Dear Whoever You Might Be,
Did you feel it? The Christmas magic? Did you wake up early or stay snuggled under the covers for an extra hour, knowing that it was OK to wait? Did you wear matching pajamas with anyone else in the house? You know the kind: flannel, fleece, footies, it does not matter as long as they matched. Did you sit at the top of the stairs with your knees jamming into chest, heart racing in anticipation of the words allowing you to descend towards the tree? Or did you go down whenever your sleepy eyes adjusted and your nose pricked at the aroma of coffee and pancakes?
Did you even celebrate Christmas? Maybe instead of the traditional tree-huddling you took a vacation, a cruise, a trip. Maybe you are more of a Hanukkah or Kwanza celebrant. Did you do anything to celebrate the "Holiday Season"? Did you build a snowman? Did you sing carols? Bake cookies? Watch Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer one too many times? Drink hot chocolate or eggnog? Wrap any sort of presents, regardless of the reason?
Did you feel sad at the end of the night? When the darkness began to creep across the sky and lighted houses began to ignite? Did you feel a shift in the air as the wrapping paper was thrown away and the initial WOW factor began to waver? Did you experience a sort of emptiness as the number of family members started to thin out and goodbyes were hugged away? At the end of the night, did you sit in front of the tree and think "It is over now. The presents have been unwrapped. Jesus has come. The family will be traveling back to Timbucktoo soon. The tree will come down in a few days and there will be a void."?
I must say, at the end of almost every single Christmas Day, I am overwhelmed by some sort of sad emotion. Maybe it is because after so much build up and excitement for the best day of the year, it is over in a blink of an eye. Maybe because my body is just coming down from the adrenaline rush of JESUS, CHURCH, PRESENTS, EAT, FAMILY, EAT, MORE FAMILY! Maybe it is because once Christmas is over, the rest of my break from college will be over too quickly.
I know this is not the most thrilling, cheerful or even literary post I've given. But as I pondered over my thoughts on Christmas, I realized that there always exist a sort of bitter-sweet sentiment attached to the day...at least for me. Now don't get me wrong, I love Christmas. Everything about it. And it's not the presents or the ornaments or ABC Family's 25 Days of Christmas. It is about the warmth and joy and giving. I love celebrating the birth of Jesus, even though many people don't. I love Rudolph and Frosty too. Maybe that is why I get sentimental. Because I just love it all so much and then the rest of the world puts it away. Stockings get taken down. Mangers get carefully wrapped and boxed up until next Advent. Peppermint hot chocolate becomes hard to track.
Regardless of my feelings, Christmas is magical, in every way possible. And reader, I hope that no matter how you celebrated, and even if you didn't celebrate, you felt some sort of magic in the air. I hope you stepped outside and breathed in a deep breath of goodwill, peace, and maybe even a little snow.
Sincerely,
Me
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
If It's NOT like the Movies...
***Potential Spoiler Alert***
Dear Whoever You Might Be,Anna Arkadyevna Karenina. More casually known as Anna Karenina, heroine of Leo Tolstoy's novel published in 1877. A novel which I love. A novel which I read in highschool. A novel which I devoured, word for word, day and night. A novel which was recently released in theaters near you.
When I first saw the trailer for this movie I gasped at a decibel unacceptable for a quiet movie theater. I gripped the arm of my dear friend sitting next to me and almost shouted, "OH MY GOD IS THIS ANNA KARENINA?!?!?!" Behold readers, it was. I gazed at the 2 minute and 31 second trailer with my eyes as wide as a deer in headlights. I was transfixed by the idea of one of my two favorite books becoming a movie (OK, there have been previous film adaptations but this one was coming out in color!). And then it hit me....My. Favorite. Book. Becoming. A. Movie. With. Modern. Hollywood. Ideas......Oh. Freaking. No.
That was extraordinarily obnoxious of me to type but that is how the mental process occurred.
But as any true lover of books AND movies would testify, I refused to let the dismal prospects of this film adaptation get me down. I would go in open minded, knowing that no movie is EVER, EVER as good as the book. I really don't know why people always expect them to be and become critical monsters when they walk out of theaters. I mean, come on people, how many times do you need to be told that the book-to-movie greatness scale will never be balanced, so move on already!
Now that the ranting is over, I shall move forward.
Reader, I saw the movie. I had heard mixed reviews about it but stayed strong in my open mindedness. I read that lovers of the book will not like the movie, but movie lovers will love it for the theatrical aesthetics. My opinion is contary to both, and I will try to be brief.
I saw the movie three nights ago and have been sifting through my thoughts and opinions since then. To be honest, I am still not sure of my feelings. I liked the movie, I think. The plot stayed pretty true to the novel, although of course there was a million and one details left out. But since a Part 2 and 3 of Anna Karenina would just be a pain in the rear, I commend their efforts to put as much in as thought necessary. And let's face it, so much of Tolstoy's 754 page novel (Barnes&Noble Classics edition, 2003, Paperback) deals with the politics, religion, and mind of late nineteenth century Russia, and these themes do not translate well on the big screen.
I was more impressed with the plot accuracy than the film itself. It is not a difficult story line to follow: boy meets girl, girl is married, boy and girl fall in love, girl cheats on husband, enter side plot with another couple and some Russian snow, girl goes crazy, girl jumps in front of train, end scene. They hit that sparknotes version on the head, so congratulations Focus Features, you did it.
The disappointment did slightly sink in when Konstantin Dmitrievich Levin and Princess Ekaterina Alexandrovna Shcherbatskaya (Kitty) got left behind in development. Why? Because the novel ends with them. Their story is interwoven in Anna's, and hers IS the title of the work in question, but Tolstoy ended with Levin and Kitty for a reason. And that reason is to show that his life, his motives and concerns are the more worthy. Levin's is the redeeming variable in the novel, not Anna's despairing jealousy-turned-dramtic suicide. Sure, Levin was not cast as cute as Vronsky, but they are Russian. The mustaches and long hair are a staple.
But my oh my. We can't forget to mention the staging of the film. Literally, the STAGE-ing haha, get it? If you've seen the movie, you should get the joke because the creators of the film made it hard to miss. Almost the entire action of the movie took place in a theater, set for various scenes and locations. It was weird, and I cannot think of a more appropriate word than plain old weird. The characters moved from one side of the stage to the other and BAM, they were in a completely different house or room, just like that. Like magic. Except it wasn't all that magical and all the spinning made me a little dizzy.
I have to give *props* (I love my jokes!) to the director for such an innovative vision of Anna. He recognized that her character is always "on stage." She is the actress in her own life, moving and making choices around an omnipresent audience. Her spotlight never fades. She is the hero of her own one-woman show. Tom Stoppard and Joe Wright wanted to convey this huge undercurrent of the novel into the film which made it interesting to watch. Personally though, I believe it took away from the film. I found myself more focused on the movement and fluidity of the set than on the plot and characters. If I hadn't read the book, I fear I would have left the theater knowing nothing about the story.
The movie was beautifully done. The costumes were magnificent. The language was inspiring (although we can thank Leo for that one later). The British accents were...well...not Russian. But still, I think I liked the movie, but I'm still not too sure.
Maybe I'll just have to go back and see it again...
Sincerely,
Me
P.S. As Anna Karenina is one of my favorites, I could have spent much, much more time talking about it, so be glad I didn't, or else you would get bored of me. But I probably will at some point, because "I have the power to put into it."-----> Now go look it up.
Sunday, November 18, 2012
Too Tired for a Title
Dear Whoever You Might Be,
I cannot believe I have not blogged since Halloween. That is truly shameful. Truly. But I have a very legitimate excuse. The past few weeks have been a whirlwind for me. Basically the "twister that took Dorothy to the yellow brick road" kind of whirlwind...except mine didn't stop in Oz. It stopped at home.
As some of you may know, I took up writing another blog. It is for my internship and it follows my journey volunteering for Catherine's House over the last and next few weeks. If you want to read that too, do! Catherinecup.blogspot.com
I like being able to plug my own accomplishments in my blog! But that's why I have been super crazy busy. Mostly. That and school work. As much as I love being an English major, sometimes the amount of reading to be done is beyond possible. One hundred pages of Dostoevsky to read in two days. Not a problem. Acts one through three of Antony and Cleopatra due tomorrow. Why not? But add three other classes (two more English and one Education) on top of that and I just want to be like "Whoa. Hang on for the ride."
But even then, that doesn't sound too, too bad. Right? Well then add the internship, the outside volunteering for the internship, the blogging, the sorority meetings, events, and planning for all this stuff. Then factor in a few minutes here and there to eat and an occasional nap and that leaves just enough time in the day to watch Gilmore Girls and have a quick "How are you?" conversation with my suitemates. This semester has been flying like the Wicked Witch's monkeys.
I've basically become a machine the last few weeks in trying to get it all done. Like the Tinman! Ok, that was a stretch but I had to make another Wizard of Oz reference because it is on the television right now. Here's a fun fact: In my senior year of highschool my school did the Wizard of Oz and I was cast as the Tinman! I was actually the best heartless woodsman there ever once was.
But enough about me. Why? Because I am absolutely exhausted now that I have time to relax. I came home two days ago and started my Thanksgiving break early. Skipping classes and all. I've got the heated blanket turned up high and a stack of books on the bed-side table. Granted, they are books for school but it is so much more exciting when I can read them in my bed at home before falling into a restful slumber, rather than rushing to finish before class.
Sincerely,
Me
I cannot believe I have not blogged since Halloween. That is truly shameful. Truly. But I have a very legitimate excuse. The past few weeks have been a whirlwind for me. Basically the "twister that took Dorothy to the yellow brick road" kind of whirlwind...except mine didn't stop in Oz. It stopped at home.
As some of you may know, I took up writing another blog. It is for my internship and it follows my journey volunteering for Catherine's House over the last and next few weeks. If you want to read that too, do! Catherinecup.blogspot.com
I like being able to plug my own accomplishments in my blog! But that's why I have been super crazy busy. Mostly. That and school work. As much as I love being an English major, sometimes the amount of reading to be done is beyond possible. One hundred pages of Dostoevsky to read in two days. Not a problem. Acts one through three of Antony and Cleopatra due tomorrow. Why not? But add three other classes (two more English and one Education) on top of that and I just want to be like "Whoa. Hang on for the ride."
But even then, that doesn't sound too, too bad. Right? Well then add the internship, the outside volunteering for the internship, the blogging, the sorority meetings, events, and planning for all this stuff. Then factor in a few minutes here and there to eat and an occasional nap and that leaves just enough time in the day to watch Gilmore Girls and have a quick "How are you?" conversation with my suitemates. This semester has been flying like the Wicked Witch's monkeys.
I've basically become a machine the last few weeks in trying to get it all done. Like the Tinman! Ok, that was a stretch but I had to make another Wizard of Oz reference because it is on the television right now. Here's a fun fact: In my senior year of highschool my school did the Wizard of Oz and I was cast as the Tinman! I was actually the best heartless woodsman there ever once was.
But enough about me. Why? Because I am absolutely exhausted now that I have time to relax. I came home two days ago and started my Thanksgiving break early. Skipping classes and all. I've got the heated blanket turned up high and a stack of books on the bed-side table. Granted, they are books for school but it is so much more exciting when I can read them in my bed at home before falling into a restful slumber, rather than rushing to finish before class.
Sincerely,
Me
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
BOO
Dear Whoever You Might Be,
It may be a tad cliche of me to write a post on Halloween. But since I'm already writing, there are so many things I could say on this holiday:
Trick or Treating. As a child, I participated in this childhood tradition. Dressed up with family or friends, I ventured out into the darkened eve and walked along the cracked pavement to the houses glowing in welcome. There is nothing like the smell of a pumpkin shaped bucket brimming with cavity-inducing treats. Reese's Peanut Butter Cups are my favorite. Of course, as I got a bit older, the bucket became a pillow case and I just thought I was the coolest thing since sliced bread as a strutted through the neighborhoods in my last minute costume; which brings me to my next point.
Costumes. Probably the most stressful part of Halloween. I've never been more indecisive about anything in my life other than costumes. The most memorable and ridiculous year was when I went to a fall festival as a witch, then put on some wings to be a fairy, then took off the wings and put on bunny years. I don't remember what I actually ended up going out as but it was something along the lines of a wainny. Wainny = witch/fairy/bunny. I really don't think I have ever been anything original or creative. A hippie, witch, another witch, 80s girl, clown, bunny, and even "sexy" witch. Clearly my taste in costumes has never been super unique. This year I was going to be a giraffe to salute my sorority, but as it turns out, I'm not even doing anything which merits a costume.
Parties. Halloween parties seem to be an essential part of growing up. Think of Mean Girls. There is always the Cady Heron in the room, the "sexy animals," the jock "costumes" and others of that nature. I think it would be really awesome to have the kind of Halloween party as seen in Hocus Pocus where everone is dressed to the nines in legitimate and costly costumes, not lingerie. We would serve warm apple cider, not cans of PBR. Pumpkin carving contests instead of keg stands. Monster Mash instead of Wiz Khalifa. Don't get me wrong. I'm not judging, criticizing, or condemning anyone or any of these parties. I've attended a few of those in my day too. But a real celebration of All Hallows Eve would be quite spooktacular! I had to say it; since I'm being cliche, I might as well run with it.
Movies. There are a plethora of scary movies and Halloween movies. Hocus Pocus is probably the most staple Halloween movie of all time. Or The Nightmare Before Christmas. And The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown. And Sleepy Hallow. And we cannot forget the classics Frankenstein, Dracula, Wolf Man and more. You could even consider Bewitched and peronally, I'm a fan of Sandra Bullock's Practical Magic. I love ABC Family's "13 Nights of Halloween" where it is thematic movies night after night. Although, this year, I was a bit disappointed. There was no "Harry Potter Weekend Event." I guess they consider Harry in the Christmas category more than Halloween? If you have nothing to do, no parties, no trick or treating, stock your DVD shelf with some of these classics, fill the popcorn bowl, and snuggle with a Pumpkin Spice Latte.
So that's it for my cliche's. I could say so much more about different Halloween things. There are a few books which I would love to read during this spine-tingling holiday. The House of Seven Gables, Something Wicked this Way Comes, Macbeth, Frankenstein, and more. But that's for another time. Although, now that the month is close to finish, I may have to put those thoughts on file until next year.
I want to end with something spooky and thrilling, but I am sleepy, and cannot. Readers, I hope you enjoy your cold, dark evening; no matter what.
Sincerely,
Me
It may be a tad cliche of me to write a post on Halloween. But since I'm already writing, there are so many things I could say on this holiday:
Trick or Treating. As a child, I participated in this childhood tradition. Dressed up with family or friends, I ventured out into the darkened eve and walked along the cracked pavement to the houses glowing in welcome. There is nothing like the smell of a pumpkin shaped bucket brimming with cavity-inducing treats. Reese's Peanut Butter Cups are my favorite. Of course, as I got a bit older, the bucket became a pillow case and I just thought I was the coolest thing since sliced bread as a strutted through the neighborhoods in my last minute costume; which brings me to my next point.
Costumes. Probably the most stressful part of Halloween. I've never been more indecisive about anything in my life other than costumes. The most memorable and ridiculous year was when I went to a fall festival as a witch, then put on some wings to be a fairy, then took off the wings and put on bunny years. I don't remember what I actually ended up going out as but it was something along the lines of a wainny. Wainny = witch/fairy/bunny. I really don't think I have ever been anything original or creative. A hippie, witch, another witch, 80s girl, clown, bunny, and even "sexy" witch. Clearly my taste in costumes has never been super unique. This year I was going to be a giraffe to salute my sorority, but as it turns out, I'm not even doing anything which merits a costume.
Parties. Halloween parties seem to be an essential part of growing up. Think of Mean Girls. There is always the Cady Heron in the room, the "sexy animals," the jock "costumes" and others of that nature. I think it would be really awesome to have the kind of Halloween party as seen in Hocus Pocus where everone is dressed to the nines in legitimate and costly costumes, not lingerie. We would serve warm apple cider, not cans of PBR. Pumpkin carving contests instead of keg stands. Monster Mash instead of Wiz Khalifa. Don't get me wrong. I'm not judging, criticizing, or condemning anyone or any of these parties. I've attended a few of those in my day too. But a real celebration of All Hallows Eve would be quite spooktacular! I had to say it; since I'm being cliche, I might as well run with it.
Movies. There are a plethora of scary movies and Halloween movies. Hocus Pocus is probably the most staple Halloween movie of all time. Or The Nightmare Before Christmas. And The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown. And Sleepy Hallow. And we cannot forget the classics Frankenstein, Dracula, Wolf Man and more. You could even consider Bewitched and peronally, I'm a fan of Sandra Bullock's Practical Magic. I love ABC Family's "13 Nights of Halloween" where it is thematic movies night after night. Although, this year, I was a bit disappointed. There was no "Harry Potter Weekend Event." I guess they consider Harry in the Christmas category more than Halloween? If you have nothing to do, no parties, no trick or treating, stock your DVD shelf with some of these classics, fill the popcorn bowl, and snuggle with a Pumpkin Spice Latte.
So that's it for my cliche's. I could say so much more about different Halloween things. There are a few books which I would love to read during this spine-tingling holiday. The House of Seven Gables, Something Wicked this Way Comes, Macbeth, Frankenstein, and more. But that's for another time. Although, now that the month is close to finish, I may have to put those thoughts on file until next year.
I want to end with something spooky and thrilling, but I am sleepy, and cannot. Readers, I hope you enjoy your cold, dark evening; no matter what.
Sincerely,
Me
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
In the Land of Gibberish
Dear Whoever You Might Be,
For the last week or so, I have been plagued by that horrible feeling in your stomach when you feel guilty about something. Even if you are unaware of the precise reason for this feeling, it lingers. Every person, I am sure, knows what feeling I mean. Children especially feel it when their parents sit them down after doing something naughty. The number of times I endured this feeling is unequivocal and even now, as a twenty year old, whenever someone calls me and needs to "talk," my mind is instantaneously overwhelmed by every single thing I've done in the last few weeks. I search through all my words and actions to make sure I have done nothing deserving of punishment or rebuke. And until I am certain of my innocence, that pit of the stomach feeling remains and haunts me.
This feeling has been with me for too long.
Obviously, the theme of my blog gravitates around being "eloquently inarticulate." I struggle with my verbal expression compared to the constant flow of words in my mind. But this, you already know. What I did not know is that there are people out there who seriously live with disorders of the same nature. I knew that children and adults with certain mental disorders caused a lack of verbal communication but I didn't know that the lack can be a disorder in and of itself. I should have know this, right? Well, I lived in ignorance until reading a chapter on Communicaton Disorders for my education class.
My feeling of guilt should be understood now. I started my blog because I cannot often say what I think. I think lots of things and I wanted them to be known. But I am blessed and do not have a diagnosed disorder. I am capable. I communicate and can be silent when I want. I can think of a word, a sentence, a whole overflow of gibber-jabber and use my throat and mouth muscles to produce the coordinating sounds of these words. It deeply touches me to think of people incapable of such an instinctual act.
I take speaking for granted, sometimes. When I was little, I would run my mouth beyond socially acceptable. Even now, I find myself saying much more than needed. Although, my verbal vocabulary is excrutiatingly limited to the point where I sound like a complete moron. I abbreviate everything: "totes," "obvi," "probs," etc.etc.etc. The list goes on to an embarrassing length. And I use the same words over and over. I am a broken record of words: "practically," "literally," "sentimental" and "prime" are the top four words of choice...
I am truly not trying to sound pathetic, but it touches me deeply to think of the minute amount of attention I heed to my verbal use and communication. I know I didn't say much about these disorders....I am no doctor, specialist, or even very educated on the matter. I am at least now aware of my failure to appreciate being able to speak. If I don't say exactly what comes to mind in the moment, so be it. I know I will eventually be capable. I know the words will come. Others are not so lucky, and for them, I say I am sorry.
Sincerely,
Me
P.S. For everyone who wants to recognize their blessing of words and being able to commincate, read what Taylor Swift has to say...I know, I know. It is Taylor Swift and most of you won't take her, or me, seriously for such a suggestion. But I think there is deep substance to what she says. So my readers, speak, or forever hold your peace:
"Real life is a funny thing you know.
In real life saying the right thing, at the right moment is beyond crucial.
So crucial in fact, that most of us start to hesitate, for fear of
Saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.
But lately what I’ve began to fear more than that, is letting the moment
Pass with saying anything. I think you deserved to look back on your life without
This chorus of resounding voices saying, I could of but it’s too late now.
So there’s a time for silent, and there a time for waiting your turn.
But if you know how you feel, and you so clearly know what you need to say.
You’ll know it.
I don’t think you should wait.
I think you should speak now.”
For the last week or so, I have been plagued by that horrible feeling in your stomach when you feel guilty about something. Even if you are unaware of the precise reason for this feeling, it lingers. Every person, I am sure, knows what feeling I mean. Children especially feel it when their parents sit them down after doing something naughty. The number of times I endured this feeling is unequivocal and even now, as a twenty year old, whenever someone calls me and needs to "talk," my mind is instantaneously overwhelmed by every single thing I've done in the last few weeks. I search through all my words and actions to make sure I have done nothing deserving of punishment or rebuke. And until I am certain of my innocence, that pit of the stomach feeling remains and haunts me.
This feeling has been with me for too long.
Obviously, the theme of my blog gravitates around being "eloquently inarticulate." I struggle with my verbal expression compared to the constant flow of words in my mind. But this, you already know. What I did not know is that there are people out there who seriously live with disorders of the same nature. I knew that children and adults with certain mental disorders caused a lack of verbal communication but I didn't know that the lack can be a disorder in and of itself. I should have know this, right? Well, I lived in ignorance until reading a chapter on Communicaton Disorders for my education class.
My feeling of guilt should be understood now. I started my blog because I cannot often say what I think. I think lots of things and I wanted them to be known. But I am blessed and do not have a diagnosed disorder. I am capable. I communicate and can be silent when I want. I can think of a word, a sentence, a whole overflow of gibber-jabber and use my throat and mouth muscles to produce the coordinating sounds of these words. It deeply touches me to think of people incapable of such an instinctual act.
I take speaking for granted, sometimes. When I was little, I would run my mouth beyond socially acceptable. Even now, I find myself saying much more than needed. Although, my verbal vocabulary is excrutiatingly limited to the point where I sound like a complete moron. I abbreviate everything: "totes," "obvi," "probs," etc.etc.etc. The list goes on to an embarrassing length. And I use the same words over and over. I am a broken record of words: "practically," "literally," "sentimental" and "prime" are the top four words of choice...
I am truly not trying to sound pathetic, but it touches me deeply to think of the minute amount of attention I heed to my verbal use and communication. I know I didn't say much about these disorders....I am no doctor, specialist, or even very educated on the matter. I am at least now aware of my failure to appreciate being able to speak. If I don't say exactly what comes to mind in the moment, so be it. I know I will eventually be capable. I know the words will come. Others are not so lucky, and for them, I say I am sorry.
Sincerely,
Me
P.S. For everyone who wants to recognize their blessing of words and being able to commincate, read what Taylor Swift has to say...I know, I know. It is Taylor Swift and most of you won't take her, or me, seriously for such a suggestion. But I think there is deep substance to what she says. So my readers, speak, or forever hold your peace:
"Real life is a funny thing you know.
In real life saying the right thing, at the right moment is beyond crucial.
So crucial in fact, that most of us start to hesitate, for fear of
Saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.
But lately what I’ve began to fear more than that, is letting the moment
Pass with saying anything. I think you deserved to look back on your life without
This chorus of resounding voices saying, I could of but it’s too late now.
So there’s a time for silent, and there a time for waiting your turn.
But if you know how you feel, and you so clearly know what you need to say.
You’ll know it.
I don’t think you should wait.
I think you should speak now.”
Thursday, September 27, 2012
The Eye of a Needle
Dear Whoever You Might Be,
I read a poem. A Russian poem. A poem about camels. A poem entitled "Camel."
Written by Boris Chichibabin (first of all, what an incredibly awesome last night, right?) and translated by Albert C. Todd, this poem made me think, laugh and reminisce. Here it is for your enjoyment as well:
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, you really did just read that. And don't deny that you were a bit taken aback by the language and reverence used to describe a camel. I certaintly was. Who wouldn't be?
Now, the reason I read this poem in the first place was because I once had a fascination with camels. I wish I could eschew any further explanation and just move on, but I promised to share my thoughts. So, I will.
Three years ago, almost to the date, I travelled to Israel with my mother and a large group of ancients from my church. Alright, they were not ancient at all; I was just the youngest person in the group, my mother was the second youngest...and the age gap just grew from there. Our expedition was ten days altogether and it was one of the best trips of my life...I am only twenty, so making such a definitive statement really means something. Amongst the fanny packs and orthopedic shoes, I had the pleasure to experience such magnificence in one of the oldest and sacred places on earth.
The first day was not so life-changing because I got sick three times...I often suffer from acute motion sickness so between the planes, trains and automobiles, I was basically out for the count during the inauguration of the trip. My recovery was expediant though, and for the next nine days, I absorbed as much history, culture and desert dust as possible. To sum it all up, I was a stereotypical tourist: I took way too many pictures of exactly the same scenes as everyone else, drank coca-cola at every meal, and, here it is, paid too much money for a camel ride around a parking lot.
You may not be familiar with the anatomy of camels, and so I will do my best to convince you that camels are inordinately huge. And tall. And awkward. The quote about camels being able to pass through the eye of a needle took on a whole new coloring. When the nice man who owned the camel helped me straddle the saddle, the beast was basically laying on the ground with its knees tucked under its body. When it was confirmed that my grip on the harness was secure, the man tapped the camel and pulled the reins. Faster than I could have imaged, the camel sprung up like a jack-in-the-box. I realized that my grip was not as tight as I promised and latched on to the harness like nothing else in the world mattered.
I had no clue how tall camels were; none whatsoever. I felt as if a mountain erputed from the pavement and carried me to the sky. Once the camel took a few steps, I also learned that their entire upper body sways like the boughs of trees from a gust of wind or like a small boat floating along in tumultuous waters. I used the word "like" because there really isn't any other way to describe the sensation of riding a camel. We took two laps around the parking lot and by the second, I felt comfortable enough to pose dramatically for pictures. Yes, I did the princess diaries wave: elbow squared, palm out, and move only the wrist. It was great. After that ride, I had a newfound appreciation for camels.
When I came across the aforementioned poem, I thought "Oh camels, how endearing." Your brow might now have a quizzical expression, but the memories of my trip were consuming my mind's eye. But when my eyes scanned the stanza's I couln't help but guffaw. Sure, I too think camels are majestic and unappreciated animals, but my goodness, the speaker's admiration reaches a whole new level of admiration. When I think camel, I think "egypt," "pyramids," "desert," "humps," "water." Don't you?
Or, do you too wish to use the restroom with a camel? It is absolutely your own prerogative if you do...I will not judge, I promise.
Sincerely,
Me
I read a poem. A Russian poem. A poem about camels. A poem entitled "Camel."
Written by Boris Chichibabin (first of all, what an incredibly awesome last night, right?) and translated by Albert C. Todd, this poem made me think, laugh and reminisce. Here it is for your enjoyment as well:
Of all the animals, my heart belongs to the camel.
He takes a rest- and once again is on his way, overloaded.
In his humps is a somber vitality,
poured in by centuries of slavery.
He hauls his burden, but longs for the cloudy blue,
he howls with the fury of love.
His patience nurdes the desert.
I am wholly like him- from my songs to my hooves.
Don't think poorly of the camel.
His features are squeamish, but kind.
Look at him, more ancient than the lyre,
and he knows everything that people don't.
He strides on, stretching the neck of a whisper,
regal and amaciated he carries his burden-
the swan of the dunes, a sorrowful workaholic,
the most beautiful monster a camel.
His destiny is horrible and lofty,
and amidst the pink waves of the desert,
watching with tender contempt through his dusty baggage,
I would like to piss together with him in the sand.
Like him, I was not spoiled by my God.
I grind the same fodder wisely,
and all I am is a winking mug,
and not a hot hump, and the legs of a hobo.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, you really did just read that. And don't deny that you were a bit taken aback by the language and reverence used to describe a camel. I certaintly was. Who wouldn't be?
Now, the reason I read this poem in the first place was because I once had a fascination with camels. I wish I could eschew any further explanation and just move on, but I promised to share my thoughts. So, I will.
Three years ago, almost to the date, I travelled to Israel with my mother and a large group of ancients from my church. Alright, they were not ancient at all; I was just the youngest person in the group, my mother was the second youngest...and the age gap just grew from there. Our expedition was ten days altogether and it was one of the best trips of my life...I am only twenty, so making such a definitive statement really means something. Amongst the fanny packs and orthopedic shoes, I had the pleasure to experience such magnificence in one of the oldest and sacred places on earth.
The first day was not so life-changing because I got sick three times...I often suffer from acute motion sickness so between the planes, trains and automobiles, I was basically out for the count during the inauguration of the trip. My recovery was expediant though, and for the next nine days, I absorbed as much history, culture and desert dust as possible. To sum it all up, I was a stereotypical tourist: I took way too many pictures of exactly the same scenes as everyone else, drank coca-cola at every meal, and, here it is, paid too much money for a camel ride around a parking lot.
You may not be familiar with the anatomy of camels, and so I will do my best to convince you that camels are inordinately huge. And tall. And awkward. The quote about camels being able to pass through the eye of a needle took on a whole new coloring. When the nice man who owned the camel helped me straddle the saddle, the beast was basically laying on the ground with its knees tucked under its body. When it was confirmed that my grip on the harness was secure, the man tapped the camel and pulled the reins. Faster than I could have imaged, the camel sprung up like a jack-in-the-box. I realized that my grip was not as tight as I promised and latched on to the harness like nothing else in the world mattered.
I had no clue how tall camels were; none whatsoever. I felt as if a mountain erputed from the pavement and carried me to the sky. Once the camel took a few steps, I also learned that their entire upper body sways like the boughs of trees from a gust of wind or like a small boat floating along in tumultuous waters. I used the word "like" because there really isn't any other way to describe the sensation of riding a camel. We took two laps around the parking lot and by the second, I felt comfortable enough to pose dramatically for pictures. Yes, I did the princess diaries wave: elbow squared, palm out, and move only the wrist. It was great. After that ride, I had a newfound appreciation for camels.
When I came across the aforementioned poem, I thought "Oh camels, how endearing." Your brow might now have a quizzical expression, but the memories of my trip were consuming my mind's eye. But when my eyes scanned the stanza's I couln't help but guffaw. Sure, I too think camels are majestic and unappreciated animals, but my goodness, the speaker's admiration reaches a whole new level of admiration. When I think camel, I think "egypt," "pyramids," "desert," "humps," "water." Don't you?
Or, do you too wish to use the restroom with a camel? It is absolutely your own prerogative if you do...I will not judge, I promise.
Sincerely,
Me
Saturday, September 15, 2012
In My Not So Humble Opinion...
Dear Whoever You Might Be,
I have been thinking a lot the last few days about what I could possibly write about for my next (aka this) blog post. I've sat and pondered and I have tried with a valiant effort to come up with something, anything, that would be worth my time, and yours, to write about. Last night, it hit me.
Every once in a while, my school buys a bundle of movie tickets from our local theater and gives them out to students for free on a first-come first-serve basis. When the email arrived announcing this charitable gift to poor college students, I was over enthused. Why? Because I really wanted to see one of the three movies that they had tickets for- The Words.
I first saw a trailer for this movie over the summer and it immediatley piqued my interest. I mean, a movie about an author who finds a mysterious manuscipt and publishes it as his own....obviously for a young english major as myself, the plot fascinated me. I must admit, my skepticism was looming because this movie was barely advertised. A few TV commercials here and there and an occasional add for it on my Facebook sidebar, but that was it. So, as a poor college student, I decided to wait a while before making a decision as to whether it was worth my precious ten dollars.
Last friday, as I sat eating Breyers neopolitan ice cream and watching You've Got Mail I got a text from my mother informing me that her and dad were headed out to see the aforementioned cinema. Yes, I was watching You've Got Mail...judge me if you want, but after referencing it so much in my blog it was calling to me. My mom promised to let me know how to movie was and I was definitely anticipating her opinion. About an hour and a half later she texted me again saying it was excellent and worth seeing. Worth ten dollars?, I inquired. Yes, for sure.
My mind was set and all that awaited was the prime opportunity to go. It was destiny when that email arrived. The universe was offering the perfect gift. I know it seems lame to be so exhalted over free movie tickets, but if you've ever been in my shoes, you know what it feels like. One of my best friends and I got tickets for the movie which was playing at ten p.m. last night. All week we talked about our Friday night movie date. Neither of us really knew too much about the movie other than the vague plot and my mom's opinion, but nonetheless we were stoked.
Let me just tell you, every single thing about The Words is perfect. From the plot to the cinematography to the acting- it's absolutely wonderful. I don't want to spoil it for anyone who will now go see it. I will say, if you have ever written anything outside of a required paper for school, if you love reading, if you love deep movies, or if you just need something to do at night, go see this movie. Both my friend and I walked out of the theater in a trance. There were no words to describe it other than "whoa." As someone who is an aspiring writer and who's greatest passion is fiction literature, this movie left an impact on me that has stayed with me even now...the morning after. And I have a notion that at random moments my thoughts will be consumed with working through all the conflicts, mysterious, and sheer brilliance presented in the movie.
So please, go see the movie. Do not do it for me, do it for yourself. It is worth the ten dollars. I will even go as far as to say it is worth more than that. If you are in a book club, encourage everyone to go. If you are bored, go by yourself. It does not matter, as long as you get there.
But promise me something first. Promise me that you will not go to Rotten Tomatoes and read their reviews. Please do not. I have concluded that movie critics are often incompetent fools that like to rip apart masterpiece movies for their own enjoyment. I am slightly embarrassed by my fierce attitude here but believe me. I know I have no authority At All but I implore you to have a little trust.
Sincerely,
Me
P.S.
On a completely separate note, the other day in my American Lit class (the one I so vehemently described in my last post) my teacher asked if anyone has read Moby Dick. I threw up my hand with the pride of an accomplished reader and looked around. Not one other student in my class has read the book. Not a single student. As a slowly drew my hand back to my body, a smile erupted on my face because ya know what, it is moments just like that one that kept me pushing through the novel. I just wanted to share that with you in order to give closure to the "Moby Dick Saga" that existed in my postings.
I have been thinking a lot the last few days about what I could possibly write about for my next (aka this) blog post. I've sat and pondered and I have tried with a valiant effort to come up with something, anything, that would be worth my time, and yours, to write about. Last night, it hit me.
Every once in a while, my school buys a bundle of movie tickets from our local theater and gives them out to students for free on a first-come first-serve basis. When the email arrived announcing this charitable gift to poor college students, I was over enthused. Why? Because I really wanted to see one of the three movies that they had tickets for- The Words.
I first saw a trailer for this movie over the summer and it immediatley piqued my interest. I mean, a movie about an author who finds a mysterious manuscipt and publishes it as his own....obviously for a young english major as myself, the plot fascinated me. I must admit, my skepticism was looming because this movie was barely advertised. A few TV commercials here and there and an occasional add for it on my Facebook sidebar, but that was it. So, as a poor college student, I decided to wait a while before making a decision as to whether it was worth my precious ten dollars.
Last friday, as I sat eating Breyers neopolitan ice cream and watching You've Got Mail I got a text from my mother informing me that her and dad were headed out to see the aforementioned cinema. Yes, I was watching You've Got Mail...judge me if you want, but after referencing it so much in my blog it was calling to me. My mom promised to let me know how to movie was and I was definitely anticipating her opinion. About an hour and a half later she texted me again saying it was excellent and worth seeing. Worth ten dollars?, I inquired. Yes, for sure.
My mind was set and all that awaited was the prime opportunity to go. It was destiny when that email arrived. The universe was offering the perfect gift. I know it seems lame to be so exhalted over free movie tickets, but if you've ever been in my shoes, you know what it feels like. One of my best friends and I got tickets for the movie which was playing at ten p.m. last night. All week we talked about our Friday night movie date. Neither of us really knew too much about the movie other than the vague plot and my mom's opinion, but nonetheless we were stoked.
Let me just tell you, every single thing about The Words is perfect. From the plot to the cinematography to the acting- it's absolutely wonderful. I don't want to spoil it for anyone who will now go see it. I will say, if you have ever written anything outside of a required paper for school, if you love reading, if you love deep movies, or if you just need something to do at night, go see this movie. Both my friend and I walked out of the theater in a trance. There were no words to describe it other than "whoa." As someone who is an aspiring writer and who's greatest passion is fiction literature, this movie left an impact on me that has stayed with me even now...the morning after. And I have a notion that at random moments my thoughts will be consumed with working through all the conflicts, mysterious, and sheer brilliance presented in the movie.
So please, go see the movie. Do not do it for me, do it for yourself. It is worth the ten dollars. I will even go as far as to say it is worth more than that. If you are in a book club, encourage everyone to go. If you are bored, go by yourself. It does not matter, as long as you get there.
But promise me something first. Promise me that you will not go to Rotten Tomatoes and read their reviews. Please do not. I have concluded that movie critics are often incompetent fools that like to rip apart masterpiece movies for their own enjoyment. I am slightly embarrassed by my fierce attitude here but believe me. I know I have no authority At All but I implore you to have a little trust.
Sincerely,
Me
P.S.
On a completely separate note, the other day in my American Lit class (the one I so vehemently described in my last post) my teacher asked if anyone has read Moby Dick. I threw up my hand with the pride of an accomplished reader and looked around. Not one other student in my class has read the book. Not a single student. As a slowly drew my hand back to my body, a smile erupted on my face because ya know what, it is moments just like that one that kept me pushing through the novel. I just wanted to share that with you in order to give closure to the "Moby Dick Saga" that existed in my postings.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
A Personal Giving Tree
Dear Whoever You Might Be,
Guess. What.
The most exciting thing happened the other day in class. And by the most exciting I mean it made me smile and it made me happy, but that is about the extent of it.
One of my many english classes back here in the land of the south is 20th Century American Literature. Now, I am not a fan of American Lit and I think I have said this before, so I will try not to be too repetitive. I have often found American literature to be rather dry and humorless; lacking the romance and thrill of English or Russian novels. I admit, I went into this class shackled by my oppositional bias. I considered dropping even before my return to school for the sheer fact that I tend to loathe American Lit with a burning, fiery passion. Ask my mom. She knows how I feel about it. However, I suppressed my desire to stick up my nose, and walked into class with a semi-open mind.
Truth be told, I have never read any of the books on the list we were given. I know what you must be thinking; how can I have an informed opinion on American Lit if I have never read anything on the list? Well, reader, I HAVE read other works by the authors we are destined to explore this semester. Hemingway, Faulkner, Flannery O'Connor are all on this list and I have read multiple works by each. The interesting thing is, for this class, we are reading their less popular works of those very popular people.
As always, I have digressed. I decided to keep the class on my schedule despite my intuitive hesitations and let me tell you, I am delighted that I resolved to give the class a chance.
Let me set the stage for what happened. Two days ago, a monday. Blue skies, a few marshmallow clouds. It was one o'clock in the afternoon, right after a lunch of cantelope and cheese pizza. I was wearing indigo blue jeggins and a colorful striped tank-top. (I realize none of this has to do with what actually happened and I apologize because I am building this up to a skyscraper and it really is no more exciting than a free lolli-pop after a childhood check-up, but it is just so fun to exaggerate). I walked into class and sat down in my seat in the middle row, second seat from the back and waited for the lecture to begin.
My teacher passsed out a handout packet with a few stapled pages. I gave it no particular attention because I figured, "Great, another handout on something that I really don't give a hoot about"....I was also a little feisty that day. Not the self-righteous and courageous feist of Princess Merida in Brave nor the witty and covetted feist of Elizabeth Bennet in Pride and Prejudice. I hate to admit this, but it was almost on the verge of Regina George meets Lisbeth Salander. Although, I pat myself on the back because I hid it better than a needle in the haystack. So, I was despondent. There was nothing that could have cheered me up.
And then it happened. My teacher started reading from the handout: "On a January evening of the early seventies, Christine Nilsson was singing in Faust at the Academy of Music in New York." Upon hearing these worlds, my horrendous mood faltered. I thought "This cannot be!" and looked down at the handout for the first time since it was passed back to me. There are the top of the page in bold letters was the title The Age of Innocene by Edith Wharton. The quickly flipped through the few pages and saw that the first three held an excerpt from this twentieth-century Pulitzer Prize winning novel and its use of American Realism.
Needless to say, my mood was lifted, if only for a few moments in time. I was the only one in my class who has read this work and I sat there with a bemused and knowing smile on my face as I recalled my long nights this past summer reading the book which inspired the title for my blog. As I so eloquently (see what I did there?) expressed before, I love that novel. I do. It cannot be helped and I am truly convinced that anyone who reads it will share my sentiments. They must. There is no possible way to not love it. Yes, I was astonished and even perturbed by the ending. My heart ached for Newland and I so terribly wanted him to be with the Countess again. But alas, the ending is not always happy. The love does not always flourish. But that just adds to the greatness and relatability of it all; does it not?
My excitement at reading this excerpt in class eventually wore off but my previous mood was kept at bay and I was able to enjoy the rest of the class. I hope, reader, that you have read a book or seen a movie or a play or listened to a song that brings you such joy and warmth everytime it is brought to mind. If not, go out and explore the world so that on an Anne Frank kind of day, you have something filed away to smile over. Just rememering The Age of Innonce gave me something. It gave me a smile and a happier dispostition. It gave me the ability to get through class without bursting into tears, or an outrage. I know it sounds abhorrently dramatic, but that is just who I am.
Sincerely,
Me
Guess. What.
The most exciting thing happened the other day in class. And by the most exciting I mean it made me smile and it made me happy, but that is about the extent of it.
One of my many english classes back here in the land of the south is 20th Century American Literature. Now, I am not a fan of American Lit and I think I have said this before, so I will try not to be too repetitive. I have often found American literature to be rather dry and humorless; lacking the romance and thrill of English or Russian novels. I admit, I went into this class shackled by my oppositional bias. I considered dropping even before my return to school for the sheer fact that I tend to loathe American Lit with a burning, fiery passion. Ask my mom. She knows how I feel about it. However, I suppressed my desire to stick up my nose, and walked into class with a semi-open mind.
Truth be told, I have never read any of the books on the list we were given. I know what you must be thinking; how can I have an informed opinion on American Lit if I have never read anything on the list? Well, reader, I HAVE read other works by the authors we are destined to explore this semester. Hemingway, Faulkner, Flannery O'Connor are all on this list and I have read multiple works by each. The interesting thing is, for this class, we are reading their less popular works of those very popular people.
As always, I have digressed. I decided to keep the class on my schedule despite my intuitive hesitations and let me tell you, I am delighted that I resolved to give the class a chance.
Let me set the stage for what happened. Two days ago, a monday. Blue skies, a few marshmallow clouds. It was one o'clock in the afternoon, right after a lunch of cantelope and cheese pizza. I was wearing indigo blue jeggins and a colorful striped tank-top. (I realize none of this has to do with what actually happened and I apologize because I am building this up to a skyscraper and it really is no more exciting than a free lolli-pop after a childhood check-up, but it is just so fun to exaggerate). I walked into class and sat down in my seat in the middle row, second seat from the back and waited for the lecture to begin.
My teacher passsed out a handout packet with a few stapled pages. I gave it no particular attention because I figured, "Great, another handout on something that I really don't give a hoot about"....I was also a little feisty that day. Not the self-righteous and courageous feist of Princess Merida in Brave nor the witty and covetted feist of Elizabeth Bennet in Pride and Prejudice. I hate to admit this, but it was almost on the verge of Regina George meets Lisbeth Salander. Although, I pat myself on the back because I hid it better than a needle in the haystack. So, I was despondent. There was nothing that could have cheered me up.
And then it happened. My teacher started reading from the handout: "On a January evening of the early seventies, Christine Nilsson was singing in Faust at the Academy of Music in New York." Upon hearing these worlds, my horrendous mood faltered. I thought "This cannot be!" and looked down at the handout for the first time since it was passed back to me. There are the top of the page in bold letters was the title The Age of Innocene by Edith Wharton. The quickly flipped through the few pages and saw that the first three held an excerpt from this twentieth-century Pulitzer Prize winning novel and its use of American Realism.
Needless to say, my mood was lifted, if only for a few moments in time. I was the only one in my class who has read this work and I sat there with a bemused and knowing smile on my face as I recalled my long nights this past summer reading the book which inspired the title for my blog. As I so eloquently (see what I did there?) expressed before, I love that novel. I do. It cannot be helped and I am truly convinced that anyone who reads it will share my sentiments. They must. There is no possible way to not love it. Yes, I was astonished and even perturbed by the ending. My heart ached for Newland and I so terribly wanted him to be with the Countess again. But alas, the ending is not always happy. The love does not always flourish. But that just adds to the greatness and relatability of it all; does it not?
My excitement at reading this excerpt in class eventually wore off but my previous mood was kept at bay and I was able to enjoy the rest of the class. I hope, reader, that you have read a book or seen a movie or a play or listened to a song that brings you such joy and warmth everytime it is brought to mind. If not, go out and explore the world so that on an Anne Frank kind of day, you have something filed away to smile over. Just rememering The Age of Innonce gave me something. It gave me a smile and a happier dispostition. It gave me the ability to get through class without bursting into tears, or an outrage. I know it sounds abhorrently dramatic, but that is just who I am.
Sincerely,
Me
Friday, August 17, 2012
In a World of Octobers
Dear Whoever You Might Be,
The drama's done.
Those were the words that the epilogue to Moby Dick began with. Do you know what that means? I have finished the novel. It is finally over. Ahab died, the White Whale lived and Ishmael survived the wreckage to tell the tale. I must admit, though I bemoaned the majority of this classic a few posts back, the last one-hundred pages were well worth the year-long struggle. These last few chapters captured the adventure and suspense that I originally anticiapted when buying Melville's classic. Alas matey's, it is finished, and I am proud to say I read it. In the future, when I boast this difficult feat, I may hesitate in how many months it actually took me to read it, but you, my dear readers, have the privilege of knowing the truth.
Now, no more on Moby Dick. I have exhausted it beyond my own want and it is not like I am going to get a reward for my plug. So, on to more interesting things...I hope.
On Sunday morning (and by morning I mean before the sun even has a chance to yawn), I will be travelling south until next summer. Unfortunately, travelling south leaves little promise of crisp fall weather.
I love the fall. It makes me want to buy school supplies. I would send you a bouquet of newly sharpened pencils if I knew your name and address.
Since I sometimes tend to have no original thoughts, I am certain that you can guess where I just pulled that ^ quote from. I'll give you a minute to think on it.............
Time's up. Ready? You've Got Mail. If you guessed correctly, than I thank you for heeding my advice and watching. If not, then I can only shake my head and move on in hopes that you will do so. I know, my constant quoting from that movie is getting rather monotonous, but doesn't it just fit so perfectly?
As I was saying, I love the fall. I love the brilliant colors which illuminate the trees. The crunching sound of the fallen leaves under this seasons new brown boots. The matching scarves. The thick and comforting sweaters. Apple Cider. Pumpkin Pie. Bonfires. The whistling wind. But most of all, I love the crisp fresh air that awakens every muscle as soon as you step outside. You know the weather; the kind that waters your eyes after sitting in warmth all day; that lets you inhale a clean and deep breath after a week-long cold; that smothers any hint of remaining humidity and lays down a chilly path towards winter. I live for this kind of weather. In Maryland, it usually lasts for a solid handful of weeks.
In North Carolina, I am lucky for a few short weeks of this delightful air. Sometimes, it doesn't even last for a few. But I hope this year, it will. This weather makes me feel alive and invigorated. It confirms that I cannot possibly live anywhere that doesn't have a wonderful fall season. I refuse to plant myself somewhere for the rest of my life where the weather does not possess the acceptable amount of crispiness.
I realize that it is too early for me to be writing of such things. But it cannot be helped. Going back to school means dusting off the backpacks and the crayola markers and sharpening new pencils. And, going back to school, of course, means the taste of fall is soon to come.
So many famous authors and poets write the most beautiful words regarding the autumnal season:
"My sorrow, when she's here with me, "Every leaf speaks bliss to me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain Fluttering from the autumn tree."
Are beautiful as days can be; - Emily Bronte
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane."- Robert Frost
"I cannot endure to waste anything as precious as autumn sunshine by staying in the house. So I spend almost all the daylight hours in the open air." -Nathaniel Hawthorne
"Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns." - George Eliot
This last one by George Eliot, aka Mary Anne Evans, is my favorite. I think it would be most spectacular to travel the world so that I could always have fall in the palm of my hand.
My readers, it is my parting wish for you to remember to step outside during the crisp weather and breathe in the fresh air. If you do not live in a place where the fall season truly touches, than close your eyes and imagine. Because as Anne tells Matthew Cuthbert in Anne of Green Gables, "When you are imagining, you might as well imagine something worthwhile."
Sincerely,
Me
The drama's done.
Those were the words that the epilogue to Moby Dick began with. Do you know what that means? I have finished the novel. It is finally over. Ahab died, the White Whale lived and Ishmael survived the wreckage to tell the tale. I must admit, though I bemoaned the majority of this classic a few posts back, the last one-hundred pages were well worth the year-long struggle. These last few chapters captured the adventure and suspense that I originally anticiapted when buying Melville's classic. Alas matey's, it is finished, and I am proud to say I read it. In the future, when I boast this difficult feat, I may hesitate in how many months it actually took me to read it, but you, my dear readers, have the privilege of knowing the truth.
Now, no more on Moby Dick. I have exhausted it beyond my own want and it is not like I am going to get a reward for my plug. So, on to more interesting things...I hope.
On Sunday morning (and by morning I mean before the sun even has a chance to yawn), I will be travelling south until next summer. Unfortunately, travelling south leaves little promise of crisp fall weather.
I love the fall. It makes me want to buy school supplies. I would send you a bouquet of newly sharpened pencils if I knew your name and address.
Since I sometimes tend to have no original thoughts, I am certain that you can guess where I just pulled that ^ quote from. I'll give you a minute to think on it.............
Time's up. Ready? You've Got Mail. If you guessed correctly, than I thank you for heeding my advice and watching. If not, then I can only shake my head and move on in hopes that you will do so. I know, my constant quoting from that movie is getting rather monotonous, but doesn't it just fit so perfectly?
As I was saying, I love the fall. I love the brilliant colors which illuminate the trees. The crunching sound of the fallen leaves under this seasons new brown boots. The matching scarves. The thick and comforting sweaters. Apple Cider. Pumpkin Pie. Bonfires. The whistling wind. But most of all, I love the crisp fresh air that awakens every muscle as soon as you step outside. You know the weather; the kind that waters your eyes after sitting in warmth all day; that lets you inhale a clean and deep breath after a week-long cold; that smothers any hint of remaining humidity and lays down a chilly path towards winter. I live for this kind of weather. In Maryland, it usually lasts for a solid handful of weeks.
In North Carolina, I am lucky for a few short weeks of this delightful air. Sometimes, it doesn't even last for a few. But I hope this year, it will. This weather makes me feel alive and invigorated. It confirms that I cannot possibly live anywhere that doesn't have a wonderful fall season. I refuse to plant myself somewhere for the rest of my life where the weather does not possess the acceptable amount of crispiness.
I realize that it is too early for me to be writing of such things. But it cannot be helped. Going back to school means dusting off the backpacks and the crayola markers and sharpening new pencils. And, going back to school, of course, means the taste of fall is soon to come.
So many famous authors and poets write the most beautiful words regarding the autumnal season:
"My sorrow, when she's here with me, "Every leaf speaks bliss to me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain Fluttering from the autumn tree."
Are beautiful as days can be; - Emily Bronte
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane."- Robert Frost
"I cannot endure to waste anything as precious as autumn sunshine by staying in the house. So I spend almost all the daylight hours in the open air." -Nathaniel Hawthorne
"Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns." - George Eliot
This last one by George Eliot, aka Mary Anne Evans, is my favorite. I think it would be most spectacular to travel the world so that I could always have fall in the palm of my hand.
My readers, it is my parting wish for you to remember to step outside during the crisp weather and breathe in the fresh air. If you do not live in a place where the fall season truly touches, than close your eyes and imagine. Because as Anne tells Matthew Cuthbert in Anne of Green Gables, "When you are imagining, you might as well imagine something worthwhile."
Sincerely,
Me
Sunday, August 5, 2012
It's All a Part of Me, That is Who I am
Dear Whoever You Might Be,
Since birth, and many times when still in the womb, children are encouraged to "be themselves". That it is completely normal to "be different" and "not fit in." I too was comforted during the tumultuous middle-school years by my mom saying it is better to "be myself and not a cookie-cutter girl." Basically, why on earth would I want to be exactly the same as every other person around me? What fun is there in that? Makes sense, doesn't it?
In the world of entertainment, there are more movies, books, plays and television shows about the "underdog who rises to the top due to their individuality" than I can count. One that we all know by heart is the Christmas classic, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Rudolph was born with a different nose than all the other reindeer; his nose was red. His parents, especially his father, tried to cover up his unique feature with the encouragement from Santa. Santa! Rudolph, once his secret is revealed, is mocked and shunned from playing the reindeer games. He soon befriends the wanna-be dentist Hermey. Hermey too was different because he didn't want to be an average elf who made toys. No, he wanted to be a dentist so he ran away to escape his toy-maker fate. On their journey, they encounter the comical Yukon Cornelius and together, the three friends find themselves on the Island of Misfit Toys. On this snowy isolation resides the toys that were not wanted because they were too "different." Among the many toys are Charlie-in-the-Box, a cowboy who rides an ostrich, an airplane that cannot fly and a spotted elephant. These misfits are overcome with sadness and loneliness and just wish that they could be loved like all the other toys. In the end, Rudolph's red nose saves Christmas and he is suddenly praised and adored for his used-to-be deformity. Hermey, removes the teeth from the terrifying Abominable Snow Monster which tames the beast. The Misfit Toys are picked up by Santa and given out to boys and girls for Christmas. All is right in the world again and the "underdogs" saved the day.
I have always loved Rudolph and always will. I plan to make my children love it as much as I do. But here is what I do not understand. The movie is clearly in praise of the individuality of Rudolph, Hermey and the Misfit Toys, right? Well that is all fun and good, but it also seems to almost criticize the "regular" characters. After watching the movie, no one wants to be the normal reindeer or the toy-making elfs. And why not? What is so wrong with them?
One of the biggest mysteries in life is why it is O.K. to be different sometimes and O.K. to be just like everyone else at other times. For example, I do not like crabs. This shocks most people I know because I live in the land of Maryland Crabs. I enjoy cream of crab soup and crab dip, but not much beyond that. No big deal, right? Wrong. Where I come from, it is not good enough. I am questioned with quizzical looks and stunned voices; "You live in Maryland. HOW can you NOT like crabs????" I just don't, that is how. My dietary preferences are deemed blasphemous and no one can understand why my personal disliking of crabs is different from everyone else's. Alright, so Maryland is famous for its blue crabs. But would you like to know another interesting fact about the seventh state? Its official sport is Jousting. That's right, Jousting. The pony-riding, stick-carrying, armor-wearing medieval sport....yes, jousting has evolved since than, but bear with me.
Now, if I supported jousting in the same way that people praised Maryland Crabs, I would be most likely be considered a little loose in the head. My peers would look at me like Luna Lovegood in Harry Potter. People would probably question my general sanity and up-bringing. I would be wierd and an oddball for enjoying a sport that isn't football, basketball, baseball or lacrosse. If I had posters and held Summer's Eve Jousting parties, no one would think I was expressing my individuality. No one would come. And yet, it IS the official state sport. I don't see all my crab-eating critics trotting off to Medieval Times because it's "what Marylander's do." So why is it acceptable for no one to like jousting and yet it is not acceptable for me to not like crabs?
Wow, that was a tangent, wasn't it? But think about it for a minute? Why does everyone want to be different and yet in certain cases (like disliking crabs), being different is shunned? I just cannot fathom societal behavior sometimes.
The other day, my brother told me a joke. Why did the hipster burn his mouth? Because he ate pizza BEFORE it was cool! Hah! Recently, being a "hipster" is the cool thing. Being hipster means being different. Not listening to mainstream music, drinking coffee from the privately-owned shop and not starbucks, wearing thrift store sweaters and just being all around "cool." Sometimes I secretly wish I was that "cool" but if everyone is trying to be "different", is there anyone who actually IS different?
When we are children, we are told to be ourselves no matter what people thinkg. But what if ourself just wants to be a princess like every other five year old girl? No one frowns upon that. What if ourself wants to eat glue? Sorry kid, you will be laughed at for years to come and will probably grow up with self-esteem issues and work in a cubicle and wear a pocket-protector. That is what happens, and it shouldn't. I know it sounds harsh but unfortunately, there is too much truth in what I just said.
There is nothing strange about liking what everyone else likes. There is nothing wrong or harmful. People consider it "conforming" but what if a child really DOES enjoy listening to Justin Beiber? What if someone's individuality prefers McDonalds over WholeFoods? Growing up all my friends had American Girl Dolls. Guess who didn't. Instead, I had Magic Attic Dolls. The two are very similar, indeed, but they have different names, stories and clothes. I was always proud to have unique dolls that none of my friends had. And yet, more than not, I felt isolated from my friends because I couldn't talk about the new Samantha clothes I unwrapped for my birthday. My friends never understood why I refused to want an American Girl Doll. Occassionally, I never understood either. But I loved my different dolls. I loved having something that no one else in my class did. Was I any better? No. Were they any better? No. We just wanted different things and yet it was always such a conundrum.
Recently there have been advertisements on television for a new animated movie called Paranorman. The trailer portrays a kid who is different from the other kids in town because he sees ghosts. In the end it is up to him to save the town from destruction. Sounds familiar, doesn't it? The narrator for the trailer says, "You don't become a hero by being normal." That assumption just absolutely appalls me. Normal people, average people can be heros in their own way. Sure, not everyone can be an olympian, a war veteran, a Mother Theresa. But people who are the "same" as everyone have just as much potential and capability as those who are "different." You just cannot presume that because someone lives in a suburban home with 2.4 children, owns a golden retriever and drives a minivan means that they aren't as good as someone who lives in a studio apartment and rides a bicycle to their pottery shop everyday.
I am different in many ways. I am absolutely one hundred percent nomal and average in many ways. I am not saying that being different is bad or good nor am I saying that being the same is bad or good. My point is, no matter what someone likes or doesn't like, it IS their individual preference. It shouldn't matter what society says, what your peers say or even what the movies say. What matters is what YOU say. Everyone is weird and silly and goofy and normal and average and special and just about everything. It just depends on who's judging.
Now that I have taken up so much of your time with my lengthy rant, I bid you all Adieu.
Sincerely,
Me
Since birth, and many times when still in the womb, children are encouraged to "be themselves". That it is completely normal to "be different" and "not fit in." I too was comforted during the tumultuous middle-school years by my mom saying it is better to "be myself and not a cookie-cutter girl." Basically, why on earth would I want to be exactly the same as every other person around me? What fun is there in that? Makes sense, doesn't it?
In the world of entertainment, there are more movies, books, plays and television shows about the "underdog who rises to the top due to their individuality" than I can count. One that we all know by heart is the Christmas classic, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Rudolph was born with a different nose than all the other reindeer; his nose was red. His parents, especially his father, tried to cover up his unique feature with the encouragement from Santa. Santa! Rudolph, once his secret is revealed, is mocked and shunned from playing the reindeer games. He soon befriends the wanna-be dentist Hermey. Hermey too was different because he didn't want to be an average elf who made toys. No, he wanted to be a dentist so he ran away to escape his toy-maker fate. On their journey, they encounter the comical Yukon Cornelius and together, the three friends find themselves on the Island of Misfit Toys. On this snowy isolation resides the toys that were not wanted because they were too "different." Among the many toys are Charlie-in-the-Box, a cowboy who rides an ostrich, an airplane that cannot fly and a spotted elephant. These misfits are overcome with sadness and loneliness and just wish that they could be loved like all the other toys. In the end, Rudolph's red nose saves Christmas and he is suddenly praised and adored for his used-to-be deformity. Hermey, removes the teeth from the terrifying Abominable Snow Monster which tames the beast. The Misfit Toys are picked up by Santa and given out to boys and girls for Christmas. All is right in the world again and the "underdogs" saved the day.
I have always loved Rudolph and always will. I plan to make my children love it as much as I do. But here is what I do not understand. The movie is clearly in praise of the individuality of Rudolph, Hermey and the Misfit Toys, right? Well that is all fun and good, but it also seems to almost criticize the "regular" characters. After watching the movie, no one wants to be the normal reindeer or the toy-making elfs. And why not? What is so wrong with them?
One of the biggest mysteries in life is why it is O.K. to be different sometimes and O.K. to be just like everyone else at other times. For example, I do not like crabs. This shocks most people I know because I live in the land of Maryland Crabs. I enjoy cream of crab soup and crab dip, but not much beyond that. No big deal, right? Wrong. Where I come from, it is not good enough. I am questioned with quizzical looks and stunned voices; "You live in Maryland. HOW can you NOT like crabs????" I just don't, that is how. My dietary preferences are deemed blasphemous and no one can understand why my personal disliking of crabs is different from everyone else's. Alright, so Maryland is famous for its blue crabs. But would you like to know another interesting fact about the seventh state? Its official sport is Jousting. That's right, Jousting. The pony-riding, stick-carrying, armor-wearing medieval sport....yes, jousting has evolved since than, but bear with me.
Now, if I supported jousting in the same way that people praised Maryland Crabs, I would be most likely be considered a little loose in the head. My peers would look at me like Luna Lovegood in Harry Potter. People would probably question my general sanity and up-bringing. I would be wierd and an oddball for enjoying a sport that isn't football, basketball, baseball or lacrosse. If I had posters and held Summer's Eve Jousting parties, no one would think I was expressing my individuality. No one would come. And yet, it IS the official state sport. I don't see all my crab-eating critics trotting off to Medieval Times because it's "what Marylander's do." So why is it acceptable for no one to like jousting and yet it is not acceptable for me to not like crabs?
Wow, that was a tangent, wasn't it? But think about it for a minute? Why does everyone want to be different and yet in certain cases (like disliking crabs), being different is shunned? I just cannot fathom societal behavior sometimes.
The other day, my brother told me a joke. Why did the hipster burn his mouth? Because he ate pizza BEFORE it was cool! Hah! Recently, being a "hipster" is the cool thing. Being hipster means being different. Not listening to mainstream music, drinking coffee from the privately-owned shop and not starbucks, wearing thrift store sweaters and just being all around "cool." Sometimes I secretly wish I was that "cool" but if everyone is trying to be "different", is there anyone who actually IS different?
When we are children, we are told to be ourselves no matter what people thinkg. But what if ourself just wants to be a princess like every other five year old girl? No one frowns upon that. What if ourself wants to eat glue? Sorry kid, you will be laughed at for years to come and will probably grow up with self-esteem issues and work in a cubicle and wear a pocket-protector. That is what happens, and it shouldn't. I know it sounds harsh but unfortunately, there is too much truth in what I just said.
There is nothing strange about liking what everyone else likes. There is nothing wrong or harmful. People consider it "conforming" but what if a child really DOES enjoy listening to Justin Beiber? What if someone's individuality prefers McDonalds over WholeFoods? Growing up all my friends had American Girl Dolls. Guess who didn't. Instead, I had Magic Attic Dolls. The two are very similar, indeed, but they have different names, stories and clothes. I was always proud to have unique dolls that none of my friends had. And yet, more than not, I felt isolated from my friends because I couldn't talk about the new Samantha clothes I unwrapped for my birthday. My friends never understood why I refused to want an American Girl Doll. Occassionally, I never understood either. But I loved my different dolls. I loved having something that no one else in my class did. Was I any better? No. Were they any better? No. We just wanted different things and yet it was always such a conundrum.
Recently there have been advertisements on television for a new animated movie called Paranorman. The trailer portrays a kid who is different from the other kids in town because he sees ghosts. In the end it is up to him to save the town from destruction. Sounds familiar, doesn't it? The narrator for the trailer says, "You don't become a hero by being normal." That assumption just absolutely appalls me. Normal people, average people can be heros in their own way. Sure, not everyone can be an olympian, a war veteran, a Mother Theresa. But people who are the "same" as everyone have just as much potential and capability as those who are "different." You just cannot presume that because someone lives in a suburban home with 2.4 children, owns a golden retriever and drives a minivan means that they aren't as good as someone who lives in a studio apartment and rides a bicycle to their pottery shop everyday.
I am different in many ways. I am absolutely one hundred percent nomal and average in many ways. I am not saying that being different is bad or good nor am I saying that being the same is bad or good. My point is, no matter what someone likes or doesn't like, it IS their individual preference. It shouldn't matter what society says, what your peers say or even what the movies say. What matters is what YOU say. Everyone is weird and silly and goofy and normal and average and special and just about everything. It just depends on who's judging.
Now that I have taken up so much of your time with my lengthy rant, I bid you all Adieu.
Sincerely,
Me
Thursday, July 26, 2012
These Words are My Own, From my Heart Flow
Dear Whoever You Might Be,
It's been a while, hasn't it? I must admit that I am having a somewhat difficult time navigating the "Blogger" waters. Believe me, I have plenty of things to blog about; plenty of thoughts to type out in anticipation that they will be read, even if only by one person. But, in consideration of those who take precious time to read all that I have to say, I start to hesitate. How often should I blog? Once a day? Once a week? Once every two weeks? Once a month? Will my posts be threatened by monotony if I blog too often? Will my words evoke yawns, and worse, will I lose readers if I wait too long? Will I be forgotten in the swiftly passing time of life?
Reader, these questions haunt me. I feel like the heroine in Daphne Du Maurier's Rebecca. The blogging world is my Manderley Mansion. I became its new resident, full of ambition, youth, naivety, curiosity, and an assumed ignorance of the standards and expectations in place. The mansion is vast in size and occupancy; full of history, rooms, and secrets. Most significanty, it is haunted by the memory of the late Rebecca De Winter:
"Rebecca, always Rebecca. Wherever I walked in Manderley, wherever I sat, even in my thoughts and in my dreams, I met Rebecca. Perhaps I haunted her as she haunted me...I could fight the living but I could not fight the dead...Rebecca would never grow old. Rebecca would always be the same. And her I could not fight. She was too strong for me"
I sound crazy, don't I? I must insist that I, in fact, am not crazy. I am simply making a literary connection. I recognize the fact that it is very brazen of me to compare blogging to one of the prime gothic novels, but there it is. I started this blog with wide-eyes and high hopes. I still have those, but I am starting to feel like the pre-existing expectations and memory of other blogs are pressing down. I feel as though the occupants who blogged before me set up standards to which I am held. I am constantly reminded, when I see others posting, that I have yet to do so. I'll lay in bed for long periods of time thinking, "What shall I write about next? What will capture the hearts of my readers? Will I be compared to blogs I've never even heard of? Do I even stand up next to my young blogging peers? Will my blog be loved and admired?"
It shouldn't matter since my intention was not to be the next Julie Powell and become famous from creating a Julia Child cooking challenge blog. And though it shouldn't matter because these are my words and thoughts, I feel like it does matter. There is a song called Breath (2 a.m.) by Anna Nalick and it is one of my favorite songs. I have listened and sang to it since middle school, but now that I am older, it is much more relatable. Isn't it always like that, though? There are always the songs you enjoy, but as you go through life, the meanings are so much deeper and personal.
Anyways, towards the end of the song, the lyrics are:
2 AM and I'm still awake, writing a song
If I get it all down on paper, it's no longer inside of me,
Threatening the life it belongs to
And I feel like I'm naked in front of the crowd
Cause these words are my diary, screaming out loud
And I know that you'll use them, however you want to
Since I have started this blog, those lyrics seem to tap into how I approach writing. Everything I say on my blog, all my thoughts, feelings, references, mindless banter, can be taken any way you want. I have no control. All I can do it type and type and just hope that it brings a speck of enjoyment to you, my readers.
Now, I might be shunned by mature opinion for my next reference but it is the only thing I can think of at the moment. In 2006 The Disney Channel aired a movie called Read it and Weep. The movie captures the often-used "Coming of Age" theme when friendships and family relationships are tested as the result of the young protagonist's journal mistakenly getting published. This girl, Jaime, keeps her personal journal on her laptop; but it is far from the average "Dear Diary." Jaime creates an alternate world for herself, her friends, enemies, and crush in which she is the heroine of her own story. It's actually pretty creative. But, when her journal is accidentally published and rises to become a Best Seller, she is forced to confront reality and choose real friendships over fake fame.
Sounds absolutely snooze-worthy, doesn't it? Well my logic behind that mini synopsis was to point out the fact that this average girl became a best-seller from merely putting her thoughts and feelings down. That would be a dream come true. What if one day MY words inspired a best-selling novel? What if someone wanted to publish what I have to say? What if my little blog becomes the foundation for something grand and note-worthy? That is what I think of when I start a blog post. That is why it is sometimes hard for me, because I dream big. But hey, at least I dream.
Have no fear though, my loyal readers. I will continue to blog despite my hesitations and aspirations. I will continue what I began with no other expecation than to feel relieved of the words inside of me. And because I do have a pipe dream of becoming known for my witty and thought-provoking words, I encourage you to share them with your friends, family, strangers even. Who knows, maybe one day it will reach a big-shot who believes in me and next thing you know, I will be dedicating my first best-seller to all of you, my readers.
I would like to leave you with one last thing. In my first post I quoted You've Got Mail, and I would like to do so again. In an email to Joe Fox (although she only knows him at NY152), Kathleen Kelly writes:
"Sometimes I wonder about my life. I lead a small life- well, valuable, but small- and sometimes I wonder, do I do it because I like it, or because I haven't been brave? So much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book, when shouldn't it be the other way around? I don't really want an answer. I just want to send this cosmic question out into the void"
Nothing sums up how I feel at this moment more than those words. You've Got Mail really is a fantastic movie. It's got something for just about everything, like The Godfather.....now, that statement will only make sense if you have seen You've Got Mail. So go watch it, because I like to be understood.
Sincerely,
Me
P.S. I forgot to mention that in Rebecca the name of the heroine is never revealed. Not once. We never get to know the name of the young girl who marries into a twisted past and an uncertain future. How tragic is that? Let us ensure that my fate is not the same as hers.
It's been a while, hasn't it? I must admit that I am having a somewhat difficult time navigating the "Blogger" waters. Believe me, I have plenty of things to blog about; plenty of thoughts to type out in anticipation that they will be read, even if only by one person. But, in consideration of those who take precious time to read all that I have to say, I start to hesitate. How often should I blog? Once a day? Once a week? Once every two weeks? Once a month? Will my posts be threatened by monotony if I blog too often? Will my words evoke yawns, and worse, will I lose readers if I wait too long? Will I be forgotten in the swiftly passing time of life?
Reader, these questions haunt me. I feel like the heroine in Daphne Du Maurier's Rebecca. The blogging world is my Manderley Mansion. I became its new resident, full of ambition, youth, naivety, curiosity, and an assumed ignorance of the standards and expectations in place. The mansion is vast in size and occupancy; full of history, rooms, and secrets. Most significanty, it is haunted by the memory of the late Rebecca De Winter:
"Rebecca, always Rebecca. Wherever I walked in Manderley, wherever I sat, even in my thoughts and in my dreams, I met Rebecca. Perhaps I haunted her as she haunted me...I could fight the living but I could not fight the dead...Rebecca would never grow old. Rebecca would always be the same. And her I could not fight. She was too strong for me"
I sound crazy, don't I? I must insist that I, in fact, am not crazy. I am simply making a literary connection. I recognize the fact that it is very brazen of me to compare blogging to one of the prime gothic novels, but there it is. I started this blog with wide-eyes and high hopes. I still have those, but I am starting to feel like the pre-existing expectations and memory of other blogs are pressing down. I feel as though the occupants who blogged before me set up standards to which I am held. I am constantly reminded, when I see others posting, that I have yet to do so. I'll lay in bed for long periods of time thinking, "What shall I write about next? What will capture the hearts of my readers? Will I be compared to blogs I've never even heard of? Do I even stand up next to my young blogging peers? Will my blog be loved and admired?"
It shouldn't matter since my intention was not to be the next Julie Powell and become famous from creating a Julia Child cooking challenge blog. And though it shouldn't matter because these are my words and thoughts, I feel like it does matter. There is a song called Breath (2 a.m.) by Anna Nalick and it is one of my favorite songs. I have listened and sang to it since middle school, but now that I am older, it is much more relatable. Isn't it always like that, though? There are always the songs you enjoy, but as you go through life, the meanings are so much deeper and personal.
Anyways, towards the end of the song, the lyrics are:
2 AM and I'm still awake, writing a song
If I get it all down on paper, it's no longer inside of me,
Threatening the life it belongs to
And I feel like I'm naked in front of the crowd
Cause these words are my diary, screaming out loud
And I know that you'll use them, however you want to
Since I have started this blog, those lyrics seem to tap into how I approach writing. Everything I say on my blog, all my thoughts, feelings, references, mindless banter, can be taken any way you want. I have no control. All I can do it type and type and just hope that it brings a speck of enjoyment to you, my readers.
Now, I might be shunned by mature opinion for my next reference but it is the only thing I can think of at the moment. In 2006 The Disney Channel aired a movie called Read it and Weep. The movie captures the often-used "Coming of Age" theme when friendships and family relationships are tested as the result of the young protagonist's journal mistakenly getting published. This girl, Jaime, keeps her personal journal on her laptop; but it is far from the average "Dear Diary." Jaime creates an alternate world for herself, her friends, enemies, and crush in which she is the heroine of her own story. It's actually pretty creative. But, when her journal is accidentally published and rises to become a Best Seller, she is forced to confront reality and choose real friendships over fake fame.
Sounds absolutely snooze-worthy, doesn't it? Well my logic behind that mini synopsis was to point out the fact that this average girl became a best-seller from merely putting her thoughts and feelings down. That would be a dream come true. What if one day MY words inspired a best-selling novel? What if someone wanted to publish what I have to say? What if my little blog becomes the foundation for something grand and note-worthy? That is what I think of when I start a blog post. That is why it is sometimes hard for me, because I dream big. But hey, at least I dream.
Have no fear though, my loyal readers. I will continue to blog despite my hesitations and aspirations. I will continue what I began with no other expecation than to feel relieved of the words inside of me. And because I do have a pipe dream of becoming known for my witty and thought-provoking words, I encourage you to share them with your friends, family, strangers even. Who knows, maybe one day it will reach a big-shot who believes in me and next thing you know, I will be dedicating my first best-seller to all of you, my readers.
I would like to leave you with one last thing. In my first post I quoted You've Got Mail, and I would like to do so again. In an email to Joe Fox (although she only knows him at NY152), Kathleen Kelly writes:
"Sometimes I wonder about my life. I lead a small life- well, valuable, but small- and sometimes I wonder, do I do it because I like it, or because I haven't been brave? So much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book, when shouldn't it be the other way around? I don't really want an answer. I just want to send this cosmic question out into the void"
Nothing sums up how I feel at this moment more than those words. You've Got Mail really is a fantastic movie. It's got something for just about everything, like The Godfather.....now, that statement will only make sense if you have seen You've Got Mail. So go watch it, because I like to be understood.
Sincerely,
Me
P.S. I forgot to mention that in Rebecca the name of the heroine is never revealed. Not once. We never get to know the name of the young girl who marries into a twisted past and an uncertain future. How tragic is that? Let us ensure that my fate is not the same as hers.
Monday, July 9, 2012
Call Me Ishmael (2)
Dear Whoever You Might Be,
Did I keep you waiting too long? I apologize for any inconvenience these last few days has left you with if you were just dying to read what I wanted to say next. And I would "re-cap" for you, but this is a blog; just scroll down if you have already forgotten what I wrote.
As I said (which I am sure you just re-read for yourself), it is a wonder to me that Call Me, Maybe
has made such a momentous debut in the music world. And as I thought and thought and sang it and thought some more, I got to thinking about the more classic and, hopefully, the more famous "Call Me" in artistic circles (these circles, I think, include music, literature, art, etc....I just figured I would clarify to relieve any looming confusion).
In 1851 a native New Yorker published his sixth novel. That native would be Herman Melville and that novel, of course, would be Moby Dick. For anyone who has never even heard of this American novel I must say, please, please crawl out from whatever rock you have been hiding under the last one hundred and fifty-some years.
Regarding this "whale" of a novel (remember my really bad jokes I talked about in my first post?), I have a confession to make to you, my dear readers. I started reading Moby Dick one year ago on July 3rd. I took it with me to the Outer Banks for our week of family vacationing. I thought, what better "beach book" could there be? The ocean, whales, ships, waves, sailors, and some of the most beautiful writing about the sea that I have ever encountered. I mean seriously:
But I didn't finish. I still haven't finished. It is a year later and I have about one hundred and fifty-five pages left. I am appalled and ashamed to admit this, but it is unfortunately true. And my reason, you ask, for still not finishing? Well let me tell you, Moby Dick is the hardest book to get through. I do not say that lighty either, believe me. Imagine, War and Peace was easier for me than Ahab and his crew sailing on the Peqoud.
Because it always takes me an unprecedented amount of time to get to my point, I'll try and navigate my way there presently. This novel is more often than not considered The Greatest American Novel. Ever.
***SIDENOTE*** I accept whatever fate my next sentence is about to hand me because my fingers cannot help but move along the lettered keys that so accuratley phrase the feelings and thoughts that construct who I am
Reader, I hate this book. Please don't abandon me for feeling this way. As much as I wish I agree with basically every literary critic, I cannot.
Now, don't get me wrong. It has its moments; just look at the eloquent, thoughtful and even emotional passages I included above. But much to my intense dismay, those passages are rare gems in an otherwise encyclopedic, biological, historical and monotonous six hundred and fifty-five page "classic". There, I said it. About ninety-five percent of this renound novel reads like an encyclopedia on whales, and whale-ships, and whale-hunting, and blubber, and oil, and the spears they use while hunting. Forgive my grammatical errors. This topic just gets me extremely flustered from disappointment. As I have mentioned before, I am a very avid and well-rounded reader, so my opinion is not an uneducated one. I've never really been an aficionado for American Literature, but I do persist in giving the genre multiple chances to redeem itself.
You may be wondering why, then, do I continue to stuggle through it? Why don't I just give up and read Sparknotes? Why even care at all? Because, my inquisitive readers, I am stubborn. I am absolutely, unfailingly determined to finish this book. It will happen. It must. It took Herman Melville a year and a half to write it; hopefully it will not take me as long to finish reading it.
And once again, I digressed from my point. It is an absolute wonder to me that Call Me Maybe is this summer's Number One Single in America. And I bet in about ten years, it will be included in VH1's countdown of this decade's "One Hit Wonders." It will be remembered with nostalgia and appreciation by teenie-boppers when I am old and decrepit. And if I just made a false prediction, then even better.
Approximately one hundred and fifty years ago, "Call me Ishamel" changed literature forever. Those three simple words created a completely new viewpoint on how a novel should begin. You say those three words in consecutive order, and any half-minded person could tell you where it generates from. That simple sentence is now deemed one of the most innovative opennings of all time. Go figure that "Call me, maybe" has created as much buzz and media attention this summer. Carly Rae Jepsen, I congratulate you for using the words that automatically call to mind "The Great American Novel"....or at least that is where it brought my mind...maybe I am just wierd, though.
They do have a few things in common and I promise, I will expedite the explanations of their parallels. Both narrate the adventures of monomaniacs. If you don't know what that means, I am sure Dictionary.com would be delighted to host you for a moment. Both have settings of "hot night, wind was blowin'". Both reference being a little "crazy" and "trading in souls." It is a little bit of a stretch, I know, but these are my thoughts.
You don't know how sorry I am if you are besieged by disappointment regarding what I just wrote. I promised you the wait would be worth it, and I so ardently hope it was. I know this post has been a little mind-numbing and long but I thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for pushing through it. If I can fight my way through Moby Dick, than you can certaintly can fight your way through my rambling thoughts.
Sincerely,
Me
P.S. I hope I did not crush the desire in any of you to read the tale of Ahab and Ishmael and the hunted White Whale. If anything, you should read it for the same reason I am- the pride of knowing you can accomplish such a daunting task.
P.P.S There is ONE last thing I would like to say. The sentence which succeed's "Call me Ishmael" fills me with the utmost jealousy. The narrator (who by this point is obviously revealed to be Ishmael) says, "Some years ago-never mind how long preciself-having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would saild about a little and see the watery part of the world." Reader, you have no idea how much I long to just take off and see the world whenever I am bored or simply have nothing better to do with my time. How enchanting would that be?
Did I keep you waiting too long? I apologize for any inconvenience these last few days has left you with if you were just dying to read what I wanted to say next. And I would "re-cap" for you, but this is a blog; just scroll down if you have already forgotten what I wrote.
As I said (which I am sure you just re-read for yourself), it is a wonder to me that Call Me, Maybe
has made such a momentous debut in the music world. And as I thought and thought and sang it and thought some more, I got to thinking about the more classic and, hopefully, the more famous "Call Me" in artistic circles (these circles, I think, include music, literature, art, etc....I just figured I would clarify to relieve any looming confusion).
In 1851 a native New Yorker published his sixth novel. That native would be Herman Melville and that novel, of course, would be Moby Dick. For anyone who has never even heard of this American novel I must say, please, please crawl out from whatever rock you have been hiding under the last one hundred and fifty-some years.
Regarding this "whale" of a novel (remember my really bad jokes I talked about in my first post?), I have a confession to make to you, my dear readers. I started reading Moby Dick one year ago on July 3rd. I took it with me to the Outer Banks for our week of family vacationing. I thought, what better "beach book" could there be? The ocean, whales, ships, waves, sailors, and some of the most beautiful writing about the sea that I have ever encountered. I mean seriously:
- "Consider the subtleness of the sea; how its most dreaded creatures glide under water, unapparent for the most part, and treacherously hidden beneath the loveliest tints of azure"
- "Yes, as everyone knows, meditation and water are wedded forever"
- "And heaved and heaved, still unrestingly heaved the black sea, as if its vast tides were a conscience; and the great mundane soul were in anguish and remorse for the long sin and suffering it had bred"
- "At such times, under an abated sun; afloat all day upon the smooth, slow heaving swells; seated in his boat; light as a birch canoe; and so sociably mixing with the soft waves themselves, that like hearthstone cats they purr against the gunwale; these are the times of dreamy quietude. when beholding the tranquil beauty and brillancy of the ocean's skin, one forgets the tiger heart that pants beneath it; and would not willingly remember, that this velvet paw but conceals a remorseless fang"
But I didn't finish. I still haven't finished. It is a year later and I have about one hundred and fifty-five pages left. I am appalled and ashamed to admit this, but it is unfortunately true. And my reason, you ask, for still not finishing? Well let me tell you, Moby Dick is the hardest book to get through. I do not say that lighty either, believe me. Imagine, War and Peace was easier for me than Ahab and his crew sailing on the Peqoud.
Because it always takes me an unprecedented amount of time to get to my point, I'll try and navigate my way there presently. This novel is more often than not considered The Greatest American Novel. Ever.
***SIDENOTE*** I accept whatever fate my next sentence is about to hand me because my fingers cannot help but move along the lettered keys that so accuratley phrase the feelings and thoughts that construct who I am
Reader, I hate this book. Please don't abandon me for feeling this way. As much as I wish I agree with basically every literary critic, I cannot.
Now, don't get me wrong. It has its moments; just look at the eloquent, thoughtful and even emotional passages I included above. But much to my intense dismay, those passages are rare gems in an otherwise encyclopedic, biological, historical and monotonous six hundred and fifty-five page "classic". There, I said it. About ninety-five percent of this renound novel reads like an encyclopedia on whales, and whale-ships, and whale-hunting, and blubber, and oil, and the spears they use while hunting. Forgive my grammatical errors. This topic just gets me extremely flustered from disappointment. As I have mentioned before, I am a very avid and well-rounded reader, so my opinion is not an uneducated one. I've never really been an aficionado for American Literature, but I do persist in giving the genre multiple chances to redeem itself.
You may be wondering why, then, do I continue to stuggle through it? Why don't I just give up and read Sparknotes? Why even care at all? Because, my inquisitive readers, I am stubborn. I am absolutely, unfailingly determined to finish this book. It will happen. It must. It took Herman Melville a year and a half to write it; hopefully it will not take me as long to finish reading it.
And once again, I digressed from my point. It is an absolute wonder to me that Call Me Maybe is this summer's Number One Single in America. And I bet in about ten years, it will be included in VH1's countdown of this decade's "One Hit Wonders." It will be remembered with nostalgia and appreciation by teenie-boppers when I am old and decrepit. And if I just made a false prediction, then even better.
Approximately one hundred and fifty years ago, "Call me Ishamel" changed literature forever. Those three simple words created a completely new viewpoint on how a novel should begin. You say those three words in consecutive order, and any half-minded person could tell you where it generates from. That simple sentence is now deemed one of the most innovative opennings of all time. Go figure that "Call me, maybe" has created as much buzz and media attention this summer. Carly Rae Jepsen, I congratulate you for using the words that automatically call to mind "The Great American Novel"....or at least that is where it brought my mind...maybe I am just wierd, though.
They do have a few things in common and I promise, I will expedite the explanations of their parallels. Both narrate the adventures of monomaniacs. If you don't know what that means, I am sure Dictionary.com would be delighted to host you for a moment. Both have settings of "hot night, wind was blowin'". Both reference being a little "crazy" and "trading in souls." It is a little bit of a stretch, I know, but these are my thoughts.
You don't know how sorry I am if you are besieged by disappointment regarding what I just wrote. I promised you the wait would be worth it, and I so ardently hope it was. I know this post has been a little mind-numbing and long but I thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for pushing through it. If I can fight my way through Moby Dick, than you can certaintly can fight your way through my rambling thoughts.
Sincerely,
Me
P.S. I hope I did not crush the desire in any of you to read the tale of Ahab and Ishmael and the hunted White Whale. If anything, you should read it for the same reason I am- the pride of knowing you can accomplish such a daunting task.
P.P.S There is ONE last thing I would like to say. The sentence which succeed's "Call me Ishmael" fills me with the utmost jealousy. The narrator (who by this point is obviously revealed to be Ishmael) says, "Some years ago-never mind how long preciself-having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would saild about a little and see the watery part of the world." Reader, you have no idea how much I long to just take off and see the world whenever I am bored or simply have nothing better to do with my time. How enchanting would that be?
Friday, July 6, 2012
Here's my Number, So Call Me.....Ishmael
Dear Whoever You Might Be,
I just met you, and this is crazy, but here's my number, so call me, maybe?
Call me, maybe?
Call me, maybe?
Maybe?
No one can escape this song. It's impossible because it's everywhere. On practically every radio station known to man. In stores. At the pool. On facebook. Even from the person humming it in line behind you at the movies.
I admit, it is catchy. Once you hear it, even if only for a second, it is trapped in your head for the rest of the day, night, and sometimes even all the next day. Its lyrics revolve around the classic tale of boy meets girl, and girl becomes obsessive. And if you watch the music video, theres a twist in the ending that could rival any Nancy Drew, James Patterson, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, The Hunger Games or whatever your personal "twisted endings" preference may be. Now, if you can't pick up the fact that what I just said is soaking in sarcasm, then there may be a slight problem.
I would sit with a guilty conscience if I pretended to loathe this song with every fiber in my being. Because I don't. In fact, when it first came on Ryan Seacrest's "American Top 40", I loved it. For weeks I blasted it in the car with no fear of being caught singing along on the highway. I sang it at home. In the shower. With my friends. At work (because yes, we are one of the stores where you cannot escape from it). I was a fan, and I am not ashamed to admit it.
But alas, I got absolutely positively unequivocally sick of it. I went from blowing the speakers in my car out every single time it came on the radio no matter how many successive times it was played, to changing the station or even just turning the radio off as soon as I heard "I threw a wish-". I still don't hate the song, and if one of my friends is listening to it, I'll sing along. But I got to thinking about how on earth this song is possibly so popular, and it annoyed me into this post, just as feminist poet Marianne Moore was "annoyed into poetry" in The Grave.
Before you start thinking that this is going to be a "hater" blog post about Carly Rae Jepsen and her one-hit-wonder, you are wrong. If this makes you sad, then just go to Google and I am sure you will find a plethora of "Individuals Against Pop Culture Music" who's goal in life is to open the ears of today's youth and show them how low the music industry has steeped. But, that is not my purpose. It never will be. Actually, I am, in a way, about to jump ship and talk about a different kind of "Call Me". And if you understood the title of this particular blog post, then the "Jump Ship" should have made you laugh. I hope it did... At least, it made me laugh.
And now it is time for the biggest twist yet. I, because I can, am proclaiming this post To Be Continued (cue the shocking intake of breath). You may think that "this is crazy" but I have my reasons. Mostly, because if I continued on to explain my odd yet completely intellectual thought process, this blog post would be excrutiatingly long, and no one wants that. So, reader, I hope I have thoroughly piqued your interest in what I have to say. If I have, then stay tuned for Part 2. I can guarantee it will be worth it. I think it will be, and therefore, it must.
But reader, I warn you, if you are considering leaving my blog without the slightest inclination to return for Part 2, I am going to be forced to ask, "Where You Think You're Going, Baby?"
Sincerely,
Me
I just met you, and this is crazy, but here's my number, so call me, maybe?
Call me, maybe?
Call me, maybe?
Maybe?
No one can escape this song. It's impossible because it's everywhere. On practically every radio station known to man. In stores. At the pool. On facebook. Even from the person humming it in line behind you at the movies.
I admit, it is catchy. Once you hear it, even if only for a second, it is trapped in your head for the rest of the day, night, and sometimes even all the next day. Its lyrics revolve around the classic tale of boy meets girl, and girl becomes obsessive. And if you watch the music video, theres a twist in the ending that could rival any Nancy Drew, James Patterson, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, The Hunger Games or whatever your personal "twisted endings" preference may be. Now, if you can't pick up the fact that what I just said is soaking in sarcasm, then there may be a slight problem.
I would sit with a guilty conscience if I pretended to loathe this song with every fiber in my being. Because I don't. In fact, when it first came on Ryan Seacrest's "American Top 40", I loved it. For weeks I blasted it in the car with no fear of being caught singing along on the highway. I sang it at home. In the shower. With my friends. At work (because yes, we are one of the stores where you cannot escape from it). I was a fan, and I am not ashamed to admit it.
But alas, I got absolutely positively unequivocally sick of it. I went from blowing the speakers in my car out every single time it came on the radio no matter how many successive times it was played, to changing the station or even just turning the radio off as soon as I heard "I threw a wish-". I still don't hate the song, and if one of my friends is listening to it, I'll sing along. But I got to thinking about how on earth this song is possibly so popular, and it annoyed me into this post, just as feminist poet Marianne Moore was "annoyed into poetry" in The Grave.
Before you start thinking that this is going to be a "hater" blog post about Carly Rae Jepsen and her one-hit-wonder, you are wrong. If this makes you sad, then just go to Google and I am sure you will find a plethora of "Individuals Against Pop Culture Music" who's goal in life is to open the ears of today's youth and show them how low the music industry has steeped. But, that is not my purpose. It never will be. Actually, I am, in a way, about to jump ship and talk about a different kind of "Call Me". And if you understood the title of this particular blog post, then the "Jump Ship" should have made you laugh. I hope it did... At least, it made me laugh.
And now it is time for the biggest twist yet. I, because I can, am proclaiming this post To Be Continued (cue the shocking intake of breath). You may think that "this is crazy" but I have my reasons. Mostly, because if I continued on to explain my odd yet completely intellectual thought process, this blog post would be excrutiatingly long, and no one wants that. So, reader, I hope I have thoroughly piqued your interest in what I have to say. If I have, then stay tuned for Part 2. I can guarantee it will be worth it. I think it will be, and therefore, it must.
But reader, I warn you, if you are considering leaving my blog without the slightest inclination to return for Part 2, I am going to be forced to ask, "Where You Think You're Going, Baby?"
Sincerely,
Me
Monday, July 2, 2012
To Whom it May Concern
Dear Whoever You Might Be,
Yes. The name of my blog does, in fact, possess an oxymoronic element. Eloquence versus Inarticulate. The former describes fluent and appropriate speech; the latter, is the unfortunate lacking of expression in ones words. I believe I exemplify both.
But, I must admit, the creativity of such a title was not my own. It is a phrase pulled from Edith Wharton's novel The Age of Innocence. For any of you (if there are any of YOU out there reading this) who hasn't read this classic tale of desire, betrayal, duty and passion, you must. Here's a little quote to surge any curiosity that may be formulating:
"He bent and laid his lips on her hands, which were cold and lifeless. She drew themaway, and he turned to the door, found his coat and hat under the faint gaslight of the hall, and plunged out into the winter night bursting with the belated eloquence of the inarticulate"
When I read that line, I fell in love. Not the Nicholas Sparks kind of love. Definitely not a Bella Swan and Edward Cullen kind of love either. That small phrase became my Helen of Troy. My Romeo and Juliet. My White Rabbit guide to Wonderland. It struck me as one of the greatest truths known....to me at least.
Reader, I suffer from what is tragically referred to as the inability to say what is on one's mind at the exact moment that one wishes to say it, and worse, the inability to say it well. Too often I find myself feeling like Kathleen Kelly in You've Got Mail...I too get completely tongue-tied when I'm provoked and my mind goes blank. Then, then I spend all night tossing and turning trying to figure out what I should have said...
There is no explaination for my inability to verbally express myself the way I intend to. I am an English major. I've read all the great classics from Don Quixote to Anna Karenina, even the Bible! In my mind I think the most elaborate and witty thoughts. I have an imagination that would put Dr. Seuss to shame. And yet, somehow, there is a fault line in the connection between my thoughts and my words. My friends at school have narrowed the diagnosis down to the fact that my brain just works too fast for my mouth....if this is true, then the only remedy is to write down my thoughts and musings on, well, just about everything.
Inspired by The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows, I began writing letters to people; friends in different states, the occassional family member, and yes, to a boy across the country. I found this method much more affective in saying everything exactly the way I thought it. My words flowed perfectly and I finally felt like I was being heard.
Yes. This all sounds cornier than the Mid-West. But it's true. Now don't get me wrong. I do not sit alone, friendless, surrounded by the comfort of my books. I'm Vice President of my sorority. I've been in two of our school plays. I have more clothes and shoes than closet space. I date WAY too many boys. I laugh, I cry, and I make stupid jokes (take the "corny" joke for example). I love hard and get broken down even harder. I spend too much time on facebook and can recite the Twilight movies (don't be fooled by the presumed mockery from my mention of the vampire romance above...it's a guilty pleasure of mine. Don't judge. We all have them). I watch Pretty Little Liars and work at a clothing store in the mall. I am a junior in college who is graduating early. I LOVE travelling. I'm basically your average twenty year old girl...Your average girl who can never get her thoughts across the first, second, or millionth time.
So finally, to conclude, my point in starting this blog is to say all the thoughts that I wish I could have said in the moment. The words that I have to hold back with the risk of offending someone. The words that a lof of people cannot express in an eloquent manner. Reader, I am continuing my newfound passion for writing letters; I am writing them to you.
For now, all I have to leave you with is John Mayer, and I too implore you to"say what you need to say".
Sincerely,
Me
Yes. The name of my blog does, in fact, possess an oxymoronic element. Eloquence versus Inarticulate. The former describes fluent and appropriate speech; the latter, is the unfortunate lacking of expression in ones words. I believe I exemplify both.
But, I must admit, the creativity of such a title was not my own. It is a phrase pulled from Edith Wharton's novel The Age of Innocence. For any of you (if there are any of YOU out there reading this) who hasn't read this classic tale of desire, betrayal, duty and passion, you must. Here's a little quote to surge any curiosity that may be formulating:
"He bent and laid his lips on her hands, which were cold and lifeless. She drew themaway, and he turned to the door, found his coat and hat under the faint gaslight of the hall, and plunged out into the winter night bursting with the belated eloquence of the inarticulate"
When I read that line, I fell in love. Not the Nicholas Sparks kind of love. Definitely not a Bella Swan and Edward Cullen kind of love either. That small phrase became my Helen of Troy. My Romeo and Juliet. My White Rabbit guide to Wonderland. It struck me as one of the greatest truths known....to me at least.
Reader, I suffer from what is tragically referred to as the inability to say what is on one's mind at the exact moment that one wishes to say it, and worse, the inability to say it well. Too often I find myself feeling like Kathleen Kelly in You've Got Mail...I too get completely tongue-tied when I'm provoked and my mind goes blank. Then, then I spend all night tossing and turning trying to figure out what I should have said...
There is no explaination for my inability to verbally express myself the way I intend to. I am an English major. I've read all the great classics from Don Quixote to Anna Karenina, even the Bible! In my mind I think the most elaborate and witty thoughts. I have an imagination that would put Dr. Seuss to shame. And yet, somehow, there is a fault line in the connection between my thoughts and my words. My friends at school have narrowed the diagnosis down to the fact that my brain just works too fast for my mouth....if this is true, then the only remedy is to write down my thoughts and musings on, well, just about everything.
Inspired by The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows, I began writing letters to people; friends in different states, the occassional family member, and yes, to a boy across the country. I found this method much more affective in saying everything exactly the way I thought it. My words flowed perfectly and I finally felt like I was being heard.
Yes. This all sounds cornier than the Mid-West. But it's true. Now don't get me wrong. I do not sit alone, friendless, surrounded by the comfort of my books. I'm Vice President of my sorority. I've been in two of our school plays. I have more clothes and shoes than closet space. I date WAY too many boys. I laugh, I cry, and I make stupid jokes (take the "corny" joke for example). I love hard and get broken down even harder. I spend too much time on facebook and can recite the Twilight movies (don't be fooled by the presumed mockery from my mention of the vampire romance above...it's a guilty pleasure of mine. Don't judge. We all have them). I watch Pretty Little Liars and work at a clothing store in the mall. I am a junior in college who is graduating early. I LOVE travelling. I'm basically your average twenty year old girl...Your average girl who can never get her thoughts across the first, second, or millionth time.
So finally, to conclude, my point in starting this blog is to say all the thoughts that I wish I could have said in the moment. The words that I have to hold back with the risk of offending someone. The words that a lof of people cannot express in an eloquent manner. Reader, I am continuing my newfound passion for writing letters; I am writing them to you.
For now, all I have to leave you with is John Mayer, and I too implore you to"say what you need to say".
Sincerely,
Me
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