Good Evening readers! I started my last post with a salutation, and it sounded so polite that I had to do the same tonight. No rhyme intended.
My memorial weekend was phenomenal, as a matter of fact. I read about six books all the way through (though in all fairness, they were all under 250 pages, and I had previously read five of them), sat in the sun, and generally lazed around the boat and the lake and the island. I also got my first sunburn of the season; it's an unfortunate one that outlines perfectly the shirt I was wearing.
I started writing a few minutes ago. A short story, I think. That is, I hope it will develop into a full-fledged short story. I got my inspiration for it in an interesting way, actually. I was standing at the refrigerator searching for raspberries (which were, it turns out, sitting on the counter behind me), when I suddenly got that strange feeling like someone was watching me. I looked behind the refrigerator door, and peered into the dim hallway to the left of me, but of course no one was there. It wasn't an eerie feeling, really, now that I think about it. It just felt like someone was watching me the way you watch a home video; looking for the people you know and smiling at things you barely remember.
Strange, huh? Good story material, huh?
I also watched the movie Big Chill earlier today. I've been listening to the soundtrack for ages; my mom has it, and it's a great compilation of everything I like about oldies music. Anyway, I finally got around to watching the actual movie. The verdict? It was fun to watch. It felt like all of the actors really were old friends reunited. And although it got slow at times, and my favorite part was still the music, it had a realism to it that I thought was really special.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Good Morning, Hank and John! It's Thursday, May 27th!
I've been reading my Mom's Oprah Magazine for years. When I first began, I would skim through it until I got to the O List; the section where Oprah selects a dozen or so items she "thinks are just great." I liked looking at the brightly colored shoes, pattered bags, and funky gadgets she chose.
Somewhere along the way, however, I stopped merely flipping through and started reading. I found myself enjoying all of the articles, whether they gave marriage advice or explained how to make the most out of a career. Even though I was a teenager reading a magazine written for grown women, I got something out of every page I read.
Now that I'm nineteen, I realize that O Magazine has made me consider the kind of person I want to be when I grow up, and how I can reflect that adult even now, though I'm still making my way through school. And while not all of the articles are relevant to me (I'm not quite worried about wrinkles or menopause), they seem to reflect the path ahead of me, and to reveal it as lined with strong women who have just as many struggles and triumphs as I have.
Somewhere along the way, however, I stopped merely flipping through and started reading. I found myself enjoying all of the articles, whether they gave marriage advice or explained how to make the most out of a career. Even though I was a teenager reading a magazine written for grown women, I got something out of every page I read.
Now that I'm nineteen, I realize that O Magazine has made me consider the kind of person I want to be when I grow up, and how I can reflect that adult even now, though I'm still making my way through school. And while not all of the articles are relevant to me (I'm not quite worried about wrinkles or menopause), they seem to reflect the path ahead of me, and to reveal it as lined with strong women who have just as many struggles and triumphs as I have.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Not Yo Granny's China
I would first like to mention that the colors of my blog are iffy right now. I'm not sure what exactly possessed me when I selected blue and white, but I assure you that I did not mean to steal your grandmother's china pattern.
Secondly, I've had a few interesting days, and while I'm not able to go into detail here in the public arena of blogging, I can safely say that the past few days were mildly shattering, slightly rainy, and all-around worth journaling about.
I think this is what I like about being a writer (if you'll allow me to call myself that): you can draw on real life experiences when you're writing. Anything that happens to you, good or bad, can be viewed as 'material.' And while maybe it's not entirely wholesome to think of life as one big, entertaining story that could possibly sell for millions in the future, it helps me a lot to see it as thus sometimes.
Thirdly, I have the first entry in "Holly's Best Ever." Here goes:
The best thing ever is drinking water straight out of the tap. Even though your mother tells you time and again not to, and even though in the back of your mind you know putting your mouth so close to the place where dirty hands, soiled dishes, and stinky sponges alike have convened is not entirely hygenic, once that water hits your gaping mouth, you feel completely and refreshingly justified.
Secondly, I've had a few interesting days, and while I'm not able to go into detail here in the public arena of blogging, I can safely say that the past few days were mildly shattering, slightly rainy, and all-around worth journaling about.
I think this is what I like about being a writer (if you'll allow me to call myself that): you can draw on real life experiences when you're writing. Anything that happens to you, good or bad, can be viewed as 'material.' And while maybe it's not entirely wholesome to think of life as one big, entertaining story that could possibly sell for millions in the future, it helps me a lot to see it as thus sometimes.
Thirdly, I have the first entry in "Holly's Best Ever." Here goes:
The best thing ever is drinking water straight out of the tap. Even though your mother tells you time and again not to, and even though in the back of your mind you know putting your mouth so close to the place where dirty hands, soiled dishes, and stinky sponges alike have convened is not entirely hygenic, once that water hits your gaping mouth, you feel completely and refreshingly justified.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
John Keats
"I have left no immortal work behind me — nothing to make my friends proud of my memory — but I have lov'd the principle of beauty in all things, and if I had had time I would have made myself remember'd."
John Keats wrote that to Fanny Brawne in a letter once. It's funny, isn't it? Because Keats has actually left quite a legacy. I hope he knows that now.
That's all I have to say, really. I've been writing drafts of posts for a few days now, but none of them have been special enough to publish. I think I'll wait to post again until I have something exciting or substantial to tell you.
P.S. I just realized that maybe the quote combined with my message sounds rather melancholy. It's not meant to. I was simply thinking about Keats today, and I stumbled upon the quote while reading his wikipedia page.
John Keats wrote that to Fanny Brawne in a letter once. It's funny, isn't it? Because Keats has actually left quite a legacy. I hope he knows that now.
That's all I have to say, really. I've been writing drafts of posts for a few days now, but none of them have been special enough to publish. I think I'll wait to post again until I have something exciting or substantial to tell you.
P.S. I just realized that maybe the quote combined with my message sounds rather melancholy. It's not meant to. I was simply thinking about Keats today, and I stumbled upon the quote while reading his wikipedia page.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Me Write Pretty Some Day
I'm well aware that my writing is not always what you might call 'polished.' People have told me so. And while I like to think that in my blog I write the way I talk, and that when I write papers and such I tread more gracefully, I want to give you a taste of my 'pretty' writing. Okay, okay, so this is mainly to prove to myself that I can do it. Actually, not even that. I know I can do it. I just want to do it here. So here goes (p.s. the repetition of the word 'here' was intentional). Now I sound arrogant. You know, maybe I should make use of the backspace key right about now. But no. All of this nonsense will help me prove my point. Here we go again (more 'here' repetition? Jeez, who does this kid think she is?):
There are few moments of intense clarity in our lives. All other moments, the ones we bathe in and swear in and try to work out impossible calculus problems in, are simply part of the muddle. I fancied myself in a rare moment this afternoon, when I went down to the dock to read.
I lay down gradually; I started out sitting with crossed legs, book propped against my ankles, and I slowly slumped until I was sprawled on my stomach. Turning to the side a bit, the cool metal against my cheek balanced out the sun blazing in my hair. It was a lovely day, and I wondered if anyone would happen to look out and grin with approval at the teenager improving her mind amongst nature.
I always liked the word grin. There was an entire image associated with it. For example, in order to really truly grin, you had to have your face to the wind. Your solid-colored t-shirt had to be blowing back against your chest. You had to be standing on either a hill or some sort of elevated object. You had to have your lips pressed flat to gums, and your teeth had to be glinting.
I pondered all of this while the swallows flitted by and gingerly dipped blue wings into blue water.
Every so often there would be a loud splash, and my head would lift in time to see two dragonflies (apparently attached somehow-this I didn't dwell on) buzzing away. How such small insects could create a splash equivalent to that of a small child doing a cannonball was beyond me.
I only went up when the dogs were whining so loudly in their kennel that the waves lapping against the shore seemed darker than usual.
I think, as I rest dirty legs against clean blankets on my bed, that the clarity has left me. I could go down to the dock again, I suppose. I could look out at the water and imagine myself very knowledgeable indeed. But it's too dark to see anything now; the swallows would peer down at me with sleep-heavy eyes and chuckle dreamily to themselves. Silly girl, she thinks she knows us.
Tomorrow they'll let me back, though. I'll sit there for hours, tanning arms around knees. I'll sit there until I can see straight to the bottom.
There are few moments of intense clarity in our lives. All other moments, the ones we bathe in and swear in and try to work out impossible calculus problems in, are simply part of the muddle. I fancied myself in a rare moment this afternoon, when I went down to the dock to read.
I lay down gradually; I started out sitting with crossed legs, book propped against my ankles, and I slowly slumped until I was sprawled on my stomach. Turning to the side a bit, the cool metal against my cheek balanced out the sun blazing in my hair. It was a lovely day, and I wondered if anyone would happen to look out and grin with approval at the teenager improving her mind amongst nature.
I always liked the word grin. There was an entire image associated with it. For example, in order to really truly grin, you had to have your face to the wind. Your solid-colored t-shirt had to be blowing back against your chest. You had to be standing on either a hill or some sort of elevated object. You had to have your lips pressed flat to gums, and your teeth had to be glinting.
I pondered all of this while the swallows flitted by and gingerly dipped blue wings into blue water.
Every so often there would be a loud splash, and my head would lift in time to see two dragonflies (apparently attached somehow-this I didn't dwell on) buzzing away. How such small insects could create a splash equivalent to that of a small child doing a cannonball was beyond me.
I only went up when the dogs were whining so loudly in their kennel that the waves lapping against the shore seemed darker than usual.
I think, as I rest dirty legs against clean blankets on my bed, that the clarity has left me. I could go down to the dock again, I suppose. I could look out at the water and imagine myself very knowledgeable indeed. But it's too dark to see anything now; the swallows would peer down at me with sleep-heavy eyes and chuckle dreamily to themselves. Silly girl, she thinks she knows us.
Tomorrow they'll let me back, though. I'll sit there for hours, tanning arms around knees. I'll sit there until I can see straight to the bottom.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
That Itchy Feeling
I'm having that feeling again. That itchy, late-night feeling that makes me want to run and sing and then sit down and write something wonderful.
Current problem: I don't know what to write about.
It seems like whenever I have a story idea I don't have anything to write on, and whenever I'm sitting in front of my computer, fingers poised, my mind is completely blank. Oh, the irony of inspiration.
Despite my lack of lightbulb in certain literary areas, I do have a few bits of good news to share with you...
1. I won the College Writing Essay Contest. When I got the congratulatory email from one of the English professors at UMM, all I could do was lay back on the floor of my room and laugh. It's been three months since I turned in that essay. By now, winning feels stale because I've thought about it for so long. I am grateful, however, and I intend to spend $15.00 of the prize money on an itunes card, just like I said I would from the beginning. Despite my excitement at the prospect of buying new music, I'm thinking that F. Scott didn't buy an itunes card when his stories won prizes at Princeton. In all fairness, though, he probably bought booze.
2. Second bit of happiness: I just checked my Spring Semester grades online, and so far I have an A- in both CMR and Physical Anthropology. While I was expecting an A in CMR (still don't understand how I went down), I expected a B+ at the highest in Anth. I must have done really well on that final! Here's hoping that when my Brit. Lit. and Crusades grades come in, they don't detract from my current happiness.
Well, that's about all the big news on the home front.
If you're really looking for details this fine evening, you may be interested to know that I am currently reading The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. I started it ages ago, got to page 200 and became tired of it. I'm just now picking it up again. It's not that it's a bad book; it won the Pulitzer, for heavens' sakes. I simply got distracted.
I also began Ivanhoe last night. I'm only on page 8, so I hate to judge, but so far things are moving rather slowly in the chivalric world of Walter Scott. Because he is Sir Walter Scott, however, I'm trying very hard to have faith.
Current problem: I don't know what to write about.
It seems like whenever I have a story idea I don't have anything to write on, and whenever I'm sitting in front of my computer, fingers poised, my mind is completely blank. Oh, the irony of inspiration.
Despite my lack of lightbulb in certain literary areas, I do have a few bits of good news to share with you...
1. I won the College Writing Essay Contest. When I got the congratulatory email from one of the English professors at UMM, all I could do was lay back on the floor of my room and laugh. It's been three months since I turned in that essay. By now, winning feels stale because I've thought about it for so long. I am grateful, however, and I intend to spend $15.00 of the prize money on an itunes card, just like I said I would from the beginning. Despite my excitement at the prospect of buying new music, I'm thinking that F. Scott didn't buy an itunes card when his stories won prizes at Princeton. In all fairness, though, he probably bought booze.
2. Second bit of happiness: I just checked my Spring Semester grades online, and so far I have an A- in both CMR and Physical Anthropology. While I was expecting an A in CMR (still don't understand how I went down), I expected a B+ at the highest in Anth. I must have done really well on that final! Here's hoping that when my Brit. Lit. and Crusades grades come in, they don't detract from my current happiness.
Well, that's about all the big news on the home front.
If you're really looking for details this fine evening, you may be interested to know that I am currently reading The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. I started it ages ago, got to page 200 and became tired of it. I'm just now picking it up again. It's not that it's a bad book; it won the Pulitzer, for heavens' sakes. I simply got distracted.
I also began Ivanhoe last night. I'm only on page 8, so I hate to judge, but so far things are moving rather slowly in the chivalric world of Walter Scott. Because he is Sir Walter Scott, however, I'm trying very hard to have faith.
Friday, May 14, 2010
The Times, They Are A'Changin
What can I say?
I've been busy unpacking my stuff since Wednesday night.
When I take a break I lie back on my bed and it seems that for the first time, the four turquoise walls of my bedroom form a box.
Despite new additions over the years, my room is trapped in high school, with smatterings of middle and elementary throughout.
And I'm trapped with it.
How is it that you can live away from home for a year, see different things, meet different people, do something entirely new every day, and then come back home and fall into the same pattern you've lived in your whole life?
Now, I'm not saying that it's not nice to be home, or that I've grown tired of my family, or anything like that.
I'm just saying that now that I've broken out into the world a bit, I want to keep drilling at that hole until I can step right through.
I have orientation for my new job at Target this Tuesday. Once I begin work, I'm hoping I'll feel less restless. It will be interesting to work at night, I think. And while stocking shelves is not exactly my dream job, I do love to put things in order. Heck, for $9.00 an hour, I'd do just about anything. This is study abroad money I'm earning, and I don't intend to shirk until I have a nice long stint in Europe under my belt.
Finished rereading The Diary of Anne Frank last night. What an amazing, amazing young woman. It's at the same time wondrous and terribly sad to think about all that she could have done in the world had she lived. Though I suppose that by writing such a beautiful diary, she did do a lot in the world. Someday I'd like to visit Amsterdam (besides the airport), and see the Anne Frank House.
As of right now, I'll settle for watching the movie based on her diary.
P.S. In case you were wondering, I don't know what I'll read next. I have my bookshelf organized perfectly; all 450 of my books are layered based on genre, reading level, and whether or not I've read them before. The books I haven't read are stacked enticingly in front. Now I just have to pick one.
I've been busy unpacking my stuff since Wednesday night.
When I take a break I lie back on my bed and it seems that for the first time, the four turquoise walls of my bedroom form a box.
Despite new additions over the years, my room is trapped in high school, with smatterings of middle and elementary throughout.
And I'm trapped with it.
How is it that you can live away from home for a year, see different things, meet different people, do something entirely new every day, and then come back home and fall into the same pattern you've lived in your whole life?
Now, I'm not saying that it's not nice to be home, or that I've grown tired of my family, or anything like that.
I'm just saying that now that I've broken out into the world a bit, I want to keep drilling at that hole until I can step right through.
I have orientation for my new job at Target this Tuesday. Once I begin work, I'm hoping I'll feel less restless. It will be interesting to work at night, I think. And while stocking shelves is not exactly my dream job, I do love to put things in order. Heck, for $9.00 an hour, I'd do just about anything. This is study abroad money I'm earning, and I don't intend to shirk until I have a nice long stint in Europe under my belt.
Finished rereading The Diary of Anne Frank last night. What an amazing, amazing young woman. It's at the same time wondrous and terribly sad to think about all that she could have done in the world had she lived. Though I suppose that by writing such a beautiful diary, she did do a lot in the world. Someday I'd like to visit Amsterdam (besides the airport), and see the Anne Frank House.
As of right now, I'll settle for watching the movie based on her diary.
P.S. In case you were wondering, I don't know what I'll read next. I have my bookshelf organized perfectly; all 450 of my books are layered based on genre, reading level, and whether or not I've read them before. The books I haven't read are stacked enticingly in front. Now I just have to pick one.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Imagine
I feel like the occasion of my homecoming calls for a particularly epic post. I'm officially done with classes for about 3 months. I'm no longer a freshman in college. I don't think I'm quite a sophomore yet; I'm a firm believer in summer as a transitional phase. I'm in between. And that, my friends, is a good place to be right now.
My sister was telling about this mean girl she goes to high school with. Apparently this girl was talking about Amy with another girl when Amy was just a few feet away.
(brief tangent) You know, I hate sibling stereotypes. I've met younger children who aren't spoiled brats, and I've met older children who prefer to be followers. But one stereotype that I will fight for to the death is the oldest child's right to go after anyone who hurts their little sister (or brother).
I am literally this close to marching down to that school tomorrow morning and giving that girl a good talking to. You know what I'd say? I'd say that high school is a fantasy. It's a little world that teenagers get to live in for four years. Maybe you think that who you are in high school is the person you'll be for the rest of your life. Maybe you think that if you're popular and feared and perfect you'll stay that way forever. Well, you're wrong. Because while things like that may fly while you're 18 and under, in college they don't. In the workforce they don't. If you're mean to people, if you're fake and lazy and rude, you will not get a job. You will not make friends. You will go nowhere in life. I suppose that sometimes the villains do win, but only temporarily. It's good people who really make it in the world, and if you can be as smart as my sister and figure that out early in life, then you'll do a lot better for yourself.
I suppose I just made one of those corny speeches that the earnest, yet naive protagonist makes at the end of the movie. Everyone's jaws drop, and the meanie slinks away to cry in the bathroom.
Well, my life is not a movie (as I've pointed out on numerous occasions), and I'm generally not a particularly gutsy person. But if this girl hurts my sister one more time, she's going to get an earful.
Okay, rant over. I'm terribly sorry. I know that you were expecting some sort of exhaulted poem about how good it is to be home, and how I'm sitting in my own bed right now, and how tomorrow I'm going to unpack and arrange my room and start my summer reading. Unfortunately, I'm too tired to write poetry. I'll let my friend John Lennon do it for me.
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.
I know that everyone has heard Imagine a million times, but I don't think everyone realizes what an extraordinary song it really is. Paul McCartney is my favorite Beatle forever, but I'll always have a soft spot in my heart for John Lennon. And Yoko too.
My sister was telling about this mean girl she goes to high school with. Apparently this girl was talking about Amy with another girl when Amy was just a few feet away.
(brief tangent) You know, I hate sibling stereotypes. I've met younger children who aren't spoiled brats, and I've met older children who prefer to be followers. But one stereotype that I will fight for to the death is the oldest child's right to go after anyone who hurts their little sister (or brother).
I am literally this close to marching down to that school tomorrow morning and giving that girl a good talking to. You know what I'd say? I'd say that high school is a fantasy. It's a little world that teenagers get to live in for four years. Maybe you think that who you are in high school is the person you'll be for the rest of your life. Maybe you think that if you're popular and feared and perfect you'll stay that way forever. Well, you're wrong. Because while things like that may fly while you're 18 and under, in college they don't. In the workforce they don't. If you're mean to people, if you're fake and lazy and rude, you will not get a job. You will not make friends. You will go nowhere in life. I suppose that sometimes the villains do win, but only temporarily. It's good people who really make it in the world, and if you can be as smart as my sister and figure that out early in life, then you'll do a lot better for yourself.
I suppose I just made one of those corny speeches that the earnest, yet naive protagonist makes at the end of the movie. Everyone's jaws drop, and the meanie slinks away to cry in the bathroom.
Well, my life is not a movie (as I've pointed out on numerous occasions), and I'm generally not a particularly gutsy person. But if this girl hurts my sister one more time, she's going to get an earful.
Okay, rant over. I'm terribly sorry. I know that you were expecting some sort of exhaulted poem about how good it is to be home, and how I'm sitting in my own bed right now, and how tomorrow I'm going to unpack and arrange my room and start my summer reading. Unfortunately, I'm too tired to write poetry. I'll let my friend John Lennon do it for me.
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.
I know that everyone has heard Imagine a million times, but I don't think everyone realizes what an extraordinary song it really is. Paul McCartney is my favorite Beatle forever, but I'll always have a soft spot in my heart for John Lennon. And Yoko too.
Monday, May 10, 2010
An Education
When I was younger and being particularly sassy or stubborn or (insert form of disobedience here), my mom would roll her eyes upwards and mutter imploringly, "God give me strength." It was only then that I paused in my naughtiness and took in the gravity of my actions; if Mom was praying, I must really be hurting her.
I've caught myself doing the same upward eye roll and soft plea lately, and I'm finding it quite helpful. It gives me a split second of perspective, and sometimes that's all I need to cool off and view the situation with new eyes.
Finals went fine. My Brit Lit one went particularly well, I think. We were given 4 passages, and we had to identify the period they were from, and analyze them based on the values of that period. Extra credit for correctly identifying the author/title of the passage. I am happy to report that I received all possible extra credit.
Crusades was trickier. I didn't study as hard for that final, although I did reread all 98 pages from the unit. I wasn't as familiar with the primary sources as I should have been, so my essay was lacking in that department. Oh, well. I learned so much in that class that I'm just going to be satisfied with that. Not that my overall grade will be low (a B+, I'm guessing), it just won't be the A I had hoped for.
You know what, though? I've worked hard this semester. Maybe not as hard as I possibly could have, but I haven't slacked off. I'm going to study for my Anthropology final and head home for a well-deserved summer break.
I've caught myself doing the same upward eye roll and soft plea lately, and I'm finding it quite helpful. It gives me a split second of perspective, and sometimes that's all I need to cool off and view the situation with new eyes.
Finals went fine. My Brit Lit one went particularly well, I think. We were given 4 passages, and we had to identify the period they were from, and analyze them based on the values of that period. Extra credit for correctly identifying the author/title of the passage. I am happy to report that I received all possible extra credit.
Crusades was trickier. I didn't study as hard for that final, although I did reread all 98 pages from the unit. I wasn't as familiar with the primary sources as I should have been, so my essay was lacking in that department. Oh, well. I learned so much in that class that I'm just going to be satisfied with that. Not that my overall grade will be low (a B+, I'm guessing), it just won't be the A I had hoped for.
You know what, though? I've worked hard this semester. Maybe not as hard as I possibly could have, but I haven't slacked off. I'm going to study for my Anthropology final and head home for a well-deserved summer break.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Katherine Mansfield
Exactly thirty-three minutes ago marked the beginning of Finals Week. Appropriately, I've been studying more or less all day.
It's gotten to the point where I feel like I'm melting into the bed on which I'm sprawled, and my nose, which nearly touches my open British Literature Anthology in earnestness, is simply sinking into its pages.
Then of course I have to sit up, make the awkward half-leap from bed to chair to floor, and hurry into the hallway under pretense of getting a drink. There, in the semi-darkness, I can breathe again.
Another result of my prolonged time in our small dorm room is that I am now well attuned to Ally's coughs. She has a cold of some sort, and every time I hear a sharp intake of air from her loft, I brace myself for the short hacking cough that follows. Each one lasts no longer than a second, but every so often there will be several of them in a row. It is then that I have to hunch down against my papers and close my eyes.
I'm still plugging away, though. One 750-word Brit. Lit. Essay, and 58 pages of reading in my crusades book left. Then I can shower and fall into sleep.
It's funny, but sometimes I long so much to be at home that I throw myself into my work in order to make Wednesday come faster. Other times I forget why I even want to leave. Why would I leave this life of friends and school, where my only real job is to learn as much as I can, and retain some semblance of what I learn?
I feel like the vague hero in some Shakespeare play. Hamlet, maybe? "To study, or not to study, that is the question!"
It's no question, really, I know. Still, I think it's one I'll be constantly asking myself until all is done.
You can go back to whatever you're doing now. But before you drop into your recliner, the TV remote stuck to your hand with a crust of popcorn grease and relaxation, please throw a few thoughts back for me. I'll be here.
P.S. Forgive the desperate title. It's the author of the short story I'm analyzing for my essay.
It's gotten to the point where I feel like I'm melting into the bed on which I'm sprawled, and my nose, which nearly touches my open British Literature Anthology in earnestness, is simply sinking into its pages.
Then of course I have to sit up, make the awkward half-leap from bed to chair to floor, and hurry into the hallway under pretense of getting a drink. There, in the semi-darkness, I can breathe again.
Another result of my prolonged time in our small dorm room is that I am now well attuned to Ally's coughs. She has a cold of some sort, and every time I hear a sharp intake of air from her loft, I brace myself for the short hacking cough that follows. Each one lasts no longer than a second, but every so often there will be several of them in a row. It is then that I have to hunch down against my papers and close my eyes.
I'm still plugging away, though. One 750-word Brit. Lit. Essay, and 58 pages of reading in my crusades book left. Then I can shower and fall into sleep.
It's funny, but sometimes I long so much to be at home that I throw myself into my work in order to make Wednesday come faster. Other times I forget why I even want to leave. Why would I leave this life of friends and school, where my only real job is to learn as much as I can, and retain some semblance of what I learn?
I feel like the vague hero in some Shakespeare play. Hamlet, maybe? "To study, or not to study, that is the question!"
It's no question, really, I know. Still, I think it's one I'll be constantly asking myself until all is done.
You can go back to whatever you're doing now. But before you drop into your recliner, the TV remote stuck to your hand with a crust of popcorn grease and relaxation, please throw a few thoughts back for me. I'll be here.
P.S. Forgive the desperate title. It's the author of the short story I'm analyzing for my essay.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Final
I just sniffed my shirt. I smell like smoke and the outdoors. Perfect.
Today was the Pine Hall Picnic. It was really fun. Kelsie and I worked the grill, and everyone just chilled and ate. Later on we took a Pine photo with all of the residents and CA's crammed onto the stairs/fire escape.
We limboed
We danced
We walked casually through each other's photo shoots
We joked
We chased stray wrappers across the mini mall
The best part,though, was the fact that everyone was together enjoying themselves. All the drama and cliques sort of melted away and we became one hall again.
It's 4:01 p.m. and I'm finally about to buckle down and study for my finals. I have Brit. Lit. and Crusades on Monday, and Physical Anthropology on Wednesday.
It was definitely worth it to hang out outside for awhile, though. Studying can be done later, but having a blast with people you're going to miss over the summer is a one time deal.
Today was the Pine Hall Picnic. It was really fun. Kelsie and I worked the grill, and everyone just chilled and ate. Later on we took a Pine photo with all of the residents and CA's crammed onto the stairs/fire escape.
We limboed
We danced
We walked casually through each other's photo shoots
We joked
We chased stray wrappers across the mini mall
The best part,though, was the fact that everyone was together enjoying themselves. All the drama and cliques sort of melted away and we became one hall again.
It's 4:01 p.m. and I'm finally about to buckle down and study for my finals. I have Brit. Lit. and Crusades on Monday, and Physical Anthropology on Wednesday.
It was definitely worth it to hang out outside for awhile, though. Studying can be done later, but having a blast with people you're going to miss over the summer is a one time deal.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Thursday Afternoon Scenery
I'll give you folks a little imagery. I'm currently sitting sideways on my loft bed, feet dangling over the edge.
I'm listening to Modest Mouse's The World at Large, and the music is mingling (rather pleasantly, as a matter of fact,) with the incessant buzz of a lawnmower outside our open window.
I see it whiz by every now and then, doing impressive twists and turns across the grass.
Ally (my roommate) is folding laundry below me. She does it silently; stuffing t-shirts and jeans into drawers with a kind of pensive concentration. I typically listen to music when I do mundane tasks like folding laundry, but I think Ally just muses.
This is funny; another lawnmower (I'm not sure if that's what you'd call it-it's huge) has joined the aforementioned small, yellow one. The newcomer is bigger than a truck, and a gaudy red color that clashes against the bright lawn.
They've left now, taking sound with them.
"Hey Al," I begin suddenly, peering down at her. I cut myself off.
There's nothing to say, really. It's a Thursday afternoon, I have a paper to write, and I could just curl up and fall asleep in the mellow silence of the room.
Now Ally's scratching her nose by the door. I won't say pick, but that's what it looks like. She has the same faraway look in her eyes that she always has, and I wonder what she's thinking about. I can never bring myself to ask. It's not the kind of day for inquiries. Observations, maybe.
It's a 'just, but' type of day.
Just one minute more.
But it's useless to put much thought into anything.
Just sleep.
But not until I write this paper.
Just six days more of school.
But I can't think of that yet.
Just one more 'just, but' example.
But nothing else now.
I suppose I should find you a quote to round things off. I know you so look forward to them. Let's see...
Well, here's a poem for you. I'm not sure if it quite fits mood I'm going for; this poem always makes me think of standing alone in the middle of a vast desert. Not a pleasant feeling, that, but certainly vivid. Props to Percy Bysshe (pronounced like 'fish,' by the way) Shelley.
Ozymandius
I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert... Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
My name is Ozymandius, King of Kings,
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
I'm listening to Modest Mouse's The World at Large, and the music is mingling (rather pleasantly, as a matter of fact,) with the incessant buzz of a lawnmower outside our open window.
I see it whiz by every now and then, doing impressive twists and turns across the grass.
Ally (my roommate) is folding laundry below me. She does it silently; stuffing t-shirts and jeans into drawers with a kind of pensive concentration. I typically listen to music when I do mundane tasks like folding laundry, but I think Ally just muses.
This is funny; another lawnmower (I'm not sure if that's what you'd call it-it's huge) has joined the aforementioned small, yellow one. The newcomer is bigger than a truck, and a gaudy red color that clashes against the bright lawn.
They've left now, taking sound with them.
"Hey Al," I begin suddenly, peering down at her. I cut myself off.
There's nothing to say, really. It's a Thursday afternoon, I have a paper to write, and I could just curl up and fall asleep in the mellow silence of the room.
Now Ally's scratching her nose by the door. I won't say pick, but that's what it looks like. She has the same faraway look in her eyes that she always has, and I wonder what she's thinking about. I can never bring myself to ask. It's not the kind of day for inquiries. Observations, maybe.
It's a 'just, but' type of day.
Just one minute more.
But it's useless to put much thought into anything.
Just sleep.
But not until I write this paper.
Just six days more of school.
But I can't think of that yet.
Just one more 'just, but' example.
But nothing else now.
I suppose I should find you a quote to round things off. I know you so look forward to them. Let's see...
Well, here's a poem for you. I'm not sure if it quite fits mood I'm going for; this poem always makes me think of standing alone in the middle of a vast desert. Not a pleasant feeling, that, but certainly vivid. Props to Percy Bysshe (pronounced like 'fish,' by the way) Shelley.
Ozymandius
I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert... Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
My name is Ozymandius, King of Kings,
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
The Post I Forgot to Title
I was critiquing someone's poetry today. They had written a poem and posted it on facebook, and I was scoffing at it because it felt like they were trying too hard to write 'deep poetry.' While I don't pretend to be a great poet, I pride myself on writing light, interesting, sometimes funny poems.
Then I thought some more and realized that the girl who had facebooked her poem had at least attempted to write from her heart. She had written a poem that, though a tad melodramatic, expressed what she really felt. When do I ever do that? My poems always have a subject of some kind, but that subject is usually an inanimate object. Who am I to judge someone else for doing something I can't?
I thought still more and decided to try to write a poem on here that expresses how I really and truly feel...Here goes:
This is me writing what I feel
It's not much, really
I don't take the time to think
about each word
because I'm tired
I don't take the time
to create lengthy metaphors
because patience is a virtue
I don't possess
I don't take the time
to rhyme
so sublime
I don't take the time
to think about how i feel
I just feel (pensieve).
Okay, okay. I know I made a joke out of it. Wasn't intentional, I promise. Well, it obviously was, but it's a step in the right direction, I think. Or a direction. There isn't necessarily a 'right' direction in this case.
There's not much else. Oh! I have a quote for you. It's by Winston Churchill, and it got me through the last few pages of my Passage to India paper:
"Never give in. Never give in. Never, never, never, never--in nothing, great or small, large or petty--never give in, except to convictions of honor and good sense. Never yield to force. Never yield to the apparently overwhelming might of the enemy."
Then I thought some more and realized that the girl who had facebooked her poem had at least attempted to write from her heart. She had written a poem that, though a tad melodramatic, expressed what she really felt. When do I ever do that? My poems always have a subject of some kind, but that subject is usually an inanimate object. Who am I to judge someone else for doing something I can't?
I thought still more and decided to try to write a poem on here that expresses how I really and truly feel...Here goes:
This is me writing what I feel
It's not much, really
I don't take the time to think
about each word
because I'm tired
I don't take the time
to create lengthy metaphors
because patience is a virtue
I don't possess
I don't take the time
to rhyme
so sublime
I don't take the time
to think about how i feel
I just feel (pensieve).
Okay, okay. I know I made a joke out of it. Wasn't intentional, I promise. Well, it obviously was, but it's a step in the right direction, I think. Or a direction. There isn't necessarily a 'right' direction in this case.
There's not much else. Oh! I have a quote for you. It's by Winston Churchill, and it got me through the last few pages of my Passage to India paper:
"Never give in. Never give in. Never, never, never, never--in nothing, great or small, large or petty--never give in, except to convictions of honor and good sense. Never yield to force. Never yield to the apparently overwhelming might of the enemy."
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
In A Galaxy Far, Far Away
In honor of Star Wars Day (I know, I know, "May 4th be with you"), I've decided to write a post about my experience with Star Wars.
I first remember watching the old movies in my neighbor Donyal's basement with Donyal, my little sister Amy, and our other neighbors Alex and Emily. Donyal's brother was older than all of us, and he had all three Star Wars movies.
The basement was dim, and I remember getting scared when the sand people showed up.
My favorite movie was the one where Jabba had enslaved Leia and frozen Han Solo, and so Luke went to Jabba's lair to rescue them both. Forgive me, but I don't know the title of the particular movie of which I speak; I've always gotten them jumbled up.
My favorite character is hands down Han Solo. He's charming, sarcastic, good-looking, and NOT a jedi. The last point is important because I seem to value Star Wars characters who aren't blessed with the power of the force, and who don't carry lightsabers (note: for the longest time I thought they were actually called lightSAVERS).
Here ends my Star Wars saga (I know, I know, I'm hilarious). Not very long, you'll notice; I generally prefer historical fiction and fantasy over science fiction. I do, however, recognize the magic that is Star Wars, and value it as an important part of American pop culture.
Finished my paper by the way.
Peace.
I first remember watching the old movies in my neighbor Donyal's basement with Donyal, my little sister Amy, and our other neighbors Alex and Emily. Donyal's brother was older than all of us, and he had all three Star Wars movies.
The basement was dim, and I remember getting scared when the sand people showed up.
My favorite movie was the one where Jabba had enslaved Leia and frozen Han Solo, and so Luke went to Jabba's lair to rescue them both. Forgive me, but I don't know the title of the particular movie of which I speak; I've always gotten them jumbled up.
My favorite character is hands down Han Solo. He's charming, sarcastic, good-looking, and NOT a jedi. The last point is important because I seem to value Star Wars characters who aren't blessed with the power of the force, and who don't carry lightsabers (note: for the longest time I thought they were actually called lightSAVERS).
Here ends my Star Wars saga (I know, I know, I'm hilarious). Not very long, you'll notice; I generally prefer historical fiction and fantasy over science fiction. I do, however, recognize the magic that is Star Wars, and value it as an important part of American pop culture.
Finished my paper by the way.
Peace.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Calling All Writing Gods, Wherever You Are
Holy Moses.
My roommate is cracking her knuckles.
I'm having a chocolate craving.
It's almost midnight.
My essay is due on Tuesday.
I have no will to work.
I only have 2 pages written.
I know I can do this, but I'm just not motivated! For someone who loves writing so much, I sure procrastinate well when it comes to essays.
Okay, I think I'll dive back into India. Wish me luck, brave readers.
My roommate is cracking her knuckles.
I'm having a chocolate craving.
It's almost midnight.
My essay is due on Tuesday.
I have no will to work.
I only have 2 pages written.
I know I can do this, but I'm just not motivated! For someone who loves writing so much, I sure procrastinate well when it comes to essays.
Okay, I think I'll dive back into India. Wish me luck, brave readers.
What E.M. Forster Believes
(that sounds sensible to me as well):
"There is something incalculable in each of us, which may at any moment rise to the surface and destroy our normal balance. We don't know what we are like. We can't know what other people are like."
What a smarty.
Unfortunately, however, good old E.M. has been giving me problems this week. You see, I'm attempting to write a paper for Brit. Lit. that not only analyzes a theme/motif from "Passage to India," but ties said theme/motif to an idea in Forster's essay "What I Believe." It sounds simple enough, I guess, but I'm having a lot of trouble with my thesis. I think the motif I've chosen is completely fascinating and original, but it's such a huge, complex topic that it's hard to define. I wish I could explain better, but if you haven't read both the essay and the book it won't make much sense.
Suffice to say, E.M. and I aren't on speaking terms right now, despite the fact that he is quoted quite frequently in my paper.
Oh, I also worked my last training shift at the information desk tonight. I enjoy working there, and I can't wait until I get to do it alone. While it's nice to have someone there in case I have a question, I tend to like to be in control, and to to do things my way (within reason).
There goes the train. I hear it a few times a night (usually in the wee hours) when it goes through Morris. Such a wailing, lonely sound. For some reason it always makes me sad to think about trains slowly disappearing as a mode of transportation. We built the West on trains. We blazed through mountains, and destroyed beautiful wilderness, and created a livelihood with trains, and even though it was sad when they arrived, it's just as sad that they're leaving. It's as if the West is dying with them, and instead of expanding our borders, we'll now look to some other, alien form of growth. I'm not sure I even want to know what the new method will be.
Nothing gold can stay, I guess.
"There is something incalculable in each of us, which may at any moment rise to the surface and destroy our normal balance. We don't know what we are like. We can't know what other people are like."
What a smarty.
Unfortunately, however, good old E.M. has been giving me problems this week. You see, I'm attempting to write a paper for Brit. Lit. that not only analyzes a theme/motif from "Passage to India," but ties said theme/motif to an idea in Forster's essay "What I Believe." It sounds simple enough, I guess, but I'm having a lot of trouble with my thesis. I think the motif I've chosen is completely fascinating and original, but it's such a huge, complex topic that it's hard to define. I wish I could explain better, but if you haven't read both the essay and the book it won't make much sense.
Suffice to say, E.M. and I aren't on speaking terms right now, despite the fact that he is quoted quite frequently in my paper.
Oh, I also worked my last training shift at the information desk tonight. I enjoy working there, and I can't wait until I get to do it alone. While it's nice to have someone there in case I have a question, I tend to like to be in control, and to to do things my way (within reason).
There goes the train. I hear it a few times a night (usually in the wee hours) when it goes through Morris. Such a wailing, lonely sound. For some reason it always makes me sad to think about trains slowly disappearing as a mode of transportation. We built the West on trains. We blazed through mountains, and destroyed beautiful wilderness, and created a livelihood with trains, and even though it was sad when they arrived, it's just as sad that they're leaving. It's as if the West is dying with them, and instead of expanding our borders, we'll now look to some other, alien form of growth. I'm not sure I even want to know what the new method will be.
Nothing gold can stay, I guess.
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