Illustrated geography lessons

Well enough I know how to be a Midwesterner, but right now I'm all wrapped up in the patchworks of blankets and geographical maps trying to find out what in the United States I'd like to be next.

British Columbia is an option. No one ever thought that would be a possibility. Or Portland. Or Seattle. Or Carbondale. Or Kalamazoo. Or Ann Arbor. Or Pittsburgh. Or Amherst.

Currently covering my eyes with my left hand in front of a map and, with my right hand, landing the right finger on a place I haven't been yet.

Used Balloons

I guess I had this grand vision of what it would mean to begin my last year at Mankato. The vision I had didn't include walking home from bars with Jake head-butting me. It didn't include realizing I had to begin to head-butt him back, because if I didn't, he'd continue until I was unconscious. It also didn't include Sven asking me every ten minutes if I wondered what would become of me. Not the smell of the entryway of our house. Not the mold problem we've had. I'm thankful we don't have mice anymore.

Even with the lists I've been trying to make, but abandoning, and reckoning a new one each time of the things that I'm certain I need to do before I can allow myself to move out of this odd-world-of-a-community. The vision didn't include forgetting to write the people that matter the most. It's come to the high point in the water where I need to tell myself that the alligators are not swimming in front of me anymore. They're not. It should be easier than it is. It shouldn't be a pity-party I'm having for myself.

I should be writing more. I should be working less. I should be able to balance work and school. I think I'm just worried that I'm going to forget something along the way, and it's going to end up being bigger of a deal than it needs to be.

Thorn to my house and all the hidden fees of living here. Rose to Jen for putting up with me, and the oddity of our schedules. Rose to Jake and letting others ask across barrooms at the tops of their voices, What the fuck is wrong with you guys? Last night he told me that he thinks he won't like not living with me. It's hard to imagine how I lasted here. By rights and by track records, and by everything I've written in the last half decade, I would've never thought that coming here would be permanent. I thought after a semester I'd be somewhere else. I never thought my sisters would still live in cold-denim Princeton, reading the Union Eagle talking about the Union Eagle. I thought I would've killed Kristin the moment I got here, but didn't. I thought I would've flown solo rather than join a fraternity and take advantage of them when they made me Vice President on a whim, and everyone who came into it the same time I did left. How was I supposed to last around here. How did I get a 4.0 last semester.

This blog is more or less for me than it is for anyone else. Maybe I could dedicate it to Paul Simon, or someone equally reverential. Maybe the candle I've lit on my desk that I stole from the 19 year-old who seems to think my roommate is everything when he'll just crush her. I can say though, I've written better poems here than I ever knew I would. I've finally finished a few of the titles and given serious thought, as opposed to drunken thought to my chap-book.

long grain

Two months. Goddamn.

So there's today. My body's weak. The snow's pounding melted drops against my windowsill. I finished classes yesterday and a book of poems by Aimee Nezhukumatathil a couple hours ago.

I have a turkey sandwich, triscuits and hummus.

Yesterday, classmate K told us on behalf of his lack-of-belief that, "we don't need to read poetry to write successful poetry."

I combated his comment by telling him well, you'd might as well believe in nihilism, read more Poe, ignore the word Contemporary written on the board and take the pre-requisite for this course, though I knew such a comment would aggravate him after he'd already explained to the other four of us in class that his favorite band, Slipknot had "really poetic lyrics."

Teaching will be the perfect profession for me.

this isn't going to go over well, but

I've secretly been enjoying Ingrid Michaelson, for the last nine months or so. She's on the NPR music page, right now. Today. And today has been a wonderful day so far. I've been listening to NPR all morning, drinking coffee and looking at the bountiful books of next semester. Contemplating reading Are You There God? It's me, Margaret early, just for the sake of it. The J said that she read it growing up and for some reason, and why I can't figure out, I envy her for that. The first thing ever that I envy her of and it sort of fits this coming-of-age-twelve-year-old-girl frame of thought I've had going on. Now, I could blame the playlist I've set up, but I'm sure it'll all pass in about twenty minutes when IM's set is up.













For now, my teeth are unbrushed and brazed with yesterday and I'll now post the list of books I've purchased for next semester and paid a mere $75 to get all of them. They're not all here yet, but that's all I paid. Later on after work, I plan on doing some poeting in a poem-off Boots challenged me to. We've agreed on the first line reading Tommy was the shit in High School. Probably in a nice font. Iambic Pentameter. We've also agreed that we're both writing two songs before the end of January to have a song-off. Anyway, it reads:

*Are You There God? It's me, Margaret.
*The Bluest Eye
*Handmaid's Tale
*Vision Quest
*Slaughterhouse-Five (had it.)
*Harry Potter (this one I'm more confused about than anything. Damn you, Gwen Griffin, there better be good reasoning behind this, or I'll have the Native Americans curse you. They really don't like you. And yes, as long as we're reading High School books, I'll adopt a High School mentality though I'm sure I never had one. The only reason I'd ever read a story about wizards and closets would be because it were mildly sexual, but this one isn't, so I'm probably going to have a difficult time.)
*And Tango Makes Three
*The Things They Carried

*The Triggering Town
*At The Drive-in Volcano (And I am Jazzed.)
*Pax Atomica

*Complete Stories of Flannery O'Connor
*Mystery+Manners
*Two or Three Things I Know For Sure
*Wise Blood
*Bastard Out of Carolina
*The Color Purple
*In Love+Trouble

Have a wonderful day, everyone.
Damnit, I have to shower now.

Machines and Electrical boxes, Talk to me.

Construction workers have been adding on to the Trafton building since Bean and I were on Spring Break last March, and I don't think any of their work will ever be conclusive. Olsen and I were walking out in 20 degrees of freezing rain and snow, from the cheapest parking lot on campus this morning, and while we were walking, we found ourselves making observatory statements. Well, at least he was, while I was making masturbatory statements.

See, he thinks that the workers are merely ordering supplies to fit their desires instead of adhering to the blueprints. I don't think they have any blueprints anymore. I think they lost the building plans and the structural layouts; I think they're sucking money out of week-to-week paychecks and adding on to the building until President Davenport decides that he likes what they've done, or until they decide they're done.

This kind of hypothesis could be proven correct and accepted by the community of MSU students if Trafton weren't a science building, but, instead a Liberal Arts building. However, when looking at the building's exterior, they progressively lay out the walls so that they look complete and then add further out. The whole mess seems to puzzle me, because at one point in the fall I looked at the of the building and noticed they had attached what looks like the steam pipes from a large ship one of the workers found in the Pacific ocean, ported and polished them, and conned the foreman into utilizing them. If there is a foreman. I realize what I'm saying sounds stupid, but it looks even worse.

Oh, the buildings on campus I've never been in and likely won't ever have to.

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On a much smaller scale subject, I have exactly two shifts left at the Pizza place, as a manager, then my step-down is official. However, the only reason I'm staying on the payroll is to reap the benefit of 50% off any time I want a greasy, flavorless pizza or any other menu item (wings excluded), and back to the hustle of a dull restaurant. It's not that I need the money, but that the coffee's free and it's something better to do on a Sunday morning than lay in bed mildly hungover watching reruns of Barefoot Contessa because I can't find the remote.

Ashtray // Vinyl

All it really ever takes is an old/bad Alan Parsons twelve-inch record (or a seven-inch), preferably I Am Robot. A cookie sheet and a cereal bowl. Pre-heat the oven to 200 degrees, but depending on how your week's going it might be 200 degrees already. Center the vinyl on top of the bowl tipped over on the cookie sheet for five minutes. It seems to suffice. And, Behold, an ashtray made of vinyl. It's a way to separate old tastes from those anew when the first snow comes crashing down. While it's warm for five seconds and droopy, bend it with the cups of your hands. Epoxy the bottom hole in it, so everything stays in. Or, any variation of stiff glue. Have at it.

Good for when you can't find anyone to pick up house.

By Their Works -- Bob Hicok

Who cleaned up the Last Supper?
These would be my people.
Maybe hung over, wanting
desperately a better job,
standing with rags
in hand as the window
beckons with hills
of yellow grass. In Da Vinci,
the blue robed apostle
gesturing at Christ
is saying, give Him the check.
What a mess they've made
of their faith. My God
would put a busboy
on earth to roam
among the waiters
and remind them to share
their tips. The woman
who finished one
half eaten olive
and scooped the rest
into her pockets,
walked her tiny pride home
to children who looked
at her smile and saw
the salvation of a meal.
All that week
at work she ignored
customers who talked
of Rome and silk
and crucifixions,
though she couldn't stop
thinking of this man
who said thank you
each time she filled
His glass.