A School Morning

Ahhh. There's nothing like waking up in the morning by the sounds of three alarm clocks. I slowly opened my eyes and fumbled for each one, feeling calmer with each button I found to turn them off. Alarm clocks scare me. They always do. And if their alarms don't frighten me, I end up sleeping through them. Alas, that is why I must keep giving myself heart attacks when I need to wake up at a certain time.

My trusty cell phone is always the first to off. It's pretty scary because it vibrates at the same time, so it makes really loud buzzing noises when it skitters across the side table. The last thing I do is force myself to sit up and touch my lamp three times - tap, tap, tap - to turn it on to it's brightest lights. It's a terribly old touch lamp, but I love it because I feel like a magician when I turn it on and off.

These actions have turned into almost a set of loose rituals because without them, I'd probably just flop back onto my pillow, pull the covers up to my chin, and indulge in a little more shut eye - which can't happen, since I have to go to school.

School.

It's a pretty word, isn't it? There's something very soft about the c and the o sounds. But it carries such weight with its meaning. Who else had to get up early for school in these past few days? Okay. And then I ask: who has to get up before the sun rises?

It's funny to think that, because of the time changes, the sky is so dark in the mornings now. If I leave for school at just the right time, I drive mostly in darkness and watch the colors slowly light the sky with through the hazy lens of my windshield. The stars wave "Good Morning," and pack their glittering lights for another part of the Earth, for another planet that watches their beauty while we go to work or walk our dogs. The moon turns spidery silver and high-fives the sun. Another day and another night accomplished.

I leave early because I teach early, and I teach early because I like to be done with it. As hard as it is to wake up, I believe it is harder to troll around for a near impossible parking space and then worry about making it to the classroom in time. I'd rather rub my eyes and yawn while presenting a PowerPoint. The long days crawl by in my cubicle and my legs, unused to staying in the same attitude (they just don't remember last semester), turn to legs of pins and needles. I tap my feet so fast that even Sonic would be jealous. But when night comes again I'm in another classroom - this time as the student - whispering secrets about writing craft, and, for this semester, studying the most delicate and archaic forms of romantic comedy storytelling.

Yesterday I turned the key and opened the door to the large room full of orange cubicles (we affectionately call it the Pumpkin Patch) and stumbled past the old couch to turn on the lights. In the back, near the corner, I peeked into my own private scholarly haven for the first time since winter break began. The scraps of poems and story excepts pinned to the walls still hung next to posters of faraway landscapes and a rather large Tangled poster I had put up behind my old computer. That poster, as pretty as it is, caused me a lot of pain in my knees and hands from balancing on the table to get it successfully tacked up. Totally worth it. And, lastly, the blow-up doll of The Scream, the painting by Evard Munch, still gaped its mouth next to the computer. My home away from home. My den. I dropped my bags into the table space and plopped into the chair. I rocked back, stared at the ceiling. Another semester.

I thought about how I'll probably get antsy and need to walk up and down the stairs a few times to check my mailbox - not because there is anything in there, but because I don't know how else I'll get exercise. I imagined all the trips I'll be taking to the library, right next door to my building, and how I'll show off the treasures but never get to them under the piles of red inked papers. The last and most important thing I thought of was how I'll be continuing to write.

I can't yet see where and when new stories will come to me this semester, but I'm excited and waiting for them. To the stories I've already been writing: I'll finish you all. Some faster than others. And to others more, who might still be collecting dust until the time comes to unearth them, I will one day yet add those bows and sparkles to you.

I wish you all, who are still in school, no matter what form, a very happy and productive semester. Let's do this!

Men of Honor

It's officially 2011, and I feel as if the fresh air of the new year is filling all the spaces in my body with renewed energy as it tumbles into my lungs (except for that nasty headache from staying up way too late. Well, that, too, will pass). In order to celebrate, I thought I'd post a small list that probably won't end up changing, even with the new year.

The list consists of the top most influential men that have inspired me or, at the very least, helped shape my crooked brain into the shape it is now. Why men? Oh, I don't know. I thought it would be fun. I'll make a women one too, down the road.

These guys are in no particular order!

1. Mervyn Peake

It all started with my bad habit of wandering library stacks. I still lose track of time when I see all the books lined up so prettily, teasing me with their spines as if batting their eyelashes. In this discovery, it was actually a DVD that caught my eye, leading me to find illustrator and author Mr. Peake. The DVD was called Gormenghast, a BBC adaptation of the first two novels in this Titus Groan series. I fell in love with the strange world of an endless, ruinous castle with a full cast of odd characters living within it. It's more complicated than that, I assure you. He died before he could finish the series. 2011, though, is an exciting time for him because I've heard tell of a re-release of the series with all new illustrations (why couldn't I wait?) and the fourth novel, supposedly written by his wife after his death, in order to provide some kind of closure to the wondrous story he created. I can't wait. I'm on pins and needles.

2. George MacDonald

Okay, so I know that some of you are already familiar with him. It's been a few years since I stumbled upon him, but in the past few months I've finally obtained a bunch of his books to read. That explains all of his not-so-subtle appearances lately, haha. You know, some people say that Emerson's writing is so good that you can randomly open up a page, place a finger anywhere, and find that the sentence you've chosen can stand completely on its own. Well, I feel that way about MacDonald's writing - and he's writing stories! Graceful stories, full of sharp imagery, gentle humor, and wit. You can find a lot of his work online, and I strongly suggest you seek him out. He's rather unsung, but known by many who just seem to be into reading these sorts of things.

3. John R. Dilworth

I tend to consider the days in which Cartoon Network showed about six of the same cartoons everyday (like the PowerPuff Girls and Johnny Bravo) to be the "golden age." I highly doubt I'm the first to call it that, haha, or call anything that. However, it's safe to say that the cartoons of this time inspired me greatly. My favorite, though, will always be Courage the Cowardly Dog. Specially trained by Blue's Clues by always searching for Snail, I equally relished finding all the cameos Dilworth made in his own series. He was "Dilly," a little yellow man who would only appear in family photos or giant billboards in each episode. Just a picture. But my brother and I would always point at the screen and shout, "There's Dilly!" We'd get mad at each other too if one of us saw him for that split second and the other didn't. I've only just begun to explore Dilworth's other creations, but I'm glad to see that they are just as zany as Courage. Check out his short called, "Rinky Dink." You'll get a nice feel for his style, I think.

4. Don Bluth

Where do I begin? Perhaps I'll start by saying that Mr. Bluth had been an unconscious influence on me from when I was a tiny pup. I say unconscious because, when you're a kid and you're drooling over Rock-a-Doodle, you don't instinctively reach for the back of the VHS case to scan the credits. The movies I loved most, in the end, were not Disney films. It was his that stuck with me over the years. I can make a giant list of the films, but as I've noticed, people like to spend time mulling over each one because - let's face it - every one of his movies struck some kind of chord in each of us. I'll just say that if I had to pick a favorite, it would be Thumbelina. I'll be completely head over heels for it even when I'm ninety and half my brain is gone. Bluth's amazing sense of character and animated beauty and charm grace every movie. Each scene acts as a soft shard that sticks to the back of your skull, glimmering every once in a while so you can see the sparkling reflection again. I can't thank him enough for a lifetime of inspiration, haha.

5. C. S. Lewis

I don't remember much of my parents reading to me when I was little. I'm sure they did it. Perhaps I was too busy daydreaming to store up those memories. The only time I do recall sitting against the bed, digging my toes into the carpet as my mother read, was when she read my brother and I the Chronicles of Narnia. Because of this, I get the major case of the warm fuzzies whenever anything Narnia comes my way. My actual favorites in the series are all the books that aren't popular (my curse? I don't know). The Magician's Nephew, The Horse and His Boy, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, and The Silver Chair took me to amazing places. Oh, yes, and I loved the Dawn Treader movie. I will continue to rally for all the books to make it on screen. There is not one that doesn't deserve it (and they better hurry up - those actors are growing so fast!). Aslan is pretty cool. I think he's a favorite character. He makes me smile. He feels very familiar, like an old friend.

6. Percy Shelley

Ah, the great optimistic poet. I really hated him in high school. Although I love English with all my heart - and can't imagine having studied anything else - I mentally blocked a lot of the literature classes I took in high school. Bad memories. I think now it was merely the atmosphere and the teachers that ruined it and caused my mind to shut out such creatures as the Transcendentalists, haha.

I went into my college Romanticism class saying, "I hate Shelley. I'm going to hate him again." Now, I believe I must have been spoiled by a really bad group analysis of "Ode to the West Wind." However, as soon as we started learning about him, I became intensely curious. I ate up his biography like it was candy floss. My college professor once told me that Shelley used to write cute little notes and put them in balloons. He would tie them up and send them off into the world for people to find and read. To this day, no one has ever found one of these notes. I kind of want to go on an adventure to see if these precious notes could be plucked from the knots of an old tree or found floating amongst all those lost messages in bottles on the wide open sea. It may be a fruitless wish, but it feels incredibly romantic.

7. Conrad Veidt

Ah! The only actor on this list - and an old one! Truth be told, Veidt is still a new influence for me. My mom and I got a old horror movie collection about a year back, and we sat for a few days straight and watched all the black and white films. It was so much fun and not so scary. We found a lot of movies we liked. As for me, I was entranced by an old German silent film called The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. Man, is it wonderful. Veidt plays a somnambulist (or sleepwalker) named Cesare who is being used by the eccentric Dr. Caligari to commit murder and other violent acts. This film goes much deeper, but Cesare quickly became my favorite character. My eyeballs were glued to his thin, ghostly white form whenever he slinked into a scene. After being exposed to such a character, I made an interesting promise to myself: I would try, as much as I could, to make odd, quirky men appealing leading males or love interests. Yes, it really did spring from this movie. It was like the trigger, haha. Then again, I'm not that into those Alpha males you find in the supermarket romance novels. I like a little more depth and a lot less aggressiveness. I find Veidt fascinating and I'm looking forward to discovering more of his films in the future.

8. Tetsuya Nomura
How could I think of closing out this list without a longtime Japanese influence? Hands down, Nomura has been inspiring me for a long time. His artwork makes my jaw drop, and his skill with characterization and story is wonderful. I spent many lunch periods in high school debating with my friends about how many people it would take to defeat Sephiroth in a chess match or singing terribly the lyrics to "Simple and Clean" from Kingdom Hearts. So, yeah, bring on the nerd - if I haven't done so already. I'm a big Final Fantasy geek. College had taken a lot of the energy and hype out of me - Zidane was replaced with Walt Whitman and Tonberries were not so dangerous anymore when placed side by side with a paper deadline. Nowadays, I feel that I have more time but am not handling it well enough to fit these games back in. But they deserve the attention. I keep rooting for Nomura and hope for better and better things from him. He's grown in the company and I know he still has much to offer.

Great-Great-Grandmother

"'I should like you to take me to see my great old grandmother.'

The king looked grave and said: 'What does my little daughter mean?'

"I mean the Queen Irene that lives up in the tower - the very old lady, you know, with the long hair of silver.'

The king only gazed at his little princess with a look which she could not understand.

'She's got her crown in her bedroom,' she went on; 'but I've not been in there yet. You know she's there, don't you?'

'No,' said the king, very quietly.

- George MacDonald, The Princess and the Goblin

There are three doors in front of you. All is quiet for a moment. You can hear the pigeons flapping their wings outside the tower walls. Your throat is dry and your feet sore from climbing. But you forget when you hear the humming. Soft, like a bee.

This part always gets me. My heart pumps and I instinctively lean forward towards the screen. I know what's coming, but it's still somehow new each time. This, my friends, is The Princess and the Goblins.

Although the movie and book have a difference of an "s" in their titles, the same feelings are evoked from both mediums. Did you ever grow up watching or reading this story? I had the movie on VHS and used to watch it all the time. Proof: if I put it in the VCR now, the picture gets all wobbly and the sound is horribly off. For Christmas I ordered it in DVD format, as well as finally getting my hands on the book for the first time (got the sequel included, The Princess and the Curdie). I would highly suggest finding a copy yourself (or... actually... I believe all of it is on Wikipedia... I know!).

Although there is a lot to love, my favorite character is and will always be the mysterious Queen Irene. I don't know yet if the DVD has it, but on the original tape, the film would start with a little talk by a real woman (the voice actress) dressed up as Queen Irene. She had on the sparkling makeup and long white wig. Child safety must have been a big issue at the time because she advertised a card that she said all little girls needed in case they were ever lost or needed help. I can't remember much about the card - it might have had an emergency number on the back, or the child's number, to give to a policeman if there was trouble. I never did get that card, but I always got chills when I watched this introduction. Her voice was so smooth and melodic, yet a bit alarmist at the same time. She was serious about future danger. And she could help you prepare for it.

She told little Irene, in such words: "I'll be here when you need me, though you may not always be able to see me."

I trusted her. I wanted my grandmothers to be like her - full of gentle guidance and floating roses.

I thought of the queen and this film today because I spoke with an old friend of mine for the first time in a while. We were sitting in our respective bedrooms, connected by a phone line, and feeling like we were back in college skidding on dirty dorm floors and eating marshmallow and peanut butter sandwiches. Apparently, I can be a little bit psychic, because I tend to call her right before something major happens. "You always seem to be there when I need you," she said, and I, blushing and yet familiarly snarky, quoted the above words from Queen Irene.

I think her words hold true for a lot of great friendships or any type of important relationships. Even in the age of texting and Blackberries, we still manage to find time to step away from technology and enjoy living. This can take many forms, though sometimes friendships can seem to slip away as we get some metaphorical shut-eye. I believe that you don't always need words to maintain a connection with someone. The connection still holds, even if you're trapped on a desert island without a bottle to send off into the sea.

Throughout the course of the story, Irene is constantly told that her great-great-grandmother is only a figment of her imagination. No one believes her. The danger she faces is not necessarily concerning the goblins, but that she'd stop believing that Queen Irene lives in the abandoned tower. Her father, as I quoted in the beginning of this post, is the only one who seems to know something about this mysterious ancestor. However, he can do nothing until she invites him to see her. Irene is on her own. And she proves strong enough to hold fast to the unconventional relationship with the wise woman.

Please enjoy this amazing moment of the film. I think you'll catch on to it's magic and realize, because I can't do her justice, just how amazing Queen Irene is.

Have a safe and happy new year!

Christmas Wishes and Prince Philip's Hair

"The moon stared at the princess, and the princess stared at the moon, but the moon had the best of it, and the princess began to cry"

- George MacDonald, The Wise Woman, or The Lost Princess.

I don't think anyone was staring at the moon last night. Christmas Eve leaves kiddies and adults either asleep in their beds or gazing up at the ceiling. Depends on how you handle impatience.

One upon a time I was told that if I went looking for Santa in the living room, where the tree sparkled with electric lights, I would only catch a glimpse of his red coat before he and the presents evaporated like morning dew. I'm pretty sure I was told other things (I remember something disjointed about a Christmas deer). Funny how the most interesting tales come from warnings.

I hope that this wonderful holiday went well for all my readers (and future readers) and even the people who have not discovered this place yet, haha. My far-reaching wishes stretch out beyond the computer screen. Wham! You've got 'em.

I won't talk about what treasures popped out from underneath the wrapping paper this morning. But I will say that something exciting, and maybe trivial, happened while me and the family took our traditional stroll through the Magic Kingdom.

When extended family live states and states away, you tend to form new traditions. Sometimes strange. Mostly fun. Braving the over-capacitated kingdom has become an exciting (and a little foolhardy) journey we make.

We ate at Cosmic Rays; I watched enviously as my dad and brother ate burgers with guacamole sauce under the bun. I chewed on my own plain burger and was secretly jealous (maybe I need new glasses so I can see the menu better. How could I miss that?). The weather windy and sunny at the same time. Children were more violent than usual... maybe it's the promise of toys they are given by their short-tempered parents. The promises I heard were made under exhaustive circumstances. Empty, I'd say.

But it seems as if Santa had one more surprise for me. The daytime Christmas parade was passing through Frontierland and we were taking the shortcut along the boardwalk. Just over the trees, I could see the colorful floats roll by; the sky was full of ribbons and snowflakes and I got painfully excited when I recognized the float with the princes and princesses. I grabbed onto my mother's backpack so she could lead me blindly forward (our path was still jammed) and stood on my toes and looked.

I saw something beautiful and unexpected. I saw Prince Philip. And he had hair.

Should I backpedal? It's simple. I've lived in sunny FL for ten years, and in all the time I've gone to Disney World, I have only seen men casted for Prince Philip who have sported crew cuts. As a lover of tousled hair on men, and an occasional stickler for details, I couldn't understand why all the Philips were practically bald. He had a delightful head of hair in the movie. And a little curly forelock. Where did they get it wrong?

But today, on the Christmas morning, I saw Prince Philip with a full head of lovely fluffy hair. My heart pounded against my chest and I squinted until my eyes were shaped like squished peas (HAHA). I thought I would faint right there, on the boardwalk, and be trampled upon by angry parents with mean little stroller wheels. Maybe a girl wearing an Aurora dress would roll by and tug on my hair, as if saying, "He's my prince, you old lady. We're married. My dress even changed colors during our wedding dance." But, you know, Prince Philip is my favorite Disney prince. So this would be worth it. (I stress Disney prince. I have a top favorite animated prince - can you guess? - but I'll save that for another post, haha).

I managed to keep my footing and sighed as we continued along. The rest of the day went very well, and, when we arrived back home, I dished out some leftover green bean casserole and went looking for proof of my well-endowed (hair-wise) prince. Well, heh heh, I guess he's new. I haven't found anything yet. But I'll remember to keep a look out next time. If his appearance is a gift, then that means that it has to stay long after this magical wintry day is over.

Have a great CHRISTMAS!

Welcome Home, Roppongi!

A blog within a blog, haha...

I'm a homebody.

My idea of a wonderful afternoon is to sit on a large, soft couch. The ethereal music of ice cubes clinking glass fills the quiet room. A pile of well-loved library books slowly slide into the dip between cushions. I'm cozy in a cardigan or woolly sweater, barefoot, and balancing a tiny laptop in my lap. Yes, yes, the laptop is always involved, it seems. But it's consistent warmth and gentle hum, like a long sigh, adds to the familiar atmosphere.

You may not believe me, but I'm a bona fide Gemini. And it makes sense - I make sense - as a child of the star twins until we crash headfirst into this issue. I like to settle into my space. I feel that when I am surrounded by what inspires me (via posters, knick-knacks, etc), I can tap into those creative zones that help me keep writing. While my astrological genes say I should be fluttering from party to party, I find that a trip to the outdoor mall makes my cheeks glow with fresh adventure.

As much as I love the tranquility of home, I still love to explore new places and find little spots to sit and think and write. I used to have a few I would wander to in undergraduate school. I remember a grassy field next to the music building that overlooked the lake. There was also a leafy hill that sloped down from the side of the science building - if you sat at the top, you could peek in through a set of windows to see a lab below.

As I started my graduate journey, however, I have spent most of my time on campus in my office. When I'm there for a good few hours, grading or researching or just rocking back and forth in my chair, the fluorescent lights start to burn and the walls of the pumpkin-colored cubicle shrinks. Why don't I get out and explore the miles of university land, sprawling and endless compared to my small college? Well, I need a computer. All the time. Emails plop into my inbox like raindrops every few minutes and work doesn't slink into the shadows for later. It's always there. I figured out that simply allocating time away from the computer was not going to work: these school days are rarely that predictable. So, instead, I would purchase a companion who would free me from my office, but would allow me to keep up with steady flow of work. This pal: a netbook.

The Dell Inspiron mini was officially born today. This afternoon, when I dropped my duffel bag and Christmas presents for the family onto the tile floor, I saw the cardboard box waiting. Yay, no one opened it while I was away. We gathered around and watched it come to life. I stuck a big sticker on the front; the sad animals seem to be saying, "Take care of the environment, please." Very compelling. The pictures I've posed thus far feature it: I named him Roppongi.

Okay, so technically, Roppongi is the name of a train station and a whole district in Tokyo, Japan. But this netbook is named after the character, a personification of the district and station in a show called Miracle Train. If you have never seen it, I sincerely recommend it. Especially if you don't watch anime often. It's a show about a mythical train that helps lost ladies. It's very sweet and funny. Check out episode 1 here. And don't forget to turn on the closed captioning (CC). I know I did, haha.

Left: Roppongi. Right: My Roppongi.

So with Roppongi happily by my side (I'm thinking even lapdog. Very odd), I am embarking on my mission to become a nomad on campus. I don't want to say that, at the end of my three years, I had never stepped foot outside of my office. While the air is cool, I'm going to enjoy each change of scenery that I encounter. It's going to be great.