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Archive for the ‘Writing’ Category

And here is where I continue telling you about my life and what has been happening lately in some type of witty but meaningful manner, all of which should lead to some life lesson.  Except that I’m not really the type to have it all mean something except for a rant that could be finished within a single sentence.  Maybe a sentence with semi-colon in the middle, but you get the picture.  But the reason that I’m writing all of this is to say that, for today (and maybe only today), I have the confidence to write as though I do not have an audience.

It’s a tricky thing, writing for an audience.  It’s something that I originally didn’t think that I would encounter since the internet is sometimes a massive wasteland of unread rantings, and yet people did start reading this.  And, somehow, that made my writing become a bit more artificial.  For the first time, I had to start worrying about who would read and what they’d think and whether I would upset them.  And it was important to keep in mind, because I did hurt some people, especially around a year ago.  Anger is a strange motivator that can cause you to have better work-outs or more motivation toward an exam or the ability to change the world you live in, but it’s also a force that can come across in waves.  You may think the first wave is brilliant, but the second comes back with the hurt feelings of others.  And, for that, I am held fully accountable and sorry.

But I do want to be more honest with you, and I do want to be able to tell you how I really think and feel without worrying about condemnation or assault.  While this may never be as fully ‘me’ as, say, my diary, I still want this to be a fully honest public forum that expands from my thoughts.  So I leave you for only this moment.  This tiny little moment.  And I want you to know that I will be back and I will be writing more and it will be of a level of honesty that really hasn’t occurred on here since my blog was first activated (minus the two years that it sat in cyber-space).  I hope that I can speak with all of you on a better level, regardless of what anyone may think.

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Oh dear goodness, I’m practically rolling around in my childhood right now, listening to Dixie Chicks on shuffle and scribbling song lyrics into my diary.  It’s moments like these that remind me that I still have some type of grasp on who I used to be and continue to be.  And even while most of these songs are such rubbish, so much makes up for it: Chris Thile mandolin solos, choruses shifting into minor chords, power building up in bridges.  Oh, the bluegrass of the late nineties and early 2000s was magnificent.  Think on it–Dixie Chicks, Nickel Creek, O Brother Where Art Thou?, Alison Krouse.  A lot of great bluegrass came out then.

In fact, a lot of great music came out in the nineties, but it’s taken me until nearly twenty years later to realise that this crap was… well, not crap.  My room mate for next year is really into nineties alternative, which I started getting into about five years ago, and I’m fairly certain that you’re going to be able to walk into our room and feel like you’re in your childhood.  Matchbox Twenty will be playing in the background while you reach for my Skittles candy machine and a copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.  Only our laptops will give us away.

One day, I’ll look back at the nineties and 2000s as the “Good Ole Days”, and I will lament about the kick-ball and hiking in the woods and climbing the trees while singing Spice Girls and shoving Pokèmon cards into our Lisa Frank binders.  God, I still have those Lisa Frank binders full of Pokèmon cards in my closet, right next to a bin of Beanie Babies that I was so sure would be worth a ton of money and put me through college.  But you can buy those same Beanie Babies from a garage sale for fifty cents, so, so much for that monetary adventure.

But I’ll look back at all of this in wonder; that much is certain.

I was reading Fahrenheit 451 today while waiting for the mall to open and let me buy a Father’s Day present, and I was surprised by how everyone around me reminded me of the characters.  Sure, in limited ways, but so many people are the sheeple like the majority of characters, and I wondered if I would be like Guy or Clarisse or Mildred or Beatty.  When we read things like this or Animal Farm or Ishmael, we always want to pretend that we would be one of the enlightened ones.  One of the people who catch onto what society is up to and starts fighting the system and thinking for ourselves.  But, in all reality, would we really be that person?  Or would we be following the motions like anyone else, living day to day with no other question?  Would we wake up and go to school or church or work like every other day?  Would you be the one to sit in front of the telly and soak in everything that it had to offer?  I was that person for so long before waking up, but as I read, I still can’t help but realise that I would be one of those people.  I’d be a sheeple right next to everyone else.

We can’t all be a Clarisse.

Will books be banned one day like in Fahrenheit 451?  It makes me wonder if the good old days will be right now because of the knowledge that we presume to be free.  And it’s something to think about.

But for now, it’s best left to Dixie Chicks and scribbles of what I think into a diary that no one will ever read.  It’s better off in poems that tell stories of far away places where people learn lessons in the strangest ways that no one else will understand but in glimpses of another’s mind.  It’s better left to sentences that don’t know how to end.

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…I know where I’ll be this November.  Oh no…I don’t know where I’ll be in two weeks.

Dear goodness, the final weeks are upon us at university, and the realisation that I will be back home in less than two weeks slightly terrifies me.  Part of it is the looming desire to get a job that I just can’t get.  The other part is the angry rumble of finals starting this week and lasting until 7 May, which, by the way, is my birthday.

Now, I won’t say that I feel so old, because damn-it, nineteen was never meant to be old, but I won’t say that I’m particularly thrilled with getting to be another year older.  And it’s funny, too, because I used to scoff at people who feared their next birthday.  Sure, I don’t really fear the 7th.  I’m already an adult, so what can another year do aside from lower my drivers insurance?  But it’s still an odd realisation that I’m two years from drinking age, four from when I’ll have to get my own insurance, and six years from when I hit that middle bump in the twenties.  All of this is coming closer like a squall line.  You see it moving awfully slow, but before you know it, the rain comes.

Squalls have been moving in quite a lot lately, and my window gets pelted with mist and water droplets continuously.  It’s relaxing to just sit with the window open, feeling the mist pour into the room and stick to the cover of a National Geographic in hand.  Because, as we all know, I’m an addict for National Geographic magazines.  Add in some NPR, BBC News, and a cup of tea, and I’m set.  Set to be either educated or a fifty-two year old man: you decide.

Really, though, this grandmum of a girl has no clue where she’s going.  In two weeks, will I be getting calls about my volunteer job that the State said I’d get?  Or will I be listening to some Joanna Newsom and painting?  Never before have I been so fearful of what I’m doing in my future; I’ve always been a planner who knew exactly where she was going.  But the summer is a gaping hole in my vision.  Once uni starts up again, I’ll be right back in the swing of things: I know where I’m living, how my room will be set up, what classes I’ll be taking, the clubs I’ll be in…  I even know that I will be seeing Harry Potter in the theatres and Muse in concert in November.  Oh yes, MUSE!

I rant and rave about my favourite bands–Nickel Creek, Vampire Weekend, Regina Spektor, et cetera–and Muse is no exception.  I’m incredibly blessed to have the opportunity to see them and be in good seats.  The only downside is that buying tickets didn’t go according to plan, so my group will not all be sitting together.  But, such is life.  I figure that I did the best I could, so it’s time to except what it will be, get the fuck over everything, and just muse at, well, Muse.

Anyway, I’ll leave you with a poem.  It’s nothing fantastic, but I feel like I should add some of my more creative works onto this blog as well.

– – –

Invisible and present only to reflections

in glass ponds upon southern streets,

Drift the tears of ghosts once

scattered by the angels.

They miss the sun piercing the hearts;

the hearts of blossoms in mourning

of a spring that never came.

But Mason jars brushed with dust

lie in the arms of the angels

who wait beneath the spektors’ cry.

Sweet circles echo upon the mirrors;

rubbish from the point-of-view

of those so desperate to touch God.

And so, invisible be the mourning,

never viewed by the humans

who pass by the blossoms,

still lit in cold,

but in the pools of glass on southern streets.

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For my history final, I have to write a paper about globalisation, and it ended up being an incredibly enjoyable experience to write it out tonight.  I just hope that I’ll be able to remember all of it for this morning’s final (it is 2.30 in the morning, after all) since it has to be hand-written in class.  Anyway, enjoy.

(more…)

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Catherine and Wendy are gallivanting around the room, forgetting that Catherine has a room-mate.  They fix each other’s hair, play unpleasant music, and spread the smell of burning chemicals in the room with each passing of the curling iron over oiled locks.  Loraine sits in her bed, high above them, waiting for the time to herself.  But this time will not come for a while, so she drowns out the noise and smell the best she can.  A book lies on her lap along with a list of things to be fixed.  This is where she stays, this is what she does.  In time, she will be given the room in order to sit and think through the things that are bothering her.  In time, she may even get a room to herself for the entire year, with the women of the society pushed to the back of her mind while out of sight.  But these are muses of hers, used to keep her mind off of Catherine and Wendy’s laughing and the smells of burning locks being curled into unnatural ringlets.

Loraine doesn’t know how Mary and Wendy can live together.  They are so different from one another.  But, ironically, Wendy joins Loraine’s room-mate, Catherine, as friends while Loraine and Mary seek each other out.

“How interesting that we should be changing room-mates like this.  Almost like a swap,” Loraine mentions to Mary at breakfast.

“Yes, well,” Mary responds, “Those of similar personalities will often join one another.”

And they continue on, eating their boiled eggs and toast in comfortable silence.

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The two inches of snow lied on the ground pathetically as small drops of freezing rain crystallised over it, creating a glistening shell.  Each drop left another icicle on the metal railings leading from the dorms and yet another slick spot on the concrete leading to OP.  We checked the weather forcast once again: thirty degrees but with freezing rain.

“If it were a few degrees cooler, we could be getting six inches of snow right now,” we complained.  But the snow would come, along with the scheduled blizzard.

That evening, the rain began to turn into sleet and then into small snow flakes in the windless night.  Our house ran outside, bundled up for the cold temperature, and headed out to the quad for a snowball fight.  But, instead of a fight, we began to build snow men, run around, greet others who would join us.  The night time centre of the university became alive with laughing, flying snow, and the soft swirl of flakes passing by lamplight.

We travelled past the snowman that we had built and went to the trees near the edge of the quad.  Slowly, we managed to climb the ice and snow covered trees to get a better view of the falling snow.  And, after resting, I wandered to the bushes, all the while following rabbit tracks left in the snow.  At the edge of the bushes, I found a tree, a tree with a tiny crack that had filled itself in, like a miniature door.

And, with a few steps further to investigate, I had fallen down the rabbit’s hole.

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Here’s a little story:

There was a society of women that decided to live together for one year.  Each had a room in the house, lived together, ate together, and made friends.  Everything was smooth sailing until one of the women, Catherine, noticed something one day.

“It seems like Mary is mad with me,” Catherine said, and she swiftly worked on a letter to send to Mary to ask if she was down or mad with her.

Mary received the letter later in the day and was surprised.  She took it as an act of aggression towards her and was puzzled by what could have caused Catherine to write the letter.  Mary had never felt down or angry, so why would Catherine think such a thing?

Mary didn’t respond to the letter, but tried to ignore it.  But, later in the day, when Catherine was joking about a guest in the house, Mary took it with the anger that she already felt toward Catherine and decided to tell the guest exactly what Catherine had said–even though the hurtful things had been in jest.  Mary soon found out and was outraged that Catherine would do such a thing.

That’s when Mary went to Loraine to tell her what was going on.  Loraine, being friends with both Catherine and Mary, was not eager to choose a side.  She told Catherine to “be the bigger person”.

“But I’ve been the bigger person for far too long.  She’s angry with me, and now she’s treating me horribly!” Catherine cried.

Loraine shook her head, hoping that things would die down as Catherine left the room to write another letter to Mary.

Mary received the second later and became even angrier than she had before.  Why had this girl thought she was mad in the first place?  Well, yes, Mary was now angry, and she had told the guest Catherine’s words because of the anger, but she did not feel at fault.  Reading the letter, Catherine explained that she was now angry with Mary rather than just concerned, and Mary didn’t know what to do.

She, too, searched after Loraine for guidance and advice.  Loraine could offer none, not knowing that the second letter had been sent and received.

And that’s where we leave off for tonight.

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