Monday, January 31, 2011

The Hollow Men

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.
***

I'm sorry, Mr. Eliot. I don't feel hollow. I don't feel stuffed (except after a weekend at home, away from Food Service). I feel alive, I feel fluid, I feel happy. And I don't wish to look outside at the swirling snow
And the people walking by
In big coats and shapeless hats
And to think to myself
This is nothing.
I'm an English major, Mr. Eliot.
I'm going to Austria this fall.
I'm twenty years old, but not quite grown up.
My life is big.
And I'm sorry, but I simply don't feel hollow.

***From T.S. Eliot's "The Hollow Men"

Saturday, January 29, 2011

Weekend Update

Here's what's going on with me right now:

1. I want to study abroad in Salzburg. I want to so very, very badly, but of course there are things to think about like money and credits. And money.

2. I went to talk to my advisor yesterday about me prospectively studying abroad, and how I was worried about the fact that I've never taken a journalism class (and probably won't ever at UMM, as it's not a major offered here). I wanted to know if I would have to go to graduate school to study journalism in order to proceed with my career. My advisor assured me that plenty of UMM English majors have gone on to be journalists, and that journalism school isn't really necessary unless I want extra credentials (which would be nice, but if I don't need them, why waste time and money?). Furthermore (and this is where things really got good) my advisor informed me that he had recently received an email from a UMM alum who is the editor of an Arizona newspaper. This editor was wondering if there were any English majors who would be interested in a job at his newspaper. And my advisor gave me his email address, saying that I should contact him, and ask him some of the questions I have about a career in journalism. Can you believe it? I mean, only at UMM can you walk into a prof's office, intending to ask a few questions, and come out with an email address that may lead to an actual job after graduation. A job, my friends! For an English major! My Dad will be so proud.

3. So far the New Year's work out resolution is going swimmingly. My quad has healed (with the help of intense icing (with ice, not with frosting), and my roommate and I have been at the gym almost every single day since Spring Semester began. On Thursday, we went to the first meeting of the newly-formed Pickleball Club. I haven't played Pickleball since middle school gym class, so I struggled a bit at first, but it got easier after a while. The funniest thing was that the club president was standing behind Maddie and I as we played against two other people, and he kept pulling me aside to say things like: "Are you a tennis player or something? Because, no offense, but you just missed the ball by a good two feet." Well, thanks. Thanks very much. And no, I'm not a tennis player. I was simply having some hand-eye-coordination problems. Happens to the best of us.

4. This week I've been watching (whenever I get a chance) the A&E (BBC) version of Pride and Prejudice. You know, the one with Jennifer Ehle and Colin Firth? I used to think that I infinitely preferred the newer, Keira Knightley P and P, but now I'm not so sure. I think I love them both for different reasons. The A&E is longer, so I think it develops the story a lot better, and gives us time to really get to know the characters. It's also way funnier. I just about die laughing whenever Mary opens her mouth. The Keira version, however, is a lot richer. I think the locations are more authentic, and the filmmaking highlights the story beautifully. (Ex: that scene at the Netherfield Ball when Lizzie and Darcy dance for the first time, and everyone else suddenly disappears. I love that). As for the big Jennifer Ehle/Keira Knightley Elizabeth Bennet showdown? I don't know if I can choose one. Not being overly familiar with the book version of P and P (forgive me, but I have trouble reading Jane Austen unless I'm in a very specific state of mind. Otherwise I get bored), I can't say who is the most Elizabeth Bennet Elizabeth Bennet. They both play her so differently, but both performances in my opinion are equally effective. They both deserve Darcy when they finally get him, and vice versa. And that, I think, is the main point.

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

Early Morning Breakthrough

This you should know about me: I'm kind of bad at talking about literature. At least, I'm bad at talking about literature in class.

Today, however, today was a breakthrough.

We're studying Carl Sandburg in class. I love Carl Sandburg. He writes poetry the way I think I would write poetry if I had sufficient talent in the area.

Anyway, here's the poem we were talking about ("Child of the Romans"):

THE dago shovelman sits by the railroad track
Eating a noon meal of bread and bologna.
A train whirls by, and men and women at tables
Alive with red roses and yellow jonquils,
Eat steaks running with brown gravy,
Strawberries and cream, eclaires and coffee.
The dago shovelman finishes the dry bread and bologna,
Washes it down with a dipper from the water-boy,
And goes back to the second half of a ten-hour day's work
Keeping the road-bed so the roses and jonquils
Shake hardly at all in the cut glass vases
Standing slender on the tables in the dining cars.


And all of the sudden, while staring at this poem, sweat dripping down the back of my neck, hoping to goodness the professor wouldn't call on me, I got it. I was pulling out patterns and symbols and random observations like there was no tomorrow.

I guess "Child of the Romans" is kind of an obvious poem, but it was a proud moment for me nonetheless. I think I'm officially an English major now.

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Pains, Classes, Plans

Honestly, I don't think I've ever ached so much in my entire life. My muscles seem to have aged about 50 years overnight. I can't roll over in bed without effort. Walking is done gingerly and very, very slowly. Stairs are nearly impossible. When limping around campus nowadays, it's not uncommon to hear cries of "gimpy!" aimed in my direction. Snowballs, too. I'm the Tiny Tim of Morris. I'm Terry in An Affair to Remember, only without the nice painting.

All my pain, humiliatingly enough, is not the result of a romantic accident or even a knife fight. Nope, it's the result of two hours in the RFC on Sunday playing volleyball, and an hour yesterday of playing badminton. Both activities might have turned out all right, but when I play sports, I tend to perform uncoordinated lunges and dives that stretch my body in ways it's probably not meant to be stretched. Three hours of acrobatics, I suppose, were bound to bring pain.

In other news, I'll give you a list of my spring classes:
American Literature 20th century and forward
Beginning German II
The Trial of Galileo (Honors)
Art History Renaissance to Modern

In other other news, I've recently begun planning for my Great Study Abroad Semester. I know I want to go somewhere where I can practice my German, and I obviously need to go somewhere where I can take courses that pertain to my major. The search is currently narrowed down to Austria and Germany, with Austria inching ahead. Salzburg especially is looking really good right now, probably because of my passionate devotion to The Sound of Music. Will keep you updated.

Friday, January 21, 2011

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.

Thursday, January 20, 2011

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.

Saturday, January 15, 2011

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.

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

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.

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

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.

Sunday, January 2, 2011

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.