Time moving faster?

When I was ten I remember coming in from a day playing kickball and baseball in the backyard and asking my mom why it was taking fooorrreeevvver to get through the weekend to start school again.  Now at 33 I wonder how to slow the weekends down so I can enjoy them more before it's time to go to work again.  Where is the time going?

According to the ancient Mayans and those that believe in quantam physics theory of fractal time, time is in fact moving faster and will continue to do so until the controversial year 2012 in which space and time will enter a new dimension of being.

Or something like this.  

All I know is that time to me is constantly running out.  I feel like I've been sitting at my computer for 30 minutes contemplating ideas and interacting with my blogs, and it turns out I've been sitting here for 4 hours.  In no time it will be Monday again and I'll be back at work. When I'm at work, time moves faster still, and in a blink of an eye it's time to plan my weekend again.  

If it weren't for the paycheck accumulating over this same time I would want to figure out how to condense my work time even further in order to extend my free time and make my short time on this planet a happier time.  But if the Mayans are right, I might not need to worry too much longer since 2012 may have bigger things in store for us.

College years, tough professors, and the art of revision

1998.

Professor Emily Watts. English 351 - Literature of Modernism. I'm a junior at the University of Illinois. My major is Rhetoric and I've never ever, in all my years of schooling, received below a C on a paper. I was considered one of the best writers in my high school.  I won second prize in a high school writing competition for a short story I wrote my sophomore year. My senior year, I was awarded the English Student of the Year award. My freshman year of college my Introduction to Poetry professor said that I was "one of the only students who could write an effective complex sentence."

The first semester of my Junior year I was on the Dean's List. So by the time I reach English 351, I'm feeling pretty cocky and pretty burnt out. The first paper I write for the class I choose to write on the portrayal of America in The Sun Also Rises and Tender is the Night. Not a bad topic in itself, but I've barely read the novels once through (actually only half-read Tender is the Night), and I've also missed at least one class for each novel, and have pretty much no idea where the characters are from in The Sun Also Rises, making it especially hard to think about American portrayals.

But I like The Sun Also Rises, and I think I can bullshit my way through it like I've muddled through other papers I'm less than enthusiastic about. Even though I know my finished product is less than perfect--way less than perfect--I turn it in thinking I'll slide by with a C. 

One week later, Professor Emily Watts hands me back my paper and my breath is caught at the site of a big blue D- on the back and about 3/4 of a page of writing. I've never scored so poorly on a paper, not even on bad papers.  Even though it's spring semester and I've dedicated the semester to slacking off, I can't let this grade slide.  I need to at least find out why I did so poorly.

I know why I did poorly. I never revise. I don't give myself enough time to revise because I'm also a procrastinator.  And besides, I was more or less clueless about the subject matter. A day later, I visit Professor Watts' office hours, paper in tow. I'm embarrased to even look at the paper.  After an hour of talking, my tears barely contained, she allows me to rewrite it and lets me know how pleased she is that I cared enough to come talk to her about it. After hours and days and weeks of rewriting and rereading and revising and re-everything I take it back to Professor Watts for a new grade. This time I she gives me a C-, "an improvement," she says, "but still lacking."

I'm frustrated, but still on my slacking regime so I don't pursue it any further. Instead, I vow to attend class more. This works because on both midterm and final I score A-'s. This, I'm happy with. But again my last paper is below par for my expectations, scoring at a high B-.

Emily Watts is the second teacher to push my limits, but the first to grade my writing so low. My cockiness disintegrated into a pool of marked up papers staring me in the face. 

After a long summer of no classes and few obligations, I decide I'd like to attend grad school. My slacker status is lifted and I dig into my classes, taking two upper-level English classes, an upper-level Journalism class, and a Pyschology class.  Applying to grad schools is like taking another class.  And, unlike undergrad applications, I have to send a well-written paper along with the application.  I mull over revising a paper or writing a whole new one.

Finally I see Professor Watts in the hallway one day and ask her if I can talk with her about my applications. She advises me to rework a paper I've already written.  One of the few I've been mulling over is the B- paper I wrote for her the semester before. She loans me a few books to use as outside sources and I spend most of my free time working on my grad school paper. I see her once a week until the week before my first application is due. She's never satisifed with my paper but each time she says I have improved and she gives me more options to think about for the next revision.

I'm frightened that all these revisions mean that I'm not grad school material. Up to this point in my academic life, I've never revised so much, if at all.  She pushes me and pushes me to re-see my paper. Finally, I tell her I can't revise it again; this has to be the finished product and we discuss my ending and my word choices. After that meeting, I put it away and don't look at it again--whatever happens from this point on is beyond my control. But I still can't get Hemingway out of my head and I see a listing in the spring catalog for a Hemingway & Fitzgerald class. I sign up for it even though my English credits are fulfilled and I only need an elective to graduate.  Professor Emily Watts is once again my teacher. But this time I have a completely different experience with her.

On my first paper, comparing three heroines of Fitzgerald's stories, I try a little harder than usual. I want her to think I am capable of graduate work, and not regret her recommendation. I revise the paper. I start on it two days before it's due and I work all day. After I think I have a completed paper I put it aside and the next day, the day before it's due, I reread it. I mark it up, I change the beginning, I physically cut it up and rearrange the paragraphs to see which story I should start with, which examples go where. That night I spend three hours making the revisions to my computer copy.

A week after I turn it in, she hands me back a paper with, to my surprise, a big blue A. She comments that she was "delighted" to read my essay and was "astounded" at the improvement I had shown in one year's time.

Once again I score A-'s on both midterm and final. My second paper I don't work so hard on, it's the last paper of my entire undergraduate career, and I have just turned in two other papers to other classes. But I still take the time to revise it, not as drastically as the first one, but at least I read it over a second time and change the order of paragraphs.  This paper receives an A-. I'm not sure I deserve it but her comments once again show her pride in my work.  She remarks that she is always pleased when a student shows a "willingness to improve" and that I have shown my ability and dedication to improve throughout the last few years.

She still makes the same comments as she always had about certain grammatical mistakes I seem to repeat, but I no longer have the comments revolving around support and accuracy. Professor Watts taught me that cockiness has no business in writing, and that there is always room for improvement. I learned that my slacker attitude can't be too slacking if I'm incapable of letting certain grades slide by and if I'll take the extra time to rewrite a paper with which I'm unsatisified.  I learned that giving myself enough time to revise is my main problem, because all papers I've revised score remarkably better than those I haven't taken the time to even look at a second time.  And I learned that given the time and the willingness to learn, one person can teach you quite a bit about yourself.

Fall back or Fall forward?

October 25, 2010

I don’t like to wear sunglasses because I feel like I’m telling the world it has to change to be let in. I want to see the world in its rawest most natural state. I have bad allergies that could cause me hostility towards plants, animals and the outdoors but instead I savor the moments I can and I respect and cherish the gifts I’ve been given. One of the activities I love to do most is explore hiking trails and wilderness areas. I look forward to many trips when I can get out and immerse myself in the natural world free of pollution, negativity and corporate America. I want to help the world speak. I want to help people see how human the world’s plants and animals are. We are no different, we should not be fighting, we should be cooperating and listening.



Fall has arrived in many regions of the U.S. In Arizona I can only tell because the temperature has finally dropped, triggering my allergies. Palm trees, cacti, and the desert doesn’t noticeably change colors in the Fall, but that doesn’t mean things aren’t changing. Inside myself I can feel the change. Every year Fall arrives and I know it’s here. Spring is marketed as the “New Beginning” but I think I feel that sensation more in the Fall. I look for new inspiration, I reach out to long lost friends, I determine to take another class or start another project. Fall to me is when I become renewed. First I fight with myself about how little things have changed and then I start changing little things and then I look back and realize I have come a long way this year. Promotions, moves, vacations, friends moving up or away, friends starting or stopping relationships, many books, many blogs, many projects finished.

Poetry slam brings back my prolific nature

Last night a watched part of a poetry slam on HBO.  What I heard from those young poets carried alot of anger from cities across the country. Their voices dueled each other and fueled each other deeper and louder into their emotions. I envy their passion but wish just once I could have heard something that had a lilt of happiness.  But then I remembered my own young writer's mind:  
Watching them open up to the world through their words reminded me of a moment in college when a professor called me "prolific" and said that he felt that I wrote, not because I wanted to write, but because I had to; it was in my DNA.  That was the response he gave me when I asked if he thought I showed promise or the ability to "make it, so to speak, in the real world.   I was hoping for words of encouragement or constructive criticism that would help me improve and when I pushed him towards this end, and he told me that it was too subjective of a question and he couldn't answer.  His response left me feeling a bit hollow as if it just didn't matter.  That moment reinforced my aversion to rejection which eventually drove me to largely give up my dreams of writing professionally. That was about 12 years ago.

In my rush down memory lane last night I was inspired to find two pieces from my archives that I wrote when I was in high school and were expected to model the masters.  I chose to model Ralph Waldo Emerson with both of the poems I'm posting here.  I submitted the following poem to the Peoria District IATE Creative Writing Workshop in 1993. 

Within

Many times I ask myself,

"Will it happen?", "Is it true?"

But never, not once do I find an answer.

I dream, I wish, I hope;

but never, not once does it happen.

I pray, I listen, I whisper;

but no, not once do I hear.

I look, I watch, I wait;

but no, not once do I see.

Sometimes I believe there are no answers,

and nothing to happen, hear, or see.

But somewhere deep inside,

I know the only answers come from within;

the only things to happen

are my own doings;

the only things to hear,

I, myself, say;

and the only things to see

are those which I put inside my vision.

So, I say to myself,

"I will make it happen;

I will find the answers;

I will make myself see;

I will make myself hear."

(I didn't come close to winning for this poem, but I did get 2nd place for a horror story called "World of Defeat.")

The second poem I remembered last night was accepted into one of those Poetry Anthology books they try to sell you leather bound versions of for your family members during the holidays.  My brother indicated it was a scam and was definitely NOT an achievement that I should participate in, so I never filled out the final editing slip that would have led to my first published poem.

I am ME

People think me insane,

but I know I'm not.

The real me is hidden in the shadows

until I feel the time to bare my soul is near.

Sometimes I regret, but usually not;

nothing hurts unless you let it.

Sorrow comes often...

but only

because I realize I'm different,

and never will be

    what THEY want.

I am me and they are not;

what reason do they have to

   mold the perfect ME?

Let them mold themselves into

   the perfect THEM.

I am ME reminded me of the conviction I had at the time that I was different. I was unique. I was not going to live the "normal" life. I was somehow above all advice, direction and authority.  Now, 16 or more years later, I wish I had been listening to this kid encourage me all along.  I am my destiny.  If I want something I have to get over my aversion to rejection, I have to move away from letting others decide what job I should have, what my progress looks like, what my actions should be. I have to start listening to myself and start doing something that is going to get me closer to my goal.
 
And I think that's one root of my problem.  I didn't listen or take the advice given to me.  My parents tried to teach me things that I wasn't ready to learn. I wanted to learn everything for myself, not through someone telling me what I should learn.  So I shrugged off the idea of needing to have goals. I realize now that part of that shrugging off is what has debilitated my progress towards what I truly want.  I was afraid to fail so I never set a goal.  If you don't have a goal, you can't fail.  And I felt that if I failed I wasn't worth anything. 
 
But now I know that if I don't fail, I also don't succeed - and I don't even get closer to succeeding.  I don't need to have anyone else's goals.  I need to have my own.  And I need to start doing something to try to achieve them.

Socks

I saw a man walking today in socked feet, no shoes
It was 102 degrees, the pavement much hotter.
He had gotten off the rail, shorts, tshirt and backpack
White socks pulled up as high as they go- mid calf
A grimace and limp as he crossed the street and up the curb
He was alone but at least a dozen others crossed with him all with shoes,
heads held high unknowingly walking with the sock footed man

Perils of cosigning

In 2004 when I moved to Phoenix with my current boyfriend of the time we had high hopes and dreams. New job, new apartment, early in a new relationship, things seemed like they could start moving forward.  Right after the move the boyfriend wanted to detox from xanax for panic attacks before looking for a job. So I was supporting us until he got a job about a month later. At the time I was driving a 1995 Pathfinder with a ghost living in it -- it was the only car between the two of us. The Pathfinder had many problems during it's life but it's biggest problem at the time was it would lose its rpm power any time it idoled and would frequently die at stoplights or stop signs unless I had the exact right pressure on the gas and brake in order to rev the engine enough to keep it from dying.  I wracked up credit card debt trying to fix it early into our move. 

When Mark got a job I had to drive him to work at 5am, go back home for a few hours and then turn around and take myself to work.  The situation wasn't working out. Mark tried to bike home from work the first time but it was a 15 mile drive uphill and he was suffering.  So one day, when my truck was in the shop and neither of us knew the bus system we called into work sick and waited an hour for a bus to show up and take us to AutoRow to find a car for him. 

We ended at Brown & Brown Chevy where we found a 2002 Chevy Cavalier that seemed right up his alley. I didn't want to co-sign for it and they said he could finance it alone. So they put in the paperwork and sent us home; three days later they call to tell us he needs to return the car, that the financing didn't go through because he hadn't had a long enough job history. 

At that time I was frustrated and at the end of my rope. I was desparate. Mark asked me again to cosign. I said fine. I figured it would be okay, five years goes fast, things were looking up for us, we'd certainly be friends even if we weren't together, right? And Mark was more responsible than other exes so he'd surely pay his loan every month too, right? Little did I know the dealership put me on as the PRIMARY lender not the secondary.

Well things don't always work out the way you hope.  Soon after we got the car, his brother
had a violent falling out with his girlfriend and Mark offered our office to his brother so he could sort things out. For the first few months it wasn't a problem, Mark was doing the right thing, helping his brother out.  But his brother was a brother who wrote late and bad rent checks, a brother who was a bartending online gambler with a bartender girlfriend who would unleash her drunk anger on him late at night, a brother who picked up without a sound a week before Thanksgiving, when he knew rent was due and we were planning a big dinner that included him, a brother that then wiggled his way back into a 2nd stint living with us, and then later, after I had moved out, continued his antics, once borrowing the Chevy from Mark only to be picked up for a DUI, sent to jail and the car to the towyard, then even later picking up in the middle of the night again and moving out -- causing Mark to be late on his car payment, a car payment I was also tied to. 

I moved out and moved on May of 2006, when we had the car just under 2 years. We were on good terms but the loan still had 3+ years on it.  It was Memorial Day when I moved out, Mark helped me move. January 2007 I got a notice that the car payment was late, I called Mark. Mark got a girl at his work pregnant, he was going to be a daddy but the girl he impregnated didn't have enough money for the hospital bills and so he was trying to get money to help her. He asked me, his ex-girlfriend, a girl he lived with for over 2 years if I would loan him $1000.  This is after I had already loaned him $3K for a video camera for his videography business when we were together. (To his credit he had paid me back 1/3 of it but he still owed me big).  Now he was asking me for $1K for a baby to be born. A baby that was not mine, a baby that he did not plan for, a baby that he wasn't even sure he'd be allowed to be a father to because he did not have a stable relationship with the baby's mother.  But he wanted money from me.  I lent him $250 and paid the car payment that month. 

Then later, two months before the car is due to be paid off for good, it was May 2009. Again I get paperwork showing it was late.  I call Mark several times, he finally returns my calls, he was getting kicked out of his girlfriend's parents house because he and the girlfriend (baby's mother) had broken up again.  He had just been laid off from his job.  He didn't know what was to happen.  I paid the last 2 payments on the car and the late penalty.  The title was mailed to me in July.  Both of our names are listed. I sent him a message asking if he wanted the title.  The text message response "I'm driving" was the last time I heard from him.

Now, 9 months later I get a notice from the MVD telling me that they have no insurance on file with the Chevy of which my name is on the title/registration as the "primary".  If they do not get proof of insurance the plates/registration will be suspended.  This is attached to my driver's license as well as his. This means my driver's license will be suspended if they do not get the proof they need.  All I want is to get the title out of my name and into his.  I can't do this without his signature. I don't know where he is. I don't know where the car is. 

I have left him a text message and a voicemail at the cell number I have for him. I have emailed him, I have emailed a guy I know he used to work with on video stuff occasionally, I have emailed two other guys we knew in Reno before we moved. I don't know how to rectify this without finding him.

What I want most is to leave this in the past and move on. I thought that by getting the loan taken care of it would be over. But it continues to follow me as long as my name is attached to this title.  For all of this, and the hostility I feel over it, I hope nothing more tragic has happened to him. I hope he is just being an asshole.  On one hand, if he is being an asshole it will make me even more hostile, but on the other hand, if something tragic has happened (as it seems to be with him) it would at least explain the situation. I don't really know.  My life with him seems so long ago, but yet remnants remain that sit like a black cloud over my head. 

What I'm working on -- 1987

In my move to Richard's house and since my parents retirement to AZ, when they shipped me all my remaining items from my childhood bedroom, I've turned up a stack of old journals. I'm in the process of going through them from beginning to end. I'm starting sequentially with my very first journal from 1987 when I was just 10 years old.

My diary writing started after reading Harriet the Spy and learning how to write semi-legibly. Immediately I took to the page. But, very disappointing to me now, my entries are not-earth shattering, and they don't remind me of many of my thoughts from those times.  I think my entire junior high journal was just a tally of who my friends were. I was apparently obsessed with social circles back then.  The year my dad left, my journal entry covered so much in just a couple sentences and it seems like there was much more left unsaid. 

Journaling was new to me at that time so I think I just hadn't quite gotten the hang of it yet. Plus I was very wary of the prying eyes of my parents and brother so I was pretty tight-lipped even though my first two diaries came with a combination lock.  

Once I find a longer cord for my printer I intend to scan in photos from the year 1987 and put a face to my childhood, for the Stories of Sorts I intended when I started this blog.

Cab Drivers

Everytime I take a cab it's an experience to say the least. When I'm on my way away from home cabs inspire fear and anxiety, fear that I don't know where I'm headed, anxiety I won't have the money to pay for the ride, fear the cabbie won't be legit and will really take me for a 'ride'. When I'm on my way home a cab inspires a great sense of relief. Relief the journey is almost over, and that soon I'll sleep in my own bed again.

Every cab ride I've taken has inspired a story in my head.

Circa 1996 on Andros Island in the Bahamas, we stepped off our puddle jumper onto a strip of concrete next to a small white building. A black Lincoln town car and a Bahamian in a suit and cabbie hat scooted us in and took off like we were on our way to a secret meeting at the BatCave. Driving at least 80 down a curvy potholed one lane road on the English side of the road in an American style car, the ride nearly made me sick as I was pinballed from the shoulder of one parent to the other I was sandwiched between. The black leather seats were so polished my teenage butt slipped and slid about as far across the road as the car itself.

On my 26th birthday when I drank too much too fast and vomited in the cab on my way home from the bar at midnight-- way too early to be headed home from a cab ride on your birthday in Nevada -- I incited the cabbie's rage to a point he threw his cup of tobacco spit on my apartment door before pounding his fist over and over yelling "you stupid girl, you know how much you cost me, a night of cab rides, I should sue you! You cunt!"

In 2008, my first trip to NY, stepping out of the automatic sliding doors with my carry-on luggage I was met by guy "Need a ride? Skip the line." I immediately said yes without registering the long line of people waiting next to the sign that said "Taxi. Please wait behind the line" Into an unmarked minivan I go, asking for the Times Square Marriott. The van has no mileage ticker and he's texting and calling people on his cell phone in a language I don't understand. He flips from one radio station to another, always seeming to end on rap. I've never been in a cab like this, I think. I wonder if he's legit. I wonder if I have enough money to pay. I wonder if I'm going to Times Square. What if he's calling his friend and they are setting up the kill room. I may never get out of this alive. Finally I ask him the cost, he explains there's a set charge from the airport. I think he charged me $65. I find out later it was $20 more than a cab I would have gotten from standing in line and technically he acting out of illegal intents. I'm just happy to be alive.

More recently, my experiences have been a bit less chaotic and I've just met some interesting people. One cab driver who seriously is the doppelganger of Darius Rucker, so much so that the cabbie even remarks that he used to be Darius's caddy and they played a trick at the event by switching places and no one even knew. Who knows if that's true, but I'd like to think it is because now I'm that much closer to the true Darius Rucker.

On the last trip I learned all about Ethiopia. Did you know it really doesn't get that hot there? Maybe 90s, and it's a dry heat. Nothing like the midwest.

I also had cab driver who was a professional Soccer player in Iran and Greece, he must have been 60 so I assume this was many years ago. He moved to Oklahoma to play professional soccer in the US but he didn't realize at the time that you make no money in the States at that profession so now he's a cab driver. But he speaks 6 languages, has a memory as sharp as steel, and has a granddaughter who pokes him with an umbrella.

Ahhh, to be a cab driver, what stories would I tell?

Feb 27 2008

A guy at work today asked me why I never let him open the door for me. I hadn't really thought that much about it but there often is an awkward moment at doors when I'm walking with other people. I told him it had something to do with wanting to be self-reliant and it wasn't personal. Just cuz I'm a girl doesn't make me entitled to door openers.


This morning I just felt like celebrating freedom and independence. It's amazing when you hit a stride where you feel like you've caught wind. I started riding my bike again and remembered how much I love it. I went 10 miles on Saturday and 10 miles last night. Rode down to Zipps at Camelback & Miller, ate a burger, drank a beer, and rode home. It was beautiful out and I had complete freewill to do whatever I wanted.
I was somewhat immobilized in alot of ways the past few years. I felt like my ex was weighing me down, then I broke that off and too quickly caught wind, made some wrong choices and felt immobilized by fear of doing something wrong and feeling that alone again. I retrained myself on responsible drinking and decisions and now I feel like I've put that behind me. In Dec right before I broke my foot, I was feeling great... I had put alot of effort into retraining myself and felt like I was on the verge of getting it right-- I was in the best shape of my life, had realized that I could look pretty and feel good about myself, and I felt good about my position in my career. Work is one place that I have confidence... I tend to do a good job cuz I work hard. So anyway... when I broke my foot I felt like I had lost both my legs. The wind slowed to standstill and I was afraid I was going to lose everything I had been working for and I started to feel majorly insecure.

Today I woke up and I was happy. I feel like I've gotten my legs back and I've caught wind again. Just a few days ago I made the decision to keep renting, which somehow gives me relief because I can still dream that I could quit my job whenever I want and run off to a faraway land. But ya know, no matter how self-reliant and happy I am, I am always in need of good friends and people to share my life with. The ideal situation is to be happy with other happy people. Not happy and alone or unhappy alone or even unhappy with other people.

What am I doing with this blog?

Stories of Sorts was created back in 2006 with an original vision to bring back stories from different points in my life through my journals. But as a result of lacking focus from yours truly I rarely posted to the blog.  I intend to get this site back on its original path here shortly, but I will leave most of the past stuff up here as it is part of my history.

To give a bit of background into the past 3 years of sketchy posting, I started the blog six months into a newly single life, living on my own in a state where I had no friends or family.  I joined match.com and meetup.com to try to meet some people with which I identified.  Some of the past posts chronicle a few of those stories.  However, in 2008 I met someone truly special and I am in one of the happiest places I've ever been with a relationship.  So my horrible dating stories are hopefully history.  I might throw in a few from the past as I do still wonder how I finally ended up with a good one and it's not a bad idea to humble yourself from time to time by remembering the less than great times. You learn alot in retrospect.

I'm a thinker by nature so this blog, when I write in the present, may ponder many of the questions and connections I wade through day to day. 

Nashville: Hospitality in a Basket

On the streets of Nashville out-of-towners amble by
looking for the one-man bluegrass band
I on the other hand
set my pace for the empty brewhouse catering to the local on his way
to his gig or his home after a day in the grind of the crowd.
The weather is clear and brisk
the streets are calm but radiate energy from the neon lights shining
from every Elvis gift shop and honkytonk BBQ improv saloon
People are casual but formal, the definition of hospitality
Brush far enough past the surface until you feel like familiar strangers

The energy brings out the philosophical pandering of my mind's wanderings
I pause sporadically to consciously avoid the awkward feeling I get when
I share too much too soon and then want to take it all back and start again.
I speak more than my mind's share and I forget
to ask the questions that haunt me long after
I return to the Phoenix desert rain

In Nashville I eat Thai and French and BBQ.
I ride in taxi cabs, mini-Vans, leather pickups & cracked Volvos,
I walk up hills,
I stare at bridges, and I drink by the river.
I see the moon in the hands of the Union Station