I Still Can't Say "Lata, Playa."

This past October, one of my really dear friends died suddenly. I can trace the Maturation of Carissa back to almost that exact date. He was a big dude in almost every sense, and not having him there made a lot of us all grow up and fill the holes that he left in having to take care of ourselves and each other.

He had my back more than anyone else ever has. And I only say this over my best girl friends, because I am pretty sure that he would have killed someone if he thought he really had to. He certainly was right up and in the face of the drunk dude at Higher Ground until I got an apology for being doused by his beer. He was there to protect and serve when the Ex Who Won't Take No For An Answer came back to Burlington.

He was the sort of guy who would give you both his shirt AND his ill hoodie right off of his back if you asked for it. I don't think I ever heard him tell me "no." I could call him at any hour of the day or night and tell him what was up, and he'd be right on it. More than anything else I miss about him lately, I miss that feeling of knowing that there was someone who can just say, "Hey, homegirl, it's aight. You're a dime, and you're gonna get through this," and tuck me under his chin. And it made it "aight."

We went through a lot together. I'd never been more honest with anyone than I was with him. He was just one of those people who you just wanted to tell everything to. We'd sit out on the stoop and smoke and shoot the shit, and those are probably some of my favorite memories. I learned more about other people and myself when I was with him then I ever did alone. It stands to reason that sometimes, the people that you least expect it from are the ones that are going to provide you with exactly what you need, even if you never knew you needed it before.

The other day, I was feeling pretty low. I went into my little Drawer of Magic and was promptly stumped. There was lots more in there then I remembered, and I mean, I'm not just being forgetful here. I didn't know what the fuck was going on. I pulled it all out, looked at it, exceedingly puzzled, and then just felt it. There he was, in with his wares, still providing for me. Basically, still saying, "Keep it easy, and this one's on me. Still." I sat there on my bedroom floor and gave in to the least-graceful mix of laughing and crying at the same time ever executed.

I miss him terribly, every day.

But it's good to know his sense of generous humor has still stuck around.

So this one's on me. One love, MJP. And I'll never say "lata, playa."
XOXO

Essays, Wrote The Wise Man

If I have nothing original to give you of my own, I will find you something interesting and of note to read.

This is the website of one of my professors, and his essay on the durian fruit is hilarious. If nothing else today, you need to read this, and laugh.

Like Tim Brookes, I thoroughly appreciate a good essay. Essays, essays, essays...I have a long and involved relationship with essays, (possibly my only long and involved relationship ever). When I was a freshmen in high school, my English teacher passed out a prompt and those iconoclastic blue booklets to our class so, like every other high school student in grades 9-12 in the state of Vermont, we could participate in the annual Vermont Honors Competition for Excellence in Writing. (Long title; 5 paragraph essay.)

To my utter surprise, my essay (I don't remember the prompt,) was selected as the best out of the 150 some-odd from my freshmen class. On to Round Two writing against the freshmen winners of the other schools in my county, and a new prompt, this one on what I would chose to do if I knew it was my last day alive. (My response: nothing different, except I'd sleep in and finally be daring enough to speak up to a few people I felt I couldn't be for the fear of having to live with the words I'd said. As still now, I have always had a problem with actually saying the words I feel and think.) Again, utter shock when I was announced the county winner.

This brought me onto State Finals at UVM. I brought my friends Wheaton and Carson along for moral support, and was (again, as always) 15 minutes late to the actual timed writing period. This was the prompt for the competing essay: "Our country prides itself on progress made in such fields as technology, medicine, education, etc. In a thoughtful, well-developed essay, discuss how progress, although highly valued in our society, could be viewed as being paradoxical." I wrote something about how although technology has made our lives "easier," one could argue that it has taken away the personal element to things such as communication, which undermines the definition of "progress." I think I even used the word "juxtaposition" somewhere in that essay. It would make sense. It's been my favorite word since my intimidating, inspiring, iconic 9th grade play-writing teacher used it one day in class.

The prompt for all grades was a bit less cerebral: "Henry Adams wrote, 'A teacher affects eternity; he can never tell where his influence stops.' Reflect upon Adams’ words. Then, in a thoughtful, well-developed essay, discuss the impact a teacher (the individual does not have to be in the teaching profession) made on you." I thought about my teachers; my trainer; my parents; my more enlightened friends. And then I wrote about myself and my writer's voice, and though I may not know where it came from, or how, that voice, more than all the class assignments, bad teenage poetry, fan-fictions, and notes passed in class, is what encourages me to write, and to continue writing. I have tried scouring the internet and files to find the copy of the essay for you, but, alas, somewhere in the past (jeeezus) seven years, it has disappeared. Probably, a good thing. It was not my favorite essay ever written. But yet, when they announced my name as the statewide freshmen year winner and ushered me up to collect my $2,000 check, that was the essay they asked me to read. So, like anyone just given a large amount of money and then asked to do something, I complied, and was amazed when I watched stranger's mothers tear up. I was even more amazed when I was called to the school office a week later to conduct a phone interview with a reporter from the local paper.

"Have you always written?" the reporter asked me.

"Um...yeah, I guess so." (I was in such shock I am afraid I was not the eloquent. Then again, I've always been far more eloquent via written rather than spoken word.)

"What do you think you want to do with your writing? Any plans on making it a profession?"

"I want to be a journalist." The words were out of my mouth before I'd even thought about them. I was just as surprised as the reporter was. This was the first time I'd even considered making writing (something I loved,) into a career (something to feed myself and pay the bills). Before, I had every intention on attending veterinary school, nevermind the fact I am so severely needle-phobic I get strapped down to the chair at my doctor's. All it took was four five-paragraph essays that a few other people believed in enough to think they were "winners" to change the entire course of my life.

I have always loved shared knowledge-- if you find something you think I might enjoy or find novel, please, and by all means, leave it for me as a comment. I always love finding, discovering, or reading new things.

XOXO