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Wednesday, January 23, 2013

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.


Don't count the stars, she says...

"Everything about you is extreme."

This is what the tarot-card reader told me a few months back. "No shit, lady," is what I wanted to say, but instead wore a smug grin, the occasional laugh escaping. I tried to hide my disbelief while I took notes in my book. I wrote everything. Extreme...

So what?

This is a question I'm often jotting in the margins of student papers. It's so easy to use heavy words, concepts really, without definition: words without the picture-frame-like backs to hold them up. But she was right. Everything. The broad works here.

I feel a chapter ending. I feel... confused. I feel like I don't have many chapters left to go if I keep burning through them so quickly. One person can only do so much. And I know it in my heart, yet feel I need to be superwoman. Even if I were—cape-clad and toting otherworldly powers—it still wouldn't be enough.

On Tuesday, I left class and walked to my car alongside a very kind student of mine. She is from a middle eastern country, and so, startled by the bright eye of the moon [as always] I turned to her and asked if there were any myths or stories about the moon in her country.

"Sorry. I'm just sort of preoccupied with the sky a lot."

She understood and stopped at the top landing of the cement stairs, our unspoken point of departure: "Let me think... no, but there is something with the stars."

At this point, I may have been drooling. Something about the universe just does it for me. I guess I'm both THAT simple and THAT complex.

"My grandpa always warned me not to count the stars. I don't know what, but something bad would happen. I always wanted to, but was too afraid to look for too long."

After some later goose-chase online, I found what I was looking for: http://rosmee.wordpress.com/2009/09/02/count-the-stars-dhofar-sinkhole-shihait/

One blogger had an answer. While it is a fantastical folktale or not, I gleaned my own truth. What is the moral? What am I to learn? [The exact topic I've been lecturing about in class: the folktale.]

With no idea of it, this student gave me my own lesson. It wasn't anything she said, but everything I knew that she didn't need to say. I'd been stargazing too long. Wrapped up in my own head, striving for my own definition of "success"—essentially the unattainable. Time to come down to earth, lady.

It's time.
mt


Monday, January 7, 2013

Dear 2013 | Resolutions, Replays & Ridiculousness









You may wonder what I expect of you. Chances are that, already, I have overblown your proverbial balloon with 200-ton expectations and a heaping mountain-sized dose of blind optimism. My bad.

2012 was something like hell for me. While it had its high tides, its low blows seemed near fatal, at times, and mostly just... well, depressing. So, yes, the dawning of a new calendar on my wall [the 2013 I Can Has Cheezburger LOLCat Calendar, to be precise] has my eyes a-glitter with some serious hope. This just HAS to be the year they invent affordable jet packs or a Transatlantic tunnel.

You know... I had so many expectations for last year—so many goals and resolutions that I never got to. I mean, I could spend all day listing the personality flaws that need fixin', the calories I should be cutting and margins of productivity I wanted to conquer, but I'll refrain to save you some jive bitching. [I really should take up drinking or something...] Anyhow, let's face it;
you kind of sort of owe me one. No?

In ranting and raving about the year past, let me also note that I'm not the only one with a steamship full of disappointments [sinking ship?]; it appears 2012 wasn't a bitch for just me. Nearly everyone I talk to had a shitty year, too. 2012 was amaze with separations, sicknesses, deaths, moves and heated political debates. I realize most years have ups and downs, but last year, in my rear-view mirror and the mirrors of many others, those 365 days smarted some sick-nasty destruction. Personally, by December, I was rooting for the promised end of civilization [See: End of the World.]

In conclusion: you should be preparing for a stellar year. We deserve it! [If it takes a dozen or so HJ's to accomplish this, I'm willing. Just sayin.]


Sincerely, your friend,
mt


In an attempt to keep my resolutions both optimistic and generic, I drew a doodle to commemorate:

http://distilleryimage2.s3.amazonaws.com/d5924548543b11e29b9b22000a1f96c5_7.jpg
Thank you, Instagram! [Follow me: 1flychicken]

...Oddly enough, it's only January 7th and already I received my first speeding ticket, fallen down the icy stairs and hurt myself, had about three zombie dreams aaaaaand got my period. Really, 2013? Can we try a little harder...?
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