Kevin was making some changes to his blog tonight, so I decided I should see what's left of the blogs I once maintained so proudly. This one here is my catch-all blog; old poems, book reviews, observations all seem to have found their way to this place. My other blog is more academic and contains discussions of sources I've read for school (I'm now starting my dissertation...I started this here site around the time I was taking the GRE and considering applying for graduate work at the MA level).
To think of how my life has changed since I started this blog. Or, even more scary, to think of how my life has changed since I started my very first blog, a Xanga, back in 2004. Eight long years ago. Eight short years ago. The dawn of my 20s. To think of how old I felt then, leaving my teenage years behind!
So many blogs and online journals floating around out there on the web. So many neglected, forgotten. Others still diligently updated and read and followed. What's up with our desire, our craving, our need to have others read our words or see our photos or care about the phrases and images floating around in our own heads? Or our desire, our desperate need to chronicle moments so that we can visit them again later and, if we're lucky, bring back the same emotions we felt upon first experiencing those moments?
Sometimes I get downright overwhelmed by how many experiences - from the profound to the ordinary - I want to document on paper. Or on a screen. Or somewhere more permanent or reliable than my own brain. Or somewhere that seems more permanent. I wonder how many others want this same sort of chronicle; this same sort of catalog that we can flip through, years, decades from now, and feel like our past is still visitable, navigable. Enduring. So many mental photographs I want to save forever. So many that have already evaporated. So many that haven't happened yet and even when they do, will never make their way to an archive. I miss them already.
Monday, June 18, 2012
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Hello, 2011.
I'll keep this one short and sweet. I have two fitness-related goals for the new year:
1) Play tennis at least once a week (for at least one hour).
2) Walk/run/bike/elliptical 500 miles by June 1. That's the distance between my house and one of my favorite east coast travel spots (Ocean City, New Jersey). It averages to about 100 miles per month. I can do that, right? I'd rather choose Charleston, but I know I can't make it there in 5 months :p
I also plan to reduce consumption of sweets. I don't want to get all crazy and restrict everything, or count quantities, or anything like that. I feel I have enough common sense to simply reduce my intake and say "no" more often than I say "yes" to sugary temptations.
Would love to hear others' goals for the new year...or for any time.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Summer Reading
My summer reading list is a work-in-progress. It usually is. I start out with a rather lengthy list and then two books in, I find something else I want to read and the whole system gets disrupted. In many ways, I'm a list-oriented person (as my spiral planner and dry erase board can attest), but when it comes to reading, I sometimes have trouble following an already demarcated path. So we'll see how far I get in this one, which I've intentionally kept brief:
SUMMER READING 2010
FICTION:
1. Norwegian Wood, by Haruki Murakami
2. The Hobbit, by J. R. R. Tolkien
3. The Well and the Mine, by Gin Phillips
4. Kafka on the Shore, by Haruki Murakami
5. The Grapes of Wrath, by John Steinbeck
NONFICTION:
1. Articulating Life's Memory: U.S. Medical Rhetoric About Abortion, by Nathan Stormer
2. Cultural Amnesia: America's Future and the Crisis of Memory, by Stephen Bertman
3. Black Dogs and Blue Words: Depression and Gender in the Age of Self-Care, by Kimberly Emmons
There are several more books related to medical rhetoric that I plan to check out; I'm not sure how in-depth I'll read them (it may be more of a skimming/browsing process). I also plan to browse some composition/rhetoric journals. This is all toward helping me decide what I want to research for my PhD. Sometimes I really miss Beverly Cleary.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Self-Awareness
I am suspended between excitement and defeat when I think about all there is to learn. Everything interests me and fascinates me and tries to draw me into its web. I want to learn to cook, to knit, to crochet, to speak French fluently, to master more difficult yoga poses. I want to read War and Peace, explore the world of finance, consider new avenues for academic research, publish a book. Engage with art, architecture, music, Christianity. Become more environmentally aware, more health conscious. Develop my mind and body to the fullest potential.
Here I am, one speck on a sprawling celestial canvas. I could spend forever looking outward -- seeking, learning, endeavoring to understand. And I will. Because I don't think I can extract myself from the yearning.
But I could also spend forever looking inward -- reflecting, reevaluating, attempting to become a better friend, daughter, niece, neighbor, girlfriend/wife, citizen of earth. And I will. Because knowledge of oneself cannot be found in a paperback that claims to offer such. It cannot be bought or taught or memorized or rehearsed. There is no step-by-step grammar for self-awareness. It is felt, it is lived, it simply is.
I do not want to move mechanically through each day, checking mirrors for skin blemishes and applying apologies as relationship balms. I am deeper than my complexion, and I love more deeply than words can render. To beautify, I must first look inward. To love those around me, I must first look inward. To interrogate this globally shared existence, I must first, and always, be willing to interrogate my own.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
On the Origin of Status Updates
We each have our own style of Facebooking. Huge photo albums. Compulsive wall-posting. Obnoxiously frequent video-postings to others' walls. One log-in per month. Two log-ins per hour. Sparse profile pages. Textually flooded profile pages. Five hundred applications. Minimalist everything. Ceaseless poking (though that one's died out quite a bit).
Regardless, there is one feature that is both used and abused by most users of this depressingly addictive social networking site: the status update.
When it first was introduced, the status update limited users to using the present progressive verb tense.
Mary is studying.
Mary is going to class.
Mary is taking a shower.
Mary is not wanting to wake up early.
Mary is thinking the simple present would be nice.
Some people blissfully ignored the rules of verb formations.
Mary is yayyy Federer won!
Mary is OMG I'M SO TIRED.
Mary is ...hmmm...
Mary is overslept.
Finally, Facebook granted us our independence and removed that tiny little obstruction to our expressive free-for-alls. Now, we can insert "is" at our own will, or we can use any other verb and tense.... or noun or interjection or anything our little hearts desire.
With the advent of "like" and status comments, entire conversations can be built around a single status update. It's not enough to write on someone's wall, now. Instead, we can have focused mini-chats about the cookies someone baked this morning or the 10 inches of snow or the fact that someone feels blah.
I know as I update my status and read others' that I'm wasting far too much time on this site. Tonight I decided to waste even more time by discussing some of the most common styles of status updates that grace my home page on any given day.
This is by no means scientific, nor do I claim that my observations represent the Facebook population at large. I also intend no insult to anyone because I've used a variety of these styles myself. I'm simply interested in analyzing how spontaneously written textual updates cumulatively come to signify an individual.
Actually, no. That's a topic for a more serious investigation. I just want to ramble at the moment.
These come in no particular order other than how I think of them.
Style: good news!
Example: Cindy aced her finals, woooo!!!
This update announces something big and important, usually followed by exclamations or smilie faces. Some reserve the good news! update for really big things (such as engagements, pregnancies, new jobs, and the like). Others will announce an A on a school paper or the acquisition of tickets for a concert. The important thing is that good news! updates relate to the author and no one else; he or she wants personal congratulations, not communal celebration.
Style: communal celebration
Example: Michael Hell yeah, Cavs to the playoffs!!!!!!!!@@
This style is similar to the previous, in that good news is announced. However, it's something shared with others, such as a big sports victory. These updates usually gain lots of "likes" but perhaps not as many individual comments because there's not as much to say on the topic.
Style: bad news
No example needed.
The opposite of good news. Obviously. The updater needs sympathy and commiseration. Generally, bad news updates warrant genuine pity because they include important life events (death of a person, loss of a pet, loss of a job, etc.). They are heavy and truly sad. Others never quite know what to say on them except to express sorrow and extend thoughts and prayers.
Style: my life sucks
Example: Julia UGH I overslept by 30 minutes and missed my first class again. FML.
Whereas the last style invites genuine concern, this one tends to risk becoming a daily complaint bulletin. An occasional "life sucks" moment is fine. But sometimes, they start to become habitual, punctuated occasionally by a good news! but otherwise a steady stream of FMLs. That's when the "hide" feature comes to good use.
Style: (wo)man vs. food
Example: Marcia just consumed the most DELICIOUS steak ever, drizzled in a wine demi-glace and served with garlic mashed potatoes on the side. mmmmm so full.
Every new food item consumed is listed, sometimes in extraordinary detail. No objections here.
Style: overt drunkie-ness
Example: Stephanie is out partyyyin wit my girlieees so druk lollll gnitte all :)))
Typos galore; excessive emphasis on drunkenness; a clear need for attention. I'd much rather hear about steak in a wine demi-glace.
Style: cryptic mystique
Example: Steven... if only.....
They want to make you wonder. They want you to comment with inquiries. They want you to hypothesize as to the cause or the deeper meaning. They might ignore all inquires and simply post another cryptic mystique an hour later (...never again...sigh.). Oh, the suspense is eating me alive!
Style: honest report
Example: Curt has a busy day...class, meeting, dinner, studying, gym, bed.
This is a basic chronicle of one's day. No frills or mystery about it. Usually contains a steady stream of either nouns or action verbs. Simple, direct, to the point.
Style: love report
Example: Michelle loves her husband!
Really? Well, gosh, who'd have thought.
**Disclaimer: I love seeing expressions of love. But these ones always amuse me, especially when they're accompanied by no other remarks.
Style: suggestion grabber
Example: Bob needs an idea for his final paper on the civil war. Help.
Multiple comments and conversation threads ensue. Perhaps some commiseration as well.
Style: tweet imports
Example: Robert @blue_vibes yeah i'm with ya!
Just say no.
Style: grammar murder
Example: Lizzy hahaha you know your a phi mu when its 2am and your running acrost the street waring only a pink bath robe that isnt even your's ...
Like, way to kill the English language. Time and time again. These status updates make me feel like such a snob, but deep down I know I'm justified in physically shaking and clutching my desktop dictionary.
Style: the tangent
No example needed.
This situation is instigated not by the updater but rather with one select commenter. The status could be about the weather, but someone will say "hey sorry i missed ur party last nite!" and then the updater will respond "it's ok, we should hang out, maybe friday?" and then 10 comments later, the person who initially commented with "i know, 80 degree weather rocks!" will discreetly delete his or her remark so as to stop receiving notifications.
Further suggestions are welcome. But it's 3 a.m. now. And I stayed up waayyy too late writing this thing. FML.
Regardless, there is one feature that is both used and abused by most users of this depressingly addictive social networking site: the status update.
When it first was introduced, the status update limited users to using the present progressive verb tense.
Mary is studying.
Mary is going to class.
Mary is taking a shower.
Mary is not wanting to wake up early.
Mary is thinking the simple present would be nice.
Some people blissfully ignored the rules of verb formations.
Mary is yayyy Federer won!
Mary is OMG I'M SO TIRED.
Mary is ...hmmm...
Mary is overslept.
Finally, Facebook granted us our independence and removed that tiny little obstruction to our expressive free-for-alls. Now, we can insert "is" at our own will, or we can use any other verb and tense.... or noun or interjection or anything our little hearts desire.
With the advent of "like" and status comments, entire conversations can be built around a single status update. It's not enough to write on someone's wall, now. Instead, we can have focused mini-chats about the cookies someone baked this morning or the 10 inches of snow or the fact that someone feels blah.
I know as I update my status and read others' that I'm wasting far too much time on this site. Tonight I decided to waste even more time by discussing some of the most common styles of status updates that grace my home page on any given day.
This is by no means scientific, nor do I claim that my observations represent the Facebook population at large. I also intend no insult to anyone because I've used a variety of these styles myself. I'm simply interested in analyzing how spontaneously written textual updates cumulatively come to signify an individual.
Actually, no. That's a topic for a more serious investigation. I just want to ramble at the moment.
These come in no particular order other than how I think of them.
Style: good news!
Example: Cindy aced her finals, woooo!!!
This update announces something big and important, usually followed by exclamations or smilie faces. Some reserve the good news! update for really big things (such as engagements, pregnancies, new jobs, and the like). Others will announce an A on a school paper or the acquisition of tickets for a concert. The important thing is that good news! updates relate to the author and no one else; he or she wants personal congratulations, not communal celebration.
Style: communal celebration
Example: Michael Hell yeah, Cavs to the playoffs!!!!!!!!@@
This style is similar to the previous, in that good news is announced. However, it's something shared with others, such as a big sports victory. These updates usually gain lots of "likes" but perhaps not as many individual comments because there's not as much to say on the topic.
Style: bad news
No example needed.
The opposite of good news. Obviously. The updater needs sympathy and commiseration. Generally, bad news updates warrant genuine pity because they include important life events (death of a person, loss of a pet, loss of a job, etc.). They are heavy and truly sad. Others never quite know what to say on them except to express sorrow and extend thoughts and prayers.
Style: my life sucks
Example: Julia UGH I overslept by 30 minutes and missed my first class again. FML.
Whereas the last style invites genuine concern, this one tends to risk becoming a daily complaint bulletin. An occasional "life sucks" moment is fine. But sometimes, they start to become habitual, punctuated occasionally by a good news! but otherwise a steady stream of FMLs. That's when the "hide" feature comes to good use.
Style: (wo)man vs. food
Example: Marcia just consumed the most DELICIOUS steak ever, drizzled in a wine demi-glace and served with garlic mashed potatoes on the side. mmmmm so full.
Every new food item consumed is listed, sometimes in extraordinary detail. No objections here.
Style: overt drunkie-ness
Example: Stephanie is out partyyyin wit my girlieees so druk lollll gnitte all :)))
Typos galore; excessive emphasis on drunkenness; a clear need for attention. I'd much rather hear about steak in a wine demi-glace.
Style: cryptic mystique
Example: Steven... if only.....
They want to make you wonder. They want you to comment with inquiries. They want you to hypothesize as to the cause or the deeper meaning. They might ignore all inquires and simply post another cryptic mystique an hour later (...never again...sigh.). Oh, the suspense is eating me alive!
Style: honest report
Example: Curt has a busy day...class, meeting, dinner, studying, gym, bed.
This is a basic chronicle of one's day. No frills or mystery about it. Usually contains a steady stream of either nouns or action verbs. Simple, direct, to the point.
Style: love report
Example: Michelle loves her husband!
Really? Well, gosh, who'd have thought.
**Disclaimer: I love seeing expressions of love. But these ones always amuse me, especially when they're accompanied by no other remarks.
Style: suggestion grabber
Example: Bob needs an idea for his final paper on the civil war. Help.
Multiple comments and conversation threads ensue. Perhaps some commiseration as well.
Style: tweet imports
Example: Robert @blue_vibes yeah i'm with ya!
Just say no.
Style: grammar murder
Example: Lizzy hahaha you know your a phi mu when its 2am and your running acrost the street waring only a pink bath robe that isnt even your's ...
Like, way to kill the English language. Time and time again. These status updates make me feel like such a snob, but deep down I know I'm justified in physically shaking and clutching my desktop dictionary.
Style: the tangent
No example needed.
This situation is instigated not by the updater but rather with one select commenter. The status could be about the weather, but someone will say "hey sorry i missed ur party last nite!" and then the updater will respond "it's ok, we should hang out, maybe friday?" and then 10 comments later, the person who initially commented with "i know, 80 degree weather rocks!" will discreetly delete his or her remark so as to stop receiving notifications.
Further suggestions are welcome. But it's 3 a.m. now. And I stayed up waayyy too late writing this thing. FML.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Academia
You know the professor from Alabama who shot her colleagues dead? Well, according to a panelist on Jane Velez Mitchell, professors have a reputation for being a little wacky. Mitchell agreed with this comment, and if it weren't for a random caller who defended teachers in higher education, these ignorant remarks would've been left unquestioned.
Now, I know professors have been seen as "eccentric" and absent-minded maybe a little "out there," but most of us know that's a general stereotype. It's one thing to joke around about those in academia having eccentricities. I'll admit you have to be a little out-of-the-ordinary in order to devote your life to school. And those of us who spend endless hours at the library have inhaled dangerous amounts of dust from those peculiar-smelling (yet somehow comforting) old books, probably with deleterious effects after accumulated exposure.
And yeah, we'll probably have stress break-downs every now and then, but at least for me, those break-downs involve some tears, some unhealthy eating, some insomnia, and some whining to my boyfriend. None of those things harm others. Well, my boyfriend probably wishes I'd hush up sometimes. But he knows that if he gives me some chocolate and/or wine I'll be just fine within hours.
My friends are all similar. I know countless people pursuing higher education, many of whom wish to become tenured and teach for the rest of their lives. I admire their dedication and intelligence so much.
I hope to complete my doctorate and join the ranks of life-long scholars myself. And I do not appreciate stupid comments made casually on national television connecting "wacky professors" to one clearly mentally disturbed woman who happened to hold a PhD. During the same show, a comment was made regarding this woman's tenure, and how perhaps the acquisition of tenure should have an age limit (I don't know the specifics; I heard about this entire batch of comments second-hand). Hm, let's conveniently ignore the fact that the suspect killed her brother with a shotgun at age 19, yet was let go because police ruled it "an accident." I think that was long before securing tenure.
Get the facts right, people. It's not like you're talking with your neighbor over coffee; you're on CNN. Don't connect an entire profession with a single murderer. A little education about common tact might do you some good.
Now, I know professors have been seen as "eccentric" and absent-minded maybe a little "out there," but most of us know that's a general stereotype. It's one thing to joke around about those in academia having eccentricities. I'll admit you have to be a little out-of-the-ordinary in order to devote your life to school. And those of us who spend endless hours at the library have inhaled dangerous amounts of dust from those peculiar-smelling (yet somehow comforting) old books, probably with deleterious effects after accumulated exposure.
And yeah, we'll probably have stress break-downs every now and then, but at least for me, those break-downs involve some tears, some unhealthy eating, some insomnia, and some whining to my boyfriend. None of those things harm others. Well, my boyfriend probably wishes I'd hush up sometimes. But he knows that if he gives me some chocolate and/or wine I'll be just fine within hours.
My friends are all similar. I know countless people pursuing higher education, many of whom wish to become tenured and teach for the rest of their lives. I admire their dedication and intelligence so much.
I hope to complete my doctorate and join the ranks of life-long scholars myself. And I do not appreciate stupid comments made casually on national television connecting "wacky professors" to one clearly mentally disturbed woman who happened to hold a PhD. During the same show, a comment was made regarding this woman's tenure, and how perhaps the acquisition of tenure should have an age limit (I don't know the specifics; I heard about this entire batch of comments second-hand). Hm, let's conveniently ignore the fact that the suspect killed her brother with a shotgun at age 19, yet was let go because police ruled it "an accident." I think that was long before securing tenure.
Get the facts right, people. It's not like you're talking with your neighbor over coffee; you're on CNN. Don't connect an entire profession with a single murderer. A little education about common tact might do you some good.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
love and language
I often feel that "love" is an inadequate word. Sure, I use it all the time. But that's the problem. It's become such an integral part of most people's conversations that it starts to lose its power.
I love chocolate. I love my new phone. I love sleeping in. I love soft blankets. I love kittens. I love seeing the sun rise. I love walking on a beach when no one else is around. I love my family. I love my friends. I love my boyfriend. I love reading. I love shopping.
Each of these objects (for lack of a better word) of my love holds significance for different reasons. There are different implications attached, some of which are obvious by their context, and others of which are a bit more ambiguous. For instance, what is the difference between my love of sleeping in and my love of blankets? Both "objects" bring me comfort. But not in quite the same way. One is more tactile and the other is more mental/emotional.
Recently in class, one of my professors said that, contrary to popular belief, eskimoes do not have 30-some ways of saying "snow." But that got me thinking about the English language and how some very complicated concepts are condensed to simple and limiting verbal expressions.
I'm curious to know if any other languages have multiple words that express the diversity of "love." I don't mean simply tacking on a modifier: romantic love, friendly love, etc. I mean one lexical unit exists for a specific connotation, another lexical unit exists for another connotation, etc. This could be an interesting research project.
I think too much when I'm home sick.
I love chocolate. I love my new phone. I love sleeping in. I love soft blankets. I love kittens. I love seeing the sun rise. I love walking on a beach when no one else is around. I love my family. I love my friends. I love my boyfriend. I love reading. I love shopping.
Each of these objects (for lack of a better word) of my love holds significance for different reasons. There are different implications attached, some of which are obvious by their context, and others of which are a bit more ambiguous. For instance, what is the difference between my love of sleeping in and my love of blankets? Both "objects" bring me comfort. But not in quite the same way. One is more tactile and the other is more mental/emotional.
Recently in class, one of my professors said that, contrary to popular belief, eskimoes do not have 30-some ways of saying "snow." But that got me thinking about the English language and how some very complicated concepts are condensed to simple and limiting verbal expressions.
I'm curious to know if any other languages have multiple words that express the diversity of "love." I don't mean simply tacking on a modifier: romantic love, friendly love, etc. I mean one lexical unit exists for a specific connotation, another lexical unit exists for another connotation, etc. This could be an interesting research project.
I think too much when I'm home sick.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Possessions.
I had bought it on sale. It was a simple red hoodie with no real emotional value attached to it. I mean, I'd worn it lots of times over the past year, but there wasn't a moment that stood out in my mind where that hoodie was prominent. Now, my red dress from Deb, that's a different story. I wore that silky little thing to two important events, and it has very special memories attached. This hoodie didn't have that type of history in my sentimental mind.
But as my eyes scoured my hotel room before sealing the luggage one last time, I suddenly realized that my hoodie was nowhere to be found. After some intense rewinding through the past few days, I concluded that I must've left it at a certain restaurant the previous day. I called there, but apparently no one had found it.
Feeling sad but not overwhelmingly so, I finished up the last-minute things and left the hotel. Without thinking much would come of it, I decided to stop at the restaurant since there was a bit of extra time. Why not inquire in person just in case?
I walked in and felt rather silly, inquring about a red hoodie. The host said he hadn't seen it, but would look around one more time. A few minutes later, I heard him say, "Is this it?" as he held up a little red garment. I was surprised at how happy I felt when I nodded in affirmation and swiped my lost-now-found possession from his grasp.
I know this will sound a bit absurd. But it was like, for a moment, I was claiming back a part of myself. I suddenly felt oddly attached to that hoodie, which, before then, had only been a nondescript member of my full-to-bursting closet. Just seeing it there, being held by a stranger, having been in some drawer (where "no one would have thought to look for it") since the previous day, made me feel strangely sentimental. I held onto it throughout the journey home and felt comforted by its softness and warmth.
I know you're not supposed to get attached to "things." They are material and superficial and not important in the scheme of things. But really, they are important. They're certainly not more important than love and family and friends, but they're not meaningless, either. And we shouldn't feel guilty for valuing our "possessions." In our fast-paced and fleeting lives, it's okay to have something to hold onto.
But as my eyes scoured my hotel room before sealing the luggage one last time, I suddenly realized that my hoodie was nowhere to be found. After some intense rewinding through the past few days, I concluded that I must've left it at a certain restaurant the previous day. I called there, but apparently no one had found it.
Feeling sad but not overwhelmingly so, I finished up the last-minute things and left the hotel. Without thinking much would come of it, I decided to stop at the restaurant since there was a bit of extra time. Why not inquire in person just in case?
I walked in and felt rather silly, inquring about a red hoodie. The host said he hadn't seen it, but would look around one more time. A few minutes later, I heard him say, "Is this it?" as he held up a little red garment. I was surprised at how happy I felt when I nodded in affirmation and swiped my lost-now-found possession from his grasp.
I know this will sound a bit absurd. But it was like, for a moment, I was claiming back a part of myself. I suddenly felt oddly attached to that hoodie, which, before then, had only been a nondescript member of my full-to-bursting closet. Just seeing it there, being held by a stranger, having been in some drawer (where "no one would have thought to look for it") since the previous day, made me feel strangely sentimental. I held onto it throughout the journey home and felt comforted by its softness and warmth.
I know you're not supposed to get attached to "things." They are material and superficial and not important in the scheme of things. But really, they are important. They're certainly not more important than love and family and friends, but they're not meaningless, either. And we shouldn't feel guilty for valuing our "possessions." In our fast-paced and fleeting lives, it's okay to have something to hold onto.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
super-power
Normally, I don't bother to answer such questions as, "if you could have one super-power, what would it be?" I think they're silly and pointless and only make you feel depressed since you know you'll never have that super-power, anyway.
But this time, it's okay because I wasn't asked the question. I just thought of this, randomly, as I'm sitting here reading... as I'm sitting here surrounded by books that I want to read but physically don't have the time to read. It's like food; I can only consume so many delicious favorites before my stomach tells me that one more bite will send my intestines into chaos. I can only physically consume so much text before my eyes start to hurt, or before I realize that it's 3:30 a.m. and I should probably sleep, or before something more urgent gets in the way of my novelistic rendezvous.
So here we go. My super-power.
I want to read as long as I want without having the time subtracted from my day. I want to walk through that wardrobe and enter Narnia, and have the "real" time of my life become suspended. I want to sit and read and read and read and read and read
and read and read until I feel like stopping.
Then I want to go back through the wardrobe and enter my real life again. And no time will have evaporated. And I'll proceed as usual until the next time.
Yeah, I'd probably choose that over flying or shooting lasers from my eyes.
But this time, it's okay because I wasn't asked the question. I just thought of this, randomly, as I'm sitting here reading... as I'm sitting here surrounded by books that I want to read but physically don't have the time to read. It's like food; I can only consume so many delicious favorites before my stomach tells me that one more bite will send my intestines into chaos. I can only physically consume so much text before my eyes start to hurt, or before I realize that it's 3:30 a.m. and I should probably sleep, or before something more urgent gets in the way of my novelistic rendezvous.
So here we go. My super-power.
I want to read as long as I want without having the time subtracted from my day. I want to walk through that wardrobe and enter Narnia, and have the "real" time of my life become suspended. I want to sit and read and read and read and read and read
and read and read until I feel like stopping.
Then I want to go back through the wardrobe and enter my real life again. And no time will have evaporated. And I'll proceed as usual until the next time.
Yeah, I'd probably choose that over flying or shooting lasers from my eyes.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Ridiculous
This is just a brief post because I don't have a lot of time. But I just have to mention something I heard on TV a few moments ago that truly incensed me.
My mom was watching a program on EWTN, the Catholic network. Occasionally, there are shows on this station that I like. And I think it's beneficial to offer programming to Catholics of all ages that discuss the faith. However, as far as I can tell, the outreach to young people could use some work. Especially to women.
Some woman (I don't know her name but she's on EWTN a lot) was discussing purity and the importance of it for today's youth. At one point she had the absolute nerve to say, "I can take one look at a girl and tell when she's lost her purity."
Let me count the number of things wrong with this statement. A) She's assuming that you can judge someone by their appearance, B) She's acting like purity is something you can lose once and irrevocably, C) She sounds like a self-righteous idiot.
How much pressure does this put on young women to be "pure" and appear "pure"? Who defines what "pure" means, anyway? And why impose such harsh standards on women who then must live in the fear that someone can look at them and instantly know if they're pure or not? And worst of all... to cloak such beliefs in the idea that God supports it all!
Yes, this is really going to help the youth come to the Catholic church and feel welcomed and loved. Oh yeah. So smart. Keep it up.
My mom was watching a program on EWTN, the Catholic network. Occasionally, there are shows on this station that I like. And I think it's beneficial to offer programming to Catholics of all ages that discuss the faith. However, as far as I can tell, the outreach to young people could use some work. Especially to women.
Some woman (I don't know her name but she's on EWTN a lot) was discussing purity and the importance of it for today's youth. At one point she had the absolute nerve to say, "I can take one look at a girl and tell when she's lost her purity."
Let me count the number of things wrong with this statement. A) She's assuming that you can judge someone by their appearance, B) She's acting like purity is something you can lose once and irrevocably, C) She sounds like a self-righteous idiot.
How much pressure does this put on young women to be "pure" and appear "pure"? Who defines what "pure" means, anyway? And why impose such harsh standards on women who then must live in the fear that someone can look at them and instantly know if they're pure or not? And worst of all... to cloak such beliefs in the idea that God supports it all!
Yes, this is really going to help the youth come to the Catholic church and feel welcomed and loved. Oh yeah. So smart. Keep it up.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Compliments
Unexpected compliments are the best. Like standing in line waiting to pay for groceries, and the person behind you says "I love your purse!" and then you launch into a 5-minute conversation about Vera Bradleys while the customer ahead of you digs in their purse for 100 coupons (and then pays by check).
Like e-mailing your students their essays, with comments, and receiving a response from one that says you've been very helpful.
Like looking in the mirror and being shocked by how your happiness radiates through your face, making make-up unimportant and causing you to stuff that "all over bronzing powder" back into your bag, unused.
Three different kinds of compliments. All important.
We need the superficial ones because sometimes they're the best way to strike up a conversation. We need the action-based ones even more because they remind us that what we do affects others, and even if we don't feel like our actions are always appreciated, they are. Perhaps most of all, we need the self-created ones because they remind us that even without outside validation, we can be pleased with who we are, what we look like, and what we do in our daily lives.
It's the last kind that's the hardest to generate, though. I find it easy to tell my friend "Oh you look so pretty today!", or "thank you for all your support." But it's easy to forget to compliment myself, silently, or especially in front of others. Sometimes it's even easier to put myself down, silently and in front of others.
On the day I received my Masters degree, I made a random self-depracating comment that I thought would slip by unnoticed (except perhaps with a few laughs). Yet a professor, there to lead the commencement procession, heard me, and immediately reproached me. She said "don't put yourself down," in a tone that surprised and really affected me. She didn't even know me, yet she probably recognized the tone that so many women (and men) take with themselves. She told me that I was clearly smart and had earned my degree; therefore there was no need to put myself down. I hadn't seen my light-hearted comment as damaging to my self-esteem, but over time, talking about yourself negatively can probably take a toll.
So I've now promised myself to work on correcting such comments. Making fun of myself is okay, as long as I remember to compliment myself more often.
I may make silly mistakes. I may have lots of quirks with no logic behind them. I may say stupid things that make no sense at all. But I definitely am loving and caring to everyone I know. I'm definitely forgiving. I'm definitely generous. I definitely need to remind myself such things every day until this pattern of self-celebration becomes second nature. Walt Whitman knew what he was talking about.
Like e-mailing your students their essays, with comments, and receiving a response from one that says you've been very helpful.
Like looking in the mirror and being shocked by how your happiness radiates through your face, making make-up unimportant and causing you to stuff that "all over bronzing powder" back into your bag, unused.
Three different kinds of compliments. All important.
We need the superficial ones because sometimes they're the best way to strike up a conversation. We need the action-based ones even more because they remind us that what we do affects others, and even if we don't feel like our actions are always appreciated, they are. Perhaps most of all, we need the self-created ones because they remind us that even without outside validation, we can be pleased with who we are, what we look like, and what we do in our daily lives.
It's the last kind that's the hardest to generate, though. I find it easy to tell my friend "Oh you look so pretty today!", or "thank you for all your support." But it's easy to forget to compliment myself, silently, or especially in front of others. Sometimes it's even easier to put myself down, silently and in front of others.
On the day I received my Masters degree, I made a random self-depracating comment that I thought would slip by unnoticed (except perhaps with a few laughs). Yet a professor, there to lead the commencement procession, heard me, and immediately reproached me. She said "don't put yourself down," in a tone that surprised and really affected me. She didn't even know me, yet she probably recognized the tone that so many women (and men) take with themselves. She told me that I was clearly smart and had earned my degree; therefore there was no need to put myself down. I hadn't seen my light-hearted comment as damaging to my self-esteem, but over time, talking about yourself negatively can probably take a toll.
So I've now promised myself to work on correcting such comments. Making fun of myself is okay, as long as I remember to compliment myself more often.
I may make silly mistakes. I may have lots of quirks with no logic behind them. I may say stupid things that make no sense at all. But I definitely am loving and caring to everyone I know. I'm definitely forgiving. I'm definitely generous. I definitely need to remind myself such things every day until this pattern of self-celebration becomes second nature. Walt Whitman knew what he was talking about.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Late-Night Reading
What is so special about reading late into the night, and early into the morning? Midnight approaches, arrives, recedes... leaves nothing but solitary darkness. A few scattered noises from afar punctuate an otherwise ethereal silence. Word upon word, page after page; I turn over thoughts and centuries in my hands. And I enter other worlds. And I defy all that's temporal.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Downtown.
Every time I drive downtown, I can't help but notice the contrast between daytime and nighttime. It's like after sunset, a veil is lifted, and the true beauty of the city can finally be seen. Sure, the city can be appealing in vivid sunshine too, and yes, the night contains crime and ugly things as well. But I don't know; there's just something about a city at night that seems haunting and magical, and nothing else really compares to it.
So, I started writing this a while ago. Browsing through my old Word files, I stumbled across it tonight, and did a bunch of editing. It's still not perfect but I wanted to share it anyway. Lately all I've written are essays for school, and so revisiting something non-academic was refreshing.
*
Navigating the city streets, I inhale chemicals and impatience. The factories emit their plumes, and sulphur mingles with vanilla as I sip my latte. I accelerate. Horns honk, tires squeal, and I narrowly miss another disaster. Death hovers in the next lane, but I pass it yet again. Construction scaffolding threatens to break and crumble and thunder down upon progress. I desire nothing but quick escape only so I can return, later, to a different world…to a tipsy twilight intoxicated by magic that bubbles forth from a simmering cauldron beneath the ground. The vapor slowly rises as the setting sun infuses its heat into every shadow; until headlights become roving spotlights and streetlights become suspended chandeliers. Couples linger hand-in-hand beneath tall ladders to the sky. Gliding across the city streets, I inhale cologne and passion and life. I pause. Moonlight gently caresses me, and so do you, and I desire nothing but this forever.
So, I started writing this a while ago. Browsing through my old Word files, I stumbled across it tonight, and did a bunch of editing. It's still not perfect but I wanted to share it anyway. Lately all I've written are essays for school, and so revisiting something non-academic was refreshing.
*
Navigating the city streets, I inhale chemicals and impatience. The factories emit their plumes, and sulphur mingles with vanilla as I sip my latte. I accelerate. Horns honk, tires squeal, and I narrowly miss another disaster. Death hovers in the next lane, but I pass it yet again. Construction scaffolding threatens to break and crumble and thunder down upon progress. I desire nothing but quick escape only so I can return, later, to a different world…to a tipsy twilight intoxicated by magic that bubbles forth from a simmering cauldron beneath the ground. The vapor slowly rises as the setting sun infuses its heat into every shadow; until headlights become roving spotlights and streetlights become suspended chandeliers. Couples linger hand-in-hand beneath tall ladders to the sky. Gliding across the city streets, I inhale cologne and passion and life. I pause. Moonlight gently caresses me, and so do you, and I desire nothing but this forever.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Story Weaving.
"I have a feeling that no matter where we end up, we'll be together."
Do you ever hear snippets of conversations while walking down the street -- or walking anywhere, really -- and wish you could hear more of their context? It's rather nosy, I know, but sometimes certain bits of information are simply too intriguing to abandon.
I heard the words above while walking across campus earlier. Spoken by some random boy, probably 17 or 18 years old, who I'll probably never see again. Yet for a moment, I had insight into his life as he spoke to his companion. And this single sentence -- so simply yet elegantly spoken -- inspired his life story in my mind.
He's likely about to graduate and fears leaving the person he loves; maybe their individual goals diverge in opposite directions across the city, or the country, or perhaps even the world. Maybe their goals aren't even formulated yet, but the idea of the unknown makes them hesitant and uneasy. The idea of being apart makes them fear the future even as they crave its exciting embrace.
But no. They won't be apart. They don't know this. But he feels it. Somehow he believes; it's intuitive. And this innocent faith inspires his honest comment, and his honest comment inspires my weaving of his story, which may be completely inaccurate. I'll never know. But if I've spun it correctly...? Oh, how I hope they'll end up together.
Do you ever hear snippets of conversations while walking down the street -- or walking anywhere, really -- and wish you could hear more of their context? It's rather nosy, I know, but sometimes certain bits of information are simply too intriguing to abandon.
I heard the words above while walking across campus earlier. Spoken by some random boy, probably 17 or 18 years old, who I'll probably never see again. Yet for a moment, I had insight into his life as he spoke to his companion. And this single sentence -- so simply yet elegantly spoken -- inspired his life story in my mind.
He's likely about to graduate and fears leaving the person he loves; maybe their individual goals diverge in opposite directions across the city, or the country, or perhaps even the world. Maybe their goals aren't even formulated yet, but the idea of the unknown makes them hesitant and uneasy. The idea of being apart makes them fear the future even as they crave its exciting embrace.
But no. They won't be apart. They don't know this. But he feels it. Somehow he believes; it's intuitive. And this innocent faith inspires his honest comment, and his honest comment inspires my weaving of his story, which may be completely inaccurate. I'll never know. But if I've spun it correctly...? Oh, how I hope they'll end up together.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Academic Paper Writing
Sometimes I think that the longer and more frustrating the writing task, the better it feels to finally reach a point where an answer seems within reach. For easy writing assignments, there's really not much struggle: you read the question, an answer automatically pops into your mind, you write it, maybe proofread, and then that's it. But for longer, more complex and challenging questions, you have to really delve into the material and the language and find ways not only to answer the prompt, but to use language in a sophisticated and nuanced manner.
Over the past two days, I've enjoyed a few moments of "wow, I can't believe I wrote that." Amid hours of angst, those moments seem small. But they're powerful.
Over the past two days, I've enjoyed a few moments of "wow, I can't believe I wrote that." Amid hours of angst, those moments seem small. But they're powerful.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Spiritual Void.
I can't remember the last time I attended mass. Or accepted the Eucharist. Or went to confession.
I guess I'm trying to make up for my religious neglect, at least in part, by giving up desserts for Lent. And by pledging to exercise every single day. I believe that one of the best ways to honor God is to honor the bodies he gave us, and it's my hope that by Easter, I will be both physically and spiritually healthier.
Sometimes I miss the days of my childhood religion. I miss accepting everything because it was taught to me. I miss the comfort of knowing God would hear my quietest prayer and the faith of knowing that when I die, I'll be with the people I loved while on earth.
It's not that I no longer believe in those things. Most of the time, I do. But I feel like lately, my faith has wavered even more, to the point where I rarely stop to pray -- or if I do, it's mechanical -- and I've been questioning things more than ever.
I miss blind faith. I miss believing that blind faith was not ignorance but instead true wisdom.
Today, while at Arabica on my lunch break, I noticed a group of 3 people poring over some texts. I soon surmised that they were reading the Bible, specifically a passage about the construction of the temple. This portion of the Bible interests me greatly, and as I finished my mac-n-cheese (no meat on Fridays), I was greatly tempted to approach their table and ask if I could join their discussion.
Yes, they were 3 strangers. Yes, my interruption may have been unwelcome to them and embarassing to me. But they seemed friendly enough: an older lady and two guys around my age, probably a little younger. I almost mustered the courage to join them. I craved something spiritual so badly.
But as I eavesdropped on them for a bit longer, I was disheartened by their conversation. They weren't delving into the word of God. They were talking about the measurements of the temple as if those were the most important things. I heard "cubits" spoken at least a dozen times, and they were performing multiplication facts repeatedly to determine exactly how much of the tabernacle was covered by the curtain, etc. I'm sure precise measurements have a place in restoring the true appearance of the temple. But they went on and on for literally twenty minutes. Cubits. Curtains. Numbers. "No, it was 20 times 12, not 8 times 10", etc, etc, etc.
I cleared my tray and left the coffeeshop. My momentary gusto for joining a religious conversation was extinguished by their seemingly senseless chatter.
Maybe that's why people get so frustrated with religion. There's this focus on nit-picky details, and on all the nuances of those details, until eventually the details become the heart and soul of the religion rather than the issues that really matter.
I guess details like "no meat on Friday" and "give up something you like for Lent" are nit-picky. But I'm not doing those things because I'm "supposed to." I'm doing them because I want to. I want so very much to reconnect with the spirituality of my younger years. And if giving up cakes and cookies will help me along that path, then I openly welcome the change.
And maybe at some point I'll stumble upon another religious conversation at a coffeeshop (or anywhere) that's actually meaningful. Or maybe I'll start one.
I guess I'm trying to make up for my religious neglect, at least in part, by giving up desserts for Lent. And by pledging to exercise every single day. I believe that one of the best ways to honor God is to honor the bodies he gave us, and it's my hope that by Easter, I will be both physically and spiritually healthier.
Sometimes I miss the days of my childhood religion. I miss accepting everything because it was taught to me. I miss the comfort of knowing God would hear my quietest prayer and the faith of knowing that when I die, I'll be with the people I loved while on earth.
It's not that I no longer believe in those things. Most of the time, I do. But I feel like lately, my faith has wavered even more, to the point where I rarely stop to pray -- or if I do, it's mechanical -- and I've been questioning things more than ever.
I miss blind faith. I miss believing that blind faith was not ignorance but instead true wisdom.
Today, while at Arabica on my lunch break, I noticed a group of 3 people poring over some texts. I soon surmised that they were reading the Bible, specifically a passage about the construction of the temple. This portion of the Bible interests me greatly, and as I finished my mac-n-cheese (no meat on Fridays), I was greatly tempted to approach their table and ask if I could join their discussion.
Yes, they were 3 strangers. Yes, my interruption may have been unwelcome to them and embarassing to me. But they seemed friendly enough: an older lady and two guys around my age, probably a little younger. I almost mustered the courage to join them. I craved something spiritual so badly.
But as I eavesdropped on them for a bit longer, I was disheartened by their conversation. They weren't delving into the word of God. They were talking about the measurements of the temple as if those were the most important things. I heard "cubits" spoken at least a dozen times, and they were performing multiplication facts repeatedly to determine exactly how much of the tabernacle was covered by the curtain, etc. I'm sure precise measurements have a place in restoring the true appearance of the temple. But they went on and on for literally twenty minutes. Cubits. Curtains. Numbers. "No, it was 20 times 12, not 8 times 10", etc, etc, etc.
I cleared my tray and left the coffeeshop. My momentary gusto for joining a religious conversation was extinguished by their seemingly senseless chatter.
Maybe that's why people get so frustrated with religion. There's this focus on nit-picky details, and on all the nuances of those details, until eventually the details become the heart and soul of the religion rather than the issues that really matter.
I guess details like "no meat on Friday" and "give up something you like for Lent" are nit-picky. But I'm not doing those things because I'm "supposed to." I'm doing them because I want to. I want so very much to reconnect with the spirituality of my younger years. And if giving up cakes and cookies will help me along that path, then I openly welcome the change.
And maybe at some point I'll stumble upon another religious conversation at a coffeeshop (or anywhere) that's actually meaningful. Or maybe I'll start one.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Letters.
It started, I think, in the sixth grade. My best friend Kelly and I couldn't stand our science class, or our teacher, and so we ignored discussions of the food chain in favor of mindless, girly chatter. We didn't talk out loud, of course: no, we weren't that bold. Instead, we covertly scribbled onto any pieces of paper we happened to have available. Sometimes we shared one piece and slid it secretly across the table; other times we used multiple pieces, each one folded into an intricate shape such as a triangle (more commonly known as a "football"). Occasionally, we included a fashion design, sketched with care in the margins of the wide-ruled notebook paper intended for academic purposes.
In junior high, it continued. Tonjia, Nikki, Ashley, Amber: my most frequent letter-writers. Again, notebook paper served as the most common medium. Now, the letters most often contained snippets about crushes; Natalia referred to her object-of-desire as "Chocolate" in case a meddling teacher intercepted our communication. I've never had a note read aloud in front of the class; I'm convinced that if I were a teacher of kids, I would never inflict such a punishment. Letters are too personal, even when you're 13.
I still have some of those messages, folded into neat geometric shapes, mostly from Nikki. We bonded over our mutual love of Omar Vizquel. She was infatuated with a Biology teacher. I liked some boy who, of course, liked some other girl. She always said "W.B.S." We always signed our scribbles, "Love, your BFF." I haven't talked to her in ten years, but these vestiges of my early teenage years remain in print.
So, there was note-passing. There was also note-mailing. My cousin (a year and a half my senior) and I used to mail letters, written on pink and flowery stationery, to each other on approximately a weekly basis. We'd include questions so that the respondent would have something to talk about, in addition to any other random tidbits she'd choose to mention. One time she sent me a set of homemade "Full House Trivia Cards." At some point, we started using e-mail instead, but I remember missing the envelopes and postage stamps and stickers-used-as-seals.
I can't remember the last letter I wrote. It was months ago, at least, I'm sure. AIM usage is constant, though, and I actively use two e-mail accounts. However, I had been writing to a lady -- probably in her 80s or 90s -- who helped me with my book a couple years ago. She's apparently suffering from alzheimers, and she's now living in one of those senior living communities. We most recently exchanged Christmas cards. Her message is clearly the product of an arthritic hand; slanted lines, nearly illegible cursive. But there they are: written words, communication between two people made possible by paper and ink.
Now, instead of choosing a style of stationery, I most often select a style of font. Maybe I change the color; emoticons add some more personality. But receiving a real, tangible card in the mail -- from someone who was born when e-mail could've been nothing more than a sci-fi fantasy -- makes me yearn for a tri-folded piece of paper, with ink that probably soaks through to the other side, containing words that were unmediated by a keyboard. Maybe it's because the paper was once held by its author, as he or she transcribed words intended for me and no one else. Maybe it's because I can stow the paper away and take it out again, decades from now, and remember. Love letters are typically bemoaned as a lost art; but sometimes I crave letters, of any type, that will connect me to someone else without wires or wireless.
Is that too romantic of me?
In junior high, it continued. Tonjia, Nikki, Ashley, Amber: my most frequent letter-writers. Again, notebook paper served as the most common medium. Now, the letters most often contained snippets about crushes; Natalia referred to her object-of-desire as "Chocolate" in case a meddling teacher intercepted our communication. I've never had a note read aloud in front of the class; I'm convinced that if I were a teacher of kids, I would never inflict such a punishment. Letters are too personal, even when you're 13.
I still have some of those messages, folded into neat geometric shapes, mostly from Nikki. We bonded over our mutual love of Omar Vizquel. She was infatuated with a Biology teacher. I liked some boy who, of course, liked some other girl. She always said "W.B.S." We always signed our scribbles, "Love, your BFF." I haven't talked to her in ten years, but these vestiges of my early teenage years remain in print.
So, there was note-passing. There was also note-mailing. My cousin (a year and a half my senior) and I used to mail letters, written on pink and flowery stationery, to each other on approximately a weekly basis. We'd include questions so that the respondent would have something to talk about, in addition to any other random tidbits she'd choose to mention. One time she sent me a set of homemade "Full House Trivia Cards." At some point, we started using e-mail instead, but I remember missing the envelopes and postage stamps and stickers-used-as-seals.
I can't remember the last letter I wrote. It was months ago, at least, I'm sure. AIM usage is constant, though, and I actively use two e-mail accounts. However, I had been writing to a lady -- probably in her 80s or 90s -- who helped me with my book a couple years ago. She's apparently suffering from alzheimers, and she's now living in one of those senior living communities. We most recently exchanged Christmas cards. Her message is clearly the product of an arthritic hand; slanted lines, nearly illegible cursive. But there they are: written words, communication between two people made possible by paper and ink.
Now, instead of choosing a style of stationery, I most often select a style of font. Maybe I change the color; emoticons add some more personality. But receiving a real, tangible card in the mail -- from someone who was born when e-mail could've been nothing more than a sci-fi fantasy -- makes me yearn for a tri-folded piece of paper, with ink that probably soaks through to the other side, containing words that were unmediated by a keyboard. Maybe it's because the paper was once held by its author, as he or she transcribed words intended for me and no one else. Maybe it's because I can stow the paper away and take it out again, decades from now, and remember. Love letters are typically bemoaned as a lost art; but sometimes I crave letters, of any type, that will connect me to someone else without wires or wireless.
Is that too romantic of me?
Monday, November 17, 2008
Poem #5
December Digressions
The street is frosted like a cake.
I cross a vast plane of vanilla,
A pioneer,
Leaving the first impressions upon a freshly made bed
Of buttercream:
A Candy Land dream.
When I was six, my world revolved around cupcakes.
It still does;
Sometimes, anyway.
Some things never change:
My love of sugar,
My love of daydreams,
My irrepressible desire to breathe against the pane
And trace my name across a Norman Rockwell winter.
The street is frosted like a cake.
I cross a vast plane of vanilla,
A pioneer,
Leaving the first impressions upon a freshly made bed
Of buttercream:
A Candy Land dream.
When I was six, my world revolved around cupcakes.
It still does;
Sometimes, anyway.
Some things never change:
My love of sugar,
My love of daydreams,
My irrepressible desire to breathe against the pane
And trace my name across a Norman Rockwell winter.
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