A man came into the shop, yesterday.  I had met him once before.  I don’t remember what he ordered last time, but I remember that when I asked him where he was from, his face lit up.  He told me the ways he loves Morocco.  I can be shy, sometimes, to ask people about their origins.  But, I think very few things make people more glad than talking about their homes.

This time, he ordered coffee and sparkling water.  He was surprised I remembered him.  He had been very busy working on his thesis.  He is a graduate student of literature.

“What do you study?” he asked.

“I don’t study,” I said.

“Good!” he said, with marked enthusiasm.  I thought perhaps he misunderstood, and I laughed.

“You think it is good?”

“Yes!  I think it is very good!  Let’s say you love something.  Let’s say you paint or write.  Let’s say you knit.  And then you go and study it.  I think something can be lost there.  Something important.  The essence.”  His hand gestures were thick like his accent and just as welcoming.  “Maybe I am wrong, I don’t know.  But this is what I begin to believe.”  He was a little sad about that.

Was he right?  Do you think you can lose something of what you love when you make it a subject in a book?  I think he is wrong.  I think there is something beautiful in studying, learning, sharing ideas.  And at the same time, I think he is right.

We smiled at each other, and I felt I had met a friend, again.

Hi, everyone. i haven’t gotten around to blogging much these last couple days. Nor taking pictures. But we are in our new place, and I’m thrilled to say that we are sharing it three days of the week with one of my best friends. Living with Janelle and Adam: it’s like a dream come true. Our things are slowly finding their way out of boxes onto the shelves. Plants are being put in the windows. Futons are being assembled. Lamps are being plugged in.

I don’t know why I never liked August. It’s such a bountiful time of year. I feel nourished by the good books around me and the presence of friends. I feel nourished by the late-summer vegetables, early autumn apples, and the birds outside my window nibbling at a tree’s hard fruits.

Coffee-shop customers have been asking if I’m taking classes this fall. I usually tell them that I’m done with school, for now. I know they probably assume that I graduated, but I don’t really feel deceptive. I really feel like I finished school. I didn’t go for a degree or security or a job. I went to throw myself in the academic world, to bury myself in books and soak up knowledge like there was no tomorrow. And I did that. And I loved that. But now, I want to do something else. I want to see live from the smaller corners, from the chalk-covered overgrown sidewalks of my neighborhood, rather than the fine steps of the university.
In this sun-soaked month, I am learning to recognize a lot of things in myself. Since I was little, there were only two things that I have ever really wanted to do: write and travel. I think it’s time to enjoy that about myself, rather than suppressing and then binging on it. I can’t share what I’ve been given very well without welcoming it.

So, happy August, dear readers. Feel free to share things you’ve been recognizing in yourself or even just whether or not you like August. You know I love to hear from you.

I feel like Adam and I are taking these great little steps. My writing is inching along in quite beautiful ways*, and Adam is moving in the direction of Industrial/Product Design school. Yup! I am proud and excited. Financing all this will be an adventure, so send your prayers our way, friends. It’s an adventure I’m looking forward to.

Until then, we’ll go on learning to recognize
what we love, and what it takes
to tend what isn’t for our having.
-Li-Young Lee

Amen.

*Let me know if you’d like to help me edit the first 37 pages of my next book. I need all the help I can get.

Yesterday was spent on little homey things. I re-rearranged the bookshelf and picked up a box from Adam’s parents’ house that we had forgotten, and I had been missing very much.  I didn’t remember quite what was in that box besides two picture frames. Opening it was like opening an old treasure chest full of familiar smells and favourite old trinkets. I am eager to find the right place for everything. It feels homier here already.

The day after tomorrow, Adam starts classes. He’s taking on fulltime classes and fulltime work.  So, I probably won’t be seeimg him much for a while.  But I’m so proud of my hard-working husband.  Let’s all give three cheers for Adam!

I just e-mailed the last bit of work off for my Norwegian class. The semester is officially over. And…it feels a bit weird. I know, it was just one class. But the vanishing of that one itsy bitsy class creates a considerable shift in time and focus. Soon I won’t have a free bus pass. And when people ask me “Are you a student?” I can’t say yes. And then they’ll ask “What do you do?” and I’ll say…I’m a barrista? A writer? A wife? Goodness, the simplest questions can be so tricky.

But I tell you, I am heartily looking forward to wading into this new year. I want to fix up my workspace, clean the clutter, and fill it with wonderful things that make me feel at home and ready to write. I want to get a library card, research publishers, and get lost in the kids section. I want to find a new rhythm. I want to learn life more as the non-student-whatever-i-am that I am.

I love this time of year.

I love going to work. Not being at work (though I often enjoy that to). I love the act of getting there. I love walking when it’s wet or cool. I love biking when it’s warm and bright. I love busing when it’s freezing. This week has been a particularly wonderful one, as far as transportation goes. I’ve biked home in a thunderstorm, smoked a nice morning pipe while listening to music, and walked to work barefoot in the pouring rain. Today, I biked to work before 6:30 in the morning when the sun was nice and young and the streets were quiet. I’ve always liked the act of getting places (as far as I can remember anyways). I like long car rides and plane rides and train rides. I like traveling, in the most literal sense of the word.

This morning, I dropped four of my five classes. I kept my Norwegian class, but if it ends up getting in the way of my writing, I’ll drop that one, too. Because that is what I’m going to do this semester; I’m going to write. I’ve wanted to do this my whole life, and I feel like the time has finally come to step out and try my writing legs. To see where it takes me.

A wise teacher of mine once wrote me this, “The difficulty is obvious: you can have a degree in international studies or Scandinavian studies, but virtually nobody can say ‘O.K. Lindsey, you are an accomplished -or, at least promising- writer now’. My modest advice is: be ready to suffer in order to make your dream real, this one is surely not an easy task, a comfortable path.” Generally, I’m not really into suffering for things. That usually implies a lot of self-discipline, which I’m not very good at. I’m not into dieting. I sleep when I should be cramming for a test. It takes me forever to do things like thank you cards. I only exercise when/because it’s fun. But now and again, I run into something that draws out the fighter in me. Writing does. It requires it. Nothing can force me to write; no one can write for me. So I’m going to give it a shot, give myself a shot. There’s a chance I’ll fail miserably.

But that’s all part of the trip, isn’t it?

Yesterday was my last day of Creative Writing class. I ate half a grapefuit before I left and walked to class with Adam’s iPod and one ear bud (the other bud broke and had been snipped off). Despite having only one earful of music, it was delicious. So delicious, I can’t begin to tell you about the colour of the low sun or dark clouds or the intimacy of the music or the faces of the people I passed by or how I wanted to link arms with them or give them kisses on their cheeks. All I can tell you is that it was very, very beautiful.

Katrina and Georgia were at the Terrace studying physics and sharing a pitcher of cool beer. We sat together by the boats in the sunshine and read from our stories. Later we read our stories to the class and they read theirs and it was wonderful. Katrina and I walked together to the bus, talking about class and the people in it. Amazing people, all of them. I regret not getting to know them better.

Today, I ate the other half of the grapefruit. It squirted me in the eye. I baked bread, Adam bought me new ear buds, and I bought a gooey drippy ice cream cone.

It’s been a very successful couple of days. Here are the last four sentences of my story (as it stands now):

The smile started in a pit in our stomach and it rumbled and grew and spread to our knees and toes and elbows and the tips of our fingers and the ends of our hair and we threw up our hats and cheered. The cheer echoed off the Town Hall, bounced off the pavement, and rose through the trees that lined the street, flying past thick clouds into the sunshine. Our cheer went up and up, echoing through the atmosphere and passing into outer space. And it bounced off the moon, and it bounced off some stars, and it echoed and echoed and echoed.

This afternoon, I spent hours and hours and then a couple more hours plugging away at my short story for creative writing. Eliot helped by sleeping on my storyboard/bed. It’s definately still a work in progress, but I’m having so much fun, I just had to share a bit of it with you and let you know what I’ve been up to. Here are the first two paragraphs as they stand now:

One day, something spectacular happened in a place no one found spectacular at all. Our town is a town like millions of others. It has 4,820 trees, 12 restaurants, 400 dogs, 202 raspberry bushes, a countless number of dandelions, and 12,482 people. 50% of us are male, 50% are female. We are 10% depressed, 22% optimistic, and 1% insane. Most of us like breakfast cereal; only a handful of us like black licorice jelly beans. The majority likes our normal little town. We like the tree lined streets. We like the quaint shops. We like the safety. But no one, not the optimists, not the dandelions, not even the licorice-lovers, ever found it spectacular.

One night, a cool wind began to spin in this quaint, yet not quite spectacular town. It did things that most winds do: rattled tree branches and mussied the hair of girls coming home from bars. It twirled the curtains of open windows and tossed old leaves and flyers. But that wind, seemingly innocent like so many before, grabbed the light post in front of the bakery on Main Street and threw it into the lawn of the Town Hall one block down, knocking over a statue on its way. The noise of this incident startled remarkably few: only Bill, the Vietnam vet who slept on a bench in front of the Town Hall, and Jim, who was chain smoking and taking a long walk after a late-night fight with his girlfriend. But by morning, the Town Hall’s front lawn was strewn with dozens of buzzing people snapping photos. The light post stood high above them on its head, the exposed wires at the top flailing awkwardly like little legs. It didn’t take long for the news crews to get there or suited men telling us the end is nigh. Little kids were playing tag.

For creative writing class, we have to go to two poetry/fiction readings. Being myself, I waited until now to do this. Last night, there were two poetry readings, one at the University held by the creative writing department, the other a youth reading at a coffee shop a block away. The one at the university would probably be very good. I figured the one at the coffee shop probably wouldn’t be. Worse yet, I feared it might be very Willy Street (i.e. poems about recycling and Iran). Of course, being me, I went to the one at the coffee shop. Convenience.

And it was one of the coolest things I’ve seen all year.

A group of high schoolers from a school poetry club called Youth Speaks filled the little coffee shop. Some teachers and parents were there to watch and listen and sometimes read as well. The high schoolers read their poems, most about unrequited love scribbled onto journal pages. I’m sure that the poetry they read over at the creative writing department would be considered better quality by most standards. But these kids were so excited about poetry and so real. They cheered each other on and filled the room with life and brilliance and bravely beared their sweet souls up at the microphone. With confidence.

So cool.

And some of the poems were really very good.

It made me wonder what poems I would have written in high school had I written poems. It made me think about my sister, Abbey, and wish they had something like that at KM. I bet she’s a wonderful poet. It also reminded me how awesome high schoolers are.

So cool.

På norsk time we are reading a book called Naiv. Super. by Erlend Loe. It’s a very popular book in Norway, especially with teens. I am enjoying it thoroughly, laughing a lot, enjoying its sjarm.
In a wee section of this book, the main character tells a story about his grandfather. When the grandpa and his wife got their first house, they planted an apple tree in the backyard in the middle of a beautiful garden full of flowers. After several years, this tree began to bear fruit. They picked the fruit and the gramma smooshed it into apple sauce and squeezed it into juice. It was a great tree.

One day, they woke up to find the tree destroyed. The grandfather went out to find who did it; it was three teenage boys who went to the local school. The boys had to pay them back so they could buy a new tree. It was a lot of money at the time, so the boys had to scrimp and save and couldn’t go to the movies or buy girls sodas. They payed a little bit every week for months.

On the day of their last payment, the grandma made vafler and coffee, and for the first time the five of them sat around and enjoyed themselves. They talked about school and where they came from.  At the end, the grandfather went to the cupboard and took out three envelopes. He handed them to the boys. Inside was the money.  He had been planning to give it back to them the whole time.
I like that story.

The narator calls his grandfather a kjernekar. Literally translated, that means “core man” (kjerne=core kar=man). It means that he is a genuinely good man. The narrator then wonders if good men like that exist in his generation.

In class, my professor asked us if we knew any kjernekar. No one answered. I think we were just shy. The truth is, I do know kjernekarer; I know a handful of them. Maybe I’m lucky. Maybe the narrator underestimates this generation. I’m pretty certain he does.

I like that kjernekar means core-man. I like that very very much.

.
Do you know any kjernekarer? Who are they? What are they like?