"Kick ass."
That's what he said.
Pardon the language. (Also, what he said.)
That is the exact adjective (or perhaps noun or verb?) that my semi-famous, Wikipedia page bearing, poetry professor used when describing my poem.
I kid you not.
(Excuse me while I step outside for a moment, as my huge head might bump against the ceiling.)
Yes sir. We had an impromptu workshop and after I read my poem he said, "Pardon my language, but that was kick ass."
I may or may not have shed a tear. (Okay, I didn't, but inside I was weeping.)
Because things like this never happen to me.
I mean...sure, in my head, pretty much everyone I meet has told me that my writing does all kinds of ass-kicking, but never once has anyone ACTUALLY verbalized this.
In fact, most of my blogging career has been based around this very notion of expectations and reality.
I am the 10-year-old (with my miniature hands. No seriously...my hands are ridiculously small compared to the rest of me) in a room full of literate scholars who have "19th Century Russian Literature-themed Summers" (I was reading the Hunger Games) and not only understand cadence, (whereas I thought Cadence was the name of that girl from Shallow Hal) but use it in everyday language, along with iambic pentameter (which still rings no bells for me) and who know (and frequently quote) the greats like Virgil...(and other people like Virgil.)
But suddenly...I'm the winner. (And I'm sure fame, fortune and my own show on Bravo is shortly to follow.)
And I will revel in my glory as long as I can. I have also gone to great lengths to record this moment, in case one day I'm really sad and need to be reminded that once upon a time, someone told me I kick ass. (My mom is gonna be mad at the amount of times I have written this now.)
And you know what...I do!
I do kick (that word.)
I kick loads of it.
And if nothing ever comes of my writing career, except in that one moment, in a freezing palazzo, in a teeny tiny town in Italy, where one professor said one little comment, (that he probably immediately forgot) then that's okay.
Because I'll always know that I AM (or at least was, on that cold Tuesday morning in Orvieto) a good writer.
And sometimes, it's okay to NOT be modest. It's okay to have someone feed your ego, because dang it, sometimes we deserve it.
Cause it feels good. And it feels good to feel good.
And I will continue to walk with this spring in my step.
At least until the mean Italian man who works at the ONLY grocery store in town (it seems like) yells at me in Italian for being the weak little blonde-haired girl who doesn't have exact change. (Even though the whole time I was waiting in line, I was practically sweating from searching for those little coins, so this exact moment wouldn't happen, but as soon as I stepped up to the counter, they slipped from my excessively moist palms and scattered about the store, never to be found again.)
But yeah.
Best.Day.Ever.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Sunday, October 16, 2011
I Walked.
I'm not at all convinced that EVERY day consists of 24 hours.
Nope.
There is simply no way.
Perhaps SOME days are 24 hours...like Tuesdays, or maybe even Thursdays.
But Mondays have to be pushing 36, maybe even 40 hours.
Often times I sit in class, staring at my watch, taking my pulse to make sure I am, in fact, still alive and I swear...I have seen that minute hand actually move backwards.
Time is deceiving. True, it's always happening. Time is always moving.
But like Willy Wonka's elevator, it's not always just straight up and down.
But rather it moves, front-ways and sideways and slant-ways and back-ways.
Minutes are sometimes composed of 60 seconds, but other times, like when you're waiting for popcorn in the microwave or water to boil, they are 90, 100, 120 seconds long!
But when you're late for work, the second hand suddenly turns to helicopter mode and slashes about your watch as time virtually disappears.
Don't even get me started on Saturdays and Sundays which seem to end before they even begin.
Today was Sunday, I think.
It's hard to tell. You need to be careful on these days, if you lift your watch wrist too high in the air, you are at the risk of flying away, like Mary Poppins and that stupid umbrella. (Side note, telling a British woman you're not a fan of Mary Poppins is like saying you hate the Queen...)
With that said, I may have been living in Italy for over a month, but it's hard to tell...
Sometimes I wonder if I have just arrived and other times it feels as if I'll never leave.
But here are a few of my favorite things...
The Breakfast of Champions in Roma.
Fun in Firenze.
Jokesters.
Gallery, post ridiculous hours of art-making.
Making friends with the wildlife of Siena...or maybe even Florence or Rome...because I have no idea where this picture was taken.
Nope.
There is simply no way.
Perhaps SOME days are 24 hours...like Tuesdays, or maybe even Thursdays.
But Mondays have to be pushing 36, maybe even 40 hours.
Often times I sit in class, staring at my watch, taking my pulse to make sure I am, in fact, still alive and I swear...I have seen that minute hand actually move backwards.
Time is deceiving. True, it's always happening. Time is always moving.
But like Willy Wonka's elevator, it's not always just straight up and down.
But rather it moves, front-ways and sideways and slant-ways and back-ways.
Minutes are sometimes composed of 60 seconds, but other times, like when you're waiting for popcorn in the microwave or water to boil, they are 90, 100, 120 seconds long!
But when you're late for work, the second hand suddenly turns to helicopter mode and slashes about your watch as time virtually disappears.
Don't even get me started on Saturdays and Sundays which seem to end before they even begin.
Today was Sunday, I think.
It's hard to tell. You need to be careful on these days, if you lift your watch wrist too high in the air, you are at the risk of flying away, like Mary Poppins and that stupid umbrella. (Side note, telling a British woman you're not a fan of Mary Poppins is like saying you hate the Queen...)
With that said, I may have been living in Italy for over a month, but it's hard to tell...
Sometimes I wonder if I have just arrived and other times it feels as if I'll never leave.
But here are a few of my favorite things...
The Breakfast of Champions in Roma.
Fun in Firenze.
Jokesters.
Gallery, post ridiculous hours of art-making.
Making friends with the wildlife of Siena...or maybe even Florence or Rome...because I have no idea where this picture was taken.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
All Good Naysayers, Speak Up!
Once upon a time, I interned for a magazine based out of LA.
It was an exciting experience and looking back, I forget why I hated it so much.
And then I open my Stickies (and if you're my mom and don't know what this is, it's an APP on Macs that is essentially a virtual post-it note) and see an email one of the "staff writers" sent me that was so ridiculous, I couldn't help but save it so I would never forget why not getting paid for a job you hate sucks. (As if anyone needed this kind of a reminder.)
At said magazine, I was a web intern. I helped write blogs, organize the website, opened an inordinate amount of contest mail and pretended to look busy...basically.
Once the actual online editor left for another job, the interns were kind of left scrambling. We were given a list of blogs to write everyday, but with no real organization or leadership, it became all kinds of messed up. Also, it was kind of hard to ask questions when no one knew (or even asked) your name.../wouldn't make eye contact with you.
But obviously, we were doing a lot of important work, so names and eye contact would just slow us down from saving the world!
So one day I came in and an older intern gave me the low-down and assigned me some blogs to write up. One was on a certain celebrity and his new dog.
Ground-breaking.
I wrote up some crap, unsure of what they wanted, but felt confident I could just kinda write whatever...given the topic.
I sent the email to the staff writer who's name was written next to the topic and this is what she sent back:
VERBATIM (except I changed her name to one letter, because I just watched Gossip Girl earlier and in case anyone from "said magazine" sees it ((again)), I don't want to be sued.)
"Hey Kelli,
Thanks for helping with the post... unfortunately, that post was assigned to me last week. On the blog schedule, the writer's name is in parenthesis after each topic. I appreciate your hard work on the dog post, but the blog you wrote has nothing to do with what was supposed to be posted. Next time, check with me and we can work together on it, instead of wasting your time.
You are welcome to assist with any posts that don't have names assigned to them - just make sure to ask Heidi what her idea is.
Thanks!
M"
Yep, they hated me.
They probably also hated me, because while I was still interning for them, I wrote a "less than flattering" though definitely not mean, post about how my internship was WAY below my expectations and how Disney stars are annoying and no one would tell me where the bathroom was. (Don't bother trying to find it, because I had to delete it or they were gonna let me go.)
Which by the way, how did they even find my blog? Or that post?
My guess, another intern did, (probably through facebook) and ratted me out!
What happened to all for one and one for all!??!
Also, I had to drive an hour and a half just to get there and then they would send me off on assignments, alone in LA, to again waste MY GAS.
Never once did they sit down and tell me what they expected of me as an intern or make me sign any papers saying I wouldn't slander their good name in a blog.
They never even asked for my phone number.
Or last name.
They simple threw me to the wolves to interview the likes of Disney Tweens and American Idol has-beens.
So for that, I don't feel bad for writing this.
Because you live and you learn.
True, it was great "experience" and the possibility for future networking and what not, but for working at a hot pink magazine with Justin Bieber on every, single cover...they were rarely nice.
Except one time I got a free Golden Girls shirt and that pretty much made up for everything.
It was an exciting experience and looking back, I forget why I hated it so much.
And then I open my Stickies (and if you're my mom and don't know what this is, it's an APP on Macs that is essentially a virtual post-it note) and see an email one of the "staff writers" sent me that was so ridiculous, I couldn't help but save it so I would never forget why not getting paid for a job you hate sucks. (As if anyone needed this kind of a reminder.)
At said magazine, I was a web intern. I helped write blogs, organize the website, opened an inordinate amount of contest mail and pretended to look busy...basically.
Once the actual online editor left for another job, the interns were kind of left scrambling. We were given a list of blogs to write everyday, but with no real organization or leadership, it became all kinds of messed up. Also, it was kind of hard to ask questions when no one knew (or even asked) your name.../wouldn't make eye contact with you.
But obviously, we were doing a lot of important work, so names and eye contact would just slow us down from saving the world!
So one day I came in and an older intern gave me the low-down and assigned me some blogs to write up. One was on a certain celebrity and his new dog.
Ground-breaking.
I wrote up some crap, unsure of what they wanted, but felt confident I could just kinda write whatever...given the topic.
I sent the email to the staff writer who's name was written next to the topic and this is what she sent back:
VERBATIM (except I changed her name to one letter, because I just watched Gossip Girl earlier and in case anyone from "said magazine" sees it ((again)), I don't want to be sued.)
"Hey Kelli,
Thanks for helping with the post... unfortunately, that post was assigned to me last week. On the blog schedule, the writer's name is in parenthesis after each topic. I appreciate your hard work on the dog post, but the blog you wrote has nothing to do with what was supposed to be posted. Next time, check with me and we can work together on it, instead of wasting your time.
You are welcome to assist with any posts that don't have names assigned to them - just make sure to ask Heidi what her idea is.
Thanks!
M"
Yep, they hated me.
They probably also hated me, because while I was still interning for them, I wrote a "less than flattering" though definitely not mean, post about how my internship was WAY below my expectations and how Disney stars are annoying and no one would tell me where the bathroom was. (Don't bother trying to find it, because I had to delete it or they were gonna let me go.)
Which by the way, how did they even find my blog? Or that post?
My guess, another intern did, (probably through facebook) and ratted me out!
What happened to all for one and one for all!??!
Also, I had to drive an hour and a half just to get there and then they would send me off on assignments, alone in LA, to again waste MY GAS.
Never once did they sit down and tell me what they expected of me as an intern or make me sign any papers saying I wouldn't slander their good name in a blog.
They never even asked for my phone number.
Or last name.
They simple threw me to the wolves to interview the likes of Disney Tweens and American Idol has-beens.
So for that, I don't feel bad for writing this.
Because you live and you learn.
True, it was great "experience" and the possibility for future networking and what not, but for working at a hot pink magazine with Justin Bieber on every, single cover...they were rarely nice.
Except one time I got a free Golden Girls shirt and that pretty much made up for everything.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Get Real Get Right.
You know that feeling when you’re sitting in a lecture and realize that you’ve been half way across the world for 20 minutes and wonder if anyone has noticed that you left?
Your professor might be talking and it dawns upon you that not only have you not heard a single thing they’ve said, but you have been imagining so many other things, you wonder if you had actually been speaking aloud, as well.
I don’t hate drawing. I’m awful at it, that I do know, but I don’t hate it.
Actually, I rather enjoyed sitting in front of my easel, listening to the playlist Drew had made me before I left (which probably added to the surrealism) and suddenly being allowed to travel to a world of cardboard cities and conte’d fingers. I’m allowed to leave the world, if only for a moment. Everything was infinite and yet nothing existed.
All I really want from my classes is to skim the middle. You know what I mean? I’m not aiming for top 5%...I’d rather stay in that good, meaty part of the curve. But somehow I feel like I keep bringing attention to myself…in a not so positive light.
For our final drawing project we were given a choice…we could make this huge, epic drawing (and I mean really freakin’ huge) or make a book.
Naturally, I said book – holla! (Just read my blog, Prof. I’m brilliant, I promise – ask my mom.)
Turns out the “book” was just a freakin’ huge drawing in book format. (Words: optional?!) I felt so duped.
We made accordion books, so they could be read as a book or a tapestry/banner-type thing.
We spent an inordinate amount of hours working on them and I’m not gonna lie, I was pretty proud of the work I put into mine (15 hours a day! This is not an exaggeration. I still can not feel the tip of my index finger, from stamping my handmade letters…).
Then it came time to hang them up.
We hung them from the rafters in the studio and they cascaded freely down to the floor…except for mine… that somehow ended up being about 3 inches longer than everyone else’s, and seemed to be sloping to the right, to resemble more of slash than a banner. (Everyone else | - Me \)
Which, unfortunately for me, did not go unnoticed. (I’m thinking about how I can somehow say it was intentional and adds an abstract element to the text. I never really excelled in cutting and pasting as a child either.)
Now on to poetry – something I know nothing about, minus attending a Billy Collins’ reading last semester.
My professor (who is supposed to be relatively famous, as well) talks very methodically and shall I say, poetically? He has this deep voice that flows about the room like a velvet curtain that covers everything in it’s wake…he should narrate children’s books or something. And even though I’m sure he’s talking about some very interesting subjects, I have to admit that I spend most of time determining if he looks more like a young Dumbledore or Gandalf…I’m also beginning to wonder if perhaps he resembles a wiser, Greek(er) Snape, which would change everything.
And then I realize that my mind has completely left the class all together and I panic for a moment that perhaps, I was pondering these things out loud and if anyone noticed my eyes glazing over and why is it so hot all of a sudden?! And oh my goodness, he just assigned something! (Which he then asks us to read out loud.)
And suddenly, everyone has British accents and their voices flow about the room in such an elegant matter that I begin to wonder if I should raise my pinkie while I read my poem, as well.
And then it’s my turn…and I squeak out my poem and Albus just stares at me, clearly aware that I have no idea what Iambic or Cadence means and I had no idea how to spell T.S. Eliot (Elliot, Eliott, Elliott) while he was lecturing and that maybe I should just give up.
And I dunno when the room turned into this woodland forest, and everyone has become elegant deer, with Professor Gandalf leading us into some magical realm and there I am…the squirrel…just squeaking out rhymes.
Everything they read is amazing and they ask questions and make comments and I wonder if anyone brought Harry Potter and why is the sun shining only on me, is anyone else sweating through their coats and did I bring a croissant, because I could use a snack?
And I realize that once again, I have ditched class without realizing it.
I can’t help that my creative soul can’t be tied down with conventional methods such as “class.” I need to be free to roam the forest and collect acorns on my own time…and if I choose to have a crooked book, so be it. And if I think iambic pentameter is simply limiting my inner-voice, then who am I to silence it?!
Of course I will never say these things, because he is a great sorcerer and I am a squirrel and paper covers rock.
Your professor might be talking and it dawns upon you that not only have you not heard a single thing they’ve said, but you have been imagining so many other things, you wonder if you had actually been speaking aloud, as well.
I don’t hate drawing. I’m awful at it, that I do know, but I don’t hate it.
Actually, I rather enjoyed sitting in front of my easel, listening to the playlist Drew had made me before I left (which probably added to the surrealism) and suddenly being allowed to travel to a world of cardboard cities and conte’d fingers. I’m allowed to leave the world, if only for a moment. Everything was infinite and yet nothing existed.
All I really want from my classes is to skim the middle. You know what I mean? I’m not aiming for top 5%...I’d rather stay in that good, meaty part of the curve. But somehow I feel like I keep bringing attention to myself…in a not so positive light.
For our final drawing project we were given a choice…we could make this huge, epic drawing (and I mean really freakin’ huge) or make a book.
Naturally, I said book – holla! (Just read my blog, Prof. I’m brilliant, I promise – ask my mom.)
Turns out the “book” was just a freakin’ huge drawing in book format. (Words: optional?!) I felt so duped.
We made accordion books, so they could be read as a book or a tapestry/banner-type thing.
We spent an inordinate amount of hours working on them and I’m not gonna lie, I was pretty proud of the work I put into mine (15 hours a day! This is not an exaggeration. I still can not feel the tip of my index finger, from stamping my handmade letters…).
Then it came time to hang them up.
We hung them from the rafters in the studio and they cascaded freely down to the floor…except for mine… that somehow ended up being about 3 inches longer than everyone else’s, and seemed to be sloping to the right, to resemble more of slash than a banner. (Everyone else | - Me \)
Which, unfortunately for me, did not go unnoticed. (I’m thinking about how I can somehow say it was intentional and adds an abstract element to the text. I never really excelled in cutting and pasting as a child either.)
Now on to poetry – something I know nothing about, minus attending a Billy Collins’ reading last semester.
My professor (who is supposed to be relatively famous, as well) talks very methodically and shall I say, poetically? He has this deep voice that flows about the room like a velvet curtain that covers everything in it’s wake…he should narrate children’s books or something. And even though I’m sure he’s talking about some very interesting subjects, I have to admit that I spend most of time determining if he looks more like a young Dumbledore or Gandalf…I’m also beginning to wonder if perhaps he resembles a wiser, Greek(er) Snape, which would change everything.
And then I realize that my mind has completely left the class all together and I panic for a moment that perhaps, I was pondering these things out loud and if anyone noticed my eyes glazing over and why is it so hot all of a sudden?! And oh my goodness, he just assigned something! (Which he then asks us to read out loud.)
And suddenly, everyone has British accents and their voices flow about the room in such an elegant matter that I begin to wonder if I should raise my pinkie while I read my poem, as well.
And then it’s my turn…and I squeak out my poem and Albus just stares at me, clearly aware that I have no idea what Iambic or Cadence means and I had no idea how to spell T.S. Eliot (Elliot, Eliott, Elliott) while he was lecturing and that maybe I should just give up.
And I dunno when the room turned into this woodland forest, and everyone has become elegant deer, with Professor Gandalf leading us into some magical realm and there I am…the squirrel…just squeaking out rhymes.
Everything they read is amazing and they ask questions and make comments and I wonder if anyone brought Harry Potter and why is the sun shining only on me, is anyone else sweating through their coats and did I bring a croissant, because I could use a snack?
And I realize that once again, I have ditched class without realizing it.
I can’t help that my creative soul can’t be tied down with conventional methods such as “class.” I need to be free to roam the forest and collect acorns on my own time…and if I choose to have a crooked book, so be it. And if I think iambic pentameter is simply limiting my inner-voice, then who am I to silence it?!
Of course I will never say these things, because he is a great sorcerer and I am a squirrel and paper covers rock.
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