Reunions

Yesterday was my ten-year high school reunion. Admittedly, I wasn’t too keen on going in the first place. I knew there weren’t going to be many attending; those who I was particularly eager to see were among those unable to come. If I hadn’t just happened to be in town for it, I would not have made the trip especially.

It was unfortunate that an event which should have been fun and interesting turned out to be such a bust, but I’m also convinced that -without wanting to offend those who planned the occasion – it could have been arranged in a much better way. I felt sorry most for those who had travelled great distances (such as Oregon or even Germany), all for such ghastly disappointment.  However, a small group of us consorted in one area when we arrived and decided to eventually migrate elsewhere for our own version of a reunion. This turned out to be a much better idea.

I was glad of the company that trailed off to the Jolly Pumpkin in downtown Ann Arbor. We filled a few scrunched-together tables on the ground floor and found many similarities in our adult lives that didn’t always exist when we were younger. At the end of the night, friendships were renewed and we walked out of the Jolly Pumpkin and onto Main Street, where nearly all of the remnants of this year’s Ann Arbor Art Fair had been carried off and carted away.

Speaking of the Art Fair, I always marvel at why every year it is held on the hottest week of the summer. Stifling! For once, I’d like to see it set up at the end of June, when people are comfortable enough to meander through the booths without complaining, sweltering, and smelling.

Corner of State and Liberty:

State Street, near S. University:

 

And a Bit of Latin on the Side

Last week was one of peace and quiet and one I was exceptionally grateful for. I spent ten days house/cat-sitting for a friend of mine, just south of Ann Arbor. They have a beautifully rennovated farmhouse in the country, amidst corn and wheat fields and fruit orchards.

At one point, I decided to take a spontaneous post-dinner country bike ride around the area and managed to snap some shots with my phone:

          Wasem’s orchard: 

I’ve also been revelling in the past few weeks of Professor Williams’s class on the period from 1600-1800. Since that week was devoted to reading Paradise Lost, I was glad for the respite and silence of the house in the country. A week alone with Milton. That sounds like it deserves a poem.

To help me study Milton, was sweet Nanny Sage. Sage is 21 years old and affectionately nicknamed “Grandma.” It’s easy to relax into a poem like Paradise Lost when you’ve got this tiny little thing purring on your lap, nudging her whiskers into your book for attention:

In addition to this class, I’ve been attending Thursday bonus lectures on Shakespeare’s sonnets. I don’t believe I’ve ever loved Shakespeare more than when in the presence of Ralph Williams. I’ve attended his lectures a few years prior on a few of the plays, but now to hear the sonnets and discuss their complexity is quite the treat!

And what would make all of this studying complete? Latin tutorials. Yes, that’s right. I’ve been studying Latin on the side – just for fun. A couple of girls and I who had taken the Chaucer course this past winter semester have decided it would be a good time to brush up on our Latin skills. It’s helpful that one of us, Laurie, has had Latin before. Otherwise, I’d be completely lost. The only Latin I remember is mass from Catholic school days – and who pays attention in mass when you’re that young? No, you’re rather thinking about whether you’re going to be picked last for kickball on the playground at recess.

All this is keeping me extremely happy. I love spending more and more time on campus and studying works and subjects that truly mean something to me.

 

Looking Forward

Did you ever notice that, without something to look forward to, the days drag on and you find yourself becoming more and more lethargic? Well, that’s what usually happens to me. However, now a few things have been set in motion and I have several things for which to look forward:

1. My next class at the University of Michigan starts two weeks from today. There are so many perks to this I can’t even count them all. A few are the following: It is being taught by my favourite professor, Ralph Williams. It is also a class for which I’m sure the benefits will show themselves sooner rather than later, as one of the authors we will be studying is an author for which I’m taking an entire course on in the fall. This will be a good warm-up. The class also gives me two more credits at UofM, which is never a bad thing, especially when I’m considering applying here for my doctorate. And it also gives me the excuse to hang out downtown and on campus on my days off from work (not that I don’t do that anyway, but now I will have a much better excuse, rather than just coming to spend money at the coffee shops). There are so many more reasons, but that should suffice for now.

2. The final Harry Potter film is released in theatres in 29 days and, while I know this is a rather childish thing to look forward to, I also find it an interesting cultural phenomenon. You see, this is the end of an era, so to speak. Fans have been anxiously awaiting the next book, then the next. Finally, we were waiting for the next film, and the next. Finally, we’ve come to the end. I just wonder what people will have to wait for next. This epic is now part of our literary history, and one that will certainly stand the test of time, I believe. Rowling created such a large, world-wide community, simply by telling a story. That’s amazing, if you think about it. If only more cultural gaps could be closed so easily.

3. A few days ago I received my teaching packet in the mail from the University of New Hampshire. While the course syllabi and general curricula are pretty much the same as courses I’ve taught before, I’m slightly appalled that the university requires their freshers to purchase three (count ’em, 3) textbooks for their college composition course. As if students weren’t bogged down by the cost of university textbooks already. It’s quite unfortunate. However, despite that little quibble, I’m excited to begin teaching again. And doubly excited to be starting my MA in literature!

4. I’ve begun writing again. Really writing. My new schedule at work allows for me to take Mondays and Wednesdays off. I know this sounds a bit odd, but it has actually enabled me to truly make time for my writing. Weekends are just not conducive to intellectual productivity for me. When you think about it, we’ve been conditioned for most of our lives to this Monday-Friday, 9-5 attitude and schedule. We want our weekends off, in the garden, at the movies, on our bikes, etc. Not plunked in front of a computer, trying out our livelihoods. So, I’m at the office on the weekends, and I “work” on Mondays and Wednesdays now. And it has proved to be all the more productive.

5. While I’m home for the summer, I’ve decided to make the absolute most of my time here in Ann Arbor. I fully intend to go to the Ann Arbor Art Fair this year. I went nearly ever summer in my childhood, but never really enjoyed it. It was always too hot, too crowded, and I was too young to appreciate what was in front of me. So, for maybe the past six years or more, I’ve skipped it. This year, I plan on changing that. I have also decided to attend my ten year high school reunion. It was not something I thought I’d do. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to see the people who were going to be there (or spend the money to attend). After all, this new Facebook age has made reunions a bit redundant – particularly when so many people from my high school think they need to update everyone on our reunion “event” page before we even see each other again. And, naturally, it feels a little odd when you realize that, after reading all of these updates from your high school chums, you are practically the only one left who isn’t married yet because you’ve spent the past ten years moving from one town, state, country to the next and haven’t settled down in one place long enough to find that spouse-to-be. But if I’m going to live my life by saying yes to as many things as possible and not missing out on stuff, I must say yes to something as simple and traditional as this. That, and because my dear friend, Jennie (whom I’ve known since we were three years old), has insisted I go and be her “date.” Thanks, J.

 

Finding Momentum

Beginnings are usually the hardest for me. Once momentum is established, it is much easier to maintain pace. This can be said for nearly every situation or circumstance in my case. Example:

A regular exercise pattern. We’ve all been there. We tell ourselves we should really get out and get more of it, but somehow can’t push ourselves to make that first step. It’s a lot of work. I don’t have time. I don’t feel like it today. We make up so many excuses. Or, at least, I do. A few months ago I took up swimming again. When I was little, I was a fish. We had a pool in our back yard and you couldn’t yank me out of the water no matter what. So, after watching a very cute British film called On A Clear Day, I was inspired to once again take the plunge. I bought a new swim suit, swim cap and prescription goggles, packed a yoga bag filled with my kit and toiletries, and decided to start using the university swimming pool. I figured, since it was free for me as a student, I might as well take advantage of it while I can.

At first, during Michigan’s spring (more like winter) break, I began going to the CCRB (Central Campus Recreation Building). Armed with new resolve and motivation (and convinced that one day I too will swim the English Channel), I went faithfully to the pool each day. My first encounter was a pleasant one: not too crowded and conveniently close to the central campus bus terminal. Several other students and I became accustomed to sharing a lane or two together and became acquainted over the following week or so.

I must say, though, that the most pleasing part of the new experience was definitely the Adonis who frequented the far end of the pool area every day, working on his bod. He picked the same spot each time, doing push ups, sit ups, leg lifts, and just generally showing off the perfectly sculpted brown muscles all over him. I developed a swimming pattern that would optimize my viewing satisfaction: When swimming towards the far end of the pool, I would do the breast stroke, wide a slow. No rush. I wasn’t staring; I was simply swimming towards that end of the pool and he happened to be there. Then, when swimming back to the other end, I’d flip over and work on my floaty, lazy back stroke. I had to make sure I didn’t dip my chin too far down to make it obvious I was trying to ogle the guy.

Suffice it to say, once spring break was over, I was disappointed to learn that class scheduling did not allow me to swim at that particular time of day any more and was therefore forced to leave my Adonis behind. Instead, I commuted to the NCRB (North Campus Recreation Building) after work. A farther distance from the job and longer bus ride. In fact, after the first bus ride, I decided it was easier to just drive to the north end. After all, parking is free after 6pm.

Without Mr. Hottie to look forward to, I had to up my game in the lanes and actually work towards a goal. 70 lengths is a mile. Since I was just starting out, I didn’t want to push too hard in the beginning. Half would be a good first step. Then, I could work my way up. Now that I wasn’t distracted, I could focus on what I should have been doing all along. After that, I made it to a mile within a couple of weeks.

Note: It is generally not a good idea to swim a mile if you haven’t eaten that day and you have low blood sugar. (I learn things the hard way). 

Unfortunately, I haven’t been to the pool in the past two weeks. Finals week came and I was preoccupied with final papers and exams (nailed). Then, my trip to New Hampshire happened (see previous post). I have no excuse for this week, other than I’ve just been lazy and too tired from trying to cover extra shifts at work. But I hope to get back to my English Channel training some time very soon. Very soon.

More examples of hard beginnings to come…

 

An Update in Brief

A few months ago, I left Washington, D.C. to move back home to Ann Arbor, Michigan and get ready for the next big event: an MA in literature from the University of New Hampshire. I start my MA at UNH this August. So, this past week I took a little week-long excursion to New England to scout for an apartment and check out my new digs for the next two years.

I’ll be renting a delightful (and suprisingly cheery and bright) basement apartment from an English department professor at UNH. How extremely fortunate for me that her home is less than a mile from campus. An easy bicycle ride to class each day. And, since the town of Durham is so incredibly tiny, the bike will be my primary mode of transportation until the weather gets unbearably cold. Then, I’ll bus it. Penelope (my baby and beast, the 2007 Honda Element) will have an easy go of it for the next couple of years. On the way back from the trip to NH, she hit 30,000 miles in London, Ontario. It may be another four years before she hits her next 30K. I can only hope to keep her young as long as possible.

The trip also included two minor detours: One, a visit to U-Mass at Amherst, where I had possibly the best crêpes this side of the Big Pond. Two, a stop at Harvard to visit a dear friend who is finishing her MFA in dramaturgy. All around, a good academic glance of the northeast. The flowers were out in bloom on Harvard’s campus and colours were just coming into their spectacular prime. I couldn’t resist a picture of my mother under the scholar’s trees. So “her”:

Until August, I’m saving up by working part time at Coldwell Banker real estate as an office admin. And, up until last week, I was also taking a course at the University of Michigan on Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. You know, just for fun. Like you do. I’m sad the semester is finished, actually. It was one of the best courses I’ve taken. I fell in love with Middle English and Chaucer’s cheeky poetry. I’m also addicted to the UofM and considering adding a summer course with my favourite Michigan prof to keep me tuned in and ready for the fall. We’ll see if finances permit. Go Blue!

 

Ode to Sea Turtles

I know I am long, long, long overdue for a post here. The past few months have been chock-a-block full of interesting morsels. However, I’ll save that for a later post (with explanation of my absence). Today, I just want to share a small moment of poetry and one of my greatest loves – the ocean.

Ocean Portal has been asking all month long for ocean odes, in honor of National Poetry Month. It has taken me a while to getting around to it, but I’ve finally decided to sit down and compose mine today. There are several animals of the sea that keep in my heart; one of them is the sea turtle. This is the poem I posted on their site (and on their Facebook page):

Ode to Sea Turtles

almost as if you fly
underwater
with those wings
you call flippers
like some giant UFO
flapping and weaving
through the blue
you ancient mariner
who never vanishes
however old you are
you were born
wiser than us all

There are still a couple more days left in the month. If you find a moment, spare a few words and pay homage to the big blue.

 

Producing non-art

Yesterday, our DC Hope writers group met in the courtyard of the National Portrait Gallery. Even on a cloudy day, the Gallery’s courtyard can let in a great deal of light. Luckily for us, the sun was out and it felt as though we were convening al fresco.

We’d swapped poems two nights before, via email, giving each of us time to read, re-read, and comment. At first go, I found myself rather rusty, not having participated in a workshop in over a year (since my MFA). However, I gave myself time, read, re-read, gave myself more time, and eventually back into a position of being a critical thinker and reader of poetry with something worthwhile to contribute.

It had also been a couple of months since I’d written what I would classify as an official poem – there are poems you write, and there are poems you re-write. Last week, I came back to a poem that had been sitting in a folder on my computer for at least three months, perhaps more. It was time I gave it some air. I brushed it off, tweaked a few lines, added another stanza, gave it a fresh title (which has been changed twice since), and sent it off to the gals.

Nervously, I, the second to be workshopped that day, read my poem aloud to the other poets sitting at the table across from me in the Gallery. Sometimes, when you get the opportunity to hear yourself do this, it gives you a new take on what you’ve written. You can hear the trip-ups and the stumbles, the lines that seem to flow and those that don’t, and you can tell whether this is really something that has been worth your time to write, or if you’ve just realized you’d rather not be sharing it at all.

I was so grateful for the comments the girls gave me. They addressed every question about which I’d been self-conscious, and nailed the moments of intent with their responses. They also helped me finally pick an appropriate title, something with which this poem was giving me serious trouble. Now, I’m happy to say that The Veronica is well on its way to being finished. Soon I’ll send it out there amongst the throngs of other submissions.

Brianne read next and, halfway through her reading, an older man who had been sitting at the table opposite us, stood up, walked up between Sara and Brianne, and interrupted with a question. He asked what we were doing, sitting there, studiously pouring over some important-looking papers and speaking so critically and elegantly. He wanted to know if we were critiquing the art in the Gallery. No, we explained. We were poets, reading and commenting on each others’ poems. This was simply an ideal meeting place we’d agreed upon. “Oh,” he said. “So, nothing to do with art, then.”

His reply shook us a little. We looked at each other and tried holding on to our giggles until after he’d left. I immediately scribbled the quote down on a spare bit of paper, amused. Apparently, what poets do has nothing to do with art.

 

Phoney Bologna (Not really a visual rhyme, is it?)

We’ve set a date for the first DC Hope Writers Workshop. It took longer than I’d imagined to work around everyone’s schedules. But there you have it. On Sunday, 17 October, in the courtyard of the National Portrait Gallery, across from DC’s Chinatown, there we’ll be: a small handful of former Hollanders reminiscing over our favourite Michigan poet and trying like hell not to be the first writer to expose their work. At least, that’s how I’ll feel.

The fact is, writing has been eluding me of late. Each day I sit down with the good intentions of cranking out at least a mildly decent draft of something resembling a poem. Yet, with all those good intentions, no results. My preoccupied mind turns instead to grad school applications. Oh, the dread. Not another year of these awful things. Which programme? Which faculty? Which concentration? Which writing sample? How puffed up can I make myself without sounding ridiculously phoney?

I’ve heard many writers say the same things – they feel like a fraud; they excel only at B.S.; they have no idea why they’re in the same room as Pete Fairchild. Yeah, we’ve all had those thoughts. Me, definitely. So, to put down on paper how absolutely marvellous you are and how much you deserve a spot in a place surrounded by people who you simultaneously admire and envy can be one of the most tedious and embarrassing projects. This is no time for humility, folks.

Today was a complete writing FAIL, both creatively and academically. Instead, I tuned in to college football and watched my Wolverines kick the snot out of the Hoosiers. Way to go, Blue! But alas, it did not produce a poem.

I wonder if blaming it on my current unemployment status is truly valid. I’m sure it isn’t. Of course, unemployment depression doesn’t exactly help to get you into a good writing space. I need to form a positive routine in a consistent time and environment. A friend of mine wakes every morning at 4:30am and sits in his office for at least four hours and plugs away. Naturally, I hate him for this, especially since 4:30am is far-too-frequently the time I finally drift off to a fitful sleep. However, I’m convinced it is the muscle memory from consistent habit that helps him dutifully take the writer’s helm every pre-dawn day.

When I think of this devoted individual, I also wonder if there are days when he simply can’t sit still in the chair for five minutes without getting a cup of tea, or checking the mail, or playing with the dog, or doing the dishes – the same procrastination exercises I perform when sitting down to write. What are his excuses? Surely, with all of his success stories, he can’t feel phoney. So, then, what would make him fidget?

 

The Spirit(s) of Old Town

This weekend, the awesome Gina, a former house-mate and the girls’ younger sister, came to visit. After an afternoon of retail therapy, we made our dinner reservations at La Tasca, a little Spanish tapas restaurant in Old Town Alexandria. I’m not sure if I’ve ever had that many dishes on one small table before, but each of them were delicious.

Two particular favourites of mine that night were a vegetarian paella and a stuffed eggplant dish. I also admit, a few of the non-veggie dishes looked appetising, as well. I scraped or picked off the meat bits, and licked my fingers afterward. I wouldn’t have minded having a few more of those bleu-cheese-stuffed dates. They were wrapped in bacon, but the girls helped me remedy that.

Other dishes included a cheese platter, grilled asparagus, garlic mushrooms, several lovely salads (one of which was a big hit for all of us – an apple, almond, with tetilla cheese and a lemon quince vinaigrette). The girls’ meaty dishes included a seafood selection: calamari, salmon paired with spinach and mussels, and what I believe was a shrimp version of the paella.

I’m not much of a drinker, but I delighted their Autumn Harvest Sangria – apples, cinnamon, hazelnut liqueur, a light white wine, and it went down so warm and smooth. Add that to my list of fall favourites. I don’t remember eating this well when I went to Spain. In fact, I don’t remember much of the food at all in Spain. Then again, I was only 15 when I went. Youth truly is wasted on the young.

We had little time left before we were to meet our 8:00 pm reservation to go on a haunted tour of Old Town, but we decided to certainly not skip dessert. Gina ordered a sampler for the four of us: flan de huevo, torrijas, pastel de chocolate, and churros. Gone in just a few seconds. For all that food, I had expected to be stuffed way beyond comfort. Instead, I feel I could have sat there for hours, enjoying everything all over again.

Afterward, in frenzied hurry and a fight to get a new parking space off King Street, we raced to meet our paranormal investigator tour guide. He marched us to a few quaint “haunted” hot spots and gave us the run-down on some building and zone history. Many tid-bits involving Civil War infirmaries, surprisingly close to one another, and many of them sorted by geographic region of its soldiers.

One of the locations also included on the tour was the cemetery of Christ Church, of whose congregation many of the mighty U.S. forefathers were members. I caught a few dust particles in a photograph, which I’m sure I could pretend are “orbs.” You know, just for kicks.

At the end of the night, I was slightly disappointed that we didn’t get a thoroughly creep-tastic vibe, but it was definitely cool to learn about a bit of the area where I now live.

 

“Season of Mists and Mellow Fruitfulness”

Obviously, Keats didn’t live in the DC area. The sun’s maturity, I fear, may be in retrograde. Instead of waning into cooler temperatures, it remains a heavy heat here. And as it remains in the 90s, temperature-wise, I’m longing for a bit of “temperate sharpness,” as Keats described it. Each fall, I start off with reading this poem, To Autumn. Each year it reacquaints me to the joys of this, my favourite season.

This new season has also brought with it a new task to add to the list: organizing a small writer’s workshop. I’ve contacted a few fellow Hope College alumni in the DC area and I am now resolved to set up this writing group. When moving to a new city, it helps to have a few reminders of what holds you together. Right now it looks as though we’ll have a good group, mostly made up of us former students of the great and glorious Jack Ridl.

I’m not sure yet what our first session will entail, but I am inspired to be inspiring. I want to have a few plans to go in with. Nothing big – no large, cumbersome, anal list of rules and regulations or anything like that. Merely a simple introduction to what we hope to be to each other as writers and readers. I don’t expect a campaign speech or third-year law school opening statements to the jury. My over-active imagination would enlist me as the Abraham Lincoln figure, rousing the troops to be steadfast in their cause. Where the Gettysburg address was one of the greatest historic speeches of this country, I believe “the world will little note, nor long remember” what I say in our fist meeting.

The possibilities for embarrassment are vast. However, I may look to Keats to sort it out for me, even though I often feel more jealousy than inspiration from him. After all, why couldn’t I have been such a fine writer before I died at the age of 25? I’ve got two years’ life on the man, and I doubt if I’d ever churn out lines as perfect as his. Nevertheless, I may share and pass on my annual tradition to get things going. In any case, it may lead to a writing exercise…

I wonder if my former alma mater friends remember autumns at Crane’s Apple Orchard in Fennville, Michigan, driving up the 31 to spend late-September Saturday afternoons in earthy sweaters and our grandmother’s scarves, picking bushels of apples for crisps, pies, jams, and butters, braiding ourselves through the rows of apple trees, filling up on Jonagolds, McIntosh, Ida Reds, Braeburns and Galas…

Right. I think I’ll lead with that.