Dear Editor,

This letter of complaint goes out to everyone who has criticized me, deflated my ego, and to those who haven't seen the whole picture or considered my point of view.  To hell with all involved in the destruction of my self-esteem, my self-worth, and my positive perception of myself. To hell with those who made me feel less than beautiful, less than intelligent, or less than caring or personable.

Shame on you all!

Tracy

SUMMER WARMTH

When summer comes
Are you going to be excited for the sun?
Ready to enjoy the fun?
Meet me at the beach
To be free and to
Harvest in the glory of warmth.

THE LIBRARY
It's quiet, airy, and full of books. I thought I would come out and enjoy the quietness and get away from my room & computer—although there are computers here. Usually it’s quiet at home too—provided I am by myself or no one is bothering me. I thought I'd
come and look at the CD's to make a mix for myself. Indeed, I did find some CD's. All I know is when I am done procrastinating, I will have to do my homework. My shitty homework. I came here to work on some projects for my writing workshop, but I am really avoiding the fact I have to study for my class, Biological Basis of Behavior. I feel snowed under thinking about the homework I have to do. I found out from a name dictionary that my name, Tracy, “is from the Anglo-Saxon, meaning brave.” I surely don’t feel brave at times. I wonder why my mother chose that name for me. Did she see me as growing up to become a brave person? Or did she just like the name? It is also
a variant of Theresa and used also as a masculine name. Theresa is from the Greek therizein, "to reap." I feel that the library can be an overwhelming place, especially with the internet at our finger tips. Instead of looking things up the old-fashioned way, I tend to take the easy way out by looking up things on the internet. Whatever happened to writing letters by hand, as opposed to e-mail? I am just reminded of how lazy, impatient and plagued I can get or have become.

Going to New York City

to shadow my hallucination of making it big.
Leaving my ho-hum suburb for a chance,
leaving the people I thought I trusted behind.

They are laughing at me for
leaving to go to New York City:
“Why would anyone want to live
there,” giving me a startling glare

thinking I’m deranged and possibly
dangerous for wanting New York.
All the more reason I want to go--to show them.
I’m leaving for the inclination

to pursue a risk in the hope
of a favorable outcome.
I only wish, I really wish
I were going to New York City.

Unfinished Poem

Trees

I noticed each tree is an individual.

Some are poised photographed
like models with attitude.
Others, with their twisted, grace
are branched like the palm of a hand
reaching to catch something God threw.

Some pose blended with branches
that appear to be reaching up to the sky,
praising and thanking God for what He has given,
while others with outstretched arms
are asking "What on Earth am I doing here?”

Other trees the opposite: wilted, dying,
folded over, telling us they are tired
from constantly reaching for help,
have given up, lost their will to live.

The last are so large and rigid,
they are protectors of the soul
they have grown to encompass.

Writing rules

Heinlein's Rules:

1. First, you must write
2. You must finish what you write
3. Do not rewrite except at editorial request
4. You must submit what you have written to an editor for
publication
5. You must continue to submit until the story sells.

I have this CD, it's one of my favorites. It's called George Martin; In My Life. It's just a bunch of different artists doing covers of Beatles' songs. It features Robin Williams & Bobby McFerrin doing "Come Together", Goldie Hawn doing a cocktail lounge version of "A Hard Day's Night", and Celine Dion doing the classic "Here, There, and Everywhere." This CD can be compared to interpreting Shakespeare. When a person covers a song, they {the performers}come up with some kind of interpretation, just like an actor or actors would when doing a Shakespeare play.

To me, The Beatles are like nothing else. Nothing else could compare, maybe except each of the members solo efforts. Listening to music has done wonders for my soul, whether it's The Beatles, Queen, classical music, or Nirvana. No, I don't sing--but I did try guitar, but listening to a tune or someone singing lyrics that express the very same feeling I'm going through is such a wonderful feeling that words can not express.

Here is a poetry exercise I was playing around with...just wanted to make it known it is just for fun and play...

I eat worms for breakfast.
I carry large quantities of money in my backpack
Every afternoon I take a trip to New York City, London, and if there is time I make a pit stop to Ireland.
My best friend is John Lennon.
I never go anywhere without my large quantities of large money.
I go swimming in the nude.
I have the Statue of Liberty in my room.
Yesterday, Bill Clinton phoned me and offered a marriage proposal.
There is a purple and blue dinosaur hiding in my locker.


"What progress we are making. In the Middle Ages they would have burned me. Now they are content with burning my books." -Sigmund Freud, neurologist, founder of psychoanalysis (1856-1939)

As a child I always thought being a "nerd", "dork", or "geek" was a bad thing. It's those kinds of names people actually use if you're smart, if you're seen as not having any kind of dimension, are dressed sort of odd, have an interest or good at subjects that aren't seen as normal(Whatever normal is). If someone called me a nerd now, I'd be complimented because I'd feel that means I don't fit into some stereotypical mold.

Not every "nerd," "geek," or "dork" is the stereotypical "Steve Urkel" or a character from "Revenge of the Nerds." Most people who are labeled these terms end up great thinkers or artists in their own right. And I envy those people who aren't scientifically, mathematically, musically, or artistically challenged.

All these books and nothing to do.
All these words and no essays to write.
I don't remember being a child
who has found something
to keep herself busy when blue.

The police drive in squad cars that look like giant bees.
The lights on the cruiser remind me of the wings and antennae,
the body of the car has the oval-shape like the bee itself.
When a squad car is black and white, it reminds me of a yellow jacket.

The police who drive motorcycles
are skinny little wasps
dressed in their head gear and dark colors.
The motorcycle is slender when
compared to that of the oval-shaped bee.

If not careful, both come in swarms if there is trouble, or if one's actions are frantic.