Open Mic Night=Terror

On Monday April 5th I participated in my first Open Mic Night at University of Michigan-Dearborn. It was sponsored by the Writing Center and participating was a portion of our grade. To say I did this against my will would not be too strong a statement to make.

Funny thing is, I actually ended up liking it.

First of all, I like poetry. So I knew I would like that part. I also like performance art, so I knew that I would enjoy watching my classmates and the other speakers as well.

What I didn't expect was that I was gonna like the feeling of, um, exhilaration I got while presenting my own piece.

The poem I chose to do was a tough one for me. I had just been diagnosed with breast cancer when I wrote it and it was raw and emotional and scared. But, because I was scared to speak anyway, I figured it was the perfect time to do the poem. And, I'm happy to say I got thru it without crying, without my voice wavering too much, and with out losing my cool. I considered the whole experience a success.

Would I participate in an Open Mic Night again. I would have say, surprisingly, Yes.

The Video Feedback

For our assignment we had to watch several videos on writing and write our feedback on them.

I watched Ira Glass' video of his appearance in This American Life on how he writes a story. I really liked this piece a lot because I could totally relate to it. I agree that you can have all of the fundamentals of being a good writer, can know the proper language and grammar and sentence structure, etc---but if you don't have a good 'story' all of that is worthless. If you have a good story, one that grabs you and takes hold of you, it is the basis of wonderful things. Granted, any story will be better in the hands of a gifted writer, but the raw materials go a long way regardless.

I also watched Nellie McKay sing her song "Mother Of Pearl". I absolutely adored it. Not only were the lyrics of the song funny they were also very intelligent. Her sweet voice and the ukelele (?) she was playing made it seem like just a light throw-off of a song, but it was very deep and insightful. I liked how she took a serious topic, added her own twists, sense of humor, and style of delivery, and made it her own. She got across a message and her opinion in a fantastic manner.

Chuck-ing it all; a review of Klosterman

Initially, when we were first assigned the book Killing Yourself To Live, I checked over the front and back covers and seemed to really be interested by the blurbs and synopsis I found there. The book seemed quirky and interesting and I looked forward to reading it. It wasn't a bad book to read-it moved along at a nice pace and was very interesting-but I'm not sure I would recommend it. I say this only because I don't think it fulfills what it promises.

Chuck is given the assignment of crossing the country to visit all the scenes where famous musicians have died, usually tragically. It makes you think you are going to go on a great adventure with him and you are going to find out all types of insider information. I was expecting him to describe the scenes and the situations of each rock star's demise with great detail. And he does, sort of, but more than a book about dead musicians, it is a book about Chuck.

During our first review early into the book, I mentioned I thought Chuck was a pompous douchebag. After finishing the book, I stand by my original thoughts on him. I'm not dogging on his writing style, because I do enjoy the way he writes, even if it is a trifle bit scattered and attention deficit disorder-ed. Chuck is an amusing writer, but the book seems more like a 235 page personal ad than a travelogue (which is what I am assuming was what he was attempting to write).

That being said, if this book were billed more as a memoir and I was expecting to read all about Chuck I probably would have enjoyed it more, but the blurbs led me to believe I was going to be reading this great epic about why musicians tend to find great fame in death and in that goal I think Klosterman fell flat. I know more about his drug habits and the fact he likes gravy and is incapable of any real relationships than I do about the motives or emotions surrounding a slew of musical deaths.

Killing Yourself To Live

Chuck Klosterman is obviously very obsessed with death (heck, his whole book is a paean to death) but one part of the assigned section I found especially interesting was his comparing dying in a plane crash versus dying in a car crash. I hate to admit that's something I have actually thought about myself a few times. Granted, dying doesn't appeal to me at all, and dying in a violent or tragic way even less so, but it seems as if a car crash would be over so quickly you wouldn't have time to form any rational thought on what was happening to you. It would be as quick as it could be.
A plane crash on the other hand is quick, but it still leaves enough time for abject terror. You would know what was happening to you for a long enough period of time to have clear thoughts about it, and enough time to work up a healthy dose of fear. Although I hope to never die at all (haha) if I have to, I definitely don't want it to be in a plane crash. And, if for whatever reason that is the way I am destined to die, I hope that I have the guts of the passengers of the plane that crashed into the farm in Pennsylvania on September 11th. Let's Roll. I want my legacy to be one of bravery, even in the face of terror.

Being 20, Twenty years later

When I was 21, my twin daughters were born. Gone, immediately, was the life I had known and instantly I became the entire universe for two tiny creatures. To say I was unprepared was the understatement of the year. And even though everything I had planned to do and to be and everything I wanted suddenly took a backseat to their needs, I wouldn't change having them in my life for anything in the world. They taught me patience, and humility, and showed me that I possessed a strength I never knew existed. They are also the walking-talking-living-breathing definition of love.

I read somewhere once (can't remember where or I would definitely give proper attribution) that having a child is like having a portion of your heart walking around outside your body and you are powerless to protect it. That is a pretty apt description because, try as you might to make life better for your kids than you had it yourself, you will never live up to everything they need. You will also never live up to all of the expectations of being a parent you thought were important.

I dreaded the day my daughters turned 18. Dreaded even more the day they turned 21. For more than half of my life, being a mom was all I knew; all I thought I was good at. I thought that when they didn't need me to 'mother' anymore, I would have no definition to my life and would cease to be. I had been Amy the mom for so long I forgot how to be Amy the person. Well, I truly couldn't have been more wrong. First of all, you never finish being a mom. Never. They might not need me in the same ways anymore, but they will always need me---if only to be their North Star to orient them as they make their way thru life. Secondly, having adult children when you are still young enough to appreciate it gives you a chance to experience the life you missed when they were babies. And that is what I am doing now. I am having the 20's I never had when I was 20. The best part of all is that they get to be a part of it with me. We do homework together, discuss classes, go shopping and occasionally have even been to the bar together to do karaoke or otherwise. I will never consider myself their 'friend' only (like Lindsey Lohan's and Paris Hilton's mothers seem to do). I will always be Mom first, and foremost, but I enjoy having these new experiences with them as something like a friend. A friend to the tenth power, as it were.

They are my legacy and my love.

Post Secret

I've been reading Post Secret on and off for a few years now. I have to admit it makes me equal parts sad and fascinated---quite the collection of humanity within its pages (or screens, whatever).
I think its popularity lies in two areas. One-it does give outlet to those who think they have none; a voice to the silent. Two-it gives opportunity for people to enjoy lots of Schadenfreude in one convenient little package. Schadenfreude is a German word that is loosely translated as "taking joy in the misfortune of others" and I do believe that some people read Post Secret just for this reason; that when you see other people's lives as more miserable than your own you feel better by comparison. That is the same reason people love to watch those video shows of other people getting hurt. They are neat and sanitized ways to act on basest instincts without any repercussions.
I am quite sure that some of the postcards sent in to Post Secret are fabricated and despite all of the deeply moving and sad things I've read on that website, the disingenuousness that would lead someone to make up a 'secret' makes me saddest of all. That someone would be so starved for 'celebrity' that they would make up something (even something that was going to be posted anonymously) just to get their own warped fifteen minutes of fame is just a side effect of our celebrity driven culture.

The Elegy

This is the poem I chose to do quite a bit of re-work on. I tried to use as much imagery as I could while still keeping the theme and feeling I was trying to convey. Still, all these years later, remembering this night brings me to tears.

Martha's Elegy

Hands. Hands like a roadmap of your life.
Lines. And veins. And a scar or two,
illustrating your journey.
Hands that knew the world, knew it well
long before I entered it.
Hands that knew hard work
and toil
and love.
Hands poised over a pot of something wonderful,
a bit of this-a pinch of that
until
it became much more than the sum of its parts.
Hands swiftly moving, flying, thru yarn and hook,
twisting and winding up something to keep me warm,
a warmth of substance out of a bit of nothing.
Hands gentle, upon my brow.
Soothing. Calming. Easing. The tears of childhood,
the angst of adolescence,
the turmoil of life beyond.
I held your hand that night,
your last night,
and rubbed my thumb across your skin,
feeling the life still there even as it slowly ebbed away.
The soft fragile beat
of a heart that knew the world.
That knew me.
A heart that sustained me when my own would not.
And I saw your hands later
when they didn't even look like yours anymore.
Painted. And powdered. And still.
So still-
A stillness they never had in life;
and I will always be ashamed to say
that is when I was afraid to take your hand.
Because it no longer belonged to you.
Because what had animated you was gone.
And now my hands clasped together.
In pain.