I took a class on Whitman, Dickinson, Keats and Longfellow in college. It was team-taught by two department stars, Dr. Kiefer and Rodney Jones, one a natty dresser with a gorgeous head of curly hair, the other an acclaimed poet, a stereotypical professor in appearance, wry sense of humor and laconic delivery. While I vividly... Continue Reading →
Growing up in suburban Chicago, I didn't listen to country music. It was either my father's symphonic music on WFMT, or my mother's bobby-soxer/50s crooners, or local pop radio on the radio in my room. Occasionally, we'd click past HeeHaw on TV, but we never stayed to watch. I learned early that that wasn't *our*... Continue Reading →
Preparing to go out is a practice of expecting judgement--explicit or implicit--about my person. Once past the initial introduction, I am powerfully charming, capably playful, and intellectually stimulating. But the judgement phase comes first, and withstanding that onslaught while maintaining my natural effervescence is emotionally draining.
My acrylic socks make my feet snug and happy inside my Keen sandals. When it rains later today, I'll change into waterproof shoes, but right now I'm enjoying the delicious embrace of webbed shoes. There's a bunch of stuff I have done in Oregon that I would never even have considered while living in the... Continue Reading →
The first time I heard Billie Holiday was in college, sitting on the floor of my friend's apartment. Her voice matched the scratchy quality of the vinyl album, warped and uneven, plaintive and faded. I was deep in Ella Fitzgerald at the time, whose robust and athletic singing captured my musical imagination. Billie's voice was... Continue Reading →
Meg Currell 