I am sitting at a long table in an unfamiliar classroom.
There are 40 of us, all incoming freshmen
Staring at randomly assigned essay prompts.
A 30-minute timer is ticking.
My prompt, guileless and unknowing, says,
You, like everyone, are an expert at something.
Tell us about your expertise and defend it with examples.
I am 18. I should have said,
I am an expert at spending sunny days in the bed of a pickup truck.
I am an expert at making up excuses to stay out late.
I am an expert in being the most sober person at the party.
I am an expert at saying yes when I mean no and no when I mean yes.
I am expert in getting dumped by guys I should have dumped months ago.
Instead, I write, I am an expert in poetry
And I compose five tidy paragraphs about
The collected works of Jim Morrison.
I have read every poem and song written by Morrison.
I have written my senior honor’s thesis on Arthur Rimbaud.
I have stayed up many nights writing
Verses that mimic lyrics from The Doors.
This is all that I know of poetry.
I am 18. I should have written,
I am an expert at sneaking into the drive-in movie theater.
I am an expert in riding roller coasters until I feel green.
I am an expert at balancing two jobs with school and friends.
I am an expert at spending my entire paycheck at Record Town.
I am an expert in walking that fine, fine line between good girl and bad.
The essay I compose about poetry
Is read and evaluated by MFA graduate students to
determine my freshman English class placement.
I place average and
Enter freshman composition with the mixed majority.
I feel like a failure:
A weak writer, a reluctant reader and a mediocre thinker.
I am only 18, I should have said,
I am an expert in nothing,
And then defended my claim.
I am here to learn, I should have said,
Teach me.
February 23, 2016
Not a poet
January 24, 2015
Mango watermelon sherbet smoothie
Thursday I treated the kids to dinner at Friendly's and we discovered this delicious watermelon sherbet. It is so good, I couldn't leave without a carton.
Today when I went to make our weekend smoothie, Zanna asked if I use could the sherbert.
My kids will eat straight kale, pineapple and banana smoothies - and other pure options. But I'm not always a purist. And sherbert in a smoothie sounded fun on a rainy day. Plus, I still snuck in some greens.
This recipe made five 8 oz servings plus four freezer pops.
6 scoops Watermelon sherbert
3 cups frozen mango
2 cups fresh spinach
1 cup fresh blueberries
2.5 cups water
Juice squeezed from half a lemon
Blend until smooth. Add extra water if needed.
October 02, 2012
There's a metaphor I missed in that post about the dolls
Robey sees me typing and he says, "Mom, remember that AliBlog you wrote about Zanna and all her dolls?"
"N0," I say, thinking he's remembering an old post that somebody read to him a long time ago when people used to read this blog. I forget sometimes that he's nine now, and he can get on the computer and read anything he wants.
"The one about the Barbies. I'll show you."We pull it up, and of course he's talking about this recent post about the Barbie mom who loves her baby in the same way that so many mothers love their babies, with a fine combination of tenderness and frustration.
"I wanted to tell you something about it," he says.
"Okay."
"I think it's a lot like Jesus."
September 22, 2012
Arcadia Kids
On the quiet, sandy beaches of Lake Michigan
We build a fort from tree stumps and garbage bags.
We fill it with laughter and fear. We sit in a triangle and light
Discarded cigarette butts, dreaming ourselves into tomorrow.
We are tanned. We are wild. We are roaming the outskirts of
Our adult lives. We are growing. We are gliding.
We are pulling our future from the bottom of the
Lake with sand and silt and mucus of the womb.
We float on the intestine of a large black tire. It crashes
With the waves, docking our dreams and engulfing our youth.
Our parents watch from the bluff, responsible for dinner and dusk.
They feed us. We eat. We swim away from them and then we paddle back,
grabbing on to forearms and not letting go.
The undertow pulls us to the floor of the lake but
We hold on, clawing for life and stealing
Sharp breaths between waves.
We are swimmers but we are not strong.
We are travelers without a map.
We are locals but only for the season.
We are in between. We are adrift.
The sun rises and it sets into the dark, black edge of the world.
The moon lights up the cloudy sky. It shifts. It splits. It calls our names.
We answer with a chord. We watch it float on the water’s surface and blink away.
We fade. We lose touch. We swim upstream
While entire fortresses of bolted walls and sturdy steps are buried underground.
We forget the beaches for a spell and then return
With new life crawling in the sand.
We write a letter to the past and throw it into the fire.
No one answers. No one replies. But up here,
We are never alone.
Up here, the moon, the dunes, the waves: they know us. They built us.
They pulled us under and dragged us to this shore.
We will walk its rocky coast until we die.
September 19, 2012
That Barbie mom is alright
Zanna is playing with her Barbie dolls in the living room. They are hanging by their arms in a circle around a Beyblade arena that her brothers have left on the footstool.
The mommy is talking to her baby. She uses a sweet but firm voice saying, "Honey, it is time for bed RIGHT NOW. Honey, those clothes don't match at all. Honey, I said STOP doing that. Honey, I will not say this again."
Listening, I think, doesn't that mom ever say anything nice? And, is that what I sound like to my four year old? Does my daughter think all mothers mask their frustrations with a singsong voice and one repeated endearment at the front of each aggravated sentence?
Why, I wonder, doesn't that Barbie mom ever pause and say, "Honey, you are such a nice baby. Honey, I love you so much."
Right then, the mommy falls off the foot stool and I half expect her to blame the baby or lie there in defeat. Instead, the baby doll helps the mommy back up to the plastic arena to hang by her arms with the other Barbies again, and the mommy says sweetly, "Thanks, Honey. You do so well."
August 01, 2012
July 16, 2012
Because the Night
I'm reading Patti Smith's Just Kids and am having a small obsession with different versions of this song:
January 06, 2012
BPPV (The Vertigo)
When the vertigo hits
it is not your body
That spins.
It is not
your head
that becomes weightless.
When the vertigo hits
it is the room that spins.
And your head?
It weighs 500 pounds.
When the vertigo hits
the world spins.
The room, the house,
the trees, the sky,
the stars -
even the stars will spin.
But especially
the walls and
the ceiling, they spin.
When the vertigo hits
no amount
of strength
can hold the boulder
that used to be
your head.
This flimsy rod
they call a neck,
these lumpy wings
they call shoulders.
How were they ever
strong enough
to hold your head?
When the veritgo hits
your knees
will buckle,
your feet
will lose the floor,
your eyes
will close,
your hands
will claw at the carpet.
And the room will keep
right on spinning.
When the vertigo hits,
you ask:
How bad is it
this time?
Will you spend
the day in bed?
A night in the hospital?
Give up weeks
to the meds -
suffering with
dry mouth and
foggy thoughts?
Or
When the vertigo hits
will you
summon the strength
to push through
the spins?
Resist the urge
to lie still and
end the swirling?
When the vertigo hits
will you
lean into it,
roll toward it,
open your eyes,
lift your head -
and walk again?
January 05, 2012
The house concert of all house concerts, in war-torn Afghanistan
Owning a musical instrument. Humming a tune to your child. Drawing a sketch of the human form. All these things could get you stoned to death in Afghanistan under Taliban law.
If you are a poet, an artist or a musician - or a lover of any form of art - I promise this is worth eighteen minutes of your time. In it, a journalist tells the story of what happened one magical night when art was no longer outlawed and artists were suddenly free to create - and share their creativity - again.
I love every podcast from The Moth, but this is one of my all-time favorites. I'm half tempted to play it during an intermission of an upcoming house concert - but then I'm not sure when we'd fill our wine glasses and our hour d'oeuvre trays.
January 03, 2012
Michael Shoup live January 21
This is the song that convinced us to book Michael Shoup for a home concert in our backstage pass concert series:
And this is what Michael says about house concerts on his blog:
My calendar for 2012 has been booking up with House Shows like this one and I couldn’t be more excited for them. The intimate approach and close proximity to the audience really lets us get into the gritty details of all the songs, and the relationships I’ve started to build through them have be unmatched. I like to think I’m slowly taking over the world, 20 people at a time.
Won't you come meet him and be one of the next 20 people helping him take over the world 20 people at a time?
Show details
- 7-8pm: mingling, light food & drinks
- 8-10pm: performance by Michael Shoup
- Suggested donation: $10-20 per attendee. All proceeds go to the artist.
- Seating is limited so please RSVP by January 17.
- Light snacks and wine will be served before and after the show. Guests are welcome to bring appetizers and drinks to share as well.
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If you want Michael to play at your house too, you can inquire about that on his site - and learn more about the House Show concept.
Ali
A family Web site featuring the everyday lives of Ali, Jerm, Robey, Moe and Zanna
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