geographical mutt; or, i am now minnesotan

This is how I know: I am hugely familiar with the quiet shushing of afternoon snow. I know it is icicles breaking off my car when I am driving away. I don't shudder any more at the sound of tires in the packed snow, even if it did once remind me of chewing ice, grinding teeth.

Chattanooga claims my childhood though. This is what I knew then--cicadas and crickets, fireflies in a glass jar, thunderstorms at night and heat lightening, low slung mountains and winding rivers, corn bread and fried chicken.

There are subtle changes, the slide of accent from one to another. (I say "eh?" and "yah" now; it used to be "ya'll.") I suppose what made me notice that I belong here, Minnesota is my home now, is when stopped wearing long underwear, when I could make it outdoors without my hat and mittens.

Sometimes I fantasize about living somewhere else--Maine or Massachusetts, Oregon or Alaska. For now, I won't mind visitation rights, because my home, in the end, is essentially here, alongside my husband.


Today, I purchased photographs from the following etsy sellers and I can't wait for them to arrive, so I can have them framed, and fill up the house with poetry and photography: 1, 2, 3, 4.

Tonight, I will order a handful of different Alaska images for postcards and a handful of everyday images for prints to add to my own etsy shop. Maybe some of the above?

beautiful film week (take 2)

Earlier this week, I responded to Abby's beautiful film week, and I interpreted it with a kind of "feel good" message. (I forget to add Il Postino and Pieces of April to that list, I believe.) But I've been thinking about all the ways in which the word "beautiful" can be used, and I thought I would post a few films that are aesthetically incredible to me:

- High Art: Lesbians, drugs, a tragic ending. I couldn't add this to the feel good list, but I do adore this movie. The protagonists are photographers, and the filmography greatly resembles the artwork on the walls.

- Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon: So lush, so gorgeous. And so many of you have already seen this one.

- Lost in Translation: I like the quiet subtlety of this movie, but I also am enamored with the raw images of Japan.

- Sex and Lucia: I felt a bit prude-ish when I requested this film on Netflix; I thought it would be a naughty film. No, actually, it has a good place on my "feel good" list, though I think imagistically, it belongs here much more. The countryside is gorgeous, the pauses, and silent moments are wonderful, where the viewer can simply take in the water, the land, the wind.

- Six Feet Under: OK, not film, but a television series, and my favorite. I love the colors in this film--the earthy tones. I always think of 3191 and other everyday photographers when I see the inside of their house. I want to sneak in with my camera, capture the still life of this family.

- Planet Earth: This could be playing in the background of any moment, an everyday meditation on the beauty of the great outdoors.

- Enduring Love: A great book, a good film. I loved the shots of the hot air balloon and in the art studio.

- Proof: Oh, to live in a giant old house, to live in a house overstuffed with academia, to live in an old house with great wooden floors and banisters.

- The Squid and the Whale: This time, an apartment in New York, bookcases chock full, the creaking corners of life incredibly appealing.

- Brokeback Mountain: You've seen this one too, I am sure. Oh, those mountains.

- Ma Vie En Rose: It reminds me of splashing around in a pool. A great celebration. Perhaps also a "feel good" movie.

And you? What are the films that made your eyes tingle?

my first etsy listing

The first postcard came in, 100 copies of these little seals on the buoy, and I've listed them right here. I hope to order new designs soon! These turned out really well.

beautiful film week

Abby Try Again is hosting a beautiful film week, and I couldn't help but join along, especially as I try to broaden my viewing horizons. Some of my favorite films, the ones that make me smile, the ones that are visually gorgeous, the ones that, if you haven't seen them yet, I urge you to do so (I could make a much longer list, but the word "beautiful" seems to fit these so perfectly):

- Life is Beautiful: Hello princess! I've used this in my last week of classes, just before the school year is let out. It has a perfect assignment for my freshmen--they write an essay on how the characters we have studied throughout the school year have made their lives beautiful, they write about people in their own lives make life beautiful, and they write about how they will make their own lives beautiful. Look to the future.

- Amelie: I almost want to travel with that little gnome around the globe.

- A Very Long Engagement: There is nothing like having hope.

- In America: The power of family and healing.

- Little Miss Sunshine: More family connectivity and shameless joy.

- Whale Rider: Faith, determination, culture.

- Antonia's Line: Freedom and acceptance.

What are the films that move you? What are your beautiful films, the ones filled with hope and rich imagery? The ones that buoy you up?

at the public reading

Last night I had my first poetry reading--and when I say that, I mean my first reading without a half dozen or so others featured. It was just me and Emily, at the Banfill-Locke Center for the Arts, a beautiful old converted farmhouse, which was apparently also once a tavern. What a perfect place, a place of great history and comfort, a place full of gorgeous stories.

They also have a quilt exhibit, pictures of which I will share in another post--I don't want to overwhelm the senses (and what with Blog 365, I must save these wonderful inundations of art and topics for another date).


The reading itself went well. I think Emily and I contrasted and complimented each other well--her poems were lighter, little gems about the landscape, geography, observations of human moments--and as I read, I found my poems were about tougher stuff, focusing on loss and conflict.

She opened the reading, close to memorized, smiling with plenty of anecdotes--night kayaking, Somalis at the bus stop, life in Ghana, growing up in Connecticut. She finished with a sonnet from her time at the Anderson Center, which I thought was a lovely segue into my introduction, the girl who traveled through the slippery streets from this town.


The best thing about the night was my little corner of girl friends (and father too). I am forever grateful for good girl friends; I love my marriage, but I think equally important is having a collection of incredible friends. I knew, if no one else cared for my poems, that they would embrace me at the end, tell me I did well. Even if I wasn't memorized, even if my voice trembled. Even if I stood at the same cockeyed slant, my hip sore after half an hour of rooted-to-the-spot.

Even without my cheering squad, I think the poems went well, and I hesitate to say this, but I got a good feeling from the audience, as if maybe it wasn't all crap after all. I have serious issues with self-doubt, and this was exactly the experience that I needed, a soft murmur in the crowd, some laughter, and I even hear there were some tears in people's eyes, particularly as I worked through the Alzheimer's poems. What is important to me, when I write poems that are confessional, that comes from my experiences, even if it is at a slant, is that the poems don't come off as therapy but as art. And I hope that came through--that writing them came from a need, but the need wasn't entirely to process the event of my grandfather's passing--that came from posts here, from conversation with family and friends--but the need came from a writing drive.


And this morning, I received another nice rejection. At this point in my writing life, so early on, it is just as important to me to receive those notes that tell me at least one editor wanted it, but the poem just didn't quite make it. I nearly made it into Mid-American Review (and not too long ago, nearly made it into Beloit), which is nice, and I have that piece to look forward to in Dislocate in the spring. These it-almost-made-it notes tell me that I ought to keep sending them poem out, maybe tweak it a bit, but it just might find a home, just might be deserving of a home. In a life that is weighed down with self-doubt, is burdened with thin skin, it is good to have these little treasures to return to, to say Keep going, keep trying. That little voice that tells me I am on the right path.

writer to writer

Today, good news in the (e)mail: I have been informed that I was accepted to the Writer-to-Writer competitive mentorship program through Intermedia Arts. I applied mainly for the methodical practice: putting together an artist's statement, refining a series of ten poems, writing a poetry C.V.

I love those letters I receive as a writer that begin, "Congratulations! You have been accepted..." Little treasures in the mail. I need to pin them up on the wall, though I am just as pleased with the handwritten note on the rejection slip. Little bits of evidence, a paper trail, maybe to remind me that it's ridiculous for me to think I'm more terrible at this writing thing than anything else.

This happens a lot: What am I doing thinking I could be a writer? How completely ridiculous is that? I have zero talent; I'm just pretending to not be wasting my time and any editor's time.

Or, I think, even now: They didn't have enough applications for this round. Poor Jude Nutter, having to deal with my drivel. It was a fluke, but I suppose I ought to enjoy it while I can.

I think this must be human--this insecurity. Husband is one of the most humble people I know; this is what drew me to him. I love that he is so immensely intelligent and talented and instead of reveling in that, he speaks of how much he has to learn. That he's not done learning, never will be. None of us are. But he fully admits this, and his bosses whisper to me at the holiday parties to never get another job any where else (does graduate school count? because, as a high school teacher, I chose this job partly because of its geographical grounding, because I knew he might have to move one day, and I wanted to slip in and out of a career easily) because they do not want to lose him, he's so good, I'm so lucky, etc. I know that I am lucky.

My own insecurity is balanced with this ridiculous heady feeling I get when things swing the other way: when I get accepted or published, I'll jump up and down like a looney. (Eireann, you should have seen me the day the postcards arrived. Husband must have thought he ought to tie me down to the earth.)

This, too, is good news: our first meeting happens to be on the second night of parent-teacher conferences. That's not the good news, though parent-teacher conferences can tie me up in knots (even though I think they are incredibly important). My principal, who I think is really just the bee's knees, but you knew that already, and here is further evidence: she has allowed me to leave a full hour and a half early so I can make it to the first mentorship meeting on time. She even told me it wasn't a hard decision to make because she said Local High School is "VERY fortunate" to have me and what I will bring back will strengthen what I bring to the kids, which is "phenomenal."

No, really.

She might be a little crazy too. :) Maybe that's what I like in a principal.

now i use both hands

She's been with me for over a decade, seeing me through a melodramatic and self destructive relationship ("you've had time...") and helped ease me into the most beautiful relationship I can imagine (I made Husband a mix tape; he was working overnights at the Shell gas station, and before we even had our first date, we used to write each other these lovely letters, and we'd give each other little things--books, a CD of music he wrote, an Ani Difranco mix tape, and we fell in love). I've seen her over half a dozen times and listened to her late into the night. And this week, my favorite girl Chris asked me if I'd like to accompany her and her two entomologist friends last night--a wonderful night of girl time, which is so precious, Tibetan food (so, so good--Everest on Grand--so, so good), and music. An eerie moment: I heard someone in a Steven Simons-like voice (a friend from high school), "Molly Rose," and I was spinning around, scanning the crowd, partially surprised that he'd be at this concert, and I ran into a former colleague of mine, who hadn't said my name, but who was right there--we hugged, talked about Old High School, how Emily passes news along about me, which is so sweet, and how I'm happy now that I've moved on. And back into the dark, into the music and the poetry of the night--Ani is such a wonderful storyteller, so fierce, and so good. Also: Melissa Ferrick, her opening act, is absolutely adorable. It was her birthday, she sang some beautiful songs, and I'm going to have to look into adding her to the playlist in my mind.

Thank you, Chris. It was a lovely evening. (And I woke up with one nasty cold--I knew it was coming! Always get one at the end of September.) It's always so good to be with a friend you love and admire and to meet new people who are also wonderful and admirable. I love smart, good women. They are such a blessing.

opening and closing night :: my three weeks with the gifted kids

There are pictures in this photo set on flickr (which will be updated as soon as I get home this weekend), but here are a few off my card to give you an idea of the nine fabulous students I've been working with these three weeks.


We read something like eight or nine plays in the three weeks we spent on the St. Norbert campus: Oedipus, Glass Menagerie, Tartuffe, Trifles, Othello, Midsummer Night's Dream, A Doll House, and Death of a Salesman. All white males, save one, most dead. We would feel guilty for this, save the canonical worth of these plays and my own need to fill in the gaps in my literature experience.

I did most of the typical theatre teaching: improv games, set design (they even constructed their own model sets out of bits of string and wire, slips of fabric, flowers clipped from outdoors), costumes, character building, lighting and sound, etc. We learned to keep rhythm with one another, and these kids bonded so quickly, I swear they came in ready-made best friends--without that social ostracizing of being the "smart kid," (in fact, so many of them became the "not smart kid" or the one being shown up by all the others, though they didn't resort to competitive behavior, which really surprised me) they were able to gel swiftly and easily.

Their final assignment was, of course, a performance. Instead of having them slide into roles (How could I know what play would suit them when I hadn't met them? How could I know how many students, how many males, how many females, who had talent for comedy, who for drama, who for physical action?), I had them group by three's (such a magical number) and write their own script. Script writing was then etched into the curriculum and they learned to put together: a costume plot, a prop plot, lighting and sound plot, character descriptions, a synopsis. They learned the proper way to tag dialogue and how to write stage directions. They learned how to develop character and how to block their own scenes. Some needed more work then others; some naturally slid into their roles with little forcefulness or straining.

There was really an ideal balance of scripts: we started with a macabre re-telling of the Snow White story (a vampire twist) that involved the most elaborate sets and costuming done by one girl interested in fashion design and carrying a sewing kit. The queen wore a transformed t-shirt and it actually worked, looking elegant from the audience.

The next group wrote a piece that was taken from any adolescent girl's experience with friendship: the gossip fight. The one with all the threats, the silly tears, the mean notes (only these were MySpace and voice mail, but we all know what they're talking about). The costuming was easy (street clothes), as was the set (three folding chairs), but the dialogue, though seemingly silly, was fairly realistic, and one of the sweetest girls in the class transformed her face into a glare that could send daggers across the stage.

The last play was a comedy (this, I ordered on purpose)--the longest, the one that was abstract and mimicking the theatre of the absurd variety. Mr. Wiggleson, a character completely created by our sole male student, recounts his many memories with his malevolent nemesis: gum. With its chewy nastiness, this gum follows him about, preventing him from the early joys of walking and reading, going on to wreak havoc on relationships on landlords. This play was clever and the actors did an impressive part playing each role: the ridiculous protagonist, the understated secretary (who had to ad lib for the forgetful and doddering actor playing the forgetful and doddering role), and the sarcastic side kick. Now I just have to get that voice out of my head, the words: Rather; Mmmm, yes.

We brought them a dozen red roses for their performance, which had a decent audience, considering what little publicity we did. A string of students from other classes as well as RAs and instructors sat back to see what these kids have learned, and I would say there is some potential in many of the students.

What struck me more than their performance (and they will not like this; they'd rather me rave on about acting skills) was their utter willingness to discuss the plays we read, the intelligence and intuitiveness they brought to the texts, and the energy they had in the classroom. They could go on for hours, the instructors sitting back and observing, as they picked apart each dramatic text.

Of course, the most fun were the improv games. The warm ups: clapping in time, passing that clap in a circle, so it seemed like one continuous clap. Bibbity bibbity bop, adding new tricks as we went (one girl twisting furiously as a bowl of jello, our male student going through the game in character). The games I observed from Kelly's bachelorette party came in particularly handy: we had the girls serenade our boy student, we had them tell a story with slips of paper like cotton fluff on the ground, we had them tell most outrageous tardy stories.

They were good at laughing. Good at happiness, good at bonding, good at getting up and trying something out.

Saturday we have our exit interviews, where we talk to them about how they did as students, hear what they have to say about the class in general. I hope we were adequate; I hope they weren't disappointed. As with students with learning disabilities, teaching the opposite end of the spectrum is difficult too.

Would I do it again? I think so. The timing was so terribly off though. I have always wanted to teach at a gifted camp, and here I got to teach at one of the most rigorous I think there is out there. And that darn wedding, less than a month away, that keeps nagging me for its attention, and my own difficulties I've had with what I've affectionately termed The Crazy. But I'd do it again, with more focus, with new texts, maybe with some return students. I'd love to work with these same nine again, but I have a feeling most kids that come through "nerd camp" are wonderful. It's just that these are my first, my favorites, my best group of kids I've worked with (so far). Well... I did love my creative writing kids. And my freshmen. And my drama kids. And my lit mag kids. And my juniors. OK, so this is just a bright, shining recent group of kids, another place in my heart.

End scene.

And, curtain.

PS: Did you see what I asked my sister?

last night I will see this

Tonight I say the first of a string of good-byes. Tonight was good-bye to the musical. I will see pieces of it tomorrow before Friday's show, but I am flying out to Boston tomorrow evening, so I will not see if we receive any standing ovations (or rather, if my co-director and the students receive it--they are the ones who have put in the work, the flesh, the heart of the show), I will not get to see the improv of each night, the variations that each show brings. This makes me sad and if I were given the option to stay this weekend or go to Boston, I'm not sure what my answer would be. Duty would keep me here, passion for the students and the production, but the need for escape, to seek solace in a brief adventure and a loving family I will soon be tied to.

Congratulations to the cast and crew. This was a glorious experience for me and though doctor's appointments and family obligations kept me at a distance, I had a lovely time. And I send best wishes to Michelle whose husband has a new job, so here's to a new and much-deserved future; may you find yourself up on stage and joyous there.






And I leave you with images of our promotion for the musical--staff wearing the costumes of our students. Nice timing for me, as we began Act I of Romeo and Juliet today.

opening weekend

Some thoughts, some observations:



- I love the way the dust motes catch in the orb of the spotlight. Glittering, moths suspended, slowing moving through dim light.
- The curse of the second night occurred, but nothing horrifying. A song fumbled, a mic trailing, a few sour notes, and ad lib to make up for many awkward moments.


- More laughter on the second night. No standing ovation, but the crowds were small and the musical is unknown. My co-director, angry and desperate to make our goal amount, to bring in stronger audiences. A phone book paged through at intermission, a list of places the students will have to drop posters off at, and a plan for staff to wear costumes to promote next weekend, hoping the sweat will dry and Febreeze can cover up odors.


- Anger is dealt with in such an array of ways... pens and doors can be flung, anger can simmer and explode at frightening moments, we can shout, briefly, at the top of our lungs, our hearts can feel bursting. We can let each other know the disappointment we inspire, or we can keep quiet and hope it will dissipate.


- My favorites are the moments of imperfection, of new humor--the balloon barbell that bends as air leaks out, our most troublesome prop; the prince whacking his head on the wrought iron detail, crying out "Ouch!", still completely in character, and his funny laughed out, "Sorry," to the queen who is our ad libbing champion; the new items pulled from the mattress each night, a surprise for both the audience and the cast, my suggestion at pulling out the mascot's head at the next performance, and the other clever items of tricycle, circus spool, watermelon.

(click on this top one to enlarge--interesting detail)

And the relaxing parts:
- Trees are catching up with the ground: there are buds unfurling in the early morning light, trees in blossom and leaves brightening the landscape.
- Yesterday: a long walk with two dogs, leashes often tangled, Zephyr frequently bobbing around behind me, getting me tangled, and an attempt at downtown twice, but the crowds were too much.


- This afternoon: seed packets, small soil disks, and a plot for the garden. Thatching the dog spots in the yard, reseeding, pulling up dandelion patches and hoping crabgrass will not take over again. Concern about our yard, for the sake of the wedding, and for the guests that will have one chance to see our house as they may not return for another visit.
- Being able to curl up with K at night, the comfort of our bed drawing us into the folds of one another. Knowing I can sleep in the next morning.


- The dogs not allowing that to happen. Naps after. The dogs reminding us that if we do want children in the near future, we must be prepared to sacrifice many things, precious sleep included. They have a routine now, Zephyr anyway, and not long after five o'clock, the sun begins to come out, and this is when he is used to his first morning marking. We take turns sending them out, playing with them, falling back to sleep on sofa, in bed. The dogs, angry at the neglect on Friday, thrilled at the new attention to make up for it on Saturday and Sunday.
- K's Sunday phone call from home always brings new stories, laughter, a strong bond at home. My own family works so much differently. I admire both and hope all the good bits come out in the family we are making.
- The sound of jazzy guitar coming from the stereo, the windows wide open, our own dust motes swirling, fresh air.