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?

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