The Trouble with Cars, Choose-Your-Own-Adventure Style

Cars had a way of disappointing you. That clunky old beast of a Dodge Aries, year 1989, that often acted like a grumpy old woman: all blue hair, refusing to move when it was cold outside, grunting and wheezing when prodded, and occasionally emitting sparks of rage when pushed too far. Some days you had to hold the door shut while driving because ice had a way of building up inside the latch. Then, the passenger side door stopped opening altogether. Eventually it decided that life wasn't worth living anymore. You agreed, and sent the old biddie off to the junkyard, now $50 richer. A long deserved death penalty for the deer it heartlessly murdered 4 years prior.

Then the devil took the blue dress off and showed its red side. The Jetta blazed into your life and all was good with the world. The car you'd always dreamed of, complete with a CD player just as they were becoming obsolete. For one summer, you felt like you were actually driving a vehicle instead of a continuously malfunctioning Rube Goldberg machine. Then the water heater exploded over 100 miles from home. After that, the Jetta became a fickle contraption, stranding you in the middle of parking lots, highways, bridges; simply stopping and refusing to start up again for what felt like hours. You cried on the phone to your mother. Mechanics were baffled. Finally, a miracle happened -- the death trap was repaired and a nice man from South Carolina took it off your hands for a pretty penny. You even found yourself the next car you'd always dreamed of -- a cute little Saab with a sun roof.

You soon realized, however, that you should learn from your mistakes, and that for some reason you have a strong attraction to completely unreliable vehicles. After pouring hundreds, near thousands of dollars into this new piece of machinery, it came time for inspection. You put it off for months, not wanting to know the extent of the damage -- to your car, your emotional well-being, your wallet. It sat dormant in your driveway, looking like a lost explorer, frozen and buried in the arctic tundra of western Massachusetts. After deciding to be responsible, you drove the sputtering car, illegally, to the repair shop, and were unsurprisingly unsurprised at the cost of owning a shitty vehicle.

But something wonderful had happened over the past few months. You discovered that you didn't need a car anymore. That you were tired of spending your money on things that were continually disappointing you, shooting flames into your face, and trying to murder you by stranding you on public highways, like one of those villains that ties pretty women to train tracks. You knew what you had to do, but weren't sure how to do it:

Do you:

1) Sell your car for whatever its worth, which is probably only $500 or less. Go to page 53

2) Trade your car for a woman's classic cruiser bicycle on craigslist. Go to page 100

3) Just donate the damned thing and try to get some good karma for once. Go to page 84, and probably to heaven

Leaving New Orleans

Leaving this city of
dichotomy, of sin and
goodness, Piety and Desire,
lack and plenty,
black and white.

Leaving today, of all days
when you are arriving,
making promises
of hope and progress.

You, who, I am told
are the living bridge
stretched over these divides,
the Mississippi; you who will
hold the flood waters back.

Leaving this city,
and I wonder
if you will make good.
I wonder if you really will
hold back the water,

or at least care enough
to send it down St. Charles
instead of
St. Claude

New Orleans, Day Four

I have three cuts on my leg. They look worse than they are. One big bruise on my right calf, the origin of which is uncertain. On my right arm another bruise is developing, the shadow of a circular rainbow slowly becoming visible, like a polaroid picture. I am being shaken. I am being battered. I am a battered woman in the best possible way.

They call me honey and sweetheart. But they also don't ask me whether or not I can lift and hammer and demolish. Because of this, these words, these identities, don't seem quite as demeaning as they usually do. For once, it is good to be a honey. Sweetheart has a strength to it, and is covered with dirt and termite dust. I am a woman; watch me tear this roof to pieces. Put a new one in its place.

I have never felt stronger, and in more ways than one.

North Shore in January

North Shore in January.
Masts and old wood litter the coastline.
The ground underneath me comes loose,
Becomes liquid, the air

Swells with the brawling of boat against landing,
Landing against pier.
I am facing my fears; wobbling,
watching the coast guard slide in
Until the snow sinks through my boots.

This place is full of things
I can’t name. I try:
Buoy, fishing net, schooner.
An unfamiliar terrain spotted with
The familiar. You in the kitchen,
This cat, this song on the radio
That sounds like my mother.

I burrow into these things,
Peeking out on the unknown.
I learned to do this from years
Of watching cats on windowsills.

they make the room full

a silent intrusion,
the porchlights of strangers
draw a blurred silhouette of
window and tree branches
on the wall.

the muffled rhythm of someone
snoring, the soundtrack. the sources
unknown, but unimportant.
they make the room full, much like
the sounds of midnight snacks

and cats pushing open doors
and the weight of goose feathers
holding me down, and the warmth
of my back against
feline back.

A Painting

that I made yesterday. Acrylic, newspaper, and mod podge on illustration board.

Work, Work, Work, Work, Work

For all those of you who wonder what I do, here's a taste of my week. Today I had to read four articles about social movements, write a 2 page single-spaced paper (with an argument) and lead a 2.5 hour graduate seminar. I also had to TA and proctor a quiz immediately prior. After I got out of my class I had to read over a 23 page strategic paper I've helped to draft accompanied by at least half that many pages in instructor feedback within 2 hours before an 1.5 hour meeting at 8pm. My workday was approximately 12 hours long.

But it gets better! For the remainder of the week I have to finalize the event planning for the departmental holiday party, rewrite a section of the strategic document by Wednesday at noon, continue working on the draft with the group through Friday, grade approximately 60 undergraduate papers by Friday, pull together an annotated syllabus by Thursday for a course that I don't really know what its about yet, and come up with a 30 minute filmed presentation to give on Thursday for that same course, topic undetermined as of tonight.

But it doesn't end there. I could go on to talk about all the work that remains after these tasks are completed, but I don't want to raise the stress level of this blog too much. I'm trying not to think about the weeks to come until I've finished this one.

One thing I am looking forward to, though, is a two-week stint in New Orleans I'll be doing this January volunteering for an organization called Lower Nine (doing reconstruction work -- yes, there's still lots of work to be done). That's right, I'll get to take out all my pent up aggression with some good old fashioned manual labor -- I can't wait to sink a hammer into my first wall. It will also be my first time in the South, and my first time traveling alone. I think in addition to helping other folks its going to do me a world of good. Help me get a change of scenery, a change of pace, and give me some time to think and put things in perspective. It will also be nice to have an 8 hour work day as opposed to 12

In the meantime, though, wish me luck in getting through these last few weeks of the semester. You should also feel free to send me wine, fancy cheese, and/or take a stack of student papers off of my hands.