Swimming in a pool of all clear

There were stories and anecdotes I milled over to incorporate in my long-over-due post but are no longer relevant, no longer fresh.

My stories are not unlike the contents of my refrigerator. I habitually buy yet rarely use the goods I get at the grocery store. Having groceries puts some strange part of me to rest. It's like, if everything else hits the fan, I know I have food in my fridge, and that means something, right?

I just keep telling myself that what I'm doing probably means something, and is in someway "right." After applying to multiple jobs and getting multiple interviews and multiple rejection letters touting me as "the top candidate but seemingly over qualified," I decided to beat them to the punch for the next job I apply to and actually BE overqualified so I can shake my head "Yes" and say, "You know what, I am over-qualified, thank you for reiterating that fact for me." That said, I'm applying to graduate school.

And what a daunting awful thing it is. I signed up for a class to prepare me but all it seems to do is expose my flaws and inadequacies as a human being. It's simple, they tell me. Write a thesis sentence and then construct a coherent, five paragraph essay that clearly conveys your issue. Right. See, that wouldn't be a big deal but consider, A. I haven't written a thing, let alone a thoughtful technical essay in pressing six months and B. There is a constant voice I hear echoing through my thoughts that says "Don't be deadly dull, defy conventions." And there, I have my undergraduate education to thank. I was worked so thoroughly to the bone in the avenues of criticism and craft that I have debilitating anxiety and fear creating the very medium at hand.

So where exactly does this leave me? I have a plane ticket for Boston and a seat at the U of M reserved for the GRE. I'm out six hundred dollars and my anxiety levels have exponentially risen to an all time high. A part of me says, "You're in over your head Hanson, back out while you can." And another saying, "Seriously? Buck up, you asshole." Really no question remains, because, undoubtably I will take this exam. Sure, I may be in over my head, but as this post begs to prove, I can in fact produce a five paragraph something.

Happenings and

And then and then.

Things happen and things move and spaces change and people change and

Then nothing ever changes.

Three year cycle is the course I'm choosing to take.

I should really look into baking as a something. I already do it as a hobby actively. Breads, buckles, cookies, cupcakes are my zen therapy. That makes me want to puke, the saying that, that is. I'm like a true Martha fucking Stewart. Congratulations.

There is something about three years which allows my reset to reset--into place, into motion, into time. Three years ago, I had quit smoking, had lost someone dear, had gone through a wicked split and resurfaced with moments of clarity balanced with moments of sheer floundering.

We are people. We are living breathing organisms that feel things, like it or not. And then sometimes we document these things we see and feel to remind us that we are alive.

A new woman was born into my family yesterday, and somehow, some part of my being feels underwhelmed but also terribly hopeful that she can and will become an amazingly beautiful, driven and independent woman--if even a fraction like the one I, we, lost this year, then we will be in wonderful shape.

Also, there is a person, there are people I, we, meet that make us really feel alive.

i want to feel (hear) the wind blow
down my back
through my chest up into
my bones

sensations

in a time
recently i became a woman
felt like a woman, no longer a girl
age, a coming of
bigger than gender specific

senses of spacial relations
i can feel your resilience
you just don't know it yet

distance, a future is calling
this limbo will not last
but in time, vast expanses

Life

i feel great today, thanks.