sweeping down the plain

I'm not so good with this, I guess. The upside, however, is that I've been focusing more writing energy on poems. This is good. Very good. This is especially good because in just over three months, I'll be sitting in my first graduate poetry workshop with some brilliant writers and I don't want to embarrass myself. In other words, I'm moving to Amherst, Mass., in August to start an MFA program in poetry. I will also be adopting the teacherly legacy passed down from everyone in my immediate family (read: everyone); this means that I'll be teaching a section of freshman writing. I am honored and thrilled and nervous about all prospects. More about this later.

In the meantime, I'm going to Oklahoma. Tomorrow. When I land in Tulsa, Brian will greet me and I will be whisked away to meet the rest of the Jones clan. Already I have been promised the best barbequed meat of my life, the best steak of my life, and a very epic tour of Oral Roberts University. While I'm excited that multiple promises involve meat (and the other involves a nefarious Charismatic Christian institution with a 200-foot-tall "prayer tower"), ultimately I'm looking forward to finally meeting his family. To quell the pressure and anxiety, brian insists that they already think lowly of me, so really I can only rise in their estimations. Inspiring.

this is the day

I like noticing when people stop, mid-thought and mid-step, to change direction. The precise moment when priorities or desires shift. I always wonder about the one that's winning.

walking the cow

A few weeks ago I had grand aspirations and plans for this month. But none of those will probably happen, partly because I spent this whole week writhing in bed due to the whims of some mysterious stomach demon, and partly because my ambitions usually get the best of me. Uplifting, I know. But I will write more! And read more! Pictured above is my to-read and to-finish list for this month, but, you know... ambitions.

In other, irrelevant news, today I am lusting for the very epic picnics that spring and summer will bring. Special thanks to our (well, Brian's) new wine/dishwear/utensil/cheeseboard-toting picnic backpack. Oh the alfresco adventures we will have.

intermission

We almost spent three days trekking through frozen, snowblown Montréal, but ended up on a bus to Philadelphia instead, from one city's Chinatown to another. On mornings we studied maps, then set out with half-formed plans for the day. I think, now and then, the best vacations are spent dodging museums and monuments and more museums in an effort to discover the more intimate, tucked-away histories of a place. We wandered Center City, Old City, up and down South Street, then in and out of neighborhoods I can't name, dropping into bars and shops and record stores. We saw Oneida play, watched a bedraggled dive bar jazz trio, watched a zombified Jesus strutting around on Easter Sunday (hilarious? inappropriate? both?), sought out cozy restaurants and ate well, drank well, slept unexpectedly well in a hotel bed. Then, on Monday, we left on another bus back to another Chinatown. I don't know, maybe the weekend was uneventful in a storied vacation sense, but hey, sometimes the lazy and impromptu and unscripted respites are the most sorely needed and all that.

fissures

I found this in a used copy of Jorie Graham's Region of Unlikeness. These artifacts always excite me and break my heart at the same time. While I don't think I could ever give up a book with a personalized inscription, there's an intimate comfort in knowing that, at some point, another person purchased the book with love. But it makes me wonder: why did Maureen and Marshall need to rid themselves of it? Oh such mystery and history.

shades of gray

When winter settles on this city, snow seems to hesitate. I never thought I'd miss Michigan winters, but day after cold, gray, windy, stunted day, I keep expecting results that seldomly deliver.

another february

Holidays here and gone. Hopped on and off 5 planes to and from Michigan, where I spent seven full days mostly huddled in my parents' suburban nest, eating, laughing, playing board games and card games and arguing, as always. I met two new nephews, reconnected with old friends in crowded bars and basements and living rooms, drove Brian from the bus station to the house I grew up in and watched eagerly, nervously as the new world collided (or meshed, I hope) with the old. Made me wonder where I stand in all this, hovering in some "home"-shaped purgatory, New York vs. Michigan. I think I might always linger somewhere in between where I live and where I came from, and I think I'm okay with that.

Came back to an empty apartment and a new record player, appropriately christened in a ceremony involving Thriller, the soundtrack to 2001: A Space Odyssey, and Brooklyn Lager. Rang in the new year with cajun food, a crowded party with poor dj stylings, and then Les Savy Fav, the perfect ending. Got a promotion and an unexpected raise (sweet, sweet justice), finished remaining applications, and caught a cold just in time for an orchestra audition I had to cancel. February will bring long-overdue visitors, desperately needed tax returns, housewarming and farewell and birthday parties. As for this weekend? A bowling excursion to Sunset Park and a Superbowl feast lacking any trace of Superbowl coverage. In March, I'll be on a train through the Adirondacks to Montreal, a trip I've been fantasizing about for years.

In the midst of everything, I'm anxious for spring and to fill empty, misused spaces with something meaningful--whatever that may be. I look forward to finding out.

holiday freeze

Once I'm settled again, once lingering applications are in, and once I have returned to a whole, happy person, I will recount events and maybe write here more than once a month. In the meantime, please keep on keepin' on.

dear dust-ghost

All the trees are dropping leaves. I always think I can smell the coming season just before it arrives, but maybe it's just a transplanted Midwestern sentimentality.

A couple Fridays ago, I boarded an early morning bus to Boston. Five hours later, I hugged my mom in the airport hotel, where we ate quesadillas at an Irish pub and set out to navigate the subway system. We slid through parent and child hordes at the aquarium, pressing our faces to the glass, watching penguins breathe our own air, wondering what it looks like when a jellyfish digests a fish. It's a curious business. After, we wandered Newbury Street and Boston Common, clasping arms and shivering, ordering bread and wine at cozy bistros while waiting for Bob to meet us. Mornings, he left early for his convention while Mom and I sat in our beds or the hottub or the coffee shop, chatting and gossiping and still missing each other. More museuming, more eating, briefly meeting up with Alex in a dirty bagel shop, shoe shopping, wandering and then Sunday, back on a bus to Chinatown. Mom kept apologizing for not doing enough, not seeing enough, but sometimes it's nice to stay lazy in a big city with people you miss.

During Thanksgiving weekend, I wrote letters, braved the supermarket for holiday food, became a bowling champion, learned how to roast a turkey, and baked pumpkin pie (thanks, Sara Lee). On Thursday we made dinner for six, ate until food coma set in, drank wine until wine coma set in, played board games and word games and passed out feeling full and happy. Or at least I did. Friday night brought a Jersey City excursion with Ivy and Thew, where we jammed to Brian's dj stylings, observed party guests and their costumed "we come in peace" interpretations (the night's designated theme), and endured a gruesome two-hour trip back to Brooklyn. the weekend's close was spent eating pizza, drinking egg nog and listening to records.

It's time for Christmas music again. More covers of carols drowning in remixed heaps of coloratura, melodrama and crap. Time for animatronic Santas greeting me outside shops and bodegas. I don't like either prospect and I probably never will.

we've got boxes

I've been memorizing, stress-eating and staying up too late.
I keep forgetting the quadratic equation and what words like "abstemious" mean.
I miss maple trees.

On Friday, I caught up with long lost Interlochen Beth, a face from my teenage past. After a seven-year correspondence dearth, we reunited in Fort Greene, hugging and exchanging questions like “so, how was the rest of high school?” At the Habana Outpost, a surly man with an unfortunate haircut took our order, gave us food tickets and waved us to the “truck," which turned out to be a real, kitschy transplanted truck on a rain-soaked outdoor patio. We handed our tickets to the cooks and, ten minutes later, still standing under the truck's awning, strained our arms above to retrieve the food and headed back inside. Ultimately, a ridiculous ordeal for mediocre fare. We chatted about college, camp gossiped, played "where are they now?" with former cabinmates, then headed to Bushwick for a party where our "we went to summer camp together" relationship puzzled many and where I repeatedly defended Michigan to a Jersey native.

Saturday brought a mid-morning migraine and sluggish math review, surprisingly unrelated. Took the bus to watch Islands play in Williamsburg, glimpsed and dodged a high school acquaintance, ate a burrito as big as my head and caught another bus for night two in Fort Greene. Ended up in a co-worker's apartment with cigarette smokers, art installations, free wine, a poetry and short story reading, and a performance by the Tin Star Sisters. Another headache on Sunday, brunch in Clinton Hill, more practice tests (god bless the GRE), neglected laundry, then staring at the ceiling, cat napping and writing until heading to Greenpoint for a polka punk band who brought new flair to "Roll out the Barrel," "Who Stole the Kishka?" and other Eastern European classics. Came home to find a gigantic cockroach chilling in my kitchen. Yesterday I doused it with enough Raid to last several lifetimes. Tonight I'm buried in books again, feeling the itch for change and welcoming its possibilities more and more.