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.

Hie to the Plum Tree

Can I just say: I am so smitten. I am SO smitten. I am so SMITTEN.

I've Never Had Taco Del Mar and Pocky's Just O.K.

Wednesday, a Taco Del Mar soda sits on Professor Nofziger's table as she apologizes for including a writing prompt in an assignment that tended toward witchcraft. She is very sorry.



Wednesday night, I am hungry in my dreams--haven't eaten for days. I ride along a street surrounded by merchandise and food stalls in New York (but it seems more like Calcutta) in an unmanned rickshaw. I am very hungry. Then I see the neon beacon of forthcoming satisfaction, blinking in red and green letters: "TACO DEL MAR." With my mind, I steer the rickshaw left and squint at the menu. What will I order? But my rickshaw buzzes past the counter, stopping at the next stall, "FEDEX KINKOS." The man running the Kinko's is apparently the best copy man in New York, and I'm lucky I found his stall, how many copies do I want and do I want them on colored or white lazerprint sheets? Colored, of course. My fifty copies of purple fliers advertising Taco Del Mar shoot out of a slot in the wall, into the basket of the bike I'm now riding. I ring the bell, say thanks, and ride on.



I am still very, very hungry. Soon, I am riding along the same street. I see the Taco Del Mar, the FedEx Kinko's. This time, I'll be ready. As I pedal faster, I look down and count the change in my bike basket. Good, I have enough for... enough for what? What will I order? I look up so that I may examine the menu, but I do not see the girl waiting to take my order at the Taco Del Mar. I see the best copy man in New York. All right, colored! Out shoot fifty copies of pink fliers advertising Taco Del Mar as I slide over the pavement, now a two-dimensional figure. I will always be hungry.








Thursday, a timid girl brings me Pocky, chocolate-covered biscuit sticks, as a thank you for helping her with her paper in the writing center. I can't accept...I should not eat all of these myself. No, you must accept...I have many boxes in my room. I accept.



Thursday night, I walk through a sparse park in my dreams. I find a newspaper machine alone in the middle of a grass patch. It does not dispense newspapers; it does dispense boxes of Pocky. The Pocky is free. The dispenser begins to shoot boxes of Pocky at me unrelentlessy. I protest. I cannot accept this Pocky... I should not eat it all by myself! It does not listen. Pocky.

Be Silent

At twilight, I sat on the dock in Port Townsend and watched the light turn pink. And God spoke. I'm having trouble translating.

It's never enough to say, "The Lord told me to tell you that you are precious," "The Lord said He has good plans for me," "The Lord told me I'm going to perform miracles in a remote island off the coast of Papua New Guinea." We cannot translate the language of God in this way; when we try, we dilute it, generalize it, make it trite. In our common language, it becomes merely strings of letters and morphemes, signs and signifiers.

Of course, in the beginning was the Word. The Word was with God and the Word was God. Then God said. All things came into being through Him. God said.

Next to the force of God's words, our language is a sparkler spelling G-O-D L-O-V-E-S Y-O-U. I cannot speak, "Cat," and cause my cat to appear before me. God speaks life into existence, and we attempt to copy his language as a child may attempt to copy Chinese.

Sometimes, it's best to be still and watch the light turn pink.

Good Word

Tchotchke

tchotch-ke [chahch-kuh]

--noun Slang.

an inexpensive souvenir, trinket, or ornament.





Source: Dictionary.com

O Sister

"Innocence can only be wisdom in a world without evil."

--Sister Aloysius

Tonight, I saw the play Doubt, by John Patrick Shanley, who also wrote screenplays such as Moonstruck and Joe Versus The Volcano. It showed at the Seattle Rep in Seattle Center. Nice theater... not too big, not too small.

The play is dense with issues. Let's start off with the plot: Sister Aloysius, who is the principle of a catholic school, draws another sister into a suspicion that Father Flynn is making advances on the only black boy in the school. The other nun, Sister James, is quite "innocent," not wanting to deal with any conflict. Sister Aloysius embarks on a mission to expose Father Flynn, with or without Sister James' help.

For most of the play, it's hard to decide who to believe in. Sister Aloysius does not want to tell the proper authority, who is male, because she is certain that he will believe Father Flynn--here we have the issue of the male hierarchy and superiority in the Catholic Church. On the other hand, her evidence at times lacks validity, but she fiercely believes in her conviction that Father Flynn is a predator. How can we trust her when she is so determined to expose this man's faults, solely based on her gut feeling

Then there's Father Flynn, who likes to wear his fingernails long, swing his hips when he plays basketball, and hold private meetings with young boys alone in the rectory. If there was ever a candidate for a perv, he definitely appears as one. He's as determined to prove himself innocent as Sister Aloysius is to prove him guilty. That makes us question his innocence. If he is telling the truth about his actions, why doesn't he allow the nun to continue her investigation? It also seems like a witch hunt, and Sister Aloysius is just out to burn Father Flynn.

The contrast of extremes between the two characters makes for a compelling play. After all, Shanley did win a Pulitzer for it. I wanted to clap and shout, "Good job!" during the tensest moments.

Missing: One Fall Season

I found a lone red leaf on my car today.

Fall, please come soon.

Instead of tired yellow rays, I want watery pit pat, pit pat waking me up in the morning. I want to hear the crispness of Fall under my feet when I walk to my car; I want to stir up whirlwinds of it as I drive to school. I want to see red, yellow, orange, brown, and deeper red. I want the wind to blow sharply, whipping my scarf in the air. I want to use my umbrella and wet my pant hems in puddles. I want to wear socks because my feet are cold.

All this sun makes me thirsty for a solemn rain.