Wanted: A Grandfather

I want a grandfather. I always have. I mean who is suppose to say politically incorrect things? Who is suppose to tell me about going "a-courtin'" and point out all the landmarks in town as he tells me about how things "used to be?" Who is suppose to teach me random things like how to whittle, shoot a gun, or spit? Who is suppose to fix things or tell me about how life was before television and computers? Who is suppose to scare me and intrigue me and love me just the same? Seriously...

Thoughts Amongst The Shelves

There is something deliciously forbidden about a library. Sounds crazy, no? I'm sitting in a library in Somewhere, USA. The building holds the tell-tale signs of 1960's architecture. There is a main reading area with dim lights to illuminate the work of writers, readers, and fussy teenagers whose parents dragged them to the dreaded building. To the left, there is a wall of doorways, one right after the other, leading into one big section for the shelves. On the right side, a wall of tiny, narrow windows that eventually culminate into a children's section, closed off with a dark, heavy door. Everything about this place screams "Mystery!" Like the pages of a Gothic novel.

Although this library isn't far from my home, it's in a different city, and I can be anyone I like, here. A writer, a mother, a movie star, or someone's cousin just visiting for the summer. Who knows what these people think! And the best part is that it doesn't matter.

Places like libraries make me think about suppressed feelings and desires in life. No talking! Be quiet! Whisper! Whisper! Whisper! I glide along the dark, shadowy shelves and run my fingers over the spines of book, after book, after book. This author is from Thailand that one is from Chile, and I--I am here seeing, touching, reading the work of authors I will never meet. Yet, their work influences me. Frustrates me, makes me cry, bores me, makes me think wild thoughts. Words are powerful things. I think of all the forbidden books tucked discreetly into place--alphabetical--pretending they belong. Just begging to cast their spell on someone, perhaps me.

The hum of the fluorescent lights create a white noise, but I fear if I were to stay here too long, it would drive me mad. I imagine the librarians are sick of questions. Sick of staying in a cool, dimly lit fortress of a building with its' cave-like hums and drips and unpleasant visitors. Or maybe, like me, it intrigues them. Perhaps the whispers of ancient words in crumbling books draws them too. All I know is that a storm is coming, and I should be on my way.

A Summer Snapshot

This blog is a portion from a journal entry:
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I'm sitting on the dock at a friend's lake, and I can't believe how beautiful it is here. This is my third time out here and I am still awestruck. The sky is filled with purple-gray clouds ripe with rain. Somehow the insects don't seem to mind; they just keep buzzing and humming and skating across the black mirror lake. Frogs are croaking and just over my right shoulder, I hear a bird calling louder than the evening symphony.

My first time here I couldn't seem to place one of the sounds that seemed so prevalent, but now, as I sit here with my feet causing gentle ripples in the cool water, I realize what it is. It is the sound of nature absent of cars or planes, or even voices. The only man-made sounds are the scratch of my favorite black pen across my journal...a book filled with hopes and dreams, fears and frustrations. How strange to be part of a world that has so few cares.

I look across the slick wet surface of the lake and I am surrounded by wilderness. Not the kind that lost men dread--where the elements are cruel. But rather a wild wilderness of graceful flowers and rugged shrubbery. Beauty and strength. Just behind me a bushes of unripened blackberries are nurtured among the briars. My leg hold the tell-tale signs of their existence.

The moon looks down upon me as the sun sets leaving a brilliant array of stained glass clouds. The moon sees everything, and I am reminded that I have "miles to go before I sleep."

"Now Is The [Spring] Of Our Discontent"

Greetings Dear Reader!

I am currently avoiding reading for the worst subject in the history of the universe: Chaucer. Although no one knows for certain how Chaucer died, scholars believe there is a possibility he was murdered. I haven't a doubt in my mind this is true. In fact, maybe I'm the one who did it! Maybe sometime in the future, I'll be part of a "Time Machine" research program, I'll volunteer to be a pioneer, and then I'll end up killing Chaucer because he almost killed me when I was in school. An eye for an eye, right? (Wishful thinking...I know.)

These last few weeks have been some of the hardest of my life. Not necessarily "horrible." Difficult? YOU BET! After researching, writing, presenting, and defending my senior thesis, I do not care about The Secret Garden or archetypes or Carl Jung or comma splices or long rambling sentences that never seem to end despite the fact the writer made her point way back at the beginning of the thought. I sit here and complain about the work that everyone has had to do, but I shouldn't be so negative when our professors had to read and comment on the first couple of drafts we cranked out whilst jacked up on coffee, cashews, and carbonated beverages. Anyway, I am so glad that I have people in my life who love and care about me enough to correct me--or ask me to redo something when they know I can do better. I am quite proud of the work I have been able to accomplish (although not without tears and LOTS of prayer).

In other news: I finally got a diagnosis! A diagnosis I have felt certain about for several years, now. I have a problem with doctors telling me that "it's just in my head." (I'm sure I'm not alone in feeling this way!) The only downside is having medicine that makes me so darn tired! I may have to start drinking motor oil to stay awake...and by "motor oil" I mean "coffee."

Oral Exam. [Cue dirge] The oral exam was death. Imagine a dimly lit room with dark shadows lurking in the corners. A trickle of water from the leaking pipes above running down the wall. The lone window with cracked and dangerous glass protruding is so dirty that no sunlight graces the bare earthen floor. And a single, swinging light bulb casting shadows along the ocher walls (which were once white before the mold overtook them)...What you just imagined is a five-star hotel compared to that wretched room!

Thank goodness the Good Lord didn't see it fit that I should literally die from such experience (although, I'm sure people have). In my short years upon this earth, I have done plenty of extemporaneous speaking. Most of the time such "interviews" are a lot of BS, but at least, they were about topics I felt confident. Alas, with intense stares from piercing-blue-eyes-that-can-see-to-the-very-depths-of-your-soul (somewhat similar to Dumbledore's eyes), it became next to impossible to create coherent sentences. I purposefully wore a long necklace with chunky beads so that nervous energy would abandon my tear ducts and move to my fingers. (Note to self: Try this strategy again! Twas a success indeed!) I am quite thankful the whole experience is finished! It was just another reminder that I am NOT cut out for doctoral work. When I scooped myself off the floor and left the room, I was so thankful that I actually LIKE my content area, but little did I know that in a few short days the saddest event in my life would take place. To quote Biron, "The scene begins to cloud."

After a lovely Tuesday evening with two dear friends, I left campus around 12:30 am. I don't often leave that late, but I it was too good of quality time to walk away. The moon was beautiful even though the night was chilly; I should have known the moon plays tricks on people. On my way home, I witnessed an unusual sight. Several deer decided to have a "sit-in" (stand-in?) to protest modern technology and infrastructure, but instead of a peaceful protest, it turned violent. One massive doe decided to sacrifice her body on the hood of my car to prove her ultimate hatred of humanity. The protest was broken up immediately. The doe ran away unscathed, but my poor Skylark did not fare so well. The Skylark died thanks to Debbie the Deer at 12:42. After I stopped screaming like a 12 year old girl watching "Scream" for the first time, I called my parents. Thus was the end of the Skylark.

I feel like I should show an emotional reel of pictures of my car set to some super sappy song. "I will remember you....Will you remember me? Don't let your life pass you by...." [sigh]

This post is dedicated to the memory of The 1995 Skylark. RIP 4/28/10 12:42am. "It's been a wild ride, friend." Feel free to mourn as you will. It's okay to have a moment of silence, dear reader, before moving on to the next blog. I understand.

"Into the Bowels of the Office"

Today, I came very close to losing my religion! (Not really, I can't lose that!) But it was frustrating nonetheless. I made the decision to look into changing majors from Secondary English Education to just English. I have already completed my education classes--everything but student teaching, yet I don't feel as confident in my content area as I would like. I just want to pick up the extra classes that I have missed from being and education major. Who knew it would start World War III?!

I want to teach; I really do. I love teenagers. I love school. I love the punks that make me want to pull my hair out. High schoolers can be knot-heads, but I wouldn't be in this career path if I didn't love it. The bottom line is that I want to make myself more marketable. Knowing more English/Literature/Grammar/Theory than my competitors seems like a GOOD thing, right? I, personally, want to be a better person. Logical? Apparently not.

As expected, I was met with no opposition from the English department, but the Education department went crazy when I tossed out the idea of leaving the EDU program. I understand their concerns. Why would a student leave the program just one semester shy of certification? I just expected a more professional discussion. I felt like I had just stepped into a bag of popcorn after someone pressed "start." I heard far more inappropriate accusations and negative talk than I ever expected from several professors. The last time I checked--school is for the students NOT the faculty.

My mother says, "There is nothing more dangerous than taking up an offense for someone else." I love this quote--words of wisdom, indeed. I'm just tired of students being caught in a battle between professors or even high school teachers. I don't want to have to "choose sides" or "defend" someone. It's just silly, and I don't like being put in a position where such a thing is expected. I will not participate.

Ten years from now, we won't remember what people said to us, but we will remember how they made us feel when we were around them. What I learned from the foolish banter and half-hearted "objective" talk following the discovery that I was not interested in arguing, is that I want people to feel good around me. Well, that's not entirely true. I don't want people to just feel good--I want them to feel safe. Safe to unload, safe to refuel, safe to fail, safe to try again. I want people to feel good about who they are not who everyone tells them they are supposed to be. After all, isn't that what Jesus chose to do?

And for the record, I don't harbor any ill-will toward anyone or anything that happened today. I think I just need to keep in mind who the instigator is behind all things "unlovely" (Phil 4:8). Keeping this in mind tends to cool a hot-head or ease a throbbing bruise pretty quickly.

I Should Be Studying...

I have tons to do. Senior English undergrad. What else is there to do? Yet, instead of studying/ writing, I spent the afternoon and evening reading random people's blogs. Thanks to the handy-dandy "Next Blog" feature at the top of my page, I have seen and read some pretty incredible stuff. Because I'm on the literary side of things, sometimes I miss out on the art-side of the world, but I think I've gotten my fill of artwork for the evening.

Some random girl had this awesome link to some water color Harry Potter fanfiction (I won't repost is because it was not Rated G). I saw a blog by an aspiring children's book author and illustrator...I had to pass his stuff on because it was so AMAZING! caleatkinson.blogspot.com You should check it out. I read a couple of crappy poems about "being misunderstood"...I can honestly say that I'm looking forward to teaching high schoolers whose only definition of poetry is "self-expression"--I'll set 'em right! And I happened upon a single mother's blog about her unusual taste in art. She posted a youtube music video because she admired the art in it. I absolutely loved it, and I wanted to repost it in case anyone wanted to take a look. But be ye forewarned: It is bizarre.



But of all the things I looked at, I think the most compelling was a team-effort blog. I don't even recall the name of it, but it is an organization of artists that have a "Travelling Pants" type of relationship. One artist sends a canvas out to another artist they have never met. The recipient begins a painting and sends it on to the next person on the list. By the time the original sender gets the canvas back, it will be filling with artwork from around the world. I have to say, it was a wonderful thought.

I think that is exactly what bloggers do in the first place. We write, compose, paint, or sculpt in order for others to see and contribute to our work. Through my "blog-stalking" I learned that everyone has something to say. Everyone. We all need to be heard or appreciated. To know that the thoughts or events we experience are not weird or strange. Blogging helps us find common ground with others and make peace with ourselves. So to my fellow bloggers, I wish you good luck and many more posts! I have loved getting to read about you!

You Move Me

I can remember being in the third grade and standing in my kitchen in Somewhere, USA. The house was all but empty, the refrigerator stood strangely naked of its usual eclectic covering made up of mine and my siblings artwork, the cabinet doors concealed nothing but empty shelves, the floor held the marks from my roller skates that Mom let me roll around the table in. I heard the voices of strange men and women in my front yard laughing and talking with my parents. And all around me, I could feel the air settling. It was a strange feeling that still sends chills up my spine. My family was moving. After a few moments of solitude, the door swung open with all the force my brother could muster. It slammed into the wall, and for once I didn't worry that it would leave a hole in the wall.

"Come on! We're waiting for you!" he yelled; not unpleasantly, but with all the excitement he couldn't conceal.

I gave the room one last sweeping glance, grabbed my book bag, and ran outside as I heard the screen door squeal and bang behind me from excessive use for the last time. I felt my little white sandals fill with sand as I ran across the dirt driveway. After a short prayer for safety, my brothers, sisters, and I climbed into the strange van. I scooted across the long bench seat to watch the only home I could ever remember disappear in a cloud of dust the tires kicked up, and so began our journey to a new house I'd never seen.

Today (yet again), I have been reading Sylvia Plath's unabridged journals. Sylvia Plath; Aunt Sylvy. She makes me think things that I never have considered. I feel things that I have never felt. She saw the world so differently, and I am just a student, awe-struck by her voice. She has a way of writing exactly what I feel, finding the words that seem to elude me, and yet, she was so dissatisfied with her work and her life. I was reading one of her entries today about how much she wished she were as talented as a peer. If only she could have seen herself through different eyes...maybe she'd still be alive today.

I've never wanted to meet a poet/writer so badly before I began reading her work. I realized this afternoon that because of Aunt Sylvy, I feel as if I've crossed a threshold. There comes a point in each of our lives when we realize that things will never go back to "normal." One of my favorite bands, The Goo Goo Dolls, has a line in their song "Iris" that I always think about when I feel the present becomes history. They sing, "And you can't fight the tears that ain't coming, or the moment of truth you realize. When everything feels like the movies, yeah, you bleed just to know you're alive." It's hard to unlearn something or to actually learn it for the first time.

As children, we are fascinated with the world around us. The changing colors of the trees or the little green sprouts bursting through the warm earth. We don't understand all the scientific and cultural rules yet, and everything is exciting--and somewhat magical. Aunt Sylvy writes in her stream of consciousness journal entry:

After being conditioned as a child to the lovely never-never land of magic, of fairy queens and virginal maidens....To go from this to the world of "grown-up" reality. To feel the tender skin of sensitive child-fingers thicken...to become aware of school, exams (the very words are as unlovely as the sound of chalk shrilling on the blackboard,) bread and butter, marriage, sex, compatibility, war, economics, death and self. What a terrible blighting of the beauty and reality of childhood. Not to be sentimental, as I sound, but why the hell are we conditioned into the smooth strawberry-and-cream Mother-Goose-world, Alice-in-Wonderland fable, only to be broken on the wheel as we grow older and become aware of ourselves as individuals with a dull responsibility in life?

But despite this feeling of "new-ness," I can't help but feel a level of excitement. I have been so desensitized and callous toward so many words, thoughts, and ideas lately--that her voice has hit me like an unexpected rainstorm in the middle of a drought. Although she scares me, I know that some of our greatest experiences are born out of fear...or rather the conquering of that fear. Aunt Sylvy and I have a lot of life, love, and thoughts yet to discuss, but one thing I know for sure is that with each word of hers, I am changing.

And sometimes I get nervous when I see an open door. Close your eyes, clear your heart, cut the cord. --The Killers "Human"

Oh but you move me

You give me courage I didn't

Know I had

You move me on

I can't go with you

And stay where I am

So you move me on

--Susan Ashton "You Move Me"