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2.27.2004

Southern Vermont is characterized by it's old rounded green mountains (which I often think look blue). These whale's of the mountain kingdom (if porcupines were the rockies), dictated the human developments. Villages and towns and cities are nestled in the valleys with the residential areas deeply integrated into the surrounding landscape. We don't have suburbs. We don't have billboards. We are the poorest and the safest. I really think there are only three roads where the speed limit is 65 mph in the whole state. That's Route 89, that goes up her midsection, a Rt. 4 near Castleton and Route 91 by Brattleboro. Most people have at least one car. Usually a truck and another car somewhere in the woods. I have my boyfriends and my car here, in Vermont two Saabs - one rusty and not inspectable, and one in my barn, an '85 black dodge truck with an awesome hood ornament (only 500 bones!) that needs a carborator, my boyfriend has a 1960-something old green GMC truck, his "boat" truck chevy thing and an international Scout. People from Long Island call us clay-footers. We call them Joey's. We call ourselves woodchucks. And I feel like the stereotypical Vermonter is a ski freak, or people picture Vermont as one big ski resort. I think of the stereotypical Vermonter as a maple syrup making, pick-up driving, I got my baby right next to me in this here bench seat dude. I guess rural's the word. But then Versace, Giorgio Armani, DKNY, and Ralph Lauren is there. Zoning's pretty tight so it all looks fairly low impact and pleasant.
So most of the landscape is dominated by farms, mountains, lakes and rivers. The ski mountains are most touristy in the south - Killington, Mount Snow, Stratton - where much of the real estate and tourism markets keep up the local way of life. In the North the capital lies, Montpelier and the biggest city, Burlington. The "space between" these two more populated poles is called the Northeast Kingdom. This area is most poor, rural, and quiet.
Near Burlington lies our biggest waterbody, Lake Champlain. Sometimes my boss Peter and I go sailing up there on his boat, Cybele. The mountains in Northern Vermont are fascinating. At just the right time of day looking towards Mount Mansfield, Stowe, or Camel's Hump from the highway is enough to make a person hit a moose.

2.26.2004

Hey all...ok that last thing was a no go but I saw this and it definitely is not hokey.

[plug].poetry.magazine is accepting submissions for its Spring 2004 issue. Any form of poetry is welcome. Please send submissions to plug@cornell.edu by March 1. Visit our website at www.rso.cornell.edu/plug/ for more information and to read previous issues of the magazine.

2.20.2004

geez when thinking to write about an object or scene i keep imagining such tragic scenes-deaths, where was i when i heard about 9/11,etc...i guess all those psychology textbooks are right afterall. i really don't want to talk about something tragic or sad today because i have a cold. i guess that's a reason as good as any? that's what the best man (and brother) of my cousin's husband said in his speech at their wedding - well i guess she's as good as any. so i'm thinking about something funny or something happy...but trying to locate my friend in collegetown at the intersection last night(despite the fact that collegetown only has one major intersection), or the time i forgot my snow pants at home and decided to go snowboarding in velvet pants, would probably be most funny to me. happy times? achievements, family stuff, boy stuff...seems a little trite - getting what i always dreamed of or what i "deserve" - although it would be amusing for me to write more about my cousin, but hard to not compare her to a yappy ratdog. it's not like the only tones are unhappy, sad, funny or happy (thank our little duckies) but that's just what's going through my pressurized noggin right now. i love when that drippy snot is running without decency, no matter if i try to suck it up - there's no where to go! so armed with my tropicana, my celestial seasonings throat soother, cashmere sweater, sporting a chafed set of nostrils, wad of damp and still audible tissues if you squeeze them where it's fresh, on a friday morning, not a whole lot of sun, in my little cave. there's a scene as good as any.

2.13.2004

what i thought was going to be another background information lecture turned out to be something quite the opposite. Bob Venables, a professor of american indian studies here at Cornell, was invited to my studio to provide us with some historical information about syracuse. the project that we were working on was the design of an aesthetic extension of the current Everson Museum allowing for the outdoor viewing of art. he began with a rather run-of-the-mill history of syracuse - it's industry, populations, spatial growth, architecture etc. he then moved into a history not in the textbooks - that of the Onondaga people who once thrived in the area. i'm not sure if it was the gruesome history that is never told, the verbally graphic way which bob described this "real" history, the volume of bob's voice getting angrier and angrier, the story of these women and children being completely violated and abused in the worst ways imaginable, or the intensity of my sympathy that generated such a profound sadness and nausea in my body. the stupidity and soullessness of the white colonizers and the utter disrespect for anything beyond themselves was unbearable. i sat in the front of our dark classroom, watching his burly figure, absorbing his intensity, realizing how unintentionally twisted and filtered education can be, with tears quietly welling, my body stiff and frozen.

2.04.2004

so when i was a mini anna running around clad in yellow rubber boots (and sometimes white wooden clogs depending on the blister factor) and pink tutu--yes oh yes the only suitable outfit for a vermont summer day--i would spend my time collecting worms, salamanders, newts, frogs and various other catchable and not creepy critters. there are no billboards in vermont and no tv action at my house, mainly because my mother hated it which was supported by the fact that it wasn't even possible to receive a signal that far up in the mountains. i didn't have a childhood of media bombardment, just a whole lot of nature, my horse, my garden, puppet shows, cooking experiments, calvin and hobbes, biking, swimming, and chore doing (i'm sure there's a ton more but this is what readily comes to mind). my big sister was also in the mix, a super one when we were alone and usually a flat out troll when we were hanging with friends. after pushing me out of a not so humble tree house, i got some advice from my naked-except-for-the-occasional-velcro-cape friend Leif. he told me booby traps were the way to go. booby traps? all i could imagine was some sort of breast-feeding apparatus or a very advanced and developed method to get boys to do what ever i could conceive of. this confused and fascinated me for a little while as this was the seemingly capital way to get back at a two-faced sibling. was i to trap her boobies? at the time i don't think there was too much to trap. did it involve some sort of grabbing technique until she shouted out apologies and a lifetime of truces? hell if someone had told me all i had to do was dig a hole, cover it with sticks and leaves, and tell her that i saw a unicorn behind the house i would have been right on it.
thus begins my bloggin action...soups for supper so i'll be back with a belly bulge o matzo balls.

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