whirly whirl.

For someone who graduated with a degree in Creative Writing, I sure am terrible at writing. It's a sweet burden. I should probably write something right now. Oh...but there is cable television, and Facebook, and envying other peoples lives (that probably aren't that great, they just look so happy on the Internet). This past weekend I went to Seattle. Everyone keeps asking, "why?". I don't know, I felt like I needed to go somewhere. Plus, my dear friend Darrah packed up everything she could fit in a suitcase and made the journey a year and a half ago. She's doing well. New friends, new job, new city. She can do it for a year and a half. I can do it for five days. Everything was go-go-go. Go see the sights, go eat the food, go drink the beer. Whirly whirl. And I think I could have stayed there for a little while longer.

My favorite part was seeing the University of Washington. The cherry blossoms were in bloom and I could see myself studying on the lawn.

Now I'm back in Tallahassee, where the sun is warmer and the rain is heavier. I applied to Florida State for a Masters in Media and Communications. I'm still the Communications Coordinator at the District. My supervisor is still on maternity leave. My schedule is starting to get back in sync and all I want to do is be release from it.

8:30 to 5:00pm. Dinner. TV. Sleep.

pellets.

There are ice pellets raining down on my roof, on my car, on the street, and probably on some poor squirrels, birds, and cats (all confused, by the way). Because this shouldn't happen in Florida, according to all us Floridians at least. This is weird, this is strange. And then there are the few that think this might be the best day ever. And how pretty all this ice looks, broken on the pavement. Well, bah to that. Oh, how the Earth must be laughing.

No work today. Or what I said to Peter this morning: "They cancelled me. I mean, they cancelled work. I mean, what the heck is going on?" We throw hurricane parties for heavens sake. We throw our beer in canvas bags, maybe grab an umbrella (maybe not), get in our cars, and DRIVE to a hurricane party, where we all giggle about how awesome the hurricane is, and we drink our beers and take our shots then very irresponsibly DRIVE home. In the HURRICANE. And ice pellets incapacitate our entire town. Not winds of however many miles, not thrashes of rain flooding our streets, but ice pellets.

Ice pellets.

not a weed.

So if a weed is:

weed

wēd/

noun

1. 1.

   a wild plant growing where it is not wanted and in competition with cultivated plants.

Than I am probably not a weed. Because I think I am wanted, at least somewhat. I like a little competition here and there, but I am mildly cultivated. I do have a Bachelors degree after all. Are there any children's books out there about a weed? The Little Weed. Nobody Loves Weed-mond. Weedy Goes to Kindergarten.

I'll look it up, and maybe (most likely not) will write a book. And all the children will love it, and I will win that Caldecott award. And my book will be featured on some list (hopefully Oprah's).

The weather has changed, and it is cool out in the mornings, tolerable during the day, and brisk at night. North Florida fall is the best kind of fall. We've been waiting for it all summer (more than 3/4 of the year). We don't really get a winter, so we love our fall. When we do get a winter we pray for summer. And summer comes and we pray for fall. I have about eight coats and two pairs of shorts. Does this make sense to you?

1. 
   

   
   

   
   

   
   

little weed.

Bleep bloop blop. It's a gray day. A gray sky, and a gray state of mind. I woke up late again. I'm mentally not in control of my body in the morning. It moves ever so slightly, and maybe, if I force it, it will get up and put on clothes and not take a shower for the third day in a row. I really should take a shower... I'm holed up in my office, and I don't have to look presentable, so I don't. My toe nail polish on one foot is chipped off, I forgot my lunch, and I have to go to UPS. Blegh. I hate going to UPS. All it is, is expensive, and it's so gray out I just want to stay in.

I keep thinking about moving. I'm always thinking about moving. I never feel content where I am. I mean...maybe it's because I live in one room. Literally, one room. Singular. No other rooms. I get up in the morning and stumble to my kitchen which is five feet away from my bed. And it's been so hot I can't open the windows, so a mild claustrophobia is setting it. And there are weeds in the yard. I don't have a green thumb, there is no "dirt" in my blood. I have a tannin-colored thumb that kills all things but weeds. I like the weeds, but my landlady-ish neighbor hates them. Now SHE has a green thumb. She landscapes and makes things beautiful and doesn't understand why I don't tend to my yard. It's there I see it. It needs watering, yes. But the rain will come and do that someday. And it did for the past three days, so I'm off the hook, kinda. And the weeds love the rain.

Maybe I am a weed.

trash.

I don't know what's going to happen with the job I interviewed for last Friday. I don't know if I'll be going to Valencia, or if I'll ever get to graduate school. In the midst of all of this, the only thing that excites me is renting a house with wood floors and lots of windows. It all feels so domestic, and the feminist inside me wants to shed myself of it. And there's this extreme side of me that wants to just leave everything and jaunt through Europe.

I made a friend in my senior year of FSU. Her name is Valerie and she is currently an au pair in Paris. Shaved head, unshaved armpits, thick eyebrows and lashes like a bamboo forest. The first time I met her she was wearing a few lightbulbs around her neck. We bonded over seitan and she got me hooked on soygurt. Unabashed, strong, independent, and compassionate. She was the very essence of what I wanted to be, and still want to be, and once was a long time ago. Somewhere along the way I lost a little piece of myself, that lies still in a dark place, probably in the mind, because that's where everything perceived lies and waits.

Our shared class was an Advanced Fiction Workshop with Pulitzer-prize winner Robert Olen Butler. I hated him. "Where's the yearning?" he would say, holding one of my short-short stories in his hand. "This is more like prose, not a short-short. Throw it away." And I'd come up with corny quips, like why don't you throw your butt away or I'll throw you away. And he'd set it aside, the short-short that secretly wasn't fiction, but fact. The story that composed the strange indifference I had felt a week before, while trying to get a broken vacuum to work on my boyfriend's dirty rug, while said boyfriend told me to stop 'messing with his system'. But it's dirty, I said, it will only take me a second, once I fix this. And the boyfriend turned into a shadow and disappeared. And it was put aside for lack of yearning. And Butt-ler was probably right, which makes me hate him even more.

Everyone yearns for something. Even if it's not clear what the person is yearning for, it's still there. Even if the words don't convey the yearning, it's still there. If we don't yearn, we're not human. And let me see how many times I can type 'yearning' before it starts reading like 'YEER-ning' and not "YURR-ning."

"Ha.Ha.Ha," Butler says with reproachful satisfaction. "I'm the best and everyone loves me, but I'm wrong because one of my students thinks I'm full of buffalo crap."

I know, it's cruel. It's something I'd never say to someone's face. And Valerie was the only one that kept me sane in that class. Just knowing that she'd be sitting nearby with her soygurt and her lightbulbs helped me endure the "throw it away, throw it away, throw it away."

I hope I get the job, and I hope I don't get the job.

deutsch.

If you want to be a writer, it's good to write something every day. If you want to be a musician, play music. Artist, draw,paint, mold, whatever. I feel so stupid. It's the same with language! And before any of us spoke a word of our native language, we listened everyday. We were listening in the womb, listening as we were being born, listening until we finally uttered our first word. As I write, I am listening to Tagesschau, a German news program. I'm probably not doing a whole lot of good, writing in English and listening in German, but I became inspired to write this, and I've learned that when you're inspired, you gotta get it out in some way or it will fizzle.

I'm recognizing words, so that's good.

dear diary.

It's like I've been living in a little shell. Peter's parents have been in Chicago and we've been housesitting for them. Taking their old dog Penny on long walks and short walks, smelling her stinky breath, cleaning up after her, being woken up way too early in the morning by little whines, being pounced on at night, but after all of that...she still manages to be cute. And I haven't been going anywhere because everything I need is at La Casa De Los Padres. Add being sick onto that and I've been a right ol' pile of lazy bones. Yesterday I managed to go on a run. Okay, a run-walk. That's where you run till you can't run anymore, than walk briskly, or slowly, or whatever you want. I listened to Ask Me Another and laughed, and laughed... I might of looked maniacal.

Today I'm back to work, after some very inconsistent hours last week. And THIS weekend I'm off to New Orleans (for the very first time) with some good friends to celebrate a birthday. Oh, and guess what? I'm still on antibiotics. Bad...bad timing. And I don't know what is going to become of me as time slips away. Am I being productive? Getting the most out of life? Do I need to travel more? I want to travel more, is it responsible to take out a loan and travel? Why am I always questioning myself? Shouldn't I know what's best for me, since I am me? This age is overwhelming. I'm feeling crunched for time, like it's going to run out tomorrow. Yeah, I'm still young. "Your whole life is ahead of you." "Stop complaining and be happy with what you have." "Just be." It's so easy for us to tell others what to do. It's not easy telling ourselves what to do. I think this is all I've got.