I feel deflated. Maybe I'm just tired. I started my day with such high hopes and aspirations, but now, as I sit down at my computer to do what it is I really want to do, I feel exhausted. It is a strange phenomena. Today has been such a blur, honestly. I started working at a job I never thought I would take. Yet, I know how awful statements like those sound. I don't want anyone to think the job is beneath me, or that I think that, because I don't. I'm grateful to be making money. I just want to be making money in another situation, doing something that doesn't require me to wear a visor, preferably.
Besides that, the first day on the job was great. I like working. I like feeling like I am being productive, no matter what the task, it feels better than sitting around fretting about meaningless topics. Plus, they gave me Sunday off, which is awesome because I have really enjoyed going to church lately and now I don't have to give it up. Also, when I got out of the shower I realized one of my earrings had fallen out, but then after going to my room for a bit, I cam back and found the earring on the bathroom floor. I was amazed! (It was a little stud).
So, I keep inverting my letters while writing and I am getting super annoyed by this board I have balancing on my wall because it is not properly supported and every time the desk moves, it shakes, so I think that means I am too tired to write the amazing blogs/ stories that I was dreaming about producing when I was at Starbucks today during my break. I also feel like that is an excuse. I would give anything to feel like something I wrote had real value, but that is hard to measure with art, I think. It draws up psychological questions, like whose value would I accept? Why does it matter so much when others don't value it? It all feels silly, I guess. Doesn't it seem like if you love doing something you would do it more often? Except that when I do write and I feel like I'm getting some where, I enjoy it. It is thrilling and captures all of my attention, it makes me feel good actually. I'm wary of that emotion though, I feel like feeling that way is a negative, it feels too close to conceit, but if I don't feel like that, will I always feel inferior in my position, my career? That sounds awful.
I have so many questions and I feel like they could be answered by less thinking. If, like Voltaire suggests, I just let life happen to me and stopped asking questions I might finally be satisfied. However, what would I experience? Monotonous tasks. Even security I could have with a God who goes where I go and is everywhere I am. The problem with questions is that they never end. If you regard one past experience to help with the future, you really can't shut the door on the other more negative memories. At least, I don't think you can. It doesn't seem right. I don't know what to do with my ghosts though, the one who keeps coming back to me and making me feel like I left something behind, that I did something wrong and that the only way to release this spirit is to make it right, now. The bigger problem is that I have no idea how to do that. How do you? If anyone knew that would make this stage in my life a million bucks worth. Thanks.
Friday, September 2, 2011
Monday, August 29, 2011
'Rock Around the Clock'
Ever notice the lyrics of songs these days? I'm sure, like me, most people belt out the lyrics to their favorite tunes, at least every now and then. This means that those who do are conscious of the words that these songs are comprised of. What, I am wondering, is the effect of these words on our daily lives? Do the similarities between people cause them to share musical interests? Are the plights of our souls compounded by the stories we listen to daily through the lyrics in the songs we choose?
I got thinking about this because of the recent changes going on in my life. I noticed a couple of years back how I went through stages with the music I most commonly enjoyed. At times, perhaps the most peaceful in my life, I enjoyed the simplicity of themes, mostly love, and the sound of innocence from artists such as Taylor Swift. This is contradicted by other periods in my life when I would turn from the angelic, teen song-writer to an angrier, harried version, Alanis Morissette. Now these stages could be months apart, but there were also the daily changes from old-school R&B, perhaps a little R. Kelly or Boys 2 Men when I was feeling sensual or SIA when I was feeling fragile to Rebelution during a playful mood. It is only recently that my tastes are undergoing a change and I feel uncomfortable with what my ears have been allowing my heart to tune into. I say this light-heartedly and mean no offense to light rock followers. Even though it is a reaction to turn the song when one of these starts to play, I have recently let them play on and it has been to my enjoyment. Like a sneaky, heavy handed bartender, this music sweeps me off my feet and it is utterly out of my control. I feel childish as my body reacts to the outdated lyrical allusions and positive beats. I probably shouldn't be complaining, but it is weird, like an out of body experience.
It did get me thinking though about the causes for the change. If, indeed, it follows with my recent re-conversion to a life led by faith in God and therefore a more "pure" approach to the daily life, in the Christian sense of the word, are my ears and body filtering the appropriate material on a sub-conscious level or is my brain on terms with my heart and making the best effort to remain one whole rather than parts divided?
If this is confusing, I should probably back up anyway. I am suggesting that what we listen to affects what we think or how we think even on a daily basis. I am thinking that modern music, within the last 20 years or so, is typically based on love. All types: unrequited, fantastical, sensual, dangerous, flamboyant, obscure, innocent, familiar... What is, and has been, the effect of this on society? Do we mimic the music and is it a cyclical situation (I won't call it a problem because that is entirely personal at this point and unfounded)? I don't have the answers here, just somethings I'm thinking about. Comments welcome!
I got thinking about this because of the recent changes going on in my life. I noticed a couple of years back how I went through stages with the music I most commonly enjoyed. At times, perhaps the most peaceful in my life, I enjoyed the simplicity of themes, mostly love, and the sound of innocence from artists such as Taylor Swift. This is contradicted by other periods in my life when I would turn from the angelic, teen song-writer to an angrier, harried version, Alanis Morissette. Now these stages could be months apart, but there were also the daily changes from old-school R&B, perhaps a little R. Kelly or Boys 2 Men when I was feeling sensual or SIA when I was feeling fragile to Rebelution during a playful mood. It is only recently that my tastes are undergoing a change and I feel uncomfortable with what my ears have been allowing my heart to tune into. I say this light-heartedly and mean no offense to light rock followers. Even though it is a reaction to turn the song when one of these starts to play, I have recently let them play on and it has been to my enjoyment. Like a sneaky, heavy handed bartender, this music sweeps me off my feet and it is utterly out of my control. I feel childish as my body reacts to the outdated lyrical allusions and positive beats. I probably shouldn't be complaining, but it is weird, like an out of body experience.
It did get me thinking though about the causes for the change. If, indeed, it follows with my recent re-conversion to a life led by faith in God and therefore a more "pure" approach to the daily life, in the Christian sense of the word, are my ears and body filtering the appropriate material on a sub-conscious level or is my brain on terms with my heart and making the best effort to remain one whole rather than parts divided?
If this is confusing, I should probably back up anyway. I am suggesting that what we listen to affects what we think or how we think even on a daily basis. I am thinking that modern music, within the last 20 years or so, is typically based on love. All types: unrequited, fantastical, sensual, dangerous, flamboyant, obscure, innocent, familiar... What is, and has been, the effect of this on society? Do we mimic the music and is it a cyclical situation (I won't call it a problem because that is entirely personal at this point and unfounded)? I don't have the answers here, just somethings I'm thinking about. Comments welcome!
Frustration
Today was my first official day back as a Sonoma State student. By official, I simply mean that it was the first day back after syllabi had been distributed and some people have already discarded their sense of uniformity in preference of the ever controversial, much loved sweat outfit. It isn't that I have any feelings against this demonstration of personal comfort, I note it only to illuminate my own separation from that innocent, self-absorbed mentality that entitles one who means well in being present, but offers much less effort beyond that. Maybe the times have changed, maybe I'm off in my accusation. I will concede that the little effort being shown is sometimes all the student can give, if they are to be present at all, in which case, as in the other, I reserve judgment and simply state it as a result.
Some may wonder, what makes me an expert on student appearance or even gives me the authority to speak like a campus veteran? Well, kudos, because I am as good at hiding my secret sensitivity as a bulimic who has throw-up on her elbow. I spent the last few hours of class today trying to out run that thought, though it followed me out the door of that fateful meeting. As is the usual for me, I was drawn to a fiery student next to me, let's call him Andrew, Drew he would insist. A respectful individual with the intelligence to back his reserved yet confident position. I had noticed him the first day, along with others, and honestly had overlooked the amount of thinking he was doing based on his appearance. A rookie mistake and completely unacceptable! Be that as it may, we sat in the same places today and I quickly felt an affinity with him, although to be honest, his thinking may well have passed my own as his thoughts came out clean and polished when I produced similar quality with what felt like a much clankier machine. All this to say that, as clearly as in a dream when you've shown to class wearing nothing more than your chonies, I felt a huge label of "Too Old for School" across my head. Vanity of all vanities. However, there I was and there, in my mind, the thought resides.
My self-esteem was not the only tragedy in today's activities. My idealism was confronted, as it had been in the early stages of my experience in higher education. I walked into class with a giant misconception and without any reason. For, my first assignment had been to read a piece by Bacon in which he suggests a radical reform to education and perception of knowledge. Given the year of 1620 you might imagine the vast inclusion of religious references. To my satisfaction. I am at a place in my life where I find comfort in offering up my contentions and related, rather admirably, to Bacon's divergence from topic to pray for Divine leadership and ayuda. Well well well. Welcome back, Jennifer Webb, to higher education in a liberal, public education system. Not only did I find myself surprised with the force of anti-religious sentiment coming from the students, which I feel wouldn't be so bothersome as I am used to differing opinions, but it knocked me on my feet to realize how far changed my own perspective was. Here I was relating to a speaker, and had whole-heartedly contended with his remarks, and thinking I had understood him and then I get to class and apparently what he said was heresy in sheep's clothing and his poetic metaphors were all about his latent sexual desire. I was in a precarious situation. Before I knew what was happening, my hand was up defending a prayer to a God for safe-keeping and it was stated in what could have only been the most righteous, 'naive,' matter-of-fact position. I figure I'm alright there, as long as I can keep a handle on my frustration enough to deliver my thoughts in a rational manner, as opposed to a half-crazed religious zealot. Where would the fun of that be, anyway? So I press on, knowing I will be defending a dying breed. Wondering though if feelings like mine would be considered strife? I hope so in the sense that there is something of a flame being ignited when you have a point to prove or an honor to defend.
Some may wonder, what makes me an expert on student appearance or even gives me the authority to speak like a campus veteran? Well, kudos, because I am as good at hiding my secret sensitivity as a bulimic who has throw-up on her elbow. I spent the last few hours of class today trying to out run that thought, though it followed me out the door of that fateful meeting. As is the usual for me, I was drawn to a fiery student next to me, let's call him Andrew, Drew he would insist. A respectful individual with the intelligence to back his reserved yet confident position. I had noticed him the first day, along with others, and honestly had overlooked the amount of thinking he was doing based on his appearance. A rookie mistake and completely unacceptable! Be that as it may, we sat in the same places today and I quickly felt an affinity with him, although to be honest, his thinking may well have passed my own as his thoughts came out clean and polished when I produced similar quality with what felt like a much clankier machine. All this to say that, as clearly as in a dream when you've shown to class wearing nothing more than your chonies, I felt a huge label of "Too Old for School" across my head. Vanity of all vanities. However, there I was and there, in my mind, the thought resides.
My self-esteem was not the only tragedy in today's activities. My idealism was confronted, as it had been in the early stages of my experience in higher education. I walked into class with a giant misconception and without any reason. For, my first assignment had been to read a piece by Bacon in which he suggests a radical reform to education and perception of knowledge. Given the year of 1620 you might imagine the vast inclusion of religious references. To my satisfaction. I am at a place in my life where I find comfort in offering up my contentions and related, rather admirably, to Bacon's divergence from topic to pray for Divine leadership and ayuda. Well well well. Welcome back, Jennifer Webb, to higher education in a liberal, public education system. Not only did I find myself surprised with the force of anti-religious sentiment coming from the students, which I feel wouldn't be so bothersome as I am used to differing opinions, but it knocked me on my feet to realize how far changed my own perspective was. Here I was relating to a speaker, and had whole-heartedly contended with his remarks, and thinking I had understood him and then I get to class and apparently what he said was heresy in sheep's clothing and his poetic metaphors were all about his latent sexual desire. I was in a precarious situation. Before I knew what was happening, my hand was up defending a prayer to a God for safe-keeping and it was stated in what could have only been the most righteous, 'naive,' matter-of-fact position. I figure I'm alright there, as long as I can keep a handle on my frustration enough to deliver my thoughts in a rational manner, as opposed to a half-crazed religious zealot. Where would the fun of that be, anyway? So I press on, knowing I will be defending a dying breed. Wondering though if feelings like mine would be considered strife? I hope so in the sense that there is something of a flame being ignited when you have a point to prove or an honor to defend.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
His love.
She was addicted to drama, as fate would have it. From a young age she had learned to satisfy her soul on excessive intake of extreme emotion. When there was little food in her cupboard, she gorged on the secret indecency of a heart wrenching cry. If she felt alone, a mania-like curling of laughter might escape her youthful lips, anything to fend off the beast within. As she aged, and was able to participate in such exchanges of one adult to another, the stories from those she encountered were her drugs, before she knew or knew of, the lable 'co-dependent' in that she would listen and be transported to their souls, their lives and the drama enfolded would transport her from a troubled mind and fragile, eccentric spirit, to that of a dramatic encounter between two strangers. Life around her was an ever unfolding film that only drew curtain when she sat alone in her room. That was always a dark and scary place until she realized she was living a drama all her own. It was one of tears and depression and life-shaking pain and it was exhausting. It took years to realize that it was a drama she was writing all herself and it might take many years more to turn this tragedy into a comedy, but it was a conversion worth making. It would not be a love story unrequited or a comedy based on the pain of others, simply an appreciation of life and love and the problems that unfold throughout in the ordinary. It would be nothing more than her story, but it would be the story of her and she would be deciding the joy and the exciting and the inspiration which would ensue.
For years she had no idea what was missing. It felt like the Grand Canyon had been created in her soul, the schism between who she knew she could be and who she felt herself being was that great. It was not until she completely fell apart that she was able to see God. She saw her opportunity to live her life when she finally surrendered to the need she felt for Him to lead her life. Like the song says, she found him when she fell apart. She lay on the floor thinking her life would never go on and there was no way for her to continue when she opened the Bible, turned up the radio and waited. Waited for the flood of emotion to pass, waited out the negative voices that screamed failure in her ears, waited until she had the strength to look at herself in the mirror and ask what it was that she needed. She stared at those landscape colored saucers and she forced herself to keep staring until she asked, "Why?" She was wondering why she couldn't look into her own eyes with an eighth of the amount of love that she had so often bestowed upon previous lovers. Not that she wanted to elevate herself to any level, in fact she feared pride. She feared vanity almost above all else, most certainly beyond her fear of failure, as it was a constant reminder each time she happened upon any reflective surface.
Love though, she knew she couldn't do without it. In any religious context one is to believe that they must love themselves in order to fully love others. So, tonight she lie there and she made herself ask that question. "Why?" And she waited. She waited for God to speak through her this time. No answer from her mind and the knowledge she possessed would give her a satisfactory answer, it most certainly hadn't worked without God in the last few years. Until it clicked. It clicked and she saw what she missed at every other similar exchange between her being and its reflection. There was nothing that she did that should incite any sort of the unlove she so frequently felt when the thought of herself came up. It wasn't that she spoke negatively in her own mind which made her circumstance that much more confusing. Before now she would not talk harshly to herself, but as her friend once stated, there was something fundamentally wrong, most always.
To her, although she wanted to ask she wouldn't, the why, the question of why it took so long for her to realize that their approval and their love and lack of showing it, why all of that took so long to not matter, wouldn't matter. Time was gone once it passed and it wouldn't be regained with the why, that much she knew. From this point on she knew it would be different. Before this night, the night of her breakdown, she knew God loved her and she knew she was suppose to believe that, but it was almost impossible to convince herself that the ruler of this world would truly love the girl at the bottom of the world who kept complaining in a time when people were struggling for nutrition and support and safety. Well, she heard his voice through all of that and for the reasons she already listed, she couldn't ignore the answer. He loved her because she tried, because she would be great, because she needed him and she looked to him to strengthen her and she wanted more for her life and realized it would only happen when she let go of them and reached for the one who made her. How much better would life be once she gave up trying to please others and realized that she was already pleasing in his sight, especially because He could see where she was going and could see the heart of her efforts to get there? From all of that she felt loved, she could love herself and she could go on. Go on writing her story and rejoicing in all the acts of love that would most certainly accrue throughout the way.
For years she had no idea what was missing. It felt like the Grand Canyon had been created in her soul, the schism between who she knew she could be and who she felt herself being was that great. It was not until she completely fell apart that she was able to see God. She saw her opportunity to live her life when she finally surrendered to the need she felt for Him to lead her life. Like the song says, she found him when she fell apart. She lay on the floor thinking her life would never go on and there was no way for her to continue when she opened the Bible, turned up the radio and waited. Waited for the flood of emotion to pass, waited out the negative voices that screamed failure in her ears, waited until she had the strength to look at herself in the mirror and ask what it was that she needed. She stared at those landscape colored saucers and she forced herself to keep staring until she asked, "Why?" She was wondering why she couldn't look into her own eyes with an eighth of the amount of love that she had so often bestowed upon previous lovers. Not that she wanted to elevate herself to any level, in fact she feared pride. She feared vanity almost above all else, most certainly beyond her fear of failure, as it was a constant reminder each time she happened upon any reflective surface.
Love though, she knew she couldn't do without it. In any religious context one is to believe that they must love themselves in order to fully love others. So, tonight she lie there and she made herself ask that question. "Why?" And she waited. She waited for God to speak through her this time. No answer from her mind and the knowledge she possessed would give her a satisfactory answer, it most certainly hadn't worked without God in the last few years. Until it clicked. It clicked and she saw what she missed at every other similar exchange between her being and its reflection. There was nothing that she did that should incite any sort of the unlove she so frequently felt when the thought of herself came up. It wasn't that she spoke negatively in her own mind which made her circumstance that much more confusing. Before now she would not talk harshly to herself, but as her friend once stated, there was something fundamentally wrong, most always.
To her, although she wanted to ask she wouldn't, the why, the question of why it took so long for her to realize that their approval and their love and lack of showing it, why all of that took so long to not matter, wouldn't matter. Time was gone once it passed and it wouldn't be regained with the why, that much she knew. From this point on she knew it would be different. Before this night, the night of her breakdown, she knew God loved her and she knew she was suppose to believe that, but it was almost impossible to convince herself that the ruler of this world would truly love the girl at the bottom of the world who kept complaining in a time when people were struggling for nutrition and support and safety. Well, she heard his voice through all of that and for the reasons she already listed, she couldn't ignore the answer. He loved her because she tried, because she would be great, because she needed him and she looked to him to strengthen her and she wanted more for her life and realized it would only happen when she let go of them and reached for the one who made her. How much better would life be once she gave up trying to please others and realized that she was already pleasing in his sight, especially because He could see where she was going and could see the heart of her efforts to get there? From all of that she felt loved, she could love herself and she could go on. Go on writing her story and rejoicing in all the acts of love that would most certainly accrue throughout the way.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
One) Ice-cream eater.
Yes, a very realistic goal that one could definitely accomplish based on the daily. Clearly, as this goal did not require the upmost of thoughts, she moved ahead, satisfied.
Two) Already her palms began to sweat. Somewhere between the last bite of her popsicle and the one sided parenthesis, she struggled with the demons inside that threaten to extinguish any morsel of one's hope or self-worth. Think, think, think...
Damnit.
2) Looker at the clouds by day and the stars at night.
See, overcoming challenges WAS possible and, she added with a sly grin, she'd come up with something of a feat. Not everyone could say they hold both a day AND night job! Well, number 3.
3) Drinker of water (and other liquids, obviously). Now she really felt like she was selling herself short, but one cannot overcome desperation without fumbling with the bra strap for a bit. She was aimlessly walking on the edge of the cliff, except this time, she wasn't looking down and she wasn't stepping away. Too many hours had been wasting cautiously cocking her head towards the furthest part of the crust only to casually look away, pretending she wasn't all that interested in the unknown, the exciting after all.
4) Reader! This was good. Not too far-fetched, everyone reads, right? She wasn't claiming to be the next big, oh wait, is there any person who achieved fame based on the quantity of materials they had read? Probably not. And, point made. So, she would read. Labels, signs, books, magazines. Good, good... Oh, God. Had she really just called herself a "reader" because she was guaranteed to browse magazines? The desire to call herself ridiculous was easing up, persistently, like that damn skirt she had worn the other day. The little bugger just wouldn't stay put and try as you might, or empathize to the extent of your capabilities, and you will probably never accurately imagine the extent to which an unfitted, or rebellious to gravity, skirt threatened this girl's perfectly upbeat outlook on that day. Anyways,
Number 5!
Such a great number. The day of her birth and meaningless besides. She would make this number important, relevant. Option five would be, well, something terrific, really great, she would come up with an option both plausible and enticing. So. Life-long, committed non-smoker? Too hypocritical. Tattooed body, vowing to never regret those three works of art, even when she was old and gray, at the age whenever every "well-meaning" soul told her she'd regret them? No, too abstract, too condescending for such a youthful state in her life. Strike two, but fortunately, this girl was accustomed to the rules of the game (they were her own, in perspective). She would be cultured.
Wow. That came out of nowhere, she sat back reflecting. Up until this point she thought only crap was capable of fumbling from her mind, or so it had seemed up to this point. However, this one, she quite liked. It fit. A guarantee she felt comfortable offering herself up to because she felt quite certain it didn't mean altering any aspect of herself she knew, up to this point and it carried with it a wisp of optimism, a promise she might shine up and stare into every now and then. It also meant she could mine a little deeper into a tavern she stumbled on a few years back, it was a place in her center that was positively delighted with all the subtle differences between her and him and us and them. With the same flowers that grew in Rome, but also at home. With the smile of the child on the metro abroad, that brought the same smile to her lips when she walked into her sister's home and saw her nieces and nephew watching their mother cook. She found love in every crevice of the world and she felt confident that if one of her life's options was to seek out and appreciate cultures, as she had done up to now, well then, that was one option she was happy to include.
Phew, number six. A silly number, in her mind. So close to sex that she often felt like exclaiming that she had a sex-pack of colas at home and sex toes, instead of five. See who would be turning her down after those statements! Who was she kidding, sex was too often floating around in her mind and there really was no reason to relate the quantity with the action, their middles were completely different. Sex, six, six, six, six. Six languages. ATTEMPTED languages, that is. Very closely related to five, but more, as sex often is.
Seven! A faithful drinker of Sprite, as opposed to Seven-Up. Honestly, who are those makers of 7-Up and who do they think their fooling? Too incredulous and inflamed with indignation to stop and consider the absolute foolishness of her own to let this make her list of life options, but then again, at least she had something to be faithful to near the top of her list.
Eight) She promised herself to absolutely, always love her mother. The woman had given her her lips, her life and her button nose. She had inspired her at a young age to not give a rat's ass what anyone thought, even though the reasons for this determination were somewhat fuzzy in both of their thinking. It didn't matter. Her mother's life was full and her beauty only became fuller with age and she was pretty sure that number eight was an option she might always live up to, no matter what lay ahead.
Number 9) A little crazy. If she could commit to this number, she thought, life might actually be a lot simpler. She did this test on herself every once in awhile actually. You see, our girl had this habit of caring too damn much what others thought, at times. So, to push herself out of herself she would think of the most obvious flaw that one might carry, unsuspectingly. Like, a huge splot of brown right in the middle of her pants and then she would walk around with head held high, smiling more at passer-bys with the knowledge of her secret game and less to do with her actually joy at their brief, much too meaningless interaction. Number nine looked feasible and not too harmless, it had potential anyway.
10. Quite a serious number, in her opinion. Even as we aged, the double digits carried with them a certain coming to age type of importance. And, now? What would number ten be to her? She felt that same fear of failure creeping into her vain. Was this, a list of nine articles, half absurd, half absolute regardless of effort, be the result? No. No, she reminded herself. No more backing down because the fear flared up. What a bunch of rubbish and an idea she would never put up with if a friend or loved one or stranger, for that matter, felt the pangs of its existence.
On a dime then, what would she wish for? To push herself this time, she would claim, no more giving up. Enough of it. If one has the stamina enough to form a dream and voice an aspiration that revealed itself to one in the whisper of a dream of as the rainbow after the storm, then she was done being the one to dash her own hopes. Not that she wanted to do much editing or constricting on her list, but as this was the beginning and her whole life was going to be a seemingly large commitment she would place a sort of lax approach on this item. It must be any fully-developed dream or goal and once it was there, once the heartbeat was felt for example, there would be aborting. Well, she always responded to sternness.
On to eleven. Eleven eleven, send a wish up to heaven. That is what she heard, anyways, from someone who quite believed in the positive ramifications of this action and she had been quite fond of this certain person, so it only seemed fitting. Dear Lord, she'd wish, whenever she spotted this duplicated number on the time.
Yes, a very realistic goal that one could definitely accomplish based on the daily. Clearly, as this goal did not require the upmost of thoughts, she moved ahead, satisfied.
Two) Already her palms began to sweat. Somewhere between the last bite of her popsicle and the one sided parenthesis, she struggled with the demons inside that threaten to extinguish any morsel of one's hope or self-worth. Think, think, think...
Damnit.
2) Looker at the clouds by day and the stars at night.
See, overcoming challenges WAS possible and, she added with a sly grin, she'd come up with something of a feat. Not everyone could say they hold both a day AND night job! Well, number 3.
3) Drinker of water (and other liquids, obviously). Now she really felt like she was selling herself short, but one cannot overcome desperation without fumbling with the bra strap for a bit. She was aimlessly walking on the edge of the cliff, except this time, she wasn't looking down and she wasn't stepping away. Too many hours had been wasting cautiously cocking her head towards the furthest part of the crust only to casually look away, pretending she wasn't all that interested in the unknown, the exciting after all.
4) Reader! This was good. Not too far-fetched, everyone reads, right? She wasn't claiming to be the next big, oh wait, is there any person who achieved fame based on the quantity of materials they had read? Probably not. And, point made. So, she would read. Labels, signs, books, magazines. Good, good... Oh, God. Had she really just called herself a "reader" because she was guaranteed to browse magazines? The desire to call herself ridiculous was easing up, persistently, like that damn skirt she had worn the other day. The little bugger just wouldn't stay put and try as you might, or empathize to the extent of your capabilities, and you will probably never accurately imagine the extent to which an unfitted, or rebellious to gravity, skirt threatened this girl's perfectly upbeat outlook on that day. Anyways,
Number 5!
Such a great number. The day of her birth and meaningless besides. She would make this number important, relevant. Option five would be, well, something terrific, really great, she would come up with an option both plausible and enticing. So. Life-long, committed non-smoker? Too hypocritical. Tattooed body, vowing to never regret those three works of art, even when she was old and gray, at the age whenever every "well-meaning" soul told her she'd regret them? No, too abstract, too condescending for such a youthful state in her life. Strike two, but fortunately, this girl was accustomed to the rules of the game (they were her own, in perspective). She would be cultured.
Wow. That came out of nowhere, she sat back reflecting. Up until this point she thought only crap was capable of fumbling from her mind, or so it had seemed up to this point. However, this one, she quite liked. It fit. A guarantee she felt comfortable offering herself up to because she felt quite certain it didn't mean altering any aspect of herself she knew, up to this point and it carried with it a wisp of optimism, a promise she might shine up and stare into every now and then. It also meant she could mine a little deeper into a tavern she stumbled on a few years back, it was a place in her center that was positively delighted with all the subtle differences between her and him and us and them. With the same flowers that grew in Rome, but also at home. With the smile of the child on the metro abroad, that brought the same smile to her lips when she walked into her sister's home and saw her nieces and nephew watching their mother cook. She found love in every crevice of the world and she felt confident that if one of her life's options was to seek out and appreciate cultures, as she had done up to now, well then, that was one option she was happy to include.
Phew, number six. A silly number, in her mind. So close to sex that she often felt like exclaiming that she had a sex-pack of colas at home and sex toes, instead of five. See who would be turning her down after those statements! Who was she kidding, sex was too often floating around in her mind and there really was no reason to relate the quantity with the action, their middles were completely different. Sex, six, six, six, six. Six languages. ATTEMPTED languages, that is. Very closely related to five, but more, as sex often is.
Seven! A faithful drinker of Sprite, as opposed to Seven-Up. Honestly, who are those makers of 7-Up and who do they think their fooling? Too incredulous and inflamed with indignation to stop and consider the absolute foolishness of her own to let this make her list of life options, but then again, at least she had something to be faithful to near the top of her list.
Eight) She promised herself to absolutely, always love her mother. The woman had given her her lips, her life and her button nose. She had inspired her at a young age to not give a rat's ass what anyone thought, even though the reasons for this determination were somewhat fuzzy in both of their thinking. It didn't matter. Her mother's life was full and her beauty only became fuller with age and she was pretty sure that number eight was an option she might always live up to, no matter what lay ahead.
Number 9) A little crazy. If she could commit to this number, she thought, life might actually be a lot simpler. She did this test on herself every once in awhile actually. You see, our girl had this habit of caring too damn much what others thought, at times. So, to push herself out of herself she would think of the most obvious flaw that one might carry, unsuspectingly. Like, a huge splot of brown right in the middle of her pants and then she would walk around with head held high, smiling more at passer-bys with the knowledge of her secret game and less to do with her actually joy at their brief, much too meaningless interaction. Number nine looked feasible and not too harmless, it had potential anyway.
10. Quite a serious number, in her opinion. Even as we aged, the double digits carried with them a certain coming to age type of importance. And, now? What would number ten be to her? She felt that same fear of failure creeping into her vain. Was this, a list of nine articles, half absurd, half absolute regardless of effort, be the result? No. No, she reminded herself. No more backing down because the fear flared up. What a bunch of rubbish and an idea she would never put up with if a friend or loved one or stranger, for that matter, felt the pangs of its existence.
On a dime then, what would she wish for? To push herself this time, she would claim, no more giving up. Enough of it. If one has the stamina enough to form a dream and voice an aspiration that revealed itself to one in the whisper of a dream of as the rainbow after the storm, then she was done being the one to dash her own hopes. Not that she wanted to do much editing or constricting on her list, but as this was the beginning and her whole life was going to be a seemingly large commitment she would place a sort of lax approach on this item. It must be any fully-developed dream or goal and once it was there, once the heartbeat was felt for example, there would be aborting. Well, she always responded to sternness.
On to eleven. Eleven eleven, send a wish up to heaven. That is what she heard, anyways, from someone who quite believed in the positive ramifications of this action and she had been quite fond of this certain person, so it only seemed fitting. Dear Lord, she'd wish, whenever she spotted this duplicated number on the time.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
It's been a long time...
I woke up today, the same as most other days. From the place I sit now though, I realize that something has changed. Nothing new, but altered to a time that I have been before or a place that I have lived in. It is familiar, not boring. Calm and peace, yet notably new and fragile. I love this place. I need to protect it. Like a new mother who has known these feelings in the past, I am without the rules and guidelines of nourishing and caring for another. While I recognize the tides, I am unfamiliar with the path that this sea or flood of emotion will take. Whatever it may be though I would like to never cease following this path. It is one of self-fulfillment true, but I know it will not be led simply for myself. It is from the prayer I uttered asking for strength and certainty in order to be an example of something better. So, I'll search for happiness because it is what I desire, I desire to find happiness to spread the seeds throughout this place. I want to smile, I seek to be loved because only while loving and smiling am I utterly enthralled. When I am thus satiated, in a way beneficial to most, I believe it will be a domino effect in the most simplest of manners. It takes work, like a honey bee, one so sweet that produces a joy to all who try it, must do what comes naturally and effectively to help others reproduce their own beauty.
There was a time when I felt that to search for beauty was a vanity unforgivable, if I were an artist one might have said I was in a perpetual state of blueness. I feared twinkling because I couldn't deal with the attention it provoked. I lacked understanding of a higher meaning and therefore fear reigned in the forefront of my mind. Then, like the simplest of gestures that at once can cease a quarrel amongst lovers, the words came to me that to sparkle is a gift, to hide it is a shame, to fear it is a waste and to abandon hope would never work. Life continues regardless of who opts out of its game. The trees and flowers and birds were His examples. All created by the same, so why would I feel not worthy of the same attention or self-worth? Do the roses hide their colors because you and I so readily accept their perfection? No, they go on beaming because that is their duty, at least as far as you and I can see.
I do not claim the perfection of those I've mentioned, but I reiterate the semblance to our origins. Now I know some who call this science, the workings of nature to create our intricacies and all the aspects of our lives. That's fine. That is fine to understand that we have all come from the same place. I call my idea of this a maker, the only difference is I will not claim to now the "how." Who could ever believe that they know something when they were never present to me is not more intelligent, just one more inclined to have the answers. I would like to think that as the world continues to heal itself and outsmart those who figure it all out that we could take a hint and stop short of just being in amazement at it. I am a curious being though as well, so if you must know than continue to search. I hope when you find the right answers you will share with us that they may be beneficial to all and with all our best interests in mind.
My journey will be a different one, of that I am completely aware. I'd like to study and to learn, but also to live and enjoy. It is this balance I'm still figuring and I pray my life will continue on in this way.
There was a time when I felt that to search for beauty was a vanity unforgivable, if I were an artist one might have said I was in a perpetual state of blueness. I feared twinkling because I couldn't deal with the attention it provoked. I lacked understanding of a higher meaning and therefore fear reigned in the forefront of my mind. Then, like the simplest of gestures that at once can cease a quarrel amongst lovers, the words came to me that to sparkle is a gift, to hide it is a shame, to fear it is a waste and to abandon hope would never work. Life continues regardless of who opts out of its game. The trees and flowers and birds were His examples. All created by the same, so why would I feel not worthy of the same attention or self-worth? Do the roses hide their colors because you and I so readily accept their perfection? No, they go on beaming because that is their duty, at least as far as you and I can see.
I do not claim the perfection of those I've mentioned, but I reiterate the semblance to our origins. Now I know some who call this science, the workings of nature to create our intricacies and all the aspects of our lives. That's fine. That is fine to understand that we have all come from the same place. I call my idea of this a maker, the only difference is I will not claim to now the "how." Who could ever believe that they know something when they were never present to me is not more intelligent, just one more inclined to have the answers. I would like to think that as the world continues to heal itself and outsmart those who figure it all out that we could take a hint and stop short of just being in amazement at it. I am a curious being though as well, so if you must know than continue to search. I hope when you find the right answers you will share with us that they may be beneficial to all and with all our best interests in mind.
My journey will be a different one, of that I am completely aware. I'd like to study and to learn, but also to live and enjoy. It is this balance I'm still figuring and I pray my life will continue on in this way.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Staying in touch
Isn't it strange how saying "let's stay in touch" can take on a completely different meaning than "I need to say in touch with my emotions"? Quite obviously the desire to 'stay in touch' with a romantic interest takes on a divergent meaning as well.
To say one thing and to mean another, what an odd concept that we developed. Would life be simpler or duller if we erased all of these phrases and simply said exactly what we meant?
I need to, I have a desire to comprehend how I am feeling throughout the day, all day, but at the same time I do not want my day to be ruled by my emotions. Therefore, I would like to be aware of how I am feeling because I think once I am aware, I will be able to match my activities up, or align them, to create a positive flow of life rather than one convoluted with mistakes and regrets. I think that would help because I would know what I want to do before I do it. I just realized though that that would also entail having the logic to work out whether what I want in the moment will coincide and reinforce what I want for my future. That would be a detail I would definitely like to grasp, the problem is that I am unsure as to what I want my future to be. I guess that is why I am in Rome though. I couldn't figure out all of the small details, so I went as broad as possible. I know I like being abroad. I know I enjoy learning. I love feeling alive and conquering challenges. I'm interested in cultures and I like learning the intricacies of places otherwise unfamiliar to me. With all of that said I'm confident now that my decision to come here to take this course was a wise decision. Now that I'm here though I want to make the most of my thoroughly brief time. I want to enjoy the sights, feel brave some more, lose myself only to find me again and to continue meeting people that remind me just how small the world is while simultaneously exploding the idea in my face that I have yet to scratch the surface as some of them have or even because of what they can show me that I didn't even realize I was missing.
I still want to enjoy the small things though and I do not want to chase some mythical being called intellect. I know I will never be able to become familiar with all the places of the world, but I'd like to try.
Today was one of my favorite days in Rome so far. I did absolutely nothing. I sat in a park, listening to an accordion player, who was playing for a group of elderly people and they were enjoying each other and delighting in each new song he began and I read. Ironically, I sat with a copy of Death in Venice, an old copy I picked up on my last day in town and it was coming to it's climax, but I left before the conclusion. I'm always that way. I near the end, but instead of coming to a point of closure I decide to prolong the inevitable. That and there were two little boys riding scooters and playing and I was rather distracted with their antics, so I wondered on home. The day though, was wonderful and relaxing and inspiring. My book is so cliche-ly poetic and I ate it up like a girl receiving roses and chocolates. There is something so satisfying to me about stumbling on a poet's work that is so full of self-expression and lacking in any sort of survival's restraint. I'm not sure if I'd call it hope, but it was certainly refreshing.
I came home and made a patriotic salad full of greens, a sweet and perfect red tomato with a cheese I couldn't tell you the name of, but I know it was packaged in a way I have never seen before and didn't look like any cheese I've ever bought. That combination with a sprinkle of olive oil, pepper and salt concluded my meal and I couldn't have been happier. Home-made meals always do that to me and so far this is day two of what I hope is a continuous streak of American made, Italy provided delights.
Of course, skyping with my mom afterwards was an excellent way to conclude the evening. She and I are, after all, doing our best at keeping in touch.
To say one thing and to mean another, what an odd concept that we developed. Would life be simpler or duller if we erased all of these phrases and simply said exactly what we meant?
I need to, I have a desire to comprehend how I am feeling throughout the day, all day, but at the same time I do not want my day to be ruled by my emotions. Therefore, I would like to be aware of how I am feeling because I think once I am aware, I will be able to match my activities up, or align them, to create a positive flow of life rather than one convoluted with mistakes and regrets. I think that would help because I would know what I want to do before I do it. I just realized though that that would also entail having the logic to work out whether what I want in the moment will coincide and reinforce what I want for my future. That would be a detail I would definitely like to grasp, the problem is that I am unsure as to what I want my future to be. I guess that is why I am in Rome though. I couldn't figure out all of the small details, so I went as broad as possible. I know I like being abroad. I know I enjoy learning. I love feeling alive and conquering challenges. I'm interested in cultures and I like learning the intricacies of places otherwise unfamiliar to me. With all of that said I'm confident now that my decision to come here to take this course was a wise decision. Now that I'm here though I want to make the most of my thoroughly brief time. I want to enjoy the sights, feel brave some more, lose myself only to find me again and to continue meeting people that remind me just how small the world is while simultaneously exploding the idea in my face that I have yet to scratch the surface as some of them have or even because of what they can show me that I didn't even realize I was missing.
I still want to enjoy the small things though and I do not want to chase some mythical being called intellect. I know I will never be able to become familiar with all the places of the world, but I'd like to try.
Today was one of my favorite days in Rome so far. I did absolutely nothing. I sat in a park, listening to an accordion player, who was playing for a group of elderly people and they were enjoying each other and delighting in each new song he began and I read. Ironically, I sat with a copy of Death in Venice, an old copy I picked up on my last day in town and it was coming to it's climax, but I left before the conclusion. I'm always that way. I near the end, but instead of coming to a point of closure I decide to prolong the inevitable. That and there were two little boys riding scooters and playing and I was rather distracted with their antics, so I wondered on home. The day though, was wonderful and relaxing and inspiring. My book is so cliche-ly poetic and I ate it up like a girl receiving roses and chocolates. There is something so satisfying to me about stumbling on a poet's work that is so full of self-expression and lacking in any sort of survival's restraint. I'm not sure if I'd call it hope, but it was certainly refreshing.
I came home and made a patriotic salad full of greens, a sweet and perfect red tomato with a cheese I couldn't tell you the name of, but I know it was packaged in a way I have never seen before and didn't look like any cheese I've ever bought. That combination with a sprinkle of olive oil, pepper and salt concluded my meal and I couldn't have been happier. Home-made meals always do that to me and so far this is day two of what I hope is a continuous streak of American made, Italy provided delights.
Of course, skyping with my mom afterwards was an excellent way to conclude the evening. She and I are, after all, doing our best at keeping in touch.
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