The Golf Swing

The golf swing is smooth,
easy, flowing.
You don't force the swing,
or else you tense-up and the swing turns into a sort of controlled trip.

The golf swing is powerful,
weightless, balanced.
Its power comes from the hips;
you shift your body weight going through,
like swinging a baseball bat, only vertically.

Like a palm tree,
the swing is loose enough so it sways in the wind,
but strong enough so it doesn't snap in half.

The swing is calm,
peaceful, focused.
Focusing on only the swing,
ignoring all noise and movement,
the swing stops time,
until you release yourself and then it goes--high, far, easy.

Self-confidence and my voice; "You better get there before I get there."

A lot of the time, I don't feel like a poet or a writer, and consequently, I don't feel like my poetry or writing is any good.

I don't say this because I want people to reassure me my stuff is good, and to tell me all writers feel self-doubt once in a while; I really don't want people to think this is that kind of plea. I'm saying this because it's becoming a bigger problem when I write.

My biggest concern is finding my voice. If you ask me, I don't have a voice in my writing. I don't know how to find my voice either. Everything I write, from my blogposts to chicken-scratch words I write on scraps of paper, everything feels...phony. I don't remember the last time I wrote something that I've felt was really worth reading. Nothing I write comes from me. It all feels generic and uninspired and stupid.

As a student in a poetry class, I'm exposed to a bit of stuff from my peers. And although some of it is junk, there's a few people in my class who are just bad-ass poets. One in particular, whom I'll call Hydrogen, has written stuff that knocks me out. Her words, her subject matter: these things are definitely Hydrogen. There's no mistaking her voice for another. I'm astounded by how clear and comfortable her words sound, yet at the same time, how easily they seem to lay on the page.

I'm jealous, I'll admit that. I get uncomfortable when others are praised and my work is unmentioned; I'll admit that too. But these things wouldn't matter, I think, if only I were able to find my voice and keep it close to me. Keep it to remember. Keep it for keeps. I think once I'm content with my voice, I'll be happy to just write and watch as others take the spotlight.

Being an author

I want to write young adult or children books.

For the past two days, I've been reading Lois Lowry's Number the Stars, a historical fiction book set in 1943 Nazi-occupied Denmark. It follows a young girls journey of maturation as she discovers what bravery really means when she is forced to make difficult decisions in the name of saving her Jewish best friend Ellen and her family.

I immensely enjoyed this book. The simple, direct language and poignant story struck me as brilliant.

But the most astounding facet of reading was how much I enjoyed reading it. I don't remember the last time I looked forward to reading a book than when I was reading Number the Stars. And looking back on my life, this phenomenon has occurred more when I'm reading non-adult fiction than the literary classics. Paper Towns, Stargirl, and The Wonderful Wizard of Oz are clear examples that spring to mind right now. I was pleased so much by all those books that I've read them numerous times, something I rarely do with the classics (Pride & Prejudice being a clear exception).

I don't know if I'll write young adult and children books for sure; it's not like I can stomp my feet and declare "I'm writing young adult and children books for the rest of my life and I'll be successful and it'll be the most fun job that anyone ever had in the history of having jobs!" Well, I guess I could, but: 1.) it won't necessarily mean I'll be successful, and 2.) it won't mean I'd be happier doing something I've yet to discover. But I've got a good feeling about this plan. I really do. And if I decide this is not what I want to do for the rest of my life, I'll move on as easily as a marble on a greased hardwood floor.

Dangit

I missed yesterday. I swear I planned to post! I only planned to take a quick nap, really. Too bad it turned into a full nights sleep. I'll post something else later today. Right now, I'm off to do some dishes.

One shot written in a parking garage (edited from the original).

The new engine made a weird vacuum sound as Lee threw the car into fourth trying for neutral as we boogied down the highway at sixty-five. Lee mashed the brake pedal. The small Honda jerked forward, stalled, then died as our heads flew forward and cracked against the nearest hard object.

"Lee, what the fuck, man!" I said through stifling moans.
My head was swimming in blurred vision. I was afraid I had a concussion.
"What the fuck, man," I said again.
"We could've died!" Manuel added from the backseat.
"Don't be a pussy," Lee shot back. "You wouldn't have died."
"Why did you do that?" I groaned.
"What if there was another car behind us?"
"There's no one on the goddam road!" Lee rasped.
I don't know why, but this seemed like an odd thing to me to point out.

No people in their right minds would drive on the 10 at three a.m. for no goddam good reason like we were. But for a city of millions, it was surprising how lonesome things became at night, especially the streets. Thousands of miles of paved ghost towns criss-crossed each other in quiet, homesick silence. And as I thought about all this, my mind felt...slower, like I had just woken up after only four hours of sleep and life seemed more fantasy than reality.

"We still could've died, Lee."
"No, you wouldn't."
"Why did you do that?"
"I thought I saw a moren flying," Lee said, solemn.
"A moren?"
"Yeah, a goddam moren."
Manuel and I looked out the window in the starless sky and listened. The balmy air was stagnant. We saw and heard nothing.
"I don't see anything," I said.
"I though I saw one; I'm not sure if it was or not."
"Why would there be a moren here?"
"I don't know why. I just thought I saw one."
I turned back to Manuel.
"You okay?"
He nodded. "Yeah, just a little bruised from the seat belt."
I turned to Lee. His face was covered by his hands.
"You okay?"
He stayed silent. I didn't think he was crying, but there was something.
Finally, he said, "Yeah, I'm good. You?"
"Yeah," I said, though I was feeling like my whole body had been soaked in water for a few days. "I'm good."
"Good," Lee replied, looking forward.

Lee turned the car back on.
Manuel was looking sullen on the way back, flashing occasional glances out the window. Lee continued looking forward. We stayed silent all the way home.

Saturday

My friends and I went to the L.A. Festival of Books yesterday. We planned an eight a.m. departure, but my procrastination and the fact I was driving made us late by one hour. We found little traffic on the way there, except a brief hiccup on the 405 exit.

Arriving at 9:45, we wandered around the small city of UCLA trying to find free parking; however, we all knew it was beyond hopeless into the realm of ridiculous to find such parking. Throwing up my arms in frustration (not literally, though, because I was driving), I caved in and shuffled into a parking structure. A whopping $10 was my punishment.

Fresh from our adventures in parking, we walked a short distance to the actual book festival. Immediately we went to a 10:30 panel on the importance of literature upon a child's imagination with David Shannon, Pam Munoz Ryan, and Kadir Nelson. I was the one who primarily wanted to go because I had to find my professor and sign-in for extra credit. I did find her, although I never signed-in because after the discussion was over and the authors were going to sign books, I got lost and couldn't find the signing booth. I looked for twenty minutes before finally giving up. Now I hope it was enough for her to see me to get the extra credit.

Afterward, we wandered for a bit, making our way to the comics on the other side of the festival (a good quarter-to-half mile), retraced out steps to the food court in the center because I felt lightheaded from hunger, then doubled backed a final time because my friends' lunches were in my car.

We ate in the mostly pedestrian-less parking garage for half an hour, then we all took an hour nap because we were all exhausted already. I tried going to sleep, but my body couldn't relax.

Around 2 or 3, we saw the Wayans brothers, Henry Winkler, and Alicia Silverstone signing or promoting various things. The sun was hard on our faces by this time, so we sought some shade and relaxed for a bit.

The day was winding down around 4 pm, but we waited for a friend of ours who lives in UCLA to return from a trip. We waited for another hour, but by that time we were all so exhausted we decided to leave without seeing our friend and hoofed it back to my car.

The return home was far worse than the morning drive. We spent a solid hour in fifteen mile per hour traffic. We got home around 6:30, having left at 5. We had some McDonalds, then waited until 10 at my friends house before seeing Kick-Ass. I enjoyed it, but I didn't agree with my friend--who had already seen it before--who place it in his top 5 movies of all-time.

After the movies, we went back to my friends house where another one of our friends came over and they started to play 'Kings Cup'. It's drinking game where you pick a random card from a deck and have to follow the corresponding rule to that card. One rule was called Heaven; when a person draws a 7 of any suit, everybody at the table has to point to the sky. The last person to do this takes a drink.

As one who doesn't drink (or smoke), I found the game pretty fun even though I was drinking Pepsi. Most of my friends were definitely buzzed by the time I took them home. I finally came home around 3:30 in the morning, a new personal best (or worst).

I went to bed and read the last pieces of Tom Sawyer before finally sleeping off the long day. My mom reprimanded me a bit for being out so late, but I apologized; everything was fine when I woke up this morning.

An observation in the effort of observation

Us:
You curled your hair two days in a row
in fifteen or sixteen bay ringlets.
You bought a blue blouse to match the shoes
You bought a few weeks ago.