paralyzed

Every day, I get a word-of-the-day from dictionary.com. Most of the time, it's some obscure word that I've never heard or read, like yesterday's word: "perspicacity," which means "Clearness of understanding or insight; penetration, discernment." Once in a while I get cheap words like "compliment," or "frivolous"-- I mean, come on. But the real meat, the saucy stuff, I mean the kind of words you want to use in your highly acclaimed novel or Billy Collins-himself-loves-it collection of poems, those words go in the folder. "Good Words," I call it.

Today: "Unfledged": 1)lacking the feathers necessary for flight. 2)not fully developed; immature.

September 29: "Doff": 1)to take off, as an article of clothing. 2)to tip or remove (one's hat). 3)to put aside, to rid oneself of.

September 3, 2005: "Busker": One who entertains (as by playing music) in public places.

I have sixteen pages of good words in this folder. I'll be shocked at myself if I ever write or speak two of them in an intelligent way.

See, I'm too lazy to be a writer. I don't have that unction to sit down everyday and spill my emotive veins on a keyboard, paper, or napkin. I just don't got it.

If I ever write anything, I'll have to have five people translate my memoirs from an intensely elaborate eye-blinking code, like that guy who wrote The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. And I'm not even paralyzed.

the Albatross and the Telescope

Land HO.

We can't really see any land,
but we've finally decided we don't care,
as long as the mast holds
and the sails flap,
and the rudder turns.

Hair

American Dream #239, Objective Completed: Watching Weird Al Yankovic perform live, from backstage--up close and personal. For free.

You think I'm kidding.

saturday rainy day goodness

I discovered a great thing today: peanut butter covered pretzels. In bulk.

Hi, my name's amanda and I enjoy strolling through a good grocery store, avoiding eye contact with carnies, and peanut butter.

One of my favorite Office moments so far: Dwight dressed as a Sith lord on Halloween, telling Michael's paper mache head to shut up.

Nonsense Verification

They've peeled the skin off the good

earth and bulldozed our childhoods.



What is left?

Thunderheads, Ebola, supernovas--

apologetic speakers for the real

thing.



Though it slay me, I will face the sun

and kiss the dirt in my field.



Even stones have spirits, but this

concrete will never be beautiful.

Frontiers

Am I a pioneer
or just here--

I found out Hawaii,
a song in the snow,
mozarella and salami
all on my own.

But so did you,
before me, too.

What about light before dawn,
the smell of stacked hay,
horse hoof and cat's yawn--
those are mine, aren't they?

You can tell me nothing's new
until you're blue,
but in the end, I'll discover you.

[read it backwards] !AHha

Confessions/Are we saints yet?

And when and where and who decides
and what does sainthood mean--is it
like love, like turning on and off the light--
Good God! The light is on again.

You Can Take It

[to name a few] Dear to Me:

2 new jars of peanut butter
canoeing like Pocahontas with her friend Keiko (or Jenny)
stovetop popcorn buttered with Brewer's yeast
poking jellyfish in the bay
a little song at dusk
tank of gas, compliments of brother
brother(s)

Does My Face Look Bigger to You?

The Highlights:

night jogging
blackberry stains on my fingers, and seeds stuck in my teeth (sunny day, on a walk to the fishing dock, literally first fruits of the season--can't resist)
new library card
Margaret Atwood
telephone calls
as always, oatmeal and peanut butter in the morning

Serious Lack Of: Extraordinary People

I need to start volunteering, or something. Why not serve some people, right?

And The Future:

I'm going to hippie town this weekend. I'll forever want to live in Port Townsend. I will probably die in Port Townsend... or at least have my funeral pyre lit there. That's right, it is written that my body shall be set on a floating pyre, the crowds shall send me out to sea and one shall send a fiery arrow towards my pyre and all shall look upon my burning pyre. And there will be music and feasting. Perhaps Trevor will play some sort of Celtic ballad on his mandolin (Trev-you're the only mandolin player I know) and maybe by then somebody I know will have learnt to play bagpipes. Not that such person will play the bagpipes at the burning of my funeral pyre, but such person will have such knowledge at the time of my death/burning. I have foreseen it.

An Impromptu Nocturne
There's something different about night in the summertime. More bugs. Warmer. Lighter. It never gets completely dark. As if, when winter comes, the cold sucks away some of the light. As if there's more space in summer, or more noise, more light, more warmth filling the space. Almost--friendly. A winter night can be suffocatingly empty. But perhaps, on a clear winter night, you step out onto the deck in your flannels and blanket wrapped tightly around your neck, the sharp air clapping around your ankles like fetters, and you lean against the rail, sucking in the scene of the valley and the mountains on a clear winter night: the chimney smoke wreaths and puffs against the temperature, the house lights glow, and the stars swing their fists, fighting to be brighter than cold space, while the moon smiles as broad as ever, remembering summer.

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the

root of the root and the bud of

the bud and the sky of the sky

of a tree called life;which

grows higher than soul can

hope or mind can hide) and

this is the wonder that's

keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it

in my heart)

(from a poem by e e cummings)

This is from me:

Isn't it true?

the greatest wonder that is keeping the stars apart:

no matter how far, how long, how deep, how wide,

we're the oldest friends within seconds.

But I still miss you in between the spaces.

No wonder we call it "Space."

i brought grapes... want some grapes?

I am a teacher. I feel so much in 60 minutes:

Room 203--the lights are off, the door is locked. Creative Writing in the hallway?

A kind-faced, white-haired woman begins to enter Room 202, and stops to ask if I'm waiting for someone.

"Well, I'm teaching, and my classroom is locked."

"Oh," she says, abruptly backing away from Room 202, "Oh, 202, 203! You must be Amanda, then. I'm Joan. Let's see, I might have a key... might have a key, but I don't know if it works! We'll see."

Joan jingles her keys and jiggles one in the lock. Tadah! We enter.

Two younger girls also, at some distance apart. One sits on chair by the wall, and the other sits near my things I've set down. Chairs line the walls around the room, a broken podium leans against a chair near the door, and I pull a short table over to an L shape of chairs. One of the table legs promptly falls off. I reposition the leg and tell everyone we can sit around the table for some community.

Am I flustered? Probably not: these things happen... especially to me. I take comfort in the red, blue, green, and purple sunshine filtering through the stained-glass window at the far end of the room. I pull my binder with papers sticking out all over from my bag, some books, and a tupperware of red grapes.

"I brought some grapes," I smile, "Anyone can have some if you want," I smile. No one takes any grapes, but Joan smiles as I hand out my syllabus.

"Here's my sort of syllabus-thing," I say, "don't be daunted by it--it's just to keep me organized." I am not organized. I keep things filed in entropy. It'll be amazing if I can hand papers back to the right people when the time comes. For now it's just the four of us; I feel safe.

I try to break the ice with introductions, collecting name and email cards from everyone. I ask them to write a goal for the class--only Tiffany, attacking her note card with her pencil, writes one down. Sam sits quietly, trying not to make eye contact. I hope to get her smiling soon, but it could be a hard task.

I read through the syllabus, for some reason expecting them to converse with me about it. "Class Objectives: To develop and revise original writing... To read like a writer... anyone have any questions? Does that make sense?" I'm an idiot. Do they think I'm an idiot?

I explain personal canons and feel so incomprehensible. "Does that make senes?" They write down their favorite books. Joan and Tiffany have much to share... book titles, story plots, and favorite parts. Sam perks up a little, but speaks quietly, looking at her paper.

Finally, we free write about "A Place We Cannot Return To." We share again, and I know that Joan and Tiffany are eager writers. I know Sam will be, she just needs to find her images.

I want to give them my energy, focus, insight, and direction. My bucket's not very full yet, and that's why I'm grateful for them. and for their tentative reaches into the tupperware to snap off a crisp red grape or two.

but mostly grace. grace because i am new, young, and learning with everybody else. and i like grace best.

What's Wrong With Her Dress?

I had tape on my dress.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I put tape on my dress in order to raise the hem three inches so I wouldn't trip on it. You're smart people--you can sense the irony already, can't you?

God gave me a gift tonight. Last night I prayed for humility; I even prayed that He would not take me literally. The answer to the first prayer was Yes. No, to the second prayer.

We are walking up the aisle to the stage, the tape comes off my dress and sticks to the bottom of my shoe, making loud crackling noises as I walk. I try to lift my skirt to get it out of the way, more tape sticks to my shoes. Finally up on the stage, opening my folder for the first song, I know hell is coming when I will have to walk down the steps and off the stage. I also know this is going to be a funny story.

As we finish our final song and smile at the applause, I try again to lift my skirt, get it out of the way. More tape. More. Tape. The front of my dress is sticking to the front of my shoes. I am walking like a penguin. I trip... I am falling. GOD IS GOOD! I catch myself and avoid the face-plant. Still, the tape. I waddle down the aisle, head down, make a swift right-turn into the overflow room, sit down, begin fanning myself to dry my watery eyes.

I am embarrassed.

[my turn]

I'm going to Mexico!

In Tennesse

In my dreams, Tennesse is in the basement of my house: once I walk down the stairs, people suddenly speak with drawling accents. We also hide Jews in the basement, or Tennesse, and I hide with them and we somehow make it back upstairs to New York on the underground railroad, which runs through our basement. But while I was down there, in the basement (in Tennesse), I got pregnant with a movie star's baby and he said he'd stand by me and probably marry me. So when I got to New York, I had this baby. It didn't hurt at all, like I thought it would. I looked down and there she was in my arms and I loved her; I loved her more than anything. Now I'm awake looking for my baby in the basement, in Tennesse.