Today, I walk the walk. Then I am off to read in the sun for 14 glorious days!
And I am still revising.
12/8/11
Revising yet again, damn it
Last draft folks, at least for my thesis. How many times can something be revised? I am convinced infinite! And of course, once it is bound and on the library shelves, I will go to peek, open it up, and undoubtedly encounter another excess word, another typo or bad turn-of-phrase, another reason to cringe.
But I won't be cringing, I can promise you that! In fact, I am beginning to suspect that they do this on purpose—that the powers-that-be have me beat this to death so that by the time I am done I will feel pride, regardless of the final product.
But my product is fine, and I do feel proud of it, even in its bruised and bloody state.
Ode to Wonder Run Down (to Dulness)
Oh, thesis of mine, what challenge
will you next present? What
missing word, what maxed-out
margin, what miracle of momentum?
Will you make a manuscript, at last,
or a shroud, a shredded heap of paper
or a mattress of cotton rag on which my mind
will rest? Give me more time.
I will make a monument
of you yet—a steeple or stone—
a testimony to torment.
To press, you piece of
pursuit,
you parsimonious pack of paper!!!
. . .
But I won't be cringing, I can promise you that! In fact, I am beginning to suspect that they do this on purpose—that the powers-that-be have me beat this to death so that by the time I am done I will feel pride, regardless of the final product.
But my product is fine, and I do feel proud of it, even in its bruised and bloody state.
Ode to Wonder Run Down (to Dulness)
Oh, thesis of mine, what challenge
will you next present? What
missing word, what maxed-out
margin, what miracle of momentum?
Will you make a manuscript, at last,
or a shroud, a shredded heap of paper
or a mattress of cotton rag on which my mind
will rest? Give me more time.
I will make a monument
of you yet—a steeple or stone—
a testimony to torment.
To press, you piece of
pursuit,
you parsimonious pack of paper!!!
. . .
12/6/11
Twenty years ago today. . .
Twenty years ago today, my mom, Connie, died. Twenty years ago today, my mom was fifty-three years old. For twenty years now, I have been missing my mom.
When my son, Dante was maybe four, I had just finished reading him a bedtime story—a serious ritual which I still try to maintain. As I bent over him to deliver a kiss, he looked up at me with those big liquid eyes and said emphatically, "Poor you!"
I was taken aback, the look of concern on his face was so intense, his voice wavering. "Why Dante? Why do you say that?"
"Because," he said, as if it were obvious. "You don't have a mommy!"
. . .
Today I remember Connie. As if this were something new. There isn't a day that' goes by that I don't think of her. . . .
(phone call from my uncle—my mom's older brother—who I am thinking of as I write this, thinking I must send him an email as soon as I finish this post)
There she goes, through my mind, through my office, between my uncle and me. There my mother is. There she will always be.
When my son, Dante was maybe four, I had just finished reading him a bedtime story—a serious ritual which I still try to maintain. As I bent over him to deliver a kiss, he looked up at me with those big liquid eyes and said emphatically, "Poor you!"
I was taken aback, the look of concern on his face was so intense, his voice wavering. "Why Dante? Why do you say that?"
"Because," he said, as if it were obvious. "You don't have a mommy!"
. . .
Today I remember Connie. As if this were something new. There isn't a day that' goes by that I don't think of her. . . .
(phone call from my uncle—my mom's older brother—who I am thinking of as I write this, thinking I must send him an email as soon as I finish this post)
There she goes, through my mind, through my office, between my uncle and me. There my mother is. There she will always be.
12/4/11
The Woods too
It was determined that our climb be expeditious—the shortest distance between two points. From one thousand feet to forty-two hundred in the shortest amount of time. I admit, I am somewhat responsible for the results, but I wanted the kids' company. Robert, Cece's beau, was awed by the wilderness and gung-ho for some exploration, but when I suggested that there was an easier, albeit longer way to the top, Cecelia and Dante balked. Oh well. I was up for the exercise, so I took the lead before anyone could outright rebel. I also failed to properly assess anyone else's preparedness.
When it comes to climbing a mountain, I am more of a wanderer. I prefer to zig-zag my way to a destination, rather than crawl on hands and knees. And if I must crawl, my jeans must not be belted about my thighs. Initially ahead of the kids and encountering the briars, branches, wet leaves, fallen trees, and loose rocks first, they laughed at me when I quickly dropped to all fours. I suspect I would have been amused too, if I had been behind me. In fact, I would have been hysterical and much too distracted to make the climb had I been presented with such a silly sight.
With my rump shamelessly up in the air and my hands and feet kicking out in all directions—trying to get a grip—I made my way up. Dante—who had agreed to come along only after I bribed him with promises of S'mores upon our return to sub-cloud elevation— kept up with me. In fact, he did so well at picking his way around all the various obstacles that at times he was in the lead. But behind me, I could hear Cece cackling—that laughter of hers that is very hard to resist. And so I cackled too, although I was unaware at the time that my posture was the source of her amusement.
Only Dante and I made it up to the blueberry bushes. Robert appropriately gave up, and Cece decided to turn back with him. He was unfortunately wearing smooth bottom sneakers and jeans hanging way too low. But I don't think these were the only things that took the wind out of his sails. He was also hindered by exhaustion—from his bonsai drive from NY to Asheville the day before, as well as from laughing at me.
To make the climb even more ill-fated, I had not planned well at all. We went for lunch at Twelve Bones prior—a most divine Bar-B-Q place—and all of us had at least a pound of pork in our bellies, not to mention a lack of water on the way up, too much clothing on, and all of the wrong kind. Alas, I hope nobody was too discouraged to want to try again!
When Dante and I reached the blueberry patch and the stretch of bald rock, we stood there for a minute, silent. Looking past the first layer of mountains to those that loomed beyond, I asked him if he felt a certain satisfaction standing up there on the edge of the national forest, and he grudgingly admitted he did.
When it comes to climbing a mountain, I am more of a wanderer. I prefer to zig-zag my way to a destination, rather than crawl on hands and knees. And if I must crawl, my jeans must not be belted about my thighs. Initially ahead of the kids and encountering the briars, branches, wet leaves, fallen trees, and loose rocks first, they laughed at me when I quickly dropped to all fours. I suspect I would have been amused too, if I had been behind me. In fact, I would have been hysterical and much too distracted to make the climb had I been presented with such a silly sight.
With my rump shamelessly up in the air and my hands and feet kicking out in all directions—trying to get a grip—I made my way up. Dante—who had agreed to come along only after I bribed him with promises of S'mores upon our return to sub-cloud elevation— kept up with me. In fact, he did so well at picking his way around all the various obstacles that at times he was in the lead. But behind me, I could hear Cece cackling—that laughter of hers that is very hard to resist. And so I cackled too, although I was unaware at the time that my posture was the source of her amusement.
Only Dante and I made it up to the blueberry bushes. Robert appropriately gave up, and Cece decided to turn back with him. He was unfortunately wearing smooth bottom sneakers and jeans hanging way too low. But I don't think these were the only things that took the wind out of his sails. He was also hindered by exhaustion—from his bonsai drive from NY to Asheville the day before, as well as from laughing at me.
To make the climb even more ill-fated, I had not planned well at all. We went for lunch at Twelve Bones prior—a most divine Bar-B-Q place—and all of us had at least a pound of pork in our bellies, not to mention a lack of water on the way up, too much clothing on, and all of the wrong kind. Alas, I hope nobody was too discouraged to want to try again!
When Dante and I reached the blueberry patch and the stretch of bald rock, we stood there for a minute, silent. Looking past the first layer of mountains to those that loomed beyond, I asked him if he felt a certain satisfaction standing up there on the edge of the national forest, and he grudgingly admitted he did.
The Woods
The creek was a rushing river,
even up close to the source.
A crawl up the gully reveals
moss covered boulders, lichen,
and a mass of weeping rock.
The earth sweats from the effort,
the acres muddy and soft.
The trees shiver—the breeze
rattling shriveled leaves and testing
the weight of old giants.
. . . . . .
even up close to the source.
A crawl up the gully reveals
moss covered boulders, lichen,
and a mass of weeping rock.
The earth sweats from the effort,
the acres muddy and soft.
The trees shiver—the breeze
rattling shriveled leaves and testing
the weight of old giants.
. . . . . .
12/3/11
YEE HAW!!! Back from the dead yet again!
I did my thesis reading last night folks, and although it wasn't what I would have chosen to read, it went off with minimal duress. My tongue did trip over certain "typos and missing chunks of information," but what an opportune time to be tongue-tied. It almost seemed deliberate. (I totally meant to do that!)
As I clean off my desk and shred draft after draft, I can't help feeling like 'what next?'—like there is something missing! Oh, I know! The pressure (there it goes again, that dreaded word). Pressure. I can breathe, my family is around me, I am going to the woods today and taking them with me, whether they like it or not.
But before I go, I will address my list! Hee hee. Yep, my list. I will order books, movies and music—the list of which has accumulated over the past year to equal what will undoubtedly cost me a serious chunk of change, but oh well . . . it is a celebration, right? I will cross those things off my list and begin a new one, of course, but I will also begin tinkering with the entries I stole from this blog and try to shape them into an essay. So, look for more listing . . .
Before I sign off, I would like to thank a few people for their endurance during this year of the thesis. Rob, Cece, Sebastian and Dante—I love you all! You are those who participated by default, and I owe you much more than my gratitude.
Thank you Rob, for your astounding patience—for listening, and managing to look engaged, as I read the same page (plus or minus a word) time and time again—for a perfectly made bed, for prioritizing our relationship when responding to my work. Thank you to my children—to Cecelia, for teaching me that “shift,” “alt,” and “hyphen” equal a dash; to Sebastian for the bow and arrows and for “Me? I know everything!”; to Dante for nitpicking details and providing an irresistible distraction when I apparently needed it most. Thanks to all three of you for the endless material, of course, but more so for keeping me honest and making me blissfully proud.
Thanks to Dr. Richard Chess, yet again, for his expertise, astounding enthusiasm, and friendship; to my father for his unfaltering love and support, as well as his humor and integrity; to Uncles Peter and Danny for reminding me of mom, and for the history and perspective; to Fran for loving me in a “cosmic way,” for savvy reading, and for the gift of fall color; to Jan for feedback and for raising such an upright son; to Delia for her deep wisdom and for witnessing so many stories; to Dan Rogers for helping me distinguish between process and product; to Josiah Johnston and Dr. Dee for writing in the margins; to Jordan Dolfi for holding down the fort that Peg Downes made of the MLA office; to Elmo and Amelia for purring at my feet; to the grocery store clerk for produce advice; to the neighbors for roadside chats; to the innocence of passers by; to all other unwitting and unnamed participants. Thank you all for your gifts of attention, favor, commitment, and time.
Mucho Gracias and arriba!
As I clean off my desk and shred draft after draft, I can't help feeling like 'what next?'—like there is something missing! Oh, I know! The pressure (there it goes again, that dreaded word). Pressure. I can breathe, my family is around me, I am going to the woods today and taking them with me, whether they like it or not.
But before I go, I will address my list! Hee hee. Yep, my list. I will order books, movies and music—the list of which has accumulated over the past year to equal what will undoubtedly cost me a serious chunk of change, but oh well . . . it is a celebration, right? I will cross those things off my list and begin a new one, of course, but I will also begin tinkering with the entries I stole from this blog and try to shape them into an essay. So, look for more listing . . .
Before I sign off, I would like to thank a few people for their endurance during this year of the thesis. Rob, Cece, Sebastian and Dante—I love you all! You are those who participated by default, and I owe you much more than my gratitude.
Thank you Rob, for your astounding patience—for listening, and managing to look engaged, as I read the same page (plus or minus a word) time and time again—for a perfectly made bed, for prioritizing our relationship when responding to my work. Thank you to my children—to Cecelia, for teaching me that “shift,” “alt,” and “hyphen” equal a dash; to Sebastian for the bow and arrows and for “Me? I know everything!”; to Dante for nitpicking details and providing an irresistible distraction when I apparently needed it most. Thanks to all three of you for the endless material, of course, but more so for keeping me honest and making me blissfully proud.
Thanks to Dr. Richard Chess, yet again, for his expertise, astounding enthusiasm, and friendship; to my father for his unfaltering love and support, as well as his humor and integrity; to Uncles Peter and Danny for reminding me of mom, and for the history and perspective; to Fran for loving me in a “cosmic way,” for savvy reading, and for the gift of fall color; to Jan for feedback and for raising such an upright son; to Delia for her deep wisdom and for witnessing so many stories; to Dan Rogers for helping me distinguish between process and product; to Josiah Johnston and Dr. Dee for writing in the margins; to Jordan Dolfi for holding down the fort that Peg Downes made of the MLA office; to Elmo and Amelia for purring at my feet; to the grocery store clerk for produce advice; to the neighbors for roadside chats; to the innocence of passers by; to all other unwitting and unnamed participants. Thank you all for your gifts of attention, favor, commitment, and time.
Mucho Gracias and arriba!
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