kayakeroos

Originally posted on September 7, 2009 at 10:14 PM

Kyle and I went kayaking this morning. Crazy, eh? He can get equipment rental from work, so we decided to take advantage of that. We went out to Lake Lewisville with them, which was amusing, because they aren’t lake kayaks. They’re actually white water models, which means they turn really, really easily because they’re a lot shorter. Good if you’re going down a really fast river. Bad if you’re out on a nearly still lake. We went in a lot of circles.

I’m much too small for those boats. The dry skirt that you put on over your torso is supposed to be skin-tight to not let water in, and then it stretches over the opening in the boat. Buttons could have easily fit in mine with me. Also, you’re supposed to sort of bow your legs out, and they press up against these pads at the top of the inside of the kayak. It should be a snug fit to balance you out. Well, I am too flexible for that, because I had to decide whether to hold my legs up against those pads with my muscles or let my knees drop six inches or so to the plastic sides of the boat. Kyle said his legs were pressing hard against his knee/leg-pads. Figures. The only thing that did fit was my life vest (or “PFD” as Kyle so officially calls it); that can be buckled really tight.

It was still fun though, because we knew that the rocking/turning debacle was going to happen. Kyle knows his canoes and kayaks, because my last summer at UT he lived with me and worked at Austin Canoe and Kayak. But in spite of his knowledge, neither of us has any kayaking experience to speak of, so we wanted to test them out on the lake before we took them to a river. Kyle says once you get in the river you have to commit to it, because it’s a lot harder to get out. I would have said lets go for it anyway, but he’s Mr. Safety with stuff like this.

But next time, we’re going to go on the Elm fork of the Trinity River. It’s the only river really close to here, and it’s not actually very fast either. It should be better than the lake though, and at least more exciting. Kyle wouldn’t let me paddle out past the little white buoys. *pouts* I paddled right up to them and touched them though.

It was funny. We got in, got used to them, turned in some circles. I paddled out to the buoy and poked it. Then we paddled over to the next one (these are pretty far out, by the way) and touched it too. Kyle tried his kayak-roll successfully… very impressive. And then we looked at each other and were like, “Now what?” What do you do on a near-still lake when you can’t go past the first line of buoys? “Wanna go back?” “Kind of.” “Me too.” So we left.

Totally worth it, though, because Kyle got to use his awesome new roof rack and his fancy rubber car mats. And we got practice with those particular boats. Next time: Niagra Falls, full-force!

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from drowning to wading

Originally posted on August 12, 2009 at 2:51 PM

Depression is a funny thing, for an artist. I mean artist in the broad sense: from musicians to painters to writers and beyond. Anyone who uses their creativity to make a living (or tries to make a living, anyway!). As a person trying to live a healthy, decent life, it’s a bad thing. Serious depression… the severe kind that lasts years. Yet, as an artist, it can be the ultimate life-force. I genuinely believe that some of the most beautiful art ever created was born of the artists’ darkest hours. I am no different. My best poems and passages usually come from a place of anger, despair, sorrow, and loss. And fear.

Someone once told me that the opposite of love isn’t hate: it’s fear. I think there’s a lot of truth to that. In fact, I think a lot of the “negative” emotions are driven by fear when you look at them closely enough. Embarrassment is usually because you’re afraid that someone saw you and will judge you. Guilt is because you’re afraid you’ve hurt someone in some way, or maybe that you’ll get caught. Hate can be a fear of not being as good as someone (jealousy) or a fear that they will take your place, job, wife, etc. (insecurity). Rage can be a fear of loss, or failure. Sorrow can be a fear of being alone.

Nothing’s black and white, I know, and sometimes an emotion isn’t backed by another, but in my experiences with my own emotions, they usually are. I don’t believe that it’s necessary to expel negative emotions. I embrace them. Guilt for feeling an emotion is secondary, and unnecessary. There’s nothing wrong with feeling the way you feel. Period.

Emotions can become a problem when they start negatively interfering with your life, i.e., debilitating depression. Realizing when you need help is difficult in that position, to say the least. When you add in the factor of the depressed person being an artist… well, it gets even harder. There is fear driving all of those emotions: if I take medicine to make me better, will it take away my art with my pain? Will I have anything left to write/paint/sing about? If I’m happy, will I even care that I don’t do as powerful of work anymore?

These are thoughts that plagued me when I realized that I needed help in my second year of college. I had been depressed for 4-5 years, and had produced wonderful work. It was destroying my life. I was never really happy by the end of that time. I swore to myself that I would not get on anti-depressants. I would not let medicine take my art away with my pain.

I found a class at UT through the mental health program that taught the mindfulness meditation practices of Jon Kabat-Zinn. It stressed acknowledging and accepting your thoughts and emotions, no matter what they may be. It worked. 100% saved my life. I am not exaggerating.

The funny thing about it all is that since then, I’ve written my best work ever. What I didn’t realize in the thick of my problem was that not being depressed doesn’t mean not having negative emotions anymore. I still have a pool to draw creativity from. It’s just a smaller, more manageable pool that doesn’t consume my life. And besides, I write great happy poems now too.

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on Let the Right One In

Originally posted on June 25, 2009 at 1:12 AM

Watched a really good vampire movie tonight with Kitty. My mom found an article about it and forwarded it to me, and I checked it out from the public library. It’s called “Let the Right One In.” It’s a Swedish film with captions, so if you don’t like captions I wouldn’t recommend it, but if they don’t deter you… dig in. This is an achingly beautiful film.

I don’t think I would say it necessarily brings anything new to vampires as a genre and concept, but as a movie, I think that might be part of the appeal. It is so wonderfully refreshing to see a simple vampire story that doesn’t rely on tricks and gimmicks for its impact. No twists on the old story, no crazy over the top long action sequences (although there was one unfortunately crummy animation snippet, easily overlooked), no sex scenes, no fake looking blood. It was all good. Just right. But don’t get me wrong; there were some wickedly awesome effects in there. True and honest and real. The genuineness of the plot made me buy into it more, not less. No back story, no explanations (Queen of the Damned), no world view.

If you’re intrigued, check it out. Literally. If you have a public library card (free), it’s free. That’s right. Screw you, Blockbuster!

Thanks for the recommendation, Mom!

PS- This is a movie best watched in the dark with no distractions. There’s a lot to miss if you look away, because there’s no “IT’S COMING NOW!” soundtrack to clue you in.

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Choice

Originally posted on May 25, 2009 at 12:44 AM

I often hear famous authors say things like, “If you don’t absolutely have to write to survive, don’t become a writer as a profession. It’s too hard.” Or, “Writing isn’t an option for me; it’s a necessity.” *clears throat* I call bullshit.

I can think of only two reasons that a successful author might say this to novices desiring to achieve publication, success, fame, etc. 1) They want to scare off as many people as possible to avoid extra competition in an already devastatingly competitive field. Or, 2) They are fooling themselves into actually believe it.

I think the members of option 1 are sneaky buggers with low self-esteem. And of option, 2, they are probably the same people who describe relationships in this way: “We just knew that we had to be together forever; there wasn’t really a choice.” We’ve all heard people say things like that. And to be honest (because someone must), it’s just not true. Every day we must wake up and reaffirm our commitments, our dreams, our identities. Because it all can change, no matter how strong the passion, how sure the desire, how tender the love. Life is unstable, and to keep a common factor throughout, one must choose to make room for that factor in every changing stage of life. In love and writing, it’s a choice.

I understand where some of those people are coming from, I think. Something along the lines of: writing is who I am, not just what I do. I think I would say that, too. But to say that you had no other choice is to mislead—to exaggerate. We all have options. I would have made a great evolutionary biologist, a good waitress, and a fabulous interior designer, for starts. But that’s not what I ultimately decided. I’ve decided that I want to be a writer. So every day, I reaffirm that commitment to myself. I reevaluate my goals and dreams and find them sound. I struggle with the pull between my career dreams and my personal life. Some days writing wins and I get good work done; some days it loses and other things come first. But overall, I am holding up my commitment and striving to achieve my goals… because I choose to.

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Approaching June

‎Originally posted on Thursday, ‎June ‎16, ‎2011, ‏‎2:50:00 AM

This poem was first published in the Texas Poetry Calendar 2011 by Dos Gatos Press.

Approaching June
in loving memory of Ron Neugebauer,
April 17, 1955- June 18, 2008

Summer was picking dewberries
in the hot Texas sun,
fingers dyed purple from sampling;
we couldn’t wait to get home
and eat them in a bowl with cream.

Summer was the gangly limbs
of young teens squealing
and flirting in the back yard
swimming pool, relishing
the blissfully boisterous blue.

Summer was the sweet smell
of honeysuckle wafting
through the near-still heat,
rocking in a hammock,
drinking bottled root beer.

Summer was escaping the
humidity in the soft, safe hush
of the recliner by the window,
avidly reading a book
while the cats napped on the porch.

Summer was a white gate,
now tainted with the loss of you—
the bright fence painted
in a wash of gray—
and it will never be the same.

© Annie Neugebauer Tilton. All rights reserved.

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Posted in My Works | Tagged | 6 Comments