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.

Thanksgiving

This pumpkin is half empty,
Its thick rind violated, opened up
To expose a crime scene of fleshy fruit,
Leftovers rejected by a series of small,
Hungry stomachs filling up for winter.

You are evidence of this. Fat and gray,
Full of fruit and yourself,
You sit stubborn, triumphant
Atop your prey. Forgetting, momentarily
The softness of your own skin.