Sigh.

I was looking over my research paper from Blythe's American Lit class (I'm really not good at research papers. My research always seems a little -- half witted? flimsy? rushed? random?) and I realize that even though I wrote that paper in May -- I read those poems totally differently now. I look at what I wrote, and I think -- geez, I was really only seeing one layer, wasn't I? And poetry...well, I write an awful lot of theraputic prose, none of which is a stone's throw away from barely lyrical journal entry type writing...and I've been kind of a coy kitten about really jumping into analyzing great poetry, because I don't feel immediately comfortable with poems -- who does? It's not even supposed to be comfortable -- but, because it's so immeasurable, I shy away, which is rediculous -- REDICULOUS! because when I read my research paper I realized that poems are such a personal written expression that they take some getting to know. I read the poems I had written on again, and it was like I read whole new meanings. It was like, what did you write your paper on, you shallow halfwit!

Morrissey writes -- "has the world changed or have I changed?" and it's haunting, really, because the words don't change -- but I read and understand differently, and end up changing my story. Maybe that is why I get so conflicted about writing. With writing, especially fiction, poetry, you are never right. You are always dealing with conjecture -- and that's the beauty, no? It's just when I go to write essays, it's like I tell my brain -- okay, you are writing this to society, so you better dumb it down. Not that you, my dear, cherished instructors are "society," but you know, I'm trying to write this so anyone actually interested in whatever I'm writing about can follow my line of thought. But I never get past the tip of the iceberg. I know the Hemingway thing, about only giving the tip -- but when it comes to essays, you are supposed to go to the bottom of the polar cap -- you know, like the cores that they drill in the artic? you are supposed to go UNDER that stuff! (I'm laughing out loud) you know, where the fish dont even have eyes anymore.

I think teaching literature must be the greatest job in the world. I mean just reading those poems again after studying them four months ago -- I have a whole fresh take on them. Sylvia Plath keeps amazing me with Lady Lazurus -- which may be my favorite poem by a woman. And Neruda's poems? I mean, yes, okay, romantic -- but so heartbreaking. Of course, I have a little thing for heartbreak -- who doesn't? Admit it.

And animals? Animals trip me out. I mean, my cats like to sleep with me. They like to curl up in the crook of my arm, RIGHT NEXT TO ME, and sleep. I mean, human, human, cat,cat. I'm a human? Don't they know this? When my male simese, Roman, was a kitten, he was so small, the runt of the litter, that he fit in the pocket of my cargo pants. If I tie one of my sarongs into a sling, he will stay in there, right next to me all day. Um. I didn't just admit to carrying around my cat in a sling, did I? What I'm saying here is that these are animals, man! What do animals dream about? How do beings function that don't have language? Just instict, feelings, and some memory. Todd's Uncle, UM, thinks that it must be peaceful in an animal's brain. Maybe.

And you know what? I didn't apply for facilitator. I was really entertaining the idea -- but the commute just didn't...the drive...the hours...but let me tell you, I am a nice girl to have in the class. I won't let you down as a student. I'lll always have something prepared. Bible as Lit -- I'll give you my best. Early American Lit -- I may be sleepy -- but if I have that triple Americano before class -- which I know I will, because I will have to leave my house stupid early to beat traffic, and will have time to stop -- I will have questions, comments, etc. I should have been a fasiclitator a year ago. Dang.

And you know, I really am sad to leave after next semester. I'll probably still ask you for help/thoughts. But the big school should have some instructors that ring true -- but it's like I tell Tamara -- you guys have something special at Fullerton College. You all get an honorable mention in my book.