cham was here

An Anthem for Occupy Wall Street? Bell X1 Talks Economics and Sugar High

2011-11-17T15:17:00.003-06:00

Paul and Dave from Bell X1 discuss the economic trials of Ireland in this radio interview with WNYC.

The irresponsibility of wealth management in Ireland was the forerunner to the crisis in the United States. Bell X1's "Sugar High" scathingly questions those at fault and is the perfect narrative for the dissatisfaction of the protesters of Occupy Wall Street. Could this become the official anthem?

For full post, click here.

Busy - with the Bellies

2011-10-09T11:32:00.005-05:00

A certain brother of mine said I'd been neglecting the blog.

Well. Yeah.

I've been busy.

Busy, listening to this stuff.

Enjoy.

And if anybody out there loves me, they'll get me to Austin on Nov 9.

The World Forgotten

2011-09-22T15:20:00.006-05:00

(On the vista from the highest point of the Anne Stokes Loop trail in Madame Sheri Forest of Chesterfield, NH; my most recent visit being May 2011)

I think that what I like most is that she stretches beyond everything and is inclusive of nearly nothing.

Nothing of man.

Nothing but his absence.

Nothing of my vain attempt to construct further beyond that which she already provides. Nothing of additive evidence to suggest the presence of mankind.

Just rolling waves of lush green leaves. –– Millions upon millions of leaves all fluttering in the chorus of breezes that flow from the sky and grace the lolling Earth with their breath.

The human race could cease to exist while I sit on these sun-soaked stones – and I would never know that I was all that remained.

That is how I should like to spend a part of each of my days. In unknowing outlast.

To leave the cities and the buildings with their ghastly metal frames and locks – to escape the noxious fumes and voices.

To disappear into the world forgotten.

She is still there. I will be her pilgrim, her visitor to break the solitude.

I would nearly dare to say she must be lonely.

The Wampanoag and the Algonquian and the Mahican no longer race over her mountain sides. Their silent feet and empty ears no longer roam her hills and streams.

I am sorry.

Sorry for that which I had no part in.

Yet, sorry, still the same.

Sorry that she has no one to cup her fragrant earth in one hand, to gather her flowering herbs, and to be so gentle as to apologize for taking the lives of her pets.

I am sorry.

I can offer my company only.

I will sit quietly with her and listen to her sorrow and her joy. I will trace out my life for her in moss and mud, express my empathy, and tell her my news. I will tell her how her estranged sister fares in the south. How even her sister’s children, the birds and deer, would not recognize her – it has been so long and the distance is so great.

And when she asks about the people – do they remember her? Will they come to visit as well? When she asks, I will hang my head and sadly tell her that I cannot answer for them. I can extend her question, her request, but I cannot promise they will listen. I cannot promise they will remember her name. I cannot promise that they will ask how she fares. I cannot promise that they will care.

(Camel's Hump October 2008)

Hang on, I have to post this

2011-09-13T13:16:00.009-05:00

How do you know you’re looking at a good photo?

I’ll tell you how.

Look at the top edge. Follow it with your finger until you come to the center of it. If your fingers discover an unevenness, a small perforation, a pinhole – it’s a good photo.

It’s good because somebody deemed it worthy of display in the quickest and simplest of forms.

Somebody used a thumbtack to post that photo onto their wall, onto their door, onto their bulletin board.

They wanted to see that photo in passing every day. They wanted to admire the picture from an accessible vantage point. They couldn’t wait to have it posted. They couldn’t waste time looking for just-the-right picture frame. It had to go up the instant they realized what they were looking at. That’s a good photo.

The kitchen door of my mother’s house – the main door of commerce – is the display hub of greeting cards, crafts, and photographs. When I was younger, she would tack up the occasional stunner that my brothers and I brought home from art class. School photos and unique candids went up the moment they were pulled out of the just-developed envelope. Every Christmas, it was plastered in cards from faraway friends and relatives. This was and is the door that one must pass through every day, the portal to the outside world. And every time you walk through it, you take hold of the lion-head knob and swing all of those moments about before you can pass out. Every time you open that door, you set all of those accomplishments and masterpieces, people and thoughts, moments and memories into motion. And then they follow you as you take your first step out onto the cold stone platform that leads you into the wild wood of the world.

Those crafts, cards, and photos – they all have thumbtack wounds. They were all valued and immediately recognized as important pieces of life and were, thus, immediately stabbed through with the most convenient of fasteners: the thumbtack.

Thumbtacks pierced through all of those accomplishments and masterpieces, people and thoughts, moments and memories – and that’s how you know those are the important ones.

&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/p&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;p class="MsoNormal"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;div&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;Today's topic was "Thumbtacks."&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/div&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;div&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/p&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;p&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/p&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;p class="MsoNormal"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;o:p&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/o:p&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/p&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;
Today's topic was "Thumbtacks."
To read what others did with their thumbtacks, use the table below.

!!! - As an extra special motivation for this week's letsblogoff, for every "Thumbtack" post that goes up today, $10.00 will be donated to Jane Devin's Kickstarter fund in support of her book "Elephant Girl." Every review I've read has been filled with endless praise. I've only just gotten my copy in the mail and can't wait to crack it open. If you'd like to help Jane's book reach the attention of others, but don't have the time to write about thumbtacks, please visit her Kickstarter page and make your own donation. It will be so worth it.

Wingapo: Dreams & Disillusions

2011-08-02T01:27:00.002-05:00

Today's #LetsBlogOff prompt:

What one thing did you really want when you were a kid?
...How do you think your childhood longing affects you as an adult?

When I was little, I really really really reeaalllyy wanted to have black hair. Like Pocahontas. (Click that. It's funny. And it explains the title of this post.) A tan would've been nice too. Also, I thought her arm band tattoo was the coolest thing ever.

Now, I realize that wanting these physical attributes might be seen as vain, and maybe that's a little bit true. I wanted to just not be another blonde white girl. It was so boring and common. There's enough of us out there already, and I really never understood why society thinks that everyone who isn't a blonde white girl should want to be one. It's not special if everybody's the same.

Which now reminds me of a later time in my life. (Fast-forward 13 years from my first infatuation with Pocahontas, which premiered in 1995.) I was oot and aboot windowshopping on my way to meet some friends for lunch when what should come around the corner? An entourage of identically-coiffed, identically-dressed, so-conformist-it-makes-baby-kittens-cry SHEeples. Yes. They were all platinum blonde - dyed and straightened flatter than my bad jokes - and wearing American Eagle jeans with Uggs. There were at least five of them. Five. How is it that in a group of five college-aged girls, not a single one of them had a stroke of originality to show for herself? Now, I know, we shouldn't judge by appearances. But give me a break. I bet underneath their black wool pea coats they were all wearing the same Abercrombie & Fitch fitted polo - perhaps with a little variation in color, to be fair.

I think I may have actually rolled my eyes. I just don't get it. Perhaps one of them was a natural platinum blonde - the rest had put their hair through Chernobyl-in-a-bottle - and I guarantee, not one of them naturally has hair that straight. No sir. That there 'do required at least 2 hours of pure torture to subjugate those poor strands into submission. If I were mean, I would've stopped right in front of them, looked up at the sky, held out my hand, and said, "Crikey. Left the 'brolly in the car!" Just to see the looks on their faces. See how much they would freak out about their precious hair that they obviously care so much about.

("Do I detect a note of bitterness?" you ask. No. I most certainly am not resentful of the fact that my hair absolutely refuses to listen to me and straightening it for 3-hot-uncomfortable-cramping-hours yields absolutely no long-lasting results so that I haven't even bothered to buy a new flat-iron for the last four years. No. Not bitter at all.)

I will admit, here, that I have dyed my hair in the past and probably will in the future. One time it was chestnuttish and another it was auburn. I haven't gone Pocahontas black because I'm afraid of the permanent damage it will do to my naturally lighter-toned follicles. Also, I'm afraid something of that chemical-strength will make me go bald altogether. My problem is not so much with girls dying their hair blonde, it's when they conform to the bird-brained notions of beauty so completely that their individuality and identity are no longer detectable. As in, a metal detector refitted to beep like crazy upon hovering over a snippet of originality remains completely silent when it is wafted over their graves.

Appearances aren't everything, but they sure count for a lot when you are projecting yourself out into the world as an individual. The world doesn't know you, and if you'd like to keep it that way, then by all means, buy yourself some L'Oréal Paris Féria #100 and knock yourself out. (Seriously. Don't let that stuff get near your breathing holes.) The world has seen thousands of you, and no one's going to stop you on the street and ask about your opinion on the global economy. I certainly won't. Because I'll be too busy working up the nerve to go get that tribal tat. Not really. (Because that's another thing I take issue with - tribal tattoos. Especially on white guys. I want to walk up to them and say, "Oh, how unique and original that inkwork you've got there. What tribe are you from?")

To see what others longed for in their childhood - and perhaps still are (as I still long to be Native American and able to talk to animals...in my heart, I mean...not like, legitimately...because that would be...~~so cool~~ shutting up now) - see the table below.

And please don't make the baby kittens cry.

Are We Human or Are We Dancer?

2011-07-19T08:00:00.002-05:00

&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;p&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;Your browser does not support iframes.&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/p&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;

Yes, I only used that title because of the song. This post has nothing to do with dancers. Mostly because I can’t come up with enough dancing jargon to make it jazzy.

So now you’re only left with one half of the title that remains relevant.

Which now leads me to today’s #letsblogoff prompt: What do you take for granted?

I ran through a quick list in my head – Colgate, Kodak, Toshiba, Ben & Jerry’s, Honda, Penguin Group, Maruchan…not necessarily in that order. Yes, I do take those names for granted quite often. But then I thought, where do those names even come from? Yes, yes, I know…some are people’s actual names and some come from Japan and I have no idea who came up with them or what they really mean. But that’s exactly my point – those names are human inventions. And that brings me to what I realized I take for granted the most often:

being human.

To be human means to be alive, to be a highly functioning organism in this complex environment we call the universe, to be filled with potential, and, yet, to still be finite. Someday, I will die.

That’s part of what it means to be human.

And you know what?

I’m okay with that.

Because, for now, I’m still here. Air is still pumping through my lungs. Blood is still coursing through my veins. Neurons are still firing in my brain (just how many is irrelevant). That chicken pot pie is still digesting in my stomach. You get the picture. I am alive. That’s pretty cool. Actually, that’s more than cool. That’s pretty fantastic. That’s pretty epic, even.

Right now, my body is carrying through functions and processes that I don’t even know about. I don’t even know about! Right now, there are parts of my brain that could be lighting up like your neighbor’s leftover Christmas decorations that are STILL blinking over the garage every night. And I don’t even know it. My heart is battling all of the cholesterol I just ingested from that microwaveable pot pie. And I can’t even feel it. My alveoli are filtering out whatever the AC is sending into my trachea as we speak. And I didn’t even realize I’d swallowed anything.

Pretty fantastic.

Pretty epic.

Better not take that for granted.

Because one day, taking it for granted won’t be an option. Because one day, I will die.

But that’s okay.

Because right now, this very moment, I’m not taking the few seconds I have to operate as a human for granted.

~:~:~

To read what others have been taking for granted, you may click through the table below.

And don’t forget, your breath is not infinite.

In Defense of the Humanities: an English Major's Stance

2011-07-11T18:31:00.010-05:00

This is a friendly response of accordance to the post, "For the Last Time, College is NOT a Waste of Time" by Julianne from Carnegie Mellon University. Her post argues against an article in which William H. Gross states that our universities and colleges need to move toward more technical and job-tailored training programs, meanwhile pushing humanities out of the picture. It is articles like this that have - to put it bluntly - quite literally pissed off a lot of people in the humanities departments of universities and colleges across the country. I applaud Julianne's article in defense of her college experience and will now add my own two ranting cents.

-::-

One of the best parts about being an English major is the fact that I get to study a little bit of everything. It's not just literature. It's an overall study of history, politics, sociology, economics, science, art, religion, education, architecture, psychology, anthropology - you name it, there's a way to work it into an English major's interests and studies. The English major is the Renaissance (Wo-)Man of the 21st century. You can't tell me that that isn't valuable.

In the past year alone, I've written papers that cover various topics including: the origins of the American kindergarten, feminist agendas of the 14th and 19th centuries, Machiavellian power principles, the effects of consumerism on social and interpersonal exchanges, environmentalism in the films of Hayao Miyazaki, and others. All of these are examinations of literature and other materials from my English classes. That's right. English classes. Not even for sociology or environmental studies or political science courses. All English. Now, can you honestly say that my Women Writers of the Renaissance course this summer was a waste of time? Would you dare to tell me that the Major Works of Shakespeare is useless drivel? That Early 20th Century American Literature has nothing useful to offer?

I am sorry, sir, if I do not meet your expectations. You insist on specializing people into drones that can put car parts together alongside of a conveyor belt. Yes, we need people who can do those things, but I am not and will not be one of them.

Henry David Thoreau wrote in his essay "Walking,"

"I am reminded that the mechanics and shopkeepers stay in their shops not only all the forenoon, but all the afternoon too, sitting with crossed legs, so many of them - as if the legs were made to sit upon, and not to stand or walk upon - I think that they deserve some credit for not having all committed suicide long ago."

I plead with you, do not insist on taking my legs out from under me.

I insist on grooming myself for a broad, human-based understanding of the world. You eliminate the human aspect of our world, cultures, and societies by eliminating the humanities. If we reorganize our college experience to be nothing but the studying of static data and rote exercises, we risk turning what should be promising, positive students into nerveless, unfeeling zombies. I leave you with this passage to consider.

-::-

"The official report was a collection of cold, hard data, an objective 'after-action report' that would allow future generations to study the events of that apocalyptic decade without being influenced by 'the human factor.' But isn't the human factor what connects us so deeply to our past? Will future generations care as much for chronologies and casualty statistics as they would for the personal accounts of individuals not so different from themselves? By excluding the human factor, aren't we risking the kind of personal detachment from a history that may, heaven forbid, lead us one day to repeat it? And in the end, isn't the human factor the only true difference between us and the enemy we now refer to as 'the living dead'?"

-Max Brooks, "World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War"

-::-

Tradition Meh-dition: Christmas in July

2011-07-05T08:30:00.003-05:00

Whenever I'm asked what kind of traditions my family has, I give it an honest whack, but honestly can't come up with anything other than stockings first thing in the morning, followed by a torturous reading of Luke 2 (can't get through it fast enough when you're six years old and eying that conspicuously large box covered in red/green wrapping paper), then presents, followed by pancakes with strawberry sauce and home-made whipped cream. And there you have it: Christmas morning. The rest of the day is spent pootin' about, not knowing what else to do. Funny we never came up with anything to fill that time - say, like, a tradition. Often, we ended up dispersing in our separate ways to various friends/neighbors, attempting to feed off of their holiday jubilations.

Now I know what you're going to say, all those things you just mentioned are traditions. Yeah...but a tradition only survives as long as you keep it. I've just passed my 4-year anniversary - and I can say with some certainty that we did the pancake thing at my mom's house only once. Otherwise we've spent Christmas bouncing around from house to house to house - never actually setting foot in our own living room on the holiday. Or, like last Christmas, I was stranded in Texas. I spent the day playing Ludovico Einaudi at full blast and trying to paint something magnificent. While magnificence wasn't accomplished, I decided that the experience, though solitary, was a suitable substitution for the usual family-oriented traditions. That may sound a little cynical - but I really am quite content to sit around by myself if it means I can engage in the things I love to do - writing, painting, listening to music, watching the occasional movie when inspiration starts to wane (Pride & Prejudice, A Good Year, to name a few). I realize that others treasure their customs and rituals, but it seems like my life doesn't really have the space or patience for them.

All the other holidays - Easter, Independence Day, Mother's Day, Father's Day, St Patrick's Day, Memorial Day, Labor Day - we don't really have anything going for them, either. I realize now that I sound like a very boring person. Maybe I had better start accumulating a few traditions, after all. Otherwise my house is going to be filled with crappy art projects.

Christmas 2009
Church St, Burlington, VT

To read about the traditions of other bloggers, check out the table below.

A Green Mountain State of Mind

2011-05-24T09:53:00.009-05:00

I've been absent from the blogosphere for a while, as you'll note by the gap between this post and the last (April 24th! Eek!) I blame final exams and traveling, and I think those are very reasonable excuses. The important part is I'm baaack! And now, on to Let'sBlogOff!

Today's topic: What's your favorite color?

I won't get all deep and philosophical on this one - mostly because I'm on vacation and don't want to strain my neurons. Also, because I don't have to when I answer this question.

My favorite color is GREEN.

It's not because my last name is Green. Nor did I marry my husband for his last name. Ok, maybe I did - but only because it was much simpler than getting people to spell/pronounce my maiden name (Holschuh). Ok, that's a lie. But I admit, it is nice being able to just say "The reservation is under Green" than to be stuck in the ever-torturous over-the-phone conversation with a hostess and trying to get her to confirm "HOLSCHUH," not "Horseshoe" or "Ocean" or "Oldshoe"....also, I can forgo the even more trifling "CHAMOIS, it's CHAMOIS!"...not "Sammie" or "Tammy" or "Shirley" or "Shelly." I tell ya, it's hard being unique.

And now we return to the actual topic at hand: Green.

My baby blanket was green. So that's where it probably all started.

Also, everything outside the windows of my mother's house is green.

So, basically, green was the first thing I saw every morning - whether I was indoors or out.

Green is the color of spring, and, being born in April, I naturally hold a special place in my heart for all things spring-y in Vermont. I'm actually visiting family in Vermont right now. Every time I look out the window, I can't believe I'm here. EVERYTHING is GREEN. Right down to the rocks, with soft mint lichens and dark forest mosses. It has been raining for the past week with few spaces of blue sky in between - so everything is excessively lush. The dead leaves from last year can't hold back the fledgling ferns and the rain continues to quench the new growth throughout the woods. I can't imagine voluntarily trading it for anything else. But alas, I must return to the barren, flat, scrubby wasteland that is Laredo, TX next week. *Sigh*

Good thing I took pictures, then.

To discover the favorite colors of other bloggers, click on the table below.

Clouds, Alaska, & Stars

2011-04-24T03:16:00.020-05:00

Saturday was the not so big 2-2.

I'm ready for my quarter-life crisis now, right?

But, seriously, as I think about where I've been and what I've done in my short lifespan thus far, I do feel a bit of a crisis coming on. There are so many things that I would have liked to have checked off on my mental list of dreams (see previous post for a brief draft). In order to preserve my sanity, I decided to think about my life in a smaller scope - say, the past year or so. In the past one or two years, I have done substantially more writing of my own (for me, not for classes). I have a feeling that, eventually, I'm going to need to dedicate an entire bookshelf to my journals. It is these writings and journals that bring me to today's Let's Blog Off topic:

"Where do you get your ideas?"

Normally, I have to cogitate quite a bit on these topics and either [A] try to narrow down my answer to a readable-length (which, doesn't always happen...as you'll know if you stopped by back on March 29th for the topic "What Are You Carrying?") or [B] come up with something - anything - at all.

Not so this time. This time, I laid back on the couch thinking about what I was doing these last couple of years - particularly writing - and considering where I got my ideas for those stories and poems (and, eventually, my little dabblings in paints). I think most writers will agree that ideas and inspiration become one being in the process of creativity. Alot of times, those ideas come from some level of inspiration - you know, the kind of moment where you realize, "Wow. How do I convey the feeling I just had?" or "I can totally see this happening just off to the side of this particular photo, just out of view."

Back in December, while my husband and family were over 2,000 miles away for Christmas, I decided to take up painting. It was something I had always wanted to take a whack at, and an empty house seemed the best place to start. No one to walk by, compromising my chi or whatever. Also, no one to complain when I played the same playlist over and over again. The thing is, I needed that music to take me out of my life, out of my house, out of my own head, and onto the easel or the page or the keyboard. This past December, I happened upon this particular piece and have since been haunted by it. I hope you will too, and find some of the inspiration (and ideas) that it has offered to me.

"Nuvole Bianche" by Ludovico Einaudi

I continued to think about where I have garnered inspiration these past years and have decided on one book in particular that has really stayed with me. Though I have found small sparks within the pages of many books, few of them strike me as a lightning bolt rends a tree in half. This one, however, did just that.

"Into the Wild" by John Krakauer

The story of Christopher McCandless' trek through America and into Alaska has had such resonance in my soul that I find it hard to explain. He cast off everything - his money, his education, his family, his future - in search of something that would have meaning. He left it all behind to find an adventure that would last him a lifetime. He found it. Though, sadly, his lifetime did not outlast the adventure. It is Christopher McCandless' pursuit of this "new and different sun" - as he calls it - that has inspired so much of my own writing. I only hope to instill the passion and vigor with which he lived his life into my own works.

"The very basic core of a man's living spirit is his passion for adventure. The joy of life comes from our encounters with new experiences, and hence there is no greater joy than to have an endlessly changing horizon, for each day to have a new and different sun" - Christopher McCandless

And, at last, one of my favorite paintings. When I need a moment to clear my head, I close my eyes and think of this. Once my mind has been aired out by the night breezes, I find that the stars often illuminate something I had missed before.

"Starry Night" by Vincent Van Gogh (1889)

To read where other participants of today's Let's Blog Off get their ideas, click below:

The Bare Essentials

2011-04-12T13:53:00.011-05:00

This is a participating post of Let's Blog Off.

Today's topic:

"If you could stop the world for one day, what would you take the time to do?"

Hmm. I seriously struggled with this one. There are so many things I want to do - go to Europe, write at least one book, go to Hawaii (again...but I was 2 last time, so it doesn't count) or the Caribbean, go to the Louvre, hike to several more summits, try scuba diving, go to Alaska, do this, do that. You get the idea.

But the one thing that I would do, right now, today, if the Earth held still for me?

I would go home. I would go back to Vermont.

I would drive over the dirt roads that wind me through the mountains toward Halifax. And when I got there, I would lay down in the woods and wonder at the world. Feel the dead leaves beneath my bones, the damp moss against my skin. I would go down to the brook that trickles through the culvert beneath the driveway. I would slide my toes into the freezing water that always runs clear despite emanating from marsh. I would be careful not to trip on the barbed wire that threads itself out from beneath the bark of trees as if it were a blackberry briar sprung from pine. These threads running out to form corners in the middle of nowhere - to mark property lines that no one bothers to trouble over anymore. After all, do the neighbors care if I infringe upon their forest? I am not laying waste to the beauty that they can not take credit for anyway. No, they will not care. This is the woods. No one can truly claim them. This is my home. No one can say they sprung from these springs or grew from this growth in the way that I did. If I had only one day, I would go back.

(Actually, I hear this is a little closer to what it really looks like right now.)

To read what others would do on this self-fated day:

Compost Buckets Under Each Arm

2011-03-29T12:24:00.007-05:00

This is a participating post of Let's Blog Off. Today's topic: "What are you carrying?"

These days I don't have much time for writing or reading anything that isn't listed on a syllabus. But when I do get a chance to pick up a book or peruse an article on my own time, I often find myself reaching for my journal before I can finish a particular paragraph. Sometimes the entire paragraph makes it into the pages, transcribed by my hasty cursive, and sometimes a single line of enlightenment makes the cut. Sometimes I will add my thoughts or inspirations that have grown out of these little seeds. Other times, the lines are enough by their own virtue.
This is what I carry - to quote Hamlet -

Words, words, words!

These words are like compost in a garden of thoughts and ink. Perhaps "compost" is not the most romantic of images, but it is the most fit. Compost is made up of former vegetation - it is organic matter which is recycled to nurture new growth. These words come from the hearts and minds of various people - organic matter of souls. As it is recorded into my journal, this vegetation, which has already had its season, is stored and broken down again into new inspirations. Compost.

Hope is not found in the way out, but the way through. - Robert Frost

Memories were just photos printed on synapses. As such, he justified sharing some of them with the world while keeping others locked in hidden albums. - Ali Shaw, "The Girl With Glass Feet"

Peering through the plant clumps, they could catch glimpses of the smooth, glittering river, evidently much wider and swifter than the Enborne. Although there was no enemy or other danger to be perceived, they felt the apprehension and doubt of those who have come unawares upon some awe-inspiring place where they themselves are paltry fellows of no account. When Marco Polo came at last to Cathay, seven hundred years ago, did he not feel - and did his heart not falter as he realized - that this great and splendid capital of an empire had had its being all the years of his life and far longer, and that he had been ignorant of it? That it was in need of nothing from him, from Venice, from Europe? That it was full of wonders beyond his understanding? That his arrival was a matter of no importance whatsoever? We know he felt these things, and so has many a traveler in foreign parts who did not know what he was going to find. There is nothing that cuts you down to size like coming to some strange and marvelous place where no one even stops to notice that you stare about you. - Richard Adams, "Watership Down"

Everything is so fragile, and so glorious. He closed his eyes. Here it comes...here's the future...and here it goes again... - Audrey Niffenegger, "Her Fearful Symmetry"

You are a god, we are all gods - gods of small things and awesomely immense things - act like it. - Richard Holschuh, "Small is Beautiful, But Relativity Rules"

The stars above you are other suns scattered through the universe. - Michael A. Seeds, Dana E. Backman, "The Solar System"

Stars have died that we might live - Preston Cloud, geologist (referring to the atoms of life)

He'd only give away his food if the corners were cleanly cut, as he believed a homeless person would just feel worse eating food with ragged bitemarks at the edges - as if, he said, they are dogs. Dignity, he said, lifting his half-lasagna into its box, is no detail. - Aimee Bender, "The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake"

That if gold rust, what shall poor iron do? - Geoffrey Chaucer, "The Canterbury Tales: The General Prologue"

Each individual existence is based on mystery, which is perhaps why civilized man makes such a neurotic fuss about having his privacy respected. - Anton Chekhov, "A Lady With A Dog"

Snow devils have been dancing there all day,
their swirls of glee frenetic pirouettes
that dissipate so quickly
it is as if they were born
to sacrifice themselves to brevity. - Saxon Henry, "Fire and Ice"

I think perhaps there is only one love...really. Omnipresent...but inside - something to be tapped into, channeled. It is always there, a constant...like some sort of life source... - JB Bartkowiak, "Building Moxie Blogs Off...Again (The Luvvverrr Edition)"

If I had a formula for bypassing trouble, I wouldn't pass it around. I wouldn't be doing anyone a favor. Trouble creates a capacity to handle it...Meet it as a friend, for you'll see alot of it and you had better be on speaking terms with it. - Oliver Wendell Holmes

A man travels the world in search of what he needs and returns home to find it. - George Moore

It is neither possible nor necessary to educate people who never question anything. - Joseph Heller, "Catch-22"

The fragility of crystal is not a weakness, but a fineness. - "Into the Wild" (film)

Do everything without complaining or arguing, so that you may become blameless and pure, children of God without fault in a crooked and depraved generation, in which you shine like stars in the universe. - Philippians 2:14, 15

What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matter compared to what lies within us. - Ralph Waldo Emerson

They were like busy little brainless birds, fluttering in and out of their nest at all hours of the day or night, so involved in the pleasures of nest building that they hadn't noticed that it had been empty for years. - Maggie Stiefvater, "Shiver"

Elinor now found the difference between the expectation of an unpleasant event, however certain the mind may be told to consider it, and certainty itself. - Jane Austen, "Sense and Sensibility"

The world had made him extravagant and vain - Extravagance and vanity had made him cold-hearted and selfish. Vanity, while seeking its own guilty triumph at the expense of another, had involved him in a real attachment, which extravagance, or at least its offspring, necessity, had required to be sacrificed. Each faulty propensity in leading him to evil, had lad him likewise to punishment. - Jane Austen, "Sense and Sensibility"

The world looked to them like a great roll of butcher paper unfurled on a table. - Luis Alberto Urrea, "Into the Beautiful North"

Two thirds of what we see is behind our eyes. - Chinese proverb

There are things extremely hard: steel, diamond, and to know one's self. - Benjamin Franklin

It takes brains not to make money...Any fool can make money these days and most of them do. But what about people with talent and brains? Name, for example, one poet who makes money. - Joseph Heller, "Catch-22"

It was the classic case of a man kidnapped while standing still. - Philip K. Dick, "Radio Free Albemuth"

Dread remorse when you are tempted to err, Miss Eyre; remorse is the poison of life. - Charlotte Bronte, "Jane Eyre"

In the entire history of our marriage, it was the only secret I kept from her, and eventually it became impossible to fix. With a secret like that, at some point the secret itself becomes irrelevant. The fact that you kept it does not. - Sarah Gruen, "Water for Elephants"

Brooding. And on what? The things of the universe! I don't believe in this world sorrow...Make him understand that at the side of the everlasting 'Why?,' tehre's a "yes" and a "yes!" and a "YES!" - "A Room With a View," Mr Emerson to Lucy Honeychurch

Time can be a greedy thing - sometimes it steals all the details for itself. - Khaled Hosseini, "The Kite Runner"

A boy who won't stand up for himself becomes a man who can't stand up to anything. - Khaled Hosseini, "The Kite Runner"

I wondered if that was how forgiveness budded, not with the fanfare of epiphany, but with pain gathering its things, packing up, and slipping away unannounced in the middle of the night. - Khaled Hosseini, "The Kite Runner"

A murderous dog might be useful to a king, but he didn't want it sleeping at his feet. - Kristin Cashore, "Graceling"

We need daylight and to that extent it is utilitarian, but moonlight we do not need. When it comes, it serves no necessity...And its low intensity - so much lower than that of daylight - makes us conscious that it is something added...that we should admire while we can, for soon it will be gone again. - Richard Adams, "Watership Down"

...all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes... - e.e. cummings, "(anyone lived in a pretty how town)"

You wouldn't look twice - until you have looked twice. - Nancy Werlin, "The Rules of Survival"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I realize this post was extra lengthy, and, no, my feelings won't be hurt if you didn't read every single quote. Now, if you're not exhausted from this post, and if you have interest in reading about what others carry around with them, here's a convenient list of other posters.

Shut up, I'm talking...Now, once upon a time...

2011-02-15T13:56:00.011-06:00

>>This is a particpating post of #letsblogoff, a biweekly event in which numerous bloggers write on a directed topic. (See table at the end of this post for links to others' musings)

Today's #letsblogoff prompt: What makes a good story?

Unfortunately (for this blog's sake), I spent all my free time this past weekend thoroughly engrossed in Shakespeare's "Henry IV, Part One." Now, I could try to quickly tick off the features of the aforementioned play in a meager attempt to capture the genius of Mr Billy S. in a five-minute-blog-post, but somehow, I just don't think I could possibly do justice to his magnificent historical drama.

So, instead, I will include what started out as an extremely long comment on another #letsblogoff participant's post as my substitute response. Without further ado...

Rich over at Concrete Detail made an excellent point in his #letsblogoff post - We can't forget our audiences!

And, indeed, that's one of the first questions a writer needs to address before sitting down and beginning a story. The audience determines everything - from the amount of background on particular subjects (Just how much do our readers know about quantum physics? Have they ever seen the innerworkings of a jet engine? etc etc) to the level of complicated language we use in telling our tale (Do our readers know what a veal fricassee tastes like? Would words like deoxyribonucleic make them wish they had a dictionary on hand?). If we overstimulate our audience with these details, we will lose them. If, however, we speak to them about things they can comprehend in words they can pronounce - and if our topic interests them - soon they will be telling all of their friends to pick up a copy of our shining literary accomplishment. That is, assuming, we got ourselves published in the first place.

And that's all folks! Apologies for the unusual content and abrupt stop, but I now must return to the 10-pound volume of "The Complete Works of Shakespeare" and begin the tragedy "Romeo & Juliet" for next week's class discussion (in the spirit of St Valentine's Day, of course...and yes, I am aware that was yesterday). Cheers!

Others and their Two Cents! (..one of these days we'll have enough to make a dollar!)

A Lover's Diagnosis

2011-02-01T12:54:00.018-06:00

~This is a participating post of Let's Blog Off, a biweekly event in which numerous bloggers write on a directed topic (see the table at end of post for links to others' musings).

~This week's prompt: "What is love?"

the human heart

Love.

There have been endless poems written on love: the thrill and joy, the pain and bitter loss, the long-lasting and the short-lived, the romantic and familial, the pursuit and the rejection. How can there be so many approaches and praises and disillusions surrounding one little 4-letter word?

Simply considering this answers Hartley Coleridge's question for us:

Is love a fancy or a feeling?

No. Neither. For fancies and feelings fade.

Oh no! It is an ever fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken

Shakespeare had it right. He understood why love has so captivated the human heart, the poet's soul for centuries on end. "...It is an ever fixed mark..." Because it is not fleeting or movable, because it is set upon us as a permanent sore, love is free to eat away at us as an insatiable cancer roams through one's chest. This constant pecking and gnawing is what drags the poet's pen across the paper in unceasing wonder. Love possesses the heart, the hand, the head - the entire body - and refuses to yield to eviction. It takes up permanent residence; the person it imposes itself upon, the helpless host.

Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds

Or bends with the remover to remove

Love will not be swayed. It may appear to dissipate or obscure, but it is only our vision that waivers. Love buries itself deep in the recesses of our frames, hiding in the sinews and marrow of our bones. We cannot escape it or outrun it because it seeps into us until it is one with our being.

And it is incurable.

Some people don't want to get better.

Poems featured in this post are:
Sonnet 7 by Hartley Coleridge
Sonnet 116 by William Shakespeare

Thanks for stopping by today. To read what others have to say on this lofty subject, check the table below (updates automatically as new posts are added).

Interpreting the Language of the Soul

2011-01-18T16:21:00.014-06:00

"Lake at Midnight" 01 January 2011

>>This is a participating post of Let's Blog Off, a biweekly event in which numerous bloggers write on a directed topic. This week's prompt: "What is creativity?" There are a few other questions attached to the main query which I will be addressing as well.

>>To read others' posts, see the table at the bottom of the post (will automatically update throughout the day as entries are posted).

sidebar: (Yes, there's a sidebar before I've even gotten started) The Let's Blog Off topic is rather fitting for today as it is the first day of classes at my university for spring semester 2011, and I'm really looking forward to my poetry class later this evening! Moving right along:

One of the first questions creative writing and art instructors like to ask is some variant of:

"What is creativity?"

Often, they'll adjust the query to something like:

"What does creativity mean to you?"

The personalization of response from each student demonstrates the subjectivity of the matter. Every artist approaches their canvas differently. Every writer considers their words differently. Every composer plays their instrument differently. Yet, we consider all of their efforts to be "creative." There is no apparent common denominator other than the fact that these individuals put their souls into their hands in order to create something. The key, here, is that the creator is utilizing their soul - their very life essence.

To try to define creativity is to attempt an extraction of a person's soul, laying it in a cardboard box and expecting it to remain functional. Creativity doesn't work "inside the box."

While science and technology have made it possible to perform physical heart transplants, it is still absolutely impossible to transfer a person's soul into another's body. (We'll just ignore the whole exorcism tangent here.) Therefore, the ability to create is found in a person's ability to express their soul. If we can accept that everyone has a soul - that there are no empty husks walking around out there - then we can also accept that everyone has the potential for creativity.

Now that we've established that everyone can create, we'll answer another section of today's prompt. Is creativity a balance of imagination and talent? This begs the question:

What is talent?

Yes, there are those that appear to be natural-born athletes and there are those more proficient in the culinary arts...but how does one really measure talent when it comes to one's ability to create something? Either a person creates something or they don't. If we believe that it is a person's soul that fuels creativity - and each person has their own unique, individual soul - how can we compare the handiwork of one soul to another? Their products would be on such vastly different levels - it would be like trying to compare a pomegranate to a blue bird. They are neither the same color nor species nor genus nor kingdom. There is no scale with which we can measure the talent of one creator over that of another. And if we can not measure talent, is there even a point in considering its relativity to creativity?

Imagination: the faculty of imagining, or of forming mental images or concepts of what is not actually present to the senses [source]

Imagination is the process by which we interpret the messages of our souls. Our five physical senses are incapable of understanding the commands of our souls without imagination stepping in. With this tool, we can then attempt to express that which is vacillating deep beneath our skin.

Every person has the potential to be creative. All they need to do is access their imaginations and listen closely, letting their soul direct their hands. The result will be a manifestation of that which makes an individual utterly and undeniably unique.

(faerie boats, created with my little sister, summer 2010)

Simile (n.) e.g.: "Dead as a doornail."

2011-01-04T13:15:00.019-06:00

A tragic incident involving spark plugs and a Phillips head screwdriver claimed the life of one Chamois Summer (Holschuh) Green this past week. Having never been one destined for mechanical greatness, the native Vermonter met her demise while attempting a routine repair on her Honda Civic so endearingly dubbed Bert. Friends and relatives bemoan the untimely death of the twenty-one year old English student. “She should’ve stuck to her books,” lamented a distraught neighbor who witnessed the entire unfortunate mishap.

Chamois leaves behind a dumbstruck husband. When approached for questioning, Mr. Green scratched his head and muttered, “Damn female drivers.” She also leaves behind a massive collection of indecipherable notes, sketches, and what appear to be book chapters which will be donated to a local museum as kindling for the remaining winter months.

“She was so promising,” a close family member who wishes to abstain from admitting relation by revealing their name said, “On the…cusp…of something…great?” Chamois Green had been working on a lengthy novel at the time. The pages of which will sadly never see the light of day (nor the fluorescents of a publisher's office for that matter). A series of primitive paintings were also found among the deceased’s possessions. These will be donated to a children’s charity auction. A service will be held on Saturday at Harriman Reservoir.

(I'm not really dead.)
Cheers!

Paint Brushes and Plot Lines

2011-01-02T15:48:00.010-06:00

These last few weeks, I've sequestered myself in the house tapping away at the keyboard, clicking through a never-ending Netflix queue, making a ~~pitiful~~ brave effort at painting, and now, finally, I'm turning page after page. I had the highest hopes of plowing through a mountain of books this vacation but only just went to the library a few days ago. So, all I have to show for myself thus far is a review on The Girl with Glass Feet by Ali Shaw. Let me just say, I don't think I've ever read anything this beautiful in the form of prose. The language is exquisite and provides an artistic lens from which to view the dreary world in which the story unfolds. My complete review can be found here: Laredo Lit Examiner.

Next up on the list:
Her Fearful Symmetry by Audrey Niffenegger
The Devil in the White City: Murder, Magic, and Madness at the Fair That Changed America by Erik Larson
Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro
Leviathan by Scott Westerfeld

Naturally, I also IMDB'd these books to find out if they're going to be made into films, and, much to my delight, two of them are! Never Let Me Go stars Carey Mulligan, Keira Knightley, and Andrew Garfield and has already been released on limited viewing in the US. I am patiently awaiting the DVD release so I can get my Mulligan fix. In the works, and starring another of my favorites, The Devil in the White City has been announced for release in 2013 with Leonardo DiCaprio as the lead. As I wait for these gems, I will continue to bounce my knees in anticipation of the film adaptation of Sara Gruen's Water for Elephants, due this coming April (just in time for my birthday! Hoorah!). This had to have been my most favorite book that I read this past summer. Closely rivaled by The Hunger Games series - which is also being made into a film. (Another of my favorite reads from last year's check list, Into the Wild, is of course also available as a film. A pretty damn good film, I might add. Go watch it, because if you haven't, your life is incomplete.)

And if you will now excuse me, I must get back to the stack of books on my nightstand. I will resurface eventually. Til then, I hope your New Year has gotten off to a promising - and not just the happy shine induced by champagne, but truly promising and wonderful - start. Cheers!

Merry Christmas: Get a look at the legs on that one!

2010-12-25T14:19:00.002-06:00

Came across this last night. It rocked my gingerbread-speckled socks. Enjoy!

Can Santa deliver people and places? (Lets Blog Off, Christmas edition)

2010-12-21T07:14:00.009-06:00

Church St, Burlington, VT (Christmas 2009)

As I made the 3 hour drive back from dropping off the Hubs at the airport this morning (yes, I went there and came back all before 7 am!), I thought a little bit about today's Let's Blog Off topic. That is, in between belting out Christmas carols, Regina Spektor, Audioslave, Jewel, Linkin Park, and Sarah McLachlan (ipod was on shuffle)... Despite my tonedeafness and the baffling fog (have been in west TX for over 1 1/2yrs now and never witnessed the likes of its thickness here) which didn't lift until the last 50 miles, I finally came up with my answer to the question at hand:

&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;lt&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/span&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;;p&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;Your browser does not support &amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;iframes&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/span&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;.&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;lt&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/span&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;;/p&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;

If money were no object, what would be the perfect gift? Whether it’s for yourself or for somebody else, what thing would you give that you won’t or can’t give now?

The one thing that I would like this year - besides joining the Hubs in Vermont for the whirlwind rounds of multiple family Christmases that I am missing out on this year because eh-hem retail stops for no employee - would be an instant degree and a groveling publisher. I suppose that first I need to crank out a completed novel or two for said beggar to print copies of. I would desperately love to be done with college, though. I would also like to be able to quit my job. And eat donuts every day. And make extravagant weekend getaways every weekend. And never have to feel guilty about not handwriting thank you notes. (Puhhlease, grandma, you have an email address - so why can't I message my "thnx 4 the $" electronically? It takes the same amount of thought AND saves me a trip to the post office to buy stamps)

In all seriousness, if money were no object, and I could give any gift I wanted to others, I would give all of the important people in my life their dream vacation because they've all worked so hard their entire lives for it.

To my neighbors and mentors - they were there for me when I couldn't handle being in my own house and just needed to stalk out the door and breathe deeply the smells of someone else's kitchen.

To my parents - for putting up with me all those years (and still hanging onto their sanity).

To my brothers - because they're pretty cool people and should get to do cool things.

To my sisters - because they have amazing and beautiful imaginations that need to be fed.

To my high school teachers - because, come on, they have to put up with teenagers every day, that's no picnic.

I could keep adding to this list of deserving recipients, but I'll refrain on account of my drooping eyelids. I'll be drawing the shades soon as day is breaking, and I'll just be crawling under the covers. Until the UPS man comes (in approximately 3 hours) to deliver the package I apparently missed yesterday, I will be drifting away into slumbering bliss.

Sweet dreams to me! Will wake up and read everyone else's Let's Blog Off posts (see below) later today... (I'm being purposefully vague so that none of you will know just how late I sleep in today)

and oh yes, Happy Solstice!

A Real Live Page Turner: a delayed response to an old Let's Blog Off topic

2010-12-08T21:25:00.018-06:00

I was going through the other Let's Blog Off posts from Tuesday's topic and ended up on DogWalkBlog, reading an August post by Rufus: "Get your own ham; it's all about self reliance." In his post, Rufus recalls his first job - a paper route at 11 years old. His article goes on to talk about self-reliance and how children need to learn this at an early age. The post is a response to an old Let's Blog Off topic: "Are Today's College Graduates Ready for the Working World?" I hadn't started participating in the Blog Off at that point, but I wanted to add my two (very delayed) cents to Rufus' entry just the same.

I started working for my neighbor, making beds, ironing, doing laundry, clearing dishes, vacuuming, scrubbing, and just about anything you can think of in her bed & breakfast at 11. I also worked in her garden and helped her husband pull up the tape from the tennis courts of a second home owner he did handiwork for. And, oh yes, there was the lugging of sap buckets every spring for the production of maple syrup. Those suckers are heavy when they're full. And not exactly fun to heave through three-footers (snow drifts) And did I mention the shoveling of porches in the winter?

Later, in my senior year of high school, I worked weekends at a little cafe in downtown Wilmington, VT called Beanheads (where my reckless addiction to coffee began). Every school vacation, rest assured, I was going back and forth between the cafe and the bed & breakfast. That is, except for spring vacation - when there's no tourists, save for the few who come to the bed and breakfast to take part in maple sugaring. Because they think it's fun. We don't tell them otherwise.

I spent the summers between my junior/senior and after my senior year in high school as a para-educator of sorts for my neighbor's handicapped daughter. I grew up with her and never thought twice about her condition. So when her mother approached me and asked if I would like to be her instructor that first summer, I thought, what could I possibly teach her? We basically worked to prevent any regression from the previous school year's worth of learning. There was communications work, occupational therapy, computer, physical therapy, all that jazz. My student has a severe case of cerebral palsy and requires assistance for everything from turning over in bed to eating meals. One aspect of cerebral palsy is an extra lack of muscle control on one side of the body. In my student's case it was the right side. I nearly tear up every time I think of how we worked together for weeks to learn the skill of turning the page of a book with - you guessed it - her right hand. Granted, I had to place the page in between her thumb and finger, but as soon as I finished reading aloud, she took the cue, and the page was turned. Words can not express how excited I was. And still am. It was the most satisfying job of my entire life this far, and I have a feeling it will stay that way.

What I'm getting to is this. Sometimes a little hand holding is necessary, but once a child (actually, in this case, my student is really two years older than myself) is equipped with an understanding and grasps the concept, they can accomplish amazing things on their own. Once I was instructed on the techniques of hospital corners and "in-tucking" pillow cases, the differences between a mochaccino and a macchiato, I was ready to work wonders with sheets and frothers. Once my childhood friend and student was able to hang onto that piece of paper, she blew my mind with her effort to succeed. Because, believe me, just because she has palsy, it doesn't mean she can't manipulate you. I could have very easily given in and turned it for her, but I wanted her to learn this. I hope I have the same determination with my own future children and refuse to give in to their whiny sympathy dances. Rufus has set the bar here and I like to think I can pull my own weight as well (horribly bad pun, I know).

What it all comes down to is providing individuals with the means to learn and experiment. Self reliance from parents or mentors, good educational bases from teachers, and practicality from both are absolutely necessary to ensure the success of an individual. My employers were all of those things, but, quite honestly - and here's where it gets really sentimental - I think I still learned the most from my student, my peer, my friend. If I can just learn to turn the pages in life with the same level of determination and effort, I will be unstoppable.

Her favorite book that summer

What's in your FedEx packages?

2010-12-07T11:16:00.019-06:00

Today's Let's Blog Off prompt: You're given an island. The only thing to consider is once you move there, you can't leave. Who and what would you bring? What are the rules?

If there's anything I've learned from Lost, it's that I need to be able to trust my fellow islanders. In that case, I'll bring my husband. Cheesy? No, just practical. Between the two of us, I think we'll do pretty darn well for ourselves on an ocean-confined haven.

I think I would get rather lonely just little ol' me. Not to mention, I wouldn't survive that long as I couldn't stand to hunt animals and I have a tendency to kill anything I try to plant in gardens...I'd also need a shelter and I'm a danger even to myself where tools are involved (see that time I got stitches in my palm after a carving accident in high school art class).

Thus, dearest Hubs will be accompanying me. As proof of his helpfulness, I give you an illustration from this morning:

-Cham: "Hubs, if you were given an island, who and what would you bring?"

-Hubs (After joking about bringing our fictitious housemaid rather than myself, he gave me the following serious answer): "Can you bring anything? Because if you can, you'll need lumber and several buckets of nails...tools...water tablets...a way to start fires...the supply list could get very long."

I suppose being in the Army has taught him some useful things too...such as primitive land navigation, shelters made from minimal materials, la di da di da.

My skill sets to contribute to island survival?

...

I make excellent birds-in-a-nest - will there be bread on this island?

Well, since it's my island, and I can't leave, I will have the bread come to me by regular shipments. I will also be importing delicious coffee beverages until Hubs finishes our maison de l'île at which point I will send for my espresso machine (early Christmas present this year - shaawing!) and a never ending supply of Raven's Brew coffee beans.

I think that pretty much fulfills my list of necessities: Hubs (to do all the heavy lifting and survival stuff), a few loaves of bread, coffee. I guess I will require the importation of books as well. I could not survive without something to read. I always try to keep a small book in my purse here on the mainland, and I don't see why I should have to give that up on an island. Especially because, if this island were not given to me, and I had been stranded due to a plane crash, or the more likely event of time/location displacement travel - either of these options are entirely possible by the way, I watched all six seasons of Lost, I know these things - I would have had a book on my person anyway. Alas, I will need refresher volumes.

I realize now that I'm rambling and not getting very deep or profound about this topic, so I will now cease to ~~humor~~ bore you. Besides, I need to go switch the laundry to the dryer because we don't really have a housemaid. That will be my only rule on the island: NO LAUNDRY.

I leave you with a few parting shots of Hubs and I on a geological survey of our humble island. And, oh yes, we brought a camera.

Hubs, salvaging parts from the wing of our crashed plane.
(He's muttering something about "damn female drivers"...)

Iiiiiiiit's finals week! (hooray)

2010-12-06T09:25:00.003-06:00

Monday - Planetary Astronomy

Wednesday - Creative Writing: Fiction

Thursday - 19th Century American Literature
- Film History

Friday - American History 1301

Already completed:
-Planetary Astronomy Lab

Into the Future: Prospective Mandatory Reading Lists?

2010-11-27T05:45:00.004-06:00

It's that time of the year again when relatives start breathing down your neck for Christmas gift ideas. So I was making my Christmas list with subheadings such as Books, Music, Giftcards, Home Items, etc...I categorize my wishes because I'm neurotic like that. To keep things simple (and to avoid piling up crap), I'm sticking primarily to only music and books this year, with the latter option extending beyond the page's limit. As I was compiling titles and the like, I realized how odd this list would have looked to my peers back in middle school. ("Books?" they would have gaped, "You want books for Christmas??") Which got me thinking, I should make it a rule that my future children will always receive at least one book for Christmas. Then I decided that I should make a list of titles they must read before I will deem them worthy of adulthood.

Books my children must read (in order of age/maturity progression):

the original Brothers Grimm faerie tales (to avoid the misconceptions of happy bunnies and perfect princesses)

The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster (exercises the mind)

Watership Down by Richard Adams (demonstrates cooperative efforts)

The Golden Compass trilogy by Philip Pullman (imaginative, questions values)

Feed by M. T. Anderson (imaginative, questions the media, government, & society)

The Alchemist by Paul Coelho (goals, purposes, the journeys toward them)

The Glass Castle by Jeanette Walls (autobio filled with insurmountable odds & experiences)

Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer (one boy's amazing "striking out" on his own tale)

Beyond Band of Brothers: The War Memoirs of Major Dick Winters by Major Dick Winters with Colonel Cole C. Kingseed (perspective on the realities of war)

These are the titles that came to mind as I thought of my most treasured or valued books that I've read. Sadly, I must admit, I read the majority of them within the last year. I wish I had read them sooner, though - much, much sooner. As I dredged up my brain for titles of my own youth, I realized I had spent most of my time reading indulgent fiction, sci-fi/fantasy, and a plethora of random crap. I had (and still have) a tendency to select books based on their cover art and a quick glance over the summary. I only ever paid attention to reviews that actually hinted at the content because "Wonderful!" "Stunning" "Best book of the year!" hold no credence with me. I have been routinely disappointed by the darlings of book clubs to the point that I no longer pay attention to their suggestions. My title selection process pretty much remains the same today, but with an added step: reading a few pages of beginning and middle-area text to get a feel for the writer's style. (I practically depend on amazon's "Look Inside!" feature for online purchases)

Anything you'd suggest to add to the list? (It can be either educational or entertaining - preferably a combination of both to keep the whippasnappas engaged and interested.)

sidebar: Looking over the list, I came to realize all but one of the authors are male...hmm interesting?

the Betsy Alert

2010-11-18T14:00:00.011-06:00

I was going through my inbox today and saw that I had missed an email from my neighbor back in Vermont. I grew up next to this woman's farm and worked for her in her bed & breakfast in my teen years and have had plenty of experience with escape cows. So when I started reading this one, I couldn't help but laugh at the small town antics of my hometown. Without further adieu, I have copy/pasted the email below (with slight modifications for clarity). (I also dropped last names out of respect for privacy.)

...And then the phone rang and here is the NEW cow story of the day... look for it on the evening news. *grin*

Over a week ago, our friend/farmer Malcolm called and asked, "Are you missing a cow?"

"Not that I am aware of, I just fed them and they were all chomping at the bits to eat the hay."

"Do any of your cows have bells on their necks?"

"Nope not ours."

Over the time period between that call and today, we have had other people call and some stop by asking, "Are you missing a cow?"..."If you find out whose it is, just want to let you know that the cow is in Malcolm's barn" was the last word I received this past Saturday.

Soooo today the phone rings:

"Hi, this is WKVT radio, and I am not sure I am calling the right number, but are you the one who reported the stolen cow?"

"Stolen cow, Holy Cow, well NO, but YES I know where the stolen/missing cow is...but it was not stolen it was found roaming around the center of town."

"Well, we got a report over the wire that the State Police had reported a stolen cow in Halifax and I googled FARM and HALIFAX and your name came up!"

I was smiling, I felt like I was catching a thief or solving a great mystery: "Tell you what, I will call the state police and tell them where the 'stolen' AKA 'missing' cow is."

The young man replied, "OK."

...Long and short, the owner of the "stolen/missing" cow is a young State Trooper who I attended Norwich University with and he has been missing the "moooover" for over a week, could not find a break in the fencing so he assumed that the friendly bovine had been stolen! I gave him the whereabouts of Mindy - I named her that - the missing cow and shared how he could get there to "bring her/him home safe and sound." Don't you just love happy endings??? Me too!

Yup, this is where I hail from. I come from a town where cows take sabbatical to the center of town and find themselves safe and sound in another farmer's barn. If there were any cell service back in Vermont, I would propose an Amber Alert for bovines. We could call it the Betsy Alert. Until then, phone trees and well-meaning neighbors will have to suffice. Here's to being on their good side! (Otherwise they might steal your animals)

Respiration

2010-11-16T16:46:00.008-06:00

I am alive, I am awake.
There's not much else that I can say.
However far, however long
My journeys are, I must be strong.

My body breathes and moves its own.
My thoughts and mind are on the throne.
Sanity, yes, sanctity, are in my hands -
Sincerity and faithfulness their few demands.

Hardships short while life moves on -
I cannot stop for melanchol'.
My heart is full, my veins they press.
I've much to learn and more to guess.

I am alive, I am awake.
There's not much else that I can say.
However far, however long
I lift a glad and grateful song.

To be honest, I forgot today was Let's Blog Off day! So when I got home from class and opened the laptop to see everyone's posts on hootsuite, I knew I had to turn something out – STAT!

I sat back in my chair and thought to myself, What am I most thankful for?

My first answer was, “Semester is aallmooooost over!”
Then my second answer was, “That Miyazaki paper is finally doooone!”
Then I thought bigger.

I'm grateful to be alive, to be here on Earth. Is there really anything else?

I'll let you ponder that while I get ready for work. I will be reading everyone else's posts tomorrow as I have too much to do for classes when I get home from work tonight. I'll be studying the night away...gratefully, of course.

Til then - cheers!

A New and Different Sun

2010-11-10T11:14:00.008-06:00

"So many people live within unhappy circumstances and yet will not take the initiative to change their situation because they are conditioned to a life of security, conformity, and conservatism, all of which may appear to give one peace of mind, but in reality nothing is more dangerous to the adventurous spirit within a man than a secure future. The very basic core of a man's living spirit is his passion for adventure. The joy of life comes from our encounters with new experiences, and hence there is no greater joy than to have an endlessly changing horizon, for each day to have a new and different sun" - Christopher McCandless

My adventurous spirit has been rather subdued as of late. Classes, exams, essays, work, etc take their toll on the heart. I am looking forward to winter break with a ridiculous amount of anticipation. I have no plans as of yet, but I can't deny the feeling of absolute freedom. I know this to be a faulty expectation, but it gives me something to look forward to, however fanciful it may be. A semester without pause is tiring and restrictive - I've hardly had time to write. I look forward to my month off this winter as a time for my own novels and ideas to take more proper form. This December, I will be looking toward a new and different sun.

Miyazaki Miyazaki Miyazaki

2010-11-08T01:59:00.009-06:00

You may have noticed from recent twitter and facebook statuses (statii?) that I have been furiously engaged in watching Hayao Miyazaki films and reading books and articles relating to them for a paper I'm writing for film history class. (I think I'm taking it in an environmental vs industrialization direction.)

Who is Hayao Miyazaki you ask?

Holy crap, we can't be friends anymore.

He's only the joy of my childhood, the maestro of imagination, the Academy Award-winning and world-renown director of masterful animé films!!

No, I'm not a manga-nerd, I just happen to appreciate good animation when I see it. And now here's some for you to see:

"Castle in the Sky"

"Kiki's Delivery Service"

"My Neighbor Totoro"

"Howl's Moving Castle"

"Spirited Away"

"Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind"

"Princess Mononoke"

I don't care if it's half empty or half full, I'm drinking it.

2010-10-19T15:29:00.011-05:00

"rusted" or "rustic"?

Optimists constantly look ahead to a future brighter and more promising than today, whereas pessimists look backward, listing the atrocities and grievances of history. If we always look over our shoulders at the unfortunate occurrences of days gone by, though, how will we ever get to where we are going? Pessimists would argue “history repeats itself,” therefore if we concentrate on previously drawn patterns of downward spirals, we will be able to predict the future. If we have the power to see the future by this means, what have we to look forward to? An optimist will argue that this is not true prescience. True prescience stipulates knowledge of something new – before it has even occurred. Therefore, there can be no event in the past or present (which will soon become the past) that can occur in identical exactitude in the future. (Excepting, of course, instances of déjà vu) We cannot foretell the fate of the world, our nation, or our personal lives. Looking backwards, then, is useless in terms of a general outlook on life.

The past does teach us a few lessons. We now know that we should not commit genocide, discriminate against others on the basis of something so trivial as skin color, prepare dessert on the same cutting board used for raw chicken, or breathe on people when we are sick. All of these things we have learned and incorporated into our daily life and outlook (or, at least, we should). While these lessons have proved extremely useful, they do not predict the future. We have already adapted them into our lives. If we then continue to focus on the negative aspects of these things rather than the positive lessons learned, we do not benefit our future, we only eat away at our present.

The future, to a pessimist, is a black hole of impending doom. To the optimist, it is a shining vessel of opportunity and dreams yet realized. The choice then, is not between two “-isms,” but between walking down the aisle toward a marriage of hope and promise or trudging the dark alley and stairs to the executioner's platform. You can either have a constantly renewed honeymoon or an ax hanging over your head. The question is about quality of life.

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To read what others have to say on today's topic, visit letsblogoff.com.

The Gilded Rule

2010-10-10T20:40:00.008-05:00

"The final wall of the wise man's thought is Human Kindness of course. If the road of disappointment, grief, pessimism, is followed far enough, it will arrive there... Therefore do I strive to be as kind and as just as may be to those about me and in my meager success at it, I find the solitary pleasure of life."

-Stephen Crane, author of "The Red Badge of Courage" (from a letter dated January 12, 1896)

"Animals are more than ever a test of our character, of mankind's capacity for empathy and for decent, honorable conduct and faithful stewardship. We are called to treat them with kindness, not because they have rights or power or some claim to equality, but in a sense because they don't; because they all stand unequal and powerless before us."

-Matthew Scully, excerpt from "Dominion" (picked up from a blog post by Bob Borson)

What do I intend for you, dear reader, to take away from the reading of these excerpts? (Other than the possibility that Stephen Crane's dog was probably the best loved pup on the planet?)

In considering these two bits of illumination on kindness, I am reminded that "being nice" is a lot more than the opposite of "not being nice." Sure, we shouldn't talk smack about our employers and customers. But do we refrain from doing it because we really are just nice people who would have never conceived of it, or because we know we'll get in trouble if we're caught? When we're tempted to eat that last slice of pie - do we hold back because we truly don't want to withhold that delicious experience from our spouse or because "I know, I know, I already ate 5/8 of the pie, so technically it's their piece...but...okay, fine, fine, I won't eat it."

Being nice is a lot more than just the opposite of "not being nice."

Newton's third law of gravity is as follows: "For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction."

Any scientist will annotate this with a comment on how "reaction" isn't quite the right word here. Gravity is a universal force - meaning, every thing, or mass, has an impact on all other things, or masses. Two masses act upon each other simultaneously. If you sit down in a chair, your weight is pressing down on that chair with a given amount of force; at the exact same time, that chair is resisting your weight with the same amount of force. You exert force; the chair exerts force. Capisca? Simultaneous action from separate entities. Therefore, "reaction" - which hints at a primary action, followed by a secondary - does not fit the bill. How, then, do I justify this science lesson within a blog post? Newton, Crane, and Scully all connect, I promise. Though, perhaps, not the way you want it to.

All of this hubbub and todo about equals and opposites - take that and kick it to the curb.

If we believe "being nice" and "not being nice" are equally opposite of each other, we are gravely mistaken. Sometimes, kindness and unkindness take the same amount of effort, but they yield drastically different results. "Not being nice" is an abuse of the capability of kindness; it is stooping to savage levels. Why, why would we ever need to be rude or mean to someone? Consider this, and then come to the realization that it is not even a question of survival. "Not being nice," then, is, simply put, an abhorrence - a deliberate overstepping of the boundary of respect for others. True kindness to others ignores whether or not others have treated us kindly. The Golden Rule becomes the Gilded Rule. Maslow's hierarchy of needs is superseded by kindness because kindness decries any consideration of self. Kindness takes the ideas of rewards and personal gain and renders them valueless. "Being nice" is a lot more than just the opposite of "not being nice."

We should be nice because we have the capability, we have the capacity. We should be kind because doing so achieves the supreme level of humanity within ourselves. We should be nice because that is the road to happiness - for ourselves, for others, for the universe. Simply abstaining from "not being nice" is not enough. We should desire to be kind. When we find ourselves truly wanting to be kind to others, we will be truly happy ourselves. And, finally, when we find ourselves actually accomplishing this, we discover Crane's fulfillment:

"[I]n my meager success at it, I find the solitary pleasure of life."

I do so solemnly swear not to waste my students' time. Amen.

2010-10-07T06:35:00.001-05:00

I have decided that professors need to take an oath when it comes to constructing syllabi. It should go something like this:

Whatever is unnecessary, whatever is good to forgo, whatever can be taken for granted or given as general knowledge, whatever is expected as a matter of course in all academic fields thereby not exclusive to this particular subject, whatever is impertinent to students in any shape or form, I shall resolve to refrain from the rambling thereof.

The Long, Keen Breaths

2010-10-05T00:29:00.005-05:00

Occasionally - very occasionally - a little something from 19th century American literature stands out as actually beautiful to read. I came across one of these occasional somethings while rushing through the chapters required for Tuesday's class discussion of Theodore Dreiser's "Sister Carrie." (And yes, technically, this belongs in 20th century Amer lit category as it was first published in 1900; but, really, what's a year?) Without further adieu, I give you, the coldest and most unforgiving season: winter, according to Dreiser.

"Once the bright days of summer pass by, a city takes on that somber garb of gray, wrapped in which it goes about its labors during the long winter. Its endless buildings look gray, its sky and its streets assume a somber hue; the scattered, leafless trees and windblown dust and paper but add to the general solemnity of color. There seems to be something in the chill breezes which scurry through the long, narrow thoroughfares productive of rueful thoughts. Not poets alone, nor artists, nor that superior order of mind which arrogates to itself all refinement, feel this, but dogs and all men. These feel as much as the poet, though they have not the same power of expression. The sparrow upon the wire, the cat in the doorway, the dray horse tugging his weary load, feel the long, keen breaths of winter. It strikes to the heart of all life, animate and inanimate. If it were not for the artificial fires of merriment, the rush of profit-seeking trade, and pleasure-selling amusements; if the various merchants failed to make the customary display within and without their establishments; if our streets were not strung with signs of gorgeous hues and thronged with hurrying purchasers, we would quickly discover how firmly the chill hand of winter lays upon the heart; how dispiriting are the days during which the sun withholds a portion of our allowance of light and warmth. We are more dependent upon these things than is often thought. We are insects produced by heat, and pass without it."

-"Sister Carrie" by Theodore Dreiser

the Importance of Being Middlest

2010-09-27T21:31:00.028-05:00

I was shelf-cruising the other day (the in-store, air-conditioned equivalent of window shopping) and came upon several notebooks - the sight of which nearly required me to handcuff my dirty paws behind my back to keep from purchasing. I still bought one. I almost bought a second, too, because it deserved a home; I was going to justify the purchase by sending it to my little sister who also has a thing for journals. After leaving the store, I had buyer's remorse. Not over the one I had purchased - don't be ridiculous - but over the one I had left behind. I felt like I was a bad sister for not shipping it north to the kiddo.

It was such a nice notebook.

But, really, the moral of this story is sisterly affection. Over the past year or so, it has crept into my subconscious and pops up at any given moment - though, especially in the presence of notebooks and awesome earrings. (The other little sister is a burgeoning fashionista) Only a few years ago, I was rather disconnected from my siblings - all five of them. Yes, five. I have 2 older brothers, 1 younger stepbrother, and 2 little half-sisters. We are almost never all together at any one time. I can't even remember the last time such a gathering took place - probably at a Christmas over five years ago. As I was saying, I was rather disconnected. I wasn't spending very much time with any of them - let alone sharing the details of my life with them. Can you really blame me? I had a half-hour commute to high school each way, plans for each night of every week, and worked on weekends. When was there any time for family time?

But our lives contort and adjust in strange ways. Last year, I moved to Texas for college - over 2,000 miles from any of my siblings. In the last twelve months, I've grown closer to nearly all of them. I make an effort to talk to my sisters on a weekly basis, and communicate with my brothers via facebook and postcards at least as often. Until this point in my life, my life was (and to some degree, still is) so separate from my siblings - mostly because of age differences. But I've found now that it is precisely that age difference that makes it even more important that I - the middle of all of them - make an attempt to join all of us. (I'll shorten their names to their first initials, as I'm not sure how they feel about being discussed online.) J is 29, Z is 25, C (that's me!) is 21, T is 20, W is 14, M is 12. J and Z were not around very much during my high school years because they were older boys who didn't have much in common with their teenage sis; T, my step-brother, is nearly the same age and we hung out when I visited my father's house; W and M were still in elementary at the time and were more of a time- and effort-consuming type of relationship that simply wore me out. I love my sisters dearly, I do, but when I already loathed babysitting of any kind, repetitive games of hide-&-seek and dress-up get really old, really fast. I'd be lying if I said I didn't try to fandangle my way out of playing with them. But all older siblings did that, right?

Now that I've been married for three years and out-of-state for a little over one, I've started to miss my siblings. We may have not been close, and therefore, one would think we never had anything much to miss, but exactly the opposite has happened on my part. My lack of effort to stay connected with them in my teens has shown me just what could have been. When I started seeing my college classmates interacting with their siblings at the library or chatting with them on the phone, I realized, "I don't have that. Why don't I have that?"

The next realization to follow was: "I want that."

The middle child is often associated with neglect. The middle child is passed over once the younger ones are born into the family unit. This was not the case for me. For a while, I was the baby - the youngest of the first three siblings from my father and mother. After they separated, a step brother was introduced - he was the same age as me and we were the babies together. Then some actual babies were introduced - two girls, my half-sisters. I became a middle child in the mix, but at the same time, I also became the oldest girl. My father often introduces me as "my oldest daughter" or "my big girl" to people who, previously, were only familiar with my younger sisters; not "my daughter, Chamois", not "that other kid that happened somewhere in the late 80s", but specifically "oldest daughter." I've taken on a dual position amongst my siblings, rather than a single rank. I am the youngest of the Big 3, but also the oldest of the daughters. This gives me a pivotal role in the family dynamic where siblings are concerned. I connect, yet define the separate units. Now that I see the advantages this affords me, I do not take this for granted. I have the ability to influence my little sisters, and I have the unique position to join us with our brothers.

As an army wife, I will be moving around alot in the next decade or so. I will repeatedly have to pack up my life into cardboard boxes and ship it to a new base, a new neighborhood, a new house. My family will not be at that house. That house will not be my permanent home. But if there's one thing I've learned from growing up in my scattered family, it is that houses are never your home. Your home is what you carry in your heart. There are times, though, when you're caught up in the busy currents of life, that you forget about those special things you carry inside. To amend this, I wear a necklace for my sisters and a ring for my father (the members I take a particular effort to stay in touch with as we are a little harder to track down at any given moment). My home is my family, and I carry them on my person at all times.

Not So Fair Now, My Dear: the Ugly Side of Snow White.

2010-09-22T16:50:00.012-05:00

Once upon a time, a long long time ago (less than a year), someone asked me to post some items from my creative writing course that I was enrolled in at the time. I obliged with a few, but then sort of gave up on this whole blogging business. Now that I'm back in the part-time-swing of it, I wanted to share a little piece that I've categorized into the pseudo-genre of what I like to call Disgruntled Children's Literature.

Without further ado, I give thee a princess story gone wrong. Terribly, horribly, unthinkably wrong.

White as Snow, Red as Blood, Black as Death

The Queen is enraged. She calls for the most proficient huntsman in the castle.

“Take Snow White into the woods. Kill her.”

The huntsman bows and accepts the task, but there is the slightest trace of shock and sorrow that hints at objection in his face. Just to be safe, she places a curse upon him as she locks eyes with him in a cold glare right before he turns to carry out his dreaded duty.

He invites Snow White to join him on a hunt on the premise of her uncanny ability to attract the woodland creatures with her beautiful singing voice. She normally does not like to accompany the hunters as she does not enjoy seeing the animals struck down with arrows, their necks slit, and innards spilled. The hunter assures her that this is simply a reconnaissance tour to track the migration of the forest fowl. She has been wanting to get out of the castle walls all day, where her only friend is her own voice as the Queen denies her any visitors; she agrees to go.

Snow White bounds ahead, gasping at the fresh air, relishing the lush greenery. She wonders at the lofty height of the mighty redwoods and the elegant delicacy of the demure lady slippers. She hums as she begins to slow down. A delightful chorus of little birds joins in the tune as they congregate in the branches above her. She smiles as curious rabbits begin to edge from the underbrush. A small squirrel bobs along beside her. She stoops to peek under the hood of a jack-in-the-pulpit, glancing around for a jill. As she gently lifts the flap of the waxy little flower, the birds stop chirping, their song piddling out almost as quickly as it had begun. Snow White inclines her head to determine their disturbance – she had not stopped humming. She turns to ask the huntsman if he noticed their cessation, too.

Snow White screams!

The huntsman lords over her, knife drawn.

“Please!” she cries, “Oh please!”

The huntsman loses his determination the instant she beholds him. He lowers his knife.

But it is too late. In the moment he transmits the truth of his intention – regardless of its forced and vicarious manufacture – from his eyes into hers, the curse has passed on. He spares her life, but he cannot halt the curse. But, this, he could not know.

He could not know that it was the nature of the curse to operate through the carrier's most prominent talent. The huntsman, himself, was an excellent hunter because he was a superb tracker and strategist. He was meant to kill the young princess by cornering her in a remote sector of the royal forests and finishing her off with one well-placed stroke. At the very last possible moment, though, he choked. The innocence and desperation of the little woman's eyes and pleas foiled his objective. Seeing the faces of his victims was the one thing that ever caused the huntsman's arrows to misfly, and he had seen hers – her wide ebon eyes tearing in shock, her pearl white cheeks flushing with fear, her blood red lips disfiguring in panic. As he lowers his knife, an oppressive and cumbersome weight lifts from his heart. It passes into hers.

“Run,” he urges her. “Run away and never return!”

The girl scrambles to her feet, tripping over roots and stones as she flees, glancing back at his miserable, stooping posture as the foliage begins to obscure his figure. She runs and runs and then runs further. At last, she cannot take another step. She collapses on the muddy, debris-cluttered floor of the forest. The sky darkens above her as night settles in. She shivers as the evening breezes begin to curl and twist into the neck and sleeves of her cloak. She casts her eyes about for some sort of shelter. In the foggy dimness she detects a hollow at the base of an immense and looming tree. Snow White crawls into the dark pocket and cries.

The night sounds of the forest begin to skitter and rattle all around. She stops crying to listen. Her silence only magnifies the inconsistent clamor that creaks and swishes, rustles and groans in the darkness. She becomes scared. She comforts herself in the only way she knows how. She begins to sing. Her voice shudders and falters at first, but as she begins to distract herself more effectively, it grows stronger and sweeter. She sings until she can no longer hear the hoots and hisses, the squeals and squawks. Her voice becomes hoarse; she soon falls asleep.

She wakes, but not to the sun. Rather, a haze of tawny light is dispelled in patches, the forest too thick for the bright and happy rays of morning to reach the murky floor. Snow White's eyes do not take long to adjust for there is not much to adjust to from the eerie dreams which had hardly given her even the impression of rest. She stretches her stiff limbs and arranges her cloak more becomingly. She stands and emerges from the hollow of the majestic tree.

She gasps, her delicate white hands flying to her blood red lips, the ebony hair standing on end on the back of her neck. She gapes at the scene before her. They are everywhere. On the boulders and in the bushes, up in the tree branches and down between the roots. Strewn over and scattered about the little clearing are the corpses of an hundred woodland animals. Blue birds and rabbits, foxes and deer, chipmunks and mice. Dead.

Snow White never sings again.

It's a Mad Mad Mad Mad World Wide Web

2010-09-21T00:05:00.007-05:00

Well, gang, I've come to crash your party! This is my first contribution (or distraction, if you prefer) to the much adored blogoff. This was written rather quickly and off the top of my noggin, so I admit it's not my best work, but the point is to say what I think on the subject. And this is, after all, the first thing I thought of. Well, have at it.

Today's blogoff prompt:
Everybody has an opinion about Facebook and its social web kin. They are either humanity's greatest achievements or the products of a world gone mad. What do you think?

I use facebook and twitter on a daily basis - okay, more like a tridaily basis. I post links to articles or stupid things on youtube, share vacation photos, and occasionally put in a good word for a groovy band with a salute to whatever song I'm slamjamming to while avoiding homework. Do I fill my status updates with "Dang gurl I l00k hawt in these stilettos!" and "Why do people always ask me where I buy my cute tops? LOL" and "SoooOOooo gonna rock it 2nite at da clubZ" ...No. A resounding NO. Partly because I would hit my head on door frames if I wore stilettos - that is, assuming I would even able to stay upright in them. I also haven't been shopping in a while, and I don't go clubbin' every night. Or any night for that matter. But, mostly, I don't spout such vapid details of my life over facebook because I know other people don't give a shat. (No, that wasn’t a typo) While I am guilty of posting some pretty irrelevant items, I generally try to consider my friends on the social network before overloading their newsfeeds with "I" statements.

So are facebook, twitter, and other social networking sites solely for narcissistic ninnies? My answer is: "No, it is not." I believe the overuse of the social network by those who do seem to be seeking constant self-affirmation, though, is just a natural byproduct of any mechanism of social interaction. There will always be the self-glorifying, I'm-God's-gift-to-mankind (or womankind), attention-seeking pricks in the world. They will always be running their mouths - whether it be to your face or on your screen. There's always that coworker who has to one-up everyone else's weekend gallavants at the water cooler. We've all had that cousin we can't stand to sit next to at the family reunion because they won't shut up about their giant house, fancy car, exotic biannual vacations, and, yes, even their sweet abs (for Pete's sake, we're cousins! Stop asking me to confirm you have a hawt bod!) We simply can't get rid of them. They drive us crazy, we loathe them, we see their status updates and scurry the other way when we spot them at the mall later on. The 'social conversation' we type at the computer carries into and is produced by the happenings of the real world.

Social networks and the people who use them are just a representative model of the people in the regular world. Therefore, if facebook is littered with narcissists, then so is the real world. If twitter is plagued with the mundane lives of ordinary people, then so is the real world. If the online community has gone crazy - well, my friends, then the real world, too, has gone to pot.

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To find out what others have to say or to learn about #letsblogoff, follow the blue hyperlink road!

Just when you thought you'd never see her again. . .

2010-09-14T16:08:00.003-05:00

I'm baaaaacckk!!

You thought you'd shirked me off for good, didn't you?

Well, okay, I wasn't putting up much of a fight, but I'm back now with fists of fury. Not really. More like an epidermis crawling for escape from textbooks and lectures.

I will attempt more of an effort to post on this here blog o' mine again. I don't have a good excuse for my previous absences, and I will leave it at that. How's that for mysterious and enigmatic? Now that I've got you hooked with my inexplicable reappearance, you will just have to stick around and see what happens.

I'll try to make it worth your while.

On the Terrors and Caprices of Inspiration

2010-07-24T22:58:00.006-05:00

Sometimes inspiration strikes and it crashes around violently, demanding recognition and conversation. It batters itself against you until you abandon your now meaningless, everyday, mundane task and surrender your undivided attention. Inspiration is a selfish and rash thing.

But the euphoria we feel as it envelopes and seeps around and through us is just too glorious to steel ourselves against it.

And why should we ignore it? Can we really justify to ourselves that denying inspiration means more stability? For after all, "more stability" means "less spontaneity." Inspiration, by its very nature, is spontaneous. It is reckless and unpredictable.

Alas, it is for that very reason that some people would shut their doors against a shivering and starving artist's masterpiece that declares to the world what these sad, nine-to-five people are missing out on. They do not want to admit to themselves that they are "going without." They do not want to admit that despite their bank accounts and university degrees, they are poverty-stricken within. Had they heeded inspiration when it railed against the door and rattled at the windows of their youth, they would not be so destitute now. If they would but unlock the deadbolt and throw their quiet, scheduled evening of caution to the wind!

Esquina de la Cocina : Chicken Posole

2010-03-23T18:37:00.006-05:00

Those shelf-stocking tricksters at the grocery store on Sunday thought it would be a most excellent sales lift to place an assortment of rotisserie chickens near to the entrance. Thus, all unsuspecting customers would have to pass by the deliriously delicious aroma of such succulent fowl. Not excited about the prospect of cooking after a long and arduous day of sleeping in til noon and bumming around the apartment - until Hubs so rudely dragged my butt into the car to resupply our refrigerator and cupboards - a rotisserie chicken sounded perfect. Only problem is that chicken had more meat than two little diners could finish, and I had already taken out pork chops for the next night (as you already know). And so, today, ravenous after gum'nt class, I glanced over at a REAL SIMPLE issue that has been hiding under the side table for an embarrassing number of months now, and low and behold, the cover featured a fascinating solution to my leftoveritis:

Chicken Posole

1T olive oil

1 onion, thinly sliced

1/4 tsp salt

1/4 tsp ground black pepper

32oz chicken broth

1 28-oz can diced tomatoes, drained

1 dried ancho chili, thinly sliced (or 1/4 tsp crushed red pepper)

2 c shredded rotisserie chicken meat

1 15-oz can hominy, rinsed

1 lime, cut into wedges

1] Heat the oil in a large saucepan over medium heat. Add the onion, salt, and black pepper. Cook, stirring occasionally, until soft and beginning to brown (10-12 min)

2] Add the broth, tomatoes, and chili - bring to a boil.

3] Stir in the chicken and hominy and simmer until heated through, (3-4 min).

Serve with the lime.

(Real Simple magazine, October 2009, p.205)

*A local friend of mine here in Laredo suggested tostadas w/chile to go along with the posole. At the moment I do not have any in my house, but I will definitely try to remember that for next time!

Esquina de la Cocina : Cerdo de Limon

2010-03-22T22:08:00.004-05:00

Tonight I was trying to decide what to make for dinner when inspiration hit. I had a surplus of limes from my last grocery shopping escapade...still not sure what I bought them for. Last Friday, I attended my first carne asada (literally translates as 'meat grill') here in Laredo. Essentially, a carne (as it is commonly abbreviated) consists of massive amounts of meat - chicken, ribs, fajita beef, brisket - all grilled, Mexicana-style. Unlike so many of us and our gringo idea of a BBQ-ing occasion, there is no barbecue sauce slathered all over the meat so that is an unrecognizable heap of goo. Rather, they are seasoned (I'm not sure what with) and cooked over what I like to call "special wood". (The specificities of these small details are still yet to be made known to myself.) Also common at a carne, whole onions are slit, but not separated yet, and lime juice is squeezed into them. The onions are then wrapped in foil and placed by the fire to become delicious lime-steamed slivers. It was these limed onions that inspired me to try combining a few carne accents to dinner tonight. Without further adieux, I give you Cerdo de Limon, which literally translates as "pig of lemon/lime", but really is meant to convey "Lime Pork Chops". Buen apetito!

Cerdo de Limon

1-2 T olive oil

2 boneless, skinless pork chops (cut into 1 1/2" x 1 1/2" cutlets)

1/2 tsp cinnamon

1/2 tsp ground ginger

1/4 tsp ground black pepper

1 lime

bread crumbs

1/2 med white onion, chopped

1 clove garlic, chopped

1] Heat oil in 10" nonstick frying pan (med-hi heat), add onions.

2] In shallow dish, combine ground ginger, cinnamon, black pepper (adjust amounts of each to your taste). Squeeze lime into spices and mix well.

3] Coat pork chops in lime juice mixture, then coat with bread crumbs.

4] Place pork chops in pan with onions, cook on one side for about 5 minutes. Add garlic.

5] Flip pork chops over, (breadcrumbs from underside should be med-dark brown, but not burnt) cook for about 2-3 minutes.

6] Serve with onions and garlic on top (onions will be slightly blackened).

Serves 2, with leftovers.

Suggestion: serve with rice and broccoli or asparagus sauteed with garlic.

Twitterpated

2010-03-12T13:31:00.006-06:00

HA! GOT YOU!

You totally thought this was going to be all about that social "conversation" giant didn't you?!

Well, guess what?! ....ok, fine, you're right.

As you may or may not have noticed - more likely the second option there - I haven't been posting regularly or recently on this here blog. Truth is, the orange square with a weird B in it (see top left), and the little blue bird are having a face off - "this internet's not big enough for the two of us" and whatnot. Despite the mighty mighty boss-powers of the letter B, that little tweeting, short-lipped avian is on the upper hand. He requires only short spurts of creativity and forced selectivity of said creativity which encourages even more creative creativity to say what I creatively need to say in 140 characters or less. Creatively, of course. As I was saying, short-lipped.

To take a note from Chaucer's "Canterbury Tales" (from "The General Prologue", of course, I'm not that bookish), I give you a peek at the clerk who happens to be quite the scholarly scholar (Hey, I'm a student, too! Totally didn't mean to draw a parallel there...Ha!)

"Not one word spoke he more than was his need;

And that was said in fullest reverence

And short and quick and full of high good sense."

See that there? "...short and quick and full of high good sense" An excellent description of my very own tweets, indeed. I should like to think my twittering comes as a direct gene which I must have received, being a direct descendant from Chaucer's clerk. Indeed, the clerk himself could've been quite the tweet-star. If only such a thing existed in the 14th century. And if only the clerk were not fictitious...which would mean I can't actually be related to him unless I, too, am fictitious.... o_O My life's a sham! (HA! "sham"...my name's Cham...which is pronounced the same as "sham"...o shut up)

Well, there you have it: my excuse. My excuse for not blogging away as a good and faithful wife of the web should do. Suffice it to say, my devotions have found another, less needy application.

In all actuality, studies have overtaken my life this semester, especially this past week with midterms and such rot, and now Spring Break is upon us, and it is time for me to go gallavanting off with the Hubs to wild and strange lands. (ok fine, it's just hill country in TX...)

The square in the Hollywood circle of my friends

2010-01-31T23:32:00.005-06:00

So I don't know if you've been noticing, but I've been noticing a few changes around facebook. As in, suddenly, I'm friends with several celebrities. That's right, I've finally made it to the "In Crowd."

Stop laughing.

Okay, so I don't actually know any celebrities - and people who think they've found the true legit facebook accounts of celebrities should probably retake their school admittance exams because celebrities don't have facebooks. There's no point - the tabragazines already do that job for them. Somehow, though, there are suddenly celebrity faces showing up in my newsfeeds. The first two were of (these are the actual photos my friends posted) Ben Stiller and Jason Statham - and, no lie, I couldn't tell at first if it was actually a photo of my real life acquaintance (with improved grooming habits) or if it was the celebrity. They were THAT close. So naturally I googled, "Why are people using celebrities as their facebook profiles?" and didn't come up with anything at first, so I tried a few different approaches until I happened upon facedouble.com. I got so excited - Finally! I will find out what famous person I resemble! (Every little girl's dream) Well...my hopes were a little smashed when I couldn't find any dead ringers for myself.

Here's the deal: you upload your headshot, and facedouble finds your celebrity lookalike. Well, I gave it a shot, and when the results weren't even close, I tried a few different photos. I still don't think any of them are close enough to call them my "celebrity match" but here's a few of my "doubles":

Facedouble didn't actually show Kristen Stewart (above, right) as a match - but I'm wondering if they just don't have her in the database. (Because I'm definitely closer to her than Calista Flockhart, right?) Anyway, one of the first matches they found was of Mischa Barton (above, left) and I guess I can see that, but maybe it's just because the pose is similar? And on the Kristen, I don't know - I'm thinking I would be the result if Mischa and Kristen had a baby. Impossible to conceive? Yes. Horrible pun intended? Even more so.

Another one that popped up was Kate Winslet (below, right). I couldn't find the same photo they used, and I can't remember which one I used, but we did have a very similar nose in that other pair.

So what do you guys think? Could I pass as a stunt double? Or just an extra?

Goodnight light and the red balloon

2010-01-27T00:10:00.007-06:00

For some reason, I had Goodnight Moon on my mind today. This is a classic children's book that everyone remembers. Well, my family didn't actually have a copy of this book. So I discovered it at a friend's house. Regardless, it always bewildered me as to why any child would want this book to be the last thing they remember before falling asleep. There were no princesses, no strange and wonderful creatures, no heroes, no candy. It didn't even have a plot! But then again, I don't remember anybody reading books to me at bed time other than the advent Christmas story book which my brother and I begged my mom to read even when we were well past the appropriate age of bedtime stories. What can I say? It was a strange and wonderful thing to have a story at bedtime especially at such a strange and wonderful time as Christmas. (At what other time of year do parents successfully get their children into bed early with the promise of a large, bearded man coming to invade their home?)

So then I was trying to remember if we had anything to substitute for bedtime stories. All I can remember is praying before going to sleep. We didn't do the kneel-on-the-floor-by-the-bed thing. We snuggled down, mom tucked us in, prayed with us, and kissed us goodnight. She would pray the same way we did; I suppose to make it more accessible to us. We would always start with "Dear Jesus" as if he were our pen pal. It was very cute.

So why do we have bedtime stories and bedtime prayers? This was the next thought that crossed my mind as I made myself a cup of chamomile. Why do generation after generation employ these nightly rituals? The conclusion I've come to is simple: life is a series of chaotic events. We wake up late for work, we discover we're out of toilet paper in our dire moment of need, we lose our car keys on a regular basis, we have the most annoying customer harass us about returning an item that wasn't even bought in our store (Uh, Ma'am that receipt is for Autozone. This is Things Remembered.), we just can't stop burning the steak on the grill, it goes on and on. Life is a series of chaotic events for children, too. They want pancakes for breakfast, but mommy only has time for Cheerios. They want the toy that their brother is playing with and get hysterical when he won't give it over. They have to stand in the back of the line when they really really really really just want to be the leader. They drop their lollipops in the sandbox, skin their knees on rocks, and fall off their bikes. It's rough out there. So at the end of the day, we just want something good to go down.

That is why Goodnight Moon continues to dominate the evening literary experience. There is no conflict, no bully, no vegetables, and there is no complex reasoning as to why things happen the way they do. There is only the bunny in his room. It is quiet. It is peace.

That is why we pray before we go to sleep. It's just us - no one to be self-conscious around, no one to argue with us, no one to tell us that it's ridiculous to pray for new shoes or for our boss to join the ranks of the Missing Persons column on the police bulletin board. It is quiet. It is peace.

Watership Down is a PLACE?!

2010-01-25T00:34:00.002-06:00

Apparently Watership Down is named after a PLACE. It does not mean a crew of rabbits are valiantly trying to bail out their boat. (So discovers the girl who thought for all of her childhood that it was Tequila Mockingbird. And I don't even have the excuse of a wino mother. Darn her sobriety!)

So this is my method of segwaying into a book review because as I signed in to blogger for the first time in over a month (ah, vacation - the relaxing, the hot chocolate, the dial-up...) I discovered that some cruel hacker thought it would be hilarious to dangle a carrot in front of me (said carrot being 8 followers. Eight! I know this must be some kind of virus...right? Or are you people really there? Regardless, I will now regale you - you eight suspicious followers - with a few takes on my latest literary accomplishments. Don't worry, they're not that daunting.) First up....

Gee golly, it's a classic! The Great Gatsby - I finally sat myself down in seat 1A and read it cover to cover from Hartford to Laredo. (A surprisingly quick read!) I must say, the written Gatsby didn't seem to grab the cockles of my heart like the filmed Gatsby did. Then again, that was Robert Redford, so poor literary Gatsby didn't stand much chance there (even if the one couldn't exist without the other...). Having said that, I did enjoy the novel. Daisy was just as annoying in the book as I remember her being in the film. I liked that the story is narrated by Gatsby's new neighbor - not by one of the "insiders" of the story - makes for a more balanced presentation of the scenarios. I think it helped avoid bias in the sticky situations all of them find themselves in. Poor Gatsby, though, it really is sad how it ends for him - I don't want to spoil it for anyone still living under a rock. Besides, I'm not here to give synopsis, just snippets of my experiences in the land of literacy.

After the gallivantings of the rich and spoiled, I delved into a completely different kind of tale. The Glass Castle, by Jeanette Walls, is a memoir filled with an incredible catalog of the adventures and misadventures of the Walls children. Jeanette's first memory is of being on fire. She is standing on a chair, leaning over the stove, boiling hot dogs. Then she smells something that doesn't smell like boiling hot dogs. Her favorite dress is on fire. She is 2 years old. You can imagine what the nurses thought of that story. This book begins at 2 years of age and follows Jeanette to her second marriage. There are surprises all along the way. So many many times I thought to myself, Wow. Someone actually lived like this? Like, they existed in this chaos and survived?

Back to the classics. Waaaayyy back. Once upon a time

there was a cynic who decided that she should write a book about horrible, horrible people playing horrible, horrible games with each other. Her name: Emily Bronte. (Okay, okay, to be fair I don't know that much about the author - or is it authoress? - herself. But something must not have been ticking in a positive direction up in that noggin of hers in order for her to produce such a depressing work!) Wuthering Heights - personally, I think the title pretty much describes the way you will feel as you read this novel. I did indeed feel, wuthered. All the females (and a few of the boys) are spoiled bratts, and all the males are awful, rude, argumentative brutes in the sincerest form of the word. Reading the exchanges and scenes between all of them (and it gets confusing here and there - all these cousins and whatnot) just gets you depressed, tired out, or irritated at how stupidly selfish each one of them is. I don't understand why all of these novels about horrible, horrible people became classics. I mean, I'm not saying that only fairy tales should be considered great literature (and, hey, let's be honest, if you read the originals of those, they don't have happy endings either), but why would sooo many people want to put themselves through the misery of reading about such awful characters. I've experience this same conundrum whilst reading Madame Bovary, Dorian Grey, and even in The Great Gatsby. It makes Jane Austen a refreshing walk in the park. (Speaking of which, saw the cleverest clip on youtube the other day - Emma Thompson receiving a Golden Globe award as if she were Jane Austen)

Back to the memoirs with ye! For those who adore WWII and the miniseries Band of Brothers - this book will be an easy read. Admittedly, I did have to go back and read sentences twice over several times just to make sure I remembered which battalion was with which company and which platoon was in which position and which squad was executing which mission. I probably would've had a much more difficult time if I wasn't already such a fan of the HBO miniseries (seen each episode at least 3 or 4 times). Even without, though, this book is a fantastic read, and I wish more people would read it and realize just how amazing our soldiers can be. Dick Winters was the beloved leader of Easy Company (an airborne company dismantled after the war) at the beginning of World War II, and this book covers his story from graduating high school until right up to the day he started writing the book. The stories about his men and the feats they accomplished are heroic, mind-blowing, and awe-inspiring. Everyone should read this book. Everyone.

...And then there was one. The Memory Keeper's Daughter, by Kim Edwards, is a novel which I have yet to finish. I started reading it shortly after receiving it for Christmas, got half-way through, and had to leave it in Vermont as it was a hardcover and just a little bit too large for my engorged suitcase. At least, this way, next time I'm up North I'll have something to read should the snow block me in! The story begins in the 1960s with the birth of twins, one of them a healthy little boy, the other a little girl who would look healthy to anyone who wasn't looking for it - "it" being the signs of Down Syndrome. The father of the babies is the doctor; he had to perform an emergency delivery for his wife. He passes the little girl off to the nurse, tells his fainting wife that the child was stillborn, and directs the nurse to take the baby to a "home for the feeble-minded." Nurse decides, Hey, I'm not totally comfortable with just dropping her off. I'm getting on in years, too, who knows if I'll ever get married. I know! I'll keep it! And away she drives with the baby in a cardboard box. The story then goes back and forth between the birth mother and father (who still have the little boy) and the nurse and all the different experiences between and among them. Interesting? Yes. Heartbreaking? At times. I don't love the writing style, but it works. Worth the read? Probably, if you've got the time.

Well, folks, I'm pooped. It's way past my bed time (pssh, yeah right) and I have to wake up and begin to read the last week's worth of assignment as my textbooks have only JUST arrived today. Well, two of them. Still waiting on five more. Oy. By the way, I've been working through Beowulf - another classic bit of literature - which was God-awful in high school, but really not so bad this time around. Stay tuned, and don't worry, there won't be many more book reviews in the near future - semester is in session and I no longer have the time to read at my leisure. It confounds me how books get in the way of books sometimes.

Just ooonnneee moorreee....

2009-12-13T16:22:00.004-06:00

I really am leaving, I promise! I did not intend to post a movie review after my extremely witty farewell note. In fact, I hadn't intended to go to the theater at all before my trip, but what are friends for if not impromptu outings that drive you to tears, eh? Well, it is indeed true that my departure is imminent. In a brief twelve hours I will be on my way to the airport, northward-bound.

So, in the words of a wise young lady,

"Be safe, be well, eat fruit, and remember, if a stranger offers you candy, FOLLOW HIM, he probably knows where there's a ----load more."

Reelistic

2009-12-09T22:16:00.002-06:00

Just got back home from watching Brothers. I still don't know what to say about it. So I will ramble incoherently.

If you're looking for a good dose of depression, this is one for you! I'm not kidding, I cried alot. I can't say from experience, but I think this is a very realistic look at what it would be like for a family when the husband/father comes home, suffering from PTSD. Here's the general plot of the story (don't worry, no real spoilers will be in this post):

Movie begins with family sending off their soldier - Captain Sam Cahill (Toby McGuire) - to Afghanistan. Sam has a troubled brother named Tommy (Jake Gyllenhaal) and an overbearing father that lets Tommy know that Sam is the better of his two sons. Not exactly happy harmony, but they've grown up like this, so that's just how it is. Sam's helicopter goes down, the officers show up at his wife's - Grace (Natalie Portman) - door to tell her the bad news. They have a funeral. Tommy finally starts to straighten out and decides to help Grace out with her two little girls - Isabelle (Bailey Madison) and Maggie (Taylor Geare) - and they become close. Then one day, the phone rings: Sam's not dead, he'd just been captured. Sam comes home, things go to poot. Family tensions arise again and Sam suffers from PTSD, scaring everyone around him and reeking havoc on his own house. I won't say how, but the movie doesn't end there. It is a semi-happy ending, but doesn't show anything being resolved really. However, it does feel like the film is complete - you aren't left hanging.

Okay, now that we have the loose synopsis down, let me just say that all actors did an amazing job - especially Bailee Madison who plays the older daughter of about 10 years of age. This girl is one to watch for! The range of emotions and feelings this little girl has to portray would be daunting for even an accomplished adult actor, and she is flawlessly believable. I cried when she cried, was scared when she was scared. Did I mention she's only 10?? She pretty much stole the whole show.

This movie is very un-hollywood and portrays a regular middle class family. The rest of the cast does an amazing job as well. (I'm a Gyllenhaal fan, so I'm a bit prejudiced on his part, but still, they were all fantastic.) In retrospect, their performances far outweigh the serious sadness you experience while watching them. While I'm glad I got to see it in theaters, I think it would be just as good at home, so if you're not sure you'd want to see it, wait til it comes out on DVD. But definitely rent it!

This movie makes you reconsider your life and the people in it. I'm still feeling the effects of it, one of those weird drifting feelings where you don't know what to think.

O....you're still here?

2009-12-08T13:39:00.002-06:00

Just remembered I have a blog!

No, not really, I didn't forget. I've just been ignoring you. Sorry, blog. But you're just not high on my list of priorities right now. I have finals and friends and shopping to do and lists to make and suitcases to pack, and well, you know the drill. It's that time of year for me to shut you out and make you feel pathetic and lonely. Don't worry, I'm sure you're not the only one.

We'll talk soon. Let's do lunch sometime....a few weeks from now.

Kisses.

A slap on the wrist is the same as red ink on the test.

2009-11-19T23:52:00.002-06:00

I noticed several rampant spelling and grammatical errors in my psychology course's text the other day. They were all found in the last two chapters, too. We are nearing the end of the semester - three weeks and our academic fates will be sealed into permanent digital existence (plus the few noobs who request paper copies).

Perhaps the authors thought they could get away with skipping the editor's desk and racing straight to the presses because who's-gonna-be-reading-this-crap-at-this-point-in-the-course-anyway? Or maybe it's more like even-if-they-are-still-being-overzealous-and-studious-they-should-be-able-to-catch-my-drift-by-now.

Sorry, psychologists. No such luck.

I still caught your typos.

They still irritated me.

It made it that much more difficult to catch-your-drift.

And errors like this only make me question the validity of your entire text if you don't take the effort to throw in a few articles ("a", "an", "the") here and there.

Did you really just squander away a semester of my blooming collegiate potential?

For shame.

que onda guera?

2009-11-17T22:33:00.005-06:00

They Call Me "Beautiful"

(Really, I'm Just White)

I came to this town a few months ago. I still don't know if I like it. It has a few perks. For one, not everyone knows your name here. There are all those big box stores and chain restaurants we didn't have back home. People are just different in general.

It has a few downsides, too, though. For one, I don't know everyone here. There are no local diners or boutiques like back home. The people aren't anything like the people I'm used to. I still don't know if I like it.

Anyway. I came to this town a few months ago. Really, it's a city. It's the biggest city I've ever lived in. And, somehow, at the same time, it manages to have the least diversity of any place I've ever lived. Almost everyone here has brown eyes and brown hair and brown skin of some shade. I have brown eyes, but that's it. Nothing else fits. But it's okay – I've never been one to just melt into the crowd, to blend into the scenery. Even if I tried, I couldn't blend into the scenery here because the scenery is brown, too.

I used to wonder what it would be like to have blue eyes – like my mother. But then I found that photo album of her when she was my age (fifteen at the time). I thought it was a picture of me and I wondered where those bell bottoms came from and whose house was I standing in? Then I saw the faded rosy tint of the photograph and the darkness of the girl's hair. It was my mother. Never again did I wish for her blue eyes. Because in that moment I realized that my brown eyes were all that tied me to my father's face. I had always wondered who I looked like. I didn't tan like my father, and even by fifteen, I was taller than my mother. My eyes – they came from my father. My face – it came from my mother. My hair – it's from somewhere in between. My skin – well, I still don't know where that came from actually. While everyone else in my family turned varying shades of pink or latte in the summer sun, I stayed white. Maybe a hint of peach. But never one or the other. Just in the middle.

I've been in this city for a few months now. I suppose I'm still somewhere in the middle, even here. My skin is white, my hair is dark blonde, but my eyes are brown. I'm glad they're brown. People stare less – or at least, not as long. Because, as I mentioned before, I don't blend in – and here, I couldn't even if I tried. The skin, the hair – they run flags up poles, cause radars to blip. But then, after an inspection of eye color, life resumes. People turn back to their own girlfriends, resume surveying their menus.

They seem to lose interest in what makes a guera exactly that – which is how I wish it would always be. But there are always a few who don't go back to their menus. Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you – I'm a waitress in this city of brown. We have a routine: I come to the table, they gawk. They regain control of their larynxes and ask where I'm from and why-in-God's-name would I move here? They have a point. Why-in-God's-name would a guera move here? Finally, I get a drink order out of them and go back to the kitchen.

The kitchen. I have no clue what the kitchen guys say. They don't speak very much English – if any at all. A few do, though. Rocky does. One day he is trying to be friendly, to learn more about me. He is very sweet and earnest. He has two autistic little boys and a wife he loves very much. You can tell by the way he looks when he talks about them. He is tall, almost unusually tall, I think, for someone in this brown city. He comments on how people from around here have very few variances in heritage.

He asks me, “What are you?”
“Um. Well, mostly German, some Sicil–”
“No. No, you are just like me.”
I stare. His skin is chestnut, his hair is pitch black.
“We all bleed red blood, Beautiful.”
I smile. He goes back to work.

(This was an assignment for my Creative Writing course)

Classifieds. Joy.

2009-11-12T23:58:00.004-06:00

So what do you do when you suddenly find yourself unemployed?

You go out and party on Sunday night to celebrate your mutual unemployment with the people who are no longer your coworkers but merely people you may someday run into at the grocery store, go home and never fall asleep, drag yourself to class at the ungodly hour of 8:30 am on Monday, soldier through a horrid schedule of speech and government, and promptly conk out at 4:30 in the afternoon. Then wake up at 10:30 pm, unable to sleep another wink. Then understand what it must be like to be an insomniac until 3:30 am at which point you crash again until 9:30 am Tuesday when you wake up even though you set the alarm for 11:30. Now is the point where you wonder Why does everything happen on the half hour? Why is it never the exact o'clock or quarter of?

Oh. That's not what you're supposed to do?

Well.

I never said I was a conformist.

And I also was severely confused for a few days as to why my calendar seemed to progress through three days and I only remember enough sleep to complete a slumber cycle for one.

Planes, Trains, and Automobiles (minus the trains and automobiles)

2009-11-11T18:15:00.003-06:00

"Then there's the article after which this book is named. It's a profile of Cesar Millan, the so-called dog whisperer. Millan can calm the angriest and most troubled of animals with the touch of his hand. What goes on inside Millan's head as he does that? That was what inspired me to write the piece. But after I got halfway through my reporting, I realized there was an even better question: When Millan performs his magic, what goes on inside the dog's head? That's what we really want to know - what the dog saw."

I am so excited to finally have this book in my hands! I've been trying to find things to read on my trip to Vermont. Many layovers and long flights ahead of me, and the idea of redoing the sudoku and crossword puzzles five times each was not exactly inciting anticipation. Besides, who knows if my seatmate would even let me have the copy of Sky out of the pocket located on the back of the seat in front of him or her. Oh dear. Now I'm wondering if it will be a him or a her. I've never been on a plane by myself - I've always had a traveling companion. Not this time around. This time I'm flying solo, literally. Dear God, please let it be a moderately-sized person who will sleep the whole time and not need to crawl over me to pee every 20 minutes. And if they're chatty, let it be something that is relevant to my interests. And if they're old, let them have excellent hearing for their age. And let them talk at a decently-timed speed. No 10 second pauses between sentences where you're not sure if they just fell asleep with their eyes open or if they haven't finished telling you about how they had to walk uphill both ways in 3 feet of snow without boots because times were hard back in the day.

Times are hard enough now.

Amen.

Are you gonna finish that?

2009-10-28T01:43:00.004-05:00

My mother asked me the other day, "Are you eating?"

I said, "Yes."

She didn't mean Are you eating? Because there's alot of crunchy interference on this call. I think she meant Are you eating? Because with your hubby gone for months at basic training, you're probably uber depressed like a good and loving wife should be. Or maybe she actually knows me well enough to know that even "depression" couldn't stop my munchies. So she must have really meant Are you eating? Because I know you. When your schedule fills up like the way it has recently, you do everything except listen to your body. You forget to pee until you're dancing around like a lunatic in the grocery store checkout with no escape that would allow you to keep your spot in line. You also forget to eat and have fuzzy spells. Oh yes. She knows me.

I am now looking over at the desk where my empty salad bowl and crumbs from those yummy-til-you-think-about-how-processed-everything-is-in-it microwavable chicken pot pies have been sitting for the past six hours. "Yes," I repeat to myself. "I am eating." Just not as often.

When we first moved to Texas, I didn't have a job, and I didn't have classes. I sat around at home reading, watching DVDs and dumb stuff on youtube, baking by the pool, and eating. Lots of eating. And the winter before, in Burlington (Vermont), when it was too cold to walk up to the post office every day, and so I only went twice a week - thereby eliminating my "exercise routine" - I ate. I went through peanut butter like a peanut-butter-fanatic. And I don't even like peanut butter that much. It's just so much easier than actually preparing something better tasting. And I felt like eating. I gained weight. All in my butt, too. I could no longer fit into my most favoritest jeans. Which was really bad. Because it was winter in Vermont, and I could only squeeze into one pair of pants that weren't sweats, and even then, the button was rebellious and you could tell they were too small for my chubby hips. So what did I do? Bought wider jeans. ...and oh yeah, tried to stop eating peanut butter.

Two weeks ago, I was wearing my PJ shorts, and I looked in the full length mirror in the bathroom. Something wasn't right. ...My thighs...they look....like thighs....not tree trunks. "ooOOOooOOO!" Hubs came charging in ready to squash a bug or put out an electrical fire. I stared at him because he had just opened the door that the mirror is on and I could no longer see my recently re-figured appendages. "What happened?" he inquires with sincere flabbergasted curiosity. "Fall Semester. Employment. That's what happened." The look on his face then can only be compared to this.

A few days ago, my mother asked if I was eating. Yes, I am. Just not as often. Which is good. Because I have successfully thwarted the freshman fifteen. At least for this year. There's always the sophomore cellulite.

you asked for it

2009-10-26T17:23:00.004-05:00

Jotted this down earlier right before Creative Writing today. May be a little redundant in content considering the subject of the last entry, but at the same time, maybe there's a theme developing here for the week. We will see.

POST-CHILD

My brother insists that I send him postcards. He sends me postcards, he says. I should send him postcards, he says. Of Texas, he says. He says this on the phone. The phone on which we are talking. Talking about all the same things we'd squeeze onto the back of a postcard. Okay, I say. As soon as I find some, I say. There's not much in Laredo worth making a postcard of, I say. Send me one, he says. Okay, I say. Maybe he just can't think of enough to fill a letter. Maybe he likes the forced selectivity of content. Just wait til you get the next one, he says. Okay, I say. Can't wait. Maybe he just likes to get glossy 3"x5" pictures in his mailbox. You'll love it, he says. Send me one, he says.

his latest dispatch

tarjeta postales

2009-10-25T01:30:00.005-05:00

ooOOooOOOooo!!

Words can not contain how excited I am right now.

I just made my own postcards at Moo.

I think this is also my first unsupervised internet transaction. WOOT! Two tweeting birdies with one digital stone!

...By unsupervised, I mean that it was something I didn't feel I should talk to the hubs about before blasting away all our moolahs. hehe, I spent my MOOlah at MOO. Well, as that guy that the guy from Into the Wild quoted: "To call everything by its right name." And since money spent at Moo is money well spent, it is only right to call it MOOlah.

Anyway, here are a few of the shots I expect to come in glossified-cardstock-form by the end of the week. GAH! YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW! (how excited I am)

San Juan Mission (San Antonio, TX)

Trail networks (Laredo, TX)

Pretty yellow flower at San Juan Mission (San Antonio, TX)

Bank of the Deerfield Valley River (Wilmington, VT)

Tourism Campaigns - who knew they'd help you out in college?

2009-10-21T10:44:00.009-05:00

Someone commented on a post and asked me to share some of my completed works from my Creative Writing course, and while most of the time I don't particularly want to share other than with my required reading group, I decided I could share this one. This is one of my shortest pieces (printed out - about 2 1/2 pages) so far. I haven't put up a post in a loonngg time, so apologies all around, but life has been a bit hectic here in Texas. I figured, hey, kill one bird with two stones - had to turn this in today, plus I get to intrigue you all with a personal account of what it's like to stand outside on a summer morning in New England. Let me know what you think!

The screen door squeaks as I step outside and onto the cool flagstones that lay by the house impersonating a front porch. My bare toes keep the rest of my foot elevated until the chill seeps through the skin and my senses become accustomed. Though hard and cold, the stone's grey surface makes a cushion of sorts for my rough soles. There is a loud click as the thin wooden door frame is caught again by the closure. A gentle purring comes into my hearing range, and then a soft and warm feline body brushes against my calves. I squat down to oblige the cat with a scratch on the ear and a long stroke from the nape of neck to the tip of tail. The motorized vocal box revs louder. Then, a rustling in the fire bush across the side lawn causes the short, svelte huntress to stiffen. She prances off in rapture of the prospect of an early morning snack.

I watch after her for a bit but become bored by her stillness – she crouches now, deliberates with a wiggle of the haunches, and waits for just the right moment to pounce. I stand again and step onto the next rock, leaning around the corner of the salt box house of my childhood. A few bees and butterflies peruse the blueberry and raspberry bushes that border the grass, pausing here and there at some choice bud. I teeter on the edge of the stone stoop – unconsciously hesitating at the imminent dampness I will encounter once I finally step off. I don’t know why I always do this; it’s really not so bad. In fact, I kind of like the way each blade of grass seems to latch itself onto my bare feet – like leeches – eager to hitch a ride to the mythical destination of the indoors. But I’m not ready to go back just yet.

I experience the brief shock of frigid moisture against my arches again as I traipse across the lawn, keeping an eye out for garter snakes. I know the chance of seeing one in my mother’s front lawn is highly unlikely with that merciless feline guarding the premises, but I can’t help myself. I stop in the center of everything: the center of the lawn, of the property, of my sense of nature itself. I want to lay down in it…but I don’t love the dew that much.

I close my eyes, breathing in through my nose. I can smell the tangy sweet scent of the lemony mint that refuses to die and hides where my mother’s once-impressive herb garden once lay. Someone must have mowed the lawn yesterday - that scent is only released when freshly cut. I detect the smoke of a neighbor’s brush pile burning (I don’t bother looking around to find the evidence, though, because I wouldn't be able to see anything but trees past a hundred yards anyway). I hear the sweet whistles of happy robins and tiny sparrows, the obnoxious caw of the insipid crow. It causes my eyelids to flutter open.

I lift my face up to the lightening sky. The sun has just barely risen above the eastern edge of the forest - the first rays to strike the lawn today. If I could narrow down all the millions of moments in the world, these few and softly glowing minutes would be the ones I’d catch in glass Ball jars like fireflies. The last remaining stars are outshone by their most glorious peer. Heat crawls across my body from left to right, following the rising sun; it waves over me as if I were right beside a wood stove. First my shoulder, then my neck, my left leg, then my right, until finally every limb is warmed through.

I close my eyes again and stretch, wiggling my fingers - trying to grasp at the tendrils of the crisp breeze that has just begun to stir. My hair swirls across my bare shoulders and reaches out, trying to carry me away. My thoughts wander with the wind, as if I were actually floating off into the ethereal world of the wild green mountains.

"What are you doing?" my mother calls out from the open window in my old room upstairs.

I sigh. "Nothing." And go back inside.

Too cool it would be cruel not to share!

2009-09-29T20:57:00.006-05:00

I was googleimaging "Dharma Initiative" mugs in one of my little fits of anticipation for the newest season of Lost which - I know, I know, hold my (mysteriously disappearing black) horses - doesn't premiere until January! "Well, that is [NOT] a relief!"

Anyway, the varying totally unrelated images and zazzle accounts, etc that came up as results also yielded this blog. Which I swiftly swooned over and added to my list of "Blogs I'm Following". The blog is called "2modern" and it is dedicated to the awesomest design finds. Here's a little snippet below. C'est incroyable, non?

Aroma Lisa
"...I think the Mona Lisa, made up of 3,604 cups of coffee and milk, stole the show!"
(watch how they did it!)

"Creepy and Yummy?"

...a Chinese farmer has been playing around with growing pears in the shapes of Buddahs for a few years now.... (find out how!)

Rain, rain, stay a day

2009-09-29T15:30:00.017-05:00

On the importance of punctuality and galoshes

My alarm clock didn't go off this morning. I woke up only because Hubs came back from a service call at 10 and asked, "When do you have class?" This, of course, woke me up immediately in a frenzy because yesterday the alarm did not go off either, and I woke up at exactly the same moment that class - which is a brisk 7-minute-walk away - was commencing. (Fortunately, I had showered away the delightful aroma of a restaurant kitchen the night before and only had to stumble around the apartment collecting books and articles of clothing along my way to the door. O yeah, I didn't even get to brush my teeth. Gross.) Back to today: I jerked my head up with the image of a "FAIL" being stamped on my class record. Then rolled over and saw the "10:15" on the clock and rolled back over thinking, "WIN!" Then I woke up again at 12:30 and thought, "crap." Because class starts at 1, and I had yet to shower or even read the last 3 chapters of my textbook. I hurriedly floundered about for my binder and notebooks, soap and shampoo...though by the grace of the fates, not all at the same time... I fastwalked it (because running just makes you look like a desperate, unorganized fool, and I have an image to uphold) to my building of interest, the skies diluting into a most delightful shade of lead. I got to the doors, discovered them firmly shut, glanced at the clock at the end of the hall, saw that it was 12:48 pm, and wondered why the doors were closed. Had class been cancelled? Had the class been moved? I looked around for a notice. Nothing. After another 30 seconds of pure idiotic reasoning-delay, I pulled out my planner and discerned that class isn't until 1:30. As it has been for the past month.

OMG I friggin SUCK AT LIFE.

So I went to the on-campus Starbucks, ordered a venti (why can't they just say "big @$$ cup"?) chai latte, and the cashier asks,

"Is that it? No pastries?"

(OMG, does he recognize me by my unwavering inhalation of scones and the like?? Yeah, that's a self-esteem booster right there if I ever saw one.)

I sheepishly look over the pastry case and humbly say "No, I guess not....there's no danishes."

"I've got some in the back," he deviously offers.

"FOR REALS?! CHEESE ONES?!"

"....yeah."

"OooOOo I'll have one of those."

" 'Kay. $1.89."

"You just made my day."

(I've never used that phrase before. 'Made my day.' It's just not cool. Not nearly as boss as 'For reals?!' But it was true and appropriate because an explanation for my sudden swing in facial expressions from omg i'm such a fattie to omg i love those danishes was necessary.) I then proceeded to those cozy overstuffed leather (quite possibly, pleather) armchairs to indulge in my sweets and contrive to absorb all that I could on the theories of "Learning, Memory, and Cognition" for my Psychology course which I had, just moments before, arrived for (out of breath) 45 minutes early. Then I was almost late to class again because ~~my phone is so passe that it's embarrassing to pull it out in public even to check the time~~ I was enraptured by the concepts of the linguistic relativity hypothesis.

Upon leaving Starbucks, I was greeted by an unrelenting downpour from which my fellow Laredoans were terrified. (They've been taught by their ~~absurd~~ concerned mothers since birth that if you get wet from rain or go out when it's cooler than 65F you will catch the flu and surely die.) I pulled my hoodie over my hair that was already still wet from my midday shower anyway and walked the one hundred flooded feet to the next overhang under which it would seem 80% of the student body was hovering, shuddering at the unrelenting apocalyptic precipitation before them. I squeezed through them to the door with just enough time to run to the bathroom and make sure I didn't look like this before taking a soggy seat. After class was uncommenced, I returned to the verandah of the huddled masses who probably will get sick afterall, not because of the rain, but because of their unusually confined proximity to each other and thereby each other's germs. I pulled my hood up, inserted my iPod's earbuds, pressed play on the playlist entitled "Nostalgia" (compiled specifically to remind me of VT and my childhood) and made my way across campus, braving the slippery paint of crosswalks and three-inch-deep puddles of sidewalks and roads. Upon arriving home in my residential apartment, I peeled off the sodden grey sweatshirt and thought, "This is very much like Vermont." I opened the door again: the rain had stopped. This is not very much like Vermont.

Blogging is wayyy different, so don't even start with me.

2009-09-23T02:08:00.015-05:00

Last night I was working on my latest Creative Writing piece, and hubs kept popping into the room to dish on the latest gossip concerning the cast of Twilight. Not really. He was actually going on and on about his day and everything that he "learned" in lab today, blah, blah, blah. Regardless of his pointless chatter, he was interrupting me from my creative processes (say that the British way, "PROcesses", yes, that's it) and I was beginning to go insane - or to put it in more clinically appropriate terms, I was about to have a Chris Cocker moment for myself. Why was the hubs' - my dearest Hubs - presence disturbing me so? I have previously mentioned that "...writers don't really like to share their work. This is not a myth." I am one of those writers. But blogging is different, so don't even start. Okay fine, do start. It's different because blogging is...

First off, on my written pieces, my titles are usually short, succinct, and effectual. Blog titles, however, are often elongated and rambling. For example:

a note on boy bands and cutting edge technology - it's all just a ruse to make you thi nk you're unpopular...which, you are.

Dogs in Gardens and the resulting Mystery Objects in Windows: an Observation on the Difference between Texans and Vermonters

Also, the format is completely different. In written pieces, there is proper indentation and dialogue presentation. In blogs, there are frequent run-on sentences (although some people seem to actually like it that way), ~~unrealistic ideals~~, scratched out lines, and very poor explanations because I expect you to know me well enough to deduce (giggle, "duce", giggle giggle) the hilarity of my poignant statements.

Content. Blogging content is extremely varied , and rarely cohesive. This is not to say that regular writings can not be varied, what I mean to say is that, regular written pieces usually stick to the same topic throughout the entire work. This is not true of blog posts. Blog posts generally veer off in any possible tangent, particularly those not related to the original subject at all, but rather have a varying degree of relativity that can really only be traced back to the outer limits of a minor insinuation of some small detail. (Say that the British way, "deTAIL", yes, now you're getting it).

Blogging is wayyy different from written pieces in that only a smidgen of creativity comes through compared to what one can do in the seclusion of their own notebooks. While some ~~posers~~ writers actually are outward and extroverted, many are not willing to have their bits of soul picked to smaller bits and criticized - especially while they are still a work in progress. It is for that very reason that I am not even turning in a developing story that I spent two hours on in Starbucks today (causing me to miss out on the Debate Team interest meeting at 4 this afternoon...whoops...I always knew I wasn't cut out for ~~punctuality~~, er, public speaking). It is too serious and too delicate and too young in its creative stages - all at the same time. So instead, I wrote a brand new piece, resulting in staying up until 1:30am, rereading and editing and printing out multiple copies to distribute tomorrow in class. I will not tell you what either are about because that would be obverse to the point of a blog. (See above)

Beets. Bears. Battlestar Galactica.

2009-09-17T22:52:00.004-05:00

Today, the hubs and I went to Target. Today, I bought my most favoritest mug I will ever buy. Today, I became the proud owner of a Dunder Mifflin Paper Company coffee cup. Today, for some reason, Hubs thought it more appropriate to put pens in it than the rocket fuel I call homemade java.

Season premiere was tonight, but some of us belong to a little group called the employed sector, and also some of us belong to the no-cable sector, and, therefore, some of us are forced into the watch-it-when-it-becomes-available-online sector. So tomorrow, I will indulge in a half hour session of the mirthful antics that are "the office".

Priorities, Shmorities.

2009-09-16T01:17:00.005-05:00

This is just an update on what I've been up to while I've been away from the computer. Between classes and work, there's not alot of time left for blogging, so I apologize, but can you really blame me for placing the baser needs like money for housing and food and tuition and the desire to have a career over the joys of blogging? Yes, I still make time for the take-it-easy moments, but all of those seem to find themselves in my creative writing assignments.

Creative writing was kind of slow moving at first, just kind of reading the intros and outlines of our textbooks, but we've done a few exercises in the last week or so that have been kind of cool. Last week we had to bring in magazine clippings of people (above: my submissions), then we spread them all out on the table and had to pick one or two that didn't belong to us and make characters out of them, combining them into one short story.

This week we had to bring in two objects from around the house (key chains, jewelry, wall art, etc) and then spread them out and pick one that didn't belong to us to base a character off of it. (Ask yourself, "who would own this?" That's your character.) Then we had to return the item, pick another one, and repeat. Then we had to bring the two characters together in one story and see what they would do in a conflict. They were good exercises and kept the class from getting to be too much like "agghh another assignment!" They really force you to use your imagination. Now I sound like a yuppie, but it really was cool.

Tomorrow, we share the short story assignments we received last week. The professor gave us a list of starting scenarios or lines to choose from, and we had to go from there making a short fiction piece, 3 to 5 pages. We could have used the characters we developed in the in-class exercise, but I swapped them out because they were too consumed in their own story to be lent to another one. The sharing part is not so exciting for me. Our class has been split into small groups of four or five and we will read each other's work and give advice, etc. Sound like fun? Yes? - Want to do it for me then? Most people believe that writers don't really like to share their work. This is not a myth.

Third Trailer's the Charm

2009-09-13T23:20:00.004-05:00

The other trailers were rabbit pellets compared to this one.

(The full effect of the trailer is better in full screen, but since the format of my blog cuts off part of the embed, here's the youtube link. Best with loud sound, too - but be warned it has a very loud beginning.)

Please don't be hatin. Step one is admittance, and I do declare, I am a TwiHard. But not the kind that chase poor actors into the paths of NYC taxi cabs. I still maintain my level of sanity and am a participant of Project Flans (and not just for Spunk, but for all TwiCast as well). Which in itself sounds like I am a nut, but I swear I'm not. So turn those tabloid covers around!! I did today in Walmart.

Do they make a pie chart for time constructively spent compared to time spent blogging?

2009-09-11T13:20:00.005-05:00

I know I've already missed the 40 year anniversary of Woodstock, but this was just too cute (? -not sure that's the right word) not to share.

My new favorite internet find is yet another one of Huh's creations. He was featured in a Time Magazine somewhat recently. Just google "Ben Huh." Or click here. You will see. Anyway, the chart came from Graph Jam - this site allows people to submit their own silly graphs on any topic - dating patterns, training effectiveness, social trends, etc. Also, on the top of the page, there are links to other Huh sites like Engrish Funny and I Can Haz Cheez Burger. Oh, and don't forget the spin-off wiki effort: the LOLCat Bible Translation Project. If you do nothing else religious or otherwise today, at least read Revelation. And go pee before viewing.

To Do or Not To Do This Weekend

2009-09-11T10:13:00.009-05:00

When you're in college and working at the same time, all else in life is left to Saturday and Sunday. Thus, I usually end up with semi-extensive Weekend To Do Lists. Kind of not cool seeing as weekends should be made up of the Don't Have To Do kind of lists. Alas, this weekend I have a rather large and looming selection of sundry tasks.

Clean bathroom

Vacuum apartment

Clean out car

Research another group member's section of our group project because he hasn't showed up to class or meetings.

Prepare outline and handouts for group project on Aristotle for Speech class.

Study for Psychology exam

Study for State Government exam

Write 3-5 page short story for Creative Writing

Read chapters 1-5 of A Long Way Gone for Uni-Learning in Global Context

Read approximately the first quarter of Wuthering Heights so I can read at least part of the book before it's due back at the library.

Organize all my crap that's strewn about my bedroom and kitchen table.

Yes. This is not an exciting assortment of chores and study duties. On top of all of it, I have work at night. So even if I wanted to sleep in, I have too much to accomplish in the next 48 hours to even consider it.

Speaking of which, this is what I woke up to this morning. Just hover your mouse over play, close your eyes and relax for a few seconds. Then, while keeping those eyes closed, click.

Yeah. Nice, subtle, slowly-conscious-rising note to awake upon, right?

EDIT: Sorry! I realize that the player isn't funtioning, but I'm off to class so I'll have to fix it later!

They didn't even need any money...they had magic cards!

2009-09-08T16:53:00.013-05:00

Don't have the time to sit on your butt and be crafty? Do have the time but find it much more creatively spent on ~~clicking through lolCats for hours~~ your blog? Well, whatever your reason is for not making your own snazzy purses and hip t-shirts, have I got a solution for you! Never worry about being fashion backward again! Behold! Just a few delightful little numbers from my new favorite online shoppe: the Onion Store.

Don't forget the kiddies!

Available in 6/12 months, 12/18 months, 18/24 months, and 2T!

Screenshots, the greatest invention known to me

2009-09-04T11:04:00.012-05:00

Ok, I know this isn't a real true legit blog post, as far as my norm goes, but these just made me giggle, and I've got to head out to class, and I was afraid to just tweet all of them in case someone didn't get to see all of them...wouldn't want to deprive you of my twittering genius. So here goes!
PS - the photos are hyperlinked, so clicky clicky!

Loser Senior Takes Loser Freshman Under His Wing
..."You might think he and I wouldn't have much in common" said Payack, a 17-year old campus nonentity. "We definitely occupy different spots in the pecking order. I've been a drum major, done time on the principal's honor roll, even made a little name for myself hosting the teen center's 'Weird Al' karaoke night. But Tony reminded me of the loser I used to be, and I wanted to help him."...

I'm late I'm late I'm late for an important date!

2009-09-01T22:52:00.004-05:00

No not really. I'm not late...yet...

Sorry, folks, but classes have been dragging me down lately - that and job interviews, etc. Speaking of which, I am now registered to serve alcohol and food in the state of Texas! I have taken my liquor-serving license course (online...for 6 hours...I think I've done permanent damage to my eyes) and food handler's safety course. Both required to be a waitress, etc in a restaurant here in Laredo. So wish me luck! Interview is at 430ish tomorrow afternoon (Sept 2)!

Also speaking of which, this time in reference to classes, the title "I'm late, I'm late, you should know you already read it" comes from Alice in Wonderland - the author of which is Lewis Carroll - who also composed the poem "Jabberwocky" which I read in one of my Creative Writing textbooks and had myself a good little giggle and reminiscence of my childhood. That is not to say that Jabberwocky at all resembled my childhood, but just that I remembered the films I've wasted so many hours watching as I'm 98% sure that at least parts of Jabberwocky were fitted in here and there throughout the original animated Disney adaptation of Alice in Wonderland. Speaking of which, is anyone else superstoked to see the new Tim Burton vision?! I know I am, although, I must say, I'm a bit irritated with the MadHatter's costume, etc. A bit too much.

*Clicky, clicky on the picture to see the trailer! I would've embedded it myself, but Disney disabled that option. Poo.

Singing in the shower just got riskier

2009-08-27T15:06:00.014-05:00

After literally dancing in the shower this morning, I thought to myself, "That was pretty stupid."

Not just because it makes me extremely lame as a person, but because I could have seriously injured myself. There are dangerous objects in there - razors, pumice rocks, and shaving cream (the label clearly states "WARNING! Contents under pressure!"). More importantly, I could've slipped and bashed my head on the faucet or something. Then I thought to myself, "What could I possibly say when the good sensible people in the ER who would never risk dancing in the shower ask 'What happened'?"

"Umm DDR is just sooo addictive! Seriously it takes over your life, you can't even go about your morning routine without trying to beat your high score."

No. I didn't think so either.

In truth, though, I have had my fair share of odd accidents. When I was five, I was a brash and imprudent little thing - always climbing up to the driver's side seat in the car. I apparently didn't inherit my incautiousness from my parents because they were (fortunately) wise enough to remove the keys from the vehicle when not in use. So anyway, at some point throughout this particular occasion, I decided I'd had enough of pretending to be Speed Racer and hopped out. Somehow, upon slamming the door shut, I managed to leave my left pinkie in the space between the door frame and the actual door. Ah yes, instant mutilation! A total meltdown, a dish towel, and 20 minutes later, I found myself in the Mt Snow Emergency Room (the regular clinic in town was closed for holiday or some such rubbish). I vividly remember the boiling hot soapy water they forced me to put my bloodied phalange into. After that, my next memory is of myself along with my kindergarten buddies on the playground playing at the usual - Lion King (I was Nala of course...being the only girl) - and we pretended that I had hurt my "paw" in a wild battle against the hyenas. If only. I did have a flippin sweet "Show and Tell" for first grade at my new school, though - something no other kid had:
X-Rays.

Fast forward approximately 10 years and you will find me in a very similar situation (so much for learning from experience, eh?). You will find me sitting in the hall at CHS. It is 10-minute morning break, a respite from the mind-numbing tedium of 9th grade classes. Of all the things that have evolved throughout history, there exists one remaining constant: high school boys. Don't let the occasional well-cared-for coiff or pair of baby blues fool you - they are all juvenile and certifiable. One such boy decided it would be hilarious to "flush" one of my BFF's sneakers down the nearest boys' room toilet. A wild chase ensued, naturally. In our heroic efforts to save the shoe from certain moistness, we attempted to keep the lavatory door from closing. I was on the left side - the hinge side - of the swiftly swinging door. There was a wee pinching sensation, a reflexive "Holy Crap Open the door!", and then nothing. Until my neighboring shoe-champion exclaimed "Chamois! Your finger!!"

Yes. Oh yes. It was the same left pinkie

...and it was curiously bespeckled with tiny brownish-purplish bruises, in the midst of which there was a strange, red-edged, but otherwise white gash. Have you ever seen the muscles inside of your finger? It is one of the strangest sights to behold. There's alot in there. Flash forward another forty-five minutes and you will now find me in the Deerfield Valley Health Center (that same dang clinic that was conveniently closed ten years before) where you will watch me wait for another hour or so because three other law-abiding-citizens-and-therefore-wrongly-duped-by-karma-as-well had more dire circumstances. My second bout of pinkie stitchage hurt like a few letters and sporting equipment because they put pain killer into it with a nice fat needle that seemed only to cause more pain. I actually cried. At no other point had I shed a tear. I should've just gone without it, but the strange pulling sensation of thread actually moving through your skin is just too strange. Of all days to rescue a Sketcher, I chose today. Several stitches later, I was a new woman. I vowed to never again volunteer to wield my bravery at the likes of a high school boy.

In my senior year of high school (2007), I had art class once a week. Or maybe it was twice, and I just didn't show up. Oops. Regardless, I went to the art room once a week, I believe it was Tuesdays. Anyway, one fine art class day in the month of May, we were to hand carve a stamp out of a linoleum block. Now, there were several other projects happening around the room, so the teacher hadn't yet instructed us on how to go about carving something other than "Be careful with the hand tools and look at their tips to decide how deep or wide you want to make your lines." Lines in what exactly? I promptly proceeded to hold my block with the left hand, gripping it at the far end of the block, and began to carve with (what I now know to be called) a "V-tool" in my right hand, plowing through the tough-ish surface in a direction away from my body. Because even though I still peel and pare fruits and vegetables with the potentially dangerous utensils coming towards me, I am not stupid enough to actually forcefully carve something towards my torso. However, I am stupid enough to do it towards my own left hand. Oh yes. With the very first stroke (if you can call an abrupt yet jerky movement a "stroke"), I not only plowed half a line through my linoleum block, but I also plowed a lovely new gash into my cursed left hand. This time, the pinkie was unharmed - it was my palm that was maimed. Immediately following an "O Crap. Not again", I stood up and proceeded to the large sinks on the other side of the room. Another girl (lifeguard-certified she assured me) came over and began compressing the flowing wound with all available paper towels. She then walked me down to the nurses office while the art teacher remained dithering about the classroom. I then waited almost an hour for my mother to come pick me up, then sat in the car another 30 minutes to get to that delightful clinic I seem to be making a habit of going to. This time, however, I did not have to go to another ER because of locked doors and I didn't have to wait half an hour - third visit's the charm, right? The same doctor from 3 years before stitched up my palm. I owe this doctor my left hand, and if he ever asked for it...well, let's just hope it doesn't come to that.

10 points off for lack of attendance in the blogosphere

2009-08-26T21:51:00.002-05:00

Sorry I haven't been a very attentive blogger - classes have taken over my life in the last few days. That and the cumulative half hour that I've actually been home - not stuffing my face because my classes cause me to starve during regular feeding time - hubs and little brother-in-law have been commandeering my laptop for their own devious gaming purposes.

Apologies all around, and I am working to amend the situation. However, I now have to go bind my own books because Psych authors think its cool to have loose pages with a nice cover.

The worst part about coming home exhausted & burnt is the moment where you think "Where are my keys?" & you discover "I don't know where my keys are."

2009-08-23T13:37:00.014-05:00

I've been quite neglectful - apologies are in order. Sorry. Excuses are available, and I can produce a signed note from my doctor. Not really.

As you may already know, I've recently just returned from a trip back to my dearest Vermont...where apparently Hubs consistently squints and men don't know what their top buttons are for. It was an excellent refresher, and my brother-in-law says I was all aglow even 24 hours after our return. Maybe that was just the light reflecting off of the sheen of sweat that formed immediately upon leaving the airport though. Having returned at noon on Tuesday and promptly tromping off to bed until 6pm, at which point movie marathons and snacks were next on the schedule, I continued to ignore my blog. Then the rest of the week went somewhere I can't recall, and upon the arrival of Friday it was time to tour the town and leave souvenir applications at all restaurants within sight that sold something more than burgers and fries. Because, let's face it, I'm an elitist who refuses to work at Mackers and Whataburger. Well, really, I'd just prefer employment that doesn't have a "Warning, excessive exposure to grease, subsequently resulting in acne" clause in the "I agree to these terms" segment.

Then the phone rang, an invitation to the Schlitz followed, and off I scampered to the Gulf coast. After a night in the hotel filled with the Game Show Network and prying the remote out of my little brother-in-law's cold, lifeless fingers to turn off that incessant Regis Philbin, it was morning and time for continental breakfast. La Quinta of Brownsville, TX, contrary to former experience, does indeed have a HOT breakfast! With waffles! And yogurt! (Fortunately, not hot yogurt.) I was pleasantly surprised. After scarfing down the morning meal it was time to hit the Schlitz. Schlitterbahn, that is. If you're ever in the deep south of Texas, I highly recommend this water park. Instead of standing around all day in stifling heat, you float around a lazy river then find yourself in a corral which eventually leads you to an elevating conveyor belt of sorts that brings you effortlessly to the top of your ride. The South Padre Island park also has its own beach access so you can go for a dip in the Gulf of Mexico as well. Oh, and the water in the park is ocean water, so it's salty rather than chloriny. A definite plus if you are like me, a sufferer of sinusitis. (Which, thank you for asking, has recently flared up because after nearly a week of swimming daily in the fresh waters of Lake Whitingham, my sinuses were not prepared for the abrupt plunge back into the chlorinated pools of Texas. C'est la vie.)

Anyway, after the Schlitz, we returned to Laredo in the late evening and upon realizing that I don't know where my keys are, I couldn't get into my apartment. (Hubs is conveniently off at drill this weekend.) So my sister-in-law, much obligingly, let me crash in her office for the night. And in the morning, there were pancakes and scrambled eggs and coffee and it was delicious. After a few rounds on the Wii with little brother-in-law, who stowed away and escaped the last week of summer employment back in VT, I was returned to campus where I called the RA and he gave me a key. I got to my door, and the key did not work. Of course. I returned a bit forlorn and said, "It didn't work". I repeated my apartment number hoping that Hubs hadn't changed the locks on me and that the RA had just given me the wrong key. Indeed, Hubs still ~~tolerates~~ loves me. I am now safe and sound sitting at the keyboard. Just in time for classes to start tomorrow. So sorry in advance, but if there aren't frequent posts, blame professor...Plum...in the billiard room...with the candle stick.

The saying "Getting there is half the fun" became obsolete with the advent of commercial airlines. -Henry J Tillman

2009-08-19T14:38:00.007-05:00

I've just returned from my trip to Vermont, and I just can't get over (again) how flat and barren Texas is in comparison: desert v mountains; sand v mud; brown v green; boxstore plazas v local entrepreneurs; etc, etc, you get the point. While there, on my last day, I took several photos of my dad's yard. Perhaps, it would be better to call it a garden, as there are plants and flowers everywhere. This is what all yards should be, and if I actually had my own yard to cultivate, it would be my model...and also if I didn't manage to terminate all green things. Perhaps then, it is better that I am in the ~~wasteland~~ desert oasis of Laredo - Divine Providence or something interfering on behalf of nature's safety.

Don't worry, I didn't touch these, just snapped pictures. Hopefully, none of them are epileptic.

A man travels the world over in search of what he needs and returns home to find it.

On sabbatical

2009-08-13T00:13:00.003-05:00

Sent my cat a postcard from sunny Philadelphia

2009-08-12T09:04:00.005-05:00

BEST OF THE WEB

WEDNESDAY

(This will be brief as I'm running out the door as I ~~speak~~ type. Also, I'll be leaving for VT tomorrow morning, so posts will be scarce if there are any at all.)

OF NOTE

Postcrossing: a project that allows anyone to receive postcards (real ones, not electronic) from random places in the world. I've signed myself up already, but haven't gotten any postcards to send out just yet.

Discovered via: OhForTheLoveOfBlog

SOME STRANGE

Two Legged Cat - my dad emailed me this picture, and just as the original website says, the longer you look, the weirder it gets.

GOOD ONE

This show.

(It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia; new season Sept 17th)

You are the last man whom I could ever be prevailed upon to make over.

2009-08-11T13:08:00.012-05:00

Hubs is out getting a haircut and I'm thinking of changing the layout of my blog. The only problem is that I kinda like the way the extras are already set (the Twitter feed, etc), and I'm worried that they will disappear into the black abyss of Ctrl+Alt+Del that I often discover several items of sentimental worth have ended up sucked into because I'm a keyboard clutz. Hazah - do you realize that you've only read two sentences so far? I need to put an end to the super long sentences...Anyway, I am dumbstruck as to how I shall proceed with restructuring the blog. I feel that it is too cluttered the way it is now, the colors are just not quite right as far as aesthetics go. Other people have nifty "If you like this, you might like this" thingies underneath each post, in which there are 3 icons that will redirect you to a previously written post of the same blog, and now that I've been blogging for a few months, I feel like I might have enough articles in order for this doohickey to be worthwhile. Also, I've been lead to believe that it would improve blog trafficking...that sounds illegal. What to do? Suggestions?

"Girls don't eat, they just look at food then jump on the treadmill." Whoops, wrong quote.

"An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must be a stranger to one of your parents. Your mother will never see you again if you do not marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again if you do." - Chapter 20

And now follows my book review of Pride & Prejudice. First, let me say, that it just makes me want to watch the movie again...for the third or fourth time. I had never read Jane Austen before simply because there are so many new books that I want to read, that I've long neglected to pick up any of the classics (save for Hemingway and that second half of Monte Cristo). However, after watching Becoming Jane, which I've taken to be an exact and accurate depiction of her true biography, a little bit of interest sparked. Then upon being jobless and having never really had a hobby, I needed something to do these last few weeks here in TX. I braved the library here at university, and discovered that they don't have any new books (that is, none of the more recent titles in which I have interest - the Time Traveler's Wife, Admission, the Age of Wonder, etc). So, I had to resort to the novels that I've merely heard of and pretend to know all about but had never actually read. So far I've finished Madame Bovary, Pride & Prejudice, and am currently plowing through the Picture of Dorian Gray. I will be well prepared for whatever the BBC throws my way.

Back to the book at hand, P&P proved to be one of the best books I have ever read - far superior to Madame Bovary in content and surpassing Hemingway in character development. While I do feel that Elizabeth's affections for Mr Darcy were rather sudden in forming when, for months prior, she had begrudged the very thought of him, I can not say that the transition from providing plot to ensuing love story was ill-written. It was exactly in Lizzy's nature to make a swift change upon good reasoning, and Darcy was so stricken that he could not give up until she told him to. As for other characters, Mr Bennet is hilarious (if you can, take into context the above quote not involving exercise equipment, and you will not disagree); Mrs Bennet, a nervous peabrain; and each of the Miss Bennets are well-drawn and individual at polar opposites...if there were such a thing as 5 polar opposites. Unfortunately, I'm not so sure that I want to read other Jane Austen novels due to the poor film adaptations that I've bore witness to. (Admittedly, they were all British productions, and therefore can not be expected to be placed high in the ranking of my favorite films. Sorry, Beebs, but sometimes you just shouldn't bother. Luckily, Kiera Knightley and Matthew Macfadyen had the good fortune of working with Focus Features for their film, and thus, have done the author some justice.) Pride & Prejudice moved along at a good pace and I couldn't put it down, so maybe other Austen works would be just as addictive, and if it turns out that I didn't like them either, at least it would've gone by fast.

Celebrities...a not so rite of passage, but here goes

2009-08-10T13:09:00.014-05:00

So let's start off the blog with my favorite picture of the day - "terrific Coldplay live shots" as the facebook update says. Oh, Chris, you've yet to disappoint me. Even with a parasol.

Okay, so today I found that my random info sources (ie: those I ~~stalk~~ follow on Twitter) are all aflutter for the celebs today. Most likely because Teen Choice Awards is apparently today. Gag me now. Nickelodeon has failed me ever since Harriet the Spy. Which I saw in theaters. I still regret the waste of my mother's money. And I think movie tickets were only around $6 back then. Only.

Anyway, there's been much babble about the generic-ness of starlets and ...whatever they call young male stars (...is it something like the addition of an "-er" to "widow" for "widower"? Thus, forming the word "starletter"...now that sounds like a super cheesey anime character... lets just go with "good-looking-young-men-who-also-happened-to-snag-an-acting-gig", or GLYMWAHTSAAGs for short.)

First up, concerning generic-looking GLYMWAHTSAAGs, a reliable-as-you-can-get gossip column ~~ranting~~ reporting on this very topic. Although, I must say, contrary to Lainey, I am actually wowed by Mr Crawford's (bottom right) facial hair - he doesn't look so much like a Disney-genetically-engineered JoBro (bottom left) anymore. But let's not forget, it was RPattz (left, durr) that began this look. Admittedly, Efron (bottom, center) was still under the youneedtolooklikeaboyband contract with High School Spewsical at the same time that the TwiHards discovered their new unshowered and unshaven object of taxi-crashing madness, so the filthy Brit had the advantage. Crawford was likewise contractually-obligated to appear the dashing and preppy onlyhopefortheUpperEastsidefamily in Gossip Girl. With unfortunate gigs like those, all originality that might have possibly once existed in the fashion ideals of these young Crawfrons was completely obliterated. And once liberated from their bonds, who better to imitate than the amore of 95% of the young American female population. There's no way they were going to follow in the steps of the always strangely garbed Ed Westwick. Okay, finally the article:

How to be the same

And now, how not to be the same: "...best of all, she wants to look good while looking herself, punk as f--- in a time when all starlets seem generic..." Who else could I be alluding to than KStew herself.

How to be 20

Indeed, the starlet and GLYM of Twilight are the only young ones left who seem to have any originality - and it seems to stem only from the fact that each of them wish people would stop seeking them out (see, "stalking") for their personal style. Meanwhile, the purposefully stylish Ashley Green is the fashion icon of the world today as far as I'm concerned. Best dressed everywhere she goes. Always. Smeyers, you have spawned the future. Did you ever give it a second thought, did you know it even before the saga was in the womb?

Alright, enough Twilight for the day. I can't handle any more of it. (But I just can't get enough of Stew's dress to the LA Premiere last year...the single-shouldered one with the red skirt. One of the few that isn't composed of only a black and white pallet). I had intended for this post to be about celebrities in general. But I guess since the Twilight cast IS Young Hollywood, it was only natural for it to go that way.

Tweet sequence initiated: Society's Patience, prepare for total annihilation.

2009-08-07T16:15:00.019-05:00

"Waiting for http:// twitter.com/sessions/destroy"

Does anyone else find that hilarious? Sometimes I wish Twitter would destroy a few sessions.

While the title of this post could relate to a well written piece on society's evergrowing need for instant gratification and constantly available information, it doesn't. Twitter has become the bane of my digital existence in these last 30 or so hours. Every time I tried to do something last night, such as ~~stalk my followers~~ tweet something new, the lovely network site would take a sick break. I say sick break because it would eventually function properly after twenty attempts and a switch to the other computer (which by the way seemed to be the most effective method) as opposed to taking a full sick day in which I eventually throw the laptop out of the window and onto the sidewalk because twitter is using reverse psychology to make me want the world to know even more just how flippin exacerbated I am.

I'm guessing that the servers are being overloaded because of all the madtwitterers out there who feel the rest of the world should know that #welovekevinjonas. Who? I didn't realize the Jonas brothers were actually multiple separate entities, let alone that "Jonas" wasn't the first name of all of them. At least I learned something new today... Anyway, yes, those #welovekevinjonas tweets were clogging up my servers! The reason #teensdonttweet was a trending topic the other day is because teensshouldnttweet. Fortunately I am 20 and am not included in this category. Besides, I don't go around tweeting such trivial things. I really don't. All my tweets are incredibly adept to relevant topics and events.

Do you think I could convince my English professor that Twitter is a reliable source for my next Shakespeare paper?

This said it was a meme tweet? How so?

Regardless, I ♥ the Caturday reference.

All art is quite useless

2009-08-06T18:06:00.028-05:00

So today I started reading the Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde, thus this blog will be brief and lacking in personal elucidation because I can't wait to get back to it. I just wanted to share a few tidbits from the first chapter that I thought were worth sharing. Mind you, I wouldn't take these morsels to heart as life lessons, else you might turn out like the man who said them, Henry Wotton.

"I make a great difference between people. I choose my friends for their good looks, my acquaintances for their good character, and my enemies for their good intellects. A man cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies. I have not got one who is a fool. They are all men of some intellectual power, and consequently they all appreciate me."

"But I can't help detesting my relations. I suppose it comes from the fact that none of us can stand other people having the same faults as ourselves."

"The masses feel that drunkenness, stupidity, and immorality should be their own special property, and that if any one of us [nobility]makes an a-- of himself he is poaching on their preserves."

"I like persons better than principles, and I like persons with no principles better than anything else in the world."

"I am bound to state that she never told me he was good-looking. Women have no appreciation of good looks; at least, good women have not. She said that he was very earnest, and had a beautiful nature. I at once pictured to myself a creature with spectacles and lank hair, horribly freckled, and tramping about on huge feet. I wish I had known it was your friend."

As to the title of this post, it follows after another quote by Oscar Wilde, both of which can be found in the introduction of the novel: "We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely." Now go back and read that title again.

1945, Directed by Albert Lewin, left
2006, Photo by Vivica Myers, right

The new Dorian Gray...and improved in my opinion.

PS - Yes, I do realize that my last post says "It's Wednesday and that means..." and the date header said I posted it Tuesday. I really did post it on Wednesday! It's just that I had written the rough draft the day before and then saved it as a draft without posting yet. I thought it would put the day that I actually posted the article. Apparently not. Tisk Tisk. Slap my wrist. I'm a bad blogger. I know.

I don't have a bandit hat, but I modified this tube sock.

2009-08-04T15:28:00.010-05:00

It's Wednesday, and that means it's time for...

BEST of the WEB

OF NOTE

The Carte Noire Readers:

for a more seductive coffee break

“For a more seductive coffee break, watch The Carte Noire Readers read your favourite literary love scenes. Begin by choosing a Carte Noire Reader. There’s Dominic West, the cult star of the The Wire, Greg Wise of Sense and Sensibility, and Dan Stevens of The Line of Beauty. Then, choose a love scene from a mix of classic, modern and emerging novels. Relax back with a rich, velvety mug of Carte Noire, and when you’re sitting comfortably, then he’ll begin.”
(New readings are released weekly, so give yourself your perfect coffee break every week to catch up on them)

(The one that inspired me to finally pick up a copy of Jane Austen's work:
Dominic West reads from Pride & Prejudice)

(Found via: OhForTheLoveOfBlog: http://ohfortheloveofblog.blogspot.com/2009/07/i.html)

SOME STRANGE

Tickling a Slow Loris

...just watch it.

GOOD ONE

zorro muy muy lindo!

(Trailer for the Fantastic Mr Fox (Mr Fox voiced by George Clooney) story of a band of animals who live underground trying to save their homes from certain destruction by construction.)

Why is someone else according my life?

2009-08-04T14:21:00.003-05:00

"My life according to (insert band/artist name)" is the latest in the world of facebook viral notes. In this note...well, you can read the copy/pasted and link-modified version of my filled-out list that I've put down there. And here's a music video to further entertain you while you read it. Because you will read it. ....right?

Everyone else is doing it!Using only song names from ONE ARTIST, cleverly answer these questions. Pass it on. Try not to repeat a song title. Repost as "My life according to (band name)."

Pick your Artist: Death Cab For Cutie
Are you a male or female? I Was A Kaleidoscope
Describe yourself: Champagne From A Papercup
How do you feel: Flustered(/Hey Tomcat!)
Describe where you currently live: Lowell, MA
If you could go anywhere, where would you go: 20th Century Towers
Your favorite form of transportation: Gridlock Caravans
Your best friend is: A Song for Kelly Huckaby
If you could change your name, you would change it to: The Army Corps of Architects
You and your best friends: Talking Like Turnstiles
What's the weather like: Broken Yolk in Western Sky
Favorite time of day: I Will Follow You Into The Dark
If your life was a TV show, it would be called: A Movie Script Ending
What is life to you: Pictures in an Exhibition
Your fear: The Sound of Settling
What is the best advice you have to give: Debate Exposes Doubt
Thought for the Day: Someday You Will Be Loved
How you would like to die? Little Fury Bugs
My soul's present condition: Lightness
My motto: This Temporary Life

...Yes, I did it. I used a facebook note as my blog post. Call in the firing squad, I was unoriginal today. But I have other things to do. Like get a real job.