More than One or Two

I need there to be writers from Indiana
(not so many writers,
not too many writers,
but more than one or two.)

I need there to be a dress
in the way the wheat bends its knees to the wind
like a lover forced to confess.
Does the heartland beat like the wandering feet
in Dante’s and Kerouac’s chest?

I'd dissolve in Cali;
a drop in the ocean.
A cornstalk scorched by the sun,
I’d wither and fall     in New York City
with buildings too tall and too young.
I need to be
a tree on a hill
with old oaks to lend me their rings;
a lark that is joined by a chorus of few,
unique in the song that it sings.

due to some unfortunate complications, i can't get rid of this word box. oh well.

I need to know writers grow in Indiana
not just to be grafted away.

There must be writers of red-cast skies
of tiny hands picking blackberries that dye
the guilt-stained smiles and tell-tale tongues
blue from impatience for process of pies…
Theirs is a song that must not go unsung.

The pen flows smooth when taken to tales
of bales and harvest moons.
Does the heartland sing like a thing of wings?
Ask Sandburg to hum you the tune.

The rhythm and heave of trains endures
through shrill cicada nights.
The lakes and trees still buzz with warmth
and cradle soft porch lights.

I know there are writers from Indiana;
the heartland thrives and swoons.
(not so many writers
not too many writers,
but more than one or two.)

This is one of those days when I feel the seams coming together ...
so many things I've ripped apart and trimmed again, are finally ready to be sewn into harmony.

I feel a strong sense of purpose, without knowing any better what I'm doing than I did last week, or even last year.
It's weird how important it is to demolish everything and start new, even if all you do is erect a structure very similar to, if not exactly, what you had before.

I'm vague tonight because being specific would take too long and I need to go to sleep.... but if you're interested in one concrete example, I've realized that I love my old broken down '93 Toyota.  And no matter what wheel you put me behind, I will always be the girl in the little broken-down car. I will always be a mess, and I'm beginning to let myself off the hook for that.  Sir Charles reminds me of my sister and my brother-in-law, because they started dating with this car. I like that Sir Charles was gift. I like that almost everything I own was a gift. It makes me feel like I don't have a right to cling to tightly to any of my things, because they fell into my lap so undeservedly.

It's always these days when I get the least amount of work done.
sigh....

Pre-wise ; Post-wise

Last night I saw the reflection of spidery twigs from trees in a puddle on a road.
I just stopped . dead in my tracks, without really knowing why at first.
Then I thought back... to the last time I had stopped to absorb the intricacy of this image
this image of winter thawing
and what had I thought about the world back then?
what complexities in my life had I been ruminating?
it just seems like a time so far away.
this has been a decade of a year.

I catch myself before saying that my life was simpler back then; it wasn't.
It would be easy to say that I was more innocent or more naive then,
but I'm not sure if that's the case.

It may be.
Maybe I was a little more…  pre-wise.
but then maybe I'm now a little bit post-wise in some ways.
There are some things I feel myself unlearning, forgetting
that maybe it's better that I keep. 

Innocence is a greenhouse plant
grown from careful seed
sown of fallen fathers and mothers
who did things they wouldn't
wish on their daughters.

You have to graft on to stay alive
I hope you graft on to something Good. 

---

The only things separating you and I are the books we've read,
the people we've met, and time.

--
I don't really believe that.
---

Why do we make decisions we would never
wish upon our sons and daughters?
Next time you think about doing something harmful and you think
you're only hurting yourself, please think of two things for me:
think about the son or daughter that will inherit your self-inflicted fractures
(because they will)
and think about the poor prophet who is, right now, somewhere praying for you,
who feels every ounce of your pain though you may never know it.
Have pity for them and act wisely.
Do you really think that, right now, there isn't someone praying for you?
Do your really think that there isn't someone right now who is tied
to your heart's well-being?
--

 "I mean, that book of yours is cool and everything,
but you can't depend entirely on leaves and berries." 

"I don't know if you want to depend on much more than that."

I was watching Into the Wild on Friday and those lines struck me.
 --

I got blindsided by finding out some off-setting news Saturday morning, and I've been reeling ever since.

It's a long story, but it involves me going on a midnight crusade across campus
to rip down
advertisements that demean women. My thoughts are still a little scattered,
but I feel
that something else in me is coming into focus.  Maybe.
It's taking its sweet time to get there.

Career Paths

I'm in a class I should not be in.
The title of the class is "Big Dreams, Big Goals, Big Money." This is a class for students who have the first two, and need the last one. I have none of them.
It's a class that takes successful students and preens them... teaching them how to prepare their academic resumes in order to have a chance at major scholarships for studying abroad, going to graduate school, or whatever academic goals they need money for. It's a wonderful opportunity they're offering us; a one-credit-hour course offered to the top 12 students in the honors college.  Barb Stedman, who teaches the class, is a spark of a lady, and if you ever get a chance to look her in the eye, you will feel as though anything you could ever dream to do is entirely possible, and that it will be hell getting there.

At first I thought I was sent the invitation to take this class by mistake, but it turns out I somehow ended up being recommended to her by the Dean of the honors college, Dr. Ruebel, who taught a humanities course I was in last term.  I set up a meeting with her, and explained that there had been a grievous error; that I had no dreams or goals or money... but she said that she liked that I was going to write poetry about math, and that she wanted me in her class.
I have this fault in my character that I like to call my "specialness complex," which leads me to make decisions based solely on the fact that they make me feel special.  And so, I made the decision to be in a class that is focused mainly on nailing down specific details of your future plans, despite the fact that this is not something I am wired to be able to do. It's a stretch for me to make plans a week ahead, let alone years in advance.  Apparently, I need to be part of more leadership organizations and I need to ask a professor if I can be their apprentice for research in mathematics. But, I'm afraid of all that getting in the way of my truly important commitments: swing dancing on weekends and singing in the library stairwell between classes.

--

For class today, we were supposed to write a rough outline of our goals and aspirations for our future... both for academics and future career
and bring it to class.
[I figured it was for the beginnings of the essay we are writing as our final project for the year]
So, I
with my major so brazenly undecided,
made a flow chart of 5 different possible majors and their results
some of which lead to the same goals via different paths.
Little did I know...
we were supposed to turn this in for Dr. Stedman to look at.
I hope she has a good sense of humor
when she sees one of my possible majors was "Quit School"
and the possible goals branching off from this were
"world domination"
"street poet"
and
"marry rich."

Toast in the Tub

What if there was no such thing as liability lawsuits

and the world was designed with the intention of eliminating idiots? 

There would be "exits" with no down ramps 

on the 3rd and 4th floors of parking garages... 

labels on knives encouraging you to keep them close to children... 

instead of caution tags on hair dryers, there would be "helpful tips" 

on how to save time by drying your hair while taking a bath

while making toast in a toaster on the side of the tub.

Time tells all her secrets
gradually.

Concerned

I'm worried that my tear ducts are broken.
I have not cried since I've been at Ball State, and so that means I haven't cried at least since August. That's 4 months. 
I just think it's only healthy to have a good cry now and then.  [And there have, most certainly, been things worth crying about.]
Looks like tonight will be another one of those nights
when I get up at 4 am to study
to try to make up for the time I wasted tonight
thinking
about silly things
like how I can't seem to cry.