End of 2010

It's been a list-worthy year, I think.

New Things I've Done in 2010:
1. Won money for my writing (Firstlinefiction and the College Writing essay contest at UMM)
2. Worked new jobs: Target, Writing Room, Info. Desk, S.S. Office
3. Met a ton of new friends
4. Lost a few old friends
5. Narrowed my career search down to three criteria: people, writing, travel
6. Stopped being a teenager

Best Books I Read in 2010:
1. Going Bovine (Libba Bray)-After finding out he has a rare disease and doesn't have long to live, Cameron Smith sets off on a quest to save his own life with the help of a pink-haired angel, a video game-playing dwarf, and a lawn gnome who may just be a Norse god. Sounds kind of crazy, I know, but this book has so much heart and humor that I couldn't put it down.

2. This Side of Paradise (F. Scott Fitzgerald)-I know you've already heard me rant quite a bit about this one, so I'll only say that Amory Blaine is probably one of my favorite fictional characters.

3. The Shack (William P. Young)-This book somehow captured perfectly the way I've always wanted to think of God.

4. Never Let Me Go (Kazuo Ishiguro)-Again, I've already written a review of this book, but it's probably the best of the best books I've read in 2010. It's immensely powerful, and at the same time heart-wrenching in the most subtle, quiet way.

5. Utopia (Thomas More)-I've wanted to read Utopia ever since I saw Ever After as a little girl. The way they rave about it and quote from it in the film convinced me that Utopia must be some sort of magical, enlightening story. And it is, although I'll admit that I think I need to read it a few more times before I can fully grasp it.

6. Atonement (Ian McEwan)-I've tried to get into this a few times, but when I finally gave myself a chance to sit down and just consume it, I suddenly wondered what had taken me so long. Incredibly fascinating story that is magnificent in its tragedy.

Finally, mainly for fun, and because the spread is of an unbelievable large size...

Food Currently Being Assembled for our New Year's Party:
1. Lasagna
2. Garlic bread
3. Salad
4. Deviled eggs
5. Meat/cheese plate with crackers
6. Pickles wrapped in corned beef spread with cream cheese
7. Champagne/sparkling grape juice for the kids
8. Chocolate wafer cake (you slather whipped cream in between the cookies to sandwich them together, and then spread more all over the entire cake. Let it sit in the fridge for a few hours and the cookies absorb the cream and soften. It's only the most delicious thing ever.)
9. Spinach dip with crackers
10. Shrimp with cocktail sauce

Overall, I think it's been a lovely year, and while I'm sad to see it go, I'm also ready to see what 2011 will bring.
I also have a not-so-secret crush on Dick Clark.
Happy New Year everyone.

Get Up and Work

This morning, as you know, I had to wake up at 2:30 a.m. to go to work. I only managed about an hour and a half of sleep, and when my alarm went off this morning, I was not amused. My hair was still wet from my evening shower, I felt like I had shut my eyes only moments before, and it was raining a cold, depressing December rain outside my window.

I lay in bed and pondered all of this for a few minutes, and then on a whim reached for the daily devotions book Dad got me for Christmas. The book is meant to be read every morning (in fact, it's titled "Starting Your Day Right"), but as I normally don't find time to read in the morning, I've been reading the entry for each day the night before. Last night, however, I had forgotten to do so.

Clumsily, then, I fumbled to the December 30th page, and what should the title of the entry be?

Get up and Work

And so I did.

Eat Pray Love

I don't have time to say much tonight; I have to wake up in less than 2 hours because I (stupidly) agreed to work the 4 a.m. shift at Target.

What I want to tell you is that I'm currently reading Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. I've wanted to read it forever, despite various people telling me that it was slow, that they had trouble getting through it.

I, however, absolutely love it. I'm just drinking it in.

I think maybe because Elizabeth did exactly what I want to do: she traveled, she met lots of people, and then she came back and wrote about everything.

That sounds like the life, doesn't it? Travel. People. Writing. That's all I ask, really.

An Appropriate Fall

I didn't sleep very well last night. Earlier in the evening, Annie (our older dog) had gotten into my Christmas stocking and eaten 3/4 of my peanut M&M's, plus part of a hand warmer (I don't know either). Thanks to Google, we learned that to make dogs throw up, you can dose them with peroxide. We did, and she threw up a few times outside before settling down on her pillow in the kitchen to gaze at us with mournful eyes.

I think the reason I didn't sleep well was because I was worried about her.

Anyway, when my alarm went off at 9:30 this morning, I was less than thrilled. In fact, I was downright cranky. Mom, Amy and I were supposed to go cross country skiing in a nearby state park, and this morning, I had absolutely no desire to go.

I had every intention of going back to sleep, when I suddenly had a thought: "you should really go, Hol."
Why should I go?
Because it'll turn out well I think.
Honestly? Right now I'm in no condition to go on some family outing. I'm tired and I'm crabby and I just want to lie in bed and pout for the rest of my life.
Just go please. You won't regret it.
Oh, fine.

So I struggled into my long underwear, wool socks, long-sleeved shirt, snow pants, jacket, hat, mittens, goggles, and boots, and we set off.

Wild Rive State Park is really a beautiful place. Even I admitted that this morning, despite my moody impatience.
We've been going there since I was little. Initially, Amy and I would just sit in our big pink sled, plump with layers, and be dragged through the woods by Mom and Dad. As we got older, though, we'd go there to cross country ski, often going on the special nights when luminaries were lined up along the trails.

It had been a while since I had seen the park, though.
In fact, it had been a while since I had skied period.

Once at the head of the trail, I clipped my boots into my skis easily enough, threading my bulky mittens through the straps on my ski poles expertly.
Amy finally managed to wrestle her own boots into her bindings, and then we started into the woods.

Not 10 feet down the trail however, and still in plain sight of the chalet filled with people, I suddenly lost my balance,
flailed my poles uselessly in the air for a few seconds,
and tipped over backwards
landing flat on my back
in the snow.

Now, still being rather cranky, my first inclination was to just remain on the ground and burst into angry, humiliated tears.
What I did instead was start laughing.
I laughed as Mom stuck her pole in my bindings to release my boots so I could stand
I laughed as Amy retrieved my own poles from where they had landed in the deep snow to my left.
I laughed as I turned to see perfect strangers laughing at me from the warmth of the chalet.

And you know what? I felt better after that.

We skied to the visitor's center to look at the fascinatingly disgusting display of pelts and stuffed birds, and then we skied back to the chalet, where we gathered our stuff and walked out to the parking lot.

I don't think I stopped laughing all day.

Sometimes I think that the reason I'm so painfully, annoyingly, incurably uncoordinated is because it helps me not to take myself so seriously.

Nothing gives you perspective quite like a good fall does.

No Assembly Required

It's funny to think that almost exactly a year ago, I was lying on the couch at Grandma's, staring at a fake Christmas tree, and blogging about the Minivan Miracle in Marathon, Wisconsin (for the full story, see last year's post).

This Christmas, I'm quite displaced. For one thing, I'm in my own bed. At home. In Minnesota.
Two German Shepherd dogs lie on the kitchen floor. The younger one (who wasn't even alive last Christmas) is sleeping comically on her back with her paws up in the air. The older one sleeps more sedately, and she pricks her ears as I wander past to look at the tree.
Our tree is very real (evidenced by the constant dropping of pine needles, which drives Dad nuts), very tall, and surrounded by presents of various sizes (displaying various levels of wrapping expertise). As I stare at it, bare feet cold against the wood floor, I can't help but think that by this time tomorrow, Christmas will be ending. The magic of the season, which has been present ever since Thanksgiving, will be packed away with the bulbs and nut dishes and empty, sad stockings. The tree will remain for a week or so, but then it too will be cast aside, thrown up and over the deck rail to slowly rot in the snow. In the spring, what's left of the tree will fuel a bonfire down by the lake. By this time tomorrow, all of the presents will be unwrapped. They will be glorious, undoubtedly, but they will lose a little of their glimmer as soon as they are opened.

I've watched quite a few Christmas movies over this past week, and it seems that in every single one, the 'moral' is that Christmas is about more than presents. Christmas is a feeling, a state of mind, and even an action. Christmas, it seems, is good old generosity and kindness all wrapped up in red and green and gold. The 'moral' part of Christmas is truly the part that doesn't dim over time. Generosity doesn't run out of batteries. Kindness can't be cracked or broken. The very best part of Christmas is the lasting part.

So may your caskets remain unblown, may your stockings bulge with promise, and may you enjoy this blessed holiday surrounded by those you love most.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

Anatomy of a Novel

I think there's a novel in me somewhere. I'm not sure how it got there exactly. I mean, both of my parents are science-y, math-y people. Even my sister mostly dislikes English, although she is a far more dedicated journaler than I.

Maybe the novel nestled up against my rib cage, crushing my left lung a tad, is just buildup. You know, a bunch of leftovers mashed together into a convenient manuscript shape. A bit of This Side of Paradise here, some Harry Potter over there...and I think I can also feel pieces from some of the books I was forced to read: Nathaniel Hawthorne and Ralph Ellison are represented in that part.

Unfortunately, however, this inner Nobel winner of mine is not easily accessible. Sometimes when I'm in the shower or driving or sleeping or staring dumbly out of a window I get flashes of it, but they're never much. A conversation, maybe, or a glimpse of some character's face. They never seem to fit together, these flashes of mine. Most of the time I don't even write them down. I just continue to carry them with me, hoping for more.

Someday, I hope, my slowly emerging novel will be solid and promising on the table in front of me. I will be able to open the cover and smile at the dedication (because arrogant and sappy as I am, I already know who's name will be there). One day I will be at a Barnes and Noble, trying my best not to dash over to the fiction section and browse, and I will be signing copies of my book, handing them shyly back to people I have never met in my life. I will live in New York City (although I'll secretly miss Minnesota terribly), and I will dance (badly, because that's the only way I know how to dance) on Youtube with Libba Bray and John Green and Scott Westerfeld. And someday, when I'm old, and have written many many books, all of them precious to me, I will look a young, ambitious reporter full in the face, and answer a question. "My first novel was my most precious. Because I carried it around next to my heart*** for twenty years."

For now, though, I'll continue to blog. I'll continue to labor into the wee hours over papers whose topics I don't especially care about. I'll devour other people's stories in hopes that they will stick and become part of my own.

Someday, though (and it'll probably take a nasty case of hiccups), I will pour this entire novel onto paper (because it's so very uneloquent to say 'word document'). And I'll dance on Youtube with Libba Bray to celebrate.

Believe it.


***Don't worry, I Googled it: the heart is actually between the lungs. And the left lung, actually, is on the left side of your body if you look down at yourself. There! I did get a partial science gene after all!

A Christmas List

After days of thought (I'm serious. Days) I have compiled the following list:

Holly Lynn Gruntner's Absolute Favorite Christmas Movies of All Time:

1. The Year Without a Santa Claus-My favorite of what I fondly call the "furry" animated Christmas films (you know what I mean-they're all on ABC every Christmas). Why do I like this one in particular so much? Two reasons: Snow Miser and Heat Miser.

2. Heidi (Shirley Temple version)-When my sister and I were little, my grandparents bought us a dozen Shirley Temple films on VHS. They had grown up seeing Shirley on the big screen, and wanted to pass her down. Heidi isn't my favorite S.T., but it's certainly the most Christmassy. Also, as in all the S.T.'s, there are plenty of wholesome, ridiculous, genuinely hilarious moments.

3. The Family Stone-This is one of the few on my list that came out fairly recently. Featuring an ensemble cast (think Diane Keaton, Rachel McAdams, Luke Wilson...), The Family Stone is first and foremost about (you guessed it) a family. A quirky, judgemental, close-knit family who has a little trouble accepting a certain outsider into their midst. I would highly highly recommend this one.

4. The Santa Claus-You've all seen it. You all probably love it. Bernard the Elf makes me laugh harder than any other sarcastic, dread-locked elf I know.

5. Joyeux Noel-I first saw this one in high school, in a War History class. It's about a moment in history I never knew about: during World War I, there was something called the Christmas Truce, when opposing sides stopped their shooting and got together for a celebration. Beautiful, beautiful film.

6. Home Alone-Again, you know this one. In my family, we actually watch Home Alone on Thanksgiving, but since it's still technically a Christmas film, I thought I'd list it.

7. It's a Wonderful Life-Only seen this one once, but I hope to get a hold of it this year as well.

8. Gremlins (yes, I consider this a Christmas movie)-Steven Spielberg. Green Goblins. Snow White. Furbies. Christmas. What better combination is there?

9. Love Actually-I hope you've seen this one. Please tell me you have. I don't know how to describe it. Romantic comedy, ensemble cast, and it's about...well...you know.

10. Elf-I KNOW HIM!

Finals Finale

I'm done.
After about a week solid of sleeping 4 hours a night, after writing 3 papers and taking 2 exams, finals are finally, finally over.
I have to say, I don't remember finals being this bad last year.
I also have to say I'm proud of myself. Around this time on Sunday, I wasn't sure I could do it.
But I did. Somehow. And actually, I'm feeling good about what I've accomplished. My honors paper (as I told you) was pretty bad, but my Understanding Writing reflection paper was probably the best thing I've written for that class yet, and my Icelandic Sagas paper (which I finished about 3 hours ago) was decent as well.

As for the exams, well, I don't know. For German we had to write a 200 word essay in 2 hours (in German, obviously). The upside was that we could use our books. Having learned from the practice essay we wrote a few weeks ago, I made things easy for myself and wrote simple sentences. You know, "I gave my mother a book." That type of thing.

American Lit. was harder than I expected, truthfully. I studied the authors' names and work titles until I knew absolutely all of them, but maybe I should have made sure I knew what was in their works also. Oh well. The essay part was awesome! For the prompt I chose, I had to pick a character and explain (using Puritan, Enlightenment, and Romantic/Transcendentalist principles) why that character was unAmerican (hmm that word looks strange, but spell check is accepting it, so whatever). I wrote about Bartleby from Bartleby the Scrivener. I hope the essay turned out as well as I thought it did, because near the end of it I was so desperate to be done that I think I may have rambled a bit. Hopefully the ramblings were coherent.

Anyway, I'm all packed and ready to go home, just waiting for Mom to come get me.

I have to say, it still hasn't hit me that I'm actually finished with this semester, and that I'll have a whole month off to read and work and sit around. I kind of feel like I've been the energizer bunny all semester, just going and going and going, and now I've suddenly hit a brick wall, and I'm still lying stunned on the sidewalk, unable to comprehend what happened.

I'm sure I'll recover soon enough. In the mean time, "Be well, do good work, and keep in touch."

Finals Week, Part III

Isn't this the most beautiful thing you've ever seen? It's Trinity Church, in Antarctica. I wasn't aware that they had churches in Antarctica, but I'm certainly glad they have this one.

P.S. I'm surviving. 2 papers left, one of which I'm currently working on.

P.P.S. I've been slowly building my reading list for Winter Break. I don't know if it's a realistic amount to read in a month, but I'm certainly going to try. Here's the list, in case you're interested. It's a combination of books I've never read, and books that I have read but absolutely HAVE to tuck into again:
1. The Remains of the Day
2. How to Win Friends and Influence People (hey don't judge! It could come in handy)
3. The Handmaid's Tale
4. Huck Finn
5. Little Women (I've literally read this book once a year since 3rd grade. I love it so very much)
6. Three Cups of Tea
7. Uglies (plus the rest of the series if I get hooked, which I'm sure I will)
8. Paper Towns

Finals Week, Part II

I'm on a study break. I tried to do an hour of straight memorizing American writers and their works and the terms that describe their works, and I barely made it.

It's only the first day of Finals Week, and my brain hurts.

Maybe because I spent all weekend (literally) trying to make a thesis based on an essay we read in Honors, based on one of the paper topics provided. It kept not working and not working until I finally realized that it was not going to work. So, I switched topics. At 2 a.m. this morning. Wrote until 5. Woke up at 10. Wrote until 3:30. Turned the paper in about fifteen minutes before it was due. And it was probably the worst paper I've ever written. Not for lack of effort, but because I didn't have time to make it good.

That's the worst thing about this semester, I think. I'm trying so hard but my grades still aren't where I'd like them to be because I don't have time to focus on one subject or one paper or one reading for very long; the others start calling to me before I have a chance to even sit and consider.

Now my brain hurts and I don't think I can spend much more time with this American Lit. stuff I'm currently doing.

But okay. Here's the plan:

Tonight: Finish typing up study guide for Am. Lit. Study study guide.

Tomorrow: German final 11-1, study Am. Litl, Am. Lit. final 4-6, Work on Understanding Writing paper, Writing Room work 7-7:30, Info. Desk work 8-10, Finish Understanding Writing paper

Wednesday: Social Science work 9:30-11:30, Think of an idea for/research/write Icelandic Sagas paper. All day. Get 'er done. Info. Desk work 6-8. Finish Icelandic Sagas paper. Preferably before 3 a.m.

Thursday: You're not done with Icelandic Sagas? You've got to be kidding me, Hol...well...you have until 4:30. WRITE. After 4:30, take a few cleansing breaths, collapse limply on bed, then get up and start packing. 7:30 Mom arrives. Load car. Go home. Sleep until Saturday.

It's 10:14. 4 minutes past my alloted break time. Must go.

Finals Week, Part 1

There are two large snakes housed in the Science Building at UMM. The boa constrictor is named Ramses, and the ball python is 8 Ball. I held 8 Ball once in late October. I happened to be passing by as some of the biology majors were lifting him out of his glass tank. "Why don't you hold him?" a boy asked enticingly, draping the snake about his shoulders as if it were a scaly shawl.

My first inclination was to say no. My second inclination was to say well okay.

8 Ball was heavier than I expected; his long body was thick and muscular. His dry skin slid against mine as he twisted his head around to look at me. He flicking his tongue periodically, me hardly blinking at all, we regarded one another.

He must have decided I was all right (for a human), because he soon resumed wrapping himself tightly around my arms.

Now it's December, and I'm back again to stand in the Science Building and gaze at the snakes. Among the rocks in their enclosures, they hardly move at all. Ramses has a large lump near his throat, and I know that while he lays placidly, inside he is digesting his Sunday dinner. I pity the mouse that didn't have a chance.

I sit down beside the tanks to work on a paper that should have been done yesterday, and suddenly I would give everything good and dear and wonderful about my life to be a snake. To doze inside a warm rectangle all day, only disturbed to eat and drink and to be held by curious students wearing black glasses and hooded sweatshirts. To creep around on my belly, not concerned about getting up or lying down or hurrying or tripping or letting anyone down.

I'd like to be a snake, so I can simply be.

It's Only a Nightmare

I've decided that in lieu of posting about the nightmare that is finals, I'll post an actual nightmare that I had last winter (while sleeping).

I have to say though, for a nightmare, this one's actually pretty cool:


February 19, 2010

I had a nightmare last night. It began when I took a trip to India with some of my friends from Morris (Tim, Ally, Evan, Miles and Brockman were there for sure I remember). We were in this sort of room playing a traditional Indian game, when all of the sudden some of my friends from elementary school (Mara, Katie, and Colleen) walked in. I was really surprised to see them and we were all hugging and talking until my group had to leave.

Then the dream switched, and Tim, Ally, Evan and I were walking through a mall when we decided to stop at Barnes and Noble. We were disappointed to find that they had very few books; instead they were selling mostly Christmas decorations. I got really upset about this, and decided to untie the bow around a stuffed bear’s neck, even though the lady working there specifically warned us not to, as the bow could not be retied properly. After doing the deed, I hid the bear and we all ran out of the store and out to the car.

Not long after we had left, I felt really guilty about what I had done, so I went back in and offered to pay for the bear. While the worker lady was ringing it up, I wrote a nasty note complaining about the store’s lack of books and was about to put it in the suggestion box when the lady came up behind me and was reading it. She looked sort of sad and said that she agreed with me, but that the decorations would be taken out soon and replaced with actual books. I felt bad and threw the note away and left the store with my bear.

Back in the car (I don’t know who was driving, but Ally, Evan and I were squished in the back seat), we decided to go to a fancy restaurant, but we didn’t know how to get there. Someone remembered that Maggie Smith (yes, the British actress) lived in town, and suggested that we go to her house to ask for directions. We pulled into the road in front of her house, and saw that her chauffer was washing a black Ferrari in her driveway.

I decided to be the one to go up and ring the doorbell while everyone else waited in the car. The house itself was rather small and dumpy, and when Maggie Smith came to the door and invited me in, she went and sat down on a small footstool in front of the TV and offered me one beside her. I could see two comfortable-looking armchairs across the room, and asked her why she didn’t move those in front of the TV. She just shrugged.

All of the sudden, Maggie Smith sort of tensed up, and the chauffer came running in. They both started speaking in frightened voices about something that was coming, though they wouldn’t tell me what it was. Then they tried to tell me where to go hide, but I was having trouble understanding them. I finally got out of them that they wanted me to run across the backyard and into the backyard of the house across the way. I was to lie facedown on the neighbor’s porch steps, and it was very important that I DIDN’T OPEN MY EYES no matter what.

I did as they told me to, running as fast as I could, though it was uphill and I kept tripping. Once I got to the porch steps, I saw that there was a small child playing on them. I threw myself on top of her and covered her eyes with my hands so she wouldn’t peek either. She struggled, and I felt like a monster holding her down, but at that point I could feel the presence of something, and I was scared to death.

I was telling myself so hard not to open my eyes that I couldn’t help doing so, and as soon as I did I knew that I was in trouble. I felt a rush in the air, and as I began to run I was lifted up several feet, and the very sky seemed to turn purple. I remember knowing that I was about to be killed by this sort of monster…and then I woke up.

Imagine Again

Thirty years ago today John Lennon was shot and killed in New York City.
Earlier that day, Lennon had kindly stopped to sign an autograph for his murderer, who traveled all the way from Hawaii just to do the deed.
John Lennon was shot in the back by that man, who carried a copy of The Catcher in the Rye.

The other day, I came across a few quotes by Paul McCartney about John Lennon:
"I definitely did look up to John. We all looked up to John. He was older and he was very much the leader; he was the quickest wit and the smartest."

(when asked if he missed sitting knee to knee with John Lennon, writing songs) "Are you kidding? Of course I bloody miss it. I'm sitting in the room with John, him with me. Believe me, we're both pretty good editors. We were young turks. We were smartasses. And we did some amazing things. I would love him to be here now, saying, 'Don't bloody do that!' – or, more wonderfully, 'That's great!' So yeah, I really had the greatest writing partner."


And I decided to look for other places/ways John Lennon is remembered:

Here (Strawberry Fields, NYC)



Here (Imagine Peace Tower, Iceland)


Here


Here (A CD of my mom's; I grew up listening to it)


Here (The movie Nowhere Boy, about a young John Lennon)


Here (The Beatles)



And Here (John Lennon and his widow, Yoko Ono)


Finally, I just have to post the lyrics to that beautiful, beautiful song itself:

Imagine there's no heaven
It's easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky

Imagine all the people
Living for today...

Imagine there's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too

Imagine all the people
Living life in peace...

You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will be as one

Imagine no possessions
I wonder if you can
No need for greed or hunger
A brotherhood of man

Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world...

You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will live as one

1 a.m. Guitar

It's about 1 in the morning
And someone next door
is playing on a guitar
something that sounds Italian
or perhaps Spanish.
She continues to stop and start
trying to reach a difficult chord, maybe
but I don't mind.
I sit in the quiet in my room
listen to my roommate breathe
listen to the guitar
next door
and suddenly
finals seem very very small
the world is small
compared to the cold night
the soft guitar
and me.

Cinderella

Right now I sort of feel like Cinderella, for the following reasons:
1. There's a ball going on, and I'm not going.
2. Because I have to do work.
3. And I'm sitting here watching the girls on my floor get dressed up.
4. And I wish I were going with them.


I'm unlike Cinderella for the following reasons:
1. I have no adorable rodent friends.
2. It's a not a prince's ball in the palace; it's a Yule Ball (that's right-Harry Potter style) in the Student Center.
3. There are no hideous step-relatives preventing me from going.
4. My 'work' consists of papers, and presentations, and general studying, not chores and laundry.

You know, Cinderella used to be my favorite story growing up. According to my parents, I used to beg them to read it to me. Unfortunately for them, it was quite a long read, for a picture book.

Nowadays, I'm not such a fan of old Cinderella. We still own the Disney version on VHS, and whenever I watch it I'm struck by what a weak character Cinderella is.

First of all, she's not very proactive. Instead of fighting to improve her own life, she relies on mice, and a dog, and a horse, and a fairy godmother to help her win her prince. She's constantly singing about the importance of dreams, but does she ever really take any risks to make her dreams come true? Nope. She goes to a ball and dances one dance with an incredibly shallow prince, who doesn't speak two words to her, and probably only likes her for her beauty.

Furthermore, what were her dreams in the first place? To fall in love? I mean, this girl has pretty much been locked up in a manor scrubbing floors her entire life. Doesn't she want to see a bit of the world? Get an education? Make some friends? Actually live a normal life for a bit? Apparently not.

To be completely fair to Cinderella, however, I decided to google her. See if she's really just all fluff. Here's what I found out:

The story of Cinderella is actually thought to have originated around the 1st Century B.C., when a Greek history named Strabo recorded this story about an Egyptian girl:
They tell the fabulous story that, when she was bathing, an eagle snatched one of her sandals from her maid and carried it to Memphis. While the king was administering justice in the open air, the eagle, when it arrived above his head, flung the sandal into his lap. The king, having been stirred both by the beautiful shape of the sandal and by the strangeness of the occurrence, sent men in all directions into the country in quest of the woman who wore the sandal. When she was found in the city of Naucratis, she was brought up to Memphis and became the wife of the king...[3][4]

Nothing else I found led me to believe Cinderella has any depth, although I do admire her longevity. I guess everyone likes a little blind romance.

And she does have some good qualities, I'll admit. What do they call her? "Ever gentle and kind." Certainly admirable, but not exactly my kind of heroine these days.

Manna

Poetry Friday is here again, and with it comes a snow-themed poem that quite eclipses the one I wrote earlier this week:

Everywhere, everywhere, snow sifting down,
a world becoming white, no more sounds,
no longer possible to find the heart of the day,
the sun is gone, the sky is nowhere, and of all
I wanted in life – so be it – whatever it is
that brought me here, chance, fortune, whatever
blessing each flake of snow is the hint of, I am
grateful, I bear witness, I hold out my arms,
palms up, I know it is impossible to hold
for long what we love of the world, but look
at me, is it foolish, shameful, arrogant to say this,
see how the snow drifts down, look how happy
I am.

-Manna, by Joseph Stroud

The Consequences of Folly

While writing the majority of a 10 page research paper at about 5 a.m. this morning (after having pulled at all-nighter), I was suddenly reminded of a certain chapter in Betsy Was a Junior, entitled "The Consequences of Folly:"

"We bought the paper covers and the glue and things ages ago."
"But then we forgot all about them."
"And now he wants them turned in tomorrow and he says they will count for one fourth of our year's marks! It's awful!" said Betsy, summarizing. "It's a perfectly awful situation!"
The rest of the Crowd had gone riding in Carney's auto, but Betsy, Tacy and Tib had not been able to go. They had come face to face at last with the matter of herbariums.
"'A herbarium,'" said Betsy, "'is a collection of dried and pressed specimens of plants, usually mounted or otherwise prepared for permanent preservation and systematically arranged in paper covers placed in boxes or cases.'"
"You know the definition all right," said Tib. "But you can't turn in a definition tomorrow."
"How many flowers did he say we had to have?"
"Fifty."
"We might as well tell him we haven't made them and all flunk the course," said practical Tib. "At least we can all take it again together in the fall."
"But we'll be seniors then!" cried Betsy. "I don't want to be in Gaston's biology again with all the juniors! Why don't we try to make the herbariums tonight? There have to be at least fifty kinds of flowers up on the Big Hill! We can label all night long."
Tacy's eyes began to shine. "Let's try. It would be fun."
"All right," said Tib. "I'm willing if you are. You can come, I think, but we can't let Papa and Mamma know we're awake all night."


After a long night of picking, drying, pasting, and labeling, along with discovering that there was a reason the herbariums had been assigned way back at the beginning of the year, Betsy, Tacy and Tib come to the very realization I came to at around 3 a.m. this morning:

"I think," said Tib, as they walked down Hill Street, "that this was an idiotic thing to do."
Betsy and Tacy grunted.
"Why, I realized last night that I would have enjoyed making a herbarium. I like to do that sort of thing. I could have made a good one."
"So could I," admitted Tacy.
"Well, I couldn't," said Betsy. "But I should have been interested at least. I'm crazy enough about flowers."

Life is Beautiful

Did anyone ever tell you that life is beautiful?
It's beautiful when it snows
when you meet someone new
and it's as if
you've known them forever
and you walk home
through the flakes
smiling.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Kleenex used and then tossed on floor in contaminated white piles: 50
Tablespoons of Nyquil taken: 2
Pages of research paper written: 0
Pages of Harry Potter 7 read: 50
Realizing that I can turn Fridays on my blog into Poetry Fridays (like Melissa Wiley: http://melissawiley.com/blog/): Priceless

Here you are, with a half hour to spare:

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

-Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, by Dylan Thomas

Things I'm Thankful For

Happy Thanksgiving. I recall last year (or was it the year before?) I didn't want to talk about Thanksgiving. Not because I don't love it, but because there didn't seem to be anything new to say about it. Same old food, family, gratitude, etc. Rinse and repeat.
The thing is, though, this year the repeat part is what I'm especially thankful for. I'm thankful that we have a tradition like Thanksgiving that is the same year after year.

Right now I'm laying on my back in my old comfy bed. My laptop is propped on my knees. My throat hurts like the dickens. So does my head. Of course I haven't had so much as a sniffle the whole semester at school, but the instant I was home I got sick. So it goes.
I'm thankful for Nyquil. Is it okay for one to be thankful for drugs?

Other things I'm thankful for (besides the obvious (but still important) friends family health food shelter etc):
1. Sweats
2. Books
3. Cousins that aren't so little anymore
4. Dogs
5. Paul McCartney
6. Optimism
7. Garfield comics
8. The color blue
9. Strangers who smile
10. Part time jobs
11. Snow

Goodnight everyone. I'll see you tomorrow for some mad Black Friday shopping. I'll be the red-eyed one toting the Kleenex box. Hopefully I'll be smiling.

Carrying the Cross

I attended a Catholic school all the way from preschool to 8th grade. Did you know that?
Well I did. I won't go into detail about the experience, although I will say that while I felt all through my public high school years like things would have been easier for me in the friend department if I had just started public like everyone else, I still value my time at private school. I made tons of friends there that I still have, I got to go to school where my mom worked (that's right, I was a teacher's kid all the way up. Even had Mom for homeroom in 6th grade), but best of all, I got to be a server at various Masses (services) in the adjoining church.

What is a server, you might ask? A server is someone (usually a child age 12-15, although for important services and at important churches (i.e. the cathedral), they use adults) who assists the priest throughout the Mass. Servers (usually 2 or 3 at a time) bring the book for readings, help set up the altar for the blessing, and most impactfully, carry the candles and cross down the aisle at the beginning of Mass, and carry them back after the Mass is done.

Now, being me, I had a number of clumsy experiences while serving. There was the Candlemas Mass when I spilled hot wax all over the hand of a small boy who's candle I was trying to light with mine (his parents glared at me as he screamed). There was the time when I went to kneel when there was no kneeling going on.

The incident I remember the most, however, seems to top all the rest in my mind. It's also incredibly ironic (which only just occurred to me as I began writing this post).

You see, as I mentioned before, the servers are in charge of carrying the candles and the cross in at the beginning of Mass with the rest of the procession, and carrying them out again at the end. The candles are light; each one is about as thick as a can of tomato paste, and mounted on small posts only three feet high. The cross, however, is another story. The crucifix itself is as wide as a checkerboard, with Jesus in the middle of course, and it's mounted on a solid wooden post that is (or so I was told) a piece of railing leftover from when the new school was built. The whole cross together, then, is about 7 feet tall (much taller than a 6th grader), and extremely heavy.

It had always been a tradition among the servers, at least as long as I could remember, to fight over who got to carry the candles and who had to carry the cross. Usually the first two servers to arrive would call dibs on the candles, or in the case of 2 girls and 1 boy serving, the boy would be on cross duty. On this particular occasion, however, no one was late, and we were all female.

I think all three of us were thinking about the cross beginning the second we donned the scratchy cream-colored servers' robes, but being friends, we put off discussing it.

Suddenly, though, it was almost ten o'clock, we were at the back of the church, the candles were being lit, and the priest was looking at us expectantly. "So?" He said impatiently, "who's carrying the cross this time?" His eyes wandered over the three of us, and settled on me. Oh no, I said silently to myself, but it was too late. I was the tallest by far, solidly built, and (I suppose), fairly strong-looking. I was to bear the cross.

As soon as I lifted it, I knew there was going to be trouble. It wasn't unbearably heavy, but it was heavy enough to make my hands shake as I clutched it. Not only that, but the crucifix made it top-heavy and unbalanced; a slight tilt to the side and the weight would shift, making the whole thing just about crash to the floor. The cross was also (as I said) much taller than me. I had to constantly look up at the top of the thing, and even then it was hard to judge how close I was to bonking it on something.

The procession down the aisle was excruciating. Despite reassuring looks from the kindly old ushers, I was sweating bullets and praying that I wouldn't drop the holy cross onto anyone's newly-christened infant. I didn't, though, and breathed a sigh of relief when we reached the steps up to the altar. There was a pause while the priest bowed, and then the lucky candle-bearing servers started up the steps after him. I started to follow, but neglected to lift the cross high enough to clear the first stair. The resounding clash made my ears turn red. Even worse, I wasn't even supposed to take the cross up to the altar. The priest's wild hand-signaling reminded me that I was supposed to go around to the back, and prop the cross against the wall there.

Forgive me a slight rant, but first of all, who in their right mind expects a 12-year-old to successfully manage a huge, heavy cross without some incident? Second of all, who in their right mind expects said cross to lean peacefully against a wall (with nothing holding it in place) for the better part of an hour? Just saying.

Anyway, once I had managed to successfully balance the cross against the wall at the back of the altar, I went through to my seat beside the priest. My ears were still bright red, but I figured, most optimistically, that the clank against the stair could have gone unnoticed by a lot of people. They had been, after all, in the middle of singing the opening hymn. Yes, that was it. No one had even heard it.

The next noise, however, cut through the now quiet congregation like a gunshot. The cross, leaning against the wall, was starting to slide. Everyone could hear the slow, screeching scrape it made as it slid lower and lower. Then, as I held my breath, there was a pause, and in the same instant, with the loudest crash I have ever heard, the cross hit the floor. Wood on marble, it continued to bang as it settled.

After what seemed like an age, there was only silence again. That was when I noticed that the priest was looking at me. Kate and Claire (the other servers) were looking at me. My mom and dad and sister were looking at me from a few pews back. Yep, the whole congregation was looking at me.

My ears,still red from the first clank, now felt like they were on fire. I briefly considered crawling under the altar to hide, but as everyone was staring at me, I decided hiding wouldn't be the most effective plan. Instead, I just sat there. And fiddled nonchalantly (or so I hoped) with the ends of the rope tied around my waist.

Eventually, the priest regained his senses and continued on with his prayers. The Mass went on as usual with no more incident. Heck, I even managed to get the cross safely back down the aisle at the end (after picking it up off the floor).

Mom and Dad were surprisingly silent on the car ride home. I guess they knew how embarrassed I was and didn't want to make things worse. I certainly appreciated it.

I was back at that church a few years ago for the first time since I attended school there (nowadays my family goes to a Catholic church closer to our house). Mass began with the same old procession down the main aisle, and when I turned in my pew to watch, I saw that the cross I had carried, the tall, solid, unbalanced one, had been replaced with a new cross. The new one was small and light; the server held it easily out in front of her. She did not clank it on the stairs (she knew to go around), and this new cross did not tip over in the middle of the service.

While I'm happy that no more generations of preteens have to bear that old heavy cross, I sometimes wonder if it would be any easier for me to carry now. I wonder if I have something that I didn't have back then. And not just strength or coordination, but something deeper. I wonder if I now have the peace of mind and sense of self needed to carry that cross. I wonder if I have the faith. Some days I think I do. But other days, my ears still turn bright red as I hear that ungodly (forgive me) crash behind me.

No Shirking in Morris

The wind in Morris isn't kind. It doesn't float past you, skip out of your way as you skuttle down the sidewalk with an armful of books. Nor does it pause to take a look at your face to gauge your reaction.

Instead, the wind in Morris cuts right through you, biting your hands through your sleeves and your legs through your jeans. It tosses your hair into a state of confusion. It bashes the back of your knees over and over until you think you're going to pitch over face first onto the still-strangely-green grass. The Morris wind does these things regardless of your mood or taste.

Some people blame the gusting wind on the fact that the city of Morris lies on the prairie. A mostly settled, farmed, beroaded prairie, but a flat grassland nonetheless. There are no hills to block the wind here.

I, however, blame the wind turbine. When you put up a turbine, in my opinion, you are just asking for this type of wind. Mother Nature is not opposed to going green. She is overly generous, rather, if one can be such a thing (and I think it's possible). In her eagerness to send the force Morris needs to turn the blades and power the campus, she sent the kind of wind I have just described. "Do not relent," Mother Nature told the wind, "they asked for you, they needed you, and you must not shirk."

There is certainly no shirking in Morris.

An Unexpected Poem

While dutifully reading an uninteresting (to me) essay for my Understanding Writing class, I found this lovely poem at the very end:

To My Colleagues in the Field

And when that certain grounder
skips blur-white
across clipped June grass

and I move quickly but fumble it
the ball popping into the air before my eyes
I need you moving to cover second

timing my work while the ball's between us
ready to take my toss
tap the bag in stride

and wheel your own true throw to first
in time
you and I will teach the world

to collaborate

Tom Romano
The University of New Hampshire

Three Cups of Tea

It's finally finally finally snowing in Morris. Not those small pellets that sting when they bounce off your nose and cheeks, but huge delicate flakes that float down gracefully and coat even the smallest branches of the smallest trees.

It wasn't snowing when I tramped into the HFA this evening, but it was snowing when I came out.

I was in the HFA to attend a presentation by David Oliver Relin, co-author of Three Cups of Tea. Don't misunderstand me, I have not read the book myself. I've merely heard about it. In fact, the first time I remember hearing about it was a few summers ago, at the funeral of one of my Dad's best friends. It was a sad day, obviously, but somehow (I don't remember how), the book came up. I thought to myself then "I just have to read that book."

I'm thinking to myself now "I just have to read that book."

David Oliver Relin was absolutely wonderful. He was a great speaker: funny, animated, sensitive, profound. But even better were the stories he told about the places he'd seen and the people he'd met on his travels. Relin is a foreign correspondant journalist.

You know what, everyone? I want to be a foreign correspondant journalist.
I want to travel, I want to meet people, to immerse myself in different cultures.
And then I want to write about these people and places and cultures so that teenagers back in America can come back from a Gen Ed class they may or may not hate and read about some faraway place and be inspired to see their own world through new eyes.

First of all, though, I want to read Three Cups of Tea.

A Book I'll Probably Write

I spun as soon as I saw him,
hissed to Maddie and to King:
"I'm not going to sit across the table from him and pretend that everything's normal.
I can't."
Stomped down the stairs
Sat down on the first floor
Abnormally, by myself.
King and Maddie followed
Seated themselves across from me,
good friends they are.
I calmed down shortly,
knowing, perhaps, that this wasn't my battle to fight.

I know this about myself: Sometimes I fight other people's battles just for a chance to fight at all.

But it felt personal to me.
I saw the disappointment on Tim's face, the bewilderment on King's.
These are my friends. They're being treated badly by someone.
Fight.

"He's moving out," King said, "he's packing gradually."
"Moving to the apartments to live with Derek and Luke."
Don't say anything, Holly (his face said).
We both knew it was coming.
We knew we wouldn't have him for much longer.

I can see myself writing a book about him in a couple of years.
A book about a boy that I was friends with freshman year, that I fought with sophomore year
A boy I'm not sure I ever really knew at all.

I don't know if I'm sad because I'm losing a friend
or because for once I've found someone I can't read.
And he'll be gone before I get to try again.

I'll see him around campus at first, I'm sure,
haunting the HFA like another musical ghost
thumping the piano in various practice rooms.
Then climbing the stairs with folder clasped tightly beneath arm
Bursting past me through the doors
And out into the night.

He'll transfer early, perhaps,
or graduate with the rest of us.
I'll watch his back as he walks away with his family
I'll wonder if I'll ever see him again
I'll know I probably won't.

Yes, someday I'll certainly write a book
About the boy I almost knew.

Another 2 a.m. Paper

Why do I do this to myself?
Why am I sitting here at 2:02 a.m. typing a 5 page research paper draft that's due tomorrow?
I've had weeks to work on the thing.
I've done pretty much zero research.
I've spent minimum time thinking about my topic (not that it's uninteresting).

The result of this lack of diligence?
Tomorrow, I will doubtlessly be turning in a draft that consists of me vomiting out my opinions on my topic.
It will a be a research-less research paper draft.
Of course, I will have b.s.-ed in my cover letter.
Something like, "I felt it was best to use my draft to discover what I think about my topic, and then implement my research later on."
My writing professor, being an extremely sharp person, will certainly see through said b.s.

Darn it.
You just can't win at 2:06 a.m. 2:07 is looking bright, though...

Anyway, said procrastination was actually not entirely procrastination. Most of it was actually lack of time to work on something long term. It's hard, you know, to make time for a paper that's due in a few weeks when you have a German test tomorrow, and an Honors paper due on Monday, and a 400 page novel to read in six days.

Plus I have work. Lots of work. Information Desk, Writing Room, Social Science Office.
And then there's writing an article a week for the campus newspaper, MCSA meetings, and various campus events.
Also social things. I need to have a life. I'm not one of those people who can just shut themselves off from everyone for a week on end. If I don't have time where I can hang out with my friends and not worry about anything else, I go crazy. Certifiable.

You know, it's suddenly striking me that I've had a lot of negative posts lately. I'm sorry. My life is by no means negative.
For example, today I had my first three intramural badminton matches. I'm afraid I lost all three, but they were all certainly interesting. Badminton has never struck me as a very intense sport, but let me tell you that I was absolutely drenched in sweat by the time I was done. I was also pretty sore; as you know, I'm not a coordinated person, so I was tripping over my own feet and getting my legs tangled and doing awkward lunge-type moves in pursuit of that darn birdie.

Overall, though (and here's the happy part at last), I had a lot of fun. I've always enjoyed playing sports, even though I'm by no means a great athlete. Next time, however, I'd like to win a little bit.

Remember Remember the 5th of November

This is what it feels like to be a girl left out.
This is what if feels like to thump up 4 flights, to meet friends going down, on their way.
This is what it feels like to miss out on a movie you've always wanted to see because of a job.
A job you love, don't get me wrong, but a Friday night job that leaves you stranded behind a desk.
That leaves you either watching episodes of Glee or Project Runway or Survivor.
Or doing homework, but only sometimes.
This is what it feels like to see the boy you like walking in as you walk out.
To wonder if he wonders if you're the kind of girl who doesn't like movies (you're not).
If you're the kind of girl who doesn't like the rush of excitement, the plush-but-uncomfortable seats, the dimming of lights.
If you're the kind of girl who's left out.
But you do, and you're not.
Except for tonight, when you are left out because the movie starts at 9, and you work at 9:50.
You are the kind of girl who can't stand to see only bits and pieces of movies at a time.
It's all or nothing with you.
This is what it feels like to thump up to a dark dorm room, to sit down at a computer (alone), and to type a semi-poem about what if feels like to be left out.
This is Friday night.
Remember Remember the 5th of November.
This is what it feels like to be left out.

Regis, What is This?!

My ears are burning a little bit.
A group of girls on my floor have gathered to sing Disney songs at the top of their lungs in the hallway.
I am trying to memorize about 40 German flashcards.
Excuse the bitterness.
But really, girls?
I hate to be the party pooper, but this has got to stop.
It's a Thursday night!
People (besides me) are studying!
Be quiet!

Here's a funny picture to make up for my non-funny complainings:

A Disparaging Day

I'm feeling a little beaten down by college right now.
Got my Honors essay back today with an A-, but also with comments labeling it as "smart, well observed, and unusually well-written," but also as "superficial, unconnected, and undeveloped."
Truthfully, I've been getting comments such as these on a lot of essays lately. My writing is great, my style is wonderful, but apparently there's not much behind it.
This is obviously extremely troubling for me-to have professors think that I can write pretty, but that I'm ultimately uninsightful and unable to make strong arguments.
I had a bit of a breakdown after Honors, needless to say.
Crying unabashedly, I walked through campus, down behind Spooner and Gay and the Science Building, until I finally realized that I had nowhere to go. In the end I would just have to turn around and head back to the library to make things right.

College can be a surprisingly lonely place sometimes; your friends can sympathize, but in the end they have their own studying to do. Your parents aren't there to tell you that everything is going to be okay, and that when you wake up in the morning your problems will have worked themselves out. In college, you have to work your own problems out before bed. You have to be independent, and you have to bounce back from things whether you want to or not. You always have to try harder next time. You have to write two papers and study for a test in one weekend, because you have no other choice. Because you did have a choice; you chose to pursue higher education. You're paying for your classes. You wanted to be here.

And so I'm trying very hard not to let the A- and disparaging comments get to me too much. I have miles to go before I sleep, and I don't intend to waste time dwelling, unless said dwelling will help me to write a better paper.

Goodnight, blog readers. May your struggles lead to triumphs, and may you find a secluded park bench on which to sit and think whenever you are in need of one.

A Walk in the Woods

I'm sitting in the basement of the library beside the wall of windows that is so distracting but so wonderfully sunlit and warm.
For an American Literature paper, I have to imagine that Edgar Allen Poe and Ralph Waldo Emerson go for a walk in the woods. I have to imagine what they would talk about.
I think, being in the woods, they would talk about nature.
Ralph would look at the beauty and the perfection and the light drifting among the tops of the trees. He would say something along the lines of: "I went into the woods and I felt, you know, sort of religious."
Edgar would see the trees as ominous and looming. He would comment on the mystery of the forest, a darkness that he couldn't quite explain.

And I, a mere observer on this extraordinary hike, would wonder how the woods came to be. I would wonder who had meandered through them for the first time, and why. I would check over my shoulder for bears, and occasionally trip over protruding roots. I would see the beauty in the branches outlined in navy blue. Finally, I would grow nervous as the sun set and the night gently dropped herself down over everything.

And then, leaving Edgar and Ralph to their discussion, I would hurry back home, pour myself a glass of orange juice, and blog about the woods I'm imagining in the library.

Zombie Prom

For some reason I feel like Morris is the only place on Earth where you can watch Zombieland in your dorm with some friends, and then emerge to a real zombie-infested campus.

The graveyard, which was gazed at with apprehension by every incoming UMMer, has suddenly become deliciously appropriate.

Briggs Library has been turned into a large makeup room, where theater kids charge money for the plastering on of white goop and black smears of kohl.

Fake blood simmers in pots in the dorms, and tubes of it litter tables in the lounges.

That's right. It's Zombie Prom here at UMM, and a peek into the Student Center after 9 p.m. reveals the horde at its finest.

Some female zombies, taking the name of the event literally, are dressed up, wearing old prom dresses and hideous bridesmaid dresses and wedding dresses found at Salvo. All are torn to show a considerable amount of skin, because even the undead want to sex it up.

Some zombies are wearing scrubs, the bright bunny patterns distorted with holes and smears of dirt and blood.

Some zombies, probably the most realistic (or least ambitious) ones, are wearing jeans and t-shirts, shredded to reveal ghastly wounds.

Some zombies, who apparently haven't come into their own yet, wear halloween masks and cloaks. To make up for their off costumes, a few of them walk with a stunted shuffle, holding their arms out awkwardly and moaning. They leave early.

A group of begowned girls who have drifted out into the hallway now sprint by, lured back into the throng by the opening notes of "Bad Romance." Following them is a wave of hairspray that floats up toward the ceiling, not bothering the fire alarm system at all; it has already been disengaged in order to accomodate the fog machines.

Freshman zombies, clearly recognizable, stumble a little bit, laughing too loudly and clustering in chattering gaggles. They have carried with them, perhaps from middle school, the infamous circle dance. Heads down arms up they shriek and giggle and nudge each other for no apparent reason, grinning in delight at the joy of being young and in college and zombified. They arrived at the dance only fifteen minutes after it began, and will not leave until the last song has been played and the techies start coiling up the cords beneath their tired feet.

When the hypnotic lights, loud bass and thick makeup become too much, zombies trickle out to the mall where they can talk without shouting. It's a cold night, but no one seems to feel it for several minutes. In that time, they grip their friends' hands and in shocked voices tell about who was grinding on who. They gallop down the sidewalk against the fresh air.

They look up at the Morris stars and in their zombie hearts they are happy. They are covered in blood, their ears are ringing, and the threat of tomorrow's studying looms on the horizon. Still, the cute boy from Intro. to Psych smiled at them over the bobbing crowd. They have no curfew. They're young and in college and zombified. Undead life is good.

Perceptions of Morris, an Email Story

Email No. 1:


Hey everybody!!!
I just want to write to everyone and say.....


I love you. I love morris. Here are my reasons for loving morris:

(btw taco i had you in mind when i wrote this)

i love that winter lasts 9 months out of the year here
i love the smell of manure in the morning.
i love how people never hold open the door when im right behind you
i love how the members of mpirg say they want to "help the earth" and "save
humanity" yet only one member shows up for the highway cleanup and not one
member participated in the food drive last semester
i love how you all think you are going to change the world
i love how you pretend to look at your phone as i walk by when you very
well know im walking toward you
i love how everyone here is so friendly towards me at face value only
i love the passive aggressive use of facebook
i love how you all think this school is better than harvard
i love the professors sunny attitudes and friendly dispositions :) while
they are telling me i am an idiot
i love how people insist on their love for morris then leave every weekend
for somewhere else
i love how no one boos anyone off stage at open mic even though our ears
are crying blood
i love that the city doesn't snow plow unless they feel like it even though
there is a foot of snow on the streets and even walking is difficult
i love that everyone judges
i love that all the science majors think each class is like some kind of
"competition" and refuse to help eachother out

i love that you make me feel like May 14th is so many years away
i love that i will never ever come back



PEACE



Email No. 2:


In response to an e-mail sent out to the listserv a bit ago, I would like to
share my personal feelings about Morris and the people here. There's enough
hate in this world, we don't need to feel miserable about ourselves.

Oh, Morris, how I love thee. Let me count the ways...

I love how tuition is so low that people like me actually get paid to study
here.
I love the small class sizes.
I love the theatre discipline, that's small enough to give me plenty of
opportunities to develop my skills without being constantly shot down my
competition.
I love the sense of pride this school has, so, even when we know we aren't
the best, we at least feel like we are.
I love how, out of all the places I've lived in my 20 years on this earth,
Morris is the only place that has ever made me feel at home.
I love when we always complain that it's too hot or too cold, but, in our
hearts, we wouldn't want it any other way.
I love that, even if we don't actually *do* all the things we say we want to
do to help the world, we at least have the brains and the balls to admit
that something's wrong and we need to do something about it.
I love when people you barely know can tell something's troubling you, and
will make sure you get a hug or an anonymous letter in your PO box.
I love how the campus is so small that you know a majority of the people you
cross paths with.
I love that you can go a day with three of your professors saying an offhand
remark that significantly boosts your self-esteem.
I love that when a friend says they love you, they really do love you.
I love how, even if it isn't expected that you'll make something of
yourself, you are still given the fuel to keep on dreaming.
I love how students are given the opportunity to be an active member of a
discipline that is not their own.
I love that you can be friends with your neighbor.
I love how Morris is big enough that you can always find something to do,
but small enough that you can live on one side of town and walk to campus on
the other.
I love how classmates and professors will constantly push you to step out of
your comfort zone and try something new.
I love that these new things you're pressured to try usually end up being
tons of fun.
I love how everyone I know here is now part of my extended "Morris family."
I love how, when something like a laptop gets stolen, the entire community
comes together to defend and protect the victim.
I love that you don't have to lock your bike up for fear of it being stolen.
I love how we're sophisticated, but not pretentious.
I love American Indian tuition waivers.
I love our one grocery store, even if its name is a double-entendre.
I love how I can come up with more good things about this town than bad.
I love that the LGBT community on this campus actually has strength.
I love that, as a gay person, I don't have to feel ashamed or embarrassed
while I'm here.
I love how I can still be great friends with my biggest competition.
I love you.

So turn those frowns upside-down, my fellow UMM-ers! I've only been here for
three semesters, but it has, and I'm being completely sincere when I say
this, the best year-and--half of my life. I'm sorry that some people have
had an awful experience during their stay here, but I just wanted to
reassure anyone questioning the quality of life in this gorgeous town that
there are people who love it here.

Thanks for reading.
Ian Bloomquist

Referablog

I haven't blogged for a week. I'm sorry, but I just haven't had anything I've wanted to write about.
It's a lull, I guess. I go through them every once in a while, and they're painful for me, but what can I do?

To make up for my lack of blogging sparkle, I'm giving you the link to a great blog I follow. It belongs to Libba Bray, the author of the Great and Terrible Beauty series, and of Going Bovine (she's written more, but those are the titles I've read). While she doesn't post too often, when she does Libba is always incredible witty and insightful.
I think I've learned the most about what it's really really like to be an author from her blog. That's certainly not all she talks about though...well, you'll see:

http://libba-bray.livejournal.com/

A B- Day

I am sitting
under the stairs
in the library
typing a paper
that should have been done
last night.
dead flies rest
upside down
near my feet
and I know if I
move
I'll hear a crunch
of dried wings
under shoe.

It's a B- day
and I don't have time
to wonder if I can do it
I simply have to.

At dinner I looked around
Forks meeting faces
Food disappearing
despite complaints.
I needed, right then,
for someone to make my day
somehow.

Then I realized
that tonight
I have to make my day
for myself.

Under the stairs,
in the library,
dead flies looking on
keys clicking clicking
echoing off
the underside of the stairs.

Tonight
I'll make my own day.

The Poem Stuck in my Head

Whilst studying for a German test this fine evening, I had a poem stuck in my head.
Do you ever have that?
It's very similar to having a song stuck in your head, only even more annoying because you can't hum or whistle the refrain.
You can only say it.

Ironically enough, I first heard about this particular poem in a movie.
Also ironically, the movie was Must Love Dogs, which I didn't really like because I felt the plot was all over the place, and because I was actually getting annoyed with Diane Lane, lovely actor as she is.

Christopher Plummer was the one who recited the poem in the movie, though, so that makes everything all right. Captain Von Trapp can do no wrong in my book.

Anyway, here's the poem. Enjoy:

"Brown Penny," by William Butler Yeats

I whispered, 'I am too young,'
And then, 'I am old enough';
Wherefore I threw a penny
To find out if I might love.
'Go and love, go and love, young man,
If the lady be young and fair.'
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
I am looped in the loops of her hair.

O love is the crooked thing,
There is nobody wise enough
To find out all that is in it,
For he would be thinking of love
Till the stars had run away
And the shadows eaten the moon.
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
One cannot begin it too soon.

Stress Levels High

Here's what I have to do:
1. Study for a German test on Friday
2. Begin researching/writing my 10+ page Understanding Writing research paper
3. Write a paper for Icelandic Sagas (4 pages, due next Friday)
4. Write a paper for Honors: Traditions in Human Thought (5 pages, due next Friday)
5. Figure out topics for the above 3 papers
6. Give blood tomorrow
7. Work tonight, tomorrow, Thursday, and Friday
8. Do laundry
9. Get my Mac fixed once and for all
10. Study for American Literature Midterm next Friday
11. Finish reading Atonement (pleasure)
12. Sign up for Intramural badminton
13. Sign up for Big Friend/Little Friend?
14. Become a superhero so that all the above tasks can be successfully completed.

Washington Irving Week

"However wide awake they may have been before they entered that sleepy region, they are sure, in a little time, to imbibe the witching influence of the air, and begin to grow imaginative-to dream dreams, and see apparitions."

That's from Washington Irving's The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. It's Washington Irving week in old American Literature, and the weather seems to be cooperating; it's cool and windy outside, with just enough sunshine to flit against the leaves and make them explode into yellow and orange.

No students lie out on the mall and read anymore.
Instead, they sit on benches in sweaters
and look out over the browning grass
with inexplicable wistfulness.
The air doesn't hang suspended as it did in the summer.
Now it rushes around lamp posts,
tugs at hair
and scarves,
whips five page essays across the sidewalks and into
the dusty road where cars slow but don't pause.
A feeling of frenzied excitement has settled on campus,
and we all dress for a homecoming game that we won't win,
continuing to grin at those we dimly recognize from a long-ago meeting.
We read Washington Irving,
wishing all the time that we could somehow have
the lazy knoll of Rip Van Winkle back,
while still clinging to the blowing trees
as the Headless Horseman gallops by
on the dusky road.

In Which my Blog is Blogged

This is funny. I'm at a library computer, and I search engined my name like I always do to get to my blog quickly on public computers.

Guess what came up?

On this website: http://kevinrenick.com/News.php

(which is the website of musician Kevin Renick), my blog was mentioned! Why? Oh, because a while back I quoted the lyrics to his song, "Up in the Air," saying that they pretty much described my life. Well, whoever runs his website must have googled his name and my blog must have popped up!

Why am I excited about this? Because it's the first bit of publicity for my blog! Not that I want it to become famous or anything (Julie & Julia style), it's just neat to see that people are actually looking at it.

Here's what was actually said about my blog on the website, in case you don't want to scroll down that far. It's not much, really, but it's something:


--Two more blogs feature the lyrics to "Up in the Air" and the author's favorable comment. First up is Holly Gruntner's personal take: http://staygoldponyboy88.blogspot.com/2010/06/up-in-air.html You rule, Holly!

An Ordinary Monday

Yesterday was a usual Monday for me. I woke up earlier than I wanted to, sat through (and even enjoyed) four classes, and at 5 p.m. I went to dinner with my friends

It was only at dinner when I first heard part of the news: My friend Aaron, who's living this year in Blakely Hall, told me that all of the residents had been evacuated around 4 p.m. because of a 'gas leak.' They had been noticing an off smell for a few days, but no one said anything until the janitor reported it.

Walking out of Food Service, I bumped into my friend Phil, who's also living in Blakely. He told me that he had also been banished from the dorm for the time being. Phil didn't know anything about a gas leak, however; when the CA told him to leave, she only said that she couldn't tell him why he had to.

I thought it was a little strange that Aaron and Phil's stories didn't correspond; why wasn't Phil told that there was a gas leak like Aaron was? I didn't think much of it, however, until I got a text from Phil a few hours later:

"A kid died in Blakely. They just brought the body bag out to the ambulance, and the Chancellor is coming to talk to us about it."

An email was sent out through the Morris list serv. late last night:

I am writing to share very sad news. One of our students, xxxxxx,
was found dead in his residence hall room this afternoon.

UMM Campus Police, Morris Police, and Stevens County coroner xxxxx have responded. A standard medical/legal death investigation is
underway. There did not appear to be any suspicious circumstances
surrounding the death or any health or safety concerns for the campus
community.

xxxxxx was a senior enrolled full-time at UMM for fall semester 2010
as a philosophy major. He was 24 and from Baxter, MN.

Student Counseling staff are available to meet with students and other
members of the campus community. The office is open Monday through Friday
from 8:00 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. To reach Student Counseling after 4:30 pm.,
please call Campus Police at 320-287-1601. Their services are free and
confidential.

As always if you receive media inquiries, please refer them to University
Relations, 320-589-6398.

This is a sad time for our campus. We extend our condolences to xxxxx's
family and friends.

-End email-

The xxx's were added by me, just so you know.

So it seems that while I was plodding through my ordinary Monday, someone was lying in a dorm room nearby, never to get up and walk out again.

I apologize if I sound blunt about all this. I don't feel blunt about it.
It's so horrible. Just imagine-the body wasn't even found until about three days after the student died.

Last night all I could think about was that the student's parents were going to be getting a call soon. And after that call, as I continue to imagine, his parents are going to have to continue living their lives with the knowledge that they sent a son off to college one year, and he never came back.

Today, campus seems ordinary. So far there are no signs of grief, no extra whisperings before class starts, no huddled groups clustered on the mall. The flag isn't at half mast.

Someone's missing, though, and I suspect that we're all feeling the loss, even as we go about our ordinary Tuesday.

Wednesday Night Apple Crisp

Current Location: Briggs Library Writing Room

Just Ate: Apple crisp; they had three huge pans of it downstairs for some reason. The librarians were wandering up and down the floors encouraging people to go down and eat some, so I did! It was certainly delicious, that random, Wednesday-night apple crisp.

Just talked to: Some random lady on the phone. She called the library asking for writing advice, and then the librarian came up to the writing room to get me so I could speak to her (they didn't know the number to transfer her up). I picked up the receiver, and all of the sudden the woman is throwing sentences at me, asking me to help her identify the subject and the predicate. Subject and predicate (I exclaimed to myself)! I haven't learned about those since elementary school! I remembered somehow, however, and was able to help her out.

She wasn't done yet, though; as a child screamed in the background, the woman began to complain about how schools give assignments and just expect children to be able to do them without help. She berated teachers for not wanting to be contacted with questions after hours, and for telling kids not to bring their textbooks home (which makes it hard for parents to assist their children).

I understood her points, and she really wasn't nasty about any of it; it just amused me that she was talking to me of all people about such things. I'm simply a student worker who's job it is to help other students improve their papers for class! I work in a tiny room on the 3rd floor, I'm not a mother, and it's 9:30 p.m. What a random call to receive!

In retrospect, I think that the woman simply needed someone to vent to, and that I was the first person who seemed willing to listen. Fine with me. It's interesting experiences like this that make my life interesting, truthfully.

F. Scott Fitzgerald: Will have to settle for a shorter spiel than I originally intended to give. This Side of Paradise was amazing. It is now officially my favorite new book, mainly because it gave me so much to think about, both in terms of the ideas introduced in the novel, and in terms of how the novel itself was crafted.

Although Amory Blaine (the main character) is not necessarily a character to be admired, I found that I could relate to him in various ways, especially where his college experiences were concerned. He discovers so much about himself, and about the world in college, and yet these discoveries leave him reeling, and wondering what the true meaning of everything is.

And at the absoulte pinnacle of the book, Amory finds himself back before the spires of his Alma Mater. He leans his head back into the night and screams, "I know myself, but that is all-."

And that is exactly how I feel.

As good of an ending as the above is, I want to briefly add that F. Scott Fitzgerald was an absolutely marvelous writer. It's actually difficult to describe it, but the thing that strikes me the most is how observant he was as an author. Fitzgerald had a gift for character development; he effortlessly pieced people together until they were so complex that they were entirely real to readers.
Again, I don't think I'm explaining this very well. I think you should just read something of his for yourself. Start with The Great Gatsby, and then go from there. You'll like him, I promise.

Macbroke

The last time I posted, my Macbook worked perfectly fine.
Now it needs a new hard drive.

I guess I'll talk to you again when things are working (it's kind of weird to be blogging from a library computer, with several people breathing down my neck from nearby library computers).

Oh, and I also finished This Side of Paradise. Remind me to post about that!

How Not to Be an Adult

It's been a while, I know. In my defense, my 17 credits, 3 jobs, multiple extracurricular activities, and tendency to volunteer for additional fun-sounding things have suddenly caught up with me. I don't have a single day for about three weeks straight where I have nothing going on. It's ridiculous, but it's fun too; I'm meeting lots of new people, and really learning a lot about campus. It's quite nice to know the nuts and bolts of things going on around here.

You should know that I had a great plan for this post. While I was doing the reading for my honors class, I actually wrote some notes to be eventually pieced together into a cohesive entry. Now, though, of course, I have an entirely different frame of mind and don't feel like I can write about Plato's musings tonight.

Instead, I'll tell you about a disturbing incident that occurred at a faculty Division Meeting today. I was taking minutes, a job that I don't think I'm particularly good at, as I tend to get so interested in the conversation that I forget to type, and generally basking (as always) in the presence of so many scholars. I know, I know; professors are just people. But they are kind of fascinating, aren't they? They look so normal, and yet they have devoted their lives to research, and the pursuit of knowledge. It's sort of intimidating, actually.

Anyway, we had gone through all the things on the agenda, and were wrapping things up (following Robert's rules, of course), when a certain professor launched an attack on the division head (i.e. my boss, who is absolutely wonderful). He was going on about how she had formed a committee and not consulted certain people about who would be on the committee. This prof. was completely implying that my boss had deliberately chosen certain people to be on the committee so that her views would be represented, rather than choosing people who would do the best job. More professors chimed in, agreeing with the first prof.

My boss (I'm avoiding names here, as you have probably noticed) explained patiently that she had consulted the department heads, and they had given her a list of people, and that she was merely asking those listed people to join. She said that the committee was by no means finalized, and that she was trying to get representation from all the departments in order to have multiple perspectives.

A lot more was said that I truthfully did not understand (not knowing the back story as the rest of the profs. no doubt did), but I just felt so bad for my boss. I could tell she was genuinely shocked and appalled that people would be angry about her actions, and had ranted over them behind her back (as they had clearly done).

I may not know the full history, and I may not have spent a whole lot of time with my boss, but I have a good feel for people, and right now I feel like she did not intend nor attempt half the things she was being accused of.

I walked out of that meeting feeling rather sad; it's a shame that learned people such as that group of profs. would act like that, and treat a fellow colleague like that. It even makes me angry that they chose to launch their accusations in a public forum, instead of first raising their concerns to my boss privately.

It's funny how when you're a kid you think that adults are perfect, and that they never behave immaturely or irrationally. It's funny how as you get older you realize that they have as many faults as you do, and that it is true that some 15-year-olds are more mature than some 50-year-olds.

Goodbye to Teenage Holly

Hello everyone.
I am writing from my last few hours of being a teenager.
Now I know that you're as old as you feel, and that I'm not going to wake up tomorrow feeling any different than I feel right now.
But still.
20 years old.
Holy cow.
That's old.

I'm ending something tomorrow that I began when I was 13 years old. When I was just a little 7th grader.
It seems funny that my teenage years have spanned that distance. In fact, at this point, I don't even know what constitutes being a teenager. Is it the awkwardness? The bad hair and clothes? The 'changes?' The moodiness?

I'm inclined to think that being a teenager means that you're sort of discovering yourself. You're seeking out your niche in the world, and then you're filling it as best you can. You're changing your mind a lot, and you're figuring out what you like and don't like. You're making friends and losing friends and deciding that you can live without certain friends. You're dating. Or not. You're deciding who you want to date. You're deciding who you want to be for the rest of your life.

Well, I've decided. I've found the person that I want to be, and I've found the niche she fits into. My next task, I suppose, is to actually step into her shoes. She's not so very different from myself, actually. She's just a bit nicer, a bit more thoughful, confident, outgoing, responsible, productive, and hard-working. She's the best version of myself. Now I just have to learn how to be her 24 hours a day. It's certainly going to be a challenge.

So happy birthday to me (if you'll allow that).
Here's to the adult I'll eventually grow into.
May she have as many awkward, funny, wonderfully blog-worthy moments as teenage Holly has been blessed with.

Catch you on the flip side.

Spend a Day With Benjamin Franklin

Well, after nearly a whole day of reading Benjamin Franklin's Autobiography, I find that I have a newfound respect for the man. I mean, I knew he was brilliant before. I remembered from high school AP History that he sort of stormed the Founding Fathers and pushed through some points that were certainly important to push through. I'm afraid I don't remember any specifics.

I suppose if my vague history remembrances don't prove his worth, you can always look at his well-known scientific achievements. The guy flew a kite in a lightning storm, for goodness' sakes! If that doesn't make him a hero, I don't know what does.

Anyway, as I said, I liked Benjamin Franklin before I read his autobiography. Now I completely admire him. Just listen to a bit of his introduction:

"So would I if I might, besides correcting the Faults, change some sinister Accidents and Events of it for others more favorable, but tho' this were denied, I should still accept the Offer. However, since such a Repetition is not to be expected, the Thing most like living one's Life over again, seems to be a Recollection of that Life; and to make that Recollection as durable as possible, the putting it down in Writing. Hereby, too, I shall indulge the Inclination so natural in old Men, to be talking of themselves and their own past Actions, and I shall indulge it, without being troublesome to others who thro' respect to Age might think themselves oblig'd to give me a Hearing, since this may be read or not as any one pleases. And lastly, (I may as well confess it, since my denial of it will be believ'd by no body) perhaps I shall a good deal gratify my own Vanity. Indeed I scarce ever heard or saw the introductory Words, Without Vanity I may say, etc. but some vain thing immediately follow'd. Most People dislike Vanity in others whatever Share they have of it themselves, but I give it fair Quarter wherever I meet with it, being persuaded that it is often productive of Good to the Possessor and to others that are within his Sphere of Action: And therefore in many Cases it would not be quite absurd if a Man were to thank God for his Vanity among the other Comforts of Life."

What a guy. And he writes like that throughout his entire Autobiography, constantly referencing what he called his "Erratum," or his grave life mistakes, and earnestly (and oftentimes humorously) taking us along on his quest for self-improvement.
Benjamin Franklin strived to better himself in all ways, from experimenting with vegetarianism, to starting an academic club, to creating a respectful reputation for himself both in business and in personal dealings.
In fact, much of what I've read so far about Benjamin Franklin can be summed up in one of his quotes: "Be at war with your vices, at peace with your neighbors, and let every new year find you a better man."

Happy Labor Day everyone.