My Twitterive is about finding a direction as a writer. My place is the wandering path that I am on this year to discover who I am and what I should pursue.
Other Tweets
"Significance accrues with duration"
"A sad main street, a highway bypass"
"Nothing will ever be complete"
"A sad main street, a highway bypass"
"Nothing will ever be complete"
January 17, 2012
Today was the first day of the spring semester. I am so glad it’s finally starting; I’m really going to dive in head first and try to find out what it is I want to do after graduation. Writing Arts. Writing Arts. What to do with a Writing Arts degree? I once wrote poetry; that has fallen by the wayside lately. I could work for a magazine or newspaper, God knows I’ve made enough of those when I was a kid. And in the Boy Scouts, we used to print the Drumbeat at least four times a year and mail it to 500 people. I would write, edit, design, print (using these old ink drums), collate, bind, and organize everything for bulk mailing. What a production. But it was a lot of fun. Of course, I don’t think any job exists that would allow me to do all of that. Still, there has got to be someone willing to pay me for being creative in some way, right?
Today was the first day of the spring semester. I am so glad it’s finally starting; I’m really going to dive in head first and try to find out what it is I want to do after graduation. Writing Arts. Writing Arts. What to do with a Writing Arts degree? I once wrote poetry; that has fallen by the wayside lately. I could work for a magazine or newspaper, God knows I’ve made enough of those when I was a kid. And in the Boy Scouts, we used to print the Drumbeat at least four times a year and mail it to 500 people. I would write, edit, design, print (using these old ink drums), collate, bind, and organize everything for bulk mailing. What a production. But it was a lot of fun. Of course, I don’t think any job exists that would allow me to do all of that. Still, there has got to be someone willing to pay me for being creative in some way, right?
January 23, 2012
I love texting in bed. It’s a funny thing, to be half asleep in a cocoon of blankets and be able to contact the world. There’s a certain power given us by our electronic devices. The whole idea of creating something in one place, perhaps the most unlikely, understated place, and beaming it out to the world has me enthralled. Like neighborhood kids with facing windows, up past their bedtime, two tin cans and a length of string to hold vigil, I want to speak and I want to do it from the place of inspiration. Impressionist painters revolutionized the art world by painting directly outdoors and working quickly, as to capture the feeling of the moment. Visible brush strokes, once criticized as sloppy, are now revered as artifacts from the instant of creation. Twitter leaves a lot of our brush strokes out in the world; maybe someday someone will look at them and be able to piece together the spirit of our time.
I love texting in bed. It’s a funny thing, to be half asleep in a cocoon of blankets and be able to contact the world. There’s a certain power given us by our electronic devices. The whole idea of creating something in one place, perhaps the most unlikely, understated place, and beaming it out to the world has me enthralled. Like neighborhood kids with facing windows, up past their bedtime, two tin cans and a length of string to hold vigil, I want to speak and I want to do it from the place of inspiration. Impressionist painters revolutionized the art world by painting directly outdoors and working quickly, as to capture the feeling of the moment. Visible brush strokes, once criticized as sloppy, are now revered as artifacts from the instant of creation. Twitter leaves a lot of our brush strokes out in the world; maybe someday someone will look at them and be able to piece together the spirit of our time.
February 5, 2012
Last night, I was on the phone with my cousin Crista. She told me that she was having trouble writing. It isn’t coming naturally for her right now. I think maybe she’s over thinking it. Today, I set out on a walk, and ended up rhyming words in time with my footsteps: “You can write / Whatever you like.” I got to Wawa and bought a coffee, by which time I had half a poem swirling around my head. I took the insulating sleeve off the cup and began making notes. “If words don’t fit don’t try to fight them / If they’re yours they must be right, then.” I wanted to write to her to tell her that it’s okay if what you write isn’t perfect. It’s okay if it doesn’t even make sense. The important thing is just to do it. The important thing is just to keep moving and allow yourself to be honest and free.
Last night, I was on the phone with my cousin Crista. She told me that she was having trouble writing. It isn’t coming naturally for her right now. I think maybe she’s over thinking it. Today, I set out on a walk, and ended up rhyming words in time with my footsteps: “You can write / Whatever you like.” I got to Wawa and bought a coffee, by which time I had half a poem swirling around my head. I took the insulating sleeve off the cup and began making notes. “If words don’t fit don’t try to fight them / If they’re yours they must be right, then.” I wanted to write to her to tell her that it’s okay if what you write isn’t perfect. It’s okay if it doesn’t even make sense. The important thing is just to do it. The important thing is just to keep moving and allow yourself to be honest and free.
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A Word on WordsYou can write
Whatever you like, Anything you think Or feel, Or want to reveal. Words for free For you to use, To empower Or enthuse. Words can sting and words can soothe; Words can bring good and bad news. Words need not keep time nor score; Those nuisances a number’s chore. Words can rhyme In perfect time, Close and clustered By design. Or words can sprawl like suburban streets, Strange arrangements, neither trite nor tried, Unique formations, fit to fascinate a formation specialist. If they don't fit, don't try to fight them; If they’re yours, they must be right, then. Words need prove themselves no longer Than it takes for you to write them. |
February 21, 2012
I feel so lost, and I know that I am making it worse. I wish I knew which direction I should drive. Towards a teaching career? Or towards broadcasting? I am full of contractions—an introvert who needs to communicate often, for example. These times of uncertainty are like driving without a destination and praying you have enough gas to get to where you don’t know. And there isn’t enough change in the center console to buy any more. I try to listen to advice, but sometimes it’s hard to believe. It’s like letting calls go to voicemail to see who actually cares.
I feel so lost, and I know that I am making it worse. I wish I knew which direction I should drive. Towards a teaching career? Or towards broadcasting? I am full of contractions—an introvert who needs to communicate often, for example. These times of uncertainty are like driving without a destination and praying you have enough gas to get to where you don’t know. And there isn’t enough change in the center console to buy any more. I try to listen to advice, but sometimes it’s hard to believe. It’s like letting calls go to voicemail to see who actually cares.
March 12, 2012
My friend Mike and I used to see each other often, but now he’s at grad school in Indiana. He called last night and we talked about the good old days in the Boy Scouts. Mike has an unusual distinction. He actually gave me one of my names. In the Order of the Arrow, an honor society of sorts within the Boy Scouts, there is a special membership given to a select few each year in chapters across America. It’s called the Vigil Honor. The tradition is that members who are chosen to be Vigil Honor members also receive a special Leni Lenape name. In 2005, when I was chosen, Mike was the Vigil Honor Chief and he selected a name for me that I am proud of: Winginamen Pemauchsowaptomik. Translated to English, this means enthralled by the words of life. Not only did Mike recognize my poetic ability to distill human experience into succinct turns of phrase, but he saw how excited I become when I am in the moment, handling the raw materials of life itself. When I am switched on, my enthusiasm for even the mundane ephemera of the living is unequaled. Mike and I will probably be friends for the rest of our lives, but he may never give me a greater gift.
My friend Mike and I used to see each other often, but now he’s at grad school in Indiana. He called last night and we talked about the good old days in the Boy Scouts. Mike has an unusual distinction. He actually gave me one of my names. In the Order of the Arrow, an honor society of sorts within the Boy Scouts, there is a special membership given to a select few each year in chapters across America. It’s called the Vigil Honor. The tradition is that members who are chosen to be Vigil Honor members also receive a special Leni Lenape name. In 2005, when I was chosen, Mike was the Vigil Honor Chief and he selected a name for me that I am proud of: Winginamen Pemauchsowaptomik. Translated to English, this means enthralled by the words of life. Not only did Mike recognize my poetic ability to distill human experience into succinct turns of phrase, but he saw how excited I become when I am in the moment, handling the raw materials of life itself. When I am switched on, my enthusiasm for even the mundane ephemera of the living is unequaled. Mike and I will probably be friends for the rest of our lives, but he may never give me a greater gift.
March 16, 2012
I finally decided to start a blog. I’ve had this idea for a while, to make little videos or interview people about what’s going on in their communities and then write about it. I think it stems from a simple curiosity. I generally want to know things. And so does everyone, really. Rubberneckers do it with the brake pedal; writers do it with a pen. So I set out to satiate my curiosity and make something tangible, even useful.
I finally decided to start a blog. I’ve had this idea for a while, to make little videos or interview people about what’s going on in their communities and then write about it. I think it stems from a simple curiosity. I generally want to know things. And so does everyone, really. Rubberneckers do it with the brake pedal; writers do it with a pen. So I set out to satiate my curiosity and make something tangible, even useful.
March 24, 2012
You know what would be fun? Traveling the country and writing. Of course. What an unlikely idea. And who will pay for this gas money? And who will pay to read this writing? Or who will advertise alongside it? It seems like a pipe dream, doesn’t it?
I met with my adviser Bill Wolff and found out that I am closer to graduating than I thought. Turns out I could finish over the summer, if I really wanted to. He also told me about a graduate level class he’s teaching in the fall called Internet and Writing Studies. He will be teaching web site design theory and HTML and CSS coding languages. It’s something I’ve always wanted to learn, and a skill that is becoming increasingly important. He said he would sign me into the class and I think I’m going to take him up on it. It sounds like a lot of fun, and it might make finding a job after graduation that much easier.
You know what would be fun? Traveling the country and writing. Of course. What an unlikely idea. And who will pay for this gas money? And who will pay to read this writing? Or who will advertise alongside it? It seems like a pipe dream, doesn’t it?
I met with my adviser Bill Wolff and found out that I am closer to graduating than I thought. Turns out I could finish over the summer, if I really wanted to. He also told me about a graduate level class he’s teaching in the fall called Internet and Writing Studies. He will be teaching web site design theory and HTML and CSS coding languages. It’s something I’ve always wanted to learn, and a skill that is becoming increasingly important. He said he would sign me into the class and I think I’m going to take him up on it. It sounds like a lot of fun, and it might make finding a job after graduation that much easier.
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MicrofictionRoy was lying on the backseat but hadn't stirred for hours. We were driving north on some highway on the way to Ithaca. I don't remember the number, and I don't think we knew it at the time, either. All the road signs were frozen over, coated with ice. We were pretty much driving blind, but Walter had found a big truck to square up behind. Just stay in his tracks I thought. When we came to a railroad crossing, the truck (a dump truck as it was, probably filled with salt) made a right and left us idling at the crossroads, wondering what to do. Walter eased on the gas, we spun for half a second, and then grabbed a patch of unfrozen snow, hurling us over the tracks. I noticed a gas station. It was like noticing the light through a keyhole in a dark room. At first, the room is invisible. Then, the limitations of architecture become apparent and light leaks in where it cannot be denied entrance. "Let's go in and ask them," I said.
I knew then we weren't going to get Roy to his show in time to play. We pulled out behind a minivan just as a sheet of ice slid off its roof and smashed into a million pieces right in front of our bumper. "Jesus!" Walt said. "Is it so hard to clean off your car? Gonna get us killed!" By that time, I knew Roy was probably already dead. |
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March 28, 2012
One of the videos I posted on my blog got picked up by a local television station! I made contact with Heather Simmons, who does public information for Glassboro. She shared the work I did with the director of a local station and he asked to run the story. Of course, I’m not getting paid anything, but it’s reassuring to be recognized for doing good work. In school, the most you might receive is a “nice job” and a good grade. In “the real world,” things happen. People move. I want to move; I want to make things. I want to be watched and read!
One of the videos I posted on my blog got picked up by a local television station! I made contact with Heather Simmons, who does public information for Glassboro. She shared the work I did with the director of a local station and he asked to run the story. Of course, I’m not getting paid anything, but it’s reassuring to be recognized for doing good work. In school, the most you might receive is a “nice job” and a good grade. In “the real world,” things happen. People move. I want to move; I want to make things. I want to be watched and read!
April 2, 2012
I went home the other day, and while my laundry was in the dryer, I walked down to the library. I’ve been going to the Medford library since I was 5. Above one wall of the children’s section is a quilt I helped put together. One of the squares of fabric bears my colorful scribbling and distinctive handwriting, which hasn’t actually changed that much. When I visit the library, I am reminded of how long I’ve been reading. Without the library, there would be no summer book club. I wouldn’t have spent hours in the travel section fantasizing about the ultimate journey. I wouldn’t have had a desk where I knew I could concentrate, regardless of the chaos going on at home. Dear library, you have always been a source of great joy in my life.
I went home the other day, and while my laundry was in the dryer, I walked down to the library. I’ve been going to the Medford library since I was 5. Above one wall of the children’s section is a quilt I helped put together. One of the squares of fabric bears my colorful scribbling and distinctive handwriting, which hasn’t actually changed that much. When I visit the library, I am reminded of how long I’ve been reading. Without the library, there would be no summer book club. I wouldn’t have spent hours in the travel section fantasizing about the ultimate journey. I wouldn’t have had a desk where I knew I could concentrate, regardless of the chaos going on at home. Dear library, you have always been a source of great joy in my life.
April 14, 2012
When I think back to high school, one memory invariably jumps to the surface. It’s the moment in my poetry class when I had complete control. Every Friday was reading day. We would have the opportunity to come to the lectern and recite something we had written that week. I had been working on one piece for a while and it finally felt finished. I was burning to share it with my classmates, but I wanted to create maximum effect. I wanted to read last. I waited for the right moment, but my timing was off— when I was only halfway through the poem, the bell rang. I waited for the inevitable bag-shuffling mad rush for the door, pausing. But no one moved. They were all looking at me, waiting for the next line. I couldn’t believe it. I finished the poem, and then, out in the hallways where caricatures are cast, I became a poet. I remember people asking, "You’re a writer, aren’t you?"
When I think back to high school, one memory invariably jumps to the surface. It’s the moment in my poetry class when I had complete control. Every Friday was reading day. We would have the opportunity to come to the lectern and recite something we had written that week. I had been working on one piece for a while and it finally felt finished. I was burning to share it with my classmates, but I wanted to create maximum effect. I wanted to read last. I waited for the right moment, but my timing was off— when I was only halfway through the poem, the bell rang. I waited for the inevitable bag-shuffling mad rush for the door, pausing. But no one moved. They were all looking at me, waiting for the next line. I couldn’t believe it. I finished the poem, and then, out in the hallways where caricatures are cast, I became a poet. I remember people asking, "You’re a writer, aren’t you?"
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The Dotted LineThey started us on the dotted line
Said "dont forget to cross your t's And dot your i's" But the stroke slows twelve years after five, Lingering on this last page Of all we know (so far). My problem is that I scribble on everything-- Margins of notebooks, weekly planers, Paper bag book covers-- But still I don't know how to write the last line. Maybe it's because I remember Which fountain is the coldest, Which teachers are the oldest, (and which teachers to avoid), Or because I've stood In the same spot for four years, Watching lovers declare unity In the middle of E-Hall. Because J is for Jennifer And R's for rejection, And E is for my car, Perpetually empty, And how it just won't look the same Parked on pavement. And on Church Road at three, Windows down, music up Bags off, shades on, How the kids spin their wheels To leap into traffic And disappear forever Down life's dotted line. |
April 29, 2012
I just don’t think I can make a living off of making observations in the world. I mean, maybe I can. I saw Ira Glass speak today in Princeton. He was really funny and wise. He discussed how radio can get closer, faster and easier than any other medium. In television, you must overcome visual biases. In writing, you must labor to paint just the right picture. But in radio, a single voice can become your voice. The listener moves much more easily into the role of empathizing with the subject or character in a story. He also talked about how to make stories interesting, even important news stories. One of his tips was to create forward motion. “Then what happened? And then after that, what happened?” If you tell a story this way, listeners can experience a narrative as if they are living through it. It’s interesting. Another tip was to encourage dialog. People are natural impersonators when they tell stories. Ask, “And what did she say? And what did you say back?” He said it’s almost like casting characters in a play.
I would love to have the opportunity to make radio like this. If Ira is right and the news becomes more narrative and conversational without sacrificing truth, then I definitely want to be a part of that movement. I want to learn how to draw out stories and I want to learn how to archive meaningful moments in human experience.
I just don’t think I can make a living off of making observations in the world. I mean, maybe I can. I saw Ira Glass speak today in Princeton. He was really funny and wise. He discussed how radio can get closer, faster and easier than any other medium. In television, you must overcome visual biases. In writing, you must labor to paint just the right picture. But in radio, a single voice can become your voice. The listener moves much more easily into the role of empathizing with the subject or character in a story. He also talked about how to make stories interesting, even important news stories. One of his tips was to create forward motion. “Then what happened? And then after that, what happened?” If you tell a story this way, listeners can experience a narrative as if they are living through it. It’s interesting. Another tip was to encourage dialog. People are natural impersonators when they tell stories. Ask, “And what did she say? And what did you say back?” He said it’s almost like casting characters in a play.
I would love to have the opportunity to make radio like this. If Ira is right and the news becomes more narrative and conversational without sacrificing truth, then I definitely want to be a part of that movement. I want to learn how to draw out stories and I want to learn how to archive meaningful moments in human experience.
May 2, 2012
Today, I wrote a poem with my friend Lacey. I am such an introvert, protective perfectionist, and anxious creator. And yet, after writing alone for so long, I feel I need more. Some deeper satisfaction. In order for it to work, there has to be a degree of trust. Each person who enters into collaboration enters into an agreement that the work is not owned by either person, no matter how individual it feels. When I write with someone, the words I come up with have everything to do with that person I am with. In my mind, I feel the energy of the other person, and every circuit of my brain is aware of his or her presence. Maybe because of this investment of energy, the joy from collaboration is often greater. When I share my favorite music with a friend, it’s like hearing it again for the first time. No matter how familiar I am with the song, it tickles new receptors, as if I am hearing it through the ears of the other person. Empathy becomes almost physical.
Our Poem
Today, I wrote a poem with my friend Lacey. I am such an introvert, protective perfectionist, and anxious creator. And yet, after writing alone for so long, I feel I need more. Some deeper satisfaction. In order for it to work, there has to be a degree of trust. Each person who enters into collaboration enters into an agreement that the work is not owned by either person, no matter how individual it feels. When I write with someone, the words I come up with have everything to do with that person I am with. In my mind, I feel the energy of the other person, and every circuit of my brain is aware of his or her presence. Maybe because of this investment of energy, the joy from collaboration is often greater. When I share my favorite music with a friend, it’s like hearing it again for the first time. No matter how familiar I am with the song, it tickles new receptors, as if I am hearing it through the ears of the other person. Empathy becomes almost physical.
Our Poem
May 3, 2012
Last night, I was doing research. I was doing research into my deepest desires and motivations. I was doing research into my deepest desires and motivations to see what would really satisfy me. It’s hard to classify satisfaction. So often it gets sorted into physical, emotional, spiritual. But perhaps each category met individually is insufficient. I was swept away by a consuming need to connect. When I look at why I am often conflicted about direction, it is partly because I pretend to enjoy things I do not enjoy. My chameleon character floats aimlessly, content with pleasing others. It’s easy to ignore the deepest part of self.
My idea of college, a gathering of curious and fascinating people, has never really materialized. But last night, I saw a bedroom closet with more books than clothes. I flipped through a record collection that included Donovan and Bach. I listened to the patter of rain outside on new leaves and understood how irrelevant this or any town is. That the greatest resource of any place is its people. And the failure to connect with those people is the death of exploration.
Last night, I was doing research. I was doing research into my deepest desires and motivations. I was doing research into my deepest desires and motivations to see what would really satisfy me. It’s hard to classify satisfaction. So often it gets sorted into physical, emotional, spiritual. But perhaps each category met individually is insufficient. I was swept away by a consuming need to connect. When I look at why I am often conflicted about direction, it is partly because I pretend to enjoy things I do not enjoy. My chameleon character floats aimlessly, content with pleasing others. It’s easy to ignore the deepest part of self.
My idea of college, a gathering of curious and fascinating people, has never really materialized. But last night, I saw a bedroom closet with more books than clothes. I flipped through a record collection that included Donovan and Bach. I listened to the patter of rain outside on new leaves and understood how irrelevant this or any town is. That the greatest resource of any place is its people. And the failure to connect with those people is the death of exploration.