Poetry Corner Monday

A Happy Birthday Ted Kooser This evening, I sat by an open window and read til the light was gone and the book was no more than a part of the darkness. I could easily have switched on a lamp, but I wanted to ride this day down into night, to sit alone and smooth the unreadable page with the pale grey ghost of my hand.

My Fling with a Bookless World

Usually, prying me away from a good book is a lesson in futility. My fingers crave the weight and curl of the pages, and with each turn I feel as though I'm setting my eyes upon a country I've never heard of. Existing in any capacity outside of these pages is in many ways a long, mournful crawl to the gallows.

Lately, though, I have become disenchanted with reading. I woke up one morning weeks ago and realized how long it had been since I'd given myself a chance to live in a world I couldn't hold. I needed a story that told itself, so with a guilty glance at my to-read list on Goodreads, I closed my book and bid literature a temporary goodbye.

During my sabbatical from reading I have been rewatching Lost. For those who've never seen it, it's not exactly the best choice of a television series when one is seeking mindless relaxation. Nevertheless, in the time I would normally dedicate to reading I set about reacquainting myself with a remote tropical island and its stranded inhabitants. For a week and a half I devoured each episode like I had never before seen a moving picture. I stayed up until the unholy morning hours that I hadn't seen since my most stressful college nights, just waiting for the plot to shift again.

And then something happened.

Having already seen the series in its entirety I knew how each of the stories would conclude. Now that I knew the fates of characters who had once again become so real to me I didn't want to see them played out. So when I reached the end credits of an episode toward the end of season 3 I turned it off and reached for my book.

Everyone who's reading this already knows how much of a nerd I am so I am (largely) unashamed in stating that there is no tactile experience in this world quite like curling your fingers around the smooth spine of a book. The minute I touched the cover I knew my sabbatical was over. I opened it to my bookmark and as I settled into the couch next to the fireplace I could hear, faintly but surely, the universe heave a contented sigh. What a feeling to know that I can turn the page of a book and be home.

Loving You is a Snap (Judgment)!

Well, it's February 14th once again, and we all know what that means...

...NPR Valentine's Day cards!

 And here they are (lest anyone accuse me of being cool):

 

   

And I can't resist bringing back my all-time favorites, just in case there was any doubt that I will die alone:

   

Wherever They Are

I was watching a Law & Order: SVU marathon last week and they played an episode that originally aired my senior year of high school. I'm not embarrassed to say (though maybe I should be) that this was an episode I still know by heart. I can recite the dialogue of entire scenes. I remember the conversations I had with my  friends the next day at school, when we talked about how close Olivia and Elliot had come to admitting feelings for each other. We were giddy, because after months and months of Socratic seminars and AP test prep we needed something to be giddy about.

Needless to say, I watched the episode again. I own it, but I watched it--not because it was either that or Cheer Perfection, but because sitting there in my sweats with my cup of tea, watching a show I loved when I was eighteen, made me feel the kind of happiness and safety that you only feel when your problems are no bigger than studying for a biology test. It was the satisfaction of another finished day, the excitement that you would wake up the next morning, walk to school as the sun was rising, and chat with your two best friends in front of the locker you all shared and had decorated with pictures of Johnny Depp and Patrick Dempsey.

Since moving away to college I have told people who asked that my high school years were heavy and demoralizing. But that attitude does a disservice to the things about those years that I wouldn't have changed for anything. I had amazing teachers. I had friends who were so witty and funny and supportive and interesting that they made my image of a perfect friend look like a mere passing acquaintance. Yes, much of my high school life was miserable. Yes, in this misery I pushed away the friends who loved me so completely that seeing me in pain was worse than not seeing me at all. And I understood. And I will never stop regretting how I acted.

But so much more of my high school life was a string of moments that were, simply put, profoundly beautiful. The time my friend Jessica and I pulled an all-nighter to film and edit The Lion King: An Existentialist Musical, a creative project our English class. The year my friends and I had a Valentine's Day party at my house and told stories until we fell asleep all piled together on the futon. The romantic comedy we created and made a soundtrack for, burning copies and listening to it so many times that each of us knew the next song before it even started. In these moments I found bliss and stability.

In the years since leaving for college I have lost touch with all but a few of my high school friends. I don't expect them to read this. I don't even expect that I cross their minds. But I want them to know that I will remember them always as the best part of me, and that apart from my family they are the only ones who have ever known me as "Liv." Nicknames are powerful things. They give you a sense of belonging and reassure you that no matter what, someone always knows you as something beyond your name. I love my friends for knowing me--truly knowing me--and for being exactly what I needed exactly when I needed it. For being my home.

And if we're ever all in the same place again, I have an episode of Law & Order: Special Victims Unit that's calling our names.

Poetry Corner Monday is Ba-ack!

In Our Woods, Sometimes a Rare Music
Mary Oliver

Every spring
I hear the thrush singing
in the glowing woods
he is only passing through.
His voice is deep,
then he lifts it until it seems
to fall from the sky.
I am thrilled.
                          I am grateful.

Then, by the end of morning,
he's gone, nothing but silence
out of the tree
where he rested for a night.
And this I find acceptable.
Not enough is a poor life.
But too much is, well, too much.
Imagine Verdi or Mahler
every day, all day.
It would exhaust anyone.

A Typical Morning Conversation

Mom: I'm going to clean my bedroom and I wanted to apologize beforehand for what I'm about to do.
Me: Are you going to play Brandi Carlile?
Mom: ...Yes.
Me: I thought you needed a break.
Mom: I do, just not today.
Me: That's fine. I just came downstairs to...
Mom: Build a fire?
Me: ...Yes.

My mom and I should really spend more time together.