Summerness

There’s no summer in Florida
Not the summer that I love

Outside summer
A bike ride to the ice cream counter
In the flower shop: Blossoms and Bows
For two scoops of Wisconsin-made,
Thick and creamy, maple ice cream

Or a float on the lake and a soak
In the sun on an orange inner-tube
At the end of the dock
Covered in sun-screen
Shades sliding off the end of my nose

Or popsicles at the softball diamond
Red and white and blue
Cold and sweet and summer
Sunflower seed spitting on the bleachers
And the crack of the ball on the bat

Or a drive along Hwy KK
Windows down
Sweet songs slipping through the sunroof
And into the summerness
On a Tuesday

Or an afternoon on a park bench
Throwing pennies In the fountain
And snapping pictures of the tulips
And each other
So we never forget

Or the walk back in the warm dark rain
No umbrellas
Shoes in our pockets and jeans rolled up
The black-topped road hot on our bare feet
Fleeing from summer thunder

Or a bonfire
Reflected in the faces
Of friends across the pit
Hands in our kangaroo pockets
Warm and dry and summer

Or a night in the grass of the soccer field
Beneath the water tower—star gazing
Flat on our backs on a patchwork quilt
Licking plum juice from our fingers
And swatting at busy, buzzy mosquitoes.

Or falling asleep at night
To the sweeter songs
Of crickets and bullfrogs
And the train in the distance
Through the screen

On my
Open
Window.

Independence Day

I pulled my worn teddy bear and my red felt travel blanket out of my pink nylon carry-on and stuffed the bag under the seat in front of me. I settled into 17a—the last window seat on the left side of the plane—and snuggle under my blanket. The plane was frigidly cold, and the engine was already buzzing just behind me. I could feel the vibration under my seat. I fastened my seat belt, tugged it tightly around my stomach, and made myself comfortable—ready to let the lull of the engine sing me to sleep. I’d been in a long distance relationship for the past two years and was used to traveling by myself, and I was usually sleeping before the plane left the ground.
“Excuse me, sir, you can put that under the seat,” said the pretty young Asian flight attendant to the thirty-something man who was trying to fit his small grey duffle bag into the overhead compartment.
“Oh, under mine or his?” he asked, pointing to the man seated in the row in front of me.
“Under his,” I said, noticing that the flight attendant had disappeared into the back of the plane without hearing the man’s question. “We’re in the last row, so there’s no empty space under our seats.”
“Thanks,” he said, sitting down next to me and pushing his bag under the seat in front of him. “I’ve never done this before.”
“Really?” I exclaimed. “How is that possible?”
“I’m afraid of heights,” he said. And then I noticed the beads of sweat dripping down his face. The man was in his mid thirties, the big and strong type, so it was hard for me to imagine him being afraid of anything. The first time I flew in a plane, I was in seventh grade, and I had flown probably twenty or thirty times since then. I didn’t even think about it anymore. I was used to just relaxing and enjoying the ride.
But this man next to me was clearly not enjoying himself.
“I’m Kelsey,” I said, offering my hand to the nervous man.
“Jason,” he said, “it’s nice to meet you.”
I could feel the dampness of his hands when we shook.
“I just got my first tattoo today, so I understand the nerves,” I told him, trying to make conversation to keep his mind off of the impending take-off.
“Oh, really?” he looked over at my newly tattooed wrist with the word “write.” printed in courier font, like a typewriter.
“I like the period. It’s like—“
“A command,” I said, finishing his thought. “A command to myself to write. To make time in my life for my writing.”

I had spent the past week at a grad school residency at Goddard College for creative writing, and it was life changing. It was incredible to be around so many other writers who knew what it was like to be a writer—to know that writing is inevitable for us. I had never felt so focused and so full, and I had met some of the most amazing people and had some amazing surreal experiences. So I decided to commemorate my week by spontaneously getting a tattoo the morning before I left.
My friend Jen and I had caught a ride with our other friend Angela into Burlington that morning, checked our bags, and took a taxi to Church Street in town to keep ourselves occupied until our flights left that evening. I had thought all week about getting a tattoo, and when we stumbled upon a little tattoo parlor called “Moose Tattoos,” I dropped in to see if they might have time for a walk-in.
“Sure, just come back in a half-hour,” said a tattooed man with messy hair who was tracing a design with marker onto a woman’s bare back.
I was terrified, but so ready to make my mark—on myself.
Jen and I went to the City Hall Park across the street and took a seat on the benches on either side of a granite chess table next to the fountain at the center of the park. We sat in the shade of a giant oak tree, and I felt the warm new-July breeze combing through my hair. We sat quietly in the sun, watching children scooter around the fountain and other young people lounging on the grass, squealing suddenly when the sprinklers sprouted from the grass and sprayed water across their picnic blankets.
“You ready?” Jen asked me after a bit, looking down at her watch.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I said, taking a deep breath as I stood up.
My week at Goddard had finally proven to me that I was a writer. It proved to me that I had a precious talent that I shouldn’t forget. The people at Goddard ranged from 22 to about 75, and most of them there had other jobs, other lives. They were going to Goddard to make writing a priority again. For them. Because many of them had forgotten to make room in their lives for their writing.
I attended the graduation for those who had completed their MFA, and a professor said in his speech “don’t fit your writing into your life; fit your life into your writing.” Goddard convinced me that I was a writer, and I never wanted to forget it. I never wanted to forget to write. This tattoo was my commitment to write. For the rest of my life.
But as I sat in the chair, as Paul Martinez sharpened his needle and dipped it in his bottle of ink (or so I imagined) and prepared to write, I was terrified.
I had thought before about getting a tattoo. Although I knew it would hurt, that wasn’t what I was afraid of. I had discussed it online with a graduated Goddard friend a few days before I found myself sitting in that chair with Paul:

irishbelle2010: there's some other fear there
irishbelle2010: it can't quite be the fear of my mom
irishbelle2010: because she actually is supportive of a tattoo
irishbelle2010: which shocks me first of all
irishbelle2010: but maybe just the fear of not being....
irishbelle2010: like i just feel this pressure to be...
irishbelle2010: appropriate?
irishbelle2010: is that the word...
irishbelle2010: I don’t know
Thomas Deans: I know where you're coming from
Thomas Deans: Too much permanence for you to not be sure
irishbelle2010: right, like... i just really like to be accepted by superiors
irishbelle2010: the teacher's pet thing
Thomas Deans: There's nothing wrong with that
irishbelle2010: i wouldnt feel confident with, like, a boss or teacher
irishbelle2010: if i had a tattoo
irishbelle2010: because i DO feel that pressure to be the best
irishbelle2010: and i feel like being inappropriate would somehow hold me back or something
irishbelle2010: I don’t know
irishbelle2010: i've never tried to articulate this before
irishbelle2010: so i'm having trouble with it
irishbelle2010: even though i know consciously that my mom would be okay with me having a tattoo
irishbelle2010: she's still responsible for my perfectionism
irishbelle2010: for raising me with a need to be accepted by her
irishbelle2010: and other authority figures
irishbelle2010: teachers/bosses/in-laws
Thomas Deans: That's a good thing. I'm a perfectionist in many respects, which is why I have to get my tattoos in certain places now
Thomas Deans: If you got one, that'd be awesome, it'd look good, but to be unsure, nah
irishbelle2010: like, i'd be fine with a tattoo if i was constantly in a group of my peers
irishbelle2010: i'd be fine functioning with it in college or here [at Goddard]
irishbelle2010: but when i'd go to work for the wedding planner
irishbelle2010: meeting with clients
irishbelle2010: i crave their approval
Thomas Deans: I got it! This is genius
irishbelle2010: so part of me wants to get one so that i can overcome that
irishbelle2010: that thing that is so ingrained in me
Thomas Deans: Like a form a rebellion
irishbelle2010: not really
irishbelle2010: like a conscious way to...
irishbelle2010: to try to breakdown this
irishbelle2010: this
irishbelle2010: this thing that my mother created in me
irishbelle2010: i guess maybe rebellion
irishbelle2010: but i'm not actually rebelling against the authority figures themselves or against my mother
Thomas Deans: True
Thomas Deans: Wrong word-choice
irishbelle2010: but against this psychological thing in me that craves their approval
irishbelle2010: it's a rebellion against my psychological need for approval from authority
irishbelle2010: so when i finally get a tat, that's what i'll tell people
Thomas Deans: Haha, you're so gonna get one
irishbelle2010: "it's a rebellion against my psychological craving for approval from authority"
irishbelle2010: that's why i never drank before I was 21
irishbelle2010: well, that and other reasons
irishbelle2010: that's why i got straight A's
irishbelle2010: that's why i never break rules
irishbelle2010: terrifying

So, sitting in that chair at Moose Tattoos in Burlington, Vermont, I was overcoming that burden. I was overcoming my fear of being a disappointment.

And back on the plane from Burlington to Dulles International, Jason was overcoming his fear.
“Well, my hand is right here if you need to hold it,” I said.
“I might just have to take you up on that offer,” said Jason, clutching my hand in his. He started breathing heavily as the air plane began making its way down the runway, so I started asking him questions to distract him.
“Why are you flying alone?” I asked him.
“I’m moving to Vermont,” he spoke between heavy breaths. “I drove over here from Cincinnati, and I’m flying back to get my wife and her car."
I saw an opportunity for distraction. When Paul was painting on my tattoo, I told my friend Jen the story of how I met my boyfriend. Everyone loves to talk about their own love stories, so I knew this would be a good way to distract Jason too.
“Oh, tell me about your wife.”
And Jason proceeded to tell me the story of how he and his wife met—at a party thrown by his ex-girlfriend at which he was supposed to be meeting a different friend of hers who never showed up.
“We’ve been married for six years,” he said.
“Why are you moving to Vermont?” I asked him.
“We were both born and raised in Ohio, and we just wanted to move. We did some research, decided on Vermont, and started looking for jobs. I got a job first, so that’s why I’m the one flying.”
I asked him if he had any kids next. He had none but told me about his two Jack Russells. I learned he and his wife were both accountants.
“Oh, where did you go to college?” I asked next.
“I didn’t,” he said, unembarrassed. “I worked for a theme park for fifteen years.”
“Oh!” I squealed, excited because I had decided to write my book on the circus and thought he might be a great source for technical questions about rides if I needed him.
“What did you do there?”
“I had different jobs—even joined the police academy when they needed a security guard. But most of my time there I was a supervisor for The Beast—America’s longest roller coaster.”
“Roller coaster! But I thought you were afraid of heights! Didn’t you have to ride it?”
“Yes, I did,” said Jason. “I had to climb it and check it every day. And if the roller coaster stopped, I was the one who helped them off and led them down to safety.”
“Weren’t you afraid of heights then?” I asked him.
“Yea, I was, but I guess I just got used to it. Because I had to. It was my job. I’d be climbing it, and the coaster tracks would be on one side of me, and there was nothing on the other. It was terrifying. But I learned just to look straight ahead of me and not at the distance between me and the ground.”
“Well, even I would be scared to do what you did. This plane ride should be a cinch.”
We talked more about Jason’s time at King’s Island—how he ended up there and how he ended up as an accountant after that. I told him about Goddard, about my family and my boyfriend. I told him about writing and about developing characters, and about studying abroad in Ireland.
When the plane landed, we de-boarded, and he treated me to a slice of pizza for my chivalry.
“It was nothing,” I said.
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t have been able to get through that without you. You don’t know how lucky I was to end up next to someone like you.”
It was fitting that it was Independence Day weekend, because Jason and I had both gained our independence that day. Our fears had been controlling us, and by overcoming them, we were finally free. Getting my tattoo was the first independent thing I had ever really done. It was important to me. I wasn’t making that decision based on what my parents or teachers or other grown-ups would think. I was now free to live my life for me.
Jason and I were free from the anchors that had been keeping us from flight. We were both liberated that day—he a thousand miles in the air, and me with my butt in the tattoo parlor chair.
Jason and I sat together for a bit and talked until my next flight down to Jacksonville, Florida began to board.
“You might end up one of my books now, you know,” I told Jason.
“I would be honored,” he said: the roller coaster man who was afraid of heights.

Brazil

Hey, guys

Sorry I didn't live up to my promise of writing in my blog every day of Lent. But I'm back now, and I'm going to try to write as much as I can. Here's something from Easter weekend...

My parents dropped me off at LAX at 9am. My flight back to South Bend didn't leave until 2:15, but theirs left at 10:30. I had some time to kill, and there wasn't much to see at my concourse aside from a McDonald's and a couple of shops cluttered with best sellers, those weird horseshoe travelers pillows that had suddenly become popular, a few bags of potato chips and some viscose scarves. I planted myself on a terribly uncomfortable black leather chair at my gate, cracked open my David Sedaris book, and held my camera close, ready for the celeb siting I was sure I would experience. It was Easter weekend, and my sister and I reasoned that it was the perfect weekend for celebrity airport sitings.

My roommate Erin was obsessed with celebrities. Whereas I felt guilty at the amount of knowledge I had about famous people and their families, Erin actively sought it out. She complained about having too much homework and not enough time to finish it, yet she somehow had time to study Perez Hilton's blog every half hour or so. When I told her I was flying out of LAX, she got excited, squealing "ooh! Maybe you'll see a celebrity-- like Zac Ephron or David Beckham," but then corrected herself, "oh, no, David Beckham's in England right now." She was the first among my friends and me to learn that poor Sandra Bullock's husband had cheated, and she kept us all updated on the disappearance of the actor who played "Boner" on Growing Pains. As much as her celebrity stalking sickened me, I had to admit that the thought of seeing a famous person in the flesh got my heart beating as much as finding the perfect pair of red patent leather shoes in my size at TJMaxx.

So there I sat, next to the gate for the LA to NYC flight that left at 11:30. I scanned the crowd, acutely aware of anyone wearing sunglasses or a pair of heels that seemed too fancy for the average traveler. I wasn't sure what a celebrity flying United airlines would look like-- would he or she be accompanied by two bulky bald bodyguards? Would they be wearing normal clothes like the rest of us-- even if it was Lady Gaga or Cher? And then I wondered why a celebrity would be flying United at all-- don't they all have private jets? I hoped I'd see an obscure celeb that only I recognized, like the indie artist I was into at the time, or one of the one-line actors from an ABC Family Channel show that not many people watched.

I didn't see any celebrities that day. I spotted a man who looked remarkably like my Uncle George but was too afraid to snap a picture. My family saw the owner of the Milwaukee Brewers at MKE, but after an hour or so of pretending to read while periodically scanning the concourse, I got sleepy and crawled into a corner to catch a nap.

Howevever, I did have the pleasure of sitting next to the most beautiful Brazilian man I'd ever seen. I'm not sure that I'd ever seen another Brazilian man before that, it's true, but this man deserved a title, so I awarded him in my head with "most beautiful Brazilian man I'd ever seen." His hair was dark black and was perfectly manicured as if he'd perhaps come all this way for an American haircut. His skin was a perfect caramel, the color of my tan leather Fossil purse, and glowed from the California sun. I can't remember what he was even wearing as I was so focused on his immaculate face-- cheek bones perfectly chiseled as if from stone. But I did notice the homely woman he came in with-- hair dyed blond, but her greasy brown roots growing through. She clearly hadn't visited the salon with my Brazilian dream boat. Her skin was orange, and her nose protruded from her face at a dangerous angle. The woman shoved her Disneyland bag into the overhead compartment and made her way to a seat a few rows back.

My stomach did a turn as he sat next to me. Realizing we were in the bulkhead seat and he couldn't have anything in his lap, the stewardess asked him if she could stow his blue camera bag for him. He looked at her blankly, and when she took the bag from his lap, he stood and started speaking rapidly in a foreign language.

"Do you speak English?" the stewardess asked him.
"No, Portuguese," he responded.
"Oh, then you can't sit here."

Again, he stared at her blankly. The stewardess spoke louder, as if that would make him understand her, and motioned to tell him she was going to change his seat.

"No, I... here," spoke the Brazilian Dreamboat.
"I'm sorry, you can't sit in an exit row if you can't understand me."

The stewardess went on about how she only spoke Italian and that wouldn't help her communicate with him in case of emergency. Brazil just looked at me with the most precious half smile, and we shared a soft laugh.

"Hi," he said.
"Hi," I said back.

And in that moment, I almost asked the stewardess to move me with him. He never would have known how we ended up next to each other again. I'd never had the urge to carry on a conversation with someone on a plane. Most often, I'd be asleep before we had even left the ground. but on this day, all I wanted to do was sit next to Brazil and ask him how to say "hello" in Portuguese. I imagined him laughing at my pronunciation and me trying to peice together some Spanish from high school in the hopes that he might understand it a little better.

"Yo studio Espanol en escuela," I would say, and he would smile the other half or that half smile and think I was adorable for trying.

All my dreams of a whirlwind romance with Paolo, as I named him, were shattered when the flight attendance moved him to a seat next to the woman he'd boarded with.

"Here, you can sit by your girlfriend," she said, as if she were doing him a big favor Paolo shook his head, and I know I wasn't imagining it, looked my way and said, "sister." I smiled a half-hearted smile at him and glared at the woman who had practically murdered our potential children-- Marisa and Paolo Junior. An overweight businessman took his place, and I pulled out my sleeping mask and was out before we left the ground.

Luke Wilson

I used to like Luke Wilson. He was cute in Legally Blonde, funny in That 70s Show, he rolls with Wes Anderson once in awhile.

But now-- now...

I want to punch him in the mouth.

Too many AT&T commercials, too often, no emotion. I actually want to cancel my AT&T service because of those commercials. Seriously.

Second: I'm an aunt! (Sort of). Colin's brother's wife had a baby on February 28, 2010. Her name is Clare Mae Morrissey, and I love her already even though we've never met. And I CAN'T wait to meet her! We will be friends, I think.

Now, can we talk about the Bachelor? What the H was Jake thinking? I have not spoken to anyone who has even liked Vienna a little bit. She is 5 years old and annoying and has trashy fake blonde hair and a tramp stamp. Get real. Tenely was so perfect for Jake, and he will regret his decision.

Okay, now I've got that off my chest and I don't have to think about it any more.

Annnd, this is a crappy entry tonight, but I have a quiz tomorrow, and I have to study.

*K

I Fell In Love By The Seaside

I Fell In Love By The Seaside
By Kelsey Knoedler

I fell in love
By the seaside
By the seaside
In my red coat
In December
On the coldest day of the year
At the end of the pier
By the lighthouse

As you talked to the seal
By the seaside
By the seaside
And he stuck out his whiskers
And you kissed back
And called him Humphrey
And you held my hand
In your pocket

I fell in love
By the seaside
By the seaside
As we pulled apart pieces of fish
And ate it with our fingers
And the vinegar
From the chips
Stung my hangnail

As we waited for the train
By the seaside
By the seaside
On a bench
Near Dublin
Where the air
Left salt
On my lips

The taste of bonfire and new friends

So there's this boy (gasp! a BOY?) in my poetry class and his name is Matthew and he is super cool and Katie and I totally had "friend crushes" on him all semester. He goes to Holy Cross. He invited us to his birthday party last night, and we totally went. We weren't sure what to expect, mostly because we'd never really had a conversation with him before and didn't know any of his friends.

Katie and I went with Emily, another girl in our poetry class, and she drove which was super nice of her. We were slightly scared about the whole situation, but we bit the bullet and went in. And...

everyone was SO nice! We weren't halfway through the door when Matthew's friends started chatting with us. There were lots of people there, and we met almost everyone throughout the night. Even the girls were really nice and friendly, and the guys were all very friendly without hitting on us, which was very much appreciated and made for an uber fun night. We met Nate, a German enthusiast-- as in he was obsessed with all things German. Leo, he was the other birthday boy, was super funny, and Leo and Matthew were both wearing Princess headbands. Oh, and there was a chihuahua there, and I'd never seen one in real life. It was freaky and I didn't touch it. Anyway, we met redheaded Katie and Alexis who was hilarious, and Anthony who was HILarious and had a beautiful voice. Quote of the night: "SOMEone is going to get pregnant tonight; the playlist I made is SO sexy." -Anthony... and Alexander, Matt's roommate, who goes by Alexander and not Alex because he's named after Alexander the Great. And Ryan who looked like he had pink eye, but apparently it was a cheerleading injury. And Melissa who was co-hosting the party and had the cutest little boy who I offered to babysit for. And Dan who's planning on going to Ireland with Matthew through Saint Mary's and spilled an entire bottle of beer on the floor right when we got to the party. And another Matt who says he was a hockey player. And lots of other super nice and interesting people. And AND there was this wonderful delicious heavenly dessert that included ice cream sandwiches, cool whip, and snickers.

Annnnyway, three cheers for new Holy Cross friends. Hopefully we'll get to hang with them some more before (don't say it).... graduation.

It's never too late to make new friends.

"Hi, Mom"

Has this ever happened to you?

You're in a public bathroom, minding your own business, when the person in the stall next to you says "hello?"

And you think-- why is this person talking to me? Do they like my shoes? Are they out of toilet paper and need me to pass some over?

And just as you are about to answer "hi" back, you realize that they're on the phone with their mom or their boyfriend or someone they feel comfortable enough with to talk to on the pot. Their cell was on silent, so you didn't hear it ring. And you feel like such an ass when you realize it.

This has happened to me more than once, and upon telling my friends about it at lunch today, I found out that this isn't something that happens to everyone.

Don't talk to your friends and family (or anyone) on the phone in a public bathroom, please. And if you do, answer the phone "hi, mom," or "hey, Cory," or something that lets the people in the other stalls know that you're not talking to them.

Thank you.

Kelsey