Senior year is the time to test limits and break rules. As of late, my friends and I have embraced this proverb whole heartily.
Like secret agents dressed in black, we snuck around campus late last night and indulged in various activities that are not only frowned upon, but are illegal in regards to campus law. We risked our lives, we risked expulsion, we risked heavy fines, how thrilling!
The night began at Phelps, the dining hall. While serving personal pizzas to underclassman, I smuggled my friends Amanda and Tina into the cafeteria, where they ate free of charge. I know this does not sound extremely adventurous or risky, but in the realm of my university it is a big deal. One time, a chef chased a student through campus because the student stole a loaf of bread. The perpetrator was eventually caught and the loaf of bread retrieved. Anything could have happened.
After Phelps, the three of us wandered over to the chapel for a Gospel Choir concert. While this is not the craziest antic in the world, it is part of the chronological story. We stomped our feet, clapped our hands, and sang hallelujah's with fierce rhythm and intensity. It was an event that was outside of our WASP upbringing. I loved every joyful minute, but sneeked out of the concert in order to continue on with our risky business.
We left the chapel and wandered under the stars, through the dark pine grove, and into the music building. We walked past students studying music scores and others carrying their black instrument cases, before exiting the building into a garden alcove. We scaled the brick wall and climbed onto the roof. A girl playing the piano and singing opera heard our giggles through an open widow. She stopped and peered outside. We lay on the roof and crawled army style up to the next level. At the very top, we inched to the edge and peered over. We watched the clueless people down below for a minute or two before descending back to reality.
After scaling Nykerk, we explored the President's house. We ran through the soft grass lawn, peered in the windows and ventured into his backyard. We ran up his back steps and danced on the porch. We took pictures and touched the front door. We discovered he has two Lexus' and three empty cat crates in his garage.
From the President's house we ran to the science center while singing Willow Smith's hit single I Whip My Hair Back and Forth. Inside the building, we rode the elevator up, in hopes of finding the secret fourth floor. We exited the elevator and rounded a corner. A group of students and a professor were working on homework at a group of tables. We briskly walked past them and continued on our journey. We heard them protest the annoying "freshman" who disturbed their study. We laughed all the way down the hall. We rounded another corner and onto a stairwell, where we scaled a ladder bolted to the wall. We tried to open the roof hatch, but could not succeed. After abandoning the hatch, we wandered past an office where a jar of peanut M&M's sat on the counter. We swiped a credit card through the lock and tried to steal a handful. Our efforts were interrupted by a student coming out of lab. We bolted from the scene and down another hallway. While exploring the second floor, we stumbled upon the greenhouse and ventured inside. The air was moist and smelled of summer. We inhaled the scent like a forbidden incense before exiting onto the greenhouse patio. I scaled another wall and onto the roof wearing jeans and flats. I could have broken my neck, but didn't. I am part monkey.
High from our wild games, we left the science center and entered Graves Hall. Supposedly, there is a secret tunnel in the basement that connects to a residence hall, the same one that is rumored to be haunted. We explored the basement, jiggled locked doors, attempted the credit card trick, but nothing budged. Exhausted from our efforts and running around like maniacs, we rested in the prayer room. We read journals and listened to music. We sat in silence and meditated, until our bellies grumbled and we went in search of coffee and a place to rest our feet.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Friday, February 18, 2011
Heat Wave
I live in western Michigan. Consequently, I am no stranger to winter. From November through March, my jean cuffs are salt-stained and snowplows rule the roadways. But as I look outside my window, none of these wintry things can be found. Instead of snow, I see a muddy collage of green and brown. The icy walks I tiptoed across last week are now trickling streams. Like the grass, my college colleagues are emerging from their winter slumber. I see them frolicking through the pine grove wearing short sleeve T's and flowy skirts. Though the thermometer no longer hovers above zero, it is only forty degrees. But here in the mitten, we live for this weather. We embrace it with open arms and celebrate the heat wave while we can. Forty degrees is summer for a Michigander. We throw our Frisbees, go running in shorts, and toss our woolly hats back in the closet. These behaviors make us unique. Most people stay bundled in their itchy sweaters, but not us. We do not wear coats. We strip down.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Blue Valentine
I spent Valentine's day trapped inside a windowless room where I was forced to watch instructional videos about formative assessment for eight hours straight. I spoke a total of forty words.
After a full day of meetings, all I wanted to do was consume alcohol with my single lady friends. We went to test the local fare and wine selection down the main road. The restaurant was desolate at 4pm. Tumbleweeds rolled across the floor. However, the staff refused to seat our lonely hearts club. They said they had reservations booked in the following hour. We had to leave.The host encouraged us to come back another time. We took our business elsewhere.
I bought two cigars to smoke with a friend on the roof of an academic building, but that never happened either. She came home late. I was too tired from confinement. We decided to reschedule. I put my PJ's on. I tried to watch a sappy chick-flick and failed. So, I crawled in bed. I fell asleep reading Abagail Thomas.
After a full day of meetings, all I wanted to do was consume alcohol with my single lady friends. We went to test the local fare and wine selection down the main road. The restaurant was desolate at 4pm. Tumbleweeds rolled across the floor. However, the staff refused to seat our lonely hearts club. They said they had reservations booked in the following hour. We had to leave.The host encouraged us to come back another time. We took our business elsewhere.
I bought two cigars to smoke with a friend on the roof of an academic building, but that never happened either. She came home late. I was too tired from confinement. We decided to reschedule. I put my PJ's on. I tried to watch a sappy chick-flick and failed. So, I crawled in bed. I fell asleep reading Abagail Thomas.
Waiting
A few months ago, November to be exact, I submitted a few poems to a literary magazine for publication. Within a week or two, I received a friendly letter from the magazine informing me that they received my submission and would disclose their decision within two to three months. While I am no mathematician, I understand that the outlined deadline is quickly approaching. As a result, I have been on pins and needles awaiting the official response. Every day, I tromp through the melting snow drifts to the mail center at my university. While the mail clerks do not know my name, they have memorized our exchange:
"Hi, I was wondering if I could pick up the mail for Brownstone 250," I say.
The old mail clerk with a white mustache and glasses hobbles over to the marked slot in the wall.
"No mail today" he says. He hobbles back to his desk and sorts letters and mail for other students.
Every day is the same and every day I get my hopes up. When I arrive at the mail center, my blood is bubbling and my body shakes with both nervousness and excitement. Today is the day, I tell myself repeatedly, and repeatedly I am let down. If there is mail in the box, it is never for me, and when it is it is usually just a note from the college telling me that, yes, tuition will be raised another 1.9% for next term. These repeated let downs act as demons. They eat away at my brain and tell me that I am not worthy to be published, that the editor will never contact me, and that this whole not knowing process is a less confrontational form of rejection. I am trying to stay positive, I truly am, but it is hard to stay chipper when you haven't heard a single bit of news in three months.
Waiting is a difficult task. It is a dull gray void of nothingness. It is the tick-tock sound of second hands passing on a clock and lead limbs. Though it is undesirable by every definition of the word, it is what it is. I guess I just need to be patient and keep waiting.
"Hi, I was wondering if I could pick up the mail for Brownstone 250," I say.
The old mail clerk with a white mustache and glasses hobbles over to the marked slot in the wall.
"No mail today" he says. He hobbles back to his desk and sorts letters and mail for other students.
Every day is the same and every day I get my hopes up. When I arrive at the mail center, my blood is bubbling and my body shakes with both nervousness and excitement. Today is the day, I tell myself repeatedly, and repeatedly I am let down. If there is mail in the box, it is never for me, and when it is it is usually just a note from the college telling me that, yes, tuition will be raised another 1.9% for next term. These repeated let downs act as demons. They eat away at my brain and tell me that I am not worthy to be published, that the editor will never contact me, and that this whole not knowing process is a less confrontational form of rejection. I am trying to stay positive, I truly am, but it is hard to stay chipper when you haven't heard a single bit of news in three months.
Waiting is a difficult task. It is a dull gray void of nothingness. It is the tick-tock sound of second hands passing on a clock and lead limbs. Though it is undesirable by every definition of the word, it is what it is. I guess I just need to be patient and keep waiting.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Last Hurrah
Tonight marks the end of my freedom. As of tomorrow, my soul belongs to the local middle school where I am conducting my student teaching. From now until May, I will be solely responsible for the literary growth and development of ninety giggly sixth graders. This not only includes teaching, but lesson planning, grading, and behavior management strategies. Basically, for the next three months I will have no time for socializing or guilty pleasures. This of course, is not an ideal situation, but reality. In realizing this dark truth, I did what any sensible person would do before committing their final semester to isolation, I went out with a bang.
I do not really consider Monday or Tuesday as part of my big bang series. Over the course of these two days I frantically scrambled to finish my assignments and job applications. I went to several meetings and they were boring. I drew a Harry Potter puppet on my left hand during one of the meetings. It was very immature, but it kept me entertained. I tried LJ's vegan chili with my good friend Amanda and rehearsed for a presentation. I played a game of inner tube water polo and my team won. Like I said, not too exciting, but overall pleasant.
Wednesday was by far my most rebellious day this week. After nailing my presentation and receiving excellent feedback by my professor, who slept during most of the period, I continued on with my fabulous day. I made hot cocoa with marshmallows. While I sipped my chocolate drink, I dedicated time to my writing career, a whole hour in fact. I mediated, wrote a numbered list one to ten, and engaged in my method. I wrote in big, perfect letters, slowing the hand and mind. It was therapeutic and immensely enjoyable. I finished my method and expanded the story.
That night, I went to a meeting regarding discrimination on my campus. I listened to the stories and experiences of students affected by the latest racial hate crime and I shared my own. In fact, I stuck it to the administration and called them out for their wrong doings. I felt like a hippie, it was liberating. If only the balding WASPs knew that while I was deliberately defying their rule, I had hidden in my possession a bottle of wine, a candle, lighter, and bottle opener. Items that are illegal both on and off campus.
From here, I trekked to the secret loft for my writing group. We lit my candles and drank the wine straight from the bottle. We shared poetry and prose. We ranted and laughed hysterically until we braved the icy winds and crawled into bed.
Thursday was another exceptional day. After a full day spent teaching, I went to a poetry reading at my local theater. Elizabeth Bradfield and Sean Hill performed beautifully. English-y people always make everything sound beautiful. They speak from the diaphragm and back of the throat. Their voices are deep, sexy, and raspy. Literary artists always seem to speak in prose no matter the content. They can say "fucking douchebag"and make it sound whimsical. I was utterly amazed.
Friday was gray and overcast. After attending my final class, I retreated back home to my apartment. I watched the snow flurries outside my window and snuggled up in the popazon chair. I read Betty Smith's "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn" and took a nap. After a lazy afternoon, I met up with my friend Yui. We ate ice cream and homemade bread. We chatted for hours about life and its philosophies. I enjoyed every minute. I came home around ten and wrote a rap about sorority life on campus. I put on sunglasses and an over-sized hoodie and performed the number for my roommates. We laughed until the early morning hours.
Saturday was a day of adventure. I drove to little town with my friend Mary. We took the winding roads through pine trees and down to the beach. We window shopped in quaint boutiques and found matching sundresses neither one of us could afford. We wanted to model them, but were to lazy to remove our winter layers to shimmy into the floral print. We wandered into other random shops and rubbed free lotion on our hands. We left smelling like old women, flowers, and baby powder. We ate scrambled eggs at Ida Red's and drank fresh OJ, pulp and all. With bellies full we ventured over to the local coffee joint. It was a cute green house with garden seating. I will be making future visits to this place and spend lazy afternoons here reading and writing. On our way back to the car we stopped in a touristy shop, one where white shirts turn to color in the sunshine. There we met Steve, a very friendly sales associate. He gave us each a free plastic ring that changed to fuchsia in the sunshine. He said it was for Valentine's Day. Steve energized my day. When I go back to little town for coffee, I will make sure I visit him as well.
After little town, I came back to my own city. Not ready to end the day, I went on my own adventure. I strolled down the cobbled streets and popped in and out of the various art galleries. I viewed beautiful landscapes and portraits by people who live in my area. These works of art used a variety of materials including Happy Meal toys, thread, and watercolors. I felt sophisticated and intelligent viewing the galleries since I was the youngest person there. I didn't necessarily understand the art, but it felt good trying.
Sunday was a perfect sabbath. I went snowshoeing on the beach with Dani. We were like explorers surveying Antarctica, testing our limits on the ice. We breathed heavy hiking against the wind. Fresh air is good for the soul. After a morning spent in the sun, I went to LJ's for chili. I read Abagail Thomas and chatted with Charity. We went to Lubbers and looked through boxes of orphaned books. When the lights turned off, we ran down the hallways and danced to motion them back to life. Back in my apartment we shared our poems and stories. We played the piano, sang, and composed a Harry Potter rap. We are still in the process of revising it. Later in the evenings our bellies grumbled. We drove to Mi Favorita grocery store and ordered tacos and Pepsi from the deli counter. We love the store and its authentic scent. We breathed it in like incense and told the owner how much we adored the store. She smiled as she handed over our bulging bags. In Charity's living room, we listened to the howling wind and devoured our meal. We licked our fingers clean.
Now, I am sitting in my pajamas and reflecting on my week. While it was not crazy or overly rambunctious, it was ideal and I enjoyed every minute of it. I believe I went out with a bang.
I do not really consider Monday or Tuesday as part of my big bang series. Over the course of these two days I frantically scrambled to finish my assignments and job applications. I went to several meetings and they were boring. I drew a Harry Potter puppet on my left hand during one of the meetings. It was very immature, but it kept me entertained. I tried LJ's vegan chili with my good friend Amanda and rehearsed for a presentation. I played a game of inner tube water polo and my team won. Like I said, not too exciting, but overall pleasant.
Wednesday was by far my most rebellious day this week. After nailing my presentation and receiving excellent feedback by my professor, who slept during most of the period, I continued on with my fabulous day. I made hot cocoa with marshmallows. While I sipped my chocolate drink, I dedicated time to my writing career, a whole hour in fact. I mediated, wrote a numbered list one to ten, and engaged in my method. I wrote in big, perfect letters, slowing the hand and mind. It was therapeutic and immensely enjoyable. I finished my method and expanded the story.
That night, I went to a meeting regarding discrimination on my campus. I listened to the stories and experiences of students affected by the latest racial hate crime and I shared my own. In fact, I stuck it to the administration and called them out for their wrong doings. I felt like a hippie, it was liberating. If only the balding WASPs knew that while I was deliberately defying their rule, I had hidden in my possession a bottle of wine, a candle, lighter, and bottle opener. Items that are illegal both on and off campus.
From here, I trekked to the secret loft for my writing group. We lit my candles and drank the wine straight from the bottle. We shared poetry and prose. We ranted and laughed hysterically until we braved the icy winds and crawled into bed.
Thursday was another exceptional day. After a full day spent teaching, I went to a poetry reading at my local theater. Elizabeth Bradfield and Sean Hill performed beautifully. English-y people always make everything sound beautiful. They speak from the diaphragm and back of the throat. Their voices are deep, sexy, and raspy. Literary artists always seem to speak in prose no matter the content. They can say "fucking douchebag"and make it sound whimsical. I was utterly amazed.
Friday was gray and overcast. After attending my final class, I retreated back home to my apartment. I watched the snow flurries outside my window and snuggled up in the popazon chair. I read Betty Smith's "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn" and took a nap. After a lazy afternoon, I met up with my friend Yui. We ate ice cream and homemade bread. We chatted for hours about life and its philosophies. I enjoyed every minute. I came home around ten and wrote a rap about sorority life on campus. I put on sunglasses and an over-sized hoodie and performed the number for my roommates. We laughed until the early morning hours.
Saturday was a day of adventure. I drove to little town with my friend Mary. We took the winding roads through pine trees and down to the beach. We window shopped in quaint boutiques and found matching sundresses neither one of us could afford. We wanted to model them, but were to lazy to remove our winter layers to shimmy into the floral print. We wandered into other random shops and rubbed free lotion on our hands. We left smelling like old women, flowers, and baby powder. We ate scrambled eggs at Ida Red's and drank fresh OJ, pulp and all. With bellies full we ventured over to the local coffee joint. It was a cute green house with garden seating. I will be making future visits to this place and spend lazy afternoons here reading and writing. On our way back to the car we stopped in a touristy shop, one where white shirts turn to color in the sunshine. There we met Steve, a very friendly sales associate. He gave us each a free plastic ring that changed to fuchsia in the sunshine. He said it was for Valentine's Day. Steve energized my day. When I go back to little town for coffee, I will make sure I visit him as well.
After little town, I came back to my own city. Not ready to end the day, I went on my own adventure. I strolled down the cobbled streets and popped in and out of the various art galleries. I viewed beautiful landscapes and portraits by people who live in my area. These works of art used a variety of materials including Happy Meal toys, thread, and watercolors. I felt sophisticated and intelligent viewing the galleries since I was the youngest person there. I didn't necessarily understand the art, but it felt good trying.
Sunday was a perfect sabbath. I went snowshoeing on the beach with Dani. We were like explorers surveying Antarctica, testing our limits on the ice. We breathed heavy hiking against the wind. Fresh air is good for the soul. After a morning spent in the sun, I went to LJ's for chili. I read Abagail Thomas and chatted with Charity. We went to Lubbers and looked through boxes of orphaned books. When the lights turned off, we ran down the hallways and danced to motion them back to life. Back in my apartment we shared our poems and stories. We played the piano, sang, and composed a Harry Potter rap. We are still in the process of revising it. Later in the evenings our bellies grumbled. We drove to Mi Favorita grocery store and ordered tacos and Pepsi from the deli counter. We love the store and its authentic scent. We breathed it in like incense and told the owner how much we adored the store. She smiled as she handed over our bulging bags. In Charity's living room, we listened to the howling wind and devoured our meal. We licked our fingers clean.
Now, I am sitting in my pajamas and reflecting on my week. While it was not crazy or overly rambunctious, it was ideal and I enjoyed every minute of it. I believe I went out with a bang.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Rebel Writer
I am a radical literary artist. Every week, I sneak up to the fourth floor corridor of Lubbers Hall and into its sacred loft. I bring candles smelling of cinnamon pecan rolls and ignite the wicks with illegal flames. They dance wildly and cast flickering shadows on the walls. I toss plush sofa cushions to the ground and arrange them in a nest-like configuration. After removing my boots, I settle into its center and pull a journal and bottle of wine from my pack. I pop the cork and take a swig from its neck. The liquid stains my lips red. The demons clawing the gray matter in my brain are mesmerized by this ritual. My pen spirals and they retreat to the dusty rafters, away from view. Soon my spirals turn to words and words to passages. I break lines and I break rules. I am a writer.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Slacker
I have lost all motivation for anything and everything related to school. This is extremely pathetic because I only have one class and it ends this week. As a result of my slacking, I am far from completing my assignments. For starters, I have a group project due in two days. I haven't even started my research let alone think about how I am going to tie it in a bow and present it to the class. While this is bad, it gets worse. Tomorrow I am attending a substitute teacher training session and failed to secure the transcripts and paper work needed to attend. The transcripts alone take at least twenty-four hours to process, so what am I suppose to do now? I very well cannot attend a meeting without the proper materials. Maybe I will be like Jenna Maroney and use my "sexuality" to secure the documents tomorrow afternoon. However, I don't think the middle-aged women in the registrar's office will fall for this act. They are mothers and can call bluffs before they are even imagined. As a result, I am lost for a solution. By this point you may be thinking, "damn she is screwed,"but no dear reader, it gets even better. In one week, I will begin student teaching full time. Let me just say that I have no idea what I am suppose to do let alone what objectives to teach my giggly sixth graders. I am a walking, talking, downward spiral.
My present behavior frustrates me because I am usually a very organized and proactive individual. I am the kid who has her homework done two days before it is due and color codes her closet. I don't know what has gotten into me during these last five weeks, but it isn't good. I am turning into a procrastinator and it is freaking me out. Not only am I slacking on my homework, but I also haven't shaved my legs in while. Even when I should be trying to complete classwork I am blogging about it instead. What is wrong with me? Goodbye precious 4.0, it was nice knowing you.
My present behavior frustrates me because I am usually a very organized and proactive individual. I am the kid who has her homework done two days before it is due and color codes her closet. I don't know what has gotten into me during these last five weeks, but it isn't good. I am turning into a procrastinator and it is freaking me out. Not only am I slacking on my homework, but I also haven't shaved my legs in while. Even when I should be trying to complete classwork I am blogging about it instead. What is wrong with me? Goodbye precious 4.0, it was nice knowing you.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Sunshine, Schuler's, and Baba Ghanoush
The other day I drove my roommate Tori to the airport. After wishing her safe travels, I hopped back into my Saturn and went to explore my city. February is genuinely a gray and dreary month in the midwest, but this particular day was clear skies and all sun. If it weren't for the two feet of snow on the ground, one would think it was late spring. Cruising down 28th street and jamming to The Weepies, I felt my cheeks turning pink from the golden rays shining through my windshield. Could life get any better than this? The answer, of course, is yes.
After signaling and merging appropriately, I turned into the parking lot of Schuler Books and my day sky rocketed from a ten to one hundred on a ten point scale. Before this excursion, I had been to Schuler's only one other time for a book reading, but never had the opportunity to explore the store. Schuler's is a bookworm's dream come true. The store is surrounded by shelves upon shelves of books both new and used. There are big plush couches and cozy arm chairs to hunker down in for the day, a working fireplace, and a cafe where you can order beer. Does Barnes and Noble supply any of these luxuries to their customers? I think not!
After twenty minutes of walking among the books like a child in a candy shop, I finally wandered over to the poetry nook and plopped down on a bench. Here, I leafed through the works of Pablo Neruda, Anne Sexton, and Henry David Thoreau. Then, a familiar title caught my eye, Jack Ridl's Losing Season. Dr. Ridl is a literary idol on my college campus. He is the Brad Pitt of West Michigan literature. I replaced my other titles and read through his book. To my surprise, the title page was autographed by the author and the date listed below was my birthday. It was as if Jack knew I was to come sit among the poets and decided to leave me a welcome gift. The whole experience was eerie and extremely thrilling. The cosmos must have been aligned that day in order to receive such a gift. I should have bought a lottery ticket. Winning the lottery would have done me some good. When I flipped the book over, I noticed the lavish price tag and nearly died. Sixteen bucks for a skinny poetry collection! As a college student, I am anything but loaded. It was either the book or groceries for the week. While I have pushed my grocery limits in the past to buy literature and wine, this time I couldn't do it. I had to put the book back on the shelf. Maybe it will still be there the next time I visit.
After leaving Schuler's a little disheartened about the poetry book, I ventured over to my favorite little food place on Kalamazoo Ave. Mediterranean Island is a small authentic grocery store that carries a number of European and Middle Eastern items. While I have not explored all the products in the store, I am no stranger to the deli counter. After walking past isles of freshly baked pita and a rainbow assortment of vegetables, the deli counter is located in the back of the store. Behind the glass panes fresh cheeses and meats await purchase along with a wide selection of homemade salads and sides. Everything is colorful and looks appetizing. The green and maroon olives are nearly as big as clementines, the samosas are perfect triangle pastries, but the best item by far is the baba ghanoush. Once I approached the counter I ordered an entire pound of the smoky eggplant dip for myself. It is heaven in a plastic tub, I am not even joking. I have been known to polish off a container in a matter of days. Sharing this Mediterranean gem is hard to do once you have tasted the epic combination of eggplant, garlic, salt, and tahini. It is just that delicious! I hope one day I will become great friends with the owner of the store and he will give me free baba ghanoush as often as I want. Maybe someday.
Back in my car, I turned the tunes on once more as I drove the stretch of highway back to my tiny campus. It had been a good day. Sunshine, Shuler's, baba ghanoush, who could ask for anything more?
After signaling and merging appropriately, I turned into the parking lot of Schuler Books and my day sky rocketed from a ten to one hundred on a ten point scale. Before this excursion, I had been to Schuler's only one other time for a book reading, but never had the opportunity to explore the store. Schuler's is a bookworm's dream come true. The store is surrounded by shelves upon shelves of books both new and used. There are big plush couches and cozy arm chairs to hunker down in for the day, a working fireplace, and a cafe where you can order beer. Does Barnes and Noble supply any of these luxuries to their customers? I think not!
After twenty minutes of walking among the books like a child in a candy shop, I finally wandered over to the poetry nook and plopped down on a bench. Here, I leafed through the works of Pablo Neruda, Anne Sexton, and Henry David Thoreau. Then, a familiar title caught my eye, Jack Ridl's Losing Season. Dr. Ridl is a literary idol on my college campus. He is the Brad Pitt of West Michigan literature. I replaced my other titles and read through his book. To my surprise, the title page was autographed by the author and the date listed below was my birthday. It was as if Jack knew I was to come sit among the poets and decided to leave me a welcome gift. The whole experience was eerie and extremely thrilling. The cosmos must have been aligned that day in order to receive such a gift. I should have bought a lottery ticket. Winning the lottery would have done me some good. When I flipped the book over, I noticed the lavish price tag and nearly died. Sixteen bucks for a skinny poetry collection! As a college student, I am anything but loaded. It was either the book or groceries for the week. While I have pushed my grocery limits in the past to buy literature and wine, this time I couldn't do it. I had to put the book back on the shelf. Maybe it will still be there the next time I visit.
After leaving Schuler's a little disheartened about the poetry book, I ventured over to my favorite little food place on Kalamazoo Ave. Mediterranean Island is a small authentic grocery store that carries a number of European and Middle Eastern items. While I have not explored all the products in the store, I am no stranger to the deli counter. After walking past isles of freshly baked pita and a rainbow assortment of vegetables, the deli counter is located in the back of the store. Behind the glass panes fresh cheeses and meats await purchase along with a wide selection of homemade salads and sides. Everything is colorful and looks appetizing. The green and maroon olives are nearly as big as clementines, the samosas are perfect triangle pastries, but the best item by far is the baba ghanoush. Once I approached the counter I ordered an entire pound of the smoky eggplant dip for myself. It is heaven in a plastic tub, I am not even joking. I have been known to polish off a container in a matter of days. Sharing this Mediterranean gem is hard to do once you have tasted the epic combination of eggplant, garlic, salt, and tahini. It is just that delicious! I hope one day I will become great friends with the owner of the store and he will give me free baba ghanoush as often as I want. Maybe someday.
Back in my car, I turned the tunes on once more as I drove the stretch of highway back to my tiny campus. It had been a good day. Sunshine, Shuler's, baba ghanoush, who could ask for anything more?
Beginnings
A blank page is sacred. It is pure, innocent, and wildly flirtatious. Like a woman dressed in lace, the page invites scribbles to color its virgin name in order to create something beautiful. A passionate romantic, the writer is eager to seduce the page and record robust passages on its bosom. Writing is a sensual and erotic art. While impassioned, it is also erratic and extremely unpredictable. A piece may begin with one intention and end somewhere completely different. That is the beauty and horror of writing. Once a mark is made, there is no turning back. Words are immortal. They thrive on the page eternally, inviting all to see.
So, where is all this sexual rambling headed? Dear reader, I am not quite sure I know the answer. As a writer I am eager to color the page with my own scribbles: my thoughts, dreams, apprehensions and frustrations, but where is it all headed? What direction is this writing assignment moving toward? For now I have no direction. I simply plan to let the pen decide that for me. This may end up being a fantastical collection of randomness or a complete train wreck. We shall see where the road takes us. Just know that this the beginning.
So, where is all this sexual rambling headed? Dear reader, I am not quite sure I know the answer. As a writer I am eager to color the page with my own scribbles: my thoughts, dreams, apprehensions and frustrations, but where is it all headed? What direction is this writing assignment moving toward? For now I have no direction. I simply plan to let the pen decide that for me. This may end up being a fantastical collection of randomness or a complete train wreck. We shall see where the road takes us. Just know that this the beginning.
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