(And now for an Out-of-State Elitist -esque post.)
Never have I felt more like I am in a dystopian world. And it isn't even a cool one with archery and hovercrafts.
Let's picture a world where a man is fired from his job for doing it too well.
As some, or possibly none, of you know the UO president recently did not have his contract renewed (read: fired). And no one is happy about this. My basic understanding--and it is basic--is that our President was fired for making the UO better. He took steps to assure our success, no matter future state academic changes, but this is apparently unacceptable because as a public university we are supposed to be on par with the other state universities, not above them. There are other issues too: the board did not consult the faculty before firing Lariviere, etc.
I was not able to attend the meeting that happened earlier today, but the sense I got is that you do not want to anger elderly academics. Professors verbally attacked the board members and are demanding separate boards, one for each public university in Oregon. And Lariviere left the meeting to a standing ovation. Also this whole timing? Totally rigged. Why not wait until students have to go to class and are so swamped with work that they can't attend meetings or protests?
Normally I'm not one to be interested in politics of any sort. (I lack political efficacy--the most important term I learned in AP Gov). But this will greatly affect our university. Who will step up to take the place of a man fired for doing good? And when someone does they will never have the guts to do anything great themselves. This is seriously bad press; counter-acting all that the president did to raise us in national and international standings.
And really, you wouldn't fire Chip Kelly for making UO better at football than Eastern Oregon.
Anyway you probably won't here much more from me on the topic of the board's search for a mediocre president, but it was on my mind after the first 30 minutes of my history class was spent discussing the issue. It's a scary place out there.
In Other News...
Dead Week. Never has there been a more accurate title. Two papers in two days accomplished without my death. Their quality? To be determined.
Christmas break in a week!
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Thursday, October 27, 2011
You must be a girl with shoes like that
Two blogs in one week and it isn't even the results of the Halloween Dilemma yet. *gasp*
But I couldn't not post this.
I've never really thought of myself as a stylish person... but I've also never considered myself a shlub. Yeah, shlub. And college has reaffirmed that last one--I'm sure you've all heard my rants on the tragic leggins/sweatpants and uggs combo. But my style is pretty simple: v-neck, skinny jeans, and boat shoes or lace-up boots. Honestly it can be a little manly with the occasional flair of a lace dress or an orange trench.
I always strove to be low-key and slightly un-American. Don't take this as an insult, but frankly most Americans dress like, well in clothes I wouldn't be caught dead out of the house in. During my homework-avoidance Internet browsing I came across an article for college girls and how to fit in more in France (studying abroad). I like France, I read on. But then I came to the fashion section and had to post this:
"Mastering your Parisian wardrobe might be the single most important step in your French immersion, and it comes with a whole new set of rules. Brace yourselves, this might be rough.
No sneakers.
No North Face.
No sorority apparel. You might choose to stay away from all “apparel” (camp, clubs, sports, schools) for that matter.
No shorts unless worn over black tights. (This is totally in)
No clothes that could double as pajamas. Absolutely no sweatpants.
No workout clothes when you’re not actually working out. The French barely where athletic clothes when they are exercising (as noted above). They definitely aren’t decked out in Lulu and Nike when they aren’t exercising."
Um, these are my rules. Almost word for word. (But I do wear gym clothes to work out. I'm not trying to look good at the gym, I go to the gym to look good.) But I was flattered by this article, I mean, that is quite the accomplishment. The "dos" section was less spot on, but still good.
But really, why is it that the French know these rules, but the American girls that read Cosmo 12 hours a day don't? This should be common sense; you're in public, people.
Any way, had to share. Yay the French, we should dress more like you.
But I couldn't not post this.
I've never really thought of myself as a stylish person... but I've also never considered myself a shlub. Yeah, shlub. And college has reaffirmed that last one--I'm sure you've all heard my rants on the tragic leggins/sweatpants and uggs combo. But my style is pretty simple: v-neck, skinny jeans, and boat shoes or lace-up boots. Honestly it can be a little manly with the occasional flair of a lace dress or an orange trench.
I always strove to be low-key and slightly un-American. Don't take this as an insult, but frankly most Americans dress like, well in clothes I wouldn't be caught dead out of the house in. During my homework-avoidance Internet browsing I came across an article for college girls and how to fit in more in France (studying abroad). I like France, I read on. But then I came to the fashion section and had to post this:
"Mastering your Parisian wardrobe might be the single most important step in your French immersion, and it comes with a whole new set of rules. Brace yourselves, this might be rough.
No sneakers.
No North Face.
No sorority apparel. You might choose to stay away from all “apparel” (camp, clubs, sports, schools) for that matter.
No shorts unless worn over black tights. (This is totally in)
No clothes that could double as pajamas. Absolutely no sweatpants.
No workout clothes when you’re not actually working out. The French barely where athletic clothes when they are exercising (as noted above). They definitely aren’t decked out in Lulu and Nike when they aren’t exercising."
Um, these are my rules. Almost word for word. (But I do wear gym clothes to work out. I'm not trying to look good at the gym, I go to the gym to look good.) But I was flattered by this article, I mean, that is quite the accomplishment. The "dos" section was less spot on, but still good.
But really, why is it that the French know these rules, but the American girls that read Cosmo 12 hours a day don't? This should be common sense; you're in public, people.
Any way, had to share. Yay the French, we should dress more like you.
Monday, October 24, 2011
You don't ask for those Diamond rings...
The essential Halloween Dilemma.
Much like New Year's Eve, this holiday has infinite potential and usually comes nowhere close to achieving it.
I should really stop hoping. All the eyelash wishes and fingers crossed can't save this holiday for me.
Mind you, Halloween hasn't actually happened yet. At this you are all screaming to stop being so negative, but you don't get it, I know. All I can hope for is a good weekend and a good costume. But I want phenomenal. Selfish.
I had plans this year. I had an escape route. A fail safe. My fail safe failed.
And I have a midterm on Halloween. Curse you Mondays, you ruin everything.
What's even worse is that I got my hopes up at all. Now I will just think about what I could be doing--one thing I know I would enjoy, and probably remember forever. Even when I was little and Halloween was fun, it had its dark moments.
Tripping in the snow. Not having any friends to go with. The parkas over costumes.
Ah the costume back when they mattered more than candy--they still do, but I'm usually all dressed up with nowhere to go--and they were elaborate, well planned, and exactly what you wanted to be. A geisha, a goddess, a princess, a witch, even an enormous candy Kiss. (that last one was Rachel, not me).
Maybe if I dress up as a princess this year I will get my fairy godmother. Or a friend with incredible resources and wild abandon.
Okay, rant over now. So much for changing the focus of my blog.
Much like New Year's Eve, this holiday has infinite potential and usually comes nowhere close to achieving it.
I should really stop hoping. All the eyelash wishes and fingers crossed can't save this holiday for me.
Mind you, Halloween hasn't actually happened yet. At this you are all screaming to stop being so negative, but you don't get it, I know. All I can hope for is a good weekend and a good costume. But I want phenomenal. Selfish.
I had plans this year. I had an escape route. A fail safe. My fail safe failed.
And I have a midterm on Halloween. Curse you Mondays, you ruin everything.
What's even worse is that I got my hopes up at all. Now I will just think about what I could be doing--one thing I know I would enjoy, and probably remember forever. Even when I was little and Halloween was fun, it had its dark moments.
Tripping in the snow. Not having any friends to go with. The parkas over costumes.
Ah the costume back when they mattered more than candy--they still do, but I'm usually all dressed up with nowhere to go--and they were elaborate, well planned, and exactly what you wanted to be. A geisha, a goddess, a princess, a witch, even an enormous candy Kiss. (that last one was Rachel, not me).
Maybe if I dress up as a princess this year I will get my fairy godmother. Or a friend with incredible resources and wild abandon.
Okay, rant over now. So much for changing the focus of my blog.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Scarlet lips and Silver tongue, so easy to Believe
I'm looking for my voice.
So far it's pretty bland. But every once in awhile I start to hear it. It just needs more Tabasco, or even just salt. (see don't you like how I jump back and forth between metaphor, I can't even commit to three sentences)
But I've been reading a lot of Writer's Digest lately and it (as well as Bird by Bird) suggest having others read your work and give feed back.
So this is me taking a big risk and putting something out there that I would usually hide. Because I trust you (the three or so of you who look at this). My only request is that you give me feed back. Real feedback, none of this "it was good" or "I read it". That isn't helpful and quite frankly is probably a lie. So I'm going to try this, I'm going to post a little part of one of the billions of things bouncing around my brain and computer. I know I will never be a McEwan, but here's to getting better.
Here's to wanting your honesty, honestly.
...
So far it's pretty bland. But every once in awhile I start to hear it. It just needs more Tabasco, or even just salt. (see don't you like how I jump back and forth between metaphor, I can't even commit to three sentences)
But I've been reading a lot of Writer's Digest lately and it (as well as Bird by Bird) suggest having others read your work and give feed back.
So this is me taking a big risk and putting something out there that I would usually hide. Because I trust you (the three or so of you who look at this). My only request is that you give me feed back. Real feedback, none of this "it was good" or "I read it". That isn't helpful and quite frankly is probably a lie. So I'm going to try this, I'm going to post a little part of one of the billions of things bouncing around my brain and computer. I know I will never be a McEwan, but here's to getting better.
Here's to wanting your honesty, honestly.
...
Morrow wiped the fog
from the mirror and leaned in. His damp hair hung in his eyes and his young
face looked tired, even though he’d been passed out for the last two days. The
long cut under his eye was still red and inflamed, although becoming more and
more scar-like every day.
“Are you sure it was an overdose?” he called out to his
friend as he discovered a greenish-purple bruise upon shaving.
“Yeah, you were still semi-conscious when I found you.
Why?”
“I’m all bruised,” Morrow called back, now turning in
front of the mirror noticing bruises along his ribs and side, even the spot on
his back above where his kidney would be.
“That’s from the fight the night before you overdosed.
Remember? That official seeming alleyway boxing ring?”
“Someone gave me a kidney shot,” he said incredulously,
still fastening his jeans as he walked across the living room to the kitchen,
“And I don’t appreciate the sarcasm, Martin.” He grabbed a pair of scissors and
reentered the bathroom.
“Cutting yourself isn’t the answer!” Martin called
without looking up from his magazine.
“I’m not depressed Martin, I’m crazy. They’re different,”
Morrow said nonchalantly as he began cutting random bits of hair.
“You’re not crazy. Well, you are crazy, but unfortunately
for me you are not medically diagnosable as insane—”
The scissors fell into the sink with a loud clang. Morrow
gripped the porcelain edges. His eyes closed too tight. The white walls around
him shook and tilted as the nurse approached him with the syringe. Restraints
held him flat to the bed.
“Morrow?” Martin’s concerned voice penetrated the memory
and pulled Morrow back into the reality of his brick-walled apartment. “Are you
okay?”
“I hate hospitals.”
“You’ve mentioned that. But you’ve never told me why.”
“And I won’t.” Morrow rubbed his eyes beneath the thick
rimmed glasses before returning to the random massacre of his hair.
“You look ridiculous,” Martin said, moving back toward
the living room.
“I’m not done yet!” Morrow trimmed a bit more and pulled
on a t-shirt, careful to mess up his hair as much as possible.
“You look like hell,” Martin announced, as Morrow
strolled into the room.
“I’m stunning. I know it, you know it, everyone I pass on
the street will know it in a minute; I don’t know why we even play this game
Martin. Now, I feel like I haven’t eaten in two days, let’s go.”
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Sleeping Just to Dream
I have thoughts.
Too many, if we are being exact.
They don't leave me alone. They pester me all through work; I've even found that I enjoy the mundane tasks because they allow me to daydream more. And sing. But I am a far better daydreamer than I am a singer. If I could make money daydreaming, well let's just say that's why I want to write.
My daydreams are like movies and I am the director. I can watch the same scene countless times with minuscule changes until I see it just the way it's supposed to be. I can even do this late at night or in the early morning when the daydreams mix with actual dreams. I look forward to this every night as I lay down. It is the mixing of my careful construction and my unconfined id. The ideas are replayed and tweaked, but still hold and element of unexpected and irrationality; like the actors I invented are improvising while still following my script. It allows me to discover what is plausible and what is just ridiculous, to get to know the characters, to discover the people. That's how characters go "Do what you are going to do, and I will tell about it."
I've never been one to get ideas from dreams. Countless writers, artists, songwriters, etc say "I don't know I just woke up and it was there" or "I saw him/her/it/etc. in a dream." No, my dreams have always been too strange, even for the wildest of fiction. Sure one dream gave me a glimpse of the most beautiful person I've ever seen and lingering curiosity about the importance of moldy bread, but never anything beyond a humorous anecdote. I pity anyone who tries to "inception" my brain; my subconscious is straight insane.
But lately, really lately, that's changed. In the last week I have had four dreams that I wanted to write in the morning. They were still disjointed and odd, but they had a plot. And in every single one the characters and plot were wildly different. That's where the problem comes in; too many thoughts. My brain jumps from story to story so that on top of my eight plus started stories, I now have three more with less than ten pages and another just kind of looming in my head.
I would really like to just finish one. Preferably the one with over a hundred pages first. I want to do this. For real.
But at the same time I'm afraid I'll never finish anything because when I do, what happens next? I don't want to lose my characters. I don't want to face the inevitable rejection of the real world.
My greatest fears are failure and rejection, yet I picked a field that is 95% exactly that; maybe I'm a little masochistic.
I'm discouraged by the poems I read by my photographer and journalism friends, the blogs of family members, my Dad's articles. I know I'm not that good. I can't put my images into words. I can see it, but only because it lives in my head.
C'est la vie. I will go now to dream and revel in the hours that I have to be truly creative and completely in a world I invent.
But first I'll end with one of my favorite quotes:
"You are lucky to be one of those people who wishes to build castles with words, who is willing to create a place where your imagination can wander. We build this place with the sand of memories; these castles are our memories and inventiveness made tangible...This is what separates artists from ordinary people; the belief, deep down in our hearts, that if we build our castles well enough, somehow the ocean won't wash them away." -Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird
Too many, if we are being exact.
They don't leave me alone. They pester me all through work; I've even found that I enjoy the mundane tasks because they allow me to daydream more. And sing. But I am a far better daydreamer than I am a singer. If I could make money daydreaming, well let's just say that's why I want to write.
My daydreams are like movies and I am the director. I can watch the same scene countless times with minuscule changes until I see it just the way it's supposed to be. I can even do this late at night or in the early morning when the daydreams mix with actual dreams. I look forward to this every night as I lay down. It is the mixing of my careful construction and my unconfined id. The ideas are replayed and tweaked, but still hold and element of unexpected and irrationality; like the actors I invented are improvising while still following my script. It allows me to discover what is plausible and what is just ridiculous, to get to know the characters, to discover the people. That's how characters go "Do what you are going to do, and I will tell about it."
I've never been one to get ideas from dreams. Countless writers, artists, songwriters, etc say "I don't know I just woke up and it was there" or "I saw him/her/it/etc. in a dream." No, my dreams have always been too strange, even for the wildest of fiction. Sure one dream gave me a glimpse of the most beautiful person I've ever seen and lingering curiosity about the importance of moldy bread, but never anything beyond a humorous anecdote. I pity anyone who tries to "inception" my brain; my subconscious is straight insane.
But lately, really lately, that's changed. In the last week I have had four dreams that I wanted to write in the morning. They were still disjointed and odd, but they had a plot. And in every single one the characters and plot were wildly different. That's where the problem comes in; too many thoughts. My brain jumps from story to story so that on top of my eight plus started stories, I now have three more with less than ten pages and another just kind of looming in my head.
I would really like to just finish one. Preferably the one with over a hundred pages first. I want to do this. For real.
But at the same time I'm afraid I'll never finish anything because when I do, what happens next? I don't want to lose my characters. I don't want to face the inevitable rejection of the real world.
My greatest fears are failure and rejection, yet I picked a field that is 95% exactly that; maybe I'm a little masochistic.
I'm discouraged by the poems I read by my photographer and journalism friends, the blogs of family members, my Dad's articles. I know I'm not that good. I can't put my images into words. I can see it, but only because it lives in my head.
C'est la vie. I will go now to dream and revel in the hours that I have to be truly creative and completely in a world I invent.
But first I'll end with one of my favorite quotes:
"You are lucky to be one of those people who wishes to build castles with words, who is willing to create a place where your imagination can wander. We build this place with the sand of memories; these castles are our memories and inventiveness made tangible...This is what separates artists from ordinary people; the belief, deep down in our hearts, that if we build our castles well enough, somehow the ocean won't wash them away." -Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Come Pick Me Up
"The Truth About Elizabethtown" or "Elizabethtown Forever"
A post dedicated to Natalie Harris and Whitni Gardner because they are about the only ones who will understand it and even they might only understand half each.
I'm reading a book that I've read three times before, The Truth About Forever. You'll probably make fun of me for it because it is a teen novel, but although it is a story of a boy and girl, it is about a lot more. It's about grief. It's about not being afraid. And as I forced myself to put it down and go to bed, I realized its resemblance to another favorite of mine, Elizabethtown; a delightful and quirky movie that critics totally missed the point of. Critics wrote it off as an elaborate and unbelievable "meet cute", but in reality it is also about grief and moving on.
Now nothing traumatic has happened to me recently. I haven't lost a parent, as in the case of both of these stories. But I've noticed a theme within them and me. The deadly "I'm Fine." Two (three?) extremely dangerous words. Being "fine" is a glorious concept and a terrible lie. No one says "I'm fine" and actually means it. It doesn't really mean anything. It could mean "my world is falling apart", "I haven't gotten over the fact that I stubbed my toe this morning", or "I just really need to talk to someone, but I'm afraid."
Maybe this last is why I am writing a blog at midnight rather than sleeping. A blog is a sad excuse for someone to talk to. But the fact is I don't always feel like I have the right to talk. My world isn't crashing down. I don't only have one month left on my lease and no where to live. My boyfriend didn't just leave for two years.
My life is, as it's always been, rather cushy. But I still feel like I'm saying "I'm fine". Maybe I'm just waiting for a Wes Baker or Claire Claiborn to whisk me off into a land of honesty and Ryan Adams songs. Or a Kristy to dress me up and push me out there. Or a Chuck to hug me like he means it before dancing down the hallway to his bachelor party. Heck, I'd settle for a Kid With The Hair.
But the funny thing about this wishing and waiting is that lately I've been more and more content with staying home. Sure part of it is because I wasn't here for months and I just kind of like basking in the presence of my parents and dog. I've been happy. I got to spend over a week in Sun Valley with over 40 members of my family, just relaxing and swimming and playing baseball. But I'm still just fine.
Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I woke up with a swollen face, when it's supposed to be getting better. Or maybe it's because I won't let myself be totally happy. Maybe I'm Macy and I feel like I have to put on a brave, perfect face for the world. Maybe I'm Drew and I'm afraid that I'm a failure, a fiasco even. Maybe I really need a road map. Or a rusted sea glass angel. Maybe my heart and my hand need to be open.
I may not have a Wes or a Claire, but I have parents who love me and aren't trying to tap dance or make me quit what I love--even if they do encourage me to be practical. (They are, however coincidentally, are fixing up a townhouse). I have a best friend who I can talk to for hours and never run out of things to say or feel judged. I have a really cool job that although calmer than catering (the job I wanted to do this summer. Another coincidence? I mean Esta even has dark curly hair) is allowing me to actually feel like I am accomplishing things in the real world. I am blessed. And I should feel like it.
During a game of ImagineIff, I was asked which make-up product I would be. The theory of the game is to guess what the person would say about themselves. Most people said things like blush for me because I'm youthful, etc. I said concealer--the "I'm Fine" of the make-up world, the "let's smooth everything over and not let anyone know what is going on beneath the surface". I guess the fact that no one else said it kind of proves my point.
This blog makes me feel overly dramatic sometimes. And really confusing (I promise this all made perfect sense in my head before I picked up the computer). But I guess what I'm learning as I write this and reflect, is that I don't need a Wes or a Claire. I'd like one one day, but until then I can be one. Maybe not a Wes (man's friggen perfect.) but I could try to be a Claire. I could stop being a substitute person and find something better than an ice cream cone ("here's something nice to make you feel good that'll melt in five minutes"). If I want to watch Rukus play "Free Bird" as the fire sprinklers rain down or finally fly again, I'll be the one to make it happen. I'll go dance in the woods with one hand waving above my head. I'll wallow in the glorious misery for five minutes and then move on. I'll laugh and cry as I talk to someone who is gone. I will miss 60-B and Sweetbud Lane.
Now to make myself follow through. Now to fail big and be brave enough to stick around and have them ask why I'm still smiling. Now to not be perfect. Because flaws make things more interesting.
A post dedicated to Natalie Harris and Whitni Gardner because they are about the only ones who will understand it and even they might only understand half each.
I'm reading a book that I've read three times before, The Truth About Forever. You'll probably make fun of me for it because it is a teen novel, but although it is a story of a boy and girl, it is about a lot more. It's about grief. It's about not being afraid. And as I forced myself to put it down and go to bed, I realized its resemblance to another favorite of mine, Elizabethtown; a delightful and quirky movie that critics totally missed the point of. Critics wrote it off as an elaborate and unbelievable "meet cute", but in reality it is also about grief and moving on.
Now nothing traumatic has happened to me recently. I haven't lost a parent, as in the case of both of these stories. But I've noticed a theme within them and me. The deadly "I'm Fine." Two (three?) extremely dangerous words. Being "fine" is a glorious concept and a terrible lie. No one says "I'm fine" and actually means it. It doesn't really mean anything. It could mean "my world is falling apart", "I haven't gotten over the fact that I stubbed my toe this morning", or "I just really need to talk to someone, but I'm afraid."
Maybe this last is why I am writing a blog at midnight rather than sleeping. A blog is a sad excuse for someone to talk to. But the fact is I don't always feel like I have the right to talk. My world isn't crashing down. I don't only have one month left on my lease and no where to live. My boyfriend didn't just leave for two years.
My life is, as it's always been, rather cushy. But I still feel like I'm saying "I'm fine". Maybe I'm just waiting for a Wes Baker or Claire Claiborn to whisk me off into a land of honesty and Ryan Adams songs. Or a Kristy to dress me up and push me out there. Or a Chuck to hug me like he means it before dancing down the hallway to his bachelor party. Heck, I'd settle for a Kid With The Hair.
But the funny thing about this wishing and waiting is that lately I've been more and more content with staying home. Sure part of it is because I wasn't here for months and I just kind of like basking in the presence of my parents and dog. I've been happy. I got to spend over a week in Sun Valley with over 40 members of my family, just relaxing and swimming and playing baseball. But I'm still just fine.
Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I woke up with a swollen face, when it's supposed to be getting better. Or maybe it's because I won't let myself be totally happy. Maybe I'm Macy and I feel like I have to put on a brave, perfect face for the world. Maybe I'm Drew and I'm afraid that I'm a failure, a fiasco even. Maybe I really need a road map. Or a rusted sea glass angel. Maybe my heart and my hand need to be open.
I may not have a Wes or a Claire, but I have parents who love me and aren't trying to tap dance or make me quit what I love--even if they do encourage me to be practical. (They are, however coincidentally, are fixing up a townhouse). I have a best friend who I can talk to for hours and never run out of things to say or feel judged. I have a really cool job that although calmer than catering (the job I wanted to do this summer. Another coincidence? I mean Esta even has dark curly hair) is allowing me to actually feel like I am accomplishing things in the real world. I am blessed. And I should feel like it.
During a game of ImagineIff, I was asked which make-up product I would be. The theory of the game is to guess what the person would say about themselves. Most people said things like blush for me because I'm youthful, etc. I said concealer--the "I'm Fine" of the make-up world, the "let's smooth everything over and not let anyone know what is going on beneath the surface". I guess the fact that no one else said it kind of proves my point.
This blog makes me feel overly dramatic sometimes. And really confusing (I promise this all made perfect sense in my head before I picked up the computer). But I guess what I'm learning as I write this and reflect, is that I don't need a Wes or a Claire. I'd like one one day, but until then I can be one. Maybe not a Wes (man's friggen perfect.) but I could try to be a Claire. I could stop being a substitute person and find something better than an ice cream cone ("here's something nice to make you feel good that'll melt in five minutes"). If I want to watch Rukus play "Free Bird" as the fire sprinklers rain down or finally fly again, I'll be the one to make it happen. I'll go dance in the woods with one hand waving above my head. I'll wallow in the glorious misery for five minutes and then move on. I'll laugh and cry as I talk to someone who is gone. I will miss 60-B and Sweetbud Lane.
Now to make myself follow through. Now to fail big and be brave enough to stick around and have them ask why I'm still smiling. Now to not be perfect. Because flaws make things more interesting.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
We Scream and Clap for the End of What Was and What We've Become
Mischief Managed.
It is the end of an era. And not just any era, my childhood era. Some people measure the end of childhood by turning 18 or 21 or 35 or whatever, but I am meassuring mine by the end of Harry Potter.
Harry Potter. The books that made me like reading, which for those of you who now know me as an English major, is a pretty big deal. The first time I really remember a book being able to take me into another world. My first midnight book release. Those painful days waiting for Rachel to finish it first. And then threatening her if she gave anything away. Countless and countless hours of make-believe with Courtney. Movies. Musicals. Spoofs. Cartoons. A complete world.
My 2nd grade teacher, Mrs. Ball read the first two books to my class. I read the third with my mom. I read the rest as they came, most more than once (including the forth at least four times, maybe five, I don't really remember, but the dust jacket is falling off). They entranced me in a way that until then nothing had or could match. I was a part of their world. I was brave and clever and magical. I could face the evils of the world at 11 and turn back time with a stylish necklace. I had friends that would stand with me to the end.
The books were one thing, the movies another. A joyful escape into the magic I had so often imagined. I learned that werewolves are blueish and finally understood why all of Hogwarts loved Cedric Digory so much.
Harry Potter, in every form and every adventure, has been such a huge symbol of my childhood, which has been my whole life as of now. I will miss the countdowns and midnights until a new story. I'll love Harry and company forever.
It is the end of an era. And not just any era, my childhood era. Some people measure the end of childhood by turning 18 or 21 or 35 or whatever, but I am meassuring mine by the end of Harry Potter.
Harry Potter. The books that made me like reading, which for those of you who now know me as an English major, is a pretty big deal. The first time I really remember a book being able to take me into another world. My first midnight book release. Those painful days waiting for Rachel to finish it first. And then threatening her if she gave anything away. Countless and countless hours of make-believe with Courtney. Movies. Musicals. Spoofs. Cartoons. A complete world.
My 2nd grade teacher, Mrs. Ball read the first two books to my class. I read the third with my mom. I read the rest as they came, most more than once (including the forth at least four times, maybe five, I don't really remember, but the dust jacket is falling off). They entranced me in a way that until then nothing had or could match. I was a part of their world. I was brave and clever and magical. I could face the evils of the world at 11 and turn back time with a stylish necklace. I had friends that would stand with me to the end.
The books were one thing, the movies another. A joyful escape into the magic I had so often imagined. I learned that werewolves are blueish and finally understood why all of Hogwarts loved Cedric Digory so much.
Harry Potter, in every form and every adventure, has been such a huge symbol of my childhood, which has been my whole life as of now. I will miss the countdowns and midnights until a new story. I'll love Harry and company forever.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Funny, the way it is
So that last post...I sort of kidding.
But not really.
Everything I said I still believe to be true. You can't plan on awesomeness or magic. And Fingers Crossed and Eyelash Wishes work.
The story behind this is: I did get to attend the event that I was heartbroken for missing. I'll admit it, it was a Parachute concert. And it was worth all of the hype and wishes. I love the feeling of my heartbeat matching the drumbeat and all of my bones shaking with the speakers. I love singing at the top of my lungs, jumping, and watching beautiful men rock.
How did this come to be after all of my life lessons on wishing? I gave up hope.
By midnight on Wednesday I had finally accepted that it wouldn't happen. I held a tiny pity party as I got ready for bed. And of course two eyelashes end up on my finger. I spent one, vainly, on clearing up my skin (I have less faith that this one will work, even wishes can't combat the demons that live in my skin) and the other on a Parachute concert in August. Then I went to bed. And just to follow the oath that I gave at the end of my blog, I fell asleep with my fingers crossed.
Let's just say I got a text at work the next day, Thursday coincidentally. After work I ran home threw some clothes in a bag, grabbed cds, a soda, and a gps, and made a mad dash for Logan. Met Whitni and her friend Sherece and drove to the city of the lake of salt. From then awesomeness ensued. Including seeing Whitni for the first time since Thanksgiving.
Can we just agree that Parachute oozes sexiness? And believe me I don't use that distinction lightly. Crowd surfing, shred fest solo battle, dirty tank tops, bad haircut, and awesome music.
Oh yeah and I LOVE SAX SOLOS!
But not really.
Everything I said I still believe to be true. You can't plan on awesomeness or magic. And Fingers Crossed and Eyelash Wishes work.
The story behind this is: I did get to attend the event that I was heartbroken for missing. I'll admit it, it was a Parachute concert. And it was worth all of the hype and wishes. I love the feeling of my heartbeat matching the drumbeat and all of my bones shaking with the speakers. I love singing at the top of my lungs, jumping, and watching beautiful men rock.
How did this come to be after all of my life lessons on wishing? I gave up hope.
By midnight on Wednesday I had finally accepted that it wouldn't happen. I held a tiny pity party as I got ready for bed. And of course two eyelashes end up on my finger. I spent one, vainly, on clearing up my skin (I have less faith that this one will work, even wishes can't combat the demons that live in my skin) and the other on a Parachute concert in August. Then I went to bed. And just to follow the oath that I gave at the end of my blog, I fell asleep with my fingers crossed.
Let's just say I got a text at work the next day, Thursday coincidentally. After work I ran home threw some clothes in a bag, grabbed cds, a soda, and a gps, and made a mad dash for Logan. Met Whitni and her friend Sherece and drove to the city of the lake of salt. From then awesomeness ensued. Including seeing Whitni for the first time since Thanksgiving.
Can we just agree that Parachute oozes sexiness? And believe me I don't use that distinction lightly. Crowd surfing, shred fest solo battle, dirty tank tops, bad haircut, and awesome music.
Oh yeah and I LOVE SAX SOLOS!
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
...Like Shooting Stars
I believe in Fairytales and Eyelash Wishes. I believe in Fingers Crossed and Fortune Cookies if I like what they have to say.
My Grandpa never believed in Luck. He believed in Fortune. I never quite understood the difference.
More than once I have believed that fingers crossed has worked. It wasn't a feeling of luck or fortune, but almost as if I deserved it because I had wished. Really and truly wished. If someone had asked I would have said lucky, but it was really the feeling of fingers crossed.
And now I think I have discovered, not why, but why not. Fingers crossed does not work if you expect something. If it is expected, likely, or even reasonably possible, one wishes differently. I have taken my new found freedom and filled my summer with great expectations. I need to stop.
I had the good fortune of basically being handed a job, and one that will actually be interesting and impressive. And I am extraordinarily grateful for that. I was able to see my brother, sister-in-law, and nephew--who I did not know if I would see again until Christmas--and now I have found out that I will see them again on the 4th. In Sun Valley. A place more magical than Disney World could ever be.
These have created a wonderful beginning to the summer. But neither of them were planned, not really at least, not by me.
And my first plan has fallen through. I took it for granted. I did not spend enough eyelashes or time with fingers crossed. And truthfully that is all that could have helped. I could not have planned my way out of--or more accurately, into--this one. My half of the plans were perfectly laid, although it would have cost me more money than I was admitting to myself. It is everyone else's plans that got in the way.
I know I will get a question as to the nature of this plan or failed wish. And I am a tad embarrassed to admit it, although I shouldn't be--anyone who reads this blog already doubtlessly knows of my unabashed love. But alas, there is another chance before this summer ends. A chance that will have better laid plans and far more fingers crossed preceding it. I hope it happens (even though it will cost even more than it would have this time).
According to the dictionary Luck is
"the force that seems to operate for good or ill in a person's life, as in shaping circumstances, events, or opportunities"
And Fortune is to have something
"happen by chance"
I don't know whether I believe in Fortune or Luck or both. Probably both. Sorry Grandpa. But you were always the logical one. Practical. Scientific. I was the one chasing fairies through the branches of your willow. I believe in Fairytales and Eyelash Wishes. I believe in Fingers Crossed and Fortune Cookies if I like what they have to say.
And I solemnly swear that I will not take them for granted again.
I will wish with all my heart.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Gotta Figure This Out
Kind of the theme song of my life right now. (And just an all-around amazing song)
Only once has this song been truer for me then it is now. The summer before I left for college I all but had a mental breakdown. I didn't know what I wanted; I just knew it wasn't what I had. If anyone asked me about my plans or if I was excited, I had to fight off tears. I was completely lost and scared. I kept writting it off to nerves. Which I'm sure it was because I'm here now and I've been fine.
I've had a great year and made good friends that I wouldn't trade. But the feeling is coming back. I'm already nearing the end of my first year of college. And I'm getting summer-itis. And I'm getting the feeling that summer might not actually help.
I'm unsure about my classes and living arrangements for next year. I'm stressed about a massive research project that I have no desire to do. I'm thoroughly convinced that no one will hire me this summer. I want to be home and I want to be in Sun Valley. I want a job, but I don't want to miss out on the things I actually want to do. I want to go on grand adventures and then sit on my couch at home and read about grand adventures. I don't want ot sit in basements or living rooms wondering what to do. I've lost interest in school. The only classes I actually enjoy are creative writing and salsa, and even those are a struggle because they are in the evening. I don't really enjoy my lit class, even though it was my favorite class last term and the professor is as good as ever. Maybe it's what we are reading, or the looming research project, or the 8:30 am time slot. But still.
I've been spending my weekends reading, but now I've run out of cheesey fun books. I want to write, but the ideas are disjointed and fragmented. I listen to the same songs on repeat. I want to get into shape, but the motivation is never enough to get me to the gym.
It kind of feels like I'm on the edge and any moment the fall into the dark uncertainty will be here. (Melodramatic, right?) I feel like I'm stressed about things that aren't quite here yet, but I'm not really doing anything to make it better. There are things I'm looking forward to, but they don't seem quite real; just out of reach. I was amazed the other day at how great some positive feedback from my workshopping group in creative writting made me feel. I guess I'm realizing that I don't want the worlds of research and academia--an idea I'm probably reflecting in part from my brother, who is trying to figure out where to go next. I'm not at the turning point he is, but it kind of feels like I will be before I'm ready.
So I'm going to back to dreaming in color--of my grand adventures that I will make happen, even if it isn't as soon or as magical as I would like to believe. I'm not unhappy, but I keep looking forward to what is coming, for better or worse. I'm not content with content.
Soundtrack for this blog post:
Erin McCarley- Gotta Figure This Out, Pitter Pat (anything else by her. Listen to her, she is great and this is my mindset right now)
Matt Nathanson- Car Crash
Only once has this song been truer for me then it is now. The summer before I left for college I all but had a mental breakdown. I didn't know what I wanted; I just knew it wasn't what I had. If anyone asked me about my plans or if I was excited, I had to fight off tears. I was completely lost and scared. I kept writting it off to nerves. Which I'm sure it was because I'm here now and I've been fine.
I've had a great year and made good friends that I wouldn't trade. But the feeling is coming back. I'm already nearing the end of my first year of college. And I'm getting summer-itis. And I'm getting the feeling that summer might not actually help.
I'm unsure about my classes and living arrangements for next year. I'm stressed about a massive research project that I have no desire to do. I'm thoroughly convinced that no one will hire me this summer. I want to be home and I want to be in Sun Valley. I want a job, but I don't want to miss out on the things I actually want to do. I want to go on grand adventures and then sit on my couch at home and read about grand adventures. I don't want ot sit in basements or living rooms wondering what to do. I've lost interest in school. The only classes I actually enjoy are creative writing and salsa, and even those are a struggle because they are in the evening. I don't really enjoy my lit class, even though it was my favorite class last term and the professor is as good as ever. Maybe it's what we are reading, or the looming research project, or the 8:30 am time slot. But still.
I've been spending my weekends reading, but now I've run out of cheesey fun books. I want to write, but the ideas are disjointed and fragmented. I listen to the same songs on repeat. I want to get into shape, but the motivation is never enough to get me to the gym.
It kind of feels like I'm on the edge and any moment the fall into the dark uncertainty will be here. (Melodramatic, right?) I feel like I'm stressed about things that aren't quite here yet, but I'm not really doing anything to make it better. There are things I'm looking forward to, but they don't seem quite real; just out of reach. I was amazed the other day at how great some positive feedback from my workshopping group in creative writting made me feel. I guess I'm realizing that I don't want the worlds of research and academia--an idea I'm probably reflecting in part from my brother, who is trying to figure out where to go next. I'm not at the turning point he is, but it kind of feels like I will be before I'm ready.
So I'm going to back to dreaming in color--of my grand adventures that I will make happen, even if it isn't as soon or as magical as I would like to believe. I'm not unhappy, but I keep looking forward to what is coming, for better or worse. I'm not content with content.
Soundtrack for this blog post:
Erin McCarley- Gotta Figure This Out, Pitter Pat (anything else by her. Listen to her, she is great and this is my mindset right now)
Matt Nathanson- Car Crash
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
It's true I love technology
...But it seems to far more fickle about our relationship.
It has long been a rule that if some important project is due, something will malfunction. It's usually the printer. Printers are vindictive and hateful things, for seemingly no reason. This is an accepted fact in 308.
However, this time the printer is not the culprit. It's everything else. (Okay, well the printer definitely hasn't become more friendly, but it hasn't gotten worse...yet.)
A week or two ago I thought my iPod dock had broken, which meant no speakers and no charger. Oh well, I can deal, borrow someone else's charger, life continues. About a day later the battery died. I didn't bother for a couple days. Then the worst happened.
The Beast was dead.
It wouldn't charge. Evil warning messages of doom kept popping up. It was not a good time. I refused to admit that my friend of six years was leaving me.
Then two days ago my computer got a virus. From Pandora. I mean, really? That isn't exactly a sketchy or back-alley site. So my computer spent a solid 26 hours in the care of ResNet and is now recovered (obviously).
But during our time apart, I panicked in the silence. (No computer and no iPod meant no music, unless Jeana was in the room. I don't do well with silence.) I discovered that my speakers did in fact work and that The Beast would play. Needless to say there was some dancing about the room. I thought the cosmos had taken pity on me.
Close, but no cigar. The Beast is not dead, but I am afraid it is fighting a losing battle for its sanity. I was able to listen to the Gabe Dixon Band and a few more songs before it spasmed and went into insta-shuffle mode. Basically, it just scrolls through the songs without ever playing anything.
I am a bit distressed. I love my brick and don't want to get one of these new-fangled iPods. I want my Beast. Luckily the computer and I are back together. And I have a new found appreciation for personal electronics and a realization of how much I depend on them. It's unhealthy, but that's our world.
It has long been a rule that if some important project is due, something will malfunction. It's usually the printer. Printers are vindictive and hateful things, for seemingly no reason. This is an accepted fact in 308.
However, this time the printer is not the culprit. It's everything else. (Okay, well the printer definitely hasn't become more friendly, but it hasn't gotten worse...yet.)
A week or two ago I thought my iPod dock had broken, which meant no speakers and no charger. Oh well, I can deal, borrow someone else's charger, life continues. About a day later the battery died. I didn't bother for a couple days. Then the worst happened.
The Beast was dead.
It wouldn't charge. Evil warning messages of doom kept popping up. It was not a good time. I refused to admit that my friend of six years was leaving me.
Then two days ago my computer got a virus. From Pandora. I mean, really? That isn't exactly a sketchy or back-alley site. So my computer spent a solid 26 hours in the care of ResNet and is now recovered (obviously).
But during our time apart, I panicked in the silence. (No computer and no iPod meant no music, unless Jeana was in the room. I don't do well with silence.) I discovered that my speakers did in fact work and that The Beast would play. Needless to say there was some dancing about the room. I thought the cosmos had taken pity on me.
Close, but no cigar. The Beast is not dead, but I am afraid it is fighting a losing battle for its sanity. I was able to listen to the Gabe Dixon Band and a few more songs before it spasmed and went into insta-shuffle mode. Basically, it just scrolls through the songs without ever playing anything.
I am a bit distressed. I love my brick and don't want to get one of these new-fangled iPods. I want my Beast. Luckily the computer and I are back together. And I have a new found appreciation for personal electronics and a realization of how much I depend on them. It's unhealthy, but that's our world.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Driving down the 101
California.
Yes, I've been back from spring break for a week and a half already, but I've been thinking about my family a lot and how important they are to me. People have a lot of reasons for going to California for spring break. I have exactly three: Jeff, Sarah, and Adam.
Even though I spent a few nights on a couch and countless hours in a mini-van in the rain, it was well worth it. I realized once I was back at school that if I hadn't gone to California for break I don't know when I would have seen them. I'm a poor college student and they are in grad school with a kid. None of us really have the means to state-hop often. I also got to see my mom and talk her ear off on the plane ride from Salt Lake to San Jose (after accidentally getting on a plane to Long Beach--the adventures started early). We saw the Hearst Castle, Cannery Row, Hollywood, ate at Bubba Gump's, and even had to turn back when we came upon a highway destroyed by a mudslide. And of course played Settlers of Catan. It was purely lovely. All of it. And I already miss them.
My grandparents moved into this house when my dad was a little boy. They got new carpet in the seventies. I know all of the little trinkets and toys and the blue-green shag carpet in the "Memory Room"--it was my favorite place to stay when I was little.
Yes, I've been back from spring break for a week and a half already, but I've been thinking about my family a lot and how important they are to me. People have a lot of reasons for going to California for spring break. I have exactly three: Jeff, Sarah, and Adam.
Even though I spent a few nights on a couch and countless hours in a mini-van in the rain, it was well worth it. I realized once I was back at school that if I hadn't gone to California for break I don't know when I would have seen them. I'm a poor college student and they are in grad school with a kid. None of us really have the means to state-hop often. I also got to see my mom and talk her ear off on the plane ride from Salt Lake to San Jose (after accidentally getting on a plane to Long Beach--the adventures started early). We saw the Hearst Castle, Cannery Row, Hollywood, ate at Bubba Gump's, and even had to turn back when we came upon a highway destroyed by a mudslide. And of course played Settlers of Catan. It was purely lovely. All of it. And I already miss them.
The one downside was that I didn't get to see my dad. He called me the day I got back to school with some sad news and I've talked to him at least twice since and although this is far more than average, it's been really nice. And I know that more than anything he needs family right now.
His side of the family has been gathering, for less than favorable reasons, but it makes me want to be home even more. I want to hug my grandma, chase my eight year old twin cousins, eat the take-out my uncle brings back, and try to get attention from my dog as she stalks grandma around the house. I want to sit on the orangey-red carpet with my back against the couch as everyone talks, laughs, and cries. I want to re-stack the books on the too full bookcases and dust off the graduation pictures of my dad and his siblings. This isn't my home, but in a way it is.
My grandparents moved into this house when my dad was a little boy. They got new carpet in the seventies. I know all of the little trinkets and toys and the blue-green shag carpet in the "Memory Room"--it was my favorite place to stay when I was little.
The memories from this house are usually pretty similar, but I guess that's what makes it feel like part of home. When I think of home I first think of my family, my dog, and my house, but the next image is almost always one of my grandma's family room with the suit of armor and the whole family ready to greet whoever comes in next.
I want it to be me.
I guess this post didn't really end up being about California. But it never really was. It's the people. The people who make long car rides and KFC chicken better. The people who are family and home.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
hundreds of pages, pages, pages forwards, more words.
"was it you who spoke the words that things would happen but not to me"
There are different types of books- non-fiction, fiction, literary, popular, kids, teen, adult- but the the dividing lines for me tend to bridge some of these gaps. There are good books, books that I nearly can't make it through because they don't capture my interest, and books that capture me completely. These are the books that I can't put down. The books that I don't want to end, but I can't stop reading. The books that I have to remind myself to eat while reading. The ones that my fingers itch to re-open. The ones that I re-read again and again. The ones that leave the pit in my stomach, to the point wherre I am physically hungry for the story.
These rare few aren't even always literary masterpieces. The writting might not always be the most eloquent or noteworthy. But that doesn't mean they aren't either. Dostovesky made me fall in love with a murderer. McEwan made me hope for a romance based on what was basically a one night stand. Rowling made magic real. Dessen used flaws to show the perfect. Collins made a horrific world that I still wanted to belong to. I wanted to be Hermione and Katniss and Macy and Anna and Liesel. And I fell in love with Peeta, Etienne, Wes, Raskolnikov, Razmuikhin, Jacob, Robbie, and Arthur. I wanted to be in their worlds, no matter how messed up they were.
This is why I want ot write. If I can't actually go to Panem, Hogwarts, Narnia, or a French boarding school, then I want ot create my own worlds. I can guaruntee they won't be as beautifully detailed as McEwan or as psycholoogical as Dostovesky- and not for lack of trying- but they will probably be more of the YA persuassion. Hopefully I won't ever sink to a Stephanie Meyers level either though. If nothing else I want to write these stories for me. To get them out of my head, but not lost. I realize that this is the most likely senario. It is the most practical. But that isn't really my scene either.
The stories never leave my head. They distract me and send me into wild daydreams. They are based off of every book, song, movie, and real life I've ever experienced. I could probably name at least one song that directly inspired a story in my head. Or multiple. I had to stop doing homework one day to begin a story inspired by Ryan Adams "Come Pick Me Up" because it was distracting me from what I was actually trying ot accomplish. These stories transport me, but that is because I know where they lead. I know the world they are in and the characters that populate them. I know the characters better than myself and yet they still surprise me. But what I want to know is if they would have the power to take other people somewhere else. If they could be a sanctuary and escape. If they could make the decript beautiful and the flawed perfect.
That's all I want. And it is too much to ask.
"more words than I have ever heard and I feel so alive"
There are different types of books- non-fiction, fiction, literary, popular, kids, teen, adult- but the the dividing lines for me tend to bridge some of these gaps. There are good books, books that I nearly can't make it through because they don't capture my interest, and books that capture me completely. These are the books that I can't put down. The books that I don't want to end, but I can't stop reading. The books that I have to remind myself to eat while reading. The ones that my fingers itch to re-open. The ones that I re-read again and again. The ones that leave the pit in my stomach, to the point wherre I am physically hungry for the story.
These rare few aren't even always literary masterpieces. The writting might not always be the most eloquent or noteworthy. But that doesn't mean they aren't either. Dostovesky made me fall in love with a murderer. McEwan made me hope for a romance based on what was basically a one night stand. Rowling made magic real. Dessen used flaws to show the perfect. Collins made a horrific world that I still wanted to belong to. I wanted to be Hermione and Katniss and Macy and Anna and Liesel. And I fell in love with Peeta, Etienne, Wes, Raskolnikov, Razmuikhin, Jacob, Robbie, and Arthur. I wanted to be in their worlds, no matter how messed up they were.
This is why I want ot write. If I can't actually go to Panem, Hogwarts, Narnia, or a French boarding school, then I want ot create my own worlds. I can guaruntee they won't be as beautifully detailed as McEwan or as psycholoogical as Dostovesky- and not for lack of trying- but they will probably be more of the YA persuassion. Hopefully I won't ever sink to a Stephanie Meyers level either though. If nothing else I want to write these stories for me. To get them out of my head, but not lost. I realize that this is the most likely senario. It is the most practical. But that isn't really my scene either.
The stories never leave my head. They distract me and send me into wild daydreams. They are based off of every book, song, movie, and real life I've ever experienced. I could probably name at least one song that directly inspired a story in my head. Or multiple. I had to stop doing homework one day to begin a story inspired by Ryan Adams "Come Pick Me Up" because it was distracting me from what I was actually trying ot accomplish. These stories transport me, but that is because I know where they lead. I know the world they are in and the characters that populate them. I know the characters better than myself and yet they still surprise me. But what I want to know is if they would have the power to take other people somewhere else. If they could be a sanctuary and escape. If they could make the decript beautiful and the flawed perfect.
That's all I want. And it is too much to ask.
"more words than I have ever heard and I feel so alive"
Monday, March 14, 2011
Winter Winds
I went for a walk in the rain today. I had somewhere to go, but I took my time on the way back. Even with my hood up the tips of my hair was dripping and the front of my pants were soaked. I love to walk through the cemetery and I've always wanted to take pictures of the crumbling stones and trees that stand like pillars holding up the canopy over the path. Today, in the rain, I did. I almost wanted to spin around and dance in it once I was sufficiently drenched before I realized that even in the rain there would be plenty of witnesses to my madness.
I've walked down this path in sunshine, in mist, at night, with friends, in heels, and today in the pouring rain. I remember the first Sunday I realized the trees looked like the architecture of an ancient building and that night in my reading discovered that Charles Baudelaire had once seen the same thing I had. He had seen living pillars. He had felt words that were dim and confused. But his words, even when translated into a different language, did not seem dim or confused. I saw the image perfectly. I wanted to write my own to make someone else see. But I didn't try. I knew it wouldn't go quite right.
The winds remind me of home. I didn't realize they were absent until I heard them in the oak outside my window one afternoon. I always used to complain about the constant bluster, but now it delights me when my hair is picked up and tossed around by the breeze. I miss falling asleep to the white noise of a wind storm.
I haven't been home in three months and I won't for another three. And even then it may not be for long. I get to see family soon and I've never been one to turn down the chance to see somewhere new, but I kind of want to go home. Either way I wouldn't see my dad and by going to California I get to see my brother and his family. I won't have to deal with dreary Idaho March either. But I kind of envy my friend who is going back to Idaho to see his family for the first time in three months also. I miss my dog. And my bed. And being home.
I've walked down this path in sunshine, in mist, at night, with friends, in heels, and today in the pouring rain. I remember the first Sunday I realized the trees looked like the architecture of an ancient building and that night in my reading discovered that Charles Baudelaire had once seen the same thing I had. He had seen living pillars. He had felt words that were dim and confused. But his words, even when translated into a different language, did not seem dim or confused. I saw the image perfectly. I wanted to write my own to make someone else see. But I didn't try. I knew it wouldn't go quite right.
The winds remind me of home. I didn't realize they were absent until I heard them in the oak outside my window one afternoon. I always used to complain about the constant bluster, but now it delights me when my hair is picked up and tossed around by the breeze. I miss falling asleep to the white noise of a wind storm.
I haven't been home in three months and I won't for another three. And even then it may not be for long. I get to see family soon and I've never been one to turn down the chance to see somewhere new, but I kind of want to go home. Either way I wouldn't see my dad and by going to California I get to see my brother and his family. I won't have to deal with dreary Idaho March either. But I kind of envy my friend who is going back to Idaho to see his family for the first time in three months also. I miss my dog. And my bed. And being home.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Waiting on Some Beautiful Boy
A couple summers ago I played a game with my best friend while we were on a trip together with her little sister and another friend. It started out simply enough: name two people and make the other pick which is better looking. It sounds shallow, but we were coming from somewhere filled with people we didn't know and we noticed that, although our opinions about extremes tended to match up, the middle got a little fuzzy.
For the last several years I've had a fairly solid idea of what is likely to make a guy attractive to me (i.e. slender but athletic build, striking cheekbones, a solid jaw, elegant dishevelment, etc). Also, I am very stingy with deeming someone good looking; they have to be pretty fine and a little non-traditional to earn my recognition. My friend is a little less reluctant.
Over the course of the game, it changed, out of necessity. It became: name two people and decide who is more attractive and who is more good looking. Most people would probably say that these are the same. I once thought so too. But I realized during this game that they are fundamentally different. Good looks are traditional. They are measured by physical symmetry and social constructs more or less. There is, of course, always the bias of personal preference. Attractiveness is a different monster. Attractiveness is driven by personal preference and--whether consciously or not--factors in personality, humor, confidence, etc.
I noticed during the game that my answers for good looking and attractive often did not match up. But these were people I knew. I could factor in the more important stuff like personality. More recently, and more disturbingly, I've noticed some of my more material or fashion preference boundaries for guys being blurred.
In general these rules must be kept:
-No man should ever have hair long enough to pull back into a solid ponytail.
-No person (male or female) should ever wear socks with sandals, at least not outside their homes.
-Guys should not get their ears pierced.
-Sweatpants and leggings (without anything over them) cannot be pulled off and should be left at home.
-Jeans should not be worn beneath the butt.
-Facial hair should be used sparingly and should not take carefully planned shapes.
Basically all I really ask is that people put some effort into getting ready in the morning. Take a shower and put on some real clothes please. No offense intended to anyone. But unfortunately 2,3,4 seem to be popular on the UO campus.
The really horrifying point, and the main point, is that my strictness on these rules has waned. Okay, not on all of them. I still scoff every time I see socks and sandals. But I noticed the other day that I found a guy attractive that had his hair in a ponytail. Mind you it was a very small ponytail, but the realization was a tad upsetting. It also should be said that I found this man highly attractive when he had not only a normal haircut, but a fabulous one, because with his face he could pull off anything. But like I said, this is not okay. I have standards. I have also become more lax with the general presence of facial hair as long as it follows the rules. Scruff is okay. Mountain man or sculpted, not okay. And the dirty, almost greasy look? Not as gross as it used to be.
I want to know what this all means. Does it mean that as long as you are decently good looking and confident you can get away with more? When does horrifying become refreshingly bold? I still don't prefer any of these things and I am resistant to the idea that my standards are slipping. But. Sigh. I suppose I'll figure it out eventually. Until then I'll be "waiting on some beautiful boy to save [me]."
For the last several years I've had a fairly solid idea of what is likely to make a guy attractive to me (i.e. slender but athletic build, striking cheekbones, a solid jaw, elegant dishevelment, etc). Also, I am very stingy with deeming someone good looking; they have to be pretty fine and a little non-traditional to earn my recognition. My friend is a little less reluctant.
Over the course of the game, it changed, out of necessity. It became: name two people and decide who is more attractive and who is more good looking. Most people would probably say that these are the same. I once thought so too. But I realized during this game that they are fundamentally different. Good looks are traditional. They are measured by physical symmetry and social constructs more or less. There is, of course, always the bias of personal preference. Attractiveness is a different monster. Attractiveness is driven by personal preference and--whether consciously or not--factors in personality, humor, confidence, etc.
I noticed during the game that my answers for good looking and attractive often did not match up. But these were people I knew. I could factor in the more important stuff like personality. More recently, and more disturbingly, I've noticed some of my more material or fashion preference boundaries for guys being blurred.
In general these rules must be kept:
-No man should ever have hair long enough to pull back into a solid ponytail.
-No person (male or female) should ever wear socks with sandals, at least not outside their homes.
-Guys should not get their ears pierced.
-Sweatpants and leggings (without anything over them) cannot be pulled off and should be left at home.
-Jeans should not be worn beneath the butt.
-Facial hair should be used sparingly and should not take carefully planned shapes.
Basically all I really ask is that people put some effort into getting ready in the morning. Take a shower and put on some real clothes please. No offense intended to anyone. But unfortunately 2,3,4 seem to be popular on the UO campus.
The really horrifying point, and the main point, is that my strictness on these rules has waned. Okay, not on all of them. I still scoff every time I see socks and sandals. But I noticed the other day that I found a guy attractive that had his hair in a ponytail. Mind you it was a very small ponytail, but the realization was a tad upsetting. It also should be said that I found this man highly attractive when he had not only a normal haircut, but a fabulous one, because with his face he could pull off anything. But like I said, this is not okay. I have standards. I have also become more lax with the general presence of facial hair as long as it follows the rules. Scruff is okay. Mountain man or sculpted, not okay. And the dirty, almost greasy look? Not as gross as it used to be.
I want to know what this all means. Does it mean that as long as you are decently good looking and confident you can get away with more? When does horrifying become refreshingly bold? I still don't prefer any of these things and I am resistant to the idea that my standards are slipping. But. Sigh. I suppose I'll figure it out eventually. Until then I'll be "waiting on some beautiful boy to save [me]."
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Because you're everywhere to me
In honor of 2/12: 212 things I love.
(I know, I know, I said this would be more about writing than silly things like this,but....this sounded like more fun). In no particular order:
EDITS:
84. I don't really love this anymore becasue I didn't get the job. So...instead lets say fancy sodas.
118. I don't love April 12th anymore because well it isn't coming on April 12th. Grrr. Not cool, guys.
(I know, I know, I said this would be more about writing than silly things like this,but....this sounded like more fun). In no particular order:
- Jesse Spencer- Happy Jesse Spencer Day everyone!!!
- Pepper- Yep that's right, my dog. <3
- My parents- I can't even begin to express all of the love and gratitude I have for them.
- Jeff- my most excellent big brother who unknowingly taught me so much about good music and being cool.
- Rachel- who over time has been my cousin, best friend, and sister.
- Sary- My lovely sister-in-law and the first to introduce me to the Hunger Games, Markus Zusak, The Eyre Affair, and more.
- Adam- The cutest nephew in the world!!!
- Maddy- The best friend. The. There will never be another. We are two halves of the same strange person.
- Jeana- My delightful roommate. I don't know how this year would have gone (be going) without her and her acceptance of my oddness.
- Liz- My NHD buddy and one of the strongest people I know, for so many reasons. NC is too far.
- Whitni- Man, we are dorks. I love it! I love her adorable awkwardness.
- Natalie- I think we have about ten movie dates. And countless quotes from them.
- All of my friends- old or new. Thank you.
- Books.
- House- the show.
- House- the place.
- Sun Valley- my second home.
- Harry Potter- the books that made me love to read. The movies that made me willing to stay up until way after midnight even when I had school the next day. And the musicals that made me laugh.
- The Hunger Games- seriously, heads are going to role if the movies aren't the best thing ever put on screen.
- Markus Zusak's writing style.
- Arrested Development references- STEVE HOLT!
- Watching kids movies even though I am in college.
- Traveling.
- Songs that give me the chills or uncontrollable smiling. love.
- 80's music- in all of its cheesy, one-hit-wonder-y glory.
- Shoes- the code.
- Beautifully sad movies- that I forgive for being sad because they are just so beautiful.
- My crazy extended family.
- Sleeping- at night. I don't nap.
- Jeep Wranglers.
- My fake Raybans and real Sperrys
- Old dirt bike motorcycles.
- My Ducks.
- Study Breaks.
- Being too emotionally invested in fictional people's lives.
- Writing- that one moment when you finally find the right words.
- Daydreams.
- Guys who can pull off fitted jeans
- Plaid- the king of all patterns.
- Scholastic team- "the most nerdy fun you'll ever have."
- Scholastic team's mixed "drinks" at regionals.
- OK Go.
- Damian Kulash's skinny jeans- and his name.
- Hot showers.
- Shrimp and rice.
- Inside jokes.
- Jumping through the lounge window- just because it's open and way cooler than the door.
- Community.
- Castle.
- Crime and Punishment.
- Being able to say I love Crime and Punishment.
- Music.
- Peacoats.
- Concerts- Way worth standing for six hours.
- 2D- 3D is soooo over-rated and Avatar was boring.
- Midnight Premiers.
- The occasional giggle-fest.
- Those moments where you stop doing whatever it was you were doing, just to fully take in something else.
- Love at first listen songs.
- Will, Kit, Johnny, Nate, and Alex. <3
- Elegant dishevelment.
- Charmingly awkward things.
- Goofy, adorable smiles.
- On The Rocks
- Artsy fashion photography.
- Burrito lunch dates after lit.
- 4 lbs. buckets of Redvines.
- Thinking of a Very Potter Musical every time I think of Redvines.
- Draco Malfoy from the musicals.
- Dance parties.
- Rocking out in the car.
- Stefon.
- Powe-Carr Face.
- Twice baked potatoes.
- Idaho.
- Ewan McGregor's singing voice.
- That time before they posted the nutrition facts online.
- Crepes with Nutella.
- When bands like Phoenix sound good live.
- Blog creeping.
- William Moseley as Peeta- I kind of have my heart set on this one.
- Panda Express Orange Chicken- because Maddy said so.
- STRUVE!
- Getting called back for a second interview.
- Swooncore.
- Happy yet Ironic Misunderstoodism- aka songs that sound happy but aren't.
- Singing loudly to ABBA after quiet hours.
- Cheesy, cheesy songs.
- Scooby Doo- yeah, still.
- Cool old buildings.
- Big, dark framed glasses.
- Sun Valley Writers' Conference.
- That funny moment in the middle of a really tense scene.
- Making fun of "horror" movies.
- Predicting who will die next in said "horror" films.
- Broadway plays.
- When Sarah sings "On My Own."
- The List.
- Walking through old cemeteries.
- Stuff White People Like.
- Drawing on whiteboards.
- "You better!" day- funniest class ever!
- The balloon pit.
- Tandem bike rides- preferably with bubbles.
- Photos.
- Christmas lights.
- Hint fiction.
- Doing laundry- my most productive time.
- Italian Lemon Ices.
- Ninja band-aids.
- Joel McHale with Craig Ferguson.
- Individually wrapped novelty snacks.
- The Great Hunan.
- Frenemies.
- More or Less.
- Craigo's.
- P.F. Chang's waiters that look like celebrities.
- April 12th 2011.
- March 23rd 2012.
- Knowing way more than I should about celebrities.
- Glitter rain.
- Best friend duos- Holmes & Watson, House & Wilson, Shawn & Gus, etc.
- Great quotes.
- Wasting time- Hey, that's what this is!
- Snow on Christmas.
- Walks alone in the trees.
- That feeling I get right before I finish a really good book- when I can't put it down, but I don't want it to end.
- Taking pictures of trees.
- Guys with beautiful cheek bones.
- Song lyrics.
- Plaid flannel shirts.
- Jess's end of the world party!
- Flamel.
- What I Know.
- Infectious laughs.
- Lime green.
- Common Grounds smoothies.
- Pesto calzones.
- Warm weather.
- Pond swimming.
- Paddle boat flipping.
- Kyle Korver's socks.
- People asking what I just quoted when I didn't quote anything.
- Joe Brooks.
- Jon McLaughlin.
- Dave Barnes.
- The Script.
- A's.
- Masquerades.
- Costumes.
- Watching professional dancers.
- Silly interview questions.
- The Internet- I know, I know, but really.
- Tennis team bus rides.
- The Scholastic Team dance.
- Orange goal posts.
- Skinny jeans- mine. This is not a repeat.
- Accents- Especially British, Australian, and Irish.
- Discovering new artists.
- Beanies worn half off the head.
- Russian history.
- The French Revolution- so fun!
- Driving without a roof.
- Vespas.
- Ultimate Frisbee.
- Snow soccer.
- Tackle snow baseball- it's just too boring the other way.
- Getting dressed up.
- Feeling pretty.
- My ridiculously crazy dreams.
- Not knowing where I want to go in life- this one's a double-edged sword.
- Movie theaters.
- Non-flip-flop flip-flops.
- Converse Chucks.
- V-necks- on guys or me.
- Winning fair and square.
- Wandering the streets in European cities.
- Castles.
- Italian sodas.
- Cabin Bear.
- Blankie.
- My bed at home.
- Willow trees.
- Black and white photos.
- Jones soda.
- Austrian playgrounds.
- Atonement- book and movie.
- Brainspew.
- Sparky's Flaw.
- Duct tape.
- When the Universe taunts me- maybe a little masochistic...
- Ergo.
- Music videos.
- The Sexy Jobs list.
- Epic movies.
- MASH- effectively making life decisions since 4th grade.
- Rubber Ducks.
- Leap Year- especially after Maddy and I gave it to each other for Christmas.
- Calendars.
- Tennis.
- Andy Roddick.
- Roger Federer not winning.
- Connecting unrelated things and thinking it must be right.
- Being right.
- Angsty-ness. - Not Hamel.
- Listening to music loudly while in the shower.
- Making fun of Wyoming.
- Babysitting Cole and Carson Steffenson.
- Anastasia.
- People watching.
- The beautiful man in the sombrero and fake mustache.
- Room 212- that started it all.
EDITS:
84. I don't really love this anymore becasue I didn't get the job. So...instead lets say fancy sodas.
118. I don't love April 12th anymore because well it isn't coming on April 12th. Grrr. Not cool, guys.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Closing Time
(providing a glimpse into the way my mind works and what I was like as a child)
You may have noticed that all my titles are song lyrics. This isn't completely coincidental. But this post is actually about the song "Closing Time" by Semisonic. It came on my Pandora last night and with it came a lot of memories and disappointments.
This song came out in 1998. I was six. (yeah...) I don't know when I first heard it, but I liked the song, I knew the words. I still do. But now it disappoints me a little.
The song is clearly about a bar, "One last call for alcohol / So finish your whiskey or beer." The bar is closing and everyone has to leave and the singer knows "who [he] wants to take [him] home" Straight forward enough, right?
Apparently not.
Back when my age was still a single digit, this song had a much more imaginative and illogical meaning. "Closing time" didn't mean that it was time to close, it meant that "time" was literally closing. Mind you I never knew exactly what this entailed, but it looked somewhat like a spinning vortex that was shrinking. (I'm not kiding, this is literally what I pictured everytime I heard the song). Now, I wasn't totally delusional, this vortex was in a bar.
The people had to find a place where they would stay, as they could no longer travel back and forth between times. (I promise I'm not making this up). I think this came mostly from lyrics like "let you out into the world," "You don't have ot go home, but you can't stay here," and especially "Time for you to go out to the places you will be from," and "Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end."
I was probably 15 before I realized what the song really meant and I still like my meaning better. Not only is time travel awesome, but leaving a bar is less than epic. Also it meant a lot more when knowing who you wanted to take you home meant for forever, not just for the night.
You may have noticed that all my titles are song lyrics. This isn't completely coincidental. But this post is actually about the song "Closing Time" by Semisonic. It came on my Pandora last night and with it came a lot of memories and disappointments.
This song came out in 1998. I was six. (yeah...) I don't know when I first heard it, but I liked the song, I knew the words. I still do. But now it disappoints me a little.
The song is clearly about a bar, "One last call for alcohol / So finish your whiskey or beer." The bar is closing and everyone has to leave and the singer knows "who [he] wants to take [him] home" Straight forward enough, right?
Apparently not.
Back when my age was still a single digit, this song had a much more imaginative and illogical meaning. "Closing time" didn't mean that it was time to close, it meant that "time" was literally closing. Mind you I never knew exactly what this entailed, but it looked somewhat like a spinning vortex that was shrinking. (I'm not kiding, this is literally what I pictured everytime I heard the song). Now, I wasn't totally delusional, this vortex was in a bar.
The people had to find a place where they would stay, as they could no longer travel back and forth between times. (I promise I'm not making this up). I think this came mostly from lyrics like "let you out into the world," "You don't have ot go home, but you can't stay here," and especially "Time for you to go out to the places you will be from," and "Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end."
I was probably 15 before I realized what the song really meant and I still like my meaning better. Not only is time travel awesome, but leaving a bar is less than epic. Also it meant a lot more when knowing who you wanted to take you home meant for forever, not just for the night.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
oh, it is love.
Things I love a little too much...
I have to be honest, there are too many of these things. When I love something, I tend to love it. It's a problem. I recognize that. And that's the first step, right?
I wouldn't normally write about stuff like this (I don't like admitting that I can be a tad obsessive), but I like to think of this post as a kudos to a few things I love. Also I am being anti-social and avoiding reading Robinson Crusoe...
In no particular order:
1) Parachute. Surprise, surprise, right? I bet none of you (all two) saw that one coming. But, sigh, I have to admit it. I remember vividly the first time I heard one of their songs (I won't bore you with the account). I stopped what I was doing and devoted my full attention to them. I remember seeing them in person, and running on the adrenaline for the next 24 hours. Their music never fails to put a smile on my face. It also doesn't hurt that they are quite cute and rather funny. My condition is worse as of late because their new album is looming closer and they have already released an amazing single.
I know. I have a problem.
2) OK Go. Especially Damien Kulash. I mean seriously, who else can pull off brightly colored skinny jeans or clashing paisley? Non one. They are famous for their music videos (which are brilliant). They are under appreciated for their music, ingenuity, and independence (they split from traditional labels). I love the idea of OK Go. And they are the only ones who could pull it off. Who plays hand bells at a concert?
I have to be honest, there are too many of these things. When I love something, I tend to love it. It's a problem. I recognize that. And that's the first step, right?
I wouldn't normally write about stuff like this (I don't like admitting that I can be a tad obsessive), but I like to think of this post as a kudos to a few things I love. Also I am being anti-social and avoiding reading Robinson Crusoe...
In no particular order:
1) Parachute. Surprise, surprise, right? I bet none of you (all two) saw that one coming. But, sigh, I have to admit it. I remember vividly the first time I heard one of their songs (I won't bore you with the account). I stopped what I was doing and devoted my full attention to them. I remember seeing them in person, and running on the adrenaline for the next 24 hours. Their music never fails to put a smile on my face. It also doesn't hurt that they are quite cute and rather funny. My condition is worse as of late because their new album is looming closer and they have already released an amazing single.
I know. I have a problem.
2) OK Go. Especially Damien Kulash. I mean seriously, who else can pull off brightly colored skinny jeans or clashing paisley? Non one. They are famous for their music videos (which are brilliant). They are under appreciated for their music, ingenuity, and independence (they split from traditional labels). I love the idea of OK Go. And they are the only ones who could pull it off. Who plays hand bells at a concert?
I'm starting to feel like that guy on Weekend Update who says "I love it!" Also I feel like this entry has a lot of parentheses.
3) House. I realized that I have been watching this show since its second season. It is in the middle of its seventh. I am pretty sure I've seen every episode at least once. I am too emotionally invested in most of the characters. Yes, I have cried while watching it. More than once.
4) The Hunger Games series. Thank you Sary. What can I say, I love distopia. I love the brutality and fierceness. I love the dandelion. The movies better be awesome; they have the potential. Also, I love making other people read these books and watching them fall in love too.
Honorable mentions:
Music) Jon McLaughlin and Joe Brooks. Jon McLaughlin's piano is incredible. Seriously, watch him play. It's crazy. And Joe Brooks is just delightful. I'm not as obsessive about these two, but I would venture that I still love them as much or more than the average person likes their favorite band.
TV) Community. Just started watching it this year and it is great. And everyone is right, Modern Warfare (the paintball episode) is incredible.
Books) Too many to list. Atonement by Ian McEwan. Markus Zusak's books. Crime and Punishment by Dostovesky. And of course Harry Potter. Harry Potter should probably go into the category of "love too much" but it would need it's own post. It was the original "love too much" and still holds a huge place in my heart. Except for that epilogue. That can go.
There are too many other things as well. And people. I promise not to waste your blog reading time and my blog space with stuff like this too often.
Friday, January 14, 2011
all will be well...
...you can ask me how, but only time will tell.
Not many people say they are thankful for their hair. They either don't think about it or don't mention it. Mentioning it would be equivalent to a giant sign that read "I'm a vain, self-centered person". Something about this sign reminds me of Joel McHale's character on Community, who I love, but really no one should say they are thankful for their hair. Well, I am.
I found out last night, or maybe just more fully understood, that one of my friends is losing her hair. She is sick and has no real solution for her rapidly disappearing hair.
There is a picture of us on my desk. Both freshly out of a pond, wearing light blue swimsuits, blonde hair, blue eyes. Despite those basics we don't actually look that similar. I've always been jealous of her naturally slim figure and huge blue eyes. (My eyes all but disappear when I smile). But the point is, the two of us were always the smart blondes. We always had that in common. That's who we were in jr. high before she moved away. And I thought we would always be part of this group.
I've never dyed my hair. I now feel guilty for every day I've complained about a bad hair day. And every time I've panicked because I've just cut off five inches of hair. Five inches sounds like it might be freak-out worthy, but it really isn't for me. I'm about the only one who notices my hair is now higher on my back. I want there to be something I can do for her. Hair might be material, but I don't know what I'd do without mine. It's like a security blanket.
"All will be well, even though sometimes this is hard to tell and the fight is just as frustrating as hell"
I listened to this song last night (and coincidentally, just began playing again) as I thought about my friend and I couldn't seem to fall asleep. She is an amazing and strong person, one of the most brilliant I know, with more confidence than I can shake a stick at. She will be fine. But she deserves better.
Not many people say they are thankful for their hair. They either don't think about it or don't mention it. Mentioning it would be equivalent to a giant sign that read "I'm a vain, self-centered person". Something about this sign reminds me of Joel McHale's character on Community, who I love, but really no one should say they are thankful for their hair. Well, I am.
I found out last night, or maybe just more fully understood, that one of my friends is losing her hair. She is sick and has no real solution for her rapidly disappearing hair.
There is a picture of us on my desk. Both freshly out of a pond, wearing light blue swimsuits, blonde hair, blue eyes. Despite those basics we don't actually look that similar. I've always been jealous of her naturally slim figure and huge blue eyes. (My eyes all but disappear when I smile). But the point is, the two of us were always the smart blondes. We always had that in common. That's who we were in jr. high before she moved away. And I thought we would always be part of this group.
I've never dyed my hair. I now feel guilty for every day I've complained about a bad hair day. And every time I've panicked because I've just cut off five inches of hair. Five inches sounds like it might be freak-out worthy, but it really isn't for me. I'm about the only one who notices my hair is now higher on my back. I want there to be something I can do for her. Hair might be material, but I don't know what I'd do without mine. It's like a security blanket.
"All will be well, even though sometimes this is hard to tell and the fight is just as frustrating as hell"
I listened to this song last night (and coincidentally, just began playing again) as I thought about my friend and I couldn't seem to fall asleep. She is an amazing and strong person, one of the most brilliant I know, with more confidence than I can shake a stick at. She will be fine. But she deserves better.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
oh what a way to start the new year
I've always had a battle with New Years Eve. The first one I really remember was the millenium and so naturally there was a huge party. Ever since I have expected it to be an exciting holiday. It hasn't been. My family tends to go to bed around nine. And yet every year I get unnecessarily excited. Another case of wishful thinking.
This year was still no Times Square. But it was better. Natalie M. and I planned to have an adventure. And after midnight we did. We convinced Justen to teach us to dance. We spent the next two or more hours spinning around on the stage in Sun Valley. (Sure I might have thrown up at one point, but hey you ahve to start the new year off with a bang, right?)
To be honest, I'm not ready to go back to school. I always wanted to go farther from home and experience somewhere new, but the longer I am home and with my family the more I hate leaving. I panicked before going to school last fall, but this time I know I'll be fine as soon as I am there. It's just a little adjustment now.
"Because we have 364 more days" A quote that used to appear everytime I turned on my old phone. It's from a song aptly named "New Year" by a band I am a little too in love with. Last year I listened to it as I fell asleep on New Years Eve. This year I just played it in my head, but I think it represents a new future but in a much more manageable time frame.
So here's to "I still have hope that this could be my year because we have 364 more days, one million chances left"
This year was still no Times Square. But it was better. Natalie M. and I planned to have an adventure. And after midnight we did. We convinced Justen to teach us to dance. We spent the next two or more hours spinning around on the stage in Sun Valley. (Sure I might have thrown up at one point, but hey you ahve to start the new year off with a bang, right?)
To be honest, I'm not ready to go back to school. I always wanted to go farther from home and experience somewhere new, but the longer I am home and with my family the more I hate leaving. I panicked before going to school last fall, but this time I know I'll be fine as soon as I am there. It's just a little adjustment now.
"Because we have 364 more days" A quote that used to appear everytime I turned on my old phone. It's from a song aptly named "New Year" by a band I am a little too in love with. Last year I listened to it as I fell asleep on New Years Eve. This year I just played it in my head, but I think it represents a new future but in a much more manageable time frame.
So here's to "I still have hope that this could be my year because we have 364 more days, one million chances left"
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