Another Time

I'm wondering, what would you really like to do?

Right now, I'd like to lie on the sidewalk in the sunlight and write children's stories about monsters and stories about onions who play violin.

A man in a suit, a very, very nice suit, extends his hand to me and says "Another time, perhaps." Yes, another time. Today I'll take his hand again.


I'm really not much of a poet. But I think this is my poem this week:

Another Time


Tell me,
What would you really like to do?

I was thinking,
Right now,
What I'd like to do,
Is lie on the sidewalk,
Barefoot,
In the sunlight,
And write children's stories
about monsters,
Write children's stories
about onions
who play violin.

When I look up,
As I always must,
There stands a man,
A man in a suit
--a very, very nice suit--
Extending his hand to me,
He says

"Another time,
perhaps,"

And today,
I take his hand again.

Thank You for the Soup Sister

RainDrop Soup

When I'm sad,
I make soup.

Steam,
And the sweet scent
of solace,
Tiny wisps of water,
Rising,
A billowing cloud,
Kisses my face.

The sweetest,
Heady scents,
Breathing deeply,
I feel like honey...

Soup is for when it's cold outside,
When fingertips glow red,
And the wind sings through every crack in the wall,
Soup is for sore throats,
Sore, aching hearts,
Soup is for sadness,
Soup is for missing someone,
For lonely,
Heavy thoughts,
Soup is for healing the soul.

I found the perfect soup--

Ingredients:
-2 cups fresh rain drops
-1 cup deep blue sky
-1/2 tsp. morning light
-1 fallen star
-rosemary and clouds to taste

Dance in the rain,
And jump in every puddle,
Just enough to get thoroughly soaked,
Then wring out your hair and clothes,
Until you've got 2 cups,
Pour,
Sprinkle,
Or drizzle,
Into a pot,
Then add your 1 cup of deep blue sky,
And stir,
Over medium heat,
Stir,
Stir,
This takes time,
Keep stirring,
Until smooth and thick,
Then toss in 1/2 tsp. of morning light,
And at last,
Drop in a fallen star.

Don't forget to make a wish.

Dust with rosemary,
And clouds,
To taste.

Master Caswell's First Essay

Tomorrow's the day; I turn in my first essay to Caswell.

My prompt was to "write about an encounter you've had with a wild animal" the word 'wild' being a loose term. I wanted to post it on here because my first post to this blog included the encounter I chose to write about. I didn't let myself read the old post until after I wrote the essay. It's kind of interesting to see how memories change.

You know what's really funny? When I read this in class during workshop time, people thought it sounded beautiful and wanted to go there. Before the final draft, it wasn't especially clear where I was, so they thought it sounded really cool. Cooper? Beautiful? And then I realized it's the same phenomenon as me thinking Lubbock is beautiful when a lot of people who grew up here hate it. It's just like having fun washing someone else's dishes...

Anyway... here it is:

My Most Attentive Audience

On sad days, lonely days, I sometimes find my thoughts too heavy to carry. I’ve discovered over time that motionless thoughts only grow heavier, so on those days, I set them aside for a while. I pick up a musical instrument, leave my shoes inside, and walk out of the house.

One particular day, I picked up a relatively new instrument—the pennywhistle. My new friend was a very simple creature. She was made of a rolled sheet of tin capped by a black plastic mouthpiece, almost small enough to fit comfortably in my pocket. Small, rounded holes of various sizes lined her body, and she wore an even coat of dark green paint.

The pennywhistle is a very friendly instrument; anyone can play a pennywhistle. Simply close all the holes and blow. The notes ascend with the musician’s fingers, and when the player wants to change octaves, he or she simply blows harder. The drawback to this is that low notes are quiet, high notes are loud, and not much can be done about it. The pennywhistle is a very fun instrument to play, very exciting if you are the musician, but typically grating on the nerves to others unless played very well. When played well, the whistle sings pure tones, slips gently through the air like flowing water, high-pitched and sweet. Or, when played not so well, as is more often the case, high-pitched and raspy. And so Penny and I sought a large, open, unpopulated environment.

Pennywhistle in hand, I walked outside. I felt the ground changing beneath my feet—the coarse wood of my porch deck, the gentle prod of gravel, the sharp pressure of rock—until the land gave way to grass. Typically spending my time inside or wearing shoes, my feet are very sensitive. When I walk outside barefoot, I am acutely aware of every object, every change of the ground. The heavy thoughts fall as I slowly escape the house behind me, and my focus shifts to my feet, to the feel of the grass.

That day I walked over a spectrum of grass, some patches rough as sandpaper, sharp as rocks, and some deliciously soft, like strands of spun cotton. I walked over grass and twigs, fallen leaves and pecan shells, until I reached the center of a large field marked by a fence at its far end. I chose this place because it was a completely open field, empty of buildings, trees, or bushes. When I lay on my back in that spot, I could look up and see nothing but the sky, could fill my eyes with the sky. With nothing but sky in my vision, nothing but shades of blue, puffs of white, streaks of grey, I could imagine that the rest of the world did not exist, or at least that I did not live there. I could imagine I was a cloud or a little piece of the atmosphere. In the freedom of an undivided sky, I could imagine a million things.

There was magic in that sky and in that bed of grass, but there was also reality jutting at the edges. It was a typical field in rural Texas, complete with a pasture beyond the wire fence, a mobile home off to the side that wasn’t going anywhere, a few bits of plastic stuck to tree branches, the spore of people who chose to mess with Texas. There was birdsong, the overwhelming screech of cicadas, and the occasional moan of a truck begging for a muffler, choking on exhaust. There is a quality to that land, to that air, that hazes the brain and imbeds a chronic laziness in the bones. But as with all places, if you waited, there was quiet, and if you looked, there was beauty.

When I reached that spot, I lay back on the ground for a few moments, collecting myself in the expanse of air that stretched above me. Just a few moments, enough to remember how to breathe. Then I sat up, crossed my legs, and began to play.

I played hesitantly, fumbling gently through a simple scale. After a few minutes, I played freely, unafraid of misplaced notes and rhythms; these sounds were for no one but the field of grass, the sprawl of sky. I had brought no written music with me, so the songs I played followed the whims of my fingers. I played as I felt, as I thought. Just simple rhythms and unrefined nuances. The melody did not matter. I simply played.

Several minutes passed this way, the world around me calm and uneventful, surrounding me just as I left it—until I heard a sudden, unexpected sound. The sky above me was an unperturbed blue, so I was surprised to hear a sound like thunder. It came from behind me as a gradual crescendo, like the rolling of mallets on a timpani, but much heavier. I let the last note drift from my lips and turned in curiosity. When I turned, what filled my vision shocked me.

A cloud of black hurtled toward me.

A herd of bulls stampeded toward me.

I scrambled to my feet and stumbled backward a few steps, watching wide-eyed as the crowd of cattle approached. The bulls began to slow as they reached the fence, trampling to a stop at the edge. They settled, planted their hooves, and stood motionless. Watching me. Thirty or more large brown eyes, watching me. In silence.

Cows and bulls are a part of the landscape in rural Texas. They can be seen loitering in their pastures and moseying along fences from most roads, swinging their tails as if the air is thicker than water, chomping on grass at the laziest tempo with slack-jawed disinterest. They gaze out at the world blankly as if they know their end and can see no reason to move quickly in life. Bulls are large creatures, especially compared to small female humans. But like everything else, they look small from car windows.

Not at that moment. Sitting on the ground, just Penny and I, these dark giants towered over me. I felt the weight of their gaze on me and my little tin friend. They stared. Intently.

Surprise kept my feet rooted to the ground, but the unexpected adrenaline found expression in my fingers. In that surreal moment, an idea occurred to me; they had come to hear music. It was the most logical thought in the world at that time, so I decided to test it. I drew the pennywhistle to my lips and began to play a random melody. A few of the bulls took a couple steps closer, and then the bovine crowd continued as before, watching me, standing absolutely still, absolutely silent.

After about a minute, their constant gaze, the focused points of their huge eyes, was too unsettling; I allowed the music to drift into silence. Nothing changed. I took a few steps to the right, and every eye followed me. I began to play again and continued walking; the herd followed along the fence, step after deliberate step. Again, I stopped, and again, they stood waiting attentively. All of Texas had fallen away behind us. They were a crowd of breathing statues, and every brown eye remained fixed on me. Unnerved, I began to walk away, back toward the house.

Behind me I heard lowing, gradual, sporadic calls from the bulls until they became a chorus. I turned to see them all straining their necks over the fence and over each other, watching me walk away, calling after me. As the distance increased, a few gave up and broke away, ambling back in the direction they came. When I reached the porch and turned to look again, all but a few had ventured back. I stood and watched them go.

Finally, I could see nothing out of the ordinary—just an empty field, a pasture beyond it dotted with the black shapes of lazy bulls scattered across the land. I stood at the edge of my porch, left with nothing but my thoughts and the now silent whistle. I wondered if they had really sprinted across the field to better hear my music, or if I had imagined their attentiveness to me. What else could possibly invoke such behavior, such apparent reverence for such simple music? Why would such passive creatures stand so motionless and stare with such intensity? During that time, however brief, not a single one of them twitched an ear, shuffled a hoof, or swiped at a fly with his tail. They were absolutely motionless. I wondered.

Imagined or not, I’ve never had a better audience.

Cadence

This is sad, but it is temporary. It is now:

Sitting alone, staring into the depths of a cup of coffee.

Thinking is lonely.

I don't have any coffee. I see depths in everything. I stare.

It's lonely.

It hurts.

A world made of bells, made of strings and stretched membranes, made of bars, made of air columns, a world of bells that ring out fundamentals only at the right frequency, and all the rest is noise. A world full of overtones and people who hold their hands over their ears. Syncopated rhythms, triads, and fifths. Leading tones that seldom reach the tonic.

I am waiting for the tonic.

I can't reach the strings.

The Sadness is Sideways

I dreaded going to counseling today. I didn't want to go sit in a quiet, well-decorated room and talk awkwardly with a really nice woman. During the week, I was tempted to call and cancel the individual counseling because I was tired of thinking about everything. I wanted to pretend that it didn't exist and just be a happy little student at Tech and dedicate myself to going to Spanish class (which I did today, by the way), play beautiful music, write about the world... but happy students have to go home.

It's so hard.

It's been a very emotional morning. I read an opinions article today about America's dependency on prescription drugs and tendency toward hypochondria. I think that's a valid concern. America does seem to like her drugs, and I think some of that deserves investigation. For example, I personally don't understand why prescription drugs are advertised on TV. You only get them by prescription, through a doctor, and if you needed a medicine for something like bone loss, I would think your doctor would tell you. But I don't know really. Maybe there are good reasons.

Anyway, what bothered me about the article was some of the aggressive language it used. Most particularly, what bothered me was that the writer made a list of conditions that he believed to be good examples of things that attract hypochondriacs, and among them was ADD and "even anxiety". I immediately thought of a conversation I had with Glen. He told me a lot of things I didn't know, described to me how ADD affects the brain, how different chemicals interact and what they do to the body, explained how much it could vary from person to person and why that makes it so difficult to diagnose and treat.

In that same conversation, we talked about how sad it was that there were so many misconceptions about it and that society held such a negative view of it. The kind of view that says "it's all in your head" and makes people feel hesitant to take medicine for something that is a real physiological condition. The kind of view that says it's just a behavioral problem that can be 'fixed' with self-control. The kind of view that encourages the thought, though perhaps not always intentionally, that there is simply something wrong with you. You as a person, not you physiologically.

This article didn't strive to make points like that. This article was specifically referring to groups who abuse pharmaceutical drugs. Reading it just made me further appreciate the difficulty of that type of writing. The author made a statement midway into the article saying "I am not trying to bash pharmaceuticals.", but ideally that statement wouldn't have been necessary. It's so difficult to find that balance, that turn of phrase that allows you to illuminate one group of a whole without looping them all together and causing offense. I know that article wasn't meant to be offensive, but that's how I felt reading it.

At the time I read it, I was about a half an hour away from going to counseling. I was still dreading it. I had a mantra in my head that went "I don't want to do this." When I left Gordon, I said to myself at the bottom of the staircase, "Grace, can I stay here with you? I don't want to go to counseling. I'm tired of doing scary things. I want to stay here and bake cookies with you..." Staircases echo, like they're listening.

If I know that everyone there is really nice and that they're there to help me, why am I afraid?

I think society tends to treat counseling the way it treats things like ADD. I thought about that on the way over. Even though I know these things aren't true, when I walk into the "mental health" section of the Wellness Center, I feel sick, and I think there's something fundamentally wrong with me and that's why I'm there, I think I'm weak and "messed up", I feel fragile, like I need to be on medication and be supervised when I use scissors.

That is "messed up."

I shouldn't feel that talking to someone is wrong.

I told my counselor that when I was really little, I asked my parents what counseling was. My father said "It's for people with lots of money who can't solve their own problems."

That's simply not true, John.

I'm going to counseling because the way I grew up has hurt me deeply. I'm going to counseling because I want to create positive change. I want to heal my family.

I shouldn't feel stupid for trying to heal my family. I know I'm not likely to succeed. I know it will probably stay the same, and might get worse. But I shouldn't feel stupid for trying.

I didn't want to go today. I'm absolutely terrified of it. It's like a hospital with a painted smile, the sterile scent sprayed with perfume. It's nicely carpeted floors, tidy rooms with comfortable furniture, lively house plants, soft-colored walls, kind receptionists who speak in calm tones and ask me my name. The whispered word "insane" hides in the corners in a sheep's costume. It's women carrying clipboards and air so still I feel that it shatters every time I move.

That's why I look nervous. Because I am absolutely terrified. I am adrenaline. It's that societal pressure--it gives everything a sinister cast because society says this just isn't something normal people do. Something must be wrong with me.

I didn't want to go today. I wanted to forget about everything and pull my blanket over my head. But I went, even though I had that mantra going in my head. I ascended the empty, echoing staircase and walked through the door that said "mental health." Just me and Good Omens walking over plush carpet.

Today my counselor told me that it's really admirable that I'm there and that I'm doing this as a college freshman.

Thank you!

I wanted to hug her! I needed to hear something like that so badly. She needs some kind of award. Counselors are so amazing. That is such an incredible skill, to know just what a person needs to hear, to know what to say. I'm terrified of what I'm doing and I'm sick of thinking about it all, it hurts to think about it, but I'm still doing it. Aren't there a bunch of high-minded quotes that say that's what courage is, doing something you need to do even though you're afraid?

Of course, sitting there, terrified, all I could do was say something like "I really appreciate that." I need to express that better to her. She needs to know how much I appreciate it.

I'm getting so tired of doing scary things, but little things like that help me believe I can make it. I'm going to counseling (something I never thought I'd do), wading through my first year of college, struggling against a history as a failing student, living with strangers, having teachers pay attention to my writing for the first time (caring about my thoughts and ideas... how incredibly strange), trying to assimilate into an ensemble, adjusting to the idea of adulthood, maintaining a long-distance relationship...

I think they call that sort of thing "transition."

That strikes me as silly. It sounds like the movement of gears or a period in history. I don't have a better word for it or anything, but... it just seems so passive. It doesn't sound like the kind of thing that can make you plop down on the sidewalk and cry in public without being sure why.

I'm really glad I went to counseling today.

The first time, every minute was an hour, but this time I was actually surprised when she said we only had a few minutes left. I was still nervous, but much less so.

I told her about my idea to write a letter to my father and possibly implement parables. We talked about that more today, and she helped me see it in new ways and gave me a place to start. She cautioned me that I'm unlikely to get my father to change his behavior, but encouraged the effort. I almost cried when she said that. It sounded almost exactly like my mom saying "I can't change him." I don't want him to change, I want his actions to change. Even if he refuses to do that, does that mean she should live with it? I have to try something...

I think I'm going to do it as a series of letters that get deeper as they go. I was initially thinking of just one, but that's too much for one sitting. I may be able to gauge his reaction to them and alter the letters as I go, or stop if it's obvious that I'm failing miserably. I can give him the option to write back.

Even with someone helping me and checking my progress, maybe I'll never finish them. Maybe I'll never send them. Maybe I'll write a novel when I'm 40 about what might have happened if I had. The next several weeks will tell.

All of this has leaked over into songwriting. I was planning on writing a simple happy song about why I love the words "Good morning," so much, but other things happened. Now it's a sort of sad song about this. Professor Wilkinson says you can't write a sad song on ukulele. But I don't think I can write anything else. I think maybe it's possible, but with a ukulele the sadness is sideways, like a sad smile.

It's a sad song, but it's also hopeful. I really hope I finish it. If I do, I want to play it for you, sister.

Mija

I went to my first counseling session today. How absolutely terrifying. It must have been obvious, because my counselor said I looked uncomfortable. LOL. Very.

But it was good.

There is a beautiful cashier in Wall's Sam's Place. She calls me mija. I know I'm not the only one, that she calls everyone that, but I feel incredibly honored nonetheless. I wish I knew her name. I suppose I could ask, but that would be weird. It's weird enough that I'm writing about her in a blog.

I absolutely love it when people refer to non-blood relations as family members. When people call each other cousin, sister, daughter, etc...

In Spanish, hija means daughter. Mija means my daughter.

Solace in the Sound

Behind my face,
There is a door
that begs to be opened,
There is a conversation
that begs to be had.

Within my soul,
There is a part of me
that only wakes when it's raining,
There is a way of breathing,
A way of being,
that surfaces in damp air.

There is solace in the sound,
Of the sky falling down,
There is solace in the sinking,
Of my feet in the ground.

There is truth,
There is hope,
In the sky shifting,
From light to dark,
Dark to light.

Beyond my eyes,
There is a window
that begs to be opened,
There is a song
that begs to be heard.

On the surface of my skin,
There is a wall
that begs to be broken,
There is an empty house,
An empty room,
that begs for the living.

There are no visitors.

But there is solace in the sound
Of the sky falling down.

Cry for Help

Sigh.

I shouldn't be awake. I just get sad at night time.

It's so hard to be alone. Maybe that's why I can't write. Because I'm always supposed to go somewhere or I'm always with someone.

Master Caswell read us excerpts from an essay called The End of Solitude. I think of it more and more often lately. For interested parties, this is a link to it: http://chronicle.com/article/The-End-of-Solitude/3708.

It's a rather lengthy way to say that our culture as of late demands social networking and closeness--even if the closeness is only on the surface. That people fear being alone. Which I definitely think is understandable at times... but in the world today, we're geared to be with someone constantly, every hour of every day.

I'm a fan of solitude. Lately, I've often felt horribly lonely, and I'm almost always surrounded by people. If I'm going to be alone, I want to be alone. The kind of alone where it isn't "impolite" to read or write.

It's all so difficult. I feel sick thinking about things.

I think about thinking quite a lot. Metacognition. It's one of my favorite things to think about. I was thinking about it the night of the Honors plenary... Dr. Bell was giving his speech (which is the same each year, the mentors tell me), and he very strongly encouraged thinking. A lot of people encourage thinking.

I don't understand. They never add the disclaimer.

Doesn't it bother them? Does it keep them awake at night? Do they ever have trouble going on with daily life because they can't figure out what it means to exist?

There should be a warning. Thinking is a dangerous thing. And once you start, you can't go back.

I don't like sitting here typing a bunch of sad things. Mostly I just feel sick from not writing, so I wanted to throw something out into the world of the Internet in an effort to make myself feel better. There are a million happy things in the world, a million happy things in my life. And I love you. I love you so much.

Thanks for reading.