A Sodium Chloride Prayer

Enshrine my martini glass one more time

With your crystalline goodness, please.

Encrust my tongue with the taste of

Accidental sweat and no warning.

Woe is the sodium’s power slowing

My blood and curing my heart.

Salty desires do not stop so easily.

They arise like old loves and lamentations

Over ramen, chips, and pickles.

Envelop me in your purging powers

So I may be not so toxic.

Entice my eyes with what will be

My white demise.

NaCl, I am your mineralogist lover.

Despite dehydration,

I will entertain every perspiration flavor,

Every cum-soaked skin,

Every tear stream,

And revel in every grain. 

Statement of Purpose

            I took an unfortunate detour.  In 1997, I graduated with honors from Western Michigan University with a Bachelor of Arts in Creative Writing degree.  After coming to the heartbreaking conclusion that our economy does not pay poets very well, I worked a host of odd jobs, and finally settled on banking because the hours were good.  Yes, my career for the next 8-9 years was originally based on hours of operation coordinating with those of the daycare my son attended, and thus, begins my ten year detour as a banker.  

            Participating in varying degrees of the financial world was de rigueur for my upcoming decade.   I am both proud and ashamed that throughout my fiscal foray, I never once considered myself a “banker.”  When the days grew long on the teller line, I turned to jotting down poetic musings on the back of credit/debit tickets.  When the people could no longer be approved for loans, I wrote short stories on the back of apps to pass the time in loan processing.  And, when the housing market crumbled, I wrote my MBA Operations Management instructor a fairy tale.  After all, I was in the mortgage servicing department at that time, and soon I was going to find myself filling out an unemployment application.  Sadly, I was out of creative juice by the time that piece of writing arrived. 

            My years of unemployment were not a waste.  I forged a new attitude about circumstances beyond my control.  Instead of letting the hopelessness drive me, I drove straight ahead with my MBA, and completed it within 18 months.  In December of 2008, I was rejoicing (perhaps wallowing) in my graduation.  I was completely unaware how bitterly cold the first half of 2009 was going to be. 

            After so many rejection letters and emails, a person has a way of becoming a walking sinkhole of desperation, depression, and despair.  There were weeks when my days consisted of getting up, sending resumes, checking email, and promptly going back to bed.  During this time, I found that my first love (writing) had never left my side.  No longer was it “necessary” to read only textbooks and regurgitate material in coma-inducing APA format term papers.  Instead, I re-devoured my favorite authors like Garrison Keillor and Sharon Olds.  Also, I discovered Anthony Bourdain’s brand of writing and commentating that year.  Somewhere in early summer, I had mentally and emotionally cut ties with the financial world – I no longer belonged there.  And, in September, I would receive a phone call that would fully confirm my “no more banking” state of mind. 

            Being called for an interview at that time was the equivalent to winning the lottery.  Although, I had never heard of Harrison College, I was excited and terrified to interview with them.  In addition, when the Dean asked me if I’d be interested in teaching English classes, I nearly burst into bubbles of joy.  At last, someone recognized the “real” Emily hiding behind the banker’s suit.  The interview process itself went very quickly, and to my happy terror, I left with a stack of textbooks and was told I would start teaching on Monday.  This interview/textbook collection occurred on Wednesday!  Trying not to throw up on my students, that Monday went down in my personal history book as one of those life altering events, and I never looked back. 

            I have spent the last two years teaching a variety of classes to a variety of students.  Currently, I am titled as a General Education Instructor; and, while it’s true I do not have a specialty, I am honored and thankful to be teaching the subjects I love.  Teaching different levels of composition, presentation skills, and psychology, have allowed me to gain an insight that is at the same time powerful and disconcerting.  I feel that I have been able to inspire and motivate students within the communication disciplines due to my own years of being a student, and feeling the same mix of angst and triumph. 

            In the near future, I envision an even stronger position.  Through this Master degree, and subsequent PhD, I expect to achieve a solid footing in the English/Communication classroom.  Also, not only will this higher education enhance my current creative writing abilities, but I will then be able to translate that into future classrooms as well.  This degree will aid me in getting my students to seek their inner authors, and the same time, allow me to remember that every detour can lead to a great story.

           

             

Healer

When you announced a need for a biopsy

to remove a little patch of “maybe”

cancer on your back,

I grew into a granite form.

Kind of like when I come across the word osteoporosis;

automatically, I straighten as if this simple act

could somehow correct corrosion in the bones.

Deciding it must be better to dream today,

I can’t catch myself from sliding into places

where I can’t turn around and find home.

I probably would not ask you to run away

with me – to cross state lines, boundaries, borders

and divides of different kinds.

But, I am thinking it over.

Today I will dip body paintbrushes in some

secret solution to make my art permanent

only for your eyes – and it would fade

back to flesh for the eyes of an intruder.

The canvas is clean, paying special attention

to that little scar in the middle

like piranhas to a sick fish.

Smoothing it dry with multi-colored cotton balls,

I see how heavy they turn – thick, saliva-soaked,

and the opposite of cotton.

How easy it will be to apply the colors.

The outline was traced for me years ago

when I committed skin memory and, even then,

it was almost more than my ten tiny

tips of skin could handle.

As I start, I also apologize

for the cool temperature of the paint:

“Soon you won’t notice,” I promise.

Overwhelmed in colors, and me

left behind as merely a medium.

Watching the shapes of light and shadow

drift over your shoulder blades and collide

only to slide down the middle – a face appears.

It occurred to me that we are only blood,

bones, and tissues woven and spun

together to make this mass – our body –

and though I paint over it, we can’t help but become

sloppy receptacles for other’s has-beens and

want-to-be’s.

The face staring at me from your back is mine;

and if you will just be still

one minute longer,

I will perch on your thighs and take

a Polaroid picture.

But, first I must add one last mark…

Beneath the sepia “lips” that encircle

your scar, I print these words…

“With this kiss, I heal this wound.” 

Nigel's Speech

 Ode For a Forceful Speaker

(Nigel’s speech)

Rising from the industrial chair of OFFICE –

Standing and swiftly buttoning your uniform - a suit jacket.

Perhaps it shall be the pinstripe model today.

Microphones seem absurd in this moment.

Words pounce from your mouth as though

Verbiage was merely vermillion flames fanning forth.

When conviction is so strong that the

Stomach shakes and slides up into the esophagus, pushing

Further thoughts into your throat – that is how I know you’re ON.

It is a struggle, isn’t it?

To keep the language from lunging over the table and

Tumbling all around the audience.

Your socks are worn from bouncing up on the balls

Of your feet every time words threaten to take you with them.

A quick pause –

Remembering to reign in some of that daft vocabulary –

Your spectators are far from listless. 

More than an ordinary orator – you have a message and

We are LISTENING.

So proud!!!

Love/Hate Letter

Dear Student(s),


Thank you for taking the time to fill out this course evaluation form. Since most of you did not bother to take the survey, this letter is strictly intended for those who chose to proffer feedback.

After reading these evaluation comments, I feel that you simply treat this as an opportunity to express both your disdain and your respect toward me. Instead of critical constructive criticism, I am left with a personality profile that would make a multiple personality disordered individual look positively normal. My job is to push you. I will push you out of your circumstances and out of your comfort zones, and because of this; I am both maligned and adored. No matter – my skin is so callused, it is almost impenetrable.

This isn’t supposed to be an easy or comfortable process for either of us. If it were; well, I’d be wasting your time and your money, not to mention stunting my own growth as an instructor. Unlike some of the teachers you’ve had in the past, I take my job seriously, and yes, I care. And, I will continue to care more than you’ll ever realize. Remember, I am a human being and, amazingly, have feelings too. After reading these assessments, I walk away feeling the accolades and the worthlessness simultaneously. Above all else, consider this: I didn’t give you the final grade; you earned it.

Earnestly,

Emily

Kilarney Beach - Bay City, MI

The fog is hanging outside the big

Bay window as if it thinks it is canvas,

And I am blind.

This house built behind a rusty

Seawall smells of a brandy brown

Dependence and grandma’s White Linen.

A scent I will later wear, but

She doesn’t know that now.



The storm is forming cannon

Blasts of warm fishy yellowness,

And I want to run from the waves

Which grow – and intensify their

Thrashing on the old seawall.



She has started the dishwasher,

So the room is one big roaring rush

Of swishes perforated with talk of sleep.

I am tired,

But the storm is alive and the smokestacks

Across the bay are blinking at me

Through a small slice in the fog.



They are waiting for me to join them

In the gigantic grey.

Creative Writing Every Damned Day

Do creative writing skills have anything to do with everyday life? As a teacher, I’m inclined to respond “hell yes” to this question, but I’m sure I would disappoint many if I just left it at that. Being able to use words creatively, allows a person to inspire others, to express herself clearly and artistically, and most importantly, to turn the ordinary into something semi-magical. God bless the poets and painters, for without them, dullness couldn’t begin to describe our worldly predicament.

I am a writer, and therefore, a reader as well. Reading the works of others has inspired a multitude of thoughts, feelings, and yes, the occasional final project paper. I would like to say I have original work (wouldn’t any artist) but in reality we are all grasping at ideas that have long since been explored. Ahhh, what magnificence it must have been to tackle the human condition the way Shakespeare did before Freud came in and fucked with it. Or, the adrenaline rush Chaucer must have felt to toss perverted witticisms into his work, knowing full well he could be excommunicated and/or beheaded. Essentially, we’ve been drawing on each other’s thoughts and observations for a very long time. I can only hope (wonder) if someone ages from now looks at my work and says, “That reminds me of…”

Artistic self-expression does not equal snobbery. No, to the contrary, in my opinion, it requires a person to have what I like to call “humble guts.” Being unassumingly brave may be new territory for some, but I do believe it’s possible. One must not let the constant barrage of criticism affect the innate need for her innovative eloquence. I take what is necessary from the critics, but no more. In addition, I always walk away with pride and self-determination intact.

Even more important than confidence, is that I can make doing dishes divine, scrubbing sinks supernatural, or baking mostaccioli mystical. How? Creative writing makes my life somewhat magical in many unexpected ways. Somehow through years of word skills and observations, I came to the (not always pleasant) conclusion that the language arts were my ticket to a more mysterious explanation of the everyday. Damn the dullness!

Night Rabbits

You don’t think

I see you,

Quivering behind the

Birch and pine.

A primitive shyness,

Wide-eyed and nibbling

Under a dark uncertain sky.

Your nervous mother

Fears for you.

I too, have felt this

Tug between anxiety and pride.

Dearest child,

Whether in the concealing woods,

Or out where the sun can

Cuddle your livelihood,

Remember –

Present to the world

Your most serene face.