My last year as an undergrad:

This is it. My last year as an undergrad. Life is good and full. The leaves are falling and I watch them outside my window. Someday soon I will go outside to play in the leaves. Until then, I am content to sit inside and daydream about dressing up as Elizabeth I for Halloween and about how Jesus must feel when he sees puppies chasing each other through the yard.

I feel good. And tired. Good and tired. But this is good. It means that I am doing good things. Many goods things. Which makes me tired. And good.

Tomorrow, I will walk through the leaves to my class named after Shakespeare and discuss Richard II. Tomorrow will be good. I'm looking forward to it.

The Breakup, Dec. '06

It turns out there had been a crack all along,
and then the crack grew
and split (us apart)
and as we choked on our tears, our mouths filled up with salt
and the crack filled up with God
and now it's a lot stronger than it ever was before.

My response to a bogus defense for chauvinism.

I've heard one particularly feeble-minded response to feminist arguments. Some people say that because men (not women) are drafted, men (not women) deserve special rights and privileges in our society--such as better pay for the same job.

My response is to say, yes, U.S. citizens who are drafted into wars and come back alive deserve special rights and privileges, also known as Veterans Rights. Namely, they deserve an education, health coverage and social security. Under the "current administration," as it has been oh-so-tenderly referred to by critics, many veterans are denied these rights and that is why the veterans in this country should be just as angry as the feminists.

It's been too long....

Priorities. Such an ugly word, really.

I want to build a sand castle out of clay (so it will last). I want to write a poem every day. (Self-explanatory.) I want to talk on the phone and go to parties and cook Mediterranean meals for my lover while listening to Beethoven. I want to walk barefoot across acid-hot blacktop parking lots and eat ice cream out of my hands. I want to skip to the tune of punk-rock music. I want to part my hair down the middle and dye it magenta. I want to pierce my nose and wink at old ladies in grocery store aisles. I want to pray after midnight and hear God's response in my dreams.

I have a to-do list. It says:
- apply for grad school
- get a job
- move out

Yeah, yeah.... I'll get to that. Just as soon as I finish painting airplanes on my bedroom ceiling and dreaming that I wrote country music.

Ok, here's the plan:

I will be....

a freelance-magazine-writing-book-editing-and-or-reviewing-college-professor-movie-star-
artist-model-extraordinaire!

I like to see things from all perspectives. If given the choice, I'd rather not be limited to any one POV. I think this will work, but only if I can find a way to balance my ambitions.

P.S. If I were to describe how I feel today, I'd say my emotions are more orange than turquoise. Thank you.

In the Summertime....

I haven't decided yet if time moves slower or faster in the summer months, though it decidedly does move at a different pace.

Needless to say, I'm having trouble keeping up.

Going Wireless

My mom and I are going wireless--UNDERWIREless, that is. Yesterday, we cut the wires out of our bras. And guess what happened? Nothing happened, that's what. They didn't unravel or get literally bent out of shape. To the contrary, bras hold up quit nicely without metal wires sewn into them. Makes me wonder why the wire is there in the first place. What is its purpose? Wires have been linked with breast pain--if they can't be blamed for Cystic Fibrosis, then we can at least blame them for causing red marks and irritation.

I'm all for support of any kind (emotional, financial, physical....), but rigid support is not support at all. It's restrictive and harsh. It cuts deep. It doesn't feel good because it doesn't feel like support. It feels like pressure. I'm under enough pressure with school and clubs and life in general. I don't need anymore from my bra, thank you very much.

If you're a woman who's been dealing with a lot of pressure lately, you should consider going wireless. It could be the best thing you've done for yourself in a long time--emotionally, physically, or otherwise.

Acting 110

A pivotal moment of my life happened during that class. While practicing our final scene, my acting partner told me that she liked my voice. (Since then, I've received a few more compliments about it.)

I had always hated my voice. Sometimes I mumble, or I stumble over my words; and sometimes, I just can't think of what to say. I guess I've always been a kind of verbal clutz.

My First Vagina Monologue....

My vagina
is tight, yo.

My vagina
is secretive on the inside.

Did you know, that the clitoris is connected to the vagina?
Oh yes, OH yes!, the nerve endings
flow upward, like a prayer, and come together somewhere in the deep.

A touch on the arm can affect
what goes on down there. Apparently, all of the nerve endings--
from the brain to the toes-- form a giant matrix, sensations of vibrant reds and blues.

Alone, I can climax without being touched. (I can also climax while being touched.)

I consider myself to be a student of my vagina. My vagina is my teacher--the best I've ever had. One could argue that men are led by their dicks. How unfortunate for them. I much prefer to be led by my vagina; afterall, it always leads me to the same place--which is somewhere inside myself. Men probably get lost every day following their penises, but my vagina always leads me home.

2007 . . .

This is going to be a good year. I can tell.

Your AIM . . . because I said so, damn it!

"Live and let DIE!"
- Guns N' Roses

. . . to be continued, soon.

Christmastime is here.

My grandparents disowned me
for the holidays.
I wait, each day,
for something more.

Our Student Newspaper

Go to theconcordonline.com to see newspaper articles written by Bellarmine students, including yours truly.

My AIM

My AIM

depends on the time of day and
the direction I am facing.

. . . to pierce your heart
with a sense of sorrow thick enough
to choke on, like a cloud.

To move through you,
an autumn breeze;
a cold front moving in from the River.

To disregard you -(let's be honest here)-
and come back to myself.

To feel what it's like to
walk into a building
with a sense of purpose.

To know where I am going.

To expand around the edges
just a little further- (actually,
much, much further.)

To write a poem,
To sing a song,
To learn SOMETHING NEW every day.

My aim is to sit on park benches
like they do in better poems;
just myself, alone,
faced with the warm airiness of the unknown.

Cats snore.

It's true. (I would never lie to you . . .)

It is also true that the sun appears to be moving much faster through the sky these days--there's no time for lolling around anymore.

Also true: there are few things more disappointing than spending $20+ on a c.d. and then discovering that you can't relate to it at all. (What is this song? I've never heard it. Who is this artist? She sounds rediculous.) These things can't be forced.

Summer is closing in on me and I find hope in rediscovering old habits. (Have I given in?) I need something to hold onto only so that when the time comes, I will have something to push off of. Lap number 2 is mine, all mine.

I'm still here.

I've been daydreaming a lot lately. (Note that "daydreaming" and "doing" may look similar, but alas, they are not the same thing.) Today, I think I'll spend my time reading and writing. In the past, I've found that they work well together, or rather that I work well with both of them.

But first I need to
dry my hair
and make iced tea
and put away the dishes
and fold the laundry
and do so many other necessary things.

I don't think that I can go one more day without
reading
and writing
and working on something.
It's hard to work on an empty stomach though,
so I think I'll go make lunch, then write something.

My Word-Processed Poem:

I read:

????????????/////???/?/?/
!!!!!!!!!!!11!!!!1!!!!11!!!!


What do you mean to say? Are you questioning the exclusion of some idea from another? Or is your exclamation a rejection of 1 idea for another?

If this is the language we are speaking now, allow me to add a postscript:

1! should be ? for being /. Wouldn't you agree?

School's Out for Summer . . . and I'm unemployed.

Today I vacuumed. I vacuumed my parents' house. I vacuumed a lot.

I am relentless in my efforts to rid this place of all imperfections, all inhibitions, all obstructions. Our plethora of animals (3 dogs, 4 cats) sabatoge my work quicker than I can reclaim its purity. Purity in apperance; purity that is inherent, yet often covered up by the thick veil of Daily Life.

As I push the vacuum cleaner, and pull the vacuum cleaner, backandforthandbackandforth, along every rug in the house, I feel a secret rage grow warm in my belly. I am angry, but determined. I drag the vacuum across the ground, trying to rake over my feelings, leaving a pattern of smooth lines where my tangled feelings of worthlessness had been lingering just a moment ago.

Tomorrow, I will wake up and do it all over again. God help the dog hair and cat puke that dare to cross me.

I-T

I've always been terrified of spiders. I hope to grow out of it soon. Ten seconds to rid the bathroom of one--that would be beautiful.

I've seen so many spiders in different bathrooms over the years--you'd think that I'd be used to them by now. Spot it, stomp it, drop it (in the trash). But no, it's an entirely different process for me.

I've never seen blood in the sink. At least, not that I can remember. I nick myself shaving all the time, but that's in the shower--not as scary there.

I hadn't seen IT for years--fifteen years, I think it's been. I had forgotten him. I had forgetten that he's only a spider down the drain (when you break it down).

There is no blood. There are no balloons. No clown. Just me, at two o'clock in the morning, reminiscing about a childhood mirage of a clown with a sinister smile.

I've seen so many spiders in so many bathrooms--but somehow, he's just not as scary there.

Check this out.