Things That Will Be the Death of Me

• Netflix
• Sending out resumes
• Cleaning my room-- and my apartment
  
• Staying awake during NDS working hours
• Keeping up with my Bloglines list
• A possible membership of the Internet Writing Workshop (anyone want to join me?)
• The parakeet and her impossible demands
• Staying out of PSP business now that I am no longer an active member
• The red tape of graduating

K.

The shoes ate my soul

Nearly every day, I come home from selling shoes to usually polite, but always oblivious people, look at my computer, and go to bed. All of the fatigue from my feet travels to my fingers and I simply can't be assed to blog or even to check my e-mail. Essentially, the shoe trade has destroyed any sort of online presence I may have had.

I really do have some great stories from my nearly one month at NDS, like customers that go from zero to crazy half a second after you tell them that a particular coupon doesn't work for a clearance shoe or the people who make me stay after the store closes because they need shoes just that badly. And good stories too, don't get me wrong. But I'm tired and I don't feel like writing them.

So, essentially, all this post can claim to be is an apology and a bad explanation for my absence. Sorry.

Some news:

• I'm thinking of joining an on-line writer's group so that I can get the sort of constructive criticism that can hone my crap into reasonably good work. Can anyone recommend a group or does anyone want to join with me? Just let me know.

• Went to Scranton today and found out that The Office's spin-off will be about the politics of the town-- and my uncle's cousin owns the deli that some scenes might be filmed in (the cousin has script approval-- he doesn't want to offend anybody). In real life, many of the local Republican committee meetings happen at the back table of the deli, so the show won't be far off. And, wouldn't you know, I just ate at that table today. So, when you tune in and see a deli called Catalano, you just remember that I enjoyed a turkey hoagie with pepper and olive oil there. I have pictures to prove it.

That's it really.

K.

Me? A Published Poet?

Yeah, okay, it's not The New Yorker, but it's a start.

The Swarthmore Literary Review. Scroll down to "The Kimono." That's mine.

K.

China Travel Journal: Day 2-- The Forbidden City, Capitol Normal University, and Duck Dinner

So begins my first full day in China. I'm not particularly proud of this entry, but I think that the scatteredness of the piece shows exactly how exhausted I was. Instead of going into too much description, I was pretty much listing what I saw and was told. I think this changes later.

14 May 2008

8:11 PM

Beijing

Woke up at 5 AM this morning, even though our wake up call was for 7. My jetlag is such that I'm quickly fading away while writing this, so excuse any incoherence on my part. Anyway, I was startled at the smog fog that hangs over the city. Another girl assured me that this was nothing the way of pollution, but I remain unconvinced. Whatever it was dried out my throat and lips and left my contacts begging for a long soak. I hope they'll be okay for tomorrow.

Breakfast at this hotel is an odd mix of Western and Eastern foods, all shoved awkwardly into a buffet. I settled for Coco Krispies; will be more adventurous tomorrow. Perhaps the buffet staff will pick a new album to play over the loud speaker since the Backstreet Boys don't really aid in digestion.

Dr. Cai then took us the the Forbidden City, which was very impressive indeed. I suppose that it took me a little while to square myself with the fact that I was actually walking beneath that giant portrait of Mao on the Tian'amen and then walking on the same bricks on which emperors once strode. The complex seemed never ending and very, very red. I suppose anyone reading this will have to forgive me, but I have to say that I was picturing that final fight scene from Mulan the entire time.

Tian'amen and the giant portrait of Mao.

The many curved roofs in the Forbidden City.

We were told that the two lions you see traditionally guarding many doorways in the City are not both male, despite the manes. The one holding the globe on the right is the male; the one on the left holding the baby is the female. Also, where the phoenix was paired with the dragon meant that this was the place that the empress inhabited. Finally, never refer to a Chinese man as a soft-shelled turtle, as that means he's being cuckolded. I know that last bit has nothing to do with anything, but it's an interesting fact.

A male lion guarding the door of the gate. He's the big stone guy in the background.

A relief of a dragon, the emperor's special symbol.

The phoenix, the empress's special symbol. She wasn't allowed to wander about the Forbidden City, so we can pretty much tell where she might have gone based on the location of the phoenixes.

A hard-shelled turtle, which is known for tenacity and bravery. Obviously not a soft-shelled turtle.

Again, we couldn't hold still for too long or pose for our own pictures-- the Chinese would quickly jump in. A few of us were standing for a good five minutes while at least ten jumped in and out of photos. I'm not sure if I should feel flattered or like a star of a freak show. Still, I know this could get irritating after a couple of days. Dr. Cai says that we have to learn how to say "Bu" (no), but they don't give you a chance. I really need to start charging.

A scene from the Forbidden City gardens. There is really no point to me including this. I just thought it was pretty.

I learned today that I'm a sucker for a sob story and am really horrendous at bargaining. I'm sure that's not going to come and bite me in the butt later. But carrying on...

After the City, we took out bus to the Capitol Normal University to hear Dr. Shorten give a lecture about water and sanitation. His speech was enlightening, but to us and the Chinese students who listened in. We engaged in a discussion afterwards in groups, though the topics were not limited to those of pollution and water conservation. I spoke pretty extensively to a bunch of English lit students, who seemed very interested in my studies and life in the US. One thing that I hadn't realized was so prevalent was young people picking out English names. I'm not sure how I feel about that. On one hand, they do seem to pick out their own names, which gives them meaning. On the other, perhaps we should be making an effort to learn their given names. I don't see why they should have to take on new names for the benefit of the West.

Speaking of East meets West, I had my first encountered with a Chinese toilet today. It's little more than a porcelain hole in the ground that you have to squat over. I've never wished harder to be a guy in my life. Ultimately, I had to visit the facilities twice-- once to get the feel for it, another to actually do the deed. As a kid, I used to be deathly afraid of public toilets. I would have never survived in China.

Our final stop was dinner for Beijing Duck, which is basically what they call crispy duck pancakes in the UK. Our hosts were the Chinese Universities Alumni Association, though the representatives at our table didn't have much to say. They did show us how to make a tasty duck taco, though.

Our duck dinner. I think it's a little gross that they served duck meat from a duck-shaped tray. Gross and morbidly funny.

K.

China Travel Journal: Day 1, Entry 2

Well, it's 5:30 AM in North America, but it's 5:30 PM for me. So instead of sleeping, I'm going to put up my second(?) entry in my China travel journal.

13 May 2008
9:14 PM

Beijing

I think the first thing you notice about Beijing is how clean it is. This seems like a contradictory statement to the one I made in the last entry, but it's true. When we left the airport, the sune was shining, the sky was clear, and, as Sara pointed out, there wasn't a single piece of trash on the ground. This last trait doesn't happen on its own, but is maintained by orange-jumpsuited people with litter picks and wheelbarrows. You get the feeling that Beijing is one giant organizsm that breathes with the revolutions of the millions of bicycle wheels that roam the streets. These orange people are like the good bacteria in Beijing's gut, digesting and moving the poisons that occur in a living city. I would say that they were like white blood cells, but the police here have that position covered-- there is at least one on every corner.

I was wondering if Beijing's infamous smog was just a rumor spread by its detractors, but, as I discovered when we went out for dinner, it isn't. I'm not sure where it came from, but there it was. It was hazy, like dew evaporating on a really hot day, but thi was a cool, dry afternoon. I fear that some of my pictures may not come out as crisp because of it.

Dr. Cai took us to a restaurant next door to our hotel, which served us lazy Susan-style. The amount of food was overwhelming-- crispy duck, stringbeans, fried bean paste (yum!), fried rice, pork, fish, ginger chicken, etc. I got schooled by a waitress twice on how to serve noodles with chopsticks. She seemed to have a sixth sense for whenever I would reach for the noodle bowl. Dinner ended with Sara gnawing on a fried duck head. Just picture that.

Oh hey, you don't have to! Actually, upon looking longer on it, I think it's a chicken head. Sara stuck that thing in her mouth, prounced it "chewy,' then spat it out into a napkin.

After dinner, Dr. Cai led us to Tian'amen Square to see the flag being lowered. Unfortunately, we soon became the main attractions. I'm not sure why we didn't see this coming, being a group consisting of several blondes and two African Americans among others, but we soon became aware of people staring at us and secretively snapping pictures. Girls came right out and posed with some of our boys, but the men stood back and creepily tapes us with camera phones. Right now, I'd just like to ask all the Amish I've ever watched on the road to forgive me-- I didn't know how weird and uncomfortable that is until now. I wouldn't mind if someone just asked us for a picture (an Olympic volunteer did just that), but don't treat me like an animal in a zoo. The only people I don't mind staring are the kids because they smile at you if you wave. Oh well, different culture.

A police officer in front of Tian'amen at dusk.

Watched some CCTV today. Most of the coverage was on the quake in Sichuan on Monday. Apparently there is no electricity or drinking water at the moment, which will probably contribute to health issues in the next few weeks. Sad.

K.

PS. Before I continue on with these entries, know that I can't spell. That's all.

China Travel Journal: An Introduction

Since I actually took this trip to China in order to fulfill six course credits, I actually had to do some school work while I was there. One of the requirements was to keep a travel journal where you recorded your thoughts about the environment, medical facilities, school culture, and just your general experiences. So I spent quite a bit of time grinding out these entries.

However, there is something that the reader should know. Going into this trip, I knew very little about China. Yes, I read articles and books to bone up on the culture and the topics my classes covered (the environment, medicine, education, etc), but all of my opinions were distinctly American. Really, you can't expect anymore than that. After all, my information came through a Western lense. This is obvious in my first couple entries when I was trying to get a handle on China. I think that this generally changes throughout the journal, but you'll have to make that decision for yourself.

All of the opinions expressed in these entries are my own. Feel free to comment or ask questions. I will answer to the best of my ability.

And so, we begin...

13 May 2008
10:05 AM (Beijing time)
Somewhere over Russia

I'm not sure if I'm totally mentally prepared for where I'm going. One plane is much like another (excepting the food, which can make or break the whole experience), so I might as well be flying to a country that I know well rather than the unknown. And I have a feeling that no matter how much reading I do on the subject of Chinese culture, I'll be almost catatonic with culture shock. I'll survive, of course-- I always do. Still, on a plane you're given little to do but wonder.

I've tried to occupy my time by reading some of the environmental articles, but the sheer number of statistics and scientific abbreviations has blown my English major's mind. I think the meaning that I'm supposed to glean is hidden between these numbers, but I haven't found it yet. Thre is a reason that I barely passed any science classes. :) However, I've become aware of just how unstable environmentally China is. I'm surprised that the entire country just hasn't imploded in on itseld in a puff of coal dust and CFCs. Floods, landslides, dust storms, water shortages, the disappearance of rivers-- that's quite a list. I wonder what the regualr Chinese citizen thinks of all of this. Would he or she be so used to it tht it ceasese to make an impact on the general thought process? Or is her or she poised to become an international spokes person about the dangers of misused resources? Also, what the hell was the IOC thinking when they awarded the 2008 Olympics to Beijing, which apparently suffers from debilitating dust storms that limit visibility to near zero? How many athletes are going to risk their healths and athletic careers to compete here?

I suppose these questions will be answered for me at some point-- if I remember to ask them, anyway.

K.

Some Good News!

Hey all.

I just got back from China yesterday. Still rather exhausted, but I will be posting my travel journal up here, complete with pictures, very soon.

And now the good news: My poem "The Kimono" has been accepted for publication in The Swarthmore Literary Review online issue. Color me excited!

K.

Entertained By So Little

Possibly one of the finest sentences I have ever concocted for a college paper:

"Indeed, based on the reports of Addison and Steele, the streets must have been fairly frothing with giggling confections of silk and curled hair, wafting past more domesticated women on the breezes made by their own vibrating fans."

Verily, I am a beast.

K.

An A for Awesome

I had a conference with my seminar professor today to discuss my first paper and was pleasantly surprised. Turns out that I got a 94%. Yay for me.

What is interesting is that I never got this kind of grade when I wrote research papers in high school. In fact, I don't think I ever got more than an 85% on any critical paper in those days. Now, I'm pulling papers out of my butt and getting A's. Either I went to the hardest public high school in the US or I've become and paper goddess.

K.

Cheese it! It's the Cops!

I wish it wasn't so cold out-- then I could walk across my parking lot to find out why there are so many police cruisers outside my building. I should be typing my paper, but when you hear someone talking over cruiser speakers, you can't just sit and think about the religious implications of Eudora Welty's short stories. No, you get up, open your window, and squint really hard at the street because you've taken out your contacts and can't be assed to put them back in for the rest of the night. Unfortunately, giant flashing blurs don't excitement make, so you go back to your computer, disappointed, and try to rub some warmth back into your figures.

Then you figure that you could read the safety report that's bound to come out of this mess and save yourself some trouble.

At least, that's what I would do.


K.

13 Things That I Have Done That Are Pretty Awesome

Another meme, this time from A G33k Tragedy!

13 Things That I Have Done That Are Pretty Awesome

1) I have traveled to Israel and Scotland by myself and survived.
2) I've been published and am still sending out material. True, my Wall o' Rejection is growing, but that's an achievement in itself.
3) Decided to go the AWP Conference, planned most of it, and ended up going by myself (again).
4) Went to a Billy Joel concert.
5) I have friends on 5 out of 7 continents, all met on study abroad.
6) Put all of myself into the organizations I have joined.
7) Taught Israeli soldiers how to play Red Rover at a Bedouin camp under the stars.
8) Climbed Masada and seen the sun rise.
9) Had the worst travel experience ever... and survived!
10) Have survived for most of the school year in my first apartment.
11) I've kept up this blog for nearly three years more than I thought I would.
12) Planned and executed my own Burns' Night for my fraternity.
13) Got great grades at the University of Stirling, all while taking the hardest classes I've ever experienced!

Wow, that felt like filling out a resume.

I'll tag Irina, Rachel, and Gwyn. Fill it out if you wanna!

K.

Scattered Thoughts: New York and AWP Conference

• I honestly can't get comfortable in this city. I feel like everyone knows the moves to an intricate ballet and I happened to miss the particular dance class that taught balance and self-awareness. New Yorkers seem to have an extra sense-- a sense of movement, speed, and intuition. I try not to do the typical "stare-blindly-up" neck crane that is the international sign of the tourist (though I had to do it at the Rockefeller Center-- sorry), but I still stick out.

• One thing that I will say about New York is that it's Jewapalooza here. My father and I were cramming down cold fried plantains at the 53rd Street Deli when this older couple sat beside us, excusing themselves in perfect New York accents. They then launched into a conversation to themselves-- in Hebrew. We stumbled into the Diamond District, running into Israelis and black-frocked men in a stunning array of wide-brimmed hats. Ah, my people!

• I attended two seminars today. One was on blogging and its affects on writing and the teaching of writing. I found it interesting that many older people wished to set up their own blogs as a self-marketing scheme, but had little to no idea on how to go about it. It's a strange feeling knowing more than some of these venerable gray hairs, especially those who can afford AWP memberships. Exciting, actually. The second seminar was about historical fiction, which I love to read. I now have four more books that I have to buy.

• My parents decided that I should have business cards for this event, but promptly forgot to make them. So while I was being lectured at, my father was searching for a printing service to make up some simple ones. I don't know when I'm going to use them, but it feels professional in a way.

• The Hilton has really odd-looking chairs. I suppose that it's meant to be classy, but it would be a lot classier if the gold roping was actually attached to the chair, not suspended in a plastic sheath. It rather looks like those cheap strings of light bulbs you can find in college dorm rooms. Very distracting.

• Unfortunately, the Hilton has a really awkward elevator system. I'm sure it works for them, but it's awful for me. So many people are waiting and the elevators are never there when you want them. When I was trying to get to the lobby, I pressed the 'down' button and waited. And waited. And waited... until finally, an elevator arrived. An older woman got out, but then proceeded to stand in the doorway, talking to someone still in the elevator. Politely, I waited for her to get by, but as soon as she moved, the doors began to close. With an undignified yelp, I tried to launch my arm between the closing doors, but they didn't bounce back like I expected. So the elevator I had waited so patiently for slid through my grasp. The lady must have heard my irritated sigh, because she apologized and beat a hasty retreat. She's lucky that I was in a bit of a stunned stupor; I might have popped her one otherwise.

• Going to see John Irving speak tonight. E.L. Doctorow tomorrow afternoon. Will be missing Frank McCourt on Saturday, which is sad.

• Time to pass out now.

K.

Does Going to the AWP Conference Make Me That Much More Awesome?

Yes. Yes, I think it does.

Anyone else in New York?

K.

My Travel Horror Story: Some Serious Schadenfreude

(The bloggers over at Sass Attack, And the Pursuit of Happiness, and The Hotfessional, in their infinite wisdom, have decided to sponsor a contest dealing with travel horror stories. Great, a chance to relive my nightmares.

Naw, it's awesome. Thanks guys!)

After five months studying abroad, I have racked up an unsettling amount of character-building travel stories. Whether it’s sinking calf-deep in a peat bog on the isle of Skye or spending eight hours dozing straight up in a hard seat in a Bucharest airport, my misadventures have not only given some talking points that none of my friends can match, but the confidence to know that nothing can break the girl that survived months of Scottish food. However, there is one experience that stands out, scenes of which still haunt my dreams. This is my story.

Spring was beginning to spread over Europe, its fingers just creeping into the University of Stirling, my home away from home. But I wasn’t there. No, I was roving the Continent. After a few days of reveling in the sunshine and giggling shyly at the strangely attractive young priest of Rome, my friends and I were wrapping up a rather lackluster visit to Berlin. Germany, while not possessing the manically happy national personality of Italy, had treated us well. Still, Scotland was calling us back—my two friends had finals to complete and I had lodgings to find before I was kicked out of my flat.

Our flight was leaving that evening from Frankfurt, which was a relatively short train ride from Berlin and a mere hop-skip-and-jump for three world travelers. Our confidence was such that we leisurely enjoyed our breakfast at our hostel, packed up, and wandered over to the local internet café to check on train times. J, who organized the trip, hopped on one of the computers and began tapping away as N and I lounged over our bags.

“Oh, [expletive]!” J breathed.

And that’s when we knew the [expletive] hit the fan.

It turns out that there are two Frankfurt airports in Germany—the close one and one that was seven driving hours away from Berlin. Guess which one our flight left from.

By now, it was eleven o’clock in the morning. The flight left at seven-thirty in the evening. We were, quite possibly, screwed.

We held a quick conference, J in tears over her airport mix-up. After assuring her that it was a mistake that any ignorant American could have made, we researched planes, trains, and automobiles. Finally, we figured that the surest way to reach the Frankfurt-Hahn airport was by renting a car and racing across the country. Germany had the autobahn, right? We were sure to fly.

Oh, the naiveté of youth.

We quickly reserved possibly the only automatic car in Berlin and ran about two miles into the city to claim it. After waiting for a painful half an hour for the rental office to process our order, we began our journey across a foreign country, our entire fate resting on a questionable paper map.

Though I spent most of the drive asleep (bladder issues force me either to sleep or stop every half an hour), I woke up every few hours to observe our progress. We had indeed made it to the autobahn and it was beautiful. I don’t think I had ever pictured Germany like this: rolling green hills and wee villages stapled to the countryside by a steepled church. Gray clouds brought a delicate mist and fat droplets of rain to blanket the highway. It was all beautiful in its own way—but it was less beautiful for J, the only one of us who brought her driver’s license on this trip. Every so often, I would open my eyes in response an anguished cry as J reached the upper limits of her willingness to speed down the highway, perturbed German motorists sullenly sitting on her tail. Her cries would subside to a whimper and, harmonizing with the dulcet sounds of the Phil Collins songs that seemed to be eternally on the radio, I would slumber on.

My friends decided that I might like a picture
of me sleeping. What you aren't seeing is the drool.

When we pulled into a gas station/diner a few hours later, we admitted to ourselves that we would never be able to make our flight. Discussing it over subpar pasta, we decided that we would continue our drive, then spend the night in the airport. Most airlines are required to put you on the next flight if you miss your scheduled take-off. Surely it would work the same here.

We arrived at Frankfurt-Hahn around 11 PM and returned the rental car, now affectionately referred to as “Otto.” A quick check at the airline desk proved that the entire airport was beginning to shut down for the night.

N and me, loaded down with luggage, standing in front of Otto
in the Frankfurt-Hahn Airport.

And it wasn’t a pretty picture.

For those of you who have never had the privilege of spending any time in this airport, please, let me give you a brief description. Picture, if you will, possibly the hardest, coldest floor known to man. Also, please brace yourself for the most exorbitant prices for food and entertainment (I bought a coloring book for $8 dollars) you can imagine. Finally, imagine a nice draft blasting around floor level as you try to get some sleep. Put it all together, it creates one hellish night.

About 4:30 AM, I was shaken awake from my doze by J, tears streaming down her face. The airline (let’s call it Flyin’ Air) desk had just opened and J, planner that she is, decided that she was going to get a head start on organizing our flight home. The first slap in the face was the ticket lady, the only rude German we met on our trip. At J’s inquiry, the Ticket Bitch (TB from now on—it’s only right that I nickname her after a disgusting disease) snapped that Flyin’ Air does not replace tickets on missed flights. Not only that, a ticket to Glasgow was €200, about €193 more than we had previously paid and way above our budget. Finally, TB proceeded to metaphorically kick J in the ovaries by inferring that the three of us were complete asshats for missing our flight. J slunk away, broken, bleeding, and humiliated.

It took me a few minutes to understand what was going on, but once I understood, I immediately became enraged. Who the hell did TB think she was anyway? N, J, and I all stomped over to the ticket booth, ready to unleash the full fury of three girls who had just driven cross country and had slept on the cold ground.

Lucky for her (and maybe for me), another ticket lady had joined TB and that is who I confronted. This woman was totally unlike her compatriot. With a quiet and pitying smile, she confirmed that we did in fact have to pay €200 for a ticket, but also broke it to us that there were only two tickets for the only Glasgow flight that day. Stunned and quiet, we shuffled away to regroup.

A few calls to neighboring airports proved fruitless. Any other flight would cost a hardy €600 and an interminable bus ride. Finally, with much internal wailing, I offered to potentially stay behind, hoping and praying that a ticket would become available before the flight left. After all, my friends had a final the next day; I didn't.

So let’s step back and look at what we had gone through in less than 24 hours:

• A leisurely breakfast in sweet, sweet innocence of what was to come
• An overwhelming panic when that innocence was shattered
• The renting of a car and a harrowing ride on the autobahn
• Getting fleeced out of $8 for a damn coloring book
• A less than peaceful night’s doze on a drafty floor
• Being reamed by TB
• The reemergence of that old familiar panic courtesy of the nice ticket lady
• Surrendering to possibly another hellish night in the Airport That Civilization Forgot
  
  

A pretty bleak day. For the next 15 hours, I sweated it out, quietly crying in the women’s bathroom. These were the most painful 15 hours of my life, but I was ultimately given a ticket for €240, which I snapped up immediately. I finally made it home, stomping past my confused flatmates and collapse, unconscious, for a full 24 hours.

What did I learn from this? Well, I don’t think I came away with a true lesson. I did realize a few things about myself, however. I realized that I would shell out any amount of money for childish entertainment if pushed hard enough. I realized that I would sacrifice myself to another night of agony for friends. I realized that sometimes I just need a good cry, but am too embarrassed to do so in front of a bunch of German tourists.

Good for me.

Crossing One Off

Back in 2007, I mentioned that I would be taking part in the BSF 2008 challenge in an attempt to, as my tai chi instructor tells it, "honor myself." In reality, I just need impetus to get shit done.

Here is the list again:

• Actually attempt NaNoWriMo 2008, not just sign up for it and lose courage before writing a single word.
• Learn enough Hebrew to puttering around in Israel this summer and be conversational by year's end.
• Save money for a Scotland spring break. If I don't actually get to Scotland, then at least I have some money.
• Graduate college.
• Get a temporary job-- preferably with health insurance.
• Send something to get published. Poem, short story, essay, anything.
  
• Lose 10 pounds. Any more would be icing on the cake that I won't be allowing myself to have. :)

As you can see, I've crossed something off. Happily, I did in fact send two things in for submission. One of those is "To the Fruitflies in My Drain" to my university journal. Whether I get in or not isn't important-- I've already begun my Big Wall o' Rejection (Thanks, Image). The point is that I actually got off my butt and sent something. Nothing gets published if nobody sees it.

Wish me luck.

K.

PS. Just a note: You should check out Rachel's blog over at that night. She's been nominated for a 2008 Bloggie Award! So go, read, and vote!

I Hate Finals

I'm currently in the midst of working on a 15-page paper, the longest educationally-related document I've ever written. Dear G-d, I want to die.

That is all.

K.

This Does Not Bode Well for My Writing Career...

K.

Madonna del Libro

I get tons of questioning looks when I mention to people that I'm extremely interested in Catholicism. The confusion comes from one of three things: (1) Catholics can't find interesting in their own religion, so they can't see why I can; (2) Protestants don't have interest in Catholicism, so don't see why I do; and (3) I'm a Jew, so I should (apparently) keep to my own sphere. It doesn't help that I shun the two Jewish congregations in my college community, choosing instead to attend Sunday morning mass at St. Agnes when the spirit takes me.

Deep down, I think my family is concerned about all of this. My Dad, the life-long Jew, can't understand when I do my best to explain the concept of the Trinity; my Mom, formerly a Protestant, holds a teeny-weeny grudge against Catholics for telling her that she was going to Hell when she was younger. My brother... well, my brother is oblivious when it comes to anything that doesn't involve a soccer ball.

I've done my best to assure them that I have interest in converting (indeed, I really don't), but I find the similarities between Judaism and Catholicism fun to analyze. Eternal lights, bread and wine, ark-like structures-- we share quite a bit. The stuff we don't have in common is just as cool. I grew up in a religion that frowns on depicting the human form in art, so I just love to stare at the marble Madonnas so sheer that I can see a candle's glow behind them. The hierarchy of the Catholic Church is so foreign to me that it takes me forever to understand how a deacon relates to a cardinal relates to a pope and so on.

Going to Rome during my semester abroad, obviously, was like dying and going to Heaven. Nuns, monks, and priest everywhere! Even priest pin-up posters-- imagine that! Almost as cool as the rabbi trading cards I found in Sfat.

Anyway, in poetry class, we were told to pick a piece of art and write a poem about it. Of course, I chose "Madonna del Libro" (above), a beautiful painting by Botticelli.

So, after all of the exposition, here is the poem, in a supremely rough draft.

The woman and the babe debate religion,
their whispered thoughts hushed in the fading sunlight.

The child, his mind clear
from nine months of solitary contemplation,

cranes his neck, curious to catch the glint
of understanding in his mother’s eyes.

She inclines her head in an effort to grasp his words,
but really she is inspecting her child’s unstained brow,

searching for the future. She considers
wrestling the golden thorns from his forearm

but to do so would be like pulling the dead from Fate’s iron fingertips
or turning water into wine.

So she wraps her cloak like the folds of Heaven
around her son, silently urging him

to keep his stubby legs in firm contact with the dirt
and his sticky fingers entwined in her hair.

But his eyes already point towards the
stars and his future amongst them.

The professor says that I should send it to one of the Christian poetry journals. That makes me pee myself a little.

As if my last name wouldn't give it all away.

K.

When Stupid Trivia is Awesome

(Ooh, bad language ahead.)

During Poetry Workshop today, our professor assigned our fourth and final poem. The goal was to adopt another persona and write from that point of view. For an example, she gave us the story of Medusa and Athena and instructed us to write from Medusa's point of view.

For those who don't know the story, Medusa was once one of the most beautiful women in the land and soon attracted the attentions of Poseidon, god of the seas. The two did some naughty things in Athena's temple, sending the goddess into a rage. In revenge, she turned Medusa into the monster we all know today.

Here's what I wrote:

"The Mistress of the Western Gates," they call me.
A term of appeasement used only when my eyes are open
and my hair is alive.
Asleep, I am the monster, the horror,
the hated of the Lady of Wisdom.
Athena, that gray-eyed bitch, who guards her virtue
with lance and shield, must surely have gazed in jealousy
as I was loved by the King of Tides.
The thought that she chokes down her ambrosia alone,
with only her flea-bitten owl for company,
keeps my vitals pulsing and my teeth sharp.

Hard for you to believe, I'm sure, but I was quite a dork back in the day. I used to spend quite a bit of time reading Greek myths and studying up on Greek gods. Athena, for her interesting patronage of both wisdom and war, was my absolute favorite. So when it came time to write this, I had a ton of trivia to pull out. I felt a little bad about it-- it takes a lot of studying to know that Athena was gray-eyed or one of the three goddesses who didn't procreate with freakin' everything around them.

One of those few times dumb knowledge comes in handy.

K.

PS. Happy NaBloPoMo to y'all. And happy NaNoWriMo as well!

Kate is a Liar (again!)

Right, so I mentioned that I had joined NaNoWriMo the other day. The more I think about it, the more I believe that there is no way I can possibly get this done this year. I have papers out the wahzoo and I have Thanksgiving vacation on Chincoteague Island, VA. Whether I'll have internet at that point, I don't know, but I know that I won't have time to write 2,000 words a day during my vacation. I mean, I'll try it, but I honestly don't think that it will happen.

So I've decided I'll at least keep myself writing in a second way with NaBloPoMo, National Blog Posting Month. Why this month should be different from all other months, I don't know, but I think that having two different types of impetus to keep writing.

Or maybe I'm just a serial website joiner. Hey, could be.

K.