summer

Today I bought a bag of tortilla chips with a hint of lime and some salsa. By the one, one of (out of many) things I miss about the great big grocery stores of...well, I guess the suburbs but I haven't been in one that matches North Texas yet, is the salsa selection. There are just a few kinds, and only mild and medium. What happened to hot? I'm a Southern girl...I'd like my salsa hot, thank you.

So I've had a few of this delicious concoction, and...I reallly miss my old house. What I'd like to be doing right about now is mixing up some margaritas, grilling some vegetables for fajitas and quesadillas, then sitting out on a patio next to the pool and enjoying the setting sun, maybe with my Brazilian remixed CD playing in the background. Doesn't that just make you crave the lazy days of summer?

I know. Once we get that...we'll be complaining about the humidity. But I'm sure there could be a few days where there might be some dryness in the air. If that's the case, then I suggest chips and salsa somewhere or up on some rooftop. I'll have to look into when I'm down in Texas for an upcoming long weekend (I'm counting down the days).

PS: If you're a little behind on your classic TV dramas/soap operas...that picture would be one of Dallas, good old Big D.

things you need in an existentialist crisis

Aveda tea, for one (something I dubbed the nectar of the gods in college and still think of it as such) and a city like DC.

I've been fighting writer's block, career goal questions, other very important things that I don't seem to have figured out but that have all been gnawing on me for some time. I left to head down to Borders in Metro Center and ended up not going there at all. I ended up diverting my path somewhere along Logan's Circle, heading wherever the traffic lights took me and ended up walking through Shaw towards the Convention Center.

There was a breeze and the sun was just beginning to set with all the lights slowly turning on and brightening. As I walked up towards Chinatown on 7th Street, I almost got a West Coast vibe of a calm city close to the beach, maybe on the outskirts of San Francisco (I think that had to do with the brilliant sun from earlier and the cool breeze passing through the buildings as I walked). Without even thinking about them, my cares sort of just slipped away as I got caught up in my music and the city lights.

I think my favorite was leaving Chinatown and heading up E street. I happened to look down and see a framed view of the National Archives lit up. I don't think I've seen that building at dusk before. I highly recommend it.

And then...I got a little seed of an idea. First the ending came to me, in a vision, and then the opening line of a short. A few more blocks brought a few more sentences. I skipped my originally planned bookstore trip, and it may have been too late anyway, and hurried home. I couldn't wait to get back to my waiting screen and hear the click-clacking of keys as I finally felt somewhat productive again. Those pressing questions before? I'll figure them out. It'll happen.

Oh, and the tea comes in after I got home. Mmmm...sitting here with Tchaikovsky, the windows open and Aveda tea. I'm telling you...this stuff is that sweet nectar brought up to Olympus (and there is no caffeine or sugar added).

Paul Revere

This is probably my last "poetry" post since April ends next Monday. I had hoped to have more, but it's been an incredibly busy period at work and I barely have time for my own writing/editing. This week will be much more calm, but I've got something going on almost every day after work (mostly writing/reading-related activities, which is nice). Anyway, after this it'll be back to my DC experiences.

I've just finished reading a book that mentioned, very briefly, at the end Longfellow's Paul Revere's Ride. This is another poem I have loved ever since I can remember. I've always loved history, but growing up I particularly loved the revolutionary era in American history. Maybe it was romanticism on my part, but the writing that came about during that period speaks volumes of the genius of those men and no matter how many times we read them, hear them or memorize them, just having them on the tip of the tongue gives me chills (yes Mr. Jefferson, I am talking about your work).

This poem is no different. Even though it was written much after that period, it still evokes similar reactions...at least in me. The opening lines are mesmerizing, and for whatever reason, I always hear them spoken in a whisper. It's got such a smooth, steady cadence. Even though this was one I never had to memorize for a class, the opening stanza is burned in my memory.

What a great way to learn history! Things like this stay with you, poetry, music, etc. I remember in one class I knew the answer to a question about Istanbul because of a They Might Be Giants song. And who hasn't been in a class when someone brings up the answer because of the Simpsons? (I've never been a Simpsons fan, but I have heard a reference in many class).

Ok...go out and enjoy this beautiful weather. It's so wonderful to see sunshine again and to feel it. Maybe take a book of poetry out to one of the many little parks around? Not a bad way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

death of an icon

I posted a link elsewhere to the Kurt Vonnegut news article around 6:45am Thursday morning before heading off to a breakfast program at work. That early I didn't have time to say more about it, and I kept meaning to do so. The only thing that held me back was...where do you begin? Vonnegut had achieved such stature that most writers can perhaps only dream of. And his books, while enjoyable and entertaining, had much more substance to them than many on the shelves and front tables do today. He was a living writer up there in the ranks of Twain, Hemingway and Heller in that he was read year after year by countless students.

It's with a little regret that I say it's been quite some time since I've read any Vonnegut. Several years, and only two books. His were books that I always went to the bookstore and scanned over and just always said I'd come back to pick them up another day. I don't feel right with talking about my favorite scene or discussing the ways in which his writing made me feel or moved me. He did of course make an impression.

With the internet, it was incredible to see how quickly news of his death spread across the virtual world and whispered across everyone's lips: "did you hear?" "this morning I saw..." "have you listened to the news today?"

Thank you, Mr. Vonnegut, for your wisdom, your words, your satire, for the people you have inspired and for your library of work that will continue to entertain and educate. You will be, and already are, missed.

Le Dormeur du Val (The Sleeper in the Valley)

My next poem is Le Dormeur du Val (The Sleeper in the Valley), by Arthur Rimbaud. I first read this poem, in French, Junior year in high school for my independent study class. This was one of five poems we had to memorize, and which I do still have memorized. What I remember most is how...animated my teacher was when discussing this poem. The main thing I remember about the language was the word "trou," which basically translates to hole.

The poem starts off very pleasantly, with the image of a sun-dappled valley. Next to a river lies a soldier, at first seeming at rest and peacefully sleeping there in the sunlight. Except...one thing: "Souriant comme / Sourirait un enfant malade." "Smiling like a sick child would smile." Despite the sunlight shining down on him, he's cold. We see then that he's unable to enjoy the surrounding valley, the flowers and the light. The last line we learn that there are two red holes in his side.

That's where the word "trou" comes in. The valley is a "trou," a hole in the mountains. Then at the end, the last line, there are two "trous," two holes in his side. My professor loved the way Rimbaud was able to tie the first and the last line together with that one word, and also the way the two had such vastly different meanings and atmospheres to them. It's one thing that really made me understand that translations can never really get the full meaning across. The English translation I've linked uses the word "hole," but I don't the other translation that I first read did. Now whenever I read Neruda or Guillen, no matter how beautiful those poems are, I just have to wonder what I'm missing.

The language Rimbaud uses is beautiful and it just flows, almost like a whisper, when read aloud. The image is created so perfectly inside the mind as each line is read, building to that final moment where the dead soldier sleeps, returning to the nature that now cradles him. The English translation is ok, but if you can read the French, it's absolutely beautiful. Or just have someone read it to you and close your eyes and listen to the delicate cadence.

national poetry month

April is National Poetry Month. I've been meaning to post something for the past week but have been a little busy. I grew up on poetry and even though I have no recollection of my first poem, I do remember being little and loving Longfellow's poem about Paul Revere. I've always been a big history nerd, so that was just a great way to combine two things I love: poetry and history. Even though I've read, and written, poetry for as long as I can remember, I wanted to post about one poem I remember falling hard for. It was in my AP English class senior year, which I'm now thankful I took because I don't think the other English classes had an emphasis on poetry.

The poem is A Valediction: Forbidden Mourning by John Donne. This was the first time I'd read Donne but it would instantly catapualt him upon among my ever-growing list of favorite poets. First of all, it was the image of the compass that made it so unique. Love poems generally have similar elements: love, flowers, roses in particular, etc., but what a great image! A connection that is constantly there, even when you're apart, miles away, and how he sees his wife as 'the fixed foot,' that he feels connected to while away and calls him home again. And the fact that he talks of how their love is so strong that absence will not make a distance, they will not grow apart. Going back to the compass analogy, it's made of metal...solid and ever-lasting. That's what their love is.

Secondly the language is just beautiful, calling back to a time where romance really was part of the language. Can you even imagine getting a poem such as this today? It's so...even though the words are very refined and soft, especially when spoken aloud, it's a very passionate poem.

Throughout the rest of April I'm going to try to post links to poems that I love or that have touched me in some way, some I'm sure are very popular and probably have been studied very much in college, but maybe some will be a little less well-known.

What are some of your favorite poems?

is this normal...anywhere?

Today I woke up to see snow on the roof and fence around a building behind me. Snow. Less than a week after 80 degree weather. This is freakish...this is Texas weather. Weather where it changes drastically in less than 24 hours. I wondered if this was normal anywhere in the world...except maybe Montana.

Last night I was on the phone with my Mom, complaining about my dashed dreams now that the weather had turned cold again and forced me back inside (and forced me to turn my heat back on). She pointed out that it snowed the first April we had in Texas. I don't remember that, but she says she has pictures. But I don't remember snowing the other twenty years in April I lived there. Some people blame global warming for the odd weather...but if it snowed in April twenty years ago...well...then either you can't blame global warming or it's been going on a lot longer than we thought. Maybe with a break in between.

The good news is that I got a lot of writing done last night, which was wonderful. Pages of it. It's been awhile since I've sat down and written so much because I've been so busy, and next week will be pretty busy too. It looks like much of the snow has already melted, and I'm debating on heading back down to look at the cherry blossoms again. I have to say thanks again to a certain law student who bought me a scarf and a hat to keep me warm. I'd already packed away my other scarves and hadn't yet had a chance to pack these away. Funny the way some things work out.

I'll admit I'm looking forward to another evening in with a huge mug of vanilla cappuccino and some great music and my laptop. I forsee many more pages being written tonight. So I guess I do have Easter plans. Happy Easter (to those celebrating it)!

rediscovering d.c.

I've covered miles this past weekend in the district. It has been too wonderful to not be outside. Friday night I walked from Shaw with, quite possibly, a huge grin on my face. There was a cool breeze that kept me from being too warm while walking quickly home, and with that breeze came the faint scent of honeysuckle, a scent that I remember from my old house in Dallas when we used to bike out in the street past honeysuckle vines snaking up the alley fences. It's that scent that says spring to me perhaps more than anything else.

At least, until I moved out here. Now cherry blossoms will truly signal spring to me. Last year I remember visiting the last weekend, when the blossoms fell down like snow with the slightest whisper. Yesterday I was down at the tidal basin where the blossoms are still white and still budding. Even there, occasionally, I caught honeysuckle. Or maybe I just imagined it...pretended it was there to weave my springtime sensations.

The Japanese enjoy cherry blossoms because their bloom is so fleeting and so beautiful. Beauty and life are fleeting, and the cherry blossoms are a reminder to seize that, to take time and enjoy that which is fleeting. Carpe Diem, as Robin Williams so immortalized. "Seize the Day boys. Make your lives extraordinary."

When we're not working 40+ hours a week, our minds are still back on work and how we can get more and get ahead, to get there. But where is there? Where's the destination? Is it a certain title, the proverbial corner office? One thing I often find myself wondering is how many times am I going to look back and wish I'd done other things, or done the things I only think about: taking the plunge and jetting off for a week in Paris, finally walking through the historical streets of Boston during a weekend away that I never quite seem to take, putting trust in someone, telling people the things you always think and want to say but never do, learning a new language (or revisiting the three I've studied), planning dinner parties around my coffee table...who cares if it's Bohemian?

So even though it's that time of year and the grassy paths around the monuments are packed with tourists, I hope you take time out to enjoy the fleeting beauty of the cherry blossoms and the scent of honeysuckle. Forget about work for an hour while walking down there. Your peace of mind will thank you.

I know you'll see me down there.