Observations from an Airborne Tube of Toothpaste

I settled my elbow on the strangely soft plastic of the armrest, pressing the heel of my palm into my jaw. I then spent the first few minutes of my pre-takeoff zoning trying to configure myself into a more optimal daydreaming pose. As it was an airplane, whose necessarily close quarters reminded me of the innards of a tube of toothpaste, I was unsuccessful.

The man across the aisle grumbled about the airline, most notably the lack of overhead compartments for us, the back row. I would have pitied him had he not had an empty seat next to him, the oft-heard of but rarely seen jackpot air bubble of the mile-high traveler. He feebly tried to make it look like he was trying to put his carry-on underneath his bonus legroom. With my negligible talents of depth perception and volume estimation, I wasn't fooled by his failure.

For my part, I was just happy to be there. My bad travel juju, karma, luck, whatever superstition have you, had continued to feed the whirlpool of anxiety with block letters: DELAYED. It took the goodwill of three United/Continental employees--Craig, Stephen, and Maria, to piece together a new flight plan that would put my comfortably-shod feet on the affordable carpet of RDU.

I had found my most-optimal-but-not-quite-there etude, and I stared, my eyes more glassy than the plexiglass paned oval that served as my headrest. The sun set, bleeding the clouds pink. It reminded my out of it self that haste makes waste when it comes to a load of whites. There had been a brief mention of a thunderstorm, but since it had been brought up during the pre-flight safety spiel, I had ignored it.

That is, until a brief flash of focus caught a wink from Mother Nature.

Act I:
Forks of lightning prodded the swirl of purple clouds, looking for an escape route. As the plane engine (somewhere in the vicinity of my left ear) or the altitude had drowned the accompany grumbles of thunder, I could watch the spectacle without fear. Slowly, we passed the sparks of the approaching tempest.

Act II:
The cabin lights came on. ORD was near. Beneath the plane, the terra firma had taken up the entertainment for our descent. Fog was rolling off Lake Michigan. Having consumed Navy Pier, its greedy fingers crawled to the Willis Tower and its antenna beacon. Beyond, the city was alight in a messy grid and blood vessel highways. The headlight veins, still so small, approached while taillight arteries darted away.

Act III:
The landing gear whined over the runways of ORD. A technicolor light show of red, blue, green, and orange spoke in a code for which I had no key. They welcomed us to the tarmac, guiding us to Terminal F in their cryptic manner.

Finis.

And then the show was over. There was no applause--it's passe now. Instead, we picked up our baggage and squeezed out of the tube, efficiently dispersing. Our time as an audience was over. After all, you can't put toothpaste back in the tube.

Amateur Domesticity

At this time last year, or perhaps even this time last week, a Friday night alone would have resulted in wallowing. I would have fallen into the Slough of Despair, which is only deepened by my taste for melancholy music. Or perhaps into the Mire of the Internets, aided and abetted by StumbleUpon and my penchant for mindless self-distraction. It was a close call. I was listening to Christina Perri on YouTube and clicking "Stumble" to my own discontent.

And then I snapped. It was just a little snap, like a hair tie on the skin. I decided to "do" something. I got out of bed, put in my Sense and Sensibility DVD, and, had I been wearing long sleeves, I would have rolled them up. It has been some hours since my underwhelming snap. My activities are thus: I have transcribed the 300 words I wrote today. I have made (and eaten) Swedish pancakes. I frosted a cake. I have a loaf of bread baking in the oven. I wrote my dear friend Sanna a letter. I am currently writing a blog and watching Pride and Prejudice whilst drinking a cup of tea. I have painted my toenails. Perhaps I will do some yoga and some more writing before bed.

I feel, if I dare say, very proud of myself. I have so far avoided the needless tears and self-pity that does nothing to console me. I have balanced productivity and relaxation. Hopefully, tomorrow morning I will be recharged for my morning run and another day of pleasant inanity. I am, therefore, content. However, I find myself craving a cute apron, an adorable tea set, and a kitten.

Just a Thought

The only time I dislike being short is when I feel that it helps the snobs look down on me...

My Poetry (Not as pretentious as it sounds...)

I mentioned in my last post that my poetry is either humorous or wallowing in self-pity, -loathing, -whatever. It was my way of showing how amazing Hope's ability to maintain stability, clarity, and insight in her work really is. And it is amazing.

My poetry rarely sees the light of day. And this is a good thing. But, because I celebrated Pancake Day today (a day late, I know), I'm feeling a little nostalgic for York. Whilst I was a student at York St John's, I took a creative writing class. It was an amazing experience, except that I had to write poetry. Now, my sestina wasn't horrific, but that had rules to cage the raging beast that is my wackiness. I thought I was out of danger. But then our tutor had us write another one, inspired by one of the pictures he put up on the projector. The one I chose was something akin to this:

Thanks to greatbendks.net

And this is what I got:

Karma in Iowa

The wire’s rusted, ugly in its decomposing utility.

It runs through splintered posts,

Dyed the same rust by the sun, bringing

Another day of slow death by oxidation-

The addition that leads to subtraction.

It only makes sense in chemistry.

I think it’s effing weird.

That red color is too, like the wire

Is some messy axe-murderer.

(Which may explain the yellow-bleached grass.

But their screams have faded,

Not even a survivor to break

The godforsaken silence.)

That stupid wire, mocking me.

Just because it is, for now,

The tallest thing until the closest cow.

That one, right over there,

Yeah, that one, the one that just got tipped.

His Hindu Holiness probably laughing

About effing karma and shit.

Never piss on an electric fence.

Note that I tried to start in all seriousness, throwing in words like "decomposing" and "oxidation" like I was so cool. But then it all went horribly, horribly wrong. But I was (and still am) so perversely proud of this poem that I submitted it as part of my final portfolio for the class. Perhaps I was emboldened by the lack of effect the grade would have on my Calvin GPA. Perhaps, after a semester of living next door to hard-core partiers, my sleep-deprived brain finally snapped into complete madness. 

Sonnets

Last week and a bit was Valentine's Day/Single Awareness Day/GPS Day. Now that you've gotten all of the chocolate out of your system, I'm about to revisit the topic. But in a good, literary way! Now, if you're vaguely familiar with sonnets, you'll understand that the majority of them are about being in love, comparing girls to a summer's day, not admitting impediment to the marriage of two minds, etc. etc. For my cynical part, my favorite has to be Shakespeare's 130th sonnet:


My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks; 
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
   And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
   As any she belied with false compare. 


Who can resist a man who somehow makes reeking breath and wiry hair romantic?


But what about not being in love? Where's the poetry for the single-ized that doesn't send the reader into a downward spiral of woe, into the depths of despair and ice cream? I would try, I really would, but my poetry can only either be super-emo or humorous; I just can't take myself seriously enough to trust my creative endeavors outside of prose.


Thankfully, I live with someone who manages emotional stability even while writing poetry about not being in love. These sonnets are taken from a sequence written by my roommate Hope for a British Literature class, and she's gracefully allowed me to share them with you. If you exist.

1.

I question myself closely: can you prove

that I must only speak of hearts I’ve earned

or is it possible, from stories learned,

to drop my pen to page and practice love,

a specter to receive it? I will vow

that, though romance breathes not so dizzy here,

yet I have breath of love within, and dear

would expel it. For little exists now

when I compare to what I build inside

my heady heart; all ether-real; wonder

that joy would be as a pulling under.

I know the air of love: will say I’ve lied –

alone, to tell of coupling and hearts

ablaze – or will allow these gentle arts?

2.

To claim possession o’er the multitude

complexities love brings, I would not dare;

I feast on worry as it were a food

though living free of all romantic care.

To add – no, multiply consumption by

four-chambered hearts divided by our fate

or own cruel dismissal! Or will my

strange hunger turn to what I cannot sate?

Oh weary mouth, small fraction of the whole,

preparing morsels pal’table and sweet

for other’s ears. An exponential need

for their approving murmurs tears my soul

without a one who stands superior.

Care great enough, I would not ask for more.

3.

Into the woods I wander slow but fast

my blood is thumping: will there be here found

a mossy secret whispered ‘long the ground

or myriads of mem’ries e’en the past

may not recall? Leaves: yellow-green, half-mast

to hide from wind, in stillness all unwound.

With glor’ious light, the forest’s head is crowned.

and I remain, of all its creatures, last

but happiest. Sir Petrarch would no doubt

fault find, deer lacking, with this place of peace

and puzzle how I tarried there without

I find myself immersed. Look to the east,

dear Frank, if listing yet for beauty true.

Your romance nothing has to morning new.

  

4.

Though not to say that I despise the tales

they spin for me; the fabric soft and fine

and crafted carefully, opaque as veils,

material caressing. T’would be mine

so easily, all shimmering with hope:

“Oh, you were made as half and pair, and soon

completion will arrive. But meanwhile, cope

by waiting patiently,” their cheery tune.

I will not wear, nor put to use such clothes

as if my solitary state gave shame.

My future being, my God only knows,

as one of two or just more of the same.

I wait not; instead content will I live:

much more than dreaming has my mind to give.

Sonnet 4 is my personal favorite. 

I have often felt that my art is dependent upon my emotions; the deeper and darker I wallow, the better. After all, no one really talks about a well-adjusted artist. And my reading list for English classes has never been the picture of emotional health. The dark emotions seem to be equated with "serious" literature. It's a running joke that a Holocaust movie is guaranteed an Oscar. But contentment and humor are just as real as loneliness and inadequacy. And, sorry emos, it can still produce art of just as much beauty and complexity as sadness.  

GPS Day

Today is February 14th, and everyone knows what that means! GPS Day, the anniversary of the first GPS satellite launch.

I won't have much of chance to celebrate any sort of holiday today, given my crazy schedule on Tuesdays, but I will have get to go to my favorite watering hole with some friends for pizza and a beer. It's not a fancy dinner, which is a good thing. After nearly twelve straight hours of class and work, I don't think I'll be any sort of shape to enjoy anything more than the basics.

Happy GPS Day!

Icons of the New England Saints

I had a great deal of fun in New England. And why not? There were bookstores, old houses, people dressed up as nineteenth-century American authors, cemeteries, more bookstores... So, since Art majors have convinced us all that pictures are worth a thousand words, here are some snapshots from my trip.

Moonrise over Plimoth Plantation

Contemplating Walden Pond

My first autograph!