Here's To Life

Sunday Songs XXXVI

2012-01-29T14:30:00.000-05:00

Do you guys like XTC? I really enjoy their sound. Here's a song from them I particularly enjoy:

A bit of fiction...

2012-01-24T14:00:00.003-05:00

Before you begin reading, note I am not a creative writer, nor do I try to be. I am often overcome with great ideas that soon become great nothings because I lose patience too quickly.

In my American Literature class, we are learning about Henry James and his realist style. I thought I would tinker with the idea subtly.

This came to me, and was written, in close to ten minutes, so know it may never be my best work. But I hope you enjoy it either way.

----------

The stranger was tall, thin and well-shaven; he mumbled through dull teeth words masked under a tone of disinterest. He had just exited a meeting with her boss, and he looked just as displeased as he did when he entered the office. No amount of disparagement uttered could turn women from him. His pronounced jaw, only moving to let out a few syllabic grunts, remained a mystery. She imagined little elves—not kin to Legolas, but possibly of the Keebler surname—skillfully chiseling at bone until the definition was seemingly divine.

The platonic stranger moved across the room, delighting others but rarely delighting himself. No smirk, no courteous chuckle, no eye-contact with anyone shorter than he—he was above it all.

She watched him closely—she did not trust him—and breathlessly witnessed his quick exit from the room. The moment he was gone several women watched him indiscriminately through the window while the rest of the group relaxed. The worst was over, and she could continue with her work.

To the hills of Hollywood, strewn with debris, short skirts and missing underwear, she was sure it would have been worth it to lose all of her dignity to someone who cares for nothing. However, she had logos on her side.

This was not Disney. Beasts cannot be tamed into beauties. Neither was it worth the effort to try.

Sunday Songs XXXV

2012-01-22T14:30:00.000-05:00

This is one of my favorite Nickel Creek songs.

Thinking

2012-01-19T14:00:00.003-05:00

I needed inspiration, and I needed a place to start. I just wanted to write something.

It was as if I was thumbing through my own thoughts, yet getting nowhere--pages and pages of faded, grey text mocking me. I was so determined in this action I could feel the edges of imaginary paper rub against my thumbs. No corner, confine nor metaphorical filing cabinet in my brain had the words I needed. I shifted and fidgeted to keep my anxiety down--my only means of taking the edge off of an otherwise calming day. He huffed on his cigarette a few more times as I avoided the line of smoke; I suppose that is his means.

"Write the way you think," he said.

He said it so coolly I felt dense for asking (I had been picking his brain for the majority of that afternoon). I was drowning--he said it first--and the black sea was unforgiving. Classes were in progress, goals were being made and broken, and I was feeling the pressure.

‘Write the way you think.’ If I cannot say what I am thinking, how am I supposed to know where to begin?

My focus phased in-and-out for the rest of the evening, but negativity was nigh.

The way I think will never do. The way I think is too primitive. Worse: the way I think is too honest--proving just how lousy I can be.

“You’re too focused on writing… Stop writing and start thinking,” he said.

I have put away all of my files, my thumbs have been bandaged, and I am sitting in my best pair of pajamas, to think--not to write, but to think. Wish me the best of luck.

-----

I appreciate all of the conversation this has sparked! I feel I should reiterate a point for you all so there is no confusion:

I am an English major in college with a focus on magazine writing. I am not, by any means, a creative writer.

This particular post--though it wasn't said--surrounded my inability to come up with something good and "me" for the campus' magazine. Not to mention school had been wearing me out, so it wasn't helping my ability to think things through. That's why he told me to stop trying to "write" for an audience and just get passionate and write the way I think. Write the way I think so I can reach people in my article.

People spend way too much time trying to write impressively and forcing themselves to write through different exercises--they don't just let the words flow as they naturally would. And that's what he was trying to tell me.

Keep the comments, going, though! I'm enjoying hearing about your techniques in writing and why or why not you think this was good advice!

Sunday Songs XXXIV

2012-01-15T14:30:00.000-05:00

I hope your new year is shaping out nicely.

Almost 200 Words: Man With the Boom Box

2012-01-12T14:30:00.001-05:00

The graying man arrives every day just a few minutes before class is supposed to begin; not mine, but another (whichever one he teaches). He is a quintessential Brat Pack character, the man with the boom box. In this day and age, our university looks upon his music machine as a blast from the past—old and unique.

The boom box is in flawless condition. The sound is clear, and just as the description of “boom box” would imply, its sound booms off of every wall in this hallowed hall. Students stare in amusement as he makes his way, undeterred by the looks, to class.

The man with the boom box is the most unique character we have of all our professors—even more so than the one who rides a unicycle to work. I can only imagine what must happen in his class—the antics, the mannerisms, the music.

Maybe one day I will know from my own experience. For now, he is but an interesting face I see, and one I enjoy seeing on such otherwise boring days.

Old and New

2012-01-07T20:55:00.004-05:00

I waited to find the old clunker parked outside of the dormitory—a noticeable red, but referring to the vehicle as red would be wrong. Years of wear and rust give the color its own flavor. The bleached out sticker on the windshield, meant to look like a tattoo, now just looks unfortunate. If cars could wrinkle with age, Christina's car would be the elderly woman with the back tattoo of which has drooped and disfigured too far for anyone to ever want to see now.

"I'm really into hip-hop right now," says Christina, and Nicki Minaj infiltrating my ears as we drive down the road.

Christina says something to this effect at least once each visit—and her opinion changes often. Last time I visited she was infatuated with Latin culture. She wanted a man who could speak Spanish with his body and tongue, and was listening to a rock band whose lyrics I could not understand. (I chose French over Spanish in high school.) I remember Christina telling me she had been in love with Latin culture in her high school years.

Nothing is ever new for Christina—she always revisits the same places in her life with some sort of pride. I did not know Christina before this past year. She could only be revisiting what she would rather proudly confess, or her life could have been an amazing spark of multicultural interests and social peculiarities. Either way, I envy her.I always held my head down to the floor, feeling ridiculed for some quirky interest I had throughout my schooling. Now that being a nerd is “chic,” I can at least walk around in Star Wars t-shirts without wondering who is staring at me disapproving.

Before Christina’s love for Latin men and music, her entire world was Korean pop and Korean dramas. That is how I met her. Christina streamed all of her Korean fix from several websites with the English subtitles following slowly behind, and the fast-talking gibberish of people from Korea—either transferred there or native—cheerfully telling their life to strangers in video-logs. I watched a few episodes of a drama with her once; the entire show was colorful—not in language, but quite literally colorful. I could only compare the scenes and actors to walking into the “Care Bears” aisle of a toy store. For weeks Christina would mimic the trends of Korean culture, she saw displayed in her dramas, by sporting a ponytail on the side of her head with colorful bows pinned in her hair neatly. She was different.

I often wonder if modern Asian culture is really as bright and colorful as it appears in media. Their world seems fantastic, yet quite possibly a fantastic ruse to make us burn our red, white and blue’s for something more confining and structured.

Despite the conspiracy, the fun is not lost on me. We all have our guilty pleasures, I suppose—I used to watch the Jersey Shore with my roommate. Christina’s guilty pleasure just changes once a week, and is often reminiscent of a life she used to live.

Typically I just move forward. If my taste changes, I can blame it on a new discovery. But she finds comfort on past affinities. Many of us marvel at our past selves as if they could never be greeted again warmly. For better or worse, who we are evolved from who we were. And, like Christina, there is a reachable thrill from reliving memories and finding new solace in old things.

I might be embarrassed to remember the me that was, even just a year ago, but she has just as much worth as the me now; and I have not completely given up on the things I used to love. It is for this reason, one might find me still lurking in areas of a library or bookstore from my past, smiling as I once did.

Perhaps I will turn out to be one of those elderly women obsessed with antiquity, clinging onto every old photograph as if it were my last. I hope Trey can bear it.

Making A Pact

2012-01-05T14:09:00.001-05:00

"We have to make a pact," he said.

I woke up to the message, and it took longer than usual to read.

"A pact for what?" I asked.
"Losing weight."

I am harder on myself than I probably should be; this is nothing new to him. Every year I try new projects--something to start off the year with a sense of purpose. This year, I am already trying to do the same, and now he wants me to start another with him. Perhaps I can find a way to manage...

I am typical. No amount of failure will keep me from making new resolutions the moment the clock strikes midnight.

This time, however, it is with him. Perhaps having a partner in this will help me improve. I suppose that is what new years are for: new phases in our lives. We are starting our own new phase, and breaking expectations together. Even small ones, liking losing a few pounds.

Someone should hide the peanut butter.

Exciting News and a Sunday Song

2012-01-01T16:17:00.002-05:00

So, for this New Year's I got engaged, and everything is just a whirlwind of bliss right now.

He doesn't look like it here, but he likes me.

Funny enough, I heard this song in particular a few days ago and I love these two together, so here is my favorite singer with another adorable actor I love to see her with:

We Had A Merry Christmas

2011-12-27T02:48:00.003-05:00

Though we lack of a love for tinsel, everything else was hung over mantles, on Christmas trees and dancing in our dreams. The town was painted green and red for the new holiday season.

"Last year it snowed. Yesterday it was 70-degrees!" We were confused.

I received messages wishing me a "Merry Christmas Eve Eve," and part of me grimaced. The holiday spirit is not lost on me, but that was overkill. We all gathered around the living room as the matriarch and patriarch of the family sat in the center, with one large Bible in hand. They read the verses welcoming the newborn King in Bethlehem together, and we all reveled in the proclamation: "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth, peace, good will toward men." Such a tradition will always hold a dear place in my heart.

Then the game called "Dirty Santa." Ornaments were brought and each person drew a number--we could either open a wrapped ornament or steal a previously chosen ornament on our turn. Papa held his head in his hands and fake-cried when his ornament was stolen from him. The youngest, Bethany, lit up when she saw the Frosty the Snowman ornament, and I managed to walk away with a Star Wars ornament from "Episode IV" when Han Solo talks to Greedo. All good things come to those who wait, and being number 16 out of 20 meant I had to wait awhile.

Later that night, the food soothed me to sleep, only to wake up the next day and do it again with another side of the family. The night before I gorged myself on "redneck caviar" dip, smoked turkey, green beans, cookies and other side dishes of which swiftly found its way to my stomach before I could recognize them. This time it was homemade coleslaw, potato salad, crescent rolls, ham and deviled eggs.

Odd presents and stories were swapped. I spent the most of it with grandparents I had not seen in a long time, while the night before I spent most of it entertaining Bethany. Every time I see Bethany I cannot believe how much she has grown. I suppose my grandparents on the other side say the same thing about me, though I managed to level-out at 5'4" by the age of 14--an unimaginable 7 years prior.

Every Christmas, the only thing reminding me that I am aging, is the gifts I receive from year-to-year. I used to be surrounded by Legos, silly putty and fun games. This year: gift cards. Gift cards for the broke college student. Obviously I am incredibly grateful to still be able to get anything--though my plans for giving are going to be late this year.

I was squished on the couch between three grandparents. Granddaddy opened his gift first, revealing a drill. Power tools always easily entertained him. He has been hard at work on a boat for years; perhaps this will speed the process along. The others received iPods and iPhones, which is always entertaining to witness being operated. My cousins and I exchanged looks of humor across the room, and too many pictures were taken to savor the moment.

In the morning I gathered around our own familiar Christmas tree with my family, and opened presents and pulled the goodies from my stocking as if I were a child again. We said a prayer before we ate a delicious breakfast casserole, and we spent the rest of the day in relaxation and peace.

We may not have gotten snow, and the weather was dreadfully gloomy, but we still had a merry Christmas. Because we were together.

Sunday Songs XXXII

2011-12-25T14:30:00.002-05:00

I don't think words will ever be able to describe how much the trilogy The Hunger Games moved me and absolutely tormented me. It's the most amazing series of books I have read in a long time. Even now, I have lingering feelings about the ending. It was all so brilliant and tragic, and yet completely beautiful.

Taylor Swift is not my idea of a good artist. She writes too commercial 15-year-old geared songs for someone her age. I had yet to see her write a really great song in the whole of her career... Until now...

She wrote a song called "Safe and Sound" for the new Hunger Games film coming out soon. If she started writing more like this, I would take her more seriously.

Very Eisley-esque.

I'm sorry the song isn't Christmas-themed. I just had to share it.

Circles

2011-12-15T23:19:00.003-05:00

Wrinkled hands and stooped posture, the gray woman slumped slowly to the store. She gasped each time her foot took a new step. From here, she seems stunned to have made contact with the parking lot pavement. I watch her slowly, and smile each time we make eye-contact--it is not just an act of southern hospitality. This gray woman is blood, though hers is much thinner than mine these days.

"Are you okay?" I ask occasionally, unsure from the start. She reassures me she is ready to grocery shop, and at this point, I have to believe her.

Some time before the long crawl to the grocery store doors, I spoke to my father, worried of her health.
"I don't see how she'll make it, and quite frankly, I'm scared to have to face the worst," I said.
"Just call 911 like everyone else," he said abrasively.
His words were just as gray as she.

Her final huff through the doors signaled the beginning of a long few hours, possibly in and out of the same few aisles--she operates in circles. She talks in circles; she walks in circles; she rolls her hair at night, looking like stacked circles atop her head. This may not work for me, but it works for her, somehow. Just like her years, her system is all a gray area of confusion for me.

When the shopping was complete, bags packed tightly in the cart and the receipt folded neatly in a wallet, we crawled across the pavement once more, in the same routine as before. She said I was her moral support as I packed the trunk of her car. If "moral support" means asking "Are you okay?" twenty times a day, then I can manage being the moral support she needs for now.

"I remember when you were little, I used to hold your hand and take you through the store..." the gray woman reminisced. "Now, you have to hold my hand. It's funny how things work out."
"Circle of life," I said.

Yet another thing about her that works in circles.

Sunday Songs XXXI

2011-12-11T14:30:00.000-05:00

I have been dying to watch the new Muppets movie that is out. I have been a hardcore Muppets fan since childhood...

The trailer came on today and I could faintly hear "Rainbow Connection" in the background and I almost died! Hearing Kermit the Frog sing "Rainbow Connection" as a child has got to be in my top five fondest memories! I loved it! I used to sing along with him over and over again...

Thus, I bring you that exact scene:

"Someday we'll find it
That Rainbow Connection
The lovers the dreamers and me"

Blog's Birthday

2011-12-09T21:05:00.002-05:00

My blog just had it's third birthday and I was too wrapped up in finals to realize it. Because I have no real words to say, eloquently and appropriately enough, how much having this blog and the people I have encountered because of it truly means to me, just browse through and find something that tickles your fancy to give me feedback on. I'd truly appreciate it.

2008-2011. It's been a long three years.

Sunday Songs XXX

2011-12-04T14:30:00.000-05:00

Enjoy this beautiful compilation of Legend of Zelda music played on violin.

Almost 100 Words: Take Me Home

2011-11-22T12:30:00.000-05:00

At the peak of autumn they took form and marvelous color. They fell from the trees, fluttering like a magical sign of good things to come. Now, beneath my feet they crunch, dissipating like the joy I felt for such a time of year.

I look up and see the warm sun staring back at me. Browning leaves should not be followed by warm weather.

Take me home where I am paralyzed by a chill. Take me home where things always make sense.

Sunday Songs XXIX

2011-11-20T14:30:00.001-05:00

Such a fun song.

I love Maroon 5.

My Brother Makes Videos - Part Two

2011-11-18T12:00:00.000-05:00

My brother just made another video, this was a Splinter Cell fan-made trailer for his English class. Check it out. It's pretty cool. "Sam" is my dad. :)

Go subscribe to my brother's channel if you like his stuff, he could use the support. He's really getting more and more into it. :)

Were I Blind

2011-11-12T11:24:00.000-05:00

My feet criss over the lines on the crosswalks; I take the same paths every day. This walk is second-nature. Were I blind, a subjective part of me believes I could manage fine.

Deafened by the track playing loudly in my ears to block out the traffic and sounds of unfamiliar voices--and those familiar I would rather avoid today--I soak in every word and line. Were I blind, even such an ailment could not stop me from understanding the tactility of their words. I feel through them each day; each rise of a new sun bringing them new meaning.

Ten thousand words swarm around my head
Ten million more in books written beneath my bed
I wrote or read them all when searchin' in the swarms
Still can't find out how to hold my hands

And I know you need me in the next room over
But I am stuck in here all paralyzed
For months I got myself in ruts
Too much time spent in mirrors framed in yellow walls

Ain't it like most people? I'm no different
We love to talk on things we don't know about
Ain't it like most people? I'm no different
We love to talk on things we don't know about

The irony rings against my eardrums: I am blind. I follow the lines and cracks in the road and sidewalk blindly. I ignore the world behind me as I follow my routine. And amidst my meandering which often just leads me back to my hallowed dormitory hall, I manage to miss something even more important: the change of time.

Graced with the chance to see the world firsthand, I rarely use the privilege.

I look up at the leaves and notice them: red, yellow, and some brown--they are ready for winter to come. I am ready for winter even more. I noticed it all just in time.

Some people live for the prospect of seeing the world. I live for the world around me I have already seen--the blessings already given to me (nature and nurture), and the beauty found in those who have stood by me.

If I were to ever become blind, I could live off of these memories alone.

Sunday Songs XXVIII

2011-11-06T14:30:00.001-05:00

Here's something light to start your week off with!

Exploring

2011-11-05T04:34:00.005-04:00

Today I explored the creek by campus with my suite-mate Jessica.

Finding Contentment

2011-10-27T13:47:00.001-04:00

My entire week built up to this moment: packed bags and a heart ready for a vacation, even this very small vacation granted to us.

"At the risk of sounding too offensive, this place is a shit-hole."

The sentence left my lips before I even realized its consequences—my friend was not ready for my bold statement. I could have prepared her better, I suppose, but she was the one who questioned my need to go back home. Unfortunately, what I said is the truth--this town's worth only stretches so far. I needed home more than ever after having said my piece, if not for time away from an unruly campus, I needed it as an escape from this awkward situation we both created out of a relatively innocent conversation.

I was home three hours later. Home, in my town, where the air is crisper. My hometown, placed nearly half-an-hour from Atlanta, has everything I could ever need, but more importantly, my home is my stable ground. The people here are well-acquainted with the to-dos and courtesies of a bigger city. We were a small town once, and even then we were more Mayberry than three hours south. Despite the convenience of a university campus lying in the middle of the small town, the ignorance there is in abundance—hardly a line is drawn between "hick" and "southerner."

I have always lived by the rule that happiness can be found anywhere. I have found the people who contribute to my happiness, but the town, overall, is not a pleasant place to live. Happiness, quite simply, is more attainable at home.

"Well, it is your hometown, I'd expect you to like it more," my friend said, attempting to sound understanding.

If only falling in love with a town was as easy as she assumes.

"This isn't egocentrism. If I could choose anywhere to live, I wouldn't even choose this state!"

She would not believe me, but for four days I was far enough away not to care. What I said was my truth, and she is more than willing to live her life loving a town I hate. Only having lived in this town, she will never understand what I mean when I say one has to live somewhere to truly understand the people and the place. Visiting is not enough.

The first person I saw while home was my best friend Melody, and while swapping stories of our motivation to be home, we found common ground.

"There's something about this place--I don't know what, I can't explain it--but it makes me feel calmer and happier," I said.
"I understand what you mean. I feel the exact same way whenever I come home," Melody said--finally someone who understands.

I wanted nothing more than to take snapshots of everything while driving through town--document the town's beauty, the people laughing. And in between the laughter and familiarity, I spent my time staring at the hands on the clock, wishing I could make them tick slower. If only I were a Roald Dahl character.

Coming back was a struggle; I knew exactly what was waiting for me at the end of the trip--familiarity is refreshing, routine is monotonous. Without a few friends and my beloved, I would have no reason to return at all. Georgia has colleges in at least every other town, but in some weird way, in this miserable town in which I setup camp, I found the same comfort one can find in a home. I put my bags down on the floor and looked around the empty dorm room. Some part of me, through all of the complaints and eagerness to be home, missed it.

This place may not be perfect, but it is a home away from home. I suppose that is why my friend was offended by my confession—I did not pause to remind her she keeps me grounded, as well.

Now, if we could just do something about this humidity.

The Cold

2011-10-25T18:40:00.000-04:00

Two steps out of the door, and the humidity hits me. The first to absorb its malevolence was my hair—typical. I wanted to run inside, shower again, and come out with an air-conditioned HAZMAT suit.

“You asked for rain,” I said, with a grimace to my roommate.
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” she said, the guilt suffocating her.

Across seas, men and women are reveling in the colder weather; I long to feel the appropriately-placed chill. I want nothing more than to see my breath reflected in the crisp air, to bundle in a warm jacket, to have a reason to drink hot cocoa—with marshmallows, always with marshmallows. I miss the long days of winter.

I want to feel the depth of cold trickle down my spine, the cold air clear my sinuses, and the warmth of a fireplace. Yet, with the season drawing closer, winter is just a pipe dream the longer I remain here.

A YouTube intermission from the usual...

2011-10-25T11:55:00.000-04:00

My brother has talked about making videos for awhile, and finally has sat down with various friends to make those videos. The embedded video below is of his latest one with his friend Tristan. Please check it out and subscribe to his channel.

Sunday Songs XXVII

2011-10-23T14:30:00.000-04:00

Dan Schneider, a man who has been creating and producing shows and movies for as long--maybe a bit longer--as I have been watching the channel Nickelodeon, also created a show called Victorious. For those of you who don't know the show, it is basically a show about teens that go to a performing arts high school in Hollywood. It's actually a pretty good show, and I love the amazing talent in it.

This is a clip from a recent episode. I love this song a lot and keep replaying it; I absolutely love when they get the characters Tori and Andre to sing together. I hope you enjoy it this Sunday.

"365 Days" - From the show Victorious, Leon Thomas III featuring Victoria Justice

Sunday Songs XXVI

2011-10-16T14:30:00.000-04:00

Just another wonderful Sunday.

No Booze, But All the Liberation

2011-10-11T00:28:00.005-04:00

Permanently etched, permanently scarred on my shoulder is a symbol. In language, a symbol does not have to relate to anything in particular or even be verbally expressed to be a symbol. This symbol, most common to those astute to the late-eighties and early-nineties world of gaming, stands for more than an easily abducted princess in pink. On the other side of town is someone with a certain overall-ed hero permanently placed on his forearm. It was the perfect idea.

I imagined Saturday quite differently: a drink in hand, a moment of glee and then the dive into year twenty-one. Instead, there were no drinks, but not without offer. I have gone 21 years without a drink and I did not care to have one now. There was no need for a depressant like wine--I was having the time of my life. No need for beer--the mere idea makes me cringe a bit. No need for anything. I had everything I needed right across the table from me, scarfing down on some "spasagna."

The ribs were tender and just what I needed to kick off the celebrations. I moved, nauseously out of the booth and into the truck, having eaten too much, and straight to the tattoo parlor where the artist stood waiting for us, where we said we would be.

"Are you ready?"
"As ready as I ever will be."

Tears formed in my eyes. My nerves, again.

The needle hit my skin and an hour later it was finished. Just like that. The process was easier than I thought it would be. It is a birthday gift I will cherish, will always be there, and will always be with him. Because I am his princess, and he is the hero that saves me, everyday, from myself.

Growing up, I scared myself out of every great idea I ever had. With him, I am one step closer to overcoming my nerves and doing whatever I want, for once. How liberating.

Sunday Songs XXV

2011-10-02T14:30:00.000-04:00

Let's all say it together: Julie Andrews is amazing.

I just love her.

100 Words: One Year

2011-09-21T12:00:00.001-04:00

Last September, we tied ourselves together. One year ago, I met my best friend, and the only man who has ever loved me so deeply and unconditionally.

I finally found a man in whom I could put all of my trust and love--my perfect match.

A few days prior, we drove past a strip-mall when I saw it: the first place we hung out, socially. He was nervous, blushing and scared to chase me away. I was scared and wondering how soon it would end before it could begin--like many regrettable instances in my life.

Our union did not end.

That store is now home to my most precious memory--I cannot pass by without smiling and thanking God for something so beautiful.

Sunday Songs XXIV

2011-09-11T14:30:00.001-04:00

My friend, Chelsea, is currently addicted to this song. It is a song of worship; it is so addictive, too!

Happy Sunday, folks!

Meme: Seven Links

2011-09-06T18:42:00.000-04:00

So, I was passed this blogging meme from the always entertaining Bag Lady. I have seen some of my absolute favorite bloggers pass this around, so I feel privileged to get to be part of the game as well.

There are seven topics regarding your personal blog posts, and you must choose one that suits each best. After which, you tag five of your favorite bloggers and make them do the meme as well--do not let the meme die, otherwise, it's not a very good meme.

Here is my list:

One. Your most beautiful post.
At my most inspired, I would probably say one of two posts are beautiful out of all, given the extent of emotion put into the effort of writing them (I wish I could just choose one over the other, but alas, I just cannot): In Every Sense of the Word and The Meaning of Loyalty. Both were written last May, at which point, I had just finished reading an article in Rolling Stone Magazine entitled "The Tao of Robert Downey Jr" by Walter Kirn. For awhile, I was completely obsessed with the article and its author's profound style. One year ago, my blog and I had an interesting relationship: I would give, it would take, and as sporadic as my posts were, their quality was even more unpredictable. I wrote a couple of posts on the passing of my mother, one of which grabbed some interesting attention from some of my favorite bloggers: A Little Time To Think. Though, I do believe my feelings were sincere, and I still hold strong to what was written in those posts, from that point on, if mention of my mother ever did come up, people would focus on it more than the whole content of the piece written. I have always hated grabbing attention from people for tragic occurrences--I am not the first to lose a mother, unfortunately, and I will not be the last. When my posts about my mother passing were getting more attention than the posts on which I spent even more time and effort, I was disheartened and felt a little defeated. Then I read Kirn's article, and I was inspired again. Somewhere, in the middle of that long walk home, I found a muse. So, my writing felt alive again, and just a little later into the month, I had more reason to write, and wrote something of equal quality, in my opinion. I've always been completely in love with those two posts, but mostly the inspiration that gave me those two posts. I still have the article sitting next to me, and I might read it again sometime to get inspired once more (Lord knows I need something these days).

Two. Your Most Popular Post.
Well, there was the time I got Blog of Note and people who don't read me now, read me so they could paste their link everywhere in my comment box (thank you for those who sincerely stuck around); there was the blog post I don't really advertise anymore, but is still an ongoing project, my art project for all of you (which is being delayed due to funds, but has been worked on some); however, aside from those, my most popular post would probably be Small Town Christmas. Technically, The Bigger Picture, has a lot more comments, but it was shortly after I was awarded BON, so I am not entirely sure if I should count that one or not...

Three. Your most controversial post.
I really have no idea if I have written anything controversial... I know my post/forum Words, Words, Words... started a nice discussion once. If I have done anything controversial, by all means, let me know! I have clearly forgotten whatever it was.

Four. Your most helpful post.
[Insert your own idea?]

Five. A post whose success surprised you.
That would probably be Chance Encounters. I love that particular post, but typically posts with which I love, get very little attention relative to what I hope upon hitting that little orange "Publish Post" button. The fact that so many bloggers and regular readers bothered to even leave a comment was what surprised me. I have written posts before, expecting a lot of traffic and getting nothing--it's become more frequent as of late, actually.

Six. A post you feel didn’t get the attention it deserved.
Explicit Campus is not my absolute favorite, but I did rather enjoy writing that particular piece. I remember sitting in front of one of the computers on campus, at peace with my surroundings that morning. It only rounded off to about six comments overall, and given that I do respond within the same comment form, some of those are mine--which sounds utterly pathetic. Regardless, I would hope it would be worth the look. However, you are my audience, and as always, you will be the judge of that.

Seven. The post that you are most proud of.
Some people did not quite understand where I was going with this particular post, but it is actually an unsent letter to someone, hopefully, far away, that I do not actually know. To Whom It May Concern regards someone lower than the dirt beneath my feet, who cannot let go of a past of which I was never a part. My mother was a wonderful person, but she was more gullible than she should have been. She let someone into her life years ago, who could not let go, and, with every form of social networking their small brains are capable of using, they have tried twice in about four years to contact me. This is basically my--excuse me--"fuck you" to them. Because I refuse to pay for anyone else's mistakes but my own. My mother may have bothered to let them in, but they will never be part of my life. When I wrote that post, it was literally thirty minutes after receiving the second message from them. Needless to say, I was livid. But it was the first time I took control of a situation. I advertised this post more than I have ever bothered to with any other. I made sure, if he continued to try and talk to me, he would see it. I am proud of it, because I felt like I took control of my life. Being as timid and nervous as I have been for most of my life, it was relieving to feel in control.

And on that dramatic note (that I did not plan, sorry)...

I pass it on to the following five people who have yet to be tagged, as far as I am aware:

1. Sher, at Beneath the Crystal Stars, is a fashion blogger, but her style is really cute. She also just got married, so be sure to send her best wishes!

2. The Badass Geek is a hilarious blogger that finds comedy wherever he turns and shares it with us all. His Tweets are worth a follow as well. (Mind you, he is crude, but that is my sense of humor most of the time.)

3. Jenny from Jenny Matlock ...Off My Tangent. I have emailed Jenny when I needed someone to talk to, I have been following her blog for awhile now, same as she has mine. She is a great blog-y friend to have, not to mention, she will make you laugh with her goofy wit and fall in love with her adorable grandchildren.

4. Jennifer from L'ananas. She is actually a school friend of mine who finally took to blogging and is a great writer. She is a fellow English major of mine and her love for language just about outweighs mine. Definitely worth a read.

5. Anna from Little Reminders of Love. This girl is so sweet and just loves the most adorable things and loves talking about it all. She is an au pair in Europe at the moment, so she is quite busy, but do stop by and take a look around. She usually remembers to blog something that will make you smile.

Sunday Songs XXIII

2011-09-04T14:30:00.000-04:00

Here's another number for all you lovely nerds out there. The 8-bit version of "For Whom the Bell Tolls" by Metallica. Enjoy.

Forgetful Thursday

2011-09-01T09:00:00.002-04:00

I hide behind my coffee cup, peering into it inquisitively, hoping its remains will predict the rest of my day for me.

But this is not traditional tea brewed from leaves. There is no shaman, or strange old woman with orphic eyes and lined hands; just me, and a few strangers in nearby chairs. And this is a manufactured, brewed, bland latté. Its caramel flavoring all my tongue could enjoy, when it was still in the cup. The morning is moving by slowly, and my mind is racing--either from the caffeine I precariously chugged hardly before reaching the table or just the mere turmoil of uncertainty.

I have forgotten something.

Somewhere could be studies left unattended, phone calls unmade, a fellow peer or professor left stranded in an office or in a dining hall waiting for a meeting of which will never come. The possibility of having forgot something rather important leaves me on the edge of my seat. One slip of my foot, and I almost slip out of the chair. I catch myself in time, though. I will more than likely embarrass myself later today. There is no reason to start my day off with shame.

I look into the cup one more time before sipping up the last bit of its contents. The drops of drink left dangling in the corner-creases form a smile.

In all of my rush to begin my day, I never bothered to lift my head out of the drudgery and just smile. Looming over my conscious all morning was a smile daring to never show.

I pull myself together, and my muscles seem more than willing to relax. I smile.

Maybe Thursdays aren't so bad, I think.

Maybe coffee is clairvoyant, after all.

Sunday Songs XXII

2011-08-28T14:30:00.000-04:00

So, I'm really sorry I did not have a song up for this past Sunday, but I didn't have any idea of one that I really wanted to share... Until that is, I signed onto YouTube and found this gem:

OMG! Sweetums at the beginning made my life! :D

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Also, my friend Chelsea and I have started a cupcakes channel. Subscribe and comment, please! Oh, and tell your friends. :)

Monday's Undead

2011-08-23T19:08:00.001-04:00

Each Monday, students are still stumbling across the pavement in a drunken stupor, yet the one commonality amongst us with the professors is the inability to remove ourselves from the denial a new week is beginning. Like zombies drawn to the sounds and smells of nearby life--dragging limbs and heavy eyes--we all migrate to the library early in the morning to finish what was never started. Down the pedestrian mall, marching in uniform exhaustion to the beat of the same groans and grunts.

Students, of all lifestyles--ending in shame or Ramen-induced comas--stagger out of dormitories, greeted by a relentless sun and its glare; stretching and groaning the same as the walking dead. The final round of Beer Pong suddenly seeming like a waste of good beer. Under the dim lights of the library, we stare at bright screens, type--barely aware of the swift movements of our fingers (muscle memory, nothing more, zombies do not have the mental capacity for utilizing tools, even of the user-friendly kind)--and fight with the printers; and if we are lucky, we still have time for breakfast: eggs, hash browns, fruit and bacon. A cold glass of chocolate milk to complete the meal--a custom of mine.

Another hour passes and I am in a literature class studying the importance of Gilgamesh's potency and fetish for virgins. I do not know how I ended up in this seat towards the back of the classroom, but I am here, attentively scrawling notes on the themes of one of man's earliest--objectively considered so--stories.

What would Freud have to say about the demanding King of Uruk?

Our professor recently improved her status, as an educator and in her own discourse, with her approved doctoral thesis. Her obsession with rape as a theme in early British literature would give the psychology department more reason to live. "Doctor” whoever stands tall with a slender build. Something about the way she moves implies her frame is too frail to carry so much length--somewhat akin to the characters often found in Burton films: made of clay and appearing flexible without actually being so.

Doctor’s accent reeks of Wisconsin, though she has probably spent years overcoming her roots. Upon our first meeting, she openly expressed her depth of worldly experience and educational endeavors, stretching from her hometown to China. Some slow words uttered later, and a few eloquent ramblings about our latest read, and class is over, and with it, any need I have to care about Gilgamesh.

Anthropology is just as I expected the course to be--analytical, fascinating, and, just as any study of humans would be, hilarious. Gourd-shaped and vivacious, the woman with short, asymmetrical curls bounces around the classroom in a goofy manner--an incredibly endearing personality. Her manner is not as articulate as the worldly woman, yet she manages to appear even wiser. The study of language and the study of the humans are synonymous, but most find more reason to criticize the person and excuse the language (poor grammar is mere stupidity rather than cultural bounds). "Curls" has an obsession with artifacts--from fossils to more materialistic and modern, which is less peculiarly specific than the first.

Both women are more than willing to connect with their students; however one is more earnest in their want to learn our names. Despite her criticism, I suppose her study of humans has made her even more social--an interesting find any beings.

In my final live moments of the day, I was sent to a seminar of which has yet to change in the past year. The room was thick with sarcasm, strong personalities and a humor only Hunter Thompson would ever truly appreciate--together we sat, a group of inspired students aspired to be journalists. We report the news, feature entertainment, rant in columns, and joke about the authority and obstinate sources. Give us all a month and our shining faces will look just as ragged as the tread of our shoes. In tailored clothes and with a look of determination, I imagine my professional-self ripping-up pavement with soles more forgiving, instead of blister with every lesson learned on foot--article-by-article, I am paving my way, the tips of my shoes digging into the soft pavement caving under the breath of the sun.

There is peace in knowing my schedule for Mondays stretched into forever. I would rather have Monday’s pressing schedule than no experience or understanding at all—even if we do all resemble zombies without anything to kill.

Sunday Songs XXI

2011-08-14T14:30:00.000-04:00

So, for this Sunday Songs, I am going to share with you one of my absolute favorite songs from the "Tron: Legacy" remixed soundtrack. I really hope you love it as much as I do. This track is just... beautiful! Haha.

Sunday Songs XX

2011-08-07T14:30:00.000-04:00

While Selena Gomez is, by far, not the first to ever try being inspirational, this music video is still cute, as is the song. (Not to mention, it's stuck in my head.) I hope you enjoy it. And I hope you have a wonderful Sunday, my beautiful followers... I hope you know how grateful I am for each and every one of you...

Bells, But No Booze

2011-08-02T19:04:00.001-04:00

Typically, before attending a wedding, I go through a few items on my mental checklist. I must prepare myself for the long, ceremonious speech given by the minister, and the possible outbursts and dramatic reactions to happiness deserved and bitterness received by others.

Weddings are strangely arousing--but not in all the ways the prospect of a honeymoon would presume. They tear families apart, rekindle old loves, and make people want to do dance. A little of everything was experienced at this one: a young couple feeling pushed aside by their family for their baby out of wedlock; a model couple finally exchanging vows; dancing to every genre of song; small portions of delicious foods on small plates; snooty country club servants and members walking past the ballroom in dismay to see blue collars in their establishment; other couples kissing at every moment of glee; and some family members glaring down others.

The only reprieve to any dismay was the blessing of no booze being served as a main course at this particular occasion (as is the usual for others I have attended).

"If they want alcohol, they can go to the bar and buy it themselves, but my dad is not paying for it," the bride-to-be said at the rehearsal dinner the night before. She is wise beyond her years.

Despite the minister talking for a long time, and the song--playing as the couple exited--quickly turning into something akin to "Phantom of the Opera" with the slip of a few fat fingers, the wedding was actually less ceremonious and more celebratory.

Jordan looked into Katye's eyes and was finally able to call her his wife. For someone who is not a big fan of weddings (because none have actually been nice, except this one), I was moved. What a lovely way to spend the evening.

Sunday Songs XIX

2011-07-31T14:30:00.000-04:00

A few weeks back, I went out with some of my closest friends and while we were in the car driving to go see Super 8 (which I recommend, by the way), this song came on the radio--along with "Bye Bye Bye" by N*Sync and "I Want It That Way" by the Backstreet Boys. Anyway, this particular tune has a really cool beat to it. Warning: if you don't like Jennifer Lopez, you may not want to listen to it.

100 Words: The Mall

2011-07-27T16:53:00.003-04:00

They walk around with excitement—in a place they have been to more than once. It continues to feel new with every visit: bright lights, glass doors, display of fabrics, aromas and accessories; every aspect, every corner, captivating their senses.

Mindless machines conforming and contributing to the capitalistic condition of our system. The cologne attracts them. The bright colors bring them through the door. The concept of something “new” causes a capitulation of souls and wallets.

We walk, we stare, we eat from the Chinese buffet, and we walk quickly past the kiosks. We will not become the next victims.

Sunday Songs XVIII

2011-07-24T14:30:00.001-04:00

Now, for something a little different... Honestly, I have very little reason for sharing this one. It's a bit infectious--whether good or bad--and I downloaded the latest "Tap Tap Revenge 4," and this song was in the game. The last time I had heard it was on a commercial of some sort, and it was refreshing to hear it again.

I hope you enjoyed it.

Sunday Songs XVII

2011-07-17T14:30:00.009-04:00

"Skyscraper" by Demi Lovato.

Everything this girl has done and stands for just touches me on such a personal level. It's probably really sad to admit that.

I thought the song was chilling, and then I saw the video, and I cried.

Prayers Answered

2011-07-16T23:12:00.000-04:00

I have a serious prayer request. Twice now I have been denied loans for one reason or another, and without these loans, there is a huge chance I won't be able to go back to school, because I won't be able to afford housing and dining costs... Which seems stupid, but there it is.

Please keep me in your prayers that something comes along that can help me continue working towards my goals. I don't want to give up. I can't give up. I hate asking for things from you all, but what are we but a community of people, and when we need support from one another, I would hope that is when we would step up and put a [virtual] hand on each other's shoulders.

Money isn't everything to me. But it's something I do need. I am still an undergraduate, I just want to be able to finish college...

Please pray for me, and please ask others to pray. I don't know what else to do but pray now.

So, all of your and my prayers have been heard and, last night, I prayed hard, practically begging God to have something come to me. Today, I went on an outing with my Nanna and aunt and after I explained my situation further (because I had been rather cryptic lately about it), they ended up coming together last night and five members of my extended family are pulling their money together just to help me go back to school in the fall.

Praise the Lord.

Of course... Now I owe them more than just money... I guess I will have to walk at graduation after all...

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Enough of this now... Scroll and read my other posts and leave me some comments.

A Tour

2011-07-11T13:00:00.002-04:00

I scratch behind her ears, and she knows exactly what to do: her eyes tightly shut and one leg precariously in the air. I love that dog. I walk out of the bedroom door and I find the hallway smells of milk bones and laundry detergent. An odd smell, but one to which I am accustom. All three dogs find our hallway familiar; I press on.

The house is built a bit oddly, but not for this southern suburban area--everything looks the same, no surprises and nothing fun--a split-level separated by floors whose stairs are divided by an entryway wide enough for two people to stand comfortably together, if the comfort was a goodnight kiss before the break and good-bye. Otherwise, company would have to be escorted straight up the stairs before it becomes too awkward. The stairs, fortunately, are the perfect space and width--not too deep, enough space for a large foot to be planted firmly to lift one up onto the next floor against gravity's wishes.

The living room has to be constantly cleaned, due to the amount of dust, dirt and Georgia red clay left ingrained in the carpet. The walls are painted a warm blue--or so says the paint bucket--we covered the traditional off-white a few years back when our non-traditional new wife entered our home. (She also managed to take the turkey out of my Thanksgiving and monthly wish for meatloaf, but we like the same books and can get along well enough.) The room is dark during the day. And while I prefer a more open space with light and life, we have our reasons. Our house gets little coverage from the sun; if we had not blocked off our rooms like a mausoleum, we would all be baked. And as Climate Change would prefer it, it probably is a bit more green not using as much electricity anyway. We do not recycle, but we do not like spending money if we can help it here.

The room is full of odds and ends--a couch and a chair for sitting or dropping off the towels from the laundry, an entertainment center full of discs of all tastes, video games growing dusty and a large television for enjoyment and pleasure not found in our day-to-day life. It is a window to a world we would like to visit, but probably not live. It often shows programs of models, cakes, the Upper East Side, and cartoons of a more adult humor, but not necessarily mature.

The fireplace goes untouched 10 months out of the year. One dog always rests quietly in her bed there, unless begging for food or attention. She is stubborn and strong. When the fire is lit, she investigates, her skin welcoming the warmth during the cold months when her short hair is not enough. Across the room, against my parents' bedroom door, the larger dog lays snoring louder than my father. When the door is open, he is sleeping inside their shower--an odd habit he began doing when he was just a puppy and ten times smaller than his current size. Right now, there is a fan that never goes off, plugged into the wall, and I am resting in the armchair enjoying having the house to myself, for once. Usually the amount of footwork our floors experience is daunting.

The kitchen lay just behind me. There are two columns that sit on either side of the front of the room, with which my mother fell in love. It was one of the main reasons she convinced my father this had to be the house we move into during the next stage of our lives as a whole family. Now that it is broken--and our new state of being something more akin to fractionally healed--it sometimes does not feel right being here. I am quite wrapped up in the idea of "chapters" in a life. Summer makes me realize, I have my finger on the next page, but I keep hesitating to continue with the story; I am still unsure why. The area is taken up mostly by the dark wooden table that seats us all comfortably and sits up high enough to keep the food from the begging pests we house. The hutch full of china I do not recognize takes up even more. Deeper into the kitchen is where one can find me--by the pantry, the stove and the refrigerator. If I am not cooking, I am hunting for leftovers and processed foods to destroy my system. I am hungry almost every hour or so. I am the usual reason for needing to go grocery shopping by the end of the week. The walls in the kitchen are also painted a bright green that I love. If someone were to ask me what we were covering up in there, I would not be able to tell. I rarely remember a lot from our past life. Back before the green, I barely spent any time in the kitchen--I was mostly locked up in my room pushing aside all feelings and everyone.

Our third dog is the same one of whom had the scratch-able ear. She spends most of her time following me around the house. If I am in the armchair, or in the kitchen, she will sleep on the flooring between both rooms. If I am in my room or on the couch, she will cuddle up against the nearest wall to our hallway. She is attached, and I do not mind it.

The house has been through many aesthetic changes whether it be the walls or the way the couch faces the room. I suppose that is my family's way of turning to the next chapter. For me, I am ready for something more. Even if it is just across town. I suppose this is part of growing up and wanting to experience life. I have to remind myself, though, nothing will ever compare to the comfort of home and the supply of food provided here. We may not always get along, and I may beg for a reprieve and a place to runaway, but I will never complain about having somewhere to be comfortable--even if I desire more. I am more than just lucky, I am blessed.

Sunday Songs XVI

2011-07-10T14:30:00.001-04:00

For those of us who have to wait to see the final addition of a series of films and books to captivate an entire generation, and, quite rightfully so, bring us all to tears at the thought of the final scene being cut and finished, I decided to attribute a happier and beautiful song John Williams' conducted for the series of films.

In presenting you all with a more charming composition for this Sunday, I hope to remind you all, we may have stuck with Harry until the very end, but the stories will never leave us.

And, because I don't think I quite have the heart to say everything I want to say without trying to peer at the screen through teary eyes, please remember I do have another tribute dedicated to JK Rowling--Queen Rowling--and all she has done for our generation and for me.

The Potty-Mouthed Club

2011-07-04T14:27:00.001-04:00

I walked down the usual stairs to find all three girls chatting about the usual and just as inconsequentially ecstatic as one can possibly be on an exhausting Sunday afternoon. The agenda was to celebrate a birthday, but, even more important than that, spend time together being girls. They are a bit older now, as am I (though I rank as the oldest by 3-7 years), but relating to one another, on some level, has never been a challenge. No matter the age of the woman, they will still complain about the same generalities and unfairness, they just might be more eloquent in their ability to express exactly what it is they hate and how much they hate it. Of course, with us, no matter how eloquent we might be in academic-face, it soon becomes lost and anything but eloquent in the way we squawk.

The ideas are all there, organized for proper communication; instead we giggle and speak at the same time, incoherently jabbering about men--big or small--school and our families. If the women of The View were a bit more relaxed, and possibly drunk, our display and their show might be frighteningly similar. But I will never understand why anyone would want to spend time watching The View whether the panel are sloshed or the viewer--it is terrible no matter the climate.

I had always wanted to be open and uncensored with these girls, but now that I could, it felt misplaced and almost too crude for comfort. I now understand why my educators would shake their heads at the language we used in the halls during my days in high school. None of it was ever fitting--we abused language as though it were a rite of passage, and one no one could take away from any of us. We had stopped believing in fairy tales, we knew our parents were paying us for every tooth we yanked out of our mouths (a disgusting form of selling our bodies for financial support, if anyone were to ask me--though no one does), and we wanted the high of being naughty without the consequences of anything severe.

It is the sensation one experiences upon their first taste of a curse--sweet like the forbidden fruit, but one that only felt forbidden because of what Mommy and Daddy said. It was something adults did, and when one reaches the incredibly awkward stage of teenager-hood, all one has are their insecurities and futile ways to prove themselves as adults to the older men and women who will never understand them.

With a mother who cringes at informalities, whether genuinely friendly or brazenly hostile, it is no wonder my younger friend would rather throw religious-caution to the wind and say, "To Hell with censorship!" She took quite kindly to the idea of "bitch" being a term of endearment, and the word "fuck" just another way to bare rebellion against her mother in the most repulsive of manners. These loaded terms are weapons against their imprisonment--one of which they will blame on their parents and that thing they are made to call a "home," but will later discover what they really hated, was the cruel joke life had been holding against them: their shameful hormones. No matter how hard parents may try, everything they are taught, a child will firmly oppose until life lends them too much disappointment and not enough love and self-taught wisdom. Experience does little for treating a yearning mind when the experience itself is just as small as the child living it.

And while my idea of a "fucking good time" and theirs are highly different, we are in the golden years of our lives, and they are living their lives with hands cradling the edge and peering over curiously, but with the fear of actually toppling down. I am just here to monitor their abuse of pizza, Cola and make sure they only like the idea behind using the word "fuck" and not the action that actually lies behind the term--I have to be a mindful friend and one willing to give advice.
"[I] am the oldest, after all." I have the most life experience out of all of them.

And like a drunk Joy Behar, the idea that I am their eyes and ears for what is outside of this town, is a frightening thought--maybe someone who refuses to encourage their intake altogether would be more suitable. And before all hope is lost, I will say, hopefully their earthly-savior will arrive before they come to the daunting realization that Kesha is not the perfect role-model for how to live a disease-free, Puritanical life like Mommy wants.

Sunday Songs XV

2011-07-03T14:30:00.001-04:00

I know I've already done Ingrid Michaelson once, but I just love her. This cover makes me happy:

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Don't forget to comment on this entry and help me with my art project!

At Peace With the Broken

2011-06-28T17:18:00.002-04:00

I caught my eyes darting down the train tracks. I was not sure what could be there, but it was a new adventure worth having. The idea of running. "Running to what," I did not know; "running from what" was a more important, still unanswered, question. I was caught up in the moment of the self-gratification of the warm sun and my closest companion nestled safely in my arms. Black and sleek, with a user-friendly operating system--back then, my camera was all I needed to be happy. These days, both it and I are lucky if we ever see sunlight other than between the bustling routes I take between school courses, or in the summer, when I spend more time avoiding the brutal sun--hot and not at all welcoming as it was on the tracks that day.

Kayla was there with her friend as well, and we talked as she danced and posed under the brilliant light. It was all more relaxing than I was accustomed. Perhaps that is why, between the click of my lens, I was looking again down the path we were haphazardly standing upon--I did not want the day to end so soon. Time has a way of toying with me when all I want is to savor the moment, or move on and forget it. That day on the tracks feels like an eternity ago.

I looked down in my hands, regrettably, today, and my camera was not there--not like I had planned. Kayla and I had planned this outing for a week, and we both wanted to make the most of it, but life likes to ruin leisure. It had been awhile since I spent any time with her at all. I had a concept in mind, this time: a street theme. It will have to wait for another day. Another day soon, I hope. Thursday I have plans to reunite with my dear Canon and Savannah and go on an outing then, too. I can only hope I manage to make it work this time.

Despite it all, I am more at peace, at this moment, than I was Saturday. Saturday was the day when everything fell apart.

When I was walking down those railroad tracks with Kayla, they seemed to go on forever--no obstacles in sight, no boundaries. Theoretically, the land could stretch on infinitely, and I could just run if I wanted--run for the rest of my life. But here, while I am safely in my own neighborhood, I manage to find every pothole, obstacle and road block to be found. The first one was earlier this summer when the financial aid department kept demanding more tax forms and papers from us, as if we were going to try to get away with cheating on our taxes while I was filing for my third year of schooling. It was a pothole--annoying, could have been a bit damaging, but we got over it and kept going. Then the actual filing for the loans were in order, and after swerving and trying to stay on the right side of the road, we managed to fill everything out with a month or two to spare. Saturday, I logged onto the computer to find out one of my loans had been denied, and I felt my world come to crashing halt; the road block.

With the sensitivity I am prone to, I spent much of that day in bed, selfishly sobbing. Had it not been for the care of my family, Trey and best friend, Melody, I probably would have made myself even sicker than I had: standing up was a challenge, my blood pressure was boiling, and I felt as though I could pass out at any moment. Being sick is not something I enjoy. And the time I was, crept by at a place more akin to turtles, snails or the old women who cannot quite figure out how to work the mobile carts in the supermarkets. I kept holding onto the feeling that what I wanted was what was best, and it needed to happen soon. I often forget this is not always the case. I probably look like a complete ass to the “Big Guy” upstairs. But with some time, I stopped daydreaming about running and just stood where I was firm and in place.

What would I accomplish in giving up what I had been working towards? While the fight just to go back to school seemed ridiculous, I was fighting for something worth my time. I had to remember that. I managed to gather my thoughts and devise a plan.

Everything has been put on "pause" until I can get my feelings sorted and fix everything that has been broken. But today, even though I am reminiscing, I am not longing to be back on those tracks, dangerously teetering from one side to the next. The idea of it never ending seemed marvelous back then, but if it never ended there would be nothing to run to--nothing to gain. I am starting to understand that as I make the steps to pick myself back up and remember life will not always be easy. There is nothing I can do to change an outcome that already is, but I can make choices that lead me to better consequences.

It is probably better this way. Now, Kayla and I can spend time with one another, and I will not be taunted by other fears or thoughts--I will be in the moment, with her, just where my two friends would want me.

Sunday Songs XIV

2011-06-26T14:30:00.001-04:00

I really need to add this song to my iTunes:

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Random, Short Post: My Best Friend

2011-06-21T22:36:00.002-04:00

She is my best friend. She is the one who knows all of my secrets. She has been with me through my best of days, and, more importantly, my worst of days. She hugs me tight when I am reduced to tears--and any other chance she can get.

She is more caring than I am. She is more tolerant of me than I am. I will never be able to repay her for all she does.

Melody is my best friend. I'm not sure what I would do without her.

Sunday Songs XIII

2011-06-19T14:00:00.003-04:00

For those of you who do not know, I was raised on Metallica, Iron Maiden and more importantly, Ozzy Osbourne. So here is a classic hit from those days of rock 'n' roll. (Thought about playing "You Can't Kill Rock n Roll," but just went ahead for this one. The aforementioned, however, gives my dad chills every time he listens to it. Rightfully so.)

R.I.P. To one of the best guitarists, Randy Rhoads.

I'm sure, as he's one patrol, he's blaring this in his car, as well. Happy Father's Day.

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100 Words: Working Gloves for Idle Hands

2011-06-16T22:46:00.002-04:00

My hands, once tied down by the bounties of life, have been granted a chance to regain circulation. Yet, encroaching on a third month of a "vacation," I begin feeling shameful. Of all the frustration felt after the most frustrating semester I have yet to endure, this still feels undeserving. The binds once tying my fingers tightly together, are replaced by my thighs resting heavily on them as I sit and wait for something.

I never would have thought I would be unable to enjoy reserved boredom. I need the business and bustle of life. Without which, I am lost.

Sunday Songs XII

2011-06-12T14:00:00.002-04:00

While most of what I post is something influentially personal to me, just in spirit, or genuine meaning, this is something a bit deeper, I think, and something we can all enjoy. My old high school friend, Kellie, shared this once on Facebook and I just remembered it to share it with you all. The music, for those who do not know, is by Ludovico Einaudi. The amazing time-lapse photography is by the great artist, Terje Sorgjerd.

Hope you have an inspiring week!

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Psychosomatic

2011-06-08T18:41:00.001-04:00

Everyone at the table is so eloquent and in-place. They all sip their drinks just so--their manner proves they have had years of experience outreaching just these few present glasses of sweet iced tea. Whatever I do, even something as normal as drinking, just seems inadequate.

They all laugh brightly and beautifully and I merely hide my face as I muster the bit of laughter I can. It is a day-to-day practice I am learning to perfect as the days stretch into weeks, the weeks into agonizing months. Agonizing months in a house of comfort yet an empty half of a once-whole standing person; a once-whole person lying next to a cold part of a bed.

The distance is becoming unbearable. Each mile feels like an eternity I will never see. A future too distant for even the psychic.

All I want is to be near him. It does not matter how often I remind myself this dreadfully dry summer will soon meets its end, I am lost without his comfort.

Misery is a predator slowly eating me alive.

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Sunday Songs XI

2011-06-05T14:00:00.004-04:00

So, I have a disclaimer for this week: I hate We the Kings. I think about 90% of their songs really make no sense at all. And it's something a lot of artists in their genre have a tendency to do. They say a lot of things in a song, throw in some fluffy words that people identify with when they think of poetic, and suddenly, they are great artists.

Not to mention, the lead singer's hair irritates me, and in live performances, he's really not the best male singer on the planet. This song even has a few moments in it where I think it could have a been a lot better, but I love it, because it has a sweet sentiment.

And I love it because of Demi Lovato. I will more than likely post her in future, so be forewarned. She is an amazing person and has a great voice. If you ever want me to go on a Demi rave, I might, one day. But until then...

Enjoy:

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Sunday Songs X

2011-05-29T14:00:00.001-04:00

Because I posted Paramore last week, I guess you could say this is my revenge on all of those YouTube comments saying these two bands sound the same. I hate when a girl is the frontman to a group so they automatically compare the two. Very different sounds, in my opinion.

Here is VersaEmerge:

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Where Is My Home?

2011-05-23T02:07:00.004-04:00

He was sitting on a bench, cane in hand, with his eyes closed tight. Downtown on Sunday mornings is the most soothing place on earth. Across from this old man's place of comfort sat the courthouse and a quaint church--one of which I have never been inside. Both release the sounds of life that keep people moving--the chimes of time, and the awe of a group of voices singing.

For the first time in awhile, our family was trying to find a home. Our first visit to an unknown congregation with new faces was a strange and awkward position--one of which was not the least bit alluring or entertaining--but we immediately felt at peace once the music began. It moved us, much as the chorus downtown soothes the elderly stranger.

Shanna and I left the church, beating traffic after dismissing early, and feeling rejuvenated. There the old man was sitting in the same spot on the same bench as we passed through the Square in order to find sustenance for the afternoon. As we passed, I watched him mouth the words of the chorus to the hymn being sung across the street and smiled. He opened his eyes slowly to see me looking; he waved gently, and I repeated the gesture.

"Who's that?" Shanna asked.
"I have no idea."

I wondered about his story--why he chose to sit on that bench and soak in the Sunday moment rather than walk through the heavy church doors and sit on a pew and join in the singing.

"You have one mortal enemy: time," Pastor Miller said. "How many times have you heard someone say, 'Where did the time go?'"

I thought of the courthouse clock in town. Its chimes reminding all of us of our long to-do lists for the day ahead. For over ten years, I have said that clock was a quintessential part of my hometown. But as the years have weighed on that elderly man singing hymns to himself each Sunday, I wonder if each interrupting chime stands as too much of a reminder of things to come... Or, perhaps, how much things have changed.

Still without a home, technically, my family and I plan on giving Pastor Miller and his church another chance next Sunday. We are one step closer to finding a home, but what of the old man? What of me? Will I be there, fifty years from now, sitting on the bench, listening to hymns every Sunday, homeless and alone? Or will I have finally found contentment and understanding in my needed self-reflection, and soon find a place to plant my feet?

I can change my future if I just take some time to breathe, then act. Act on love, act on impulse, act on inhibition, and proactively be somebody--somebody who does not worry or grow impatient. Somebody to love. Somebody with a home.

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Sunday Songs IX

2011-05-22T14:00:00.002-04:00

Apparently, a lot of people in high school knew me for my love of Paramore. I didn't think it was that obvious, honestly. Enjoy.

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Coffee and Books

2011-05-19T21:50:00.001-04:00

The bindings unbroken, the pages unfurled and freshly printed. The store smelled of fresh ink--warming and welcoming. Together we stood, laughing, smiling, and contemplating the synopses on the back of every book, graphic novel and comic. The daring adventures, shallow and deep characters, and ideas were floating around me, making me dizzy. Melody was to my left, inquisitively studying the fiction section in hopes to find more to read throughout the course of the summer.

"I have too much to read!" she sighed. I know Melody; she will never finish her list--it never stops growing.

The middle of the week means, even in the evening, there will be a lot of cars in the parking lot, but they are always misleading. For us, I felt as if we were two of the only people actually looking at the books. The rest of the shallow and disturbed were huddled by the bound Starbucks mooching off of the wireless internet and sucking down their customized Frappucinos--flavors so airy and light it is almost unsatisfying. Melody and I bought some drinks quickly and hurried back to the shelves to explore some more. Most of the time was spent trying to keep Melody from any cover that read the name "Loki" on it. We had finished watching "Thor" at the neighboring theatre, and her new obsession with the man behind the character was exhausting--exhausting, but amusing, just like Melody.

Few people stopped and stared as Melody and I managed to get louder and more obnoxious. Those who dared to peak above their newspapers and People Magazines were greeted with likewise glaring stares from me, who had lost all patience with the impotence on the coffee side of the bookstore.

Because having a free-standing Starbuck's full of your kind isn't bad enough, I thought.

God forbid any of the Superficials spill their lattes on the books, their caffeine-shot eyes and Macs were indicators they did not come to the bookstore to actually read, or, at least, find something to read other than the news-feeds on Twitter and Facebook. How they would even manage to line their eyes long enough to finish a sentence or two is beyond my comprehension.

I am not sure when bookstores stopped being about the books and, rather, a hot-spot for all of the indie-fascinated folks this side of town, but I would much rather coffee and books be separated once more. The merge might help businesses gain customers, but I would much rather walk into a bookstore and see readers than find people who wreak of cocoa bean and a mysterious perfume I would never dream of buying [just for the sake of buying].

It is a blessing and a privilege to a hold a book in one's hands and experience a new life, either previously had or imagined by someone brilliant. I am waiting for the day I can walk into a bookstore again and feel as though I am standing in a store full of books, and nothing more.

And then there's the section with Twilight and other juvenile sins against literature...

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Sunday Songs VIII

2011-05-15T14:00:00.002-04:00

Taking it back a bit. This is a classic I will always love (and the video was made to a movie I love, too).

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Faces

2011-05-14T18:48:00.003-04:00

Melody and I were in a state of perplexity, having driven around trying to find the crematory center, finally arriving at the memorial service for a mutual friend's father who had recently passed. The mysterious demon, cancer, had taken hold of this life as well--one week after the friend's sister miscarried and had to deliver her stillborn baby boy. "Rough" is one adjective that will never truly describe the time in this family's life.

The memorial service was small in number and in time spent. The speaker spent more time anecdotally describing the man's life full of laughter, and reminding us immortality is but a dream. While I cannot speak for the rest of the group there, self-reflection was at the forefront of my mind, and nothing more.

"I don't know much, but I do know what was always written in red--the stuff Jesus said." During all of the arrangements, the deceased spoke those words to the night's speaker. That, along with a few last words in which stated, "I'm holding your baby boy now," to his eldest daughter who had suffered the miscarriage, caused tears to form in my eyes over a man I never truly knew.

But, if his last few words to the ones he loved are any way to gauge his person, he was and is beautiful. As is his family. Seeing all of the faces filled with tears of joy and mourning made me realize, I have to make sure my loved ones' feelings come before my own, otherwise, I would hate to think what they would be feeling at my own memorial service, theoretically (hopefully), years from now.

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Roses

2011-05-10T18:20:00.001-04:00

Whether students were greeted with the sounds of "Pomp and Circumstance," or the friendly faces of relatives and friends as they leave campus, one thing was for certain: summer has begun.

At home, the pollen is not as frequent of a visitor; the gnats not in my face, pestering, as they once were. The humidity that punished my skin is barely noticeable, now, and I am content.

I look at all of the friends who have big plans for the summer. I have some of my own. While I may not be travelling overseas, taking a professional internship or even taking on another semester of academics during the hottest months of the year, I will be relaxing, and taking time to enjoy life a little more, sleep a little more, dream a little more, and prepare a little more for my future endeavors.

The roses are blooming in our garden—the buds now opening to reveal the beauty within. I might make a walk over to the garden patch and smell a few, just for kicks.

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Sunday Songs VII

2011-05-08T14:00:00.001-04:00

When you play The Killers, it's usually a hit or miss with most people.

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Sunday Songs VI

2011-05-01T11:00:00.004-04:00

If there were anything I could attribute to J.K. Rowling, if there were ever a possible way to narrow down all of the amazing things this one author brought into my life, I would have to say love.

The love you feel for family, for friends, for anyone. The ability to believe that we are on this earth for a reason--whether you follow the doctrine of religion or find your own purpose, the idea of life is to have a reason to live it. To live it, live it hard, and stand strong against all obstacles.

In a world of turmoil, there was still a reason to survive for her characters. I am blessed enough to be able to have walked out of the few troubles I have faced in my own life and still found reason to keep persevering. They all had something worth fighting for, as do I. This life we live in cannot be lived best by anarchy but by revolution. A love revolution. The concept might seem too naive or unbearably positive, but a life lived any other way would be a miserable one.

Now, I might have eventually come to find all of this on my own, given time, but Rowling helped me through it, through Harry Potter. With every page, cliché or not, there was a reminder to love and to live.

These characters. Every. Last. One of them. Every character, big or small, has been with me--they have been my friends, they have grown up with me, they have seen life quite like I did growing up, and they were there marching on just as I had to to get by. The series, Harry Potter, was my childhood. I may not have worn a cloak, played Quidditch (though I desperately wished I could have been a Chaser), attended Hogwarts: School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, or even been able to see magic firsthand, but that does not mean that this story was not any less real in my imagination's eye than anything else I would dream each night in my own bed. I may not believe in it, as a faith or path of certainty, but in fiction, it isn't always what book-burning maniacally-driven parents think it is teaching a child, but rather, what lessons and understandings of the world the child sees through these characters of like mind. The lessons in life we often learn the hard ways. The lessons that, no matter who you are and where you are from, you must learn as well.

So, for this Sunday, I would like to introduce you to a great song called "Marching On" by One Republic. I love One Republic. And this video is where I found out about the song. This is a tribute to Harry Potter and the magnificent J.K. Rowling. A beautiful tribute that not only made my heart well up, but brought a lump to my throat and tears to my eyes. Because as these characters move between each cut-scene, I see every memory, feeling and moment of my childhood and the children I grew up with flash before my eyes, in the most wonderful way possible. The most magical way possible.

Magic isn't always about wands and the supernatural, but rather, life itself, and all of the elements of life that spark electricity through us and pump the blood through our veins.

"It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities." - Albus Dumbledore

(Photo was found somewhere amongst the fodder in Tumblr, not mine.)

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Three other things...

First:
For those of you who don't follow me on Twitter or pay attention to my right-hand side gadgets (or "widgets," whatever Blogger prefers calling those modules), I've created a playlist just for you! You can bookmark it whatever you want! But as weeks pass I will continue to update it.

Second:
This video also comes bundled with a petition to have it played at the end of "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part Two." I do not know if it is possible, but it is worth signing, in my opinion. You can sign it here.

Third:
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200 Words: Distractions

2011-04-26T11:37:00.005-04:00

The plan was to finish my initial draft of this paper while I finished my lunch. I had woken earlier than my usual Tuesdays, so I thought it was best to make the most of it.

I hid in a corner of the dining hall. The plan was set-in-stone and even King Arthur would not be able to release me from my duty.

A man was sitting behind me—lapse of manners and aged in appearance. Had he had a beard, he could have been Merlin. I felt him staring at the back of my head. I managed to turn without much notice to find him staring at my screen—at the words I was writing.

Insecurity overwhelmed me, and I did not know what to do. Who was this man? Was he genuinely curious in my paper? Did he know something I did not?

Before I could even conjure the bravery to ask, he stood up, mumbled something about the advertisement sitting just behind my laptop for the late-night breakfast the dining hall would be hosting Wednesday, and walked away.

I had let my imagination run away with me again, and managed to avoid writing more of my paper.

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Sunday Songs V

2011-04-24T14:00:00.002-04:00

Leave it to the soulful Adele to soothe my soul:

HAPPY EASTER! :D

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Scraping By Till Summer

2011-04-20T01:37:00.004-04:00

While I do not necessarily hate anything I post, it feels like too many posts ago that I wrote anything of the same caliber as the post that got me recognized--in other words, the typical standard I try to keep in my writings. With that said, I am sure most people go through random ruts in their writing, and I am not the only one; I just hope this makes up for it.

I'd also like to note my unusual frequency in posting will not be the norm. I typically allow my readers a week or so before a new post comes in. I suppose I just felt a bit obligated to put up some posts to space-out the "Sunday Songs."

The doors sigh—one heavy, memorably squeaky sigh—as students and teachers file out to begin a well-needed session of breathing and occasional job-hunting. Screams relax and syndicate the smiles of someones—some of servitude or of studious nature, searching for salvation deep in the Sundays and Saturdays of their summers. The only rest for the wicked.

“My students don’t know ‘A Modest Proposal,’” the man of liberal arts lamented, lingering atop the stones that lined the pedestrian mall.

His woes were anything but humorous no matter how many students he mocked during my walk with him. His jokes made about the “smug-faced frat boy” whose sexual preference was up-in-the-air for the sake of humor—at least, I hope for the boy’s sake—or the over-sized girl in the tight shorts and her love of cheesecake, were hysterically cruel, but not necessarily unusual. And these remarks kept me smiling a deep, dim grin, despite all things.

“My son knew I was doing a parody of a parody”—the same professor had spouted off some words about feeding stray animals to homeless people in an attempt to end hunger—“he called them on it! He said, ‘C’mon you guys, it’s nothing more than “A Modest Proposal.”’ Not one student knew. They had no idea.” I seemed to remember him using the same example in my class a year ago.

Tired and terribly un-attracted to the class of idiot savants who had stumbled through life and into his classroom, mistakenly on their part, the listless man, with dramatic pauses that consume my air and cause me to fill the silence with the most thoughtful of thoughts, was preparing to face his doom: the class he had been sorrowfully binging for two hours through passionate verbosity and rhythmic, contagious reflection.

While I agreed his students seemed to be sadly unprepared for college-level composition courses, I was reminded I had my own doom waiting for me tomorrow with a professor ill-advised in the ways of instruction, yet one who can actually write like a published author. It is a terrible shame he never lets us forget he is one.

The man of much liberal artistry—woven from extensive looks at Freud and with literary models such as Swift—parted ways with me for a cigarette and a soothing phone call from his wife. I walked away, overcome by enamoring progressive ideals and humorous quips. The next night, I walked through the same squeaky doors, fearing they felt the same as I, and hoping to find a sign that lovingly read, “CLASS IS CANCELLED.” Instead, the same man, whose wardrobe is an unfortunate byproduct of color blindness, and a head smooth and shiny, and distracting, was standing before us, ready to “teach.” Which translates into: talk tangentially for over an hour and assign us an irrelevant quiz to finish before the end of the session. If he had spent less time stroking his ego that morning, he would have had time to write up a lesson plan not covered in his own smelly debauchery. That is to say, if he even understands the benefits of forethought.

This summer bodes well for those who desire nothing more than to create their ultimate masterpiece. Once darkened by halls, the deep recesses of the library and dormitories, we all shall see daylight again—inspiring and refreshing daylight. I can only hope my former professors’ students spend a bit more time reading something other than Sports Illustrated and The Onion (or, at least, stop taking it seriously). Our summers may be long, but they do not last. Those squeaky doors will be awaiting us when we return. I can only hope the sounds of rotten displeasure sound more welcoming—like the pleasant squeals of reunited friends—when I return.

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When I Grow Up

2011-04-18T12:31:00.003-04:00

I sometimes wonder when my bright-eyed hopes for the future will seem too young for my age and too naive for reality. I wonder when negativity will be the only way out of where I am. The most inspiring messages can be put out so easily by those of higher stature. They live with a pretentious idea of their own self-worth following years of getting to where they are, coupled with contempt for whomever hopes to follow their own dreams. Bitter people with stiff, high shoulders and a head that hangs low are quick to impose their wisdom even if my path is different than theirs. Backs have been broken to pave ways for us, and eventually lips will stiffen when I attempt to walk down the same sidewalks they once did.

So I wonder: Is this the eventual progression of age and wisdom? I would like to hope not. I would like to hope that there are still happy people who have seen the world at its worst, and are willing to not turn me into a bitter person either. Cynicism is for the weak.

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Sunday Songs IV

2011-04-17T14:00:00.001-04:00

It really isn't any secret that I am Christian--raised Southern Baptist, but the church I attend now is technically non-denominational, heh. Anyway, the summer following tenth grade, my youth group went to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina (LOVE!) for a trip where Louie Giglio was speaking and Chris Tomlin was playing live. It was an amazing experience, and this, by far, is one of my favorite songs that he performed. It's a wonderful song, and it just makes me want to dance.

And I feel like I might have posted this before, but oh well. Enjoy it again, if so!

I apologize to some of my followers who may not be Christian, but it's Sunday and I am feeling it. :)

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"I just wanted to be sure of you."

2011-04-16T02:18:00.002-04:00

"Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind. 'Pooh,' he whispered.
'Yes, Piglet?'
'Nothing,' said Piglet, taking Pooh's paw, 'I just wanted to be sure of you.'"

There are very few things in this world of which I am absolutely certain--and I can feel redundancy as I write this line once more. I know each day the sun will rise, but I am not sure for how long I will be able to enjoy it. I know there is a God who loves me, and to whom I owe everything, but I do not know when I will see everything I have been taught and study unfold. I know I have loved ones who will always be there for me, but I do not know how long before it fades as well.

Love for anyone or anything is quite a terrifying experience. We find ourselves fixated and obsessed with those who have given us a reason to be. We just want to be sure of someone--sure there will always be someone there when we need them. In one way or another, for good or bad, the people in my life have saved me. Without them, I could have been someone completely different; I may not even be here to write this. They have given me strength, support and hope. When I was at my lowest, I always had someone there to pick me up. Somewhere, some omniscient person says it is better to pick yourself up and keep going.

It is easier said that done. I am human, and I need someone there--just a smile or a hand.

Another semester full of memories, stress, tears and laughter is passing before my eyes, and I can barely comprehend the speed of time anymore. Growing up was a grueling process, it seemed. Now I am left with hours in the day slipping past me and time with my loved ones constantly running thin. It is a saddening truth to my life--in and out of dorms, only getting to see my family for short periods of time and then the summer for a bit. My life is always changing, but I have someones to be sure of until the very end. I take pride in that.

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Words, Words, Words...

2011-04-16T02:10:00.000-04:00

The following thoughts go a bit deeper than my typical blog posts. I am not posting this forum topic to simply argue. What I want is to see what people have to say. I probably will not comment back, as I said, I just want to hear honest thoughts. For this particular posts, "good job" and "nice text," will get you nothing. I'll only approve relevant comments in moderation for this particular post. There are lots of holes to be filled that have been in the following congruent forums posts: here, here and here. I left a lot out and did not say as much as I could have because it was late, and if I said everything that needed to be said, I would have no use for it to be open to your opinions.

So, without further ado, here is what I, admittedly hesitantly, posted on a forum just within the last hour, and I am curious what you all have to say.

Photo Source

With help of my mentor we both have made quite an observation that I would like to, not only, attribute to him, but discuss here: it consists of the words we use, and how it is all affecting our generation and generations to come. (This is a serious thought-process and discussion that I would like to have.)

On any typical news-feed--from Facebook to Twitter to even Reddit--brevity is key. When we begin speaking in mostly internet meme references and chat-speak, with ever-changing--and ever-annoying--acronyms (some of which have been privy to recently be added into the Oxford English Dictionary), we begin transforming the way we communicate to something less-akin to real communication.

When does succinct language transform from intellectual training of limits and a command of language to simply restraining us from learning more--from developing our vocabulary to breaking down our communication to that of a stereotypical caveman (or caveperson, if you are a feminist--I am not)?

There is a fine line between being internet-savvy and de-socializing ourselves. Being a computer nerd myself, it is not hard to believe that eventually most of the world would catch up to what the /b/ of 4chan and Reddit and several other sharing forums have been up to for years: sending and receiving information at a fast rate, thus creating a new form of highly intellectual and stimulating conversation passed through subliminal messages whether in the shape of .gif's, YouTube clips, or finite speech hidden amongst the script of a hacker's tongue.

The typical internet user is just beginning to affiliate themselves with some of the depths of the internet, and, without knowing any true origins of the things to which they expose themselves, they, like many poor, unfortunate souls, find themselves believing Tumblr started memes that have been around for years: "Tits or GTFO," "Forever Alone/Sad Bro," "Problem?/Trollface," "LOLOLOLOL," "Courage Wolf," and many others.

The reality is, true hacking veterans are setting aside time, still ever-evolving as they were 10-20 years ago, when many thought the internet was "a thing of the future" (as in, something to tackle sometime later), and are creating more that the public outside of these deep realms and underground forums of the internet will not discover until, like its predecessors, much later.

They were born into a generation who thirsted for knowledge. And while my generation does have its fair share of intellectuals, we are compromising more that our peers could be capable of by sitting on the computer, staring at a Tumblr feed, rather than using the internet as it began: for streaming real time-sensitive information and passing along knowledge (or even a simple YouTube clip) that could benefit audiences.

When we should be communicating in a way to further our knowledge in academia and socially--on a global and local scope--we are communicating like this:

This isn’t communication at all, in my honest opinion. It's a cheap shot at communication. It's devoid of real connection, and rather only out to make an impact, to stir up conversation that is better left to the dogs.

Students, in their 20's cannot make a logical argument in their papers for their English classes because of this lack of connection between what is communication and how to communicate it. That, and a pure lack of effort that they have gotten away with most of their public schooling careers has left them weak and more likely to flunk their first year of college. Which is saddening--the rate at which our higher education is rising has been proven statistically to be the new norm. In the future, BA's will not be as rightfully honored because of the ease found in receiving such a degree. Students will have to actually work towards getting their Master's and Doctorate degrees. On the surface, it seems as though our education is rising. Deeper, it is merely because education is easier to grasp, not because of higher intellect, but because of sinking standards.

And it all begins with communication.

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An addendum:

Loving the comments.

I said I wouldn't chime in, but I'm done advertising this post, so, you can all continue to post comments, but I'm out after this one piece.

The biggest problem one often finds when placing a thesis in places where people aren't used to spotting them, is that the audience often finds something in the article that triggers thought and conversation within them, and then they begin speaking on that, and sometimes missing the point altogether. Which is fine. It is a forum of sorts, and I intentionally left open spaces that needed to be filled (though, I would typically rather fill them myself), because I wanted to see what everyone else had to contribute. (And I hope my comment about not being able to spot a thesis is not construed as condescension. I just mean, as a blogger, I do not typically post topics of this sort, so if it threw off my audience, it is more than likely more fault than anything else.)

The thesis is this, and I thought it was clear, but some of you are a bit confused, I think, or, at least, lend your thoughts to the minor details of the post, rather than where I had intended (please excuse any rambling sentences or possible redundancy, it is late once more as I write this):

Socialization is an important factor in development. It reaches out to all facets of development on an individual level and community level--global and local. With that said, with better communicative skills, one can connect better with others.

I never intended for people to assume that I want everyone to be able to write on a scholarly level, nor do they need a strong vocabulary just to speak to one another. My point is this: people just need to talk to one another--they need to connect. That is what is lacking, and that is my thesis. A lack of connection. And the stronger a person's ability to connect with others, the easier they can adapt and learn. Communication is the stronghold of knowledge. If one cannot communicate what they have learned or what they know to others, then learning ceases. A thesis is a hypothetical argument, made in "general" terms to an audience to basically pose an idea. I do not believe all communication is lost, but most people do not seem to understand the basis of my thesis: it is just a theory. It is a theory meant to open up conversation--communication, for the sake of this post--and get people thinking. To dissect the post and merely focus on educational standards or memes or social networks that have become most popular would be taking away from the entire picture. Admittedly, this "picture" I have drawn is not as clever when written during the peak of exhaustion in the middle of the night, but it still gives way to deeper meaning.

The paragraph preceding and following the YouTube clip is the basis of my thesis and my point of this post. As I have said a few times now, it is connection between others. Obviously, randomly observed and read facts about education and its affects via a lack of communication are needed to shape the argument, but do not misunderstand the purpose.

This entry is, and still will be, about communication with others. Not the death of a language (though, many of you thought that), nor my idea that languages changing is a horrible thing. (By the way: my major would not be in English if I could not embrace the changing of tongues, nor, especially, if I thought the language was dying.) One must be able to communicate what one has learned in order to prove aptitude. English papers that fail to make an argument and simply speak in circles are a depressing case of students allowed to not take their assignments seriously in school, in previous years, and find themselves falling short to discuss an idea when made to later on as students of higher education. This may not be a universal phenomenon, it may just be regional, but, as I have said, it is all a theory--an observed, considered and communicated theory. One I have thought about before, and then was reminded of once more whilst talking with my mentor a couple of days ago in his office.

As demonstrated in the video, the couple had the perfect opportunity to turn to one another and talk things out, and they refused; instead, the couple took to sending each other immature and compromising messages. Symbolic language is only most affective when utilized in the arts, honestly, and in this case, choosing the wrong video or picture to get one’s point across always leaves open the possibility for misinterpretation. (Let’s face it—most people cannot even communicate nonverbally with one another without having to use an emoticon to make sure the receiver does not perceive the message the wrong way.) So, why not just talk to one another, instead? Sure, the video is cute, on a simple advertisement level, but what is sad is I know people who do this before they talk. I find it much stronger if a person says “sorry” or “I forgive you” or even “I love you” to my face, with all the emotion and expression words try to convey, instead of sending me a music video that says it for them. It is lazy.

(Just for a witty example: I had a friend who was dumped via Facebook by the girl changing her relationship status. She gave no warning, and did not even explain herself afterwards. So, for those wondering, yes, it does happen.)

I hope everyone understands my purpose, now, if they did not before. I apologize if I came off as condescending at any point, because I am not. This is simply my conclusion based off of the wonderful comments I have received on the issue, and you all have definitely made me think in many different ways about different aspects of this post. For that, I am very grateful.

A Little More Than 100 Words: Magic

2011-04-12T23:40:00.003-04:00

We went underground for a gathering of minds. There were a collection of monsters, a haze of anticipation and spells ready to be cast. I took a step back to watch it all unfold, and was mesmerized by it all.

It was magical.

We were in a shop full of nerdy boys and a few nerdy girls who were all playing a card game, all enthusiastic, and all trying to balance strategy with ploy. The air was thick with a sweaty musk. I did not play, but part of me wanted to join them.

The lighting was bright--it almost made us forget how dark it was outside. My stomach growled, overshadowing the efforts of the creatures on the cards. No holographic or rarity of any sort, could defeat the force of my stomach, and the night ending, shamefully.

My apologies were unneeded, but I felt responsible. However, the rest of the night was as enjoyable as it began. It always is with these people--underground gamers by night, my heroes by day. Magic.

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Sunday Songs III

2011-04-10T14:30:00.004-04:00

I don't think I've ever made it quite as clear as I would like that I am a complete nerd. By that, I mean, Pokémon Nintendo Game Boy and Nintendo DS games make me giddy, and I am in love with anything The Legend of Zelda. (Those aren't the only reasons, but they are the first that come to mind with what I am about to present to you.) So, for your enjoyment, here is, straight from Zelda, the "Song of Healing"... Reversed! It's great to listen to during some creepy time in your life. It definitely has been inspiring me while I work on my latest story. :D

And, if you are curious, I found an extended version of "Song of Healing," from "Majora's Mask." I hope you like both.

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"Times Are Hard"

2011-04-08T18:34:00.004-04:00

I made my way through the library, hardly amused by the lack of help I received from the librarians. It seems odd one can get a job without really having the skills anymore, I thought. It was possible I was just being unfair and ridiculous, but simply answering a question about why the computer would not log me into my email was not a hard one, not with the tech-boys standing right there to assist as well--all of them equally inattentive and blank. Walking out of the library, I spotted Flucas. He greeted me with his usual big smile and I did the same back. I have been noted for saying he always shows up--like a guardian angel--whenever I need something or I am not feeling like my whole self. I was happy to say I did not need him this time. For once, Flucas was just amongst some familiar faces I pass on campus everyday. While I never mind his caring disposition, not needing an arm around me is much better than needing one.

"In spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart." Anne Frank, of all people, wrote that line. In the midst of tragedy and fear, she still saw the light in others--that same torch I mentioned some time ago as being my responsibility to likewise to share to others just as Flucas had shared with me on a day I truly needed it. And while I crave to be someone to whom my friends can turn, I also understand how bitterness spreads, and that I am just as much a contamination on humanity as any other person. My cynicism is widespread and my joy for life is often overshadowed by small things this illness holds onto: lack of sleep, an unfortunate menstrual cycle--it is all relative and contagious.

And it is most unfortunate to find one of the youngest and most prosperous nations in the world, at one time, my home, the United States of America, finds themselves in a battle of wits (and I use that term loosely). For all I say in defense of the administration--given the burden Obama was handed to carry from the last decade or so of presidents--not having a budget plan for a fiscal year already five or six months in now, is by far the worst I have seen with my active eye. And still, midnight tonight is the deadline, and if all else fails, we will fall into a "government shutdown" (the latest trend on every news-feed these days), and I can only hope it is but a mere shade of what many witnessed in the 90's--an inconvenience, and nothing more.

In voicing my political opinion, I usually do not, and this will be one of those usual times. Press waiting on the sidelines and the men within are optimistic something will come together. I will say this, and leave it alone: the majority needs to win, so America can at least try it their way. Semblance can be found in a child taking a test (which, by the way, I wholeheartedly hate education budget cuts): if the child puts something down to fill a blank space, they at least have something, and some points are better than none at all. I understand where arguments could triumph over my own statement of fact, but that is why politics is more complex than it is worth at times.

Today, with all of our comforts, full stomachs and roofs over our heads, we are an incredibly lucky people. Anyone capable of accessing this page is just as lucky as I, some may have even more than I could imagine. The dear girl huddled in an annex with more people than many of us would even consider living, found love and harmony even under the blinding darkness and forced serenity of her time--a time when she was victimized for her religious beliefs, her coincidence of birth and her name. The most I have felt victimized for are the small and petty bullying tactics found on a playground. I have not had, and I pray I never will, an entire community come after me simply because of something of birth I can not control.

She knew every day was a gift, no matter how it was spent. The winters are long here, and sometimes brutal in comparison to what we are used to feeling, but spring always follows, and all of us, sitting at home or in our offices, as of this moment, were lucky enough to survive it, and will more than likely be lucky enough to see and experience more in the morning. We see life renewed each year, and have for many years. We have been able to breathe the air and see life with fresh eyes--whether some have taken the opportunity or not is another story entirely, but it is there for the taking, just waiting.

My mother sat me down when I was just at the end of my elementary years and read with me through The Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank. Her words and her passion for life were what inspired me in those days. In all honesty, I think part of it was a ploy--as I have stated before, my mother was desperate for me to continue reading and writing. Those developmental skills she helped me build were what helped me read through Miss Frank's diary the first time, and then several times afterward. I cried when she cried, and, more importantly, I smiled when she smiled. This girl, not much older than I at the time, had such a significant impact on my life, and it pains me to know I will never, in this lifetime, at least, be able to properly thank her for all she has given me.

Times are indeed hard, but they could be harder. And it is in remembering what people like Flucas, my loved ones and inspiring figureheads who have welcomed me into their past, like Anne Frank, have given me. It keeps me motivated to keep giving back to others, and to remember all I have. No one gets anywhere alone; we all start where our benefactors, ancestors and parents left off. I may have not been born into money, but I was born into love. I would rather die knowing I was loved and capable of loving, than know I had tons of worthless paper money sitting in my pockets before it all ended, and nothing more.

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Sunday Songs II

2011-04-03T14:00:00.005-04:00

I should probably say something about this song. I'm not a big fan of Jessie J. I think her voice is incredible, but then she tries to mix it with this hip-hop thing and it just ruins it, in my opinion. It doesn't suit her skills best, but that's just me. I hate Jessie J's acoustic of this, but I loved Maddi Jane's. I've been following this girl for awhile on YouTube and she always makes me want to sing and dance. So enjoy.

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I Need Your Help With An Art Project!

2011-04-01T21:32:00.000-04:00

So, I have to say, getting Blog of Note was a total shock. I was in the middle of my Grammar & Style class when I found out. I am really blessed to have all of your support, and I really hope that it doesn't fade too quickly--though it might. This blog began because I write and I wanted to write to you all. I'm just glad others wanted to read what I have to say.

Now onto the point of my title...

I was watching an awesome video from a guy on the website DailyBooth.com today, and it gave me a great idea.

He, like I, know people from all over the place because of the internet. And I really want to do my own version of what he did, so here is the thing: I am going to paint a map--a Jennifer version of a map, hehe--and I want EVERYONE who follows me, or at least talks with me regularly, to tell me where they are from (country, state, territory, whatever) and I will add your name to the map when I have completed it. It will be an ongoing process. When someone new comes along, I'll ask them as well!

So, please leave a comment below saying where you are from! I want to include you all in this new project! I'm really stoked about this, and I hope the rest of you all are, as well!

Edit: I know there are widgets, apps and whatnot for this sort of thing, but I would feel weird implementing those tools--like I'm stalking y'all. I want y'all to WANT to be part of this. So, it's nice, but stop telling me that there are already tools for this sort of thing. If it were that easy, I wouldn't really need y'all for anything.

The Bigger Picture

2011-03-28T12:43:00.000-04:00

We made it to the other side and I was just happy to have the sun behind me. I sighed. The day was still young and I felt as though I had accomplished so much. It was a nice feeling for a change.

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The winter break following the start of my junior year of high school was met with a trip to Blue Ridge--the beautiful mountains and rich folk of northern Georgia. The trip included my two youth leaders, my best friend Melody and Mikey. We were all excited to make ourselves comfortable in the cozy cabin our leaders had provided for us and just spend some time away from everything. I was all about the search, discovery and relief of cathartic things back then. (I have sense turned to merely napping.)

Once there, we built a fire, laughed, played games, watched movies, explored the town and hiked many trails. And aside from the disadvantages Mikey's clumsiness would leave us with during our hikes--which was mostly do to losing his phone in the stream beds or tripping over himself in the middle of the woods--our small group made the time together worthwhile.

Even our stop at a Country and Bluegrass entertainment aisle was as its appropriate adjective implies. There, we also watched Mikey do the Cha-Cha Slide to a banjo and drum kit. Inside the smoky building, I was able to see something I had not since I was young: snake-skin boots and leather vests. It had been awhile since I had been near the more interesting branches of my mother's family tree--all of which lived by these wardrobe items, and these alone, everyday of their life despite none of them having ever lived in the Wild West other than vicariously through John Wayne. Jacob and Melody knew all the words to most of the country songs that night. It had also been awhile since I even heard the name Shania Twain. But what I remember most was the distinct smell of the crisp mountain air at night when blended with a lovely fire.

All I wanted was to stay there forever--whether alone or with someone, I just wanted to be there, in that moment. The stars seemed brighter and I was more at peace than I had been for years--it was only a little more than a year before that my mother had passed and as tired as I was of the subject, it, like the reality I would be coming home to eventually, was something I could not escape. I would soon, before this night, give up trying, anyway.

Our group made one last trip through a hiking trail and it was more tedious than I imagined it would be. My feet were sore and my throat was dry. I can remember going to a stream and, one-by-one, we filled our small bottles with the fresh water. I had never tasted anything so sweet. The bottled water we previously bought seemed tainted and wrong. For a moment in time I felt like I understood Yule Gibbons, and I was a bit terrified of admitting it.

We made it to the other side and I was just happy to have the sun behind me. I sighed. The day was still young and I felt as though I had accomplished so much. It was a nice feeling for a change. It never did occur to me the oddity of doing more on a vacation than I typically did during a usual week of work. But that journey did not just take me through woods and past rivers and streams--it showed me what I miss everyday: life.

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Whilst talking with Trey, he began lamenting why he wants to move north. I knew his reasons. I told him leaving Georgia was not something I had ever considered; this is home. That is probably not what he wanted to hear, but he continued on telling me my opinion matters. "You're part of my bigger picture," he said. I can honestly say no one has said that to me before and meant it.

Six months ago, if someone had told me the future I imagined for myself was going to alter drastically, I would not have believed them. But I had not taken the steps yet to see it all--to be able to breathe it in and see it with new eyes. There was never anyone else by my side when I pictured possible escapades to Europe or future, cozy dwellings. Now I never want anyone but him there. Adjusting myself to someone else has been a harder journey than I thought it would be, but words will never be able to describe how better off I am for doing it.

I guess a lot of things have changed. I am not entirely like the dorky teenager hiking through the mountains of north Georgia anymore, and I have finally found something here on Earth that is beyond any words I could ever compose. It is breathtaking. Brighter than any stars in the sky. It is the man who calls me his "pretty baby." It is Trey and I.

Supermoon

2011-03-20T16:21:00.002-04:00

Sick of hearing about it yet? Here are my shots of the glorious night:

For Japan, With Love

2011-03-19T16:05:00.001-04:00

Sunday Songs I

2011-03-16T13:00:00.002-04:00

Edit: So, this post made me realize I might as well start a weekly thing where I post a fun or inspiring song. It just hit me as I was posting this one, so you can consider this post the beginning of "Sunday Songs."

A Break

2011-03-13T13:00:00.002-04:00

He kept talking, and I just wanted to sleep. Any forethought of the week ahead was nonexistent; I felt trapped in the "now" of then, and I am still unsure of how I got here. His suit was enough to make me cringe--then again, his fashion choices are nothing to be admired. In the middle of a blur of lectures and dates on a calendar, he once walked into class with a white suit and pink button-up shirt. And while one woman was shouting Miami Vice from the sidelines, I felt as if Hostess was using this man to send subliminal messages, and in a more innocent manner than it may perversely imply, I began craving a Sno Ball.

This is a typical Tuesday and Thursday for me--every week since January. If it has not become apparent yet, I will make the obvious obvious: this semester has been trying on a minuscule scale that makes a large difference in my mood week-to-week. But whatever complaints and pessimism I may be able to record via diary or pointless online status messages, a break is in my near future, and the man in the gaudy suit with the annoying accent that does not come from the southern state he swore he was raised, and the other countless lectures I have endured just in the week that make little impact on my long-term knowledge and only serve to bury me deeper in debt, will not stop me from enjoying my time.

The best part of this week was the gracious words escaping the strange man's lips: "I'm canceling class for Thursday." After rambling--as he usually does--for a few minutes on why he would not elaborate on this cancelation, he finally said he wanted to start his spring break early. Two things came to mind, and I was not alone: Must your character be so ironically pitiful? and So, your early break means you'll prolong grading our papers for yet another week, right?. Both frustrating. Both predictable.

The library, despite the loud buzz released from an emergency exit being propped open, was quiet. Many students had either already began their breaks or were hastily finishing up their last-minute assignments so they can skip out on whatever classes they hated just as much as I. My ability to terrify myself into properly attending courses and not skipping even the least nourishing of subjects, has left me envious of those who are willing to drop everything and actually catch up on their sleep whether it be at "home" or on the coast of some beach. I decided on the former, if anyone was wondering. The idea of sleeping in my own bed and seeing my pets for the first time since Christmas was more appealing to me than going topless in a beach or nightclub and ending up in some recording detrimental to any reputation I might acquire outside of these hallowed halls one day. (I am still a bit worried of my chances of making anything of myself, to be honest.) And news that Girls Gone Wild was banned from one town in Florida meant there is less of a chance for any of my peers to lose all respect due to liquid courage and a false sense of what happens on the beach stays there.

Friday made itself known in the morning as I woke to the sounds of more construction and screaming--screams of happiness, [somewhat] thankfully. With only one class for the day (and even it getting eventually cancelled), the day was turning out better than I expected. Trey made it to his class fine and when he got out, I met him outside of the door to eat a large lunch with him. He told me about his class--which is always far more interesting than mine--and when we made it out of the dining hall, having eaten a large meal, we found a private sitting area to relax. The benches were just stone, backless benches, but they were something. The gazebo-like shelter with trees and pink blossoms surrounding the area, letting in a little light, set the perfect mood to rest off all of the food we ambitiously devoured. Trey looked at me, and as the breeze carelessly whipped my hair completely from its carefully worked part, and kept me from being able to even see him, he took my hands and ensued an unfair game of slaps with me--the object being he would smack my hands with the advantage that my temporary blindness disabled my (already) slow reflexes, but I was fine with this. I just wanted to be close for as long as I could.

It would not be so for too long.

On the way to meet my dad so I could make it back to my hometown for the week break, I took Trey's hand and told him how I was happy for the break, and happy it was a week, in which his reply was solemn and concerning. I squeezed his hand and asked him if he was okay. He smiled his usual, sweet smile and just said "yes." Whether he was telling the truth or not was neither here nor there. He said it because he loves me, and we both know leaving each other on a sad note is never how one should leave. Next weekend, we will reconvene, and it will be beautiful. Just like him.

Links

2011-03-04T02:12:00.001-05:00

Missing me? Follow me on Twitter. Or look at what I'm sharing on Google Reader.

Not Exactly 100 Words: School

2011-02-27T12:08:00.001-05:00

The things I have learned--and would rather remember--are pushed aside by classes I want to forget.

What did I learn about Freud? It is all clouded by rock clusters, pythagorean theorem, and ramblings of Andrew Jackson's odd behavior.

Sure, they all have their uses, but the knowledge feels mandated and irrelevant. I just want to move on--move on to something more personal to me.

Toy Guns

2011-02-24T15:30:00.001-05:00

When my brother and I were young, we used to play with toy guns. The cowboy kind, completely made of painted plastic, that made a clicking sound whenever you picked them up, as if we broke something and it were rattling around inside--which was likely. They were painted beige, and the mechanisms on the outside painted silver. The pop it made when we shot the gun was a bit piercing, but when we were younger, we never noticed the loud noises. Everything was just for fun.

Heath and I would run around the home we had then--a small yard, a small trailer home. He was so small then, but he was slender, and had a bit of tone. Probably from jumping off of things and reenacting the lightsaber fights in the original trilogy of Star Wars. My arms and legs were no bigger than his, really. Five years apart in age, and at that time, no one could really tell a difference, we were just kids. Age did not matter. Nothing mattered, as long as it was fun... And as long as we did not get scolded for it.

I remember those days. I miss those days. Watching my brother outside in the front yard playing cowboys--or at least what he knew about cowboys from Woody in "Toy Story"--and pretending to be a Jedi Knight, sometimes tagging me in his little imaginary games. He had a trunk full of costumes and clothes that held onto his little body as he zoomed around our home and tried to tangle me into his chase. Everything from Jedi outfits, to a Spiderman costume, to a bit of cowboy accessories. He even had a Link costume from The Legend of Zelda.

These days, he is much slower. Video games and television excite him more than anything else. These days, I am much slower. School drains me mentally and physically the longer I stay here. But the both of us, no matter what we are doing, we are doing something we love. The five years we have different feels like a larger gap emotionally, sometimes. But in the end none of that matters.

When we reunite, on my days away from campus, we have fun. He is my younger brother, after all, and I love him.

I miss him.

Just because...

2011-02-10T17:29:00.001-05:00

Because I am in a bouncy mood:

Revitalization and Redemption

2011-02-04T15:10:00.002-05:00

Florence and the Machine is loud in my ears. Not because I want to tune out the world, but the pedestrian mall is particularly crowded for a Wednesday morning. And I need to breathe.

I spent the small bit of night I actually dedicated to sleep in a deep, dreamless coma--from which waking was not easy. I took the time last night to pour my feelings out into a message and with every apprehension I have built around expressing myself to others--oddly enough, despite being a writer--it was cleansing. And I slept; I was revived.

Two years ago, I spent some of my flaky time with a boy who would not understand what a connection between two people is if it bit him in the ass. I was just wasting time. It was a vain attempt at trying to find worth somewhere. But there was nothing to gain, and all of that time is now lost to pages in a diary I ripped up and scratched out. When I tried to express myself to him, I was shut down by a shallow wall of concave vanity. And he was not the first to act so coldly to me. So, I shut off.

Last year, I was left believing I would yet again be without someone to turn to in my times of overwhelming despair. In all honesty, I was fine with this. I hated the idea of having to divide my time or really be responsible for my actions or for another. I had spent so much time to myself, even when the aforementioned sat like stone next to me, I did not really know anything else. And then it happened: someone came along.

At first, he was just a guy I was getting to know. And past experience taught me not to be hopeful. But he stole me. And now I find myself frustrated, more than anything else--frustrated that I did not find him sooner. With him, I see the world differently. He is my constant inspiration--a reason to be better than the pathetic excuse I have been, lacking in any self-worth. He made that person in the mirror seem a little less hideous, and gave me one more thing for which to live.

And when I express myself, I am not stupid. I am his world. He makes me feel like somebody. Somebody with real words worth being heard.

When I wake up in the morning, I am someone's love. It makes this dull life full of academia and away from home-ness less dreary. When I am with him, I am home.

100 Words: Make your own happiness.

2011-01-25T01:53:00.001-05:00

My mind goes into overdrive, and my heart collapses. I suddenly feel defeated.

But there are photographs strewn everywhere of people who love me, and they are all the proof I need to believe I can make it through anything. With a bit of prayer and those smiles gleaming back at me, I am ready.

There is a light within us all. Happiness is momentary, but joy is eminent. Joy wakes me up and gives me hope when things fall apart. So, with all I have and all of this joy, how can I be unhappy?

Make your own happiness.

I promise I'm not dead: part two.

2011-01-22T22:23:00.003-05:00

I woke up on a high note: after only four hours of sleep, my alarm on my phone began chirping at a nagging volume level and rather than turn the alarm off, I picked up the phone to answer a nonexistent call. I knew immediately I was too tired for class, but it did not stop classes from happening. And as I lazily drug my feet from one end of campus to the other, only careful enough not to trip on the uneven stones of the pedestrian mall, people who had enough time to wake up and get coffee and even enjoy a bit of breakfast were racing past me like blurs of color, fabric and hair.

Political science has yet to intrigue me. All it has done is find new ways to torture me as my stomach suddenly realizes my early-morning negligence and begins its revenge halfway through an article or video clip on NPR’s website. This time, it was a video clip of John F. Kennedy’s inaugural speech. And while I smirked at the trademark Kennedy accent, my stomach was making itself known to my row of desks. Students in front of me squirmed a little, uncomfortable at my body’s unstable position—and I could only imagine what the students behind me were thinking. However, one student behind me could use a little scare.

One week ago, the rules of the classroom were simple enough: first come, first serve. That Wednesday a student from, what I can only assume to be, the Middle East sat in front of me. The professor thought it would be amusing—I assume—if we all had to form groups for a presentation. This same kid, whose accent was so thick I could barely understand what he was saying (not to mention his grammar was atrocious), ended up in my group. I had no qualms against him until he began imposing his opinions about the remedial level of the course. Every assignment seemed ridiculously simple to him and the professor was, in his broken words “an imbecile.” Through gritted teeth and a glossy stare, I agreed, hoping to allow the subject to fade into the echo of students asleep or falling asleep during the lecture, and shrug my shoulders. This was my polite attempt to make him understand how desperately I wanted the conversation to die. He did not understand, but eventually time passed, though rather slowly, and I was able to escape to my next class of the morning.

Two hours and two classes later, I was sitting in math class, wondering how I got there and why I even had to be there. The first chapter—the preliminary chapter—was on using a calculator. My professor’s accent is also very thick, and there were hardly any immature boys in the room who did not giggle and snicker at some of the words our professor mispronounced. And, unfortunately, even in the cramped space she was oblivious. I typically stay to myself and listen to my music at a low level before class begins. The girl behind me, who I have seen around campus many times, began talking to the boy beside her.

“Do you know that kid, Deep?” ‘Deep.’ I know that name. Why do I know that name?
“Yeah, I know that kid: pompous jackass with dark, spiky hair?” Yup, Political Science jerk.
“Yeah! You know we were talking about some weed we had the other da—” Why does everyone on campus smoke weed? “—he said back in ‘his country’ he used to shoot acid up under his forearm skin as a hallucinogenic. We were just talking about a funny party we were at and he completely monopolized the conversation to talk about all the drugs he’s tried. You know he told us he snorts spray paint?”

When Deep came into class with ripped acid-wash skinny jeans and Croc sandals I knew there must have been some madness in his method.

After an hour of mind-numbing nothingness with a few numbers and notes on a weak projected screen, I walked out in the bitter cold. I can remember happier winters; there was always something magical about them. Even this past holiday I experienced my first White Christmas, and there I could snuggle under the covers, watch a classic like “Meet Me in St. Louis” and watch the snow from my window. But there are no surprises to be had here. The wind strikes you unremorsefully, and the rain comes harder when the forecast assumes light, and even comes when there were no signs for it at all. Attempting to walk through it unscathed will never happen—not in this town. I was chilled to the bone, I was drenched, and worst of all, when I was not drenched, there was just enough rain attached to me to leave red bruises from the passing brutal wind anyway.

I made it over to a Mexican restaurant on campus and ran back to my dorm with some warm nachos. I stripped of my weather-worn clothes to the t-shirt and jeans hiding underneath, and turned up the heat in our dorm. I stayed there until a friend or Trey wanted me for something, almost certain I would have to repeat the dreadful hunt and gather for food again at dinner time.

Friday was almost as brutal, but temperatures rose to 57-degrees Fahrenheit, and while my gloveless hands were still under attack, while they were in Trey’s, the time outside was instantly made it easier. We went to lunch before my real errand at the store, where, while just trying to get some bath items and a few extra items, I managed to leave the overpriced store with only two bags somehow worth around $100. I was more than a little displeased. I have decided I hate money and expensive things. When Trey and I parted, I was allowed but a little amount of time to myself before Elizabeth called me asking if I wanted to come to her apartment with Stephanie and Racquel. I came along knowing I would not dislike my time there. Two hours in I wanted to leave and sleep, though. It was all that would play over in my head: sleep; the sawing of logs; 40 winks and other strange expressions. After making peanut butter balls for a baby shower Elizabeth would be throwing in the morning, I made it back to my dorm with enough time to collapse, remembering I still had only one quote for my current article for the paper. Procrastination had gotten the best of me, and it was only the second week of school.

My feet are now broken and blistered from a walk around town with Eric and Christina—it is a wonder I even made it this far. The whole city was without water today due to a power outage, and while we joked, we were miserable. It seemed as though all week I kept trying to find new ways to stay awake and keep moving. I promise, and from this finally published post I hope it is proof, I am not dead, but in all honesty, I might as well be.

I promise I'm not dead: part one.

2011-01-19T17:52:00.000-05:00

I am sorry I have not been very active, readers. It has not been intentional. I am only on my second week of school so I am currently trying to balance everything and not freak out about my French class. In all honesty, my last post, is far from my favorite, but it seemed to draw a little attention so maybe those who have yet to read it will like it?

I plan to actually have a part two to this--a real one. I am not sure if it will be a full-length post or a 100-words post, but we shall see.

In the meantime, to prove I am, in fact, still living and breathing, you might benefit from following me on Twitter to read some of the more nonsensical things I do and say from day-to-day. I try not to offend, though the sailor's mouth comes and goes, I will admit.

In any event, if you do not have a Twitter, there might be a way to get my updates (I do have a widget in the sidebar that updates in real time if not). But it would be awesome if you signed up even if it is simply to chat with me and amuse me when I think I'm being humorous.

I really do appreciate you all.

Follow me here: @dearjenna.

2011-01-11T19:43:00.000-05:00

When I first came back to town and gazed upon the campus, I was not smiling. It was vacant. I knew I would be coming back to a quiet place. If anything, I had time to reminisce. Classes were going to start Monday, and I was not looking forward to it. My books were not purchased, I was stuck believing failure was my only option in French class, and my boyfriend was sick so I could not even see him after being apart for a month. These were all pathetic complaints, and rather selfish, to some degree, and I had to push them aside, anyway. With a bit of help from Chelsea, we moved in all of my things into the narrow bedroom and I began the horrible process of unpacking. Fortunately it is not as horrible as actually packing. The walls are cream-colored, there is a lock on my door and my bed, after a few moderations and an added memory foam insert, is comfortable—as comfortable as a dorm can be, that is.

After a night and a day with silence in the room—except for the few times Chelsea disrupted it all—my roommate stepped through the door with her brother. Blonde, tall, and she seemed kind. The name was Brittany. Her brother was even taller. His head seemed well above the top of the door frame. (I could have been imagining it.) We said a few pleasantries and she moved her stuff into her room. After awhile, she closed her door and did whatever it was she did and I closed mine. There was not much sense to open my door to a world closed off from me. Some time after she was, presumably, done unpacking she left and I did not see her for the rest of the weekend; which was fine. I had not seen anyone other than Chelsea the whole time; the loneliness was not "loneliness" after some time to gather my thoughts.

It was not until Sunday people began rolling in, crowding parking lots, and taking up too much space in the halls. Before all of the students moving in, the slightest thump through the halls rattled the four floors of the residence hall in which I reside. It is not exactly a pleasant experience. However, the building and I both adjusted to the thousands of thumps echoing throughout the halls, making my peace seem less disturbed, and then the herd trampled each other and screamed and shouted and laughed and cried all throughout the halls. And the noise was so suffocating, it did not even echo, it merely became one loud whir of noises filling the once void of my weekend to myself.

Monday I woke to someone's television a floor below me, and five minutes before my actual alarm. The morning before, my alarm clock was not set, but I fell out of my bed hard enough to wake up at five—like a child who just made the transfer from a crib. I am officially frightened my children will, by God's on humorous will and my bad genes, be born with my severe lack of coordination, and a confidence at that. I got up and showered and made an attempt to get ready in time to eat. I was not successful. My classes were back-to-back and they felt like just a whirlwind of uncertainty, syllabi and new faces. Of course, that is how it always feels at the beginning of each semester, I suppose. My French teacher expected conversation and I am not one who can converse even properly in English on days like Monday. My political science teacher expects us to present as a group twice during the semester. I am already dreading it. My journalism class was what I expected, and I am trying my best to not screw it up this semester—I fell flat, as did my want to be a news writer. Students swarmed the halls, trying to make a good impression before they all either drop-out or begin sleeping in. Math was a waste of time and the teacher was unfortunately stereotypically Asian. There were lots of snickers in the back of the classroom. I pray to God they were out of her earshot.

Amidst all of this chaos, I still found time for Trey, which was a more than desired reprieve from the panic erupting from my experience in French and my realization (along with the realization of my partner from two semesters ago) that I was unprepared. Taking a semester off of a foreign language was not the best idea; as if I could have avoided it, anyway. But Trey calmed my nerves and I missed just sitting next to him and having him there. It was for no more than fifteen minutes, but it was enough to keep me going.

I went through the rest of the day as I would have last semester, and eventually met up with Eric and Christina who live conveniently down the hall from me now. I got a bite at Nathan’s and they went into the university bookstore to look for their textbooks—I was still putting it off. The day came and went, we talked and laughed, I avoided buying a drink from Starbuck’s as they had and instead took a free sample from the tray. I am sure the workers would not have been too thrilled had they paid any attention at all. Later in the evening I was picked up by Chelsea who drove to the mall and to her house just for us to sit around without any inclination as to what we really wanted to do together. We played our verbal sparring games and discussed things we could do related to art without actually doing much of it at all. It was the laziest I had been all day, though. I welcomed it with open arms.

The next day I was greeted with the warmth of sleeping-in. My schedules indicates only one evening class Tuesdays and Thursdays so I took the opportunity to be irresponsible, even though I woke at nine and had to force myself to sleep another two hours. The day went by slowly, but I found odd errands to fill the day. I bumped into people I wanted to see and some I did not. All either headed to a room out of the cold or a class, exchanging nothing but casualties with me. I swiftly went in and out of the stores on campus and back to my room to get away from the textbook-buying frenzy. Freshman and upperclassmen alike worried they would not get their book if they did not ambush the store the same as everyone else. I went in only to find my French book was still not on the shelves. The clerk said it was in transport. The class will come the same time as yesterday, tomorrow. I am more than a little worried.

The evening rolled in and I had done little-t0-nothing besides go back and forth between a couple of places and my dorm. I gathered my things, ate dinner and walked over to the hall housing my grammar class. The teacher was upbeat and nice. He, to my excitement, shares distaste for linguistic teaching such as sentence diagramming. I just hope that is not the only thing we have in common. Despite saying “um” more times than any of the class wanted to hear, he seemed relatively friendly and his PhD does not stop him from asking his class to refer to him simply by his first name. I could get used to this semester, after all.

Small Town Christmas

2010-12-25T11:45:00.000-05:00

The clock tower struck twelve-noon. I heard the bells chime twelve times and the whole town sighed. Half the day had already come and gone. People in McDonough like to congregate in the downtown square. At this time of year, Christmas lights and garland are hung from every corner and post. A large red sleigh is outside for a Santa who comes twice during the season for pictures. The sky was a blurry mess of sleet and rain by the afternoon. White blinded the eyes of those who dared to gaze up at the sky for a moment. Men, women and children poured in and out of the small stores and restaurants. The pharmacy was getting particularly good business from the elderly who could not stand the relative frost. It was a calm afternoon. There was a mystifying gloom hanging above everything, but it was calm and peaceful, and rather soothing.

The night grew darker and cooler, and I was standing on the outside of a familiar front door. We were carrying two pies and some peppermint cookies. Shanna made them. She had some peppermint chips left over and threw them in the dough as simply as she would have chocolate chips. I envy her ability to carelessly throw things together in the oven. The things I bake never turn out disastrous, but they take much more cunning and concentration than I am often willing to give. Blake opened the door and we walked inside. I had been here once before, last year, at a similar event actually: a Christmas party for our church's band. And just as last time the only ones to come were the band members, with a few family, and the couple who work the slideshow and sound--though very few outside of the band were even invited in the first place.

We set our things down on the kitchen counter, and took a look around. Smiles, waves and hugs were exchanged briefly. It is amazing to me how I can know these people for half of my life or more and still find little to say to them each time I walk through a door. I exhaust pleasantries quickly and make my way to the nearest seating arrangement so I can at least act the part of comfortable; I do it every time, I have my routine down. Of course, when I did this time, I managed to get swiped into a conversation with two old men. Whenever two old men get together, they seem to love rambling. I was stuck there, listening to the nothingness of the old days, of which I honestly envy, and their on-end questions about my schooling. I escaped in time for prayer and food. I only say "escaped" because their questions caused me to have to really talk, and say more than the typical one or two fragments I typically utter.

There were appetizers, entrées and delicious desserts. The main dishes were two plates stacked high with honey baked ham and Puerto Rican pork roast. I took some of the pork, I knew I would have my fill of ham later, and took a large corner of baked macaroni and cheese. The rest of the spread was a game of chance. The most appetizing thing to me the whole night was the macaroni. Getting over a cold leaves your taste buds little sense to enjoy the finer parts of domesticated dining. But, being that I was second in this makeshift buffet line, I respectfully took some peppered green beans, mashed potatoes and homemade cranberry sauce. Everything else was left for the other ten or so to enjoy.

Everyone adjourned to the living room afterward for the white elephant gift exchange. I received a party-mix of songs from 2007. When I saw Gwen Stefani's "Hollaback Girl" on the track-list, I was hoping someone would figure it a nice gift by mistake and take it. Luckily, upon writing this, I have remembered I left the gift on the hosts' couch. (Which was an accident; it was the rush of packing food and trying to get out of the door without dropping anything.) At any rate, the game was more enjoyable than I apprehended and I was able to actually open up and laugh some. It is not without trying that I fail on occasion to be fun company. I have just trained myself not to say anything stupid at the expense of trying to fill a void. Which leaves me sitting quietly more than anything else. Wendy brought a Fushigi ball and Blake was the lucky one to get it. Through a little encouragement, he was convinced to put in the "Teaching Tutorial" DVD. A Fushigi ball is an illusion gag, basically, meant to look like it is floating between one's fingers. If done correctly, it is pretty intriguing. However, I have seen the infomercials. Everyone who purchases one and spends hours on end with it is more than likely going to look like the guy in the tutorial: the unwashed love-child of Criss Angel and Qui-Gon Jinn. Which is ironic--one of the "cradles" for holding the Fushigi was referred to as the "Vulcan" cradle. And he made sure to hold up the "V" sign and say the phrase, "Live long and prosper."

"Oh... I'm bettin' he's been single for a long time..." Shanna blurted out.
"And I'm bettin' it's gonna' stay that way," another in the room quickly responded.

The Fushigi was passed around and a few tried some of the tricks in the DVD, to no avail, of course. Those unwilling to try quickly got up from their seats, scared they would get hit in the head by the odd toy. I was one of the latter. But it was worth a few laughs. If anything, it was better than the game of Taboo one couple decided to bring with them. I am not a huge fan of board games, but every other gathering I attend manages to have one. The only one I can ever remember enjoying is Apples to Apples.

My most significant memory with the fruity game was with my family over some holiday. We all crowded the dining room table and dealt the cards. When it came to my father's turn, he being the crude comedian he is started laughing before he even set the card in the pile. The basic rules being this: an adjective is drawn and everyone is to look at their hand of noun cards and place one in the pile they find best-suiting. The adjective was "useless," and he handed a card with the notable noun, Helen Keller. I may be on a one-way ticket to Hell for laughing, but the joke caused both my cousin and I to gasp for air.

When everyone had exhausted their fun with the white elephant gifts and people were growing weary and tired, all of us who claimed to be full previously helped "clean-up" by consuming half of what was left in the kitchen as Patty and Nancy started up the dishes. We brought home a few leftovers and plates for my father and brother, and I was almost conned into taking half of Ruby's baked macaroni and cheese. She used a dish big enough for thirty servings. I may not have enough conscience to check expiration dates before I dive into a meal, but I know my limits on even my favorite of noodle-filled side-dishes.

Wednesday night I was doing relatively the same thing as Saturday night: standing in front of a door on a cold night waiting for someone to let me in, hands full of some dessert Shanna had made. The whole family was with me this time. Shanna was fiddling with her parents' garage door automatic opener, and the dishes I was handed were getting heavy. Finally, the old wooden doors crept open and we walked into the mothballs and seventies-style home and decor. The house wreaked of all things elderly and antique. Even their recently bought widescreen television sits on an old end-table from the fifties. Let the records show, the high-definition purchase was purely for lack of proper eye-wear, and not their greedy want to see the sweat drop from some football coach's brow during the height of the Superbowl. The only thing really offensive to me is the china hanging above the kitchen table upstairs. I have always been forced to entertain the other cousins or squeeze myself at a smaller table, even at twenty-years old. And when we visit Shanna's parents' house, I am always at the chair under the china. I am waiting for something to knock those plates onto my head in a comical fashion--a comical fashion of which I know I will never laugh at later.

We came in late compared to the usual. Shanna's brother and sister and their families had already arrived and my little cousin Bethany ran up to me and squeezed my legs. At almost 6-years old she only stands as tall as halfway up my thighs, and has perfect blonde hair I have only read about in fairy tales. This one will be a heart-breaker, God help her parents. She giggled and jumped around in her Christmas outfit excited to tell me about everything that has happened since I saw her the night before at dinner.

Twenty-four hours previous, I was sitting at a table with the same family and mine, and Bethany was crying clamping her small hands over her even smaller ears. She had surgery Friday to get tubes permanently placed in her ears to reduce her risk for ear infections; simple enough, but painful for the small child. I remember her crying and saying, "It feels like the tubes are fighting my ears and my ears are fighting the tubes!" She, like the rest of the family, is already better at verbalizing than I am. After taking some children's pain medication, the relief was almost immediate. Bethany sat down between Shanna and me, reading her new book we bought her as a "get well" gift. It was taken from the movie, "A Charlie Brown Christmas," and has buttons which make sounds from the patented Charles Schulz creation, including a button with Charlie Brown's face that sighs "Good grief!" when pressed. When she got to the end of the book, my heart melted. There, she, having some literacy on her belt, recognized the lyrics to "Hark! the Herald Angels Sing" and pressed the corresponding button to hear the chorus of characters sing. Bethany, likewise, sang along. Music is powerful--hymns and carols masterpieces irreplaceable by the small chart-toppers of the year, and especially touching at Christmas. When I hear the small child sing the words, "Hark the herald angel sing/Glory to the newborn King/Peace on earth and mercy mild/God and sinners reconciled," and understand each one, it is enough to bring tears to my eyes. She pressed the button over and over again and sang along, keeping her small index finger to the page to make sure she did not miss a word. I miss the days of care and precision--the days where I still felt as if I had much to learn. I may be willing to admit I am ignorant, but I am not always willing to change it.

To see Bethany full of joy and pain-free Wednesday night made my heart skip a beat. It was our family's Christmas: for her it meant gifts and running around driving the family crazy with her giggling and weird faces. She pranced through the house and made sure to consistently babble about what she expected Santa to bring her Saturday night. The rest of the family--the adults--was tired and only obliging to the smaller children. There was still room to laugh and enjoy the food and fellowship together, but adults are never excited about Christmas for the same reasons or in the same ways someone Bethany's age is excited for the holiday. Even I can write poetically about Christmas and even get excited when the lights and trees go up around town, but I remember getting goosebumps every second of December, and now I have to be wowed to feel much of anything. I suppose I just need faith like a child.

The room was loud and full of life as we all sat around the Christmas tree, waiting for the story of the birth of Jesus and Papa Bill's usual prayer. We let the man have his traditions. In fact, we do not even really mind them. It is the small things that make up Christmas. It is the small things that bring us together. Of course, when always bent at the waist even when while standing straight-up, suffering from Parkinson's Disease and cannot speak above a normal whisper, calming down 19 people, is not an easy task. It was easily ten minutes before everyone stopped talking long enough for the evening to really start. Too much conversation cramped into a small living space. Daniel, the cousin most likely to get shoved into an oven if it meant not sitting next to him at the dinner table, was sporting one of his favorite outfits as of late. Reasons unbeknownst to me, he has taken a liking to skinny jeans and v-neck t-shirts. Next to that and my brother who, until a haircut a day later, was voted most likely to get whiplash from continuously whipping his head in order to move his hair out of his face, I always find it funny to see how much style has in fact not changed, just within a decade.

"I like your skinny jeans," Kayla, Jacob's girlfriend, said.
"Thanks," Daniel replied, expecting an actual compliment, unfortunately.
"Yeah, I have a couple of pairs just like them in my closet."

I laughed harder than I probably should have.

When everyone was calmed down, Papa Bill read the events preceding Jesus' birth. It was nice to hear the story; I will admit, I do not read the Bible as much as I should. When the presents were passed around and everyone was enjoying their new gifts, I could not believe how much not only style has yet to change, but the gifts kids get are still the same. Kian got a Razor scooter and I remember when those commercials were released while I was in elementary school. I did not even know they still made them, but I know kids were just as excited about them then as my cousin was now. Bethany was given a large-headed, long-haired Rapunzel doll from the newest movie "Tangled." It was half her size and had frightening eyes. The worst part was, every time Bethany combed Rapunzel's hair, her head lit up. I suppose it is always better she be given a doll with an abnormal-sized head than the sluts Barbie puts out these days. I remember when Barbie was sold with sun-dresses and sixties-style chic clothing. I have an entire bucket full of them hidden somewhere in our garage still. If anything has changed in the past ten years, it should not have been that. As for the older additions to the family, we were simply handed some cash and gift cards. And I would never turn away money, of course.

Overall, there were lots of pictures taken and lots of love. It is more than most could hope for at this time of year. While some prepare for Santa--a cheap ruse to get children in bed before nine--others cuddle by a fire with their significant other, some prepare themselves for the worst hangover of their life, and others just prepare for a new day masked in lights and cheer, Christmas comes just as our calendars and television programs predict. The air is bitterly cold, and I am sitting in the warm indoors, enjoying the bit of time I have with my family.

A Hero To Me

2010-12-18T13:07:00.001-05:00

I have the fortunate memories of looking up at my father like he was a giant, when I was just a little girl. He would pick me up and put me on his shoulders and the trip from the ground felt like a thrill-ride from an amusement park. In fact, the childishly exaggerated memory I have of him lifting me is much like what I would expect the Six Flags Over Georgia ride, Acrophobia, to be like. My father has always been my strong protector, my guiding light.

With his dark and calloused skin from a lifetime of labor, and eyes hardened by life's most brutal of punches, my father has been the one man in my life who has always been there for me and would do anything for me. Through gritted teeth and a cynic's smile, he dealt me some of the harsh realities of the world while I was still learning the basics, and yet, his warm heart gave the right balance of contrast a child needs as one tries to understand life during the heavy and light times.

If ever there was a bigger sign of resentment in my parents' marriage, it was when it came to what career my father would rather have. When I was barely old enough to walk, he carried three jobs. Most of the time, the jobs that afflicted him with the most stress and sleep deprivation were the relatively menial tasks. When I was five years old, our trailer did not seem as small as it really was, the trailer park full of domesticate violence and substance abuse I slept through like, well, like a baby. My father washed windows at the local Krispy Kreme and cleaned small restaurants along with working at a rubber distribution company. He would load trailers full of the company's rubber stock, and secure the shipments so the truckers were ensured a safe trip. I never realized how hard it was on him. I just knew he would come home smelling of burnt rubber, and occasionally, when he would clean windows, we would get a box of Krispy Kreme donuts. All the while, I was unaware of how much my father hated what he did, and would have loved to be something more. At the time, he wanted to be a fireman. He always got a thrill off of helping others, and too many "Terminator" and "Die Hard" films had left him fantasizing about sending his adrenaline and heart rate over the deep-end. My mother did not approve.

Almost twenty years later, my father did it. He went through the Police Academy and graduated. I remember his speech he gave as his class's representative; I am grateful to have been conscious enough to have seen it and remembered it. He had the crowd laughing and crying. But my father was always good at those sorts of things. There are so many things I have learned from my father, but speaking to crowds is not one of them. Now he is a cop for the county department and I could not be more thrilled for him. He is making a difference. It is all he has ever wanted.

Two days ago, I was in the laundry room helping out by cleaning my father's work uniforms. As I was pulling them out of the dryer I was reminded of the last time I was humorously scolded for not doing his laundry correctly: "What are you retarded? Just--give me the pants, I'll do it, knucklehead," he said. He always has had a way with words.

I had to fold the pants legs on the creases and then hang them. The heaviness of the materials makes it difficult, so this time I got crafty. Pulling down the ironing board, I successfully folded his pants and hung them. By the second pair, I started to notice something peculiar. The pants seemed short--not even as long as the standard-size ironing board they were laying across. Whenever I would make comments growing up about my father being tall, he would just laugh and try to explain to me 5'10" is not tall for a man. "At the very least, it's average," he would say. I would not believe it, but in those days I did not know much of anything--actually, that still holds true.

However, the man I had always looked up to, because I am only about 5'4" myself, suddenly seemed a lot shorter than he had in the past. The same man with the gorilla like stature and muscles, did not seem as large to me anymore. And in all this time, he has never pressed upon me any Napoleon complexities and delusions. My father is my father, love him or hate him; he goes to great lengths not to change for anyone. Despite the bitterness in his voice when he is lacking sleep, the shortness in his temper when he is just not in the mood to deal with my awkward attempts at conversation, and no matter how tall: my father is my hero.

Future?

2010-12-16T17:00:00.001-05:00

Photo Source

It is in my nature to worry; to worry about the future, over-analyze the past and even worry about the present as I am sitting in on the moment. I would not go as far as to say I am a chronic worrier. I know when to breathe and definitely know how to laugh--I am often caught with a case of the giggles on a regular basis. But the future freaks me out more than it probably should. And if I am not worrying about the future, I am at least pondering its possible outcomes.

So, in terms of this blog, I wonder how far it will go. I do not want to be the next Julie Powell for two reasons: I am not a "foodie," and we saw the inevitable decline of her life as an author. (And we cannot forget the large contrast between the author and her kind-natured portrayer, Amy Adams.) While the movie is enjoyable, and the idea interesting enough to a blogger, it seems illogical to pray one day someone will ask me to take my experience writing a blog and compile it into a book, and eventually be signed a movie deal. I see many blogs who succumb to signing their soul over to handbag giveaways and developing an entire left or right column of their page to nothing but sponsorships that have yet to capture my attention. I would hate to find, in a year or so, my blog cluttered and only half of the posts dedicated to my original intentions: expression.*

I am here to write. Not "here" as in a member of Blogger. I am here on this planet to write. I may not be the best artist, but I use it expressively, in whatever facet it may come. Personalization is what gives art its value, after all. But I see posts on Twitter, Facebook and blogs of people proudly enjoying their moments in their local post, a feature in a prestigious magazine, an online spotlight and the occasional shot at a book deal. It makes me wonder, if I will ever have a voice in the blogging world worth highlighting, even if for just fifteen minutes. I see bloggers with less to say than I do and more than twice the followers and respectful comments and additional feedback. It is frustrating and enough to make me answer those sponsored emails about the next handbag, shoe and couch giveaways.

Will I--by some odd twist of fate--be one of those blog one-hit wonders who publishes a book or two and then fades with the social fad (like Twitter celebrities or the aforementioned foodie), or will I have a successful blog and then likewise make my way as an author or journalist through my own degree and perseverance in the field? I would hope the latter, but Lord only knows what the future has in store for me. I am not a fan of uncertainty, but I hope I can handle it when it does strike hard. There are careers in blogging; if I ended up being one of the feature-writing columnists who snags a deal, I just hope it is right for me, and it is not my desperation as an English major to write something and have it seen.

*I am not looking down on my fellow bloggers if you so choose to partner with such. With certain categories of blogs, it is typically within their best interests to gather that sort of attention: foodies and chic blogs are the top two of which come to mind. It is just not for me.

100 Words: When I See Snow

2010-12-15T15:31:00.001-05:00

Winter is not winter without a little cold. On campus, I would trek with a light jacket, desperate for a chill. Christmas did not feel as if it was near.

I am used to freezing temperatures and festive lights filling up my town; it seemed rather dull and uneasily warm for December.

If I am thankful for anything this season, it is the chance to come home and be with family, to feel the chill in the air, to see the lights and occasionally get a nice glimpse of snow. It may not be much, but it is my Wonderland.

Playgrounds and Vacations

2010-12-10T09:56:00.001-05:00

Looking out on the backyard, I think about the transformation it has undergone in ten years. I remember one of my first walks across the pedestrian mall this semester after summer had officially come to a close. My English professor of whom I had had for two consecutive semesters was walking in the same direction some feet ahead, but I had not spotted him amongst the swarm of students and new-semester-frenzy. Keeping my head to the ground protects me from the blinding sun and uncomfortable eye-contact. But he managed to catch my attention, and I removed my ear bud to properly greet him.

"How was your summer?" he asked after some humorous pleasantries.
"Fine. Long... But it was nice to get away from here for awhile," I said. "--The humidity and all," I quickly added. I was unsure if it would offend him or not.
"Yeah, I decided to take on the ambitious task of building my kids a playground set," he replied. "Of course, now it's too damn hot for them to even go outside and play on it."

It was a funny little summer anecdote. A nice way to greet the new year with a familiar face. I was reminded of my own experience with a playground set. And I do not mean the flimsy, probably made from the aluminum siding of our trailer, swing-set from a box my father put up in the "front yard," which was really just the bit of space we had between our trailer and the one next to us on the right. Moving into a real house meant a new playground and my father built it from scraps and real wood. There was even a small shaded area underneath my brother and I would crawl under when the sun feeling cruel.

It was our castle, our bomb shelter, our pirate ship. When I had friends over, it was our fort where we would swap the fifth grade gossip and drink lemonade. My timid beagle, Snoopy, even attempted to slide down the slide a couple of times after we had trained our other, less-timid but still all-beagle, puppy Abbey to slide.

Both of those dogs have passed on since then, and the playground set knocked down. But the memories are still there. Glancing around today: I can hear the faint sounds of a basketball dribbling across the Georgia red clay and laughter; I hear Snoopy's hilarious howl. It all makes me wish we were younger and we had a beagle--or two--around the house again. It is too cold outside now for a playground set, and I am too old, anyway. This summer alone seems like an eternity ago in face of winter. Though I never turn away hot cocoa and a warm fireplace. The semester is over and I have Christmas with my family to enjoy now.

And I am sure, while I am away from campus, the humidity will not change and the temperature with fluctuate between somewhat winter-y weather to uncomfortably warm for the season. I hope, while it lasts, my English professor's children enjoy their playground set. Before they know it, it will be gone, too--gone just like all of those summers of my childhood. It happens in a blink of an eye, growing up, but memories can still be made that way.

Thanksgiving

2010-11-25T16:47:00.002-05:00

Driving by all the homes already lit up with Christmas lights was uplifting. Doors were open, curtains wide, and families were gathered 'round tables, laughing and passing hoards of casseroles, biscuits and salt and pepper shakers. It is a warm time of year. Even men and women all alone in apartments and small rental houses seem a bit more cheerful--their canned cranberry sauce, small rotisserie turkeys and bottles of wine are their family. They sit close to the television set in the favorite chairs watching their favorite television programs. I would feel sorry for their time alone, but they may prefer it. Their stories are just as unknown to me as the other full houses I passed earlier.

No matter their stories; tonight, what matters is mine. It is my family for which I am thankful, and everything else with which I have been blessed. Through all the heartbreak and hardship, I would never think of trading them for another. Even when I am desperately trying to fight back the urge to stab one of them in the back of the hand--sometimes throat--with my fork--sometimes turkey prongs, depending on which is in my hand at the time. It is this time of the year where the decay of autumn is followed by the winds of new life, waiting to bloom in the months to come; bleeding colors of orange, red and yellow. The browning edges of leaves crippling beneath the lack of rain. All is calmer. The food is warmer when the air is not. The people are friendlier, particularly when they know who is feeding them.

I love this time of year, if it is not apparent. I am just thankful my loved ones and I are together to enjoy it.

Wild Fires

2010-11-13T20:52:00.003-05:00

The air has been heavy for the past two days. The smell was from a thicket of woods undergoing some less supernatural form of spontaneous combustion. Despite the trees crumbling beneath the dry soil, the smoke is nothing like the smell of a campfire. It is agonizing. The trees' corpses breaking under the pressure of the flames. It smells of rough skin, not bark. At night, the aromas of autumn overcome us all, but in the morning I wake to not dew or a cool breeze, but itchy eyes and burning lungs. The smoke stretches for miles, and we all wonder when it will end.

Last night, riding in the passenger seat after a late night in a warm apartment, lights could be seen high above the road, and sirens pierced a second hole in my ears. The pitch was unbearable, and the lights were blinding. The ladder on the fire truck shook in a frenzy of crisis. There was yet another fire, not wild, but undeterred by a barbecue shack nearby.

"What's on fire?" Chelsea asked me later that night. I told her; she merely laughed. "I don't even know how that place is still in business, it's always catching on fire."

But I still consider it a conspiracy, selfishly. I should not have to wake to sirens because of careless managers. My retinas should not burn because wild fires and smoke were not enough to draw firemen to their positions. The words "you're amazing" ring in my head, and a wild fire grows inside me, too. It is more than coincidence--as I am burning from the inside-out, as is my world.

This should be a fantastically romanticized occurrence of events, but I just want to keep it to myself--this is one thing with which I do not want to infect the world. I believe in spreading the love, but a general love for and to the world. My love should be my own. I want to hold the fire in my hands and never let it spread wild. I want to keep it in a lantern and turn it on and off whenever I please--held up in a dark room for myself to enjoy. Instead, the rest of my world is burning to the ground, spiritually and physically, as I am romantically.

I could change my mind about surrealism and fall into a belief it is a natural reflection of my state of being. I am not sure if it is fair or rational to assume it, as if I believe myself the center of the world, though, within my own perspective, which I rather enjoy keeping, it is my world. The wild fires are spreading because of passion, passion they feel, same as I. The trees could be talking, whenever they witness what we share. You and I and everyone else, embracing and laughing and quite fanatically jumping for joy at every smiling word. The heat of every moment could be eating everything alive from the inside-out. And as such, the firemen are never without jobs, and I am without sleep. But I stay up thinking about what keeps my flame lit, while the rest of the world burns with me.

The Bulletin Board

2010-11-09T15:34:00.000-05:00

It is the beginning of a new week and a new month has likewise commenced. People gather around the bulletin board to refresh the announcements and cries of help by the university's departments and fellow students. The posters depicting abusive and obsessive partners and the signs to look for in a possibly bad relationship are gradually being pulled off the cork--much to my amusement. Typically, awareness posters give me the giggles rather than do their job. Study abroad programs for the followings semesters are posted. I will never be able to afford such a thing. However, part of me is content with this fact: I would rather not spend $5,000 to go to Ireland, only to stare at rocks and analyze the cleavage of Ireland's most famous rolling hills. Students in need of someone to pay half of their rent, will advertise for anyone. I am rather cautious of letting complete strangers into my dwelling. I am even more cautious of walking into a stranger's dwelling in hopes of taking up residence with them. Living in a dorm with someone I do not know is enough. I would rather not invite myself into the same situation and pay $500 a month for whatever lessons I might learn in why not to rip off a small tab of information from random flyers.

"Would you want to split a house with me and Christina next year?" Eric asked.

I declined; I would rather not share the rent with a couple. Not only would I be stuck trying to sleep through a few not-so-silent and awfully awkward nights, but the future is often times bleak and unpredictable. If I get slammed with more rent than the agreement because of some unfortunately timed argument, I would rather not be found huddled in a dark corner of the house during all the screaming, cuddling my tattered wallet and reassuring it therapy will come soon. I may seem picky, but when it comes to finding a play to stay, and I do mean "stay," I would like to find something more suitably stable. These times are hard enough without having the floor ripped out from underneath me at any moment.

"There they go again," a passing student said, staring down the dark end of the hall.

A swarm of students came up to the board, ripping off their old flyers and putting up new ones, with florescent colors and large font. The blonde holding the bright pink sheets of paper blinded me. The paper did not have any constructive information on it, much to my injured eyes' dismay. More useless sheets of paper with people trying to sell textbooks for lunch money, and new programs not pertaining to the English department, though it is the English hall. I can honestly say I hate these days. While these students and teachers do not seem to be advertising for anything too important, they still have something to say, whereas, I am sitting on a bench, watching them all pass by without so much as a remark to be made.

There are days when I feel as if I am just spending my time and money sitting on a bench, going from class-to-class, zoning in and out of lectures, walking several miles-worth up and down the pedestrian mall. There are only so many times throughout the week I feel as if I am doing anything which can be, even in the slightest bit, and possibly with the assistance of a microscope, construed as productive. And in those times I wonder: What am I doing here? I know what my goals are, but fighting for them every week seems like more than its worth at times. Maybe I should post a bulletin up one day: "Girl in search of motivation." I have inspiration, I just do not have the will power to use it, like I know I should.

I and Love and You

2010-11-07T20:38:00.000-05:00

The Avett Brothers are best known for their song "I and Love and You." The song itself moves at a slow pace, reflective of the morose tone of its words. The line in the chorus that reads, "Three words that became hard to say: I and love and you," says it all. We live in a world of cynics. Passion is not reflected in our work or in the way we treat the ones we love anymore. Even those who claim they want to change the world or "spread the love" are so cynical about the current shape of things they find it hard to even start anywhere, and simply glide down the sidewalks, head down, just like the rest, with an undeserving sense of self-worth. I do not know if the world truly is as evil as others try to make it look. I find it hard to not find love where I am.

It is love that helps me go to sleep at night with a sense of hope for tomorrow; love that makes me laugh until I cry, and cry until the tears have run dry. It is with love I hug my friends and family. It is with love their arms will hug me back. These people--and even animals, because I cannot fairly exclude the three dogs I have at home who love me unconditionally--would do anything for me, and I for them. I strive to make them proud. My art and my passion for life run off of the power I get from the ones I love. I may be unbearably too positive at times, but without such an annoying trait, I would not be who I am.

How could I ever ignore the love I have in my life, when in every corner there is a new embrace and new face mouthing the same words back to me. And even in a small apartment there is a man who says it with so much care, I would not dare believe it to be a lie. And it is there I am most careful to say it and mean it. Because while some may believe "I love you" to be but empty words, I mean them more than I have meant anything else in my life.

Travelling Audiophile

2010-10-27T23:16:00.002-04:00

Riding down the road in the backseat of my stepmother's pick-up truck. Fairly new, the stereo system can rattle the loose pavement we speed down. My father takes the advantage to blast Ozzy Osbourne and Zakk Wylde; in awe of the musical power of the latter and Randy Rhoads. It is the stuff on which I was raised. I know all of the words Ozzy has ever muttered, and can successfully mimic the pinch harmonics and slides elegantly used in each bridge and lead break. My father was who got me into music. I may not be an extremist amongst audiophiles, but what I have studied, I have studied well. However, creativity never sleeps and there are still numerous discographies to be had, and lyrics to learn.

These trips to the store, on family outings, to visit with friends, they all went by so quickly because of music. Whatever the choice of artist, from AC/DC to Yellowcard--bluegrass to screamo/alternative. Whether Shanna and I decided it was a good day for The Bridges or Eisley or my father thought it was time to dig up Dio, music has always been part of my life. I remember when my mother made me endlessly listen to the sounds of Boston and Duran Duran. Until this day, I still hate those bands. But she did help me respect Celine Dion's vocal ability and actually be able to enjoy Reba McEntire and Nickel Creek, although I was very reluctant at first. Saturday trips to Walmart killed my will to fight it when she caught me tapping my fingers to the rhythm of "The Fox and the Hound." If I had not given in, I would never understand how beautiful "Doubting Thomas" really is.

Through teenage angst and the creation of the portable CD player, I was able to branch out on my own. While I may have helped single-handedly bring down a small fraction of the music industry, burned CD's were my best friends. I explored my tastes by indulging in the more popular at the time: Avril Lavigne, Good Charlotte and My Chemical Romance. I grew a little--lyrically and physically--and moved into Fear Before the March of Flames, Bjork, Alexisonfire and The Almost. They were an odd combination of sounds, but I was trying to find what fit me. I know now these sounds of my pre-teenage years will stay with me for the sake of memories, but they are not what suit me today.

My favorites of now cannot be narrowed down sufficiently; I listen depending on my mood. But the more popular indie and folk sounds definitely have a playlist of their own. The Sugarplastic and The Shaggs are guilty pleasures. I mostly turn to their "revolutionary sounds" when I need a good laugh. I am sure many who have some shallow understanding of why The Shaggs made any sort of impact might gasp in horror. But just as I will respect The Beatles but always hate "Yellow Submarine," this is one more thing I suppose I will have to grin and bear as others snicker at my inability to grasp the complexities of such things. I am an audiophile in my own right just as I am a writer. As the music industry moves into digitalizing everything once sacred and vinyl, my iPod will soothe me as I travel far distances by foot or by car. I can count on Wilco, Death Cab for Cutie, Paramore or even Chris Tomlin to connect with me when the conversation next to me lags, or I would much rather drown out the world than pretend I am having a good time.