To talk slowly.
To listen closer.
To write more.
To love like 1st Corinthians 13.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
When you kissed my lips with my mouth so full of questions
When I said I was terrified of being entered into a beauty pageant without a tangible talent, I wasn't lying.
So I bought a harmonica. As of this evening I can successfully play "Merrily We Roll Along," "Hot Crossed Buns," "Lullaby," and pieces of "Jingle Bells." Single notes will be the death of me.
There are plenty of things I want to write about, but I'm too lazy to actually construct ideas and string them together. Besides, I have flu-like symptoms and for the past 48 hours I've been sleeping on a waterbed and reading Breakfast of Champions while watching Judge Joe Brown.
Speaking of Breakfast of Champions, I'm disappointed. I enjoyed reading Slaughterhouse Five to a degree I never thought possible, but Champions focuses a lot on sex and penises and "wild beavers" to the point where I literally skip a few pages because I feel embarrassed reading it. Because I am an immature eighth grader. "Puberty" still grosses me out and I still giggle when someone says "I'm anal retentive." Maybe (more than likely) I'm missing the main point of the story. Maybe Kilgore Trout and I have something in common and I just have to dig through the dirty stuff to see it. Maybe.
Remind me to write some of my old journal entries in here. There are some angsty poems along with hearts and cheesy lyrics and two pages that say, "NEW BEGINNINGS!" Also, on almost every single page there is some mention of Steven Sizemore and my undying love for him. Like this,
"Yes, still in love with Steve :) Jessie and I have a fool proof plan to befriend him. HAHA! He's ADORABLE and NICE and PERFECT. At the Turnabout I will most definitely dance with Ryan or even ask Steve...if I ever speak to him. OH my my is that boy cute. AHHHH! If all guys were this cute I would go nuts! Is it strange that I think about him 24/7? Let us hope not."
Wait. What? This poem is just ridiculous. I have no idea who this is talking about. Or why, at fifteen, I had thoughts like this.
"to float through your eyes
would be like heaven
no blemishes, i stand before you
perfect as i’ll ever be
your hands without such doubt
you know me better than i know myself
your mouth with stories untold
spring from your ashes-oh!
how you are my world
what more can i ask of you?
your whole presence makes me
burst out like first rays of the morning
you are my superhero
my perfect white knight in blinding-shining armor"
Ew.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Funniest joke in the world" "Last night I dreamed I was eating flannel cakes. When I woke up the blanket was gone!"
I'm not funny.
I just picked up a copy of Vonnegut's A Man Without a Country, and I'll be. If it isn't one of the most sincere and earnest books I've read in a while, it's certainly the funniest. Not in a "knee-slapping, dabbing the tears away" funny. More like a "smart chuckle on every page" funny.
At times I find myself saying something that I'll think deserves a laugh. Then I'll compare my delivery to that of a popular comedian or a television character and nine times out of ten that person is always much, much funnier. I thought I found the exception with one of the dogs from Beverly Hills Chihuahua, but considering the fact that it's a bizarre, slightly cute talking animal, I realized that it's probably funnier than I am.
Tonight while I was in the shower I thought it might be funny if I started wearing a boot on my head. You see, I would go around wearing a worn out shoe like a baseball cap waiting for people to ask, "Why do you have that ragged thing on your head?" And I would respond with, "It's aboot time you asked." Or something quippy like that. Except not that exact response because it's not really funny. Well, maybe. But then I started thinking if that were to be my main goal in life. How simple everything would be! I could wander all over the world waiting to tell the punchline. In essence, I would be achieving my life goal with every telling. I would have a purpose. A sense of euphoria would wash over me. But then I started thinking how pathetic I would look. Having to wait for someone to initiate a conversation about an old boot. Trying not to laugh before giving away the punchline. Wearing an old boot every day. It all seemed too taxing.
And it just wasn't funny.
Maybe I'll just memorize a few jokes to tell at parties. Maybe I'll get a few laughs that way.
I just picked up a copy of Vonnegut's A Man Without a Country, and I'll be. If it isn't one of the most sincere and earnest books I've read in a while, it's certainly the funniest. Not in a "knee-slapping, dabbing the tears away" funny. More like a "smart chuckle on every page" funny.
At times I find myself saying something that I'll think deserves a laugh. Then I'll compare my delivery to that of a popular comedian or a television character and nine times out of ten that person is always much, much funnier. I thought I found the exception with one of the dogs from Beverly Hills Chihuahua, but considering the fact that it's a bizarre, slightly cute talking animal, I realized that it's probably funnier than I am.
Tonight while I was in the shower I thought it might be funny if I started wearing a boot on my head. You see, I would go around wearing a worn out shoe like a baseball cap waiting for people to ask, "Why do you have that ragged thing on your head?" And I would respond with, "It's aboot time you asked." Or something quippy like that. Except not that exact response because it's not really funny. Well, maybe. But then I started thinking if that were to be my main goal in life. How simple everything would be! I could wander all over the world waiting to tell the punchline. In essence, I would be achieving my life goal with every telling. I would have a purpose. A sense of euphoria would wash over me. But then I started thinking how pathetic I would look. Having to wait for someone to initiate a conversation about an old boot. Trying not to laugh before giving away the punchline. Wearing an old boot every day. It all seemed too taxing.
And it just wasn't funny.
Maybe I'll just memorize a few jokes to tell at parties. Maybe I'll get a few laughs that way.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
"I HAVE HAD A HAPPY LIFE AND THANK THE LORD."
When I said I wanted to travel when I got older, I didn't necessarily mean Greyhound buses and forty dollar taxi-cabs. But it's moving, isn't it? Isn't that what we need to do? Move?
I finished my last exam at 12:25 this afternoon. 25 minutes after it began. Studying pays off.
My friend drove me to the Charlotte Greyhound bus station this afternoon and I found myself waiting amongst a large group of soldiers who were headed to New York. I finished up Into the Wild and watched people as they ate mini-pizzas and spilled colas on the floor. I kept to myself. Lately a lot of people have been telling me that I need to make more of an effort to meet people. It's scary. I don't like putting myself out there.
As much as I didn't like the main character in Into the Wild, I liked what he stood for. He had this grandiose idea that he could kill this megabeast inside his soul that was a slave to the corporate world. He was arrogant and rash and ill-prepared. But it's hard to argue that he wasn't passionate. Passionate and adventurous and reckless.
I was sitting on the bus and made a conscious effort to sit in a seat caddy-cornered from this mountain man. The term "mountain-man" isn't really fair. Most time it conjures up an image of a man with fur pelts and a full beard with leathery skin and squinty eyes. However, I just use the term when talking about disheveled guys with scruff. This guy was no different. He had a thick beard, ski cap, a couple of t-shirts and jackets layered one over the other, some khakis and hiking boots. Dirty fingernails. Dirty, disgusting fingernails. He was reading The Republic by Plato and eating Clif Bars. Just like every other guy on App State's campus. But he seemed nice.
And he was really, really good looking.
He struck up conversation, but his voice was suspiciously low. A mumble almost. We talked about our final destinations and the plans we had upon arriving home. I discovered he had simply been traveling by bus for the past several days. I asked if there was any particular place he wanted to stop and he just laughed. He talked about how he would be spending time with a friend in Asheville for a few days before heading on to Atlanta to find a job. His plans weren't definite. He was wandering.
He asked me where I was headed and if I liked living in Indianapolis. My responses just sounded chirpy. I was nervous to be talking with someone I didn't know. Critiques of my sentences kept running through my head and I was fully aware of every movement my body made. On the other hand, he seemed really calm. I envy people like that. He introduced himself as Shawn (Sean? Shaun? I'll never know.) and preceded to give one of the wimpiest handshakes I've ever come across. That or maybe I just gripped his hand too tightly.
Our conversation was interrupted when the older gentleman directly in front of me, who was reading Breaking Dawn, reclined his chair all the way back forcing me to scoot closer to the window. Every so often the mountain-man and I caught each other's eyes, but the man in front of me refused to budge, squashing all hopes of finishing a pleasant conversation. I had planned on saying something along the lines of, "Good luck in Atlanta!" when we got off the bus, but my taxi was waiting for me.
So here I sit, five hours until I come home, wondering his last name, trying to draw similiarities between Shawn's (Sean's? Shaun's? I'll never know.) life and that of Chris McCandless, glad that I finally talked to someone. People are now flooding into the lobby which means it's time to check my bags. Perhaps I'll have another opportunity to talk to someone else. But two people in one day? Let's not get carried away.
"On the other side of the page, which was blank, McCandless penned a brief adios" 'I HAVE HAD A HAPPY LIFE AND THANK THE LORD. GOODBYE AND MAY GOD BLESS ALL!'
Then he crawled into the sleeping bag his mother had sewn for him and slipped into unconsciousness. He probably died on August 18, 112 days after he'd walked into the wild, 19 days before 6 Alaskans would happen across the bus and discover his body inside.
One of his last acts was to take a picture of himself, standing near the bus under the high Alaska sky, one hand holding his final note toward the camera lens, the other raised in a brave, beatific farewell. He face was horribly emaciated, almost skeletal. But if he pitied himself in those last difficult hours--because he was so young, because he was so alone, because his body had betrayed him and his will had let him down--it's not apparent from the photograph. He is smiling in the picture, and there is no mistaking the look in his eyes: Chris McCandless was at peace, serene as a monk gone to God."
I finished my last exam at 12:25 this afternoon. 25 minutes after it began. Studying pays off.
My friend drove me to the Charlotte Greyhound bus station this afternoon and I found myself waiting amongst a large group of soldiers who were headed to New York. I finished up Into the Wild and watched people as they ate mini-pizzas and spilled colas on the floor. I kept to myself. Lately a lot of people have been telling me that I need to make more of an effort to meet people. It's scary. I don't like putting myself out there.
As much as I didn't like the main character in Into the Wild, I liked what he stood for. He had this grandiose idea that he could kill this megabeast inside his soul that was a slave to the corporate world. He was arrogant and rash and ill-prepared. But it's hard to argue that he wasn't passionate. Passionate and adventurous and reckless.
I was sitting on the bus and made a conscious effort to sit in a seat caddy-cornered from this mountain man. The term "mountain-man" isn't really fair. Most time it conjures up an image of a man with fur pelts and a full beard with leathery skin and squinty eyes. However, I just use the term when talking about disheveled guys with scruff. This guy was no different. He had a thick beard, ski cap, a couple of t-shirts and jackets layered one over the other, some khakis and hiking boots. Dirty fingernails. Dirty, disgusting fingernails. He was reading The Republic by Plato and eating Clif Bars. Just like every other guy on App State's campus. But he seemed nice.
And he was really, really good looking.
He struck up conversation, but his voice was suspiciously low. A mumble almost. We talked about our final destinations and the plans we had upon arriving home. I discovered he had simply been traveling by bus for the past several days. I asked if there was any particular place he wanted to stop and he just laughed. He talked about how he would be spending time with a friend in Asheville for a few days before heading on to Atlanta to find a job. His plans weren't definite. He was wandering.
He asked me where I was headed and if I liked living in Indianapolis. My responses just sounded chirpy. I was nervous to be talking with someone I didn't know. Critiques of my sentences kept running through my head and I was fully aware of every movement my body made. On the other hand, he seemed really calm. I envy people like that. He introduced himself as Shawn (Sean? Shaun? I'll never know.) and preceded to give one of the wimpiest handshakes I've ever come across. That or maybe I just gripped his hand too tightly.
Our conversation was interrupted when the older gentleman directly in front of me, who was reading Breaking Dawn, reclined his chair all the way back forcing me to scoot closer to the window. Every so often the mountain-man and I caught each other's eyes, but the man in front of me refused to budge, squashing all hopes of finishing a pleasant conversation. I had planned on saying something along the lines of, "Good luck in Atlanta!" when we got off the bus, but my taxi was waiting for me.
So here I sit, five hours until I come home, wondering his last name, trying to draw similiarities between Shawn's (Sean's? Shaun's? I'll never know.) life and that of Chris McCandless, glad that I finally talked to someone. People are now flooding into the lobby which means it's time to check my bags. Perhaps I'll have another opportunity to talk to someone else. But two people in one day? Let's not get carried away.
"On the other side of the page, which was blank, McCandless penned a brief adios" 'I HAVE HAD A HAPPY LIFE AND THANK THE LORD. GOODBYE AND MAY GOD BLESS ALL!'
Then he crawled into the sleeping bag his mother had sewn for him and slipped into unconsciousness. He probably died on August 18, 112 days after he'd walked into the wild, 19 days before 6 Alaskans would happen across the bus and discover his body inside.
One of his last acts was to take a picture of himself, standing near the bus under the high Alaska sky, one hand holding his final note toward the camera lens, the other raised in a brave, beatific farewell. He face was horribly emaciated, almost skeletal. But if he pitied himself in those last difficult hours--because he was so young, because he was so alone, because his body had betrayed him and his will had let him down--it's not apparent from the photograph. He is smiling in the picture, and there is no mistaking the look in his eyes: Chris McCandless was at peace, serene as a monk gone to God."
Thursday, December 11, 2008
There she is, Miss America
I'm sitting here panicking because I realized that if I were ever entered in a beauty pageant, I wouldn't have a tangible talent.
Not that I'll ever be entered in a beauty pageant.
But still, it was a scary thought.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Cocaine flame in my bloodstream, Sold my coat when I hit Spokane
For the past four nights I've holed myself up on the fourth floor of the library to finish a video project that had a focus on obesity. I've never actually made a video before and waiting until the last possible moment to start wasn't one of the smartest choices to make. I literally spent close to 30 hours working on it. Thirty. That's not an exaggeration. 30 hours on a video that isn't even close to five minutes long. I blame it on Adobe Premiere Elements 4.0, but Gabe tells me that's one of the most basic editing softwares available. I felt like such a complete fool.
The project wasn't a difficult one. We've known about it since the beginning of the semester, and we've had several opportunities to meet as a group to discuss plans and ideas. Our "meetings" consisted of us sitting at a table in the entryway to the library, looking at one another uncomfortably and not saying anything to not come across as too assertive or bossy. Group projects are not my forte. Leave me alone to do a project and I'll shine as bright as the highest star in the highest of heavens. Bloated ego? Please. Put me in a group with five other girls who would rather be eating nachos and fake-tanning and I might as well self-destruct.
So I found myself sitting in a cushiony chair at a wooden table on the fourth floor Special Collections section of the library. It's chock-full of old books that tell the ancestry of every family in Boone and crumbly dissertations from the 1920s. I developed a crick in my neck after staring at a computer screen for literally four hours straight. Not pee break. No water break (I was scolded by a junior because I had a Nalgene bottle. In my backpack. Underneath the table.). No snack break. I just sat there. This is what my life has become.
Walking dry-eyed out of the building every night at 11:00 was always refreshing. I was by myself. I was walking down streets with nobody in sight. It was freezing. At one point I remember walking and laughing for no reason. A real laugh. A laugh because nothing was funny. A laugh because I've finally found a place that doesn't ask me to be anyone except myself. A laugh because I was tired and on the verge of sleepy tears. A laugh because I thought the word "disgruntled" was a good obese person stereotype. So good I put it in my movie to describe Regina George in Mean Girls. It's not funny. It is.
I finished the damn movie at 9:53 pm tonight. The ending is too abrupt. I feel the need to explain it. Nobody cares. Our professor gave an 'A' to the group who read off a PowerPoint for 20 minutes. Does anybody know that the slides are just supposed to assist? Anybody? I love what I've created. It's mine. I'm proud. Take that, Adair.
There are four days of classes left. Finals start next week. Then it's done. My first semester of college is out of the way. I'll fly home. It's not my house anymore, but it's home. Those two words, "house" and "home" have found new definitions. It's not quite clear what they are, but they're becoming more and more definite. Traveling. Maybe that's when I'll feel truly at home.
But for now I'll just travel to bed.
The project wasn't a difficult one. We've known about it since the beginning of the semester, and we've had several opportunities to meet as a group to discuss plans and ideas. Our "meetings" consisted of us sitting at a table in the entryway to the library, looking at one another uncomfortably and not saying anything to not come across as too assertive or bossy. Group projects are not my forte. Leave me alone to do a project and I'll shine as bright as the highest star in the highest of heavens. Bloated ego? Please. Put me in a group with five other girls who would rather be eating nachos and fake-tanning and I might as well self-destruct.
So I found myself sitting in a cushiony chair at a wooden table on the fourth floor Special Collections section of the library. It's chock-full of old books that tell the ancestry of every family in Boone and crumbly dissertations from the 1920s. I developed a crick in my neck after staring at a computer screen for literally four hours straight. Not pee break. No water break (I was scolded by a junior because I had a Nalgene bottle. In my backpack. Underneath the table.). No snack break. I just sat there. This is what my life has become.
Walking dry-eyed out of the building every night at 11:00 was always refreshing. I was by myself. I was walking down streets with nobody in sight. It was freezing. At one point I remember walking and laughing for no reason. A real laugh. A laugh because nothing was funny. A laugh because I've finally found a place that doesn't ask me to be anyone except myself. A laugh because I was tired and on the verge of sleepy tears. A laugh because I thought the word "disgruntled" was a good obese person stereotype. So good I put it in my movie to describe Regina George in Mean Girls. It's not funny. It is.
I finished the damn movie at 9:53 pm tonight. The ending is too abrupt. I feel the need to explain it. Nobody cares. Our professor gave an 'A' to the group who read off a PowerPoint for 20 minutes. Does anybody know that the slides are just supposed to assist? Anybody? I love what I've created. It's mine. I'm proud. Take that, Adair.
There are four days of classes left. Finals start next week. Then it's done. My first semester of college is out of the way. I'll fly home. It's not my house anymore, but it's home. Those two words, "house" and "home" have found new definitions. It's not quite clear what they are, but they're becoming more and more definite. Traveling. Maybe that's when I'll feel truly at home.
But for now I'll just travel to bed.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
All I can offer are farmer chords.
I think it's about time to take the words "love" and "hate" out of my vocabulary. I know nothing of the second and little of the first.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
I took a train and came up from Carolina, I was looking for something to do
I was holed up in my room today finishing up the overwhelming load of homework I needed to get out the way by tomorrow. Actually, I'm still holed up and working on an essay about the significance of superstitions found within Huck Finn. I remember the projects that we had to do sophomore year in regards to this novel, and I also remember getting a C+ on the video we made because Nancy didn't specify exactly what she wanted the video to include.
But that's not the point.
I'm sitting here and the room is silent save for Ray LaMontagne playing quietly from the speakers. To my immediate left I can now look out the window (I rearranged my room in order to avoid writing a Comm report) and see the steeples of two churches, the top of Belk library, the mountains and the sky which is, honestly, one of the most gorgeous skies I have seen in a while.
It's cold. It's still. I'm fine.
As much as I'm excited for next Wednesday morning to arrive when, fresh from spending the night in the airport, I'll board the plane at 5:00 am and head first to Atlanta and then Indianapolis, I'm also a bit nervous. I haven't been home for three months. That's not the part I'm particularly worried about. Well, maybe it is.
When I first arrived in Boone, I said I missed people, not places. I missed friends and family and awkward moments and pets and the familiar faces on the television screen. I think I may have judged too quickly. I was snuggled under my covers a few nights ago and my heart started to ache for places, not people. I miss my backyard and polish pool tournaments in crowded basements. I miss seeing the copper carbonate roof of St. Mark's on my way to church every Sunday and the downtown skyline. I miss taking naps on our big couch on lazy Saturday afternoons with a muted college football game playing in the background. I miss driving down Bluff and Banta and Edgewood and Meridian at night with the perfect mix and the windows cracked slightly. I try my hardest to explain to people what everything looks like, but I fail. Every single time, I fail. But I suppose that's just fine.
It's home.
So maybe I've changed or maybe I haven't. Maybe places have changed or maybe they haven't. I understand things won't be the same when I return on Wednesday. It's scary, but I understand. I understand that living by myself for the past three months has instilled in me a sort of independence, but, truth be told, I need my parents more than ever. So, I think that's the way things will go for some time. A little bit of freedom and a little bit of home in just the right dose. Somewhere, deep down, I'm preparing to fly away. Certainly not now. Certainly not within the next year. But soon. And that, I think, is the most exciting thing of all.
But that's not the point.
I'm sitting here and the room is silent save for Ray LaMontagne playing quietly from the speakers. To my immediate left I can now look out the window (I rearranged my room in order to avoid writing a Comm report) and see the steeples of two churches, the top of Belk library, the mountains and the sky which is, honestly, one of the most gorgeous skies I have seen in a while.
It's cold. It's still. I'm fine.
As much as I'm excited for next Wednesday morning to arrive when, fresh from spending the night in the airport, I'll board the plane at 5:00 am and head first to Atlanta and then Indianapolis, I'm also a bit nervous. I haven't been home for three months. That's not the part I'm particularly worried about. Well, maybe it is.
When I first arrived in Boone, I said I missed people, not places. I missed friends and family and awkward moments and pets and the familiar faces on the television screen. I think I may have judged too quickly. I was snuggled under my covers a few nights ago and my heart started to ache for places, not people. I miss my backyard and polish pool tournaments in crowded basements. I miss seeing the copper carbonate roof of St. Mark's on my way to church every Sunday and the downtown skyline. I miss taking naps on our big couch on lazy Saturday afternoons with a muted college football game playing in the background. I miss driving down Bluff and Banta and Edgewood and Meridian at night with the perfect mix and the windows cracked slightly. I try my hardest to explain to people what everything looks like, but I fail. Every single time, I fail. But I suppose that's just fine.
It's home.
So maybe I've changed or maybe I haven't. Maybe places have changed or maybe they haven't. I understand things won't be the same when I return on Wednesday. It's scary, but I understand. I understand that living by myself for the past three months has instilled in me a sort of independence, but, truth be told, I need my parents more than ever. So, I think that's the way things will go for some time. A little bit of freedom and a little bit of home in just the right dose. Somewhere, deep down, I'm preparing to fly away. Certainly not now. Certainly not within the next year. But soon. And that, I think, is the most exciting thing of all.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Take it slow, take it easy on me
Dr. Paul Henry Gates, Jr., I love you in all of your Dov Charney-esque splendor. Especially when you make mistakes because it keeps my sleepy brain entertained. But mostly because you fuel my immature fire. Like this morning in class when instead of saying "baby boomers," you said,
"boobies."
"boobies."
Monday, October 27, 2008
Why do you think the net was born? Porn. Porn. Porn.
We talk a lot about porn in my 8:00 am class. A lot.
It's Intro to Mass Communication, so I guess it's a notable topic. It's just not something I get too excited about. On the other hand, however, my professor does.
Extremely excited. His eyes twinkle and his smile takes over his entire face. 'Giddy' is perhaps the most accurate term to describe him when he stands on the balls of his feet and rubs his hands together and licks his lips. That might be a slight exaggeration, but it's pretty close.
We were talking about the internet this morning and porn, obviously, was the first thing we discussed. He noted that in 2004 there were approximately four million porn websites that turned a $54,000,000,000 (the extra zeros just create the effect) profit.
"Wha?!? Fifty-four billion dollars... A YEAR?" gasped the girl at the end of our row.
The same girl, mind you, who was confident in her answer of "Two million!" just a few short weeks ago.
"Why, with that type of money you could buy a small country!"
The professor just kind of stared at her and went on to make his next point: The kiddie-porn industry saw a total of 100,000 websites in 2004 and turned a profit of close to $2,500,000,000.
"That's...that's just, oh, that makes me want to barf, " she said. "I think every one of those dirty old men who look at the websites should be shot. I couldn't care less what happens to them. Hell, just go ahead and castrate the entire lot. Serves them right. Serves them right."
It's Intro to Mass Communication, so I guess it's a notable topic. It's just not something I get too excited about. On the other hand, however, my professor does.
Extremely excited. His eyes twinkle and his smile takes over his entire face. 'Giddy' is perhaps the most accurate term to describe him when he stands on the balls of his feet and rubs his hands together and licks his lips. That might be a slight exaggeration, but it's pretty close.
We were talking about the internet this morning and porn, obviously, was the first thing we discussed. He noted that in 2004 there were approximately four million porn websites that turned a $54,000,000,000 (the extra zeros just create the effect) profit.
"Wha?!? Fifty-four billion dollars... A YEAR?" gasped the girl at the end of our row.
The same girl, mind you, who was confident in her answer of "Two million!" just a few short weeks ago.
"Why, with that type of money you could buy a small country!"
The professor just kind of stared at her and went on to make his next point: The kiddie-porn industry saw a total of 100,000 websites in 2004 and turned a profit of close to $2,500,000,000.
"That's...that's just, oh, that makes me want to barf, " she said. "I think every one of those dirty old men who look at the websites should be shot. I couldn't care less what happens to them. Hell, just go ahead and castrate the entire lot. Serves them right. Serves them right."
Monday, October 13, 2008
You can run, you can hide, but you can't escape my love
I was sitting in my Foundations of Human Communication class this evening half-listening to a guy (who looks eerily similar to Barack Obama) give an oral presentation about why he wanted to become a journalist. He has always seemed a bit snooty and B.S.ed his way through a group project last month, so I chose to doodle and/or half-listen rather than giving him my full attention. His loss.
Taking a break from trying to remember abbreviations for all fifty states, I looked to the front of the classroom and thought to myself, "I wonder if I could fit inside that podium."
This isn't nearly as strange as it sounds. Or is it? It is. Because you see, dear friends, I have a... problem.
For the longest time I played out really irrational scenarios in my head. I think it all began when Micah went to get the morning paper and two guys in a car drove up and shot him with a paintball gun. Just for kicks. Just for giggles. When the police showed up at our house, I ran to my bedroom and hid behind my bed. I was terrified. Truly, I was.
So that got me thinking. What if people were placing dynamite outside my window while I slept? What if a burglar with a machine gun popped out of the attic door in my closet and riddled me with bullets? What if my parents were actually werewolves? And, after M. Night Shyamalan's Signs came out, the inevitable question was, "Where would I hide if aliens tried to abduct me?"
That REALLY got me thinking. It was in a conversation with a friend after watching Signs in a movie theater that we both decided if aliens were to land at that very moment in the parking lot, we would scramble our way behind the looping preview movie screen above the concession stand. Genius. From there I was always looking for places to hide.
It's a bit irrational, I know. But what if it isn't? What if someone sneaked into our house at night and I only had a few seconds to hide? Why, I'd scramble to the giant Tupperware clothes bin nestled in the back of my parent's closet, shut the lid, and hold my breath. If I were to witness a murder on campus and the criminal happened to see me? Why, I'd hide underneath a parked car! A scraggly half-beard wanting revenge because I refused to give him a ride? Show me the nearest forest, and I'll gladly show you my hiding spot on the highest branch of the tallest tree.
If an angry ex-lover were to come stumbling through the dorm hall some evening, I'd be out of luck. Our dorm rooms are just too small. Not a good hiding spot in sight.
Taking a break from trying to remember abbreviations for all fifty states, I looked to the front of the classroom and thought to myself, "I wonder if I could fit inside that podium."
This isn't nearly as strange as it sounds. Or is it? It is. Because you see, dear friends, I have a... problem.
For the longest time I played out really irrational scenarios in my head. I think it all began when Micah went to get the morning paper and two guys in a car drove up and shot him with a paintball gun. Just for kicks. Just for giggles. When the police showed up at our house, I ran to my bedroom and hid behind my bed. I was terrified. Truly, I was.
So that got me thinking. What if people were placing dynamite outside my window while I slept? What if a burglar with a machine gun popped out of the attic door in my closet and riddled me with bullets? What if my parents were actually werewolves? And, after M. Night Shyamalan's Signs came out, the inevitable question was, "Where would I hide if aliens tried to abduct me?"
That REALLY got me thinking. It was in a conversation with a friend after watching Signs in a movie theater that we both decided if aliens were to land at that very moment in the parking lot, we would scramble our way behind the looping preview movie screen above the concession stand. Genius. From there I was always looking for places to hide.
It's a bit irrational, I know. But what if it isn't? What if someone sneaked into our house at night and I only had a few seconds to hide? Why, I'd scramble to the giant Tupperware clothes bin nestled in the back of my parent's closet, shut the lid, and hold my breath. If I were to witness a murder on campus and the criminal happened to see me? Why, I'd hide underneath a parked car! A scraggly half-beard wanting revenge because I refused to give him a ride? Show me the nearest forest, and I'll gladly show you my hiding spot on the highest branch of the tallest tree.
If an angry ex-lover were to come stumbling through the dorm hall some evening, I'd be out of luck. Our dorm rooms are just too small. Not a good hiding spot in sight.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
And I'm glad I never grew up on a mountain, to figure out how high the world could reach
These are the two men who have courted my ears and my brain for the past two weeks.
Doc Watson: Folk music revivalist/Fingerpicking god
Orville Hicks: Tall-Tale Storyteller Extraordinaire
Ah, true mountain men.
But boy, do I miss the flat landscape of Indiana.
Doc Watson: Folk music revivalist/Fingerpicking god
Orville Hicks: Tall-Tale Storyteller Extraordinaire
Ah, true mountain men.
But boy, do I miss the flat landscape of Indiana.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Baba-Yaga ain't got nothin' on me.
My Freshman Seminar class never fails to fascinate me.
The theme is Appalachian Folklore, and we're delving pretty deep into the culture of the South and how it shaped the country as a whole. Blah. Blah. Blah. But really, it's interesting...and made me want to buy a banjo.
That's not the point.
On Monday we found ourselves talking about Jack Tales. You know, Jack and the Beanstalk (sidenote: there's a coffee shop called the BeansTalk on King Street and tiny women with short haircuts and baggy plaid shirts are always coming and going...), Jack and the Dentist's Daughter, Jack and the Handmaid, and so on and so forth. The basis of these stories is that a dimwit usually stumbles upon fortune in groups of three and is rewarded with a hot wife or a magical flute. So predictable.
Somehow, though, we wound up on the subject of Hansel and Gretel. I think it's because we were talking about archetypal characters and someone mentioned a witch. And that, obviously, leads to Hansel and Gretel. It's all so clear.
That's not the point.
Well, kind of.
But our teacher mentioned that some scholars ("scholars" being those well-versed in telling tall-tales) think that Hansel and Gretel was told to young children to help them be weaned off breast-feeding. I hate that word. Breast. It just looks gross.
Sorry.
Weaning. We all looked at each other and rolled our eyes. It just didn't seem like a logical explanation. I mean, everyone knows that Hansel and Gretel is about not accepting candy from strangers. If you do, you'll be stuck in a bird cage while the oven's firing up in the back room. It's the blatant moral of the story. Breast-feeding? Give me a break.
The kid next to me, however, couldn't let it go. Logan. Poor, pasty, dark-haired Logan. I don't give him enough credit. He's a nice guy, just a bit on the strange side. He's also incredibly intelligent and well-read. But that doesn't mean he isn't socially unaware. Or awkward. But look who's talking.
We had already moved to the next topic of discussion when he raised his hand.
"Yes, Logan?"
"I have a question."
"..."
"I would just like to know where this Freudian idea fits in with our discussion."
"Freudian idea?"
"Yeah, you know. With children always longing for their mother's breasts..."
And I swear he leaned a little closer to me while a thin, grotesque smile spread across his lips.
"Or as I like to call them, 'sources of plenty'."
The theme is Appalachian Folklore, and we're delving pretty deep into the culture of the South and how it shaped the country as a whole. Blah. Blah. Blah. But really, it's interesting...and made me want to buy a banjo.
That's not the point.
On Monday we found ourselves talking about Jack Tales. You know, Jack and the Beanstalk (sidenote: there's a coffee shop called the BeansTalk on King Street and tiny women with short haircuts and baggy plaid shirts are always coming and going...), Jack and the Dentist's Daughter, Jack and the Handmaid, and so on and so forth. The basis of these stories is that a dimwit usually stumbles upon fortune in groups of three and is rewarded with a hot wife or a magical flute. So predictable.
Somehow, though, we wound up on the subject of Hansel and Gretel. I think it's because we were talking about archetypal characters and someone mentioned a witch. And that, obviously, leads to Hansel and Gretel. It's all so clear.
That's not the point.
Well, kind of.
But our teacher mentioned that some scholars ("scholars" being those well-versed in telling tall-tales) think that Hansel and Gretel was told to young children to help them be weaned off breast-feeding. I hate that word. Breast. It just looks gross.
Sorry.
Weaning. We all looked at each other and rolled our eyes. It just didn't seem like a logical explanation. I mean, everyone knows that Hansel and Gretel is about not accepting candy from strangers. If you do, you'll be stuck in a bird cage while the oven's firing up in the back room. It's the blatant moral of the story. Breast-feeding? Give me a break.
The kid next to me, however, couldn't let it go. Logan. Poor, pasty, dark-haired Logan. I don't give him enough credit. He's a nice guy, just a bit on the strange side. He's also incredibly intelligent and well-read. But that doesn't mean he isn't socially unaware. Or awkward. But look who's talking.
We had already moved to the next topic of discussion when he raised his hand.
"Yes, Logan?"
"I have a question."
"..."
"I would just like to know where this Freudian idea fits in with our discussion."
"Freudian idea?"
"Yeah, you know. With children always longing for their mother's breasts..."
And I swear he leaned a little closer to me while a thin, grotesque smile spread across his lips.
"Or as I like to call them, 'sources of plenty'."
Thursday, September 18, 2008
I have a number in my head, though I don't know why it's there
I was in my Intro to Mass Comm class the other day listening to the professor speak about the relationship between the population and the number of daily newspapers. I couldn't quite focus, though, because he was wearing a tight, striped button-up shirt. The first four buttons were left open leaving a pouf of white chest hair bursting out from underneath. He was also sporting a thick gold chain around his neck. Like a modern-day, souped up version of Gaston. Boots and all.
That's not the point.
Back to the relationship between the population and the number of daily newspapers.
He drew a chart on the board and labeled the columns "Population," "Year," and "Newspapers." He filled out the last two columns with numbers from the book while we dutifully wrote in our notebooks.
"Can anyone tell me the population of the United States during 1988" he asked.
A hand flew up in the air.
Flew.
I mean, the girl was practically falling out of her chair with excitement because she ACTUALLY KNEW the population of the ENTIRE United States during 1988. She even made those whimpering noises. And really, I'm not making this up for the sake of trying to write a funny story...she squealed. This girl was hell-bent on sharing with the class that she knew the exact answer to this exact question. Almost as if her entire life had been one giant lead-up to this moment.
"Yes? You in the back? Do you know the answer?"
"I do." A supernatural glow was eminating from her general direction. I imagine her cheeks must have hurt from smiling so widely.
"Two million."
That's not the point.
Back to the relationship between the population and the number of daily newspapers.
He drew a chart on the board and labeled the columns "Population," "Year," and "Newspapers." He filled out the last two columns with numbers from the book while we dutifully wrote in our notebooks.
"Can anyone tell me the population of the United States during 1988" he asked.
A hand flew up in the air.
Flew.
I mean, the girl was practically falling out of her chair with excitement because she ACTUALLY KNEW the population of the ENTIRE United States during 1988. She even made those whimpering noises. And really, I'm not making this up for the sake of trying to write a funny story...she squealed. This girl was hell-bent on sharing with the class that she knew the exact answer to this exact question. Almost as if her entire life had been one giant lead-up to this moment.
"Yes? You in the back? Do you know the answer?"
"I do." A supernatural glow was eminating from her general direction. I imagine her cheeks must have hurt from smiling so widely.
"Two million."
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
So come over, just be patient, and don't worry.
Several things have been on my mind as of late, but it seems like nothing is of great importance. There are stories of intense mediation club sessions that have the intent of crushing everything fun in the world. There are stories of clingy kids who invited themselves to dinner with us, only to talk about bananas and asking if we would ever consider going to a bubble bath party. There are stories of sure footing and changing leaves. There are stories of cleaning up the New River and the redeeming rain that poured from the black afternoon sky. There are stories of Snake Mountain and Doc Watson, banjos and tall tales. There are stories of heartbreaks and hopelessness, adventure and apathy. The south is starting to change me, for the better, I believe. Change is a good thing, right?
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
There's a snake in my boots!
My Noir-th Care-o-line-uh has become a No-ath Care-line-ah.
My "Hey, guys!" has become a "Huh-low ya'll!"
However, I still refuse to eat grits. No amount of sprinkle cheese or sugar will change my mind.
My "Hey, guys!" has become a "Huh-low ya'll!"
However, I still refuse to eat grits. No amount of sprinkle cheese or sugar will change my mind.
Friday, August 29, 2008
I breathe Your fragrance, taste Your goodness, crumble to pieces into Your love
I am literally the only person on campus. No joke. I'm like a white female version of Will Smith (but minus the zombies and cute puppy and genius science skills).
It's been rough, and while I feel like such a baby for admitting that I feel lonely, it's the truth. I suppose I never realized that the friendships I have were developed over thirteen-ish years and certainly not during the span of five days.
So I went to the library and checked out books and DVDs to tide me over until everyone comes scrambling back on Monday evening. They're showing Speedracer at one of the on-campus theaters, but I think my dollar is better spent somewhere else. This is hardly eloquent, but I need to write.
I started a paper today for one of my classes. My writing style is back in its groove.
"Having come from a larger city where street vendors and sidewalk musicians compose the underlying rhythm of life, it was a startling change to come to a smaller county such as Boone and discover that nature's sounds dominated daily living."
And that, my friends, is certainly a great place to start.
Oh no, You never let go
Through the calm and through the storm
Oh no, You never let go
In every high and every low
Oh no, You never let go Lord
You never let go of me
Monday, August 25, 2008
I prefer my brain uncooked, thank you.
I never thought drugs would be a serious problem.
But somehow I forgot I was in North Carolina with naturalists and romantics and those who proudly classify themselves as "free spirits."
A group of ten of us were walking along King Street (for now, forgive me while I drop street names) thrifting and giggling and rubbing sore feet and shiftily glancing at the low clouds hanging above the mountains. After passing a man in his late sixties with a giant dreadlock (notice the singular form) and a giant nail (again, notice the singular form) who was trying to sell us "stories" and "art work", both of which were pieces of soggy paper covered with pencil scratchings, one of the girls in the group stopped and sat down on a bench.
"Twenty bucks?!?" she cried. "That's all?"
Her roommate found a source who was willing to sell 'shrooms for twenty bucks for one half of one eighth of a gram. I'm assuming gram because 'gram' is the only drug-speak* word I know. For all I know it could have been a pound. But that's probably quite unlikely.
She somehow almost single-handedly managed to convince six/seven (one guy didn't directly say he wanted any, but kept asking if they were "chocolates," "Mexicans," or "libs.")
"So, Delainey. Are you in? You want to try some 'shrooms?"
It seemed like the perfect time to put to good use the "Just say 'No'" method I learned during my fourth grade year at the G.U.T.S. after-school program. Standing my ground and speaking with a confident voice I would loudly declare, "I want to make positive life choices, and drugs play no role in my future!"
I almost burst into tears due to fear and/or a fiercely protective concern for my untouched brain cells. But instead, chuckled uncomfortably and shook my head.
While the rest of the group went to withdraw money from their bank accounts and sit flowy-eyed in a room for the next four hours, I went home ("home?" "dorm?") and researched on several medical websites about the dangerous side-effects of eating mushrooms.
When I saw one of the girls this morning at a club expo, I asked her how the previous night had fared.
"People started climbing on furniture and one guy ate some flowers."
Oh, college. What hath you in store?
*"Drug speak" doesn't really help my case of being knowledgeable in the world of drugs.
But somehow I forgot I was in North Carolina with naturalists and romantics and those who proudly classify themselves as "free spirits."
A group of ten of us were walking along King Street (for now, forgive me while I drop street names) thrifting and giggling and rubbing sore feet and shiftily glancing at the low clouds hanging above the mountains. After passing a man in his late sixties with a giant dreadlock (notice the singular form) and a giant nail (again, notice the singular form) who was trying to sell us "stories" and "art work", both of which were pieces of soggy paper covered with pencil scratchings, one of the girls in the group stopped and sat down on a bench.
"Twenty bucks?!?" she cried. "That's all?"
Her roommate found a source who was willing to sell 'shrooms for twenty bucks for one half of one eighth of a gram. I'm assuming gram because 'gram' is the only drug-speak* word I know. For all I know it could have been a pound. But that's probably quite unlikely.
She somehow almost single-handedly managed to convince six/seven (one guy didn't directly say he wanted any, but kept asking if they were "chocolates," "Mexicans," or "libs.")
"So, Delainey. Are you in? You want to try some 'shrooms?"
It seemed like the perfect time to put to good use the "Just say 'No'" method I learned during my fourth grade year at the G.U.T.S. after-school program. Standing my ground and speaking with a confident voice I would loudly declare, "I want to make positive life choices, and drugs play no role in my future!"
I almost burst into tears due to fear and/or a fiercely protective concern for my untouched brain cells. But instead, chuckled uncomfortably and shook my head.
While the rest of the group went to withdraw money from their bank accounts and sit flowy-eyed in a room for the next four hours, I went home ("home?" "dorm?") and researched on several medical websites about the dangerous side-effects of eating mushrooms.
When I saw one of the girls this morning at a club expo, I asked her how the previous night had fared.
"People started climbing on furniture and one guy ate some flowers."
Oh, college. What hath you in store?
*"Drug speak" doesn't really help my case of being knowledgeable in the world of drugs.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Stay down Champion, stay down. Let them have your neck.
View.
Bed.
Desk.
Surviving.
I found myself standing in a line this evening waiting for overcooked hamburgers with warm coleslaw. It was terrifying. Looking around and seeing nobody, I made the decision in my head to pick up my food and carry it back to the residence hall to eat in silence.
There was Zach.
And Francesca.
And Kristina.
And Hallie.
And Thomas.
And someone nick-named Cheerios.
Networking is nice.
It makes the 900 miles between us seem only like an inch.
Monday, August 18, 2008
The ashtray says you were up all night
I really wanted to wait until I was all settled into the mountains before writing anything, but I couldn't resist. It's been quite some time since my fingers did their tap dance across the keyboard, and though they are a bit rusty, they feel right at home.
It feels refreshing to be writing again. During the school year my style developed in such a way that I never thought possible. There was passion and force and honesty behind my words. Summer came and robbed me of that. "Robbed" isn't the actual word I would use, but it's fairly close.
For now eloquence will be tossed to the wayside.
For now I will try my hardest to follow the rules of grammar.
For now the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina will be the place I hang my hat.
But that's just for now.
It feels refreshing to be writing again. During the school year my style developed in such a way that I never thought possible. There was passion and force and honesty behind my words. Summer came and robbed me of that. "Robbed" isn't the actual word I would use, but it's fairly close.
For now eloquence will be tossed to the wayside.
For now I will try my hardest to follow the rules of grammar.
For now the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina will be the place I hang my hat.
But that's just for now.
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