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.

locals vs. foreigners

DC is an interesting place. It's always in flux, constantly changing and changing beyond every four years. As a Washingtonian, I'm not aware of dislike of "foreigners," whether from Texas, California, Kansas, the other Washington, or France, Ghana, Argentina, China. Some may feel differently around tourist season when the population of the district swells exponentially, but overall...we recognize this place is pretty transient and generally go with the flow. I think I have met only two born and raised locals. Maybe.

The reason I bring this up? For an article that my Father pointed out to me, "Californians blamed for spoiling West." I don't think he was pointing it out to me because of my "Californian ways," but more because he was quoted in it. Him and his website Montana Sucks. In this article, locals are upset when 'foreigners' move in and change things. I hear those from Florida are getting upset about New Yorkers elbowing their way in, and despite the fact that California is one of the most populated states, their population is still managing to annoy the rest of the country.

Now...a little disclaimer. I don't say 'annoy' because they annoy me. I'm using that generally. Some of my best friends are Californian...and I do have a little bit of that California attitude after living there for four years. I've joked to people during vacations from school about how "oh, well, I must be turning into a Californian," since they were about the complete opposite of a Texan. With that being said...I'm almost certain I'll end up in Texas. Sure, California's great, Boston's great in the spring and Virginia's got some gorgeous places...but I'm not sure you can take the Texas out of the girl. I tried when I first left.

So. Despite the US being a melting pot, it seems it may be more of a pot filled with water and oil, with each portion wanting to remain on its side. We're all set in our ways, and certianly don't want those crazy Westerners/Northerners/Southerners changing things! I've even caught mysefl in Washington thinking, "in Texas, this would be different." But honestly, can you blame the oil for wanting to mix?

Take the above photo. Beautiful. And that was in May before the sun really came out. Even a tried and true urban girl like me misses that place and loved being out there. I'm almost counting down the days where I can go back and visit Flathead Lake and...well...and do nothing up there in the mountains and just look at how incredibly green the trees are, or falling asleep while the boat rocks on a lake the size of an ocean (to my urban eyes).

Oh wait...I'm sorry. I forgot. Montana sucks. Everyone should just stay where they are. It's a horrible place full of...of...hmmm. Well, there's no urban landscape there. No mass pollution, cars with a permanent weight on their hands. There we go.

vincent van gogh

I spent the early part of the afternoon down at the National Gallery today. I went mainly to see the photography exhibition: Paris in Transition, which did have some pretty cool photographs. I recommend checking it out while it's here. There were a couple of Stieglitz's photographs there, especially this one taken in the rain in Paris that he had printed on a paper used for watercolors in order to get a texture on the print to make it actually look a little wet.

Anyway...the title of my post is not Paris in Transition, so I'll get to the point. I'm currently reading a collection of Vincent van Gogh's letters, which is actually pretty fascinating. On a side note, I didn't know that in his early years, before he started painting, he actually thought of becoming a pastor and went through a pretty religious period. And also that the myth isn't true, that he didn't only sell one work during his lifetime. And for whatever reason, I was under the impression he cut off his ear because of a woman, but it turns out it was after an argument with Gauguin.

The security guard who glanced through my bag saw my book on van Gogh and suggested I check out the Impressionist collection upstairs, which I have seen before. And I thought "eh...maybe, if there's time." I ended up going up to look at them and saw three (there were more, but these were the first ones I saw) van Gogh pieces next to each other. The one if the middle, something along the lines of flower fields in Holland, looked more realistic than something say...his "Starry Night." And I thought, this must have been done before he went to Paris.

The next painting was of an olive field during a harvest, and it was down in the sharp, thick strokes of the van Gogh we all know and love. This, I began to think, had to have been done after his trip to Paris and the south of France when he met the Impressionists. I checked the dates: The first painting was done in 1883. The second was 1890. In his letters, I'm currently finishing up the year 1888, and he's mentioned his idea of painting a starry night.

It was kind of cool to have all that background info and to be able to apply it while looking at art. I don't think it was really analyzing, but it really helped me to see how he progressed, and then of course I wondered what his painting would be like had he not gone to France. You can also sense the color change too. His colors in the later years were much more vibrant, and he comments about this in his letters to his brother, how in Holland the color scheme is more grey, and then in France they're much brighter.

I will be buying more artist biographies now. I have a biographical novel of Michelangelo in my to-read pile, but I have two more books I have to read first. Let me know what you think of the photography exhibition if you like it. And also...I love that the NGA has so many Monets. They're beautiful!

'california dreamin''

Weather like this makes me wish I was back in California. As I walked to work this morning, all I wanted was to be in my car (which sadly I no longer own...and very much miss it) driving through the mountains of Southern California with my windows down, Placebo, Opus III or DJ Sammy on the stereo and a trip to the Starbucks on Orange for my iced soy chai that I can then enjoy on the patio with the mountains in the background...especially when the weather's like this and they're still snow-tipped.

I may have to take some "sick" time this afternoon if it remains sunny. I will be spending much time outside this weekend. How did I ever think I liked cold weather and night best?

Oh...yeah...when we had over 30 days in a row of temperature over 100. No one should have to be put through that.

Anyone else with me? Let's take our laptops and go work outside. I may not have my mountains or my car, but I can at least still have my iced soy chai and a patio table.

spring break and st. patrick's day

Though I have not yet come to terms with the fact that I will not ever have a spring break again, unless I do decide to go to law school (but even then I will still be working) I have to admit that this past week has felt a little like a break. This is probably due to the late nights and the fact that I had a chance to play tour guide. I love playing tour guide because I'm reminded of how great this city is. Take the monuments. I don't go down to see them very often and every time I go, I remember just how incredible and incredibly moving they are and vow to make it a point to return. Soon.

And then I don't usually.

But I am promising that again. And I will try to make a point to keep that promise. The cherry blossom festival will happen soon, so that's at least one more time that I will make much effort to go down to the Mall.

One other cool thing, while I'm on the topic of the Mall and then on to St. Patrick's Day, but on Tuesday I got to walk in the reflecting pool. It was drained, as were all the fountains (which was a bad thing, in particular with WWII), and at first I didn't want to walk in it as some were doing because it felt almost disrespectful. But as a tourist group of loud high school students surrounded and overtook my friend and me, I felt the need to escape, so we stepped down in the reflecting pool, taking glances back at the Washington Monument and the Capital building in the very center of my line of vision, along with Lincoln in front of us.

Anyway. St. Patrick's Day was great. This year I spent it in a city/country where it's kind of a big deal. Especially if, like me, you're Irish. So I woke up early after a late night dancing (Happy Birthday A!), with some incredible pizza that I think I may still be craving, to make Irish soda bread. I have not made this in over a decade, so who knew how it was going to turn out. My Irish ancestors must have been looking down on me because it was wonderful. I actually have a picture of it, but that may have to wait until I take some more pictures and get my film developed (I know...and I don't want to hear it).

Later that day I joined some friends at Biddy Mulligan's for some drinks. The good conversation more than made up for waiting for about 15 minutes in the bitter cold (although that wasn't too bad either). It was good to hang out with some people I don't normally see. Although it might have been better had they actually been serving their curry fries instead of only what was on their special St. Patrick's Day menu. I guess you can't everything.

And then finally, I went with a friend to a club just outside of NW to see Armin van Buuren. Despite not being able to actually go to the arena (or whatever they call that room) to dance since it was so packed (because it was Armin van Buuren), my friend did manage to score a spot behind the DJ booth where we could dance and keep an eye on our coats. I could have stayed for hours because the music was that good, but I haven't yet broken in my heels and two nights of dancing were really punishing me for all the late nights this week.

It was a really great St. Patrick's Day, if I do say so.

the kindness of strangers

I have been thinking for some time to write a post on how no one smiles in Washington. In my office building when I run into other people on the floor or in the elevator, I'll smile if I catch their eye. Why? Because I'm from Texas and that's what we do. It's nice. It makes your day just a little bit better. Instead of a smile back, I get a straight face or sometime a look that almost says "what is your problem?" My problem is that I don't like being miserable and a friendly smile always brightens the day.

Anyway, that's not what this post is about. Because just when I'm feeling slightly jaded, something happens.

For anyone out in DC this evening, you know that it got cold and very wet. At about 10:30, I found myself in Chinatown about to walk home in the rain. I did it because I didn't think it'd be so bad. After all, I'd just walked from the White House to Chinatown and didn't get very wet. And it's really not a bad walk home.

After a block I could feel my pants getting very wet and my legs getting cold, the top of my hair getting soaked (it wasn't raining hard enough to completely soak my hair, which was good), and the droplets streaming dwon my face. So I decided to do something I rarely do.

I took a cab.

Except...all the cabs that were leaving Chinatown and heading my direction all had people in them. I'm not too far from home now, maybe eight to ten blocks, but a cab would still be nice. And what do you know? One pulled over and asked where I was going. There was a young couple in the backseat, maybe my age, and we chatted for a little about how the cold weather came from nowhere. I don't even know where they were going or how far out of the way I was, but it was nice of them to pull over. I would have gotten an empty cab eventually, because I think one even pulled up behind them, but it was nice to have my faith restored.

And the $6.50 wasn't bad. I thought it'd be double that, but now that I know...I might be more inclined to stay out later in Chinatown and cab it back.

learning to let go

There was an interview over on the BookEnds blog the other day that really struck me. I've been working to try to find the best method of telling my story, without giving up any of the back story. It's the last paragraph when the author talks about how attached to their writing writers get. And this is so true! No matter how much you tell yourself a certain scene slows down pacing, there's always that one line that seems so beautifully crafted that it just has to stay in. And since it can't fit anywhere else, well...looks like that scene's staying.

In my short story, I've found it difficult to let go of the larger story. In the novel, there are more characters, more relationships and the relationships are much more defined. And it's hard, in my mind, to let go of those relationships once the characters are gone. It is very hard, because you work so long on a certain story, a certain direction, that it's difficult to give that all up.

But it works better for the story. And that's what's important. You want to make sure that your story is clear and that all the little nuances fit and work for the reader. They'll work for the writer because the writer has all the back stories that are no longer there. So now I have some decisions to make and many words to write. And the importance of readers (hopefully friends who will be nice since they're critiquing all your loving hours) is illustrated again.

snow

I have to admit, I don't get umbrellas and snow. This may be because I'm from Texas and snow is such a wonderful commodity that I like to enjoy it as it is. Walking hom in the snow today was wonderful. I let the snow collect on my coat and in my hair, with flurries on my eyelashes and yes, maybe I caught one or two flakes on my tongue. I didn't even mind that I could see my breath and that my legs felt frozen through.

Or at least, I didn't mind too much.

Anyway, I will try to post my thoughts on writing that I mentioned previously tomorrow. Even though I loved the snow today, I do hope that this is the last burst of winter. I'm ready to walk all over the city in the sun and to enjoy the warmth again.

spoken too soon

As it turns out, I may have spoken a little early. I walked down to the National Gallery and about froze to death. Part of this was because it was warm the day before, so I wore a light jacket (and thought I was going to be late, so I didn't run back upstairs to get a heavier one). I also, stupidly, figured that once I was in the sun, everything would be ok.

What an idea.

Needless to say, I took the metro home even though taking the metro almost anywhere downtown makes me feel lazy when I have nowhere to be. And apparently there are to be snow flurries middle of this week? I'll be fine as long as it doesn't drop down to 15 degrees again. I also braved the freak cold front to run to the bookstore. I was looking for my book club's new book, but that one was not at the store. So...instead of saving money and not buying anything (what an idea) I ended buying The Agony and the Ecstasy, which is a biographical novel of Michelangelo. I can't remember the author, but I want to say I've heard of this book before.

Right now I'm reading a collection of Van Gogh's letters I picked up over the holidays when I saw a Van Gogh exhibition, so if I do not get my March book, I'll probably start reading about Michelangelo. I do see future book recommendations in the future.

This may be a somewhat meaningless post, except that I did call the freakish cold weather, but I read an interview with a writer recently and something she said really struck me. I intend to post my thoughts on this later this week, and I thought about it even more so yesterday as I had a friend reading my novel-now-short-story and asking about some of the relationships that made a lot of sense in the novel format, and there's just not enough space to explain it in a short story version. But as I said to him, I just...I don't want to change anything that made the characters those people. I like their relationships and how they interact...I can't change that.

But sometimes...you need to sacrifice for your art.

oh sweet, sweet spring

I know it's not technically Spring yet, but last night was quite possibly one of the most beautiful nights in a very long time. And it wasn't just because I went out for sushi for dinner. I could have stayed out walking the city for most, if not all, of the night.

Now, I realize that by saying this some freak cold front is going to come in and the temperature's going to drop to 15 degrees and I'll be stuck inside, not even able to the stockpiles of hot chocolate that I have. But maybe I'll be lucky. Just maybe this wonderful weather will decide to stay for a little and I can go out and once again enjoy the city. I forget how much I love just walking aimlessly around. Haven't done that in some time.

I've had a pretty quiet week at work, but still haven't managed to get my story finished. I've been up almost every night talking to friends until very late so...haven't really had the energy or focus. Until the end of this week. I had Friday afternoon off and I edited a hardcopy (I'm old fashioned and prefer marking up a story to death. It helps me keep my edits straight) and will today transfer those edits to the electronic version.

Maybe it's the change in weather, but I've also had this incredibly strong desire to cook. I have a couple of recipes in mind, so we'll see what the weekend brings.

temptation

It's that time of year again; the time where many of us try to come up with something that's hard to give up, but really...not too difficult. And what about those of us who really have none of the standard vices? I have to admit I was a little stumped for this year. I don't smoke, I don't drink a lot, I don't eat meat, I don't really eat chocolate, I don't drink soda and the one thing that I am addicted to is not feasible for me to give up. And I don't mean in a selfish way. If I were to give up coffee for 40 days, it would not be a pretty 40 days and it would be best if I were holed up in my apartment. The way I would respond to people would not be a good example of "brotherly love," and so I think I'm safe that coffee will not be required of me.

I won't go into everything I've opted to do, since I do think it is more a personal thing, but I do have one question to ask. One thing I did give up, sort of on a whim, was chocolate. Like I said I above, I don't really eat it. I'll go weeks without chocolate because it's not something I crave. Now...with that being said. I walk into work on Wednesday where a box of bite-size brownies from a recent program are sitting out, a dark chocolate bar is sitting in the work-room, along with a box of dark chocolate bars we've had sitting in there and a dish of chocolates from Valentine's Day sitting in the front office. And I admit, without thinking, I almost took a chocolate brownie. But I remembered it was Ash Wednesday and I couldn't for the life of me admit to breaking my Lent on the first day.

So I resisted. But it was so hard since it was no longer a matter of not wanting it, but now it was a matter of not being able to have it (theoretically...because I could and no one but me would ever be the wiser).

And I have no Mardi Gras stories because my exciting last-indulgence was going to class.

national geographic and accumulation

This year for my birthday I asked for, and received, a second year's subscription to my beloved yellow magazine. Last year was the first year I had my own subscription. But I remember being young and we had a cabinet packed full of NGs in our den; they were double stacked on the shelves with more recent issues stacked on top. I used to pour through them learning about whatever I was interested in (at that time it was mainly whales and other sorts of marine biology and Saturn).

Sadly, we got rid of them when selling the house. Who really needs National Geographic from the late 1970s and early 1980s? Most of that information is probably obsolete now, like an issue on the solar system since we know now that those issues would have one planet too many.

On my lower shelf right now I have about 14 issues; one I bought before my subscription started and then 2007's January issue. On my coffee table I have February and March. That's quite a bit of yellow. And I can be quite the packrat, something I'm trying to overcome. So I wonder, is it necessary to keep all these issues? How often am I going to go back and look at the article on "Hawaii's Unearthly Worms?" But if I only keep the issues I'll probably go back and read...well...then I'll have an incomplete set. Are my issues doomed for the trash whenever I move?

As a certified nerd, I love seeing those yellow spines all lined up. I have maybe only gone back to look through one or two issues, but the year's still young.

On a side note: I just read an article that says the Year of the Pig will bring violence, disease and epidemics. Because last year wasn't bad enough. Oh, but children born in this year will be lucky. Personally, I'd rather have a fortuitous year for those of us already in existence.

pulse

In high school I wrote a lot of poetry, and even through the first...three years of college. In college I had a couple of great nights at the open mic night at The Grind. I read a few times, and it's such an incredible rush to be up there reading your work. Your heart races and it's almost all you can hear in your own ears. And when you finish, you find that you're a little out of breath. It was very different than the Writer's Club I was involved in, and my creative writing classes in high school, because you knew everyone there. Reading at The Grind, I maybe only really knew the girls I went with. Rachel really perfected the Open Mic.

Anyway...I have to admit that my flow of poetry has diminished in the past few years. And I'm not sure what it is. I don't think I'm any less inspired. I think maybe it's because for some time, I was so focused on my prose and my novel that I couldn't really think...well, I don't want to say that I couldn't think poetically because I'd like to think that I can infuse some poetry into my prose.

I came across this poem I wrote this past fall that sort of came to me while walking around DC. It's called Pulse, after the pulse that's alive in this city. That's what I love about living in the city; there's so much life here. I love it here. I love the rush of the trains while you stand on the metro platforms, the snowflake lights down around MetroCenter during the holidays, crossing 16th Street and looking down at the White House...and I could go on.

This is nervewracking. I haven't had anyone read my poetry in a very long time (partly since I don't really write it anymore). I've been wanting to go to one down on U Street, but now I have my French class on the same night. Once it finishes in a few weeks, I'll have to start going to check it out. It'll be some time before I read, if ever, but I love the open mic nights. I just love words and hearing them is just as good as reading and writing them. Who knows? Maybe being around all that poetry will get me writing again.

You can let me know if you felt the urge to snap your fingers.

Pulse

October 2006

I feel your pulse along the streets
your brightness against the lamps above
and the rush I feel from you
with every passing vehicle and metro train.
Something alive
and when I'm there on the edge
I feel it too
for a brief fleeting moment
my pulse matching the beat of the street
and the fluttering of dead leaves
you, my city, are not black and white
something teeming here
beneath the surface but not yet in shadows.
I find myself lost amid monuments
to the heroes of the past
knowing you are creating the heroes of tomorrow
with each beat
a motorcade, a protest, a helicopter, a no-fly zone.
The veins feeding down tot he center
and out from the center
feeding me,
feeding life into me
your pulse setting mine.