Week 15: Free Karl

This is an excerpt from a short story I wrote for a friend last year. It's a super cheesy story, but mildly enjoyable. I titled it... Kylie Carson* and the Mists of Avalon

(*name change for protection)

"This, my friends, is the story of Kylie Carson. Raised in a war stricken and impoverished nation, Kyile was able to overcome the trials and tribulations of womanhood to take down the beast of the century. In this heartwarming and vulgar tale of her journey to the top, you will find yourself identifying with this wonderfully brave, yet very controversial woman.

            The story begins in the far away land of Sri Lanka, where Kylie and her best friend Kara were on a trip during their spring break. Hoping that this exotic hotspot would offer them the perfect amount of danger and prostitution, Kylie and Kara set off to the country of no restrictions. Looking to make the most of their trip, the girls were up for anything. I mean ANYTHING--no matter how illegal or death-defying it was. Facilitated by their reckless attitude, things got pretty crazy, if you know what I mean. Sri Lanka turned out to be the ultimate spring break spot, well, if you were looking to get an STD, stabbed in the hip, or have live raccoons thrown at you. Needless to say, Kylie and Kara had the most wonderful of times avoiding syphilis and participating in the most competitive league of raccoon dodge ball in the world.

             Just when it seemed their dream paradise couldn’t get any better, a man by the Wooey Whannna Humpya limped up to the girls on a street corner, offering them some of his famous “magical morsels”. In broken English, and with minimal teeth, the man shared the whimsical journey in which the morsels would take them upon. He spoke with such passion and fervor about the delightful visions that the morsels would induce that the girls just couldn’t say no. For the bargain price of their virginity and three crack rocks, they obtained these wonders. The brown bits resembled raisins that they knew from their homeland; however, the girls knew that these raisins would take them on a majestic adventure of the mind. Wooey watched as the girls placed the raisins on their unsuspecting tongues.  The rough texture of the small brown crumb was accompanied by a horrible taste that lingered in their mouths long after swallowing the disgusting morsel. Upon looking up at the man’s face, the girls realized they may have made a grave mistake. Looking as if he had just pulled off the greatest scam known to man, Wooey let out the most evil, terrifying laugh. His black eyes lit up with deceit, and leaning in closer to the girls, he whispered in a shaking tone, “Hope you enjoyed those morsels of kaka, muahaha!” The creepy old man ran off into a dark alley and became a memory in an instant...."

If you're dying to know what happens in the rest of the story, let me know. Something can be arranged. Haha. 

Week 15: Free Hat!

Last week was my brother's birthday, and to celebrate his existence, I want to share one of my favorite memories I have of him. Justin was really an incredible person. He radiated with love and happiness, and I can't imagine there was anyone who wasn't fond of his presence... His joy for life was truly contagious, and he is missed by family and loved ones every day.

I was young--6 or 7 probably. Justin was taking me out to the barn for the first time, just the two of us. It must have been one of the first times he had ever been out to the barn; it's safe to say that he didn't exactly know his way around a horse. Justin was 11 years older than me, and the age difference made our relationship a special one. Never a fight or misunderstanding, he was a great big brother to me. So when no one else was available to take me to PPA on an arctic December day for a lesson, Justin stepped up for his little sister. We arrived at the barn, which was unheated at the time, a less than convenient situation in blisteringly cold South Dakota. I gave Justin a quick tour around the barn, showing him everything I thought he needed to know about: all the stalls, my favorite horses, my locker, hoof picks, brushes, you know, the essentials. He smiled big at me as I showed him around, his cheeks plump and red from the bitter air. It was time to get my lesson horse out for the day. I would be riding Sergie, a red-bay purebred gelding with a gentle soul. Me and Justin retrieved him from the pasture, put him in the cross ties, and began to groom him.

"Justin, you have to brush him with the hair. And you have to get under his belly, and on his legs, and way up on top too."

He simply nodded to my young know-it-all instructions, and was a big help on the top of the back spot, which was far out my short reach. In my first years taking lessons, the pre and post riding groom took far longer than the actual lesson. But I didn't care. I loved the barn, riding, the smells, feeling soft horse hair under my fingertips, all of it. And it was great to finally bring my big brother along. Halfway through getting Sergie ready, we went into the lobby to warm up, leaving Sergie unattended for a few minutes. As you may be aware, horses don't particularly like being alone for even a moment's time, and soon, we would see that Sergie's nerves amounted to something of a mess for Justin and I. Upon returning from the lobby, we came around the corner and saw something that surprised us both--a real puzzle of a sight. A massive wet puddle, frothy in spots lay beneath Sergie, freshly sprouted in our absence. Me and Justin's eyes blew up in fright, not knowing what to say or do. I broke the silence with a naive declaration.

"Sergie threw up! He must be sick, Justin!" I was now worried about him. "We have to go tell Denise!"

"Oh. Yikes. Yes, let's go do that." Justin was worried too. He'd certainly never seen horse throw-up before.

We ran through the lobby hallway and into the other side of the barn where the main arena was. "Denise, Denise, Sergie just threw up!! You have to come quick!!" I shouted into the arena in fright. I was expecting the same sort of reaction from her that Justin and I were experiencing, however, she only blinked her eyes hard and showed a look of complete puzzlement.

"But Kara, horses can't throw up. That's not how their stomach works." She shared calmly, still taken aback by our declaration of fright. I looked up to Justin, who was just as surprised as I was. Surely that couldn't be correct, I thought.

"No, Denise, he really did! There's a big puddle under him and it looks like throw-up, I swear! Come see!"

She followed Justin and I over to Sergie's cross tie, and upon looking at the mystery puddle below his big belly, Denise couldn't help but smile big, holding back eruptions of laughter. "Yeah, that's definitely not throw-up guys."

"Hmm," Justin said. "Well, ahh, what do you suppose it is then?" He must have knew at that point what the unknown puddle was composed of, however, my young mind was still trying to wrap around the whole situation.

"Sergie peed." She simply stated, now holding a hand over her mouth to muffle the laughter.

No, certainly not, I thought. I looked at the puddle, up to a giggling Denise, and over to Justin, holding a look of embarrassment and about to break into laughter himself. Even though I was still dumbfounded with the shocking news, at least Sergie had only peed! What a relief!

"Ohh wow! We didn't know horses couldn't throw up! That's just crazy, Denise!" I said, now smiling big with relief and joy.

We were all laughing. I can guarantee that horse pee has never brought anyone so much joy as it gave us in that moment. I learned a lot that day. I learned that horses can't throw up, what horse pee looks like in a cross tie, and what a great big brother I had for helping me through it all.

Week 15: Free for you, Free for me

"Know It All"

Mac Lethal

"I know a girl with an artist trapped deeply inside her

She provides for herself, she don't need you to like her

She dresses like a famous portrait

She talks like an angel with the makeup of dangerous torment

She don't wanna get married, she wanna get carried

Away, and figure out how to display all the things she wants to say

She would try to paint, but she don't got the patience that it looks like it takes

Plus her thoughts are too colorful to fit inside a picture

Her spirit is the genuine elixir

Her personality is such a brilliant, fucking work of art

She's a devil with a sensitive heart

She don't like the boys that feel like they gotta be cool

And she don't like the fake hoes in cosmetology school

But one day, she'll show the world

That she's no ordinary, Goddamn woman"

When I listen to this song, I hear so much of myself in the lyrics. I don't need you to like me; I am me, and I will never aim to change to please someone else. The turmoil of my mind is filled with longing thoughts; I miss my brother and what could have been. There was once a time when everything was easy, everyone was carefree, and boys didn't matter. It's not that I've been broken a lot- don't worry, I'm too guarded to really give a boy anything that matters. Honestly though, I think it's more me than them; how can I be with anyone until I find myself? Right now, I'd much rather get carried away to figure my life out. I want to go far away, to a free and new place, where I can finally experience clarity and live a life free from preconcieved notions. The colors of my lively mind will escape, allowing my soul to drink in the elixir of my spirit, and become the girl my expectations have set me up to be. I just want to show the world something great- I'm no ordinary woman. Haha, okay. Girl. 

Week 14: Reading Response

"The story, in the first draft, has put on rough but adequate clothes." 

This chapter was very helpful in terms of understanding just how much work needs to go into the revision process. It really puts into perspective how differently I should go about writing something, from the beginning of a work, all the way to completion. Every aspect of writing needs a revisionist eye, and honestly, I don't think that is stressed enough in most English courses. Before this class, I hardly knew the extent of a proper revision on a single piece of writing. It's crazy. 

I do enjoy making corrections on my work, however, I have found that it is incredibly important that I distance myself from the piece for a pretty good chunk of time. In my life of deadlines, procrastination, and poor time management, this is not always a possibility, but I'm working on it. I've come to realize that in terms of fleshing out a paper that is "good enough," it really doesn't take me much time at all, especially under the right state of mind and a viable topic. But, of course, topics are not always going to strike my fancy. This is why, for me, it is important to write almost constantly--especially about the things I love-- horses and music. Journaling, blogging, whatever, it's just important that my thoughts are expressed so that writing becomes a common occurrence in my everyday life that can be done with ease and expediency. So, yeah, you could say that I'm just trying to get there, man. 

Week 14: In-Class Dialogue

She went on and on about how perfect Danny was. She danced around my bedroom in her neon pink leggings, turning up the radio on her way to the purple bean bag chair. Her face lit up as she heard the words "Jessie's Girl." She then went into explicit detail about her and Danny's first kiss to this very song. Oh, isn't that amazing, Emily? Yeah, so amazing, Shelly. "Oh his lips are so soft, and my oh my, does he smell gooood!" I bet. She went on to say how they went to Applebee's and then up to the point for some "alone time." She did that dumb thing from the movies where you move your eyebrows up and down really creepy-like and kicked her leg warmers through the air like two pink fluffy blades.  I subconsciously shivered in annoyance. I forced a "haha" just in time saying "ohh yeahhh, party" to hide my real disgust and, okay, jealously. But honestly, what can I expect? Boys go for Shelly for the simple fact that she puts out. And, hey, just as my dad says, "if somethin' works for ya, you stick with it." I guess that fits here. But still, I couldn't help but think of the time I told her about my crush on Danny. I told her that we spent the afternoon in the library, exchanging precious little innuendos, giggling like a couple of real dumbasses. I should have known she wasn't listening. That was the day that she got a new purple dyed jean jacket. She was standing in front of her full-length mirror, doing the most bizarre poses I'd ever witnessed. Spinning around, sticking out her small ass, puffing out her non-existent chest, throwing out her arms; are these things she plans on doing when she wears that jacket all the time? If so, I made a mental promise to reconsider our friendship. Now, as she spoke in depth about the gloriousness of Danny's pecs, I again wanted to evaluate why we're really friends. I guess I didn't know anymore. But I did know one thing. She was going to let Danny "go all the way" on their next date. Wonderful.

Week 14: Freedom is Insanity

My mind is a cage. I imagine my thoughts are the lions, the giraffes, the hippos, oh how unhappy they must be stuck in captivity. They cannot escape and realize their full potential any more than my own thoughts can. It's a sad life in both the depths of my mind, and within the trap of a cage. Controlled food intake, but most of it is shit. Reality TV, few meaningful relationships, processed food, easy literature... what am I giving my mind to harbor any true essence of meaning? The animals, too, have are forced to mate with whoever is put in front of them, if at all, food is monitored closely, and no joy of life lies within the walls of their enclosure. Where is the door? Where is the release for the flamingos and monkeys? They would like to see the world that God intended them to live in. Captivity is no place for them, nor should my deepest inquiries and dreams be shut in and pent up in solitude. I'll keep looking for the door. I'll call you when I find it.

Week 13: Don't Label Me

You look at me and see glasses, jeans, and sneakers. Brown hair.
I look at you and judge your hair, jacket, shoes.... I hate that I have to use the word 'judge.'
But it's true, that's what I'm doing.
I can't help it. Most the time it's subconscious.
It's human nature to compare the materialistic aspects of other humans, and even non-humans around us.
Think about it.
 I judge dogs on how clean they are, what breed they are, and although I give them more of a chance than I might give a human that's too dirty, I still base an opinion on them in the first moments of meeting them.
And horses are even worse. I wouldn't consider buying a horse of a breed different than Arabian.
It would be absolute blasphemy.
And even in breed standards, they need to be virtually flawless to make it today's show ring. Halter-wise, they need a dished face, correct legs, a short back, long, thin neck, and obviously perfect symmetry and proportions throughout.
Sounds a bit like what we might expect out of a human body today, eh?
We live in a society so deeply based in the idea of perfection, outside appearance, materialistic tendencies and a stigma for anything less than "cookie-cutter" beautiful.
It's sickening, and yet, there is nothing I can do.
I will never fit any mold of "perfection"
I get in too much trouble, I say and do the wrong things, I lead a life split right down the middle, I am not independent enough, I don't remember to do the important stuff, I don't really feel like being in a relationship right now, I want to tell you to leave me alone, but don't exactly know how.

These are the things that are wrong with me.
I don't hate these things.
I am what I am.
My views change so very often.
I see myself in a different light every few minutes or so. Oh, that's another thing. I am, without shadow of a doubt, the most flighty, capricious human in North America.
But one thing will always remain.
I will never evade reality, and I will not let a soul change who I am.

Week 13: Koala Pageant Princess

If I had a Koala bear, I'd name it Grizzly.
I'd pierce its ears and paint its toenails and put it in Koala beauty contests.
Grizzly would love it.
He would get to spend time with me, and dance, and wear cute outfits.
I wish my mom would have done that much for me.
I wanted to be a pageant princess.
But nooo. She always said, "you can't have a frilly dress, tap shoes, or fake teeth, Richard. Plus, you know boys can't win beauty contests!"
Mother. I did the right thing putting rat poison in her oatmeal.
Now I am older and stronger. I look in the mirror proud of myself. 
"A boy can wear a dress and be pretty and win a crown," I said as I spun around in my mother's wedding dress in front of the big mirror. "I look pretty as a pageant princess."

Week 13: Starshine Surprise

I've been pondering words that begin with 'S'

Slippery slapping slimy, blueberry muffin

I've been considering words that begin with 'R'

Ravenous raging ripping, kitten party

I've been wondering about words that begin with 'P'

Piping preposterous pious, marshmallow fluff

I see that I use sharp words that dagger the air around me

But then, in an enlightened epiphany,

I find myself sliding down a rainbow,

In a land of cotton candy and rain made of sprinkles

Yes, I remembered to take my drugs today.

That's the reason for the gumdrop insanity.

Week 12: Memoir

My first kiss. Man, I haven't thought about this in a long while. And on good premise. It was one of the most awkward moments of my high school experience. I was a freshman and he was my first actual 'boyfriend.' We'd been dating for a few weeks and he was starting to drop hints about engaging in a real deal, yet seemingly terrifying *kiss*. One day, in the comfort of my family's basement, I caved in.

In the movies, it always seems like this grand ordeal, so I half expected the song "This Magic Moment" to start playing the instant the lip-lock occurred. However, the kiss proved to be a surprisingly lackluster affair in the end.  He sat on the arm of the dark blue couch, pulling me closer to him slowly, yet with purpose. My heart was in my throat and I could feel my mouth drying in anticipation. Our young faces were as close as possible without actually touching; I could feel his eyes on me. I avoided eye contact, looking down, mostly at his lips. I had to examine what I was about to venture into, after all. This short distance also brought attention to his less-than-appealing adolescent, unshaved, spotty mini-stache. The small hairs, few and far between, instantly began to ward me off, urging me to beware of what lie just below their boundary. He did have nice lips though. Big and pale pink--they looked soft enough. He dipped his face around mine from every angle while I matched every move with a contrary one. What was I so afraid of? I was acting as if that one kiss would melt our lips together for eternity, when in reality, I can't imagine a kiss lasting a shorter amount of time. So finally, I realized I wasn't getting out of this one. I raised my eyes to his, and in a moment of complete vulnerability, I allowed him to press his lips onto mine. And that's all it was. Honestly, I hardly consider it much of a kiss at all. It was more like a lip to lip connection for a few unimpressive seconds. And that was my first measly kiss. Romantic? No. Necessary? I suppose. At least it's over and I made it out alive.

Week 12: Reading Response

Through the voice of my character, I contemplate consciousness and awareness of oneself in terms of true self-realization.

"I'm so distracted, but everything's fine. I speak shine and I read signs.
Appreciate your opinion, but this dream's mine." -Atmosphere
I find myself looking for an answer, a sort of tangible entity, a concrete something... however, I am coming to realize that life is not so simple. I am surrounded by dream clouds and lightbulbs flashing above my head, but these hold little promise for the here and now. Absolute answers and future plans are just out of my reach. So I remain an unfinished puzzle, a thought bubble filled with unanswerable questions, fighting to break free from the image of life being purely destiny. The minute I am able to consider my spiraling journey into the unknown as the blossoming antithesis of a humdrum programmed life, I will begin to appreciate the chaos that occupies my mind. A great band, 311, once said "from chaos comes clarity," and this is what keeps me optimistic.

The battle, the fight, the tears, the confusion,

 All forging together, creating a future nothing more than allusion.

 But soon I hope to see the storm clouds clear,

 witness the heavens open as God hands me my future, saying "here."

The fight will be over, my dreams realized,

 I will be free to live on and love my life; I will reach the prize.

Week 11: Reading Response

In the first chapter of Writing Fiction, which is titled "Whatever Works: The Writing Process," I really learned a lot about the sort of things that might help me get started on a writing project. I, like most people who enjoy to write, have kept a journal for most of my life. It was especially refreshing to chronicle my feelings and just put a pen to paper while I was stuck in a Biology major. Day after day, I filled pipets and memorized things about plants, animals and everything in between that I'll never again need to know. At the end of the day, I would open my journal and release a year's worth of pent-up words that made me feel free for a minute. And then I would remember what I was going to school for. But now, I have moved on from the major from the underworld to English, a major that employs classes I actually enjoy. What an odd concept.

I also really enjoyed the Free Writing part of the chapter. I have been practicing this to get my short story rolling, and it's definitely helping to push along the slow-moving process. Today, I had a bit of time in between classes, so I sat in the library with my headphones in and just wrote. I thought about the mind of one of my characters and went with it. I wrote a letter in her voice, attempting to really get a feel for what kind of person she is. I really hope I can develop my characters into palpable, seemingly real beings. I guess it's all on me from here. Wish me luck!

Week 11: Best Friends

At the ripe age of seven, I would have told you, without question, that my best friend was Darcy. We grew up together in Tea, SD, and gave each other the sought-after title of 'best friend' very early in our relationship. We did EVERYTHING together. Sleepovers, basketball tournaments, Mario Kart on N64, Barbie play dates... It's weird thinking back how our parents were our sole mode of transportation, poor old folks. But me and Darcy always said that we were surely "long lost sisters" even though we looked nothing like one another. Darcy was long and skinny, wore glasses, and had big feet, while I was a compact and pudgy with chicken legs holding up the 'baby fat.' Nonetheless, we had the best of times together. She was the loud one, while I was more shy, making us the perfect combination. Through middle school, our activities departed from "childish things," and we started making full choreographed dances to our favorite songs of the time. Man, we were into some cool stuff. We did everything from Britney, to N'Sync, and that weird 'Blue' song too. She was still my best friend in high school, and although her discovery of boys didn't exactly give us much time to hang out anymore, we remained close through basketball and class. We now go to different colleges, but we still talk and get together on occasion. I know that I will always consider Darcy one of my best friends.

Since Darcy, I've come across a few more best friends. Freshman year at Mount Marty, I met a Yankton girl named Kylie. She is one of the genuine people I'll ever meet, yet so different from me. It's crazy. My current bestie is my roommate Amanda. We are both so easy-going that it's really just an easy living environment. We bond through music, and I tell her things I trust in literally no one else.

One of the most special things about really growing close to someone is what you come to realize about both yourself and this person. I love trying to figure what someone is about, reading their aura, prying into their mind when they talk, just to get in touch with who they are. It always amazes me finding all the similarities and dissimilarities between various people I have met through the years. It takes me a long time to let someone in and I can honestly say that most people I "know" have no idea what kind of stuff is actually floating around in this mess of a mind. Really, I don't know if I'll ever let anyone know me to my core... Yeah, that sounds terrifying.

Week 11: Michael the Horse Trainer

This is the in-class exercise where we thought of a particular career person and what how their actions might give way to what they are like as a human being. I made up 'Michael the horse trainer.'

When Michael comes into the arena, I can't help but drown out all other distractions and lock my attention on him and his horse. He is different from the other trainers. Some of these men intimidate their horses in every sense of the word. I shudder to think what they might do to their horses behind closed doors. But Michael is not like these trainers. He treats his horses with respect and knows their limits, something that shows when he gets in the arena. His quiet presence, yet dominance over his horse is palpable. In order to show off the animal's best  features, while making it appear to be an effortless task, Michael keeps the perfect distance and reacts to anything, even unexpected things at precisely the right moment. His face is stoic--what might be going through his mind? I see no anxiety or pressure in his countenance, even though we all know it's an inevitable part of the job. I only see ease, concentration, and confidence. As he sternly sets up his horse for the judges, his movements are quiet, yet strong. Slow, yet not hesitant. His horse looks perfect-- its silky gray coat shines from oil and care in the bright lights of the coliseum as sloping neck stretches out towards Michael. The horse's perfectly chiseled features exhibit the beautiful care that he receives under Michael's watchful and caring eye.

Week 10: Free at Last

 Summer Fun at the Beach

The sun is extra happy today,

heat permeates every inch of my body.

Sweat squeaks in every crevasse,

the beach bag strap digs hard into my shoulder.

What a beach.

Sand burns the balls of my feet.

 the fiery grains slip between my toes with stealth.

Something angry slaps the side of my face,

a football. A measly, fake leather football.

My eyes pierce into his dumb look,

He is sorry, blah, blah, blah.

It's beach day, I don't speak.

My lips are glued together from melted sunscreen.

What a fucking great beach.

Week 10: Freefallin'

THESE ARE LIES. Interesting exercise overall.

I look forward to a life in the suburbs, complete with marriage and a baby. Nothing about that seems beyond ordinary and wrong for me.

I enjoy dishonesty in all facets of life; "Better to not know than be hurt with the truth" I always say. Living life with blinders might just be the best policy after all.

Taste in music really has no major weight in whether or not I might consider someone in a romantic way. I mean it's not like it says anything about them as person or anything.
 
I really enjoy it when boys flood me with attention, flowers, and gentlemanly servitude. Their lack of consideration for my personal space isn't annoying at all.

People who don't accept those with different lifestyle choices are not ignorant or wrong in their close-mindedness in the least. When someone believes in opposing ideas from your own, you should be able to attack and ridicule them for these differences alone.

Week 10: Free for All

Here's one of the poetry exercises:

Now I find comfort in what I'm doing;

With purpose comes ease and motivation, right?

Now I see my future unraveling before me like a scroll;

But do I like what I see or will boredom ensue?

Now I have compliments clouding my psyche;

Are they genuine enough to believe wholeheartedly?

Now I feel that I shouldn't be reading into this so much;

Maybe I'll put away the magnifying glass.

I've examined and analyzed enough for now. 

I've stumbled upon the thing it took me 21 years to find,

All I can do is drink it in.

Enjoy what has appeared out of a small opportunity.

Yes, that's what I'll do.

Week 9: Memoir

I think I am in the midst of a religious epiphany. I was born and raised Catholic. I have a HUGE Catholic family with an incredibly religious grandma, the mother of 6 boys, one of which is my dad. I was brought up pretty religious, but not like "hey, we're gonna shove this religion down your throat." Although, my grandma might have done that. We were the type of family that did the program with: mass every Sunday and religious holiday, casual confession attendance, CCD every Wednesday for the kids, ya know, the typical American Catholic family stuff.

As a kid, I never knew how to question the practices and beliefs of the Catholic religion, however, now, with some age and bit more knowledge of Catholicism, I find myself struggling with it. One example is with the practice of confession. Why do I need to go through a priest to have my sins absolved? Seems extraneous that my personal relationship with God would need a mediator to validate my own purity.

Honestly, I think one of the biggest reasons that I struggle with the Catholic faith is based in the fact that I didn't make the conscious choice to join it. I didn't agree with the beliefs or commit to its practices based on my own will, which really bothers me. Just because I was raised Catholic doesn't mean I shouldn't question what its about, or if it's the right religion for me. Questioning what you're about is key to building the person you aspire to be. Hmm I like that. I'll be sure to report back with my findings in my future novel... "Lifting the Veil of Catholicism, Once and for All."

Week 9: In-Class

Since I wasn't in class this week, I figured I post something in the "free" category. So here we go.

What is regret?
Is it that I never see you?
Is it not being able to forget you?
Is it the simple fact that I made this happen?
Is it knowing that my life will never be the same?
No, regret is none of those measly, surface-dwelling things. 
It is the pentangle in my stomach, a knot beyond repair.
It is the coal in my throat, burning with every word.
It is the pain in my limbs as I trudge forward.
It is the look I get, or don't get, from you.
I ruined us, forever and ever.
That is regret.

Week 8: Reading Response

Open-Mic Day

I can almost guarantee that this was my first time reading of my own poems out loud. Leading up to this day, I was incredibly uneasy about the idea of going through with it. In all honesty, I considered many options to ease the situation... Skipping class, a little liquid courage, you know, the usual alternative options. Don't worry, I didn't utilize either of these methods on doomsday. I came to class, read my poems first, nervous as all get out, and then sat and attempted to relax until class was over. I feel like getting it over with, aka 'being the first one,' is usually a good policy for me. The shorter amount of time I have to bask in my nerves, the less time my body has to lose all control, take on a mind of its own, and with that mind, debilitate my actual brain, mouth, and voice into a mumbling and quivering mess. But that's just a theory. It's a funny thing though. Even though I really do loathe being in front of a crowd, which is totally understandable... complete vulnerability, all eyes on your every move and utterance, just waiting for you to screw up... there's something about having all that attention and power (for lack of better words) that inspires a rush like no other. However, I must say that I would prefer my hands responded to this rush with a bit more grace. Shaking like Polaroid picture is not a good look, dear hands. 

All in all, I'm glad I didn't skip this day. Not only did I conquer a fear, but I really enjoyed listening to my classmates' work. I was thoroughly impressed with a great deal of what was read that day.

Week 8: Free

  Last week I was in Tulsa, Oklahoma for Arabian U.S. Nationals and this was a post I wrote for the Arabian Horse Times Magazine Blog. 

U.S. Nationals Checklist:

1. Get out of School

2. Arrive in Tulsa

3. Get settled and practice

4. Shower horses with treats

5. Make my cut

6. Witness a "ride off"

7. Ride to a Top Ten

This fine list of accomplishments above are the products of my first year at U.S. Nationals. All in all, I think it's safe to say that it was a major success. I am so pleased with my rides, proud of my horses, and honored that I was chosen top ten in both of my English classes. Pretty amazing!  

Wednesday, I rode Ames Celebration to a top ten in  the purebred English maturity class after riding him a total of less than 10 times, and only showing him twice at the Minnesota Fall Fest show. So, as you might guess, we had a couple bobbles in the class. Those canter departures are simply tortuous for a young horse and his new rider! But I won the favor of two judges, sending me back into the arena with a top ten. I feel so very proud of the little man and look forward to a promising future with him with the gracious help of Leah Boyd and Cedar Ridge team.

My second final, the half Arabian English 18-39, was today, and from what I'm told, was one of the most exciting classes of the show. I was well aware of the horse power that would fill up the class and really, I was just glad to be a part of it. The big trotting beauties powered around the arena, feeding off the energy of the crowd and tiring out their riders at the same time. I'm hoping that I wasn't the only one who felt all sorts of relieved when we were called to line up! But the class only got better from this point on. After we lined up, brief confusion and a quiet judge's conference led to two incredible horses, Papa Rhazi and Polkapalooza being selected to engage in a "ride off." Oh my, I couldn't have been more excited! I watched these two parade their best stuff around Ford arena, fighting for National Champion. I'm sure my mouth was wide open, but what can I say, I had the best seat in the house! As soon as this contest was over and scores tallied, out into the paddock we went for a few more moments of uncertainty. My trainer Deb and I both screamed in excitement as my number was announced, something I would have never dreamed about attaining when we bought him last March as a rough project who had yet to amount to much and would take a lot of "time, patience, and getting to know one another" to get anywhere. It's amazing how far he's come under Deb's training. I'm so proud of my 'Big Taco' and what a fun horse he has become for me!

With two full days of classes of Nationals yet to go, there is still a lot of excitement left. I better live up this heavenly horse show vacation, I know it will be over all too soon!

Week 8: Memoir

Something I have passionately pursued... Hmmm. I can really only think of one thing in my life that reaches this "passion worth pursuing" level: Showing my horses. I've been riding since I was 6, and I really can't imagine my life without my horses. It's hard to explain to, well, basically everyone, but the kind of riding I do takes a lot more than just sitting in the saddle, showing off a sweet outfit. My English horses are anxious, quick-moving, big-trotting, attention-seeking, strong-mouthed boys that are in constant need of reassurance while I'm riding. You would never guess how much timing is needed to keep everything together and poised, but the trick is trying to make it look like the easiest ride of your life. And even when I can barely feel my hands and my entire back is cramping up just as I pull into the line-up as the class comes to an end, I never show the struggle anywhere but my words... after the class, of course. That's when I let it all out. I shake out my dead arms and legs, get out of my sweaty three piece show suit, and just take a seat for a while as the final bit of adrenaline wears off. At this point, everyone seems surprised at my bodily exhaustion. And that's just the response I yearn to hear. The biggest compliment I ever receive as a rider is the one where people say "Oh, wow Kara, he was that strong and heavy? You just made it look so easy!" Music to my equestrian ears.

The point is, showing, riding, creating a bond with my horses is my one true passion. And last summer, I was blessed with an amazing opportunity to write for the Arabian Horse Times, an international magazine in the Arabian horse industry. So, it seems as if my passion has turned into a future as well. I couldn't ask for anything more.

Week 7: Moon, Go Away...

Well, I was the idiot who didn't write down the In-Class Poem Collabo, so I'm posting my Moon Go Away... poem. My apologies.

Like Vodka Rain

You were darkness, a black hole.

You tricked me in with promises, swirling and swirling, it all ended cold.

You tied a rope tight around my limbs,

I could smell my skin burning as you pulled me down with a twist.

Like Sid and Nancy, we were a doomed pair.

Us together made the Earth shudder.

But I can’t place all the blame on you,

I imagined a reality so far from truth.

Your brown eyes pulled me deeper, killing my own green,

I looked you in the face and saw what had become of me.

You showed me the earthly plant of escape,

To me, you were dangerous, like vodka rain in a hurricane.

Reality came to, and he retreated into an abyss,

Leaving the girl searching in the white light.

Broken soul, broken mirror, danger amounts to nothing.

The wound will heal, the tears will dry, but her lips will always sting with the Devil’s kiss,

Alone in the black, he will die never knowing how it feels to actually be alive.

“El dolor del amor es el dolor de ser vivo—una herida perpetua.”*

Sometimes, I see his blackbirds fly by, waving a somber hello,

Fly blackbird, fly.

Week 7: Memoir

I don't know if I recall my very first time away from home alone, but the summer of 2007 held one of the most special trips alone. I was 17 and naiive. Young and dumb. Carefree and blind to anything but my easy childhood in rural South Dakota. But all of that was about to change. My best friend at the time, Megan, was incredibly religious and went on "service trips" every summer to various places in the U.S. I was an easily moldable and people-pleasing type at the time, so I was convinced in just a few conversations to join the group.

After a 17 hour bus ride filled with delirious moments and several embarrassing photos, we pulled into a Tennessee elementary school parking lot. Loads of other high school kids piled out of other buses, "okay, this is much bigger than I thought it would be." The next week was filled with waking up early in a classroom filled with air mattresses and other girls from my group, showering in ice water in the portable shower campers, throwing on clothes I didn't mind ruining, heading to the gym where we packed our lunch for the day, praying as a giant group, and heading out on the buses to our individual work sites. This is where the real growth and experience came. At first, I was really bummed when Megan or anyone else I knew wasn't in my work site group. I was very good at being quiet and reserved in those days. But this ended up being the best thing for me. Completely out of my element, away from anyone I knew, and working on a house I couldn't imagine living in, I was finally free from the material bullshit of society and those occupying it. It was liberating and inspired a feeling I wish I experience every day of my life. The 15 other group members and I got very close over the next week while we worked hard together to make one old Tennessee man's house a bit easier on the eyes from the outside and the inside. What I learned that week, at an age when I was blind to what wasn't right in front of me, is something that I'll never forget. I learned what it feels like to be completely at peace, free from anything but the essence of life, harboring the beauty of simplicity.

Week 7: Reading Response

In chapter 11 of Writing Poems, the idea of poem writing and, more importantly, poem revision is discussed. I understand that a poem should not be an accidental jumble of words hurriedly written and then announced as "complete." However, I really cannot imagine spending years upon years (26 in one instance in the book!) working on a single poetic work. That just seems like some serious procrastination. But, to each's own, I suppose.
 
I feel like one of the major issues in my "poetry," if it deserves such a label, is that they just turn into short-lined stories. I have trouble inserting clever wording or symbolic heaviness, the backbone of a good poem. Moving on from this monumental issue, I just don't know if revision, even 26 years worth, would make my poetry anything I would hope it to be.

Don't get me wrong, it's not so much a lack of confidence in my work as it is a lack of research in the subject matter. I really haven't read much poetry at all. I know what you're thinking, "Uhh, okay. Well that's easily solved, dipshit." Yikes, I'm on it! But I know me. And I know I'll just end up reading song lyrics instead of "legitimate" poetry. Hmm, what gives?

Week 6: Memoir

Word Portrait O' Me

I'm on the verge of finding out who I am. I know my name is Kara. I have brown hair. It's not a brown that is strikingly dark or littered with synthetic blonde highlights; It's a brown that is sun-kissed around my forehead, mousy in the middle, and a deep chocolate underneath from an old dye job. My skin loses its summer color in a very short amount of time, leaving me stunningly stark white come mid December (minus the stunningly). My eyes are a sea foam, moss green color with a blue-gray rim, complete with the biggest pupils known to man on nearly every occasion (exaggeration pending). My hands are referred to as "grandma hands" by close friends and myself. Which is a major turn on for basically everyone who has ever come in contact with the aged, translucent beauties. The inside of my knees are inhabited by tough spots of skin that are permanent scars from years of acquiring "saddle sores" from riding my English horses. To some these attributes of myself are flaws. But I am not me despite my flaws; I am me because of my flaws. 

Week 6: Reading Response

 "Characterization is Key"

In chapter four of Writing Fiction, the power of writing in terms of characterization is discussed. The topics of character appearance, attitude, thoughts and many other factors can be revealed in whatever fashion the writer chooses. In real life, appearance may be the only thing you know about an individual, however, in writing, you have the ability to look inside and learn so much more. The writer also has the ability, with word choice, to sway the reader into thinking of the character in a certain light. For the purpose of getting the point across in the story, how the character is described, their dialogue and their actions carry a great weight in the reader's feelings about the character and the story as a whole. Writers can also use other characters to represent an opposing personality or give the reader insight that they were not previously privy to.

This was a very important chapter to read for the Dramatic Monologue assignment. In order to get into the mind of my choice, I will need to consider the topics brought up in this chapter when studying his life and the era he lived in. Keeping in mind the "appropriateness" of his character, I want to be accurate in what kind of responses, attitudes, and ideas were present at the time of his life. This is really a heavy assignment, but absolutely relevant and worthwhile!

Week 6: Le Secret

"I sometimes actually get into Sci-Fi when no one is around"

I'm glued to the couch on a Saturday afternoon.

My roommate is out with his girl--it's go time.
Time to indulge in the my secret obsession.
No, come on. Not that. Get your head out of the gutter.
I'm gonna watch Sci-Fi.
I can't help it--I love it.
My eyes zone in like tractor beams to the TV screen.

The cheesy stories of UFO sightings, the dramatic actors, questionable theme songs...
It all fills my nerd quota for the week.
For the most part, I'm into very "normal" things.
You know, baseball, football, booze, babes--tough guy stuff.
Which is why no one, especially Brad, Jimmy, and Skeet, can ever find out.
But I guess if you happen to find out, it wouldn't be the absolute end of me...
Especially if you're into it too.
If you're not though,
You know this nerdy "affair with Sci-Fi" is a complete joke, right?
Ohh, okay good.
'Cuz you know that ain't me bro.

Week 5: Reading Response

I really thought that 'Chapter 9: The Mysteries of Language' had a very interesting and thought-provoking message. Thinking of the Arts as something of importance and a precious entity is something that I feel is often overlooked or unknown to the general society. I see artists, writers, poets, actors, and musicians as creative souls that have God-given talent to spread the beauty that is within them with the rest of the world.

I feel that Art is often seen as frivolous, a waste of time or money, and most prevalently, something that you should not center your life on (speaking from my own personal critics). But on the contrary, I think Art is a beautiful source of passion that is just as important to the world as other "mainstream" professions. Just as doctors view patients, lawyers view cases, or accountants view spreadsheets, artists view a canvas, or a fresh sheet of paper, or a piece of music in the same way.

I've always admired artists as the only people who truly gave up their dreams. They never gave in to the "Man," threw in the towel, and ended up at a shoddy cubicle job somewhere. Artists fight for their love, never give up on their dreams, and there's just something so honest and romantic about that. And let's just face it, without art, the world would be a spinning mass of bore filled with briefcases filled with emotionless pages, carried by unaffected saps who would find it impossible to see any beauty in life. So, thank heaven for ART.

Week 5: Memoir

To be completely honest, I don't recall ever having a monumental, table-turning quarrel between a family member. My sister Andrea is eight years my senior, and my brother, Justin, who passed away when I was 14, was eleven years older than me. So we never really had brawls or major discontent between us because of the age gap alone. They were mature and beyond it, and I was naiive and too young to care while we were still under the same roof.

Being the lone kid in the house since 5th grade, I basically grew up an only child. I must admit that I was pretty damn spoiled, but I think that realizing the problem existed is the first step toward overcoming the "spoiled brat" persona. And don't worry, I'm well past that. Sure, I had my "diva moments" in my high school years, but who doesn't, right? (Politely respond with a "yes, of course" now.)

But all that aside, and turning back to the proposed question, one thing that truly bothers me to my core is when siblings have serious and relationship-altering quarrels. I simply cannot fathom 'hating' your brother or sister--your blood, your family. A sibling is a precious commodity and should never be taken for granted. No matter what is between them, I feel that a resolution is an absolute necessity. It just hurts me to know that there are people out there who could care less about their sibling's existence when I miss my brother every day of my life. Love your family like it could be their last day, because, well, you never know....

Week 5: Warming Up

Poem #1

"I WISH"

I wish I was at a tattoo parlor right now,

getting my first ink. Maybe tomorrow.

I wish I could sit down and apply myself,

even when I strongly dislike what I'm trying to focus on. (Ahem, British Lit)

I wish the World wasn't such a daunting place,

maybe I'll see more of it and change my mind someday.

I wish that my childish naiive spirit was still present in my soul,

sometimes I think that would make life altogether less complicated.

I wish I could look my brother in the eyes one more time,

and tell him how I miss him.

I wish a lot of things,

but as I age, 

I really just wish for those I love to be happy.

Utterly, sublimely, blindly happy. 

Week 4: Reading Response

 The Music of Poetry

Chapter five, The Sound (and Look) of Sense grabbed my interest early on. On the first page, it is stated that "Today we are more accustomed to seeing a poem than to hearing it, and we must remind ourselves to read poems aloud lest we miss their essential music." This idea that the poem itself is more than words to read to yourself, but an entire experience, like music, is an interesting concept. Poets can utilize words, their length, their sound, their connotations in very specific ways that make the reader feel a certain way or better understand what the poem is about. But to have this 'full experience' with poetry, I now understand that reading poems aloud is absolutely essential. To me, it seems by doing this, you are not only able to hear the flow of the words and the 'music' of the poem, but you are also able to connect with another sense. Reading poetry connects with sight, seeing the scenes that the words paint for you, smell, strong descriptions of smells can link you to a specific scent you are familiar with, and lastly when you read a poem aloud, you connect with the sense of hearing. Your mind will respond differently to words when they roll off your own tongue, which will only enhance the senses' reactions to the poem.

Week 4: Memoir

"Nothing can make you feel something as quickly as music can. It's the most immediate source... Like a shortcut." -Zooey Deschanel

Last year, first semester, I was in Calculus I. Not for long, but long enough to hate myself day after day for choosing such a terrible class. I am horrendous at math, so I was at war with myself every morning of the week at 9am. But there was one thing that made me feel better about my troubled mathematics situation. And this thing was a song. A song called "The Best Day" by Atmosphere. I would listen to it at least twice on my longboard ride to class. Usually right when I left the house, just to make sure I got out the door, and then about halfway there, just so I wouldn't turn my lazy rear around and crawl back into bed. The bouncy piano, upbeat tempo, and easy lyrics made it the perfect solution for my bad attitude. As I rolled down the cracked sidewalk toward class, the cold fall air slapped against my cheeks and blew my hair back in defiance. The sky above was gray and sad with the fleeting summer, and the trees were crying away their dying leaves, which one by one, floated down to the cold hard earth. My heavy backpack, filled with knives and hatred (aka my Calculus book and notebook), weighed me down as I pumped my leg on the sidewalk. One thing kept my mind from a serious meltdown. The words "I had a rough day. But that's life--it happens. Woke up on the dark side of my mattress... Everyday can't be the best day, do what you can right now--don't hesitate," rang in my head, encouraging me to keep on keepin' on. This song kept me positive in the midst of miserable Calculus and ended up being the sole reason I didn't drop after day two. Thanks Atmosphere.

Week 4: Hangover Poem

The Real Hangover

I am here.

Only to escape the shouting inside.

With a pounding head, an angry liver, and a spinning world, 

It's really all I can do. 

I lay down hard in the cool grass, 

The sharp blades poke my hot skin harshly.

I recall the expectations and let-downs of the night,

What I can remember of them, anyway.

An oblivious ant scurries across the mountain of my arm,

I don’t feel enough to care.

I close my eyes, shutting out the sunshine,

trying to forget the pain behind them.