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.
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