smile for the camera

"You can't take a picture of this. It's already gone." -Six Feet Under

My camera broke. This is very upsetting because this is the third camera in about 4 years that I've rendered useless. Also, I don't like relying on other people to capture memories...

Which leads me to my recent mini-family reunion over the the past weekend. My grandparents planned a last minute trip from Florida and stayed at my aunt and uncle's. It was my aunt and uncle, cousins, mom, brother and sisters. For the first time in a long time (longer that I can remember), we were all together.

There were many pictures taken that weekend, but there was one that wasn't taken. That's the one I've thought about the most.

On Saturday night, we were all zonked out on baked ziti, beer, and wine. A bunch of us were sitting in the family room,our eyes glazed over as we watched TV. In came Grandma. "I want to take a family picture." Me, being me, said, "You pick the worst times to take pictures." I didn't mean to be callous, only slightly sarcastic. And it's not that I (and others) didn't want to be a picture, but I just didn't want to be in one then.

Grandma walked away. I knew instantly I was a bonehead. My aunt, mom and I went to get her and cheer her up. We crowded around her and gave her a big but she wanted nothing of it. My grandma, one of the most loving and caring person I know, was pissed. My mom went back into the family room but my aunt and I followed Grandma into the guest room.

Grandma started to cry, and I never see her cry. "I wanted a picture of all of us together. Who knows when we'll all be together again, with all our health issues and what not."

I was stunned. I didn't even see it that way. My grandpa's health has been declining, and my grandma had been showing signs of forgetfulness (more than usual). Yet, in taking time and life for granted, I assumed they would be around forever.

We said we'd take the picture. She refused then and she stubbornly refused to take the picture the next morning. The moment was already gone.

I wondered why she needed a picture to capture our family together. But I've been realizing that memories can be fleeting. Hell, I barely remember yesterday. It's the capturing of memories that keeps them safe. We took pictures all weekend, but I don't think I'll even forget the family picture we didn't take. I learned that we need something to help us remember. That there's something intangible about act of posing for the camera and smiling.

I should learn to take better care of my camera.

the edge

 "My life is like a stroll upon the beach...,

As near the ocean’s edge as I can go..." 

-Henry David Thoreau

...Last week, I went to Long Beach Island, an 18-mile long strip of land just off the coast of New Jersey. And what a stay it was. I went with Alissa and I had some reservations,given some past skirmishes, but I think it only brought us closer. I think that happens when you have a new experience with a friend. It brings you together because you mutually experience things that invoke your senses. And when you have a memory of that sense or experience, you think of the other person.

It was just beautiful there. The weather was perfect. We stayed in a motel 200 feet away from the beach. One morning, I got up early and went for a run. I ended the run on the shore. The ocean was calm, with waves gently lapping the sand. The sun's rays reflected shimmery light off the water. The absence of the roar of the high tide pounding the beach left a tranquil solitude that I will never forget.

And I went surfing for the first time ever! That was an adventure! I'm hooked! It was difficult at first to get the movement and rhythm of standing on the board, but at the same time I felt so comfortable out on the water. I think the hardest part was paddling through the breaking waves. The falling was difficult, also, which happened often. And I didn't fall gracefully; it was like I was competing for the worst wipe out award! But what a sense of triumph I had when I stood up and rode the wave to the shore!

Now that my gypsying ways have ended (for the most part; a few side trips here and there. A gypsy can never stop in one place for too long, after all...) this summer, I can focus on life here and {slowly} switch gears for September. Because whether I like it or not, it's almost August and that means summer is almost over. But what a summer it's been...

"she walks along the edge of where the ocean meets the land just like she's walking on a wire in the circus."

summer is delicious

I spent the first 2 weeks of summer gypsying around, spending time with friends and family. I've had some great times and wonderful, fun experiences. Here are some "wordbytes," if you will...

...Reading a 400-page book during a lazy, rainy day...


...Watching Natalie and Emma share a towel and eat potato chips on a perfect day at the beach...


...Sailing for the first time ever...


...Spending a full week with my mom...


...Dave Matthews and Tim Reynolds live...


...Sumptuous dinners in Canandaigua...


...Getting hit on by a redneck at a car race...

...Running around a reservoir and down a tree-lined path...

...Now that I've settled back down from my travels, it's time for another adventure! Destination: Long Beach Island, NJ. I'm sure I'll have some blog-worthy stories to share upon my return...


...Lately, it feels like there has been a ripening of my soul, like delicious piece of fruit. Is this happiness? In the back of my mind, there's always a voice warning me to expect misfortune and bad luck. And I'm sure some adversity is bound to happen at some time or other. But please, let me enjoy the warm sun on my skin and life ripening before my eyes. Ah, summer...

my gypsy ways

There's a feeling I get

when I hear the rustling of the trees.

As the wind rushes past me 

and through the leaf-heavy branches.

Expectation.

Waiting for the end of the cascading wind 

and the eerie silence that follows.

The silence that soothes and comforts, 

but beckons for more.

Longing.

I yearn to go

where I choose.

I want to feel the impact of others 

as I 

rush by.

Nothing to hold me back

besides

the air.

run down memory lane

Start on Couch St, slowly, finding my pace.


Turn right onto William St.
College house party.
I remember the white and blue-striped top I wore.

Jog passed Zuke's Deli and cross Brinkerhoff Ave.
We'd hang out there after school, biding our time before practice.
One time, in 8th grade, we found a pornographic book in the church parking lot.
We brought our promiscuous loot to Zuke's and read it with fervor and confusion.

Left onto Cornelia, then a quick left onto Grace Ave.
Pass by Kate's childhood home.
Many days and many sleepovers. 
Her mother's lasagna.
Her parents have split.
The house is sold.


My pace quickens and my stride lengthens.
Left onto Bailey Ave, then right onto Lynde St.
Pass by Lafayette. 
Jake Lessor lived down that street. 
After-prom party.
Busted party.

Now Boynton Ave.
The relentless sun, fresh and hard after a passing storm,
Beats down on my face.
Breathing slow,
Easy.


Straight unto Cumberland Ave.
Pass by Katie Dahlen's childhood home.
Spent the ice storm of '98 there.
Crept out in 8th grad.
Her sister
Picked us up on the side of road.
Brought us to a college party.
We're no longer friends.

The humidity starts to get to me.
Sweat drips down my face.
But the breeze rushing off the lake
Cools and refreshes me.


Pass by McDonough Monument
I took my prom pictures there.
I wore a light blue strapless dress with a gathered hem.
I felt like Cinderella.

Up the hill.
I hate hills.
Chugging along, I want to walk up it.
I keep running.
I pass by the spot where I won the pie eating contest.
It was a cherry pie with a piece of bubble gum in it.
I had graduated high school.
I got my eyebrow pierced immediately after.

Through downtown Plattsburgh, onto Court St.
I know I'm almost done.
I pass by my high school.
A part has been torn down.
It's being converted into senior citizen housing.
The art wing was included in the demolition.
I had two murals painted there.
The only evidence of any artistic ability I possess. 

The end is in sight, 
Left onto William St., then Couch St. 
The home stretch.
I slow to a walk,
and saunter back to 
My car.

It seems so long, a run.
But a blur when it's done.
And you see it behind you.
The phantom steps 
The linger.

a conversation with a 7-year old

My sister, Emma, and I were doing at-home pedicures when she asked me about Ty.

"What happened with you and Ty?" She inquired.

"Well, we decided we shouldn't be together anymore," I replied.

"Did you have a fight?" She went on to ask.

"No, it just didn't work out."

"Yeah, boys are silly. They don't know what to do with you."

"Very true. You shouldn't be worrying about boys, anyway. You should just have a lot of girlfriends."

"You're right. And then when you do have a boyfriend, you can tell them what to do."

...This made me smile. We should listen to our inner seven-year old more often. Sometimes it's the most simple sentiment that makes the most sense.

needs

I have a reasonable suspicion that Ty has a girlfriend (reason #599 that I need to take a break from facebook). I had a feeling, though. He stopped texting and asking that we "hang out."

So, how do I feel?

I don't really know. Different feelings run through my mind. Sadness. Relief. Confusion. Release. A part of me misses him and is mad that he moved on first (thanks, sinister sarah).  Another part (the more dominate and sane part, might I add), thinks, "Ha, not my problem anymore!" 

I thought I needed Ty. I thought I needed the reassurance, the attention, his ability to take apart my futon and bookshelf, his powertools. I relied on constant texting and contact.

But honestly, I can take my own futon and bookshelf apart. And I can advocate for my own happiness. I can be alone and be okay with it. My phone doesn't have to be constantly buzzing. To quote SATC: "That's the thing about needs. Sometimes when you get them met, you don't need them anymore." 

At the end of the day, I don't need him. I need me to the best I can be. And I couldn't be that person when I was with him.

what i've learned from my dad

My dad is a man's man. He grills. He golfs. He drinks beer. But he also is the type of man whose life has taught him many things, and in many difficult and happy ways. When I least expect it he offers up little nuggets of wisdom that's held true for him, and me as well.

Still waters run deep.

Here is just a sampling of what I've learned from my dad.

Be clean.

Have a sense of humor.

You have to see the forest through the trees.

Your health is the most important thing. 

Running, even when you're hungover, is the key to physical fitness.

Take good care of your car.

Preparation is imperative for work and play.

Naps can do wonders.


While it's easy to be bitter, the truth is you have to be accepting of others. 


Don't owe anyone money if you can help it (this is a lesson I have yet to learn...).

When you really love someone, you show it in your own way.

No regrets.

Happy father's day, Dad.

bookends

Time it was and what a time it was it was,
A time of innocence a time of confidences.
Long ago it must be, I have a photograph
Preserve your memories, they're all that's left you.




This past weekend I went to a wedding shower in Westchester county. The couple are friends from college. We were on crew club and I even lived with them for a part of a summer. After college, as it typically happens, you find out that the ties that bound you no longer hold you together. So naturally, we went our separate ways with intermittent smatterings of contact.

I felt some hesitance going. I hadn't seen Chris and Kelly in well over a year, with the only contact being via random facebook messages. In fact, I almost didn't even go. But I did, and I am so very glad I did.

The happiness on Kelly's face seeing me (she didn't know or even expect that I was coming) brought back all these memories and good times we shared during college. I even saw other friends from college that I fell out of touch with as well.

I have always marveled about how people come into our lives and these intense moments of happiness, joy, crisis, and bonding are shared. These people are the molders of the person you eventually become, be it high school friends, college friends, colleagues, boyfriends, etc.

And yet, they leave so easily and effortlessly. Sometimes, you forget about them or even that they exist.

Why is that?

Do people have certain roles in our life and once those purposes are fulfilled they move on and make room for the next batch of individuals?

There is a certain feeling of sadness, nostaglia, and wistfulness when I reconnect with old friends. I love the reminiscing and reconnecting and laughter shared. But it's that feeling after, when I realize that those days are over, that I realize we are not those people anymore we once were. And sometimes that's not a bad thing entirely. We have to grow and grow up.

But it's a thing of beauty when old friends can still be friends.

As the people they are now.

In gratitude to the people they knew then.

Thank you...

who am i really mad at?

My friend and I aren't really speaking at the moment. It's like a contest to outlast each other in talking things out.

On Saturday, we out with some teammates from her softball team. I met Kevin, a 20-something guy.  I was mildly interested and I say mildly because even though I knew he wasn't my type I was still intrigued. He was on the shorter side, living in an apartment I'd mistake for a college apartment, and seemed like a player. But it was like wearing skinny jeans or sky-high heels; the idea of it is much more appealing than the actuality of it. Anyway, I told Alissa about my interest and she encouraged it; she thought we'd be "cute together," whatever that means...

We went to a bar downtown, so not my scene. My aqua tank, jeans, and flip flops were sorely out of place with all the short skirts and plunging necklines.

We went to the section where there was a dance floor. The awful music was pounding, hurting my head and tired body (I had done the Freihofers Run for Women and played a softball game earlier that day. I was not in the mood for bad music and gyrating bodies. I should've known this was a bad idea...).

And wouldn't you know, Kevin asked Alissa to dance and they danced seducively with each other for a chunk of the night. I didn't want to care (I mean, he wasn't even a good dancer), but I did care. I cared that Alissa, knowing I was interested in him, spent the night dancing and talking with him. I cared that he didn't ask me to dance. It soured my night and Alissa knew it. Yet she didn't say anything and actually made an extra effort to be extra nice to me. I was talking to another friend we were out with and she said the reason Kevin went after Alissa was because she was "more attainable." Okay, what does that even mean??

It wasn't so much the guy and Alissa that upset me. It was the principle of the matter. The element of competition has been a part of our friendship for some time. It's like she's threatened when there is an ounce of attention placed elsewhere. This type of thing has happened before, too. And yes, I know, I am guilty of it as well...But another case in point in our competitive friendship!

So, I haven't talk to here unless I've had to talk to her, and I'm trying to keep it to a minimum. I don't have anything to say to her. I'd rather get over it and have some space than try to talk to her about it.

Who am I mad at, really? Alissa, for making this a pattern in our competitve friendship? At Kevin, who didn't want to dance with me and talk to me? Or, am I really mad at myself? For being too thin-skinned; for not being outgoing enough like Alissa; for being incredibly awkward?

Perhaps I should talk to her, afterall. Because letting her off the hook would mean I'm letting myself off the hook. And maybe that's not such a bad thing after all...

Six-Word Memoirs

Six-word memoirs are a way to tell your story, using exactly six words. I read a collection of them, It All Changed In an Instant recently and I was inspired. You see, I've been dealing with writer's block lately. These got me writing again. Smith Magazine  is a blog-a-zine that collects and shares these stories.

The first six-word story was actually written by Ernest Hemingway. He wrote it supposedly to settle a bet (knowing Hemingway, I'm sure there was some alcohol involved).  For sale: baby shoes, never worn.

His story is only six words, yet it speaks of hundreds more in what's not said. 

They're fun to do, yet it's hard to pinpoint the six most important words to tell your story.

Here are some of mine:


*I've moved thirty-one times. I'm twenty-six.

*Went to Australia. Missed college graduation.


*Brother's attempted suicide kept me awake.


*Mom could've had an abortion. Didn't.

*Books plus beaches equal peaceful spirit.

truth hurts?

I've been musing over truth lately. Be it recent events or old scars that's led me to these meditations, I'm not too sure. When is truth necessary? When is it unnecessary?

Sometimes I'm not good with honesty. When I tell the truth, oftentimes I feel bad for it. I think it's "easier" to adjust my expectations for someone else for the sake of harmonious relations. In in the end, it's me who gets burned with the truth as it simmers inside.

I avoid telling the truth  because I'm afraid of what people would say. But I'm lying to myself; convincing myself that what I really think doesn't matter. In this, a false and fraudulent picture is painted. It's an illusion. I am illusion.

I don't want to hide from the truth.

I want to be freed from other people's perceptions.

It boils to the face that I'm not true to myself.

If I were to tell the truth...


The truth is...I'm arrogant and haughty. I think very little of myself, so I make up for the deficiency by thinking that I'm better than everyone else. It's easier to judge others than myself. I don't think I've ever admitted that before!

The truth is...I'm angry. I'm angry at my family for its dysfunction. We all walk around on eggshells because we're afraid of what would happen if we said what was really on our minds. Can't we simply all just get along? My life largely revolves around my family. So when there is a breakdown with the family, there is a breakdown with me.

The truth is...I don't know when I'll be over Ty . I don't want to reconcile with him. I'm possessive of him. I need to know what he's doing. Just because we're not together doesn't mean he can be with anyone else (Wow, I don't think I've admitted that either. That's slighty psychotic.). Even if we were to get back together, nothing would change. He's not going to move. I'm not going to move (for him). Even if were together, I'd still be here, alone in my apartment, missing him. Nothing would change.
 
The truth is... I'm want to be loved.

The truth is...I love.

The truth is....I'm afraid.

The truth.

i lost my mojo, man!

My inspiration went missing.
My creativity is on strike


They must be co-conspirators.

Hatching diabolical schemes
to keep me in the monotonous grays
and cut off from brilliant blues and radiant reds.


Can we negotiate?
Perhaps come to an agreement?

I'm stumped;
I've stalled.

I need it all back...

in bloom

Everything is blooming most recklessly; if it were voices instead of colors, there would be an unbelievable shrieking into the heart of the night.  ~Rainer Maria Rilke 

 Tulipfest in Albany is one of my most favorite things about living here.

So many different colors and shapes...

It's the weekends like these, surrounded by beauty and friends, that I think that everything and anything is possible. 

That youth will last. 

That life is unfolded before me. 

I hold on to these moments.

for the phenomenal women...

I was observing a 10th grade honors English class yesterday and they read this poem. It made me feel giddy and happy inside, especially on a day when Sarah was niopping at my heels.  Here it is...

Phenomenal Woman
by Maya Angelou


Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.



I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.


Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.



Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.



...Enjoy, all you phenomenal women :-)

disclaimer: i am not {certifiably} crazy

I have a voice in my head. Wait, don't get the straight jacket just yet. Let me explain...

This voice, this alter ego, says every negative thing possible to bring me down. Just when I'm getting a grip on life, this voice saunters in, whispering sweet nothings: "You're stupid, you're worthless, you're fat and ugly, no one likes you..."

My alter ego sits, lurking in the shadows, waiting to seize any opportunity of sabotage. I shall call her Sarah.

This is what I would say to my saboteur, Sarah, in a calm, rational, and confident voice:

Sarah, we gotta talk. I don't appreciate you around here anymore. You drive me crazy with your quiet insistence that no one likes me. I am of value, of substance. I am worth being liked. I know people like me! Wait, they have to like me, right? Ok, don't get started!

And another thing, I broke up with Ty for a reason. Don't you remember how unhappy I was? Don't you remember how he cheated on me? Sure, there were good times, but we weren't right for each other. So why don't you let me get over him!? Thanks to you, I compulsively check his Facebook profile; I get upset when he's friends with these attractive girls; I momentarily forget why we broke up; I meet up with him. I'm better than that! I deserve more than that!

I'm not stupid; I'm intelligent. I'm not ugly; I am fairly attractive when I want to be. I'm not severely obese; I'm athletic. Why must you insist on making me have these thoughts of self deprecation?

I'm sick of you, Why don't you bother someone else with thicker skin? That's right, leave....
 
Sarah slinks off into the background as I tell her off. But, if I listen hard enough, I'll realize her voice sounds a lot like my own. Only slightly more sinister...

Do I still need that straight jacket?

not alone

"A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us"
                                                                   -Kafka 
 
It is inherent that, as a reading teacher, I must like to read.

Not only like. But love. And I'm okay with being bookish and nerdy. It suits me.

Books are a source of solace and comfort.
They make me forget, yet make me remember.
Their stories fill my head with hope that there is a world out there for the taking.

Currently, this is my favorite place to read (and everyone needs a favorite place to read):

A blue chair by my sliding glass door.
I mold myself to it like a ball nestled in a worn glove.
I like to sit here in the late afternoon, when the western sun is pouring in.
When it's nice out, I'll keep the door open and listen to the sounds of the chirping birds, rustling leaves, and laughing children..
Oftentimes, there is a glass of wine accompanying me.

Now, back to being a reading teacher. I originally became a reading teacher because of said love for reading. Ah, so naive, Kim. Little did I know that the kids I would be working with dislike, even to the point of hate, reading.

I guess I can't blame them totally. Most of my students have had repeated failures and struggles with reading growing up. They've built up a wall of defense to avoid struggling and failing. I mean, who wants to do something that's hard for them? To most, reading and writing is frightening. Some don't even see the point of improving their skills in reading and writing. That is what frightens me the most.

Sometimes it's a battle to get a piece of literature in their hands or a word written down.

When a student writes mentally breaks a sweat and composes a good piece of writing, or when a student really gets a story, all that toil seems worth it. Those successes, however, are few and far in between.

But I'll enjoy those moments when they do happen...

But for now, I'll enjoy my blue chair and hope everyone has a blue chair to fly away for a little while...


"She had learning something comforting, that we are not alone"
                                                                       -Matilda

slow burn

My eyes burn 

like the my soul's hazy discontent.

I'm tired.

I'm tired of not being

smart enough,

funny enough,
                                                      pretty enough,

                                                      thin enough.

                                                      Maybe someday

                                                      I'll wake up,

                                                      with clear eyes, 

                                                      realizing that I'm

                                                      Good enough.

must.get.to.happy.place

Teaching is like a battlefield.

Each side considers the other a foe and schemes to capitalize on their enemy's weakness. To beat them to a bloody pulp. Sometimes there is a clear victor, sometimes there is a stalemate. Either outcome leaves casualties littering the ground.

A typical casualty is my sanity and patience.

Often I find myself working harder than my students. Sometimes I can bend and not break with their silly immaturities. Other times it's the pettiest infraction that sends me flying.

No, you cannot just sit there doing absolutely nothing because you don't have a pencil. Yes, that's right. Use your big kid words and ask for one.

That's okay, just stare at me blankly when I ask you a question. I like talking to myself.

Those feelings of defeat and frustration leave me deflated like a sad balloon leftover and forgotten at a birthday party.

After days like these, I need to get to my happy place. Here are some ways I find my happy place:


* Singing loudly with one of my favorite songs. Even though I sound like a poor animal dying...

*Getting outdoors. There is something invigorating about getting out and smelling the air and doing something with my body that prevents my mind from spinning wheels...


*Ice cream. Any kind. Preferably by the pint.


*Laughing uncontrollably until I cry. Then crying.


*Reading. I love being so engrossed in someone else's issues instead of my own


*When all else fails, open a bottle of wine or a cold beer. Or both.

What does my happy place look like? Something like this...

And this...

Or even this...

What does your happy place look like?

Spring

Sprightly like a daffodil, swaying gently in the breeze.

Clean like the pale green buds on trees, ready to pounce into the world.

Fresh like the green grass, reawakened with sun and rain.

Pure like the air that rustles through my hair.

Signs of renewal and creeping and peeping though the vestige of winter.

I want to be like spring, where possibility, vitality, and beauty grow and reign inside me.