Where Breathing is Enough

Bustling about
One foot in front of the other, in front of the other,
infrontoftheother, infrontoftheother.

The world spinning me into madness,
being pulled in a dozen directions would be easier
than what I'm doing all day long.

In a blink, open the door,
step into the simple life with you.
Where breathing is enough.

One Word...a meme

Using one word, describe the following things. Note: I can't follow directions.

Yourself: easy (as in "like Sunday morning" not "that woman on the corner.")
Your partner: amazing
Your hair: brunette
Your Mother: well-intentioned
Your Father: wonderful-wonderful (family thing)
Your Favourite Item: bed
Your dream last night: incredibly realistic
Your Favourite Drink: wine
Your Dream Home: secluded...but not remote
The Room You Are In: cluttered
Your fear: alone
Where you Want to be in Ten Years?: home
Who you hung out with last night: WonderDog
What You're Not: overly extroverted
Your Best Friend: the amazing one
One of Your Wish List Items: books
Your Gender: female
The Last Thing You Did: drank a beer
What You Are Wearing: comfy clothes
Your favourite weather: Texas fall--in December
Your Favourite Book?: just one??
Last thing you ate?: um....
Your Life: crazy
Your mood: calm
The last person you talked to on the phone: Madre
Who are you thinking about right now?: The Man (the amazing one *grin*)

Word Play

I've been thinking a lot lately about language. Mine, in particular. To be more specific, my use of "foul" language.

See, The Man and I have decided to make a conscious effort to clean up our language. We both cuss too much. He was in a conversation with a coworker a few days ago who commented on the incredibly foul language of another colleague (let's just, it would make a sailor blush). She pointed out that he does cuss, not as often the others they work with, and he almost always checks her (the colleague he was talking to) reaction. She doesn't like the language at all. It pushed him to do something about his own habit.

I've spent a good few months feeling guilty lately when I cuss around him. A random "damn" or "hell" has never bothered me, but I know I've gotten comfortable and that's not all I'm saying anymore.

I will admit that sometimes, there just aren't other words--either for emphasis or intensity. I mean, come on, when I fell a few weeks ago and nearly broke my tailbone, saying "shoot" just didn't do the pain justice. And I've always thought you should say what you mean (and mean what you say, of course.) I've even been known to use the "f" word for shock value, or to make sure I'm getting the attention I'm needing from the person I'm talking to.

A friend of mine said that swearing wasn't banned in his household. However there was a rule about the use of certain 4-letter words. You couldn't use them just 'cuz. You had to be creative in your use. In my house, creative use or not, you got punished. But we're all different.

I know I need to curb my mouth. Does that mean language will disappear from my writing? Not all. Some words just can't be replaced, specifically because of the implications to writing.

I mean, really--would "fudge" really replace "fuck?" I think not.

New favorite blog

Oh, this is great. Being an English major, I'm always a little itchy about grammar and punctuation. I'll grant I'm not perfection in human form when it comes to this, but some things are just freakin' obvious.

Like quotation marks.

The "Blog" of "Unnecessary" Quotation Marks.

Dear Diary

It's time to bare all. I'm going to finally admit a silly, almost embarassing crush I've had forever. Ever since I first saw the reruns of the tv show, so many years ago. It burns me now that I can't find those reruns anymore.

I've always had a thing for the young David Cassidy. Why, oh why wasn't he born 15 years later? It wouldn't have been a celebrity crush I had to hide from everyone.




Shhh..don't tell The Man. ;)

Combustible

The random prompt generator over at Poetry Thursday when I visited this morning said "combustible." Instantly, I'm getting images and pricks on my arms (that synaesthesia thing again). Obviously, the initial images run to flames and danger.

But, then...the leftovers of last night's dream win out. It wasn't remotely hot and steamy, or even PG-13. It was decidedly PG, bordering on G. But it struck, mid-dream, and lasting into the morning, a mild "combustion" feeling inside.

So, though there is not poetry here, today. There may well be some later.

I did find something interesting this morning, to share...

PoetryKits

Interesting stuff there. Enjoy.

Check out Poetry Thursday for some other poetic offerings.

Beautiful Phenomenon

Check out the prompt over at Sunday Scribblings for this week. You'll find other thoughts about this topic as well.

We're supposed to discuss amazing phenomena that caught or does catch us. Gosh..there's just so many. I could go into those things that astonish and perplex me (like how people could actually feel sorry for Paris Hilton. But, I digress.). Instead, I would rather think about the phenomenon that gets me in the heart, every time.

I'm a high school librarian, by trade. I've always believed that my career is not a job, it's a calling. I was designed for this role, among others. While some may think that the most important part of my job is teaching and curriculum-based, I would disagree.

I'm a connection for the students that I work with. I'm someone who isn't harping them on to get school work done, or do their chores, or by golly pull your pants up. I just talk to them. I tell my colleagues that I have 1800 kids...and I care about all of them equally and to the best of my ability. Even when their behavior is unlovable.

I used to think, when I taught elementary school, that most amazing thing I got to see on a day to day basis was the "lightbulb" go on over a student's head. You know, when, after struggling and struggling, they suddenly GOT IT, whatever it was.

Now, it's when I look up to see who's standing at my office door and hear "Miss, can talk to you about something?" It means I got through to one of 'em. One of those 1800 kids has realized that someone gives a damn and isn't going to tell them what to do, but is going to listen and help them make choices. That's the phenomenon that makes what I do every day worth it. Why I go back.

I'm a librarian, which, by definition almost always means "book-pusher." That's the last part of my job. The first is loving those kids.

um..ok..

We both fall into this trap.

um...ok...

Something (unexpected...unpleasant...)
happens
and rather than deal with it head-on

um...ok...

And then one of us prattles on explaining,
while the other sits in silence.

um...ok...

(For other offerings, check out this weeks posts at Poetry Thursday.)

Cynicism on a Wednesday eve...

Only dull people are brilliant at breakfast.
--Oscar Wilde

I've reason to believe that dear, dear Oscar was correct. If I might say so myself, I'm pretty damn interesting a good 90% of the day, once I get through breakfast.

Note: Breakfast must consist of either 4 cups of strong coffee, or 2 SINGE THE EYEBROWS STRONG Espressos. It doesn't matter if there's anything else for breakfast. This is the law, and I follow the law.

The people I classify as dull after I have coffee are, well, dull. Rather, they are DUH-ll. Put me to sleep, pass me more coffee, "look, a diversion" dull.

But in the mornings, if I've progressed beyond the queen troll stage (read: "had one or 2 cups of coffee, already"), they're brilliant in the since that they catch my attention and make me giggle appreciatively, as opposed to at them.

What do you think???

Ekphrasis

A literary description of or commentary on a visual work of art.

Hehe..this'll be fun. I immediately thought of this piece. Frankly, it's bothered me for years and years.

And so...here's what I think, after God knows how many years of existence, the red dot has to say.

Yes, I'm a dot.
Yes, I'm aware that I'm a big, red dot.
No, I don't "mean" anything.
Well, not really.
But I'm sure you've read some sort of
"deep, inner meaning"
in my roundness.
No, I don't want to know what it is.

Hehe...I had too much fun with this!

Inspiration

Hm...where does my inspiration come from?

I've written so many times about the way words affect me (here and here), my thoughts on just poetry in general.

But where does my inspiration come from? That's so much harder.

I take pictures a lot..my camera's almost always handy and I think the most fabulous gift I ever bought myself is my camera phone (and then I learned how to blog via my phone. Ain't I spiffy?). I rarely share the pictures I take, but I just look back at them and smells and feelings and words come right up (there goes that synaesthesia again).

Sometimes I'll hear a word or phrase and I'm just done in. I used to carry little bits of paper with me all the time. Now I text the phrases to my email address.

I'm a rehearser. I rehearse the important (and goofy...and sexy...and duurrrrty) conversations I want to have with The Man. (It makes me glad I run with an MP3 player strapped to me, people think I'm just singing along.) Sometimes I'll say something--or feed the words I want him to say--and it'll spark something else.

And sometimes I'll hit the prompt for Sunday Scribblings, or Poetry Thursday, and sometimes even One Deep Breath and I can't help but write.

When it hits, it's different every time. Some days, I have to stop everything and go with it. Other times, it marinates for a long while. I can always tell when I'm going to have to stop and focus on the word--my (self-diagnosed) A.D.D. gets so much worse. I've just got no chance of focusing on anything else. None.

For other thoughts on inspiration, check out Sunday Scribblings this week.

Puzzled

I've always liked the word 'puzzled.' It feels good in my mouth, but I think that's because I like z-sounds. I don't think I use it very often, but I do tend to hold those words that taste especially good in reserve, so they don't get used too often.

I spent a fair amount of time puzzled this week. It managed to leave me on edge, and feeling insecure. The insecurity kind of scared me. It showed up in overly-emotional ways with The Man. I even raised my voice to him, and started crying because I'd realized what I'd done. I don't think I've ever done it to him, and I know he's never done it to me. I'm sure my doing so and my sudden tears were more than a little puzzling to him.

Last night, it hit me. It's not that I was feeling insecure about my relationship with The Man, that's good, that's solid. It's more that I was feeling very puzzled by reactions and feelings I was having (again, see this post).

People puzzle me. Myself the most. I used to joke with a friend about it. He'd make some comment about "never understand you, woman." I'd answer with "join the club, man." Sometimes, it bothers me that I don't understand myself more. Most of the time, it's just nice to know there's still things to learn, even about myself. I'm sure it's not easy for people around me, probably hardest for The Man (he doesn't have the advantage of knowing me for years).

Anyway, this wound up being just a wander for my mind. But, I wrote--this is twice this week!

For my puzzling thoughts, visit Sunday Scribblings.

The body knows...

**Pardon me whilst I stretch a bit. I'm a little out of practice again. Dang it, I need to write more--well, write more here, as opposed to there. (I know, I know, that makes no sense, but it sorta does, doesn't it?)

The prompt at Poetry Thursday this week is "the body knows." What does the body know, you ask? Well, all kinds of things. This morning, it happens to know quite well that I was out until 1 this morning. Quite well.

But that's not what's on my mind. Sticking to my "theme of the year," here is what my body knows, this morning. This one's even titled, and I rarely ever do that.

Because of a look...

Beating heart ceases, briefly,
then rushes to catch back up.
Full-body flush,
the color rising just before the heat.
Twinges of dancing in my toes
My eyes go wet, not quite welling.


Hm..that felt rusty. I'll have to get back to writing/blogging on a more regular basis.

For other body-knowledge, check out Poetry Thursday.

Chronicles, for Sunday Scribblings

This week the prompt is "Chronicles." I finally took five minutes to stop and see what the prompt was this week (I've been preoccupied as of late.). Definition #2 from Answers.com says a chronicle is a detailed narrative record or report.

Actually, it's the subject of my recent preoccupation that I've been thinking about in terms of chroncling lately. I started a list of the things that are making me smile, making me tingle, my heart swell, and my disrupting my sleep (in a good way).

I may have mentioned The Man has returned. We've been back together nearing 2 months. It was instantly more serious than we were in the fall. I'm 10 kinds of happy, and in such love. I keep wanting to write about it, but don't feel like I can do it justice. Some days, what I feel for him just overwhelms me.

So, anyway, in a rush of love one night, when I couldn't do anything else, I started listing the things about him, about our time together that make me sing. In a sense, it's a chronicle of things, a 'detailed record' of the things that define my love for him, our love for each other.

Maybe, one day I'll share it with him.

Change and the New Year

Be always at war with your vices, at peace with your neighbors, and let each new year find you a better man. ~Benjamin Franklin

I think I've said this somewhere before...but I don't do New Year's Resolutions. I don't believe in them. I can't think of any good reason to resolve to change once a year. Yes, I know, you can decide to make changes at any point during the year, but people make such a big deal about it at New Year's.

I don't think Old Ben meant that you should start in January working yourself over to be a new man. Instead, I think when the new year starts, the idea is that you're better than you were when the last one did.

Year's end is neither an end nor a beginning but a going on, with all the wisdom that experience can instill in us. ~Hal Borland

There's an old prayer, rumored to be found in the Bible of a freed slave who died in battle during the Civil War.

"Lord, I ain't what I oughta be,
And I ain't what I wanna be,
And I ain't what I gonna be.
But Lord, I thank ya,
I ain't what I was."

That's what I think about during this time of year. I honestly do sit and think about how I've grown and changed during the course of a year. And where I'm heading.

On New Year's Day, my mother will ask us to share our resolutions. She's obviously never heard..

Never tell your resolution beforehand, or it's twice as onerous a duty. ~John Selden

So, even if I did really, really make New Year's resolutions, I wouldn't share them.

All that being said, I do have a change I'm going to endeavor to make. I'm gonna stop cussing. It's really gotten to be too easy for me to let those 4-letter words slip out. I tried once before, even set myself up to put a quarter in a jar every time I said one. The idea was that once I'd gone 2 weeks without paying the jar, I could take the money and go do something fun. I made it to $4, then decided it was really stupid and did away with the cup. And kept cussing. (Should I note that the first $2.50 accrued inside of about 20 minutes?).

One last thought about resolutions and change, from dear Mr. Twain...

Now is the accepted time to make your regular annual good resolutions. Next week you can begin paving hell with them as usual. ~Mark Twain

For other thoughts on change, visit Sunday Scribblings.

Where I am right now

I'm not sure who this poem is about. There's a couple of front-runners.

In a situation I thought
improbable
(because I've learned 'impossible' is a laughable word)
I've fought so hard lately to be
practical.
Lock it all away,
Tell no one of pain, of joy.
Then, He surprised me.

Could be a faith issue. It's altered in the last few months. Went through some rocky stuff that surprised me--by both the suddenness and how deeply my heart was affected. I know my faith, which has been pretty strong for a long while now, deepened.

Could be about The Man. We've wandered back to each other again. It's so much nicer this time--we smile more, touch more, and are more at ease with each other. I thought I was happy and at peace with him before, but I don't think I really knew what that felt like. I do now.

To read some other inspired poetry, check out Poetry Thursday.

Blogging Chicks

Just joined up with a great blogroll.

Blogging Chicks is a women's only blogroll.

You oughta check it out.

A poetry meme...for Poetry Thursday

Um..2 weeks ago (or something like that), the prompt offered over at Poetry Thursday was a meme. Since I didn't get around to doing it then, and I'm up at 6:30 on a DAY OFF, I'll do it now (apparently, I have time!).

Works well since this week's prompt seems to basically be a "do what you want" kind of week.


1. The first poem I remember reading/hearing/reacting to was... Shel Silverstein's "Boa Constrictor." (Find it here) I think this was the first time that I'd realized how words paint pictures and that, as that wasn't enough!, they tasted in my mouth.

2. I was forced to memorize (name of poem) in school and... Gosh, we must have been deprived at our school. I honestly can't remember ever having to memorize a poem. I remember reciting "The Fog" (Sandburg) and then doing an art project on it and writing our own "fog-like" poem, though.

3. I read/don't read poetry because... I do read poetry because it relaxes me. But I also subscribe to the notion that to write good poetry/prose/grocery lists/whatever, a person must read those things voraciously.

4. A poem I'm likely to think about when asked about a favorite poem is... Wow, Emily Dickinson comes to mind. I imagine it would be cheating to say "all of it," huh? Well, call me a cheater. It wouldn't be the first time!

5. I write/don't write poetry, but... I do write poetry, but I wish I wrote more of it.

6. My experience with reading poetry differs from my experience with reading other types of literature... It feeds my mild A.D.D. quite well--I can finish a piece and do my thinking before my wanders again. But, too, phrasing and line breaks make sense in my mind. It's how I think.

7. I find poetry... Delicious. I devour it, and sometimes bleed it. Poetry is in every step of my life, kind of like my faith.

8. The last time I heard poetry... A few days ago. One of my students read his pieces to me.

9. I think poetry is like... Visual perception through one's heart. No, not everyone feels poetry intensely, but you can't deny that it evokes the visceral.

For other answers to this meme, visit Poetry Thursday.

If these walls could talk...

Over at Poetry Thursday this week, the prompt is about talking walls. Specifically, what would walls say if they could talk. It's pretty interesting, if you think about it. Maybe a little frightening, too.

They'd say "MY GOD WOMAN, RUN!!!!"

No, really. I try not to listen to the walls, it's enough that I talk to myself, I don't need the walls to talk to.

Since I've been conspicuously not writing much lately, I was pleasantly surprised to be able to run with two (count 'em 2!) poems this week.

Hodge podge of tastes,
feelings,
words,
Soaked into the walls.
Do I dare ask what they know?

And...

Intimidation

New construction
No voices to fill the silence.
Untouched by
squeals of delight
and four-letter words of anger.
"First impressions are everything"
even to the walls.

For more talking walls, visit Poetry Thursday

Nemesis, for Sunday Scribblings

Last week's prompt at Sunday Scribblings was about heroes. This week is about your nemesis.

I'm not sure I'd be 'allowed' to write about the person I actually think of as my nemesis. Out of deference to my dear friend, I won't even try, because I wouldn't be able to keep a civil tongue in my head. But when he reads this, I'm sure he'll know what I wanted to do for this prompt.

So, instead...a bit of my brand of farce.

My arch-nemesis, renewed on a daily basis, is my alarm clock. I'm not a morning person. I think I've told you that before. I completely adore the mornings that I can wake without the alarm clock. In fact, I dream of those mornings. Let me explain.

I have to wake in stages. Three, sometimes four, attacks at the snooze button are the norm. I actually set the alarm for 30 minutes before I should get up (which is roughly 50 minutes before I have to get up). Before I found an alarm clock with a 10-minute snooze, all I'd been able to find was 9-minute snoozes. I'd actually set the alarm for twenty-seven minutes before I intended to get up.

(As an aside, why NINE minutes? What was magical about that number? Other than to incite general pissiness in my morning attitude. Which is pissiness enough, frankly.)

When the alarm goes off the first time, I grumble at it. Think troll. Pissy, blonde-headed, librarian troll.

Second time, I whine. "Mmmm......noooooooooooooo." At this point, WonderDog starts making grumble noises.

Third time, I cuss. One of those long, drawn-out expletives. "Sheeeeuuutt." Or usually, more of a "Fuuuuuuuuuck me." (Mark the calendar, that's the first time the F-word has appeard in any form in my blogs.)

If I need a fourth (or fifth) time, more whining, more cussing. Then a general scramble because I'm now running behind and the coffee and ironing fairies took the flippin' night off. DAMN IT. This doesn't happen terribly often, because WonderDog's bladder can only make it through 25 minutes of snoozing, not even the full 30.

All this really boils down to the fact that I can't think of any place nicer to be until 10 or noon than my bed. It's warm, and soft, and perfect. The only way it could be any more perfect is if I happened to have a good smelling man in bed with me, warming the other half. (I'm not being facetious. And I'm rather particular.)

Of course, as I write this, it's 7:30 am, on a Saturday, marking the 8th day in a row that I've been off (we got a week for Thanksgiving) and I'm my couch. See, the WonderDog won out this morning, and is adamant about not going back to bed. If I thought he'd entertain himself quietly while I did return to my little nest, I would do it in a heartbeat. But, since we've only just turned two a month ago, well....that's not going to happen. You'd give in, too, if eight pounds were standing on your neck.

Oh well, I think I'll take a midmorning nap in a bit. Crawling in bed and all.