Saturday, September 23, 2006

All day today I have managed to procrastinate and avoid grading my student papers. Teaching three classes is hard for me, although I know many people who teach five writing classes. But for me, managing seventy-five students and their papers gets a little crushing at times. The hardest part of grading is getting started. After that, it’s not so bad, but the anticipation sometimes is almost unbearable. I start to seriously consider other job options.

I find myself stopping a lot as I write today—thinking and wondering what a blog is. When I started my site a couple weeks ago I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to write about World Ventures in order to encourage other people in their own similar pursuits. I wanted to share my art, my poetry, and some of my ideas about life. In some ways I wanted to use my site to encourage myself. As time has passed, I have found my entries to be more and more personal. Although I am a somewhat shy person and prefer anonymity, I also tend to connect with others on a very personal level—that is obvious in my poems and paintings, I think.

I have also found myself dwelling on, thinking about, (and experiencing) many more dark feelings than I had originally intended. This is also a part of who I am, of course. In other words, I tend to be confessional and negative by nature; although, I am insistent that I can change my nature, and I will. Some might ask why I would want to change a foundational aspect of my own personality. My answer is that my negativity has not worked well for me. It’s fun; don’t get me wrong. I really love dark energy and find it addictive, but I guess what it comes down to—its essence—is, I want to be happy. The only way I know to be happy—on a daily basis, moment by moment—is to choose to be by directing my own thoughts. This is difficult, of course, but it’s the only way to change my state of being.

I know many cynical people. I know many sarcastic people. I am not one of them. Basically, I do believe in humankind although I get rather disgusted with humans on a regular basis. But I am not cynical; therefore, I also believe in my own happiness.

I told one of my friends that I wanted to be happy, and he said that he didn’t find that interesting and he wanted to retain his “humanness.” Too bad. I think I can be human and happy too—at least I hope so. As to what is interesting, even drama gets tiresome after a while. Serenity has its own attraction. Does it not?

When I first started this site, I had no audience. No one but me knew where to find me. I have been “marketing” my site now, and a few people have found me. That changes everything. Now as I write I think of my audience. Of course, I teach my students that when writing we must always consider our audience. But my audience before was myself, and now my audience consists of people other than the many who reside in my own head.

Does this affect me? Of course. Should it affect me? Of course. Will it change what I’m doing on my blog? Only insomuch as I need to process incoming information. One thing about me—that anyone who knows me knows—is, I am totally me. This sucks for me and others sometimes, but this aspect of who I am won’t change. In other words, I am internally motivated. I am motivated to be most fully my self. If I change, I change for me. My fierce independence of mind has cost me a great deal in my life, but I’m glad to pay that price. I’m not saying I am independent in all things—that would be a lie—but I am independent of mind.

Well, that being said, I want to address one comment on my blog. One person advised me to write about my childhood growing up in Western Kansas and recall the weather I experienced there. I might do that. One reason I hesitate to start to address my childhood in prose is I draw upon so much of my life in my poetry and art. Prose seems too overt for me. Because I am so confessional, directly addressing my childhood might not be very effective. It could easily become too much. But I’m not sure. I’ll think about it.

But in the meantime, here is a poem that draws upon images from my childhood in western Knasas, the inclusion of which was inspired by the commenter. It’s entitled “Home.” Above is a painting, “Horizon,” which is my abstract representation of the western Kansas landscape. Thanks for the advice.

Home

I dream I come home;
you are walking to meet me in the driveway.
There are dogs. I am exhausted and pressured
to confront you, but the drive was long,
and I’m tired. I ask to sleep awhile, afraid
to meet my brothers after such a long time.

When I finally come home, I park beside old cars abandoned
in the driveway. My children whisper
behind me. No one is there to meet me. No one
is home. A dog is barking.

Even in my dreams, my dreams are restless.
Sometimes, I try to tell my sister, try to explain
so she will know, but you are listening, Mother,
although you are much more exhausted than I.
Tomorrow, I’ll explain it; we’ll talk to Grandma.

My kids and I stand beside the car, waiting
for everyone to return from the reunion. It has been
ten years since I’ve seen this place. I point to the trees,
to the one I climbed as a child. It has grown taller,
and I tell my children I would never be able to climb it now.

Then I’m screaming,
screaming at you in the driveway, screaming
and wandering through a damaged building
where I’ve tried to make my home. It is a beautiful home,
but the building is crumbling,
and it is cold.

At the reunion, the moment is awkward.
In the middle of all the aunts, there in front
of Grandma, I introduce my children to my brothers
for the very first time. When my cousin hugs me,
she hugs me embarrassingly long. No one asks
why I’ve stayed away so many years.

I’m trying to explain myself. I circle
the neighboring bar, walking back to our driveway
where everyone is parking. It’s all right now though;
these cars are how you earn your money.

That night I am sick from nerves, and happy
the lights are out. My children lie in sleeping bags
on the floor. My mother has asked me to take her bed.
I hear her in the next room, washing dishes.

I’ll be over to the bar to dance.
My brothers will meet me there. A woman
with long hair, like mine, is in love with them,
but they do not love her anymore.

The other end of the trailer, my sister sleeps
beside her husband. Mother curls up to her dog
on the couch. In houses the opposite sides
of the yard, my brothers and their families settle.
The wind flutters softly against all the houses.

I go to the house of my childhood and sink into bed.
I feel a strong wind--a tornado is forming out of sky.
I can hardly walk, all of us going to the shelter.
I am moving fastest, but the door is padlocked.
I need my brothers. Blanket and pillow;
I could not find my books. Where is my sister?
My children? The dogs? I don’t care anymore.
I have to get out of this wind. I need to sleep.

I awaken often to check my little ones. The chest
of each one rising and falling gently. Dim light twinkles
through the window from the star-illumined distance.
The smell of the house is childhood. There is no noise
except a high-toned chime tinkles above my bed
whenever the wind tenderly shifts direction.