Holiday Preparation

Between my grandmother’s death, and living so far away from my relatives, the holidays generate more stress than fun for my parents and brother. Regardless, we always pull through with a few good laughs. Today kicked-off our holiday cheer.

It was the Tuesday before Christmas, and all through the house, ALL the creatures were stirring, including the uninvited mouse.

My mother was preparing the bottom cabinets for the inflow of “holiday cheer,” also known as bourbon, and she notices remnants of an unwanted rodent. We occupied this house for eight years, and never found more than one or two beetles lurking around. Does she scream? Nope. Does she cry? Not exactly. So what does she do? “Fuck! There’s a frigging mouse in here! This is not what I wanted to fucking do today.” I have acceptable hearing, and the house lacks substantial square footage, so I continue crocheting on the couch. Mom’s a doer, and this wasn’t about to slow her down.

“Oh, you got to be effing kidding me! Ash, come here!” So I do, and even I’m surprised. In a tipped-over thermos resides a hoard of fresh cat crunchies. The critter made a little house complete with a kitchen. Mom continues to pull Tupperware out from the cabinet like Marry Poppins. Then she removes a severely large, sterling item. I inquire about its purpose, and learn that the magnificent piece of silver is an antique waffle maker. We had a waffle maker my entire life, and I find out about it just now.

I acquire the cord and plug it in. Sixty or so years later, the bad boy still works. We have pancake mix, so I leave the iron plugged in to clean and use. Mom continues to mumble obscenities while Lemon-Pledging the entire kitchen. We pause to yell at the cat for drinking out of the toilet, something he does frequently even though he has a freshwater supply 24/7. Mom concludes her lecture to the cat about proper bathroom and animal habits by digressing back to the original situation: “You need to start killing the son-of-bitches and earning your keep, Dumb Ass!”

The waffle iron resumes my attention, and I open it, filling the kitchen with smoke, from sixty-year-old grease. Officially banned from the kitchen, I decide this is a cute little tidbit and reminder about why my family has a touch-and-go relationship with the holidays and deserves to be written down.

Happy Birthday to Me: An ordinary, but very deserving, girl’s short story

Due to some very unfortunate, yet completely inevitable circumstances, my most valued companion decided it was not a particularly good idea for him to take me to the museum for my birthday. At the time, those words were the most hurtful thing he could possibly utter because of the fact that his reasoning was based solely on his budding relationship with my future female “replacement”. I came to terms with this news and made myself other arrangements for the day. Not a big deal. The new plan consisted of my dear friend/horse trainer meeting Mom and myself early the next day and proceeding business as usual. To make matters even better, I anticipated spending the evening with one of my closest and most interesting female friends.
The night before the event, as I prepared to set out to said friend’s house, my car decided it wasn’t really in the mood to crank. Dad assumed I knew about this issue and lectured me to Kingdom Come about how I need to pay more attention, especially with him living out of state and being unable to deal with these issues as they arise himself. “Take it to the auto store,” he told me. “See if they can read your battery.” I suffered severe difficulty believing this could become any sort of a major project. Therefore, it was.
It took one look at the jack-nut in the store nearest to my house to know this wasn’t going to work. And my instinct prevailed. Their machine refused to read my battery. I became hysterical on the drive to the second store. “Damn him! Damn him! How could he do this to me?” over and over, as I think about how I wasn’t supposed to drive the next day in the first place. Violet mascara plastered my face, my sweat pants flapped, and my neon orange flip-flops flopped as I drag my hysterical self into the store. “Excuse me, but can anyone read my battery? Please?” And then, what I swear to this day was a gift from Gram*, turns around to say “Why yes ma’am, I can.” I don’t know if it was his eyes or stature, but my tune changed real quick.
We exchanged pleasantries, each made a couple of good jokes, and he even answered all my father’s questions satisfactorily via my cellular device. I was suddenly having a great day, minus looking like my horse drug me through Hell and back home by my ankles. Right before I left, this lovely gentleman walks back out of the store to ask me if I’d like to get some dinner some time, and I told him that why yes, I think I would.

Well, things are progressing nicely, steadily, and quietly. Roughly a month later, I’m typing this on his couch as he studies for his Political Science test. Regardless of how this turns out, to have this story makes anything from that point totally worth it.

Walk Normally

Approaching the ominous security line at the Hartsfield-Jackson airport, I wait patiently for my turn to enter the scanner. For the first time, I realize that I am in the busiest airport in the world, and TSA bellows instructions not only in a mediocre American, but also in no other languages. I find this odd.
Within a very acceptable amount of time, I have my liquids, shoes, belt, and bag on the conveyor belt and ready for the x-ray machine. This is when I lose faith in the system: as I walk through the machine I trip on myself, and therefore, the agent asks me to go through again. Okay, no problem. Then he gives me this meanish look, like I’m screwing with him. “Again,” he says. “Walk normally.” Shocked and confused, I walk through again. “WALK NORMALLY!” I’m horrified, truly and absolutely. I have severe back pain, and injured my hip working a horse the day before. My stride was off, but it always is. I hurt. And the tears start. “Sir, my hips hurt! I don’t think I can.”
Self-esteem building never really became part of my daily regime, but that’s not why I was ready to let loose on the waterworks. All that came to mind was some poor woman who had just given birth, or some man who had his pelvis eaten by cancer. But I heard the TSA agent correctly, and he had told me to walk normally. I have no idea what his idea of normal is, but obviously I am not.
After this careless person comprehended my outburst, he says, “Walk all the way through.” Well, I walk through the x-ray and stand by my luggage, including my purse with loads of personal information, which up until this point he forced me to leave COMPLETELY UNATTENDED IN THE AIRPORT. Forgive me for not having confidence in the agent in charge of that specific vicinity. Eventually I find myself understanding this man’s dialect, and I wait in the clear holding cell to have my fingers swiped by those popsicle-stick looking things. They let me go.
Even though I probably have gotten the name of the thoughtless, careless, intolerant man who had the nerve to tell another human being to “walk normally” and filed a formal complaint, I did not. I decided it would be much more fun to go home and write about it. And let him piss off the wrong person.

On a side note, it horrifies me that someone with such a dangerous job can possess such a low level of efficiency. If I had been someone dangerous, even just being me, I had ample opportunities to wander off and disappear into the crowd. This is where I need others to realize and insist the importance of the fact that inconvenience does not and probably never will equal safety. What makes me feel safe is when people work as a unit; one pair of eyes scan for what the others cannot see. I wish I did know the name of the male flight attendant that worked my flight to Boston. He never missed a beat, instructing passengers-who were packed like sardines-, loading luggage, and never had to force or scrape a single bag into the overhead compartment. He did all this while smiling and maintaining a fantastic attitude. Someone, please, get this man a medal.

I might as well admit...

I used to poke horrible fun at people who blog. It seemed like the most ridiculous, impersonal, over rated cry for attention. At the beginning of the semester I felt horrified and slightly embarrassed at the mere notion of placing something in public where others can freely criticize (I've had horrible experiences witnessing the next generation's online opinions). I would have rather run nude through the streets of Cambridge. After several weeks I have found blogging an excellent way to share and receive ideas, knowledge. It's a way to share information on a tricky topic, or post/read examples of a difficult pattern. Also, blogging gives us an opportunity to get to know each other as individuals and not just text on a page. Even though we can't get to know every poet's work we'll ever read, knowing each other on a personal level helps us help each other portray a desired effect. Then the awakening occurred: my favorite source of information in the equine industry, Fugly Horse of the Day, is a blog. A very popular, very funny, very aggressive blog. It really is funny how most of the things we dislike (people, places, and things, but mostly people) usually end up becoming an extremely valuable, irreplaceable resource.

Curious, as Always

Today in class it seemed impossible for several people to come to the same conclusion with the same preference on any particular piece. It amazes me how differently people perceive what they hear. Are such preferences (content, repetition, alliteration, consonance, rhyme, etc.) cultural or genetic? Do people enjoy certain poems or songs because of an internal processing system, or because they became accustomed to a particular rhythm? Do the same people who dislike music dislike poetry? Or do they only appreciate certain types of poetry? Even within the styles, do you think people who are visual learners align with and value more colorful, descriptive pieces? Obviously not everyone who dislikes poetry dislikes music, but I wonder if somehow, on any level, the two have a connection. Also, do any of you think it is possible, to an extent, that maybe some of us dislike seeing elements in other people's poetry because we cannot make them "work" in our own? Even beyond poetry, (at the risk of sounding like a therapist) maybe we disapprove of certain elements in other people's writing because we were chastised for making a similar attempt.

Possible Anaphora?

The Cure-Love Song

Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am home again
Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am whole again
Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am young again
Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am fun again

However far away I will always love you
However long I stay I will always love you
Whatever words I say I will always love you
I will always love you

Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am free again
Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am clean again

However far away I will always love you
However long I stay I will always love you
Whatever words I say I will always love you
I will always love you

Technically, due to the consistent line repetition, is this an anaphora? Regardless, poetry, throughout my past and currently, inspires me. I enjoy patterns and receive a great sense of accomplishment when I discover not only a previously unknown (to me) pattern, but a symbol, or even a repeating concept. Although I possess no musical talent, often I hope to write a series of words worthy to be put to music. In each class, when studying a new form, I hope to discover the secret form to create the perfect song. Upon further observation I realize no secret exists. There is no formula, and no particular reason why one form proves better suited for a song than another. Songs reveal themselves in couplets, tercets, quatrains, and every combination. The rhyme schemes are numerous, sometimes obvious, and are equally not present at all. They range from free forms to, possibly, an anaphora. And while I feel as though I should feel disappointed, I am elated; you should be too. Brilliance, although often momentary, comes in every shape and style imaginable. Some of these styles don't even exist yet! We have endless opportunities to leave our literary mark, and that mark is often permanent.

Aubade

The Cure-Just like Heaven

"Show me how you do that trick
The one that makes me scream" she said
"The one that makes me laugh" she said
And threw her arms around my neck
"Show me how you do it
And I promise you I promise that
I'll run away with you
I'll run away with you"

Spinning on that dizzy edge
I kissed her face and kissed her head
And dreamed of all the different ways I had
To make her glow
"Why are you so far away?" she said
"Why won't you ever know that I'm in love with you
That I'm in love with you"

You
Soft and only
You
Lost and lonely
You
Strange as angels
Dancing in the deepest oceans
Twisting in the water
You're just like a dream

Daylight licked me into shape
I must have been asleep for days
And moving lips to breathe her name
I opened up my eyes
And found myself alone alone
Alone above a raging sea
That stole the only girl I loved
And drowned her deep inside of me

You
Soft and only
You
Lost and lonely
You
Just like heaven

This song contains all the major elements of an aubade. A dialogue persists between the lovers, one of them knows they will part, and in the end they are separated. I particularly enjoy the language because of the way the each person's speech is distinct from the other. Also, the description of the waking deeply moves me due to the image of a man who wakes, as if from a coma, and reaches for his lover who left and not to return. The lines "Alone above a raging sea/That stole the only girl I loved/And drowned her deep inside of me" breaks my heart. I am in love with the language and complexity of envisioning someone drowning inside of another. The multiple readings of that metaphor create an interest I often find myself lacking when becoming involved with other literary works.