642 Things To Write About

So, I bought this funny book a year ago. It's full of writing prompts (because I'm a huge nerd and would buy something like that). I've only done...like...7 since I bought it...and now I've made it a goal to do every.single.one.

And here is the first:
What can happen in a second?

In the second you've just spent reading this,
someone has wrecked their car,                    
someone has just taken their last breath,
or had their last thought,
and
someone has just given birth,
and someone has just taken their first breath -
life and death are happening simultaneously
right this
second.

In the second it took me to write the this letter,
someone has sent a text (which unfortunately they can't un-send),
and someone else has told a joke, which has just taken
a terrible turn,
and has ended up as and unintended insult.
Ouch.

In a single second you can:
choke,
push the button on a microwave,
smack your bubblegum,
trip,
make eye contact with someone,
burn yourself,
find a dollar,
burp,
say yes
or no...
and in one second, with just the click of a mouse -
or the enter key -
you can spend all the money in your bank account.

So I'm fairly convinced that not just anything can happen in a second,
but everything.

Dictators.

It was a new day; it was a sun-rise over mountains, car fumes in the lungs, and a dirty blonde street dog.
Era un nuevo día; era un amanecer sobre las montañas, el humo de los coches en los pulmones, y una perrita rubia y sucia. 

I was told to walk with purpose, to cross at the corner with as many people as possible. To avoid the small park at night, and not to eat anything spicy or too rich for at least 5 more days.
Me dijeron que caminar con un propósito, y cruzar en la esquina con la otra gente...evitar el parque más pequeño en la noche, y no comer algo picante o rico por lo menos 5 días más.  

Give yourself time to adjust.
Necesitas tiempo para ajustar.

Adjustments. It seems that adjusting just what we do, isn’t it? We adjust to new climates, new cultures, new people, new jobs. All the time we’re just shifting in our own skins, trying to find the most comfortable position.

Los ajustes. Parece que el ajuste es lo que hacemos, no? Ajustamos a nuevos climas, nuevas culturas, nueva gente, nuevos trabajos. Todo el tiempo estamos moviendo debajo de nuestros propios pieles, buscando la posición más confortable. 

It was a new week; it was another language, a bitter drink, and dancing until the early hours of the morning. We represented – at some points – 8 different nations. We spoke of jobs and journeys and one by one, and in various ways, we slowly admitted we were running. Running from oppressive things and closed minded thinking, towards being alive but being afraid. If you don’t adjust in the expected ways, then you really don’t know what is supposed to happen next.

Era una nueva semana; era otro idioma, una bebida amarga, y bailando hasta la madrugada. Representábamos (a veces) 8 países distintos. Hablábamos de trabajos y aventuras y uno por uno admitimos que corríamos...de cosas opresivas, de mentes cerradas, hacia la esperanza de vivir vidas completas...pero con miedo. Si no ajustas a la vida como la mayoría de la gente del mundo, no puedes saber lo que va a seguir. 

And so we created our own realities, we chose the next chapter in the book.
We lived by the dictates of our own consciousness.
Por eso, estábamos construyendo nuestras propias realidades. Elegimos el proximo capitulo del libro. Estábamos viviendo por los dictados de nuestras propias conciencias.

Sometimes, a collective conscious. Other times, we were 8 nations living individually side-by-side. In camionetas. In the streets. On beaches.
A veces con una conciencia colectiva. Otras veces, estábamos 8 naciones viviendo vidas individuales pero lado a lado. En las playas. En las camionetas. En las calles. 
 
It was a new perspective; it was remembering how – who – I was before I forgot.
It was a regeneration.
It was a right decision.
It was all smiles, human contact, and summer skin.

I was told to walk with purpose – and I found one.

Era una nueva perspectiva; era la memoria de cómo - quién - era antes de que se me olvidó.
Era una regeneración.
Era la decisión correcta.
Era sonrisas, contacto humano, y piel de verano.
Me dijeron que caminar con un propósito...y lo encontré. 

Word of the Day: Languid

If you would have walked by my window at around 6 pm yesterday evening, you would have found me cross-legged on the floor, sobbing over a stubbed toe.

But the tears weren't really about the stubbed toe at all. I was crying because it was - as they say - the straw that broke the camel's back.

I'd had a rough day. Week...2 weeks. I've been having a rough few weeks. Your first year of teaching is no joke...

Anyway, yesterday I had a substitute teacher. The whole English department did! We were on a "data retreat" where we spent the whole day in a long meeting about MYP, IEP's, GTT, IB, FI...WTF? IDK.

In the afternoon, there was some planning time. So that was nice.

As I was saying, it was a long day. I walked away from it feeling this much more inadequate and that much more like I'm breaking all my students, and ever so slightly irked that my life has seemingly disappeared. School, home + chores, grading, sleep, school!

And then I stubbed my toe. I'd had enough! So I cried for an hour without being able to articulate why. In fact, I couldn't articulate anything at all.

So as you can imagine, I got ready for work this morning in a languid fashion. I was unsure of how I would reign in my already rambunctious kids after a day-long-party with a sub. But when I walked into my room, I was greeted with a blackboard filled with drawings like this:

(this one is actually a few days old, but I forgot to take pictures of the ones today).

They said things like, "We miss you Ms. Hansen - period 1" and "Tristen loves Ms. Hansen" and "we love you!" and "Ms. Hansen is the most awesome teacher ever."

When they actually arrived in classes I found out that the sub:
1.) called a student in first hour (my perfect class) a slut. uhm...what?
2.) made her own rules despite me leaving her our class norms.
3.) referred to herself as the rockstar sub.
4.) allowed students in 6th hour to get into a physical altercation that left other students feeling unsafe.

Needless to say, the students were happier than ever to see me. There were many requests that I "never, ever leave again."

Of course, they felt differently at the end of the hour. But that doesn't stop them from drawing hearts for me. <3 p="p">

Let an Image be an Image.

All you need is love.

But love is the last thing you need.

Do you want to go out?

yes

maybe

no.

All you need is chocolate.

If you're selfless, you'll give me some.

Okay, love.

I Dream of Painting, and Then I Paint My Dream.

I was at an art museum this afternoon, with Matt.

We've been there a few times, and we never seem to have time to make it through the whole thing. We start at different parts, but always manage to end up next to the chain mail, armor and swords before we leave.

Anyway - that isn't really what I want to write about.

My biggest issue with art museums is that it seems like everyone wants to run through them. I start looking at this really beautiful Monet painting of a footbridge. Oil on canvas. Truly beautiful. I take a step back, just to look at it from another angle, and I realize everyone I entered the room with has disappeared. They have moved on to another exhibit, and I've been looking at Monet's bridge for 5 minutes.

But how can you not? How can you not stand in front of this painting, or Picasso's "Woman in an Armchair" illustrating the absolute devastation of his own deteriorating marriage ...or Salvador Dali's lobster phone ...or that weird piece in the corner that's mostly comprised of geometric shapes - how can you not stand in front of them for minutes, hours even, and let them take you in - or you them?

I mean, you don't pick up a book and flip quickly the pages and claim to have read it.

These paintings, this art - it is proof that these people exist(ed). Hours of their life hanging on a wall just for me. Their intimate thoughts. Their light-bulb moments. Their heartbreaks and triumphs. They are hanging on a wall for me, you - us.

So I just don't understand. I don't understand how people just breeze through, glimpsing here and there. Pausing for a minute to look at the very tiny details of a portrait, or some other more complex piece, not reading the name of the painting. Is it oil? Acrylic? Something else? What does it look like if you stand 5 feet away? 10 feet?

Maybe I feel this way because I paint, too. Maybe that's why I want to stare for hours at the strange piece of abstract art that's title says one thing, but its colors say another. I want to know what the artist saw. I want to see it. Feel it, even. I want to turn to my left or right and make eye contact with the person next to me and come to a silent understanding. Or experience being absolutely baffled together.

And if Bacon's "Study for Portrait VI" scares or concerns me, or if Couture's painting of an Italian street musician makes me cry for no apparent reason - should that be a solitary thing? Was it not meant to be experienced together? And how long do I let myself be consumed by these things? If it were a text...I'd give it 20, 40 minutes - an hour, a day. Maybe a few days.

Do I stay when I am left alone with Monti's Veiled Lady? Or should I turn and run, like everyone else, to the next piece of art - not allowing myself to feel it? Just skimming the back page for the details, and moving forward?

A Baby Bat, Bat, Bat.

When I was a kid, I loved to read.

Who am I kidding? I still love to read.

Anyway, when I was a kid...I loved to read. I loved As Long As I Love You and The Secret Three and Big Sarah's Little Boots and Stella Luna. I loved a lot of books, but I think I can clearly point to Stella Luna as the book that piqued my interest about the world. I remember asking questions about the world (maybe not earth shattering questions, but definitely big questions for a 5 year old): Would a bird really raise a baby bat as it's own? Is it okay to be different? Why do bats love fruit so much?

So I embarked on a journey to answer all my questions, born of literature! Eventually, I found the answers...

I guess now is a good time to tell you that Stella Luna also instilled within me a deep love for bats. Maybe it was because I was so happy that this bat found acceptance or something. Maybe I just really thought all bats were misunderstood (actually, I do feel this way...). I researched bats constantly. Big bats. Small bats. Fruit bats. Vampire bats. The benefits of adding bat guano to your garden. What to do with an injured bat.

I loved looking at bats at the zoo. Or watching them fly over-head at night.

So, you can imagine exactly how thrilled I was when I found one trapped in my hallway the other day. He landed on a little ledge and peeked at me, pretty much telling me he needed me. You don't understand how excited I was! I dropped my trash bags and I said (out loud) "I am in a hallway with a bat. I will save you, bat!"

So I ran upstairs, got a stool and a bowl and a cloth and ran back down to save my precious bat friend. He was such a good sport, like he knew I was going to make things all better. He just let me put him in the bowl (and then he started baring all his teeth and making noises...until he found the orange I left him as a treat). I took him upstairs and for a good 5 minutes all I could do is say "I have a bat. In a bowl. I have a bat in my possession, in a bowl. Right now, I am interacting with a bat."

He and I shared an hours worth of adventures, and then I took him to the wildlife rehab center where they will take care of him until spring, when he can be released again.

But in my hour with my bat I wondered - how had he gotten into my hallway? Was he raised by birds? How did that bat know I wanted to meet him so badly?!

I thought for a while about how my crazy love for this little bat had all been born in one afternoon, curled up with Stella Luna on my lap. I hadn't ever truly thought about the influence books can have on people until my interaction with Hector (my bat). How different might things have been if I'd never read that little book? If I'd never learned to love bats through reading?

It may seem ridiculous but reading Stella Luna as a child literally changed my life! It really makes me wonder how the other texts I encounter are constantly changing the way I interact with the world (is this transaction theory?)

...and it's a beautiful, amazing and terrifying thing.

Chapstick, Chapped Lips and Things Like Chemistry.

I have been a student for 18 years.

This means 18 years of sharpening pencils, trading erasers, passing notes, lunch hour, markers, tape, glue, construction paper, posters, book reports and papers. For 18 years I have walked school hallways, high fived friends, loaded up my binders with pictures and poetry. In 18 years, I have written a novel's length worth of witty comments in the margins of my books. I have signed my name as

Nikki W

Nikki C

Nikki A

Nikki M

Nikki P

Nikki I

Nikki S

Nikki J

and of course, as Nikki Hansen, all on the left hand side of my notebooks, near the coil that holds the paper together. In 18 years I have collected numerous, hilarious drawings of people that I know or knew. Phone numbers. Snide comments. Lightbulb moments. Impromptu poems. 18 years of who I am, how I've grown lives in writing around the edges of my notes.

Oh yes. Notes. For 18 years I have taken notes. The alphabet, times tables, sentence diagrams, mice and men, geometric shapes, musical theory and happy daggers. For 18 years I have had a notebook as a steady companion, with little pockets to hide secrets and house schoolwork in. For 18 years, I have had a fairly predictable routine: waking up, packing my back pack, going to school, doing homework.

I cannot remember life as anything but a student. Sitting in desks, staring at chalk boards...then white boards...overheads, then projectors. A place to put my lunch and hang my coat. My best friends sitting next to me, keeping me distracted from the schoolwork I love almost as much as I love them.

Naturally, the fact that in May I will formally leave the structure in which my whole life has taken place scares the hell out of me. Or maybe it scares hell into me. I'm not sure which.

Either way, I feel a little ridiculous. Every time I pick up my green four subject notebook, I get a little emotional. I know that it is the last notebook I will own as a student seeking some form of degree. I can see the bright light shining - telling me that, soon, the page will turn and there will be no more curled edges. No more notes to take. No more "I like your pen you" or hearts being drawn, no more swirls or butterflies or "hi's" - no more phone numbers being scrawled across the top of the pages, no more drawings of teachers, cats, bff's holding hands. No more pictures of farmer dan, who has appeared on the pages of my notebook for a steady 10 years. No more snarky remarks written to the person next to me, and no more critiquing the things I like or dislike about the ways my teachers teach.

There will be no more teachers.

I will be the teacher.

I will watch the girls and boys scribble on their notebooks - songs and notes and awful pictures of me and everyone else they know. Poems and signatures of names they hope they never have to change, or someday get to have. I will watch them doodle, and I will let it happen, knowing that they only get to be students for so long and that life is being written on those pages.

Alternative Energy

I have always been made of coal.

I just pressed hard enough

to make my edges shine bright enough

to distract his eyes

and her eyes

from what is underneath

the thin, shiny exterior.

It makes them forget that

underneath

all I am is a material that burns

in uncontrollable, underground fires.

Burning for decades.

There is no "I" in Me and Myself.

I woke up feeling very much like myself this morning.

That could come off sounding a little strange, because - hey, don't we all wake up feeling like who we are? Because, we'll we are who we are?

Maybe. Sure.

But, today, I woke up feeling very much like who I am this morning. I still woke up to the tremendous ball and chain that is my health, but I also don't feel like I'm lost somewhere in this sea of 'what is the illness and what is me'? It's easy for me to drown in myself: my external self needs a lot more maintenance than my internal self.

Last night, I spent a lot of time reading about writing which, in turn, caused me to spend a lot of time thinking about who I am as a reader, writer and observer of the world. I was relieved when I read about how sometimes we get the crazies when we write, and everything just kind of falls onto the paper/word processer with no real restraints - because it shouldn't happen that way. For some reason, this rang true to my little soul.

Writing. Writing. Writing.
I love doing it. So why don't I always do it? I think about it, but I never do it. Sometimes, I just want to write down snippets from the conversations of the people around me, or a funny idea, or a word a teacher said wrong. I find myself hooked on little, seemingly meaningless nothings and I want to write them down but always never do for the sake of normalcy. But writing is cathartic. It's healing. It should go uninterrupted but never does. Writing takes you out of yourself, but also deeper into yourself. It should just be allowed to happen.

I mean. what do we do when we really, truly care for someone? We write for them: letters, poems, quick little notes. It's like we take tiny pieces of our soul and draw them with words on paper for them to keep and look at. Here. Here I am. And we cherish those things. Haven't you ever found yourself going through all your old notes (I'm talking about the ones you wrote and received in the middle/high school years), wanting to toss them but feeling like somehow you're committing an awful crime? It's like you're looking at the essence of who these people were and are, evidence that they existed in that moment, words that were selected specifically for you.

Writing is powerful. It's humbling.

So, with the security of knowing that I can deconstruct and reconstruct and rearrange and totally recreate my world through writing, I woke up feeling much more like myself this morning, knowing I am never lost inside myself unless I choose to be.

Spanish Practice. Sorry!

Yo necesito hacer esto. Tengo un examen manana, y un otro examen en varias semanas... Se llama el "LPE" or the Language Proficiency Exam. Si yo no paso esto examen... entonces tengo tomar la clase "SPAN 1004" mientras tomando mi senior project y dos clases otras.

Tengo miedo, porque hoy yo no puedo estudiar! Mis pensamientos estan dispersos. Mi mente es en el futuro, en el verano..!

Esto va a ser trabajo duro. Explicare los verbos y la gramatica a tu en espanol.

Primero: El preterito. Usa el preterito explicar or describir algo que ocurrio una vez. Usa el preterito para definir un evento con un final definido. Por ejemplo: "Yo naci en 1988" o "mi hermano hablo con sus amigos para dos horas." The preterite is used to define something with a definite beginning and end. It happened, then it was over. Like birth. I was born - then it was done; "past actions that are seen as completed."

Segundo: El imperfecto. Usa el imperfecto describir un evento que repita. Por ejemplo: Comiamos ajuntos todos los dias. Tambien, usa el imperfecto cuando describiendo el tiempo/la hora y hablando sobre la edad de una persona.

Espero que yo sabo las palabras que yo necesito pasar el examen!

Una cosa que lucha con es el verbo "haber" - haber. Que es esto verbo haber?! En realidad la significa es "to have" pero no en el contexto como "tener."

Haber: he, has, ha, hemos, han.
"yo he comido." - i have eaten.

why!? why!!?

Voy a escribir sobre mi vida y uso como muchos verbos que puedo!

Hola. Me llamo Nikki y tengo 21 anos. Yo naci en Alemania en 1988. Tengo 3 hermanos y 4 hermanas. Tambien, tengo dos gatos! Mis padres se llaman Ron y Shelley. Mi padre estaba en las fuerzas amadas. Mi familia y yo viajabamos todo el mundo.

Me gusta escribir, hacer ejercicio y cocinar. Mi heroe es Chef Ramsay y yo quiero conocerlo. Me gusta animales, y vacaciones.

Si puedo tomar una vacacion a cualquier lugar viajaria a europa. En europa yo comeria comida bien.

I bet you didn't know.

I bet you'd never guess that I, some alien behind a Macbook, am a writer. Even more surprisingly, a painter, a singer, a flute and piano player and one helluva cook.

I am sitting here, next to an empty plate. I made the perfect pavlova earlier. The larger part of it looks slightly sad now, sitting cut in half on a cookie sheet.... but it won't have to worry much longer. Soon, it will be gone... joyfully eaten by all who pass by.

Poor poor pavlova.

Pavlova makes me think of my friend. Take away the "a" at the end, and you've got him. He's an interesting fella. I dunno if he'd actually consider me a friend... but my guess is... well, yeah, probably. I don't usually tell people all my secrets the first time I hang out with him - but that's what I did. He knows me better than a lot of people. I wonder if he can remember all the things I said. It's probably better for him to forget. You're probably confused, but that's okay - it's not for you to know.

School is starting up again. Back to school.... back to school :/ ... yuck. To be honest, school and I have never been great friends. I hate it, it hates me. I have no real motivation to impress teachers, and frankly, they don't really want to be impressed. If I write a sucky paper it doesn't mean they aren't getting paid. They don't care. Why should I? Oh ... because it's my future? Hmm. Well, I could always drop out 3/4 of the way through and go to Le Cordon Bleu. I'd love to cook for a living. People don't sigh or moan when you hand them the perfect piece of pineapple upside down cake or serve them a homemade chicken pot pie.
People DO moan and sigh when you say, even with enthusiam, "today we are going to diagram sentences" or when you hand them Lord of the Flies. I am going to be the enemy... and at the end of the day people will find refuge with their hot meals and tasty desserts and curse my name.

I think my younger brother is trying to imitate an elephant seal.
I better go watch.