Some More Winter Scenery

Holy expletive, it's cold out!
The walk from my Humanities Building class to my dorm, which only takes about 3 minutes, is enough to freeze my ears, numb my cheeks, and stiffen my knees.

Yes, that's right. It's 10:15 a.m. It's January the 21st. And it's -15 degrees, with 17 mph winds.

Having been born and raised in Minnesota, perhaps I should refrain from ranting so much about the intense cold. I should be used to it by now, shouldn't I? In fact, perhaps I should even be ashamed to complain about it. Perhaps I should bang my chest and claim that Minnesotans are made of stronger stuff. We swim in lakes in the summer and fish on them in the winter. We consider 40 degrees to be wonderfully balmy. We watch tornadoes swoop through our next-door neighbor's backyard, while standing in our own. We're fearless, and what's more, under our thick skins beat hearts of steel that cannot be frosted over. Not even in -15.

Yes, I'm surely proud to be a Minnesotan, although I guess I'm not stoic enough to refrain from admitting that Florida is looking wonderful right about now.


This is a photo of my window, almost completely frosted over. It's been this way for a few days now.

Some Winter Scenery

A street lamp flickers across the way
Throwing orange flames onto black,
night-draped snow.
I look up from my book
And stare for awhile,
With the look (I suppose) of someone
Who is looking at something
And thinking of something else.
Then, with a snap I can't hear
The lamp goes out,
And I continue to blink into thin air.

"We're Bonding, Aren't We?"

Last night, my roommate and I, under orders from certain New Years Resolutions, headed to the Regional Fitness Center to run around a bit. We decided to play badminton, which is great because you run around enough to get a work out, but you have enough fun that it doesn't feel like work.

Well, we were batting the birdie back and forth with more humor than skill, when a group of five boys, two of whom were international students, walked up and asked us if they could join. We said sure, assuming that two of them would assemble and oppose the two of us. To our surprise, all five of them clustered together on the other side of the net and proceeded to take us on.

Let me tell you, it was a lot of fun.
The birdie was smashed back and forth, often twirling in midair as rackets swished by, missing by entire feet.
Boys collided with boys on the other side, boys fell, laughing.
Serves were delivered out of order and overhand, often with fluorishes and mighty leaps.
No one, it seemed, could understand what any other person said, but it didn't seem to matter.
We were just seven college students having fun.

To be completely honest, it was the first time that I've really interacted with international students.
Not because I have anything against them, but because I'm always worried that I'll do something or say something they won't understand, or vice versa.
Badminton, even in rude form, I have learned, is easily translated into any language.

In fact, and you're probably going to groan at this next part, our entire time in the RFC reminded me of that moment in Father of the Bride 2, when Steve Martin and Martin Short are in the hospital running back and forth between Steve's wife and Steve's daughter, who are both in labor at the same time. Suddenly, Martin Short, in his funny Franck voice, grabs Steve Martin by the shoulders and says, "George...we're bonding, aren't we?" And Steve Martin smiles a slow smile of recognition and says "Yes, Franck. I think we are."

Hospital, badminton court. Same thing, really.

Tonight is My Last Night at Home

Tonight is my last night at home.
Last year I remember I was ecstatic to get back to school. But last year, you know, I was a freshman. Freshmen have adventures. They only study on Sunday nights. They spend all of Winter Break pressing young noses against windowpanes and waiting waiting to go back to school.
Sophomores are ghastly; they walk around with hollow eyes, gaping mouths can't believe their sudden workload. Sophomores crash over Winter Break. They may work a job at Target that they love, but otherwise they pretty much watch movies and read. They avoid thinking about school, and certainly don't miss it. School for sophomores means studying, which isn't really something to be missed (not really, that is).

So tonight (which is my last night at home) I pack reluctantly.
I look at the couch, thinking "that was my last time crashing on you"
I look at the dogs, thinking "that was my last time chasing you around the yard pelting you with snowballs which you stupidly tried to eat" (please understand: this is actually more of a funny activity than a cruel one. Try it sometime.)
I look at my bed, thinking: "this is the last time I'll lay on you, smothered with blankets, reading until 4 a.m."
I even said goodbye to Target today, wandering its aisles like a not-so-subtle shoplifter.

I know I'll be happy to get back to Morris once I get there.
But for now, I'm enjoying one last night at home.
Because tonight (as you may know) is my last night at home.

High Spots

I think I wrote part of a story tonight.
I say I think because I'm not quite sure what it is yet. I'm not sure if it's just an overflow of spontaneous thought, or if it's an overflow of spontaneous thought that could possibly mean something to someone else.
I'm so tired, though, that I'm going to leave the overflow saved on Mic Word for tomorrow morning.

I also worked my second to last day at Target today (well, second to last day of work until May).
When oh when are they going to learn not to put me back in electronics, even to cover someone's break?
If you give me a new camera, I will read the directions and figure out how to use it.
If you give me a laptop, I will navigate fairly well.
If you give me a broken TV, I may figure out that it just needs to be plugged in.
But if you give me aisles of merchandise without instructions, if you expect me to think on my feet, if you expect me to pretend I know what I'm talking about to people toting small children and looking into my face anxiously, then I think you have the wrong girl.
There were a few high spots, however, even amidst my confusions and overall awkwardness.
For example, there was a man wearing a black wool coat who wanted a Wii game unlocked from the case.
I did so, and while I was ringing it up, he looked over at a sign by the cell phone plan stuff. It said "offering unbiased opinions."
He asked me about it, and I said that that sign was only for the cell phone plan people, and that all of my opinions were completely biased.
Then he looked at me and said, "Okay, what's your biased opinion?"
Without thinking, I blurted "I think that Obama should be reelected."
The man in the black wool laughed for about five minutes before saying "Me too. Have a nice day."

Yep. That was a high spot.

Another high spot will be happening very soon, when I lower my heavy head onto my pillow and say to myself: "best part of the day."
I've been saying that to myself every night of Winter Break, because that's what my roommate always says when she gets into bed at night.
And I always glare at her because I know I'll be up for hours studying because I'm a chronic procrastinator.
But for now, it's just me.
And I'm going to bed.

Don't Worry

Don't worry. I'm not just ignoring you.
I haven't really written anything at all over Winter Break. No stories, no poems, only 1 journal entry, and the meager blog posts you've shaken your head at.
I think all the papers and exams and general stress of fall semester made me unwilling to do anything requiring deep thinking during my time off.
It's unfortunate, because now that I have less than a week left before spring semester begins, I'm regretting my lack of productivity.
But what can I say? I needed a break.

On a different note, I'm currently between books, and it's driving me absolutely up the wall. I finished "The Brief History of the Dead" last night, and now I don't know where to go next. "Three Cups of Tea" is waiting patiently for me, but as I recently read "Eat Pray Love" (as you know), I think I need a bit of a break from the memoir genre.

It's 12:31 a.m., so I suppose I could just go to sleep, but I would prefer to sleep knowing I have a good book to delve into tomorrow.

Okay...I'm thinking seriously about doing some Salinger. I read "Catcher in the Rye" in 10th grade and wasn't impressed, but "Franny and Zooey" looks promising, so maybe I'll give J.D. another shot.

Everybody Likes Walt Whitman

I never read any Walt Whitman until just weeks ago-in the first semester of my sophomore year of college. I had heard of him before then, but my impression was rather blurry; when I thought about Walt Whitman, I imagined a huge, bearded man walking around Civil War battlefields, looking stoutly on the aftermath of bloody skirmishes, and then going home to his white farmhouse to sit by his fire and write poetry about what he had seen.

I knew he was The Great American Poet, but that knowledge was perhaps why I've avoided him until now; I tend to vainly shy away from things that everybody likes, preferring instead to seek out the little-known, the unusual. I thought Walt Whitman's poetry would be brilliant, but worn out. I thought that years of praise and criticism and analysis would dull his words on the page for me.

The first Walt Whitman poem I read was assigned in my American Literature class. The poem was "Song of Myself."
Daunted by the length, I initially decided to skim, turning pages swiftly and without interest. But then a stanza caught my eye, and I found myself really reading. Quickly flipping back to the beginning, I proceeded to read the entire 52 section poem aloud to myself.

I think I now know why 'everybody likes' Walt Whitman.

Walt Whitman stands in the middle of a vast, empty field blowing up a balloon. As the balloon expands, it begins to encompass nearby trees and a creek rippling a few miles away. The balloon grows still larger, and soon it encompasses farm houses, children playing, animals, and then entire towns, roads, lakes, forests, cities, clouds. Everything is operating with a deafening roar inside that one balloon, and the roar only grows as the balloon does. Ladies chatter at their tea, trains hum along their endless tracks, crowds cheer after lines of racing horses. People are born and live and die inside Walt Whitman's balloon, trudging along while entirely unaware that they are a part of one man, and that he is a part of them. Walt Whitman knows, though. He knows that he is the barking dog and the coal miner and the giant sequoia tree. Walt Whitman walks the Civil War battlefields and and writes in a farmhouse by a fire and feels always the slightly uncomfortable tug of the entire universe.