•May 22, 2012 •
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I wouldn’t wear them. I wouldn’t wear Birkenstocks. I wouldn’t wear shoulder pads, high rise jeans. Neither would you. We glide, fluidly, through styles and trends and fads. We adjust.
But we sport the ugliness of our formative years so loudly. Like we are carrying a water-damaged boombox blaring the macarena. It hurts. Everyone wants us to stop, but we can’t.
We can’t stop dealing the diagnoses and receiving them from others. We can’t stop being read like textbooks.
Defensive? Abused. Doesn’t play well with others? Only child. Older boyfriend? Daddy issues. Asymmetrical face? Crack baby.
We want to say: “go where I go and be where I’ve been.” Each of us would love to remove those chunky, outdated gel-sole shoes and toss them someone else’s way. See if someone else can handle the molded arch of your tired body.
We can choose to remove unfashionable footwear, but it’s a lot harder to kick off our souls.
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•May 11, 2012 •
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“Life ain’t always what you think it ought to be”
I was driving in my car today and it dawned on me: I’ve been out of college for a year. In that time…
- I worked as a copywriter.
- I worked in a corporate environment as a copywriter
- I wore heels to work
- I taught
- I taught in Boston
- I taught people who don’t speak my language
- I taught English grammar
- I had my own classroom
- I started graduate school
- I completed four graduate courses
- I worked as a writing consultant
- I worked as a writing consultant at my favorite job I’ve ever had
- I worked as a TA
- I got my Celiac under control
- Thus resulting in deflating to a healthier shape
- I wrote the best paper I’ve ever written in my life
- I started this blog
- I started writing a book
- I boosted my caffeine tolerance
- I broke up
- I fell in love
I’ve been trying to live life more fully. But I should probably remember that I never ever let it get that empty, anyhow 
.
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•April 23, 2012 •
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The problem is, sometimes I imagine the most beautiful fragments in my mind being sung when I commit them to paper: letting even the littlest word jump harmoniously off the page. Maybe I just don’t have due confidence in my phrasal bridges and clausal melodies.
I want the diction to reverberate in your ears. I want my conclusions to spring off your tongue as the last word of my paragraph lingers like a ringing fermata. Like for what I want to say next.
Imagine what it’s like when you find the icy cold lotion for your sunburn. The Skittles for your munchies. The flashlight for your basement. The Technicolor switch for your monochrome film. It’s what it’s like when there’s complete satiety, warmth, light, and sweet sweet songs. You’d want to shout about it, sing about it. Or maybe, if you’re me, you’d want to write about. Scream with words, lyricize with letters. As long as it resonates.
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•April 17, 2012 •
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My tediousness and anxiety with my prose lies in the ink blots staining my school notebook. At least one letter in every word holds a bloated, black tumor of hesitation from the point of my pen. I can’t form a ‘w’ without thinking of it consciously, for I must be sure that I am choosing the right word. I’ll pause on the ‘h’ and change a ‘the’ to an ‘a’ because I need some ambiguity in the sentence. Maybe I’ll hesitate on the cross of my ‘t’ because ‘idealized’ connotes more accurately than ‘romanticized.’
But this great care and nurture interrupts the flow. I read Hawthorne and Poe and Shakespeare and I want to snap that pen. To watch the ink bleed, so to speak. To mess it all up because what good is it anyhow. I think back to how shitty my first stabs at creative writing were, and how I know I’ve at least progressed since then. I just feel so far away from where I need to be. I still can’t sort the chaos when I go to describe the most deep and intimate of human sentiments.
Frankly, I don’t feel worthy yet.
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