“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” ~ William Shakespeare Sometimes I’m a little frustrated with my name.  No matter where I look it only seems to refer to a beautiful, exotic, fragrant, night-blooming flower.  My name is Jasmine.  I am not exotic.  I’m a mid-day bloomer.  And I certainly hope I don’t have such a heady odor as my flora counterpart.  My middle name, Nichole, is French for “victory of the people.”  So far, I’m a victorious flower of the people.  My mother named me Jasmine Nichole because she wanted the option to call me something a little cutesy- i.e. Jessy (which she does call me) or Nicky (which we call my dog whose name is Nicholas.)  I always like to hear about how she picked out my name.  She really did think a lot about it, but my mother is also someone who knows what she wants, no matter how much shopping she does.  She wanted something like Jessalyn.  Jasmine can be found in a variety of forms: Persian, Arabic, African, and French.  After some digging, I did find the Arabic meaning of my name: gift from God.  However, most name books and websites will merely insist that I am a flower, and won’t elaborate further.  Because I am a petite Caucasian girl with a tropical name, I have been called every wild version of Jasmine that my friends and acquaintances can think to call me: Yasmin, Yasmeen, Yas-mine, Jas-mine, Yas-mine-ah and Boardgame.  I of course know that Boardgame has nothing to do with the phonetics of my name, but it’s what my choir teacher named me sophomore year because I’ve memorized the monopoly board.    Of all of these, the one I prefer the most is Jasmine.  If said by the right person, I think that my name can be elegant or fun.  My family and close friends call me Jazz or Jazzy.  However, to the general public I prefer Jasmine.  but despite the frustrations that my name meanings present, and lack of exciting racial origins to match my colorful title, I like my name.  It reminds me that it’s not the name that defines the person, but the person who brings meaning to the name.But when it comes to literature, names can often define a character.  I love names.  I look up names for my characters all the time.  I love that a name can sound sinister, innocent, seductive, spunky, or dashing.  Names are the first non-visual impression that people get, and it can say a lot.  For instance, J.K. Rowling does a magnificent job using names to give an immediate impression of characters.  Albus Dumbledore means white bumblebee.  Hearing this name, how could anyone think anything sinister at all about this character?  Dumbledore makes him sound bumbling and cheerful, but Albus sounds intelligent.  However, there is nothing happy or trusting about the name Lord Voldemort, or Lucius Malfoy.  Someday, as a writer, I hope to have the skills with names that Rowling does.  For now, I research names and enjoy their sounds, and experiment with my own characters, while learning from the masters.           

      Who watched the Oscars last night?  I did!  And I was shocked that the Hurt Locker took so many general categories.  I’m sure it is an excellent movie, but it didn’t have any acting awards for the night, which makes me wonder if it’s just a political, special effects movie.

I am happy that the fabulous Sandra Bullock got Best Actress.

My last comment on the event is that I was surprised and pleased at Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin’s performance- very funny men :)  That’s all today- I’m going to take a bit of a me day.

     Yesterday, I went to see Alice and Wonderland.  Before going, I was told that the critics had declared it thoroughly and unforgivably Tim Burton with Johnny Depp given free-reign to be his bizarre self.  Well I loved it, even if I defy elite opinion.  Not only did it retain the brilliance of Lewis Carroll’s nonsensical style, while still allowing the viewer to grasp a basic understanding of the details of Wonderland, but it also infused fantastical dilemas of right and wrong, love and fear, and being practical while believing in the impossible.   The animation was brilliant.  The costumes in wonderland were humerously punk/fantasy, while the real world ones looked like Tim Burton’s animated world: pasty and gaunt.  the characters were apathetically larger than life- does that make sense?  I’ll try to explain.  While the main characters seemed to take everything normal in a scatterbrained and ADD way (Alice runs off during the middle of a conversation because she sees a rabbit- doesn’t that seem strange and slightly rude?), they seem to take the unusual in stride.  Once Alice is able to establish that, no, this place that is vividly real, where she can be scratched and putrified, where she has been thrown about, chased, and stuffed in a teapot, was, in fact, very real and not a dream, she was ready to fight.  Why she suddenly gained supernatural courage once she realized that she could indeed die instead of just wake up, I can’t explain, and I think that this is why these characters are so vivid.  They are never conventional.  This is the first Tim Burton film that didn’t somewhat disturb me, and I applaud him, and the wonderful cast, especially Anne Hathaway, who neve seemed to be able to decisively place her hands anywhere.

Once again, a successful trip to the movies.

Yesterday, for my birthday friday, my lovely family and I watched Julie & Julia.  I find this to be such an amazing and inspirational movie.  Not only is the music lovely and the Parisian setting to die for, but the story itself has stirred the same old things inside of me, the desire to be everywhere.  But it also served as a heartwarming and comical rebuke.  Both main characters seem to write constantly.  Julie, the woman from present-day New York, develops a blog that transforms into, not only a commentary on cooking, but an outlet for her thoughts and her real talent, which was writing.  Julia and her husband write all the time, because they write letters.  Why don’t we write letters anymore?  I always think of something infinitley cleverer than what I did say after I put down the phone, so why not take the opportunity for thought and write a letter…. or talk slower?  So there Amy Adams and Meryl Streep sat, Oscar participants speaking directly at me, saying “just start writing.”  If I write everyday, something will come out.  It could be entirely worthless to the rest of the world, but it won’t be worthless to me.    

           So today I am off to the movies to watch Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland.  I am very excited- even though I heard the reviews were bad.  I don’t always like what Tim puts out there, but I’ve got to give him points for originality.  I don’t really think I could be a movie critic, because I don’t think I could ever call a movie bad.  My stragedy is to pick out what I like and what I don’t like, but I don’t think I could disqualify a director’s piece of work. 

           One more thought: I am going to be diligently watching the Oscars this weekend for my birthday.  I love to see actors take their art seriously, instead of seeing the tabloids tear down their characters- they really don’t deserve that.  I would love for Meryl to get another Oscar- she was just so charming in Julie & Julia.

      Next year, I am seriously looking into studying in Ireland for a semester.  As I plan, and daydream about the wonderful opportunity this could be, I can’t help but find a pattern in my fantasies lately.  I frequently like to look up castles and English manors online.  I love to look at Indian clothing stores with all their bangles and sparkly fabrics.  I am fascinated by bizarre, exotic foods.  I feel adventure just looking at a map. 

       Is it obvious yet that there is some deep, nagging desire inside of me to be abroad?  I’ve known some people who wish to leave their hometown simply to get away from their families.  This is by no means my case.  After only a semester in college, I’ve been told more than once “no, Jasmine, you may not come home next weekend,” as my parents lovingly prod me from my nest.  Being so close to home makes it a temptation to stay, well, close to home.  But this ache for mountains, this craving for chickpeas, this longing for the hum of foreign tongues, can’t be explained by an aversion to where I’m at.  It can only be explained by a curiousity of where I have not yet been.

         Now that I have the desire, I have to recognize my personal obstacles.  I have three glaring hurtles: my ordinary essence, my short attention span, and my passive agression.

         If I am a bird leaving the nest, I think that I’m a Robin.  Pigeons remind me of soaring architecture.  Eagles inspire mountains.  Crows make me think of Poe, and gloomy moors.  Even sparrows remind me of either a tipsy pirate or questing knights.  But I am a robin, a bird that sits in my pine tree in America’s midwest.  It has a call that isn’t pleasant like the loon, or haunting, like the crows.  This is what I am.  It’s the bird I see the most, and it catches my attention the least.  I’m plain looking, and my experiences are the same.  I’m not even experiencing college away from my own native forest.  I have yet to do anything that adds a little bit of sparkle to my wings.  Maybe that’s why I’m feeling restless for travel: I want to migrate.  I have unused wings.  But hopefully the ordinary of my Robinness will be an empty canvas for the people, places, and histories that I hope to encounter.

           The second obstacle is my short attention span.  I am interested in anything and everything.  I want to know about every part of the world.  If I could have my wish I would know every language, be an expert in all mythologies, and connect with each people group on Earth.  Perhaps this is the writer in me, that balks at the idea of being contained in one subject or using the same set of words over and over again.  But while this makes the world around me a wonderfully distracting place that I can’t see enough of, it also tends to prevent me from becoming truly versed in any one thing.  I went into the library one day to check out of book of Native American lore, because my grandfather now does a lot of work with various reservations and he sparked my curiosity.  I came out of the library with books on Russian, English, Native American, and Irish lore.  I can’t know enough, and therefore I probably never will know much.  As Mr. Monk would say: it’s a blessing… and a curse.

            Finally, I am passive agressive.  I don’t always see the harm in this.  after all, passive aggression is still a form of aggression- isn’t it?  Well, maybe you can tell me about it sometime… if you want to.  But in all seriuosness, no matter how much I defend my round-about way of doing things, I can’t deny that it would hinder any adventure or exploring that I plan on doing.  I tend to be scared of initiating conversations, and I’m terrified of speaking to someone in a different language.  Something about fumbling over conjugations and incorrect verbs makes me blush for myself and for those I impose it on, but how else do you meet people?  So, if I am to be the writer, the traveler, and the person I want to be, I need to work on getting the moxy it takes to walk up to a person and say, “Je ne parle pas francais, mais, je ce parle.”  Then I can throw in what little I know about pantaloons and Versaille, and I’ve started a clumsy, possibly incorrect, giggly conversation, but a conversation none-the-less. 

         And maybe that’s the real adventure, daring to do what ordinarily makes me want to curl up and eat pretzels dipped in chocolate frosting while watching Keeping Up With the Kardashians.  My new adventures are going to be whatever scares me.  Whatever makes me feel so alone that I’m forced to turn to myself for counsel and deal witht he consequences.  Whatever forces me to migrate.

Can you feel the earth moving?

No, really, stop and feel it.

Don’t you feel like you could fall into the sky?

Like very little is holding you to the grass?

You’re dizzy,

You’re dazzled,

You’re floating,

You’re a little bit sick.

There’s a pull on your sneakers,

Your fingertips stretch toward the sky.

And if he doesn’t hold your hand,

You’ll be lost to the stars forever.

 There’s a little toy dinosaurCrouching on my desk.He’s speckled and green.His upright smile remains. He wobbles if I touch him.His plastic balance Can be broken With a breath and a smile. His dumb eyes can’t see.His blind nose can’t smell.He can’t speak,Or filter air. His name is PicklesAnd he will sit in a landfillForeverWith his gaudy grin. The MADE IN CHINA label,Strapped across his belly,Will remain long after The Chinese are gone. He will continue to toppleAs others join his stateAnd people make toys Of them and their stupid smiles. But I will pass beneath,The musty weight of Earth,Becomes my bonesBecomes my Earth. But Pickles,As he wobbles on my desk,Will stay. 

I’m sorry Mom,

I broke your shoes.

Not sheets of rain,

Not a drizzled, pounding background,

But a pillow of rain.

I’m sorry Mom,

I broke your shoes.

A smothering, fluffy pressure

That blocks out companions sound,

And noises of anything but the dirt path.

I’m sorry Mom,

I broke your shoes.

A lovely rain of playful hands

That lift and twine my hair about

And baptize me with their singularity.

I’m sorry Mom

I broke your shoes.

And settled at the bottom of the pillow,

Great gaping puddles of confused color.

Just an unfathomable ankle-deep

I’m sorry Mom,

I broke your shoes.

So, as drizzled hands urge me on,

I sleepily drag my feet through the puddles,

Feeling the pull of the bottom sand on the sandal straps.

I’m sorry Mom,

I broke your shoes.

here’s the first poem we did in the class

I am chicken soup

With cinnamon and gizzards.

I am Halva

Slowly eaten with pursed lips.

I am catching butterflies.

I am fishing

With swallowed fear and squirming bait.

I am a cleaning house

With overwhelming smell and cold water.

I am catching butterflies.

I am a picture book

With riddles in the dark.

I am a mother’s voice

Emerging from the tesseract.

I am catching butterflies.

I am Russian tea

Cuddled on the sofa.

I am a monopoly board

With tumbling money castles.

I am catching butterflies.

I am a Journey to the Center of the Earth

Played with tables and blankets in the basement.

I am a Narnian

With a lion at the head and a white witch at the tail.

I am catching butterflies.

I am the library

And bargaining for more books with mother who doesn’t want so many.

I am Star Wars

Memorizing the alien names and places.

I am catching butterflies.

I am mud

And the wanted and unwanted places it gets.

I am lady bugs

Pulled from the pine trees.

I am catching butterflies.

I am grasshoppers

And then I am not.

I am bike rides

To McDonalds for ice cream.

I am catching butterflies.

I am sparkly dresses

When whatever shines is beautiful.

I am racecars

And then Barbie dolls.

I am chasing butterflies.

hey everybody!  I’ve been offline for a long time.  I’m going to start writing regularly now, and I hope that I can get some good comments.  So here’s something new.  The next few posts are going to be poetry, which is completley unlike me.  I’m not a poetry person, because it always ends up being really dark.  But during my Intro to Creative Writing class, we wrote some and I discovered that I don’t hate it.  So let’s see what you think.  Are you ready?