So, home is more of an idea than a place

Well, folks. I am writing to you from Korea. I just spent a phenomenal time home full of friends and family. I know I didn't get to see everyone that I wanted, and I am really sorry. 

The question that most people asked me when I saw them was, "when are you coming home?" However, the second most frequent question was, "when are you going home?" And, this separation really troubled me. People use the same word to describe vastly different parts of the wold, both of which, however, reside in me. I know I talk about home all the time on here, and I can imagine you folks throwing popcorn at the computer screen yelling, "Oh Jeebus, kid, get over it." 

This is the hardest thing for me. I cannot get over it. Believe me; I have tried. I am so blessed to have the people I have in my life. Every moment I spent in Wisconsin with my family and friends, I was reminded of the life I could have, if I had chosen it. But, then I went to pick-up tonight, and a dear friend folded me into a hug that reminded me that Korea is my home, too. 

In the past two years, I've grown a Korea family. It started in the roots of having the shared immediate experience of being ex-pats in the same place at the same time. With dinners, drinks, and conversation, I have watered my relationships, and they have grown into stout trunks and strong branches that hold the tree houses of our adventures. Yes, there are storms that may shake us up a bit. But I know that through everything, my Korea family will support me exactly when I need it. 

Of course this doesn't negate the relationships I have in Wisconsin and scattered about the globe, and I promise to nurture those more diligently than my first two years. Right now, I feel like my heart is somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean with both lives vying for my full attention. In this past month--and with encouragement from one of the wisest humans I know--I have tried to change my perspective. Instead of seeing that pulling back and forth as a game of tug of war, I am allowing both sides to pull at the same time and have a rope that supports: a tightrope of emotions. 

Right now, it is reaching 2200, and I am running on fumes and struggling with jet lag something fierce. So, if none of this makes sense, it is because I wrote it pretty haphazardly and didn't really focus as much on my writing this week as I usually do. Next week, I will do better. 

Peace, love, and polar bears,

Katie

So, I fell in love with a boy

He has bright blue eyes filled with questions no one knows to ask. They also have answers he may never share. He is my best friend’s son—ten months old and eager to explore the world around him. Now, don’t get me wrong; I haven’t imprinted on him circa Twilight or anything. But, there is a sense of wholeness that comes with rocking baby as he falls asleep on my chest. Our breathing becomes one, and there isn’t really a place where I stop and he begins. I already feel this sense of maternal gratitude for holding my best friend’s child; I cannot even imagine what will happen when I hold my own future baby.

I have read so many articles about “Getting married and having babies young is the best way to go” or “Wait to have kids—it is the best decision for you” or “Whelp, accidents happen: The best way to raise your little surprise.” And, to be honest, they all annoy me. I have chosen a lifestyle for myself that having children right now would be really difficult. So, waiting is the best way for me. But, so many of my friends have chosen marriage or children, and they are incredibly fulfilled creating and nurturing their families. I am lucky to have come from a place of privilege, in which my family has loved and supported me through all of my crazy life endeavors. They no longer ask me when I plan to get married and have babies. They know that I will pursue those things in my own time and in my own way.

 

And that, folks, is all we can ask from one another. There is no right time to have children, no right way to raise them (I mean, keep ‘em away from fire until they’re old enough to be safe; that’s just generally a good life rule). A person needs to do what is right for him or her regardless of what society says. Get married and have children young; travel the world and have children old; don’t have children at all. It isn’t fair to have one accepted way of life and anyone who doesn’t adhere to that are seen as social miscreants. Each person is the main character of their own epic journey; let them create their own story. Right now, I am ecstatic that a little plot twist named Byron is sleeping on my chest, and that, for me, is enough.
 

So, I'm figuring out family

So, I'm figuring out family: an observation of "home" after an extended absence

By the time, we reach the 894 bypass, I could have driven the rest of the way to my mom’s house without hesitation or doubt. My mom took all the right exits chatting away while my father scrunched up in the back seat listened to our small talk.

When she pulled into the garage, I ran into the house and engulfed my sister in a hug that had neither beginning nor end. It just was. Then I sidled up to my brother in law and felt whole in his embrace. A few moments later, I remembered my luggage and trounced down the stairs to collect it. Within the hour, my father dealt the cards for Dirty Clubs, and in that moment my patchwork family quilted a new memory: That night Katie came back.

The routine was so familiar. The couch and wing backs still stood sentinel to the fireplace. The bookshelves housing my childhood favorites continued to wait for the next generation of adventurers. Bailey and Brenden wove underfoot both calling for then rejecting my attention. The cards dealt 3-2-3-2-3.

Yet, there were spider web cracks in this mirror of Christmases past—four stockings hung on the mantle, figurines perched in the place of my father’s dusty tomes; his antique Santa bank watched over another house this year.

Everyone did their best to make me feel at home. They each contributed a favorite food to the homecoming feast. We ate, drank, and talked over one another, per usual. We shelved our differences, our opinions, and our hurts to celebrate everyone's health and presence at the table.

We are still trying to figure out how to function as a five person unit. Some of the cogs are misplaced, some of the joints were broken but are now mended, and some of the wheels that kept everything turning are lost forever. But, we try to make it work because that’s what we’ve always done.

So, I wrote a poem

I have been trying to plan a spoken word poetry night for a really long time. Finally, about six months after its inception, Speak Up: A Night of Spoken Word, happened in Busan, South Korea. Apparently, someone from another part of the country saw videos of it, and created their own spoken word event in Gwangju.

That is what I love about living abroad--the ease with which you can start groups of likeminded folks in your community. This is a poem I read as the sacrifice for the evening's slam portion.

PS I do have a video of it, in which I:
a) forgot a crucial line.
b) compare myself to Aslan.
c) am a wee bit tipsy because I jokingly asked for tequila and seriously received three shots in a very short period of time--I did not OOTAH for the first two hours of the evening; I then found myself obnoxious and hydrated the rest of the evening.
d) was a little sassy when I said "professors." Please see number 3. I didn't mean it like that. I loved my university professors. They really have helped me be the human I am today.

You can comment/send me an email, and I can share the video with you on the google drive whoositwhatsit

Inside the Binary

For Laurie

 

I wasn’t born a writer.

I didn’t come from the womb sticky with

verbs or adjectives.

They didn’t check my response to

prepositions.

They didn’t wipe articles from my eyes.

My heart didn’t beat nouns

I didn’t have ten healthy

phrases and gerunds.

I didn’t inhale clauses

and exhale statements.

I did not cry eloquence

            But with an inarticulate babble

There are those, however, who burst with

hyperbole.

Those whose honeyed breath tastes like

sweet similes—

their eyes, a metaphor of unspoken truths.  

I am not that.

Instead, I became a writer.

I learned from

books and professors. 

My commas spliced, my voice was passive. 

I combined 0s and 1s to form

characters on a screen.

I scratched ink onto paper hoping to find

answers to unknown questions.

That’s what born writers do—

transcribe ideas in search of something

greater.

work outside of binaries to

craft illusions

construct realities

 

Again, I am not that.

I fixate on word choice.

I need perfection.

I follow rules.

I operate language.

I plug words into their distinct niches of

subject, verb, object.

but real writing is messy punctuation is a suggestion line breaks are irrelevant writing cannot be perfected writing cannot be tamed the power words wield is greater than humanity will ever know

I wish that I could

create instead of manipulate.

Maybe someday I will learn

 to feel, to breathe, to be

language.

Until then, I’ll live in my textbook house made of

parentheses and ampersands.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So, an era ends

Happy Thanksgiving

In three hours, the matriarch of our hodgepodge family will depart on a grand adventure that includes islands, motor cycles, and mediocre life decisions. I am petty and jealous, but more importantly, I am excited for a woman more sister than friend to embark on this fantastic journey.

I know that as she makes her way through the dusty back roads of Cambodia and clogged thoroughfares of Bangkok, she will gain knowledge and experiences to which bright, shiny tourists are not privy. She took an active role in shaping her dreams to form realities. She is the real deal. She is a traveler. 

I, on the other hand, never meant to be worldly. I never meant to travel. I never meant to do any of the things I am currently doing.

I ran away. I ran away from responsibility. I ran away from emotion. I ran away from everything that made me who I am. And, sometimes, you have to do that. I am guilty of using travel as an escape. But, instead of using Korea as a moment in time, a first chapter in a nomadic lifestyle, I found a home in myself. I found a strength I did not know I possessed. I found a voice and a means to use it.

K was instrumental in this process. She forced me to live all of the parts of my life. She held my hand when I needed support. She pushed me out of the nest when I needed to fly. And, she mended me when I needed to heal.

We're all hand models

She is not running away. She is running towards. She is running towards her best friend, towards adventure, towards the life she is meant to live. I am excited for when our quests collide again.

When I hugged her goodbye, I told her I made a spot in my right atrium that has her name on it. The space comes equipped with floor heating, hammocks, and puppies who aren't douche canoes. She thought that was a pretty fair trade. Of course, I am going to miss her. But, I know that she is doing exactly what makes her happy, and that is so much more important. 

To all of those who are running away or running towards or running just to feel the wind, adventure on.

Nailed it

So, it gets a little hairy

Shaved—Submission: JL

Please don’t confuse Shaved with the 1983 cult classic film “Saved” shtarring Sean Connery, in which Connery attempts to write an anonymous love letter to his perceived arch nemesis, but his computer continuously malfunctions in ways that prohibits him to save the document.

This film received 5 Tevas because Sean Connery was shimply shtunning.

No, Shaved transports us into a Seussian land. Men, women, and children have beautiful flowing beards braided with Truffula silks. Merc, age seven, resents his beard. It prohibits him from deftly climbing trees and skillfully skipping rope. He confesses his discontent to his best friend Flaunuva, who urges him to keep quiet. She reminds him of the consequences of professed anti-beard leanings: eating soup served without a spoon for the rest of his life; receiving last pick as a beard braiding partner; and teetor-tottering with someone who outweighs you, which is always the worst. Merc searches deep within himself in hopes of finding the steely resolve necessary to adhere to the socio-cultural demands of his world. Does Merc find happiness within his flaxen facial hair or does he go against everything he’s known to live freely, but as an outcast?

This book received 4 ¼ Tevas.     

PS If you are confused as to what is happening, please read this and it should all make sense.

So, I need your thoughts

Alright, it has almost been 60 days since my last post. For a lot of September and October, my brain and heart were fighting. It did not leave me much time to create (don't worry, we've worked out a system. On even numbered dates, my brain gets control; on odd numbered dates, my heart calls the shots. Note to parents: This also works well with siblings who want to sit in the front seat when they're old/big enough).

This November, I've been working on a little something, but it isn't ready, nor will it be ready in the next nine days. BUT, I have been writing.

So, instead of feed you excuses, I am going to invite you to help me out. I had a brain storm while talking to my buddy, Anton. Give me the title of a book, and I will write a little diddy about what I think happens. Here is a teaser.

Title: The Husband's Secret
Response: His secret is that he got a pet dinosaur, but wasn't able to sustain him with table scraps as he had anticipated. So, he fed the dinosaur his youngest child. He explained her absence as an extended trip to his mother's house.

I would like you to post in the comments/message me on facebook titles *you* would like explained. Note: They can be real or fake titles.

Double note: If one story catches my fancy, I might write an extended version and post it on the bloggity blog.