Some day little girls will wear little dresses with little flowers embroidered on the pockets for no other reason than to wear little embroidered flowers; not to show the world that those pockets are conveniently placed.
If evolution exists let us devolve in, if nothing else, our level of innocence.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
A Completely Selfish Argument
Had I moved quickly enough, I might have, for a mystical nanosecond, been able to hold my frozen breath in my palm this morning. The stars lingered, postponing the inevitable dawn, as I stepped onto the library balcony to rest my weary mind. The glow of the monument below stirred a childish Rapunzel daydream, which I didn't know how to halt until it had already passed. It just seemed weird to daydream about Rapunzel in any circumstance, let alone during Finals Week.
The cold at first felt glorious, then humbling, and gradually sank into a shivering state of misery. My teeth chattered Morse Code messages as misting rain amplified the December air. All I wanted to do was write. Not sleep. Not finally find a bathroom in this stupid building and pee. I wanted to pull my knees to my chest, balancing my weathered spiral ledger, and write until the muscles in my fingers stopped responding. At this moment I was not thinking about how nice it would be to revive a little old lady on the Metro or save some helpless kid from leukemia. I wanted to feel that tangible beauty flow from my silent lips as I mouthed the words my hands painted onto paper.
I was almost certain that in the not so far off future I would become that mumbling bag lady that children throw rocks at if I didn't fear the fact that I have friends that would join in the throwing. My lips were already parted, forming the words my hands could not respond to. Silence turned to muttering, as if my mind felt like pushing that metaphoric envelope with or without my consent. I didn't dare take the time to write, as the past forty-eight hours had already drained the majority of my coherent thought.
"Not today", I whispered to myself, officially sealing in my "crazy doctor-to-be with imaginary friends" title. It was then that I felt a tug. A literal, absolute tug from somewhere inside my chest. "No", I sighed.
I left the wispy remains of a ghost waiting on that cold balcony. I had betrayed my writer's soul for the tedious study of Biology flash cards. It was as if I chosen sides in an unseen war, of which I had formerly been Switzerland. I just hoped I had not unknowingly sided with the enemy.
The cold at first felt glorious, then humbling, and gradually sank into a shivering state of misery. My teeth chattered Morse Code messages as misting rain amplified the December air. All I wanted to do was write. Not sleep. Not finally find a bathroom in this stupid building and pee. I wanted to pull my knees to my chest, balancing my weathered spiral ledger, and write until the muscles in my fingers stopped responding. At this moment I was not thinking about how nice it would be to revive a little old lady on the Metro or save some helpless kid from leukemia. I wanted to feel that tangible beauty flow from my silent lips as I mouthed the words my hands painted onto paper.
I was almost certain that in the not so far off future I would become that mumbling bag lady that children throw rocks at if I didn't fear the fact that I have friends that would join in the throwing. My lips were already parted, forming the words my hands could not respond to. Silence turned to muttering, as if my mind felt like pushing that metaphoric envelope with or without my consent. I didn't dare take the time to write, as the past forty-eight hours had already drained the majority of my coherent thought.
"Not today", I whispered to myself, officially sealing in my "crazy doctor-to-be with imaginary friends" title. It was then that I felt a tug. A literal, absolute tug from somewhere inside my chest. "No", I sighed.
I left the wispy remains of a ghost waiting on that cold balcony. I had betrayed my writer's soul for the tedious study of Biology flash cards. It was as if I chosen sides in an unseen war, of which I had formerly been Switzerland. I just hoped I had not unknowingly sided with the enemy.
Friday, December 5, 2008
The Little Things
It was that time of year again; the time of year when snow blanketed front lawns and soft lights twinkled against the backdrop of even softer music. It was that special time of year, when greeting card sales spiked and cliques rolled off the tongue without shame. It was the season of Final Exams.
Ah, Final Exams. The only two words in the English language that, when combined, have the power to bring entire civilizations to their knees. Well, second to Atom Bomb.
If someone had asked me to describe my first Pre-Med quarter in three words, I would have had to say: exhausting, stressful, and difficult. My adjectives should have been: empowering, stimulating, and difficult. I couldn't believe that I was already finished with an entire quarter, so much so that it made my head swell. The loom factor of these upcoming exams made the "final" aspect of them seem much too literal to stomach.
I needed to take a moment to breathe, and was planning on doing so just after I met with my professor to ask some last panicked questions about the final. It was then, while sitting in her uncomfortable folding chair, that I broke under the pressure. Babbling about long midnight shifts and an unsure admission to Medical School, I failed at mentally clawing back tears. She nonchalantly handed me a box of tissues, and patiently waited for me to finish sniffling. "Well then", she finally broke the tension of my outburst, "You better do well on the final".
It was as simple as that. I better do well on the final. "For the next week, eat, sleep, and breathe the material. Don't party. Don't work. Don't think. Just do well on the final, and for Christ's sake stop crying in my office".
Humiliated, yet oddly encouraged, I thanked her for her time and began my cold walk home. And, for the first time in my life, I dismissed everything my brilliant professor had told me. I went home, took a long nap, made gingerbread men with my girlfriends, and spent the next two days simply enjoying the company of my friends. It was the first time in a long time that my gut hurt from laughter rather than stress. I did not eat, sleep, or breathe the material. I ate, slept, and breathed.
I took time for myself and was still able to crack open the books without resorting to building a time machine in my kitchen. The breaking point was my body's way of screaming, "What the hell!?", and I was finally able to reply with a calm, "Don't you worry Body. I'm a doctor. Almost."
Sometimes pure common sense outweighs the prestige of a doctorate, and sometimes laughter really is the best medicine. Or the best way to become a medicine woman.
Ah, Final Exams. The only two words in the English language that, when combined, have the power to bring entire civilizations to their knees. Well, second to Atom Bomb.
If someone had asked me to describe my first Pre-Med quarter in three words, I would have had to say: exhausting, stressful, and difficult. My adjectives should have been: empowering, stimulating, and difficult. I couldn't believe that I was already finished with an entire quarter, so much so that it made my head swell. The loom factor of these upcoming exams made the "final" aspect of them seem much too literal to stomach.
I needed to take a moment to breathe, and was planning on doing so just after I met with my professor to ask some last panicked questions about the final. It was then, while sitting in her uncomfortable folding chair, that I broke under the pressure. Babbling about long midnight shifts and an unsure admission to Medical School, I failed at mentally clawing back tears. She nonchalantly handed me a box of tissues, and patiently waited for me to finish sniffling. "Well then", she finally broke the tension of my outburst, "You better do well on the final".
It was as simple as that. I better do well on the final. "For the next week, eat, sleep, and breathe the material. Don't party. Don't work. Don't think. Just do well on the final, and for Christ's sake stop crying in my office".
Humiliated, yet oddly encouraged, I thanked her for her time and began my cold walk home. And, for the first time in my life, I dismissed everything my brilliant professor had told me. I went home, took a long nap, made gingerbread men with my girlfriends, and spent the next two days simply enjoying the company of my friends. It was the first time in a long time that my gut hurt from laughter rather than stress. I did not eat, sleep, or breathe the material. I ate, slept, and breathed.
I took time for myself and was still able to crack open the books without resorting to building a time machine in my kitchen. The breaking point was my body's way of screaming, "What the hell!?", and I was finally able to reply with a calm, "Don't you worry Body. I'm a doctor. Almost."
Sometimes pure common sense outweighs the prestige of a doctorate, and sometimes laughter really is the best medicine. Or the best way to become a medicine woman.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
The End of an Era
I knew that I should have been listening to the words coming out of his mouth, but the depth of the moment had wiped all but untimely thoughts of how incredibly cold his car had become from my mind. The dynamics of our relationship had changed so drastically, so suddenly, that I could hardly force the proper emotions. I nervously played with loose strands of hair as I avoided his overwhelming expression. His words cut, short and necessary, almost as fluid as the breath that entered and fled his lungs. He meant every word, every syllable, of our conversation and no matter how much I begged my thoughts to halt I had no control over them. My limbs shook, but somehow I knew that it was not simply the cold that moved them. I couldn't believe that this was how our relationship was going to end; in a cold car parked under a dimming streetlight. The gravity of the situation exhausted me, pulling the pounding of my head forward to meet the back of my eyes, blurring my vision. It was just as well. Looking at him would only cause the welling tears to burst from my awkwardly stoic gaze.
We were saying goodbye, because he was saying I love you. Platonic friends, we had reached a point at which platonic was not enough, but was not something that I could give. What I could not give, he could not bear to be without, so he had reached the point of ultimatum. All or nothing. All of me, or none of us. I made a choice.
Talking gave way to crying, and crying to reminiscing until it reached a point at which we both realized I would have to leave the car. The car, a place free from the weight of time, from the regulations of space, had suddenly become the last strand holding our friendship together. The moment I opened the door our ties would break, and the way we had known each other would quickly fade to futile stories told in past tense. I reached for the handle, knowing our charade could only last so long. I pushed open the door, feeling the true heaviness of the metal for the first time, and stepped onto the concrete. All too appropriately a cold, empty wind rushed to fill my place. Our tears glistened in the flicker of the streetlight for an instant, and then I turned to cross the empty street. I didn't dare look back, because I could feel him watching me as I so casually walked out of his life.
All or none had so easily become none, and the dearness of our friendship had so easily broken under the strain of one choice. I could hardly catch my breath as my sobbing turned to a disbelieving wail. I couldn't help but wonder what held two people together in the first place, and how strong loyalties truly are to be severed in a matter of agonizing seconds.
It was surgery without anesthesia. He was being cut out of my future, my memory, my life. It was left to heal on its own, no sutures or staples to aid it. An open wound, infecting my perception of all love and friendship. It left me missing a piece of myself. It was unbelievable. It was over. It was excruciating.
We were saying goodbye, because he was saying I love you. Platonic friends, we had reached a point at which platonic was not enough, but was not something that I could give. What I could not give, he could not bear to be without, so he had reached the point of ultimatum. All or nothing. All of me, or none of us. I made a choice.
Talking gave way to crying, and crying to reminiscing until it reached a point at which we both realized I would have to leave the car. The car, a place free from the weight of time, from the regulations of space, had suddenly become the last strand holding our friendship together. The moment I opened the door our ties would break, and the way we had known each other would quickly fade to futile stories told in past tense. I reached for the handle, knowing our charade could only last so long. I pushed open the door, feeling the true heaviness of the metal for the first time, and stepped onto the concrete. All too appropriately a cold, empty wind rushed to fill my place. Our tears glistened in the flicker of the streetlight for an instant, and then I turned to cross the empty street. I didn't dare look back, because I could feel him watching me as I so casually walked out of his life.
All or none had so easily become none, and the dearness of our friendship had so easily broken under the strain of one choice. I could hardly catch my breath as my sobbing turned to a disbelieving wail. I couldn't help but wonder what held two people together in the first place, and how strong loyalties truly are to be severed in a matter of agonizing seconds.
It was surgery without anesthesia. He was being cut out of my future, my memory, my life. It was left to heal on its own, no sutures or staples to aid it. An open wound, infecting my perception of all love and friendship. It left me missing a piece of myself. It was unbelievable. It was over. It was excruciating.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
I'm in Love with a Puncture Wound
"This isn't going to hurt at all", he reassured me as I heard my cartilage tear under the pressure of the needle. He lied, by the way. It hurt an awful lot. Yet, the pain subsided and an earring slid in the needle's place. "This will take six to nine months to heal", he continued, explaining that my body may react negatively to the substantial puncture wound it had just endured.
The word "wound" hung in the air as it left his lips. What had I just done!? Holy crap. I had let someone give me a "substantial puncture wound" that would heal in the time it takes to grow a human being. Then, I looked in the mirror.
A smile widened across my face as I wiped some dipping blood from my ear. I loved it. There it was; the inner ear (tragus) piercing that I had wanted for so many years. I couldn't believe I had waited so long to get it.
My list was shrinking, adventure by adventure, and I knew that without it I would have put this off for most likely ever. The cold wind hit my newly damaged tragus and almost knocked me over on the walk home, but I could have cared less. This was it! I was living my life without fear, and if living without fear came hand in hand with almost passing out on the walk home, then so be it.
*My Yoga mat came in the mail today, and I have come up with a ballpark figure for my trip to Europe. If I save back $250 a month I will be able to get on a plane August 1st and be back August 30th.
The word "wound" hung in the air as it left his lips. What had I just done!? Holy crap. I had let someone give me a "substantial puncture wound" that would heal in the time it takes to grow a human being. Then, I looked in the mirror.
A smile widened across my face as I wiped some dipping blood from my ear. I loved it. There it was; the inner ear (tragus) piercing that I had wanted for so many years. I couldn't believe I had waited so long to get it.
My list was shrinking, adventure by adventure, and I knew that without it I would have put this off for most likely ever. The cold wind hit my newly damaged tragus and almost knocked me over on the walk home, but I could have cared less. This was it! I was living my life without fear, and if living without fear came hand in hand with almost passing out on the walk home, then so be it.
*My Yoga mat came in the mail today, and I have come up with a ballpark figure for my trip to Europe. If I save back $250 a month I will be able to get on a plane August 1st and be back August 30th.
Monday, November 10, 2008
20 Steps to a More Adventurous Year
Under a new halo of pseudo-happiness, I had been applying the all too overused "fake it till I make it" mentality to my everyday life for many many days now. Yet, a forced smile rarely gave way to a genuine anything, except for the occasional jaw-ache. I was beginning to wonder if some people were simply born happy and others scowled in the shadows left by the light of their joy when it hit me. What do I do that makes me happy in the first place? How can I expect to be happy when I do nothing that sparks my "happy flame"?
I did have a group of wonderful friends, a glorious living space, yadda yadda yadda, but all I did was work at school, work at work, and work at sleeping. I was working myself to death. And I was a dull boy. All of those terrible cliches rolled into one.
And so, I made a list of things I would like to do before the school year was over, none of which that would guarantee me any academic merit, which was just fine by me.
Upon completing this list, I will now publish it here for you my friends, so that you will hold me accountable to complete it (and hopefully complete some of the better tasks with me).
This list is not in any particular order, but must be completed before the end of the school year in May.
1) Take up yoga
2) Go to sleep early (and I mean early, like 10:00 early) at least once every six days
3) Go on a road trip
4) Take the train somewhere (anywhere) which may apply to number three
5) Get a manicure/pedicure
6) Go skiing
7) Go to a concert (of a band I actually like, not just to go to one)
8) Go on a picnic (complete with basket, blanket, and sparkling grape juice)
9) See the manatees at the Zoo
10) Completely plan my backpacking trip to Europe (so help me God this is going to happen!)
11) Get my middle-ear-part-thing pierced (tragus)
12) Go to a drive-in movie
13) Buy one outlandishly nice piece of clothing (dress, jeans, whatever)
14) Go ice skating downtown (no matter how much it kills the ankles)
15) Make gingerbread men and decorate them
16) Write my grandmother a letter
17) Dedicate one afternoon to photography
18) Make one snowman
19) Read two books just for fun
20) Enter one karaoke contest
If I think of more (and I probably will) I will post them, but I think that list is enough to get started. Thanks for coming along on this little journey to my happy Mecca, and I hope that at the end of this year I will be able to look back and realize that I really did have time for life and adventure.
*Progress has been made: I have purchased a Yoga mat, DVD, and the Guide to Planning a Backpacking Trip on a Budget.
I did have a group of wonderful friends, a glorious living space, yadda yadda yadda, but all I did was work at school, work at work, and work at sleeping. I was working myself to death. And I was a dull boy. All of those terrible cliches rolled into one.
And so, I made a list of things I would like to do before the school year was over, none of which that would guarantee me any academic merit, which was just fine by me.
Upon completing this list, I will now publish it here for you my friends, so that you will hold me accountable to complete it (and hopefully complete some of the better tasks with me).
This list is not in any particular order, but must be completed before the end of the school year in May.
1) Take up yoga
2) Go to sleep early (and I mean early, like 10:00 early) at least once every six days
3) Go on a road trip
4) Take the train somewhere (anywhere) which may apply to number three
5) Get a manicure/pedicure
6) Go skiing
7) Go to a concert (of a band I actually like, not just to go to one)
8) Go on a picnic (complete with basket, blanket, and sparkling grape juice)
9) See the manatees at the Zoo
10) Completely plan my backpacking trip to Europe (so help me God this is going to happen!)
11) Get my middle-ear-part-thing pierced (tragus)
12) Go to a drive-in movie
13) Buy one outlandishly nice piece of clothing (dress, jeans, whatever)
14) Go ice skating downtown (no matter how much it kills the ankles)
15) Make gingerbread men and decorate them
16) Write my grandmother a letter
17) Dedicate one afternoon to photography
18) Make one snowman
19) Read two books just for fun
20) Enter one karaoke contest
If I think of more (and I probably will) I will post them, but I think that list is enough to get started. Thanks for coming along on this little journey to my happy Mecca, and I hope that at the end of this year I will be able to look back and realize that I really did have time for life and adventure.
*Progress has been made: I have purchased a Yoga mat, DVD, and the Guide to Planning a Backpacking Trip on a Budget.
Friday, November 7, 2008
I'm Fine, How Are You?
Here I lay, raw and gushing,
Rivers hit the busy street,
Passersby will stop to scold me,
For the mess that hits their feet,
How dare I open up here,
Showing not just skin but bone.
How dare I beg for mercy,
As my heartbeats set the tone,
Stitch me up and send me stumbling,
Lest my human tears pour out,
Let the marks scar over,
Covered in shameful, biting doubt.
Take my organs,
Shaking, gasping,
Clenched fists meet empty scream,
Pain at first but quickly over,
Leaving all but bloody stain,
Shriveled vessels,
Gaping holes,
Chasms where life had once been,
Leave the echos of the comfort,
Of a response with no meaning.
Rivers hit the busy street,
Passersby will stop to scold me,
For the mess that hits their feet,
How dare I open up here,
Showing not just skin but bone.
How dare I beg for mercy,
As my heartbeats set the tone,
Stitch me up and send me stumbling,
Lest my human tears pour out,
Let the marks scar over,
Covered in shameful, biting doubt.
Take my organs,
Shaking, gasping,
Clenched fists meet empty scream,
Pain at first but quickly over,
Leaving all but bloody stain,
Shriveled vessels,
Gaping holes,
Chasms where life had once been,
Leave the echos of the comfort,
Of a response with no meaning.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Lesson: Learned, Practice: Still Working On It
Tears rolling off my cheeks, I tried desperately to pin the last few hairs from my face. The tile floor was ice beneath me, made colder yet by the leaking water dripping from my bathtub drainpipe. I had entered Puke City. Vomitville. I was wandering just inside the city limits of Gagston, just thirty miles west of the metropolis Empty Stomach.
A large part of me was quite certain that this was the end of my life, and if not my life then most assuredly my intestines. It was while on the cold and wet bathroom floor that I began to think about how I wasn't going to sleep again that night, how I had to work the next night, how my study habits were slowly slipping, and how if I made a fraction of a mistake now then I might as well give up the hope of any eventual success. Just about five minutes into my tailspin of panicked thoughts, a voice bellowed from the darkness, "Shut the f*** up!".
I had lost my mind. Fantastic. And my voices were abusive. Even better.
The voice continued to scream, mostly inappropriate phrases, as I peeled myself from the frigid floor to investigate. I stumbled into my living room and turned on the light, inwardly pleading that no one was waiting in the darkness to curse at me. Relieved by the empty room, I quickly understood that my neighbor was fighting with his wife downstairs again, and their WW III had risen through the floorboards to my dying ears. Yet, "Shut the f*** up" was most likely the best piece of advice I had received in a while. There I was, not only physically ill, but draining myself emotionally between heave rounds. What was wrong with me!? I live in the most adorable apartment on the planet, I have a job that doesn't pay in Froot Loops, I am working toward a brilliant career, have hilarious friends,and a loving boyfriend. Yeah Autumn, Shut the F*** Up.
There and then I adopted a new philosophy: Get sleep when you can. Shut up when you can't.
I rarely thought about how beautiful my life was, and at some point I needed to stop focusing on how I don't get as much rest as I would like to or don't make as much money as I would prefer. I was going to focus on the good, and was going to be better for it.
I actually felt more peaceful, and although I had already rushed back to the bathroom to dry heave I was doing so with a metaphoric smile on my face. I became almost certain that happy people are happy because they choose to be. I was making a choice.
Sunlight met my swollen eyelids as I lifted my sore neck from the floor. Groggily thinking about how my life was getting a fresh, positive, start I glanced at the clock. I had missed my first two classes. I sang in the shower. I didn't have my work done. I drank a glass of orange juice. I sat down, got my work done, emailed my professors, and made it to my final two classes on time. Of course I didn't get enough sleep, but it wasn't the end of the world.
After my classes I made it home,choosing to be happy, productive, and loving. All of which were impossible without a smile on my face. I brushed my teeth, humming along with the songs that echoed inside my own head. Then I dropped my toothbrush. In my trash can.
One of the words in the phrase came before the rest, but "Shut the f*** up" eventually came to mind.
A large part of me was quite certain that this was the end of my life, and if not my life then most assuredly my intestines. It was while on the cold and wet bathroom floor that I began to think about how I wasn't going to sleep again that night, how I had to work the next night, how my study habits were slowly slipping, and how if I made a fraction of a mistake now then I might as well give up the hope of any eventual success. Just about five minutes into my tailspin of panicked thoughts, a voice bellowed from the darkness, "Shut the f*** up!".
I had lost my mind. Fantastic. And my voices were abusive. Even better.
The voice continued to scream, mostly inappropriate phrases, as I peeled myself from the frigid floor to investigate. I stumbled into my living room and turned on the light, inwardly pleading that no one was waiting in the darkness to curse at me. Relieved by the empty room, I quickly understood that my neighbor was fighting with his wife downstairs again, and their WW III had risen through the floorboards to my dying ears. Yet, "Shut the f*** up" was most likely the best piece of advice I had received in a while. There I was, not only physically ill, but draining myself emotionally between heave rounds. What was wrong with me!? I live in the most adorable apartment on the planet, I have a job that doesn't pay in Froot Loops, I am working toward a brilliant career, have hilarious friends,and a loving boyfriend. Yeah Autumn, Shut the F*** Up.
There and then I adopted a new philosophy: Get sleep when you can. Shut up when you can't.
I rarely thought about how beautiful my life was, and at some point I needed to stop focusing on how I don't get as much rest as I would like to or don't make as much money as I would prefer. I was going to focus on the good, and was going to be better for it.
I actually felt more peaceful, and although I had already rushed back to the bathroom to dry heave I was doing so with a metaphoric smile on my face. I became almost certain that happy people are happy because they choose to be. I was making a choice.
Sunlight met my swollen eyelids as I lifted my sore neck from the floor. Groggily thinking about how my life was getting a fresh, positive, start I glanced at the clock. I had missed my first two classes. I sang in the shower. I didn't have my work done. I drank a glass of orange juice. I sat down, got my work done, emailed my professors, and made it to my final two classes on time. Of course I didn't get enough sleep, but it wasn't the end of the world.
After my classes I made it home,choosing to be happy, productive, and loving. All of which were impossible without a smile on my face. I brushed my teeth, humming along with the songs that echoed inside my own head. Then I dropped my toothbrush. In my trash can.
One of the words in the phrase came before the rest, but "Shut the f*** up" eventually came to mind.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
A New Seat in Class for Autumn Tomorrow
My neck snapped back, fighting the losing battle of staying awake in class. My eyes bloodshot, my hair filthy, and my clothes reeking of about seven different kinds of flavored vodka, I looked like the most pathetic Pre-Med student in the cosmos. The worst part was, I wasn't even hung over. I had come straight from the bar I waitress at to class, pulling an overnight shift that earned my rent money, but also a new reputation as an alcoholic. My face burned as I heard the girl behind me whisper "The pressure is already getting to her. It's just sad". All I wanted to do was whip around and break her assuredly plastic nose, but contained myself if for no other reason than to conserve energy.
Every nerve in my body ached to tell her that I have to work all-nighters sometimes because I am paying my way through dollar by sweat-covered dollar. I wanted to tell her that I was still wearing last night's clothes because I caught the last bus from downtown just before class, and didn't have time to change. I needed to see her twist her perfectly styled hair nervously as I told her that I worked so hard that I fell asleep scrubbing the bathroom floor after two hundred stumbling patrons spilled their gin and rum on it, only to wake up and realize that if I was going to make it to class I had to sprint three blocks to a dirty bus filled with exhausted waitresses just like myself.
It wasn't the pressure that was getting to me. It was the fatigue.
I took a deep breath, just in time to hear the professor sputter, "And the answer is? Vanessa?". 5 seconds. 10 seconds. 45 seconds. The silence was overwhelming, almost as much as the dumbfounded look on her face. "It's 21.3", I called out. The professor flashed me a smile as he turned to the board to continue his lecture. "Someone has been studying", he said quietly.
Time stopped as I turned in my seat. "Guess the pressure is getting to you. That's so sad".
Every nerve in my body ached to tell her that I have to work all-nighters sometimes because I am paying my way through dollar by sweat-covered dollar. I wanted to tell her that I was still wearing last night's clothes because I caught the last bus from downtown just before class, and didn't have time to change. I needed to see her twist her perfectly styled hair nervously as I told her that I worked so hard that I fell asleep scrubbing the bathroom floor after two hundred stumbling patrons spilled their gin and rum on it, only to wake up and realize that if I was going to make it to class I had to sprint three blocks to a dirty bus filled with exhausted waitresses just like myself.
It wasn't the pressure that was getting to me. It was the fatigue.
I took a deep breath, just in time to hear the professor sputter, "And the answer is? Vanessa?". 5 seconds. 10 seconds. 45 seconds. The silence was overwhelming, almost as much as the dumbfounded look on her face. "It's 21.3", I called out. The professor flashed me a smile as he turned to the board to continue his lecture. "Someone has been studying", he said quietly.
Time stopped as I turned in my seat. "Guess the pressure is getting to you. That's so sad".
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Medicine Woman, Here I Come.
Everyone has expectations. About everything. Period.
I, like most people, hold my highest expectations over my own head. I have always had this fantasy that I would look back on my life and not only sigh with contentment, but sob with joy. I mentioned in a very early post that I wasn't really sure what I wanted to do with my life, but whatever that was, it would benefit others. Well, the booming, thunder-lightening, burning bush epiphany finally came. I realized after much prayer and petition that all along God has been calling me to save people, and I took Him much too metaphorically. It was as if He said to me, "Save their literal lives, moron". At this, I have pulled out of Bible College and enrolled as a Pre-Med major at the state university down the road. Oh, and I just signed a year lease on an apartment.
I have wanted so badly for so long to just know what I am supposed to do, that it didn't much matter to me until today the cost of all this transition. It was today, while eating Corn Pops surrounded by boxes that I realized I have left behind my friends, family, and identity in an effort to fulfill that longing for completeness. I took a skydive worthy leap of faith, and now am watching the ground grow larger before me. Yet, I embrace the ground. I might not even pull the cord just to see what happens.
The apartment is small, the university is not, and the program is nearly impossible. And I am so much more than ready. I am going to be a doctor. I am going to save lives. I am going to fix the leaky shower head in my apartment.
Everyone has expectations. About everything. Period.
And I just met mine.
I, like most people, hold my highest expectations over my own head. I have always had this fantasy that I would look back on my life and not only sigh with contentment, but sob with joy. I mentioned in a very early post that I wasn't really sure what I wanted to do with my life, but whatever that was, it would benefit others. Well, the booming, thunder-lightening, burning bush epiphany finally came. I realized after much prayer and petition that all along God has been calling me to save people, and I took Him much too metaphorically. It was as if He said to me, "Save their literal lives, moron". At this, I have pulled out of Bible College and enrolled as a Pre-Med major at the state university down the road. Oh, and I just signed a year lease on an apartment.
I have wanted so badly for so long to just know what I am supposed to do, that it didn't much matter to me until today the cost of all this transition. It was today, while eating Corn Pops surrounded by boxes that I realized I have left behind my friends, family, and identity in an effort to fulfill that longing for completeness. I took a skydive worthy leap of faith, and now am watching the ground grow larger before me. Yet, I embrace the ground. I might not even pull the cord just to see what happens.
The apartment is small, the university is not, and the program is nearly impossible. And I am so much more than ready. I am going to be a doctor. I am going to save lives. I am going to fix the leaky shower head in my apartment.
Everyone has expectations. About everything. Period.
And I just met mine.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
An Assessment of "Camp Teams"
We move out tomorrow afternoon, all clamoring into that fifteen passenger van, bringing with us so much more than luggage. I suppose collectively its all called baggage. Each week our team meets a new set of faces and new set of sad stories. Each week we will pour our own sad stories on the table and those new faces and our weathered faces will try our best to fit all the pieces together. If we are lucky, our puzzle will make some kind of sense, even if we are missing some pieces. If we are lucky, those kids will be a bit more complete at the end of that week. Yet, if we are lucky we will be a little less complete at the end of each week. We try so hard to take pieces of ourselves to place into their open and waiting hands, but at some point we will have no spare pieces to give. It is at that point that we will have to examine how precious those few remaining pieces truly are, although after examination we all know we will give them away no matter the verdict. So we leave tomorrow in a fifteen passenger van carrying luggage and baggage alike. I could be waiting tables this summer, making eighty bucks a night. I could be sleeping in my own bed this summer, taking some "me" time. None of that matters now though, cause tomorrow I have a van to catch, and a puzzle to finish.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
More to Come
To whom (or is it who) it may concern:
I am working tirelessly on a short story that I hope to get done this week. After that, then more posts. I just have a bunch o' stuff to get out of the way first.
I am working tirelessly on a short story that I hope to get done this week. After that, then more posts. I just have a bunch o' stuff to get out of the way first.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Say No to Nursing Homes
I could feel my lungs constrict as I watched them hobble from checkpoint to checkpoint. It was as if the plot line of the next horror flick was unfolding before my very eyes, striking fear into my already exhausted body. They walked in circles, talking amongst themselves, as if they were plotting to pounce at any moment. Some of them even carried machinery, as if to declare their readiness to go to battle at any beck or call. They were the most terrifying of men, these honed athletes. They were the senior citizen mall- walking club.
The early morning light streamed into the food court of the Castleton Square Mall as I watched what seemed to be a battalion of orthopedic shoes race toward me. I could not believe that I was actually beginning my day with this. I had been forced to stare into my inevitable future by my grandfather, who was adamant about getting his walk in before we could spend the day together. The familiar nursing home odor reached me as I held my breath, apparently afraid that wrinkles might be contagious. With their oxygen tanks and wheel chairs, they each walked six miles every morning together. Had I not known this was a club, I would have assumed that the age limit of Olympic athletes had been raised. I could not help but chuckle, settling into my seat as I stared openly at this comedic spectacle. This was actually happening. These herds of Revolutionary War vets were actually storming this shopping center, all one hundred and twenty-four of them.
I loathed the thought of getting older. Settling into a graying body could not be less appealing to me, not to mention the unavoidable dementia. I would rather pull the plug any day than spend my “golden years” drooling on myself. Yet as I watched these men and women power walk around the mall, laughing with their friends, making plans for the day, stopping to window shop, I could not help but realize that these people were not as alien as I once thought. They might be sporting fanny packs and neon visors, but they were still twenty-five at heart.
The majority of them had finished after a couple hours and rewarded themselves with a senior cup of McDonald’s coffee as they chatted about the weather, taxes, and whatever else there is to talk about when you are ninety-seven. On their last lap, I could see a group a ladies struggling to finish when a young mall security officer sped around them on his segway. At that moment I watched as a bright red finger nail rose from behind an over-sized handbag. Her hoop earrings glinted in the light of the rising sun, stockings desperately grasping her knees, as her dentures shifted in her mouth with laughter. She was victorious in that moment, with her middle finger waving in the air, as she mouthed the words “f--- you”. Tears streamed from my eyes as I could no longer muffle my laughter. It was then that I knew we were not different at all, aside from the fact that I would not have been able to claim disorientation to get out of trouble for flicking off mall employees. I sighed, the pain of laughter still tingling in my gut. Apparently drooling was not my only option fifty years from now. Rebellion was always going to be an open door.
The early morning light streamed into the food court of the Castleton Square Mall as I watched what seemed to be a battalion of orthopedic shoes race toward me. I could not believe that I was actually beginning my day with this. I had been forced to stare into my inevitable future by my grandfather, who was adamant about getting his walk in before we could spend the day together. The familiar nursing home odor reached me as I held my breath, apparently afraid that wrinkles might be contagious. With their oxygen tanks and wheel chairs, they each walked six miles every morning together. Had I not known this was a club, I would have assumed that the age limit of Olympic athletes had been raised. I could not help but chuckle, settling into my seat as I stared openly at this comedic spectacle. This was actually happening. These herds of Revolutionary War vets were actually storming this shopping center, all one hundred and twenty-four of them.
I loathed the thought of getting older. Settling into a graying body could not be less appealing to me, not to mention the unavoidable dementia. I would rather pull the plug any day than spend my “golden years” drooling on myself. Yet as I watched these men and women power walk around the mall, laughing with their friends, making plans for the day, stopping to window shop, I could not help but realize that these people were not as alien as I once thought. They might be sporting fanny packs and neon visors, but they were still twenty-five at heart.
The majority of them had finished after a couple hours and rewarded themselves with a senior cup of McDonald’s coffee as they chatted about the weather, taxes, and whatever else there is to talk about when you are ninety-seven. On their last lap, I could see a group a ladies struggling to finish when a young mall security officer sped around them on his segway. At that moment I watched as a bright red finger nail rose from behind an over-sized handbag. Her hoop earrings glinted in the light of the rising sun, stockings desperately grasping her knees, as her dentures shifted in her mouth with laughter. She was victorious in that moment, with her middle finger waving in the air, as she mouthed the words “f--- you”. Tears streamed from my eyes as I could no longer muffle my laughter. It was then that I knew we were not different at all, aside from the fact that I would not have been able to claim disorientation to get out of trouble for flicking off mall employees. I sighed, the pain of laughter still tingling in my gut. Apparently drooling was not my only option fifty years from now. Rebellion was always going to be an open door.
Friday, May 9, 2008
Plastic Tubs Should Never Be Orange
As I stared at the orange plastic tub in the center of my room, I began to understand why everyone hates moving day. It was so final, this orange tub, like a giant yield sign wedged into my plans for the future. I wasn't ready for the year to be over. I wasn't ready to be a sophomore in college. Where did my transition year go? Lost in transition.
I wasn't allowed to be a doe-eyed simpleton anymore. I had to start making plans for next year, then for my internship, then for my career, my marriage, taxes, rent, deadlines, credit checks. When did I get to breathe, and I mean really breathe? That kind of breath that is not invaded by thoughts of the next assignment or waitress gig. When did I get to feel the freedom of my age for the full beauty that it held and not the responsibilities it entailed? Could it be possible to pause my crammed classroom knowledge for just a small fraction of my life and learn the things that the world could only teach me?
I realized in this sheer desperate moment that I did not belong behind a desk taking notes, but in a tent on the side of a mountain somewhere writing in a leather-bound journal. There was one problem with this: I was safe behind that desk. I was safe behind my competitive GPA and well-phrased research papers. College was the next logical step for me. This all made sense. This all made sense. This all had to make sense.
No matter how many times I chanted this empty phrase to myself, I could not make myself buy into the lie. This place could not make sense for me if I was consistently dreaming of something else. I had spent this year wishing that I was the kind of person who did things. Not even anything in particular, just things in general. I wanted to be that person who went to the gym every day. I wanted to be that person who cared about the environment. I wanted to be that person who was confident and directed.
I had to stop wanting to be that person and just be that damn person already. I had to stop wasting my life picturing myself as someone else in order to lull myself to sleep at night. This had to end now. I had to finish hiding behind the self-improvement process and do something to actually improve my life. Maybe the most insane thing in the world right now was the only thing that made sense for me. Maybe I had to do the thing that no one else would understand in order to finally understand myself.
And so there I was, staring down the "path less traveled by" and frozen in fear. I knew I couldn't afford to stay, but taking that step seemed too radical for moving day. Suddenly, I could not contain the pressure of the choice and walked from my room to the bus stop. I rode the bus for one full cycle before getting off at the very corner I had gotten on.
After getting in, I sat down and stared at the orange plastic tub in the middle of my room. I knew why everyone hated moving day.
I wasn't allowed to be a doe-eyed simpleton anymore. I had to start making plans for next year, then for my internship, then for my career, my marriage, taxes, rent, deadlines, credit checks. When did I get to breathe, and I mean really breathe? That kind of breath that is not invaded by thoughts of the next assignment or waitress gig. When did I get to feel the freedom of my age for the full beauty that it held and not the responsibilities it entailed? Could it be possible to pause my crammed classroom knowledge for just a small fraction of my life and learn the things that the world could only teach me?
I realized in this sheer desperate moment that I did not belong behind a desk taking notes, but in a tent on the side of a mountain somewhere writing in a leather-bound journal. There was one problem with this: I was safe behind that desk. I was safe behind my competitive GPA and well-phrased research papers. College was the next logical step for me. This all made sense. This all made sense. This all had to make sense.
No matter how many times I chanted this empty phrase to myself, I could not make myself buy into the lie. This place could not make sense for me if I was consistently dreaming of something else. I had spent this year wishing that I was the kind of person who did things. Not even anything in particular, just things in general. I wanted to be that person who went to the gym every day. I wanted to be that person who cared about the environment. I wanted to be that person who was confident and directed.
I had to stop wanting to be that person and just be that damn person already. I had to stop wasting my life picturing myself as someone else in order to lull myself to sleep at night. This had to end now. I had to finish hiding behind the self-improvement process and do something to actually improve my life. Maybe the most insane thing in the world right now was the only thing that made sense for me. Maybe I had to do the thing that no one else would understand in order to finally understand myself.
And so there I was, staring down the "path less traveled by" and frozen in fear. I knew I couldn't afford to stay, but taking that step seemed too radical for moving day. Suddenly, I could not contain the pressure of the choice and walked from my room to the bus stop. I rode the bus for one full cycle before getting off at the very corner I had gotten on.
After getting in, I sat down and stared at the orange plastic tub in the middle of my room. I knew why everyone hated moving day.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
The Search For Self and Coaster
The aisle smelled like a garage sale I had been to once, with that mold meets paper feel. I glanced at the librarian, feeling his judgement radiate toward me. He caught my eyes, giving me a smug head tilt as he pushed his cart like some kind of academic hobo. I was there, standing in the most desolate, humiliating section of the library. The Self Help section. It might as well have been labeled the "desperate and pitiful" section, with a "give up all hope now" banner spanning all five rows. This was no man's land, the place people attack with a James Bond in-and-out-tuck-and-roll-be-seen-and-die attitude. I was not sure how I had even ended up in this place, staring at When You Can't Take Anymore or Life Can Be Worth It.
Part of me wanted to stand on a chair and announce to the Quiet Room readers that I had gotten lost on my way to the magazine stand. The other part of me opened a book. The first chapter focused on definition, asking me to define myself as a person. This book asked rude questions that prodded into my relationships and family life. As I read on with an indignant look on my face I soon became disgusted that this book was defining me by what I do, or who I love. I sighed, placing the book back. My curiosity got the better of me. I picked up just one more.
Thirty minutes later I awoke from an empowerment dusted haze as I realized I was now sitting cross-legged on the floor, with The Better You open on my lap. I couldn't help but laugh at myself, but quickly stifled my giggling when I realized how crazy I looked. That was the last thing I needed, being caught laughing on the floor of the Self Help section.
As I moved on to a study table I couldn't help thinking of all the misused words and dangerous logic used in my shameful detour. Of course I was not defined by others! Without all the people and accomplishments in my life I was still Autumn, and Autumn... And Autumn what?
If I stripped away my family and friends, my education and acclaim, who was I really? I was stunned by the lack of a swift and reassuring answer. I wanted so badly to be someone great apart from the world I was placed in, but I couldn't define myself other than friend, daughter, or lover. I knew that this was the time in every one's life when they begin to truly discover who they are, but I wasn't prepared to answer life altering questions next to a stack of half priced cookbooks.
My pondering turned to panic and panic to terror as I sifted through my mind for even a glimmer of an answer. Staring through glazed eyes I finally read the sign I had been staring at for almost an hour. "No one should have to be illiterate. Please contact the Cincinnati Literacy Institute for information concerning free tutoring". My face burned as I read on. The audacity of placing a sign for an illiterate person to read, in a library no less, began to infuriate me. Suddenly, I realized that this was what defines me. Injustice pains me. I have an innate desire to free people from the stupidity of the average corporate decision, while taking shots at The Man in the process. I dream of a world where equality and grace prevail, and children come home from school not filled with facts, but ideas. This, this desire for a better life, defines me if not just a molecule of the woman I have become.
I sighed, relieved. I had hit the tip of the ice burg that was my true self, even sitting next to the cheap cookbooks. I checked the time, rising from my chair to meet the bus down the street. On the way to elevator I stopped by that guilt filled book shelf, placing The Better You back where I had found it. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a woman hurriedly searching through titles, practicing the James Bond method of emotional band-aid retrieval. I gave her a smile that read nothing short of "I used to be you" and got on the elevator.
It was refreshing, finding a piece of my soul on a public library display board. I knew I would never venture to the Self Help section again, unless someone printed a book for the illiterate. I could always use a sturdy coaster.
Part of me wanted to stand on a chair and announce to the Quiet Room readers that I had gotten lost on my way to the magazine stand. The other part of me opened a book. The first chapter focused on definition, asking me to define myself as a person. This book asked rude questions that prodded into my relationships and family life. As I read on with an indignant look on my face I soon became disgusted that this book was defining me by what I do, or who I love. I sighed, placing the book back. My curiosity got the better of me. I picked up just one more.
Thirty minutes later I awoke from an empowerment dusted haze as I realized I was now sitting cross-legged on the floor, with The Better You open on my lap. I couldn't help but laugh at myself, but quickly stifled my giggling when I realized how crazy I looked. That was the last thing I needed, being caught laughing on the floor of the Self Help section.
As I moved on to a study table I couldn't help thinking of all the misused words and dangerous logic used in my shameful detour. Of course I was not defined by others! Without all the people and accomplishments in my life I was still Autumn, and Autumn... And Autumn what?
If I stripped away my family and friends, my education and acclaim, who was I really? I was stunned by the lack of a swift and reassuring answer. I wanted so badly to be someone great apart from the world I was placed in, but I couldn't define myself other than friend, daughter, or lover. I knew that this was the time in every one's life when they begin to truly discover who they are, but I wasn't prepared to answer life altering questions next to a stack of half priced cookbooks.
My pondering turned to panic and panic to terror as I sifted through my mind for even a glimmer of an answer. Staring through glazed eyes I finally read the sign I had been staring at for almost an hour. "No one should have to be illiterate. Please contact the Cincinnati Literacy Institute for information concerning free tutoring". My face burned as I read on. The audacity of placing a sign for an illiterate person to read, in a library no less, began to infuriate me. Suddenly, I realized that this was what defines me. Injustice pains me. I have an innate desire to free people from the stupidity of the average corporate decision, while taking shots at The Man in the process. I dream of a world where equality and grace prevail, and children come home from school not filled with facts, but ideas. This, this desire for a better life, defines me if not just a molecule of the woman I have become.
I sighed, relieved. I had hit the tip of the ice burg that was my true self, even sitting next to the cheap cookbooks. I checked the time, rising from my chair to meet the bus down the street. On the way to elevator I stopped by that guilt filled book shelf, placing The Better You back where I had found it. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a woman hurriedly searching through titles, practicing the James Bond method of emotional band-aid retrieval. I gave her a smile that read nothing short of "I used to be you" and got on the elevator.
It was refreshing, finding a piece of my soul on a public library display board. I knew I would never venture to the Self Help section again, unless someone printed a book for the illiterate. I could always use a sturdy coaster.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
The Train to Nowhere
The train let out another howl as it chugged past the plain scenery of the Midwest. A ghost of another time, it brazenly shrieked into the stillness of the night. It was romantic in a way, this outdated mode of transportation. With every whistle it seemed to be its last, panicked scream. Tears filled my eyes as I stared into the darkness, occasionally blinded by stoplights, which harshly reminded me of the appropriate era.
It felt right somehow, crying on a train. It seemed to be epic, as if I had just left the love of life at the station, only waving out the window as he runs beside it. I secretly hoped I had something that trite to shed tears over. Only hours before I had sat in a high school gymnasium watching my younger brother in The Mouse That Roared. I had come in on a train at 7:30 in the morning and was on the outbound by midnight. He was marvelous, a riot I dare say. He had always been the funny one, making scrapes less painful and scars heal faster. I am not sure when he grew up, but I suppose it happened shortly after I did. It hurt me to leave him, just as much as the first time.
He seemed sure of himself in front of everyone, bold and vulnerable. He didn’t seem worried about the reaction of the crowd, because somehow he knew they would laugh. We have always had unspoken conversations, my brother and I. All that needs to be said is said, with or without dialogue. He never had to tell me he was sorry. He would simply come up to me, eyes lowered, and hug me. He never had to tell me he was scared. He would come into my room in the middle of the night and we would watch infomercials until he fell asleep. He never had to tell me he loved me. He would simply be there with me, every day. Now that I have left for college, we cannot manifest these things without words. I cannot let him know it’s all going to be alright because I cannot brush his hair from his eyes. I cannot tell him I worry for him because I cannot give him the “don’t you dare or I will take your very life” eye glance. I cannot tell him I love him because I am not there every day.
We are strangers now, and are not sure how to move from this place of awkward introduction. I have become this ghost to him, all too comparable to the train that takes me home. I swept into his life tonight, screaming to be closer while speeding on past him. I could picture him there on the platform, the wind from my passing only enough to move the hair from his eyes for an instant. For a pathetic second he knew it would be alright.
We have to begin again. We have to know what it is to be adults and siblings, which are the most polar of opposites. We have to love enough to say the words; be bold and vulnerable with each other as we are with the audiences in our lives.
The train chugs to a stop as pillars of smoke billow into the cold morning air. As I search the sea of unfamiliar faces I pull out my phone and text: You were great tonight buddy, I love you. It may not be dialogue, but it’s certainly a start.
It felt right somehow, crying on a train. It seemed to be epic, as if I had just left the love of life at the station, only waving out the window as he runs beside it. I secretly hoped I had something that trite to shed tears over. Only hours before I had sat in a high school gymnasium watching my younger brother in The Mouse That Roared. I had come in on a train at 7:30 in the morning and was on the outbound by midnight. He was marvelous, a riot I dare say. He had always been the funny one, making scrapes less painful and scars heal faster. I am not sure when he grew up, but I suppose it happened shortly after I did. It hurt me to leave him, just as much as the first time.
He seemed sure of himself in front of everyone, bold and vulnerable. He didn’t seem worried about the reaction of the crowd, because somehow he knew they would laugh. We have always had unspoken conversations, my brother and I. All that needs to be said is said, with or without dialogue. He never had to tell me he was sorry. He would simply come up to me, eyes lowered, and hug me. He never had to tell me he was scared. He would come into my room in the middle of the night and we would watch infomercials until he fell asleep. He never had to tell me he loved me. He would simply be there with me, every day. Now that I have left for college, we cannot manifest these things without words. I cannot let him know it’s all going to be alright because I cannot brush his hair from his eyes. I cannot tell him I worry for him because I cannot give him the “don’t you dare or I will take your very life” eye glance. I cannot tell him I love him because I am not there every day.
We are strangers now, and are not sure how to move from this place of awkward introduction. I have become this ghost to him, all too comparable to the train that takes me home. I swept into his life tonight, screaming to be closer while speeding on past him. I could picture him there on the platform, the wind from my passing only enough to move the hair from his eyes for an instant. For a pathetic second he knew it would be alright.
We have to begin again. We have to know what it is to be adults and siblings, which are the most polar of opposites. We have to love enough to say the words; be bold and vulnerable with each other as we are with the audiences in our lives.
The train chugs to a stop as pillars of smoke billow into the cold morning air. As I search the sea of unfamiliar faces I pull out my phone and text: You were great tonight buddy, I love you. It may not be dialogue, but it’s certainly a start.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Beauty Comes From Empty Gums
I felt safe behind my over sized sunglasses as I rode public transit number ten. Of the few conversations around me, most were drowned underneath the metal hammer clanging of the inevitable bus versus pothole battle. As usual, the potholes emerged victorious. My head swelled from a migraine and I fought nausea at every jolt of the brakes, considering whether it was worth it to walk the next five miles. Just as I thought that my chances would be better on the sidewalk, I felt a tug on my sleeve. I turned to face a set of toothless gums turned up in a broad smile. The man was fragile, holding a worn Bible in his bony hand. "It is a beautiful day", he said to me, in a voice that seemed to conquer the bus symphony. At first I recoiled, wondering how I was supposed to answer this man. I settled for a nod, hoping he would understand that I didn't actually want to talk to him. "It was foggy and rainy this morning, and now it is sunny. It is a beautiful day", he repeated. He laughed aloud, his voice now booming above all side conversation, bearing the emptiness of his mouth, completely unashamed.
I couldn't help but laugh with him, feeling the power of his openness fill my aching head, and more pressingly, my aching heart. I tore down the wall between us, removing my sunglasses. He gabbed his chest and whispered to me, "You have such beautiful eyes, brown eyes are the most beautiful of all". Although he spoke so simply, his words echoed within me. He pointed to the promise ring on my left hand and asked if I was married. I replied honestly, telling him I planned to be someday soon. He seemed to ripple with joy, genuinely excited about my future. As he continued to talk, he told me of his own wedding where he wore flowers in his hair, and could never afford a stone for his late wife's ring. He was there, next to me, pouring out the deepness of his love and devotion to this woman. He held nothing from me, never considering me the stranger that I truly was.
His stop came all too soon, and as he walked slowly to the front he paused to give the parting words, "Remember, it is a beautiful day". I was not sure if these were directed at me, or rather the collective, and captive audience before him. As he stepped onto the sidewalk I almost expected him to open an umbrella and float into the clouds. I moved over into the window seat and watched as the scenery turned into whizzing color. I placed those over sized glasses onto my face, and couldn't help but mumble to myself, "Autumn, it is such a beautiful day".
I couldn't help but laugh with him, feeling the power of his openness fill my aching head, and more pressingly, my aching heart. I tore down the wall between us, removing my sunglasses. He gabbed his chest and whispered to me, "You have such beautiful eyes, brown eyes are the most beautiful of all". Although he spoke so simply, his words echoed within me. He pointed to the promise ring on my left hand and asked if I was married. I replied honestly, telling him I planned to be someday soon. He seemed to ripple with joy, genuinely excited about my future. As he continued to talk, he told me of his own wedding where he wore flowers in his hair, and could never afford a stone for his late wife's ring. He was there, next to me, pouring out the deepness of his love and devotion to this woman. He held nothing from me, never considering me the stranger that I truly was.
His stop came all too soon, and as he walked slowly to the front he paused to give the parting words, "Remember, it is a beautiful day". I was not sure if these were directed at me, or rather the collective, and captive audience before him. As he stepped onto the sidewalk I almost expected him to open an umbrella and float into the clouds. I moved over into the window seat and watched as the scenery turned into whizzing color. I placed those over sized glasses onto my face, and couldn't help but mumble to myself, "Autumn, it is such a beautiful day".
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
The Pursuit of Well Lit Eyes
As I look around my room the remnants of an all-nighter are scattered across my floor. Markers are strewn between research materials, and dried up highlighters have been angrily tossed in the direction of my overflowing trash can. I know I need to get in the shower, but my body aches from fatigue and I wonder just how dirty I am and if anyone would notice if I skipped today. I have to shower. I know I do.
The same giant framed print has been crooked on my wall since Christmas. I have come to the realization that I will never straighten it, but rather tilt my head whenever I glance at it. It is insane how many things I obsess over and then how many little things I let go. I wish I obsessed over straight paintings and not GPAs. I pull more all nighters than anyone really should. During an average week I skip two or three nights of sleep, and not always because I have papers due in the morning.
There are few things that bring me greater relief than finishing an assignment at the deadline and getting an A on it. Having realized this about myself, I now know that I am the most boring person in the world if I get my thrills from tirelessly working on research papers. I used to be more fun than I am now. I used to be spontaneous and loud, though not dancing- drunk- girl- at- a -crosswalk -yelling -at-strangers loud. I used to get sucker punched at concerts but keep moshing until the song was over. I used to do a lot of things before the light in my eyes went out.
I can't really pinpoint the day that the light fully extinguished, but at some point I lost the confidence to be ridiculous. Ever since I realized this, I have been tirelessly searching for ways to bring back that joy, that laughter that used to double me over in pain.
I realized tonight, as I smiled into the face of my best friend that possibly I am working too hard. I didn't lose the confidence to be ridiculous, but the confidence to be myself- serious, vulnerable, or giggling. I may not have all the answers, and I may not be so sure of why I lost that part of myself, but I know that I am coming back one smile at a time. Each time take that step and choose to live I am given the chance to reinvent myself. Maybe losing myself wasn't so bad after all, because life does seem more fulfilling in the pursuit of well lit eyes.
The same giant framed print has been crooked on my wall since Christmas. I have come to the realization that I will never straighten it, but rather tilt my head whenever I glance at it. It is insane how many things I obsess over and then how many little things I let go. I wish I obsessed over straight paintings and not GPAs. I pull more all nighters than anyone really should. During an average week I skip two or three nights of sleep, and not always because I have papers due in the morning.
There are few things that bring me greater relief than finishing an assignment at the deadline and getting an A on it. Having realized this about myself, I now know that I am the most boring person in the world if I get my thrills from tirelessly working on research papers. I used to be more fun than I am now. I used to be spontaneous and loud, though not dancing- drunk- girl- at- a -crosswalk -yelling -at-strangers loud. I used to get sucker punched at concerts but keep moshing until the song was over. I used to do a lot of things before the light in my eyes went out.
I can't really pinpoint the day that the light fully extinguished, but at some point I lost the confidence to be ridiculous. Ever since I realized this, I have been tirelessly searching for ways to bring back that joy, that laughter that used to double me over in pain.
I realized tonight, as I smiled into the face of my best friend that possibly I am working too hard. I didn't lose the confidence to be ridiculous, but the confidence to be myself- serious, vulnerable, or giggling. I may not have all the answers, and I may not be so sure of why I lost that part of myself, but I know that I am coming back one smile at a time. Each time take that step and choose to live I am given the chance to reinvent myself. Maybe losing myself wasn't so bad after all, because life does seem more fulfilling in the pursuit of well lit eyes.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Home is Where the Heart Is
Going home for me is like stepping back in time. It is as if everything I left behind waits for the opportunity to spring at me as soon as I dare venture back. The house even smells the same, a sort of musk that never goes away. My family even looks the same, and it seems their mannerisms will never fade. My brother still makes the same jokes, my father still tells the same stories, and my mother still makes the same faces. I feel as if I even pick up the same conversation I started six months ago, not missing a beat. At times I feel the need to shake an eight inch layer of dust from everything.
The consistency may seem to be comforting, but it keeps all of my fears, insecurities, and bad memories captive, trapped in this replica of another era. All I want in life is to move forward, but every time I come home I feel a pull to the past, as if to remind me that I will never escape what happended then. As I drive the same roads I once traveled, stop at the same restaurants, I can't breathe. I am fifteen here, and will never allude the grips of awkwardness or acne. I wonder if other people can see it on my face, this "betweeness" that consumes me. I wonder if everyone feels this way when they go back, or if I have some kind of complex.
They say that home is where the heart is. This makes a lot of sense to me. Maybe it is not home that hasn't changed, but me. Maybe every time I come here I stifle myself into believing that I can't move on. Part of me isn't ready to grow up, so I get caught up in what used to be. Home is where my heart is, and I didn't want to leave home so I left my heart instead.
This time will be different. It has to be. When I pack at the last possible minute, I have to make sure to toss my heart in with my phone charger. That way I can unpack, organize, and have a pulse again.
The consistency may seem to be comforting, but it keeps all of my fears, insecurities, and bad memories captive, trapped in this replica of another era. All I want in life is to move forward, but every time I come home I feel a pull to the past, as if to remind me that I will never escape what happended then. As I drive the same roads I once traveled, stop at the same restaurants, I can't breathe. I am fifteen here, and will never allude the grips of awkwardness or acne. I wonder if other people can see it on my face, this "betweeness" that consumes me. I wonder if everyone feels this way when they go back, or if I have some kind of complex.
They say that home is where the heart is. This makes a lot of sense to me. Maybe it is not home that hasn't changed, but me. Maybe every time I come here I stifle myself into believing that I can't move on. Part of me isn't ready to grow up, so I get caught up in what used to be. Home is where my heart is, and I didn't want to leave home so I left my heart instead.
This time will be different. It has to be. When I pack at the last possible minute, I have to make sure to toss my heart in with my phone charger. That way I can unpack, organize, and have a pulse again.
Monday, April 7, 2008
That Classic Fear of Failure
As I opened my eyes this morning I realized that I had fallen asleep at 6 pm (nearly sixteen hours earlier). The fan was still whirring in the window, blowing cold morning air on my oh so well rested skin. The one sliver of light that shone through the blinds happened to land directly on my eyelids, as it happens to do no matter what time I wake up. I am not sure why I let myself stay in bed so long, or fall asleep so early for that matter, but I think it had something to do with my unwillingness to face the girls on the other side of my door. Sometimes dorm life is certainly not for me. Sometimes I simply cannot venture from my side of that solid wood plank to theirs. They giggle. A lot. They move. A lot. They do all the things that some days I cannot do because of, hell I have no idea why. I have those days where I cannot face them because they are both the judge and jury, both supportive and secretive. We were thrown in the mix and told to live together. In many ways it is like prison, I suppose.
I made the leap of faith today: I scheduled my classes for next year. Looking at that long list of long names followed by even longer winded professors almost sent me spinning into meltdown mode. I will never ever graduate. Ever. And I will live in this half prison for the rest of my life (or at least it feels like it).
The only thing that kept me going today (other than the fact that I will not need to sleep for the next two days) was the weather. It is perfect. I should have spent the day outside rather than in stuffy classrooms panicking about the future. Why can't I just stop for a minute and smell the literal roses? Maybe its because every time I stop my future becomes less and less structured to the point that I am caught off guard by something. I hate being caught off guard by anything. That would mean I didn't know something. My psychotherapy class would call this "anxiety brought on by a fear of failure". Well ya, that's what it is, but how do I stop it?
I think I might start with baby steps. All I have to do is find a freakin' rosebush.
I made the leap of faith today: I scheduled my classes for next year. Looking at that long list of long names followed by even longer winded professors almost sent me spinning into meltdown mode. I will never ever graduate. Ever. And I will live in this half prison for the rest of my life (or at least it feels like it).
The only thing that kept me going today (other than the fact that I will not need to sleep for the next two days) was the weather. It is perfect. I should have spent the day outside rather than in stuffy classrooms panicking about the future. Why can't I just stop for a minute and smell the literal roses? Maybe its because every time I stop my future becomes less and less structured to the point that I am caught off guard by something. I hate being caught off guard by anything. That would mean I didn't know something. My psychotherapy class would call this "anxiety brought on by a fear of failure". Well ya, that's what it is, but how do I stop it?
I think I might start with baby steps. All I have to do is find a freakin' rosebush.
The New Leaf Has Turned
So this would be my first blog to the world, which is more pressure than I originally thought. All I can tell you is where I am now, and eventually where I was will present itself. I am about to finish my second semester of college, and have not yet been struck by that booming-voice-ray- of-light epiphany that should tell me all the details of my life for the next three years. All I know is I would like to help people. Not in that way that brokers or Burger King employees help people, but in a way that gives relief in the present and hope for the future.
I am at an intersection in just about everything at the moment. I am between the benefits of adulthood and the nostalgia of immaturity, between the drive to succeed and the need to sleep, between anxiety and joy and tears and wonder. It is amazing how juvenile adults make me feel until I realize I am one of them.
At the moment I should be writing a paper due in just a few hours, and am instead sitting on my floor in boy shorts with my hair up in chop sticks watching Fresh Prince re-runs. Sadly, this is not a rare occurrence. On this note, I will get up, turn off the television, and write my paper. Or I will just finish this episode.
I am at an intersection in just about everything at the moment. I am between the benefits of adulthood and the nostalgia of immaturity, between the drive to succeed and the need to sleep, between anxiety and joy and tears and wonder. It is amazing how juvenile adults make me feel until I realize I am one of them.
At the moment I should be writing a paper due in just a few hours, and am instead sitting on my floor in boy shorts with my hair up in chop sticks watching Fresh Prince re-runs. Sadly, this is not a rare occurrence. On this note, I will get up, turn off the television, and write my paper. Or I will just finish this episode.
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