2011 in Pictures (Things everyone should do!)

1. Listen to more of Billie Holiday

2. Get good grades. Excel at something!

3. Blog more: read and write.

2010 Is When You Said "Goodbye"

There are two things
I would do differently,
although neither would
please you. I just want
one time to explain why
the lemon drop candies
were not favored and the
"keep smiling" attitude
poked me into a state
of annoyance. But you
want nothing to do with
      my breathing.

Thoughts on the end of 2010

So tonight was a Breakfast at Tiffany's, brewed Starbucks,

 and warm accessories kind of an evening. 

2011 will be here soon. I'm thinking about my life: where I'm going, where I have been, what have I done, what will I do. And I know that in order to be the person I want to be, sacrifices must be made. I'm mentally preparing myself. I'm spiritually preparing myself. I'm physically preparing myself... the coffee, duh!

I don't want to make a list of resolutions. "Firmness of purpose" is how resolution is defined. But society has given the word another meaning. Resolutions have become statements made with purpose, but lacking firmness. I want to make commitments that mean something. Which is why I'm not posting them yet. Another post may follow with more on this topic. 

"My First Memory (of Librarians)" by Nikki Giovanni

By Nikki Giovanni

This is my first memory:
A big room with heavy wooden tables that sat on a creaky
       wood floor
A line of green shades—bankers’ lights—down the center
Heavy oak chairs that were too low or maybe I was simply
       too short
              For me to sit in and read
So my first book was always big

In the foyer up four steps a semi-circle desk presided
To the left side the card catalogue
On the right newspapers draped over what looked like
       a quilt rack
Magazines face out from the wall

The welcoming smile of my librarian
The anticipation in my heart
All those books—another world—just waiting
At my fingertips.

Letters

Your handwriting has penned around
me a shelter of serenity. You once
taught me how to thrive with calligraphic
words, and in this moment I smile
for the sentences that thread us together.

Wanting what you can't have...

Say goodbye to the things you never
received and do it with gladness. For
to give is better to receive, especially
when all you do is want, desire, beg
for them in your mind. It is like the tick
of a clock, each second, another obsessive
entreaty. There comes a day when the ticking
will make you mad if you do not
                                           throw it away.

Twas the Night Before Christmas

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tinny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

"Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, on Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"

Reading a Book

When I understand you and your story
I don't have to understand my own, my
self. I can feel the spring wind during
winter. I can taste blackberries out
of season; they stain my lips, purple.
Your words narrate my mind into
abandoned homes and the wood
floors creak under scuffed shoes.
Chocolate ice cream has never
been as smooth and rich as when
I taste it while flipping through pages.

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

My flimsy veteran's hat and a sign that reads
anything helps: it only gives me a beer,
a sandwich and a quarter left. I head over to
my fountain. It is mine because it is a wishing
one, and I am a wishing one. I want bombs
to stop when I hear the garbage truck.
I want lightning to be magnificent, not
frightening. I want to have another beer
before I am sober enough for memories
to eat me up, bite by bite.

Disappointment

It is not anger. It is that feeling that comes
after a person gets into you and twists
your insides into knots. It is not hatred.
It is like the smell of burnt bread.
It is not rage. It is the quiet hum of a fan,
chilling a room until it becomes uncomfortable.

"Love is My Religion"

As well as being a fantastic poet, Keats seemed to be a hopeless romantic. Check out this letter he wrote to Fanny. 


My dearest Girl,

This moment I have set myself to copy some verses out fair.  I cannot proceed with any degree of content.  I must write you a line or two and see if that will assist in dismissing you from my Mind for ever so short a time.  Upon my Soul I can think of nothing else - The time is passed when I had power to advise and warn you again[s]t the unpromising morning of my Life - My love has made me selfish.  I cannot exist without you - I am forgetful of every thing but seeing you again - my Life seems to stop there - I see no further.  You have absorb'd me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving - I should be exquisitely miserable without the hope of soon seeing you.  I should be afraid to separate myself far from you.  My sweet Fanny, will your heart never change?  My love, will it?  I have no limit now to my love - You note came in just here - I cannot be happier away from you - 'T is richer than an Argosy of Pearles.  Do not threat me even in jest. I have been astonished that Men could die Martyrs for religion - I have shudder'd at it - I shudder no more - I could be martyr'd for my Religion - Love is my religion - I could die for that - I could die for you.  My Creed is Love and you are its only tenet - You have ravish'd me away by a Power I cannot resist: and yet I could resist till I saw you; and even since I have seen you I have endeavoured often "to reason against the reasons of my Love."  I can do that no more - the pain would be too great - My Love is selfish - I cannot breathe without you.

Yours for ever
John Keats

My Backpack

As a child I carried a backpack filled
with simplicity. My sticker collection
outnumbered all the other elementary
kid's. My pack-pack was blue with
orange lining and in it were treasures.
I had nearly twenty marbles, all from
different sets. But somehow the miss
matched collections were of great value.
In a sandwich baggy that once contained
tuna on white, were rocks: lava, gravel,
smooth, a lucky arrowhead. Now my
dull colored laptop bag contains folders,
neatly filed, papers of no significance,
and only stickers that repeat "Tsionah
Novick 1354 SW Billington Ave."

It will never be simple...

We leave simplicity behind, with our childhood, and loose the ability to pick it back up.

Window

You are some kind of wonderful,
but I'm not sure which. All I know
is that when I see you laugh
through the rain splattered window,
I want to understand the things
that trigger your squinted eyes
and wrinkled nose: true signs
of humor. But you cannot hear me
and the window has fogged up
leaving me to see my own
lonely and curious reflection.

An Observation

I think that some times people think that poets are emotional wrecks.

So Sylvia Plath committed suicide and Elizabeth Dickinson was a recluse; that doesn't mean all of us are depressed or socially inept. 

My observation is the following: most poets and writers have a remarkable amount of self awareness when it comes to emotions. And it isn't just self awareness; we recognize things in others too. Because that is what we do - observe and write. So for those who think that all I do is blog my heart out and write in my diary every night, wrong. 

My desire to be a good writer makes me want to interact with people even more than the average person. Because people are strange, complex, and totally messed up. And for some reason, that interests me. 

So if I ask a personal question, pry into you life, talk for too long, or any other annoying thing, blame it on the fact that I am an aspiring writer. 

Revision Piece from Fiction Class

This is portion that I revised from my first story in my fiction class. I'm still revising, and could be forever revising. Anyways, thoughts, comments, etc. are, as always, welcomed.


           I see you on the bus often, but I only see, never speak. I read you like a book, studying your mannerisms, features, and personality. But as much as I watch, I haven’t mentioned you to other people. My family is already concerned about how I insist on riding the bus. They offered me a car for my 18th birthday, but something didn’t seem right about that; I like riding the bus, and a car wouldn’t add very much to my life. They offer me rides all the time, as if they don’t get the clue. I do not like to spell it out to them; they mean the best. But sometimes I would rather be by myself.
           I can imagine confessing to them my observations. It would be at dinner time, because that is when conversations must be made. We would be eating a dish barren of meat and filled with the substitute, tofu. Ever since my parents made the decision to become vegetarians a few years ago, I’ve been making more trips to restaurants that serve steak. Being vegetarian isn’t a bad thing, but I don’t like tofu. It isn’t “me”. So after a forced bite of flavors I pretend to enjoy, I would say something like, “Mother, Father, I’ve seen someone on the bus that I find really interesting.”
          “Jessica! Be careful, darling. You never know when a creep on the bus will take advantage of a pretty face.” My mother would shutter at the thought.
          My father’s throat would clear. “Your mother is right. I’ll take you to school in the morning.” He would say it with such articulation that no one would question. It would be that voice which brings out the noises of chewing, knives and forks clanking against dishes.

Christmas/Hanukkah Wish List

1. A car. I dream big.
2. An Ipod Touch, 16gb
3. A mini fridge. 
4. An "A" on my Exams.
5. A Scholarship Award!
6. A gym membership.
7. Skype group video
8. Winter Boots.
9. A new keyboard or upright piano 
10. Kind words from... someone. Ha. (running out of ideas)

I Listen

Image from http://paintingkitty.blogspot.com/ by Viktoria La Paz. I love her work!

You made me smile so strongly
that the power in that smile
ruled over nations of hurt.

You made me laugh so loudly
that the victory in that laugh
conquered my own enemies.

You made me think so deeply
that the depth of those thoughts
drowned out the noise of masses.

You spoke so quietly, I listened
with everything: both ears focused,
both hands reaching out, my mind tuning

in, my heart beating upon the center
of your words to be apart of something
brilliant. I listen, you affect me.

I want to write...

I want to write things that mean something about life. I want my readers to have a deeper understanding about others. or themselves. after reading my words, their words, the world's words.

I want to write about a boy I like/liked without worrying that he will figure it out. I want to write about a boy that I don't like/don't know without worrying about assumption.

I want to write about how awful family is, yet that is why it is wonderful. I want to write about how my brother annoys me, my mother interrogates me, my father frustrates me. And I want to do it with the kind of words that show layers of humanity.

I want to unravel the ribbon and stretch out the slinky.

I want us to see what we are made of. Add a little sweetness, add a bit of bitterness, add some hate, add some love, add confusion, heavily.

Untitled Poem

The only bond that is connecting

us is the one of want. You owe
me no guarantee. I own no part
of you. This is a gift

of honesty and conversation
that we trade until we define
it as friendship. I ask

for nothing, except acceptance.

Friendship

Photographs, gifts, and memories
disappear from my boring white walls.
Only Audrey Hepburn remains because
even if she doesn’t answer when I call,
she never had the obligation.

Change

I didn't want to see my face on the blog page anymore. I was starting to think that it appeared narcissistic. So, I changed the look of the blog, again. But I'm pretty happy with it right now.

On another note, here's who/what I've been reading lately:

- 20 Minutes in Portland (A Portland Review)
- Margaret Atwood (Because she writes beautiful poetry)
- Amy Hempel (Required reading for my fiction class ended up being awesome)