-a-Day Contest. I'm gearing up to get busy.

I thought it might be cool to share some poems on my blog, each day. We'll see! Maybe form poems [not mine.]

Anyone else doing anything for National Poetry Month? If not, try it out? It'd be a great way to start writing something. Even if they're haikus!

Wednesdays feel like hope,
sweltering and nondescript—
get over the hump.

There's my Wednesday poem. Enjoy! hahah.. feel free to share your haiku!
mt

Duke: Nothing to See Here

So, though I've exclusively bitched about this sort of thing in past posts, I've once again acquired a new hobby-slash-obsession. What's wrong with me? Typically, I can avoid such excitement by sprinting unobtrusively to the Fine Arts section of Michael's, eyes fixed straight ahead with no wandering glances. Maybe the Clearance aisle, if I'm tapping into a rare superhuman sort of self-restraint that day. Still. I have to be careful. It's not that I'm some Overachiever Bandit—it's just that I am "passionately curious," as Albert Einstein is said to have remarked [according to various pins on Pinterest that I've recently repinned.]

Anyhow, what black-hole ravenous activity has now peaked my interest? The ukulele, of course.

Who would've thunk it? After all these years, 27 to be exact, I have yet to pick up an instrument. You can count singing, I suppose. But since my highschool days, my vocals have disrupted only few venues: the shower; my car; the kitchen, from where Dexter runs with ears bent at the first note; somebody's house where I become overtaken with drunken nostalgia for my "Musical Years." You know. Never, really.

It's only going on the second week here of learning—I've had a cold ever since. But I've been pissing around and thought I'd put my guts on display for the world. Why not?

As an aside, it's a pretty accessible instrument. If you were looking for a new toy, I'd suggest it. I learned the chords on my own and have been downloading songs from the interwebs.



Please, make fun of me as you wish. Ha!
mt

Viva la Furby

Yes, I know this news is about a week-or-so old, but I can't for the life of me figure out why it was news at all. For several reasons.

On February 21st, 2013, The Tribune Review reported that a local Pittsburgh woman was arrested for hitting her boyfriend with a Furby. Yes, kids, you heard me: a Furby. And if it's not bad enough that this big-eyed, fuzzy-bodied robot made the news, it seems the suspect threw said toy at her boyfriend because of "a negative post he made about her on Facebook." Not only is this laughable on its own, but please, please, please click the link and check out this woman's mug shot. PLEASE.

I don't know about you, but there are SO many questions I have:

A. WHY would this man find it necessary to report his girlfriend for a flying Furby?
B. WHO in the hell still owns a Furby?
C. DID the Furby actually hurt the man?
and...
D. WHAT could the Furby possibly have done to deserve this?

The Trib article tells us that when police arrived at ONE IN THE MORNING, the man had some red marks on his face and a small, bleeding cut that didn't require medical attention.

Furby - 1    Stupid boyfriend - 0

I recall sitting in the waiting room for a dentist appointment when this tidbit came over the airwaves—followed closely by a disgruntled granddaughter. Apparently she was angry that her 104-year-old grandmother had to "lie" on Facebook about her age, since the digits only go up to 99, pressing Facebook founders to change this little nugget.

Once again, more questions. But I'm not even going there. What's the world coming to?

As a side note, Furbys have always creeped me the fuck out. I don't know if it was the fact that it often had drowzy drugged up eyelids, or that it spoke some demonic, sing-songy language, or maybe just that it used to wake me in the middle of the night while I was trying to sleep: dee du li da.


Nobody's safe anymore...

mt

Are we there yet?

I decided to splurge.

Chinese food, in particular the Chinese food buffet, is a horrible idea for someone like me. Not only do I have issues with indulging in tasty food until my stomach feels like it's housing a village of overweight ninjas, but eating anything fried and delicious tends to kill me—no matter the amount.

But on Sunday, for the hell of it, I decided it was time to partake. The point of my story, leaving out the proceeding belly rumbles and loosening of my belt [and food coma], is that I received this fortune:

Thanks to Instagram!

You are almost there.

At any other point in my life, thus far, I might have tucked the greasy scrap into my wallet and called it a day [I collect fortunes], but I think maybe this Asian voodoo is onto something.

Last year, as I've spoken about before, was a helluva roller-coaster ride, mostly stemming from my lack of sleep and sustenance. Still. There are down days and broken moments—shit, I wish I could say I've completely "recovered." But you know what? I think I need those days; we all do, maybe. It makes the sun brighter on the flip. I got it. Cliche or not.

I've been thinking a lot about balance and "getting there," so it comes as no surprise that this fortune hit me. Almost. The punchline of my life lately: while most of my friends and coworkers consciously work on trying to be more organized, more on top of things, more responsible, less sleepy and less lazy... I'm trying to do the opposite. What do I mean?

• I see a piece of lint or two on the floor. My gut reaction is to fall to my knees and begin a 10-minute journey across my bedroom floor, with an eye at floor-level, picking up fuzz and hair until I acquire a mass large enough to be a tumbleweed. And now? I try to ignore it. I pretend it isn't there, reminding myself I can run the vacuum cleaner when I am not in a rush to get somewhere or do something. Take that, OCD!
• My roommate asks me to watch a movie. While I typically decline or say "yes," but gather up 900 things for me to do as the movie plays... I've been trying to do it. You know. Watch TV, just watch... not attempt to do 19 other things simultaneously. This is still in the works. I've noticed, though, that I have been actually attentive enough to understand the gist of movies lately. So there's that. Suck it, Oppressing Need for Productivity!
• It's 10:00 p.m. and I'm yawning. No! This is, perhaps, my worst fear! Becoming one of those people who go to work, go home, eat dinner, watch TV and go to bed...at 9:00! The typical me might have brewed up some coffee began a late-night regime of caffeine and cigs, but instead, I've been trying to listen to my body; you know, get more than four hours of sleep per night. See, there are things I like to do in the eve, namely creative ventures. Now, I haven't been closing my eyes at 10, but I have been settling in before midnight. This is a start! Go fly a kite, Self-Induced Insomnia!

So I'm almost there, huh? I like it. I really do. I feel like a freak for trying to relax, trying to be lazy sometimes... but. It's nice [and necessary!]

Any resolutions/goals for you all coming to fruition in 2013? Tell me I'm not the only one who picks lint off of my carpeting!

Best,
mt

Art-drunk & Inspired: Local artist Gabe Felice makes memories at Headkeeper

Last eve, at Headkeeper in Greensburg, Gabe Felice had his gallery opening. Sweetness! This kid has it going on as an artist, man. No joke. Sometimes I wonder if he's been peeking in at my brain and painting it. His art is bold, intricate and nearly intoxicating: lines, colors and distinct faces that peek at you from everywhere. Go Gabe!

Along with the surreal nature of Gabe's abstract musings, the night seemed just as fantastical with an interesting mash-up of banjo and electric guitar—that you couldn't take your eyes from—and a man giving free tarot card readings.

Cuban-inspired pizza with diced pickles! Swoon-worthy!

Headkeeper, located in downtown Greensburg, PA, is a local tapas bar with a tasty, ever-changing gourmet menu and a wall of over 600 kinds of beer, both imports and domestics. I won't lie, the wall of beer is what had me hooked since the dawn of its inception. Hey, I like options: buffets, a plethora of Pandora radio stations, t-shirts in every color, a draw spilling over with pens. It's true!

Since its inception, this dreamy hangout with its industrial decor, colorful culinary creations and all-around sweet vibe has really given Greensburg a shove in the right direction. To think, just a few years ago, my friends and I were stopping by the same locale [the adjacent six-pack shop] to pick up 40's of Mickey's. These days, Headkeeper hosts art shows, live entertainment and even beer-tasting events. We really got lucky with this one, fellow Greensburgers.


On a more personal note, one of the highlights of the night for me was getting my cards read.

Image from the Rider-Waite deck.

I've read cards since high school, so I mean, I'm no newb to such things. But! To have someone else read them is always much more beneficial. Besides, we all have different energies, right?

I am the moon! Mister tarot reader tells me it's my "super power." I've been telling my friends this for, like, a year, at least. Even if I've got the fire of the sun, Leo, in me, I'm mostly moon. I think Atwood's poem, "Tricks with Mirrors," is a great way of highlighting some of the negativity I feel about being "the moon." 

"Don't assume it is passive/ or easy, this clarity/ with which I give you yourself." —Atwood

He made some good points, though: the phases; the fact that the moon is great at observing patterns—a helpful way to learn from the cycles of life and myself. Still, the moon's secretive otherworldly darkness and ability to reflect the brightness of others is where my real truth lies.

So what?

A little nugget of validation is all. That and lots of "truths" that eve. I suppose that was the most lively Sunday night in a long time: mystical insight, gabs with friends, colorful art staring back at you and a boy beating sounds from a banjo.

mt

Inspired on a drive

It's where all my big thoughts happen. The car. For some, it's the shower. For others, it's right before sleep. Either way, it's always inconvenient. Am I right? Tonight, as I drive, my brain fills up like a birthday balloon. Don't worry. I'm being safe. Talk-to-text helps.

A former professor, dear friend and [now] collegue—what an honor!—Lori Jakiela asked me to talk to

her blogging class about my job. During my full-mouthed spiel, I realized how incredible we are. Writers. Or: people who spend their time gushing, thinking about what people need/want/wish for. I know. Crazy to articulate, but just... some of the most incredible creatures I know are writers. Why? Because they have a greater understanding of things: the subtleties of culture, the depth of our interactions, colors and light and all the while, a meticulous eye on themselves.

Writers take big gulps of the world and hiccup beauty. Simply put. And seeing these young ones so open and excited about writing—well, that's not something I get from my Comp gig. Most of my students are finding ways to dodge my two-and-a-half-hour night class. It's obligatory, a required course, and so one might expect that they'd run flailing in the other direction.

But what is it about the aspiring that is so damn... inspiring? I'm by no means an expert; I mean, I've got oodles of experience now, writing and editing. But I never feel "complete." Is that a writer thing? Maybe it's like when I write the best poem in the whole-wide world, and then the next day, I read it again only to find it might be the worst poem in the world. Ha! It's frustrating. To never be all-the-way good. But that's why we keep going, right? It's become some sort of a catalyst.

But that's just it. You can never be too good at writing. Hell, you can never be too good at anything when it comes down to it. But since I was going on about lists and how to simplify for the reader, catch their attention, I thought I'd make one of my own.

Orwell gave me some of the greatest advice, and so this list is a mash-up of that and my own experience. While all of these tips aren't relevant to every type of writing, I compiled a more encompassing list—one that I feel covers the basics, you know? I hope you enjoy! [And if you have any to add, leave me some words!]

TIPS FROM A SOMEWHAT SUCCESSFUL WRITER:

1. Read. This is something I can say and say and say, have had profs say and say and say, and still... one must discover for his or herself—reading will inspire. But moreover, reading will help you to understand your own thoughts, style, voice more aptly. Good books or bad books, they will help. So just do it. Don't argue!
2. Find your big league. This kind of  goes along with the last one. Find the writer(s) that makes the hairs on your arm stand up. For me, Margaret Atwood embodies the very style that I'd hope to someday achieve; even her prose is poetic. Sometimes I carry her around with me in my pack for inspiration.
3. Invent your own language. Don't re-run tired words and phrases, those you hear every day. Make it new. Need a metaphor? An analogy? An image? Make up your own. This is an especially great way to introduce humor, but it isn't necessary to be funny. Fresh words. Fresh thoughts. Uniqueness is key.
4. Short & sweet. Don't we all love to show off a little? Some of us have great honkin' vocabularies, where we make sport of words like "loquacious" or "parsimonious"; no matter how seamless, words like these are off-putting to the average reader—use as few of them as possible. Keep things succinct, in general. Sentences, paragraphs, all of it. The world is impatient, but more than that—it will make you use more powerful words and constructions.
5. Revisit aloud. Self-editing isn't easy. My advice? Don't just re-read your work, but read it OUT LOUD. That's it. Open your mouth, say the words... does it sound right? Hide in a closet or a bathroom if you have to [but watch for that dastardly echo!] It also helps to give yourself a day or two in-between, an intermission. Like I told Jakiela's class: imagine that mindset you have when you invite someone to your house for the first time. Make that an important "someone." You know that feeling when they walk in for the first time and you sort of envision your home as he or she is seeing it, for the first time. Suddenly, every little spot on the carpet and every book covered in dust stands out like it's been spotlighted. Get there.
6. What you see is what you get. Let's face it—the public has turned into a lusty-eyed pack of big cats, hungry for aesthetically pleasing visuals. It's like we've suddenly snapped back to that age where we more apt to flip through a picture book than read. Look at how violently Pinterest has taken off! No one has to get TOO involved. Just play with pictures! The lesson in this: clean up your blogs; clean up your webpages; clean up your form on the page. People are more likely to read something that LOOKS good. Sad, but true. Inserting funny pictures helps. Ha!
7. Stop. Drop. & Write. This little nugget is more like lifestyle advice. As I was saying above, inspiration isn't always convenient. Because of this, I find myself jotting things down in parking lots, at stop signs and in coffeeshop queues. Keep paper and a pen handy at all times—stash some in your car if you have to—but don't shut that thing up inside you that is urging you to expel. Even if it means being late to your friend's wedding. [Oops!]

I'm going to end there. I could go on and on, but... [:

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.