M.I.A., or Who is that Woman with the Ink Stains on her Blouse?

It's 5:30 in the morning and I've already been up and grading since 3:00. I've been doing this for days, and I'll probably be doing it tomorrow. Don't feel sorry for me - I like the smell of ink in the morning, it smells like victory. Besides, in the dark early hours there is silence and good coffee.

I've completely blown off the blog for over a week now. The four or five of you who actually read this may not even care, but I do. I miss the writing. The laptop is shoved toward the back of the desk and turned off, for the most part, to keep me out of time-eating trouble. The typewriter is back in its case because it was the most anguishing and visible sign that I Have Other Work To Do. All distractions gone, and the papers get full attention.

And there are a great many papers.

I don't hate grading. Once I get my reading groove on it's absolutely fascinating to read all the hard work, the insights, the epiphanies. Sometimes the papers are badly written, but for the most part students actually care about the topics they've chosen and the arguments are fairly sound. I love this part of teaching even though it's the loneliest dark-of-the-morning part of it all.

Finals are next week and I'll be at this again. If I get lucky, there will be time this weekend to tell you about the amazing literary magazine my undergraduate students just published and the awards they've earned. Stunning work.

There. I've given you the only fifteen minutes I'll have for a bit. Back to the essays.

One sad excuse of a post

While I'm in the middle of the busiest week of my life, I thought I'd just provide a little simple entertainment. I miss writing anything right now, and I have such wonderful, fleeting, interrupted thoughts that want to be stories this week. Or poems. Who knows.

I haven't had a complete thought in two weeks.

This will change soon. It's grading and publication time just now, though, so enjoy the film and send me hot coffee.

Weekly No Tellin' Scribble Challenge, and last week's winner

April isn't really the cruelest month, it's actually National Poetry Month. We should celebrate. Between the tornado sirens and the Arkansas River floodwaters, there needs to be some moment of peaceful, poetic delight. Otherwise, we would all sound just like 'ol T. S. - and have you ever really heard him? Well, I don't know many voices that can conjure up such large-scale depression. On with the delight, then.

The first exciting bit of news is that we have a winner in last week's Scribble Challenge. Aedh's poem "Tulips" wins hands down by following Cruelanimal's lead a few weeks ago and scaring off the competition. Congratulations, Aedh! Be sure to copy/paste the coveted No Tellin' Winner's Blog Badge to your own blog. You've earned it.

This week's Scribble Challenge needs to be something celebratory and April-y. And I'm convinced it should be poetry in some form or other, in Honor of National Poetry Month. Write about dancing. It can be anything from your first junior high dance to Britany Spears doing The Stumble. You can write about your high school prom or your first trip to a strip club. Hopefully they didn't occur on the same night, but if they did, write about that too. Write about the ballet or the mosh pit, I don't care. Surprise all of us. To get you rolling, I've included a couple of inspiring dance videos. Now, go make poems.

Bill and Hillary: Family Album

In the middle of all the verbal fisticuffs and political mayhem, I keep returning to this picture. I found it some time ago and planned to use it for something snarky, but I just can't. Look at them. A million years ago before the campaigns and the bad press and the blue dress and the winning. Back before they ate from the tree.

And it strikes me that all this history they carry on each other's backs, all this accumulated striving and aching for more and less, all of it is in the seed of this picture. In this moment they have no Secret Service detail, no publicized broken hearts or policies. They aren't yet parents or Presidents.

Everything we know of them is after this photograph. He never inhaled and she never exhales. There's always a race they're both running. I honestly can't see either of them on CNN now without thinking of the innocence in this picture.

Weekly No Tellin' Scribble Challenge, and last week's winner...

Last week's scribble challenge asked you to write a "Dear John" letter in fifty words or less - much like poor Carrie's infamous Sex in the City post-it note break-up. The entries just poured in. Four in all. The momentum is building.

While all of the entries were heartbreakingly sweet, Candace is the winner with her delicate "Stick a Fork in Me, I'm Done" break-up note. If you haven't checked out her blog Crazy Texas Mommy, you must do so immediately before the Feds shut her down. Congratulations, Candace! Copy/paste the coveted No Tellin' Scribble Challenge Winner blog badge over at your place so the Feds will know you're no flower to be trampled underfoot!

I'm a day late posting results and a new scribble challenge. Forgive me. The dreadful tornadic weather and too much rain did something funky to my buried DSL line. Communication with anything but the neighbors has been spotty at best. The AT&T repairmen are cute though, and they can come on over any time they want to.

This week's scribble challenge is a retrospective sort of shindig. There's a special place in my heart for angsty, finger-snapping Beat Poetry, man. Dig? That's the form, cats, and the subjects to choose from are the political race and Dolly Parton. You can even combine the two - sort of a country-music-meets-Wolf-Blitzer. With a goatee, man. To inspire you, I've got a little beat poetry from High School Confidential below. So go write something and post it in the comments or give us a link so we can find the poem on yours. Groovy.

The Taxman Cometh

Break out the bubbly, folks. For the first time in six years I'm actually getting a tax refund from the State of Arkansas. This is quite an accomplishment and I couldn't be more pleased. Those revenue guys have been raking this gal over the coals for some time now. In six to eight weeks I'm assure that there will be a check in the mail. For five dollars. That the refund. Five bucks.

And I don't care that the check won't even buy lunch at McDonalds. At least not if I want something to drink.

But wait. There's even more good news. The Federal Taxman has ALSO given me a break. Sure I owe money, but this time it's just double-digits. I have enough mathematical acumen to understand that still puts me in the hole overall, but this year it's more like a divot. I can replace a divot. It's the cavernous, echoing Yellowstone-like holes that make me quit breathing, and you can bet I've been to the precipice and looked over the edge.

I'm going to cash that five-dollar check and spend it all in one place. Shouldn't be hard to do. My head is spinning so with the thought of such a windfall that I scarcely know how to spend it. I've got six to eight weeks to think about it, though. If you have any suggestions just let me know.