Okay, I have been without power and internet for a few days now, but I have a couple posts that have been backing up...anyway, I just wanted to let the three of you who might actually read this know that I'll try to put up one a day to catch up. They are in the order[ish] that they happened, so, just to alleviate any future confusion, there it is. Not that I think this blog is important enough to merit confusion, but I just thought that I would clarify/explain. Right, so, enjoy!
PS: Thank you for actually reading this -- everytime someone mentions it to me, I kind of get surprised that anyone bothers to look at it, and a rush of happiness sweeps through me, like the kind you get when you find ten dollars in an old purse. Really, though, I love your comments and everything. It means a lot to me. :-)
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Three more days...
I want to lie in the sun.
I want sweat to drip off of my skin, my golden brown skin, softened and moistened from the delicious smelling tropical tanning oil.
I want to lose my perception of color, to see everything in the haze of the brilliant, fiery orb.
I want to ache in the heat, to roast and toast on an oven of sand, to dive into clear water and see the oil float away from me, swimming on top of the glassy surface.
I want the hot air to dry my body while I uncurl like a cat, stretching and purring on a big, soft towel.
I want my muscles to relax, to lengthen, to melt down to nothingness in the heat.
I want to see the bikini lines on my body, the border between brown and white, the difference so perceptible it could separate countries.
I want to shimmer in the haze, glossy pink lips shining like neon lights against my deep, dark skin, melty in the sultry heat, like the gleaming Greek goddesses of yesteryear.
I want to do nothing all day long, except revel in the rays, let the sun and my lioness-like laziness mysteriously sap my energy.
I want to feel the coolness of night, shiver and get goosebumps at the stark contrast between night and day at the beach.
I want to lie in the sun.
I want sweat to drip off of my skin, my golden brown skin, softened and moistened from the delicious smelling tropical tanning oil.
I want to lose my perception of color, to see everything in the haze of the brilliant, fiery orb.
I want to ache in the heat, to roast and toast on an oven of sand, to dive into clear water and see the oil float away from me, swimming on top of the glassy surface.
I want the hot air to dry my body while I uncurl like a cat, stretching and purring on a big, soft towel.
I want my muscles to relax, to lengthen, to melt down to nothingness in the heat.
I want to see the bikini lines on my body, the border between brown and white, the difference so perceptible it could separate countries.
I want to shimmer in the haze, glossy pink lips shining like neon lights against my deep, dark skin, melty in the sultry heat, like the gleaming Greek goddesses of yesteryear.
I want to do nothing all day long, except revel in the rays, let the sun and my lioness-like laziness mysteriously sap my energy.
I want to feel the coolness of night, shiver and get goosebumps at the stark contrast between night and day at the beach.
I want to lie in the sun.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Addicted.
Confession: I am slightly extremist.
I don't know why, but my personality, tastes, and tendencies have the habit of being...rather all or nothing, let's say. Obsessive compulsive? Not quite. Single minded to the point of distraction? Probably a better description.
I have always been this way. I am so easily impassioned, I will get completely immersed in an idea or a topic or a plan, and throw my entire being into it headfirst. There was one summer where my sister and I and our two neighbor girls decided to start a business: we were going to make paper clip jewelry. We knew that we would make millions, because, you know, everyone needs a little bit more junk in their house. Our plans dominated my thoughts and conversations for the next few days [I was nine -- a few days is an eternity when you are nine]. Pricing lists, expansion ideas, cost of supplies; I probably had an entire notebook covered in color pencil scribbles and notes. I seem to remember that we were going to lure in buyers with an innocent looking lemonade stand, and then thrust our ingenious little necklaces and bracelets on our unsuspecting buyers who, given my dazzling sales presentation, would beg for more.
Well, unfortunately my big break never materialized. My jewelry debut has yet to be seen, because I got bored with my little game and dropped it like a little league left fielder with ADD. I think that I replaced my paper clip obsession with an urgent need to know everything I could about Clara Barton and Florence Nightengale. In retrospect, I was a really weird kid.
I have yet to grow out of my hot and cold, on and off, obsessive tendencies, and once again it has begun to ebb its way into my mind. You see, I have a new addiction, a dangerous little disaster waiting to happen. I have met the mistress of my procrastination, and her name is Mah Jongg.
That's right, this seemingly harmless ancient Chinese tile game is taking over. It's one of those things where you sit down to play one game, and then three hours later you're like, "Wtf. I'm dumb." On one hand, it's really nice at the office -- believe it or not, Facebook can get old, so it's nice to have this backup. On the other hand, I'm letting calls go to voicemail, I can't remember what else Heath asked me to do, and my eyeballs feel as if they are going to fall out of my head for lack of blinking. If I'm completely honest with you, this post has taken a long time to write, because I impulsively and without thinking click to the other tab that is open on my browser...the Mah Jongg tab...
I'm getting really good, too. I can finish an entire game in less than six minutes which, depending on who you ask, may or may not be pathetic. [Okay, since I wrote that last sentence, I have played three games. This is out of control].
It's not like this little game is consuming my life or anything...unless there is a computer in front of me. And the good news is that I have learned from my paper clip past, and I know that this phase is going to pass. In a year or so, after a long hiatus, I'll stumble upon some form of Mah Jongg and I will regress back into my obsession for an hour, then shudder and shake it off. This isn't a big deal; it's just a new way to melt my brain while I should be productive.
You know, I'm really starting to think that I'm not created for a 9-5. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go think about checking the voicemails while I squeeze a few more games in the last thirty minutes.
I don't know why, but my personality, tastes, and tendencies have the habit of being...rather all or nothing, let's say. Obsessive compulsive? Not quite. Single minded to the point of distraction? Probably a better description.
I have always been this way. I am so easily impassioned, I will get completely immersed in an idea or a topic or a plan, and throw my entire being into it headfirst. There was one summer where my sister and I and our two neighbor girls decided to start a business: we were going to make paper clip jewelry. We knew that we would make millions, because, you know, everyone needs a little bit more junk in their house. Our plans dominated my thoughts and conversations for the next few days [I was nine -- a few days is an eternity when you are nine]. Pricing lists, expansion ideas, cost of supplies; I probably had an entire notebook covered in color pencil scribbles and notes. I seem to remember that we were going to lure in buyers with an innocent looking lemonade stand, and then thrust our ingenious little necklaces and bracelets on our unsuspecting buyers who, given my dazzling sales presentation, would beg for more.
Well, unfortunately my big break never materialized. My jewelry debut has yet to be seen, because I got bored with my little game and dropped it like a little league left fielder with ADD. I think that I replaced my paper clip obsession with an urgent need to know everything I could about Clara Barton and Florence Nightengale. In retrospect, I was a really weird kid.
I have yet to grow out of my hot and cold, on and off, obsessive tendencies, and once again it has begun to ebb its way into my mind. You see, I have a new addiction, a dangerous little disaster waiting to happen. I have met the mistress of my procrastination, and her name is Mah Jongg.
That's right, this seemingly harmless ancient Chinese tile game is taking over. It's one of those things where you sit down to play one game, and then three hours later you're like, "Wtf. I'm dumb." On one hand, it's really nice at the office -- believe it or not, Facebook can get old, so it's nice to have this backup. On the other hand, I'm letting calls go to voicemail, I can't remember what else Heath asked me to do, and my eyeballs feel as if they are going to fall out of my head for lack of blinking. If I'm completely honest with you, this post has taken a long time to write, because I impulsively and without thinking click to the other tab that is open on my browser...the Mah Jongg tab...
I'm getting really good, too. I can finish an entire game in less than six minutes which, depending on who you ask, may or may not be pathetic. [Okay, since I wrote that last sentence, I have played three games. This is out of control].
It's not like this little game is consuming my life or anything...unless there is a computer in front of me. And the good news is that I have learned from my paper clip past, and I know that this phase is going to pass. In a year or so, after a long hiatus, I'll stumble upon some form of Mah Jongg and I will regress back into my obsession for an hour, then shudder and shake it off. This isn't a big deal; it's just a new way to melt my brain while I should be productive.
You know, I'm really starting to think that I'm not created for a 9-5. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go think about checking the voicemails while I squeeze a few more games in the last thirty minutes.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
What Came Out Today.
To be a writer is to be fickle and tempestuous by nature. For example, I can never decide how I like to write -- is it better, more natural for me to write in a lighthearted style? Go for a laugh from my readers? That's generally what comes out on a first draft, and I will love it...until I read it 57 times. At that point, I hate my writing; I can see nothing but silly cliches and cheap jokes, and I feel like it sounds like I'm trying too hard.
So I mix it up. I love deep, artistic writing, full of metaphors that are so deliciously unusual and innovative that I get goosebumps. There is something about that rich yet sparse, deep yet tangible, beautiful, raw writing that I want for myself. I have had classmates who vomited this sort of work onto their pages instinctively; Kevin and Nora [among others] were so despicably good at this that I tried to mimic their art like a six-year-old with fingerpaint. The results were clumsy, choppy, but workable. I molded those pieces like clay, whispered sweet nothings onto my glowing computer screen, begged them to become something that I could be proud of. Sometimes they were stubborn, but other times they yielded to my coaxing, and finally I would have a piece, a narrative, a story, that I felt was just hollow enough, just dark enough to be considered good. I would love this piece too....until I heard another student's funny piece. Suddenly, the work that I agonized over, obsessed about, seemed pretentious, heavy, and ridiculous. Ruing the very day that I accepted the fact that I was a writer, I open a new Word document, intent on making something beautiful.
That's just it though -- I am a writer. I can't help it! I can be anywhere, doing anything, and I will get the urge to write. I scribble the phrases and descriptions that pop into my head while I am driving onto the back of receipts while I am am stopped at red lights. During the day I sit at my desk in this office, this building that bustles with inefficiency, and when my blog is up or a Word document is open, I am in my own little world. The phone startles me, tenants take me by surprise, and time seems to stand still. I get energy and passion from writing. This is what God created me to do.
Someone recently asked me how I knew that I wanted to be a writer, how I knew that this is what I wanted for my life. I can't explain it, really. It's like being in love...I've never been in love, but from what I am told from a plethora of extremely different people, you just know when you are truly, madly, deeply, and passionately in love with someone. I used to try to fit a different mold when it came to my occupational dreams: I was going to be an engineer. Women in engineering are needed, I was told. You will win scholarships, choice jobs, and meet so many men in college, I was told. Besides, I went to KAMSC -- my choices were limited to engineering, science, or medicine. Law, perhaps, would be acceptable as well. Or computer programming. But those were the only viable options for a fulfilling and lucrative career.
God had a different plan. I took the math classes, I went to the engineering camp, I interviewed the professionals, and I could not get excited about it. My British Literature class at Gull Lake, on the other hand, was a different story. In the blink of an eye, I found my passion again, and over the course of that junior year, I found my calling as well. My favorite part of the story is that I was writing all along, I just didn't realize it. Journals, letters, stories... I have been writing my entire life. My mom pointed that out to me once. "I knew you were never going to be an engineer," she said. "You've been reading and writing since you were five."
So this eternal frustration? This nagging feeling that my writing is sub-par? The deep respect/envy for the work of my peers? The very real and very terrifying reality of writer's block? It's all in a day's work. And in the end, it's all going to be worth it.
So I mix it up. I love deep, artistic writing, full of metaphors that are so deliciously unusual and innovative that I get goosebumps. There is something about that rich yet sparse, deep yet tangible, beautiful, raw writing that I want for myself. I have had classmates who vomited this sort of work onto their pages instinctively; Kevin and Nora [among others] were so despicably good at this that I tried to mimic their art like a six-year-old with fingerpaint. The results were clumsy, choppy, but workable. I molded those pieces like clay, whispered sweet nothings onto my glowing computer screen, begged them to become something that I could be proud of. Sometimes they were stubborn, but other times they yielded to my coaxing, and finally I would have a piece, a narrative, a story, that I felt was just hollow enough, just dark enough to be considered good. I would love this piece too....until I heard another student's funny piece. Suddenly, the work that I agonized over, obsessed about, seemed pretentious, heavy, and ridiculous. Ruing the very day that I accepted the fact that I was a writer, I open a new Word document, intent on making something beautiful.
That's just it though -- I am a writer. I can't help it! I can be anywhere, doing anything, and I will get the urge to write. I scribble the phrases and descriptions that pop into my head while I am driving onto the back of receipts while I am am stopped at red lights. During the day I sit at my desk in this office, this building that bustles with inefficiency, and when my blog is up or a Word document is open, I am in my own little world. The phone startles me, tenants take me by surprise, and time seems to stand still. I get energy and passion from writing. This is what God created me to do.
Someone recently asked me how I knew that I wanted to be a writer, how I knew that this is what I wanted for my life. I can't explain it, really. It's like being in love...I've never been in love, but from what I am told from a plethora of extremely different people, you just know when you are truly, madly, deeply, and passionately in love with someone. I used to try to fit a different mold when it came to my occupational dreams: I was going to be an engineer. Women in engineering are needed, I was told. You will win scholarships, choice jobs, and meet so many men in college, I was told. Besides, I went to KAMSC -- my choices were limited to engineering, science, or medicine. Law, perhaps, would be acceptable as well. Or computer programming. But those were the only viable options for a fulfilling and lucrative career.
God had a different plan. I took the math classes, I went to the engineering camp, I interviewed the professionals, and I could not get excited about it. My British Literature class at Gull Lake, on the other hand, was a different story. In the blink of an eye, I found my passion again, and over the course of that junior year, I found my calling as well. My favorite part of the story is that I was writing all along, I just didn't realize it. Journals, letters, stories... I have been writing my entire life. My mom pointed that out to me once. "I knew you were never going to be an engineer," she said. "You've been reading and writing since you were five."
So this eternal frustration? This nagging feeling that my writing is sub-par? The deep respect/envy for the work of my peers? The very real and very terrifying reality of writer's block? It's all in a day's work. And in the end, it's all going to be worth it.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Confessions of a Self-Proclaimed Literature Nerd
Kelsey and I have a tradition. Neither of us really remember how it started, but every year on the last day of school, we would end up at her house, jumping on the trampoline and chanting: "We don't have school tomorrow [bounce] or the next day [bounce] or the next day [bounce] or the next day [bounce] or the next day [bounce] or the next day [bounce ]or the next day [bounce]...." and on and on we went, until her poor mother came outside to shove Minute Maid Italian Ice popsicles in our mouths, probably for the express purpose of shutting us up.
We were SO excited to be out of school. The summer stretched before us lazily, full of long, boring days, camps, swimming lessons, Cedar Point trips that didn't yet require days off of work, and those random little adventures that always seemed so epic when we were young. The two of us would lie on that trampoline, discussing the endless possibilities that were ahead of us now that we had been unfettered from that awful institution of education.
Well I have a confession to make: I never felt fettered. I mean, that's not completely true -- everyone feels tied down and overwhelmed and sick of school at times, myself included. But the majority of the time, I loved being in school. I loved my teachers, I loved being easily successful [it was seventh grade...not exactly rocket science], I loved my friends, I loved everything! The initial break was like drinking your first cherry limeade. It was so delicious, so refreshing, so wonderful, and you felt like you wanted it to just go on and on and on and on, like mine and Kelsey's trampoline chant. After a while, though, the realization hits: summer days are all alike; they are stagnant, hazy, unchanging...HOT. There is no change in the air, no electricity. Past the fourth of July, I secretly and guiltily began to look forward to the fall.
School fever struck early this year. Very early. I am sitting at my desk here at the real estate office, scrupulously avoiding the petty, paper-pushing tasks that are piling up, and studying my class schedule. I can't lie, I am nearly giddy in excitement. Sociology, psychology, linguistics, Russian, and best of all, my literature and writing courses -- I cannot wait to get back to school!
My Mimi recently told me that she has never seen me happier than I have been since I started school. She was talking with one of her friends and she said that I was going to be in school for the next fifty years because that is what I love. Now, regardless of the fact that I have always enjoyed it, I have never seen myself as a lover of knowledge, but that is exactly what I am. I love learning; I love to know things. Bookstores taunt me, because such richness and depth and mystery lies upon those sacred shelves, but also because of the overwhelming amount -- even if I were able to devote my life to nothing but literature [and the thought has crossed my mind more than once] I would never be able to read everything! And if I could, there would be new books published that I would have to skip, and after a while everything would just run together. You see the dire predicament in which I find myself.
What is it that makes a person educated? I would say that my breadth on English is above average, but my scientific education has been woefully undermined [despite...or more probably, because of KAMSC]. I have the corner on pop culture, a working understanding about political issues, but international affairs? Sports? Nothing.
I think that the love of knowledge, like the love of money, is an insatiable thirst, an unending pursuit: one can never get enough. When does a person stop learning? Is their day to day existence fulfilling at that point? To not learn anything requires more work than learning, sort of like the way I think that believing in evolution takes a lot more faith than believing in creationism. It just doesn't make sense.
Great. Now that I have written this, my passions are all stirred up, and all I want to do is go curl up with one of the multitude of books on my [self-sanctioned] summer reading list. Of course, I have to go to the restaurant and schmooze for the next six hours....but maybe after. Yes, most certainly after.
We were SO excited to be out of school. The summer stretched before us lazily, full of long, boring days, camps, swimming lessons, Cedar Point trips that didn't yet require days off of work, and those random little adventures that always seemed so epic when we were young. The two of us would lie on that trampoline, discussing the endless possibilities that were ahead of us now that we had been unfettered from that awful institution of education.
Well I have a confession to make: I never felt fettered. I mean, that's not completely true -- everyone feels tied down and overwhelmed and sick of school at times, myself included. But the majority of the time, I loved being in school. I loved my teachers, I loved being easily successful [it was seventh grade...not exactly rocket science], I loved my friends, I loved everything! The initial break was like drinking your first cherry limeade. It was so delicious, so refreshing, so wonderful, and you felt like you wanted it to just go on and on and on and on, like mine and Kelsey's trampoline chant. After a while, though, the realization hits: summer days are all alike; they are stagnant, hazy, unchanging...HOT. There is no change in the air, no electricity. Past the fourth of July, I secretly and guiltily began to look forward to the fall.
School fever struck early this year. Very early. I am sitting at my desk here at the real estate office, scrupulously avoiding the petty, paper-pushing tasks that are piling up, and studying my class schedule. I can't lie, I am nearly giddy in excitement. Sociology, psychology, linguistics, Russian, and best of all, my literature and writing courses -- I cannot wait to get back to school!
My Mimi recently told me that she has never seen me happier than I have been since I started school. She was talking with one of her friends and she said that I was going to be in school for the next fifty years because that is what I love. Now, regardless of the fact that I have always enjoyed it, I have never seen myself as a lover of knowledge, but that is exactly what I am. I love learning; I love to know things. Bookstores taunt me, because such richness and depth and mystery lies upon those sacred shelves, but also because of the overwhelming amount -- even if I were able to devote my life to nothing but literature [and the thought has crossed my mind more than once] I would never be able to read everything! And if I could, there would be new books published that I would have to skip, and after a while everything would just run together. You see the dire predicament in which I find myself.
What is it that makes a person educated? I would say that my breadth on English is above average, but my scientific education has been woefully undermined [despite...or more probably, because of KAMSC]. I have the corner on pop culture, a working understanding about political issues, but international affairs? Sports? Nothing.
I think that the love of knowledge, like the love of money, is an insatiable thirst, an unending pursuit: one can never get enough. When does a person stop learning? Is their day to day existence fulfilling at that point? To not learn anything requires more work than learning, sort of like the way I think that believing in evolution takes a lot more faith than believing in creationism. It just doesn't make sense.
Great. Now that I have written this, my passions are all stirred up, and all I want to do is go curl up with one of the multitude of books on my [self-sanctioned] summer reading list. Of course, I have to go to the restaurant and schmooze for the next six hours....but maybe after. Yes, most certainly after.
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