The Internet is a Desert: Why Blogging Makes Me Feel More Exposed Than Poetry

Since beginning, or re-beginning, this blog, I have received a lot of support from friends and family. I have been surprised by the collection of people who have reached out--some who I speak to once a year, others once a day.

Over tacos on Tuesday night, my bossladyfriend (she is my boss, but also my friend, and a lady),  pointed out that what she had read on my blog ("You read that?") reflected a very different side than the Dahlia (that's my name, have I said that on here?) she sees at work and social events. This totally struck me. Like lightning, or a frying pan to the face. Okay, not really, but dramatic prose rules.

I was taken aback (that's actually a word, apparently) because I generally consider myself a pretty consistent and continuous person. As in, I don't feel like I compartmentalize my life too much, and that people who I know from different setting would probably all describe me similarly. My bossladyfriend's comment spurred quite a bit of thought. What am I thinking? I work with kids. No duh I'm not going to show my painfully introspective-reflective-analytical-pontificating self while supervising a game of handball. I guess somehow I figured that since this individual, my bossladyfriend, knows me beyond work that she would just assume I was hella deep 'n' shit. I think a lot of times I assume people read into "I write poetry," in ways that are accurate (hella deep 'n' shit), and some that aren't (tortured, starving, alcoholic).

But apparently not. And apparently, this blog will show readers who know me (and even those who don't..) a side of me they had no idea existed. This vulnerability isn't completely foreign to me. When I first began to workshop my poems in good ol' Intro to Creative Writing, I remember asking myself, "Will I be okay reading this out loud? Will I be okay knowing that my peers know this about me, now and forever?" A year later I self-published a book of poems. Whenever I handed a copy over to someone, I jokingly said, "You're about to get to know me a whole lot better..."

And so, I suppose I can say the same about a blog. Anyone who reads it will inevitably get to know me a whole lot better. Yet I feel more vulnerable here than I do on page. A book can be opened, and it can be closed. A book can be put away on the highest shelf and not be touched for years. My poems can be contained.

The internet is like a desert, with no shade under which to hide.

Nobody, Not Even the Rain, Has Such Small Hands

A friend asked where the name of my blog had come from, and if it came from the e.e. cummings poem "somewhere i have never travelled." It doesn't, but I don't mind the coincidence.

--

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

- e.e cummings

Science Sunday: Manta Rays

Today I went to a lecture on Manta Rays, hosted by the Seymour Discovery Center, and presented by Don Croll, a researcher at UCSC. I wasn't particularly excited, but it was something to do and my housemate had invited me, so I thought I'd go. It ended up being totally fascinating and just the right length. I say this because had it been ten minutes longer I would report that it was the worst lecture ever.

Cool Things I Learned About Manta Rays
-They jump out of the water for no apparent reason. Watch here.
-They feed on krill, just like whales, but do so at night, so the two don't coincide
-Manta Rays are descendents of sharks

Something Not So Cool That I Learned
-You know how certain tuna fish cans claim to be "dolphin-safe?" Turns out they're killing tons of sharks instead. There are three ways fisherman catch tuna fish: one is to cast the net on the fish themselves, the other on a dolphin (with the assumption that there are fish nearby), and the third on a floating object, such as a log (with the aforementioned assumption). The first and third method keep dolphins safe, but have a huge incidence of shark bycatch, much larger than the dolphins caught in the second method. This is interesting, because if there is (and hopefully there will be) a campaign to protect sharks, I think it will be much harder to sell than the dolphin-safe campaign. Because dolphins are cuter. But sharks are sweet too.

It felt good to learn stuff today. Then I went home and undid it all by dousing my shower in bleach and inhaling the deliciously toxic fumes.

We Shared a Moment in the Sun

Yesterday my family made the decision to have our cat, with chronic renal failure, put down. I managed to drive over the hill during my lunch break to say good bye to him. We lay in a patch of sunlight together in my old bedroom, like we had so many times before, and I stroked his black and white fur for the last time.

When we were still deciding if it was the right time, the vet told us that cats never show weakness when they are ill. That though our cat still exhibited affection and energy, he was much sicker than he seemed. I hadn't thought of this and now I fear we kept him here too long. If only he could have whispered to me "I know I seem fine, but I'm not," we might have saved him his suffering.

Alone in a Beautiful Beach Town

I finished college in March, almost a year ago. As the months have gone by, I have seen the people that once populated my day-to-day life recede into the background--friends move, relationships end--all of a sudden I find myself in a town I love, feeling alone. This is a reality I have realized many face, but how to overcome?

Valentine's Day

Happy Valentine's Day, world! The day started out sour (woken up early by the voice of housemate's four-year old nanny-child), but was turned sweet by friends and kale. My friend Laurel came over and we cooked them yummy greens with sauteed onions, and mesquite-marinaded chicken. Good to spend the evening with another rockin' single lady; we talked about hormones, the kids we work with, and the many variables in the formula for successful dating. Sounds about right.

Just read over my paragraph and noticed I made it sound like I have kale and chicken in the morning. NEGATORY. I skipped over the gym (BODY PUUUUMP) and work (children), which really were the bulk components of my day. But I like Laurel and I like kale.

My Cat is Dying

My childhood cat is dying. He is thirteen years old and has chronic renal failure, a condition which kills one out of five adult cats. I first noticed that he had lost weight in the beginning of the November, and by the end of the month, we knew he was dying.

He was a robust cat: a bulbous middle juxtaposed by a small head and spindly legs. Now he looks like a fawn, his legs askew and awkward when he sits, his eyes too big for his face. He is still himself, but grows thinner every day. When I run an open palm along his back I can feel each vertebra and the every curve of his hip bone, all of which sounds poetic, but feels awful.

So what will happen? My parents are leaving for the month of March, and I am set to take care of him and the dog. I will need to learn to administer his IV of extra fluids, a lesson which both my mother and I seem to be holding off on, in case it doesn't need to happen at all. I try to imagine how I will feel when he dies, and I think I'm doing a good job.

I am writing a poem about this. About my cat, and my fear that he will take the whole of my childhood with him when he dies. About the first time I walk into the house and he is not there. Little by little the house I grew up in has been transformed: the carpets ripped out, the walls repainted, my room refurbished. Will all this change hit me, all at once, once the cat is gone?

And then I think, maybe I'm putting too much pressure on this cat.

Voice? Tone?

One of my main obstacles in starting, and maintaining, a blog is my hesitation to establish a specific voice. Obviously, I write as myself, but knowing that anyone (my grandmother, my employer, my housemates, the Dalai Lama) could be reading my musings puts me on edge. What stories can I tell, or not tell? Should I censor my language? Assume that future employers can and certainly will read my blog?

Seems like the only way to strike this perfect balance of authenticity and appropriateness is to keep writing. So that's the plan.

Any bloggers out there want to chime in on their tactic in establishing a unique cyberspace voice?

Wait, I Wrote This?

Okay. I'm trying it again. This whole...blogging thing.

I signed in to Blogger and saw that somehow I was connected to a blog already. I didn't recognize the post titles, so I clicked and started reading about someone's experience joining a rock climbing gym only to use their yoga classes...Wait a minute. I did that. I wrote that. That's my blog. It was a very creepy experience: reading blog posts that I had NO RECOLLECTION of writing, yet whose contents I could recognize as the contents of my own experience. Meta.

Anyway, I'm back, and I'm going to try and stay back. I find myself with more time these days, much of which is lost to the bright box which is my laptop (damn you, Youtube). I figured I could incorporate my love (passionate, passionate love) of writing with my unstoppable fate of sitting in front of the computer more than I should. Basically, I'm turning something that's embarrassing into something I can be proud of. Like a birthmark.