Every year on my birthday, I go off by myself and watch "1776." Being born on Independence Day, I've heard the same cliche my entire life: "Oh, you're so special, the whole country celebrates your birthday." (People are the same the world over, and cliches are unlimited by time or space.) I know it's a musical and subject to Hollywood-y influence; but I like to think it embodies a lot of the tension and frustration and agony that went into creating this country. It's refreshing to think that this land wasn't always the "land of opportunity," that we came from a rebellion, and we were formed by arguments.
There's a scene toward the end where the Secretary of the Continental Congress is reading a dispatch from General Washington, and he sings the general's words: "Is anybody there? Does anybody care?" It's a simple, three-tone melody, sung in a dark, solemn room. You can practically feel Washington's desperation through his words: is anybody paying attention to what I'm saying?
I thought about that scene when I was starting this blog. I wonder if there's any point. I watch the page-view statistics; I see the single-digit view-counts on each post. I feel like Meg Ryan in "You've Got Mail", sending her words out into the void to some unknown reader. I've been told to give myself more credit for what I write, that I have something to say and say it in a nice way. But my greatest fear is to be selfish and credit-seeking; I'm not the type to demand to be listened to, because I shrink back into my natural "please, please, please don't pay attention to me" shell when the spotlight suddenly focuses on me. But I wonder if anything I post on here makes someone think, makes someone laugh, makes someone pensive. Is there a reason? Is it doing any good?
Is anybody there?
Does anybody care?
30 April 2012
29 April 2012
Ketchup and Onions
Woke up around 11 today, was dragged to lunch by two of my unit mates crashing into my room saying, "Come on, you're going to eat with us NOW," then finished my mother-of-all-others American Lit paper (a friend of mine once said she felt like she was giving up a child when she turned a paper she was proud of...I'm proud of what I wrote, but I'm more in the mood of throwing it in my prof's door as I run past her office...a deliver-and-run) before heading over to the biggest celebration on campus other than Campus Christmas. Typically thrown within the last two weeks of school, it's a time for us to celebrate the accomplishments and talents of students from earlier in the year. Athletes, "unsung heroes," musicians, designers - they're all recognized in between music performed by students. It's big, it's loud, it's crazy, everybody dresses up in either formals or costumes, and, according to my older friends, this year's was the best we've had yet.
And it was - it was great. Downright awesome. But the fun started for me after we changed clothes and headed off campus.
We didn't do much, just a handful of girls and two guys from our brother unit going to Graeter's for ice cream. The car I was in detoured at McDonalds/Burger King (hey, we wanted ice cream and burgers - save your judgment), then we came back to campus. Simple. But it was awesome in its simplicity and made for one of the most fun nights I've had in...gosh, months. We honked at a couple making out outside our dorm, then sped away in case they'd recognized us. We had twelve-year-olds in the car in front of us flirting with our driver in the Burger King drive-thru. We drove down the road screaming "TONIIIIIIGHT WE ARE YOUNG SO WE'LL SET THE WORLD ON fi-IRE, WE CAN BURN brigh-TER THAN THE SUUUUUU-UU-UUUUN" with mouths stuffed full of hamburgers. Two girls sat flinging Dutch Blitz cards at each other, while we took turns holding my four-foot-eleven roommate's head with extended arms and watching her flailing as she tried to hit us. We played cards and were entirely too loud for 12.30 in the morning.
Then we came back in our room and took down all our pictures and posters, since all the walls have to be cleared by Monday for moving out.
As Linus (my roommate - I call her such because she is short and wise) and I sat playing cards, she said, "You know what I'm looking forward to? Heaven. Because then we'll be able to hang out and make memories and never have to say goodbye and make them end. That was my sad and pensive thought for the evening, now we can play cards again." Later we were reminiscing about the night, and she said that's what college is all about.
It's the last weekend before summer break, and we've just now realized what college is about....is it sad that it's taken us this long?
And it was - it was great. Downright awesome. But the fun started for me after we changed clothes and headed off campus.
We didn't do much, just a handful of girls and two guys from our brother unit going to Graeter's for ice cream. The car I was in detoured at McDonalds/Burger King (hey, we wanted ice cream and burgers - save your judgment), then we came back to campus. Simple. But it was awesome in its simplicity and made for one of the most fun nights I've had in...gosh, months. We honked at a couple making out outside our dorm, then sped away in case they'd recognized us. We had twelve-year-olds in the car in front of us flirting with our driver in the Burger King drive-thru. We drove down the road screaming "TONIIIIIIGHT WE ARE YOUNG SO WE'LL SET THE WORLD ON fi-IRE, WE CAN BURN brigh-TER THAN THE SUUUUUU-UU-UUUUN" with mouths stuffed full of hamburgers. Two girls sat flinging Dutch Blitz cards at each other, while we took turns holding my four-foot-eleven roommate's head with extended arms and watching her flailing as she tried to hit us. We played cards and were entirely too loud for 12.30 in the morning.
Then we came back in our room and took down all our pictures and posters, since all the walls have to be cleared by Monday for moving out.
As Linus (my roommate - I call her such because she is short and wise) and I sat playing cards, she said, "You know what I'm looking forward to? Heaven. Because then we'll be able to hang out and make memories and never have to say goodbye and make them end. That was my sad and pensive thought for the evening, now we can play cards again." Later we were reminiscing about the night, and she said that's what college is all about.
It's the last weekend before summer break, and we've just now realized what college is about....is it sad that it's taken us this long?
24 April 2012
Calzone
There comes a point when you look at the essay that's due tomorrow, think, "Oh my God, I can't remember what I just wrote two minute ago...and I'm not entirely sure it was two minutes ago or forty...", save what you've written, and resolve to finish/edit it before class tomorrow. You still have time.
It's really not that late - it hasn't even clicked over to midnight yet. Today was my day to sleep in, I only had one class, and the only thing of product I did was write three more pages on my mother-of-all papers due Monday for American Lit. I have no reason to be tired. But I can barely hold my eyes open. Except Sam is singing "Rent" from the shower. She keeps me from falling asleep, but not in the state of mind that will get me a good grade on my paper. Whatever I write won't be worth it.
By all accounts I should have no drive to write for myself. It's Tuesday - last week of classes before finals - and I've already written two complete papers and five pages of the American Lit doozy. Presentation tomorrow morning, two papers due tomorrow afternoon, paper due Friday, paper AND presentation due Monday, three final exams and two final papers next week. I mapped it out in my planner over the weekend, and it sounded much worse then than it does now that I'm actually knee-deep in it. As my dad says, "One day at a time, one project at a time." In my case, one headache at a time. I talked to a few friends who are engineering majors, and they moan their calculus, C++ (something design-related, I think - they've explained it to me several times and I still don't get it), and computer courses. One said (a little arrogantly as I conveyed my paper-writing woes), "I had to write my second paper of the semester this week." I glared at him and wondered if it was too late to switch out of the English department.
Of course, I have a prime example of "slave till it's done" dedication about six feet from my desk. My roommate, who is one of the most driven people I know, will say what she has to do without necessarily whining, as I tend to do. She puts me to shame with her constant good mood, her nose-to-the-grindstone-even-if-it-means-losing-my-nose mentality, and, above all, her ability to stay up until dawn's early light and still keep going. Last week she was averaging three or four hours of sleep a night. For a straight week. She's a veritable machine. That's one thing that sets me apart from most college students I know: I am physically incapable of pulling an all-nighter. (I did once, though completely not school-related: I went to the midnight premiere of "The Hunger Games," and since we weren't allowed back on campus until after curfew was lifted, we drove around until 5 in the morning. Since I had class at 8 I decided not to go to bed. My own dedication shone through when my 8am class was cancelled and I still managed to survive until 10 that night with only about an hour of sleep. I said I would do it, I did it, and I'll probably never do it again "just for the heck of it.") I've tried, I really have. I sit at my desk, staring at my computer, thinking, "It's one in the morning and I have just started this paper, I can do this." About 1.45 I wake up in circus-like positions in my desk chair, with nothing grand at all about my paper except that I spelled my name correctly in such a condition. So for every night in two years (except one last year), I have gone to bed before my roommate. Before I drop off, I shrink under the covers in shame: "I should be working, I should be at my desk doing something. I don't have anything else due tomorrow, but there's gotta be something I can work ahead on into the wee hours."
But after about 12.30, I start to be useless, and by the time 1am rolls around, I'm completely out of it. Unfortunately, tonight is one of those nights when my useless phase hits at midnight, and I'm the grandma of the unit, calling it a night while others have just begun.
Another night of shame, I guess. -_-
It's really not that late - it hasn't even clicked over to midnight yet. Today was my day to sleep in, I only had one class, and the only thing of product I did was write three more pages on my mother-of-all papers due Monday for American Lit. I have no reason to be tired. But I can barely hold my eyes open. Except Sam is singing "Rent" from the shower. She keeps me from falling asleep, but not in the state of mind that will get me a good grade on my paper. Whatever I write won't be worth it.
By all accounts I should have no drive to write for myself. It's Tuesday - last week of classes before finals - and I've already written two complete papers and five pages of the American Lit doozy. Presentation tomorrow morning, two papers due tomorrow afternoon, paper due Friday, paper AND presentation due Monday, three final exams and two final papers next week. I mapped it out in my planner over the weekend, and it sounded much worse then than it does now that I'm actually knee-deep in it. As my dad says, "One day at a time, one project at a time." In my case, one headache at a time. I talked to a few friends who are engineering majors, and they moan their calculus, C++ (something design-related, I think - they've explained it to me several times and I still don't get it), and computer courses. One said (a little arrogantly as I conveyed my paper-writing woes), "I had to write my second paper of the semester this week." I glared at him and wondered if it was too late to switch out of the English department.
Of course, I have a prime example of "slave till it's done" dedication about six feet from my desk. My roommate, who is one of the most driven people I know, will say what she has to do without necessarily whining, as I tend to do. She puts me to shame with her constant good mood, her nose-to-the-grindstone-even-if-it-means-losing-my-nose mentality, and, above all, her ability to stay up until dawn's early light and still keep going. Last week she was averaging three or four hours of sleep a night. For a straight week. She's a veritable machine. That's one thing that sets me apart from most college students I know: I am physically incapable of pulling an all-nighter. (I did once, though completely not school-related: I went to the midnight premiere of "The Hunger Games," and since we weren't allowed back on campus until after curfew was lifted, we drove around until 5 in the morning. Since I had class at 8 I decided not to go to bed. My own dedication shone through when my 8am class was cancelled and I still managed to survive until 10 that night with only about an hour of sleep. I said I would do it, I did it, and I'll probably never do it again "just for the heck of it.") I've tried, I really have. I sit at my desk, staring at my computer, thinking, "It's one in the morning and I have just started this paper, I can do this." About 1.45 I wake up in circus-like positions in my desk chair, with nothing grand at all about my paper except that I spelled my name correctly in such a condition. So for every night in two years (except one last year), I have gone to bed before my roommate. Before I drop off, I shrink under the covers in shame: "I should be working, I should be at my desk doing something. I don't have anything else due tomorrow, but there's gotta be something I can work ahead on into the wee hours."
But after about 12.30, I start to be useless, and by the time 1am rolls around, I'm completely out of it. Unfortunately, tonight is one of those nights when my useless phase hits at midnight, and I'm the grandma of the unit, calling it a night while others have just begun.
Another night of shame, I guess. -_-
17 April 2012
Mismunandi
Spent some time analyzing my desk
today. It’s not small – in fact it’s quite roomy: about 3½’ x 2½’, bigger than
my dorm desk last year, complete with a plan of wood that pulls out on the side
as an armrest, footrest, or extra writing space, depending on the day. My
binders for class are packed away in a drawer; a metal bookcase holds most of
my books (about a foot of which are literature anthologies and novels…spot the
English major), a bulletin/dry-erase board, my clock, and a picture of my
family, the only picture I brought to college with me. (When you live in a room
this size, you learn to nix things like that to make room for the essentials.)
Other than a dusted laptop screen, I can’t really pride myself on being neat at
my desk.
The common denominator on all the
surfaces in our room (and the lounge…and the bathroom…and the sidewalk outside
our door) are bobby pins. EVERYWHERE. I’m developing a writer’s habits by
jotting thoughts on scraps of paper and flinging them on the desk on my way out
the door to class. Notes, handouts, and old essays sit in a pile to my left,
neat for now but usually sliding through the gap in the end-board onto my bed,
where my Literature binder has taken up residence because there’s no space for
it on the desk. (And why would I bother to put it away if I’m going to use it
at some point in the next two weeks?) Amid the books and papers are (ashamedly)
dishes that have yet to be done. My literature anthologies are no longer
covered with only dust, but also house this morning’s breakfast bowl and a
plate from lunch on Sunday. (That’s actually a complete lie, I have touched
each of those books at least twice in the last two days. But for right now,
they are, in fact, crowned with dishes.) Of course the most-used item in my
room – my coffee mug – stands ever faithful by my computer, along with my keys
that I will probably forget when I leave for class tomorrow morning. Old cards
and notes, Valentine’s Day messages (those mass-produced cardlets usually
bought at drugstores with Blow-Pops or Starbursts), and loose sticks of gum
speckle the rest of the free surface. This may explain why I’m writing now from
the lounge.
Every now and then I’ll have a
claustrophobic attack and run around, usually very late at night, growling, “Must.
Clean. EVERYTHING.” But most days it stays like this. Let me assure you, I am by
no means a slob: my laundry is done weekly and does not smell between washings,
my bed is most of the time made, and the garbage rarely spills out of the can.
(I am on good terms with my roommate and would very much like to keep it that
way.) But my desk is my space. Other
people may sit on my bed, my trashcan is often used by visitors, that’s all
fine. But only once or twice has anyone ever used my desk. It is my dominion: often unsightly, but I am
used to the clutter.
I think it says something about
my character. Obviously the books say “reader,” and the post-its with
out-of-context quotes that make sense only to be reveal a thinker with oddities
filling the brain. I suspect my future apartment will look like this one day:
my own systematic nightmare, slightly more chaotic than organized. To me,
though it makes sense: if I need my First-Year Seminar altered syllabus, it
will always be in this pile, and my
journal will never belong anywhere else except between Jo’s Boys and my notebook filled with quotes.
It's my space, the only place on campus that I truly call my own. And I will clutter it as I please.
16 April 2012
Irony
I feel like nights like these are what college (well, dorm life) is all about. With two weeks left before finals, we all have to mope about how much we have to do. This takes up twice the time it would actually do the work, but it makes us feel better. Besides, it's nice to know you aren't the only one who's drowning.
We've already declared a study break of cards necessary (between last night and tonight, most of us now know how to play ERS, Dutch Blitz, and BS). But for now, we slave. I'm on the couch in the lounge, drinking coffee far too late at night for my own good and reading a book I should have started a month ago. Sam is fussing at Naomi to read a play, while Naomi is insisting she can't read the print book while waiting for her e-mail to load. Another girl has slammed herself up in her room to drown out the rest of us shouting across the lounge to each other's rooms, and Linus (truth be told, the only diligent one among us) is blaring the "Last Five Years" soundtrack from our for-once-open door. (We're usually never this social after about six in the evening.)
It's like a family (a wonky, all-female, the-oldest-among-us-is-twenty-one family). For this year they've been my family. I'm part of it; I belong somewhere; after being just another face on campus, I can come back and plunk on this couch and be 1/8 of my unit. And when I feel most of the time that I don't make much of a difference anywhere...that's some small comfort.
Just got finished telling my sister what a study-conducive environment we're creating (this never happens), and here I sit splunging when I should be reading. Back to the grind.
We've already declared a study break of cards necessary (between last night and tonight, most of us now know how to play ERS, Dutch Blitz, and BS). But for now, we slave. I'm on the couch in the lounge, drinking coffee far too late at night for my own good and reading a book I should have started a month ago. Sam is fussing at Naomi to read a play, while Naomi is insisting she can't read the print book while waiting for her e-mail to load. Another girl has slammed herself up in her room to drown out the rest of us shouting across the lounge to each other's rooms, and Linus (truth be told, the only diligent one among us) is blaring the "Last Five Years" soundtrack from our for-once-open door. (We're usually never this social after about six in the evening.)
It's like a family (a wonky, all-female, the-oldest-among-us-is-twenty-one family). For this year they've been my family. I'm part of it; I belong somewhere; after being just another face on campus, I can come back and plunk on this couch and be 1/8 of my unit. And when I feel most of the time that I don't make much of a difference anywhere...that's some small comfort.
Just got finished telling my sister what a study-conducive environment we're creating (this never happens), and here I sit splunging when I should be reading. Back to the grind.
14 April 2012
Fuel
Saturday. Morning after junior-senior (Christian school version of prom. For anyone who cares, I'm adding this one to my repertoire of "awkward prom stories" and called it a "learning experience"). I've been up for about an hour and haven't done anything - it takes me a while to get started in the mornings. Except it's almost 1. And I have three papers due for Monday. AAH.
At some point every day I have two cups of coffee. I've already had one, and the coffee pot on the desk has stopped smoking, meaning the other one is ready. I don't know why I keep up this ritual. Coffee was the original energy drink, but I've been downing the stuff for so long, I don't feel anything until number four or five. The second cup is usually weaker than the first, but I'm too cheap to dump the grounds and make a fresh pot. So if it's not for the energy...why do it?
Maybe it has to do with image. Though I'd love to sit in a messy apartment for the rest of my life, downing Folgers and writing thought-provoking essays, I was practical enough to choose English education as my major. (I've heard of people who bag groceries for a day-job and write on the side...but I work at a grocery store now, and I know better than to stay there forever.) But that doesn't mean I love writing any less - I still love the days spent alone in my room, when I sit at my computer and let the thoughts flow, driven by black caffeine. As mentioned in an earlier post, I love losing myself in words and a dark roast. In the hour between my 8am class and chapel at 10, I brew a pot and curl up on the couch in our lounge with a book; it's my time to not think before I take on the day.
Maybe it's the connection I have with the past. Every morning when my dad's home starts with coffee; my grandparents' house always smelled like coffee. Sometimes my sister and I would stop at Starbucks on the way home from high school, back when we spent time together every day, lived across the hall from each other, and drove around listening to Broadway soundtracks. During play/musical seasons my fellow acting buddies and I would leave rehearsal and spend hours at Panera, keeping the conversation flowing with mochas and frappes. It was a staple on mornings after sleepovers, when we'd sit around my kitchen table and pick up the discussions we'd stopped at 4am.
Maybe it's my way of showing I'm growing up. Coffee always seemed so very adult-ish when I was little. I tried it once at maybe seven or eight years old - my mom said you could only eat Snickerdoodles if you had coffee with it - and I hated it, vowing I would never drink it again. I've been told over and over, "Try new things, it stretches your horizons, it builds character." And at some point I re-tried it; now I can't get through a day without it. And I'm developing my own method of doing things, my own routine. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, I have it before and after chapel; on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I have one cup before chapel and one after my 11am class; on Saturdays I start with it first-thing, and I make it when I get back from church on Sundays (if I go at all). Just like I have specific times I eat dinner or days I go to Zumba, I have my appointment with my coffee pot.
An hour later, I still haven't started any of my three papers; I've wasted enough time here.
At some point every day I have two cups of coffee. I've already had one, and the coffee pot on the desk has stopped smoking, meaning the other one is ready. I don't know why I keep up this ritual. Coffee was the original energy drink, but I've been downing the stuff for so long, I don't feel anything until number four or five. The second cup is usually weaker than the first, but I'm too cheap to dump the grounds and make a fresh pot. So if it's not for the energy...why do it?
Maybe it has to do with image. Though I'd love to sit in a messy apartment for the rest of my life, downing Folgers and writing thought-provoking essays, I was practical enough to choose English education as my major. (I've heard of people who bag groceries for a day-job and write on the side...but I work at a grocery store now, and I know better than to stay there forever.) But that doesn't mean I love writing any less - I still love the days spent alone in my room, when I sit at my computer and let the thoughts flow, driven by black caffeine. As mentioned in an earlier post, I love losing myself in words and a dark roast. In the hour between my 8am class and chapel at 10, I brew a pot and curl up on the couch in our lounge with a book; it's my time to not think before I take on the day.
Maybe it's the connection I have with the past. Every morning when my dad's home starts with coffee; my grandparents' house always smelled like coffee. Sometimes my sister and I would stop at Starbucks on the way home from high school, back when we spent time together every day, lived across the hall from each other, and drove around listening to Broadway soundtracks. During play/musical seasons my fellow acting buddies and I would leave rehearsal and spend hours at Panera, keeping the conversation flowing with mochas and frappes. It was a staple on mornings after sleepovers, when we'd sit around my kitchen table and pick up the discussions we'd stopped at 4am.
Maybe it's my way of showing I'm growing up. Coffee always seemed so very adult-ish when I was little. I tried it once at maybe seven or eight years old - my mom said you could only eat Snickerdoodles if you had coffee with it - and I hated it, vowing I would never drink it again. I've been told over and over, "Try new things, it stretches your horizons, it builds character." And at some point I re-tried it; now I can't get through a day without it. And I'm developing my own method of doing things, my own routine. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, I have it before and after chapel; on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I have one cup before chapel and one after my 11am class; on Saturdays I start with it first-thing, and I make it when I get back from church on Sundays (if I go at all). Just like I have specific times I eat dinner or days I go to Zumba, I have my appointment with my coffee pot.
An hour later, I still haven't started any of my three papers; I've wasted enough time here.
04 April 2012
Snippet
I was looking back over my first journal from my senior year of high school and found an old assignment from English class. We were studying Chaucer's "Canterbury Tales" and had to write up a description of ourselves following certain guidelines. Like, line three had to be "friend of...", line five had to be "who needed...", things like that. I thought it fitting to include it with my post about myself from yesterday, just to see if things have changed from senior year of high school to sophomore year of college...not much difference. :)
Compassionate, painfully sarcastic, imaginative, musical
Friend of Chan and Aus
Lover of one-liners, a happy ending, and an adventure to get there
Who felt that everyone's entitled to their own identity, unbearable annoyance for the willfully-ignorant, and pity for the snobs
Who needed a to-do-list, a quiet thought, and constant music
Who gave joy when there was none, a smile to those who needed it most, and a (very) small token to the world of literature
Who feared the future (sometimes), uncertainty, and the clock
Who would have liked to see my great-grandpa, Philadelphia, and Charles Dickens in their glory days
Jane
I see myself as the girl who is most content curled on a sofa in an ugly sweater, holding a cup of coffee and reading Jane Austen. Look off into space occasionally, sip my coffee as I ponder something I've just read, close my eyes, nod as the sheer brilliance seeps into my brain and speaks to my soul. Think to myself, "She is the essence of what it means to be a woman." Post quotes from her work all over my Facebook, text all my friends some wisdom I've discovered and command them all to read "this amazing book that will change everything you thought about life." Talk to girls my age about how much I wish I lived back then - wore the dresses, spoke with their vocabulary, lived the life, got the handsome guy who loved me despite my flaws.
Except for one thing: I hate Jane Austen.
I've tried, I really have. I love the story of Pride and Prejudice - skimmed it once for a class, watched the movie countless times, gushed over it like the rest of my friends. But I just can't get into her writing. I like old literature - Little Women and The Hunchback of Notre Dame are two of my favorites. But for some reason ane and I have never meshed.
Maybe it's the utter girly-ness of her stories. I love a good romance as much as the next girl, don't get me wrong. But reading about that time, that culture - when everything revolves around meeting Mr. Wonderful-and-his-3000-a-year - one can really only take so much. And there's not much action. Lots of dialogue and moving around from engagement to engagement with the fashionable Lady So-and-so, but no running, screaming, chaos. Everything's just so...nice. It makes me want to find a Stephen King novel and be shocked and grossed out and disturbed.
This isn't a proud proclamation, this is a major dilemma. I feel like I'm somehow less of a woman because my soul isn't touched by Jane Austen. I cry at "Titanic," sigh contentedly at "P.S. I Love You," celebrate at the end of "Sleepless in Seattle," and raise my fist with Bridget Jones. I eat chocolate, mope over boys, and, though I'm not a fan of shopping, will go if food is involved at some point. But despite all that, I feel like I'm standing in the middle of a hostile mob of women, judging me for being a freakish anti-Austen half-woman.
For the record (I feel the need to justify myself somewhere) I happen to love sitting alone on my front porch reading with a cup of coffee. But something funny (The Divine Secrets of the YaYa Sisterhood by Rebecca Wells), fast (Angels and Demons by Dan Brown), or just downright ridiculous (A Liar's Autobiography by Graham Chapman) are more my speed.
My apologies to Jane. You are indeed appreciated by many woman...I just happen to not be one of them.
Also, I feel the need to drop book titles in wherever possible. This is not meant to prove anything; this is just me being snobbish.
Except for one thing: I hate Jane Austen.
I've tried, I really have. I love the story of Pride and Prejudice - skimmed it once for a class, watched the movie countless times, gushed over it like the rest of my friends. But I just can't get into her writing. I like old literature - Little Women and The Hunchback of Notre Dame are two of my favorites. But for some reason ane and I have never meshed.
Maybe it's the utter girly-ness of her stories. I love a good romance as much as the next girl, don't get me wrong. But reading about that time, that culture - when everything revolves around meeting Mr. Wonderful-and-his-3000-a-year - one can really only take so much. And there's not much action. Lots of dialogue and moving around from engagement to engagement with the fashionable Lady So-and-so, but no running, screaming, chaos. Everything's just so...nice. It makes me want to find a Stephen King novel and be shocked and grossed out and disturbed.
This isn't a proud proclamation, this is a major dilemma. I feel like I'm somehow less of a woman because my soul isn't touched by Jane Austen. I cry at "Titanic," sigh contentedly at "P.S. I Love You," celebrate at the end of "Sleepless in Seattle," and raise my fist with Bridget Jones. I eat chocolate, mope over boys, and, though I'm not a fan of shopping, will go if food is involved at some point. But despite all that, I feel like I'm standing in the middle of a hostile mob of women, judging me for being a freakish anti-Austen half-woman.
For the record (I feel the need to justify myself somewhere) I happen to love sitting alone on my front porch reading with a cup of coffee. But something funny (The Divine Secrets of the YaYa Sisterhood by Rebecca Wells), fast (Angels and Demons by Dan Brown), or just downright ridiculous (A Liar's Autobiography by Graham Chapman) are more my speed.
My apologies to Jane. You are indeed appreciated by many woman...I just happen to not be one of them.
Also, I feel the need to drop book titles in wherever possible. This is not meant to prove anything; this is just me being snobbish.
03 April 2012
Glimpse
Last semester in my composition class, we had to write an introduction to ourselves using six "active" verbs. It's hard for me to write while an MLA-format Word document is staring me in the face, so I started free-writing. I have a hard time telling exactly what I think of myself, but I think this sums me up pretty well.
I read to broaden my small horizon, to see a world beyond the reaches of my own through the eyes of another. I write to process my thoughts so I may see what I think. I listen to learn the stories of those who may go unnoticed and unappreciated. I fear the unknown, being dragged from a comfortable situation by progress and change. I love when I can lie in the grass in my backyard and watch the late afternoon sun glisten through the trees above me, to be completely silent and hear nothing but the wind and the still, small voice that gets lost in the shuffle of my daily life.
And when I'm alone in my house at night - when the day is done, the work is finished, and for a few hours my frustrations and questions are put on hold - I turn off the lights, sit in the dark, and fill my ears and mind with the music I make on the piano in front of me. Someone once said, "After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music." Not everybody understands this - to some, music is simply something to fill noiseless space, to distract the mind in between conversations; for others it is the words, the lyrics that determine the meaning of the song.
To me, it is the language only the speechless may speak. The intensity of the low notes, growling anger and agony; the silent suffering, the "single teardrop" in the high register; the excitement of the pitches in between. It is the expression of inner emotion, raw feeling that known words cannot begin to relay.
I read to broaden my small horizon, to see a world beyond the reaches of my own through the eyes of another. I write to process my thoughts so I may see what I think. I listen to learn the stories of those who may go unnoticed and unappreciated. I fear the unknown, being dragged from a comfortable situation by progress and change. I love when I can lie in the grass in my backyard and watch the late afternoon sun glisten through the trees above me, to be completely silent and hear nothing but the wind and the still, small voice that gets lost in the shuffle of my daily life.
And when I'm alone in my house at night - when the day is done, the work is finished, and for a few hours my frustrations and questions are put on hold - I turn off the lights, sit in the dark, and fill my ears and mind with the music I make on the piano in front of me. Someone once said, "After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music." Not everybody understands this - to some, music is simply something to fill noiseless space, to distract the mind in between conversations; for others it is the words, the lyrics that determine the meaning of the song.
To me, it is the language only the speechless may speak. The intensity of the low notes, growling anger and agony; the silent suffering, the "single teardrop" in the high register; the excitement of the pitches in between. It is the expression of inner emotion, raw feeling that known words cannot begin to relay.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)