Just found the Absolute. Funniest. Blog. Ever. I thought it was stupid, but I perservered through the first post and discovered that I can laugh really loudly in public places even when I'm desperately trying to shut up.
Read it.
http://www.hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/
Also, I've decided to stop posting for a while. I realized I've posted more in the past year than the last two or three put together, and reviewing them have realized I've said less of substance; and for no other reason than because I like to know that somebody is listening. Which is human nature, but still somewhat pathetic. For me. Because I need to work on my relationships in the here, the now. I'm not always good at that.
One last random thought--tornado weather makes me want to dance. It's beautiful and shifting, and reminds me of a reckless child, angry one moment and playful the next. Yesterday was awesome. Although I didn't get to see even one of the five funnels! All I did was walk in the lovely wild weather, listening to the sirens go off. I wish fall lasted longer.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Monday, October 25, 2010
Sober
Twenty people died last night. They were caught in the same storm that came through here at about six this morning. I woke up to my alarm and a tornado siren, and the wind ripping around this flimsy college-kid trailer that the sibthings and I call home.
I'm pulling them out of bed and making them get dressed, and the next thing you know, the lady from across the street is staggering over through the storm to tell us that there's a tornado and we need to go to the dorm. It sounded like a plan to me, since I could see the thick red line galloping across the radar screen, fifteen minutes out. So we showed up to sit in the lobby for twenty minutes, until the wind died down enough to go home. At first, I was disgruntled because of all the unnecessary fuss.
Turns out, that same storm had been moving east across the southern states and had already claimed several victims. It didn't actually touch down in Ooltewah, but the eye passed right over us. And I wonder what we would have done, what I would have had to do, if things were just a little bit different.
Life is such an easy thing to lose.
I'm pulling them out of bed and making them get dressed, and the next thing you know, the lady from across the street is staggering over through the storm to tell us that there's a tornado and we need to go to the dorm. It sounded like a plan to me, since I could see the thick red line galloping across the radar screen, fifteen minutes out. So we showed up to sit in the lobby for twenty minutes, until the wind died down enough to go home. At first, I was disgruntled because of all the unnecessary fuss.
Turns out, that same storm had been moving east across the southern states and had already claimed several victims. It didn't actually touch down in Ooltewah, but the eye passed right over us. And I wonder what we would have done, what I would have had to do, if things were just a little bit different.
Life is such an easy thing to lose.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Decide
After a while, looking beyond today only gets you to tomorrow, if you're lucky.
The only problem with keeping all your thoughts in your head is that, sooner or later, they'll make a desperate attempt to claw their way out.
You don't get to pick when.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
No time to breathe!
1) First, it has been my busiest yet. I was quite whelmed over until I realized, hey, every week was like this last year. So it's time to pack up the violin and start working.
2) I'm wondering where I got the delicious SmartWool socks that are on my feet, after having dug them out from under my bed. But seriously, where did they come from? And why did I not know about them before?
3) I read a few passages from Pride and Prejudice yesterday, the part where Darcy thinks Elizabeth is plain until he realizes her eyes are amazing and he can't get enough of her. And I melted, maybe just a little bit.
4) I realized that real life doesn't work that way. In several different painful ways.
5) I played Frizbee golf for the first time, and confirmed that I am most definitely terrible. And that I'm lucky to play with. Maybe I've got a gift for channeling talent to other people. Or maybe I just suck.
6) I got out my climbing shoes after church yesterday and stared at them for a while. I was sort of appalled when I realized I was too tired to pack all my gear and head to Foster, but I slept on a blanket in the sun for a while and it was beautiful.
7) A friend spent the night, and I woke up past midnight with her cold toes rubbing my foot in her sleep. And I laughed because I love my friends, even if their toes are cold.
There's more, but I've got a religion presentation to do for tomorrow and a room to clean and...no energy to do it with.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Scattered souls of bread angels
Call it superstitious, but sometimes I think that I pour a tiny bit of my soul out onto each piece of paper I touch with a pen. Sometimes I think that if all those scraps of paper were collected, gathered into one place and allowed to take whatever shape they desired, there would be an exact likeness of what we call a personality, a character, a soul, whole and complete--staring back steadily, framed from the essence of the words on the page. I wonder if I would like what I saw.
Anyway, I was just thinking, after all that, that that's why I love to read what people write (got to love the three 'that's'). Because it lets you look into a piece of them that they may not even know they're showing. It's why I love to get emails from people like Becca, because when I read them I can hear her; she's so good at putting herself on paper. And Lubke; when I read his prose and poetry, several years ago, I knew we'd be friends before we even met. And we were.
My mom is here. She came down to visit today, and of course, being the wonder she is, helped me get the house clean. Which is why my bible got dumped out, which is why I started thinking about scraps of souls seperated from each other. Which is why, although this blog could be completely revised and the idea I wanted to get across would actually make sense, and my grammer would be more aesthetically pleasing, I will simply let it go. Mom is pulling fresh bread out of the oven, and I think the angels just began to sing. That'd be a terrible thing to miss. I think my nose just started quivering from sheer happiness.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
I sat on the curb tonight.
Right outside of Hulsey, after scuba let out at nine. My bag nestled beside me, and my braid dripped down my back. I had my phone in my hands, and I was absently turning it and polishing the orange cover, with my elbows on my knees. I know people assumed, if they wondered at all, that I was waiting for a ride. But I wasn't. My car was sitting a few dozen feet away, with half a tank of gas and the keys in the ignition. But there are some places you want to go that a car won't take you.
There are tears here. I don't like them. They burn, and when they are willed away they stick until it hurts to swallow. But, even after all these years, I don't know what to do with them. So I sat there contemplating my phone and letting people think I was waiting for someone--and I was. Hoping that, if I provided the opportunity, somebody would come along with the gift of a few moments. That would have been nice.
But they never came. So after a while I took a deep breath and stood up, slung my bag on my back, and grabbed my keys. I let the car take me home, since tonight, at least, I didn't find a way to where I wanted to go. Maybe tomorrow.
There are tears here. I don't like them. They burn, and when they are willed away they stick until it hurts to swallow. But, even after all these years, I don't know what to do with them. So I sat there contemplating my phone and letting people think I was waiting for someone--and I was. Hoping that, if I provided the opportunity, somebody would come along with the gift of a few moments. That would have been nice.
But they never came. So after a while I took a deep breath and stood up, slung my bag on my back, and grabbed my keys. I let the car take me home, since tonight, at least, I didn't find a way to where I wanted to go. Maybe tomorrow.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Rosemary
The air is heavy
Flowing sluggishly, pouring
Into the darkening hollows
Under pear trees and hedges
Lightning slides effortlessly
Through the throbbing thunder
Mixed with the tang of rosemary
That lives quietly in a red pot
Here on the porch rail
Beside my elbow.
Flowing sluggishly, pouring
Into the darkening hollows
Under pear trees and hedges
Lightning slides effortlessly
Through the throbbing thunder
Mixed with the tang of rosemary
That lives quietly in a red pot
Here on the porch rail
Beside my elbow.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Elevator
This is my rough draft of the Flash Fiction for Creative Writing.
She blinks, walking in from the sunlight to a dark lobby. There are starburst aftereffects clouding her vision—even so, she deftly slides around the corner, even half blinded, and strides rapidly towards the elevators. Both doors stand open.
A man, perhaps young, perhaps not, stands in front of the elevators, several feet away, facing the opposite direction. His body angles away from the elevators, indicates his disinterest even more than his lack of movement towards them. She doesn’t really look at him, only registers that he is not in her way and is not heading for the open doors that are her destination.
Her shoulder curves, her foot takes the step to lead her towards the elevator—and he turns to look at her, sends her waves of attention and intention
—cold sweat—
she doesn’t look back, but she feels it in a shudder down her spine—and her heart sinks. She’s on the elevator now and pushes the button, wills the doors to close, wills him not to appear, watches the “4” light up on the bank of lights
—he’ll see it—
watching the doors pause an eternity, slowly slide almost shut until a shoulder shoves between them, almost too late to make it, but he does and he’s on, and she asks him what floor, can’t stop being polite, although now she feels irrational panic, why should she feel that way?
—always knew the doors wouldn’t open if you were caught between them—
silently curses the lit button that tells him where she’s going. He looks at the bank of lights, telltale lit circle, and replies “four” but she barely registers it except as affirmation she doesn’t want, already caught up in furious rationalizing. But her rational coldly reminds her that floor three is the men’s floor, that the only boys she sees on fourth are with their girlfriends, that his intentions are screaming a warning
—how do I know I’m right but I do—
elevator rises and she keeps a tight rein on the panic that still blooms where it began the second he looked at her, and she sees his subtle intent body language, she knows what happens next
—bloody hellfire and damnation—
slides her hand down in her bag, fits her few keys through her fingers, clenches her fist to test the grip. Already she thinks of what few advantages she holds if it comes down to it. The shoulder bag is the first thing that will go, to free her arms—if time permits, straight at his face. Silently she reviews the training—how to put your body into a swing to get maximum impact, how to defend if attacked from behind
—thank you Max—
and the elevator stops
—has it only been ten seconds—
and the doors open. She hesitates, she knows he won’t move first, doesn’t want to force the issue, walks out, takes the third hall. Behind her, perhaps ten feet, he follows. She curses the silent carpet, checks his position as they move. He maintains the distance and she maintains her pace, stifles the urge to run. She passes doors—so does he. Only ten more feet left
—only my door and the fire escape left—
and no more doubt now, only fear she’ll screw this up. Her hand hangs down, forgotten, keys extended, as she plans her response
—Father don’t let me forget what to do—
the adrenaline begins to flow down her fingers; she stops planning stops thinking stops everything but movement and just listens
—red and silver hell, he’s still moving—
and her key is in the door, it’s turning, and she’s tense because this is the most dangerous part, sings out “Hey, Mary!”
—please somebody please be here—
and the door is closing behind her with a bang, because all doors here open and close like the crack of doom but she’s safe and has to shake out the adrenaline, or maybe she just shakes, and rubs out the key prints on her palms. Much later, she wonders why it never occurred to her to factor screaming into her plans.
There is one more door, across the hall, that he could have taken; one reason to be on fourth that didn’t include her, didn’t warrant the sweat chilling on her neck, didn't require her fear of what she had to do.
She listens for the next few minutes, but nothing disturbs the quiet of the hall. Far away, an elevator hums.
Probably not. But I'll know.
She blinks, walking in from the sunlight to a dark lobby. There are starburst aftereffects clouding her vision—even so, she deftly slides around the corner, even half blinded, and strides rapidly towards the elevators. Both doors stand open.
A man, perhaps young, perhaps not, stands in front of the elevators, several feet away, facing the opposite direction. His body angles away from the elevators, indicates his disinterest even more than his lack of movement towards them. She doesn’t really look at him, only registers that he is not in her way and is not heading for the open doors that are her destination.
Her shoulder curves, her foot takes the step to lead her towards the elevator—and he turns to look at her, sends her waves of attention and intention
—cold sweat—
she doesn’t look back, but she feels it in a shudder down her spine—and her heart sinks. She’s on the elevator now and pushes the button, wills the doors to close, wills him not to appear, watches the “4” light up on the bank of lights
—he’ll see it—
watching the doors pause an eternity, slowly slide almost shut until a shoulder shoves between them, almost too late to make it, but he does and he’s on, and she asks him what floor, can’t stop being polite, although now she feels irrational panic, why should she feel that way?
—always knew the doors wouldn’t open if you were caught between them—
silently curses the lit button that tells him where she’s going. He looks at the bank of lights, telltale lit circle, and replies “four” but she barely registers it except as affirmation she doesn’t want, already caught up in furious rationalizing. But her rational coldly reminds her that floor three is the men’s floor, that the only boys she sees on fourth are with their girlfriends, that his intentions are screaming a warning
—how do I know I’m right but I do—
elevator rises and she keeps a tight rein on the panic that still blooms where it began the second he looked at her, and she sees his subtle intent body language, she knows what happens next
—bloody hellfire and damnation—
slides her hand down in her bag, fits her few keys through her fingers, clenches her fist to test the grip. Already she thinks of what few advantages she holds if it comes down to it. The shoulder bag is the first thing that will go, to free her arms—if time permits, straight at his face. Silently she reviews the training—how to put your body into a swing to get maximum impact, how to defend if attacked from behind
—thank you Max—
and the elevator stops
—has it only been ten seconds—
and the doors open. She hesitates, she knows he won’t move first, doesn’t want to force the issue, walks out, takes the third hall. Behind her, perhaps ten feet, he follows. She curses the silent carpet, checks his position as they move. He maintains the distance and she maintains her pace, stifles the urge to run. She passes doors—so does he. Only ten more feet left
—only my door and the fire escape left—
and no more doubt now, only fear she’ll screw this up. Her hand hangs down, forgotten, keys extended, as she plans her response
—Father don’t let me forget what to do—
the adrenaline begins to flow down her fingers; she stops planning stops thinking stops everything but movement and just listens
—red and silver hell, he’s still moving—
and her key is in the door, it’s turning, and she’s tense because this is the most dangerous part, sings out “Hey, Mary!”
—please somebody please be here—
and the door is closing behind her with a bang, because all doors here open and close like the crack of doom but she’s safe and has to shake out the adrenaline, or maybe she just shakes, and rubs out the key prints on her palms. Much later, she wonders why it never occurred to her to factor screaming into her plans.
There is one more door, across the hall, that he could have taken; one reason to be on fourth that didn’t include her, didn’t warrant the sweat chilling on her neck, didn't require her fear of what she had to do.
She listens for the next few minutes, but nothing disturbs the quiet of the hall. Far away, an elevator hums.
* * * * *
I wonder if the rest of my Workshop group will understand why the grammer is so bad--that that's how you think in that situation, without periods and pauses and punctuation marks. I wonder if they'll suggest I change certain aspects to make it more reader-friendly. I wonder if I'll tell them that I just wrote it exactly as it happened, that it's not fiction at all.Probably not. But I'll know.
What a strange place I'm in.
In my mind, I mean.
Trying to get back into the flow of testing, problem solving, writing. And to make the matter worse, I, for the first time in my life, am horribly afflicted with senioritis. Which sounds like I should be crabby and wheeling around in a little chair with electric locomotion, taking long afternoon naps in the sun. I guess two out of three isn't bad.On the flipside, I got my MCAT score back. Apparently there's some big umbrella of silence that hangs over what the actual number is; not that I care. I'm well aware that there are many, many people who are smarter than me, and it doesn't bother me because I'm not competative. At all, maybe somewhat. And as much as I enjoy a righteous arguement, for the sake of peace I bow to convention and will not volunteer what I got--but I'm smiling a lot these days. It's so good to be done! I'm so pleased.
So now I'm scratching my head wondering, "Where do I go from here?"
No, but seriously, where do I go? Loma Linda had Adventists. It also has a whopping brutal price tag. Compared to the D.O. school in my hometown. Which has no Adventists. (The Adventist deal is mostly based on the Adventist men, among whom my mother hopes I will meet up with my future intended. Which is a worthy cause, but still, I'm not sure the slim chance is worth $40,000 a year). And then...there are still other schools. So, where do I go from here?
I Relient K song.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Effort
I had the first class of my first day of my last year at Southern. Creative Writing. To me, that's a hopeful thing, sign, premonition, wish, call it what you will. But seriously, how bad can a year be that starts with the first class I've even taken that was entirely for knowledge and experience that I want? Me. Not for my major, not as a stepping stone to the things that I've decided I want to accomplish. Just for the joy of it.
That's what this year is going to be about, you know? Joy. Lots of it. Intense as flooded river, as deep as the fathomless places in the sky between the stars, quieter than the whisper of snow on snow. Just the way I like it.
For a long time it's been all about trying--be more outgoing. Make the effort, do more, be more. I'd forgotten how effortless it can be. And that doesn't mean that nothing requires work; simply that trying too hard, and for the wrong reasons, leads to unhappiness. What should be easy is the reason you're making the effort in the first place.
I stared up at the dark last night before I feel asleep and talked to Amanda about random things, like sisters do. I got my first pair of climbing shoes (purple) and my first harness (pink. the gods must hate me). Hurrah! Two things I waited for forever, it seems.
That's what this year is going to be about, you know? Joy. Lots of it. Intense as flooded river, as deep as the fathomless places in the sky between the stars, quieter than the whisper of snow on snow. Just the way I like it.
For a long time it's been all about trying--be more outgoing. Make the effort, do more, be more. I'd forgotten how effortless it can be. And that doesn't mean that nothing requires work; simply that trying too hard, and for the wrong reasons, leads to unhappiness. What should be easy is the reason you're making the effort in the first place.
I stared up at the dark last night before I feel asleep and talked to Amanda about random things, like sisters do. I got my first pair of climbing shoes (purple) and my first harness (pink. the gods must hate me). Hurrah! Two things I waited for forever, it seems.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Arpeggio
They're back.
Oh, are they back.
Everything changes. I'm learning to accept this, as much as my DNA snarls in protest. But some things, some wonderful, achingly beautiful things, will never, ever grow old, or strange, or unfamiliar. I sat in a warm glow of friendship tonight. Not just any friends. My friends, my people, my family. It's been 18 months. The people at the Taco Bell here in Ooltewah must have thought we were all ready to be committed, but we were just happy. I could feel the emotions swirling around in eddies, currents of contentment, laughter, joy, this bewildering but exhilerating wave of...excitement? thrill? peace? I know exactly what it feels like when crucial pieces of your life walk away, but having them come running back in the door and into your arms is another thing altogether.
There really aren't the words. Music, maybe. Each of us, individual notes, chords, scales. Together, a masterpiece. Other than that...I can't explain it. I hope you know what it's like.
Together.
I'm so happy I may spontaneously combust. Hello, senior year. You already rock my world.
Oh, are they back.
Everything changes. I'm learning to accept this, as much as my DNA snarls in protest. But some things, some wonderful, achingly beautiful things, will never, ever grow old, or strange, or unfamiliar. I sat in a warm glow of friendship tonight. Not just any friends. My friends, my people, my family. It's been 18 months. The people at the Taco Bell here in Ooltewah must have thought we were all ready to be committed, but we were just happy. I could feel the emotions swirling around in eddies, currents of contentment, laughter, joy, this bewildering but exhilerating wave of...excitement? thrill? peace? I know exactly what it feels like when crucial pieces of your life walk away, but having them come running back in the door and into your arms is another thing altogether.
There really aren't the words. Music, maybe. Each of us, individual notes, chords, scales. Together, a masterpiece. Other than that...I can't explain it. I hope you know what it's like.
Together.
I'm so happy I may spontaneously combust. Hello, senior year. You already rock my world.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
The Dilemma of the TV
I've barely been in my new house for 18 hours & already my world is sliding off of the nice stable platform I built for it out of expectations, & into the realm of the unknown. I forsee intense moments of navigation ahead, if I can stop focusing on the way I want things to be.
I get kind of startled when things don't happen in a way I expect. There's always a moment of panic while I try & adjust my equilibrium, & then the sudden grasp of balance & the sigh of relief. Just like when you make a grab during a hard climb, the second after you commit & before you are sure the hold is there, when you're straining over a million possibilities & empty space. Change & I have never been good friends, the kind you sleep in piles of sleeping bags with, where you wake up & no one is quite sure which foot belongs to who--more like a new acquintance with possibilities but an unpredictable personality, who you watch with fascination but more than a little wariness as you get to know each other.
When I was ten I thought that, as soon as I was twelve, I would know what was up. I'd have a firm grasp on the world & it would all make sense. When I was thirteen, I waited for 18. By 18, I didn't expect anything different, but when 21 rolled around I was surprised at how much had changed. A year later, now, I've finally settled into expecting that nothing I expected is going to turn out quite like I expected it too. Which is kind of twisted. Actually.
I do want a few things, though, with this house & the new challenge of co-existing peacefully with my two younger sibthings. I want to not always come home to the herd of freshman that seem to follow Alex around, even though I don't blame them. I want to work things out with Amanda so that we don't resort to yelling when our versions of housekeeping (not to mention alarm clocks) don't quite coincide. But the biggest thing right now is, I DO NOT want to have the TV on. Pretty much ever. I hate how I can't read in the same room because I can't concentrate, & how my neck keeps turning to look at it when something interesting happens. & how nobody can carry on a conversation with it on. But I have a plan. I'm going to wait a few days, so suspicion isn't turned on me, & then I'm going to haul it out of the cabinet & yank a wire out of the back where they'll never see. That's pretty much what all this chatter was about. I was in the living room and it took about two minutes to realized that this was change I wasn't going to deal with. I grew up without a TV & I hate them. Of course, the other two did as well, & they like it. Go figure. But it has to die.
I get kind of startled when things don't happen in a way I expect. There's always a moment of panic while I try & adjust my equilibrium, & then the sudden grasp of balance & the sigh of relief. Just like when you make a grab during a hard climb, the second after you commit & before you are sure the hold is there, when you're straining over a million possibilities & empty space. Change & I have never been good friends, the kind you sleep in piles of sleeping bags with, where you wake up & no one is quite sure which foot belongs to who--more like a new acquintance with possibilities but an unpredictable personality, who you watch with fascination but more than a little wariness as you get to know each other.
When I was ten I thought that, as soon as I was twelve, I would know what was up. I'd have a firm grasp on the world & it would all make sense. When I was thirteen, I waited for 18. By 18, I didn't expect anything different, but when 21 rolled around I was surprised at how much had changed. A year later, now, I've finally settled into expecting that nothing I expected is going to turn out quite like I expected it too. Which is kind of twisted. Actually.
I do want a few things, though, with this house & the new challenge of co-existing peacefully with my two younger sibthings. I want to not always come home to the herd of freshman that seem to follow Alex around, even though I don't blame them. I want to work things out with Amanda so that we don't resort to yelling when our versions of housekeeping (not to mention alarm clocks) don't quite coincide. But the biggest thing right now is, I DO NOT want to have the TV on. Pretty much ever. I hate how I can't read in the same room because I can't concentrate, & how my neck keeps turning to look at it when something interesting happens. & how nobody can carry on a conversation with it on. But I have a plan. I'm going to wait a few days, so suspicion isn't turned on me, & then I'm going to haul it out of the cabinet & yank a wire out of the back where they'll never see. That's pretty much what all this chatter was about. I was in the living room and it took about two minutes to realized that this was change I wasn't going to deal with. I grew up without a TV & I hate them. Of course, the other two did as well, & they like it. Go figure. But it has to die.
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