there are many paths to tread

I'm looking for it in you, too.

2012-02-14T01:47:00.000-05:00

John 9: 1-12

It's the story of when Jesus spreads spitty mud on a blind man and heals him. My favorite part is what Jesus says to the people who ask why the man was born blind--if it was due to his sins or the sins of his parents. Jesus said, "He was born blind so the power of God could be seen in him."

This is one of those sketchy concepts for people to grasp, I think. The idea of a loving God in a world of suffering.

I think at different parts of my life I can't honestly confront this idea with acceptance and peace. But today I can, and I'm thankful for that.

Everyone has ineptitudes.

Just last week I was talking with one of my close friends, discussing our mutual struggle with emotional instability. What are we expected to do in order to deal with it--if it's even something we should approach as having to be dealt with? Because "naming" it something is easier, sure--it makes it a segment, and not life. But it's also a way of detaching from that dark part of life, which despite its terrors, is also profoundly part of who we are.

A lot of times I write when I'm in those places. I don't write anything profound. I just write because the weight of everything in the whole world is so crushing that I can no longer hold it and it has to escape somewhere and that place just happens to be the page (or the ear of some poor, unsuspecting, sympathetic acquaintance who casually asks how my day is going).

BUT I write and feel better and might return to my brutal honest pages later, in search of truth and reflection.

Maybe that's my redemption.

It's the dirty, spitty mud that leads to healing.

instants

2012-02-11T00:49:00.000-05:00

have you ever had your eyes closed, but thought maybe they were still open?

i was laying in bed last night--the instant between closing my eyes and beginning reflection of the day or speculation about what might be tomorrow, when my mind was truly blank--the contours of my room were still vaguely (falsely) visible...

i actually opened my eyes just to prove they were closed

(if only i could do that more in the emotional realities of my world).

i wish i could bottle that. be able to institute it whenever i wanted.

that instant when i realized that i was falsely seeing reality--

the fleetingness that preceded it, when my mind was suspended between wake and dream... it seems unlimited, doesn't it? there's literally a place that exists that *looks* like real, and while it's still a construction of your mind, it's NOT the product of unconcious images projected during REM, so doesn't that make it more like an impression of reality? Like a bas-relief on your eyelids?

i wish i could interact with that space, which in retrospect seems so uninhibited by my pervasive habit of thinking about everything all the time. what would happen if my mind could just explore without solid direction that i constantly impose? what would happen if i could then remember it?

sure, this seems to be delving into a lot of suppositions involve psychology, freudian theory, oneirology, possibly substance abuse...

and i certainly don't have enough time to follow those rabbit trails.

but, man. it was really cool.

Science and Emotion

2012-01-17T16:12:00.001-05:00

I just read this fascinating article about expectations.

The basic gist (and the reason it was fascinating) states that: if our expectations are met, we experience a temporary high caused by some chemical release in our brains. If our expectations are over-met, we get more high. If our expectations are not met? Even if we expect x and only receive 0.9x? Our negative feelings are much stronger than the positive ones we would experience--and it's not just that we experience strong negative feelings, but are also plagued by our brain sending out messages of danger or threat.

I was sincerely hoping that the article would go on to give scientific wisdom for moderating our attitudes, since half the time I don't know what to expect, which could be part of the cause of my unfortunate mood swings.

The very intelligent authors speculated the pros and cons of both under- and over- expecting, but in the end offered no conclusive method for how to control our emotional reactions (I suppose that's alltogether impossible, anyway).

Ironic that they thoroughly dashed my expectations.

I'll just slip into an all-consuming depression, now.

(kidding)

Goals 2012

2012-01-02T21:30:00.000-05:00

Two years ago, I was visiting my friend Mallory when she lived in Asheville, North Carolina. I noticed on her kitchen wall two large pieces of poster-board--lists and boxes scribbled in crayon of things like, "Learn the States and Capitals," and "Save $50 a month."

It was her and her roommates Goal list for the year. This was mid-summer, and there were a few things crossed off, but mostly it was a conversation starter--something that they did to keep their plans visible, and to help other people keep them accountable.

This year, I was invited and added to the brand-new facebook comprised of friends in many places that's entirely focused on making/working to complete Goals.

So here's my list. Probably incomplete, probably not all attainable, but nonetheless...

School:
- Reshoot/finish Second Best by Feb.
- Submit to at least 2 film festivals (in different/new places)
- Ask people for help.
... - Give myself 1 day a week (probably my no-class Tuesdays) where it's okay to not do anything. Stop feeling guilty for taking breaks.
- Get up by 10 on the weekends.
- Spend 1 hour writing on Sunday mornings after Saturday shoots/before church.
- Start papers/projects at least 1 day before they're due.
- Read assignments in full. You like it when you do, so just do it.
- Be creative outside of school work.
- Get a TAship.
- Pre-plan for thesis idea.

Friends:
- Make attempts to connect with the people in my program.
- Stop being afraid of confrontation.
- Listen better.
- Write more letters.
- Share with people. When sad, don't ostracize self and stop communication.
- Be honest with your feelings.
- Once a month take time to tell people you care about them.

Philly:
- Go some place new in the city once a month.
- Join a small-group at church. And commit.
- Find a part-time job. (Server at Johnny Brenda? Loco Pez? Soup Kitchen? Nanny for people at church on days off class?)
- Travel to the cities close-by (NY, DC, Baltimore).

Love:
- Get over Nathan. In the healthiest way possible.
- Text anyone when you want to text him. Don't let yourself fall back in.
- Decide what to say to him. Stand up for your worth.
- Try not crushing/pursuing anyone for a while.
- IF asked out (by a normal person), give them a chance and stop comparing them to the person you don't want to be with.

Other:
- Keep a cool things notebook.
- Watch a movie from your film literacy list once a week.
- Read books you have on your shelf but haven't read yet.
- Cook more. Only eat out once every 2 weeks.
- Save money.
- Lose 30 lbs. Find Temple's gym. Use it after class on Mondays and Thursdays.
- Get a tattoo.
- Stop being so reserved. Let yourself be your fun-self. Don't always be so broody.
- Laugh more.
- Look for God and appreciate Him more.

Welcome 2012

2012-01-01T23:09:00.001-05:00

(Please excuse the sideways image. New phone--not sure how to properly work all of the apps yet)

This was definitely a strange New Year's Eve.

I thought I would have to work, but miraculously only had to stay until 5pm, leaving me with the opportunity to do what I will. But my closest friends were working, so I went to New Gram's (which I definitely wanted to go, but it was a sacrifice considering the person I most wanted to start the new year with wouldn't be with me).

I spent the countdown with old friends with whom I've not maintained consistent communication, but still like them a lot and it was probably better for me than the alternative.

I shared some regrets, we all shared some regrets, and we screamed "Fuck 2011!" and cheers-ed and toasted to the New Year.

Since coming home for break, any drink I share with my mom is prefaced with, "Wait! Here's to a new, prosperous year! 2012 is going to be our best yet!"

And as I witness people crying in the corner following the new-year-countdown, I think about ritual and what it means for us. Our cultural obsession with a grand-welcoming of a new year, under the assumption that our meager calendar can be labeled as good or bad on the whole, the idea a new year is a new start when really it's just another day.

But it's NOT just another day. It's hope. This ritual fills individuals, rooms, communities, cities with hope. The regrets from the past year matter not anymore. It's newness. A chance for fate to bring something better. A chance to fix ourselves.

And even though many goals aren't attained (at least in my experience), it's like the new year offers forgiveness. Much needed forgiveness.

So, here's to my hope for and belief in a very successful, joyous, prosperous, fulfilling, life-giving New Year.

And here's to my expectation that by this time, next year, I'll look forward to another massive self-forgiveness, and hopefully the regrets I think I need forgiveness from will be minimal and minor, and won't feel the need to send off the previous with curses and exclamations of anger.

Fuck 2011.

To better days, filled with hope.

post-production

2011-12-11T00:31:00.001-05:00

Wrapped on the second shoot of SECOND BEST, my 10-minute narrative film for my cinematography final. Lots more problems, of course. Working with physical film as a medium is ridiculously taxing. And stressful. And rigorous.

I thought that I had completely screwed everything up, loading the film entirely incorrectly the first time through (single perf film loaded upside-down means the claw tears the film...whoops!), and unfortunately I didn't realize that until we had attempted to film about three pages of the script. Therefore, when I eventually *re*loaded the magazine, we had lost almost all light. SO, I ended up filming one roll in daylight. And then by the time I loaded the second mag after the first ran out, it was dark outside...meaning my second two rolls were filmed at night. I've not yet figured out how I'll math the footage just yet.

And, of course, I still loaded the film incorrectly, leaving the last roll of film with a light-leak. Le sigh.

BUT, what did turn out does look amazing:

a little light

2011-12-02T16:23:00.001-05:00

I was reading my book in my bedroom. I was probably 10 or so. Our house was big and a little scary for a girl who had spent the majority of her life in a trailer park. I remember feeling utter terror at the prospect of 1) my room being on the complete opposite side of the house from my parents and 2) the bathroom being all the way downstairs.

But we were here, for better or worse. My fragile sense of security had been compromised, but I was going to make do. Because that's what you do. That's what Mom had always done. I was a big girl. I was not going to cry.

So I calmly read whatever sci-fi book I was no doubt enraptured with at the time. It was probably something by Piers Anthony, if I remember my literature timeline correctly.

And suddenly, my lamp turned off.

"That's strange," I thought. I don't know why I wouldn't assume the lightbulb had burnt out, like a normal person might. I, for some reason, knew that it hadn't. I slowly lifted my arm and reached towards the lamp--but before I could turn the switch, it reilluminated.

I stared for a second. Dismissed it. Returned to my book.

But it happened again.

Disbelieving, I looked at the lamp again, and then once more reached towards it. A second time, before I could touch it, the lamp lit up.

"MOM!" I screamed, running downstairs with terrible fear.

The mystery of the lamp was never solved. And this is not the only strange occurance from our log cabin in the middle of the woods. That's not the point of this story, however.

The eerie light problem has followed me ever since. I never really talked about it--because, really, what can you say? "Oh, hey--just wanted to let you know that wherever I go, lights seem to turn off and on. It's kinda weird." What are people supposed to say to that? It doesn't really mean anything, it's just strange.

But, I mean, seriously. It happens all. the. time. For a while I was texting my friend Ann every time it happened. It got to be a little too much, because without some sort of meaning, she stopped having responses.

Like, streetlights. Parking lights. House lights. Highway lights. Classroom lights.

A few examples:

I parked at the Canton Playhouse. The lamp under which I parked went out as soon as my car came to a stop. And when I left later? It came back on.

When we were at Nationals in LA this past year. The lights in the atrium had gone out. I was judging a round, and when I reentered the common space, the lights all turned back on.

I was walking down the street to the corner store the other day. I passed under a street light and it turned off.

(I know. It gets repetitive. It's not a great story, because it entails, "I was here, the light turned off." Everything about it is predictable. I'm wrapping it up, don't worry.)

Maybe they're just faulty lights... but that's a lot of faulty electricity around.

So a few nights ago I was driving back to Philadelphia from my Thanksgiving visit to Canton. I got lost. Which I thought was ridiculous because I've driven here so many times already and not gotten lost before. Yet it happened, and I found myself somewhere North East of the city. As I grumbled obscenities and turned on my GPS to find my way to my apartment, I was relentlessly questioning everything about my life choices (following an extremely emotional weekend. Ask me about it sometime and maybe I'll go into more detail. Then again maybe I won't, because I haven't felt particularly inclined recently to divulge.). I had just gone through the toll booth, having been forced to dish out the maximum toll amount of $26.25 (and feeling extremely bitter about it), and was seriously debating with myself about my--at the time, interpretation that this was--ridiculous decision to follow what I had deemed so long ago as "A God Thing."

And I was extremely pissed that I was lost and more than a little worried about whether I would make it home safely. And then a light went out.

I don't know why, but it felt very fortuitous. You know, in that "God's presence" kind of way.

I smirked. I blew a kiss to the light, and continued driving and made it home safely.

The next day I felt little better. I was extremely stressed out about an assignment that I had no idea how to complete, worried about my film that is likely to turn out terribly, and on top of everything we went to a screening for my class and no one sat next to me and I felt extremely stupid and worthless and unwanted.

So on the walk home, needless to say, I was feeling fragile and emotionally wane. I was taking a secret pathway between the septa station and my house through a soccer field and basketball court. I was weeping relentlessly.

Two giant court lights right next to the path went out at once.

I stopped and laughed.

FAIL.

2011-11-11T19:06:00.001-05:00

Every shoot I've ever done has been stress-city. It doesn't matter how much I plan--it all flies out the window. Something inevitable always happens to fuck up everything I've so precariously mapped out.

This time, I thought, this time it will be different. This time I'm going to get it right. I was conscious from the beginning of the process--at the start of writing the script, even. And I had everything together and ready and planned and perfected...

So you can imagine how upsetting it was that when the day came and literally everything fell apart.

I know that filmmaking is one big problem solving exercise. That's part of the thrill.

But this time? I re-routed and made phone calls and rearranged and asked for favors and figured shit out, but fate was completely against me.

So we didn't film.

Well, we did, but not on super16--on digital. And only half of the script.

It all felt very futile.

A huge blow to the ego.

Fuckadoodledoo.

Just something.

2011-11-09T23:08:00.001-05:00

Ever since I can remember, my mom wore this necklace. It was iconic.

The simplicity was beauty. Her comfort confined to one, tiny symbol.

When I was in grade school, she bought me one. The smallest cross she could find tosuit my tiny, childish neck. Tosuit my tiny, childish ideals.

I was so proud to be inducted in this paradigm. It was a rite of passage. It was joining the forces, being thenewest member of a bigger, better world.

So naturally I bragged to my classmates. Look! I’m important. I belong to something.

I removed the necklace and passed it around withfervor. With glowing pride.

I set the necklace down on the table. I left. In the midst of my elation, I forgot my icon.

My sense of belonging was thrown out with the trash.

Religious expectations are drilled into us, but sweetenedinto an appealing community wherein everything looks picturesque and ideal.

Perfection anamorphized.

But the reality?

We’re easily disillusioned.

Disillusionment infects. Changes the way we see the world, the belief system that weonce considered ultimate and unchanging.

But change is inevitable. And that which once captivated appears immature.

Values shift. There’s an ongoing confrontation and dissonance between what you havecome to believe to be truth, and what you presently face in a non-sugarcoatedreality.

There’s no book that teaches you how to navigate thistension.

You’re fed general statements that come from the communityyou once idolized. Emptywords.

Salvation?

The most frustrating thing is that you can’t shake it. You want to. You want to abandon it all, just to stop questioning. Stop the guilt. Stop the shame.

It doesn’t go away.

Reconciliation never happens, but you can’t stop wanting it.

Continual, aggressive, persistent nagging.

I had, continue to have to make peace withdissonance.

Even in her overwhelming anger, my mom forgave me. She even bought me anothernecklace.

I like to think Jesus is kind of like that.

*****

There isa necklace, a dainty gold cross dangles from the chain, glinting in thelight. It sways with unobservedmovement.

A little girl stands at the narthex of acathedral. She hesitates beforeentering the sanctuary. She looksup to her mother, who holds her hand and nods slightly. The mother gives her daughter a smallpush. The girl walks forwardalone.

Behind the high altar are statues of the gospel-writers,surrounding their Savior. The girlbarely notices them, and has eyes only for Jesus, his hands extended, woundspuncturing his palms. Her eyeswiden.

At the chancel, there are arched stained glass windows, uponwhich is a depiction of Jesus’ crucifixion. The sunlight illuminates his pain, creating an ominous,color-changing path the girl must cross.

She reaches to her neck. She grabs, panicked, at the necklace that is not there.

She turns around and looks for her mother. She is gone.

The girl looks back to Jesus. His eyes bore into her. She cannot turn away, not when he wears the crown forher.

She continues walking. The nave seems never-ending compared to her smallness. The pews extend forever.

Finally she is there. She looks up at the pulpit. She cranes her neck. Jesusis obscured by the wooden stage consuming her view. She looks around, attempting to peer around the block. She falls to her knees.

The girl looks at the communion table where she landed. Instinctively, she reachesforward. She tears the bread. She holds it in her hand. She eats.

She reaches for the chalice, raises it to her lips, andgulps. She gulps until the bloodis gone. She sets the chalice downwith force.

She stands a woman. She walks backwards, looking up to Jesus.

She stares at him.

She turns and walks rapidly down the nave. She forces herself not to run. There are people in the churchnow. They stare.

Her eyes rove. They are constantly seeking.

She reaches narthex, stops just before exiting thesanctuary. She turns onceagain. The congregation isbowed in prayer.

Someone has taken her hand.

She looks. Hermother is by her side. She nodsslightly.

The two women turn and exit the church. The daughter rushes down thestairs. She grabs at her neck,catching a small, gold, dainty cross glinting and dangling.

She breathes. Fresh air. Sunshine.

another film exercise

2011-11-08T21:38:00.000-05:00

Another long-take assignment today. With much apprehension, my group piled into my jeep (which continues to experience problem followed by complication followed by more problems) and set off to a nearby park with my roommate, Nadia, our talent.

After the endless complications of our last long-take project, we were eager to create something much more simplistic. So I wrote a one-page script, which we hoped to extend to meet the 3-4 minute stipulation. All outdoors, requiring just the camera, audio recorder, and reflector.

As the semester gets on, it's apparent that the class is getting more apathetic. We're in filmmaking overload. Everyone I talk to responds with, "that's awesome!" when I tell them I make movies all.the.time.

Which, right, it is. I'm not denying that this production-heavy semester will be one of the best for my education and for my overall esteem? maybe, eventually. But right now, at this moment, with two scripts, two half-finished shorts, an editing reel, and one final project looming ahead--I just want to lay in bed, hidden under the covers, watching netflix and eating ice cream and napping and in general avoiding anything that makes me a better person, because that feels like so much work.

I don't really want that, obviously. But I'd like to have a day when I can do that and not feel guilty about it.

But instead I'm obsessively conscious of how much is yet to be done--a never ending overwhelming to-do list that I'm constantly constructing.

Which means we're definitely making sacrifices just for our own sanity. Instead of dwelling on the long-take assignment, we're making self-compromises and relinquishing personal egos because we just don't feel like dealing with it.

Should we re-film and flag the lens to get rid of the lens flare?
- We can just tell him that we're mimicking Connie Hall. And that the lens flare was intentional because we wanted a more modern feel.

The last bit is a little over-exposed. Should we try to pull focus *and* fstop during the same take?
- Eh, why don't we just underexpose a little at the beginning, which will make her perfectly exposed at the middle, which is the most important part anyway.

There was a kid waving in the background. Should we do another take?
- Well, since it's a little underexposed there, anyway, it probably won't be *that* noticeable.

Should we record more playground audio?

- I think we're fine. We're not in a close-up, and it's just a simple class exercise...

At least a little audio was necessary, though, so Jacob went around with the boom mic and gathered sounds of swings and playground equipment. He looked a little sketchy.

It definitely showed that we were lackadaisical. There's two minutes of not enough movement, followed by a very mechanical, amateur camera movement.

But I'm so exhausted. I'm spread thin, creatively.

And it's no where near over, yet. This weekend I'm shooting for my final project, and then the following I'm crewing for Jacob's, and then the following I'm filming a music video/documentary, and then the following I'm crewing on two more shoots.

At least the colors look amazing:

revise, compromise, compartmentalize

2011-11-01T17:21:00.000-04:00

The other day our writing professor asked us to perform ourselves in class. He was looking for the exuberant, flamboyant, over-the-top kind of performance that is based on a specific, personal event of importance that reflects on the general and relatable.
That's a lot to cram into one performance.

I can't say if I did it right or not (which isn't exactly the concern of the professor anyway, who refuses to let any of us apologize even when he recognizes that the majority of us? didn't even start until the day of), and I can't say if I like it or not, but I can say it felt good.

I wrote a poem... !

Seriously! I haven't written a poem since middle school when I entered the Stark County District Library Poetry contest and won 1st place because I had so pander-ing-ly written about reading (it was a really bad poem. really. but a child writing on the topic of reading probably does good things for a library's PR).

AND I wrote about religion... !

Which in itself isn't strange, because I've written about religion before in a public-ish context. But it was strange in this particular situation because I haven't really discussed my religious background with anyone in the program. This being my first time in an academic setting which isn't religiously affiliated, it's more vulnerable to discuss those things.

Actually, I really love being in a program that isn't explicitly Christian, because it means I get to work with Leslie, an observant Jew; Jacob, a non-observant Jew; Israel, a Mexican Catholic; Shahin, a muslim; John, an atheist; Christian, a Baptist from Alabama...

And actually, everyone was extremely receptive to my performance. My professor even made me do it twice. "I need to hear it again," he explained.

So I stood up and read it all again, reluctantly, longingly. I looked out at the diverse audience and confessed my belief and my regret and my confusion and my fight to reconcile. It was liberating, and awakened something in me that I haven't felt in months--the desire to discuss, to delve, to connect, to believe and to be unashamed.

It's strange that in writing about my doubts and discomfort I've actually felt more drawn to God than if I had simply declared the two constants of my faith (that God is creator, and that Jesus is savior).

So Sunday I went to church for the first time in... months. I'm not even sure how many months. It's been that long. It might have even been more than a year, if I'm honest with myself. I don't want that to be true, but I think it is.

Honestly, it was a little weird.

Don't get me wrong--I liked it. I was interested and invested in the message--the speaker made it relateable and humorous--but once he got into the thick of the religiosity, I lost track of how it all connected and wasn't really able to follow his train of thought. I think that's okay for now, though.

I think there's something that feels cheesy to me--that's what I rebel against. The new-media projector with the badly designed slideshow, the praise and worship band that seems so cool and hip with their old-man sweaters and their dreadlocks and their banjo and their flowing skirt (from the token woman-singing-harmony), but is really just singing the same songs the same way building to a climactic tension of Spirituality! cut short by a bursting forth prayer session that's to prepare everyone's hearts for the message.

I think I've become bored with the language--or maybe annoyed is a better word. Can't we find other ways of expressing our faith? Could we--how dare i think it?--admit that sometimes our lives are filled with shit, and actually sometimes it's in the middle of that SHIT that we feel more religious, more grateful, more observant of God's handiwork?

Or is this just something that happens anywhere, and I'm being too idealistic to think that somewhere out there there's a Church that meets my desires for an edgier, less softened by promises of love, more down-to-earth promises of redemption when things are fucked up and seem irreparable, because that's what I live in (preposition and all)?

Is it more likely that there will be things I find discomforting wherever I go, and I just have to find the good within it and relent my frustrations with the rest?

At least I finally feel like searching again.

At least I finally see hope again.

Professionalism

2011-10-23T14:26:00.000-04:00

This is my group working on a long-take for our latest assignment. We're in John's (on the dolly) house in Williamstown, NJ. We had to film a a scene that lasted 4 minutes. And it all had to be one take.

The planning that goes into a long-take assignment is meticulous. There's something that feels so forced about being creative around stipulations. We had the assignment and the space, but no accompanying story. I think what we came up with was interesting, but might not end up being the best execution because we didn't have time to fully develop everything.

And I think we felt a lot of pressure--because you know what? We filmed on 35mm.

!!

Yeah, like, the real stuff. And we wanted to make it awesome because we were the only group who filmed on 35 mm, but I think that desire probably clouded our creativeness.

There's so much sadness in the world.

2011-10-18T15:21:00.000-04:00

Which isn't to say that there isn't lots of happiness, too. But I think happiness might be a confusing concept--something that's difficult to discern. I think maybe it's an ideal that we all aim to attain--one day. As if it's not possible *right now* because I don't have enough money or enough time or small enough hips or a devoted lover.

It's taken for granted in that we-can-never-have-enough-of-it kind of way. So it's almost imperceptible.

Sadness? Always makes its presence known. It taints the overwhelming potential goodness. It's never unnoticed. It's too-noticed.

I was home last weekend, surrounded by loved ones, surrounded by lots of good things (and a few sad ones, too). And now that I'm back in Philly? Do I feel grateful for those good things in my life? Nah. I feel slightly depressed, and a little obsessed over the badness.

Nothing is perfect. Why should I expect it to be?

Why is it so difficult to appreciate the small delights? Why is it so impossible to ignore the disappointments?

Well. Not today. Today I'm going to be grateful for the good things.

Cinematography Project 1

2011-10-06T00:17:00.001-04:00

I finally got my first film telecined and captured. You can watch it here:

It's silent. It's "non-narrative." It's (mostly) beautifully exposed (and we're amateurs!).

Second Shoot

2011-10-02T17:09:00.000-04:00

Well, it's kind of our 2.5 shoot. We had an exercise last week that was comprised of digital photos: we had to 1) shoot a silhouette: background completely lit, foreground completely dark 2) reverse the previous: background completely dark, foreground completely lit 3) imitate 3am lighting, using either a gobo or "real" blinds/foliage, etc. and 4) choose a renaissance painting and replicate it as exactly as possible.

It was all to get us used to working with lighting; the renaissance painting in particular, because those artists literally "painted with light."

(it's much more difficult than you might think--how the HELL did they get light there? How on earth is the light flagged in this teeny-tiny area? I think they cheated, just to create chiaroscuro between the figure and the background. I'm telling you, some of these set-ups are just impossible, and no amount of blackwrap or umbrellas or reflectors or cardboard boxes taped to the ceiling will replicate it. Geez.)

Anyway, those pictures to come.

Our last film assignment we filmed yesterday. Another indoor lighting exercise, this time meant to be narrative, with only one line of dialogue (that has B in it) that we will wild-line later (B is the easiest sound to match in ADR). About halfway through the film, we had to build in motivation for the character to leave the scene, therefore requiring at least two lighting set-ups.

Let me tell you: the mixture of 1) not knowing what you're doing and 2) a very particular, nervous, continuity nazi of a partner makes for a Very Long Day.

Seriously, he's one of the nicest guys in the program. And he lives like two minutes from me so I didn't have to worry about attempting to transport equipment from one side of the city to the other, but I think he needs to take a chill pill.

(I'm starting to realize that I'm one of the most laid-back people in this program. More on that later.)

Our first meeting consisted of a two-hour meeting in which we outlined 4 shots. FOUR.

The entirety of our two-and-a-half minute *silent* film took us ten hours to complete. My patience was literally at its end.

No, I really don't think the audience *needs* a 3-second shot of the character walking from one space to the other in order to keep continuity. I'm pretty sure that when she leaves one space and enters the other, the audience will understand that she hasn't teleported.

I don't think it'll be a problem to show her leaving the bathroom and entering the bedroom. I don't think the absence of another door is going to make the audience think she's trapped. I don't think we're planning on showing every detail of the room, anyway. And maybe if they think she teleported in the first place, then they can just assume she can teleport outside.

It's really not necessary to load/unload the film in *total* darkness, I promise. The first and last 3ish feet of the film aren't even used, and aren't playable. But, no, that's fine. I'll fumble in the dark.

BUT. Despite the many things I thought wasted time, I DO think that we ended up with a nicely composed, well-acted, beautifully lit piece. A breakdown (it might be boring. feel free to skip over. it's helpful for me to review setups and camera lenses):

1st shot: WA of actor, Palesa (seriously amazing and stunningly beautiful), entering space, sitting at chair, sighs, reaches for make-up bag
- 1 soft key light, using a kino flo with tungsten bulbs
- 1 lowel omni 180 degree kicker reflected on white

2nd shot: telephoto over the shoulder as character removes brushes and palettes; opens compact and gives us a slight reflection-shot
(same lighting as above)

3rd shot: WA master shot again; character begins to apply makeup, stops, contemplates, places materials back on table and exits frame

4th shot: WA as character opens door, exits space, walks past camera
- hard light; 1 omni bouncing on the white of the doorway, creating silhouette

5th shot: telephoto on character's hands at sink as she turns on water, face enters as she washes off the makeup, pan upward with character as she looks in the mirror, continue panning as we see the lines of the shower curtain extending for eternity through the mirror
- 1 soft backlight, kino flo, reflecting off the mirror to provide key light

6th: telephoto on light-switch as character flips off lights (a very trying timing factor with our lighting setup....)
(same lighting)

7th: WA as character exits bathroom, framed so that her waist and above is not visible; she enters shot, pauses, slides down wall and sits on heels
- 1 omni hard side key light, using barn doors to create a slanted shadow right above her head (a very film noir look)
- 1 omni fill light bouncing off of back wall

8th: WA, 30 degrees to the right, character breaks 4th wall and says, "bring it" and stares into camera until motor runs out
- same lighting as before except with the addition of a stronger fill bounced off the silver side of a reflector

End. I'm particularly excited about the setups that were personally mine (obviously). Part of the assignment is that we switch roles acting as director and cinematographer.

I'm excited about the bathroom scene, because that was my idea and I fought to keep it (Mr. Particular was apprehensive about the white walls and how reflective they'd be), the lighting setup for the hallway/silhouette, and the film noir shot (I personally didn't even want the fill light, but sometimes compromises must be made).

It's good. I make movies. I eat at small restaurants in my neighborhood. I go to small bars. I read books and mostly am still a loner, but right now it feels like a pattern of life and something that will inevitably change within the next few months.

It feels like normality and I'm not going to mourn who I am as a person because it takes me a bit to adjust and that's okay.

center of attention: good or bad?

2011-09-20T00:27:00.000-04:00

In my writing class last week, I had the unexpected surprise of being the subject of attention for a good half-hour of class time. We had two assignments that we turned in before that day's lecture, and the professor had chosen three which he wanted to have read aloud. He wanted to read both of mine aloud.

I wasn't sure exactly how to feel. There's an immediate sense of, "whoa, I must've done something right," followed again immediately by, "but what if it's only being shared because I've done something wrong?"

It's definitely a weird experience having your work read aloud in its rawest form. This wasn't a polished, perfected, gone-through-10-rewrites piece of work: it was a first-draft character study that I wasn't feeling particularly inspired about.

So I listened and squirmed and held my breath.

The professor looked around and started conversation about what we just listened to. You know, questions like, "what stood out?" "What did you notice?" "What struck you?"

He said things like, "That was a beautiful moment--that was a great time to go to that particular description."
"There is movement to your form--the writing itself implies the movement and motion of the character."
"You made an interesting decision to describe space through behavior."
"You told the story through the legs of the character, which was very interesting."
"I like how you described really mundane actions in such great detail--it's something that we do everyday, but you saw it in a new way."

Awesome, right? I sat there and nodded slightly, mostly because the things I was being praised for I didn't necessarily do intentionally. I just...wrote what I saw.

I was feeling good, though a little uncomfortable that the conversation was *still* revolving around my writing for such a prolonged period of time... when suddenly the professor asked, "What's missing?"

Uh oh.

The rest of the comments were something like this:
"I was distracted because you didn't tell us where we were--you were too focused on close up and not enough on space."
"We didn't get to see her reactions. We missed the emotion of her decision."
"There were definitely beats missing."

Ah. My initial reactions are still not quite answered.

And I felt a little deflated. Build-up, just to tear down. An open-face compliment sandwich.

Creative homework is vulnerable.

here's the mail

2011-09-13T01:15:00.000-04:00

Last week I got a text message that read, "Look 4 mail."

This was seriously one of the best anticipatory weeks ever. Everyone loves getting mail. *Real* mail. And in particular, everyone loves getting mail from a romantic interest. So everyday I checked the mailbox, and everyday I got a little sad when there was nothing there for me. But I hadn't lost hope yet. Who knows when he sent said mail? It could have been the same day he sent the text, which could delay delivery anywhere between 2-4 days! I mean, as my nana says, you never know about the mail.

So imagine HOW HAPPY I was when I got home last Thursday and FINALLY, my roommate says to me, "You have mail!"

Oh, so exciting. I rushed over to the counter to find... a postcard. With two sentences on the back. That's it.

What a letdown. I mean, it would've been super sweet if I hadn't been expecting anything. But after all that hype (yes, granted, some of that hype was imposed mainly on my side and not his), I was really hoping for some real mail and not just a postcard with a few sentences scrawled on the back.

And I understand that he's probably emulating the postcards I used to send to him when I went out of town with the forensics team--but I was sending those to the bar for a free beer (an awesome bar rule, btw), not to him personally (though granted I was still trying to be flirtatious). Besides, emulation is not romantic.

AND, in addition, before I left I wrote him a really great love letter (I'm awesome at writing love letters, in case you were unaware. I've made two men cry with my love-letter-writing-skillz.), and his response? A thank you, a kiss, a postcard.

l.a.m.e.

It's not like he has a job right now, anyway. He should be writing me love letters everyday. I don't think this is an unreasonable expectation.

(emotionally unavailable men seem to be my weakness)
(that's a flippant kind of parenthetical that warrants a much longer explanation--but one that might be a bit too much for the onlines)

My First Shoot

2011-09-05T20:11:00.000-04:00

Our first assignment is to exploit the nature of light and motion. Abstract, right? We're to choose an object of transportation--we chose a bike--and then create a 2.5 minute non-narrative, no sound, visually compelling short ON 16MM FILM. Nerve-wracking.

The only two requirements is that we're supposed to have 1 close-up with reflected fill light, and 1 silhouette. And since we're using archaic equipment, naturally we're completely clueless. We had to learn how to use a digital light meter...but I still don't completely trust it and I'm almost positive that the film is going to turn out terribly. NOT TO MENTION the fact that there's this little trigger you have to push, and sometimes when you're jostling the camera into position, you might accidentally hit that button and then OOPS. Now there's about 14 frames of just randomness on your film (that you don't have the option of editing, so you have to film everything in linear sequence and going from a master shot to a close up and back is now 3 set-ups with very precise markings to attempt to be as continuous as possible).

ALSO, there's this motor that you have wind manually... So if you're on a roll and don't wind the motor after every shot, you might just have the motor stop in the middle of your next shot, because it only lasts for 28 seconds.

nbd.

And as an added complication, the camera that we're using is a Bolex, which has an optical divider (or something that sounds similar) that uses a mirror from the lens to split the light to the viewfinder and the film. What this actually means is that if you leave the viewfinder open too long while you're not filming, or if you're not using the eyepiece during a particular shot, then light can creep in and fog the film.

And you should probably make sure to tape the back of the camera in place, because light can also slip through those cracks and expose the film. It's also really easy to accidentally pop the back off while filming, another reason you should tape it down.

AND, I don't know if you knew this, because I sure didn't, but because the Bolex has a beam splitter to the viewfinder, it reduces the amount of light reaching the film plane to about 75%, which is about 1/3-1/2 an f-stop, so the creators of the Bolex have estimated the shutter speed to be about 1/80 second instead of the "standard" 1/65 second. Which is all fine and dandy, except THEN they made lenses calibrated to pass 1/3-1/2 more light through the aperature than the markings indicate in order to compensate. So you have to check the lens you're using to determine whether it's been calibrated.

This is mostly jibberish, I know. I don't even really understand it.

I was incredibly overwhelmed by the piles of information thrown upon me, so I kind of adopted this attitude of, eh, what the hell, I'm just gonna go out and film this thing because I don't really know what's going on and I'm only going to understand so much until I actually do it.

My partner and I tried; we really did. We met the day before and filmed almost everything on his 7D SLR just to get an idea of timing and whatnot, but even that felt like we were overdoing it.

When we actually met for filming, we spent a good half hour just setting up the first shot and rehearsing and focusing and taking multiple light readings and timing everything perfectly--and then it just disapparated (how about I didn't realize I was trying to use a HP term until the document insisted that it was spelled wrong and I couldn't figure out why...). Without the instant gratification of being able to watch it back, and without the chance to be able to edit it all afterwards, it's easy to say "fuck it" and move on to the next shot. We'll probably regret that when we have to watch it back, but *no one* knows how to use this equipment and I'm sure we're not the only ones to make a mistake or two. At least I hope not.

We definitely won't be the first ones, I'm sure. At this point, I'll be happy if the film exposes properly and is watchable.

The technical stuff was just the beginning of the stress level--working with complete strangers is definitely an added challenge. Our principle Talent for the film was my partner's girlfriend--which I thought would be really convenient. Actually it turned out to be quite hellish, because she was not pleased to be involved in the project and took every opportunity to complain. It's SUPER awkward to be working on a film while also trying to navigate neutrality in a full-out domestic argument.

And she insulted many of our shot choices, and part of me wanted to be like, "Hey! Are YOU in film school?"

Because I am.

Normal. Different, but normal.

2011-08-23T17:44:00.003-04:00

I walked up the street today to deliver my tenant application papers to my landlord. On the way there I passed a place called the Rocket Cat Cafe (inside pictured above). It's super interesting-looking. There's a giant painting of an asian woman on the side of it. There are papers and fliers plastered all over the windows. It's brick with some peeling paint--all kinds of interesting aesthetic goodness.

Further down the street I saw a bar that I'm fascinated to go into sometime--it's called Atlantis Lost Bar and they have a PBR sign in the window and for some reason that makes me think it's full of hipsters and we would get along. But I didn't want to stop there today because I'm not trying to get into a drinking habit while in school, I don't have much money, and I wanted to get some "me" work done (like journaling and blogging and overall just processing and not being sad and depressed alone in my room. not that I haven't cried in public before, but I'm usually less inclined to when I'm surrounded by other people. just the presence of a general public makes me feel a sense of normality.)

So I went into the Rocket Cat Cafe and ordered an iced vanilla coffee and had to ask where the half-and-half was, which made me feel dumb because i can't pull off being a regular, but I didn't let myself get too upset about it because, what the fuck? I AM new and it's fine and people won't hate me just because I have to ask a question.

I got a table and *guessed* the internet password correctly (damn straight I have great intuitive skills), and I've just spent a good hour just processing.

This place is way edgier than any coffee shop in downtown Canton. While I've always considered Carpe Diem the one-stop-shop for business people and Muggswigz the late-night fix for high-schoolers and hipsters, they do not compare at all to this place. The Rocket Cat is definitely hipster central for my little area here in NE Philly. The chairs around the coffee bar are wrought out of iron and molded in interesting ways. There's a brick column in the middle and purple, teal, cream, and orange paint. There's a neon green nylon couch and a 70s spinning chair, mismatched tables and a sewing doll with a pinata head next to the cooler. There are lesbians in the corner and people with feathers in their ears and guys in skinny jeans and everyone owns a macbook pro (which makes me feel like they're middle-class hipsters).

I'm glad I stopped in here. I haven't been brave enough to just walk around the area yet, because I'm still not sure what all is a good area, but I'm glad I stopped here. It makes me feel like I'm going to be okay. If I just focus on things that are normal and familiar, even if slightly different, I'll be okay.

I've been feeling very melonrot.

2011-08-18T02:31:00.002-04:00

That's what my mom says when anxiety overtakes her.

It's been a while since I've had a melonrot black day.

Today I did. I cried for about 5 hours straight. I did dishes, and wept. I read emails...and wept. I watched a sappy romantic comedy (that I so easily consumed as a big-screen, slightly-altered representation of my life), and wept. I sat on the couch and stared into space and wept.

My mom, finally fed-up with the waterworks, took out some of her special medication and gave me a pill. I usually try to fend off her fix-its of random med-taking, but today I didn't care. I just thought, hell, it probably won't make me feel worse.

I went into the cabin and laid on the couch and wept.

I got up and told my mom I was going out.

"Where?"
"I don't know. I just need to go."
"No," she says. "Come with me. We're going to sit in the garage and smoke cigarettes and drink wine and I'll read to you."

So I sat in the garage and smoked cigarettes and drank wine and listened to my mother start reading an excerpt of someone about to embark on a journey from home. And I wept.

I *know* this is the next step for me. And it's a good next step for me. But I'm terrified.

"You're never scared," my mom insisted.

No. I'm always scared.

I have built a community here. I have such a comfort zone surrounded by tons of loved ones whom support me and hang out with me and I haven't felt alone in a long time now.

Yes, I realize that even if it were not in my immediate future to move away that I would still be doing other things. I know that I would not be satisfied to be a server for very much longer. I know that I would probably enter school somewhere else, and even if it was in the area, it would still change my life and my lifestyle. I wouldn't bar hop with such frequency. Yes, I would still have those friends, but I would make new ones and life would change again, like it always does and like it imminently will again.

It's difficult, though. I'm leaving my mother, who has been a constant in my life and whom I'm so close with. I'm leaving my best friend Alyssa who has been through so much with me and we've been friends for 10 years. I'm leaving my work, where they've just started appreciating me and would be giving me a promotion if I stayed. I'm leaving my bar scene, where I'm good friends with all the bartenders and have all their numbers and will miss late-nights closing down with them. I'm leaving my community. I'm leaving the first man who's ever said, "I love you," to me.

I know that the man and I would probably not work out in the long run. There's lots of drama and lots of ways that our lives don't match. But it's hard to not really have the ability of figuring it out. He's tugging at my heartstrings at the most inopportune time. I feel like I'm leaving a huge loose string and might never have a resolution.

A lot of these people will still be here when I come back, but I think the most terrifying thing is that I don't know where the rest of my life is going. It's a possibility that I could come back to Canton. Nothing is written in stone. But for the most part, it's pretty doubtful. So my life beyond the next three years is hugely uncertain. Where am I going? What am I doing?

I know I'll adjust, but it'll take a while. For those first however-many-months, I know I'll be borderline miserable. I'll feel like life is going on without me back home, even though I'm the one who is going on and doing something different. It's a path that veers off into unknown, and the change will soon become the normal, and that's fine when I think about what will be eventually--it's just the getting there that I currently hate the prospect of.

(sorry about all the dangling propositions)

And now I have this pill that I've taken and I had the jitters for a while, but at least I stopped crying. Now I just kind of feel empty.

depressing post. they'll get happier, i promise. i haven't lost hope.

feeling imminent

2011-06-20T19:24:00.011-04:00

My friend Jaime has been living in Canton for about a year and a half, and she's become really involved in the community, and I think she's really awesome though ultimately doesn't appreciate herself as she should. And even though she's been living here for a while, when I visited her apartment a couple months ago and noticed that it was... empty. She's a minimalist. She has a bed and a couch and that's about it. Nothing adorning the walls, no bookshelves, no dresser, no end tables, no artwork, no kitchen table, barely any dinnerware... I didn't feel like she should live this way, because I know that if I'm in an empty place, it doesn't feel welcoming or like a home or a space that's mine.

Her birthday was fast approaching, so my friend Lauren and I decided to hijack her place and fix it up for her. We got her best friend Stu to let us in and we loaded the place up.

We brought a couple hanging structures (like the music notes), an end table, 2 bookshelves...

Some books, 2 color-it-yourself Harry Potter posters, picture frames filled with pictures of ourselves (because we're narcissistic),

A small table, a tablecloth, salt and pepper shakers, plates, bowls, and mugs, new napkins, curtains, (and chairs--not pictured),

Posters, bedroom curtains, a night stand, 3 new sets of sheets, a new comforter, more pictures, a small dresser, and other paintings in the living room.

This was her awesome reaction:

She cried a little, and has told me on multiple occasions that she feels much more comfortable in her apartment now. She had her first house party last week. We played Mystery Date.

sunburn and booze

2011-06-07T13:39:00.002-04:00

summer somehow seems so restorative. i feel invincible during the summer. like anything in the world is possible--and not only is it possible, but it's possible to accomplish exclusively within the three-four months of summer.

which makes it ironic that i don't actually accomplish much during this season. i think i'm so filled with the potential productivity and false-invincibility that i just think, hey--i have so much more time to do that!

mostly what i do is work and drink. and when i'm not working, i sleep-in until ungodly hours of the day, read for a bit, and then drink more. this week i've had a few days off work, so my friend and i hung out outside. i shotgunned my first beer--and then i shotgunned another. and then we went to the bar.

and then the next day we went to the beach and got really sunburned and then came back and went to the bar.

and tonight we're having a bonfire with lots'o'beer.

sometimes it makes me feel guilty--what my life has become. like, seriously? who needs to party this hard?

but i find myself a little obsessed with a certain man and he's the main reason i frequent the bar with such intensity. yes, i know that the situation is unhealthy, and i don't know why i allow myself to become attached to this guy who puts his hand on my leg and holds my hand when a certain (married) someone he's in love with isn't looking, and admits that he likes me but can't make up his mind because he's pining. and i'm pining. and we're all three friends and hiding secrets from each other and it's enough to sometimes make me laugh at the absurdity.

and other times i don't feel like laughing at all, but hold back those burning tears that i hate so much and then take another shot of whiskey like it'll magically heal everything.

and then the guilt comes back.

but i have other friends, like S & J who talk to me with the same feelings of their own life. they just need to get away--from the bar, from each other, from their emotions. they drink more than i do, so i somehow feel better even as i comfort them with insistence that i'm out as often as they are and you know what? it's okay because we're young and this is what we're supposed to do when we're young because when "life" hits we can't anymore. and at least we're not smoking crack or shooting heroin (we're really not).

i need some excitement--some purpose. i need to tap that productivity and do something worthwhile. i need to have another focus. i need more friends.

sometimes i think i need a better me.

how media helps us in real life.

2011-05-25T17:13:00.002-04:00

There's this guy, Nick, whom I met because we're both bar flies. He's super funny, a little loud--but in that adorable dimpled I'm-obnoxious-but-cute-enough-that-you'll-stand-it kind of way--and he also happens to be the sous chef at the restaurant where I work (and as such got me my job there).

A little fun fact about Nick--he's Greek. Which is hilarious to me because of my love for the movie, My Big Fat Greek Wedding (the #1 top (I know--redundant--but one or the other makes it seem as if I'm passing negative judgment on the movie instead of stating a simple monetary fact) grossing romantic comedy of all time), and the scene when the husband-to-be and his parents meet the Greek family...

"Sophie, Carrie, Nick, Nick, Nick, Nick, Nick, uh... Nikki... And I am Gus."

Hilarity!

So, I've always enjoyed this personal inside joke since I found out my bar-friend/coworker Nick was Greek. I've never said anything to him about the movie, because it's probably offensive in some ways that his whole culture has been trivalized into something that American romantic comedy lovers everywhere think they understand.

And I'm SO GLAD I didn't! Because on Easter, we worked together for brunch, and at the end of the day he said, "Happy Easter! Christos Anesti!" And I got to turn around and immediately respond, "Alithos Anesti!"

He looked at me and smiled and exclaimed, "Alithos Anesti! Yeah!"

WHICH I ONLY KNOW FROM MY BIG FAT GREEK WEDDING! (and my auditory memory which allows me to memorize... everything).

I didn't tell him how I knew, and he didn't ask. So I just get to look super cultured.

Yay practical uses of media!

Awkward Things

2011-05-17T18:28:00.003-04:00

About two weeks ago I made a spur-of-the-moment decision to move back with my parents. The past 9 months (irony! (foreshadowing!)) haven't constituted my favorite living situation, and a bit of drama inspired me to pack my bags and skedaddle. I found a new girl to take my room, felt as if I had fulfilled my obligation, and welcomed East Canton back into my life.

So a few days ago my dad and stepmom came to help me move my big furniture. The situation was a little awkward, because the New Girl has already moved into my old room. All of my personal items from the room I had already moved out, so it wasn't as if there'd be confusion of stuff... it's just weird to be traipsing through someone else's space. With New Girl there. Just chilling in the living room watching Family Guy as we pass furniture over her head.

Anyway, I was wrapping up my mugs and glasses in the kitchen when my parents come in and ask what furniture needs to be moved from my old bedroom. I told them the desk and the dresser and that's everything. So they went upstairs...and came back down *without* any furniture. They stood in the kitchen, my dad looking away and my stepmom timidly stating that perhaps they should've brought more boxes...

"What? Why?"
"Well, not all of your stuff is packed upstairs," my stepmom said.
"Yes it is. None of that's mine."
"Even the stuff on the desk or in the bags?"
"No, none of it's mine. Just move the desk stuff onto her bed or whatever."

They leave and do as suggested. About ten minutes later, my stepmom joins me in the kitchen and explains the earlier awkwardness. Apparently, they had gone upstairs for the official move of stuff, and didn't just find any-ole'-average stuff on the desk. They--well, specifically, my dad--found a pregnancy test on the desk. And, naturally, FLIPPED. OUT.

His first reaction was to say, "I'm gonna have to stop down at George's and kick some ass."

(Because, evidently, since George's is where I hang out, George's is where I would get knocked up.)

But, no, I'm not, and no, that's not my test, and he was relieved but as soon as he knew my stepmom told me he was terribly embarrassed and the conversation immediately ended because it's not something dads want to hear about.

And then? Last week? My ex-roommate called and asked me if I had talked to New Girl recently.

No, I haven't.

Well, she explains, New Girl just stated that she's moving out.

She just found out she's pregnant. (Get the irony now?)

All I could do was laugh.

And now I don't have a replacement and am still responsible for rent and I don't even have the convenience of living closer to all my favorite things.

But at least I'm not pregnant!

Flirting Advice

2011-03-25T10:58:00.002-04:00

"So, do you think you're gonna kiss him?" Ann asked suddenly on the plane ride to LA.

Scandalized, I looked at her and muttered, "I...I don't know."

"What? Why not? I know! I know what you should do. I'm going to give you some flirting advice. Do you want to hear it?"

A hypothetical question, obviously. I can't say "no" (even if that's what I'm really thinking), because her tone didn't imply that "no" was even an option. I'm not even sure if it's part of her vocabulary.

"Um..." I started, but she rolled right over my would-be objections.

"This is going to be great. I have lots of flirting advice. Let's see..."

Because, during the duration of Forensics Nationals I had made plans to see someone who recently moved to California. Someone who might have a crush on me. Whom I've been "talking" with, as the colloquial would describe.

Ann, as an older woman with a motherly nature and a maternal interest in me, is obviously intent on this prospect.

This is the advice she gave: "Stare at his lips and touch yourself."

...

It was difficult for me to take her seriously after this catastrophic slip of the tongue. She didn't mean *touch* yourself (even though that's what she said. deadpan. as if it was really what she meant).

"Stare at his lips," she says in all seriousness, however. "Like, look at his eyes, and then his lips. And then back at his face, and then back to his lips. It's very sexy. It let's him know that you want to kiss him. You could even lick *your* lips a little." And then she demonstrated. I couldn't even look at her.

"Yes," she continued, "you should definitely stare at his lips and touch yourself. You know, play with your hair, cross your arms. Touching yourself--"

"Stop saying that!" I whispered frantically, with a giggle ruining the effect.

"You know what else you should do? Breathe his air."

This suggestion, thankfully, *was* a joke (I think. I hope). It's inspired by a particular scene Pride and Prejudice (2005) seen here (at about 3:40):

If you notice, after Elizabeth proclaims that Mr. Darcy is "the last man she could ever be prevailed upon to marry," Darcy moves forward almost as if he's going to kiss her...but he refrains and instead (according to Ann) breathes her air (I must agree it's a great scene. And a pretty scintillating move on his part. But I think it would be less effective for me, especially if I performed it mimicking Ann's rendition....).

She assured me that I should definitely *never* make the ASL sign for "more" if excited (as she used to do excessively and which I have picked up on occasion):

"UNLESS!" She exclaims. "Unless you're *already* kissing him, in which case you *should* make the sign for 'more'!"

"Ann, I think that perhaps if I'm already kissing him, I don't need any more flirting advice."

Also. This? Not exactly what I think would be particularly flattering (not that Ann isn't perpetually beautiful and youthful--I just don't think I could manage the scenario with the grace that she commands....):

So the meeting (date?) comes around, and honestly? It's a little awkward.

The situation overall was strenuous... I mean, he had to sit there while I judged, and then he went to the awards banquet which lasted for a very long 4 hours (because it was poorly run), and he had to sit and watch people he didn't know get awards he probably doesn't care about listening to Ann and I indulge our endless inside jokes that he doesn't know and doesn't care about. So afterwards, when we went to Applebee's, I think he was tired, worried about driving two hours home, annoyed at the situation... and it didn't create a very romantic atmosphere.

Those things don't matter to Ann, though.

"Did you look at his lips? Breathe his air? Copy his movements? Touch yourself?"

No, Ann. I most certainly did not stare at his lips and touch myself.

"Well, that's why your date went horribly."

Obviously.

A letter to myself in the future.

2011-03-22T00:30:00.000-04:00

Dear Self,

Paul once asked you to answer questions for a sociological study. After you finished, he told you that people in their early twenties list their parents and professors as the people who have been most influential in their lives. You followed this trend almost perfectly, and while I'm sure you're unlikely to forget those whom have impacted you throughout your college years, I wanted to offer you a glimpse of the way you used to view the world. Because I, and I expect, you, both believe that self-reflection is the only way to self-revelation.

The following is a list of the people by whom I deem to have been most influenced, and what you used to think of them.

1) Your Mom. Mama. You think her to be the most beautiful, and most terrifying presence in your life. You respect her accomplishments, admire her tenacity, strive to match her strength. You've taken her for granted. You realize this often, and vow to try and rectify it, but you probably haven't. Do something nice for her. Call her for no reason and get her a present (because, you know, we've been taught to buy our way into the affections of others).

2) Ann. She has offered you a haven. She supports your every decision, and while at times you disagree with her, she will always forgive you if you snap at her about it (because sometimes you do that). By the way--did you give her that picture yet? AND--do you finally remember her birthday? It's March 29th, in case you've forgotten (again).

3) Andrew. Arguably has influenced you the most broadly in academic matters. Though he's also done much to increase your no-doubt still failing self-confidence. Send him an email. He'll no doubt say something that will surprise you in the amount of faith he holds in your abilities.

4) Diane. Always had a door open and an ear to listen. Always talked you down from your panic attacks, and always built you up to do amazing things. She'll inspire you. If you're in the area, set up a lunch meeting so you can laugh with her.

5) J.K. Rowling. It may seem ridiculous to list the author of the most popular children's series of your generation, but the truth of the matter is that much of your identity has been molded around your fandom for this book series and the franchise that has come to surround it. Your addictive personality and Rowling's entrancing storyline have been a constant throughout your adolescence and early adulthood; the world of Harry Potter is one of many that have sparked your growing interest in the study of fandom. It occupied much of your imagination and conversations with close friends. You should probably read it again.

Sincerely,
post-college pre-grad-school transitioning alyssa

YouTube is Changing the Way We Date

2011-03-21T23:22:00.001-04:00

The internet has revolutionized the dating world. E-harmony, zoosk, match.com, etc. It's pretty normal nowadays to hear that a couple met online.

I'm still a little uncomfortable with the concept. I mean, I haven't created an online dating profile or anything, but I'm sort-of in the courting stage with this guy, and he recently moved out-of-state, and so there's this whole let's text/call/skype thing happening. Dating via skype. It's still weird to me.

And *then*! Last week after the nationals tournament out in LA, I learned that a competitor from another school in Ohio has a crush on a girl on my team. And in order to win her heart? That's right. YouTube.

It's pretty adorable. And she's asked him to visit next weekend.

But it's weird, because he's able to build this persona that is completely different from what we've seen of him at Forensics tournaments. We seem him every weekend in a suit and glasses, and here he is in the video--with a guitar, no glasses, and a leather jacket (he's probably trying to counteract any uncool speech and debate stigma with a rock-and-roll look).

But he is being very sweet. Good for them.

I just wonder how much it actually works though? Can the internet actually sustain us and our long-distance relationships?

Next year when I'm in grad school, me and this guy will be living on opposite coasts. Skype offers a uniqe change to the problems of email and instant messaging--f2f chat time somewhat relieves the dangers of hyperpersonal overattribution and selective self-presentation. Skype requires immediate responses, so there's not as much time to analyze and be deliberate with your responses. I wonder if it combines the benefits of CMC and f2f conversation, since it's effectively both.

I doubt it, though. Because, regardless, the more often we converse via skype or telephone or text, it establishes certain scripts and episodes that might make us feel like we know each other through those mediums, but once we're f2f (in real time), everything is new and different and awkward and uncomfortable.

At least that's what happened when we saw each other last week. We were incredibly socially-awkward in person. The online-rapport we had developed was essentially nonexistant. (I'm not giving up yet, though).

Perhaps I should take the YouTube approach, next?

what i've witnessed

2011-01-31T00:08:00.003-05:00

I sit quietly, waiting, wishing, hoping, but your eyes don't seek mine. Your smiles are reserved for absent moments, and your comments shared only as an afterthought. I sit here nightly, telling you that I can help, but there's no help for those who wish only for punctuated joy amidst hours of pain.

We're in the same boat, you and I.

I'm evacuating. (so I tell myself)

But because I'm here, and because you're there, and because for now our presents are mixed I can't let go. I know the remedy and I could share the secret, but I know you prefer to remain clueless and helpless.

And who am I to blame? I've never consciously taken the medicine, myself, only been forced to heal through extraneous circumstances. And so it will be again, come August, if I can't make myself sooner.

And I suppose for that I pity you. But I can't fix it for you. (though I will never accept)

the smallest things loom larger than life

2011-01-30T23:52:00.003-05:00

I know I've written about this weirdness a few times (though not nearly as many times as I've wanted), but I can't shake the feeling. It's the longest pervading semi-helplessness I've experienced. There are days when I think it's gone, but it's snaking through the crevices of my mind like a fog that sweeps its tendrils slowly, building, eventually consuming everything it touches.

I'm caught in its gripping fierceness that leaves me completely apathetic, useless, inefficient.

What else can I do?

boring

2010-12-23T13:52:00.003-05:00

Permit me to take you on a banal, mundane journey of How I Know I Am A Boring Adult.

1) When I am feeling reckless, sometimes I'll take a 15 minute shower instead of 10.

2) I have to schedule time into my day to clip my nails.

3) When asked what I would like for Christmas, I ask for things like rugs, curtains, and cleaning supplies.

4) When Ann talks about the vacuum cleaner she spotted at the store for a mere $37, I am immediately tempted to change my Christmas list to include this new steal!

5) When I see that gas has climbed to more than $3/gallon, it ruins my day.

6) I clip coupons.

7) When I vomit, the first thing I think of is how I'm going to clean up (this doesn't happen frequently--I just happened to catch the flu last week).

8) When there is a big snow fall, I'm only worried about shoveling because if I fail to do so the mailman won't deliver the post.

9) The first topic of conversation with many of my friends is money. Money, how much we don't have, when our bills are due, and how we've decided to cut funds.

10) I've dreamed about home renovations, and been properly excited at the prospect of a new kitchen.

The burden of responsibility is sometimes overwhelming.

Fraudulency

2010-12-09T18:51:00.003-05:00

I've been teaching a course for beginning filmmakers for an afterschool program called CAE, which emphasizes educating youth for alternative careers in the arts. There's a lot about this program that I think is valuable and fascinating and really important for the urban children who are enrolled. I think that believing in them and getting them to think about the possibilities for their future that are outside of the box to which most of them are unfortunately confined is incredible. I believe in the program. I believe in all of the program's initiatives. I'm happy to celebrate with the collaborators in the new grant we've been awarded from Arts in Stark.

And I *really* like my students. I admit, I've been intimidated by the prospect of teaching youth. I witnessed a few of the CAE rehearsals for their production of The Whiz (which recently has been traveling to local high schools because it was so well received at Timken back in October), and the students were rowdy and, inevitably, at times disrespectful and rebellious. I don't have a particularly commanding personality, and I'm completely untrained in discipline and education and interacting with a roomful of adolescents and budding teenagers.

My class initially included 6 girls (Tiana, Ceterra, Rachel, Karah, Kamryn, and Kayleigh), though it has recently dropped to just three because of basketball and cheerleading and other extracurriculars that take precedence. And, I was right--I have, on occasion experienced a bit of teenage rebellion. During my second class, I asked my students to write stories based on characters from news articles, and one girl must've been feeling particularly anxsty, because she refused to write anything down.

"That doesn't look like much of a story," I told her passive-aggressively.
"It is," she snapped back, barely looking up from her page of doodles, "It's a story of pictures."
"Okay," I conceded, "but I would really like you to have it written in words before you leave."

A few minutes later, she persisted with the non-writing. So I calmly, but firmly, insisted that I would really like to see words on a page before she left.
"Okay, fine." She said, and subsequently retrieved another piece of paper, on which she wrote, "words on a page."

I sighed. Felt completely incapable of moving forward without an all-out brawl. I decided not to say anything, because I didn't want to spark a shouting-match (because, really, what can I actually do to make her complete the assignment?), and instead let her continue. I told her once more that I would really like her to write out a story, and eventually she did write something down, but... I knew this wouldn't be the end of my troubles.

And sure enough, the following week one of the girls had a break-down. The three remaining in my class are sisters, and as a result the classes are either really progressive, or really destructive. And the middle-sister left the room in tears, while the eldest insisted she was going to move out and the youngest worked diligently on her storyboards.

I followed the girl in tears, rubbed her back and tried to tell her that, indeed, she has talent and is a valuable member of the class. She was feeling completely inept--crying and telling me I didn't know what it was like to live with them, that she's stupid and can't write stories and can't do anything and that's why she's in the stupid class at school.

Once again? I'm completely unqualified for this job.

A friend and mentor has told me on multiple occasions that the feeling of fraudulence will probably remain prevalent for at least the next twelve years. Though for some reason I think that the socialization of women will probably dictate that I experience this feeling for the rest of my life.

Two days ago I received an email that my thesis, which I submitted to the Broadcast Educators Association National Conference in Las Vegas, was not only accepted for inclusion in the BEA convention, but won 2nd place in the Debut category of the Gender Issues Division. I was completely surprised, am still astounded, and have been humbled by the praise that I've received from academics for whose work I hold tremendous respect.

And today? (Ridiculous...) I received a phone call asking if I would participate in an interview on the radio about the award.

Even in the midst of great affirmation and validation of my work, I can't help but think things like, "The email is probably a spam..."
"Did these people even read the paper?"
"There were probably only two entries, anyway."
"I probably plagiarized on accident and will be thrown in academic jail."
"I'm not going to be at all intelligible on the radio."
"As soon as I say the word 'feminist' everyone will turn off their radios."

Which is probably why I feel a secret joy in restocking the shelves at Bath and Body Works, where I know I can't be fraudulent while moving lotion and body spray from the wall to the table, from the understock to the wall, and from inventory to the understock. Where I can feel silent pride in the fact that I'm now an "award-winning" author, but don't have to live up to anyone's academic expectations.

It may be safer for me than allowing myself to get wrapped up in self-aggrandizing arrogance.

Oh, Don't Worry Readers. I'm not forsaking my education in order to continue working retail. No matter how simple replenishment might be, I still know that in approximately two weeks I will feel stale. And I know when they're just making up jobs for me because--how can many people does it really take to stock the shelves?

I just hope one day I'll be satisfied with who I am, within all of my strengths and weaknesses, and can recognize authentic value in my work.

dark

2010-10-28T13:26:00.002-04:00

The lingering smoke from my friend's drag stifles the air, filling my lungs with cough and nostalgia. It's cold, but the season feels welcoming and I desire change. The people around me make subtle movements to warm their bodies. I stare at the parking garage, the abandoned building, the downtown street that has become so familiar and wonderful over the past few years.

I love this place. This bar, this street, this town. I'm a regular, and with regularity comes familiarity which brings certainty and likeness and love. Involvement and intentional, driven work has brought me to a place that feels like I'm part of something here.

I thought that feeling of Being, of Connectedness, of Togetherness would increase and magnify as I pinned up posters around my first grown-up, rent-paying place of residence. I thought that paying and living in town would help focus my energy and really make me feel like I had stock in the city. But as I enter the house and receive a casual nod from my roommates I realize that it makes me feel less and less welcome here.

I flee sometimes, and go back to spend an evening with my parents. But even there I feel like an intruder. It's been 4 years since I've really lived there--the summers in between spent in late nights around the city and crashing on friends' couches.

With my feet straddling two places, and my body feeling connected to neither, I'm worried about the remainder of the time that I have to spend here. Will it get better? Should I make more intentional efforts at getting to know the roommates who seem less and less likely to care about my existence as the days stretch on and I spend more late nights out?

Driving for long stretches of time just for somewhere to go isn't exactly working well on my pocketbook. Neither is frequenting the local bar where I flirt with another local who's unlikely to return affection. Not to mention the atrocious sleep-schedule I've adopted with late nights, late mornings (or afternoons), followed by pre-dawn starts to 12 hour work days when I travel out of town on weekends.

These bar excursions have become the only constant in my hectic world of freelance work. Something habitual gives me an incentive for the end (or sometimes middle) of the week. I see the same bartenders, hang out with the same people, and feel something other than lost.

Sparks fly from the cigarette he threw into the street. An arc of red almost perfectly framing the neon light above us, which flickers and goes out: the light has gone out--on our fellowship, on our time, on my thoughts. In the dark, I drive. Just for a place to be.

A Candid Post Discussing Why It Sucks Being A Woman

2010-10-15T01:41:00.002-04:00

Recently, I've developed a flirtation (yes, with a man, Mother!). Nothing serious or even remotely in the direction of a relationship. Fun, flirty banter in which attraction is expressed but not acted upon. And this is satisfying for me: not, however, for my mother.

Luckily for Mom, she has a friend (we'll call her Joan) who knows a man who likes "curvy" girls (that's a euphemism if I've ever heard one). Joan sends a text message to this mystery-man (whom they call "Johnboy"--seems like strike number one), and she says, "Hey, I know this girl--cute, curvy--I think you'd like her."

Or rather, it probably read something like, "yo i kno a grl q-t & ( o Y o )"

He responded by stating he's not really interested in a gf right now. So Joan, quick to solve my single problem, asks my mom what size bra I wear. And for some awful and inappropriate reason, my mom concedes. Joan texts simply the bra size to her friend, to which he responds by saying, "Wow, I have to meet this girl."

My mother then exacerbates things by insisting Joan send Johnboy a picture of me. The first picture can find was taken about 4 years ago, and is a clearly doctored picture meant for myspace--you know, b&w, high contrast, taken in front of the mirror. They send him this image, and he says, "This girl is damn hot. I'm free every night this week."

And yet, my mom doesn't understand why I'm leery about meeting the man who isn't looking for a girlfriend but who can make time for a bra size. That's fine.

That's not even the worst of it.

My mom is thoroughly excited about the prospect of a man in my life--I'm pretty sure she's trying to get me married before my feminism turns me gay--and is giving me advice on how to hook him.

"Oh no!" she exclaims suddenly, "You've been working on losing weight-- you don't want to lose too much, because then he might not like you." This coming from the woman who, a mere six months ago, explained to me that I needed to lose weight because I'm already intelligent and men don't like that and she doesn't want two factors working against me in the finding-a-man game of life (well, at least there are only two factors, right?).

Then she explains how I should dress nicely and not wear anything artsy because we don't know if he would like that.

"Do you know you're going against everything I believe?" I stated.
"What?" she asked innocently.
"Dressing differently in order to entice a man because he might not like who I really am?!"
"You're right," she sighed--no doubt worried that I've screwed up the make-believe relationship she's already created for me in that muddled head of hers.

Later, she's so excited that she brings up the prospective son-in-law (not if I have anything to say about it!) again, expressing joy and happiness for my now-more-fulfilling life, and exclaims, "I think it's a really good thing for you--you should definitely be with someone who likes big boobs. Otherwise it's just a waste."

A waste.

Should a man not admire them, then it's a waste of a perfectly good set of breasts.

My mother has never said such offensive things to me in all my life. I'm perfectly disgusted by this stranger sitting in our living room.

And all I can think of is, if this would ever work out--which, how could it possibly?!--then I would be forced to remember that the reason we started dating was because my mom texted my bra size.

Ah, romance.

that quarter life crisis thing

2010-10-08T00:55:00.003-04:00

This is probably the worst decision I could have made.

My opportunities are better here.
I'll accomplish so much.
I'll make a more educated decision.
I'll have a break in which to cultivate goodness of spirit and soul.

Or I'll become apathetic, lethargic, and lose all sense of purpose. I'll experience no sense of belonging. I'll lose my friends because of my inherent inability to care for other people. I'll stop caring about myself, too. I'll be so intent on my own self miseries, that I'll be forgotten. And you know what? I'll kind of like it. It'll make it easier to feel sorry for myself.

A Challenge

2010-09-30T17:36:00.003-04:00

When I was younger and would leave something out for longer than my step-dad though appropriate, he would hide said object. Like my bookbag. I would leave it by the kitchen table. This was out in the open and considered clutter, so Russ would hide it in the basement or in the garage to teach me a lesson (a lesson I must not have learned very well considering the frequency of which it occurred).

Needless to say, I was always angry and indignant. Not only was he messing with MY STUFF, but he was refusing to actually say anything to me about it. It's not as if he approached me with a carefully articulated concern that I could in turn respond to respectfully; he simply took action without communicating. This contributed to my continual anticipation of upsetting him, since his wrath always fell without warning.

Over the past month, I've come to realize that the influence of living with my parents has had much more impact than I ever thought or wanted. The rules, the expectations, the norms are ingrained so deeply that I'm frustrated when my unknowing roommates do not adhere to them. Thankfully, I'm the type of person who can acknowledge that my expectations are different from theirs, and that I shouldn't hold them to standards they couldn't possibly know.

But seriously, I can only be understanding to a certain point.

I am not a neat person. I am very unorganized, and I collect absurd amounts of books, movies, papers, candles, etc, and these things are strewn about my room in a manner that is messy, but I know where things are.

HOWEVER, though I may not be a *neat* person, I *am* a clean person. I like things clean. I don't like dishes in the sink, or dirt in the bathtub, or mud on the floor, or lint on the carpet.

My roommates apparently don't share the same values. Which means that I have been the only person to mop the kitchen floor, tilex the bathroom, vacuum the carpet, or--yes--do the dishes!

I kinda like cleaning, so this isn't completely horrible. There's something mildly calming about visually seeing the grime lifted from its perch, but when I'm cleaning lots of grime that doesn't completely belong to me and the people I'm living with don't even pretend to care about cleanliness, I get a little miffed. Plus, I don't want to start patterns that lead to their expectation that I will always clean up after them.

Tonight, after about two weeks of leaving everyone else's dishes in the sink and only washing my own, I finally caved and washed them all. A sinkful of dirty dishes inhibits good habits, and mostly just irritates me when I see it. So, despite the protests of my friends, I cleaned the disgusting mess in the sink (I couldn't bear the smell anymore).

And as I washed my *brand-new* pasta pot that I haven't even had the opportunity of using yet because it's been soiled for so long, I thought,

You know, they're probably just going to use this again now that I've cleaned it. They won't even learn. Maybe I'll hide it somewhere...

!!!

Appalled with myself, I put the pot in its rightful place, and called that we have a house meeting to discuss things that aren't working for us.

In the Details

2010-09-30T01:39:00.001-04:00

(Cross-post from Wading)

Towards the end of my semester in Oxford, I tread the trails to and from lecture with submission. It was essential, it was doable. The walk had become familiar, and even though it was still long and tedious and, after a while, mundane, it was also a chance for me to think and listen to good music and get some exercise.

Since it had become part of my daily ritual, part of my quotidian flow one might say, it became nonspecial in its transitionality. It was a necessary part of traveling from point A to point B.

So I trudged along and anticipated the hot tea I would make when I got back home. I stared at the sodden trail and kept an ear open for passing bikes. I kept my head down and my feet moving.

Boring, right?

Right. It definitely could be.

But sometimes in the midst of ritual and mundane, I would look up for an instant over the bridge I was crossing and catch a glimpse like this:

Or I'd take a new path, and I'd see this:

Or I'd get to walk to tutorial at just the right time to catch the sunset illuminating the spires in the distance, turning this:

into this:

You know what I realized? This blog was like that, too. Sure, most of it is mundane and tedious, but when you look up and pay attention, you can witness unexpected and startling beauty.

I need to know that you can accept that.

2010-09-22T20:40:00.003-04:00

My mother likes to refer to our relationship as, "just us girls." Even though post-divorce there were many psuedo-dad's in line, my mother was very protective of me and we were very close. She took me everywhere, being unable to afford a sitter, and so the constant-companionship began. As a toddler and budding adolescent, the constant presence of my mother wasn't something that I disputed or resented. It was comforting. I existed in a web of protection.

My mother experienced--I imagine--an odd sense of pride in her parenthood. She was my sole idol, and could revel in the adoring eyes that sought her solace, approval, and joy. I think, perhaps, she didn't anticipate anything ever changing. I think in the light of her flawed childhood, she expected to completely rewrite the scripts of parenting that she resented. I don't think she knew how these episodes would, eventually, turn on her. I don't think she expected to become as dependent on me as I once was on her.

"Remember when you used to think I had magic hands?" she asked me not too long ago. When I was a child and we would be walking towards an automatic door, just on the verge of it opening she would spread her arms wide and exclaim, "OPEN SESAME!" (Or, as I came to interpret it, "Open Says Me!"). I'm sure I giggled and my eyes twinkled in awe of the awesome being that is my mother.

She looked wistfully at me. The subtext of this memory was clear: "Why don't you look at me like that anymore?"

It's not an altogether strange thing for a parent to appear magical to their children. In fact, in a way, I don't think I ever stopped believing my mother was magic. It just became a different type of magic.

While, it's true, I don't believe that she's as all-powerful as I once imagined, I do respect and admire her for so much else she's done. I admire her ability to have lived such a unique and successful life in the face of so many tribulations. I think her life is full of various magics that I will never fully understand.

But I don't think that's as appealing to her.

Balancing autonomy and need is not something we have perfected.

A Dream

2010-09-16T17:36:00.006-04:00

My roommates approach me, in a pair, as usual, and look down at me seriously.

"I think we should talk about the rooming situation," says the first.
"Yes," adds the second, "the rooming situation needs to be talked about."
"Oh?" I reply. "Do you not like your rooms?" I feel disappointment and a spark of hope. I don't *particularly* like my room--it's big and open, and it doesn't yet feel like mine because I'm still anticipating, hoping for, a roommate. And I figured them switching with me would relieve me from having to share a room with a stranger... But I kind of liked the space, the beautiful lighting, the ample wall space for posters and art.
"Well," says the first, "I feel a presence."
"A presence?"
"A lingering presence in the rooms," says the second.
"Like--like a supernatural presence?" It feels suddenly cold.
"I don't like it. I don't want to be in my room anymore," says the first. The second nods her agreement.

What I don't want to tell them is that I have felt a presence, too.... The space hanging between the door and the bed would feel thick, but arctic, and goosebumps rose on my arms.

"We'll... figure something out." They nod emphatically, and the skip together out the door and down the road, arm-in-arm.

That night, I lie in bed, thinking about the conversation and the undeniable fact that our house is obviously haunted by demons. I can't help but send a curse at Taylor for mentioning demon possession. And yet, as soon as the surety of the matter hits me, I'm positive that it is not true. There is a presence, that cannot be denied, but it is not a violent presence, not a demonic presence, not evil. I hear a noise.

"Ramses!" I cry as I sit up in bed, and from the shadows emerges a large Indian man, clad only in cut-off shorts. Relief fills me as I make room for, not Ramses, but the now miniature dog to lie on my pillow.

I lay back down, but almost as soon as my head hits the pillow I hear a noise downstairs. I quickly follow it, Ramses-the-dog at my heels, and arrive--in my mother's kitchen, where Bethany is doing dishes. In her underwear.

"Why are you doing dishes?" I ask her, apparently completely unperturbed by her lack of clothing.

"I can clean when I want to," she says with pride.

"Okay, well, where are my parents?" I know that they aren't at the house. It's intrinsically obvious.

"Russ asked me to clean."

As if on cue, Russ walks in and starts yelling incoherently about Bethany cleaning. I mutter about how absurd it is for him to ask someone to clean, and then get angry when they do what he asks.

The bathroom is broken. It's being renovated. This is suddenly important. I try to ask Bethany about it, but Alyssa is suddenly there telling me how cool my mom is.

"You smoked with my mom?!" I accuse, and push her. Alyssa is very upset that I pushed her, and I quickly apologize and explain that I *meant* to push my mom. Only I don't get a chance to push my mom because she is explaining how we are in hiding from a murderer. She wants me to put a fan outside her window to act as a scarecrow, only I get distracted by Melanee & Marisa, who are also staying at my house to hide from the murderer.

There is a knock at the door, and it is Andrew. He hands me friendship resignation papers. I cannot talk to him because he might be the murderer.

"The bathroom is broken," I tell him. "It's being renovated."

I receive a text message. It's from Nate. He's becoming a prostitute.

I receive another text message. It's also from Nate. I don't find out what he says, because I am waking up.

Damn Mallory for texting me at 6 am.

You are in the backyard.

2010-09-05T23:20:00.002-04:00

I am in the backyard. I don’t know how I got here, lying on my back in the patch of grass that once preluded the deck of grandeur showcasing my parents’ sharp and unexpected rise to prosperity. I lie still, recalling with reckless disregard memories of my childhood. That Christmas I begged for a sled, and joyously welcomed the snowfall with flushed cheeks and burning lungs. “Come on!” I waved at my parents, begging them to join me. They stood inside, not daring the cold, drifting in and out of view. A dusty picture in the upstairs cupboard the only evidence of my fractured enjoyment that day.

I remember my trampoline which used to stand here, but was taken away after puberty, my father claiming, “Your childhood is over.”

I remember learning to pitch, throwing for hours until my arm was sore, but not making the varsity team.

I remember chipping golf balls towards the property line, perfecting one part of my otherwise faulty game.

And recently, how I meant to host a party to showcase pride in our home, my achievements, our family, but was told it was presumptuous and rude.

Past and present swirls and bombards me in waves of racking emotion. The weight of them presses me to the ground, unrelenting, refusing to let me rise.

This patch of ground has born witness to many small disappointments (small but overwhelming in their combined efforts to immobilize my otherwise contentment)–it is only natural to assume it would do so now, again, in refusing to share its secret with me.

Church

2010-08-05T01:22:00.002-04:00

I've attended lots of different kinds of churches over the years. My dad was Methodist, my mom was Pentecostal, and the new girl at school who convinced me to join her was Brethren. I've been to Baptist churches and Lutheran churches and Reformed churches and Independent churches. I've usually gone on my own--and by that I mean it wasn't a requirement when I was growing up. My mom, deeply resentful of the Sunday morning rituals imposed upon her growing up, refused to subject me to the terrors of early-mornings, long sermons, pantyhose, and hypocrites.

So I was surprised on Saturday when my mom suddenly asked if I would accompany her to a new church the following morning. I've asked her on countless occasions to go with me to church--requests she has continually and adamantly refused. Still, I nevertheless quickly agreed that I would gladly go with her to this new church.

The pastor is the husband of one of my mother's co-workers--and he also happens to be a nearby chief of police. She seemed quick to appease the personal request of the chief of police, and so we found ourselves (lately) arriving at a renovated house in the...well, ghetto.

Ideological differences aside, the experience wasn't regrettable. While I was hyperconscious of certain rhetorical tactics, it nevertheless kept me in (semi)rapt attention. Mostly because I was keeping an eye on my mother.

She likes to share her thoughts as soon as she has them, when usually protocol calls for respectable silence. When her coworker stood up to sing (and she was a really great singer), my mom started trying to catch her attention.

"Stop it!" I whispered.

"I just want her to know that I'm proud of her," she said, in a voice a few notches louder than I would've preferred.

"Talk to her after the service. You'll make her nervous!" I pleaded.

She finally stopped squirming. Late in the sermon, the pastor was apologizing to the congregation because he had failed to invite anyone to church that week.

"Last week I invited five, but unfortunately this week I was lax in my discipleship duties."

Before I could say anything, my mother's hand shot into the air and she stated indignantly, "You invited me!"

The pastor, no doubt shocked that someone has just raised their hand in the middle of the sermon and was not proclaiming to be overcome with the spirit, looked at my mother blankly before recovering and stating, "Well it looks like sister Robin has been evangelizing at Aultman!"

My head had dropped at this point and I found myself wishing I wasn't sitting on the end of the row and could move somewhere--anywhere--and somehow avoid the overwhelming embarrassment I felt. But thankfully we moved on quickly.

Before I knew it, I was in the middle of a Real Live Altar Call.

I've never witnessed one before! I stood there, amazed that this man (who literally thumped his Bible) was employing lots of persuasive strategies to entice us towards him. I kind of wanted to walk towards him--but I also vehemently denied the desire. My mom looked at me, and I knew what she wanted.

"I think I should go," she said, with tears in her eyes.
I nodded. "If you think you should go, then go."
"Will you go with me?"
"No."

I felt guilty and determined. I wanted my mom to be able to do this if she felt she wanted/needed it. But I also knew that going myself wasn't going to make me feel anything but smarmy. She asked me why I didn't want to go.

"I've walked this walk," I told her. And it's true. I committed my life to Christ-like love a long time ago, made the decision to be baptized, etc. But I was nervous because I thought that maybe my balking would make her feel less capable of making a religious commitment.

Sadly, I have to admit that I knew if I walked up there, then the rest of the congregation was going to believe me a sinner and would swarm me after the service and express their gratitude that my soul had been saved and I didn't want their assumptions. I suppose I could've accompanied my mother to the altar while motioning towards her and mouthing sympathetically at the deacons that "IT'S HER FIRST TIME!" while nodding and rubbing her back reassuringly. But that felt like more of a betrayal.

"I'll go if the music starts up," said my mom. As if on cue, the music started playing immediately.
"Is that my sign?" she asked me. I shrugged.
"Oh, alright," she acquiesced, and walked past me up to the front of the room, where the pastor stood waiting.
"C'mon, Sherri!" he exclaimed, and welcomed her into a huge embrace. I started to weep.

I was a little amazed at myself.

As I expected, after the service there were many people who wanted to welcome my mother into the Family of Christ. One man came up to her, assuring her that things were going to change drastically. He asked her to concentrate on the one thing she wanted from God.

"Think hard about it," he said. Then he reached up, pressed his fingertips to her forehead, and *pushed*. Hard! She would've toppled backwards if he hadn't grabbed her arms quickly and pulled her upright. He slapped me on the back and said, "Good to see ya, kid."

My mother, alarmed at the attention everyone was giving her, wiped the tears from her eyes and said, "Let's get outta here." We sneaked out the back door, and once on the road she turned to me.

"Well. I don't know if we'll go there every week."

dinnertime

2010-07-14T17:32:00.002-04:00

Sometimes I make radical decisions about my lifestyle and am determined (usually for about a day) to uphold this newness. Like earlier this summer I was going to do yoga at sunrise every morning, but that clashes with my late-night sleep schedule which often has me going to bed at sunrise, so that didn't work out.

Today I decided that I would go vegetarian for a while (except for eggs, because I fucking love eggs). Like maybe a month or something. It's mostly rooted in the realization that I rarely eat fruits and vegetables, and that I should be healthier in my eating habits. In my head I was imagining a fun and exciting endeavor--buying fresh veggies and cooking them in exciting ways and realizing a newfound appreciation for garden fresh foods.

What I forgot when I was shopping and preparing to make my delicious vegetarian meal, was that I don't cook. I wish I did. I'm avoiding saying "can't," because I'm still holding out hope that one day I will be awesome at cooking. My great-grandma, my Nana, and my mom are all fantastic cooks, but due to circumstances and divorce and school and work, my mom hasn't exactly been able to pass down those family recipes and tricks or general knowledge about the art of food preparation.

So, when I attempted this afternoon to make my great-grandma's tomato gravy, it was an EPIC failure. My plans for a delicious poached egg covered in tomato gravy and avocado quickly deteriorated, and turned into scrambled eggs covered in flour-goup-with-chunks-of-tomatoes, salsa, and wrapped in a grain tortilla.

The flour-goup-with-chunks-of-tomatoes was disgusting, kind of paste-y, and no matter how much seasoning I added, it just kept expanding like the freaking blob. I have an entire saucepan full of inedible goup.

But I couldn't just *not* eat it after going through all that trouble. So I scarfed some down, and now my stomach feels heavy. Like it's been turned into a cement mixer. It feels like the bile has failed to break down the goup's molecular bonds, and has instead added to the goup's strength, which continues to expand and soon will work its way back up my esophagus and become its own entity.

I should've just made chicken.

Fireworks

2010-07-07T21:00:00.004-04:00

It was the 4th of July weekend and I was driving on I-77 N toward my friend Nate's house. Along the way, surprisingly--though not unexpectedly--a flash of fireworks erupted above the sound barrier to my right. Just one flash, and it was over.

I thought for a second about the people who were setting them off. They were probably enjoying their night, having fun with family and friends, and they probably didn't think at all about the five of us driving along the highway who stood witness to their joy.
The other people I was sharing the road with probably thought about their own celebrations, the fireworks they had witnessed, perhaps their appreciation or sense of futility about it all. Regardless, at that moment, we were all unconsciously, fleetingly connected. A network of strangers experiencing the same thing, and though we will never meet, the universe has probably already provided us with thousands of other connections. I'd like to think that's how the world works.

Suspicions

2010-06-06T17:17:00.001-04:00

When I was seventeen, my parents got me a car. I was immensely grateful, and definitely conscious of the classic "mommy buys everything" stereotype insinuating upper-middle-class status and snubbing from my rural-based classmates. Thankfully, that same year Danny came rolling in with a brand new Durango, thereby long overshadowing my 1988 Buick Park Avenue.

That first car of mine, Ralph, I named him, was...troublesome. I liked it. I put an embarrassing "I speak Parseltongue" bumper sticker on the back of it. I was mostly appreciative of the vague sense of freedom it gave me. But it was a piece of work, with a broken gas gauge, an alarm that went off sporadically (and sometimes rendered it immobile), an unopenable passenger door, and a tendency to break down. The power steering went, there was a massive oil leak, the brakes went out (as I was driving). It was a mess.

At the end of my freshman year of college, I upgraded to a 1995 Chevy Blazer, which I have also come to love. Bertha is her name. Purple with white stripes. Recognizable from anywhere. I drove to NYC with it, and that was my last big road trip with that vehicle. It overheated shortly thereafter, setting a path for many radiation problems in the future. Had it towed. The heat doesn't work. Nor the AC. The CD player only randomly. It started smoking through the vents once. Two flat tires. Towed because it refused to start. Brakes went out (while I was driving).

So my mom recently got a new car, and has permitted me to drive her jeep. I was ecstatic--I've always loved the jeep. Relieved, I assumed my car-problems were over.

But what kind of blog post would that be?

Yesterday, following a week of escape to Bethany and Justin's, I had just started my journey home when I felt a disconcerting rattle. Assuming it was the tire that has been recently leaking air, I decided to stop at the gas station just up the road. But I didn't make it to the gas station up the road, because the rattling worsened, and suddenly the tire FELL OFF. I heard the awful, gut-wrenching crunch of the doohickey hitting the pavement. I came to a stop, looked around a bit dazed, and out the passenger window I caught the last glimpse of my tire rolling into the trees, over-and-over before toppling to its side.

I sat. Said fuck a few times. Tried to calm myself before calling to explain the situation to my parents.

As I got out to retrieve the stray tire, I felt the strongest sense of deja vu than I've ever experienced before. As I looked at my decrepit vehicle, I had the strongest "memory" of a tire falling off before. Yet while I have experienced a wide variety of car problems in the past, I haven't ever had a tire actually fall off.

My parents were dismayed, though thankfully the harshness of Russ's anger was more subdued than usual. Perhaps the sheer absurdity of the situation overruled his usual irrational blame.

"I just don't understand how this could've happened, Alyssa," he said to me.

Well I don't either! What is the likelihood? *How* can I have such absolute colossal bad luck with cars?

Justin came and waited with me until my parents arrived. The studs broke off, so safely reattaching the tire wasn't an option. We called a tow truck, and led the way home. On the way back, my mom shook her head, baffled.

"You know," she said, "when you started driving the jeep and it was having tire problems, I said to Russ that I would hate for the tire to just come off. I remembered one time it happened when I was driving in Dover, and I watched the tire just roll past me through the intersection. we just sat and laughed, but I didn't knock on wood." She said the last part with such disappointment.

You see, my mom is a firm believer in knocking on wood to prevent unpleasant imaginations. It could follow a direct statement, like "Don't get pulled over!" (Knock on wood). Or it could be inferred, "Directly after she saw that white cat, she received a phone call that her sister died." (Knock on wood. Followed by a knock on wood every time she sees a cat with any variation of white coloring). Sometimes it's not even articulated--we're just sitting there, Mom thinks something she doesn't like. Knock. On. Wood.

It's not just a casual flick of the knuckles on substance, either: there's a method to it. First, it has to actually be some form of wood--though she will settle for paper. Then, it's at least three knocks from each hand. Not at the same time--three on the left, three on the right. More depending on the severity of the event that might occur. Always in multiples of three.

I used to adhere to this suspicious belief. The evidence is rather compelling in my household. But recently I've been considering the deeper implications... Do we really think we could alter the events set in motion just by knocking on wood in a particular sequence? It's sort of the reverse of the "name it and claim it" mentality.

And what really got me thinking was my overwhelming sense that I "remembered" the event that was currently happening. As if when my mother made her statement and failed to knock on wood, she sealed that fate for me with such unalterable surety that it was embedded in my subconscious.

Such Big Ideas! It probably didn't helped that I had just seen Alice in Wonderland (the new Tim Burton version) which subtlely wrestles with issues of fate vs choice, and ultimately never actually answers which force wins--the script, or the ones who make decisions in spite and because of their knowledge of the script. My sense of deja vu? Kind of hints toward some script. My mother's incessant knocking on wood? Adheres more towards choice (both in that we have the power to speak things into action, and also to prevent it).

We made it home safely, and the jeep was fixed this morning.

But then I brushed my teeth at the sink, and the pipe broke and water spilled everywhere. My mom shook her head. Later, I went for a bike ride and the handle bars came loose. I laughed hysterically.

"You just break everything, don't you?" My mother said.

"Well, at least I didn't break myself!" I stated jovially.

And then I spent the evening bed-ridden after an innocent stretch popped my back into a painful, worrisome repeat of an injury four years ago.

You know what? I didn't knock on wood.

post-grad dilemma

2010-05-28T23:36:00.002-04:00

Even though I both *ought* and *want*, the obligation of the *ought* is overwhelmingly deterring me from doing.

Vacation

2010-05-19T16:13:00.002-04:00

A week of rest and relaxation in the Outer Banks? Yes, please. 7 women piled into a van and drove 11 hours to a rented house for the week, planning for fellowship and fully intending to experience and enjoy il bel far niente.

We planned about one event a day, and our first day our event was grocery shopping. And I was okay with that, because the whole week we enjoyed delicious homemade meals like artichoke pizza garnished with olive oil and parsley, grilled chicken quesadillas and homemade guacamole, cheese tortellini with chicken bacon and peas in alfredo sauce, and hamburgers with fried zucchini. Each meal was accompanied by appropriate drinks--pizza and beer, quesadillas and beer, pasta and sangria, seafood and wine, burgers and beer, beaches and beer. (we did also drink water.)

We traveled to the Dunes and jumped off sand. We had long hours of girl talk and game playing. We read books and sunbathed.

We walked along the pier and relished in the soft sunset glow.

A lovely feeling of freedom and release. The hope of a promising future ahead.

That Was Overdramatic

2010-05-17T20:25:00.002-04:00

I'm confronted by lots of...shit, it's true. And I also feel very helpless in how to adequately deal with it a way that's appropriate and un-alarming.

But I also want to recognize that everyone is dealing with their own shit. I don't want to rob anyone of that feeling, or make it seem like mine is worse and therefore more worthy of attention.

That being said. Let me be a little less-ambiguous (but not completely explicit...because this is the internet, after all). Some people very close to me have issues. And because dealing with our own issues is scary, I'm the main instigator in attempting to get help with and for them. But that simultaneously makes me a savior and a villain, which are both unflattering positions to be in. I find myself either suffering under tremendous layers of guilt or blame. Mostly I just feel unsatisfactory.

And on top of that? Serious blows of bad news. Guilt-trips permeating from a passive-aggressive parent who holds grudges forever. Self-realizations that complicate my perception of how I should continue in personal interactions. Doubt.

Did I mention I kind of want to run away...?

On the bright side (since this feels like a Very Heavy Post), I read three books on vacation! And I spent time on the beach! And I ate great food! I got sunburned, but not over-painfully so! That will be my next post. A beach-filled wonderment post.

On Second Thought,

2010-05-17T19:33:00.000-04:00

Maybe all journaling does is bring up all that shit and make you realize how shitty it is and fuck it to the comforting thoughts your rational self tells you about how it could always get worse, because LOOK it's now in WRITING and just look how SHITTY it all is and it's not like you can just go about sharing all this shit with someone else because it's your journal for chrissake.

Oh, yeah, I'm fine, btw.

Just wishing I could run away because I'm conflict avoidant.

The Best Thing About Journaling

2010-05-14T13:30:00.002-04:00

This week I've mostly attempted to catch up on the various emotions that swirled by during the tornado of my last few weeks at Malone. It was an emotional hell-hole where I felt lost and confused and angry and sad and delighted and guilty and righteous and doubtful. I had two big fights, one with each of my parents. One right before my thesis presentation and one right before baccalaureate. Both left me in tears, and then anger rose to fill the emotional void which the tears depleted.

Unable to do much in the responsibility-laden end-of-semester-madness, I bottled it up and moved on. Now, in retrospect, I have processed the problems of both confrontations, mostly in the ways in which all involved parties decided to deal with it. Disappointed, I poured out my thoughts unabashedly, only with slight fear that a particular parent might encounter the writings later. Honesty to myself (my anticipated future journal reader) felt more important than fear of an unsatisfied potential future audience.

And because of my ability to put forth these feelings, I have released the anxiety from those situations. Obviously their impact has not disappeared, and I can still remember those feelings, but writing them out and processing is cathartic. I wasn't even finished describing what happened when I felt forgiveness afflict me. The worst was documented. The motivations of participants understood (as far as I am able to understand another without knowing their mind). The anger released.

Relief. An empty slate to approach the unresolved conflict. Hopefully.

I should probably burn the journal, though.

Have you ever tried to physically extricate yourself from a dream?

2010-05-14T11:12:00.002-04:00

That's all I can describe about this morning's experience. I was caught in the mix of a horror film chase sequence, running and hiding throughout this abandoned hotel, jumping into and around broken elevators, dripping blood, seeking escape, scared in a non-nightmare sort of way (I don't really know how I wasn't sweating with night-terror profuseness), when my mind felt like it was being pulled. I was sleeping, and like slow motion the dream extended as if I was literally tearing it away from my unconscious. When I opened my eyes, I wasn't surprised to find myself awake, only adjusting to the strange feeling that briefly eroded my head...

Rest.

2010-05-04T23:01:00.002-04:00

I think perhaps my self-induced insomnia has caught up with a fierceness. The past two days I can't make it past 6pm without collapsing for a nap. And now, at the mere hour of 11pm, I find my eyes heavy and my body aching for bed...

Direct a play? Check.
Forensics Nationals? Check.
Honors Conference? Check.
Film/Edit movie? Check.
Finish Thesis? Check.
Portfolio? Check.
Print/craft all photo projects from the classes I stopped attending? Check.
Finish undergrad school?!?!?! Check.

Party?

Nah. Sleep....

Family at the Film Festival

2010-04-24T19:10:00.003-04:00

The 8th Annual Open Frame Film Festival was last night. My film, Keepsakes, premiered along with 10 other amazing shorts made by some very talented young filmmakers. The Film Festival has been by far the most anticipated event of my college career. Even back when I was a freshman, when I loved movies but was still tentative and thought that I would never be able to actually make one, I loved the festival because there's a magic to engaging one of my favorite pop culture activities & seeing people I know star in and create them.

Last night was the perfect culmination of emotions for my last participatory Open Frame. I created a film with lots of friends, but was granted the unique opportunity of including my mom and nana in this art that captivates me. I, for once, got to see the delight and appreciation on their faces of an art they don't appreciate in the way in which I've grown to see it. They were invited to be a part of something I have great passion for, and we collectively contributed to a piece of work that I think we can be proud of.

And even more delightful was seeing my nana's reactions as she watched these movies--the way she would gasp, cover her mouth, look around in surprise, and laugh out loud at humorous moments that resonated with her in particular. It was an amazing mixture of nostalgia, anticipation, and presence in the Now.

Really great night.

I thought you finished that already?!

2010-04-21T18:53:00.003-04:00

After more than a year of preparation, research, interpretation, analysis, doubts, and joys, today I turned in my honors thesis.

It's a strange feeling to turn in something that has dominated my thoughts for so long--or at least been simmering in the back of my mind. My friends are always astonished when I say that I have to work on my thesis, exclaiming, "I thought you finished that already?!"

On some level, I don't know if I'll ever be finished with it.... I've devoted so much of my time to investigating this topic, and I'm sure that I'm going to encounter texts that set me right back into that critical lens. I know that I'm going to be doing at least a few edits, and probably working with the paper some more--but on a bigger level, the research has impacted me just as much as I've crafted it. Isn't that strange?

After I released my near 50 pages into the hands of my advisor, I felt an astounding sense of freedom. My portfolio? Integration paper? Reflection paper? Pfft. Ain't no thang.

And it came at such perfect timing! The afternoon sunlight was streaming and reflecting and making such beautiful colors stand out vividly and complementarily--I got to see the leaves of the changing season bathed in beautiful splendor. I felt like I was seeing it all with fresh eyes!

I know that there's more work to be done. And I've enjoyed the work I have done. I feel like I've crafted something meaningful. I'm also thankful of the momentary release from the grips of this particular responsibility.

And with all these thoughts on my mind, I waltzed back into my room--where I spotted a discarded note about adding a source to my bibliography. Oops.

I Hate Birthdays.

2010-04-14T01:06:00.003-04:00

Well. Maybe that's a bit of an exaggeration. I love the thought of birthdays. The expectation, the thought of celebrating life and relationships. It all seems super great.

But the past few years have severely dampened my anticipation.

I don't know exactly what it is. It's not the thought of getting older that daunts me. I really *want* to be able to embrace getting older. I don't want to mourn the appearance of every wrinkle or gray hair. I'm determined to defy culture and embrace my aging.

And I'm still young enough that the thought of getting older is kind of exciting.

So why do I dread birthdays?

I think that the expectation is paralyzing. Birthday celebrations were always a big deal when I was growing up. It was that special day when everyone celebrated You. Grandma's house was decorated with streamers, and everyone wore party hats, and there was homemade cake and presents. Being an only child rocked.

But as the years passed nothing could meet those early expectations. I tried over and over to re-created the magical feeling that accompanied my special day. But when you're overweight and socially awkward, middle school doesn't exactly render itself to magical birthday experiences.

So I guess I'm fed up with the inability to adequately celebrate. Every year I convince myself I'm satisfied with a relaxed birthday of non-celebration, the casual acknowledgement and appreciation. But the day comes and something just doesn't feel right. I don't know why.

I don't have anything of importance to share or claim. Just the uneasy feeling of non-happy birthdays. Not *terrible* birthdays, either. Just not... not... just not ?

I'm thankful for another year. And looking forward to when I can leave this simmering disappointment behind.

Forensics Nationals

2010-03-26T01:01:00.003-04:00

A few weeks ago I attended Forensics Christian Nationals at Ceadarville University. I didn’t really want to go, but I felt obligated to—both to other people and to myself. I felt like it was important to see the event through all four years of my college career. Forensics became my “thing”—what I devoted myself to, practiced, enjoyed, sacrificed for—and I did genuinely love it for a lot of those years. But this past semester has been extremely taxing, and my sense of potential and fun and friendly competition was entirely depleted by the surrounding responsibilities and activities and how many things were clamoring for attention in my life. I had a lack of passion, insufficient practice with the pieces I did pull together, and the absence of both those things make for a very long weekend performing against polished competitors in front of critical eyes that always make me feel under the worst possible scrutiny.

One thing that was good about going on the tournament (and there are many things, I’ll talk about more later…), is that it brought some sort of closure to my forensics experience. It was, admittedly, an entirely different tournament experience than any of the previous four years, considering everyone on the team was new and it was a completely different dynamic than the “team” I had been a part of for the first three years. For the first time, Mallory and Phill and Will weren’t competing alongside me. But there were also a remarkable number of similarities. The fact that once again I was piecing together—this time three pieces as opposed to the usual one—in the hotel room the night before. The unfortunate recurrence of my ungracefulness in the fall I took on the first day, reminiscent of the tournament my freshman year in KY when I fell, both occasions busting open my knee. And, most unfortunate, the fact that on Friday night, I lost my black book. Last year I lost my black book. At Nationals. Also on Friday. And both times it was the first time all season that I forgot it somewhere.

I’m sure that this seems like a very simple thing. I mean, even looking back—and even in the midst of the crisis—I wonder, Why am I so freaked out about losing a little black book? Well, it’s initially terrifying because the black book is my script—it’s what saves me when I lose a line, it’s sort of a prop (sure, against the rules, but everybody relies on their black book for gestures or emotional page turns and book tricks…), it’s *required* in order to compete. But I think the most horrifying thing about losing a black book is that I now have to tell my roommates, the freshman members of the team who are supposed to be looking to me as a leader, that I am irresponsible and lost my book. I have to tell my coach that on top of fighting her every step of the way to nationals this year, on top of the half-ass performances I’ve been giving, on top of the attitude that’s no doubt steeped my every word, that now I have also been careless enough to leave my black book at the restaurant and now I must go and retrieve it.

Just one week following the tournament, I was home for spring break and determined to get lots of storyboarding finished for the movie I was getting ready to film. I got up early one morning and prepared myself for a long day of productivity and creativity and was feeling really good—until I searched through every one of my bags and realized that I had no idea where my binder was. The one with all of my film materials in it—the started and blank storyboards, the stripboard, the prop list, the set list, the script, the shooting schedule… I had lost it. I made a trip back to my dorm, assuming that I had absentmindedly left it on my desk, but it was nowhere to be found. Dread filled me as I realized all the hours of work I had already put into this project were now semi-irreplaceable. I felt my respectability as a director flying away from me, I knew that if I didn’t complete this work then other people were going to sacrifice much more of their time in order to compensate for my inadequacies.

Two days ago I went to bed at 5 am, too worn out to attempt yet another all-nighter, desperate for some sleep, and climbed into bed with half of my assignment done for class. I got up at 8 am, finished the assignment, went to class, skipped chapel (despite the fact that I actually have now created more work for myself because I’ve skipped so many chapels that I need to make up the credits through reflection papers), and started reading the article assigned for my next class. But during a meeting about discussion questions for a post-play, I realized that I read the wrong article. And that the assignment actually required a reading response—and for the first time in my college career I failed to submit something for class. I felt disappointed, but also as if I was a disappointment.

I’m overwhelmed by my constant adherence to the perceptions I think other people have about me. These things aren’t tremendous, or tragic, but they feel so Big because I’m not the sort of person to not follow through. I’m not the most organized person in the world, but I have priorities when it comes to the work I need to get done, and I do it. And then when I don’t—I feel…like the repercussions are insurmountable.

They’re not, though. Not really. I’m sure that this disappointment is not the first that the people in my life have suffered, and it’s probably not the worst. While I don’t like being any sort of disappointment, not even a small one comparatively, I must come to terms with the fact that I, just like the rest of humanity, lose things. Forget things. Get confused. Fail.

And the reason I know that this is okay?

Because through my failure at nationals I was able to devote all day on Sunday watching my teammates' pieces, encouraging them through their first breaks into finals, affirming the value of their stories.

And through losing my binder (though I did find it later in the back of a friend’s car—but I was still behind in the work I had meant to get done), I had to relinquish control. And that felt scary and uncomfortable, but it also opened the doors to collaboration, which I recognize as extremely important within student films and also to engaging the creativity of others.

And through failing an assignment? It’s still a difficult thing to admit and acknowledge in myself—that I am capable of *not* doing good work…but it also required me to rely on others in the class. It gave me the freedom to listen without constantly contemplating my own response. It gave me freedom from the restraint that grades often place upon me. I still did the reading later that evening, but was ultimately more engaged because I wasn’t just scouring it for the main points.

Mostly it made me realize that failing happens. And that it’s not the end of the world when it does. And that people are still filled with grace, and acceptance, and love—despite my inability to adhere to their prescribed (by me) expectations.

Edit: Re-titled this post from "things that are okay" because, for some reason, it's been spammed like once a week.

Unfinished sentences from blog posts I've started and then saved for later but that I can't remember the point of anymore

2010-02-08T03:36:00.001-05:00

A brief release from the differing loneliness that plagues us

we spend the day mostly on our own

I will drop over at the other house and talk about movies, art, and

and strangers on the street would convince me for a second that they were

wondering if perhaps derrida is right, as i read words in different contexts t

she had passed out of their region. She was no longer innocent,

looking for familiarity

Finally, fed up with the lethargic way I've

when feeling particularly motivated to write and create, most of the mundane daily activities are transformed into

simulacrum, typing in the library, scholarship

One of my friends decides that he wants to follow this professor, stating, "I want to go down there and be Christian Bale!"

just as freaked out as mom, he unplugged the lamp and unscrewed the lightbulb

i want to write. but i can't.

i'm sick of my repetitive grammatical quirks and ineloquent sentence structure.

He waved to other kids, to adults, to people

I'm a cold and heartless bitch.

I do, however, think that it has become so natural that we no longer notice the stifling consequences of making ourselves through our

Lately, I've considered that my self-

i don't know if i'm doing the right thing

christmas cards

2010-02-08T02:13:00.001-05:00

In a homemade Christmas card, I received a list of ten things likable about me. Among many wonderfully encouraging things like affirming my graciousness and my sense of style (VANITY!), #6 stood out most:

"6. The way she loves her momma is just beautiful."

I think that number 6 is one of the most apparent things about me, once I start talking and my stories emerge. I'm incredibly proud of everything my mother has done and accomplished and of our unique relationship. My mama has had a huge influence on me--and like any parent-child relationship, ours is filled with good and bad, things normal and idiosyncratic, mostly with love. She provides me with the most material to think on and to write about. She has had the most direct and traceable impact on my life, personality, mannerisms...

But some times I worry, because I think (because of various reasons) she and I have developed a sort of misplaced reliance. I don't really know where I fit without her, my independence has barely developed, and in some ways I think her life is the same. And I know some of that is normal, but some times it scares me.

Especially when I am so determined to spread my wings.

How can that work? When the semester I was away became a time of exploration for me and a period of depression for her? How can I ever leave knowing the anxiety it might cause? Especially when I know my love is not enough to sustain her?

just a lot

2010-01-30T01:08:00.001-05:00

I remember these moments. These days, weeks of borderline depression. The tears constantly brimming at the corners of my over-make-up-covered eyes (because no matter how often I get "annoyed" with makeup, not just the process of putting it on every morning but the overall idea of women needing to supplement their looks, I still get more compliments when i'm wearing it than not--but even *that* is annoying because the people aren't complimenting *me*, but instead lavishing praise on my ability to mix colors and apply artificial accents to my face, so that, in a way, it's actually an *insult* to say that my face isn't good enough to receive appreciation without painting over it. Which I don't necessarily believe to be true--at least not all the time. I have, miraculously, begun to feel more self-confident than I ever have previously, despite my many flaws, I think I've adopted a feeling of "well, so what? this is who I am. and if no one else wants to accept it and be a part of it, that doesn't mean I shouldn't, because hell--I'm the one who has to live with me forever." Right? But, I greatly digress...)

These days and weeks that I find myself struggling to keep a smile on my face, though forcing myself to do so anyway, I wonder if it's always been this way. When these times pass, I forget them--they're far away and removed, and it's only upon their return that I remember the tears and screaming that plagued me before. While I cannot recognize a strong pattern--it doesn't seem to be linked with any hormonal cycles, if that's what you're thinking--I think I can finally pinpoint where it stems from.

From what I recall about my semester in Oxford, there were days when things weren't awesome, sure. There were days when I cried because I was stressed or angry or lonely. But I didn't suffer from such long stretches of emotional turmoil.

Or maybe I did, and I just can't remember because the grass always looks greener on the other side.

Well, now that I've second-guessed myself, it seems like my original hypothesis might not be entirely true. I think there are elements of truth in it, though. Though I still must acknowledge outside factors, too, which inevitably affect any situation.

I think that I have these black-days (here used to encompass the pervading feeling over the past three weeks) most often when I involve myself in too much.

There, I said it. I have taken on more than I can handle.

Which might seem ridiculous, because I've taken on more than this in previous semesters, and still survived...but I think even in those semesters I have had to sacrifice something. And in particular this semester seems worse because of the brink of something big and new and scary on the horizon.

They always say that it's your junior year when you're most productive, because senior year you become absorbed with looking towards the future. I never wanted that to be true for me, but I knew it was even before this semester began. Last semester I was overwhelmed with the bombardment of lectures and meetings orchestrated in order to "aid" us in this very difficult next step. My parents, friends, random acquaintances are all interested in what I'm going to do with my life.

It's not me who has taken the focus away from this my very last semester at Malone, but everyone else! This is not me trying to avoid responsibility by employing an external locus of control, but simply acknowledging how impossible it is to *not* become preoccupied with the incipient "reality" that's facing all of us last-semester seniors.

As I was pulling together my Oxford semester, and trying to answer their difficult questions of "what's next", it felt like this last term at Malone wasn't even happening. It didn't feel like a part of life. It's a small, insignificant step to the rest of my life--that huge abyss of unknown.

Taking a class all about it does *not* feel helpful right now. It probably will later, I'm not denying that, but for now--looking towards the future, trying to decipher which "voice" to follow, thinking meta-ly about the Quarter-Life-Crisis all culminates to one big panic, not a joyful semester reflecting on what I've done during my time here or being present to enjoy these last collegiate memories.

The future! The future?! What the hell, man. Since when is our five year mark out of college supposed to include our most monumental achievement, a career that we love, a husband and/or wife, baby(ies) on the way, a house, nice cars, benefits, and a 401 K? As we senior comm majors move about the room and describe our day five years from now, I'm astounded by how specific their ideas are. I think I've been conditioned to know that life is never what we expect, and even though it goes against every logical, wise-decision-oriented molecule of my being, I know that trying to set such specific goals is going to be (most likely) overwhelmingly disappointing. So as everyone else describes their perfect suburban lives, I sit back and kind of embarrassingly say, "I hope I'll be writing and still single."

To which I see shocked faces, particularly from the engaged and seriously dating peers, and some disdain from those who have their lives meticulously mapped out.

"Writing?" They ask me with their eyes. "Yeah right."

And SINGLE? What words of blasphemy coming from a student at Malone University, motto "ring by spring".

But since when do we need to add all the pressures of finding that "right person" on top of everything else we're trying to sort out? I spent the first year and a half of college pining after my own idealized version of one guy, which we all know is never a good thing. I had one good semester-and-a-half of single-ness, a summer fling that led to a first-hand experience of cheating, and then set my sights on another guy who is undoubtedly a wrong fit, yet whom I had pursued and yet again experienced harsh rejection in the form of sincere "friendship".

Seriously, though, have you ever looked at the guys Malone breeds? They're not exactly my cuppa, anyway. And while I'll not deny that I want companionship, it's not imperative to my immediate existence, whether I have it or not should not define my worth as a citizen or as an individual, and I can survive and function just as well without it.

So my goal for this semester is: to focus more on the experience, not be so obsessively concerned with work and with grades (while not sacrificing it too much, so that I can finish my thesis), stop comparing myself to others and trying to define my worth that way, finish the obligations I've already committed to but take on no more, talk about what's hurting, spend more time with the people I care about, listen for God, accept help, be pro-active, and most of all, I hope to breathe.

a mother's birthday celebration, that includes the selfish indulgence of her family, and loses the focus of celebrating her, which makes me feel like a bad daughter.

2010-01-29T22:56:00.001-05:00

One of the things I love, is when I'm sitting in silence in the living room, my mother in the cabin reading a book, the dog violently throwing about the latest toy we bought for it's cute factor (the cuteness by this point significantly lessened by the relentless SQUEAK emitting from it every half second), and I let the dog outside for a moment of *peace* and *quiet* for me to indulge my whatever activity that usually requires relative silence for my overall enjoyment (movie watching, textbook reading, journal and/or blog writing...).

That stretch of time I always wish to suspend for longer than it ever actually occurs. But it's a moment of such relief, such hope, such expectation, a potential for MILLIONS of good things/discoveries/revelations.

That is, until, the door opens, the dog tears in chasing after the cat who has come cautiously into the open in the same relief I was relishing, followed by my stepdad who makes some sort of degrading comment about how I can finally pick up the slack and do something useful with the animals. It normally revolves around food and either my consumption of it, or the animal's lack of it--as if those two are integrally linked to one another.

And what I love about *these* moments, is how perfectly hypocritical they are. How much do I *love* when father-figure condemns me for letting the dog out and not watching her, particularly after I've spent the entire day playing catch, and entertaining, and FEEDING, and taking time out of MY WORK in order to keep her occupied and not ruining the house, since she is essentially equivalent to a giant, hyper, two-year-old child.

And how much I love when he lays that condemnation down, despite the fact that his day consists of 8 hours at work (which I am in no way trying to lessen its importance, or its ability to tire), and then an evening drinking beer and watching whatever sports activity (and admiring his half-naked cheerleader posters) out in the garage, away from the family, so removed that I don't actually know anything about him as a person because he's spent most of my childhood evenings in his pornified man-cave. How much I love his assertion that I do nothing productive around the house (in the gendered interpretation of his mind that lectures me on vacuuming and laundry and dishes, and that so long as he shovels the driveway it's my duty to be domestic--as if I didn't shovel the driveway and take out the trash every time they went on vacation and the house was left under my charge for weeks at a time).

How much do I LOVE when my moments are interrupted for his bitching about *my* eating habits, even though he flips on the TV and interrupts my current activity, the commentary invading every thought and every sentence I try to read, as he goes in for seconds and thirds and even FOURTHS and new meals that are in addition to the food he ate during our "family" dinner that also took place in front of some basketball game.

Because men get what they want, and women sacrifice their sanity, their emotions, their wants, their space, all for the satisfaction of the head of the house. Even on their birthdays.

or i'll just write other stuff

2010-01-26T16:46:00.001-05:00

Every once in a while, when I'm writing a particularly challenging paper that forces me to delve deeper into who I am as a human being, rather than investigate and analyze data, my suspicions begin to raise.

What could you possibly want with this information?, I ask the instructor in my head.

How is sharing this really personal story going to help me understand this class any better?

I mean, I know it obviously can, and does, open up doors of perception and understanding, but I can't help but indulge a sneaking suspicion that after my paper is turned in, the faculty members gather together, and have story time...

"Guess what *I* read today?! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

Uproarious laughter at the expense of us poor, hurting college students....

On Days Like Today

2010-01-10T19:07:00.001-05:00

evening star in the snow, originally uploaded by aussie259772.

I wish my eyes could be a camera shutter.

No matter how many pictures I take, I can never capture the brilliant sun, the sparkle of the snow, the vibrant blues of the shadows...

Compared to the real thing, the picture is always inadequate.

i had this dream last night

2010-01-10T17:11:00.001-05:00

Like any normal dreams.

All of us (so complete a group that I can't even differentiate one friend's presence from the next--it was natural, seamless) were headed toward some gathering. Football, concert, I don't remember.

I lagged behind, getting caught in the crowd, unwilling to step on toes and push around others to keep up. By the time I got to the arena, the people in front of me were being turned away for lack of seating.

Disheartened, I started away, steeling myself to sit alone once again.

Up until this point, I never would've thought this a dream. It's so perfectly like reality. Only too often have I tried to fade into the background, sacrificed myself, a sullen martyr, playing the victim.

Camus writes, "I longed to be forgotten in order to be able to complain to myself. [...] Once my solitude was thoroughly proved, I could surrender to the charms of a virile self-pity."

Well, perhaps not virile. And I don't know if I would necessarily agree that I long to indulge in self-pity. But I identify with the feeling, the resignation. I think the appeal is whether or not I'll finally find out if all my fears are true--that indeed none of my friends care for me as I do them.

But in my dream! In my dream, I didn't sulk away and sit alone. My dream had a different ending. At the last minute, as I was turning away, the group, the entirety of the group, stood in the bleachers and called out my name.

a not-so-subtle metaphor

2010-01-03T01:30:00.001-05:00

My grandparents call me their little world traveler. Nana is particularly fascinated, vaguely envious, oddly resigned. She comments on how amazing it is that I have the opportunity to travel to places they'll never go.

It *is* amazing, I know that. I'm incredulous at the luck that's come my way. Studying at one of the top institutions in the world. Living in a city of amazing historical significance. Seeing Stonehenge, Hampton Court Palace, the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, the British Museum, Notre Dame....

I KNOW. It still feels like a dream.

A dream that, for me, always becomes remarkably real right after landing, when I step off the plane and realize that there's luggage to reclaim.

Luggage. The most distasteful, stressful part of travel. On my trip to Paris, when we first arrived, the awe factor was severely dampened by the fact that we were dropped off in the center of the city, had no idea where we were staying, and were forced to walk the city and travel the metro with suitcases in tow.

Both trans-atlantic flights were preceded by days of stress; packing and organizing and worrying about the pains of carting it all around or the the sinking realization of ever-rising likelihood that my bags would be too heavy.

And luggage is so attached. It's not as if I could ever dispatch of it. In Paris, as Mallory and I attempted to travel to our various housing situations, it was a constant worry. Why do we inflict such inconveniences upon ourselves?

Physical luggage is tangible, observable, though emotional luggage holds the most influence. We cart around our emotional luggage with the same ownership and obligation. Ironically, it was after I arrived back in Canton, when I could finally throw my bags on the floor of my still-high-school-geek-fan-boy-esque-adorned log cabin bedroom, that even though I had the comfort of knowing the place to be forever mine and no immediate major transitions to anticipate, it was after that release that I had to own up to emotional baggage I hadn't known I needed to carry.

New Years, for me, was spent in parts. On the first of January, 2010, I had brunch with friends, played board games at Borders, was caricatured by a stranger, watched a dollar movie, and played cards at random bar. My friends and I spent the first half of the day ignoring responsibility. We indulged in what we wanted to do. None of us had to work, none of us wanted to part.

As the day wore on, it was as if the myth of the New Year, the myth of New Things, dissipated as we walked towards baggage reclaim. Two dinners to appease family, two trips home to comfort mothers--we were pulled apart one-by-one, checking name tags and once again adorning the luggage that pains and defines us.

It's not always bad, acknowledging our emotional luggage. Luggage makes things possible in many practical ways. Abandoning it completely might allow for a brief hour or two of freedom, but would ultimately create more stress.

I guess the sudden appearance of new obligations has taken be by surprise--I've had no time to get used to operating under such heavy implications.

And so instead of embracing, I've been revolting. Hoping that if I postpone acknowledgement, I can lessen its effects. Cynicism has overtaken me this holiday.

Happy New Year.

It's so sad to see your story end.

2009-12-20T15:16:00.001-05:00

They changed the policy for end-of-term check out times. One of the many changes from previous years, some good and some bad, but that's another story. This particular alteration meant that everyone on the programme was granted an extra three days stay at our houses so that we might enjoy the city of Oxford without academic pressures.

Considering I had lived there for three months and had yet to do any of the toursity things, I greatly appreciated the extra time to explore. But it also meant that instead of a goodbye of grandest scale within 12 hours of the final, closing remarks from Simon and Dr. Rosenberg, we had three days of torturous goodbye sessions. People trickled out of the programme one by one, no one knew who was next, some were going on to further travels, some just headed home, and all of us were stretched between anticipation and reluctance.

My last two nights in Oxford I spent over at Crick, making dinner and enjoying fellowship with Kate, Sam, Arielle, Susanna, Hans, and Betsy. Kate and I laughed and mixed ingredients and ate our unexpectedly edible meals, played music, talked about art and poetry, and I mostly regretted that our free-flowing friendship hadn't developed earlier in the semester.

While walking home the night before I left for Ohio, I marched through the lamp-lit Mesopotamia walkway while listening to a random mix on my iPod. Ironically, appropriately, "Ohio" by Over the Rhine began to play in the midst of my efforts to memorize everything about my last walk through Oxford.

Have you heard the song? If you haven't, you should. In fact, you should just buy the album. But I'm getting ahead of myself (though this particular album is titled Ohio, too). To listen, go here.

I smirked as I sang along in my head to the lines, "I know Ohio like the back of my hand" and thought about how soon I would be back on the back roads of familiarity and nostalgia. My smirk faded slightly as the last lines rang through my reverie:

"It's strange to see your story end
How I hate to see your story end
It's so sad to see your story end"

As the final chords reverberated, I realized the truth that suddenly hit me; the realization I had known but had evaded its materialization. For a moment I thought about the end of my term at Oxford--an end that is unconvincing. I'm not satisfied saying goodbye just yet. A professor told me to think about places I want to see when I go back--because he's certain I will be back.

Rather, the truth of the matter is: Ohio's story is coming to an end.

For me, personally.

I mean, I love Ohio. I've lived here all my life, I feel strong ties, and I'm fond of all its quirky elements.

They say that once you start traveling, you get the "travel bug". I suppose I have. Because even though I looked forward to my return to Canton, I know now that I will be unsatisfied if I stay here forever. This is not where I'm meant to live out my life, and if I do stay, I'll feel stuck and resentful.

Whether I end up in England or California or freaking Antarctica is yet unknown.

But I have to go.

It's sad, but in a good way.

It's Done! (Sort of)

2009-12-10T19:47:00.001-05:00

After 8 weeks of intense research, volumes of reading, thousands of words written, this afternoon I finished my last paper for Oxford.

On the day when I should feel most free I have:

- slept one hour

- missed a train to London

- ran to catch a later train to London and Twickenham Stadium

- watched a rugby game between rivals Oxford and Cambridge

- marched down city streets among a mob of rugby fans

- caught an early train that ended up doubling my time for various unfortunate reasons

- watched brave performances of open mic night volunteers

- mingled and wrote notes in memory books

And now, in the confines of my room, instead of collapsing, I dig out my thesis proposal, and read....

lesson 1

2009-11-17T12:26:00.001-05:00

When abroad, try, try, try to avoid the massive gaggles of Americans you're associated with. Americans are rude. And for some reason, when in large groups common sense seems to abandon even the most logical person. Standing, wide-eyed and confused, they linger in the middle of walk-ways, they crowd in front of doors, they refuse to walk further than five feet from the group, and they stop abruptly in order to get the best snapshot of the most remote objects.

And never try to fit in with the culture around you, because your immediate crowd will give you away in two seconds.

Like, if you're on your way to a choir rehearsal with five other Americans who have decided to go, too, and one of the current choir members is directing the traffic towards the appropriate rehearsal room, and says, "Take a right there, follow the path and when the lights stop the building is on your left."

And you happen to nod and give an appreciative, "Cheers."

This is a mistake, because no sooner does the word leave your mouth than your companions exclaim, "You just said cheers!" in excited voices of disbelief that you have so mastered the colloquial term.

And even though you cringe slightly, smirk, and offer an embarrassed nod, they continue on this endeavor to stand out as much as possible by wondering aloud at the strangeness of the semantic use of the word, "Cheers." In a very loud voice. Despite the fact that there are lots of English people, who use this word on a daily basis, walking around you.

This might ostracize you from the "natives" around you.

Hypothetically, of course.

a processing post

2009-11-01T10:38:00.001-05:00

Two Thursdays ago we found out about the approaching Monday deadline of our long essay proposal, which consisted of: research question, an elaboration of our question which would set it in historical contexts and explain why it was significant to study and give some information about the theoretical progression of the subject, a list of primary sources and a discussion of their authors' lives, a list of secondary sources that did the same thing (paying particular attention to their credibility in the field), a discussion of methodology, a list of 20 sources in proper citation (and where they're located in the Oxford library system), and a book review that we had to summarize and cite.

My weekend was, obviously, devoted to this massive project. Monday morning and early afternoon I spent at the library reading Sigmund Freud and Judith Butler for my critical theory essay on gender and sexuality, and then that evening I finished scripts for the OFFF deadline. I crashed with an intense migraine.

Tuesday I was back at the library. Wednesday I had multiple meetings planning for our Halloween Bash, and then that night I read and wrote and read and wrote and didn't sleep until 8:30 am (on Thursday).

I woke at 12:30pm on Thursday afternoon, dove into reading the primary text for the next essay that was due Friday afternoon. I read half of it by midnight, and started scanning through secondary sources in a pathetic attempt to get a coherent essay written without having read the entire book. I accidentally fell asleep at 5 am (Friday morning), and didn't wake until 10, at which point I rushed to get ready for my tutorial at 11 (where I actually got surprisingly AWESOME feedback from my essay on Cixous and Butler that I had been up all night Wednesday writing...).

Between the two tutorials, it became quite clear that finishing the paper was futile. Sure, I could make it to the word limit. But in no way would it be adequate. I trudged up to my meeting room, where my tutor looked up and immediately remarked on my frazzled appearance.

"I didn't finish reading the book for this week," I admitted.

"Oh! Well why didn't you email me?!" She exclaimed. "We could've rescheduled until after you've finished."

I think my shock was apparent.

"You're supposed to enjoy the book! And nothing ruins a book more than, 'Oh, Dickens--hurry up and kill Nell, I've got a paper due tomorrow!'"

I was still dumbfounded. I explained how I had a rough week, and I was really sorry, and it wasn't from slacking off, I really did spend lots of time in the library devoted to reading and writing, and she calmly shushed me and assured me that we all have weeks like these, and that I should just go back, spend the week reading at a leisurely pace, and simply make my essay a bit longer than the specified word requirement, "Which you've been doing anyway, so I'm not concerned about having you write a make-up essay."

We spent the rest of the hour talking about Harry Potter, Twilights the movie and book, Christianity, and feminism.

What grace! Forgiveness! Deadlines not as important as the learning! She wants this to be enjoyable! She's concerned with the process, not the product!

It's so rejuvenating, energizing--I want to go read!

film showings

2009-10-30T20:17:00.002-04:00

On Mondays from 4-6 in Lecture Theatre 2 at St. Cross Building, Oxford offers a broadly titled "Film Showings" lecture which I've been religiously attending. Last week, as the lights lowered and the opening credits began to roll, I felt an overwhelming contentment.

this--this is what I love. i love that i'm here alone, that the darkness encompasses all but the screen, that i'm not sitting next to a stranger, that i'm watching this for credit, that i'm completely clueless as to what's about to happen on the screen, that the colors are so vibrant, that the music is already sucking me in, that the world is foreign, the characters new, the story not mine.

The narrative unfolded, I was swept away, I was engrossed, I had to cover my face (but not my eyes!), I had to cling to something, I cringed, I cried, I sat, devastated.

When the administrator flicked on the lights, I quickly wiped my face, dropped my scarf from it's position covering my mouth to keep myself gasping aloud, quickly grabbed my bag and began walking home.

The entire experience of watching BBC's Compulsion was emotionally taxing, shocking, twisting, corrupting, consuming, terrifying, shaming. Feelings raced through me, coursing through my veins, pulsing in pace with my trudging legs as they brought me breath by haggard breath towards my expected emotional hell.

By the time I got home, I had sweated out the most of my sense of disturbia, and though I yearned to process, the re-telling didn't inspire the resurgence of turmoil I felt during the watching.

And it made me wonder--why do I watch films? For their ability to create an emotional realism that exhibits experiences foreign or familiar--for their ability to make me feel. For the worlds they create. For the stories they tell. For the images. The altered realities.

But--is that--is that bad? Do I watch them so that I can receive an emotional uplift, so I can feel something when I'm not feeling anything? Is the value of film rooted in their ability to create this in us, or is this an effect that warrants caution? Do I use films to satiate myself? Can one ever be fully sated?

I've thought that the part of me that creates is potentially dangerous, a part that might seek recognition above seeking an outlet for creative expression. I've always worried about a tendency to gravitate towards rejoicing in my creation because *I* made it, not because of its inherent value as a representation of God's world.

And that worry has made me cautious to pursue "filmmaking" as a career, ultimately because I worry about my intentions for doing so. Admittedly, an element of fear, fear of rejection and failure in a highly competitive field, has also been a contributing factor toward my pursuits of film *studies*, but perhaps it is there the culprit lay.

Or maybe there is no culprit. Maybe I'm deconstructing too much. Maybe I'm...thinking too much.

I like the experience of watching movies... too much?

signified

2009-10-19T09:22:00.001-04:00

in preparation for my first tutorial, I spent all day in front of my computer writing about critical theory. The paper was a discussion and analysis of structuralist theorist Saussure's and post-structualist theorist Derrida's explanation of signs, signifiers, and signifieds.
And as midnight approached and the realization dawned that I had yet to get my picture of the day, I thought that I would apply what I was learning to my blog.

So, I took a picture of my computer, and on the screen you can see the paper I was working on, and the picture of my wall collage I took a few weeks ago to represent my homesickness. And behind the computer you can see the actual collage. Except, it's not really the actual collage, because it's a picture of the collage.

And in fact, the collage itself is just a series of signs that aren't full representations of the people they're meant to signify. The signified concept can never be fully present because the signs are inadequate representations that gather meaning more from their difference from other signs, and therefore meaning becomes eternally deferred by an endless chain of signifiers.

Says Derrida.

He says a lot more, too.

I say that meaning is culturally constructed, not defined by some absolute truth, and therefore it is unfair to place the expectation that signs (whether audible, visual, linguistically, etc.) should signify some absolute meaning. I suppose I'm agreeing with Saussure, then, and his "arbitrariness" of signs argument.

Though my tutor pointed out that Derrida is not discomforted by the eternally deferred meaning, but rather finds it liberating. And he thinks more that signs interact with each other to form meaning, and are not so much part of societal constructions.

Um. I'm learning lots.

making good

2009-10-17T10:08:00.001-04:00

Much like mid-semester mornings back home, I violently silenced my alarm, and then rolled over, and suddenly (inconceivably) I had only ten minutes to spare before I needed to leave in order to walk to my lecture on time. Dressing quickly, angry at myself for yet again failing to rise and accomplish many morning tasks I had set for myself (stupidly), I grabbed my bag and rushed out the door.

Keeping a close eye on my watch, I saw the time slipping away and the distance to the EFL magnifying, but thankfully I did make it to the lecture theatre just before they closed the doors, but I was so late that seats were unavailable. Sitting on the floor, in the back, unable to see the lecturer, and barely able to hear over the shuffling papers, coughing fits, and shifting of butts against pleather bench seats, I longed for the small, intimate classrooms of Ohio...

As the lecture let out, I wound myself through this confusing building, realizing that I only had five minutes to find my next room, weaving in and out of other, experienced students, a little bitter that I was reduced to freshman status once again, finally found my Austen lecture. I sat next to someone from my programme, and felt lucky that I wasn't the one who opened the door five minutes after the hour--but when I looked up to see the culprit, my eyes met with the most beautiful man I have ever seen. I watched him walk and sit directly across from me on the opposite side of the room, and I felt the smallest satisfaction that I now had the perfect opportunity to allow my eyes to linger on his beautifulness (which, yes, inevitably, he caught me in the midst of and I felt really embarrassed but not in the slightest remorseful).

He didn't talk to me after lecture, and I could only linger so long before it started to get awkward. My life is not a restoration romance novel. And that's okay. I spent the rest of my walk over to Frewin Court hoping that he'd be at the same lecture next week, until I realized that in my rush that morning I had forgotten my keys. With no access to our offices, yet still with two hours to spare until the next lecture, I walked over to the park to catch up on some reading.

It was an absolutely beautiful day. A little chilly, but the sun was out and shining magnificently through the trees. I selected a bench underneath an oak, looking out into the football and rugby fields, and started plowing through Jakobson's Fundamentals of Language. After about fifteen minutes, I was colder than was comfortable, and so despite the footsteps of the Oxford townspeople walking on the park paths (and my usual fear of "what will people think?!"), I crawled out into the clearing.

I propped my bookbag under my head as a pillow, and took out my book, until eventually, warmed by the sun, lulled by the breeze and steady steps of passerby, I drifted off to sleep.

language barrier

2009-10-10T19:25:00.001-04:00

We sit eating croissants in a park in Paris, waiting for a phone call that will lead us to our next destination, using our luggage as a table, ignoring the overwhelming smell of urine that seems inescapable in this upper region of the city where our hotel is.

A man walks up to us, and asks us a question in French, and gestures with his hand. We look at each other, and then back up at him.

"I'm sorry. We don't speak French. We only know English," we say somewhat in unison.

He stares at us for a second, and then says something else, looking at us earnestly, gesturing more broadly, and then looks hard once again.

We shrug.

He scoffs, shrugs, and walks away.

"What if he was trying to rob us?"

the aches and pains of a rainy day

2009-10-09T19:18:00.000-04:00

Everyone kept exclaiming their amazement at the lack of rain we had been experiencing, talking about it incessantly, cursing the blessing we were enjoying.

"Stop talking about it! Find yourself lucky! Relish it! Don't ask for rain, you crazies!"

I thought to myself every time they mentioned it, all the while nonchalantly reaching for the nearest desk or plank of wood to knock on, reversing the bad luck they were wishing us.

The other day, I had anticipated that our warm, sunny weather was about to come to an abrupt end. The clouds in the sky looked ominous, so I packed my umbrella, and swung onto my bike, Margarita, for the second time since buying it. I coasted through the park, avoiding Headington Hill and it's terrifying busy-ness. Still terrified even after the hill, I walked my bike all the way from St. Clement's to Cornmarket, justifying my actions the entire way because at least I could ride the bike to lecture, and then home through the park on the other side of town after.

After my meeting, on the way to tutorial orientation, I braced myself, worked up my courage, and set off on my bike on the road. I pedaled along, calming myself, when all of a sudden I heard the all-too-familiar roar of a bus approaching behind me, and it was at this moment that my left bike pedal decided to extricate itself from the confines of its daily toils attached to the larger structure of my bicycle.

Yes. It just fell off. With a bus behind me. I almost died.

You might think that that's the worst bit of the story. But it's not.

I walked my bike the rest of the way to Wycliffe, no big deal. I took my pedal and the arm that attaches it to the bolty-knob-thing at the center of one of the pipes, and made sure to flaunt my bad luck to anyone who paid attention.

"You're going to need a bit more than that to get around Oxford," says Crick Junior Dean, Sam.

"I have all the bits outside, thanks, it's just that this bit decided to become a bit more portable, I guess," I said.

"Is this all that remains?" Asks tutor Simon, taking it and placing it under his foot and hopping about with it.

I laughed, and pretended to be good spirited, all the while slipping in snide comments about my misfortune. *I knew I shouldn't have ridden my bike today* I kept thinking.

Orientation is over, and I walk outside to collect the pieces, and it is...raining. So now I have a broken bike that I must walk home, in.the.rain.

I held my umbrella with one hand, and the bike with the other, and began the long trudge made longer by the inability to take park shortcuts because they forbid bike access. My hand was cold, and water dripped from the umbrella down my arm, so my entire jacket sleeve was wet anyway. My pantlegs drag on the ground and collect water up to my knee, above the top of my boots, and so the wet denim scraps against the skin, chafing and blistering.

My jeans are heavy and falling down, so that every few minutes I try to balance everything to pull them back up to their proper position, but almost every time my umbrella falls and I get splashed despite my efforts.

Trudging, grumbling, panting, cursing. Cursing bikes. Cursing the location of my house. Cursing those ill-wishers of our beautiful weather.

Well. I guess I'm getting the real Oxford experience.

intellectual intimidation

2009-09-29T19:44:00.001-04:00

Our morning lecture, "Votes for Women, Chastity for men! The fight for women's suffrage in Britain" was one of the most engaging lectures so far (yes, because of my own particular interest in the subject, which usually dominates over discussions of great British naval victories), though I felt my enthusiasm slowly dwindle as one classmate down the row from me put his head down on the desk, and another not look up to the lecturer at all as she edited a paper, and the vacant stares, and the frozen hands that did not scribble furiously across their papers in an attempt to capture every fascinating detail.

As we left the auditorium, one remarks that his favorite part was when the lecturer mocked the femininity of the suffragettes, "they aren't really women! They're sort of, man-women. They're freaks who want to be like men--that's why they don't get married."

I smirked and walked along, slightly alarmed by the company I find myself in, wondering at the overall conception of the issues I'm grappling with in my gender case studies.

And in the afternoon seminar, I cautiously nudged into discussion by questioning the difference between autobiography as a text, a genre, a definition--and autobiography as an intention, which can be manifest in many different mediums, meaning that things can be "autobiographical" without being "autobiography". But instead of my comments being met with discussion and exploration, they were mostly shut down with disbelief, an unwillingness to be so loosey-goosey with the definition, needing distinct barriers because without such! how could any autobiography be truly such?

Exactly! I wanted to scream.

But instead I put my hand down, and scribbled some notes on the top of my handout to hide the rising embarrassment.

I hate PR campaigns.

2009-09-24T20:15:00.001-04:00

"So, last night I got the email that we were supposed to prepare a 60 second speech, and I wasn't sure what I was going to say, and I was talking to my friend Chris about it, and he said, 'I'll write you a speech!' So he wrote me a speech, and he sent it to me... but it was in French. And I don't speak French. I guess he thought he was being funny or something, but anyway. I thought about reading it loud still, but you would all lose respect for me as I butchered the language. So, I think the gist of it went something like, 'Hey, my name's Alyssa. I'm really great and lots of fun, so you should pick me.' The end."

This was the speech I gave about giving a speech to run for a student-run group here in Oxford. Like described, I had 60 seconds to convince them that they wanted me.

But what's the point of selling yourself in a sixty-second speech for a small group that's main responsibility is planning events?

It's the JCR--Junior Common Room. It's supposed to consist of 5-7 people who are given a budget to make stuff happen on the programme.

9 of us ran.

9 of us were chosen.

(But not with rings. Nor did we volunteer for a quest epic proportions.)

(It's a J.R.R. Tolkien joke. It's funny because he went to Oxford.)

Our main task is to meet for tea once a week and plan events. I ran because Simon told me it would help integrate me into the group.

And what Simon says....

That was lame. Sorry.

Anyway, I didn't see the point of saying things like, "Well, I was captain of such-and-such, and I planned events for this-and-that, and I have lots of creative ideas because I'm amazing and I do this stuff all the time and OMG don't you JUST WISH I could plan this for YOU!"

Don't you get sick of EVERYTHING being sold to you? Even people?

I feel like the self-aggrandizement required to "succeed" in almost everything we attempt is so over-done, over-emphasized, over-everything, that it's no longer a representation of who we are. We're defined by our achievements, what we can offer based on how well we've done it before, tasks and more tasks and always doing and impressing and...

Maybe I'm too stuck in an ideal of "learning" and "growing" and "becoming a better person." Hell, I don't even know what that means, anymore.

I guess I'll go back to my paper. That I'm writing for Oxford.

Oh, hey! Did you know I'm going to Oxford?

Hey grad schools! I'm studying in OXFORD!

my only complaint thus far

2009-09-23T16:05:00.004-04:00

stupid english sinks
Originally uploaded by aussie259772

I would like to draw your attention to the sign on the mirror. It says, "Danger Very Hot Water" behind the hot water tap. You have no idea how angry this makes me. Almost all the sinks I've encountered here have this--the two separate faucets for hot and cold water, which is most inconvenient when I'm trying to comfortably wash my hands. Because on the one hand (literally) is freezing water, and the other is DANGEROUSLY hot water. In America, we have invented the one spigot sink, where you can easily create a warm, but not scalding, medium, advantageous for many reasons. I was prepared to deal with the silly two-spigot awkwardness, until at the bathroom of the English Faculty Library, they had to parade their different-ness right in front of me with this damn sign! Just put the two together! I wanted to shout. Join them, and then this sign would be unneeded, and I wouldn't have to worry about acquiring third degree burns!

This has enraged me to such a degree, that I am posting my disgust on all three of my semi-regular blogs.

experiences

2009-09-18T20:16:00.001-04:00

I packed up my computer and notebooks, took my books back to the reserve desk, and walked down the four flights of stairs staring out the window into the Bodleian quad, with spires and beautiful architecture that embodies everything I expected Oxford to be.

At the bottom of the stairs, there are two glass gates with a purple light that turns blue when I swipe my Oxford ID through it, but before I can exit, the security guard has to check my bag to make sure that I'm not stealing any of the 8 million volumes contained in this massive library. Outside the gates, into the quad, under the bridge, onto the ideal English road of double-decker buses, bikes, old buildings with spires, shops that sell tea, book stores, pubs, and throngs of people.

The men are everything you would expect. Corduroy tapered pants that hang loosely but don't fall off their arse, sweater vests that are worn beyond their expiration date, suit jackets that flare slightly at the wrist. The school boys are in their uniforms, leaning against the walls with a leg propped, trying to be rebellious in their suits as they wait for the coach.

The women wear skirts and tights and mid-calf leather boots that make me wish I had a killer pair of boots and slimmer hips so I could pull off the skinny-jean tucked into knee-highs look. They have the cutest, waist-cinched rain jackets that are worn for practicality, but look stylish beyond reason.

People on the street end sentences with, "love", "bonnie lass", and "babe". They say "cheers".

Buses and bikes zoom past, so close that I still feel a rise of fear with each gust of wind and loud roar. Crosswalks beep to alert you it's safe. Streetlights are on posts and not hanging above the intersection. There are three parks around, two of which I've explored and discovered shortcuts through.

Today I was thankful for my previous excursions, because as I was beginning the march up the deadly incline on Headington Hill, a 50ish man in a camouflage rain coat and no teeth rides past, smiling (or gaping, rather), and then stops. As I approach him, he pats the bar of his bike, and motions up the hill, asking if I would like a ride.

The BAR of his bike. And I think to myself that firstly, that would be a most uncomfortable ride. Secondly, that I had my giant backpack with me and I'm not sure what the hell he expected me to do with it while I casually sat on the bar of his bike. Thirdly, that there was no where to put my feet. And most importantly--that he was a creepy old man with no teeth.

So I said, "No, no....I'm fine."
"Okay?" He says, and gives the okay sign with his hand.
"Yeah. yep. Completely okay."
"You sure?" He gives me a thumbs up.
"Yep. Do it every day. No big deal."
He starts to ride away, and then looks behind him while riding, and gives me another thumbs up, and says, "you sure?"
"YEP!!!"
He continues riding, and then must stop because it's a GIANT hill and no one can ride their bike up it, and then he looks back at me. And he stands there, just looking at me, waiting for me.
Luckily, there was an entrance to the park on my left, so I dove through it.

My roommates were just like, "How does this keep happening to you?" and I said, "YOU HAVE NO IDEA."

Tonight I actually went to a real English apartment. My roommates met the people at church and they invited us to a BBQ. I stood in their kitchen, looking at the living room that was buzzing with activity, the circles that had formed, the fascination in our eyes, while Beatles music played in the background, and it felt like the quintessential British experience. I felt like it should be a movie. I wonder if the feeling could be replicated.

I love the way they phrase things.
"You wouldn't have done."
"One will be acquired, soon."
"I became quite besotted."
"My friend is engaged in an overseas relationship."
"Forget ye your papers for one night."

It's so British.

I live in England.

brief updates

2009-09-17T19:39:00.002-04:00

I decorated my wall, so that I can look up to a collage of faces, smiles, notes, drawings, and reminders of home. Reminders of the people not here with me.

I don't resent my decision to be here. It's not that bad. It's amazing actually. My vision is mostly clouded by un-met expectations, anxieties that I carried with me, an overwhelming fear of the unknown. All of which are integral characteristics of who I am. Of a lot of people, I'm sure. My coping mechanism is just different than theirs. Instead of reaching out to the people who are sharing in this apprehension, I've been clinging to my life back home.

I'm not as upset about the events or classes I'm missing as I thought I would be. This minimal distance from campus has actually made me realize that while a lot of my identity has been created there, I don't actually need it to feel complete. It's the people I can't loosen my grip on.

Because I'm here for such a short time, I feel a lot of pressure to hurry up and make friends, make my time worth it, make connections to last a lifetime. But at the same time, if I completely neglect where I came from, coming home will leave me in a more desolate place than I am now.

My hyper self-awareness is enhanced, a constant hindrance to potentially beneficial interactions. I cannot find a balance. Or the courage to let everyone see how great I am. Or the desire to know them for their greatness, too.

How about some general details about the life I'm living, that aren't so clouded by transitional difficulties?

I live in a HUGE house, called "The Vines," with 40 other people. I'm on the third floor, in a spacious room with a skylight, on the top bunk, with Christine who wears skirts and loves dinosaurs, and Becca who is down-to-earth and loves sororities.

I have a 40 minute walk to Wycliffe every morning, which I resent every time I have to wake earlier than my roommates, who bike or bus.

I haven't bought a bus pass because it's about $200 and I don't have enough money to adequately buy groceries, let alone a luxury that, sadly, I suppose I can live without.

I might buy a bike, but mostly likely if I can have one of the left over bikes here for 20 GBP, but I have to wait for them to break the locks off...

I'm learning massive amounts of British history, and some days I feel overwhelmed by the vastness of its development, and my complete ignorance of it all.

We break every day for morning tea (or coffee).

We go on field trips quite often, giving me the opportunity to see and experience all the wonders of this historical town that I probably wouldn't if I came here alone.

"To let" means "to rent". "Give way" means "yield". Scones are not pronounced the way we always have said them--it is said "scon". Scone is a city in Scotland.

The Bodleian Library is massive, but completely overwhelming. I still haven't been to all of the rooms.

I'm researching Queen Boudicca, who led a revolt against the Roman Imperialists in AD 60. Her husband, when he died, had bequeathed his land to his daughters AND to the Roman Emperor Nero (as co-heirs), in an attempt to preserve his lineage and his property. Instead, the Romans pillaged his lands, flogged his wife, Boudicca, and raped his daughters. Boudicca, in revenge, rallied up her Icenian tribe and a neighboring tribe, the Trinovantes, and wreaked havoc on three Roman cities. In a last stand-off, the Britons were slaughtered by the well-trained Roman soldiers, and while Boudicca managed to escape, she (supposedly) took poison and ended her own life. My essay is based on how she has become a heroine for successive generations. If you have any insight, please, share...

Ahem.

I'm still procrastinating.

I'm trying to take lots of pictures, but not so many that they become overwhelming. Or repetitive. How many pictures of gothic cathedrals do you people want to see?

Though, please, check out the essentials--Stonehenge, Old Sarum, Salisbury Cathedral, the Harry Potter Great Hall...

erm. I'm American, and in love with pop culture.

Oh, I also love getting mail.

thinking through the future, I was begging for the past.

2009-09-01T09:40:00.001-04:00

I hate packing.

It's a necessary part of life, and a recurring necessity for my nomadic college lifestyle, but I will forever hate it.

It seems worse this time--packing one suitcase for a four month stay overseas. In a country I've never been to and am unsure of what I should expect of the weather, the culture, the transportation methods... at a new school where I must once again create an identity.

Perhaps that's the hardest bit--packing a wardrobe that upholds a certain image. Being someone cool and approachable and relatable and smart. In one suitcase. Without having the money to buy clothes that reinforce this identity.

This is hard. Leaving what I've come to know, what I've built for myself, my comfort zone. Yeah, yeah. It's a good thing. Blah, blah, blah. I know. That's why I'm still going.

But right now the benefits of going are not seeming as if they outweigh the benefits of staying.

Last semester and this summer I've traversed a path very different to the one I was on a year ago. I dove headfirst into many projects and comm-related activities that really helped me feel as if I carved a place for myself in the department. I've made really close, strong friendships with new people.

And I made these plans for myself to leave before I had any of this other stuff. And now all of it seems in danger if dissipating.

And all kinds of stuff is changing and I'm missing it and I'm going to come back behind the times and stuck in a different world with a deflated identity and friends who don't even remember my name.

So I exaggerate. Whatever.

So I fail to recognize the extent of the greatness I can expect from going. So what.

I think I should feel validated in my apprehension and anxiety. And then I'll tell everyone they were right when I reluctantly return in four months.

If I can stay present long enough to appreciate it while I'm there.

Finding peace with now, right? ;)

(although, I suppose I'm failing at that, too...since it's not even peace with my immediate now, but the now I'll feel in the future, which just reinforces my weird backwards nostalgic tendency of always desiring to feel the way about endeavors now as I anticipate I'll feel them in the future looking back. that's a post for another day.)

doomed for continual self-questioning

2009-08-31T08:42:00.000-04:00

My stepdad and I have never had much in common. Back when I was younger and went through the wanna-be-a-boy-because-i-thought-it-would-make-Russ-love-me-more-phase, I used to go fishing with him, shoot guns with him, and beg him to take me hunting. Despite my efforts, I never really took to that lifestyle, and we've had little meaningful interaction since.

When my friends visited a few nights back, Russ started talking about this guy he works with, Camden, who happens to go to Malone. I was in the kitchen fixing plates of food and drinks and upholding my modest talents of hostessing, and during this stretch of time my stepdad told Justin, Nate, and Meredith about his co-workers poor luck of having to have his wisdom teeth pulled. On and on he went about the hurtin this guy's gonna go through.

When I re-entered the room, Russ immediately started back into this story. He went through all the details of how he figured out Camden went to Malone, what activities he's involved in on campus, and that he had his wisdom teeth removed.

"How old were you when you had yours out?" he asked me.

"I still have my wisdom teeth."

"Really? I thought for sure you had them out. I had mine out when I was about 20."

Nate kindly offered that he thought his would have to be removed soon, to appease the desperate attempt at conversation.

Connie came over a few nights later, and had the pleasure of enduring this same story.

And then again the next day, as I was preparing to leave for work, Russ stops me and says, "Oh! That's what I wanted to tell you about--Camden, that guy I work with who goes to Malone? He had his wisdom teeth out last week! He's probably in a world of hurtin."

4 times.

I recognize that this might be the only common link we have to each other at this time in my life, and that it was his way of trying to connect with me, my friends, and our world. He was clinging to this one strand as a conversation starter, a way to lessen the awkwardness of living in the same house but knowing nothing of each other.

But 4 times? It just continues to baffle me how he didn't remember the ever-increasing previous number of times he's told this story. And it's kinda embarrassing.

And I mean, the same story, the same way, more than twice? That's just the worst.

About a week ago, one of my friends actually confessed to me that during a long stretch of conversation that we were having, I had told a few of the stories before. I was immediately self-conscious. Nobody wants to think that their conversation has lost importance because it's been heard before.

But at the same time, we do develop a repertoire of topics and stories that get re-told and embellished and perfected. But what's the point of a perfect story if everyone you know has already heard it? Are we doomed to eventually run out of things to say, bound to become boring to one another? Sure, we can tell the events of our present day lives, new and fresh material that has been previously untold, but what if nothing exciting happens that day? What if, after 50 years of marriage, you and your spouse can do nothing but sit across the table from one another, staring, vacant, despising each other?

Though it's not as if the other route seems much more attractive--continually finding new people to swap stories with. Eventually, it's going to get exhausting retelling the same once-glorious stories over and over. I mean, think how exasperated you get when you have an injury, and everyone who is even a casual acquaintance inquires to the source. It's awful.

When does the art stop being inspirational, and starts becoming a hassle?

Does that concept make me inauthentic?

Will I forever fear everything?

"It's Tuesday... Don't wear a Scots brand t-shirt"

2009-08-05T03:40:00.001-04:00

Driving down SR 30 E, headed home from another fun-filled, late-night outing at Ferarro's, I notice, not for the first time, the way the orange pools of street-light ambiance glow in a widespread cityscape across downtown. Right before I pass under the bridge on Harrison Ave, the lights disappear and glitter through the protective screen that encases the road above, flickering and fading, only to reappear in full radiance on the other side.

I can't help but enjoy this two-second optical illusion, imagining the street-lights as twinkling stars. Thinking that, for an instant, the heavens have descended to greet me and enchant me with their luminescent seductivity.

Even though clear skies are much more accessible in the summer, it's a season that fills me with such ambivalence about the rest of my responsibilities, that I sometimes seek only the artificial satisfaction, rather than waiting until I return home, waiting for the perfect mid-70s temperature that enables me to lay beneath the stars comfortably and observe the real magnificence of sky above.

It's easier. Less obliging to my precarious planning and figuring and calculating. I don't want to be precarious and calculative. I want to be carefree and be satiated on demand.

I prefer the simulacrum.

Until, of course, I see the real thing. In my backyard, glancing up as I enter the backdoor, light of foot in order to avoid waking the dog, and more importantly, my stepdad's irrational and sporadic rage, I look up and think to myself, "I could just stay out here. Live underneath the twinkling, flickering, luminescence of the stars and (almost) full moon. Avoid all my irrational and sporadic fear that never fully recedes. Live out my emotional, teenage-induced dream that never died of running away--leaving in order to live a happy life unencumbered by situation prevention and inevitable failure to foresee all rage-inducing factors."

Too much work. Not this summer.

Does the simulacrum translate to other, more pressing though less detectable matters of life? What else am I enchanted by? What else is influenced by the quivering child in the back of my mind, still recuperating from various daddy-issues? Mommy-issues? Life-issues?

*One should note, that my life is not that bad. I'm aware that it's not always been pleasant or fairytale-esque (who's is?), but I'm also aware that my problems pale in comparison to larger issues. I'm not indulging some self-pitying rant or whatever, just relating a train of thought that accompanied me on my drive home....

And a happy freak, I was.

2009-07-29T02:20:00.001-04:00

live, love, connect, create.

That was the title of the showcase benefiting Emily Hisey that I just participated in. She's traveling to England for a year, and as a fundraiser asked her friends to submit materials to be showcased at Malone's theatre. The theme was home.

Isn't it interesting how the push to contemplate one topic can suddenly turn everything that surrounds you into an extension of your thoughts, or the prompt to think of it in a new way, or the opportunity to discuss it with someone else?

I thoroughly enjoyed being involved in the program. It was a tremendous opportunity to work with tons of talented artists who have been almost legendary to me because of their high involvement in the comm department before me. Their collective work included literal, abstract, humorous, touching, loose, and beautiful interpretations of home--all of which left me thinking about the concept in new and intriguing ways.

And my own work actually changed me in ways I've never previously experienced after finishing a project.

I made a short film. Three minutes-ish. It was a conceptual piece, that focused on both the literal and abstract of home, with video footage of the two most influential places I've lived and audio of eight people telling their stories simultaneously.

It's interesting how I came up with the idea. I was driving home one day, looking at the trees and the long winding road before me, cresting the hill and relishing the familiarity. Experiencing it almost as if this was the first time in years I had driven down this road, as opposed to a few hours. And I realized that I do that a lot--look on the present in light of how I think I'll perceive it in the future. I create nostalgia. Artificial nostalgia.

So almost as a way of engaging this realization, I set out to capture footage of the things I appreciate most about my home(s). The beautiful angles, the way the light slowly stretches across the front lawn until our entire house is bathed in the magical sunset light, the stairs at my grandma's I vividly recall climbing as a child, the bedroom that was once my mom's and then again mine when I lived there, the kitchen window that I sat beside when I read books inside instead of playing in the dirt like other children (claimed my aunt, "you're going to be a freak").

As I started to collect the footage, I realized that more was needed. Not just for the film, but for the project to feel complete. For an accurate representation of home.

I didn't start to realize the importance of story in my life until recently.

That's not true. My appreciation and approach to story as a life path didn't arise until recently.

I've always been enthralled by the stories that my parents and grandparents shared. When I lived with my grandma, that's all I encountered--countless stories about my mom and my great-grandma and our family history. Mom's late night musings of her day or her time in the war or things about me I can't remember. Mom reading me books. My growing appreciation of books. Dad's theatrical passion. Dad's encouragement to pursue my similar passion.

Bla bla bla. I'm sure you've heard it before.

But this past year when I took Life Stories as Cultural History is really when I began to piece it together. And the comm department's strategic and intentional shift of emphasis on the many different forms of storytelling.

I've become engulfed in a new paradigm, and find myself mesmerized by it. Wholly convinced. Enraptured. We all live in story. I live in story. Story is my home. Story, Home.

Finishing the film did the strangest thing... It almost finalized my impression that this home in this place *should* feel nostalgic. It made me feel as if my time here is very close to ending. It's an anticipation of the day when I can no longer say "home" and mean East Canton, Ohio. In a way, it feels like that time has already come.

But it also made me realize that I feel my home in the stories that take me back to the days when I did belong--wholly, fully, unquestionably. In the stories that give life and personality to the homes the voices occupy. In the stories that take me to new places--on a journey fueled by mutual trust between the teller and the listener that the place we end up will be better than where we left.

If that's not a sign, I don't know what is.

2009-07-05T17:13:00.001-04:00

Against company policy, a customer convinced me to remove links on his fine-grade Tag Huer watch, which took me the better part of a half hour to complete.

Once I had finished, I handed him his watch, and moved towards the register to ring up the sale.

"You know, I don't need a receipt if you wanna just pocket the money."

I laughed awkwardly. "It's really tempting, but...." I started to enter my employee code into the computer.

"Don't even press the button. Just take it." He slid ten dollars across the counter.

I wanted to. I really wanted the money. I put it in my pocket, and helped the next person who came up to the counter.

It's just a service I offered, I thought. It's not as if I'm stealing merchandise. And he *GAVE* it to me. That's not dishonest. Right?

The other day I wrote about my concerns and reflections on the fabled list of sins kept to gauge one's acceptance into Heaven, read aloud and reviewed at the Pearly Gates. I was worried that knowingly committing a sin could, if such a list existed, be the worst shame to endure. One of the actions on my mind was this *EXACT* situation--another customer who had links removed and didn't need a receipt.

It would be so easy to pocket this money, I thought.

But I didn't, aware that in this case, I was stealing from the store, and stealing from that person.

So the fact that merely four days later I was confronted with the same choice made me extremely wary. I mean, what if it was a test? The thought crossed my mind before, and I felt the sweet lure of temptation, though had denied it. And now I was offered that which was the object of my temptation, in an interaction that gave me flat permission to take the money.

Was it still wrong? If the customer knowingly gave the money? It felt wrong. I called to ask advice from a friend, explained the situation, and Friend told me that if God wanted me to have the money, he would have given it to me in a way that wasn't so morally confusing. And by denying it and cashing it into the register, it was a statement of trust in God's provision.

Good point. I knew from the start that it would eat away at me if I kept it. So I rung out the sale, and the total came to $10.65. If I wanted to do it right, I would have to pay the $0.65 in tax to make the drawer even. I counted the change in my pocket, and with two quarters, a nickel, and ten pennies--I had exactly sixty-five cents in my pocket and no more. I think I made the right decision.

scary stories

2009-06-29T00:28:00.001-04:00

Last night when I came home from work, my mom was watching Amityville Horror. I had been determined to go for a walk, and her scary-movie-watching was just all the more incentive to not sit in the living room (because I HATE horror films--especially when watching them in my house, which I am quite convinced is haunted). Though, in retrospect, perhaps a twilight walk down the winding, tree-framed Evening Star wasn't a much better alternative.

Because inevitably I had to pass the infamous "witch's" house. When I thought about it, there really was never anything that told me to be scared of this woman or her house. I mean, it's not like any of us kids ever knew or saw her. But I guess that was part of it, because living on the same street with someone for so many years, you're bound to catch glimpse of them sometime. I have definitely seen outdoor interaction of all my other neighbors on the road.

So the fact that the cereal boxes she carefully placed in the windows continually changed, and the occasional glimpse of a cat-tail against the screen door made us wonder about how all the supplies got in when she never came out. Speculations and wild stories surrounded this poor woman to the children of the neighborhood. Like the rumor of her arrival--how she and her mother had to hide out in the house because the mother had killed her husband. But then eventually the "witch" killed her mom, too--simply because she was crazy. Or no doubt because she needed the blood for some child-luring cauldron mixture that would entice us to her evil-doing lair.

Ashley lived right next to her, and had the most vivid lies about how the witch would scratch at her window during the night. Her and Amanda would always dare me to walk up and knock on her door, and the fat little insecure girl was always trying to please. So even though I was probably the most terrified, the most sensitive to the stories, and the least capable of running away fast enough--I would always wander through the overgrown grass and weeds, up the winding stairs as the girls counted the number of steps from the road.

I never wanted to be super annoying or anything, so I usually thought of some "nice" excuse for disturbing her. Like taking her phonebook that she had left out at the mercy of the weather. The decrepit, soggy, muddy phonebook clutched in my left hand as I slowly rose my right to knock on the door--with all intents of calmly explaining to Witch that she must've forgotten to pick this up, and I wouldn't want her to have an outdated phonebook.

As soon as my hand contacted the door--never more than once--I would bolt away, running as I heard scream laughing from halfway down the road where the other girls had already biked to safety. Sometimes I forgot to leave the book, and would hurl it behind me as I picked up my fallen bike from the side of the road where we had abandoned them on our escapade.

Once I told my mom about our superstitions, and instead of reprimanding such childish and rude conceptions, she shared her OWN speculations from when she was growing up and the kids then who had also thought the house haunted and in possession of a witch.

I recalled once, while driving with Connie, I stopped in her driveway because I saw a sign posted on the garage door. Connie and I ventured forward, only to read a giant "BIOHAZARD" warning--that passersby should not come within 50 feet of the premises. Startled, shocked, and terrified we hopped back into the car and sped off. Only to learn that she had died in her house--and was not found for two months, during which her body had decayed into a biohazard mess.

As I walked past the house last night, I didn't feel any more relief at its absence. I wondered if anyone would ever buy it. If they could feel comfortable in a house where someone died--and stayed unfound for two consecutive moths. I wondered if her cats had...

Though the windows were clear of any Fruit Loops or Lucky Charms boxes, they looked just as ominous as ever. In fact, they were open! Who would have opened the windows? As I walked closer I heard...an electronic noise. As if a vacuum cleaner were running. But there was no sign of life--no lights were on, no movement--just the roar of a running sweeper.

I quickened my pace. Finished the length of the road and turned about. As I passed the house again, I heard it again! There shouldn't have been any noise anywhere near the property--right? Yet it was the loudest on the street. I drifted farther to the the center of the road, my eyes glued to the vacant windows and stained paint.

A car driving down the street forced me back on my own side of the road, and I found myself grateful that I was past her property line and back on my half of the street, promising home in a mere ten minutes.

I walked back into my house, and on the TV, Amityville Horror was just ending, and the Priest had successfully extricated the demons from the possessed child.

At least good triumphs in the end, right???

Work

2009-06-11T13:30:00.001-04:00

Woman (on the phone whilist I'm adjusting her watch band): Erik, I asked you to do this Monday. I'm not going to get that refund now. You can't do anything I ask you. I told you, just write the letter telling them that it's the wrong address. Why aren't you listening? If you don't fax it then you're losing that money, too. Tell them we moved, I don't care!
Me: *ahem* here's the watch...would you like to try it on to see if it fits correctly?
Woman peaces out without paying.

Sixty-ish man half bald with long scraggly hair in the back: Hello, sweetie. Do you have extra long pins for this watch?
Me: The longest we carry is 24mm.
Man: You didn't even look.
Me: ...okay, here's the bin of our long pins.
Man: Those will work. Could you put them on the watch?
Me: They're not quite long enough. They're going to pop out of the watch as soon as you move.
Man: they look long enough to me.
Me: Okay...
Man: You're so good to me. I want to be good to you too. What time do you get off work?
Me: haha...
Man: I could stop by and take you out to dinner. Buy you a drink. We could go dancing.
Me: haha, really, it wasn't that big of a deal...
Man: A girl like you probably has a boyfriend, though, huh? Or a husband.
Me: Yeah.

While I was sitting, taskless, behind the kiosk, a man, late forties, stopped by to chat.
Man: Why does everyone look so bored around here?
Me: There's not much going on in the mall today, apparently.
Man: You know what you need to do? You need to start drinking at work. Get some coffee and pour a little whiskey in it, and then no one will be able to smell it. I'm not an alcoholic or anything, but I've done that before. And let me tell you, I was the life of the 5 o'clock meeting!
Me: Yep...
Man: So, you like working here?
Me: Well, it can get kinda boring, but during the semester it's kinda nice because you can get some homework done.
Man: How do you know I'm not the VP here right now?
Me: Because I know her name is Cindy.
Man: Oh. Well I could be a Cindy. What if I wished I was Cindy? That I went home and put makeup and panties on?
Me: ...whatever floats your boat.
Man: So what are you doing tonight?
Me: Well actually, I'm meeting up with a friend to work on a paper actually.
Man: Oh, well, I should probably go. I just wanted to make sure you were doing okay.

Favorite interaction of the day, because I'm so hopelessly romantic:

A man from the airforce came up for a new watch band, and afterwards I mentioned that I might've accidentally turned his alarm on.
Man: Oh, that's okay. I can't really hear much from 27 years in the airforce near the planes. Yep. 27 years. 2nd best decision I've ever made.
Me: What was the first?
Man: Marrying my bride.

Awwwwwww....

And on the way home? Was followed. By some creepers. Had to ditch them by making a few illegal moves. What a day.

Contentment

2009-05-23T21:56:00.002-04:00

The celestial sun, streaming its ethereal rays across the sky, bathed my arms in warmth and color as they rested upon the steering wheel. The windows were down, and the hot summer air whipped my hair across my face as I cruised down the highway towards the setting sun.

The radio was turned up to be heard over the roar of the highway wind, and the speakers released the piano and drums and relaxing vocals of a favorite artist, who sings the uncomfortable truth, that on this particular occasion helped me feel illumined and gracious and grateful about the human condition.

My stomach was full of good food that I had cooked (!) and shared with a recovering mentor, and I was thankful for the long drive home that was halfway accompanied by good friends, whom I had just had the pleasure of spending the weekend with. Friends made quickly and strongly, and whose quirks and sorrows I look forward to embracing and healing, and whose love and acceptance continues to shock me.

I was at peace.

home again

2009-05-09T22:51:00.002-04:00

I'm home, which means mom and I are inseparable, for better or worse.

I loved reading Anne Lammott, because the chapter she wrote about her mom in Traveling Mercies was so brilliantly articulated. I admire her candidness, her bravery at writing such emotionally truthful and raw thoughts about her mother. Feelings that mirror mine almost perfectly.

I didn't realize how quickly I would be thrown back into the realm appreciation and annoyance within our intense, fluctuating, and forgiving relationship.

Over beer and wings at the Irish Exchange, I was filled with awe and wonder and amazement at the woman who is my mother. She tells such riveting stories, and I wish I had just the smidgeon of experience that she has with which to dwell upon and share with other people. I wanted to shout her story to the world.

I want to make a movie about her! I thought to myself. A movie that tells a different story! A new twist to the war formula! A film about war, and women, and inevitable struggles for equality, but also a film about fun, and laughs, and idiosyncrasies, and ridiculous stories that can't possibly be real! But they are! And they're endless!

I wanted to set up a camera and just capture every inspiring, enthralling, truthful word that came out of her mouth.

Tonight I heard stories that I've never heard before. How can this be possible? She continues to surprise me.

I heard about patrols that she would walk with Robin, and when they had the 3-5am shift, they would sit in the tank to keep warm, completely neglecting their patrol-ly duties. And about the one night they were hungry, so they snuck into the mess tent, and caught HUGE desert rats eating the pans of pineapple cake--which they still served the next morning! Or the time they ran into their commanding officer (a veteran from Vietnam), who was sitting on the perimeter with his gun, unable to sleep because he was convinced that "they" were coming for them!

And about the showers and latrines, sometimes unavailable for upwards of 10 days. And the first night they set them up after such a long break, Mom ran with two other friends to shower in the cold water, in the 40 degree desert night air, only to have her clothes float away when they fell into the water.

And how the guys called her "Pinkie" because they caught sight of her pink underwear. And about how she didn't understand their crude humor when they said "a good mechanic can get a nut off anywhere."

So many! So good!

But because our stories are so profoundly different, yet so intricately intertwined, I come to recognize the implications of her experiences on my life.

And because she's my mother, I'm harsher and more hostile with my accusations than I would be with others. Noticing that her violent opposition and derisive comments about the woman weeping on the television have defined my reaction to such episodes caused me to rather aggressively explain to my mother that she is the entire reason why I'm terrified to cry in front of people.

Which, granted, is a bit of an exaggeration. I don't doubt that her contemptuous response to all sorts of emotional display has indeed influenced my perception of appropriate behavior. though it's fascinating that her similar inability to cry is rooted in a much harsher treatment of falling tears, and direct interaction with masculine disdain, a more literal attempt to survive in a "man's world." Knowing that, though, did nothing to lessen the intense annoyance I felt at my mother's disdain.

It's strange to think that no one can ever be their own person, because we are all so profoundly part of the people we're around. I don't know how to decipher the different parts of me, and am unsure if we're supposed to know. It's astoundingly frustrating to be aware of the inauthenticity of myself, yet also remarkably beautiful to think of myself as a compilation of those whom I love most.

one of the many things i felt today

2009-05-03T17:01:00.002-04:00

The list of obligations that I so confidently collected because I am passionate and enthusiastic about them clamor for attention. And I find myself juggling the desire to pour everything I have into each one, but the logistics of time restrictions, and involvement demands, and impending grade reports, and final requirements limit the investment I can give them.

So I juggle what I can, trying to be efficient but ultimately failing, finishing some tasks but not others, letting myself down and allowing everyone around me to see my weaknesses and faults and having to see in their eyes their faltering confidence.

basket of words

2009-04-11T02:23:00.002-04:00

A tiny stone, given to me today by a stranger, reads "confidence."

A basket of stones, big ones and small ones, all have inspirational, motivational meditations written on them. Words like "kiss," "love," "live," and "change" float together in harmony waiting for fate to land them in the palm of an unsuspecting vagabond.

I don't know if they're meant to exemplify qualities that already exist in you, or if they're meant to evoke from you that which you wish you had more of.

It seems fitting that "confidence" is the one that chose me. A word, scribbled so tightly on such a small pebble, glares at me with intensity. It feels irregular on my tongue. It jars the eyes. It hurts the ears. It makes me flinch.

It's a quality that is expected of me. My parents. My friends. My teachers. They assume I have it. I guess I fake it well. Because those who know me, know that it's a characteristic that does not define me. What little of it I have can be crushed with one small comment.

But perhaps this stone in the palm of this vagabond who wondered into its home will etch its meaning into the skin, the heart, and the mind. Perhaps it will intensify. More likely it'll wash away, or become one of the insignificant creases of the hand. I don't dare to think just how many of those insignificant creases represent yet another fault a psychic will read one day.

God put a song on my palm that I can't read

and everything's fine

2009-03-23T02:35:00.002-04:00

my roommates sense something is wrong as soon as i enter the room. my unenergized nature, my silence, my lack of stories, my immediate distance are all apparent of the apathy that plagues me. they reverently stay quiet, sharing secretive looks indicative of their concern. they avoid asking any questions, no doubt aware that any acknowledgement of my fragile state will send me into fits of hysterics that i'm not sure i could recover from.

i'm always hesitant to write about these emotional episodes, fearing that it'll be looked down upon as a sign of fulfilling the stigma of being a member of the weaker sex, that it'll discredit my status, that i'll somehow lose something. i also fear that while the stakes of the situation loom high at the moment, later reflection and outside readers will interpret it as a lapse in logical thinking, or a silly indulgence of petty concerns.

I'm always so quick to deny (yet intensely wish to indulge) the emotional, heart driven part of being human. Growing up as the "cry baby" in elementary school has rendered it nigh impossible to cry in front of others. And if I do, I feel obligated to offer an apology and rationale for the falling tears, as if it's unworthy of me participate in such an unprofessional display.

I don't think I'll be taken seriously if other people see me in a state of helplessness. I try to deny that which defines "women" in order to be more respected as a woman. Ridiculous! In that instant, I am just as much of a misogynist as the abusive, overbearing, "man's the master of his wo-wife" neighbor down the road.

Tears are only warranted when the cause is something valid. And I suppose in situations like this, part of me worries that the sense of immediacy is actually lessened because it's simply another cycle of emotions that everyone can recognize happens right around this time every semester.

Or maybe it's part of a different wheel of emotions, recycled and reused and relived. I can't help but hope and believe that I am not the only one who experiences this. I wonder if a macro study of humanity would yield observations that lead to the recognition that we all experience the same thing. That humanity goes through a strange upheaval of emotions following a pattern consistent, harmonious, and balanced with everyone else.

Whatever. I still don't feel capable.

I wonder if, when all hope is gone, it's possible to live through the false confidence others profess.

Nationals 09

2009-03-21T23:58:00.002-04:00

We arrived on campus an hour early, which is unusual--though greatly appreciated--and I ran through a few practice rounds. The campus was littered with competitors in suits, delivering speeches to trees and to walls and to passers-by. The range of emotions is always diverse, and bizarre, and eventually you learn to ignore the screams and tears and walk to a secluded area of campus where you can safely deliver your own piece, hoping that your next judge isn't lurking around the corner.

Mallory, wishing to be helpful (and probably relishing a little bit in the authoritarian title she travels here with and the implications of her now formalized elevated status) had me practice in front of her a few times. After the welcome ceremony, the round postings were taped onto the tent (which they decided it would be a good idea to label as the "Tabernacle"), and everyone gathered around, pens vigorously scribbling upon notecards supported by little black books.

I shouldered my way to squint up at the Prose and Faith Lit postings, running into Michael Domeny both times, exclaiming "Am I competing against you in everything?!" (Michael Domeny is from Cedarville, and they have a power-house team. Last year he won four first place trophies, and took sweepstakes. He's a great guy. Great performer. Terrifying competitor.)

The competition was spread thinly to try and prevent exhausting long hours, but ultimately it's impossible in such an environment. While pattern A events (prose and faith lit) were generally doable, enjoyable, and energizing, running to three events spread across campus for pattern B (CA, duo, POI) was exhausting and stressful and not conducive to optimum performance.

After five days in California (two spent practicing, three spent competing), I find it essential to digest the experience, the products of the year, the forensics culture.

It's funny that the two awards I won came from my newest and oldest endeavors, the three in between glanced over and tossed aside as average performances and topics that don't warrant a break into finals. It was a strange bookend of talent, that left me just enough encouraged to think for a second that perhaps I am an authentic forensicator.

The CA speech on Mickey Martyr was a challenge in patience, enthusiasm, and devotion. I lost all confidence in its strength the minute I finished writing it. I knew it would have made an acceptable academic paper--maybe even A material--but as a speech it was too long-winded, repetitive, explanatory, heady, abstract, and uninteresting. My academic writing is not dripping with witty remarks and satirical humor, which makes for a long ten minute speech on cultural ideographs and Palestinian politics.

The duo came a long way, though I think its fault was in my lack of commitment. Its development was mostly handled by my duo partner, while I just stepped in to fill the other role. If I had decided to devote more time to it stylistically, we might have gotten better reactions.

I'm a fan of programs, because (in my opinion) they allow more freedom of expression, compilation, and argumentation, so my last three pieces were intertextual. My prose, titled "Deconstructing the Barbie Mystique," is an exploration of three essays written about Barbie's iconic nature and endorsement of destructive behavior. I didn't do it justice (influenced too deeply by the judges and my inability to speak slower than 800 words per minute).

My POI is titled "The Anatomy of a Break Up" and I work through five phases of life after love. My limited experience on the subject matter rendered the piece only surface emotions, which didn't cut it in the final round (though got me to fifth place).

I put together my faith lit a few days before nationals, a compilation of literature and news articles and poetry on sermons--the expectations and disappoints that lie therein. Despite the ambiguity of my coach, the stress of last-minute preparation, and the pressure of competitive friendships, I decided to finish it anyway. In-competition performances were spot on (unlike when I perform in front of people I know, where the personal affiliation looms as an inhibiting creativity block), and I kicked ass to win 1st place.

As much of a confidence boost that it should have created, responses from those whom I allow too much power in my life lessened its life-giving and hope-lifting potential.

It did, however, lend me credibility among the other competitors who only recognize you and give respect when they deem you a worthy opponent.

And you know what's the most surprising? I beat Michael Domeny. And afterwards he graciously gave me an uplifting hug and acknowledgement that left me further convinced he's an impossibly good guy all around.

At least he's not planning a visit to NC anytime soon.

I have a problem.

We have a problem.

Women are bitchy.

I'm glad the season is over. I'm glad I didn't have to deal with harder emotional let-downs. I'm glad that in the midst of winning and jealously and vindictiveness (among us all), that there was a bit of healing and recognition of ghosts past.

Sorry, readers, for the ambiguity and bitterness. You caught me on a bad day.

an apology, an attempt to feel semi-reflective, taking myself too seriously

2009-03-21T11:04:00.002-04:00

i have four unfinished blogs lurking in my saved documents, and another with ideas for more--a list of things i wanted to reflect upon, flush out, understand with more coherence, remember more vividly--but i've been writing papers and reading texts and feeling panicked and i can't bring myself to finish them.

here's hoping that i'll get to them before the memory fades, before the reflection loses importance, before i die.

a sunday tradition

2009-02-22T16:29:00.001-05:00

The earbuds have been in so long they make my tiny ears start to ache. The smell of my ancient journal has rubbed onto my arm, which I lean on heavily while reading inspirational words that make me think and fill me with reflection and make me feel inadequate all at the same time. I look around at the people laughing and reading and typing and talking and listening and think that the music blaring into my aching eardrums is the perfect soundtrack to this contradictory uniquely quotidian scene as if it's straight from an artistic realistic influential cinéma vérité film.

I'll Call It Something Clever

2009-02-16T01:43:00.002-05:00

I love old tshirts.

I realized this when I was doing laundry. That, even though laundry is awful, even though I hate doing it, even though I wait till the last minute when I'm down to the uncomfortable-but-still-wearable underwear, and mismatched socks, and a sweater that I don't really like but must wear because the burden of laundry weighs too heavily on the bottom of the to-do list, that there is some consolation.

Old tshirts.

Shirts that are on the verge of deterioration. Shirts that have been worn so many times, that there is not even a hint of crispness in them, and the color is beginning to fade from the fade into a bad tye-dye job. Shirts that have been stretched and tattered and hang loosely around your frame in an almost loving way.

I love old tshirts.

Because when it gets to this point in the semester, when menial tasks begin to overwhelm, it's nice to look forward to something.

My days are defined by homework and quizzes and papers and meetings and car problems and forensics and work and now new responsibilities like grading and lecture prepping and film writing/planning/editing and research and the list goes on and on. And even when I have an hour free it's never free.

And while I'm thankful that I still maintain most of my ambition and any stretch of time seems capable of an infinite amount of productivity, it also results in continual disappointment. And I'm comparing that to other views that surround me, and my mom's ever insistent voice that the reason I feel so emotional, or the reason I think I can accomplish everything, or the reason I'm so ambitious is a result of the cultural ideology of the twenty-something.

And I wonder if there will come a time when I, too, will be doomed to reach a transitional state of mind that will involve desperation and a feeling of uselessness, a point where that once promising stretch of time suddenly hovers as a debilitating awareness of how much will *never* get done. If instead of promise, I'll feel an omnipresent realization that there could never be enough time in the world.

Because, realistically, I can only write so many words a minute, and I can only connect with x amount of people in a day, and I can only drink so much coffee to keep me awake for only so many hours, and at the end of the day my nose still swoops upward in an idiosyncratic quirk of my father's (because one thing my mother *did* teach me, is that vanity never goes away).

So when in the midst of these thoughts and these tasks and these meetings, I need to take time to clean, and to organize, and to do laundry, I will relish the fact that my love of old tshirts is still a constant. That even though that shirt may tatter and tear, there will be another wearing its way down to replace it.

And when these fresh and new thoughts of the present one day tatter and tear, I shall look fondly upon them until they're gone. At which point my faltered and failed ambitions will be replaced by other goals that have worn themselves down...

And then I'll start up a vintage store.

When I was braver...

2009-02-03T00:51:00.002-05:00

In high school, we were given the assignment to rewrite the ending of "A Good Man is Hard to Find" by Flannery O'Connor. My ending is not near as insightful or creative as hers, but I was excited to find my version...:

They turned onto the dirt road and the car raced roughly along in a swirl of pink dust. The grandmother recalled the times when there were no paved roads and thirty miles was a day's journey. The dirt road was hilly and there were sudden washes in it and sharp curves on dangerous embankments. All at once they would be on a hill, looking down over the blue tops of trees for miles around, and then the next minute, they would be in a red depression with the dust-coated trees looking down on them.

"Are we there yet?" John Wesley insisted.

"Please, John, does it look like we're there yet?" June Star retorted.

"Well, no. I just wanted to know if we were getting close."

"We're not far," the grandmother said uncertainly.

"We'd better not be," Bailey grumbled.

"Well, I don't see why you're so grumpy, Bailey. This drive gives us a nice chance to see the country. How often do you really look at the beauty of nature?" the grandmother asked.

Bailey glared at his mother through the rear-view mirror, wishing she had opted not to go on the trip. She looked up, and smiled pleasantly at him. He pursed his lips, even more annoyed. Then, her face changed: she had a look of horror, and her complexion was ghostly pale. Bailey turned around.

"What is it? What's wrong?" he asked.

"Bailey!" his wife screamed.

Bailey whipped around and saw the road disappear in front of him. The car, which a split second earlier had been safely hurtling along the dirt road, was now plummeting over the side of an embankment towards a lake that spread far and wide.

Everyone in the vehicle was frozen in silence, but as the car impacted the water, things erupted in chaos. The children were screaming and flailing about wildly as their parents struggled to free themselves of air bags and seat belts.

The car was being submerged into water, slowly sinking. The children were wailing now, screaming with terror as they watched their car sink lower and lower beneath the surface.

The car flooded with water. They all went kicking for the surface. When they emerged, Bailey led the way by swimming towards a shore a distance back the way they had come.

The grandmother crawled up onto the rocky beach, and lay down. She lay clutching her hat and her handbag. At least she was a lady. Everyone would still know she was a lady.

Bailey looked at his children. June Star and John Wesley were sitting quietly; they were staring blankly out at where their car now rested under the water.

"We've had an accident," they murmured.

He turned his attention to his wife. Her face was wet - with tears or water, he did not know. He decided they were tears.

"What's the matter?" Bailey asked her.

She did not respond.

"Hey," he touched her arm. She jumped. "What's wrong?" he asked again.

She looked up at him. Her eyes began to flood with tears.

"The - the baby," she stammered, "the baby isn't breathing!" She finished the last with a wail.

Bailey looked. Indeed, his baby - his youngest offspring - had turned blue from lack of oxygen.

His wife clutched at the child. She tucked her head over the baby, and began to rock back and forth. She was crying, now, really crying; Bailey heard his wife's violent sobs and it wrenched at his heart.

"Dad?" Bailey heard John Wesley say uncertainly. He beckoned, and his two surviving children came to him. He held them, and they wept.

The grandmother lifted her head up, and then lay it back down in prayer.

After a while, Bailey realized that they would have to find a town and contact the police about their car. So he gently gathered his wounded family and they began to walk. Eventually they came to the original road that they had been traveling down before they decided to visit the house with the secret panel. The family trudged on the empty road. Bailey hoped that they weren't too far from the next town. He wondered how he was going to restore his life to normalcy. He wondered if his wife would ever be the same. He wondered how his other children would behave now. He wondered how his mother would treat them. He wondered if they weren't too far from the next town.

Sometime during Bailey's musings, a truck had gained on them. Bailey heard it behind them. He turned to look, and it began to slow down. Finally, it came to a stop right next to them.

There were three men in the truck. The two passengers were younger than the driver. One was in a bright red shirt with a silver stallion embossed on the front of it, and the other was wearing a blue striped coat and had a gray hat pulled down low, hiding most of his face. The driver didn't have a shirt on. His hair was starting to gray and he wore spectacles that made him look scholarly.

"You folks stuck?" the driver asked.

Bailey replied, "Our car went over an embankment into a lake. We're trying to get to the next town and talk with the police."

The driver's eyes widened. "Wow, that is a predicament. Well, folks, if you hop in the back here, we'll take you to the next town."

Bailey glanced at the driver suspiciously. "Alright," he said finally.

So Bailey, Bailey's wife, Bailey's mother, and Bailey's children climbed into the back of the pick-up truck and held on. The driver seemed to be slightly reckless. Bailey thought he was driving way too wildly for having passengers in the back of his truck. But, as this man was helping them, Bailey just held on tighter and prayed that they would get there soon.

Suddenly, the driver turned down a side road that was unpaved. Bailey didn't think this was right. He didn't think that a dirt road would lead to a town. He knocked on the back of the window. The driver reached back with his hand and slid the window open.

"Problem, sir?" he asked.

"Where are we headed?" Bailey asked. "Why are we taking the dirt road?"

"Oh, just a little short cut," the man said, and shut the window.

As they drove along, the road became more and more thickly surrounded by trees. It became so dense, that vision was difficult. Just when the trees were thickest around them, the truck stopped. Bailey looked uncertainly at his family and then back to the men in the truck. He banged on the window.

"Oy! What's going on here? Why are we stopping?" he demanded.

The men got out of the truck, and they all had guns.

"Sir, if you wouldn't mind gettin' your family down from my truck it'd be much appreciated," the driver said.

"Wait, wait! You said you'd take us to the nearest town! What's going on?" Bailey demanded with a bit less fervor than before.

"A small misunderstanding, I'm afraid," the driver said. "See, I lie. Now get down."

Bailey helped his family down from the back of the truck, and then stood in front of them.

"What's he got that gun for, Dad?" John Wesley asked. "What's he gonna do with that gun?"

"Hiram, take the children off to the side, please. You know how children make me nervous," the driver said to the man in the gray hat. He came over and took the children off into the woods. Bailey started to follow but the driver had taken his gun and pointed it at him. Bailey backed away at once.

"Look here, sir. We're in a predicament. All we want is some help," he said almost pleadingly.

Bailey heard a shot from a gun, quickly followed by another. He ran towards the driver, with every intention of making him pay for what was done to his family. The driver held up his hand.

"Do you really want to be doin' that now, sir?" he asked, motioning towards where the remainder of his family stood. Bailey looked back to see the man in the red shirt with a gun to his wife's head. He looked back at the driver, who was smiling slightly. Bailey heard the shot behind him, and everything went cold. There was another shot, and he knew his mother was gone, too. He looked up at the driver.

"Who are you? How can you do this?" he pleaded.

"Why, don't you recognize me?" the man asked. "I'm the Misfit."

Bailey never heard another sound.

love actually

2009-01-19T01:04:00.001-05:00

While reading for my thesis, I came across a discussion of the relatively recent romantic comedy, Love Actually.

I actually love Love Actually.

I love admitting that I love Love Actually.

I guess I would classify romantic comedies as one of my guilty pleasures. I always shied away from the stigma that many of them received as being "chick flicks," feeling generally affronted and indignant that such a generalization should be made. Women like ooey, gooey, emotional love story messes of movies. Harrumph. (the roots of my feminism are shining through...)

*I* was certainly not one of them. Nope. I would not let myself fall into that girly stereotype. I would not, NOT, watch those love stories and weep with the happy ending. No. I would not be an emotional wreck of a weepy, weakling girl.

So how ironic is it that I now find myself reading everything I can find about the romantic comedy, as I prepare for a thesis that will focus on that genre (and a particular sub-genre therein).

I guess the cat's out of the bag. You already know my secret. I've admitted that romantic comedies are a guilty pleasure. So guilty, that I watch them alone so I don't have to be embarrassed when I do, in fact, weep at the mushy happy ending (though, granted, I also weep during all manner of storylines, not *just* rom-coms...). Okay, I like feel-good movies that have a happy ending.

That doesn't mean that I'm not just as interested in films that do NOT offer a happy ending. Maybe it has developed into an acquired taste, but lately I've *preferred* those types of endings--or at least endings that do not spell it all out for me as the audience member. I don't want to be told they live happily-ever-after. How perfectly impossible and unattainable!

Sometimes it's just too much...the swelling music, with the perfectly crafted sentimental line, meant to evoke the appropriate response... stop TELLING me what to feel! Let me think about it, imagine it, THEN feel it.

Maybe I'm getting sick of the tried-and-true conventions of the romantic comedy (that I'm just starting to learn about with more precision and clarity). Maybe it's been used too much. Maybe I want more invention with my convention. Maybe I'm sick of being the worst feminist in the world:

[Me: "WOMAN POWER! I'm a totally capable human being that deserves equality and I shouldn't have to rely on a man because I'm strong and independent and...

~~tell me i'm pretty...~~"]

For whatever reason, I fell for Love Actually. And do not feel ashamed to say it.

I think it's because Love Actually is not your traditional love story. Sure, it has its elements. But it has a lot of different, new, poignant ones, too.

I was initially attracted to the story because of Alan Rickman and Emma Thompson, both actors whom I admire greatly. Rickman is quoted about his and Thompson's story in particular, stating, "I enjoy the fact it has the most melancholy and the most regret. It's about how easily you can lose it, if you don't look after it."

Love Actually's abundant sad stories is one of my prime attractions to it. Unlike those other feel-good narratives that end in boy getting girl, it acknowledges that not all love stories end happily. But it's our desire for and belief in love that keeps us watching.

I like it, because the stories don't require some sort of feminist sacrifice. It allows me to "know better" about liking traditional rom-coms, and still enjoy the experience of this particular film.

It permits me to do this, because the film doesn't focus on one overwhelming, winning romance. It's a total of nine stories that incorporate all sorts of hybrids--and not all end sickly sweet. Horny Colin gives us a flavor of the relatively new, crude, lewd, earthy rom-com perfected by Judd Apatow; Jaime (Firth) and Aurelia's story twists the usual formula with their separate countries/nationalities/languages; the ambiguity of Thompson and Rickman's relationship keeps us guessing about whether the storm has passed or if trouble is just beginning; Sarah's devotion to her brother upsets her chance with Karl, though we overall yearn for her to be happy; the unrequited love, the shy porn-stand ins, the school-girl crush, the male-bonding friendship, and (of course) the most conventional boy meets girl/loses girl/wins girl with Hugh Grant--all wrap up rather neatly, leaving us (or maybe just me), feeling bittersweet and satisfied.

Though parts still wash us with overwhelming fuzzy, warm feelings--overall, I think this is one of the most genuine experiences I've had while watching a rom-com. I don't have much experience with love, but the little I have had, has included just as much pain, and regret, and sadness as it has love, joy, and happiness.

I think this movie illustrates that balance well.

And so the feeling grows.

swirl

2009-01-08T19:44:00.001-05:00

The days are slipping away fast. I let them slide away in a meaningless blur. When I look back, trying to remember, the specifics escape my mind. There are just swirling colors, indecipherable images, large objects blurry around the edges that make me feel like I could make it out if I just look long enough...

A funny thing about burglars.

2009-01-07T01:24:00.001-05:00

My mom called home this morning at 8 to ask me to go downstairs and sleep in her bedroom. What, what? The phone lost signal before she had a chance to explain. Being apathetic about mornings, I quickly rolled over without another thought. That is, until I heard the home phone ringing downstairs. Knowing that Mom must think it important if she's bothering to call twice, I ran downstairs just in time to miss the call.

After five more rotations of phone tag, I finally got to greet Mom with a grunt and a mildly annoyed concern. She wanted me to be downstairs with our ferocious-looking wimp of a rottweiler because she saw a suspicious car lurking outside our driveway. She feared that they were burglars waiting for an empty house and would attack in a matter of minutes.

And what was I supposed to do downstairs, in the room adjacent to the (now locked) door? How was I going to be any more of a threat downstairs than upstairs? At least upstairs I had the element of surprise--and Russ's gun closet.

Russ's guns! That would be my plan. If the burglars showed up with guns of their own, if they tried to shoot my dog, I would brandish the gun about screaming "GET THE HELL OUT OF MY HOUSE!"

That should work. I wouldn't actually *need* to load the gun. An unloaded rifle would be more than sufficient to run off a criminal, while I would calmly walk after them and jot down their license plate number.

But what if they called my bluff? Should I load the gun anyway? I don't know how to load a gun. Should I go up and learn how, just in case? Could I even *fire* the gun if it was loaded? Would I be emotionally capable, even if I could physically pull it off?

These were the thoughts that kept me up as I lay between all the pillows I piled around myself on my parents' bed.

A clatter erupted in the living room. I sat straight up and looked down the hallway to see the kitten suddenly run off into the kitchen followed by the dog. Damn cat.

I began to drift off to sleep, but I was interrupted as the dog growled and barked ferociously at the back door. I jumped up, crouched to the window, pulled the curtain back cautiously, and looked out at...nothing. Still wary, I slowly peeked around the corner to see two of the outside cats rumbling--the cause of the dog's outburst. Damn dog.

Cars drove by, slowing around the corner that also happens to be the bottom of the driveway. I had to keep reminding myself that cars drive down roads. It's nothing out of the ordinary. Completely normal.

I, on the other hand, was being abnormal in my paranoia. I cannot hold onto reality with these threats on the horizon. And it's not like logical thinking ever makes it go away. Uh huh, in fact, logic normally leads to other possible (terrifying) scenarios. Damn brain.

I fell asleep and was not attacked by burglars, nor was our house burgled. The truth is no where near as exciting as the imagination. Damn truth.

A little review

2009-01-02T00:57:00.001-05:00

The small things that brought me joy in 2008:

Celebrating New Year's with strangers and friends, but happy to be out for the holiday for the first time.
Welcoming home a good friend from the most life-altering experience of her life.
Indulging Mom on her birthday.
Finding out that even when you are the most insufferable person to be around, your friends love you anyway and prove it beyond a doubt.
Getting an A in the hardest class I've ever taken.
Finishing the scenography set after three all-nighters and feeling like it was the most colorful seussical world it could be.
Boarding a plane at ridiculously early hours.
Realizing people.
Coming home to foster that realization.
Fighting debt.
The little comments from people who noticed I'd lost weight.
Finishing a shift at work.
Going to the cabin.
Experiencing the most bizarre heartbreak ever, that ultimately taught me more about myself and my friends than ever.
Taking a road trip with a good friend to visit another.
Starting another semester.
Loving all of my classes.
Being pushed to be the best and most creative version of myself.
Sometimes failing at those, but learning just the same.
Bypassing all of my previously held expectations about myself.
Putting my work on the webpage.
Finishing photography projects.
Film discussion.
Applying theory.
Reading memoirs.
Discovering emotional holes that evoke pain, reflection, and finally healing.
Taking tiny steps towards a completed spiritual autobiography.
Directing two actresses who grow and develop under careful direction.
Seeing my show.
Teachers having confidence in me.
Mom having confidence in me.
Forensics dinners.
Finishing a speech.
Van rides with Ann and Will.
Russ's inane observational comments that make me laugh.
Dad's support.
Classes with Audrey.
Talking film with Stephen.
Sharing dreams with Dan.
Meetings with Ann--both serious and recreational.
Work/advising/thesis/falafel/film/overall-dense meetings with Andrew--which usually cultivate overwhelming projects, ambition, and laughter.
Letters from Mallory.
Reviving old jokes with Connie.
Telling stories with the suities.
Typing.
Journaling.
Seeing old and new movies, with old and new friends.
Prepping for the most challenging projects of my college career.

And so much more.

Happy New Year.

a morbid thought

2008-12-31T02:49:00.002-05:00

A child turns twelve. A family decides to go on vacation. A trip for five is planned for the girl's first out-of-state trip--Disney Land the destination. The miracle of Disney seems just right for this oddly playful group. The girl, the dad, the stepmother, the step-grandmother, and the step-grandfather pile into a van for the fun-filled 18-hour drive to Florida.

The step-grandfather is all prepared: he brings board games, cards, maps, and mountain dew to entertain the child. He is utterly obsessed with pleasing her. It was his idea for this two week vacation, after all. He spoils and tickles her--just like a grandfather would.

The rest of the family is content to let them play. They take turns driving and napping, hardly allowing the child to sleep, herself.

They reach their destination, and the child is awed by this magical kingdom. They take her to Animal Kingdom where the step-grandfather pays for her to get her face painted. They go to Epcot because the girl is oddly fascinated with learning. They go on the crash-test ride, and the step-grandfather holds the child's hand comfortingly when she gets scared.

One week flies by, the child feeling the happiest she ever has. She swims daily at the hotel that the step-grandparents paid for. Everyday holds new treasures for her to experience in this foreign state. Her eyes twinkle with the Disney miracle.

Three days until the trip is over, the dad and the stepmom decide to take a night for themselves. They go out on the town, leaving the girl with the step-grandparents who clearly love and care for her.

The step-grandmother steps out to make a call.

The child is tucked into bed.

In the dark, a hand reaches out. There are uncomfortable touches all over her body.

Tears fall silently onto her pillow.

A trust is broken. A vacation becomes a nightmare. A grandfather-figure with more than familial intentions.

A stepmom lived through it before, and let it happen anyway. A father refuses to acknowledge the situation. She lives in fear for her body, and her heart.

Disney. Where [wet] dreams come true.

applying theory

2008-12-27T01:32:00.002-05:00

One of the benefits of not having a social life all semester, was that I also wasn't involved in the inevitable drama that accompanies any group of friends. Being thrown back into EC escapades with no warning has pretty much knocked me on my ass. Especially because I don't understand a lot of it. And yet--I'm still being prejudiced against.

I thought perhaps this was the reason that my recent trip with Alyssa to an old friend's was so awkward and boring. That, for some reason, he was harboring sore feelings towards me because I was present when he embarrassed himself (though, so was Alyssa, but no hard feelings towards her?).

But, I mean, really. It was uber boring. I was sitting there, just staring at him. He wasn't even talking to me, really. He was sort of bragging about how good his life is in Florida (where he recently moved). He did a lot of talking without really saying anything. I zoned out. Plus I was bitter that he was angry with me for doing nothing.

Eventually, something he said reminded me of something else...so I launched into a series of stories and anecdotes, that I told in equal respect to what this friend showed me, and spoke only to Alyssa.

She and I exchanged laughs and excited conversation. We left shortly after, and when we got in the car, Alyssa turned to me. She said, "When you were telling those stories, I completely forgot where we were. When [our friend] said something, I was shocked to find myself in his kitchen." We started laughing again.

That's when I realized why it had been so boring earlier. The conversation was stilted--limited only to this friend's bragging about his recent move, how much it was SO BORING coming back to Ohio, just talking with no purpose, no reciprocation. No stories.

When I read Walter FIsher's narrative paradigm for comm theory, I felt a certain hesitancy towards the claim that human nature essentially depends on storytelling--that we make sense of the world through stories. Not because it didn't make sense, certainly not because I disagree, but because I'm cautious about making too-definite claims about everyone in a world that holds too many mysteries.

However, I did know when I read it, that I make most sense of my world through stories. It all clicked--the movies I like best have unique or relatable narratives, the songs I enjoy tell a vivid story, my inclination towards forensics, the way I converse with friends.

Alyssa's comment was a confirmation of something I consider most essential to my existence--my ability to tell engaging stories. Our friend's conversation, however, continues to make me doubt the application of this need to all people.

Regardless, I know I've got something to tell. I know I can tell it. Now the question is...how do I craft it?

If I didn't have reason to quit before...

2008-12-19T19:07:00.001-05:00

Let me tell you a story.

Now, I hated my job before, but it gets so much better.

There is drama galore. I realize that any place I work there are going to be politics at play, and personal issues that will make me wonder how people still function enough to be at said place of work, but this just seems a bit out of hand.

Some background information:

Okay, first we have Jamie*, who is the area supervisor for our store and a few others. She's one of the big wigs. She hired me. She is married and has one son. This is her life career.

Then there is Ashley*, who is the store assistant manager. She's my immediate boss. She's pregnant with the child of a schizophrenic, alchoholic, recovering drug user who just relapsed (on crack) and is now in prison. She took maternity leave early because her boyfriend is in jail and will not be around for the baby's birth.

There is Sarah*, a thirty-year-old woman with three children living with her boyfriend, Tracy*. She does not have custody of her children because Tracy has been accused of molesting her eight-year-old daughter. She had her custody hearing last Tuesday, but the case worker told her that she had to either choose the kids or Tracy. Because the case worker found Sarah and Tracy's weed lying all around the house, which Sarah had told Tracy to lock away in the safe, but he did not listen. I think he went to the bar instead. This would not be surprising because all of Sarah's paychecks are direct deposited into Tracy's bank account, which he uses to (surprise!) drink at the bar. Once, Sarah only had five dollars to put in the gas tank, so Tracy scrounged around for 3 dollars in change, which he used to walk to the bar and buy a beer.

He sounds like a winner, right?

Shouldn't be a hard decision for Sarah to choose between her kids and the scumbag, right? Well, apparently it is difficult, and apparently she's still going to see Tracy anyway (secretly, of course). I don't understand why she's still with this man--as if the molestation charge wasn't serious enough, I'm thinking that the alcoholism, and the lying, and the drugs are all BIG reasons to not be in that relationship anymore.

But that's not why I want to quit my job.

Okay, Sarah was hired after me. Shortly after she was hired, she found out that she needed to have a hysterectomy, which she told all of us she would postpone until February. Or, you know, October. So Sarah is out for six weeks, and there are now three people to cover the store, and I'm working 30 hours a week DURING school and Jamie tells me that I can't cut back hours because bla bla bla, and finally Sarah is back. Yay! But she calls off or leaves work early and I get called in to cover her shifts. Boo. This is still happening.

You know why she calls off? Because she's not taking her pain medication. She's not taking the pain meds because she needs money and therefore decided to sell the pills. I don't really understand that logic--wouldn't it be better to just take the pain medicine, finish a shift at work, and make money that way? And I don't know how she keeps getting her prescriptions refilled, but she somehow had pills to sell to Jamie this week. Yes, that's right, Jamie, our area supervisor, is buying drugs from an associate employee.

Jamie is not-so-secretly a big-ole-stoner. She told me that was all she did in high school. Ashley (the assistant manager with the incarcerated schizophrenic baby's daddy) told me when I was hired that they didn't care if I smoked or drank, as long as I didn't come to work high or drunk.

Apparently you could drug test all of Dakota Watch Company, and they'd all test positive. Except for me, of course. But lest I get out soon, who knows what will happen...

*Names have been changed