Whisper words of wisdom…

Dear Grandma Nettie,

I have colors spread out all over my floor. Various shades of green, blue, orange and red. It is as though a color palette vomited on my floor. Also, I’m beginning to think I should take this soundtrack off repeat. I love these songs, but with the way I absorb music I’ve gotta insert something more upbeat. Hmm. I probably should have aimed for sunlight today. That could be it. But these colors are just so damn fascinating…

Last night I found myself asking you for guidance. I’m an eclectic spiritual person, who ranges from nihilism to Greek mythology to an odd coalescence of Abrahamic faiths and Eastern traditions. So, I like to imagine that my ancestors that have died somehow watch over the living members of the family. I, once again, felt the need for guidance and advice, and lately I haven’t been able to ask the stars for navigation.

I wasn’t particularly close to you; not as close as Courtney or some of my other cousins. One of the more standoutish memories I have is when you said my face was getting fat, probably about a year after graduation. It’s left me with a complex since (not really, at least nothing that wasn’t already there.) No, my main memory of you is this incredibly spiritual person. I have this habit of associating everyone I know with a celebrity. I always saw my mom as Oprah when I was younger; my aunt Phyllis as Whitney Houston, my Grandma Retha as Aretha Franklin, and Grandma Nettie as Mother Teresa

She was a tiny person; when I hugged her sometimes I was afraid I’d break her. We never said much to each other, besides the “How is school going?” and my grades. But she always remembered to send me a card for my birthday. Another memory I have of her is coming home from school, slightly upset that she didn’t know how things worked around the house. She was there to help out/vacation/not really sure. Michael was about to be born, so probably to help out. Retrospect makes everything suspicious. Anyways.

I had just walked home from school with an incredibly heavy backpack. It was early January, and though it was windy and slightly chilly, I felt really hot and overburdened. I came inside and started to go up the stairs. Until I got to the top and blacked out. I came to a second later at the base of the stairs, really confused and really happy I wasn’t dead. My grandmother came running around the corner, asking what happened and if I was ok. I told her I fell down the stairs. She looked me over, gave me a hug and then I headed back up the stairs. I safely made it to my bed.

Besides all these nostalgic memories of my Grandma, I caught myself last night asking her for guidance in that one department of my life I can never seem to trust myself in. I thought of what she would think of me. I know she’d love me either way. Perhaps not condone some things but support me either way.

Perhaps I thought of her because, as my emotions fluctuate between rapid highs and lows, whenever I think of that something, that something only becomes much harder to think about. That something ends up dictating my emotions. A horrible affliction for someone who seeks stability. Les choses dans la vie. I’m in search of that person who has that something, I think they’ll understand.

I was hoping the spirit of my grandmother would understand. We both had a mutual understanding. When I was in middle or high school, you told me I had a very old spirit. I like to think we were cut from the same cloth. My dad says I have your personality: the fight, the vim, the vigor, the stubbornness. I like to think my grandma had insight. Enlightenment. And saw in 4D. We also share this predisposition for habitual solitude, perhaps as time to meditate/pray/reflect on our thoughts. Anyways, though I never got to know you like other family members did, nevertheless I’m left with an amazing memory. That in itself rocks. When I find myself in times of trouble, I end up turning to your spirit. And it comforts me to know you would probably tell me right now to just let it be.

Gallery of Writing, Anniversaries and Why I Write

This little bit of feedback made waking up at 6:53 AM (I set my alarm to odd times, a personal quirk), battling the Connector traffic for an hour ( I did not leave Midtown until 8:30 AM), arriving late to my 9:30 AM class in Athens, and reading a slightly acerbic/passive aggressive email from my father worth all the effort.

Hello, Patrique . . . “The things they don’t tell you about HIV” has been accepted into the following gallery: Gallery of NCTE. This was a moving account–and very honest.

Gallery of Writing – The things they don’t tell you about HIV,   (for those who haven’t read it yet).

No rest for the weary, as the saying goes.

I think, as a writer, that kind of feedback is what makes writing worth all the effort. That little gem right there has made up for the well-intentioned but somewhat detached feedback I’ve received all semester on my writing from all my teachers. True, risk is not spelled “ridk,” but between commuting, reading, juggling schedules and places to be while trying to churn out papers I’m surprised I even manage to turn in something.

What also made the feedback more enjoyable is that I’ve entered a period I’ve begun to refer to as the ‘doldrums.’ It’s a two-and-a-half week period that usually starts around the end of October and doesn’t let up until my birthday has safely passed. And it’s a period that’s packed with a veritable minefield of memories, both good and bad. My father’s birthday. The passing of my grandmother.  Halloween. Longer nights and shorter days. The change in seasons. And the anniversary of my diagnosis. Dear had noticed I was feeling below average yesterday and the night before. He made me laugh with corny jokes and then asked what was wrong, besides the usual post-weekend tristesse. I told him I wasn’t really sure, and never am until I’ve had time to think about it. But the simple fact that he asked, and made me laugh at corny jokes was enough to make getting up this morning just a bit easier. It helped that he reminded me of those who have it worse. It helps that I’m a sucker for corny jokes. And I guess it also helps that Dear used to be a pastor, and has a very gentle soul. That, coupled with the quoted feedback above, and I somehow manage to put everything in perspective. I’ve a penchant for making mountains appear out of slight bumps.

Perhaps some day I’ll be a professional writer (somehow make money off writing); perhaps not. Either wayI write because I love it. And I’ll continue to do it, not simply heeding to Rilke’s advice of searching deep within my soul and finding out that writing, and art  for that matter, is akin to breathing, but because I find myself and I find others through writing and reading. Art is just but one of the ways that the journey through life is made a bit less solitary.

And for those who don’t know:

The National Gallery of Writing is a virtual space—a website—where people [...] select and post writing that is important to them. The Gallery accommodates any composition format—from word processing to photography, audio/video recording to text messages—and all types of writing—from letters to lists, memoirs to memos.

The National Gallery of Writing is now accepting submissions and will continue to accept writing through June 1, 2010. The National Gallery on Writing was unveiled to the public on the National Day on Writing (October 20, 2009) and will remain open for submissions/viewing/reading through June 30, 2010. The Gallery will provide a lively reading experience and an opportunity for writers to share their craft and find a broad and diverse audience. And, all writers can find useful tips and guidelines from the National Council of Teachers of English website.

I’ll also apologize in advance for the absence. The next couple of weeks will be a slammer. Two 7-page papers, a mountain of reading, an upcoming reading (AQLF begins on November 4th at locations throughout Atlanta), submission deadlines; all peppered with birthdays and anniversaries to be remembered.

Love is Love

Have you ever woken up from a really bad dream, and then wondered if life was one big dream? I’m not really sure where I’m going with this train of thought. So instead, I bring to you a short film by Anne Renton, featuring the amazing Jane Lynch.

Happy Friday.

Relevant History: Journeyman again

Relevant History: Journeyman again

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Verschränkung: Modern Romanticism

I’ve noticed that I write better when I don’t care. In fact, it seems caring has become a theme of sorts; or rather, the lack of caring. I’m better at sex, cooking, driving, dancing and talking when I care less. This is the oddest paradox to consider. And yet, emotionally I feel better and get better feedback when I don’t care because I’m unafraid to take risks. When I care, I suddenly become emotionally invested to the extreme. I become self-reflexive and self-referential. Suddenly, this caring spawns another problem: avoidance. I now care so much that I must avoid it because all of a sudden this object or subject I care about now causes me distress, and I need distance. Then, before I know it I’m in a sealed box with a broken flask of poison screaming ‘Verschränkung’ while watching my reflection between two mirrors.

I’ll present evidence on this: every paper I’ve written so far this semester for a certain class I previously trashed I’ve poured and contemplated over, reaching for deeper meaning within the text. And every paper ended up at least 3-4 pages, when the assignment only called for a page. Then, I turn in my paper last week (not the diatribe, but still something that pretty much said “Who gives a flying …” in 1.25 pages. Perhaps my teacher and TA were simply ecstatic I wasn’t forcing them to read extra. Perhaps my paper finally contained passion. I’m just not sure. And I don’t think I want to know, because I’ve suddenly found something that works for me: caring less (if we want to split hairs and argue over semantics, I guess we could say I’m taking it less seriously, but I’ve come to loathe semantic arguments. They’re circular and never end, and usually result in me throwing a glass of water in someone’s face).

One piece of advice I’ve heard over and over again, in writing that is, is never be afraid to kill your characters. I heard it in my creative writing class. I heard it in my dramatic writing class. And I’ve heard it again in my literature classes. They seem to be telling me not to take it too seriously. And why should I take it seriously? When the sun sets on our lives, none of us will make it out alive. That’s a given. That’s remained the only constant: we all die. Some may find that morbid, but I find that exhilarating and freeing. Sometimes I view this life as a burden and then sometimes I view it as the greatest thing since sliced bread or pasta or orgasmic-inducing triple chocolate coffee brownies (winter time is the best time to experience the exhilarations of chocolate. It’s as though the dark, gooey chocolate replaces the brightness of the sun, but I digress).

One of the problems with immortality is everything becomes the same (insert the song “It’s a Bore” from Gigi. And while Gigi invites the inevitable comparisons to My Fair Lady, there’s an irreverent humor lacking in My Fair Lady; or, it takes itself too seriously. With that said, I adore My Fair Lady, and have seen it more than ten times, but I clearly digress).  Life’s probably somewhere in between the two, given that the universe seems to prefer balance. I don’t know, and I don’t want to know. I’ll find out on the other side.

Why should I worry? Why should I care? You can finish the song, but caring leads to inhibition and censorship.

I’ve suddenly found new respect for the phrase “who cares,” sometimes fashioned as “who gives a flying …” From this day forward I’d like to make a vow to care less, but knowing myself I’ll procrastinate or care too much about not caring and then wind up avoiding the whole issue until I reach another psychological crisis point. With all that said, about writing teachers teaching to care less about characters and the arts telling us to care less, perhaps what they’re really saying is ‘Don’t be afraid to take risks.’ It’s as though they’re giving me permission to strap on those imaginary Christian Louboutin heels, press the gas as hard as I can and find out what happens, find the limits of my own personal human existence. Probably not.

But I do think they’re suggesting don’t be afraid to experience the full rainbow of color life has to offer instead of the black-and-white/this-or-that dichotomous view of the world. Or, to quote the Bard, “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” There’s irony for you; using the flip-flopping indecisive Hamlet to prove a point about taking risks.

When I dropped out of school took a sabbatical from academic learning in 2007, my maxim became ‘Take Chances, Get Messy, and Make Mistakes.’ That’s right, I went back to my childhood and my favorite show. I thought, “What would Ms. Frizzle tell me to do in this situation?” Actually, I didn’t think so much as I did. And that’s what was exhilariting. This time around, I’m running into the same roadblocks as before; my caring leads to self-censorship, which leads to less risk-taking and has left me feeling rather bland. Not to mention my general anxiety’s been acting up in the form of sleepless nights and haunting dreams. To some (I’m pointing at my former psychiatrist and psychologist), this may come off as bipolar. Hell, I just may be mad. I’m willing to admit that. I’ll concede on that point. But I’d rather be creatively mad than artistically bland. And I’d rather hang around the slightly mad and insane, those touched by fire, who keep you mentally on your feet and physically out the door. They inspire and require action, instead of planning and contemplating. Who is that who said “God laughs at men who makes plans?” By Jove, those Jews just may be onto something. Not that plans don’t have their place. But one could spend an eternity planning and daring to eat a peach while the moment passes by

Oh fuck, I just realized perhaps that’s the meaning behind Pound’s “Make it new.” To think, he and that silly maxim used to be my nemesis. I blame this entirely on my Modernism and Postmodernism class.

With all that said, in a curiously diatribing way: Bus, do your stuff. Never is not an option. Now let’s go play in traffic and see what happens (I’m kidding).

Ignore Jon and Kate Plus 8; Instead Donate

I like to pretend I’m not a competitive person, but underneath the smiles and joviality, there’s a mean competitive streak. Especially when I’ve adopted a cause. It becomes my child, so to speak, and like any parent I’m extremely protective. I want to see them do well. Here’s the deal:

Have you ever run into the Causes App on Facebook? No? Well go check it out. Right now, they’re running a contest in association with Parade Magazine and  the Case Foundation:  America’s Giving Challenge. The leading charity wins $50,000 dollars. I won’t say go and support a certain charity; instead I encourage you to find your own. But, while I’ve got your attention:

Every donation can change a life: $4 can prevent the transmission of HIV from mother-to-child; $60 can provide treatment to an HIV+ child for a year; $120 can provide treatment to an adult; $250 can send an HIV-affected student to school.

–http://www.faceaids.org

So, I’ll present two options: ‘FACE AIDS‘ or ‘Help Children Affected by HIV/AIDS (if the links don’t work, go to causes.com, and find either cause).

FACE AIDS has managed to raise $46K so far, while Help Children Affected by HIV/AIDS has raised only$1400 (rounded). You can decide.

And, while you’re at it, click on the sidebar to the right and help raise some money for DirectRelief through SocialVibe. (or if you’re viewing this somewhere other than my webpage, go to patrique.wordpress.com) My own personal contest still stands.

New advances are being made every day in HIV/AIDS research, and it’s possible that we may have a vaccine in our lifetime. I think children should definitely stand to benefit from the advances society has to offer. But I’ll get off my soap box.

If Obama can win a Nobel Peace Prize, and if someone can eventually get Jon and Kate 1) off of television or 2) reunited, then anything is possible. Go. Donate. Spread the word.

And, if you’re in the UGA-Athens area, I’ll be ‘Seizing the Airwaves’ for AIDS Athens from 1-2PM, courtesy of WUOG 90.5FM. But if you’re not in the area, just visit wuog.org and click on the listen live link on the right.