the perpetual self

sonnet II

2011-12-12T19:24:00.002-05:00

I wrote this sonnet for workshop after reading an interview of Annie Clark, aka: St. Vincent in LA Times. Her new album is all sorts of amazing and one of the few from 2011 that have really blown me away. She knows a thing or two about human struggle.

Amen, or, Amidst the Dark Night of the Soul

"Sometimes the only way through it is deeper into it, to stare at that black hole." - Annie Clark

Perhaps this void will linger here until
your pockets are empty—all desire spent.
You work to eat to live and work again,
fast and confess, but your cup does not spill.
The air inside this old foyer is still;
the only vestige of a prayer you sent
to the Lord without knowing what it meant:
Quiet or storm, with my soul it is well.

The only way out is deeper, deeper
into the absence, to embrace its ache,
stare at oblivion 'til soft winds blow.
Approach the night which grows thicker, blacker.
If wholly for Him and for virtue's sake,
then welcome this darkness. Let it be so.

ode

2011-12-05T19:34:00.001-05:00

Ode to Simon Peter

God bless the fisherman
who left his net dangling
on the edge of his father's boat
to become a fisher of men.

Peter and his rock for a brain:
"Let us pitch a tent," he had said
on the mountainside,
slack-jawed and eyes glazed over
while his rabbi glowed white
and spoke to dead prophets.

Thank goodness for his zeal
when Christ walked across the lake;
he responded, "me too,"
and stepped out of the boat
only to cry, "save me!"
a moment later
with a mouthful of water.

Peter, that adamant and conflicted boy,
first refused to have his feet washed
by his humble teacher,
then insisted his hands and head
be completely soaked once more.

Thank God for Peter
and his declarations:
"Even if all fall away,
I will not."
And his defense:
"I know him not"
one, twice, and again
before the rooster signaled morning.

Thank God for Peter,
for having said aloud
what I keep secret.

murmuration

2011-11-17T02:07:00.001-05:00

Wow, this is going to be on my mind for a while:

Murmuration from Sophie Windsor Clive on Vimeo.

Here's a very loosely related poem--only in that it mentions birds (though I feel a series of bird poems coming on after this video). I need help with the title. This was workshopped last week and I like the title, but it either belongs somewhere in the poem or is another poem entirely.

An Intake of Breath before the Start, Sometimes Sharp, Sometimes Prolonged

We are born ordinary,
gasping for air, wanting
to be held dear.

We grow to delight
in complexity, to detest
what is obscure or unwilled
—such as penmanship.

We make homes
with whatever we can
like birds in shopping carts.

We allow umbrellas
to suffer in our stead—
broken, wet, abandoned.

We forget so many things:
to water the basil,
to pray before a meal,
to enunciate.

Yet, we tremble
before an uncertain kiss,
breath held at infinity.

ekphrasis

2011-11-11T00:10:00.001-05:00

For our workshop class a few weeks ago, our professor, Rachel Hadas, assigned to us ekphrastic poems and accompanied us at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. It was many of our first times at the MET, the last Saturday of October, and also the first snow fall of the year. None of us wore appropriate shoes for the weather, but it was a breath-taking experience nonetheless--soggy, squeaky shoes and all.

Here's a poem I wrote after walking through the Stieglitz exhibit and stumbling upon Arthur B. Davies' "Reclining Woman."

Muse On Color

Neck arched back along
a chaise built from color,
its undefined edges
like water or air.
Posture confessing
a long day spent.

Booklet in hand—
purple Japanese paper; her skin
pale, powdered, blank.

Perhaps she returned
from ballet practice:
hair spun loosely in a bun,
weathered legs bare,
strap of her tattered leotard
hung off a bruised shoulder.

Asleep or in thought—
no matter. Relieved
to unwind after countless
plies smoother than water,
pirouettes lighter than air.

Mind unoccupied,
no song replaying,
no steps practiced.

An art she has mastered:
to lie on color yet live
without hue.

strange mercy

2011-11-01T20:44:00.003-04:00

St. Vincent is really rocking my whispy-voice and guitar-lovin' world right now.

sonnet

2011-10-31T13:32:00.002-04:00

To David In the Desert

What heartache is too great a task for God,
too paltry of a matter to address?
How long will you go on with this facade
by which you disguise despair, not digress
from righteous prattle, before you believe?
Where are you when I call in broad daylight?
Preoccupied with facts, how you perceive
your state is no puzzle, only finite.
The Lord who delivered you from the jaw
of the lion will quiet your questions;
the Lord who delivered you from the paw
of the bear will belie your trite fictions.
I beckon you, come, and I call again,
to be with you, thus, as your love remain.

sestina

2011-10-22T00:35:00.000-04:00

For my 100th blog post, here is a sestina I wrote recently for workshop:

Deaf Psalm

If I suffer the absence of your Word,
do I then suffer the absence of you?
Though I mutter prayers without want,
dismayed and uncertain, I hear nothing.
So I wait for the God who will love me back—
the one, I am told, who never goes away.

Or is it me who flees, who runs away
when I cannot remember the word
you promised? Return? That you would come back
for the broken and lost parts of me, how you
would make something out of nothing,
and give more than I am able to want.

Yet, it does not matter what I want
because, in foolishness, I push away,
fail to see your tender advances, accept nothing
for this solitude, for the lack of word
or sound existing between me and you;
I only envision your turned back.

I have resolved to keep from looking back
to that ignorant age when the want
was unknown, when I could live without you
and be content while such a love was far away,
but since, though faintly, your hallowed Word
has engraved its shape into my small heart, nothing

else appeases my ache for certainty, nothing
matters except hearing back
from you in this babble of self-inflicted chagrin. Can a word
erase in me such expectation, such want?
If feeling is a farce, will you do away
with my will to trade feeling for fact? You

who dwell somewhere above my head, you
who are here yet not—a God who speaks nothing
audible in return while I waste away
attempting to get back
what I lost. It is not wind nor quake nor fire I want,
but whisper—an infrequent, right word.

If ever I slip away, ever abandon you,
if a word can accomplish all but nothing,
seize me, take me back. Your breath is all I want.

for my grandfather

2011-10-18T18:35:00.002-04:00

I introduced this poem when I read it at the Coffee Cave Reading last Tuesday by providing a bit of context, so I'll do that here. I wrote this poem for my workshop class; we were assigned to write an elegy for that particular week. The text we're using, The Making of a Poem, a book on poetic forms, described elegies as poems dealing not only with death, but with loss as well.

This poem is about my grandfather. He's 83 years old and living in a nursing home where people feed him, change his bed sheets, and bathe him. One thing about my grandfather: he loves to talk. His stories are long, repetitive, and sometimes have no point, but they are his stories. But at the nursing home, and even during the time he was living with my family, he had no one to converse with. And so, he started creating his own dialogue in his mind. Now, he can barely distinguish his thoughts from dream or reality. The last few times I talked to him over the phone or went to visit him at the nursing home, I realized how he was becoming less and less of the grandfather I knew--how I was losing parts of him though he was still here. So that's what I was thinking about as I wrote this piece.

Elegy for the Elder

Joseph,Joseph

howmany times
have you walked your grandchildren
to the bus stop in the morning?

Howmany church pews
have witnessed you on your knees
praying for your sons
and their meager wages?

Joseph, Joseph,

howmany meals
have you eaten alone
or been spoon-fed with plastic cutlery?

Howmany hours
have you spent under lamplight
teaching yourself the English alphabet?

Joseph,Joseph
Who is your comfort
when your prescriptions run low?

Whohears your prayers,
your mid-sleep mantra?

But live, I have to,living I must.

Joseph,Joseph,

inbroken English you demand
a cup of lukewarm water,

andsuddenly interrupt:

Cows cold, go checkthem,

cows cold, go check.

Joseph,dear Joseph,

ifonly you would sing again
that familiar hymn—the one you sang
for many widowed years:
All the way my Savior leads me;
What have I to ask beside?

brain tryst

2011-10-15T12:54:00.000-04:00

It's no Philadelphia, but Newark is growing on me. Public transportation is easy and frequent, there actually are a number of grassy areas in the mix of all the concrete, and people are, contrary to popular belief, kind, welcoming, and generally quite helpful around here. Go figure.

I heard all kinds of stories about people getting mugged, stabbed, and robbed, but none of those things have happened on campus since I've moved here. I live on frat row and there's loud music with blaring bass--that I can actually feel in my room--but it's safe.

One of my main fears about starting grad school was meeting new people. After a year away from school, away from forced contact with other students, away from other writers, I felt uneasy about making new friends. It's my neurosis. I spend so much of my own time thinking to myself how crazy I am that I convince myself I'm a person who would be impossible to get along with. Over-self-consciousness.

But since the first day of training to the faculty meetings, to chats in our office, to classes and workshops, to exploring new places to eat, to sitting around at a cafe trying to figure what the heck we're doing trying to teach these students how to write, we've really developed a sense of camaraderie between us, the first year MFA students.

Granted, only half the semester has passed, but I see a very special thing we have here. To sit among friends who share a similar passion for literature, for writing, for teaching, and are so willing to help each other become better at all these things--well, it's just lovely. Since I've started at the MFA program at Rutgers-Newark, I had a strong awareness that it was right for me to be here; and the more time I spend here, the more it feels right.

Every other Thursday, the Writing Program Instructors (which really sounds very official, but it's just a bunch of the MFA students who teach English here) get together at the Art Kitchen, a nice little cafe with quirky decor and an awesome menu, to chat, vent, and discuss ideas for lesson plans and new strategies for helping the students "get it." When Anna sent out the first email, she intended to have the subject read "Brain Trust" but misspelled it as "Brain Tryst." It was an error in the best sort of way.

Last Saturday, we had a potluck/mini Writer's Retreat at our classmates' loft in Jersey City. Many of us felt overwhelmed by teaching that we'd inadvertently neglected our own writing. So we all cooked some of our best dishes, ate like crazy (and talked about food as we ate), and settled down to work on our poems and stories. Truthfully, we didn't exactly get that much work done. We had way to much fun talking, laughing, listening to music and just enjoying each other's company. As writers, we really get each other and our love for language is so apparent in our casual conversations.

We've had escapades in Montclair, eating good food and just enjoying the view--it almost reminds me of a cleaner version of Old City. We've had silly subway rides to Brooklyn and back. We've taken the PATH to Manhattan to hear the second year MFA students read their work at the KGB Bar. And we've sat around in our offices, meeting with students, frantically trying to get work done before classes, quite exhausted, but totally elated. All of this makes me think one thing: I am so thankful.

Despite my fears, insecurities, and anxieties about moving to a new area, meeting new people, and reacquainting myself to being a student, I've been proved wrong. And I love it when I'm proved wrong like this. I'm so grateful to be here and to be surrounded by people who care about the same things I do. I see a kind of fervor and excitement for life and art in a way I've never experienced before. And I want more.

you're ok

2011-10-10T18:59:00.000-04:00

Wow:

I really want to be.

syllabics exercise for workshop

2011-09-28T01:15:00.000-04:00

Room

A room is not attempted
but occupied—be it drenched
or dry, dull, ablaze, fragrant
or familiar; no matter
how long its stay: the parchment,
the lamp, glass trinkets, trifles
of morning pleasantries—each
piece carried in by a hand
or recollection—exposed
to that ever certain dust,
each by each, belonging to
some small fraction of our selves.

orientation

2011-08-08T23:17:00.004-04:00

Or lack there-of. Let me explain:

I purchased Bolt Bus tickets weeks in advance to ensure prompt and smooth travel from Philadelphia to Newark. TA orientation would take place August 3rd to 4th. I already have travel anxiety to begin with, but on top of that I am fantastically awful with directions, so I google mapped everything: the walk from Newark Penn Station to Rutgers campus, from New York Penn Station to my sister's apartment in Manhattan, where I would spend the first night in between sessions. I even charted bus routes in case the walk would be too much.

My alarm went off at 5:30am. I couldn't remember the last time I had read that time from my clock. I was still drowsy even after I had washed up and neurotically checked my bag to make sure I didn't forget anything. I didn't even bother putting on make-up because I figured I'd arrive early; I'd have plenty of time to make myself presentable before orientation.

The bus was scheduled to arrive at 6:45am. When I approached 30th and JFK Blvd, there was already a line of people waiting for their buses. A Bolt bus happened to already be there, so I asked a man in a uniform if it was the one leaving for Newark. "That's in fifteen minutes," he said without making eye contact. So I put on my headphones and waited along the brick wall.

Another Bolt bus arrived. The banner on the front read "BOSTON" so I stayed put, assuming my bus would show up any minute. I still had my headphones on, listening to "Honest Truth" by Typhoon on repeat after their captivating show on Friday night. The driver of the Boston-bound bus announced her last call which I could only tell by the movement of her mouth. Within a minute, it was gone.

I checked the time: 7:05am. This worried me. The buses were late at times, but not to this extent. I walked over to some other people who also looked to be waiting for Bolt bus. "Which bus are you guys waiting for?" I asked, with one earphone still in place.

"New York," they said in unison.

"Oh. I'm waiting for the Newark bus. It should have been here at 6:45."

One woman looked at me quizzically. "That bus already left..."

"No way..." I half whispered.

I didn't think myself to be someone who'd hold her head between her hands during a state of shock and confusion, but there I was. I couldn't possibly have missed it. I had been standing at the pick-up location 15 minutes early. I was right there.

The woman explained that the bus going to Boston was also the one for Newark. Too bad the ticket didn't mention anything about that. I called my mom on sheer impulse. I didn't know what to do.

The drive from Philadelphia to Newark is 2 hours. My mom said my dad couldn't drive me, but it would be ridiculous to ask him to do that for me anyway. I called my brother at home to have him check the bus schedule, but he was dazed in half-sleep. I couldn't blame him; it was 7am on a summer day. After what seemed like ages, he told me there were no more departures listed online. Great.

Another Bolt bus going to New York Penn Station had arrived while I was on the phone. When I hung up, I approached the driver to ask if she knew the bus schedules,but she rather rudely dismissed me. It was already 7:15am. I was going to be late. Panic panic panic. My mind was racing. Then, I got an idea: if I take this bus to New York, I could take the train to Newark.

I asked her when she would be departing.

"In one minute," she said.

So I hopped on board.

The bus was nearly full, but I got a seat towards the back. I sat down and took a deep breath. It wasn't until the air conditioning hit my skin that I realized how much I had been sweating. I called my mom to let her know what I had decided. Then, I took a nap.

An hour or so later, I woke up and did my makeup on the shaky bus using my barely reflective cell phone screen as my mirror. It all seemed hilarious and pathetic at the same time.

Once we arrived at Penn Station, I called my sister to ask her help me navigate through the concourse. People were swarming. It was so big. I was getting dizzy. After weaving through the crowd, finally finding the ticket booth, and buying my tickets, I ran to the track where the train leaving for Newark was already boarding.

I was surprised at how short the actual travel time was: 15 minutes. When I arrived at Newark Penn Station, it was 10:00am. Orientation would now be starting.

Being so spectacularly directionally challenged, of course I exited the station through the wrong side. Then, I proceeded to circle the entire perimeter of the station at least once, maybe more--I can't remember. I asked a few random people walking by to point me in the right direction and then I was on a speed walking rampage, nearly a mile to campus.

When I finally arrived at Conklin Hall and stepped into the room that the Writing Program director had asked us to meet her, it was empty. 10:15am. I paced back and forth. Had I come all this way for nothing? I thought. Then, I remembered that in the email, she mentioned that we would initially meet in the lounge, and then move to the conference room. I had no idea where that was. I looked around and I saw that the director's name and number were on her door. So I called. As soon as it started ringing, I heard the phone on the other side of the door ring. Of course.

Irony upon irony. Mishap after mishap. It was too much for me. I sat around, waiting for someone, anyone, to walk by and show me where to go. It was all I could do.

Much to my relief, one of the other directors walked in after only a few minutes, though I did not realize who he was at the moment.

"Hi, my name is a Elizabeth Kim I'm a new TA and..." I began to explain in a slur--almost pleading.

"Oh!" he said, "come this way, they just got started."

When he showed me to the room--which was just right down the hallway--about 7 people were sitting at a table in a small windowless room. They all looked up at me.

I took that brief moment to say to myself, You idiot.

I had made a point to dress nicely to make a good first impression, but my shirt was sticking to my back and my face was still flushed red. I had meticulously planned ahead in order to avoid any complications and yet, they were unmistakably present. How perfect. How real.

The rest of the day went fine. The orientation session, which really felt more like training, went until 4:30pm. Everyone was friendly and understanding. It was raining, but it didn't bother me much.

I rode the train back to New York Penn Station since I would be spending the night at my sister's apartment. I did some shopping while I waited for her to get out of work. The sidewalks and shops were still really crowded despite how hard it was raining. My flats were soaked, I was touching elbows with practically everyone, and my phone was running out of battery, but all of these things seemed so inconsequential after what happened that morning.

I eventually met my sister, walked several long blocks to her place, ate chinese food, watched a movie, and passed out.

Day two was smooth sailing. Sunny and absolutely no travel issues. I already started to feel like a pro taking the train. I arrived to Rutgers-Newark campus early and did some reading while I waited for the other TAs to show up.

The rest is boring, well, at least probably to you. We learned how to write diagnostic prompts, read some sample papers and did some practice grading. I began to remember why the idea of teaching was so exciting to me. Because there is nothing so inexhaustible in this life as learning. (T.H. White wrote something about that.) If I could help even one student learn how to write a decent paper, that would be more than enough. All of this would be worth it.

I got back to Philly just fine.

happy birthday, sufjan

2011-07-01T19:04:00.004-04:00

With joy, with mistakes, with heart.

on the resurrection

2011-04-24T23:04:00.004-04:00

To Be Alone or With Me

Afraid to lend yourself

to what might—has no shape,

no proof but word

Like water beneath

your feet, many days spent alone, or

a name called within reach

A force of habit—or might

—to turn to the caller,

known or not

Form, clothes—vacant, relinquished—

to be pressed into the pulse

of the human heart

on the cross

2011-04-23T23:38:00.002-04:00

He Has Done It

The Prophet was a Poet

to his final word—

chiseled and wrought—

breaking through

bone and bark

fire and ash

stone and veil

man and man

simply to mean:

Be with me where

I am.

on peter's denial

2011-04-21T17:11:00.004-04:00

Easier Alternatives Chosen in the Dark

It wasn't so much

the utterance as it was

the ease of the utterance

—the escalating dramatization

of every word.

Inquired by child:

Weren't you there

when he healed our crippled neighbor?

Who? he said, I've never heard of the guy.

Weren't you the one

who walked with him

across the Galilee?

You're crazy, he said,

as if anyone could ever do such a thing.

You talk just like him,

with the diction of one

who can drive away spirits,

tear out our heartache,

make something out of nothing.

He hurled out profanities he had never

before used, Does that sound like the mouth of a disciple?

Yet in my best behavior

I am really worse than him

When I am asked,

Did he not come for you,

walk on water to you,

break bread with you?

I am craven. I am silent.

At least Peter spoke a word.

on gethsemane

2011-04-20T22:43:00.002-04:00

The Cup Overflows

Two cupped palms were raised

before a sallow, arched form.

These hands had held much:

broken bread, broken hearts, the poor, and the lame.

These hands had given wholly:

sight, breath, stillness to a sea.

These hands had caught many:

nets upon nets of fish, of men.

Thus, in a garden, those trembling hands

were precisely what they were made for,

speckled with drops of his very blood.

on the last supper

2011-04-18T22:53:00.003-04:00

I Have Eagerly Desired to Eat this Passover with You

A table I prepare for you

Once and for all

The nights I cannot remain

For the meals you eat alone

For the cups run dry

For all the lack

Come drink, come feast

Come

You will always have enough

on palm sunday

2011-04-17T21:48:00.005-04:00

The Coat-Bearer Cometh

He required a colt

Son of Man, the Nazarene

The people fashioned an impromptu runway:

spring jackets, scarves, kitchen towels—

whatever they had on them

when they joined their neighbors

in all the noise

He rode on under shaded breeze

Son of David, the Anointed

The people extended their arms,

releasing their garments

—or reaching for his, perhaps

to graze just the tip of his wing

faith is art: the art of taking a big risk

2011-04-12T23:45:00.005-04:00

As aptly spoken by Sufjan Stevens in this interview.

It's amazing how it's been 5 years since this interview took place and conceptually, Sufjan seems so connected with his flow of music-making. Instinctual, intentional, personal.

"My only goal is to extend myself — instrumentally, thematically, theoretically — until I come across something exciting (something otherworldly), making the most joyful noise possible," he says.

And that's just it, isn't it? Any created thing is an extension of the creator.

Thinking about all this now, I'm a bit ashamed at myself. If art is taking a risk, then I'm a big wuss. And I think it's been a timidity of mind and focus lately. I blame it on work. I blame it on my lack of free time. A deficit of this or that. I blame it on the atmosphere--too cold, too bland, too fast, too mundane, too whatever. But really, it's an issue of discipline. It's so much easier to let my thoughts be carried by tv shows and circumstances, rather than stretching them to consider matters of the heart. No wonder I haven't written in ages. I have no inclination to jump; instead, I let my untied shoes dangle on the edge.

What frightens me is that there's little to extend. That I've become a robot, merely following commands and spitting out satisfactory results. Lazy brains are such a bore.

I'm grateful enough for this discomfort in me. At least I recognize it. I'm embarrassed by it. But that's not enough. I need to participate in it. Give myself to it. Choose it. The excitement, the wonder of experiencing that beyond-yourself-ness that comes with creating, releasing yourself into the untamed world to let out that joyful noise.

he visits me in dream again

2011-03-20T21:16:00.000-04:00

my new project: too much

2011-01-22T21:24:00.001-05:00

I'm going to learn to sing and dance to this in its entirety.

the middle of the world, or, sufjan stevens at the academy of music

2010-11-10T23:48:00.026-05:00

I had panicked over not being able to buy tickets for the concert during the summer--I was at work and the computers were painfully slow. But the tickets were now packed in my bag, sitting between the pages of my moleskine notebook for safe-keeping. The day was so long. The hours seemed to drag their feet, melting into each other while I tried to keep my mind busy at work.

After I picked Soo up from campus, we met Dan--who sounded strangely unenthusiastic on the phone--in his neighborhood and walked over to Hawthorne's, a homey little diner right off of South Street. It's not too often the three of us get together like we used to during our undergrad years, so it was pleasant to sit and enjoy a meal together. It reminded me of the time we went to see Sufjan in Brooklyn three years ago.

We walked towards Center City, anticipation welling up in me. Dan told us stories about his classroom and showed us a pen that had several different colored inks. Soo and I were unimpressed. We walked on. When a bellhop-looking man directed us to the Academy of Music, not the Kimmel Center, we were slightly disappointed, but once we walked into the room, we forgot any complaint we had previously made. It felt like we had traveled back in time, into a Victorian theater. The balconies were covered in intricate gilded patterns and the chandelier was large enough to be a house. The room seemed to glow, even with the house lights off.

DM Stith was the opening act. To be honest, I just wanted him to finish so we could get on with Sufjan. I had listened to his music before because I received a free album when I went to see My Brightest Diamond at First Unitarian Church. Though part of the Asthmatic Kitty label, I had never really taken a liking to him. He seemed timid throughout his performance, awkward, as if conscious of the fact that the people in the room had not come to see him. He used a loop petal and harmonized in a way that sounded like bowing on a saw.

"Sufjan says that the ooh ah sounds in a song are like sex scenes," he said, "I guess a lot of my songs have sex scenes."

Anyway, once he finished and the house lights came back on, I could barely hold in my excitement. Everyone seized the opportunity to take pictures of the room and each other. I began to feel greedy, wishing our seats were closer to the stage, even though we had a perfectly clear view from the balcony. When the house lights turned down, the room immediately stilled, save for our clapping and beating chests.

At first, the stage was completely dark. We wouldn't have known Sufjan had entered if it wasn't for the cheering growing intensely louder and an almost hum-like sound filling the room. And then came a familiar voice and riff of the banjo.

"We didn't sleep too late," Sufjan began to sing. It was "Seven Swans." I couldn't believe it.

Then--and this is kind of hard to explain--small lights showed up in layers on the stage along the enormous projector screen at the far back of the stage and the gauze screen in front. Light or snow, we could barely tell the difference, showering down. The little orbs of light behind Sufjan formed the outline of a house. After he sang the last line of the first verse, there was a moment of silence before his band exploded in an electro-interlude while the entire stage lit up.

When he began the second verse, everything dimmed and quieted again. Just Sufjan and his banjo. The lights behind him began to form an image of a creature with horns while he sang, "I heard a voice in my mind: I am Lord, I am Lord, I am Lord," a pause, "he said," he whispered, "I am Lord, I am Lord, I am Lord." And I melted.

Then it started to sound like the soundtrack of a horror movie with minor keys and even creaking noises. The stage glowed red as he sang, "He will take you if you run, he will chase you." At the moment Sufjan sang, "cause he is the Lord," the gauze screen rolled up and the audience cheered.

I could see wings on Sufjan's back--not the usual kite-wings he wears, but more like angel wings. Like a cherub. Like a messenger. Of course I smiled. The song ended in another screeching electronic explosion with schizophrenic blinking lights. Everyone erupted in applause.

When Sufjan introduced himself, the audience didn't let up their cheering.

"Say something!" Soo said to me as the roaring began to subside.

I blurted out the first thing on my tongue, "I love you!" while another woman yelled, "Marry me!" There was no shame, no timidity, no hiding our elation.

The second song, "Too Much" had a totally different atmosphere. There were three backup dancers--one of whom I knew was Nedelle of Cryptacize who opened for Sufjan last year at Johnny Brenda's. They danced in fluid motions while the video projections were choppy with images of Sufjan himself in a cut-off Nike shirt and sunglasses, doing peculiar dance moves with a stoic expression on his face. Listening to this song for the past couple weeks, I didn't fully know what to make of it, but it started to come together as I saw Sufjan perform it in front of me.

He's sick of the hype that the word love gets. "There's too much riding on that." So while the song is upbeat, the movement of his body is almost robotic and he is apathetic, demonstrating that he doesn't work that way--the word itself doesn't stir up anything in him. This song flows right in line with a theme in Sufjan's latest album that words are useless if the heart is absent from them.

"The Age of Adz," the title track of his new album, was the next song of the set. Images of Royal Robertson's paintings which Sufjan used for his album art appeared on the projector screen behind him as the trumpets blared like menacing tyrants. Throughout the song, it looked like we, the entire audience, was inside Sufjan's spaceship, watching planets and meteors whiz past us. The dissonance was haunting but there were sporadic bouts of melodic riffs which almost seemed to be wrestling their way through the minor keys; Sufjan's intentionally straining voice to match that was enough to tear my heart out. There was a moment in the song when Sufjan sang "When I die, when I die, I'll rot; but when I live, when I live, I'll give it all I've got" in the darkness of that stage, I couldn't help but sense his agony of having to persevere through doubt and heartache. He sang the final lines of the song in falsetto--the stage completely dimmed except for a single red light on Sufjan playing guitar, center stage--"I'm sorry if I seem self-effacing, consumed by selfish thoughts; it's only that I still love you deeply, it's all the love I've got." Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath in before joining the rest of the audience in applause.

I appreciated the way Sufjan talked to the audience between the songs. There had been so much fuss on the web about how "different" The Age of Adz is in comparison to his previous albums, but as he laid out his thoughts to us, it became so apparent that this is exactly what he'd been working towards--only now with a new approach. He talked about his thought process as he was working on this album, that it dealt with heartache and mistaking heartache for the end of the world. "They're one and the same," Sufjan said, "but we're still here. It's not the end of the world or the beginning of the world, it's the middle of the world, and that's what we're celebrating tonight. So we're gonna move on."

At that exact moment, I began to feel and recognize that I was a part of something extremely important. That there was something to be learned. That I would miss it if I wasn't right there, all there, right then.

"This one's for you--this one's for the here and the now," he said, before playing the intro riff to "Heirloom" from his All Delighted People EP. A lot of the pieces started to come together to me. He sang, "How quickly will your joy pass?" as if the voice of God speaking to him--and to us. It was a song of comfort and empathy for the weary people with lines like "And when your legs give out, just lie right down and I will kiss you 'til your breath is found." It was a reminder to all of us--that when we are heavy and broken, we need not go to great lengths to repair ourselves, but simply rest in the Lord and be.

Sufjan explained how he had come to understand his life through the basic laws of physics: "For every force, there's an equal and opposite force, for every action, an equal and opposite reaction... it's very basic and very primal. It's all about the world and gravity, but it's just now dawning on me how important it is."

With that, he sang "I Walked" and again, I heard it with so much more depth and insight than I had before. Sufjan and his backup dancers totally grooved to the song while odd symmetrical shapes appeared on the projections behind them. I walked 'cause you walked. Of course.

As soon as Sufjan played the intro riff to "Futile Devices," Soo and I glanced at each other, smiling. It was the familiar acoustic sound that made me feel nostalgic. It was just Sufjan with his guitar--no other sounds or accompaniment. The lines, "And I would say I love you but saying it out loud is hard, so I won't say it at all... and words are futile devices" do strange things to me. While they're so simple, I'm ambivalent towards them because, yes, sometimes words don't accomplish much, yet I rely on them to understand, explain, and find myself. But in terms of Sufjan's album, these lines really make sense to me because--and especially since this is the first track of The Age of Adz--Sufjan's not trying to be poetic or narrative in order to convey his thoughts anymore. I think one of the most appalling things about the album is how straightforward it is--and unabashedly so. No frills. No contrivance. Just heart. He's relying on the sounds to show his emotive state. Since words won't do, then all he can do is groan--and the slurred sounds in each song really demonstrate that.

On a less serious note, when a bearded man wearing sunglasses and a long, silver robe walked up to the mic with a mini keyboard, playing a psychedelic solo, that was just plain awesome.

Before the next song, Sufjan took a moment to comment on the room we were in. "It's like the future in the past," but then he quickly reminded himself, "but this is the present, this is the present, this is the present." He greeted the people on the fourth floor balcony, saying he was up there earlier and had extreme vertigo.

"I've always had this experience on the threshold of space and natural landscape, like the Grand Canyon, on which the ground disappears below you... or Niagara Falls, or any of these natural wonders, where you're on the edge and you see the vastness and the magnitude of space, and it kind of reminds me of this room," he said. "And I always want to give myself over to it. In spite of natural preservation, we all have built within us self defense and self maintenance and it's a very primal kind of sensation or phenomenon, to live by any means possible. And yet, I find that when we are at the threshold, there's this other phenomenon, this other cosmic kind of experience in which we want to give ourselves over to the other--to the vastness of it all. I've been thinking about a lot of that lately," Sufjan said. "Anyway, that's what this song is about--it's about jumping into the mouth of the volcano."

The gauze screen lowered again as the band began to play "Vesuvius." Tiny orbs of light swam across the screens. This time, Sufjan joined his backup singers with choreographed hand movements. I thought of what Dan said to Soo and I earlier as we were walking to the Academy of Music, something his friend had commented: "I didn't know Sufjan did body worship." He had said it in a comical tone, but it made a lot of sense that this was exactly what he was doing--what all of the dancing was.

As the crescendo began to build, it looked like lava was filling the stage as the waves danced around them. Everything was dim besides the orange-reddish waves projected onto the screens. When Sufjan sang, "Vesuvius, fire of fire, follow me now as I favor the ghost," the lava rose with each repeated line, higher and higher, as the stage burned red with light. And then, there was a moment when all the sounds seemed to melt together into cacophony after he sang the line for the last time, the lava filling the entire stage, until the melody returned. Then the lava subsided and the gauze screen rose. The audience cheered. It was victorious.

Sufjan sang, "Why does it have to be so hard?" while the female vocals sang in falsetto something I didn't hear when I was listening to the song before: "It's in your favor." Wow. I loved the way the different voices were in dialogue throughout the refrain of the song. It reminded me so much of my own prayers where I ask God, Where are you? or Why am I in this right now? in the midst of difficult circumstances, and how he responds simply, Follow me, I'm with you.

Then followed a surprising interlude in which florescent lights burst onto the stage, the tempo of the song transformed into a disco-party beat, and the backup dancers busted a move like they were at a club. Then, they suddenly returned to the refrain but at a much slower cadence. The song ended when the band faded out and Sufjan sang into the silence, "Why does it have to be so hard?" The room nearly shook from the strain of his voice.

The stage remained in dim bluish light. Sufjan put his wings back on as we walked across the stage. "I wear wings for the songs about birds," he said, "in honor of the predator and the prey." When he began to play the piano for "The Owl and the Tanager," the lights turned red. What can I say? It's a heart-wrenching song. There were no screen projections or fancy lighting. Hearing Sufjan play it so bare and so exposed, it was like we were sharing in his heartache, in his utter state of abandonment. He was the owl. We were all birds. We too have been alone. When the song ended, Sufjan paused briefly, breathing in deep, then exhaled--reminding me so much of the ending of "John Wayne Gacy Jr"--releasing the heaviness that he had carried within himself. It was incredible to experience such intimacy within such a large space.

Then he took some time to talk to the audience, telling us about the intensity which was demanded of him during the shows on his tour.

"To have to reside in that night after night on this tour has been a very fascinating challenge, physically and emotionally--in the throat and in the heart. I think a lot of the songs are maybe a little more maybe impulsive than what I've written in the past and I think that was a deliberate decision. When I was working on new material, I decided I wanted to do away with concept and narrative and form and do away with setting and character, do away with history and geography--to do away with all of that and just to start from here, from within the body and the heart, the brain, the spinal chord, the nervous system--the body itself--feeling and touch sensation. I decided to apply that to the sounds themselves. Mostly, I did away with the acoustic guitar, the banjo, and the piano, and decided to write a lot with just sounds, especially on the Age of Adz, I was just going to experiment and just run things through processing, pedals, sequencers, drum machines and keyboards and forget about music altogether and focus on the instinct of sound. In the beginning, there was the sound--the sound of creation--and I just wanted to focus on that. But I spent a long time doing that... in my studio... alone... for months and months and months, just creating sounds, not getting anything done, and it was really frustrating. I had all this fun playing sounds, but it was very lonely. And then a friend of mine introduced to me this folk artist named Royal Robertson and all of a sudden, everything shifted for me."

Sufjan went on to share some biographical information about Royal Robertson while on the screen behind him were projected photographs and images of his artwork which included paintings of architecture, spacecrafts, aliens, the apocalypse, and his prophecies. "One interesting fact about Royal is that his work, his visions, so consumed him that he lost all sense of reality." He explained that Royal's wife, Adell, and children were forced to leave him because of this.

"I'm not exactly sure why I was drawn to Royal. I think that it was his insanity, schizophrenia, his delusions of grandeur, his obsession with outer space, and with aliens, and all of that sort of rendered with this particular heartache and loneliness for having been abandoned by his wife. In his mind he thought she cheated on him, but in reality, she was the most loving and loyal woman in the world. One thing that runs through Royal's work, whether his paintings are of architecture or renderings of the utopian city or of space crafts or machine guns or landscapes of the apocalypse and the end of the world, Adell continues to play a role in almost every painting."

"As I was working on all this music, I found in Royal this vastness of his imagination to be very inspiring and I felt an affinity to that, but I also felt very juvenile as I was working on this music, as if it was material that you could write in high school. I felt like a lot of my new stuff was very primal, instinctual and hormonal, and Royal's work has that kind of element too, even though it's very sophisticated and it shows a kind of scholarship. It's all about loneliness, sensation, and the desire to connect with people despite his antisocial state of mind."

Sufjan introduced the next song, "Get Real, Get Right," mentioning that he had written it for Royal as a reality check. "This is a pop song and it's a party song even though it's sort of foreboding and has kind of a cosmic-spiritual, fire-and-brimstone kind of feel--don't get scared, everything's okay," he comforted us, "we're here to have a good time."

The entire band joined Sufjan on stage again. I noticed he still had on his wings. On the screen, images of bouncing buildings panned while a spaceship spun above them. When he sang "I know I've caused you trouble, I know I've caused you pain, but I must do the right thing, I must do myself a favor and get real, get right with the Lord," the projection looked like we were flying in outer space, speeding past planets and strange structures. Towards the end, the lights dimmed and the backup singers/dancers walked to the front of the stage. Suddenly the disco balls lit up and they danced to a funky jungle beat. Sufjan was grooving too. He concluded the song by singing slowly into a distorted mic, "Get real, get right with the Lord."

Next, he sang "Enchanting Ghost." Again, the contrast from the uber-electronic sounds of The Age of Adz to the stripped down acoustic sounds of All Delighted People was really stark. This ordering of the set seemed to be a deliberate move on Sufjan's part too--the dramatic songs interspersed with calm, reflective ones. I guess what he said about his recent work being hormonal is really true; it's like a teenager trying to find and understand himself. And being there, hearing it live was like experiencing this with Sufjan.

He thanked DM Stith for opening for him. "He has the voice of a unicorn," Sufjan said.

"And now, we are going to attempt to play the dissertation of the evening, which is sort of all the interior dialogue which is now left to become an exterior dialogue in which we now socially and publicly invest in a massive sort of behavioral psychotherapy session. You are the physicians and you are the patients and you went through some of these issues of love and loss and heartache, the end of the world, the beginning of the world, the apocalypse, and fortitude, and strength, common sense, Benjamin Franklin and William Penn--the ghosts are here now." The audience laughed and cheered.

"Who else is there?" Sufjan turned to his band and even laughed to himself. "There's also a bit of de Carr and Wittgenstein as well, Lady Gaga, and I'm also a little inspired by--who was the girl in The Parent Trap, the remake--yes, a little bit of Lindsey Lohan too. And Cher. Andrew Lloyd Weber, Cats, Star Trek--I don't know what's going on here. And you guys have been showing such strength, fortitude, and patience as I've worked through my issues on stage."

With that, the lights dimmed and the intro to "Impossible Soul" began as blue cascades of light beamed behind the band. Nedelle looked like she was wearing workout clothes while the other female vocalist wore a bright pink get-up with a string of lights hanging by her neck. When Sufjan started singing, a single spotlight fell on him and his voice echoed all throughout the room. The projection on the screen were of cloud-like images of two hands raised up to the sky in different formations.

Then, one of the attendants came down the aisle and fiercely poked my shoulder, telling me to shut off my camera. So I did... until she went away.

When the female solo part began, the gauze screen lowered again. How I wished Shara Worden was there. Strobe lights waved across the stage and psychedelic patterns swirled around on the screen. Then the song began to take a strange turn. The voices singing "Don't be distracted" slowed to the point where it almost sounded like wailing. The trumpet too. Then, the voices started to sound like the cawing of birds as the pace picked up again. When they began to fade, a strange diamond-shaped structure lowered onto the stage, concealing the backup singers.

Sufjan, who had been kneeling, stood up, dressed in all sorts of strange things: a plastic visor, bright sunglasses, stringed lights, and sparkling tassels. And then--I couldn't believe it--he sang the next movement of the song in auto-tune. The words slurred and when he sang rolls of higher notes, it was like birds in flight. "Don't be shy in the window, come down and give your best," he sang, "stupid man in the window, I couldn't be addressed."

After he sang the repeated lines "Now I know it wasn't safe, it wasn't safe to breathe at all," schizophrenic lights collided all over the stage and so did the sound. I reminded me of the way Sufjan played "The Predatory Wasps of the Palisades" in Brooklyn--a screeching, crashing, piercing interlude of cacophony and chaos followed by surprising calm--except this time, the agonizing sound was interrupted by celebration and dancing.

Light suddenly beamed onto the diamond screen, showing silhouettes of the three backup dancers. They busted a serious move as Sufjan sang "Hold on Suf, hold on Suf, hold on Sufjan." Then, the diamond screen lifted up, Sufjan put on a silver cape and pulled out some of his own crazy dance moves. The disco lights around the stage spun and technicolor lights were everywhere. The projections on the screen showed choppy images of Sufjan dancing. People on the first floor got up from their seats and started to dance with them while Sufjan threw beach balls into the audience. Then he, along with the backup dancers, jumped to the front of the stage--the whole room was bouncing now. Then, Sufjan put on a monkey mask as he joined the girls in a fierce dance solo. It was insane. It was silly. It was shameless. It was liberating.

"Boy we can do much more together," the girls sang as Sufjan sang autotuned, "It's not so impossible" over and over again. Again and again. It's not so impossible. It was a celebration, an anthem for all that is. And even when Sufjan sang the wrong verse of the final movement of the song, we all clapped and encouraged him. Nothing could interrupt this gala.

Sufjan ended the night with "Chicago." Everyone cheered even before the first three notes finished playing and we all sang along. It ended with the airy echoes of Sufjan's voice and I felt so there. We were all there, with all our mistakes in our minds and all we had fallen in love with--all things going. And yet, the night had to end.

But we didn't stop cheering. We all rose to our feet and we didn't stop cheering from the moment the song ended until Sufjan returned to the stage for an encore. My eyes fogged up, my voice was hoarse by then, but I still kept screaming. I could see the sweat soaked on his Come On! Feel the Illinoise shirt from where I was standing.

"I wish I could stay with you in this room forever," he said, trying to calm us, "but we only have time for two more songs." He first played "Concerning the UFO Sighting in Highland, Illinois," on the piano and then "John Wayne Gacy Jr." on guitar. He looked absolutely exhausted, yet he played both songs with stern composure. When Sufjan ran off stage for the final time, I breathed in deep, rose to my feet, and followed the crowded mass of smiling people out of the building.

I left the Academy of Music that night knowing that I had experienced something singular and profound. Together, Sufjan and all of us, we had traveled through time and space, and arrive at heart matter--which is what his music is constantly doing. This is why I love Sufjan Stevens. His music guides me to a place of deeper reflection and connection with something much bigger than myself, much bigger than this life I live--something transcendent. To be able to experience it tangibly, live and real? Well, there just aren't words for it.

hard poem

2010-08-15T23:36:00.003-04:00

Preparations for grad school are making me sluggish with my writing. I've worked on this poem for weeks and I'm still working. So many things feel undone as of late, I'm afraid.

Origami

Since the weather cannot
follow us indoors
I craft an atmosphere

with paper, strings, and air
—one I can hold,
turn my head and see:

White folded wings
suspended, ever silent
—present as I am

Such an ugly disposition
to swing as a pendulum
always and only reaching

If it is raining, I am going
If it is windy, I am going
If it is burning, yes, I am going

Birds, life, and lungs
How close is heaven real
If I sleep under a winged sky

am I as weightless as the wishes
carried up in flight
How many birds do I need

for a prayer as heavy as
Grandfather’s thinning bones,
Mother’s tired eyes,

our unkempt home
When can I stop thinking
and when can I start breathing,

have courage enough to cut the strings
that keep me from the outside—
unfettered one and for all

one hundred

2010-07-02T12:30:00.009-04:00

It's week 3 at my new job at Cathy's Half Price Books. Anyone that's asked me how it's going have basically heard the same spiel: I love it.

Seriously, getting paid close to nothing to work with amazing people doesn't get any better than this. My bosses, Shannon--who calls me "Elli-B" because Elizabeth is too long of name to fly in here--and Cathy--who buys fudge from far off places for us--are so relaxed and my coworkers have been so welcoming and helpful that I feel like I've amalgamated into this place with no trouble whatsoever. We get to listen to whatever music we want--"as long as there's no f-bomb" as Shannon, says--and we get to sift through strange, junky, new, and rare books every day. I mean, come on. I wake up and I actually want to go to work. What?

And as if that wasn't enough, it gets better.

I was on the mailing shift this morning. That means I take all the books that were ordered online and put each and every one of them in shipping envelopes to be mailed to the customers. When I woke up at 7:30am after snoozing for half and hour, I thought to myself, today feels like it's gonna be a downer. But I couldn't have been any more wrong.

After I came back from dropping off 5 crates of packages to the post office around noon, Sam, one of my coworkers, was by the back door, enjoying her yogurt when she said to me, "Oh, I have a present for you."

I set down the empty crates in the corner while she grabbed an envelope from one of the shelves in the office.

"So you know how we flip through the books to check for marks and to make sure nothing's inside them when we list them? Well," she said, prolonging what I assumed would be a tidbit about another nuance on the way we run our system that I had to learn, "I was flipping through a book yesterday and found four hundred dollars."

My jaw dropped. No way.

"I told Shannon about it and the way this works is we get to share it. You get $100," Sam said casually.

No. Freaking. Way.

"Look at that! Isn't this a great place to work?" Shannon said.

It was just way too crazy awesome and ironic because while Sam and I were listing books on our system just yesterday, I had said to her, verbatim, "I will dance the day we find money in here; I can't wait for that to happen," thinking it wouldn't in a million years. But lo and behold: monies.

And dance I did.

We all whooped and laughed--absolutely elated. When Becca, another one of my coworkers, came back to the office, Sam told her the same story.

"You've got to be kidding me," Becca said, "I wildly accept," as she held the hundred dollar bill between her thumbs and forefingers.

"Don't you just love working here?" Shannon said.

"I love working here," I answered.

marry me, shara worden

2010-06-21T21:30:00.002-04:00

redi, day 7 (finale)

2010-06-11T22:50:00.004-04:00

And thus, we have come to the end of the REDI program.

We snoozed 3 times before getting up from bed, but even then, I could barely open my eyes. I didn't even bother getting dressed before breakfast, which I ate quickly, so I could come back to the room and pack all my junk to go home.

Then my roommate and I stuffed our suitcases and checked out.

Michael McKeon led our final seminar for the week "Applying to Grad School," which was extremely helpful, especially in terms of writing our personal statements. It's actually almost frightening how strategic the way we articulate our interest of study and present our style and tone need to be. I wrote down a bunch of notes but didn't feel any more relieved about applying to grad schools.

Before we left the room to go to lunch, I had a chance to talk to Professor McKeon and I asked him how appropriate it would be to discuss spirituality in a personal statement. He said if that was my interest, he couldn't see why I shouldn't write about it. And then he suggested that I speak to another professor from Rutgers, who is actually on leave right now, about it since he had extensive study on spirituality as well. I would email him when I got home.

After we wrote some thank you cards and filled out evaluations for the program, we had our final meal together. Cheryl Wall and Meredith McGill gave some final words of thanks and encouragement. We took a bazillion pictures together. On several occasions, people burst out saying "Oh my gosh, I'm gonna cry!"

Important detail: there were three different pies for dessert.

And then, it was finally time to leave. All of us had trains and planes to catch. All the students and GAs went around the room hugging each person individually goodbye. And despite my aversion for physical contact with strangers, I hugged everyone. What? Yes, I hugged everyone. Besides, it would have been too complicated to explain... So we smiled. We said goodbye. We left.

Meredith McGill dropped me off at the New Brunswick train station. I gave her an awkward handshake, thanking her for everything with all the sincerity in me, from the backseat before I ran up the stairs so I wouldn't miss my train. I didn't. I stepped into the air conditioned cart and reflected on the week. And inevitably, my thoughts gravitated--not to nostalgia--but to now what?

I managed to find my way, transferring over from the NJ Transit train to Septa, then catching the Blue Line to 69th Street, then catching the 112 bus home.

And when I stepped into my house, everything was as it was. My brother in front of his computer. My grandfather lying in bed. And when my parents came home, all was as it was. My mom tired but smiling. My dad calm one moment and then angry in the next. The kitchen sink full. The house humid. My GRE books sitting unopened on my shelf. So much of the now still left to deal with.

All the real things are here.

redi, day 6

2010-06-10T09:14:00.012-04:00

After a long night [haha, get it?] all of us were exhausted. For our fifth seminar first thing in the morning, we discussed the play we would be going to see in New York, "A Long Day's Journey Into Night." Well, we more so heard about it than discussed it. The first half of the seminar was led by Ryan Kernan who contextualized the material through a powerpoint presentation for an hour straight. The room was dark, there were long paragraphs on the screen, and I practically had to hold my eyes open to stay awake.

When Elin Diamond took over for the actual discussion, you could really tell the material was a part of her. She pointed out significant moments in the play and even elaborated on how the stage directions factored into the characters' words. I have to admit, she was a bit intimidating as a discussion leader. She definitely had a set idea of what she wanted to cover during the seminar so she didn't leave much room for us to contribute. Still, I liked the way she dug into the text.

Afterwards, we had a quick boxed lunch--literally in a box--and took the train to New York. Once we arrived, there wasn't much time for sight-seeing. We took the Metro over to The Schomburg Center where they do a ton of archival research on African American literature. They had a bunch of first edition books, handwritten letters, and even handwritten manuscripts from authors like Zora Neale Hurston to James Baldwin and the like. It's kind of remarkable actually how we depend so much on digital resources for our research data today, but there's something intimate about feeling the browned pages in your hand and seeing the editing marks by the authors. It makes me wonder if people will still be looking back at them for long rather than heading straight for Google.

We had dinner at Londel's. Don [one of the GAs] told us all week long about how it was his favorite restaurant in New York, so we had some high expectations. It was soul food, but classier. Since I had gorged myself on steak all week, I decided to get the salmon and was not disappointed. Since it would be our last dinner together, we had a toast to REDI--me raising my glass of water--and took pictures like crazy. We were so loud even though we were in a separate room that they had to close the doors. And then we were off to see the play.

The production took place at Lion Theater in New York. Having discussed "A Long Day's Journey Into Night" in the seminar earlier, we were all excited to see how it would look live in front of us. The venue was pretty small so we were only a few rows from the front. The set was quaint and well lit when we sat down. Unfortunately, the actors did not deliver--with the exception of the woman who played Mary. I couldn't help thinking the entire time, they're acting, rather than watching for the emotion behind each character. The lines sounded so much better in my head than on stage.

The man playing James Tyrone was fumbling with his lines all over the place; and maybe this would have been excusable if he didn't acknowledge it himself by saying, "If I could pronounce it correctly," before repeating his line. Edmund's character kept speaking in an almost falsetto from the back of his throat the entire time, his face was limp, and he had absolutely no idea what to do with his hands. The actor playing Jamie didn't get good until his character was completely intoxicated. And for Cathleen's short part, the actress' accent was practically Jamaican instead of Irish. Mary was very good, but you can only watch a crazy person and be impressed for so long until you become concerned at the fact that you are so impressed. The play was three and a half hours long.

As soon as it was over and the cast bowed, we practically sprinted out of the building to Penn Station so we could catch the 11:50pm train back to New Brunswick. It was about 11:30pm. Two of the guys hopped into a cab with Elin Diamond while the rest of us sped down the block. Everyone was pissed at them for ditching us [I'll explain later why]. We weaved through the people on the sidewalk as our steady jog turned into power-walking. My roommate pointed out Gray's Papaya--the place from Nick and Nora's Infinite Playlist--but we didn't have much time to admire it. We were a pack of finely dressed people on a mission.

"Aren't you glad you didn't wear your heels?" I asked my roommate.

When we finally got to Penn Station, one of the entrances were blocked because of construction so we wrapped around to the other side. By the time we got downstairs we realized the train had left. Now all we were were a pack of finely dressed, sweaty, out of breath people with the munchies. We would have to wait until 1:22am for the next train. And so, with an hour and a half to kill, we collapsed on the stairs and talked about how awful the play was. Oddly enough, we weren't that upset about it. One of the guys texted on of the girls, letting us know that they had caught the train and were already on their way back to Rutgers. The entire night was irony beyond irony.

As soon as it was 1:22am and our train towards Trenton blinked on the schedule, a crazy mass of people squeezed through the narrow corridor down to the tracks. It was one drowsy and delusional ride back, but I couldn't help but think, what an adventure.

"You know, I am really impressed at how much we've bonded with each other in just a week," I said to the girls sitting with me on the train.

"Yeah..." they replied, drifting into reflection.

Once we got back to our dorm, a bunch of the girls belted out the names of the two guys who had caught the earlier train, banging on their doors to make sure they wouldn't be more rested than we were. My roommate and I both collapsed on our beds. My feet were so relieved to be free from my flats. It was around 3am. I passed out immediately.

redi, day 5

2010-06-09T16:58:00.008-04:00

I woke up 5 minutes before my alarm because my stupid phone kept beeping to tell me it was low on battery. Stupid technology.

Actually no, not stupid technology. Richard Miller and Paul Hammond gave the most incredible, mind-blowing presentation on new media and their idea of "public thinking." First, we took an online quiz, "How millennial are you?" I scored an 85 somehow while other students who sprint to their laptops to check facebook every chance they get score in the 70s. Fancy that.

Anyway, we weren't quite sure where all of this was going, but we went upstairs to a room called The Collaboratory and watch the most technologically advanced presentation my brain almost exploded. I pretty much learned that that I have no idea what technology is capable of today. Miller and Hammond basically talked about how academia shouldn't sneer at how everything is becoming digitized, but embrace it by integrating it in the classroom, particularly in terms of writing and peer editing papers. There was an entire section about using googledoc as a means of following revisions and sharing critiques with other students--because we learn by rewriting and composing is about embodiment--it's not just text on pages. I really wish I could explain this better, but I'll just post up the presentation once it's made available online.

After lunch, we had our fourth seminar with Edlie Wong on The Narrative Life of Henry "Box" Brown. Jena had told me that Edlie was a friend of hers, so despite the fact that the text was incredibly boring, I was looking forward to the seminar. The contextualization was a bit boring to me, but the discussion was "curious"--as I've learned is the word to use in grad school. We talked about the different kinds of performance Brown demonstrated through the publicity of his escape and the role of religion, particularly in the way he emphasized his own piety. So in fact, it's not just meant to be an inspiring story.

Free time was sparse, as usual. Even though the rainy weather was perfect for napping, there just wasn't any time for it. My roommate and I sat in our room, trying to finish reading a play for tomorrow's seminar.

Lunch was an indoor barbeque--conundrum?--involving extensive conversation about movies while some of the girls put up videos from Sister Act 2 on the projector in the room. No comment on that. We were perfectly content sitting around and not interpreting texts, but the GAs stopped our festivities and reminded us we had response papers due. More than half of us had to finish reading before we could even get to writing about the play. Which we did for about an hour or so before we had to go to a discussion period with the GAs.

We asked a bazillion questions. Seriously. I was a little frustrated towards the beginning to the program because we had heard so much about what was so great about Rutgers' English program and about African American literature, but not much on anything else. I was glad to be able to hear more specifically about how our four GAs went about preparing for and choosing their programs. It was much more helpful than theorizing things. And now, I'm realizing that the atmosphere and locale is going to be really important for me. Funding too.

Around 10pm, the discussion was over and all of us were dragging our feet back up to our rooms to work on our response papers. My roommate and I had some steady progress as we finished reading and moved on to writing. Around 12am, we started losing it. And by the sounds of it, other people were too as we heard some of them breaking out into song every once in a while. We looked up Eugene O'Neill on Wikipedia out of curiosity since the play was apparently autobiographical and the plot was completely psycho. Seriously, this guy had the worst like ever, and then he channeled all the terribleness into plays. I mean, the guy named the dead baby in the play Eugene. It takes a true mad man to name himself a dead character in his own work. So with that lurking in my mind, I wrote about the role of the past in the characters lives and how memory was a means of both denial and catharsis.

We went to bed close to 2am and, if you can believe it, I still had trouble falling asleep.

redi, day 4

2010-06-08T16:24:00.015-04:00

"Hey Elizabeth, it's already 8:20 if you wanted to get breakfast," my roommate said.

Before I fell asleep last night, I was laying it bed, realizing that I hadn't set my alarm on my phone. I didn't bother getting up and rummaging my purse in the dark, so I just let it be, thinking, my roommate will wake me up. And she did. I got ready in like, five minutes and headed out the door.

Our third seminar with Michael McKeon on Andrew Marvell's "The Garden" and "The Mower Against Gardens" was easily my favorite so far. Yes, it's poetry, so I may be biased, but I enjoyed this discussion most because we payed close attention the complex language and concepts rather than merely following plot points. We talked about the tension between nature and culture, connections made with the Garden of Eden, the desire for perfection, the hypocrisies of the speakers of both poems, and the idea of returning to the primal state as an eternal, timeless state. I wonder if we all don't wish to go back to the beginning in one sense or another.

After lunch, we had our second writing workshop with the Graduate Assistants. We didn't exactly do much writing this time either. It was more so a discussion on how to revise our writing samples with the idea of "doing violence" to our work in order to create a tighter, more successful product. A lot of discussion on the "so what? factor." Most of us were like unbatteried droids drooping from our seats. I think a hands-on approach, physically sitting in front of computers and working on our papers would have been more beneficial, but a few people did volunteer to have their thesis statements critiqued so that we could talk more about specifics.

There was little to no free time once we got back to our rooms, but the "What is Graduate School?" seminar with John Kucich was incredibly helpful. I was a little more than freaked out by the fact that I had been hearing ever since I got to REDI about how Masters programs didn't fund as well as Ph.D. programs and that it actually becomes more difficult to be accepted to a doctorate program if you already have your Masters because admissions committees will hold a higher standard. But, I also found out that if I'm passionate about my field of study and want to teach it, the Ph.D. track is pretty much the way to go. It seems like such a leap, going from timid undergrad to almost-scholar graduate student, but if academia is where I feel like I need to be, I should buck up and get on with it. I don't know if I'm ready to pursue contemporary poetry as a field of study, not because I don't love it, but because I fear that level of intensity I guess. I really need to talk to Jena about all of this.

Dinner was at Due Mari, a surprisingly high class restaurant only a 15 minute walk from campus. When we got there, the host showed us to our room downstairs, right next to the wine cellar. The lighting was dim, the menu--custom-made that night for REDI--was drool-worthy, and the conversation was refreshingly intelligent. They brought out enormous dishes of appetizers: salad, mozzarella sticks, balsamic wings, and fried calamari. The entres: chicken, veal bolognese, and choice between two different beef dishes, kobe and steak. Of course I ordered steak. I had the honor of sitting next to Cheryl Wall and across from Meredith McGill who drank wine as we talked about teaching, travel experiences, future plans, and even at one point, This American Life. Needless to say, it was more than a pleasure. When the desserts were brought out, everyone was already full but managed to savor our choice of either warm chocolate cake, gelati, or biscotto.

By the time we were back in the dorm, everyone was drowsy and unfocused. My roommate and I sat in our beds with our laptops, scraping to even type up a sentence. Some sort of sick torture, really--feeding us wonderful food and then having us do work. Should I punch myself in the face and stop complaining? Yes, because it's all too wonderful. I can only hope to experience more of this when I actually am a grad student.

I went to bed at 1:30am, exhausted but elated.

redi, day 3

2010-06-07T11:59:00.002-04:00

Let's get right into it.

Rather than a seminar in the morning, we had a sort of workshop called "New Media Resources" which, for those of you who haven't guessed already, is code for "look at all the awesome nerdy information I can find on the internet--all at my fingertips [*pushes up imaginary glasses*]! Seriously though, it's kind of revolutionary how accessible research has become. We just got into groups and browsed around on some library databases. My roommate and Ifound some really interesting rare documents on a poet she's researching, Frances Greensted. I also found out what Google Scholar is today.

Our second seminar was on "Brokeback Mountain" with Ben Sifuentes. As if the story itself wasn't uncomfortable enough, we discusses and elaborated on all the little details of Ennis and Jack's sexual encounters. Our professor was really bent on having us unpack them aloud. Besides getting over our giggles and "um..."s, I found that the most interesting part of the seminar was when we discussed the issue of finding a language to articulate the characters' identities--and how both of the main characters resisted and welcomed conversation about their relationship. This time, I did answer a few questions and even read a passage aloud, but didn't feel entirely engaged with the text. I mostly just wanted to get out of there.

We didn't have much free time. It felt like my roommate and I briefly stepped in and back out of our room before we headed back to Murray Hall for dinner, which was enormous. I wasn't even hungry but I went back for seconds. That seems to be a recurring theme here...

There was a study period in which we would work on our response papers in preparation for tomorrow's seminar as well as a discussion period with the graduate assistants scheduled after dinner. A few students headed back to the dorm since the discussion would be in Stonier Hall anyway. Well, turns out we were suckers because we ended up having to go back to the other building--to no fault of our own; the GAs just decided to switch things up for the purposes of convenience--not of our own. I had only gotten through half of my response paper on Andrew Marvell's poem, "The Garden" and was struggling to present an interesting argument, let alone stay awake. I would have to get to it later on my own time.

The discussion with the GAs both eased some of my anxieties about grad school and heightened others. They mostly discussed how we should go about getting ourselves organized for the application process, particularly about personal statements and statements of purpose. Yeah, I had never even heard that the latter document was required for grad school applications so that was a surprise. Also, when I say that I'm "taking a year off," I realized that what I really mean by that is "I have to finish my applications by December and then I have half a year off--during which I will be drenched in emotional angst while waiting to hear back from schools." Awesome. But at least I know what needs to happen from now until the fall.

I ended up staying at the writing center in Murray Hall for an extra hour to work on my response paper. I felt like I finally had a good grasp on "The Garden" but had barely began to understand "The Mower Against Gardens" despite the fact that I had studied the latter poem before in my Survey of English Lit I class. The prompt was leading to a much different discussion than Professor Venuti's mind-blowing lecture on the levels of artifice in the poem. So I had to reorient my brain to think about it terms of nature vs. the city. I wasn't finished when I decided to head back to my room but turned it in after much writhing at my desk at 12:45am. [It was due at 1am.]

No movie. My roommate and I went straight to bed after unsuccessfully attempting to get more reading done. I still had trouble falling asleep.

redi, day 2

2010-06-06T22:38:00.008-04:00

It certainly didn't feel like Sunday.

For as far as I can remember, for every Sunday of my life, I have woken up in the morning and gotten ready for church. Not today. The alarm on my phone rang and I snoozed twice before I got out of bed.

"Breakfast?" Donovan, one of the Graduate Assistants went down the hallway, knocking on everyone's door.

I have to say, I tried an asiago bagel for the first time in my life it was delicious.

We had our first seminar at 9:30am with Cheryl Wall--who I found out quickly is quite a famous and highly regarded scholar on African American literature--on the short story "Sweat" by Zora Neale Hurston. I had read this story in my Survey of American Literature II class during my sophomore year but our discussion on the text pretty much indicated to me that I had known close to nothing about this text so far. The thing about close readings is that they're actually useful and interesting. Go figure. We talked about the gender politics, religious implications, the differences in the narrative voice in comparison to the dialogue, and of course, the racial issues within the story. I'm not much of a history buff, but seriously, contextualizing really brings another level of richness to the story.

The only thing I regret from the seminar is not contributing to the discussion. I admit, it's always taken a while for me to get comfortable with the professor and students in any class. I guess I never really articulated to myself that I do in fact have a fear of saying something that's not considered intelligent. Every time I thought of something to say, I retracted the idea; and then someone else said something along the lines of that idea. Stupid me. So I promised to force myself to verbally engage in the discussion in the next seminar tomorrow--about "Brokeback Mountain." Whoo.

After lunch, we had a writing workshop session in which we did very little writing. We all brought in previously written papers that we were interested in revising for the purpose of submitting them in applications for grad school as writing samples. It was mostly a discussion about our writing strategies and how to refine the argument of our papers. I found it helpful in that the graduate assistants eased my anxieties about graduate level writing. For the first time I found myself thinking, I could do this, rather than, oh my gosh what am I doing?!

We had about an hour and a half of free time allotted to us, so I went back to the room, got in bed, put on my headphones, and listened to a podcast of Rob Bell speaking a message at Mars Hill Bible church. It was an old one from a few weeks ago about the odd conclusion to the book of Jonah. You can find it on iTunes or on the Mars Hill website. It was kind of strange to be alone while listening to the message but then again, it was a comfort to know that peace and rest comes whereever I am, as long as I ask.

A bunch of the professors of the English department at Rutgers joined us for the welcoming dinner which was unexpectedly classy. I felt so under-dressed. There was a table with appetizers in the middle of the room and then fancy dinner tables set up around it with three different kinds of forks and butter in the shape of roses. We all walked around, made conversation with each other and absolutely devoured the hors d'oeuvres. When we were seated, we all tried our best to be as civilized as possible. And don't worry--I ordered the steak.

Of course, after being completely full of delicious food, no one had the energy to write a response paper--about "Brokeback Mountain" no less. Half of us were practically falling asleep in our chairs, me trying to figure out how to use a Mac but still unmotivated. I mean, we got them done of course and it was a relief to be back in our room.

My roommate and I watched Nick and Nora's Infinite Playlist. If I were still in high school, I think I might have loved it, but the acting was not so great and the plot was kind of anti-climactic. Yes, the soundtrack was great. Yes, Michael Cera was adorable. I'm just not a fan of a storyline centered on finding an idiotic drunk girl. Just a matter of taste I suppose.

redi, day 1

2010-06-05T23:23:00.005-04:00

I was eating lunch when my dad honked in the driveway. He was picking me up to take me to 30th Street Station so I could catch a train to New Brunswick. I wasn't ready.

By the bye, I woke up from crazy dream last night--er, morning I guess. For some reason or other, I was in some dark torture chamber where the only image I remember is a bald dude being slammed into a bed of nails. There was blood. Lots of blood. Maybe I was just feeling anxious...

Anyway, so I walked timidly through 30th Street Station, bought my ticket and waited on the blazing hot platform, reading a play which I would later be seeing in New York ["A Long Day's Journey Into Night"]. The train ride wasn't bad. I got a little nervous when I had to transfer over to the NJ Transit train at Trenton, but despite my directional retardation, I found the right platform and boarded the air conditioned train.

I arrived at New Brunswick station a few minutes before schedule, but Curtis Duncan, one of the directors of REDI met me at the end of the platform at 3:37pm, as we had agreed. He rolled my suitcase along for me as we walked to Stonier Hall while he pointed out the other buildings as we passed them.

When I settled into the room I would be staying in for the rest of the week, I realized how spoiled Temple students are to live in enormous suites with two personal bathrooms. I sure we could fit a lot more students on campus if we built more economic dorms. Anyway, it wasn't long until I met my roommate, Shraddha, who is from Kentucky. We have similar taste in movies.

Dinner was some really interestingly cheesed pizza with all sorts of colorful peppers plus awesome brownies and cookies. The Graduate Assistants and the students all sat around a long table and introduced ourselves. You know, the usual name, where-are-you-from, what-are-you-interested-in-studying, what-foods-would-kill-you type deals.

By 8pm, we were headed over to Murray Hall in the Plangere Writing Center to begin our response papers. Nothing too stress-inducing--just a 1-2 page discussion on "Sweat" by Zora Neale Hurston. Too bad there were technical difficulties with the Macs in the room--and by that I mean we didn't know the passwords. So we went to a computer lab in the basement; it was kinda like the batcave of writing. Louetta, one of the GAs, worked with each student for a short period of time. And by 10:30pm, all of us were back in the dormitory, salvaging what was left of dinner. I had myself some raspberry tea, which both smells and tastes heavenly.

Back in our room, my roommate and I sat in our beds with our laptops. Me starting this entry, her facebooking [and can I say, isn't it kind of remarkable how that's become a verb?].

"Want to watch a movie?" my roommate asked, "I have Netflicks."

"Um, sure," I said. Any drowsiness I had felt immediately after we ate dinner had completely evaporated. We were both wide awake. I hadn't been able to get myself to sleep early lately anyway and my roommate came from a different time zone.

We ended up watching Julie & Julia, which was actually pretty good. It could have eased up on the cheesiness towards the end a bit, but it was an enjoyable movie overall. Who doesn't love watching cooking?

Tomorrow is our first full day--which is odd because it's Sunday. I've never not gone to a service on a Sunday, but it looks like I'll be having my own Sabbath in my room.

car trouble, act VI

2010-06-03T23:47:00.003-04:00

I would have blogged about this earlier if I was ready to make fun of myself for it. At this point, I still don't think I am, but what happened, well, it happened.

It was around 6:30am last Wednesday. I had been helping my parents at work for a week. For one nonsensical reason or other, I was trying to reverse my car after having taken a wrong turn on a narrow street in the neighborhood behind my parents' cleaners so I could park on the street I had previously passed. But almost as soon as I lightly accelerated, I heard an awful, awful sound of impact.

The passenger side of a perfectly innocent, parked car had a brand new, ugly scratch and dent on its door. My car was significantly dented by the left tail light--which was also cracked. I left an apologetic note with my number on the windshield wiper. The woman who called later that morning was understanding but obviously ticked. Who wouldn't be?

A wonder, really, how my stupidity continues to reach new levels. But the miracle?: my dad wasn't pissed.

cathy's half price books

2010-06-02T22:08:00.003-04:00

I got the job.

Two interviews and a phone call later, I find myself employed. Thank God.

By the bye, Kathryn [aka: most persistent stalker in the world] heard how it happened and blogged about it. It's pretty spot on, which frightens me because she wasn't in the room when I got the call...

velvet elvis

2010-05-23T00:18:00.012-04:00

You know the kind of book that you get to the final page but keep flipping the useless blank pages at the end, wishing there was more and then you become really sad that there isn't any more? This is one of those books.

I like Rob Bell to begin with because he's just cool. His NOOMA videos are incredible too. I have a few of his books on audio, but I hadn't read Velvet Elvis yet. I was surprised to see Gabe have it in his hand one day [he had said previously that the NOOMA videos freaked him out]. I asked if I could borrow it, but he said he borrowed in from his roommate, so he would let me read it after he was finished. On another day when I had completely forgotten about my request, Gabe--like the awesome president he is--remembered to bring it for me.

"I was so impressed I bought my own copy," he said.

What with the end of my senior year tumbling into place, I didn't have much time to read it. I was working on a 30+ page paper, give me a break. So now, with summer here, when my mom asked me to help her at work for a week or so, I went, armed with this one to keep me occupied during down time--and it didn't take me long to finish it.

What I love about Rob Bell is that he's real. He doesn't deny the crap of the world--deals with it straight up. He understands that Christianity has picked up a disparaging name for itself but isn't going to let that stop him from telling people about love and grace. He knows life sucks a lot of times, but knows that this isn't the way it's meant to be--that there's something more. He's not afraid of questions and he's not afraid to be creative.

The book begins with a trampoline analogy. Rob Bell talks about how the springs of the trampoline are like theology and beliefs, but if people don't jump, then the trampoline is useless. It's true. Jumping on a trampoline is much more fun than staring at or talking about one.

And I guess jumping on the Christian trampoline is all well and good until your life starts to suck really bad.

I've had trouble dealing with my dad and his bipolarity my whole life and it only seems to grow worse. It makes me angry that he calls himself a Christian yet judges others, speaks down to anyone who disagrees with his ideas, and makes us feel completely stripped of our humanity sometimes. He's always talking about how he's been called by God to do this and that. He says he's not crazy. He says he's right. But I cannot swallow his self-righteous tantrums because I see no love in it whatsoever.

If nothing else, I believe Christ taught love. It's all love. Love when it's easy. Love when it's not. Love and love and love even if nothing comes of it. Keep loving. That's the Kingdom of Heaven. That's what we're all waiting for.

I feel trapped in this house having to listen to him rant on. It's literal torture. I don't know how to have joy in times such as these. I don't know how to jump.

Something that I am constantly trying to reconcile in myself is the fact that despite what real love and wholeness means, I see so little of it. Here, where and when I am, the more I learn what life should be, the less I see hope or faith actualized. Instead, I see the lack. How everything is broken.

And yet, I find that I cannot stop hoping. I cannot stop wanting and waiting for something better to come. There is something in me that demands it. I have come to understand I was made this way. Even if just a pinch, I know there is something called redemption, something called justice, something called peace--and that these are real. I wish it were so easy that I could believe this reality and that it would actually be. But it's not. Of course it's not. Nothing is easy anymore.

But while all of this is painfully real for me now, I know that there is something more real. While I see brokenness and wrong, I know that goodness and love exist--somewhere--even if it is absent here. So I'm constantly searching, waiting, and anticipating something good in my life. If it exists, then I want it.

Rob Bell talks about how we need to claim truth when we see it:

Claim it. If it is true, if it is beautiful. If it is honorable. If it is right, then claim it. Because it is from God. And you belong to God.

So maybe this is what it means to persevere. To seek truth in spite of the lack. To see that there is more than what is here and now. That the here and now of my present day is not the here and now that will always be. That something greater is on its way--or someone:

True spirituality then is not about escaping this world to some other place where we will be forever. A Christian is not someone who expects to spend forever in heaven there. A Christian is someone who anticipates spending forever here, in a new heaven that comes to earth. The goal isn’t escaping this world but making this world the kind of place God can come to.

It's frustrating. Of course it's frustrating. I feel like I've spent most of my life waiting rather than experiencing truth. I doubt, I question, I wait. But I've come to learn that questions are okay. And it's when I'm okay with not knowing everything about everything that I can have a bit of peace. It's when I slow down and realize that I don't have to have everything figured out.

The book ends with Rob Bell describing how so much of Jesus' time was spent eating long meals, enjoying the company of friends. He talks about the dinner table as a kind of altar where even there is time spent with God.

So even if it's small and mundane, if it's good, if it's right, if it's real, I want to claim it. Even if it's all I have, it's mine.

january, february, march, april, may--i'm alive, or, graduation

2010-05-15T13:39:00.007-04:00

Or, I should say, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010--I'm alive. I spent four crazy years and sat through a two hour long ceremony to wear a goofy cap and gown to hear this:

"Elizabeth Kim, major in English and minor in Sociology with distinction in major; magna cum laude." Too bad this the only time any of this will really matter.

It's impossible to summarize four years of my life, but I will say that never with my puny brain could I have ever imagined them to be what they were. I came to Temple enrolled as a Secondary English Education major, then immediately decided to abandon this. Became an English major. Spent the past three and a half years studying literature and poetry, meeting some of the most amazing professors, and encountering poetry in the city and in my self.

In a bizarre turn of events, I had a conversation with my dad last night--a real conversation. I showed him the stuff I got for my award on Wednesday night and from graduation. I told him my plans for the next year and stuff about grad school. At the end of it, he said to me, "You're definitely different from when you graduated high school." I was surprised that he actually meant it in an encouraging way. I was glad to hear it.

I still feel the same in that I'm still in this body of mine. The days come and I'm still Elli. The only difference is that I wake up with the knowledge that I don't have classes to attend. I know this isn't it. I know that now the real stuff is happening. Hopefully I'll be employed for the year that I'll be taking off. Hopefully my GREs in August will go well. Hopefully I figure out where to go for grad school. And hopefully I end up where God leads me.

So much has been and are uncertain, but I am so thankful to have been able to share these fumbling years with such amazing people. Thanks to you all--truly. And congratulations to all you graduates--we're finished [for now]!

chapterhouse reading, may 8th | professors' reading at l'etage

2010-05-10T00:00:00.006-04:00

Parking was impossible to find. That's what I get for leaving the house late. I circled the blocks near and far from 9th and Bainbridge with no luck whatsoever. Where are the parking powers of Soo when you need them?! Being late wasn't the issue--these things never start on time anyway. If anything this was saving me a lot of awkward staring and smalltalk in a tiny room with a bunch of older people who know each other but don't know who I am. Still, I'd much rather endure that than drive around the same corner five times. I eventually found a free spot on Lombard, so I parked and got sprayed with intense wind and street rubble on the way to the Chapterhouse Cafe.

Anyway, that's all besides the point. Stan's wife, Carolina Maugeri was scheduled to read this night. So were Kyle O'Connor and Eugene Ostashevsky--but I had no idea who they were.

When I finally got there, the doors were open and I walked downstairs. I saw Dan Featherston, who I had met for the second time at the Poetry at 4 Reading--the first being at my poetry class with Stan during my sophomore year.

"It's really crowded in there," he said. He wasn't joking.

I saw Carolina when I walked into the first room. We chatted for a bit and then she led me into the crowded mass of people. I sat on the floor by someone's feet--later I would find that it was Eugene Ostashevsky's feet. Jena was sitting, on a chair, nearby and we talked about REDI stuff. Since I didn't know anyone else, I just kinda looked through my moleskine while the chairs in the room were re-oriented to better fit the people basically spewing out of the room.

Carolina was the first reader. Her presence was very casual as she held a mug of, I assumed, tea in her hand. Stan sat close by. She thanked the audience and the other two readers for coming. And then she prefaced her manuscript in quite an interesting manner:

"There's some belly button searching in this poem," she said, motioning with her index finger around her own, "it might roll out, so if it does, stop it as if you might a quarter."

There were a few snickers around the room and undoubtedly plenty of smiles. As she began to read, she reminded me a lot of Stan's style of reading where line-break and breath work together and are noticeably intentional. I liked how she stressed each word, enunciating them carefully as if each word was a poem in and of itself. Her poem almost had an Alice in Wonderland kind of feel, especially when she repeated the lines, "Who are you?"

And then there was also a moment of surprise when Stan started to read along with Carolina, sometimes as echoes and sometimes as a steady background: "My heart is a clock, true or false?" And sometimes, they'd utter words in unison like a strong, unwavering force: "I don't want to catch feelings." Yes, I couldn't agree more. I didn't hear or see any belly button refuse, but that was one heck of a reading.

When Kyle O'Connor began to read, I immediately thought, this guy should read his work on This American Life. His voice reminded me so much of David Sedaris--except less flamboyant. I honestly can't remember much of his reading because everything went so fast. But I do remember how, in his Testimonials, the poems consisted of all different kinds of utterances and the titles for each piece were long and explicative. They reminded me of titles of Sufjan Stevens' songs.

After a short break, Eugene Ostashevsky read and it was by far one of the most hilarious poetry readings I've ever heard. He read from his book, The Life and Opinions of DJ Spinoza, which was basically a chronicle of a character, DJ Spinoza, and his nerdy adventures encountering mythical creatures, math, God, and pirates. Ostashevsky read with a spoken word-type feel--which would, most often, bore me--but in actuality, I think it made everyone in the room, including me, want to learn how to rap immediately. It was so good I actually bought the book after the reading. And when I asked him to sign my copy, he asked, "Are you Elisabeth with an S or Elizabeth with a Z?"

"I'm Elizabeth with a Z," I answered. And then he wrote my name with an enormous Z in it--which actually looks pretty sweet. If I ever decide to rap in the future, I will sign my name this way.

* * *

My last assignment as an undergraduate student was a final portfolio for my advanced poetry class. We had a class reading where each of read our work aloud. It was alright, nothing terribly exciting. Most of the readings were pretty unenthused. Nevertheless, I still got nervous and managed to screw up while reading my last poem [again! I'm cursed, I say!] when it was my turn.

Afterwards, both of my poetry professors from this semester, Pattie McCarthy and Rachel Blau DuPlessis were having a joint book release party at L'etage--a super-classy place, might I add--right off of South Street, so I decided to go. At first, I was afraid I would, again, be the only undergrad student there, twiddling her fingers in the corner, but a bunch of my classmates actually came too. I found out that my TA, Mitch, was actually a junior at Temple whilst all this time, I thought he was a grad student. Well, we were all fooled.

It was actually kind of nice to sit around and talk to classmates outside of class. It felt more normal, less forced and robotic. Rachel came around and said hello to me. I asked her about my paper and she said it was "fine" which made me worry a bit [As it turns out, I did quite well--whoo!]. After she walked away, I realized that when I address her in person, I say "Professor DuPlessis," but when I mention her to other people, I use her first name, "Rachel." I think it's because I am slightly intimidated by her, even though she is incredibly nice to me. Oh well.

Pattie was the first to read, from her book, The Table Alphabetical of Hard Words. She has a wonderful reading voice, really. It was quite the pleasure to hear to talk every week in class. But that makes me sound creepy. Anyways. She read one of her shorter long poems which was about having a baby. She said that she knows that there is a "thing" about women poets who have babies and then become uninteresting because they only write poems about that. "So I hope this isn't too uninteresting," she said. And it wasn't; I was feeling all warm and fuzzy inside, about ready to curl up and nap in the booth I was sitting in.

Rachel's reading was beyond what my brain could handle. She read from her book Pitch. It was so very sophisticated and intelligent--I honestly don't think I'm a practiced-enough listener to be able to write about her reading and do any ounce of justice for it. My apologies all around.

It was a sort of a [warning: cliche alert!] bittersweet moment, saying goodbye to Rachel and Pattie. This was definitely one of the most poetically-stimulating semesters I've ever had. After putting together a pseudo-manuscript and a 33-page paper, poetry is definitely not what it was to me four years ago. Both Rachel and Pattie wished me luck on grad school preparations and told me to keep in touch. I plan on doing so.

One thing I loved about being an English major at Temple was the encouragement and support I received from my professors. When I had met with Rachel for my first conference in her office, she had asked me what I wanted to do after I graduated.

"I want to do what you do," I said timidly.

And I still do. It's a bit strange because I really don't feel like I'm professor material. But I've grown to love what I study and I've decided that there's really nothing else I'd rather do than continue on in the discussion of poetry.

"What next?" is now the most frequently asked question. And honestly, I have no clue. Grad school for Creative Writing for Poetry is a definite, but everything else is up in the air--in more ways than one.

art is forever

2010-05-04T22:31:00.002-04:00

Of course, Sufjan says it best.

poetry at 4 reading

2010-04-28T19:44:00.005-04:00

Last year, my poetry professor, Stan, and another professor from Temple put together a poetry reading event in which anyone and everyone was invited for poetry, pizza, and an open mic. I wasn't there last year, but I had seen pictures. The room was packed and there were a ton of readings.

So when Stan emailed me and asked me to read this year, I agreed but was, naturally, terrified. And I grew more and more nervous as the event drew closer. It's strange. As much as I love hearing poetry read, when it comes to me standing, alone, in front of an audience, I shake.

In anticipation of the reading, I edited poems ferociously for several days. I practiced and timed myself incessantly. It's actually really fascinating how my mode of editing turns another switch when I know someone other than me will hear the poems. Well, it was helpful, but giving me a lot of angst too.

When I walked into the room on the 8th floor of Anderson, there were a lot of empty chairs and only a few student sitting in the back of the room, giggling to themselves. Several boxes of pizza sat on a table on one end of the room. Stan was nowhere in sight. I sat alone, reviewing the poems I had decided to read.

Eventually, a few more people stumbled in. Most of them had expressions on their face that made it seem like they had walked into the wrong room. Kathryn [aka: the most persistent stalker known to man] walked in with one of the students we tutor at RCC.

"Are you nervous?" she asked.

"Yes," I said.

Not even half of the chairs were filled when the reading started.

I was so relieved I wasn't the first to read [I was the first person listed on the flier]. Stan asked Andrew to go first, and he gave a fine reading of some poems that sounded quite familiar. I couldn't really remember any of the other readers. One guy asked someone from the audience to read one of his poems as if he were a cowboy, and it was hilarious. And then there was the dude that gave a spoken word blowout. He bobbed his head, walked on the table, and made everyone in the room want to learn how to rap. After he was finished, he called my name as the next reader.

Needless to say, I felt extremely insecure having to follow him up. I looked at the people in the room, introduced myself, took a deep deep breath, and read. I read some recent poems that I had written for my poetry workshop class. As a gesture of "sticking it" to the girl that told me she wanted to break my poem, I read the series I wrote during the last week of Lent--freshly edited.

I was trying so hard to adhere to my line-breaks that I could barely look up at the audience. When I did, they were just blurs of clothes and skin. I had to keep taking deep breaths between each poem because I felt like I was going to pass out. Okay, that's an exaggeration, but I still felt nervous while I was up there. By the time I finished, I had no sense of time. I just said "Thank you," called the next person on the list of readers, and took my seat.

It's interesting what happens during a live performance of a poem. Sometimes, you read as you had planned. Sometimes, you don't know what got into you when you explained on of your poems. Sometimes, you don't know where that breath or extended lingering at the end of a line came from. Most times, all of these things are really exciting. It's good practice because it helps me hear the tension between how I wrote the poem and how my mouth wants to speak the poem.

After I finished reading, there were no other scheduled readers. A handful of them didn't even show up. So Stan opened the floor for an open mic. A few people timidly stepped forward. One guy, Joe, who writes in an awesome pizza blog read a few entries. Hilarious. I am now subscribed to it.

It was pretty quiet after that. We just sat around, ate pizza, and played hangman. I was extremely relieved to be done.

I talked to Stan for a while about my poems. I told him about my workshop experience and how one student said she wanted to break my poem. He had a similar reaction to Pattie at the words. I said I had a good laugh and that I planned to keep writing such poems.

"Go for it," Stan said.

owen pallett at first unitarian

2010-04-26T23:46:00.008-04:00

It was spur of the moment. An "I'll go if you go" sort of thing. So Dan bought the tickets.

Formerly known as Final Fantasy, Owen Pallett--now going by his real name--played in the sanctuary of the First Unitarian Church in Philadelphia. Honestly, the acoustics of that room is so incredible that it could make anyone sound good. Okay, so I tend to be hyperbolic when I talk about concerts. Forgive me, but really, live performances get me a riled up.

Even the opening act, Snowblink, who I hadn't even bothered to look up before the show, was pretty great. I mean, they were actually great--not merely bearable, but actually refreshing to hear. The lead singer played a guitar with antlers jutting out of the body. I guess I already decided then that I liked them, but when she started singing, I melted. Anyway, that was a nice surprise.

While Dan had told me about Owen Pallett's extreme awkwardness the last time he saw him perform in concert, I still expected a decent performance. After all, I had watched plenty of youtube videos that gave evidence otherwise. And I thought he did here too.

After a few songs, he just looked at the audience and said, "Any questions?"

An incoherent mumble of too many questions at once echoed through the room. Then some girl, not too far off from where we were sitting belted out, "Do you feel like a figure of moral authority asking questions there?"

He was standing at center stage where a pulpit might normally be. Some other girl behind us yelled, "Shut up!"

"I'm sorry, a what authority?" Owen Pallett asked quite innocently.

"A moral authority," she said less definitively.

"Um, no..." he answered, "you can pray to higher beings here if you wish."

Good job Owen Pallett; well played. Someone else asked him what was on his t-shirt. It was a picture of a gigantic explosion.

"Okay, question time over," he said. And he continued to play.

He played a mix of old and new songs. I was just glad he played "Many Lives." Hearing "This is the Dream of Win & Regine" was great too.

The looping thing is nothing too special to me now. I've seen it done enough times by enough people. But I thought about how different Owen Pallett's style of looping is from Andrew Bird. Both are very intricate and their sense of timing is incredible. They both have a sort of nonsense lyric thing happening too. I have to say, Andrew Bird's stage presence is much more captivating--maybe his funky socks have something to do with it--but Owen Pallett has a sort of delicacy to him that distinguishes him from Andrew Bird. Or maybe Owen Pallett is just more depressed. It's that kind of thing that made me want to cry when he played "Better Than Worse" for his encore. It's so ethereal that you want to close your eyes, but you force yourself to keep them open because that's what you came for.

And when everyone started clapping along to the rhythm of "This Lamb Sells Condos" during the bridge at the very end? I know, I don't even have to say anything.

Dan had already left because he had to adhere to his teacherly duties and go to bed early. I actually didn't mind sitting there alone through two encore songs; I just felt lame later as I walked out, haha.

It was pouring. Rain leaked in through my thin flats. My sweater stockings got wet. It was worth it.

grad night

2010-04-24T22:56:00.005-04:00

Since I wrote it, I figured I might as well post my testimony here:

Hi, my name is Elli; I am graduating from Temple with a degree in English. I will be taking the following year off to work and prepare to go to grad school for Creative Writing in Poetry.

During the first semester of my freshmen year, another sister from GCC and I, in an attempt to practice accountability, met every Monday morning in Mitten Hall at 8:00 before class to do quiet times together. I remember one particular day, we studied a passage from Philippians which reads, “Therefore, my dear friends, as you have always obeyed—not only in my presence, but now much more in my absence—continue to work out your salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God who works in you to will and to act according to his good purpose.” This sister and I each took an index card, wrote down the verse and then the word “sanctification” below it. We talked about what this word meant: that being made holy is a continuous process; that this is something we have to seek constantly. We left the room feeling inspired, and I think, even confident with this vision for our lives.

That was four years ago, and yet, I’m still learning what it means to be sanctified. I’ve carried this index card in my wallet for the past four years, and I am nowhere near holy. When I look back, it seems like so much of my college life has been saturated with an obvious lack of holiness. I spent so much of these years asking God “Where are you?” rather than living with conviction. I’ve doubted much more than I’ve ever believed. Yet, while I see nothing redemptive about me, God has showed me that my faith doesn’t rest on my character or my abilities, but on Christ and the simple and real fact that I am loved by him.

When I look back, I see that these years were lessons in choosing to be Christ over being myself. And here at GCC, I’ve experienced the overwhelming grace of being loved despite the fact that I am so much more of myself than I am like Jesus. I have been able to see real, tangible love manifested here in my friends.

I’ve learned that family group doesn’t just mean weekly Bible studies but loving people daily. I’ve learned that serving means to love to no end—to love even when you receive nothing in return, simply because Jesus’ love is real. I’ve learned that faith is something beyond me and only God can help me believe. I’ve learned that even when I don’t believe, that I cannot escape his love. And despite how deaf and blind to God’s work and purpose I’ve felt, he has allowed me to see his love and hear his voice in the everyday and in this community.

I’ve heard God in late night jam sessions where we’d sing until our voices were dry and raspy, bang our instruments until we’d lose feeling in our fingers—with nothing left to give but our hearts. I’ve experienced him through the way ordinary brown bags full of candy and snacks can bring joy during finals. I’ve known his love in a single phone call, when a sister I barely knew asked if she could come and pray for me. I’ve experienced his fellowship in praying together with friends for no occasion all but to encourage and love each other. I’ve experienced God’s persistence in the way this church has constantly encouraged me to seek more than what is here and now—to seek his Kingdom first.

And as real as these things have been, I hope that the words on this index card will become real as well—that I will look more like the love I’ve experienced here.

Many thanks to all who prayed for me, not only last night, but for these past four years. This really has been the time of my life.

break

2010-04-20T21:40:00.004-04:00

My second round of poems for my workshop class today went pretty well. I was caught a bit off guard when my professor, Pattie, called my name to be next--I thought some other dude was going before me. I managed to fumble through a word in the last stanza of the poem she asked me to read aloud, much like I did for round one. I guess it's a curse.

In any event, people were making good, helpful comments despite the fact that barely anyone had read the poems before class started. The word religious was getting thrown about every which way. For some reason, whenever someone says "Well, I don't know anything about the Bible but..." a steady wave of laughs/smirks sweeps the room. It's about as productive as when people say "this is just my opinion..." before they say something the class might not like, but what can I do. All I have is what I've written.

I sat quietly and jotted down notes while the class discussed the poems--they were the ones I wrote during Passion Week. I had added another poem into the collection, sort of as a preface/opener to those poems. My professor started a discussion concerning my use of imagery when one girl said something quite striking:

"I don't know how or why, but I want to break this poem."

Oh my.

My professor did a kind of one-eyebrow-raise thing. "You want to break the poem?"

"I don't know what she was trying to do here, but it makes me angry. She should be careful about what kind of emotions she's bringing up through these lines," she said.

To my relief, Pattie defended me, saying that there was no possible way for a writer to anticipate or prevent any sort of emotion from being evoked through her poems. "It's just impossible," Pattie said.

In case you're curious, here's the poem:

"The Word"

I was trying to be a genius—to confound
the ornithologist by fashioning
wings of parchment
with coffee-stained letters.

Raising my arms, I cannot will
the wind to break, forbid
the grass its sway—
only touch the alphabet
like grain between fingertips.

*

In the beginning was the word
and the word was God’s—the first
Poet, or Prophet, as it were, is, and will be:
Majesty Namer, Majesty Beckoner,
Majesty Man and Flesh, Abider
for the sake of men.

And, wanting me, He called
me from dust—as easy
as etching the name in the curling arms
of the sea—the gentlest gesture of acquisition.

The girl was referring to the lines that have "Majesty..." in them. I've looked over the lines again and again, but I'm still not sure what she means.

To a certain extent, I'm glad to have evoked anything at all through my poems. The worst possible scenario would be if people were completely indifferent about them. Still, break? I don't know if I win or lose. Either way, I had a good laugh.

Regardless of one student's comment, I was glad to hear that despite the fact that the majority of my classmates claim they believe in nothing, they found my poems "welcoming" and "refreshing." And that, if nothing else, is a start.

subject: CONGRATULATIONS!

2010-04-08T21:16:00.005-04:00

From an email I received this morning:

Dear Elizabeth:

Congratulations! You have been selected to receive this year’s William Van Wert Award.

Established by family, faculty, friends, and students in memory of William Van Wert, professor of English, this award is given to an outstanding English major with financial need who has completed his or her freshman year and is dedicated to the pursuit of becoming a professional writer.

I have a sneaking suspicion my professors were up to this. As if the week wasn't good enough with my acceptance to the REDI program. It's really beyond me. Surreal and amazing. When I read this at the computer lab in Anderson Hall after finishing an assignment for my capstone class, all I could do was whisper the words thank you in prayer, over and over again.

And "professional," huh? I sure hope so. And a genuine one too.

goodbye, moleskine

2010-04-07T21:34:00.002-04:00

After 4+ long years, I am finally graduating... from my moleskine notebook.

During the fall of 2005, I purchased my very first moleskine notebook after having been inspired by my hippy English teachers to begin writing poetry again. I guess that's where it really began.
When I look back to the first pages--garbage, really--and how I was so adamant about keeping the pages clean and pristine, I laugh. Towards the middle, I see a lot of struggle and experimentation in terms of finding my poetic style. The dates of the poems are closer together and there are progressively more scribbles on the pages. And near the end, I see a lot of myself--genuinely stupid, honest, and trying to make sense of the sacred.

Looking at it now, it's almost a shame to be apart from it. To leave it on my shelf as memorabilia--because it's not. It's really a big chunk of me: my mind, my hands, and yes, my heart. I was never without it. Whenever I left my room, it was the first thing I packed in my bag.
I remember I left it in Soo's car one day, only realizing this once I got back to my dorm room. I almost had a seizure. When she kindly returned it to me the following day, it was like having a lost child return to your arms.

It's silly, really. I know, it's just a notebook. But, as Stan has said to me on multiple occasions, "writing is the thinking process"--and this moleskine has been a primary vehicle of that process. Sure, it's got masking tape down its spine from all the opening and closing; it has embarrassing biographical prose interspersed within the pages. But it marks the dates of my progress as a writer--a poet.

And no longer the romanticized notion of that word, "poet." I've come to see the torment of writing: what it's like to tear your heart out, place it on the page in the form of words, then performing literary surgery by reworking the words and cutting out the ones that didn't work. It was simultaneously painful and liberating.

So too with a brand new moleskine in my hand. It's a bit terrifying to deny these pages of their crisp cleanliness, but it must be done. I must write.

REDI

2010-04-05T23:06:00.006-04:00

Dear Elizabeth Kim,
We are delighted to admit you to the Rutgers English Diversity Institute...

I jumped out of my seat and scared the crap out of my mom who was in my room with me.

"I got in!" I yelled and embraced her.

"God must really love you a lot," she said in Korean.

No arguments there.

For those who have no idea what this is or means to me, it's pretty much a week-long pre-grad school program in June, for students interested in going to grad school for English, with workshops and seminars--completely for free. Aka: perfect for me.

Jena, my Contemporary Poetry professor told me about it and encouraged me to apply. So I did. I was aware that only about 12 students in the country would be accepted. You can only imagine my excitement. Now, if only I could concentrate on finishing my work for the night so that I do indeed graduate this May, haha.

Yes, I think I'll end this post with laughter. It's only fitting.

on the resurrection

2010-04-04T21:23:00.004-04:00

“Heart, Remade”

By Sunday, he said, the temple
would be rebuilt brick by brick.
See, the new thing; it will spring up
like wildfire, from ember by ember.

The structure of the heart, remade—
the dwelling place of Presence itself.

On Sunday, what else but the empty tomb
—the living is not among the dead.
No wonder my heart burns within my chest
as he walks with me and breaks bread again.

on the cross

2010-04-02T23:52:00.003-04:00

“Oh My God”

Was the darkness of his turned back
like that of a blink—the force
inevitable and impulsive
—or like a thousand silent years

Oh my God

Was his thirst hanging there
for water or Father—surely
this man was all flesh
surely he was fully spirit

Oh my God

Was it my name on his lips
when he breathed his last—
parched and rasped and shaking
but worth every ounce of air
for the sake every broken thing

on gethsemane

2010-04-01T23:57:00.005-04:00

“An Act of the Will”

Meaning is not
an act of the will.
What is written
is written and cannot
be relinquished or reversed.
Heaviness of eyes
and chest—sorrow
upon sorrow
death before death—
not one hour or two.
“Do what you came for,”
spoken to his betrayer
or himself.
Thus, meaning is
not an act of the will,
but God.

on peter's denial

2010-03-31T17:38:00.003-04:00

“Of Course”

Not just my feet
but my hands and head as well
Just as on the Galilee
when my toes walked the tides
only to sink and drench my skin

Did he see my tears then
wavering as I cried his name
I know not him
or had the sea swallowed
me once and for good?

If they not I, no,
I would remain as stone
etched with the marks of time
I know not him
Though the night is long

Would he go before me
yet again to Galilee?
I know him not
Of course a sun came
Of course the rooster crowed

on the last supper

2010-03-29T17:44:00.007-04:00

“Body and Blood”

Really, this is me:

body and blood, broken and
poured for your sakes.

But know the hour
hand draws near.

on palm sunday

2010-03-28T11:03:00.005-04:00

“Save”

Long, slender leaves
snapping underfoot.
He was silent then,
too. Seated—not on chariot,
but colt. No red carpet—
just cloaks. “Save!” the crowd
would shout then, too.

two or more

2010-02-28T00:00:00.002-05:00

When two or more gather...

It's complicated. There's usually schedule conflicts or miscommunications. It's difficult to get much studying done. People complain. Someone has to raise their voice to get everyone's attention. People get annoyed, restless, tired, bored. At least one person gets offended somehow or other. You lose precious hours of sleep. You're not ready for your exam the following day.

But sometimes, when two or more gather...

Things matter, time doesn't. Simply being--the here-and-now-ness--matters. You smile. You laugh until it pains your sides. Conversation is all and enough. Prayer seems tangible, do-able, real--even heard.

"For where two or three come together in my name, there am I with them." - Matthew 18:20

chapterhouse reading, january 16th

2010-01-17T00:13:00.004-05:00

Several people were smoking on the stairs outside the Chapterhouse Cafe. I saw Stan as soon as I walked into the door; he was talking with some Asian man, so I quickly greeted him, scooted by, and found my way to the lower floor, settling down in a chair in the corner of the familiar room. It was already 8pm but the room was yet empty. I was informed the reading would start in a few minutes ["Ten minutes... yeah... fifteen minutes..."].

Before winter break began, I borrowed several books from Paley Library with the intent of keeping my brain semi-academic so I'd be slightly ready for my last semester as an undergrad [holy crap!]. To my utter delight, the library had a crisp copy of Maggie Nelson's Bluets from which she read a segment about a year ago at her reading at TUCC. Of course, I didn't read as much as I had hoped; I tend to have an unrealistic appetite when I find myself around free books. Anyway, I started reading it just a few hours earlier, so I continued on from where I left off until the reading started.

Laura Jaramillo was the first reader of the night. She thanked everyone for coming, adding that she knew and liked everyone in the room. She probably didn't see me in the corner. She wore trendy glasses, red hot lipstick, and read extremely fast. She read from her recently published chapbook, The Civilian Nest. I found her reading a bit hard to follow but I wrote down the following lines because it sort of went in line with recent thoughts about location and being: "Question: What's bothering you? Answer: This place that can't keep its place-ness to itself." What is place-ness if not simply being? It's impossible not to be somewhere at any point in time; we can't help but be. It's all we are. I like the permanence and weight of that--our being always means [something].

Heather Green was the next reader. The chapbook from which she read, No Omen, was also published by the same press that published Jaramillo's. She gave the audience a bit of context; the first chunk of poems were elegies and the latter part of her reading consisted of translations of Tristan Sora [not sure about the spelling]. Green also explained that she was interested in interpreting signs from ordinary seen things. The thought occurred to me: in a sense, this makes all poets mystics of sorts because poets find meaning in the ordinary, the minute, the commonplace things. Anyway, just an indulging thought. Towards the end of her reading, Green read a line I couldn't get out of my mind. She said, "who matters to the fire if it loses the flames/ that the man buries in the now strange earth."

Daniel Lin, the final reader, began by reading a concrete poem, which he had printed and gave them to us for free. At first, it wasn't so much his words but the way he spoke them which made him exciting to hear. He pronounced each consonant and syllable with precision, creating a slow and steady cadence. His rhyme schemes weren't trite or sing-songy but flowed nicely. One of the lines I really liked went "To them I surrender as a tired man to the waves." Lin read some translations as well, this time on Sappho. His entire reading was sort of austere, as I suppose, the two previous readers were. At one point, I think he surprised us all with a hilarious poem called "Celebrities" which he read, "Brad left Jen/ the publicists were mad/ but you're not Jen/ and I'm not Brad." Everyone laughed.

After the reading was over and some announcements about future readings were made, people in the room seemed to form huddles with those familiar to them. I, on the other hand, packed my notebook back into my bag and made my way to the table where the chapbooks were on display.

As I was looking at them, Heather Green passed by. I told her I enjoyed her reading and introduced myself. I asked her about that line about the fire, telling her I really loved it, and she flipped through her manuscript. When she found the page, she ripped it from the packet saying, "You can have it." I thanked her and she asked me about myself. I told her I was an undergrad studying poetry and that Stan was my professor. We chatted a bit and admired the Christmas lights and bottles hanging in the fireplace.

I searched around the room for Stan so I could say goodbye. We asked each other how winter break was and lamented the start of another semester. He said he's teaching three freshmen composition classes; I'm taking five English classes. I doubt there will be much time this semester for office visits, but I'm sure I'll see him at other readings--Temple's got a fantastic line-up for this semester for the Poets and Writers series. Unfortunately, I can't go to the next Chapterhouse reading because I'll be at the GCC Retreat, but Rachel Blau Duplessis and Pattie McCarthy--both of whom are my professors this semester, for my capstone and creative writing class, respectively--will be reading. I'm bummed, but it can't be helped. I can only be where I am.

we rule the school

2010-01-15T22:47:00.004-05:00

Winter break is almost over. Sigh... Well, I suppose I can do nothing for only so long.

But I haven't been doing precisely nothing. You can find a cover of Belle & Sebastian's "We Rule the School," here.

new york, new york

2010-01-12T01:46:00.011-05:00

A year or so ago, my sister got a job at Cynthia Steffe, a high-end fashion company in New York. Since then, she's moved into a new apartment so she could be closer to work. I suppose it was strange [and quiet] enough when she first moved out of the house a few years ago, but we still saw each other every few months. Now that she's out of state, gatherings seem only reserved for holidays.

I'm not much of a traveler. Driving still scares me, I'm terrible with directions, and I'm perfectly content staying where I am. Despite this, my brother and I hopped on a bus to New York to visit my sister this past weekend. I guess the highlight was seeing our two cousins, Jonathan and Jacob, who I haven't seen in 5 years since they moved out of state.

I remember when their high-pitched voices used to crack. I remember playing hide and seek at our old house--getting freaked out once it got dark and running out from our hiding places. I remember running away from home when we could barely speak English, only to be found by my aunt an hour later. Now, they're gross--tall, buff, and their voices are so low I could barely recognize it on the phone. As we sat in one room together for the first time in many years, so much of our conversation seemed to start with, "Remember when..." We laughed and returned to our younger years for some time.

This post started out as a written outline, trying to record everything we did, but it was just too boring. So rather, here are some pictures from our trip. We hope to have gatherings like this more often.

the kindness of a neighbor, act II

2009-12-29T22:35:00.004-05:00

Last night, I was in my room with the door really shut, trying to keep out as much sound that was blaring from the unnecessarily enormous flat-screen television in my living room by which my dad was watching Korean game shows. I was listening to the latest episode of This American Life, a re-run--but an excellent re-run, mind you--when I heard my dad yell my name from downstairs.

"Elizabeth!" he called. He always insists on using my full name. "Someone's here for you."

Thinking it might be one of my friends, I went downstairs ready to tell whoever it was that I didn't feel like going out tonight. When I went to the door, it was Barbara, the neighbor I blogged about who had given me a ride to the city a couple weeks ago.

"Remember me?" she said.

"Of course, hi Barbara, how are you?"

"Listen, thanks for the thoughtful gift," she said. A week ago, I left a little gift and a card in front of her door [because no one was home when I knocked] as a thank you for giving me a ride that day. If you can believe it, she's pretty much the only neighbor I've become acquainted with since my family moved to this house four years ago. "What are you up to lately?" she asked.

"Just... bumming around at home," I said. This was a pretty accurate statement.

"When do you go back to school?"

"The nineteenth," I answered.

"Listen," Barbara said, "I was wondering if you would be willing to work for me at my office."

"Um, sure!" I said, almost immediately worrying that I sounded too eager. Considering the fact that I've been a vegetable since winter break started, I was glad for any form stimulation. "What do you need me to do?"

"Oh, just file some papers; mostly paperwork." She gave me her cellphone number and asked me to meet her in the morning at 8:30am. "And it'll be $12 an hour."

I thanked her and she left.

"Who was that?" my parents asked. I retold to them how I met Barbara and to my surprise, my parents didn't scold me for getting into a car with a stranger--perhaps because I mentioned to them that she offered me payed work.

So I walked through the cutting wind to her house, met her husband as well as their hound dog, Puck. Then she drove us into the city once again. She parked and we walked through the underground concourse to an entrance to the Two Penn Center, which, evidently is right in between City Hall and the Temple Center City building. The building was gorgeous and I felt as though I didn't belong there. All the doors to the different offices had their names written in gilded letters and looked quite important. Stifel Nicholaus, where Barbara works, was on the 13th floor [the first time I've ever seen a 13th floor in a high-rise building], just past the elevators.

We did exactly what she said we would--filed papers all day long. My head was slightly dizzy from learning their filing system and looking at names and numbers for hours, but it wasn't rocket science. I had dry hands and a few paper-cuts but nothing to complain about.

Today was the most productive I've been these past few weeks. While I did enjoy the work, I have to admit it's not something I'd want to do every day but I guess it "pays the bills," as they say--not that I really pay any [besides Verizon's freaking DSL service].

In any event, I must say I am continually surprised by Barbara's kindness. Granted, her assistant is on vacation in Mexico and the paperwork had been piling up so much that she's had to stay overtime at work, still, I keep running it through my mind but it doesn't make sense to me why she'd ask me of all people to help her. I'm just some random girl she found shivering at the corner of her street, waiting for the bus.

After Barbara left last night, my mom told me that she prayed for me just the day before that I'd find good work once I graduated from Temple. I'm not jumping to any conclusions; I'm only helping Barbara temporarily, but I like to think that prayers mean more than breath and air. And hey, who doesn't like a good surprise, here and there.

the friendly beasts

2009-12-26T18:18:00.003-05:00

It's raining and Christmas is over. Thus, we come to the final installment of Christmas song posts: a cover of "The Friendly Beasts," here. Thank you for listening.

I hope all of you had a happy Christmas with whomever you shared it with.

only at christmas time, or, that was the worst christmas ever!

2009-12-25T16:58:00.005-05:00

Actually, it wasn't. I'm having a fine Christmas here with my family which, in the past, has been a rarity; but as of late, holidays at home have been pleasant.

Merry Christmas to you! Here are my gifts to you: the fifth installment of Christmas song posts, a cover of Sufjan Stevens' "Only At Christmas Time" here [I really wished I had some bells], as well as a cover of "That Was the Worst Christmas Ever!" here.

star of wonder

2009-12-24T18:00:00.002-05:00

Happy Christmas Eve! And here is the fourth installment of Christmas song posts: a cover of Sufjan Stevens' "Star of Wonder," another favorite of mine, here.

sister winter

2009-12-23T16:58:00.002-05:00

The third installment of Christmas song posts: a cover of one of my favorite of Sufjan Stevens' Songs for Christmas, "Sister Winter," here.

in the bleak midwinter

2009-12-22T17:25:00.003-05:00

This is the second installment of Christmas song posts. My feet are numb from cold, but here is a cover of "In the Bleak Midwinter."

o come, o come emmanuel

2009-12-21T16:13:00.008-05:00

In the spirit of Christmas [and as an homage to Sufjan Stevens, who knows best what Christmas music is all about] I'll be posting up some recordings of Christmas songs here for the next few days.

First: a cover of O Come, O Come Emmanuel, here.

a tribute to fall '09

2009-12-19T18:47:00.013-05:00

Instead of a bunch of sentimental blah-blah, I figured I'd post some of the pictures I took over the course of the semester. Here's to new friends, sleepless nights, good times, and more of these to come; cheers!

chapterhouse reading, december 12th

2009-12-18T13:14:00.007-05:00

It was a week ago. Classes were over and I had spent the two study days sleeping in, drinking hot chocolate, and not studying. After months of academically-induced emotional angst, it was the least I owed to myself. On Saturday afternoon, I set up our Christmas tree in the living room--alone--with Sufjan Stevens' Songs for Christmas album on repeat. All-in-all, an ideal day.

I normally don't drive into the city on Saturday nights, but the Chapter & Verse series was holding their last reading for the year. Julia Bloch, Tonya Foster, and Kristen Gallagher were the readers for the night--I was familiar with none of them, save for a bit of googling beforehand.

Walking out to my car, I really wished I didn't lose my mittens. It was pretty cold. I could see my breath in the car for a while. Soo called mid-journey, so she kept me company on the drive to the city. My good buddy Onazi said he'd go to the reading with me--to "calm his soul" he said--so after picking him up from his place, we drove over the annoying trolley tracks on 12th Street, past houses decorated with lights, into the cold, cold night to the Chapterhouse Cafe.

Parallel parking always makes me nervous. I was hoping to find a spot on South Street, near 9th, where I had parked the last time I came. No cigar. And it looked like the parking signs had changed too--no free parking until 10pm. So we made a few turns, mostly guided by Onazi, who seemed to know his way better than I did. We managed to find a good spot just a few blocks away.

Then, guided by me, we walked in the opposite direction on 9th Street. That field doesn't look familiar to me, I thought. After a few blocks, we turned back to find that, oh-so-ironically, the cafe was right at the corner of where we had started going the wrong way. Did I mention I am directionally challenged? If I didn't, well, there you go.

The cafe was dark but a ton of people wearing black dresses and suits were inside, holding colored drinks in the midst of unnecessarily loud music. A party it was. The cellar door to the basement was open so we entered through there, down the steep stairs. It was just 8pm when we walked in but nothing had started yet. Chairs were set up but not yet filled. In the next room, I found Stan, wearing a knit hat that looked quite warm. I introduced him to Onazi, then we took our seats in the very first row.

People were walking back and forth; confused-looking people entered through the cellar doors. Stan and a few other people I didn't recognize set up fancy recording devices in the corner of the room, where Onazi and I were sitting and chatting.

"This is on record now," I said.

We were talking about C.S. Lewis at one point. Then Onazi told me about how the heat in his house broke, and all he had for comfort was the homemade hot chocolate that Sunny had given to all of us as Christmas gifts. If ever our families abandoned us, the Kang's doorstep would be the ideal place to land, we mused.

Our nonsense babble was broken when Julia Bloch was introduced and she walked to the front of the tiny room. If I reached out my arm, I probably could've touched the papers in her hand--which seemed to be her poetry printed out on the back of old worksheets or something--hooray for recycling.

Julia Bloch's reading was an incredible way to start the night. The party upstairs was pretty loud and she had to try her best to project volume from her thin body, but her facility of language was unlike anything I've heard before. I found myself constantly thinking, I wish I had thought of that, which is usually how I know I love something. In one of her poems, she used the term "pre-cog," likening it to mean "wait and see." This was particularly significant to me because it kind of went hand-in-hand with what I've been thinking about in terms of poetry as re-cognition. I've been mulling over this idea that recognition doesn't just mean to acknowledge something, but to consider it again. I like to think poetry is always worth another (and another and another and...) look.

Her reading was pretty comedic too. She read a poem called "Wolverine" and it ended like this: "Can this chair be wolverine? No, because wolverine is a noun." The whole room erupted in laughter. She's right though, that -ine suffix can be a tricky one. She also read a series of poems called "Letters to Kelly Clarkson" that she had been working on ever since Kelly Clarkson won American Idol in 2002. Yeah, you do the math. I expected the poems to be light and humorous, but it ended up being a commentary on the pathetic state of American society.

Tonya Foster's poetry reminded me most of what I had read in my Contemporary Poetry class (a lot of experimental, anti-common sense kind of work). She used a lot of fragmented phrases, mind-blowingly demonstrating the malleability of prepositions. Part-way through her reading, she twirled the cough drop in her mouth around and said "I wish they'd play a good song," referring to the party upstairs. "I wish I had a broom so I could bang the ceiling." I think everyone wished they had brooms too.

She worked with alliteration a lot too. The way she lingered on words, even making single-syllable words seem to stretch, really made the repetition of sound powerful. One of the lines that she read haunted me: "been/ bones." The way she could make two words together mysterious and mean so much was really impressive. Another line that Foster read made me wish I had written it myself: "When Moses parted the Red Sea like hair, was he tender?" There was a short intermission after she was finished.

As if the reading couldn't get any better, Kristen Gallagher stepped forward to read. I assumed she was in her mid-30s but her voice was like that of a junior high girl. It was warm and made you want to be her friend immediately. She read from a series of poems which would eventually be published in a book called Reading A Map. She imitated children's voices with such accuracy, saying, "Is it here? Or is it here?"--reminding me of Ron Padget's reading of "Nothing in That Drawer" where each line is exactly the same but the inflections in his voice make each line something different. Gallagher really made you rethink the meanings of pronouns and the inflections in her voice created a sense of movement in the words. It made me want to be a child again.

With re-cognition as my current poetic lens, I felt that Gallagher was bringing me to a whole new level of it. One particular line grabbed a hold of me: "when I physically am"--to be as opposed to being anything in particular. I liked that someone's loss of locational position on a map could bring about a reflection on what it means to be alive, and just alive. And it didn't just end there. With lines like "the forest is ending/ oh, it's just cars" and "that looks like a house in the sky/ oh, it's just the end," I felt as if the poems were no longer simply about finding one's place but understanding one's existence. If I could speak for everyone in that room, I'd say we all felt quite alive that night.

When the reading was over, I searched around the room to say goodbye and thank Stan since, to my disappointment, it would be the last time I'd see him until the next semester. I asked him to have mercy on the paper I had just turned in for our New York School class--the one I had stayed up all night at the library to finish.

"I'll see what I can do," Stan joked.

He thanked Onazi and I for coming to the reading. I told Stan I'd be at the next one in January, and then it was goodbye.

So we found our way back to my car and we drove back to campus, humming along to Sufjan's Songs for Christmas. I was wishing I could take Stan's class all over again and Onazi teased that I should ask him if I could turn in another copy of my paper, just so I could talk to him again.

Though I'm convinced that only a microscopic percentage of the world's population cares for poetry readings, I'd glad to be a part of it. I told Onazi how poetry readings were like going to concerts for me. The reading happens once and only once in the way that it does. Contingencies, like the party upstairs and the particular group of people in that basement room, make the experience different than what it would be if the poets were reading at another cafe or in another basement with a different group of people. There's magic in that and it leaves me inspired, reminding me that poetry is still alive in the world. Alive--even if only as a small speck, a mustard seed, on a map to guide my way.

car trouble, act VI

2009-12-15T23:44:00.004-05:00

I forgot to log this when it happened about two weeks ago.

It was Sunday morning but not just any Sunday morning--it was the morning after the first snowfall of this year as well as the last Sunday service at Temple GCC for the year. A chunky layer of white covered the ground and my car. I was getting ready to leave the house to meet the praise band before service, as usual. My mom told me my dad had already gone outside to scrape the ice off of the windshields, so I took my time eating breakfast.

As soon as I walked out the door with my bag hanging off my shoulder, my dad called out to me from the bottom of our driveway where my car was parked. "The door is frozen shut," he said so calmly that I seriously thought he was messing with me. "You might have to drive the Lincoln." Oh no, I thought. I hate my dad's Lincoln Continental. It was considered a luxury vehicle a decade ago when he bought it, but now, it's a gas-chugging royal piece of crapola.

I quickly but carefully tiptoed down the concrete to inspect the car myself. My dad just kept scraping the ice. When I reached the car, I found that the door handle on the driver's side was broken off. "What the!" I said.

"It broke while I was trying to pull open the door," my dad said. Oy.

My mom peered out the front door. "Is it frozen?" she asked.

"It's frozen," my dad and I responded.

Eventually, my mom suggested we pour hot water over it. So I ran inside and brought out a pitcher that steamed violently in the winter air. The door promptly opened after we poured the water over its edges. I started the engine and immediately turned on the defroster.

All of the signs seem to be pointing to the death and burial of my car--and yet, I continue to drive it around... Well, at least now, it's a slightly more difficult vehicle to steal, granted that someone would actually want to steal it.

the kindness of a neighbor

2009-11-20T16:31:00.010-05:00

It was a Friday morning. I stood at the corner of Sussex Boulevard and Hampshire Drive as I always do to catch the 112 bus for my commute to school. For once, I had gotten ready in good time, so I had a few minutes 'til the bus arrived. The sun was at a perfect angle so that my back was warm as I waited.

I was singing a song by My Brightest Diamond to myself when a car started to turn the corner but came to a slow stop in front of me, the window rolling down simultaneously.

"Do you want a ride to 69th Street?" the driver asked. She was a woman, I guessed in her early 40's.

"Uh, really?" I said, confused.

This had actually happened to me once before. I think it was last year, when some guy drove up and asked the very same question. That time, I declined the offer.

"Yeah, I drive by there on my way to work anyway," she said.

I felt that the words no thank you were right on my lips when I said, "um, alright." So I hopped into her car which still had a new car kind of smell to it. "My name is Elizabeth," I said.

"Barbara."

"Barbara, nice to meet you and thank you very much."

She told me she'd been living in our neighborhood for almost twenty years. Her son had graduated from college so she and her husband, along with their two dogs, lived in that house on the corner. Apparently, she knew my neighbors on my street too, though I had never so much as spoken a full sentence to any of them since the past four years of living in my house.

It's strange; I'm always suspicious of people when they show me such unwarranted kindness. Every few minutes, I found myself entertaining scenarios where she might auto-lock the doors, speed away into some shady alleyway, and pull a potato sack over my head. She did no such thing. Conversation was pleasant without the least bit of awkwardness.

She told stories about her son's college experiences mostly. I was surprised to find that her voice filled most of the conversation, not so much asking questions to move it along, but telling personal stories about her family. It was nice--just to listen. At some point, I told her I went to Temple University.

"Oh, I work at City Hall, I can drop you off at 15th Street Station so you can catch the Orange Line," she said. There really was no end to this woman's heart.

Barbara parked in the lot beneath Love Park, pointing me towards the direction of the subway concourse. I shook her hand, thanked her again, and we parted ways.

Humbling, if nothing else. I don't know what moves people to love strangers. It just makes no logical sense--but then again, the love of Christ never has. It's just good to an end of its own.

I think I'll send her a fruit basket for Christmas.

sight and recognition

2009-11-15T21:46:00.004-05:00

This is the second paper I wrote for my New York School class. It was written in a single, sleepless, and delusional night but I think I was, for the most part, able to say what I wanted to say. This one deals with Schuyler too, and also Alice Notley (a second generation New York School poet). This essay is longer than the last, so bear with me. I tried to find the individual poems online, but Schuyler's poem proved quite elusive. Well, it's from The Morning of the Poem, if you happened to be desperately curious. But the Notley piece can be found here in google books if you flip to page 10. Again, this is long, hyper-wannabe-scholarly, and formal. I understand if you bypass it completely.

In James Schuyler’s poem “June 30, 1974” and the section from The Descent of Alette which begins, “‘A mother’ ‘& child’ ‘were both on fire, continuously’” on page ten by Alice Notley, the poets present different subject matter but establish a similar concept of capturing experience. While Schuyler demonstrates intimacy by providing concrete and specific details, Notley offers distance and vagueness; however, through the pacing of time through form and repetition as well as the different ways in which the content facilitates language, both Schuyler and Notley encourage more than a mere glance at what the experience simply is. They demand depth—an exposition of meaning. This essay will expound upon the form and content of Schuyler and Notley’s poetry in order to show that both poets advocate poetic sensibility which is achieved not merely by sight but recognition. The word recognition is defined as “The action or an act of identifying a person or thing from a previous encounter or knowledge; the mental process of identifying something that has been known before” (OED). This implies that recognition is a process, not an instantaneous act, which delves into that which had formerly been observed—literally, to think again. Therefore, to see is not to know. It is not enough to merely watch an event; rather, true understanding of the experience is attained through continuous scrutiny of its meanings.

The reader must first take note of the format of Schuyler and Notley’s poetry because it establishes a sense of time and rhythm which is conducive for recognition. Schuyler’s poem is a single stanza which stretches down the page; the lines are short, consisting only of a few words each, and line enjambments are copious. In Notley’s piece, there are distinguishable stanzas and while line enjambments are used here as well, quotation marks are the means by which the fragments are separated. Schuyler allows the line enjambments to stagger the rhythm, facilitating the empty space of the page to stand between the lines and guide the pace in which the poem might be read. On the other hand, Notley creates a disturbance in her lines of poetry by using quotation marks between the phrases; this prevents the temptation to read through the lines hastily. Both poets create breath between phrases in order to slow the reading pace of the poetry. Thus, by slowing the rhythm and meter, Schuyler and Notley slow—or extend—time itself, causing the reader to consider the content of the words more closely. The line breaks in Schuyler’s poem create suspense and immediately elicits curiosity, almost assuring the undivided attention of the reader: he begins alluringly, “Let me tell you” (Schuyler 5). Notley introduces the subjects of the poem in pieces—first the mother, then the child—but follows with “‘were both on fire, continuously’” (line 1). Each phrase is given its own weight which, in turn, accentuates the gravity of the situation. What begins as the seemingly ordinary is actually revealed to be a horrific nightmare. The deliberately staggered readability of the forms creates potential for maximum recognition where the reader is able to reflect on the words.

Repetition is also used by Schuyler and Notley to encourage recognition of meaning. It not only adds to the rhythm of the lines, but the reverberations of words carry through time, accumulating meaning. The very nature of repetition necessitates successive examination—it implies multiplicity. In Schuyler’s poem, he recounts, “I mused/ as sunny wind/ streamed in the car/ window driving home” but subsequently interjects, “Home! How lucky to/ have one…” (6-7). The second exclamation of the word home shows awareness of the object by addressing it, but moreover, contemplation on the poet’s attitude towards it. Schuyler does not merely allude to a home but his home; he is conflicted because he feels fortunate to live there but also feels it to be “arduous/ to make this scene of beauty…” (7). The meaning of home is reconsidered through repetition through which Schuyler’s unsettled sentiments are realized—which may otherwise have been neglected. Throughout the section in Notley’s text, the words fire, flame, and burning are constantly repeated; the imagery, in reference to the mother and her baby, echoes throughout the piece which prohibits the reader from forgetting the tragic connotation. The resonance of the words reminds the reader that it is indeed both mother and child who are burning (the mother’s heart figuratively burning for her child who was physically burned in the fire). In the final two stanzas of Notley’s piece, the word cradled is repeated as well. The reiteration not only parallels the mother’s cradling motion but also emphasizes the haunting reality that the mother is cradling air (line 20). Given that cradling is an action exclusively associated with babies, the absence of the child in the mother’s arms is perceived as all the more alarming. Through the use of repetition, Schuyler and Notley are able to initiate realizations which may not have been acknowledged by the reader from a single mentioning of the words. There is a progression of meaning each time the words and phrases are reiterated.

While repetition assists the disclosure of subtle meanings and dramatization of the ordinary, a single idea can also project various meanings. Both Schuyler and Notley’s poetry exemplify the simultaneity of meanings in solitary entities. In Schuyler’s poem, there is a shift from sight to recognition when he articulates, “How we must have/ sounded, gossiping at/ the dinner table/ last night. Why, that/ dinner table is this breakfast table” (7). At first, the dinner table is simply identified; consequently, Schuyler realizes that different names are given to the same object in relation to time. While the breakfast table at which he sits in the morning may entail toast with Tiptree Gooseberry Preserve, the dinner table is associated with gossip. There is, nevertheless, only one table—but it means differently depending on the time of day. There is fascination in Schuyler’s tone of voice at this phenomenon of identification where the multiplicity of meaning in a single object is possible. He later states, “Discontinuity/ in all we see and are:/ the same, yet change,/ change, change” (7). Here, Schuyler further explicates the fact that what is seen is dissimilar from what things are—or mean—and that the physicality of things remain the same while the meanings have the ability to transform. This suggests that the reader must persistently re-think the meanings as they change. Notley also recognizes the simultaneity of meaning in the final stanza of her poem where she depicts the mother cradling the air. She states “(‘She saw’ ‘whatever she saw, but what we saw’ ‘was that flower’)” (line 24). There is an obvious disparity in vision; there is a single experience, but it is being interpreted in two different ways. While the mother imagines her child in her arms, “we” see that she is cradling a flower, which Notley compares to fire—“‘a red flower’ ‘its petals’ ‘curling flames’” (line 22). It is not so much a matter of whether or not one conception of the occurrence is correct because both perspectives are real to their respective party; rather, it is the responsibility of the reader to interpret, or recognize, that there is no such thing as a single, definitive meaning. Schuyler and Notley acknowledge the coexistence of differences in things and they encourage the reader to search for those very differences in poetic experience. The poets’ interest rests in the pursuit of understanding meaning—the very act of thinking again and again. That is the labor of the poet.

Although the poets promote recognition as a more profound practice than sight, their approaches to sight and recognition produce unlike results. Schuyler draws the reader closer to the crux of his experience through specificities which reveal a melancholy beauty of the actual. He relishes in the naming of things such as a redwing blackbird, Tiptree Gooseberry Preserve, and tables; he even mentions names like John, Inez, Jane and Joe. This establishes a close view of and nearness to Schuyler’s own encounters with them—things and people—because they are concrete. There is beauty in the mundane, every day ordeals and interactions. However, in a previous example, Schuyler described his sentiments toward home and how it was simultaneously lucky and arduous—the latter due to the pretentious manner in which the home was embellished in order to be presentable to company (7). Schuyler expresses sadness in this, cherishing the joyous moments with friends but realizing the conditions upon which those moments are contingent. He also conveys a distaste for mere display—mere sight. Similarly, while there is a celebration of discovery in the multiplicity of the dining table, there is also almost a shame in the confession of indulging in gossip at dinner. Schuyler’s recognition of his reality exposes the disturbances of his own mind.

On the other hand, Notley creates distance from the poetic experience by remaining uninvolved (no presence of an “I”) and vague in order to illustrate the horror of the unimaginable. Notley’s piece is scattered with pronouns and undistinguishable figures. Though she writes of a mother and child, both remain nameless; they are characters without bodies. In reference to the burning baby, later in the section, Notley asserts, “(‘But not yours’ ‘It didn’t happen’ ‘to you’)” (line 14). She excludes the reader from the action of the poem, going so far as to address the reader aside from the narrative through the use of parentheses. Perhaps this is a relief because Notley saves the reader from the danger and terror of the flames in the poem. She states, “‘But you could see the flame’” but does not allow the reader to approach it. Here too, she acknowledges that sight does not offer the full experience. She recognizes the horror of this unimaginable scene of a mother cradling her burning child and consequently protects the reader from such misery. Perhaps this serves as a warning to the reader to recognize the suffering and to truly consider the pain—lest the reader be caught in the flames as well—though the risk is rather provoking. Or, perhaps Notley is hinting that though “it did not happen” to the reader, the potential to engage is ever present if only the reader would comply.

To see is to observe, but to recognize poetry is to revisit the experience of the poem. James Schuyler and Alice Notley demonstrate that sight is shallow. It does not offer the complete experience of life in poems. The poets suggest a more practical approach that actively chases meaning and keeps chasing meaning. It is a chase because meaning is fluid as life is fluid—it perpetually transforms. Recognition implies constant study. It requires stimulation of thought process. Recognition demands the active pursuit of meaning in order to share in the poets’ experience through re-thinking their words. Thus, sight is inaction. Recognition is not a simple process. Indeed, it is heart-wrenching, as Schuyler demonstrated through his reflection and intimate exposition. It is even dangerous, as Notley’s piece revealed. Although it is a grueling process, it is one that invests in the life of poetry—whether quaint or awful—in order to communicate the poets’ realities to the reader, allowing the reader to take part in the poets’ creative process. Schuyler and Notley’s propose a poetic stance which argues that it is better risk than to neglect, to mean than to merely be, to imagine than to lay idle—better to live than to die.

car trouble, act V

2009-11-10T21:34:00.004-05:00

You're not going to believe this, but my muffler broke on my way to school today.

I had just passed by 69th Street when I hear my car kind of let out a cough. Then, as I pressed my right foot against the acceleration pedal, I heard my engine rev louder... and louder... It sounded like one of those obnoxious sports cars my next door neighbors drive. Soon after that, I heard something clanking near the back end of my car.

When I got out to check it out, I didn't see anything. As I drove to campus, I could hear the sound of thin metal scratching concrete, like cans dangling from a "just married" car--but not quite so festive.

I parked my car just a bit off campus, as close as I could. I hoped it would be back to normal when I returned to it in the afternoon. I was wrong.

I called my parents and asked them what I should do. My dad told me to just drive it home carefully and we'll figure out what to do from there.

Once I got home, it was already dark outside--one of the few things I do not enjoy about autumn. I went outside with a flashlight in hand to get to the bottom of this, literally. I bent down close to the ground and pointed the light under the car's belly. And there it was, the muffler hanging off.

Either this car is really old, it hates me, or I was never meant to drive.

car trouble, act IV

2009-11-07T16:02:00.009-05:00

That's right kids, the saga continues.

A little over a week ago, I picked up my car from the shop in Upper Darby after we got the anti-freeze tank replaced [remember how my car started smoking up during summer? Yeah, no more of that]. It was close to midnight when I was driving home after GCC's friday night service and I was ready to pass out once I got home, in anticipation of going to a ridiculously early morning prayer with my family. I was not looking forward to it, but I had no say in the matter--I was obligated to go.

Anyway, so I was driving home and noticed that my alignment was a bit off. In order to go straight, I had to turn the wheel slightly to the right. Strange. But at that point, I just wanted to get home and into bed. I figured I would ask my dad in the morning. When I did, he said he noticed the front left tire was a little deflated. I just had to put some air in and it would be good to go.

That weekend, there was speculation about Septa going on strike. Well, I don't have to tell you now because everyone already knows it's been about a week since they went on strike and made a greater part of Philadelphia's population aptly pissed. Thankfully, I had a car and could still make it to my classes. So I stopped by the Hess--which always has the cheapest gas--in the afternoon and put in some air. My car seemed good as new and it drove smoothly.

After a few days, I noticed my car had slightly deflated again. Odd. Yet it lasted me the week--almost.

This weekend, starting from Thursday night, Grace Covenant Church had what we call Passion Revival Conference. It usually happens once a year; we invite a guest speaker and it's pretty much like suped up services--meaning just more singing and more prayer. I stayed on campus rather than going home each night because I knew I'd get home way too late and lose way too much sleep. And that's something I really can't afford to lose these days.

So my car was parked right by 1300 and Towers, just chillin' out. I picked it up again to go to a meeting on Saturday morning along with a few friends of mine. I've noticed that in the colder weather, my car doesn't like to start for me on the first try at the ignition. And even after it starts, it takes quite some time to warm up. It wasn't all that strange to me that when I initially tried to accelerate, it seemed a little stiff. It was strange when it was still lagging after 20 minutes of driving. Well, after we got to the parking lot of Ralston House, where the meeting was, we found the problem. I had a flat tire.

After the meeting, the guys helped me change it. There were all sorts of other issues along with that: the wrench in my trunk didn't fit into the sockets for the bolts of the wheel right, the bolts were so old the heads rusted off, and to top it off, the spare tire was kinda deflated too. We figured we could make it to the nearest gas station and pump it with air.

I was on my way to Chinatown to drop off Gabe at his apartment before returning to Temple when awful noises started coming from the left side of my car, where we had just replaced the tire. Metal to concrete. The crunching of hard things. Seriously, the closest to the gnashing of teeth in hell I'll ever get. We made it to the Shell gas station and found--how could it not?--the spare tire flat. Soo, Gabe, and I just stood there, appalled.

Victor and Wayne came to help. Victor's hand was bleeding, maybe from the wrench, but he kept working. Wayne offered me his spare tire, but it wasn't the right size for my car. So we--rather, they--put the original wheel back in its place. It was so sad, so flat and helpless. They found the problem with the spare tire too. The nozzle where the air is pumped was loose; there was no way it would hold the air even if we pumped it full. Luckily, the gas station was an autobody shop too, and the dudes took a look at my tire.

One guy came over with a crazy-awesome car jack. He seemed fairly young; I thought he could very well be a college student. He raised my car casually and removed the tire. With a bottle full of soapy liquid, he sprayed the tire all around. And there it was, the tiniest puncture on the side, blowing bubbles.

"Gotcha," he said. "Alright, let me work my magic."

He carried it over into the garage and did some stuff I couldn't see. While Victor, Gabe, and I waited, they saw someone they new. He was a friendly middle aged man. They made small talk and the man told us he knew the owner of the gas station.

"Oh yeah? Put in a good word for us," Gabe said. [Another reason why I keep saying "Gabe for president"].

So the dude brought back the tire and it was good as new. He lowered my car to the ground, pumped the tire with air, and it was ready to roll.

"He makes it look easy, huh?" It was the owner of the gas station, a woman. "You're the students right? I saw you guys struggling over there earlier," she said. How embarrassing--we must have been at the corner of the gas station lot for over half an hour, changing the tires and trying to figure out what to do about my car.

When I asked her how much it would cost, she contemplated only for a moment and the answered, "Five dollars."

"Really?" I said. So I handed her five single dollar bills. "Thank you so much," I repeated several times.

I drove out the gas station with my car feeling like my car again. It drove smooth--er, as smooth as it normally does--the steering wheel still shakes. Hey, it's still a car and it still gets me where I need to go. Though, the journey has its fair share of kinks. Quite a share of them.

Special shout out and thank you to Soo, Gabe, Wayne, and Victor for helping me. And also thanks to JP who lent me his wrench at the parking lot of Ralston house and gave me quarters for the air pump. Thank goodness for friends who know what they're doing. Thank goodness for friends who bleed, offer their spare tire, and speak words of comfort while you panic inside. Thank goodness for friends who wait at gas stations with you while your death-mobile gets repaired. Thank goodness for friends. Period.

Thank you all, really.

I'll end with my favorite quote of all time from Gabe: "You doubt, you walk."

chapterhouse reading, october 24th

2009-10-31T22:04:00.006-04:00

In my first creative writing for poetry class two years ago with Stan McDonald, I learned what a chapbook was. Since then, I've made it a personal project/quest of mine to put one together seasonally [er, bi-annually--school year and summer break--is what's it's become]. I made a promise to myself that I'd write constantly, even if I was producing crap. There's something powerful and novel about working through a project that guts, exhausts, and embarrasses you. When you finish, the product seems all the more earned and meaningful--at least, at the time, it did.

I feel I've been in a rut. A very long and out-winded rut in terms of writing, particularly poetry. Spurts of inspiration seem fleeting, elating moments transient, the joy of discovery in poetic meaning pointless. Why write? What does it do? Where would it take me? And who cares if it matters to me?

After class one day, I hung around afterwards to talk to Stan. We talked about disenchantment and how there's really no cure but time. What I really appreciate about Stan is that poetry isn't just a class at Temple University for him; he genuinely cares for his students and their writing. He gave me some advice and a few recommendations for reading material. He told me about a poetry reading series, Chapter & Verse, he and another professor ran at the Chapterhouse Cafe right off of South Street that take place every other week and invited me to come.

So I hung around campus last Saturday afternoon, killing time at the library in order to attend the reading. When I walked out the Paley doors, night had already fallen and rain fell in heavy sheets. I had an umbrella, my car was parked within the block, and I had on my favorite boots--but it was no matter. The sidewalks flooded and the rain soaked my socks within seconds.

Well, I managed to find my way to South Street with ease for the most part. I found a parking spot just down the street from the Chapterhouse Cafe and even parallel parked all by myself--though not in the traditional 1-2-3 motion you're probably envisioning... It was a fine park job nonetheless.

The cafe was on 9th Street in a quaint little nook. Inside, people were lounging around with newspapers and other reading material in front of them with steaming mugs. It was still about a half hour before the reading would start, so there was no action yet, except for someone's adorable dog roaming around the tables. I enjoyed a hot chocolate while admiring the artwork and architecture of the room.

One by one, people came piling in, hair damp and shoulders stiff from racing the rain. My Contemporary Poetry professor from last semester, Jena, walked in; when I greeted her, she was surprised. Stan eventually trudged in as well. Everyone all made their way to the area in the back and seemed to disappear. I found soon enough that the reading would take place downstairs.

It was a small room at the end of the basement. Chairs were lined close together and a few people sat by the steps, but still some people (namely me) stood around hopelessly looking for a seat. Everyone seemed much older, at least in their 30's so I felt a bit out of place. I sat at one end of the couch outside the room, waiting for the reading start. A man with white, slicked back hair sat on the other end, holding a book of poetry in his hand. I remember thinking he's really old, but handsome. I knew Jena would be reading, but I hadn't seen the other two poets.

"Are you reading tonight?" I asked.

"Yeah," the man replied, the vowels stretching on the back of his throat. He had a suave sophistication about him.

"Hi, I'm Elizabeth."

"Michael."

I paused and my eyes widened. "You're Michael Gizzi..." I said, dumb and elated.

"Yeah," he said again with a dashing smile and cool composure. Me, I was melting.

I told him we had studied one of his books in Stan's Creative Writing for Poetry class a few years ago. All the while, I couldn't stop smiling like a fool. "It's very nice to meet you," I said. It's strange and wonderful how I always end up meeting famous people by accident.

Jena was first to read. The room was full to the brim and bodies were exploding from the threshold, so a handful of the audience stood right outside the entrance to listen. I leaned against the threshold of the door as she began.

She read a piece called "The Joker." It would be part of a larger volume of works by different poets in which each entry was like that of an encyclopedia. "An essay-poem of sorts," she explained. Her word was joker. And it was a lot of fun. The dog barked before she literally had two words out.

"That was my bad," Michael Gizzi said, his hand still petting the dog.

"Is the dog ready?" Jena asked, and then continued.

She described jesters of medieval courts, jokers as playing cards, and as figures in the Mummers Parade while a siren sounded in the distant streets outside. The word sugars was interspersed throughout the piece as Jena went through historical references of jokers such as political figures and subjects in literature. Sugars not all above. I liked it, but I couldn't figure out what it meant or how dark/white sugar refinery and the Dutch standard fit with "joker." There is the trickery, that is the joker. But then she got to 1940 and the Joker of, of course, The Batman. "His victims usually poisoned by joker venom would literally die of laughter... or sugar," she said.

The piece ended with an explication of the American sugar refining companies which sold white sugar according to the 16 Dutch standard color at a much higher price "for the sake of purity" although brown sugar proved to be just as healthy and useful a product. Without the standard, sugar could be attained at a much cheaper price. There's the joker.

"Hello mutants!" Craig Watson, the next poet, started immediately after Stan introduced him. It was a piece called "Last Man Standing" that he wrote for a calender for the oldest man alive. I sat down at the foot of the door. His facilitation of language was really something. There was sort of an eerie air about the way he read too, one of disillusionment, one that seemed to have known far too much brutality in the world. "How small is reason perfect," he read in one piece. That line reverberated in my mind all night. In one particular part of another piece, he described how a boy stabbed another boy and how officials investigated the scene, but then he said, "If we look at a river, do we become a river?"

Craig Watson's voice was deep and stern. His reading really started wrenching at my chest as he read lines like "faith needs a sewer" and "in the minds of the missing, only the dead can save themselves." He explained how he had taken a great interest in blues music and that he was trying to figure out how it worked lyrically. He ended with a poem he wrote for Michael Gizzi after spending a Christmas together.

After an intermission--it's a wonder how everyone squeezed in and out of that room again--Michael Gizzi gave his reading from his book New Depths of Deadpan. I sat on the ground in the middle of the room. His voice was definitely an aged one compared to the recordings we heard from a small stereo in Stan's class years ago; the New York accent was gorgeous. The reading was fire from beginning to end; it had such rhythm and he had such a presence. The way he played with sound and his annunciation of the words was mesmerizing. I remember particularly the way he concluded a poem with the word crazy, the tension of teeth and air lingering as he spoke it with a smirk on his face. He also read a piece from the encyclopedia project from which Jena had read--though his poem was from the first volume--called "Atmosphere."

The thing about Michael Gizzi I loved was that his work was clever but he used language in a way that bent the imagination as if to make the brain do splits; lines like "each week waves pressed in a book" and "the accuracy of tributaries." And he was hilarious! "Looking to lynch the kid who wrote Captain Underpants," he began one poem. He read another poem called "Eddie My Familiar" about a guy he knew named Eddie Familiaretti. Everyone laughed. "He's an Italian," he said, "But I thought I better not call that poem this." His last poem, "Who Goes There" ended with a line, "we love you and your abstruse caboose" and I immediately thought of Andrew Bird's song "Spare-Ohs." We clapped to end the night.

"Oxygen is upstairs," Stan said as he gave some final announcements while our shoulders were still scrunched in the room. People started to mingle and I checked out some of the books on sale; I purchased Craig Watson's True News [which I haven't read through yet]. Jena came, said thanks for coming, and asked how the semester was going. It was really nice to see her outside the classroom and hear her read her work. I was a little bummed when she told me she was going to be on a sabbatical for the year, but evidently, poetry keeps living beyond Temple's campus.

Stan gave me another flyer for the readings for the rest of the year. Unfortunately, I won't be able to make the next one because I'll be at GCC's Passion Revival, but I'll be trying to squeeze in a few more visits before the semester ends. On the way out of the cafe, I saw Rachel DuPlessis, who will be teaching my senior capstone class, Studies in Poetry, next semester [I'm so psyched!], so I introduced myself.

"We're going to have some fun," she said.

"I expect so," I replied.

Outside, the rain had stopped and the air was cool. I drove home smiling, not even bothered by the lateness of the hour.

So, disenchantment? I don't know if I'm cured, but at least now, I feel there is at least a bit of hope.

videos that keep me from getting reading done but are totally worth it

2009-10-20T23:05:00.006-04:00

Impossible Soul by Sufjan Stevens:

Andrew Bird and St. Vincent:

Black & Costaud and Dragonfly by My Brightest Diamond:

Say It All by Sondre Lerche:

The Palm Sunday Tornado Hits Crystal Lake

The Palm Sunday Tornado Hits Crystal Lake from CandyStations on Vimeo.

poetic memory: capturing the abstract and the concrete

2009-10-04T21:28:00.002-04:00

This is a paper I wrote for my special topics class, The New York School, with Stan McDonald. It's a close reading of the poem "Dec. 28, 1974" by James Schuyler. Since we first studied his work in my poetry workshop class a few years ago, I've come to really love this poet. Stan said that Schuyler's poetry has a sense of being "lived in" and I completely agree. Schuyler also has a way of remembrance that is spontaneous and honest to its errors (as well as embarrassments) that really brings the reader closer to the poet's reality. His awareness of space is really incredible.

Anyway, it's interesting to compare my academic paper language to my everyday blogging language. I feel as though I should devote more of this blog to something other than journal-ish entries, so here it is. It's very long and formal. Take it or leave it:

In his poem “Dec. 28, 1974,” James Schuyler presents a single, yet unidentifiable, memory in which the poet’s experience reveals a tension between the abstract and concrete, contending that memory is composed of both sides of this dichotomy. This essay will examine the poem’s external elements, such as its organization, in order to expound upon the internal content, such as Schuyler’s notion of time. Just as memory cannot be classified as a single entity, neither is meaning—which is also made through these abstractions and concretions—simple. Memory itself is abstract because it takes place in the mind but the very act of documenting memory creates a concrete product—one which can be read from a page. Schuyler does not perceive memory and meaning as singular or even binary concepts; rather, he understands them as multi-faceted, anti-taxonomic faculties which carry life—not just simple identifications. Through his unrestricted writing, Schuyler offers the reader the utmost honesty and fullness of poetic experience.

The title, as a means of organization, is a significant aspect of the poem because it is the first allusion to the idea that memory is both abstract and concrete rather than one or the other. All memories exist within the greater space of time, but Schuyler identifies this poem with a specific date. While the title initially gives the impression of particularity, it is an abstraction because the reader is unable to correlate this specific time to any particular reference. Numbers are concrete, yet Schuyler’s use of numerical characters does not provide a tangible image. The physicality of the numbers on the page coexists with the unimaginable perception of the significance of the date. However, this does not imply that the time is irrelevant. By recognizing such a trivial subject as a single day in the vast continuum of time, Schuyler celebrates the mundane and the everyday. Thus, he accentuates the meaning and weight of that day by remembering it in poetic form.

Another external factor which reflects the simultaneity of the concrete and abstract is the structure of the poem. Schuyler displays his memory in a long, single stanza but the content of the poem is not singular in terms of subject. The reader might argue that Schuyler practices a lack of organization in that the poem lists a plethora of nouns without much elaboration, or that the line enjambments clutter the sequence of the memory—like an abstract painting with lines and colors splayed across the canvas. For example, he remarks that he is blinded by light in one moment, then subsequently notices a man descending an iron staircase (lines 8-9). On the other hand, there is indeed continuity of subject matter because Schuyler presents the observations in a panoramic fashion. He records as he sees, adhering to the forward movement of time. The form of the poem, which extends down the page, parallels the continuous motion of the poet’s vision as he scrutinizes the space around him; the abstract movement of Schuyler’s view is displayed through the concrete form of his poem. Moreover, the specificity of the nouns described, such as “brushes/ which, against a sonata of Scriabin's,/ rattle like wind in a bamboo clump” gives the reader a definitive point of identification—appealing even to the sense of sound (10-12). Schuyler captures accuracy in recalling memory through this process. Abstractions are also coupled with concretions: “To be encubed in flaming splendor,/ one foot on a Chinese rug” (15-16). The line enjambment, as well as the comma, simultaneously divide and facilitate the harmony of the dichotomy. The abstraction of his memory is made tangible to the reader. Remembrance takes a shape. The memory takes on flesh.

Similarly, Schuyler’s varied use of punctuation allows the reader to see the poet’s internalization of the memory. In two instances, parenthetical interjections, reminiscent of stage direction, appear in the poem. When Schuyler states “(it’s four o’clock)” the reader is given the ability to take a glimpse of the poet’s thoughts which would be impossible if observing him in person (2). Not only that, but Schuyler also reveals his constant awareness of time. He later interrupts his observation of the man: “(I/ don’t look up)” (9-10). Again, if the reader was to see the poet in person, this act of not looking up would have gone unnoticed. Schuyler gives substance to that which is invisible through the use of parentheses. On the other hand, his single use of a dash demonstrates the poet’s recognition of the concreteness of time. While the sporadic references to imageries of the sun throughout the poem correspond to the passage of time, Schuyler’s self-interruption discloses his strict obedience to the forward movement of time: “Still, last night I did wish—/ no, that's my business and I/ don't wish it now” (21-23). As time passes, the past remains the past and nothing can be done to reverse its occurrence. Schuyler adheres to the permanence of history, even in recollection and documentation. The poet could have chosen to remove those lines from the stanza, eliminating the need to retract the private wish, but by refraining from erasure, Schuyler demonstrates honesty as he submits to the laws of time. The use of the word now makes the distinction between the agency for change that is possible in the present tense and the fact that memory of the past cannot be altered—though it may be kept secret. But even so, the reader is made aware of the very existence of a secret because the poet has created it on the page. Though time is an unseen, abstract force, Schuyler recognizes the concrete nature of the past. Here too, the abstract and the concrete mingle in one body.

Finally, there is a displacement of the internal and the external space in the poem which parallels the conjunction of the abstract/concrete dichotomy. Throughout the entire stanza, Schuyler presents various observations while writing the poem; however, interspersed between them, he confesses his extra-poetic thoughts. Following the reference to the Chinese rug, Schuyler expresses, “while/ the mad emotive music/ tears at my heart. Rip it open:/ I want to cleanse it in an icy wind” (16-19). The external atmosphere of the space around him collides with the internal atmosphere of his mind. In which space is the poet really living? Is his focus the emotive music or the state of his heart? His physical location is concrete, but his presence is abstract because where he is must be where he places his attention. Schuyler is sitting in a chair, yet his mind meanders elsewhere. Just as the mind wanders, so does the poem as it vacillates from observation of the space to observation of the self. After quoting an anonymous “clunkhead,” Schuyler confesses, “I don't want to be open,/ merely to say, to see and say, things/ as they are.” (25-27). This is a meta-poetic moment where Schuyler realizes that to merely observe and to write observations is not enough; there is definite frustration in the tone of these lines. Schuyler seeks to do more than document seen memory. The poet seeks to capture the whole experience, from the life of the observation to the life of the poet as he writes.

Schuyler welcomes the concurrence of the abstract and the concrete in poetry to adhere to the honesty of the actual life experience. Rather than summarizing the elements of the memory through taxonomic terms by determining his subject matter as either all abstract or all concrete, the poet employs both ends of the spectrum—meeting in the space between, so to speak—to reveal a living text where Schuyler’s experience is fully exposed to the reader. He is not interested in simplification but in maximizing the potential of meaning. It is not fitting to deem the poem to be about or mean any one thing because the poem is comprised of many parts which celebrate life and the space in which the poem lives. Schuyler himself lives in the poem and allows the reader to live it as well.

the return of adz strikes back in immensity fasionista faux pas, or, the sufjan stevens concert

2009-09-29T22:02:00.002-04:00

During the summer, Dan and I woke up early one morning to buy tickets for a concert. The link was going to open up at 8am. So at 7:45am, I rolled out of bed, turned on my laptop, opened up five windows with the same page with a link to buy tickets for a Sufjan Stevens show at Johnny Brenda's on September 22nd, ready to click away once it was time.

There was a 2-ticket limit per customer and the tickets were will-call only to avoid scalping. Nothing but good, clean business for Sufjan. Unfortunately, my connection wasn't fast enough to beat other crazed fans [another reason why Verizon DSL and I don't get along], but I got a call from Dan soon after.

"Did you get the tickets?"

"No..." I answered.

"NEWB!" he accused, "well, I got them." And that was all that mattered. Thank goodness I'm 21 now [All the shows at Johnny Brenda's are 21+].

A week ago, this day, I took a trolley down to Fishtown, to Johnny Brenda's Tavern, to see Sufjan Stevens perform. Dan and I got there super early, anticipating a long line. Surprisingly enough, the place was nearly empty when we got there around 6pm. The doors would open at 7:30pm and the show would start at 9pm. I know right? So we waited. We waited a long, long time.

We were sitting at a table outside when I recognized a woman in an over-sized shirt greet some people who were standing just a few feet away from us. I don't remember what Dan was talking about, but I got up from the table and approached her.

"Excuse me, you're Rosie Thomas right?"

"Yes!" her child-like speaking voice is always surprising compared to her singing voice, "take a picture!" She was already hugging me while Dan got his camera ready. "I love it when this happens, I feel like JLo," she said.

We took two because she didn't like how she came out in the first one. I told her I was a big fan and that I had seen her at World Cafe Live when she performed her These Friends of Mine album and her Christmas album. What I should have done was ask her if she could take us to Sufjan, but my mind wasn't working properly.

"Are you going to sing?" Dan asked.

"Hell no!" she said, "I'm gonna sit back, relax, and-" here, she motioned tipping a cup to her lips. We thanked her and she went inside.

When 7:30ish came around, a line started to form outside the door. We talked to the couple standing in front of us. The girl was also a teacher in a school in Philadelphia, so we had things to talk about. When the doors finally opened, we were checked off the guest list, given red wristbands, and made our way up the stairs.

The stage was in the corner of the room; it was already filled with a bunch of instruments. Dan and I staked out a spot right in front. "Is this close enough for you?" he taunted. And I just smiled.

Dan graded some assignments for his class and ordered more drinks for himself while we waited. After a while, we got tired, so we decided to sit on the ground as we saw some other people doing. We met a wonderful girl, Carissa, who happened to run into great luck that day. She didn't get the tickets online but bought one from someone who posted an ad on Craigs list, saying the ticket would go to the highest bidder. I think she said she paid $75 [the tickets originally cost $15, mind you--so much for scalp prevention]. Well, she said it was worth it.

We talked about other artists we've seen live and ones that we currently enjoy. Our conversation was pleasant, despite our having to say, what? constantly because it was so loud in the room. To my relief, she was just as crazed about Sufjan as I was. We got along great. And it wasn't long until Cryptacize finally took the stage.

I was saving my camera for Sufjan--lest I run out of battery and miss a beat of his set--but they were pretty great. Nedelle Torrisi's voice was light and crisp. She rarely closed her eyes as she sang, like she was in the zone the entire time, there and nowhere else. The a-melodic guitar riffs by Chris Cohen were crazy-awesome. I wished I recorded more than I did. Dan snagged their set list when they left the stage:

This was on the other side of the folded cardboard:

Sufjan and his band started setting up immediately. There were wires and amps flooding the tiny stage that you could barely see the carpet beneath. And all the while, in the midst of the whoo-ing and cheering from the crowd, Sufjan didn't even look out to them or acknowledge their presence. He just set up and tuned his instruments, even while people like me shamelessly took pictures. And oh, he was just so close.

My hands were resting the stage the entire time--right next to his beautiful banjo. Sheila Saputo [Rosie Thomas] made an appearance too. Decked out in flourescent pants, fanny pack, and neckbrace, she accidentally spilled beer on the keyboard, then introduced Sufjan.

If there was a way to tell you precisely how gorgeous the show was, I would. If I could somehow transmit the chills I got when Sufjan performed to you, I would share that with you. Unfortunately, technology isn't there yet [maybe for the better].

On that note, he performed a bit of new material and it was like being on a psychedelic spaceship. It was really different from the softer direction he had taken with his studio albums--and it was absolutely incredible. It was reminiscent of a few songs from The Avalanche album, like the crazy ending in "Pittsfield" or the sputtering guitar riffs on "Springfield." In the first song he performed, "Impossible Soul," his voice flooded the room with exaggerated echoes; the keyboard kept a steady robotic tone that carried throughout the song.

And the guitar solo? Halfway through the song, Sufjan busted out an improvised, distorted guitar blow-out. As he intermittently waved the tremolo bar on his electric guitar, I could see his hands trembling from where I stood. It was so human I could have cried.

The next song was "All Delighted People." It was a song that I had heard before, along with a handful of other outtakes that never made it to a studio album, but as I was the only person that clapped before he started, it was apparent that I was the only person familiar with the song.

Well, I was proven wrong. I was familiar with an old version of it, but what he played was a totally re-vamped, full-force masterpiece. It started off solemn, with just his voice accompanied by trumpet and french horn, moved into an explosion of trippy guitar riffs--all the while, the refrain, "all delighted people raise their hands" weaved between the verses. By the end, it turned into a kind of heart-wrenching dialogue:

And the people turned and prayed
I love you a lot
I love from the top of my heart
And what difference does it make?
I still love you a lot
I love you from the top of my heart
And on your breast I gently lay
My head in your arms
Oh my head in your arms
I tried my best, I tried in vain
But you love me a lot
Do you love me from the top of your heart?

After this was another new one, "Age of Adz." By far the funkiest one of the night. I said earlier the performance was like being inside a spaceship; well, this one was like being approached by the spaceship, the sensation being that of floating above ground in mid-abduction.

For the rest of the night, he played some oldies, but not without suprises and nuances. His new version of "Majesty Snowbird" was really something. I had only heard him perform it with his orchestra before; the layering of sound being made by just Sufjan and his band was mind-blowing. Nedelle's voice echoing Sufjan's for the chorus was whimsical--doing Shara Worden [the other object of my obsessive love] justice. She was playing an autoharp too.

When Sufjan sang "Casimir Pulaski Day" and "John Wayne Gacy Jr." from the Illinois album, everyone in the room sang along. We didn't even mind that he messed up the lyrics a few times. In fact, he was more upset than the audience was. He would put his hand over his eyes and breathe deeply in self-deprecation. During the ethereal "Holland," from the Michigan album, the entire room was silent. "That one goes out to all of you from Holland, Michigan," Sufjan said, "the most romantic town in America." Sadly, he knows the truth is far from it.

Instead of "To Be Alone With You," which Dan was really psyched about, he played "A Size Too Small." As he put his capo on his guitar Sufjan told us how Nedelle had helped him remember where to place his capo for each song by using girls' sizes. "This is size six," he said. I still don't really get it, but it was adorable nonetheless. I was excited for "The Transfiguration" but I guess there wasn't enough time, so he went right into an electrified version of "In the Devil's Territory"--my favorite song from the Seven Swans album--on his banjo.

When it was over, Sufjan and his band put down their instruments, said thanks, and quickly left the stage. Of course, we cheered and whoo-ed until he returned for an encore. They played "Chicago" [acoustic version] and everyone sang along. And again, they left the stage in the same fashion.

It was obvious we still hadn't had enough. Earlier, Dan was saying that it was past his bedtime and that he would leave if the show ran too late, but even he was cheering for more. And I was proud of everyone in that room, we clapped and whoo-ed our hearts out. We even partook in several synchronized slow claps that escalated into violent ovation. My hands started to hurt, but we weren't giving up so easy.

We probably clapped for five minute straight, I swear. Everyone's eyes were locked on the doors next to the stage, waiting for it to budge. And finally, it did. Yes, a second encore. A second encore! I couldn't believe it.

"Okay, since you're all gluttons for punishment, we're gonna play another new song," Sufjan said, "it's a pop song." It was called "There's Too Much Love" and it was like a spastic anthem. A truly proper ending of the night. And Sufjan left the stage one last time.

Everyone was all smiles. Glad to be there and have witnessed such wonder. I was still trembling. Dan snatched the set list from the stage and a bunch of people asked if they could take a picture of it. It was close to 12am when we started heading out.

How could I tell you what kind of concert this was? I tried, but even this, I don't think I've relayed to you a pinch of the sublimity Sufjan brought. I can tell you I loved it. I can tell you I went to sleep smiling, content. I can tell you I miss it now. But what does it do?

I love going to concerts because I get to witness something that happens once and only once. If I wanted to hear the songs exactly as they are on my iTunes playlist, I'd sit at home with my headphones on; but this is something different. When you watch a performance, you watch art happen for the first time. It's like looking at a picture of the Grand Cayon versus being there and seeing its vastness with your very eyes; that song is not the song you heard through your headphones. It's two different animals--recording and live performance--so you cannot equate them. It's the birth of something new. It's life. And to stand there, be there, and experience an artist create his art--with all its kinks, flaws, and humanity--that's something significant. To see the movement of the artist as I hear him play--that can't be compromised. I can't pass that up.

Two years ago, I saw Sufjan Stevens in Brooklyn perform The BQE and left the theater fully convinced that it was and would be the best concert I've ever experienced. When people asked me after the show at Johnny Brenda's how it was, I said, "If anyone could beat Sufjan, it's Sufjan." Still, I can't say this show or the one in Brooklyn was better than the other. Seeing Sufjan, Shara Worden, and his entire orchestra with wings was one thing; seeing Sufjan on stage within arm's reach was another. As a friend once said about an unrelated topic of poetry, "It's like comparing apples to sewing machines."

But I can say this sewing machine was the best sewing machine I ever saw.

I don't know when the next show will be, but until then, I'll have to be content with the recordings I have [which have been playing on repeat]. Also, I preordered a DVD of The BQE which will be available October 20th; it should be mailed to my house within the next month.

So here's to a magnificent show and a phenomenal artist. Thank you Sufjan. We stayed a long, long time to see you, to meet you at last. And I'd do it all over again in a heartbeat.

in anticipation of Sufjan

2009-09-21T21:10:00.005-04:00

I know I have an unhealthy obsession with the man, but I recognize it and gladly accept all criticism and disapproval thereof. He's playing a solo show with Cryptacize opening at Johnny Brenda's tomorrow night and I could practically die happy just thinking about it.

Since I went to Brooklyn with my friends two years ago to see The BQE show, I've been fully convinced that it was--and will be--the best concert I've ever experienced. But if it's anything that can beat that, it's a solo show by Sufjan Stevens.

Anyway, here's one of my favorite performances by him out there in the youtube world. Enjoy.

an exercise in point of views

2009-09-10T23:36:00.002-04:00

Here's an assignment from my fiction workshop class:

I grabbed my keys from the counter as my grandfather struggled to place his feet into his double-knotted shoes. We were on our way to the pharmacy to pick up his monthly prescriptions and he was in a hurry. My grandfather headed out the door with his walking stick while I slipped into my sandals. I turned my back to him to lock the front door when I heard the rustling of the bush by the walkway of our house, followed by a short cry from my grandfather. I whipped around to find him lying on the floor on his back with drops of rainwater and scattered leaves on his face. His shoe was not properly on his right foot. I reached out with both hands to help him to his feet but his legs couldn’t support his weight. He was far too heavy to lift on my own. A couple who happened to be walking by saw us and asked if we needed help. Embarrassed, I considered declining their offer. Exhausted, I accepted. My grandfather’s knees buckled several times as we took baby steps down the driveway. When we finally got into my car, I could hear my grandfather was still panting with fatigue. I started the ignition with the unsettling thought that this may have been my fault.

You stuff your keys in your purse and head out the door behind your grandfather who descends the small set of concrete steps with caution. The day is still thick with humidity carrying over from last night’s rain, but you do not bring an umbrella. You look away from your grandfather for a second, and in the next, he is on his back at the bottom of the stairs. You hesitate for a moment, only to gasp. You run to him. You wipe the rain from his cheek. You brush the debris from his damp dress shirt. You use every ounce of strength to lift him up, but he does not rise. You are ashamed and relieved as some passing neighbors offer their assistance. You guide your grandfather to your car, which is at the bottom of the steep driveway. You wish you parked closer. You help him into the passenger seat and reach over to buckle his seat belt. He does not look at you. As you assume the driver’s seat, your hands tremble. You realize your grandfather’s been far too quiet through all of this. Why did you look away?

The first time she saw her grandfather fall down the stairs, Elizabeth was horrified. Joseph and his granddaughter were leaving the house to go to the pharmacy. He was eighty-two years old and had spent the last two of them alone. It had been a little over a week since he had moved in to his son’s suburban house from his apartment in North Philadelphia. Having grown accustomed to staying indoors almost all day, every day, even a five-minute drive to the nearby shopping center was a pleasure. With the rest of the family at work or school, Elizabeth was responsible for caring after him. Joseph placed the metal shoe spoon into his sneakers before wriggling his feet into them in haste. His granddaughter had just locked the front door and he was approaching the last stair when Joseph felt his knees give way beneath him. The shrubbery cushioned his fall, but could not prevent it. The rain that the bush had collected the night before showered on him as his back hit the damp earth. Joseph reached his arms out to Elizabeth without a word. When she had managed to lift his frail but heavy body to a sitting position, she saw his right heel peeking out from the mouth of his shoe. He was an aged man, yet so much like a child. As they drove to the pharmacy, Joseph did not avert his vacant gaze from the passenger side window. Neither could Elizabeth bear to look at him or the cut on his knee.

car trouble, act III

2009-08-29T21:49:00.013-04:00

And here you thought the show was over at act 2. False, my friends, so very false.

I was driving home from Temple for the third day in a row--something I haven't had to do since work was over. A handful of the old Temple GCC guard and the new freshmen we met at Temple Fest had lunch at J&H together.

Was the price worth the food? Eh. But I suppose it was worth it for Jon Lee who somehow managed to snag a red wristband which allowed freshmen into the cafeteria for free. The waffles were fantastic, though. Anyway, we ate, talked, sat around, and got sleepy after a while. J&H will do that to you. We decided to grab some board games, curtesy of Soo, and headed over to the SAC--which, in this day and age, can no longer be referred to the "SAC" because it will confuse new students; it must hitherto be simply called the Student Center. So after a few entertaining rounds of Guesstures, we all headed home.

The weather had cooled significantly, so there really was nothing to complain about. I found a good parking spot earlier and even managed to successfully parallel park my car. It was a good start. My iPod shuffle was armed with an audio book by Rob Bell and Don Golden called Jesus Wants to Save Christians. I was engaged the entire time as they talked about the "new thing" Christ was doing and all the marriage allusions in Scripture. I was surprised to see very little traffic while driving down Walnut Street. Just before I reached the 69th Street bridge, both lanes seemed to have come to a complete halt.

At this point, I had sunk into my seat and despite the air conditioning running steadily, I was starting to feel a little drowsy. The sunlight was warming my forearms while I rested my hands loosely on the steering wheel. We were literally moving inch by inch and I couldn't see past the SUV in front of me to what was holding us up. My eyes started to flutter a bit. The next thing I know, I simultaneously hear and feel metal hitting metal. Now, I am awake.

I quickly reversed, parked, and got out of my car. The lady, whose car I had just hit, stepped out of her car looking quite confused.

"I am so sorry," I said. A car behind us honked.

"Don't you see we've got our emergency lights on?" she said into the air. I didn't even turn around. She and I both checked to see the damage. Miraculously enough, there wasn't so much as a scratch on her rear bumper. My car, on the otherhand, got owned. The front bumper was cracked and the hood was bent up. Crap... I am going to be murdered tonight, I thought.

"Aw that's nothin'," she replied.

"I am so sorry about this," I said anyway. My brain was not functioning at this point.

"It's alright baby, it's alright. It's nothing at all," she said, waving her hand as she walked back to her door.

When I returned to the driver's seat, I realized the stereo was still on. Rob Bell and Don Golden were still going at it. I immediately turned it off--I would punish myself by driving home in silence.

I don't know if I felt relieved at all. I mean, thank goodness the other car wasn't damaged, but seeing as my car is insured under my grandfather's name, not my own, this could have caused quite a problem. Well, I already knew I was gonna get it from my parents and especially my grandfather who, without fail, tells me to be careful and to pray before I drive every time he sees me leave the house.

Mere seconds into my mourning--hating myself and this broken world I lived in and the literally broken car I drove in--the ever-amazing Soo Lee called. Apparently, she had seen me in all my misery and stupidity from a few cars down behind me. She offered her condolences and tried to speak sensibly to me, that my family would understand, that at least I was okay. Thank you, Soo. We stayed on the line until I got home--something that always makes the ride home seem so fast. Then, I prepared for my doom.

My grandfather was taking a walk around the block, so I waited to tell him until he came back.

"I got into an accident," I said as I half hid behind the frame of his bedroom door.

"How did it happen?" he asked [I'm translating the conversation as best as possible from Korean to English here].

After I explained it, he simply said "Well, at least you're okay," and sat by his desk. And that was it.

When my parents came home from work, I was by the sink doing to the dishes, so I didn't hear my mother walk in.

"Elli!" she said, making me jump. "What happened?" I explained the story again, trying to look as pitiful as possible [it's really all about contorting the eyebrows, I think]. "As long as you're okay," she said, "I was worried when we saw the car."

When my dad walked in after unloading all the groceries, he just sauntered past me in the kitchen saying, "Well, I guess it was about time..." I had my sad eyebrows ready that time too, though surprisingly, I did not need them.

So yes, I am still alive. And to my utter amazement, I was not reprimanded in the least bit by my family. A part of me is thinking, something smells fishy... while the other is still sighing from relief. Grace still exists in my home. And the smell was actually the seafood soup my mom cooked for dinner. It was delicious.

Apparently blogging is a good medium for my disaster stories. More to come, I'm sure--but hope not. Hello, Fall semester; I am not ready for you.

shout out for esther

2009-08-17T23:44:00.002-04:00

Ironically enough, I first time I met Esther was the very day I met Sungho. At one point during that bizarre and spur-of-the-moment afternoon, when Soo and I were paired together, we heard Soo's name being called across Berk's Mall. I have to admit, I am really, really terrible at remembering Asian faces and names, but I recognized Esther when we returned to campus for the Fall semester.

If there was one good thing about commuting this past year, it was that I got to spend more time at Esther's apartment. I remember the first night I slept over. We busted out the air mattress and sat around talking until 4 o'clock in the morning--knowing full well that we had a servants meeting to go to in just a few hours. I remember going to center city to shop on the same day as the Phillies parade, having to walk several blocks through hundreds of people and piles of trash. We got lost trying to find our way back through the subway concourse, but I remember thinking it wasn't so bad, being with a friend. I remember one random Saturday morning, waking up and finding Esther not in the room. When I walked into the kitchen, I found her and a full breakfast waiting for me. I remember studying together and praying for each other before final exams--almost hysterical from the pressure. I remember celebrating with her by taking a nap at her apartment, glad that it was finished, glad that we finished together. Over these past three years, I've realized that I have received far too much from her.

On Friday, we threw a goodbye party for Esther who is going off to pharmacy school in Virginia. Master Chef Wayne put us to work--chopping up vegetables and rolling up spring rolls. Sara baked cookies and brownies; I baked a coffee cake. Deep frying the rolls took quite some time and it looked like a massacre in Wayne's new deep fryer, but after a few exploded rolls, things turned out well--or at least eatable. Everyone feasted and had a great time.

Esther, we are as far as opposites go in the personality spectrum, but I was privileged to spend the past couple of years with you. I cannot forget your constant kindness and willingness to help me. The way you never hesitated to serve me was appalling and so incredibly encouraging. Thank you for letting me sleep on the floor of your room and allowing that place to be my second home during this tough year. Thank you for listening to me when I didn't make any sense [which was probably most of the time]. Thank you for being open and honest with me, teaching me what it means to be accountable with another sister. Thank you for killing time with me at the bookstore and the library every week. Thank you for sacrificing your own time and comfort for my sake. Thank you for sharing your excitement for Scripture and prayer with me. Thank you for laughing with me and making these moments worth remembering.

So this is it. You are already in Virginia and I already miss you. I will be praying for you, and hope that we can share some great and epic stories when you come back for winter break. And so we move on; or as you would say, "ddeng!"

summer bridge

2009-08-15T21:19:00.002-04:00

The past six weeks was what Temple University calls the Summer Bridge Program. It's for students who haven't exactly met Temple's academic standards despite the fact that they've done well in their high schools. They are required to pass English, Math, and Academic Seminar classes with a C or higher in order to attend Temple in the Fall. If they do not pass, they either try again next year, or give up. Those are the options.

Before classes started, the veteran instructors and CAs warned us how tough it would be, but I still didn't know what to expect. Did I expect anything? Well, I was excited to know I was going to be paid. So yes, I expected paychecks, but in terms of working with the students--oh man, I had no idea. Holly, the instructor, and Rudi, the other CA, and I gathered and mapped out our lessons plans--only to find muddy waters ahead.

Week 1 was awkward. I didn't know how exactly to conduct myself in the classroom at first. Plus, the students were painfully shy. It took me quite a while to learn all 30 students' names. Their first assignment was to write a paper discussing an article by Michael Omi and Howard Winant, "Racial Formations." We introduced this idea of race as a social construct to these ESL students who didn't even know what it meant that something was socially constructed. Oy. During tutorial sessions, I had to read through the text with them paragraph by paragraph, and sometimes, line by line. Their papers were monstrosities.

Weeks 2 and 3 were a constant deja vu. We re-wrote outlines, re-worked paragraphs, re-defined concepts that, although the students wrote about them in their papers, they did not understand one bit. By the end, I felt like I was a mastermind of Omi and Winant while the students were still struggling with their essays. But after two painstaking drafts, we finally gave out our first A grades. There was yet hope.

Weeks 4 and 5 were a terrible repudiation of that hope. Holly, Rudi, and I were relieved to never have to utter the names Omi and Winant, or the words hypo-descent or racialization ever again. But alas, the course moved on to the topic of class... as a social construct. We all thought this might be a little easier for the students to grasp, since we had devoted 3 whole weeks to race. Nope, not the case. Their papers were another species of monstrosity, but they did get a kick out of watching clips of Pretty Woman via youtube during class. Not nearly as many students who should have been coming to tutorial sessions were attending, but a handful of them were quite crafty at finding me at the office after school--keeping me there until the late hours of the afternoon. One student wrote me a creepy love poem that I hoped wasn't serious. Students from the other English sections were coming to us for help. Rudi and I had to learn to say no, but he was better at it that I was. At least the papers improved a bit. Kinda.

Week 6 was a lot of sitting around. During the final few days, the students were asked to perform a skit of an alternate ending for the novel we read for class, Caucasia. This meant that the students used class time to discuss and practice their sketches. This meant that Holly, Rudi, and I sat around. It was cool though--I read some short stories from The Best American Non-Required Reading to them aloud [Thanks, Anne, for letting me borrow the book!]. On the very last day of classes, we had a blow-out potluck party. There was so much food. Apparently, a few of the students' parents owned Chinese restaurants, so trays of spring rolls and a few orders of duck were brought in--just to give you an idea of what this might have looked like. Holly made kim-bahp; I baked biscottis. A lot of people packed leftovers to take home.

The closing ceremonies were kinda lame, same with the talent show. I actually felt slightly uncomfortable during most of the performances because, well... no, I'll just leave it at that. Actually, the first ceremony in the morning was kind of horrific. We gave out awards to two of our students; the first student nervously came forward to the stage, thanked us, and returned to her seat. The second student practically power walked toward us, thus, tripping as she took her first step onto the stage. Everyone gasped. We helped her up as she thanked the three of us while clutching her arm. I felt awful.

"We made her day and ruined it... at the same time," I said.

"I know..." Holly and Rudi replied.

"She's gonna remember that forever," Holly said.

"I know..." Rudi and I replied. Quite an ending note.

Well, Friday was the staff's last official day. We ate pizza as we debriefed and discuss how to improve things for next year. The meetings, in everyone's opinion according to their facial expressions, was unnecessarily long. It got a bit hostile a few times as everyone tried to give their input, but at the end of the day, we were finished and we were glad.

It was a grueling six weeks but I have to admit it was a good experience. I had my first hand at running recitations and grading papers. It was kind of a big smack in the face, having to re-explain ideas in new or "better" ways in order for the student to really learn them. As much as I felt confident with the material and my own ability to relay the information in a clear fashion, all my planning didn't matter if the student didn't understand. It definitely took a lot of patience and deep breaths.

I can say that I am not scared away from teaching yet. While I am now 100% sure that I never want to teach ESL and never want to teach at the high school level, I think teaching is still where I want to go. So all of you who keep asking me what I'm gonna do with my English major/what I'm going to do after I graduate, here you go. I want to teach. I want to teach English at the college level.

So here's to the past 6 weeks of Summer Bridge and to the future however-many years of academia.

such great heights

2009-08-15T20:25:00.007-04:00

A cover of Iron & Wine's cover of The Postal Service, here.

shout out for sungho

2009-08-08T23:37:00.005-04:00

The first time I met Sungho, it was mere hours after I had presented my senior project for high school. My very zealous friend, Dave, Soo and I were on Temple campus to evangelize. I didn't know we would be doing so until I stepped into the car. Naturally, I was terrified.

Well as it turned out, I wasn't the only one. We met in the lobby of the SAC while Dave showed us a diagram of what he called the "10-minute gospel" and then we paired off. Before we left the building, I heard Sungho say, "Seriously, I am not good at this." I smiled uneasily.

After walking around with Dave for a while and bothering some people who were eating their meals outside, the four of us reconvened at the bell tower. This time, Sungho and I went off together. Again, he said, "I am seriously not good at this." He was the first person from Temple GCC that I really met, and on that day, we shared a fear. Anxious and unconfident, we walked around, unsure if we were actually accomplishing anything. A part of me has always felt like that since then. Did the Kingdom grow because we went out on a fumbling whim? Will it?

That was three summers ago. But here we are now, saying goodbye to our seminary-bound friend.

Wayne, Victor, Min, and I went to the Philadelphia airport to send off Sungho to California today. We ran down the moving sidewalk, afraid we might not catch him before he left, but mid-way, we sighted his hat and bright yellow t-shirt. His family said goodbye and the four of us waited at the terminal with Sungho for about an hour until his flight.

"Is your family going to have a cry-fest when they get home?" I teased.

"Probably," he said.

We mostly talked about dumb stuff that didn't have much significance at all. Stuff about bad driving and airline food. It was funny. After some pictures and sentimental hugs, we watched Sungho pass through security, then waved goodbye. And then he was gone.

"Well, that's it," Wayne said. And we headed back home.

It's surreal, how people around me are moving on and doing real things with their lives. It was only days ago that we were throwing a frisbee around, and now Sungho is off to the other side of the county, to Fuller--soon to be called Pastor Sungho? Oh my...

Sungho, I am glad to have known you for the past couple of years. I know a batch of blueberry muffins does not suffice as a symbol of gratitude in the least bit, but I hope you enjoy them nonetheless. Thank you for your kindness and sincerity. If anything, I have appreciated the cut-the-crap realness of our conversations and the honesty of your words. Thank you for all the times you drove me home without the least bit of complaint. Thank you for making me laugh and reminding me that wasting time with friends is sometimes more important than reading a few dozen pages for class. Thank you for out-whitting an elitist English major like me and encouraging me to be the change I want to see on Temple campus. I have only good memories to recall and I thank you for making my first few years of college that much more enjoyable. I hope you find God in surprising places as you study at Fuller and that you experience the newness of his love constantly. We're going to miss you a lot and look forward to see you again for Christmas.

And so, I push up my imaginary glasses to you one last time. Bye, Sungho; have a great time in Cali. I'll expect nothing less than oh-em-gee-worthy stories when you return.

allow the scribbles

2009-08-01T00:47:00.004-04:00

I've posted my first entry in my Moleskiners blog. Here it is. Enjoy:

One of the most common things I hear from friends who use moleskines is that they don't want to make mistakes in them. They get nervous because they have the urge to keep their notebooks pristine all the time. Well, I've got something to say to you kids: get over it.

Don't get me wrong, I have a deep and almost unhealthy relationship with my moleskine. It's a large plain notebook and I've been working with this baby for almost 4 years now, mostly for my poetry. It's got masking tape along the spine [previously, it was scotch tape, but that wasn't cutting it] because it got torn, from over-use I suppose. It is almost full and I am almost ready to park it into my shelf as the MVP of notebooks.

The first time I dropped my notebook as I was walking across my Spanish class [yes, I remember it all too clearly] during my first few months with it, I got really upset. There was a small dent on the cover and a few chips of the black skin on the corners. While I was sitting there, mourning the injury of my precious notebook, a friend said to me, "don't worry, it gives it character." What sounded like ridiculous condolences then, makes sense to me now.

I used to have quite an unnecessarily elaborate procedure when recording things into my notebook. First, I'd write the poem on a scrap piece of paper. Any piece of paper--it didn't matter. Then I'd rewrite the poem more legibly on another piece of scrap paper. Finally, I'd copy it into my moleskine like a scribe, making sure each letter/word/stanza matched its drafts.

"What do you do when you do make mistakes?" a friend once asked me.

"I grudgingly cross it out and correct it," I said.

See, at the time, the process of editing was not really an active domain in my brain. If I wrote a poem and felt satisfied with it at the time, it was considered "finished." I rarely went back for changes. If any, they were spelling corrections or rewording random bouts of dyslexia. Editing? What?

And then I took a Creative Writing for Poetry class and it opened up a canal in my head I didn't even know existed. After workshopping one another's poetry--receiving constructive criticism, hearing what worked and what didn't, finding direction from our professor--there was nothing left to do but edit.

My penmanship is nothing to be proud of. I do not have girls' handwriting. I've developed the habit of barely lifting my pen off the page so that the letters connect by default. It's not cursive, it's just what happens. So it shouldn't have felt like a heart transplant when I crossed out full lines, x-ed stanzas, drew arrows every-which-way, but it did. Oh, it did; but after a while, it felt right.

This past semester, I took a Contemporary Poetry class. We were peer-reviewing our midterm papers and the night before class, our professor emailed us with the subject as "radical revision":

revision is NOT copy-editing or tinkering. it's a radical "re-seeing" of your writing. it's being brave enough to see that your thesis might actually be stated in your final paragraph and needs to be moved to the first. it's being courageous enough to toss out a sentence that sounds good but just isn't helping you prove your point. it's being patient enough to start over, recognizing that paper-writing is a process of development and that good ideas rarely come out fully hatched on the first go-round.

Since then, editing has been a liberating process. Frustrating of course, but in the end, quite gratifying. My initial reluctance to all of this may have been due to the fact that moleskines are just very classy and clean. Sure. But I have to admit that editing wasn't something I practiced in my prose very often either. So it was more of an issue with pride. And pride, my friends, does not really make way for progress.

It's ridiculous to think that my work will be masterpieces the moment it appears on the page. I mean, don't I want my work to improve? My poetry workshop professor said something to me at the very end of the semester: "insist on clarity." And those words have stayed with me.

Also, editing is possibly one of the most honest procedures of writing. Sure, pouring your heart out through metaphors and alliterations and all that jazz is great, but editing is making the confession that you are not perfect. It's admitting you screwed up. It's being okay with the second [or third, or fourth, or fifth...] time around.

It's time we devoted moleskine users allowed the mishaps. Allowed the scribbles. Allowed for change. Revision is a bettering process. And though your notebook may look messy from here, at least you're being honest.

So go ahead--cross something out. ~~Like this~~.

xponential music festival, sunday july 26th

2009-07-28T22:10:00.018-04:00

I had been looking for a good show to go to for a while now. Surprisingly, there weren't any for the summer that caught my interest. I'm picky to begin with. I don't like going to concerts for artists with which I'm not familiar. Nor do I like going to concerts that are expensive. Well, this one was both.

Dan and I left right after Sunday service. The first act was on at 1:50pm, so we were gonna cut it close. We had to print out the tickets, pick up lunch, and also buy another lawn chair.

Figuring that we could get the tickets from World Cafe Live nearby, we headed over there. Of course it was closed. So we went to the tech center to print them out. Apparently, the computers were just not up to speed, so I picked up Rudi [the other CA working with me] from his apartment off campus while Dan dealt with that. I do not enjoy driving other people's cars. It was terrifying. Someone honked while I was making a turn and I almost spazzed with panic. Don't worry, I picked Rudi up and we got back to the tech center in one piece.

By the time we actually go to the festival in Camden, it was around 3pm-ish. We listened to the first act on the radio as we drove there. Yeah, we could've caught the whole thing on 88.5, wxpn's station in the comfort of our own homes. But no, we went to Jersey.

There was a "no glass" policy--we saw signs before we walked in and scanned our tickets. Well, Dan had bought chips with salsa. The salsa was in a glass jar, mind you. So he cleverly hid it in the bag that held his lawn chair and we got in. I swear it was like ten steps in when we heard a terrible, terrible smashing sound. Of course we knew what it was. The staff people were cool about it--I think one actually pitied us. More than feeling embarrassed, I think we were all just sad that we didn't get to eat any salsa.

It was seriously blazing outside. There was just no escaping it. So we sweat. A lot. Perpetually. The grass areas in front of the stages were practically covered with towels, mats, lawn chairs, and people.

Demographically, there were a lot more older people than I expected. Many had long hair and tattoos. Some had mullets. Some didn't wear shoes.

Hippies must love this, I thought.

There was a Dunkin Donuts truck that gave out free mini cups of lattes. There were a lot of tents selling a bunch of different things: jewelry, tie-dye apparel, mbiras. I was particularly drawn to one that sold ceramic work. The first time Dan, Rudi, and I walked by it, we just quickly glanced over the display. Later, when it got too hot for me to just sit around in direct sunlight, I went back and got a chance to talk to the couple who made all of the work.

The husband had a full-flegded white beard and he wore it as if he had since he was born. We talked about glazes and different types of kilns. The wife came parading into the tent, telling her spouse to try some fruit cup thingy that looked exotic. She told me she'd answer any questions I had. They said they were from southwest Pennsylvania. They had studied Art Education as undergrad students and now they run a studio together. It sounded like the dream life.

Well, in all honesty, the next 6 hours or so were kind of boring. Most of the acts were sort of your average, pleasant folk bands and there was nothing about their performances that really jumped out at me. We sat around and talked about random horror movies for a while because Rudi has a deep obsession with them. Amy Mann was alright.

When Peter Bjorn and John went on, we were all relieved because they actually had some spunk to their performance. The lead singer wore suspenders and jumped around a lot. And then there was lightning.

It was actually kind of cool because we could see it over the water, behind the stage. Each time it struck, there was a collective "whoa!" or "ahh!" from the crowd. And then it started to pour.

People ducked for cover under their towels, put trashbags over themselves, and sought shelter in the now-empty tents. It was actually really refreshing and I have to admit--it was kind of fun.

"Hippies must love this," I said. We all laughed.

I have to say, the last act, Guster, made everything worth it. By the end of the night, I gross with my own sweat and rain water dried to my skin which now stuck to everything, but I didn't care. I was unfamiliar with the band, but there was something about standing, though exhausted, in a crowd full of people focused on one thing. Standing there, I was reminded of why live music meant anything. The lights, the resonance of the bass in my chest, the flight of the electric guitar riffs. It was all too good. People danced, sang along, and cheered shamelessly. Guster even whipped out a cowbell. I'm not kidding. It's on tape.

My arm grew tired of recording everything, but I was feeling especially greedy about capturing these songs. I'm a bit frustrated with myself for not changing the size settings for the video function on my camera. The videos are too big and my laptop almost crashed when I tried to upload them. Thanks a lot Vista.

Anyway, no one wanted it to end by then. The entire crowd chanted "one more song, one more song..." for a while, but they didn't return to the stage. Still, everyone left smiling.

So my summer-long deficiency of concerts was satiated. Thanks for convincing me to go, Dan. Now I kind of know [like 8%] what Woodstock might have been like.

Soon to come: Ra Ra Riot in October at the Trocadero. I'll keep you posted.

christmas in july, or, breakfast for dinner

2009-07-26T02:27:00.008-04:00

Half birthdays never really made sense to me, but I'm just glad to have an excuse to listen to Sufjan's Songs for Christmas albums at another time of year. If I miss my chance, I didn't even try/ I'm not one to regret Christmas in July. Anyway...

A handful of my friends and I gathered to have breakfast--for dinner. Breakfast is by far my favorite meal of the day; and I resent the fact that I don't have enough time in the morning for a proper meal because I'm rushing to get to work now.

Jon Lee and I headed over to Cousins supermarket to grab some groceries. We were soon accompanied by Victor, Sungho, and Sarah. All of us were like hawks, looking for the best deals. And oh, believe me, we found plenty. "Cheaper is better" and "more is better" were our mantras. Efficiency in terms of navigating through the store wasn't exactly our thing. We walked back and forth to further ends, weaving through the aisles, returning to already visited sections, but eventually our cart was full of breakfast madness.

Dan and Wayne's new apartment was pretty sweet--fully equipped with the fruitiest doorbell ring ever. Welcoming, but fruity. Dan's room looked like it would be Dan's room. Posters of bands, album covers, and things of that sort splayed across the wall. Wayne's room was about 1 square foot in size, but he had a sweet chair.

Victor, Sarah, Sungho, and myself manned the kitchen. Sarah was cooking up omelets like no one's business, Victor was working delicately with the strawberries, Sungho was flipping up the hash browns, and I was frying up banana pancakes like a madwoman. We cooked the meat first, so it smelled like bacon the entire time. The heat was so intense it was like hell's kitchen.

So after almost 3 hours of prepping [I'm not even exaggerating] we finally feasted. It's really gratifying to watch friends enjoying food you've prepared together. It's not often that we get to cook together, but it's always fun when we do. Go team.

Then, we played Mafia. We got accused. We got defensive. We got voted off. We got afraid of "nighttime." We got killed off. We got frazzled. We got suspicious. We got Wayne to stop studying and play a few rounds with us. The townspeople didn't win--not even once. A good laugh all in all.

Moral of the story: breakfast is awesome. It should happen more often.

Here's a poem I wrote a while back. It may or may not be relevant:

“The New Year (I Am as Peter)”

The new year
is all numbers.

Is it so simple
to know who

we are? As one
I am comfortable.

With two, I make
grand claims to

love you more
than these, to

die with you.
I am as Peter

on a daily
basis. I am

sick of small
humiliations—

three times is
too many. I

cannot outrun the
other, but am brave

enough to step
out of the boat.

I meet you on
the shore. We

count the fish:
one hundred-

fifty-three.
And three

times you talk
of hungry sheep.

I am still
soaking wet.

My mouth is full
of foolish rants,

aging without wisdom,
twisting to tell you:

you know I do.
I love and love

and love. I love
how you welcome

again this wretch
upon the water

as before, “Come
and have breakfast.”

moleskine!

2009-07-20T18:35:00.004-04:00

Here's an email I received earlier today:

to ElizabethKim@temple.edu
date Mon, Jul 20, 2009 at 8:46 AM
subject An Invitation to Moleskiners.com

Dear Elizabeth,

I hope this email finds you well. I got your email address when I did a Google search for Moleskine users and chanced upon your blog called my name is Elizabeth. I saw and went over your blog entry, particularly the one titled the end of march, or, poetry vs. prose. I especially love how you worded this paragraph as it captured the essence of writing in general, which I must say, is something that I experience, too:

Poetry is painful. Let me expand that--writing is painful. It forces you to wrench out the veins and arteries from your chest, twist and shape them into letters, then into words. It's difficult because it forces you to pay attention, slow down, and make every single word intentional. It is beautiful at times because we may return and share in the very essence of the writer's wrenching. And this--the hours of brainstorming [or just sitting...], the pages and pages of wasted paper, the blisters and broken pencil points--I love all of this. This kind of self-torture reminds me of my humanness, that there is yet more to be discovered, to be written.

It's because of this that I thought about sending you an email. You see, we want to celebrate and bring together people who write -- especially those who use Moleskine notebooks. And we're looking for a group of "charter" members who would like to be among the very first to try the site, participate in forum discussions, write blogs and other things, including posting poetry and articles, among other things.

As such, we'd like to invite you to be among the limited number of select people to be the first to try out the site. If you're interested, I'd be happy to tell you more and give you a peek on the site and I sincerely hope you'd be interested in joining. If so, please let me know and I'll send you the private invitation (only people who receive invitations can get in and register).

Thank you.

All the best,

Lyn

It stuns me when things like this happen.

up on a mountain

2009-07-18T22:59:00.006-04:00

A song by Welcome Wagon; a cover by me, here.

car trouble, act II

2009-07-08T23:48:00.006-04:00

I started work on Monday. It's basically a TA job, tutoring incoming freshmen newbs who have to pass this English class in order to go to Temple.

Today is Wednesday. I got a flat tire this morning.

In my defense--who am I kidding, I've got no defense. It was my own sheer stupidity. I have the tendency to drive closer to the right side of the street rather than the left. No idea why. Yeah well, the right side got me good today.

Going along City Line Avenue, I'm just about to reach the shopping complex. The morning weather is cool, I finally got an adapter for the cassette player in my car, so I'm cruising to Ra Ra Riot. Then BAM.

It sounded like a gunshot. I mean, my 10+ year-old car's got terrible suspension [I'm taking a guess as to what that's actually called] and if I so much as drive over a pebble, the car shakes. But this was something else. It was an angry tremble. A why-did-you-freaking-do-this-to-me shake. It was then followed by another sound, ggrrrhhrhhhrhhr...

I pulled over immediately into the empty parking lot of the shopping complex. Music off. Engine off. Seat belt off. Deep breath. When I stepped out to examine the damage, there were violent gashes running along the side of the front right side tire. The hubcap was nearly touching the concrete. Exhale.

So I called my dad after fumbling for a bit--starting to call my mom, but quickly hanging up because it made more sense to call my dad. He asked me where I was, said "I'll be right there," and hung up. And I'm shaking in my boots. Heavy rebuke was sure to follow. At least I was sure. I was angry at myself for ever becoming comfortable with driving. I sat in the car and prayed.

Well, when my dad came, he didn't even get out of his car. With a smirk on his face, he told me to get in and leave my car there--that'd he'd come back to fix it later.

"Did you doze off?"

"No, I was wide awake. It was my mistake. It was stupid. I just drove too close to the right side," I confessed.

"Is this the route you always take to go to school?"

"Yes..."

"It's really busy on this road. And there's too many stoplights. You should just use another way."

That was pretty much our conversation. He drove me all the way to Temple so I wouldn't be late for work. And I wasn't. No anger. No "see, I told you this would happen." No "you can't drive the car to work anymore." No nothing. It scared me that he was so calm and understanding. He just told me the directions to an alternate, faster route to Temple.

After work, my mom called, told me the tire was replaced, and said I could come to pick it up so I could drive it to family group.

When I told some of the girls before sharing/prayer what happened, Erica said, "Now that's a dad." And I thought, Yeah... that is a dad.

I'm glad I'm not 16 years old, else, this predicament might have earned me some major grounding.

an email

2009-06-26T15:01:00.002-04:00

date Tue, Jun 23, 2009 at 1:40 PM
subject Your thoughts...

Hey Elli,
I was wondering about the question, "Why are you a Christian?" and I would like to hear your thoughts.
Feel free to be as brief or as detailed as you want.

Thanks.

date		Thu, Jun 25, 2009 at 4:57 PM
subject		Re: Your thoughts...

Hey,

I wish I had really profound words or some theological argument to back my answer, but quite honestly, I don't. It's sad to think that I rarely ask myself why I'm a Christian in the first place--unless I have a mind to quit this life altogether.

From a sociological perspective, I'm Christian because my parents raised me to be Christian. Ever since I was in my mother's womb, I was going to church. So as a child, it was just what was fed to me. Choice wasn't really a factor. Even growing up as a teenager, I fortunately went to a church where I made good friends and I could simply have a good time. Plus, being in the youth group was cool--haha. Anyways...

Thinking about it now, I'm not sure if I could give a succinct response. I mean, for a while, I used to say that I'm Christian because it makes sense to me--but I've realized it doesn't. It appalls me that such a thing as unconditionally love exists. It pains me to show it to others and I am shocked when I receive it. And grace exists. Grace is the difference between Christ and any other god. I have to admit that on most days, I don't recognize that I am saved by grace. I don't even notice it. But it's there, whether I do or don't, and that's something incredible. It doesn't make sense to forgive someone a bazillion times. It doesn't make sense to love those who betray you. It doesn't make sense to die for a fool of a people that mess up over and over again. But how wonderful is that? How undeniably, stupidly wonderful is that? To receive what is undeserved. The thing about Christianity that I find comfort in is the absolute illogical nature of it. It's illogical because constant love is promised. It's illogical because I am not the deciding factor. How freeing to know that my salvation is not determined by my performance.

The thing is, I think my sadness, emptiness, loneliness,dissatisfaction, and all those other miserable states of being that squirm around in my chest, all come down to the act of belief itself. I think all human beings need to believe something. I want to believe something bigger than me because I have found that I am not enough. Also, it's terrifying to have the responsibility to be believed in--I would hate to have things rest solely on me. I've found that I not only have a need for belief, but a desire for it--an absolute aching for belief. Let me just say though, that this doesn't necessarily mean I am immersed in or in love with what I believe at all times. What I mean is that when I don't believe, there is already an awareness in me that something isn't right.

I have to admit that belief in Christ came a bit "easier" for me because my parents sort of bridged that gap before I was mature enough to even know what sense or belief was. I can say that I am Christian because I have experienced Christ, because I have tasted a pinch of what the divine might be, but I think that's just way too abstract. What would I say to those who say that they haven't received grace, who say they they haven't experienced goodness? I'm not really sure. But there is a promise-- that this, here, now, on this earth, is not the end; that all will be made new; that we will be made whole. The sheer potential of it tickles my blood. The potential--the end followed by a beginning--is what keeps me going. I've embraced this sort of happy apocalypse idea.

And then there are those days [more often than not] that I feel no tickle. I don't wake up in the morning and say "Well, I am Christian, wahoo." Most days, I feel like I just watch things stay the same and watch misery circulate. I wish the things I said here were what I believe passionately, but most days, they're not. These things are, more accurately, why I want to believe. These are some of the reasons I've gathered in the very little time I've spent actually being Christian that I wish I was more fervent about. Most of the time, I think I'm Christian because belief haunts me. What I said earlier about aching to believe--I like to think that this is something that God himself has placed in me. This kind of discomfort with the here and now of things, I think, is sort of a way in which God chases me. Kind of poking me and saying "Hey, this isn't it... I am. I'm it." No other god has chased me. No other god has wanted me. Only Christ.

I guess I'm just reiterating what Scripture says: "We love because he first loved us."

I hope this makes sense. And thank you for asking this question. Now, may I ask you about your thoughts?

--
–Elli.

car trouble

2009-06-17T23:14:00.010-04:00

Driving in the city is not my thing. I mean, I've only had my license for... a little over a year, so me behind the steering wheel is still terrifying. Plus, I'm really absentminded, so I'm actually a hazard to the public. I drive my grandfather's green Kia Sephia. It's over 10 years old and it still smells like my grandfather no matter what I do, but it gets me where I need to go.

I had no choice but to drive to Temple for training for my job [man, that feels so good to say--my job] because I would have family group later in the day. I killed some time at the freshmen guys' new place, which is pretty sweet--spacious and clean--but apparently has a rodent issue too, before heading over to Penn campus. Thanks for the ice-cream, guys.

The plan was to take Chris with me, since he was going to the same area to crash Vince's family group while Vince stayed back to move some furniture in with his parents and would meet us later. I thought we left with plenty of time to spare to look for parking, but I was so so wrong.

As a passenger, traffic never really bothered me. Now, as a driver, man, I get it. No matter how many times you tap the steering wheel or to what beat you drum, the clogged up road stays clogged. Actually, I couldn't recall ever being stuck on Broad Street very long before. By the time we got near enough, we saw there were tents set up in the middle of the road with SUVs surrounding it. No idea what's going on. We had to go around.

It was a little before we reached 30th Street Station when I noticed the "check engine" light turn on. Hm, that's weird... I've never seen that before, I thought. And then the meter that shows the engine's temperature [yeah, there's probably a tech-y name for that but I don't know it so whatever] indicated that it was very, very hot--like, beyond the highest line hot. Crap.

"Hey, I've never seen the engine light go off before, do you think it'll be ok?" I asked.

"Yeah, as long as it doesn't start smoking up, it should be fine," Chris joked.

And then smoke proceeded to emit from the hood. Crap again. Seriously, it looked like one of those crazy science experiments--minus the fascination and excitement. I turned on my emergency lights and turned off my engine, holding up traffic and probably pissing people off quite a bit. Causing people to tap their steering wheels in frustration. Chris and I were utterly clueless. I didn't even know where the release for the hood was located.

Miraculously enough, after some frantic phone calls, we got all the way to 40th and Chestnut without any more smoke, but as I started parking, the cloud returned. It sounded like my car was growling too. Chris found the latch for the hood. When we got out to check it out, there was green liquid running under the car. What the crap! And then a complete stranger holding a soccer ball stopped to help.

"It's the antifreeze," he said as he caught the panicked look on my face, "you'll be aight."

I have to admit, I was skeptical when I first saw him. My shamefully judgemental mind assumed he was some bum who was bored.

"Do you have a towel?" he asked. All I had was a pair of gloves in the trunk. "We need water."

I could only pace back and forth while Chris followed all of his instructions. The stranger started to pour water into a tube while steam and green liquid spewed from it.

"Is it okay to pour water into that?" I asked in apprehension.

"Yeah, you'll be aight, you'll be aight, " he said, "I'm a mechanic."

"Oh yeah?" I said in the tone in which, I've noticed, I respond to people when they tell me what their major is. "How long have you been doing that?"

He smirked. "All my life."

"What is your name?" I finally asked, not even recognizing this man's radical kindness until now.

"Steve," he said quickly, continuing to fill the tank with water.

"Steve, thank you so much."

When he was finished, he capped the tank, closed the hood, then took off the gloves. Both Chris and I shook his hand, thanking him again. Steve picked up the soccer ball he had left on the side of the road and walked off as if nothing had happened at all.

Lo and behold, I am still alive. My car didn't explode--it didn't even smoke up on the way home.

I am still stunned. What possesses a man to help total strangers? Steve didn't even ask for anything in return. If anything, he seemed eager to get away as quickly as possible, so as not to receive any words of gratitude.

Would I do this for another? I am no Good Samaritan. Just this morning, a homeless man approached me as I parked a little off campus, asking me for change. I gave him a few coins from my wallet then lied, saying I had nothing left while he shamelessly asked for a dollar.

Why is kindness worth giving?

I wonder if I have met Christ today on 41st Street. And I wonder if I have rejected him every time I have rejected the least of the people I see in the city.

Then the King will say to those on his right, 'Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.' - Matthew 25:34-36

Thank you to those who prayed for me, listened to me panic through the receiver of a cell phone, and called me back to make sure that I got home ok.

And if it means anything here, thank you Steve. Thank you so much.

to		ElizabethKim@temple.edu
date		Mon, Jul 20, 2009 at 8:46 AM
subject		An Invitation to Moleskiners.com