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.