Goodnight, Boston

A perfect day for a run: fifty degrees and sunshine. I left my apartment this morning around 10:30 and walked down the block until I hit the road perpendicular to mine. Bulky metal barriers lined Beacon Street, keeping a very small amount of spectators at bay. My intention was to head across to get my morning coffee at Dunkin Donuts, but the gates kept me contained. I decided to stay. Leaning against the metal gate, I watched the handcyclists and wheelchair participants cruise by me, headed for Mile 25 of the historic Boston Marathon, just over the hill in Kenmore Square. I nearly cried, but I smiled instead. Having stood outside for an hour, I decided I couldn’t miss the runners. Signaling their impending passing, police motorcycles and cars drove by, lights flashing, followed by a large truck displaying the time clock. Squeezing my way between two middle-aged men, I stuck my head out to see the leading women run by. They looked exhausted. By this point, the crowd had thickened and the cheers, accompanied by clapping and cowbells, were loud and purposeful. Minutes later, the leading men passed, met by the same fervor of the spectators.

Sneakers of the brightest neon colors. Bare feet. T-shirts with the runner’s name made out in tape, urging those of us on the sidelines to call out to them in support. Shirtless runners. Dripping sweat. Muscles tense and lean. Young. Old. Bib numbers clinging to fabric.

I felt, suddenly, as though I were a part of something rather important. And I felt proud of the participants. And I felt lucky to be standing on the sidelines, a mere thirty seconds from my own front door. Frantic texting to a runner-friend back home led to a dead cell phone. Anxious to take more pictures and video, I retreated back to my apartment for a bit. I sat in the middle of the room on my hardwood floor before my open window, listening to the cheers outside and wondering if I was missing something. It was nearly 2:30 in the afternoon, though, and I imagined the running packs would be lightening up a bit. Finding the battery percentage satisfactory, I slipped on my shoes and headed back out. I watched less running and more walking but still with more endurance than I could ever fathom. To finish a marathon–a whole 26.2 miles–is an accomplishment itself, regardless of time or placement.

I found a spot where the crowd was light, right up against the gate again, crossing my arms to my chest against the breeze. A woman in a tight black t-shirt and knee-length pants ran off to the side of the course, headed for a policeman. Although I couldn’t see her eyes behind her sunglasses, she looked as though she were speaking fervently and just a few feet away from me, jogging in place. I watched her hold up two fingers as she mouthed the words “two bombs.” Taken aback, I tried to make out what the officer was saying. He kept nodding, as if to reassure her of something. But I have never been good at reading lips, and so I didn’t think my perception reliable. She ran on. I looked away.

This is when I met Penny. Barely taller than I am, she wore a pale pink knitted hat and a puffy brown winter jacket that reached her knees. Her face was wrinkled and aged and lovely. She stood about a foot away from me, her delicate hands grasping the metal gate. We caught eyes and shared a smile. Moments later, she shuffled closer.

“They are so incredible,” she said. I smiled and nodded. We seemed to become fast friends. She was fond of pointing out the runners who looked to be over the age of fifty. “That’s not a young person,” she’d say each time. We agreed that neither of us could accomplish such a feat, and she seemed concerned that 26.2 miles was far too much abuse for the human body. “They should all just be half marathons!” she declared. I liked her. She asked if I knew a runner. I told her no and that I lived just down the street, relatively new to Boston–just since September. When I eventually told her I went to Emerson for Creative Writing, she assured me the college was well-known for that and thought my pursuit was “wonderful.” And then I really liked her.

At 3:11, I received a text message from a friend back home: “Did you hear those explosions?” I let out an audible, “What?” before replying in kind. As I waited for his reply, I immediately thought of the woman in black interrogating the police officer. My friend sent me a link to an article about two reported explosions at the finish line of the Boston Marathon, a mere 1.5 miles from where I stood. But I couldn’t open the story. My phone wouldn’t load, and when I tried to explain this problem to him, my text message wouldn’t send. I assumed something went wrong with my own phone. I wondered if I should say something to Penny. My answer came when cop cars and motorcycles sped by, sirens blaring, forcing the runners to the sides of the course. Penny looked worried, so I told her about what I had heard. She leaned over my phone as I repeatedly tried to get the story to load. When it finally did, the information seemed sketchy and sparce. Two explosions at the finish line. At two different locations. Two dead. People with missing limbs. At 2:45 this afternoon. Just half an hour prior to that gut-wrenching moment of realization. Penny became outraged that the Marathon was continuing. I suddenly became aware of the buzz among the police officers around me. They walked up and down the street with intent, speaking into cell phones or walkies, congregating together. Finally, Penny had had enough. She flagged down a nearby officer.

“Can you tell us what’s going on up there?” she asked.

“Uh yeah.There were two explosions near the finish line. We’re about to close off the race right here in about fifteen minutes and bus the runners to different locations.”

“Oh good, good. I heard people were hurt.”

“Yes, there are injuries, but I don’t know the extent of them.” He spoke firmly. We nodded and thanked him.

I couldn’t believe how quiet they had kept it. I wouldn’t have had any idea had I not heard from my friend. And when I remembered this, I looked down at my phone to see text after text asking if I was okay. I responded to my best friend first, asking if I could call. She said she had tried calling me, but it was going straight to my voicemail. Stupid phone, I thought. Finally, she got through, telling me my sister had called her and was worried. I told her to reassure my sister and parents that I was okay. I was just over a mile outside of the explosion site. The call ended abruptly. And as it did, a man in full army attire aggressively requested that we get off the main road. Penny and I parted ways, after formally introducing ourselves. She wished me luck and I told her to be safe.

As I sat back at the table in my apartment, I saw the Facebook statuses. I wasn’t the only one having cell trouble. I posted to let everyone know I was okay. Many had seen I was attending the Marathon. And the amount of people who sent their thoughts and love my way was absolutely incredible. I cannot thank them enough. And I hope that they are sending their thoughts to those directly affected, too.

My father finally reached me, and I assured him I was safe in my apartment. His inability to hear my voice had worried him into tears, and I hated that I had unintentionally caused him that fear and panic.

I couldn’t turn off the news. My heart hurt. The videos, the images of bloodied limbs and shocked faces of men, women, and children pushed frantically in wheelchairs amid the smoke and debris. The people who came to one another’s aid without giving it a second thought. Two bombs. Two other explosives found. Two confirmed dead. 22 injured. Then it was 50. Then it jumped to 100+ as though they couldn’t even keep count anymore. Tragedy struck a wonderful, historic event. And I couldn’t not cry.

Living close to the site meant hearing the sounds of sirens and helicopters well into the evening, making it quite difficult to concentrate on much else.

Until night finally fell. And it was silent.

I tried to distract myself, but now it’s after midnight, and I’m sitting in the silence of my apartment, feeling unsettled but with so much love for this place that has become my home.

Goodnight, Boston.

Opening Day

 

I’m going to preface this by simply stating that I do not enjoy baseball. The pace is too slow. Very little action. I need the aggression of football or the back-and-forth speed of basketball. Despite that, though, I have an obligatory alliance to the NY Yankees. If I didn’t, my father and brothers might disown me, especially now that I not only live in Boston but in the Fenway neighborhood. Red Sox fans came at me in droves as I skirted past them–off of the sidewalk and into the standstill traffic–to slip into Marshall’s and look for new springtime shoes. I couldn’t help thinking of my father and my brothers and how disgusted they would be at the sight, and it made me laugh. Today was Opening Day at Fenway Park. Under blue skies and in 62-degree air, I walked by an exceeding number of red-dressed fans waiting in line outside the Yard House. I walked all the way down to Yawkey Way to immerse myself in the chaos, still giving zero shits about baseball or the Red Sox. The game had ended. The lack of drunk and disorderly conduct/violence/tears/general anger was evidence enough to me that they had won. I threw a dollar in the case of the teenage boy playing the saxophone; awkwardly held my phone high above the crowd at a street corner, by myself, to snap a couple of pictures; visibly grinned at the people shoving hot dogs down their throats, the kids sitting up on their fathers’ shoulders, and the vendors passing out season schedules and waving t-shirts. Atmosphere seemed to be everything to me today.

 

Baseball–I can take it or leave it–no, I can just leave it. It was the warm air, the cloudless sky, the team apparel, the crowds, the uselessness of traffic lights post-game, and the feeling that I felt as an outside observer. The energy in the city today was as if it were something I could cup in my hands, though it would slip and burst through the seams between my fingers. Opening Day turned into this sudden acknowledgement that I am still here. Of course I’ve always known it. Every morning I wake up and look outside my window to see the brick apartment buildings across the street and I know it. And then turn to look at my apartment, the entirety of which can be seen in one glance, and think that I kind of hate it but that it is mine and I have to start somewhere. It’s not easy to think I am in the right place at the right time. Sometimes it’s easier to think I am in the right place at the wrong time, but that troubles me, too.

Last night felt particularly troubling. It stirred in me for hours. Probably starting at the brain, traveling slowly but steadily toward my heart, which would pump it out to my extremities until my limbs were itchy and I thought that I could claw at my skin to make it stop. And then it just poured out of my eyes until I felt a little bit panicked by the onset of it all, how unprovoked this episode seemed to be. Bad days come just as often as the okay days and I still try to hold out for the good days. Today was a good day, accompanied–or perhaps caused–by this acute awareness of me being me in this place that I am in. And not only is it the right place, but it is also the right time. Now is always the right time. I cannot always be waiting.

Spring Break 2013: Texas & AWP

It’s 8:00 on a Sunday evening, and, due to DST, it feels much earlier. Also, I spent a significant chunk of the day drifting in and out of sleep—finally awakening completely and emerging from my blankets around 4:30pm. I’ve had quite the week. It’s been comparable to an out-of-body experience—that surreal feeling that swirls in your mind until you insist you must be dreaming. And not even necessarily because everything feels perfect. It’s just unusual. I’ve been in Boston for just over 6 months, and it does not feel as though it’s been nearly that long. I could dedicate an entire post to these past 6 months, but I think I’ll stick with this past week. It has completely taken me out of my comfort zone and routine. So here’s a recap of comments, observations, etc: 

• I spent the entire week prior to my trip panicking about navigating Logan International Airport. Not about flying. The airport. Additionally, I also deluded myself into thinking that my suitcase (which I had severely underpacked) managed to weigh more than 50 pounds. And so in the hours before leaving my apartment for the airport, I consumed a fair amount of Pinot Grigio.
• I survived the direct flight to DFW Airport. All 3.5 hours of it. Thanks in part, I’m sure, to the $7 vodka cranberry I ordered in flight.
• My brother has a gorgeous family. Anyone who knows me well knows I’m not a fan of children—mostly because I don’t know how to act around them. I tend to be awkward and fumble my words as I try to decide whether or not to talk to them like infants or adults. I, apparently, have no in between. However, I think I navigated this children-filled realm quite well. I played board games and hide-and-seek, colored pictures, read naptime and bedtime stories, and gave hugs and kisses. 
• My brother works a lot. I wish I saw more of him. But seeing him at all was absolutely better than not.
• I ate outstanding Tex Mex and awesome, real BBQ, too. They also bought me Girl Scout cookies. Somebody get me a gym membership ASAP.
• The temperature reached 85 degrees on Monday, and I wore sandals. It felt funny, and my feet were pale. Similarly, I realized while on this trip that I have total winter body: so pale and unfit. Again, where’s that gym membership?
• Saying goodbye was quite difficult. I could not control my emotions as I confusedly went through security at the airport. I thought the airport would be a place where it could be socially acceptable to cry. It’s a place of goodbyes. But people stared.
• I survived 3 hours of the flight back to Boston. With only half an hour left, I nestled against the window and closed my eyes. And then it hit me that I was about to vomit. I tried to breathe through it. Can you even throw up in the restrooms on an airplane? It didn’t work. I could feel the color draining from my face, could feel the lump in my throat and the cold in my stomach as I started to sweat. I asked the others in my row to let me by and stumbled to the bathroom, faces of passengers blurred. I wondered if they could tell I would be sick. I stood between the two bathrooms and could only make out the word “PUSH” on each. I couldn’t make out any indication if either was occupied. So I started frantically pushing on both of them at the same time. I was dizzy. I couldn’t see. I felt myself slump forward over my waist. The next thing I know, I’m being set down on a seat in the flight attendant’s cabin. I had temporarily blacked out. The flight attendant blasted cool air on me and handed me a package of crackers that I could not open because my hands were tingling—the same exact pins-and-needles feeling when your foot falls asleep. She left me back there for a while. I ate the crackers, trying to break them into pieces with my numb, sleepy hands. Breathing deeply. The nausea had passed, but I felt incredibly shaky. About ten minutes later, she re-entered the cabin to ask if I wanted to see the doctor seated in the last row, just behind me. I agreed, though I wasn’t sure what he could do for me. A goofy heavy-set guy in his forties and wearing glasses sat beside me. Asked me a few questions about what had happened. Eventually concluded I was hyperventilating, a result of a minor anxiety attack. To me, it had come out of nowhere. I hadn’t felt nervous or anxious about anything, really. Nothing out of the ordinary, anyway. Anyone who knows me also knows that I have generalized anxiety disorder, anyway. But I’d never had a physical attack like this one. He gave me a paper bag to breathe into, explaining the physical cause of hyperventilation, which I didn’t necessarily care to hear. I had to return to my seat as we landed, still breathing into the paper bag, and still being stared at by nearby passengers. I felt completely fine soon after landing. Such a strange experience.

• The next morning, I intended to be up early to register on-site for AWP. For those who don’t know, AWP is the Association of Writers and Writing Programs. It’s a massive 3-day conference of panels, readings, and a huge bookfair held in a relatively large city every year. And this year it was in Boston. Unable to get myself up early, I headed over around 1 in the afternoon, only to wait in the registration line for 3 hours. I met someone in line, though, so that was cool.

• Redivider 10th birthday party on Thursday at Boston Beer Works in Fenway: fun.
• Whiskey’s Steakhouse for drinks after that with classmates: also fun.
• Up early on Friday to trek in a snowstorm to hear Nick Flynn and Stephen Elliott on a 9am panel about Post-Genre Lit: fantastic.
• Went to a reading to hear my professor Joan Wickersham (as well as Pablo Medina, Tracy Winn, and Christopher Castellani): wonderful. 
• Lunch at an awesome salad restaurant: Tossed.
• Met Amber Tamblyn (poet and actress in Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants—but probably other things, too)
• Absolutely awful panel on writers using Tumblr—I left early.
• Checked out the bookfair (writing programs, publishers, lit journals) and bought a few new journals. I’m most excited to read the latest issue of The Normal School. The people at the table were awesome. 
• This mug: 

• This t-shirt:

 

• Saturday panel at noon (“Memoir Beyond the Self”) fell far below my expectations. The writers demonstrated disdain for their own work and one even advised the room to avoid writing nonfiction at all. Thanks, dude.
• My undergrad professor Lorraine Berry (whom I found at the bookfair the day prior) was at the noon panel and was her typical bad ass self, asking the panel about the role of gender and race in writing memoir, which the panelists had so blatantly ignored in their conversation. Awesome.
• Favorite panel: “How To Lose Friends and Alienate Loved Ones”—put together well, witty writers/panelists, most informative.
• Emerson Reception that night included a free drink and meeting a few new people. 
• Went out for drinks with a classmate and my line friend. A good time.
• Total immersion in Writerpalooza 2013 = a very, very tired girl today. 

I’d been waiting for a week like this. 

String Cheese & Paper Cuts

My diet this week has largely consisted of low fat string cheese sticks and caramel iced coffees from Dunkin Donuts. Probably due to the fact that I had to write a ton at the beginning of the week. Wednesday will be my first critique/workshop of the semester. Although it’s nice to feel like I’m actually in a much safer environment this time, I’m still quite nervous. I had intentions of trying to not write about myself this semester; I would focus on my mother or my father or anything outside of myself or my “relationships” with the opposite sex. A writing exercise in class, however, forced me to tap into a little something from my past. Okay, it’s not really that little. It’s actually relatively painful, and I didn’t realize until recently that it had been something I hadn’t yet written about in any kind of serious context. Whether or not that was a conscious decision, I can’t even be sure. I essentially made every attempt possible to channel my 16-year-old self, a self of which I’m not really very proud. A self that made seemingly irrational decisions, although they seemed crucial to my survival at the time. And I wouldn’t even take any of it back. And I’m also sorry that I’m writing this so cryptically. It’s just that I don’t feel it’s appropriate for me to suddenly divulge things here. And maybe that should be the point of the blog. And maybe, if all goes okay in workshop on Wednesday, I’ll post an excerpt from the piece. Because aside from tackling the awfulness of being me at 16, I spend a lot of time reflecting, too, as an adult 6 years later who kind of sort of has her shit together sometimes. I’m at least working on it. 

 

So I ate a lot of string cheese to keep me…occupied? And I drank a lot of iced coffee to keep me awake. And I got a lot of paper cuts from shuffling through lots of papers and notes and some god damn crazy hand-written thoughts. I currently have 5 rather painful paper cuts between both of my hands. It’s actually absurd and it stings to wash the dishes. Life goes on. And I feel pretty okay with what I submitted to my peers. I put a lot into this. A lot of real me into it. And it’s terrifying as all hell to be in a program like this. To be that fucking vulnerable among near strangers. They don’t really know me, I think. My job, though, is to make them. To make them pay attention and give a shit about whatever it is that I feel like I’m supposed to be saying. And I think most of them do or will. I think most of them are going to understand and be affected, because I understand and am affected by what they write. It’s a nice little community we’ve got going on. 

 

Now it’s a matter of the people who aren’t strangers paying attention to what I feel it is that I’m supposed to be saying.

Clockwork

It’s 2:31am, and I cannot sleep. Partially because I fell asleep relatively early last night and slept well into this afternoon. Partially because I got caught up in watching episodes of Parks & Rec on Netflix. And partially because I cannot stop thinking, thinking, thinking–as always happens late at night. Always when I need my mind to just slow the fuck down. Always when I would give anything to not think about him or her or you or them or here or there. 

 

I watched A Clockwork Orange tonight on a recommendation from a friend and because I read the novel months ago. Anthony Burgess’ novel, in my opinion, is certainly better. Not that Stanley Kubrick’s adaptation wasn’t well done, because it was. I just felt that it was a story better read than viewed. I think a reader gains a lot from Burgess’ language in the novel that cannot translate to the screen. Regardless, I needed to counter the film’s intensity with something…less intense…so I put on several episodes of Parks & Rec, my latest obsession. I’m almost done with season four. I don’t know if I should be proud or ashamed that I’ve managed to accomplish that in a matter of days.

 

It’s getting tough to be here again. I don’t want it to be. But I’m starting to get into that slump where I don’t want to leave my bed let alone the apartment. I slept until almost noon today, took a shower, and then crawled right back into bed until almost three o’clock. That is not okay. I’m already two days behind on schoolwork, which will only create more stress for my weekend. And now I’m thinking again. About her and about him and about so-and-so and about there–all five hours away–and about here and me and now. And how I feel sick and headache-y and lonely and tired. And how I don’t want to be this person anymore. But I miss him and her and you and them and those guys and that place. But it’s difficult to miss places and people that you think you maybe are outgrowing. Except you aren’t really growing into the new place either. And so you’re stuck. And it feels awful. And then you long for what you don’t have simply because you don’t have it anymore. But maybe that’s wrong. So you give yourself a slap in the wrist, open a beer, and watch a movie, promising that tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow you’ll get up before noon. Tomorrow you will run an errand. Tomorrow you will get work done. And before you know it, you’re ending another night alone in bed, with another beer, and another movie. Like clockwork. 

Ho Hey

I’m listening to The Lumineers and thinking about why life felt okay today. I met a new person today, and it made me feel not hopeless. Although I cannot believe January is almost over, I’m already anticipating February to be the fresh start to 2013 that I truly need. December and most of January were a mess. More of a mess than when I first moved to Boston in August. I feel a bit badly for saying that because I spent most of those months back in Syracuse. I often tried to explain to people that my heart wanted to stay there, but my head wanted to be here. My heart tends to cling to the past. Anyone who knows me knows that. But I don’t think that’s uncommon. Our hearts always remember what it’s like to love a person or a place–and I have so many people and places to love back in Syracuse. I more or less spent the first 21 years of my life there. But I am so adamant about making Boston work for me. And I know I have such a long way to go. And I wish that weren’t so. I wish I could adjust more quickly to a new place. I’m trying to build my adaptation capability. I guess that comfort will only come in time. I’m just ready for all that is new. I have an energy simmering underneath the surface of my skin. I need somebody or something to help me make use of that energy. I want to feel excited. I want this experience here, in Boston, to feel like an adventure. Because it is. Because I’m doing something I never imagined I would or could ever possibly do. But I think the best stuff comes from taking a chance like this. I’m ready to take on the year.

My Apologies

I am an over-apologizer. Maybe I feel like I need to make up for the fact that I think I have not heard and will never hear a well-deserved apology for certain occurrences. Also, I hate confrontation, and, therefore, I give in to my opponent rather quickly. But mostly, I apologize because I feel the need to shoot myself down before the other person can. I tend to poke fun at my own expense. If you’ve ever been in a car with me, you will have heard me claim “Oh shit. I parked really badly. Am I in the lines? I’m crooked, aren’t I?” It needs to be said before somebody else can remark on my poor park job. This also may be a result of lingering PTSD from the time that I hit a parked car when I was 17 in my therapist’s parking lot, proceeded to drive away, and then had the cops call my house the subsequent day because someone had witnessed the entire scenario. I sobbed in the lobby of the police department downtown and got out of punishment. I was pretty shaken up, though, and so exists my self-conscious efforts at parking. Apologizing is kind of like that–a self-conscious tick. But at the same time, I almost always say it sincerely. Which is difficult for people to understand sometimes, I think. Arguments have ensued about it. Arguments that make me want to apologize for apologizing. But that’s just self-defeating. 

 

It’s the middle of January and I am here in Boston. Just returned a few days ago from a 4-week stay at my parents’ back in Syracuse for the holidays. Today the sun tricked me into thinking it was warm outside, but when I left my apartment this morning, I was greeted by frigid 20-degree air. I saw it was cloudy back in Syracuse, though. Unsurprisingly. My younger sister spent the last 4 days here, but I saw her off yesterday afternoon, and returned to my 12×12 box of an apartment. And somehow it is the most I have felt like myself in weeks. Going back to my hometown, I thought maybe I could re-align and pull myself together a bit after tackling the new change this past autumn. It felt like home at first. Felt like the holidays as much as possible, which wasn’t much at all. Felt like maybe I was happier. But in truth, being back there kind of brought me down a bit. And I think it’s hard for me to confess because home is supposed to be your sanctuary. It was in ways; I’ve spent my entire life in that house, and I don’t think a person can really let go of that attachment, although I do believe it can loosen. 

 

Life didn’t stop moving there because I left. Not that I expected it to by any means. It’s just an odd feeling to leave a place and return long enough to absorb all that is different. Relationships, places, the smells and sounds, the additions and losses. It can be a bit disheartening. And to be honest, my time spent in Syracuse fell a bit below my expectations. Even though I sometimes thought that maybe life would’ve been easier had I stayed. “I could just be doing this,” I often thought. “Making money working in retail–I could just work my way up! And I could keep exploring this city and keep spending time with the people I grew up with.” Yeah.

 

Yet Boston felt like coming home. My apartment–well, it’s mine. Riding the T. Lugging gallons of milk from blocks away because I have some kind of dairy addiction. Walking into the shops on Newbury Street even though I shouldn’t be spending money because my rent is too damn high and I don’t know if I will get my refund check in time to pay it on February 1. Drinking beer alone in my bed because I can and nobody can tell me that it’s inappropriate. Walking around the apartment in minimal clothing or with my hair looking like a bird’s nest because I don’t have to be presentable for anyone until I walk out the front door. Heading out to the Long Wharf or The Esplanade because I live in a beautiful city right on the water and I can go to it in the middle of January and it will still be absolutely lovely. Curling up in bed at 9 or 10 on any given night of the week to check a movie off of a list from a good friend. All of these things make me feel like myself. They have become familiar but not too much in a way that I don’t ever realize how lucky i am. I think about that often. I am here. And it’s scary as hell half the time. And maybe a bit lonely. But I am here. And it’s better than anywhere else I can be. And when I am here, I am unapologetic. 

Unique encounter with poetry

Believe it or not (though I suppose you wouldn’t have a basis either way), I dappled in poetry back in the day. Junior year of college, I enrolled in an Introduction to Poetry course–essentially workshop-based but far less intense than this graduate school workshop. The professor was…eccentric–to say the least. He stood at the front of the windowless classroom every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon that semester, wearing layers upon layers of ridiculous attire. A leather vest over a vibrant dress shirt (which I always seem to remember being yellow–mustard yellow–though I imagine there were other colors), maybe even a short-sleeved button-up over the dress shirt, always in extraordinarily baggy jeans draped with chains, and tremendous combat boots–black and loosely tied. A beanie atop his bald head. He rambled in the most nonsensical but fascinating manner as he agonized over the meaning of a student’s poem. Conjuring up fantastical scenarios and surreal images to shed metaphorical light on what tended to be a fairly straightforward poem as the student would later confess. But we would watch–a lesson in psychotic creativity–as he curled into himself on the cold tile floor beneath the desk at the front of the classroom. As he stood upon the chair accompanying said desk, towering over his wide-eyed students. As he slumped into the front left corner of the room and pulled his knees to his chest, speaking with such fervor that one could not help but be captivated and maybe a little bit frightened. But his genuine interest in what we had to say was nothing less than flattering.

 

I’ll admit I’m not much of a poet. Brevity is not my strong suit. I half-assed a lot of the poems because it didn’t seem to matter that much. They were simply exercises in creative thinking. And everyone would get an A as long as they wrote something every week. I countered these poor excuses for poetry with some attentive and thoughtful efforts. And until tonight, I had forgotten all about them. And as it turns out, some of these are rather inspiring in the way that sometimes I read something I wrote months or years ago that seemed unimportant at that time but opens up opportunities for me in the present. Opportunities to explore connections between my past and my right now and maybe create something worth reading. (Though I suppose that worth would be decided upon by the readers themselves.) Anyway, my brilliantly bizarre poetry experience back then might end up saving me now as I try to put pieces together in my writing and in my life.

 

I’ll leave with a little bit of this uncovered (amateur) poetry.

 

Anxiety

Frenetic thoughts collide

and ricochet in my mind.

Foot taps

to the rapid rhythm of my heart.

Handwringing.

Jaw clenching.

Knots in my stomach.

Wool in my veins.

Sit back and exhale

a futile breath.

 

Silent

The most important words

are the ones I will never speak.

The consonants and vowels

will get caught in my throat,

stuck in my teeth,

evaporate into a sigh.

But never will they tumble

off of my tongue,

slip through my lips,

be audible to a single soul.

I compensate

with a pen in hand.

The First Critique

From the moment I awoke on Tuesday, it seemed my gut had been turned inside out. And the tension in my shoulders felt visible, as I held them up a little higher than normal to support the pressure. I had to sit through my first critique that night. And it was nauseating to think that I had volunteered to go so early in the semester. Even more awful was what I chose to write about. I tend to be a very vulnerable writer. Sticking very within myself. Rather introspective. Reflective. Analytical about the way my life progresses–or regresses. We weren’t required to write something new, so I went with something I wrote during my last semester of undergrad–a piece that my professor at the time really liked and a piece that I was hoping to develop. Almost three hours elapsed while I sat silently in workshop, trying to be an active listener as two other girls sat through their critiques. I needed to distract myself. Several students praised the second girl’s manuscript. And I admit that it was well-written and interestingly ambiguous. Damn. I then realized that I was probably doomed for failure.

I have a tendency to expect the worst outcome in most situations–particularly those that involve me solely–and that mindset is always in opposition to the high expectations I have of myself as a person. I went into this workshop, preparing to be ripped apart but trying to counter my pessimism with the knowledge that I can write well–that is one thing I have confidence in. Trying to articulate this thought process even sounds conflicting. Regardless, Tuesday night happened to be a night where what I expected to happen actually happened. The piece–intentionally unfinished–centered on a relationship (a term I use loosely and not necessarily romantically) in high school and would also expand to other relationships in my life. The point of which is to speak to more universal ideas of morality, self-respect, and intimate relationships (with anyone). While some could sense the manuscript’s potential, others were rather unimpressed. And rather than criticize the actual writing style itself–which my professor and another peer consisted of an incredibly strong and refreshing voice–my fellow aspiring writers seemed to be criticizing the content, which just so happens to be my life. One person said she didn’t know why I even wrote it. (A gigantic slap–a writer’s purpose is supposed to be very clear.) She believed that my story lacked originality and simply relived high school drama that everyone experiences. “Everyone hurts each other in high school,” she said bluntly. I could feel my face flushing, but I kept my head bowed, eyes on my manuscript, making notes of everything she said. You know, in case I wanted to torment myself later on. There were several similar comments. And for those who did recognize the potential, they failed to recognize that the piece was intentionally incomplete, and tore me apart for my lack of clarity, conclusion, and coherence. I left it blatantly open-ended with the intent of hearing this critique and figuring out where I wanted to take the piece. Unfortunately, we aren’t encouraged to counter their criticism until the end, so I was forced to sit tight-lipped for half an hour while being repeatedly told that I left too much out, the piece was boring to read, and it didn’t end neatly. I couldn’t wait to burst out at the end and finally say, “Just so you all know, this piece is very obviously not done. I did not intend for it to end that way. I was seeking your opinion on the manuscript’s potential as a larger piece on morality and relationships.” Nobody said a word. Except my professor, who keeps quiet and lets the students run the workshop: “It definitely has potential.” That was all I needed to hear.

I couldn’t wait to get out of there. I walked through bitter September air to the T station, and waited impatiently for my train. When I got into my apartment half an hour later, I laid out the marked copies of my manuscript and my peers’ two-page critiques. Completely overwhelmed. I felt like I had failed miserably. I questioned why I was even here. And I still feel that way days later. But I know that feeling comfortable with critique on that level will come with time. And it will take a lot of acceptance on my part. I could say that it’s all because I don’t take criticism well, and that might be true. But I think I can handle constructive criticism well, especially with writing. In fact, that’s exactly what I was looking for. And those who offered it will be taken into great consideration in my revision process. But for those that simply found this to be an unimportant and useless piece about “typical” drama, I…don’t even know what to say. I own my work. I own my life. And, as a friend said, I will “rock it.”

Things I realized today

1. Sitting at the table in my apartment as opposed to my bed makes me feel more productive and generally better about life.
2. I’m grateful that I have taken the time to write so much in the past because it helped me pound out an eight-page piece to hand-deliver to my workshop peers tomorrow. So that they can all take it home and read it and then tell me everything that was wrong with it the following week. Shit.
3. I need to start keeping beer, wine, and/or liquor in my refrigerator at all times because I think that I could maybe probably write a lot easier if I could just loosen up and let it flow like the warm, bitter alcohol inside of me. (“Write drunk; edit sober,” said Ernest Hemingway–except I think I read somewhere that he didn’t actually say it, but I like thinking that he did.)