at the moment.

I am...

... taking on an additional teaching job at a local community college this summer. I have to meet with the professor to finalize it, but I am really excited.

... enjoying my fiction workshop, despite its tendency to lead me toward thoughts of insufficiency. The first story I intend to workshop actually makes me moderately proud.

... getting a new tattoo next Friday. A flock of blackbirds flying up my thigh to my hip bone. The process is being photographed for a tattoo art book called Inked 4 Life.

... counting down the days until my road trip to Vegas.

... designing a website for my Grandma who is running for state senate.

... making a marked attempt to create more (insert noun here).

... able to run a mile outside without stopping. I am aware that doesn't seem like an outstanding accomplishment, but it's something I was unable to do in October of this year.

... considering the start of an online project involving art, poetry and letters.

... obscenely frustrated with teaching research to freshmen. I would liken it to trying to teach a rabbit how to successfully drive a monster truck, while firing a grenade launcher and talking on a cell phone. Some highlights from this attempt include:

"What are source cards?"
"Well, they are the cards where you write down the sources you have used."
"OH! So we put our SOURCES on there."

"I can't find any literary criticism over Edgar Alan Poe."
"Really?"
"Yeah, no one has written anything about him!"

"How do I get to the database?"
"We went over this yesterday in the library."
*blank stare*
"Did you pay attention?"
"Not gonna lie, I didn't."
"I kind of wish you had lied."

the beyond.

My graduate class makes me feel utterly insignificant. Surrounded on all sides by people who seem to enjoy nothing better than hearing themselves speak, I feel so awkward and unintelligent. This feeling is contrary to my typical self and therefore particularly unnerving. Perhaps I only feel comfortable in situations where I am assured to be smart, interesting or witty.

I am so new to the workshop and already I find myself questioning my own purpose. What do I plan to do with a Master's in creative writing? Will I write the next great American novel? Doubtful. Will I receive accolades for my poetry? Slightly less doubtful. Better questions still: Will I ever finish actually the novel? Will I continue teaching? Can I afford to quit and write full time? etc.

When I do feel that wonderful, warm spark of inspiration I immediately respond, sitting at my desk, dilligently typing my thoughts or waking up in the middle of the night to jot something down. I am a slave to my writing, the problem is that I am too often free.

I am officially taking a girls trip, a ROAD trip, from Texas to Las Vegas and The Grand Canyon over Spring Break. These impending seven days of experience necessitate a story, hopefully. In an attempt to capture some of the moments (drunk and sober) I am currently certain will make a patchwork of potentially interesting stories, I plan to invest in a voice recorder. I have never owned a voice recorder before, but it seems as though if I am to be a serious writer at some point in my life, it is time I make the purchase. "How Hunter S. Thompson of you," my friends respond. "Indeed."

musical timeline.

{image from flickr}

I wouldn’t go so far as to say music defines me. In fact, I oftentimes feel “guilty” for my lack of musical prowess. I am constantly “trying on” new bands – Pandora and Twitter suggestions have helped me with that. I am an eclectic listener, my iPod has George Strait, UGK, Lady GaGa and Muse. I like upbeat music in the mornings and mellow music for when I am drawing, this necessitates a variety. Yesterday, I was considering my musical tastes and general thirst to find new bands, and new people who can lead me to these elusive unknowns, when I realized, my musical playlists can be traced. Each song has a history and together they tell a disjointed story of my life.

Texas Country (Roger Creager, Robert Earl Keen, Pat Green, etc.) can be directly attributed to a relationship I had in high school. He was a country boy at heart and we spent all our time camping, two-stepping and listening to really loud country music. Some of the songs still hold a special place in my heart and replace my worries with a simpler time.

Houston & Southern Rap (UGK, Chamillionaire, Paul Wall, etc.) again I can link to a previous relationship - this time in college. He was a hilarious guy (most of the time) and as a result of our obsession with Swisha House we spent too much time writing our own rap lyrics. I may or may not have recorded a few songs.

Indie music was a phase I tried on in college, mostly because “all my friends were doing it” and I figured there had to be something there. In the end I find most of it to be a little too mellow for every day use, but there is some I enjoy.

My passion for female vocalists has led me to collect several singers / bands I never thought to listen to before: The Cardigans, Rilo Kiley, Ani DiFranco, Paramore, Flyleaf, Eisley (one of my all time faves).

My roommate in college showed me Panic at the Disco, People in Planes and FrouFrou. Out of the three I listen to Panic most often.

The Beatles were a band I shied away from before meeting Michael, he was such an avid fan that I gave it a go, and quite enjoyed it. He also redirected my interest back to Incubus (our shared passion), Sublime, 311 and reggae. Love it.

I could go on, but safe to say people I spend time with often make a significant impact on my musical predilections. I am not sure about others, but I rely on a social network to refer me to music they think I will enjoy.

I would also like to take this time to ask for your suggestions (if you have any).

spilled milk.

I’m teaching a poetry unit. I live for poetry; it’s tattooed on my ribs. I should be ecstatic! I’m not. I am loathe to be here this morning, watching my students lethargically type away at what should be a potentially life changing assignment. Their eyes are glazed, heads inclined toward the desk, barely hanging on. I ask if they understand and they stare like zombies, only interested in escape, in feeding on my brains.

In a nutshell, the week makes me weak; and the only sense of rejuvenation I possess is on that blissful week’s end, martini in hand, ready to try again. I am a good teacher, and I enjoy it sometimes (last year). I have found, however, that most teachers are snakes and hypocrites, most students are apathetic and I am lost in a wavering sea of the in-between. Sometimes I wonder if I teach to supplement what I truly love. I want to write and paint and travel and model. Unfortunately I can’t make money doing any of that, and the realization is as crushing for me as it was for so many similar souls. If (for whatever reason) I quit my job to pursue said ventures, I would be forced to rely wholly upon Michael’s income; and that is something that I, independent to a fault, am unwilling to do. I won’t even ask for help finding cereal in the grocery store, there is no way I could accept trading in my financial independence. And so I remain supplementing my passion with stagnation.

The more optimistic side of this tale is that I have finally cleaned out my emerging art studio and organized my paints, papers and crafting supplies in rolling shelves. I need to purchase a few new canvases, but other than that, things are looking good. I plan to repaint the whole room (and the desk!!) in March or April, before we get our new hardwood flooring (thanks Obama money).

My new creative fiction graduate workshop experience was a first day of school nightmare! I couldn’t access my email and thus did not realize the class had been moved off campus (which is actually kind of neat, especially because I don’t need a parking pass, but it sent me into a tailspin of panic). So guess who showed up twenty minutes late without her required reading done?? Awesome. It’s like undergrad all over again, minus the pesky hangover. I can tell I am really going to like the class, potentially more if it wasn’t filled with a subclass of bearded pseudo-intellectuals. Overall I hope to glean a cleaner, more realistic, idea of how to write creative fiction.

portrait of an art studio.

As previously mentioned, Michael and I are the proud owners of a new home. We have sufficiently decorated it in a Tuscan fusion style with tons of earth tones, which suits us perfectly (I will post pictures once our new, full size sofa arrives). However, upstairs loomed two empty rooms, begging for transformation. Michael has graciously allotted the smaller of the two to be my art studio, and needless to say I am elated. A whole room for painting, sketching and graphic design, yes please! Right now it's a ridiculous mess, but I fully intend to rectify that by next weekend.

After perusing Target, Ikea, Pier One, et al for a suitable desk, I finally decided to thrift it, something I have only done sporadically before. And what did I find? A perfect desk WITH chair for half the price of anything Target had to offer, plus it was real wood, not some plyboard substitute. $35? I will take it!
My question to you is, should I paint it? I am definitely replacing the handles, but Michael says leave it wood, my Mom said I should paint it if I want to.

My desk:
My dream desk:

Color Inspiration for the studio (also thrifted!) I am painting an accent wall with large, alternating turquoise and yellow stripes. I think a red desk would be perfection. The bookcases are black.:
Opinions?

the first night.

It is 24 degrees outside. Below freezing. In Texas. It’s warmer in Alaska right now. Where did I spend the night? In my new house, without electricity! My justification to this seemingly irrational decision is fairly weak, but substantial to me. You see, Michael could only move this Sunday or next Sunday and since it had already been a week since we signed (and we have to be moved in within 3 weeks according to FHA loans), we were both anxious to spend this week, as well as the following three day weekend, moving in to our new house.

Undeterred by the ominous “hard freeze” warnings, Entergy's inability to cooperate with us and previous nights running out of hot water, we packed up our Uhaul and carried the possessions accumulated over 2 years in our 1-bedroom apartment (which was surprisingly A LOT!) to our new 3 bedroom / 2.5 bath 2-story house. Needless to say, everywhere (aside from my closet) has room to grow.

Last night, as temperatures settled around 20 degrees, we lit a fire and braced ourselves for what was to come. Under a pile of blankets, surrounded by sparkling votives, I watched my breath create brief rings of condensation before dissipating into the blackness. Sherman, our dog, joined me in this silent mantra of cold and stillness. Darkness enveloped us completely and Michael and I lay curled into each other, hungrily absorbing one another’s natural warmth. Between the two of us there was plenty and I slept warmly, peacefully. It reminded me of camping. And to be honest, surviving our first night in the house without electricity or heat was reminiscent of Little House on the Prairie. I felt all Laura Ingalls Wilder in my flannel pants and fuzzy socks. I stayed in that bubble of inner warmth until my phone alarm signified our reemergence into reality. Placing my toes on the stone floor was absolutely horrible, as was getting ready in the dark (pretty sure I am a hot mess today).

However, with a Starbucks hot chocolate sitting next to me, and the day slowly dwindling before me, I find myself smiling about last night, but smiling wider at the potentiality of electricity (and Taco Bell) upon my arrival home. I am also excited about being able to say the magical word home, because that is truly what we now possess.

funny things.

{while teaching Animal Farm}
Me: The animals are saying humans don't produce anything, what are some things humans can produce?
Student 1: Babies!
Student 2: Poop!
Me: I was thinking more like... industry or technology.

Me: Sorry guys, I have been up all night dealing with the house we are buying.
Student: Why? Are houses cheaper at night?
Me: ...