The Other Early Morning

Last night, utterly exhausted, I went to bed at 8 p.m. and woke up at 6 a.m. For most of my high school and college life, I've been a night owl, loving being awake into the early morning when few others are conscious. But today I realized that there are just as few people awake in the early morning as late at night.

After waking, I leisurely got ready for the day while listening to Bob & Tom on the radio. Showered, ate bowl of cheerios, brushed teeth, ordered coffee at The Mill, finished a 60-page reading assignment. And now a short blog! Half an hour left until work. I'll have time to relax, go through my planner, maybe read a chapter out of a new book, "Why Poetry Matters" by Jay Parini.

I've been more productive than an other night when I've been up until 2 a.m. And I have energy. I am happy. My grandpa was the first to tell me the maxim, "Early to bed, early to rise, makes the man healthy, wealthy, and wise." He lives by it, and I'm positive there's something to it.

A Project in Progress

At the beginning of May, I'll march with my classmates signifying the end of college. After a three-week summer class, I'll officially have my degree. Sitting in my room here on sixth floor, it really doesn't seem like four years have passed since I was a freshman in the room my suite mates live in now.

So what'll be next?

No idea. But I'm starting to plan. I'm doing some career planning with my advisor. His big question is, "If you could get paid to do anything, what would that be?" My answer: "Get paid to find poetry." I'm good at it. Admittedly, although my sense are tuned to what I like, not necessarily others, many of my friends have appreciated pieces I have found.

As my advisor and I were talking, I mentioned that I could see myself possibly teaching one day. To do that, I know I would have to go back to school, but it just seems like something I'll want to do. Of course I would probably teach along the lines of English, literature, or poetry, and then my advisor asked, "What level do you see yourself teaching at?" I responded most likely high school or college. There is a certain level of deepness in literature and poetry that younger kids would have a more difficult time grasping.

"Not necessarily," he said, and loaned me a copy of "Rose, how did you get that red?" by Kenneth Koch. I've recently been going through it, and it's an instructional book of how to teach great poetry to children along with lots of examples directly from his classroom. One could basically mimic what he did using the book.

While I thought it was interesting, it didn't really go beyond that. Kids aren't my thing. They're rowdy, illogically, and disrespectful. Ok, that trend extends to many high schoolers and college students, but I feel like I can connect easier with older students.

This summer, Joan, a woman from a local bookstore, emailed me about an idea they were working on in a couple lower economic elementary schools. There are clubs that the students can sign up for as part of after-school activities, and Joan wanted to get a newspaper group going. We emailed a bit, it sounded interesting, and I told her I'd get in touch when I was back in town.

It took me a few weeks, but we finally met to talk. Unfortunately, I didn't have that time frame open thanks to my class schedule. That wasn't the end of the world because they already had something scheduled for this semester. But Joan's ideas weren't limited to this one idea. I told her about my passion for poetry, and she got a bit excited. Not a big poetry buff herself, she still sees the importance of it and was very enthusiastic that I had this interest. I fed off her excitement, and we started discussing ideas for bringing poetry into the mix. The ideas were rough, but I told her I'd think about it.

I left feeling on top of the world. College has taken up a lot of my time, but I've always been interested in volunteering somehow in the community. There could be no other perfect way than this opportunity that had come up.

So sitting at The Mill going through Koch's book, I started to get ideas of my own. I wouldn't be able to do anything as extensive as he did, but I got an idea for an abbreviated version that might use some of his material. Joan said that if I couldn't do something regular, doing a workshop over a break might work. I liked that and came up with some categories I could cover. Here they are:

1. Feelings
2. Family and Friends
3. Future
4. Fiction and Fables
5. Favorites
6. Familiar Places

This is only tentative. Depending on the time frame, I might only cover three or four. We'll cross that bridge later. I might take some relevant poems from Koch's book or find my own that would be good examples of those categories. My focus would be to get them writing about things that are familiar to them and that they care about.

So that's an idea for now. I really hope there will be a time when I can execute it. And cross my fingers really hard that it would actually work and not flop.

What I'd Want

This weekend has begun slow and dreary. I honestly don't think there could be a better way.

On my blog list is one called, "And I'm Not Lying." I can't exactly remember how I found it. I think it might have been from a friend who found some cool art or graffiti images on his page, but if that's right, I can't find them.

His "About" section reads as follows:

"Life for me, especially in New York, is this constant river of sensations that usually make absolutely no sense at all. It just blasts past, washing over me like a giant garden hose squirting from the hand of an indifferent God. Sometimes it knocks me flat, sometimes it bends me backwards, but most of all when I can get my head up above this constant river I can see how it sparkles in the sun, feel how it’s helping me grow.

"That squirting hose, the dirt, all the dandelions and blades of grass around me, they’re all stories. And as you well know, the best stories are fertilized with a pinch of some amazing shit that always starts with “And I am NOT lying.”

I haven't read much of his blog, but I went back a couple posts and found this (Daro's Wisdom). I really hope you take a look, it's not long.

First off in the clip, you got to love his grandmother. She seems like the type that you just could sit and talk to for hours.

Second, I really connected to his writing about losing close family. I've never lost anyone close to me, friend or family. Back when I was in maybe eight grade, I remember my parents leaving me and my brother at home. I don't know when it was that they started leaving us by ourselves, but it was well before then. But I thought after they left, Why did they worry so much before? I came to the conclusion that it was mostly out of worry for what could happen when they were gone. More than us getting into trouble, like there was much chance of that living in East Texas country, it was our safety.

Then I thought about something. What about their safety? There was a more likely chance that something would happen to THEM than to us. Ever since then, I've worried about my parents traveling. Who knows what might happen one day, all I do know is that I would be devastated. It's going to be rough when something happens to a grandparent, but I pray to God nothing ever happens to my parents.

Being 12 hours away at school where I only see them several times out of a year, I can start to worry, Will something happen before I see them again? I don't know how I could handle that. As cheesy as it sounds, I always tell my parents I love them before I hang up, sometimes multiple times. If something were to happen, at least I'd have that.

If you didn't read the post, he's talking with his grandma over supper. The phone rings, and somehow he knows it's his mom calling to tell him of the passing of his great-grandma. He puts it off, continuing to talk with his grandma, and after he finally calls back and gets the bad news, his 95-year-old grandma holds him silently for a while then says, "You'll always your grandmother's grandchild."

If something ever happened to my close family, that's what I'd want to hear.

On Watching the Space Station and Shuttle

When my dad rang, I answered,

Can I call you later?

When's later?

(something's up)

Thirty minutes?

Where will you be in an hour?

Not sure, why?

Watch the sky!

I hung up and smirked,

That's my dad.

Didn't plan to, but an hour later

I climbed the dam at the park

to watch two bright lights

chase across the Northern sky.

Which is the brighter one?

I dialed home to ask.

The line was busy.

Where are they going?

A minute later they were gone,

leaving the rest of us behind.

At least a few lone starts and the city lights

still hung around.

Feelings Don't Fade

My editorial for the upcoming issue of The Clocktower, written at about 4 a.m.:

I like fire. No, I don’t assemble homemade explosives or flamethrowers, but I could spend hours sticking matches or flicking a lighter just to watch the flame. As I was sitting in my room playing with a lighter I considered what would happen if I flicked it inside my hoodie pocket. How long would it take for the material to begin to burn? How big of a hole would it make?

Clothes are expensive, and I’m really not a pyro so I didn’t try it. I just think hypothetically of these things. I do have brains. Suddenly I thought, Wait, don’t I already have a hoodie with a small, burn hole in the pocket? I had to think a minute, but then I remembered.

In high school, I had a grey, pullover sweatshirt that had the letters “U.C.A.” on the front (Upper Columbia Academy), and my name printed on the back in bold, capitol letters. “DR. STEINGAS.” Quite a few classmates had hoodies like this with either their last name or a nickname on the back.

At that point in time, I wanted to be a doctor. Possibly a radiologist, I didn’t exactly know. I have to admit, I really liked the titled of “Doctor.” Admittedly it was part pride, but also part ambition. To my knowledge, no one on my dad’s side has ever gotten their doctorate, and I wanted to be the first. But coming into college, I decided the long-term academic road was not for me. Doesn’t mean it still can’t happen.

During the beginning of senior year I lost that sweatshirt in Pendleton, Ore. I took it off in a barber shop before I got my hair cut and forgot to take it with me. I got a similar sweatshirt later that year, but it wasn’t the same. It fit differently. I didn’t have the faint smell of campfire from the canoe campout on at Upper Priest Lake during junior year. Or the burn hole created by a large, stray ember.

Since I don’t remember things well, I collect mementos. Banquet tickets, notes passed in class, receipts from road trips or meals with friends. And I might not always remember exactly what happened or what was said, but as Maya Angelou said, “I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

Once a questionnaire asked, “There is a fire, and you can only save two books. Which ones would you choose?” I tried hard to think of some book with sentimental. Although I mark up every book I read, they all can be replaced. But then it hit me. My high school yearbooks. Both my junior and senior ones are filled to the max with notes and signatures.

Interestingly, none of my college yearbooks are signed anywhere close to that. I’m starting to regret that. I have photos. I have random items of memorabilia. But no notes in my yearbooks.

Well, it’s my senior year. And I can promise you that this year’s is getting marked up.

As for the sweatshirt? As of tonight in the East Oregon Craigslist listing of “lost & found” is the title “Lost Sweatshirt.” I’m pretty sure I won’t get it back, but that’s fine. I still remember how the smoke smelled and the burn hole felt.

Seriously Considering...

From this summer at camp:

If it were up to me, I'd abandon this lonely campfire bench and chase the sunset. I wouldn't look up directions, and the map in the backseat would stay there. I wouldn't come back. I could live in my car, find odd jobs in towns I went through. Others can function on less.

But here I sit, rooted by responsibility and commitment. Next year will be my last of set plans. I've yet to make any, and I'm unsure if I want to.

Nightmare Revisited

When I was younger, I used to have this nightmare that would come back every month or two. A car would drive up to our house, and three or four guys would get out and come up to the front door, try to look inside and taunt us. Sometimes I was by myself, with my brother or even when mom and dad were home. There was never any actual violence as I recall, but I think what creeped me out the most was that it was always the same guys in the same car. Maybe this is why I'm not too sad that I don't dream often anymore.

Moments ago, I was out on the driveway taking in the night. To the right, the sky was clear; to the left, the sky was cloudy which blended with the fog as my gaze leveled out. I began to think of how I didn't linger outside much at night back in the day. Granted, the coyote howls in the distance will give me a brief chill and wondering the property across the street is something I still save for daylight hours, but the driveway is comfortable.

Walking back into the house, I started scoffing some of the things that used to bother my younger self. Then I remembered the nightmare. So right now, I'm piddling around the internet and will maybe read or listen to a podcast in a minute. All in hopes that I can ward off the chance of the dream coming back tonight.

Home Alone

First item of business
after driving twelve hours home:
give brother a buzz cut.
He's talked about it since grade school.
With the parents out of town
he finally did it. No, I did it!

After American Pie
we end up outside at the end of the driveway
discussing his girl, future plans,
and the past contained in the house behind us.
I hope one of us grows old right here
with the other just across the street.

Green-Striped Melons

A good magician never reveals his tricks. And likewise, I'm tempted not to share where I find some of these poems because you might check my blog as much. But it'd be wrong not fill you in about American Life in Poetry. It's a program that Ted Kooser when he was the U.S. Poet Laureate. It's a short, weekly column containing a poem that's syndicated free to newspapers. You can also get them emailed to you, just visit www.americanlifeinpoetry.org. Or come back to my blog for the best of them.

Here is last weeks that I just read. It's so short and deep. Drink it in:

"Green-Striped Melons" by Jane Hirshfield

They lie
under stars in a field.
They lie under rain in a field.
Under sun.

Some people
are like this as well--
like a painting
hidden beneath another painting.

An unexpected weight
the sign of their ripeness.

Up Past Curfew

7-24-09

Sleep isn't always a satisfying elixir.

For to finish some days requires

an out-of-bed experience

like sipping tea on an empty porch

watching the night fall asleep.

Two days off. Two poems.

Two untitled poems I wrote during my day off today and last week. Comment if you wish!

7-8-09

The Eastern Kansas road stretches out

then abruptly twists—left then right, repeat.

Oddly there's no rush or pressure

of people to see, places to go.

So down with the bass; up with the treble.

Under the speed limit instead of over.

Thumbs up to the bicyclist I just passed

instead of the finger.

What a different way to live!

7-15-09

Is it really so odd

that one day is warm

while the next brings snow?

That rain and clear skies

can swap spots in minutes?

Why berate the poor weatherman

when no one in the world

can predict my change of mood?

Maginalia

Because I love books, because I mark notes and symbols in the margins, because I too am wondering about my old self:

"Marginalia" by Deborah Warren

Finding an old book on a basement shelf--
gray, spine bent--and reading it again,
I met my former, unfamiliar, self,
some of her notes and scrawls so alien

that, though I tried, I couldn't get (behind
this gloss or that) back to the time she wrote
to guess what experiences she had in mind,
the living context of some scribbled note;

or see the girl beneath the purple ink
who chose this phrase or that to underline,
the mood, the boy, that lay behind her thinking--
but they were thoughts I recognized as mine;

and though there were words I couldn't even read,
blobs and cross-outs; and though not a jot
remained of her old existence--I agreed
with the young annotator's every thought:

A clever girl. So what would she see fit
to comment on--and what would she have to say
about the years that she and I have written
since--before we put the book away?

The Last REAL Summer

Even though Union let out at the beginning of the month, I took a stats class (my first and last college math course) that crammed a whole semester of material into three weeks. But today I finished! All five tests are over, and my homework has been handed in. I'm ecstatic. I don't think I'll know what to do with myself until June 10 when I leave to work at camp.

Actually, I do know. Work on cleaning my room and my office, finish Alias, catch up on TIME, hang out with friends, get my teeth cleaned, start packing up again, go to a wedding and my brother's high school graduation, write some poetry, wash my car, get my camera fixed, schedule gallery exhibits for the rest of the summer. And while that's a pretty decent-sized list, I don't care because school isn't in the mix anymore! I love summer.

In the middle of it all, I need time to think. I have a lot I want to figure out, and I need to make it a priority. So many questions are begging answers, and I need pay attention to them instead of covering them up with busyness.

But all that will come. For now it's sleep. It's weird thinking that this is my last, true summer. Next year around this time I'll have graduated and summer will be a thing of the past just as homeleaves are to me now. Believe me, I'm living this one up!