Movin' On Up

I would like to officially announce that Blustery Day will be moving to a new home. It is time to move on to bigger and better things, but in my heart, this will always be where the magic started. It's been swell.

*wipes tear*

Narrator: And so we come to the last chapter, in which Pooh and Christopher Robin go to the enchanted part of the forest, and we say goodbye. 

Winnie the Pooh: Goodbye? Oh no, please. Can't we just go back to page one and start all over again? 

Narrator: Sorry, Pooh, but all stories have an ending, you know. 

Winnie the Pooh: Oh, bother. 

From Up Here

From up here,

you can tell that 

the earth is round.

You can imagine

that great sloping 

curve in the distance.

From up here,

you can tell that

the earth spins

around the sun—

that the clouds

are only just

the beginning.

From up here,

great sprawling rivers

can fit in the space

between your fingers

and you can watch

the sun making 

its burning arch

across the sky.

And suddenly—

you feel very small

in comparison.

In Light of This

A shadowed earth—
the darkness painting and covering
its dips and swells,
its plains and shady forests.
Erratic spider webs of dotted light
are a beacon of humanity.
They reach for one another—
tendriled arms of mottled amber,
green and yellow fade
and are consumed in darkness.
Yet elsewhere—
even in the purest of the black,
there remains a persistent cluster
of light, like a rebellious celebration.
And the pulse of this lighted center
is living and spreading.
Until the black is not so dark
and the surface of the world
is cased in golden netting.
And then you can see
how we have made this place our home.
And it seems
that perhaps we are better in the dark.
That when given the chance, we make our light.
And it is truly beautiful.

By the way...

One half of a peach is all I need.
And a handful of sunflower seeds will be enough.

And I have always wanted a rocking chair—
Since you asked, I would want it to creak
When I rocked back and forth, like it knew
that I only wanted it to talk me to sleep.

Three hundred pages are all I need.
And if not, two hundred will be enough.

And I have always wanted to write,
Since you asked. A thick tome that would
Rest on a back corner shelf where its gold
Embossed letters would shine on their own.

Two gold hoop earrings are all I need.
And my frizzy brown hair will be enough.

And I have always wanted to see what it’s like,
Since you asked, to cut all of it off— feel my fuzzy
trimmed scalp and know that you like me the same
as when my hair, tangled in gold, made me beautiful.

Four or five centuries of knowledge are all I need.
And a simple white T-shirt will be enough.

And I know I can’t dance or sing well.
Since you asked, I do both anyway.
And now you know who I am
And I hope
that for you,
it is enough.

Sure

Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind.

"Pooh!" he whispered.

"Yes, Piglet?"

"Nothing," said Piglet, taking Pooh's paw. "I just wanted to be sure of you."

- Winnie the Pooh

I just wanted to be sure of you
Just to know you were there
So I reached out my arm to touch you
And found that you were

I just wanted to be sure of you
Sure that you’ll always be my friend
So I laced my hand with yours
And found that you are

I just wanted to be sure of you
To know that I’m not really alone
So I sat down beside you
And found that if
I am sure of one thing,
It is that I am sure of you

If It Is True

If it is true
that you noticed
how my eyelashes sometimes
get tangled at the corners,
then you must see me.

If it is true
that you listened
when I hummed so softly
to myself that day,
then you must hear me.

If it is true
that you laughed
with me when I stumbled
momentarily in the wrong direction,
then you must know me.

And if it is true
that you turned me around
and saw the ends of my lashes curl,
heard my secret song,
knew my funny missteps,
then you must love me.

What The Kids Are Watching

Every human being is entitled to four basic rights: the right to life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness, and the right to excessive battles over the television set. In a house of seven people, and only two TV sets, I have had to tap deep into my most primal instincts when it comes to television survival. Because my younger siblings outnumber me about four-to-one, I have remained in a never ending vortex of children’s shows, even as my friends began to move on from Nickelodeon to VH1. This exposure to the children’s shows of the past and today’s more modern equivalents has caused me to notice a dramatic change in the world of children’s programming.

As young teenagers, many of my contemporaries and I were exposed to what would become the first waves of the “pre-teen” movement in the entertainment industry. Prior to this, we were seemingly pigeonholed into the extremes, flipping channels between Blue’s Clues and MTV Hits. It was not until the likes of shows such as Lizzie Maguire and Boy Meets World that we were introduced to a type of show that was at once more mature than the slow-paced programs of childhood, and less graphic than the adult shows of the time. From this breed of children’s programming came the phenomenon of pre-teen based shows like Hannah Montana, The Suite Life of Zach and Cody, and more recently, the High School Musical craze. Finally, the children who were at that awkward stage between childhood and adulthood had something to watch that covered tough issues like peer pressure, smoking, and romantic relationships, without being inappropriate. The entertainment industry had struck gold, but this wave of success has led to the elimination of programming for the younger age group, and therein lies the issue.

In my own home, the effects of this pre-teen movement are quite apparent. I have witnessed my six-year-old brother switch from Dora the Explorer to Seventh Heaven in what seems like overnight. Though inevitable, this switch from the infantile to the mature is one that is meant to occur during the transitive period of the early teen years, not during kindergarten. Parents must consider that informing their children about the challenges they will face as they grow up is an important conversation to have, but it is unnecessary and unwarranted to do so at such a young age. However, many of these shows raise questions that do not and should not concern the small children who watch them. In almost every episode of Nickelodeon’s sitcom Drake and Josh, young viewers are shown the character of Drake, a rakish heartthrob who is girl-obsessed and is seen kissing and dating many different girls in the course of one episode. My young cousin who watches the show ever refers to Drake as her “crush.” It is rare to find such young children thinking in romantic terms, which are prompted by this representation of Drake as a blatant object of affection, rather than an ordinary character who happens to be a boy.

Another means of exploitation with the children’s programming industry lies in its film audience. For my brother’s tenth birthday, I took him to see the movie Robots and was surprised by how clever and poignant it turned out to be. I was even further surprised when I discovered that my brother had found it “boring.” Upon a second viewing, I realized that much of what I had found enjoyable about the movie were the many jokes and innuendos aimed at a much older audience than that of my younger brother. Much of the childish humor from children’s movies have been eliminated and replaced with subtle, adult oriented jokes, and regurgitated under the guise of a children’s film. The industry has given children a reason to want to see these movies, and parents a reason to want to take their children to see them. This promotes further confusion and ambiguity about what is and is not appropriate for the children who fall into the age group between toddlers and pre-teens.

In the short amount of time between my childhood and that of my brothers and sister’s childhood, the whole industry had changed and the change was not necessarily for the better. The entertainment industry must re-evaluate children’s programs to make them more consistent with their targeted age groups. The failure to do this could result in a loss of innocence and a desensitization to mature and important issues starting from a young age. The introduction of the pre-teen show is one that is beneficial for that age group, but should not be geared at children younger than the pre-teen age. I believe that a compromise could be reached by the industry that satisfies children’s interests with their social and emotional development. Parents have a responsibility to monitor what their children see on TV and in the movies and if these steps are taken, being concerned about what the kids are watching could become a thing of the past.

Ghazal

With the might of God I clear this altar.
And the bounties of life splatter dumbly from this wasted altar.

The seeds of ripe peaches have no roots to bind souls with,
So long as they teeter far above on the edge of an obstinate altar.

Cornucopia entrails make gluttons out of birds.
Let us clear them away from this violated altar.

Snap white cloths made from beggar’s robes in their place.
Strip the jewels and luxurious shine from this altar.

Demons with selfish eyes— broken from their terrible fall—
Tremble as the morning canticle breaks over stone altars.

The elite Roman deities with their greedy, glazed meats
will dine hungry tonight— choking on sanctified bread at their altars.

I saw the angel Gabriel and I never paused in wonder.
Well, the mighty look much smaller from the dais of an altar.

I'm Published!

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The View

(written while several thousand feet in the air)

the ground is a confused checkerboard

all crooked lines 

and rows of trees

like winding scars

the rivers carve their paths;

puddled blood 

in an open wound

here and there

a hair's-breadth 

highway line

points onwards and away

clouds are torn

off clumps of feathery down

suspended planes

of snow

with grooves like

a traveler's shoe prints

A Haiku

consumerism

the heartbeat of here and now

don't buy into it

I Can...

...change diapers like it’s nobody’s business

put my hair in a French braid

make pizza (it’s awesome)

read a book in under twenty-four hours

alphabetize just about anything

kick butt at soccer

tell stories

dance embarrassingly

twirl my spaghetti with a spoon

paint my nails like a pro

eat a whole bag of sunflower seeds by myself

explain sixteenth century politics (true story)

pronounce “mozzarella” the correct way

and spike a badminton birdie like it’s my job. 

And that is just the short list.

Life

“What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”

~Mary Oliver

There isn’t enough time. This simple thought is at once a source of dread and excitement. What will I do? Where will I go? I want to do everything. I want to explore ancient ruins and I want to live on a deserted island. I want to eat a real mango and drink from a hollow coconut shell. I want to never see another car or building or paved road again; just endless dewy grass. I want to walk briskly through the streets of New York in a long black coat with red shoes. I want to be a mother. I want to learn to juggle. I want to be a ballerina in George Balanchine’s company. I want to take my shoes off and slosh through rain that has warmed over the hot stones of a street in Naples. Or I could write until my hands fell off and I’d have to use my toes. I want to stay at home and read late into the night and never leave.

There isn’t enough time! Not even close.

Is it acceptable to spend so much time waiting for your life to start? I don’t know. Maybe in the end, the waiting and dreaming is what makes it all worth something.

Varnish

That acrid smell
a burning, noxious
unwelcome stench

Peels you, rubs you away
Dissolved

Now clean and square
her fingernail
is primed and ready

Prickling black bristles
drag your shining gloss
like a red red gem—
you bleed pigment
over solid planes

All week she had picked
you, chipped
you, bit
you, spit
you into a pile of dead, red
flakes

Now you gleam,
a liquid soul sacrificed
over half-moon altars

A covenant spun in glass

Healing Day

Today was stressful and filled with laughter.

Imagine a classroom. Its ten students sitting at their formica desks in circle formation as they dissect and analyze the contents of their latest reading assignment. Now image that same classroom of mature-beyond-their-years AP English students all doubled over, laughing hard enough to burst veins and send fat tears rolling down smiling cheeks. Today, this was my class.

Every once in a while, you will have moments like these when it seems like all the pressure and stress that each of us has been holding in for weeks and months and even years just comes bursting out. Sometimes it comes in laughter, sometimes tears, sometimes both. But after the laughter has died off and the tears have been dried, you begin to feel better... you feel healed. You realize that we really are all in this together and it is times like these that remind you of how close we have all become over these past four years of high school. Oh Faulkner! (It's an inside joke, you wouldn't understand).


Today was a healing day.

Good Day

Today was a hard day.

The kind of day you dread all week-- you have papers due, tests to take, essays to write, and that's just the "in-school" stuff! But at the end of the day, I feel victorious. That AP Euro test? Piece of cake. That in class essay? Nailed it. That college essay work shop where you unexpectedly had to give a ten minute presentation in front of the whole grade? No problema.

It's the days like today that test your every nerve, but once you've reached that glorious plateau, the confidence you gain is worth the sweat and tears. It's that sense of accomplishment, when you know you've done your best at a daunting task (or in this case, daunting tasks), that gives you the chutzpah you need to call that hard day a good day.

Today was a good day.

Breaking up is hard to do

we are new
like a crisp pillow sham
like an apple (still stemmed)
like the unbroken filament of a light bulb.

we are over
like a curtain-close bow
like an arrow’s quivering tail
like the very end of a jungle vine.

this is pain
like a size-too-small shoe
like an underwater breath
like the sting of crushed bleeding lips.

as this fades
as the heavy stomach pain fades
you feel the numbing kiss
of Apathy.

She mends you
you welcome Her
like a flood soothes
the scorching desert

and you are strong
like a fallen tree—now immovable in the soil
like an old patch of scarred skin
like the thick membrane tissue of your broken beating heart.

Toothbrush

March 2008

“Mom, where’s my toothbrush?”

“Did you check in the bathroom?”

Did I check in the bathroom? Cue exasperated sigh. Clearly, Mom is going to be of little help in this quest. I am on my own.
My mind begins whirling through all the possible scenarios. I quickly rule out burglary (who would want to steal a toothbrush?) and alien abduction. Could this have been my own doing? Did I lose my toothbrush?

I consider pulling each of The Siblings aside for individual interrogations. The divide-and-conquer method has won victories for me in the past, but I have little reason to suspect them this time.

As I begin to pace sociopath-like through the house in search of my missing toothbrush, the high squeals of childish laughter and the hissing of a hose diverts my attention outdoors. I squint through the glare of the sun and wave to The Siblings as they spray down the grimy anterior of Mom’s minivan and my own “grandma-tested-teenager-approved” Toyota Camry. How wonderfully innocent they look, running through the iridescent arch of the water spewing from the hose. Beside them, a faded bucket filled with sudsy rags and brushes lies neglected in the grass. I feel instantly guilty. How could I have suspected The Siblings of taking my toothbrush, when all along they had been outside, innocently washing…

Oh no.

They wouldn’t. They couldn’t have.

My horror begins to escalate as I catapult off the front porch and make my way towards the vile bucket of grime. I dump its contents onto the crumbling driveway and as the soap begins to clear, I see it. My toothbrush. Its aqua blue handle stands out in stark contrast with the white lather of car cleaner and the muddy water, mocking me for my naivety. How could I have missed this? My embarrassment grows as I think about the smug pride I had felt when, not fifteen minutes ago, I was cleverly ripping off a kindergartener in exchange for a vacuumed and scrubbed car. The joke was clearly on me.

With the fires of hell burning from my retinas I turn my wrathful vengeance to the soapy fiesta that is The Siblings, post-carwash.

“WHO DID THIS?” I wonder briefly if the neighbors can hear me before deciding that I don’t particularly care.

“Who did what?” I take a deep breath and compose myself.

“Which one of you took my toothbrush to wash the car?” Silence.

And then, “We needed it to do the tires.”

Bandwidth

I linger in a digital world
which dazzles like a champagne flute
whose blush of amber liquid
casts you into wet unknowns.
This place of digital knowledge
is a synchronized illusion-
where reality is porcelain
tattooed with broken fault lines.

But the buzzing haze
of hard-drive space
drowns out pleasant digital dreams.
And the taste of wire cords
is laced with electric conversation.
Here, every question has been asked
(and answered) by an unseen cyber deity.

In this digital environment
you have everything there is
but nothing that you need.

Wild

I am golden brown
Tanned feet, hands
Hersey's kiss hair
The shaking drumbeat
of thunder
Sharp shards of cracking
light simmering across the sky
The jungle of my hair
is separating, growing
standing on point
Each follicle
a quivering shape-
the air breathes moisture
into every strand
Frizz, static, curls,
twisting whorls of untamed
disaster.