Impulsive.

Tonight I bought a ticket to Dublin.

That's right. Dublin.

I've been living there in my imagination as I craft my screenplay set there, but now it's time to return in the flesh. This is part of my intense reclamation this year. You see, the last time I travelled the streets of my fair city was Christmas 2002--make that New Year's 2002-2003. I met my beloved there and he behaved badly. Ruined the trip. Damn near stole my city from me.

But now I'm returning. Alone. The way I first arrived there in 1995 to meet myself after facing down death. In some ways I feel I've faced a different kind of death since then. It's time to live again!

Thank God for Aer Lingus. Thanks to their March Madness sale, I'll be flying roundtrip from Chicago to Dublin for less than the cost of a ticket to anywhere else I was considering going over spring break.

This is right. I feel the world opening up to me . . . again.

I'll be conducting research for my writing, and I assure you: I will leave no stone unturned. . . .

Sexy.

I can say without hesitation that last night I was sexier than I've ever been. And yes, I'm working out and I was decked out in some of my finest (showcasing my finest assets--tits and legs); but I've looked good before. Here's the difference: I said to myself, "I am a sexy, vibrant woman and I don't need to pretend that I'm not."

You see, as a young, single woman professor, I can be a volatile presence on a small campus. Actually, an independent, sensual woman with a powerful sense of herself can disrupt just about any stodgy culture by her mere presence. But anyway, I felt some pressure to be smaller, to hide what might incite reaction. But as my beloved Dubliners say, "Fuh dat."

And this is my lesson: to fully inhabit my body, to enter my largesse, to stay connected to my center. Since I was a kid growing up in a bar, I learned quickly from the drunks who hit on the 11-year-old me to fear the unsolicited reactions my body elicited. But I can protect that scared little girl now.

My poet friend Marie taught me something about myself the day we met. I met her on assignment--I was interviewing her for a profile piece. At the end of the interview she said to me, "Well, you're not afraid of the world." That is what she saw in me after one hour of conversation.

She was right.

And the more I return to the journals I kept 10 years (and more) ago, the more I see that I am who I always was. But more so.

I am not afraid of the world.

But it's good to remember who I am through whom I've been. A five-year relationship with a man who feared his own capacity to love and be loved did not silence my voice, as I thought and felt. I chose to listen to him instead of singing my song for a while. But today I choose me.

"One of these mornings you're gonna rise up singing--spread your wings and take to the sky."

It's summertime this winter for me.

But I'm being challenged and I'm grateful. At the same time that I'm reclaiming my voice and putting it out there, I find myself in a group of egos that try to squash me. Actually there's one leader of a small faction of poisonous peeps within the larger group. I'm learning not to react, not to fear them and to find compassion for their small pettiness. It's their own insecurity that drives them and draws them to each other.

They have no power here.

Like Da said, "Now you know how to identify the little people. Everytime you see them, just put black Xs over their faces and keep smiling."

Great advice.

Gearing up

I feel hungover today and I didn’t drink a drop last night. What in the hell is that?

So I wrote about idleness, which is good. But sometimes you have enough idleness and time for thoughts to emerge and percolate, but you still don’t get it down. I think I’ve had a good 5 or so years of idleness that I never got down. So I guess now is the time. If you want something done, give it to a busy person, right?

The professor I’m working with on this book told me last week in parting, “Scare yourself with your genius.” What the hell does that mean? Perhaps this is the flipside to what I tell myself every time I sit down to write: you can only be as good as you dare to be bad. Maybe I needed him to say: you can only be as good as you dare to be. I don’t know. Sounds like terrible pressure to me. But what isn’t pressurized about putting yourself—your story, your life, your writing, your talent—on the page for others to read and judge? Yikes. Could drive a person to drink—or worse, could drive a person to drunkenness without a drink. Shit.

But all of a sudden I’m finding it very comforting to be teaching writing classes, to have younger writers than I am to help shape and mold and discuss their roadblocks and their successes. I see what I’m helping them do, and it constantly reminds me what I can do for myself. Isn’t it true that if you can’t help yourself, you can’t help anyone else?

I also love being around other young teachers. Some of these grad students—most of them, actually—are teaching for the first time. It ain’t easy. Talk about putting yourself out there. . . . And those kids can be vicious—they’re like wolves; they smell fear. So my dear, sweet friend, I’ll call him KiKi, was telling me about how his students are calling him out on everything and he feels like he has to defend himself and his choices all the time. He’s a wreck. A tender flower by nature, he can’t stand up well to the cruelty of others. So I told him to practice responding to questions with questions. Throw it back at them. That’s education and accountability, man. He liked that idea.

In other news, I am sore. TTT and I did chest, triceps and legs on Tuesday and all those parts are barking at me now. What will she have me do today? Probably back, biceps and legs. I’ll do shoulders and abs myself on Saturday. I just might get buff yet, y’all. I love the hard curve of a well-defined muscle.

And I think I’m ready for some companionship. But it has to be good. I am not at all interested in playing the field or dating around. I’ll go dancing with anyone who’ll have me and who can dance, but I’m not going to spend time in conversation with anyone who doesn’t light my fire. I don’t have time to be bored, and I daresay I never will.

But I’m practicing patience and letting the world come to me. So far so good.

Wednesday, wednesday

This morning I didn’t want to write. Didn’t want to. Got up early enough, was warm enough, had time enough. Just had no will.

Here’s the thing, see. Writing is hard work in every sense except the physical thanks to this here computer. And I just wasn’t up for it first thing this morning. But tonight I have so much swimming in my head that I’ve got to get it out, get it down, so that I may sleep.

But I guess that’s Wednesdays for me.

Let’s go back to last night. After class I skipped out on dinner and drinks with friends in favor of work. Except work turned out to be idle. Which sometimes is the case with creative stuff. I have very little down time in my life because I’ve crammed it full of teaching and writing and reading and supervising and discussing. Good stuff. But to dig deep, discover and create, one must have idle time. Time to dream it all up. Again.

So I took some idle time last night. Made dinner, had a glass of wine, turned on the DVD “Red Eye” for some blue-eyed Cillian Murphy eye candy (I prefer his Tranny Kitten in Breakfast on Pluto), and my mind began to wander. I also had to pitch my screenplay idea in class today, so the pressure was on. Idleness+deadlines=productivity in my book. Then I started digging in the basement through photos and books and journals and came across lots of great stuff to work with. Realized that I already had a screenplay idea from years back. Then I found my very full and fabulous journal circa 1997 Dublin. I call it the dirty book. Manohmanohman did I have some good times y’all. Some horrific times and a lot of growth, too. And presto! Fodder (with a little tweaking and time manipulation) for a screenplay. . . .

Today I taught Annie Proulx’s short story “Brokeback Mountain” and several of my kids said they were crying by the end of it. Read it over and over. Because it was so beautiful. Read this story, people. Now I’m terribly curious about how it translates to screen, but I imagine quite well. There’s no internal dialogue; it’s all visual and action. Lots of showing, not telling—the good writing advice with which I beat my students over the head. And so cleanly written. I’m also fascinated that a woman captures men’s voices so well. This is rarely attempted, in my experience. But God is it a tender and painful love story. Busted apart all kinds of stereotypes for my suburban Michiganian students. By the end of class, they were comparing the story to Romeo and Juliet without prodding, God love them.

Fast Forward to tonight when I had my other class review a poetry reading. My friend Marie (remember the 80something poet I wrote a profile on, befriended, then visited up north where we drank lots of wine, looked at the stars and swam in Lake Michigan together?) did the reading and she was magnificent. Her vibrant, sensual life and nature propel her poetry and her presence. I cried when she read about losing her husband to Alzheimer’s. The emptiness, the aloneness. Even a full life doesn’t keep you warm at night. This I know. And so does Marie.

Okay, so I’m getting ready for sleep now. The head is a bit emptier, thanks. Tune in for the next installment tomorrow. . . . or is it today?

Stolen from Sid which was stolen from Keidra.

So apparently this is me. Fuck.

Your Life Path Number is 4

Your purpose in life is to build your vision. You are practical and responsible. You work hard, knowing that there are no shortcuts in life. You work for a better life for yourself and those you love, but you are not an idealist. Trustworthy and honest, you also demonstrate great courage. People can count on you. In love, you are a loyal and committed partner. You are the ideal spouse. You don't give up easily, and sometimes you can be too stubborn and unwilling to change. You also can be too conservative at times. You sometime miss out on good opportunities. Also remember that not everyone can work as hard as you, as disappointing as that is!

What Is Your Life Path Number?

Demons

So I've been up for a little while, remembering and writing, and damn if it isn't painful. How terrible is it to make yourself weep before 6 a.m.?

You see, I thought this book of mine was about cancer. It isn't. It's about becoming. And becoming mostly happens out of a shitstorm, or more likely, several. My becoming--thus far--evolved out of pain, loss, fear. Losing control, losing my dad, losing my home, all at around age 8 . . . it ain't pretty. But I guess the things I lost never belonged to me anyway. But there's grief in that, too.

Maybe it will hurt less after diving into it head first. It's the only thing to do with monsters: crawl right into their slimy, dripping mouths.

Recovered, I think.

Hit another party last night, but thank God it was a children's birthday party. I managed to overdo it on hors d'oevres but stuck to diet pepsi. It took me until 4 p.m. to feel human again. That, and I watched "Broken Flowers" and "Millions", had a nap and ate a pizza (an organic, cheese-less one, c'mon!).

I had to cram my usual Sunday ritual--news reading, shopping and cooking for the week, cleaning and laundry into the last two hours of the day. It worked, but I'd rather spread it out over the course of a day.

I've been feeling oddly needy and vulnerable lately, but I think that's part of being honest and putting yourself out there. Allowing people to see who you really are opens yourself up for judgment, exposure. And I've learned--for better and for worse--that I can't control other people. Whew! Let that responsibility go. . . .

But allowing people to see who you really are means fully entering your own skin and being who you truly are. And that can feel a little weird and a little lonely, especially when you drop the fronts and feel what you feel. There's a lot of grief, brother. A lot of it.

"Fake it 'til you make it" never worked for me, though. So I'll just keep on keeping on, deflecting hatred with love (just like Wonder Woman), suffering with dignity, and sitting by my happy light in the mornings.

hung over

Blech. I might be getting too old to have fun. Or maybe just too old to drink. To excess.

I'm no good for anything right now except watching Sunday Morning. That show makes me cry and laugh every time. Even when I've got a hangover.

God bless the people who risk their lives to tell the stories we need. God bless Gloria Steinem.

I'm incapable of reading the paper. I might have to call in for back up today.

Here's something I'll be chewing on for a while: I heard through the grapevine that my treasured students hope I leave this place. They think I could and should be doing more, doing better.

It's amazing how to teach is to be taught. Always.

I am so bad.

Here's what I did last night that was so wrong:

1. I starting drinking at 4 p.m. In a meeting.
2. I continued to drink with my date, whom I happened to steal away from his wife for the evening.
3. We continued to drink over dinner, before
4. arriving late to the play
5. I had to review and
6. I was slightly inebriated.
7. My editor was there.

Despite the fact that it was a campy musical, I loved it. Partly because of the red wine and the fine company I kept, but mostly because the star of the show was an exquisite dancer of a man dressed as a woman. Gets me every time.

I filed the review, and now I must get to the loads of other work I have on the agenda this weekend. Then I'm off to a meeting --yes, it's Saturday--and two parties.

It ain't easy having a full dance card all the time. I'm tellin' ya.

Reciprocity

Yesterday I was in a foul mood. Not in the morning, but by afternoon I was downright grumpy. I’m not entirely sure what it was about. I should have been delighted: I had a great session with my therapist; the sun shone all day; I worked out for more than an hour. I did fail to eat anything of substance at noon, and I think that made my blood sugar crash; I did stir up some old pains in therapy; and I got ditched by the same friend for the third time. It’s that last one that really gets me, I think.

You know, it sucks to feel used.

And that’s one of the things I talked about with P, my therapist. I’ve reached a point in my life in which I’m demanding reciprocity from the people I spend time with. I’ve got the kind of loyalty and ability to give of myself that won’t quit; but if you’re not going to meet me in the middle, I’m not going to knock myself out.

Finally, I think I’ve learned this lesson.

And that’s why the situation with my student feels so huge: he accepted my invitation to go to that place he’d never gone before. In the past, I’ve invested a lot of time and heart into inviting people who just won’t go there. I’m already there most of the time. And really, I’m more than fine there alone. In fact, since I was a wee lass, I’ve been happier to be alone than waste my time and energy with people who are boring or not engaging or who suck the living life out of me. I’ve always been very particular about whom I spend my time with and whom I invite along for the ride. So, it’s disappointing when someone I invite blows me off. And sometimes it takes me years to see it. Oy.

But since I walked the labyrinth at Grace Cathedral in San Francisco on my birthday, I’ve had tremendous clarity. I feel that I’m entering a new phase of my life in a huge way. I'm ready.

Heart weight

I have a dear, tender-hearted student who is grieving the freakish death of another student to whom he was related. I’m not sure what their relationship was like, but I don’t get the sense that they were close. She died when he was on a trip to the Middle East in December. For him it was a dream come true to travel to Palestine alone and conduct interviews for his political science theses. Now he’s tormented by guilt that he wasn’t with his family when his cousin died.

When he returned to campus, I asked him if he knew the student who died; I was shocked to find out she was his cousin. As he sat before me, I saw him struggle to talk about her death and his absence. I told him that when you live your life and follow your path to strange lands separate from your family, you will miss things—important things. But that doesn’t ever make it the wrong choice to follow your heart’s desire away from the life you once knew. I told him that the only way to honor his cousin’s life—the life now gone forever and far too soon—is to continue to live his life the way he must, by using his gifts and pushing the boundaries of what he can do with them. She can’t do that anymore, and there’s absolutely no making sense of that. But he can make sense of his own life with the time and the talent that he’s got.

Then I gave him an assignment: write an essay about it. He told a wonderful story about how he was sitting in some great Cathedral in Jerusalem after he received the news that she had died. He didn’t pray; he isn’t Catholic, and it was too late to pray, as far as he was concerned. But a priest appeared, sat down beside him and asked if he was all right. And then he casually confessed—his guilt and his grief.

So, he wrote it down, just like I asked him to. I read his essay last night. What I read was something much more beautiful and profound than I had ever seen this kid do. He wrote in a way and from a place I didn’t know he could. And he wrote it for me. I was the only “authority figure” in his life who had asked him how he was, who knew what was going on inside of him. He knew that if I witnessed his vulnerability, I would not judge him. And this allowed him to go to his depths and write his truth.

This has changed him. And it has changed me. Never before have I gone through such an intimate process with a writing student of mine. I am honored. And I feel the weight of it.

And it's not over. This kid is suffering, with guilt and with grief. He's facing down his mortality for the first time. That's something I happen to know a little something about.

More and more, teaching feels like the right thing for me to be doing. . . .

another Marathon Wednesday down

Just finished another Wednesday. Up at 5 to prep class, taught class, worked out, graded papers, went to my screenwriting class, prepped a different class, taught class. It was a good day of honest work. I feel like I finally understand what that means.

Isn't it weird when a cliche becomes real; when you've heard something for years, it means nothing, and then one day you're living it?

I just had my class watch Born Into Brothels. Whew. So much to work with about narrative, journalism, art, culture, survival sex workers, stolen childhood, beauty, color. . . . I think I've been on overload about it since I first saw it in Ann Arbor last spring. Now it's all resurfaced again. Ever feel like you know you're going to be pulled in a new direction? That the pull has been a dull presence forever, but it's about to get electric?

Well, that's where I'm at. Except super tired at the same time.

I've got a box (maybe more than one) of photos from my childhood sitting in my basement. I think I'm going to have to go there. I've learned that when I fear it, when it feels scary, when it looks dark from inside my head, I probably need to dive in. That's where I need to go.

It's also where my book needs to go. I thought writing about cancer was hard. But writing about cancer is nothing compared to making sense of a chaotic childhood. Reclaiming a place, a spirit, a life lived--now gone.

The weight of remembering truthfully feels bigger than I am.

But it's not.

I'll let you know what I find when I find it.

And so it begins again.

I am officially not running a marathon this year. Not because I swore I wouldn't after crossing the finish line last Oct. 9 in Chicago. Because my new horoscope book says ain't.

And I agree.

However, it's high time I return to the blogosphere--if for no other reason than to have a good writin' thing to do while procrastinating writing what I really need to be writing. Because I'm writing my book. Finally. What? I've only been talking about it for 10 years. I wrote a chapter and a book proposal and workshopped them a couple of times. But fuck that. This is for reals. This is down-to-the-wire Saturn Return business to finish up.

Plus, I wrote down a pile of new year's resolutions back in December when I was stuck in O'Hare for a good while and for stupid reasons. 2006 is the year that I will turn 30, so here's what I decided:

2006 is the year that I will reclaim: my body, my space, my writing, my diamond ring.

You see, I still have the gorgeous, crystal-clear diamond ring set in an arseload of platinum that my former and much beloved s.o. (notice I don't add the "b"--this is growth, people) gave me when he declared his "forever love" for me. I don't doubt that the love is forever, it's just that the relationship wasn't. So fair fucks to us both.

Anywho, I love this diamond and I vow to have it reset as my own forever love ring for myself. I just need to return to Dallas to the jeweler where we bought it to pick out a new design, melt down that platinum, and voila! Reclamation.

The reclaiming of body and space are coming along. Writing is a bit tougher. I meant to move and write with intention every single morning, but that hasn't quite happened so far. I've been moving every day with intention--still running (God bless the sun and warm January days) and working out with my fabulous trainer, TTT--but I've been a bit lax about the writing.

In fairness, I am a full-time grad student who happens to teach full time, write freelance and work an administrative job in academia. But writing is always the last thing to do until I change my mind and my habits.

And this seems to be a good moment for a quote from the Buddha:

"The thought manifests as the word; the word manifests as the deed; the deed develops into habit; and habit hardens into character. So watch the thought and its ways with care, and let it spring from love born out of concern for all beings."

Genius.

And yes, this blog will likely be a little heavy on the Eastern philosophy and spirituality--just like divinemarathon--and it will likely focus somewhat on the body--just like divinemarathon--because that just happens to be my path in this here life.

So, thanks for reading, and welcome!