“It feels like entering an indoor, heated swimming pool. It’s just missing that chlorine smell,” Wesley says.
“Eww. You’re right,” Marielle agrees.
Haven’t posted in a while. Well, that’s a lie. I haven’t published what I’ve posted in a while. Breaking all those lovely rules I set for myself with good old insecurity. Welp. I’m going to just let my self suffer a bit with the worries I have about my writing, my past writing, my future writing, others opinions on my writing. I probably won’t publish too much more. Maybe, maybe not. Instead I’ll just allow what’s already been here to be here and yeah (real eloquent, no?).
I will now take this time to watch more YouTube videos since it’s 5:41 AM in India and that’s obviously the best way to spend my time right now (SARCASM SIGN).
“I dislike disliking people.”
She said it to the ceiling, but I knew she was talking to me. Her hair was splayed out, strands of dark brown falling down the edge of my bed. She stretched one leg up, then another, kicking the air. I could smell the incense she burned wafting off her clothes and hoped it wouldn’t permanently pollute the air of my bedroom.
My mind is an asshole sometimes. Most of the time actually. It tries to make me feel like the dead ant on the bottom of a turd covered hoof.
Prompt: Write a poem beginning and ending with the first and last sentences of Jack Gilbert’s A Stubborn Ode.
All of it. The impending doom of the writing prompt given by a professor you respect, but now wish had no authority. The contradictory desire to refrain from heeding instructions, while also wanting guidance and support in your creative endeavors. Denise once told me I write beautiful poetry. The rhythm of the words you try to imitate under the false impression you are capable. The disinterest grows, the words stagnate. All language dies, longing for a more passionate writer. When she told us about the assignment, I could tell it would be difficult. As I imagined the writing process, I knew it would take time, time I was reticent to offer. And I say, nevertheless.
1/20/13 Prompt: “If I could change the world first…”
She never asked for such power.
That was the excuse she made when their pleas reached her ears, a swirl of why and please that couldn’t shield the real message- How dare you!
She held her magnifying glass closer to the one-way mirrored globe that held the city
We’re seated on a porch in Sevagram Ashram- we being Philipp, Wesley, Marie, and me. Across from us a thin man, his height almost the same as the column he stands besides, fiddles with the zipper of the hybrid sweatshirt/jacket he’s wearing. He watches us for a few minutes and then asks “Where are you from?” Philipp is identified as German. Marie, thinking she’s answering for the remaining three of us, says “The U.S.”
The man raises his hand and gestures between Wesley and me, “Where are you from? Africa?”
Sunday we went to Al Shami for dinner. That night, in the dim lighting of their roomy bathroom stall I puked the once delicious chicken tika, potato kibbeh, hummus, baba ganoush, and bread galore that I had consumed. I’m sure the bit of pigeon, which I tried for the first time that evening, also went into the toilet. The pigeon reminded me slightly of duck, perhaps only because it was a bird that didn’t taste like turkey or chicken. As the mush poured into the porcelain basin from both my mouth and nose (apologies for the vivid imagery) I had two thoughts. “What a waste of money,” and “It tasted so good why would it betray me like this?”
Accept that it’s okay to write UNhappy things
(re-seeing this post I now need to watch Scott Pilgrim vs. The World)
Write Happy Things
I wanted to write an enthusiastic entry about how eager I am to go to Wardha. Maybe do a little corny reflection on the time spent here in Doha. I wanted to write it early and send it off, so I could focus all my time on my research and synthesis paper. I wanted to write about how I’m not sure what to expect in India, and despite my usual discomfort with not knowing precise details of well…everything, I’m starting to be okay with a bit of ambiguity. But my mind just won’t go there. Instead it’s focused on finances. PNC and CMU have successfully managed to trigger my financial insecurities yet again.
“Don’t be offended. It’s just a joke.”
“Don’t get upset. It’s just satire.”
“It’s not their fault. They were raised that way.”
“It’s wrong to you, but you have to think of the context.”
“He doesn’t really think that way. It’s just a persona.”
I’ve yet to be convinced that this is valid way of thinking in terms of morality. There are certain things that are never okay. I don’t care where or when I am, there are parts or my moral fabric that I refuse to let fray.
“I just don’t see why she didn’t include her brother,” a student says, looking intently at her edition of Heather Sellers’ You Don’t Look Like Anyone I Know.