A Farewell to Blogging.

This post BECAME about writing a post.

I started writing one about my day at a Girl Scout Troupe Round Up and the various discoveries I made about parenting.

Then I realized I am not a parent and shouldn't be commenting on others until I can see their perspective.

Then I tried to write about parenting with an acknowledgment of my lack of perspective. That was just...boring.

I switched topics and tried to write about a theme of conversations lately; that is, about rules and how and why people break them, who writes them, the types of consequences etc. It was long and I talked to much about my friends who I respect to much to throw their lives into the internet, especially under my analytical tone.

I tried a different shade of that topic and tried writing about the concept of "respect for authority" which quite successfully combined the better parts of the three previous posts, but I also belatedly realized that I would should define my own levels of "respect for authority" in order for the post to make any sense what so ever.

So I tried to write about that and I realized it was boring. Like, really boring. You guys dont want to read about that. You might be interesting in how I think my attitude affects my friendships I make at my Ivory Tower school, but only maybe.

Then I realized, NO ONE READS THIS ANYWAY.

and I gave up entirely.

In other words, I write for myself now. I started moving that direction by the end of the summer. This blog was supposed to be about me telling stories so I don't bug other people. It was supposed to be about writing to explore things about myself and how I felt about them.

Okay, it served its purpose. I can write and not publish from here on out.

That way, I can just say what I want to say. Without worrying about harming someone's sensibilities, or appearing narcissistic, or otherwise opening myself up to un-needed judgement.

Ill judge myself, thanks.

That sounds, grating. But its not. Im actually in a wonderful mood. I just finally got a swallow of self confidence that was so incredibly long overdue and I realized that everything I did here was for attention. No more, my friends, no more. I can keep to myself.

I may, occasionally, publish something I want commentary on, but no more "this is how I feel about this" stuff.

Reflections from Shattered Glass, Part 1

For whatever reason, images of September 11th have recently been pouring through my dreams. I don’t remember that day, it hides behind the fluidly concrete curtain of concussions, but I wrote about it enough at the time that I can tell my story...and feel the emotions again. The contrived memories are good enough keys to pick the locks of the real ones and I am fully confident that my understanding of my actions that day may be better than the average person around my age—for it was well recorded.

I put that caveat up first to let you know about the various biases on this post: I was three weeks away from finishing my 12th year alive at the time, but the story is being related through the various filters of then and now.

I was at a yearbook conference, specifically a lecture about how to balance good reporting of the school year and the production of a book that would cause fond memories years down the line. I feel, now, that that setting is what led me to react the way I did. Instead of the day that was about to happen being about the tragedy itself…to me it became more about what happened as a response to it. How my friends and school would respond, and even then I wondered how I would remember that day. (I obviously didn’t know at the time that my memories would later be snatched away from me)

They stopped the individual sessions and brought everyone at the conference into a main lecture hall. They told us to find our sponsors and they would advise us whether we were staying or going, an ominous message in of itself. We knew something was up, could see in on the adult faces in the room and the atmosphere was easy to read, even for a group of middle schoolers. I later found out that our sponsors had been told moments before we streamed noisily into the room and were asked to judge if we should find out there, at the conference, at school or elsewhere.

Our sponsor let us find out then. They told us, calmly, what had happened. I would say that 80% of the room (including myself, I am sad to admit) didn’t understand the scope of the situation. I would further say that 50% (thankfully I am not in this group) were not even sure what the Twin Towers were. I personally had been there before and had already planned a trip to go to New York to see them with a broker friend of the family that coming January. Obviously that trip did not play out. That, however, was not my first response. My first response was typical of my rank and file:

“Are we going to be evacuated further away from the NAS?” (The military base that, even at that age, I understood to be the pilot capital of the military world, and that would have to respond very carefully to the event)

My sponsor laughed. One of those, “Kids say the darndest things” smiles that spread painfully across adults faces when in incredibly emotional situations. No, the answer was no, we were outside the evacuation ring. But there was a ring, and the base was on as high of an alert as the Pentagon was, even more so since they already knew that the pilot that hit the first tower was trained at good 'ole NAS.

We watched some news and, while we were sitting there, the second tower was struck. Watching it live didn’t feel “live”. It felt so much like something out of my grandfather’s endless stories from the war...sad, but so distant that it was more a curiosity. I said later that day to my father “I wish we could watch the news in black and white, not color”. For whatever irony, it felt more real when it was in black and white. The color made it feel like a bad disaster movie.

At this point everyone’s parents start freaking out and calling our cell phones so we headed back to our school campus, 5 minutes down the road.

The first thing I did on campus? I lowered the flag to half mast.

The flag sat in the center of the courtyard where the campus gathers for announcement and by the roundabout where students are picked up and dropped off in the mornings and afternoons. The entire school was gathered in the area and I couldn’t believe they had not lowered the flag. I marched up to my social studies teacher (a truly incredibly person who I could write pages about. But in short, he was a retired career enlisted to officer marine who volunteered for search and rescue in the area and had such an incredible impact on my life and would continue to do so to this day) who silently handed me the key to the flag before I could explode. So he hadn’t forgot, he was waiting for me.

That was when I started to cry. That was when it finally caught up with me. I finally left the zone of “take care of things first” and slammed head first into “now you can feel what’s happening”. My marine-for-a-mentor had tear-stained lips as he bent down and hugged me and told me it was time for me to show everyone the symbol that had to hold us together. To show the too-quiet gathering of 300 students under the age of 14 that it okay to be sad, and mourn, but that the flag still flies above them.

I will fully admit that I had no comprehension of what sort of events would play out from the smoldering buildings, but I was starting to grasp what sort of event would play out that day, at school and back home.

We walked to the pole and in full performance lowered the gently fluttering flag. If this were a movie, the entire courtyard would have gone silent and stood up in respect. Someone would have started singing the national anthem or something else blazingly patriotic while the flag snapped horizontal in a sudden gust of wind. But nothing happened, people watched and continued talking or staring into mid-space just as they were when I walked up. A few teachers noticed the gently falling tears on mine and Mr. Shores faces and let a gentle smile come across their face.

They knew that, for both of us, lowering the flag was a way for both of us to try to start to comprehend, to heal. I know that now, I talked to them about it later. Years later.

Parents had already started coming and picking up their kids. Some for ridiculous reasons from “My child should not have been told without me there and I am taking him or her home in rebellion” to “How dare you teachers act like anything is wrong”. And others for incredibly daunting reasons...two in particular held my attention for the following hours instead of the news coming over the television. One, my best friend’s dad was in the towers that day. We would find out what felt like weeks later (it was only a day) that he was not one of the lucky ones, but he was among the brave ones whose actions allowed others to be lucky. Not that that was any comfort at the time, but it is now. Secondly, my friends whose parents were active duty or in reserves. They were being called in to report, already, within mere hours.

My own family would soon feel the waves from the event, but more as aftershocks instead of such poignant immediacy. So there I sat, in the beating Florida sun, watching my friends climb into cars and drive away from the emotional safety net of their un-knowing friends into a swarm of new, dangerously real-life experiences. I couldn’t sit with my remaining class mates; the ones whose parents either couldn’t or didn’t feel the need to tear away from their jobs to fetch them mid day. (My mom was at work at the hospital and my dad was a teacher at a different school, so I could partially understood their possible feelings of abandonment, I just didn’t share them) These were the kids that may or may not have understood what was going on, but lacked a tangible connection to the events, for the time being. Not to say they were uniform in their response, but I just couldn’t sit around and wait bleary eyed and restless beside them.

Like when I raised the flag, I needed to do something. I ran around and got food or drink for the emotionally fatiguing teachers (No, honey, we won’t be going to PE today, your mom is on her way. Joey will be fine, his dad is just worried. Everything will be okay. Ask your parents tonight to explain.) I played with the kids under 4th grade who were not informed of the situation but were being held in the courtyard anyway.

I climbed on a roof top and took pictures of the scene. What else could I do? I was torn—do I photograph these people, these children, who will remember this day with or without visual aid? Is the production of something tangible at this point disgusting or comforting? The answer to those questions depends on who you ask, but my principle was on the side of the fence who thought my adventures were disrespectful and inappropriate. The film was taken from my canister in a moment of lost composure with the incredulous shouts of “You are supposed to be one of the big kids here, helping, not causing problems.”

The pictures were never developed.

I was allowed to take pictures at the memorial assembly the next day, as the yearbook’s photographer, but I did so dispassionately. Not that I thought the memorial service wasn’t worth remembering, I just thought the production of support was the healing mechanism contrived by my principle who had just completely stomped all over mine. This may be a selfish response, but even now I look back and recognize that she was under incredible pressure and her reaction was out of too-long-bottled up emotions, but feel like I was denied my chance to heal using my own healing mechanisms.

A parent who witnessed the stealing of my film quickly offered to drive me to my father’s school. Wise parent; it is likely that I would have blown up on the principle (selfishly, but not unexpected for an 11-year-old girl who was emotional and intelligent). Mr. Shores walked me to the car with an apologetic smile on his face, almost sad he missed out on the brow-beating I would have subjecting the principle to.

I went to the high school to watch how the older kids responded to the news. We went to my house afterwards and I spent the afternoon pacing; I couldn't remember the last week day when I was not at some extra-curricular or at a friends house. My parents certainly had no idea what to do with me either.

That was my day. I didn’t sleep well and I went to school the next day in an Old Navy Flag T (remember those?), tie-die-red-white-and blue-knee high socks and bucketfuls of patriotic fervor.

Just like everyone else, at least for a little while.




(Part 2, when I finish with it, will be about how my school reacted over the next two years. There is more to the story about my friends' families, my own family, that film canister, the yearbook, Mr. Shores and the other teachers. Its also about how I feel about it being "the defining point of our generation".)

Old Motivational Posters, Curled and Held Tight by Scrunchies circa 1995

Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you will land amongst the stars - Les Brown

I sit here in my passive, pitch-black silence inside this room of invading natural sunlight, surrounded by half-boxes of memories and lost dreams. The pick-up path leads somewhere new and as un-exciting as the last steaming plate of settlement and regret.

Which would you rather be? That person who successfully lands his feet firm on the dusty moon and has a chance to see if the dream was worth everything he worked for, just to find a grey and lifeless planet? Or the person who “misses, but lands amongst the stars,” a life whose failure and acceptance of something less is marked by the brilliance and mystery of a shining light?

Let time click beautifully by, let me sit here and relish in my empty solitude while I build up the courage to once again face the rising sun without the protection of these windows and filters. I didn’t land on the moon or settle amongst those stars, I am trapped in a seemingly vast free-fall simply waiting for the chance collision or a sudden surge of gravity to save me in this infinite space.

The stunning truth of just letting yourself fall is the sudden, painful impact of realization and self-reflection with a skid of renewed perspective. The stunning lies of a free fall are that you start to not notice anymore and resent the idea of returned firm footing.

Ideally the free fall is in space, as the beginning of this discussion proposed, and not in world-space. World space ends with a slow orbital tumble towards concrete or unforgiving waters. Life is round and limited by the laws set out by some unknown and unseen intention, and may or may not come down to simple geometry.

The question becomes, when is it too late to stop the inevitable?

Leave a Message, After the Beep.

I've been asked to give a speech on leadership at a soccer club in the area.

So lets back up an break that down:

"I've been asked"

More like, told. In that "who would turn down this opportunity" tone of voice.... by someone I sadly have little respect for.

"To give a speech"

I hate talking in front of people. I get nervous and flustered and somehow that comes off as a more genuine tone and people end up liking the speech. But I still hate it. I never remember it when I am done and I spend the whole time feeling like I am standing beside myself, urging me to continue, urging me to stay in character. No one actually talks as their "selves" but actually as the "self" they wish to project at that moment in time. It is a speech that I will be giving, but its interactive-- gives other people a voice as part of the presentation. Its not only indicative of my leadership style, but it also lets me hide from my own voice.

You can talk AT people, talk TO people or talk WITH people. Consider the situation of the voice mail-- most people (on my voice mail, anyway) communicate a condensed version of what they need to say but then indicate that they would like to discuss it more in detail. My motivation is either piqued or doused by such messages-- will talking to them more provide any further insight or details that I care about? These messages are the "hook" to a future conversation. Much like the first few lines of newspaper article. A speech can either be a "Hook" followed by content washing over the crowd, a series of "hooks" strung together that just leaves the crowd wondering about what will eventually be said, or a speech can be a conversation. A conversation where at the end, the crowd is left to make their own judgements and decisions.

I wish I could say I was a powerful enough writer, speaker, to be able to pull off the last sort every time. But I think I've only done it once. And it was in a super-dramatic-Hollywood-ready speech during a huddle during a soccer game. That we lost, I might add.

"On leadership"

So you would think that I would be good at the whole "define leadership and promote others to step up and be leaders" thing by now. But I never know what to say. I have this speech I wrote as a senior in high school that I think accurately describes how I personally feel about leadership, but I wasn't allowed to give it. The speech was for the class below me's induction into IB and the teachers voted me the best person to give this speech. (I still disagree with that vote, but that has more to do with my understanding of my position socially at that school rather than ability) I wasn't allowed to give my first speech because it basically said "Either you have it or you don't, and no one can tell you if you do or not. Get up off your ass and figure it out"

Which, granted, is a harsh message to hear from someone only a few months older. So instead I gave my other speech...the "Everyone is a leader in their own right" speech where I casually listed off examples of types of leadership not normally respected or highlighted. It was "okay" at best.

Ive given other speeches at various conferences in my life. And I have always felt that I accurately discussed leadership from an Ivory Tower point of view. Not from a groundlings point of view. Which is strange, as I have never had an Ivory Tower leadership position in my life.

"at a Soccer Club in the area"

I am leaving them anonymous because the circumstances that led to the opportunity are sketchy at best and I don't feel like explaining myself. Not that you, my dear reader, don't deserve it, its just that I am still look at my cleats hanging from my window with a pang of regret.

Anyway, the speech can thus be catered towards soccer players, coaches and referees. Or it doesn't have to be. How likely is it that these kids, parents and active adults don't see that the lessons learned on the pitch apply to life?

In other words, I don't know what I am going to say.

I know how I lead. But I respect that I lead by a very specific style and that its not translatable in a lot of situations. I know there are other ways to lead. I am learning constantly about other ways to lead....its an on going process. Like healing.

Am I ready for this? Can I switch, completely, to the role of the coach, the motivational speaker?

A Write You Own *Emotion* Post.....a Different Kind of Adventure.

I would just like to clarify that I am, at the moment, actually in quite a good mood. This post has been in the making for well over a month. (I have a few close friends and a boyfriend who don't believe me when--->)

I often tell people "I don't get mad" and I will stand by that. I don't. I feel several emotions many people would place under the category of "mad" but I believe there are actual synonyms and then words that stand across some imaginary line and are distinct.

Take out a sheet of paper. Im serious. Or a word document or even an email field for all I care. I am going to list a series of words. (This is beginning to sound like a psych experiment, but its not at heart. Though I am curious). Group them how you will. You could see each as an independent word, you may end up drawing a flow chart or some kind of spectrum...you could have lists of "bad connotation" or "good connotation"...you really could end up with lists or diagrams. I don't care, but I would love to see them when you are done (you can comment below using your gmail account or drop me an email at). Do whatever comes naturally. Visual Thesaurus has a really cool diagram if you are interested how our friends at ask.com would organize them.

Angry, Annoyed, Depressed, Frustrated, Disappointed, Irritated, Distraught, Enraged, Incensed, Infuriated, Irritated, Livid, Resentful, Unreasonable, Acerbic, Belligerent, Bitter, Caustic, Cranky, Indignant, Irascible, Irate, Peevish, Petulant, Sharp, Spiteful, Testy, Wrathful, Sarcastic, Acrimonious, Antagonistic, Exasperated, Indignant, Furious, Piqued, Violent, Displeased, Distempered.

(I left out synonyms I found for definitions such as "mad in love" or "mad as in actually crazy")

As to my organization? I have a spectrum, starting from more of "sad" connotations through "emotional, tired responses" through "traditional uses" to "extreme uses". See below, reorganized, each line being a "group" I consider on the same emotional plane.

Group 1: Annoyed, Depressed, Frustrated, Disappointed, Sarcastic, Displeased
Group 2: Unreasonable, Acerbic, Bitter, Cranky, Peevish, Testy, Sharp
Group 3: Resentful, Caustic, Irascible, Spiteful, Antagonistic
Group 4: Distraught, Irritated, Indignant, Petulant, Exasperated, Distempered,
Group 5:---Angry, Mad, Irate, Indignant, Piqued, Acrimonious
Group 6: Enraged, Incensed, Infuriated, Livid, Wrathful, Furious, Violent

Thus when I say "I don't get mad" I really mean I don't reach that emotional response. I stop somewhere along the way. But looking at these, I rarely in my life (I'll define that as less than 4 times a year) have hit my "group 4". Obviously, not everyone is going to agree with me on this. And again, I would love to see how others think about it. But! I felt the need to write out my use of the terms.

This entire entry started out by a different post in which I started with a line "I am annoyed about situation X". I thought about it and realized some people may take "annoyed" too far and others might not realize how committed I was in my "annoyance" and might think that I am just ranting to blow off steam and would then be fine afterward.

No, I was really really annoyed. To use more words, I was unreasonably annoyed, causing me to be bitter and cranky for the rest of the day, subjecting my friends to sharp comments. Ie, I was definitely in my "group 2" but I needed the connotation of a group 1 word.

This is obviously not full proof. And why I tend to be a fan of the "show, don't tell" sort of writing.

But why don't I, according to me anyway, hit a "group 5" type emotion? I honestly get sad more often than not. I stay in "group 1" even in the most extreme situations. I think there are two kinds of people in the world.

(okay, obviously there are a bunch of ways to divide people into groups, successfully or not, this is just one of many ways. And I truly believe there are only two groups. With a possible third for people with personality disorders and thus bounce back and forth)

1) The kind of people who, typically, get mad about things and look to place blame somewhere. They may eventually find themselves to blame but not after looking everywhere else.
2) The kind of people who, typically, get sad about things and automatically see their own fault in the situation. They may eventually find others may have fault as well, but not after assessing their own actions.

I am the epitome of a group 2 person. I will instantly get upset at myself before even thinking to get upset at you. I get there eventually, trust me, but it takes a while. Sometimes days or months and in one situation...years. I am going to put forth that explanation as to why I don't hit "group 5" types of emotions. And my logic may be faulty (please, fell free to point it out) or it may be that I haven't run into a bad enough situation to warrant a "group 5" response. (I am going to say I doubt it, though) And it may be more because I simply don't WANT to feel those emotions. They seem to take so much energy and cause bigger problems than the ones that stimulated the emotion in the first place. I'm not the best at self-control, generally, but in this case I simply just take a moment to calm down if I ever break past even a "group 2" emotion.

Count to Ten. Walk Away. Deep Breaths. Count to ten again. Go to a "Happy Place".

We have all heard the techniques from our parents and teachers. I guess I was just an impressionable youth.

Ha.

With Confidence, Eventually

The Twilight movie that just came out actually had a moment of good writing. Writing far superior to anything I ever found in the books anyway.

It was during the graduation speech. And while I am afraid some slower witted people will take this idea too far, its interesting…basically, learning that “What you want to be when you grow up” should be answered only when ready and that part of life is figuring that out. Life doesn’t start with a job, life starts whenever you decide to let it.

When we were in Kindergarten they asked us what we wanted to be when we grew up? Most people either said whatever their parents were or something like a Fireman or a Police man or some other profession they have been told to trust or run to at that young of an age. I know I said I wanted to be Firewoman.

They asked us again when we were in 6th grade. People started saying things they saw in movies or TV but they didn’t have any idea the steps it would take to get there. I said I wanted to be a vet.

They asked us again when we graduated high school…but this time they asked for real. Because we were about to head off to college and you don’t have a ton of time to waste in college. Or so they said. They said we need to start preparing for life. I said “I want to get a degree in chemistry, and do medical research” This lasted two years and if I were to continue in that track, I would set and ready. I just finished two years of strong-headed path pounding…

But really? These past two years should have been the time I made mistakes, learned from them, and really explored my options. Instead I one-tracked and now find myself at the dead end of that road.

So now, I am about to be a Junior and I really don’t have a lot of time to decide a major.

Luckily, my major doesn’t define my career. This silly piece of paper I am spending a fortune on doesn’t really mean anything. Its just a social definition that generally is paired with a pay raise. I really can do whatever I want at the juncture. Eventually I will be asked “What do I want to be when I grow up” and I want to be able to answer with confidence, not guess. Im still guessing today, but here is my thoughts at the moment.

If I were graduating this year I would be putting applications into Teach for America and grad school programs in Forensics, Seismology, and Physics. I would see if I got into things and make a decision from there. But if all goes well, I would choose TFA. I need the two years off. After TFA I would have try to re-enter the Masters (note, not PhD, turns out im not a big fan of that lifestyle) application pool. Getting a degree would be fun at that point and also provide me with skill sets to get into the type of jobs I want. I would then apply to agencies, NASA, NCIS, CDC etc for a position. I would work there as long as possible until I get bored (I have a short attention span in jobs) and then go back to teaching. I don’t think I would get bored with teaching because the students change and the subjects I would teach would rotate.

So that’s the big plan. Ive told this twice in the last few days. I keep getting "give the undergrads tours of the lab" duty and they always want to know if I like my lab. I do. I just don't like research.

Ask me again in a year. In a month maybe. Who knows how fast it will change again 

Falling Flat on Paper

The opportunities we have as children very much define who we choose to grow up to be....whether it be in regret or in desires to recapture past happiness.

I was single tracked at a very young age, however I don't feel any regret because I had a choice. I was one of those kids whose parents pretty much let me do whatever I wanted, so long as I finished the task. Ie, I had to finish a pay-period on whatever activity I had begged to sign up for. My parents never really pushed me in any direction, thus I discovered what I did and was left to be surprised later in life by the most common things. Luckily, the school I went to exposed me to many ideas and adventures as part of its curriculum. (Gotta love Montessori Schools!)

But there was one avenue that, as a kid, I loved in school but never asked to explore outside of it. Most likely because I was aware of how incredibly expensive it was.

This idea? Music. I sang in school and even learned how to play a little piano just by watching my music teacher. We were required to play those ridiculous recorders for a year, but the school band dissolved a week into my first semester I would have been allowed to participate. I played the saxophone for that week, because the school had one lying around and lessons were part of curriculum. By the time I got to high school, you needed to already know how to play an instrument to participate in band so I randomly discovered theater.

What brought this up?

Last weekend, actually. I just haven't had time or energy to write in a while. (and I have a Toy Story 3 prompted post also in the making, I am really really bad at writing 8 things at once and not actually churning anything out)

Anne, who I would love to call just "a friend" but a more informative and appropriate title is going to be "boyfriend's little sister" for the time being, and Taylor, "boyfriend's best friend", were playing guitar in Anne's living room. I could have sat there for hours and hours on end and never noticed time passing. The only thing that was missing from this situation was the boyfriend himself (he is at Philmont living the summer of his dreams) who apparently can function as the link between people even from far away and out of touch. They played a few songs I could sing along to but it was more fun just listening to them play. Or watching them figure out and promptly argue about how to play songs.

I don't know what it is, especially about guitars, that makes me relax so much. I am an anxious person by nature but the smooth vibrations of those guitar strings resonate in my rib cage in the most relaxing patterns. I discovered this for the first time after 8th grade during a hiking trip that had nightly campfires with our ranger and his guitar. Left-handed guitar, actually.

Lyrics are also interesting, as in, if you read them by themselves it is often that they don't sound that incredible or insightful. But, when placed to music they suddenly adopt a much greater meaning. Or they at least suddenly sound much more powerful. There are a couple of songs (Jack Johnson ones in particular) that I love and have considered referencing when trying to express certain emotions but the words fall flat on paper.

As do most of the things I write. If I publish one of these, it indicates there is a strong emotion behind what I am saying. Here? I wish I could provide a musical soundtrack. I have the sounds in my head and I wish I could compose them for you to hear. I picked up a guitar and found the sounds I wanted, but I have no knowledge of chords or notes and would have to result to drawings of the chords I liked and the picking patterns I switched to half way through. (I don't know the terminology to even to discuss this, ha)

And even then? I won't remember in a few days what I played. But I would pick up a guitar and find something else that "sounded right", sounded anything but the flat monotony that these black letters sprawling across the white paper create.

Music is something that interests me, excites me, but not enough for me to choose it over school or soccer or volunteering. Which confuses me. I feel most at peace when listening to music or participating in it, but I avoid learning it. I feel productive when I spend an hour with an instrument fiddling around, but it somehow registers as a waste of time/money to actually learn. I guess I am afraid that if I learn how to play, it will loose the magic. Or if I feel obligated to practice, it wont be fun anymore. I don't know.

I confuse myself, often.

In the mean time? Ill just surround myself with people who can play and who still enjoy doing so. Their experience and smiles are infectious.

Guilty of "O! Shiny Object" syndrome.

Today seemed to be the day of discussions centering around alterations of the human body. I managed to have full converstations about hair dye, nail polish, boob jobs, abortions (ignoring the baby part, just the "not having a belly and boob saggage" part), and gastric by pass within a few hours of eachother.

Generally started because of comments as to my hair: today I died it back to its natural base color that it would appear if I wasnt the type of person to spend a few hours in the sun every day. Because apparently I am not anymore and I was somehow getting roots from natural highlighting.

Which really is obnoxious, because I highlight an orangy/goldish/red color that no one believes is real. But this super-dark color people dont even notice and just assume my hair doesnt bleach despite having legitametly tanned skin. People notice the stangest things.

Which is essentially the theme of this post. Beauty is the strangest thing. As cliche as that saying is, it really does depend on the person what is beautiful. And then there is always the question of, "Do you need to be beautiful?" As in, does it really matter to me what you think?

Answer: sometimes.

I died my hair becuase I was accused (even lightheartedly) of being fake. Now that I am fake, I am percieved as more genuine. This confuses me, but its the truth.

As for the rest of the conversations (nail polish, etc) people were trying to convince me that all of those things are worthwhile, necessary things. I can see the arguments based on health reasons for some, but if health is not the foundation of the arguement, you won't sway me. These things all take money and time, two things I dont just throw around on something that I view as trivial.

Case and point? I got the die for free and it only took an hour, of which I was fully amused because the process was an adventure to me. Thus, it was a life experience as well. Having surgery or painting toes etc, do not strike me as life adventures. I do have piercings and a tatoo, but I also viewed these as life adventures.

Basically, its not "Beauty" I am after so much as entertainment, or broaded visual scope.

Thus what I find truly "beautiful" tends to be situational. For example: I love waterfalls and caves and mountains, but only if I am there. They are not beautiful until I (or someone who I need to relate to) experiences them first hand. Round, happy, pregnant women who are capable of caring for their child always seem stunning to me. Similarly; bright, happy and active children tend to strike me as beautiful. Moments of imperfection that lead to unique things (such as lightning creating class, or things bending due to forces or splatters of paint across something, this is a broad category) I not only tend to collect, but treasure. Basically, is something shiny and unique and purposeful in some way beyond just to look at? Can it teach me something too? Then its proabably beautiful, to me.

My boyfriend will probably be upset that my red-ish hair is once again gone (he has a thing for red heads) but I feel more myself like this. The Hair Dye is about self reflection, not about beauty in the original sense. Thus, I hope he will forgive me.

It will come back after the week long stint on a boat Ill take in a month.

Everything is temporary. Even if its claims permanancy.

(ending on an unjustified, broad claim)

This Flame is Too Hot.

Yesterday was "lab clean up day"....a day when every member of the ginormous lab group stops what they are doing for an hour and helps clean the entire lab complex, floor to ceiling. Next week is "cancer camp" and we will be hosting people from universities all around the country to help teach our "novel" imaging methods.

I shouldn't put quotes on that. We are the only people who image the way we do.

Anyway, to promote participation and a balance of speed and good cleaning, the lab provided beer and pizza and snacks in a hidden room upstairs for those who finished their area.

I had the lovely benefit of having scanner time during the cleaning hours....which basically means I had to clean the area I was working in when I was done. Which is fair, and also useful. My experiment takes an hour to run after I set it up so I wandered upstairs to the snack room where PI's, graduate and summer students alike all gathered and shared stories of how alcohol had gotten them in trouble over the years. (While sipping on the cans of Bud, I might add)

Now, I am not against alcohol. I do drink on occasion and enjoy laughing at people who are manageably drunk around me. However, I am so incredibly glad that I don't have any embarrassing alcohol stories. This is not an "anti drinking" post. Its a "this-is-why-Nicole-chooses-not-to" post. I don't hold anyone to my standard because I believe in choice and the fact its not my job to govern your life.

But I rarely drink. Why? Because while yes it does for a bit produce a euphoric feeling, it is at its heart a depressant and a dehydrant. I dont want to put my body through the stress of imbalanced hormones and lack of water simultaneously. Also, I don't like the feeling of lack of self control. Only once in my life have I had the moment where I couldnt get my body to do what I wanted (concussion-caused, not alcohol caused) and the idea of getting anywhere near that again is...distressing. I also resent the lack of inhibitions...I tend to be more confortable with my body when drinking, and luckily have never pushed that too far. Mostly I like to distract people during drinking games or tease guy-friends. I fear the moment where I don't see the line that can not be crossed. Thus, I dont get drunk.

I have tried. Just so I know where that "point" is. Apparently I am too Irish and too unwilling to slide into a coma to actually get super drunk. So now, whats the point of drinking if I cant get drunk? too many calories and too much sugar for a healthy day? Hmm. I still drink on occasion for social and cultural reasons. And becuase I like the taste....but never again will I try to get drunk.

There was one story that shocked me the most. My mentor is young but has been with her now husband for eight years. They are adorable together and have learned to put up with eachother's quirks. One of her husband's quirks? He likes to pee on things when drunk. Anything. He did this recently and he cant remember where he peed and its smelling up their house.

This is just gross to me. Maybe if I loved a guy that did that I would put up with it. But I would have to love him....a lot. I find it amusing as an outsider, but it was my house, my bed, my carpet, etc that was getting violated? Not sure I would be amused.

Another story features someone catching their lab on fire! Ah! I can't image the damage done, not only to the facility but to people's careers and research.

I like to play with fire. Alcohol, however, seems more dangerous than the beautiful flames. At least to me.

Its Just a Game, But It's Not.

This may be the first part of probably a series of posts. The prompt? My freshman RA, a friend, posted his reply to an article (links below this paragraph) and challenged people to respond to a series of questions. The article proposes more, but the whole situation of the world caught on the fires of the world cup is intellectually challenging. The question “why?” so burned into my skull by my math-teacher-for-a-father permeates my latest obsession….why are we acting this way?

http://jesusfigueroa.wordpress.com/

http://live.drjays.com/index.php/2010/06/11/world-cup-2010-the-last-time-you’ll-care-about-soccer-till-2014/

Now, I am venturing to try to answer some of those….but I thought it easiest to begin to put words to paper about my own experience. It’s hard for me to describe my love for anything, let alone the one thing in my live I’ve consistently loved and has been the center of my sanity for so long.

So, why do I love soccer?

First, I started playing soccer at the age of three, found myself traveling around the south east by the time I was 9 and traveling around the nation (and world) at age 14. At 17, I faced a career-ending injury and now play with my "weak foot" if I want to play at all. I coached my high school's JV team for two years and refereed at the State and Premier level for five years. Now? I just hit the grass with my ball for a couple of hours a week. Nothing formal. In the fall I have a new coaching position...at a YMCA .

I love it because it defines aspects of the human experience—at our best and at our worst. Soccer challenges people in such a revealing way. Trust me, if you know what you are looking for? You can watch a single player during a game or a practice and tell if they love what they are doing. You can tell if they are putting forth their best effort or are willing to give up. Opposition breathes personality-defining moments into every millisecond of the game. It demonstrates pure bliss, pure anger, pure disappointment...

It relies on grit and intelligence of an individual while remaining a team sport. It is up to each player whether or not to make the last sprint, to take the hit, to make the pass, make the decisions. Yet the team has a character and an energy that affects every heartbeat of every individual.

Soccer is poetic; how the ball moves and skips through the grass, the rhythm of the players, the crescendo and paired diminuendo (both of sound and energy) of goal attempts or a particularly nasty foul, the deep breaths of the players, the chatter of the fans….the game, even for a set of 4-5 years on a pitch, is always part art, part sport.

It also has ingrained into its rules a set of morals that, I believe, should be common to all. You are punished if you hurt someone, and punished harsher if you do so intentionally. The sport holds you accountable for your mistakes both through penalties and through the prospect of a goal being scored and the teams disappointment resting on the shoulders of those who made mistakes. Teams take turns at kick off, divided by success and half time. At the end of the game, win, loose, or tie, you thank the other team for a good match, you thank the referees for officiating fairly. Teams show respect for players who get hurt by giving distance or apologizing as the situation seems fit. And of course, the obvious: learning when its one person's moment to shine or when its a group effort.

More personally? I love the game for what it has taught me and for guiding me as I grew up. It taught me to be a leader, how to win and lose graciously, how to work hard for what I want, interpersonal relationships, how to work for a superior I don’t agree with, how to muster up the courage and energy when fatigued to complete a task, to always finish what I start….how to deal with pain. Soccer has delivered some of the greatest physical and emotional pains...I love the hand that harms me. But I have grown from these injuries, pains, and thus have no regrets.

Also, I recognize the power sports have in general on the political sphere. Today South Africa plays Uruguay in an old rugby stadium where non-whites used to be banned. There are more countries in FIFA than in the UN. Yesterday I cheered on North Korea as they held back Brazil for an unprecedented 55 minutes and then actually got up out of my chair in surprise celebration as they put a goal in the back of the yellow net in the last regulation minute. Countries that are generally face hard times in their communications gather in the stands side by side with few incidents. It’s just a game, but it isn’t. Like the Olympics, the World Cup brings the world together for a moment. But why?? Ah, the haunting question.

During a conversation with said friend who prompted all of this, I made the claim that just because you have played your whole life doesn’t mean you are actually connected with the sport. Being a player doesn’t mean you love it. It means you have the experiences that means you could love it from a unique, deeply knowledgeable, perspective.

I preceded to point out examples…people who play because its habit, because it looks good on college apps, because someone wants them to, because they happen to be good at it…people who play for any other reason than : I love the game.

So what’s the jump? What makes some people love it and others…nonchalant? I don’t know the answer to that question. Maybe the game has to have some sort of positive impact on your life, like it was for me. Maybe some people’s bodies just happen to produce the correct set of hormones when you fill the equation with grass, a ball and the desire to score. Maybe the Nationalistic spirit is a deciding factor. (Would explain why the USA isn't a big soccer country...) Ill think on this more. If I ever come up with a better answer, Ill write again.

I can no longer play at a competitive level. Instead of playing at a lower level, I’ve decided to coach. I feel as though it’s time for me to pass down the experience. I hope that I can present the opportunity for some child to grow up with the foundation of soccer in their lives; more moral support and for an outlet for any and all emotions.

What I Miss Most- Blanacing Growing Up and Childhood Dreams

I have approximately 5 posts waiting in line to be published...I don't have reliable internet at home so my writing tends to pile up.

But this one I am writing directly to the blog, as a way of forcing myself to publish it. I got anxious....I used to know I had an audience and felt obligated to post. But said audience member is no longer reading-- at least not weekly. I was supposed to be writing for myself anyway and contemplated deleting the blog as a re-recognition of this fact. But here I am, typing away, because if I tell the world it becomes more true.

Today? I woke up at 6am and watched two soccer games while folding laundry and drawing. It left me remembering my last world cup-- Summer '06 -- when I was in England studying architecture and playing soccer at least twice a day with all my new international friends. I miss that summer...not in a I-want-to-go-back way, but a I-want-those-priorities-again way.

Not to say I have my priorities out of line, its just that I am four years older and a lot has changed. Soccer is no longer my life and I find myself enrolled in one of the nation's top universities masquerading as a student. I also changed interests. I still love art, I still love to draw, to figure out buildings, to explore, to adventure.....but I hate being forced to do all of those things. Which makes finding a career in those interests difficult.

I stopped playing soccer because I literally break every time I put my foot on the field. Or really, any time I am having fun being athletic, I get hurt. I'm not a weakling, (my tolerance for pain would top 80% of females) my body was just meant to hold a much heavier, non athletic person. The strain from impact and twisting tends to make it angry.

So I made a quality of life decision-- I stopped playing. But now my heart hurts. Quite literally. I am obsessed with the world cup and it makes my feet itch for the soccer ball left unpacked downstairs, or the cleats ceremoniously hanging from my closet door. The grass outside blowing in the wind yearns for the squeaking of my cleats cutting through the roots, yearns to be dried of its morning dew by the flick of the plastic coated ball or the kangaroo leather of my cleats. My north facing windows looks over the pitifully small back yard and all I can think is how much I could do with all that space and the soccer ball.

Coaching has always been fun, and certainly and option, but now I can't make the time for it. I have school, work, Alpha Phi Omega (a service fraternity) and now Relay for Life. All of these are new priorities, new ideas. I am passionate about all of them.

But I miss the soccer field.

I also miss making the time for arts and crafts, drawing, photography, theater....any kind of expression up that alley. Writing is sort of that direction, thus this is an outlet. But I fear when the school year returns, I will sadly once again leave this behind.

Especially with the schedule I am trying to pull.

My priorities are in order, but I wonder if being "right" will also make me insane.

Is it possible that living life incorrectly, or irresponsibly, is the only way I am going to actually find a smile on my face all the time?

I'm going to close this up, throw another load of laundry in, and strap on an ankle brace and grab the soccer ball. Just playing a little shouldn't hurt too much, physically or emotionally?

EDIT, 2 hours later: Soccer was fun. Just me and the ball. And my ankle swelled up, but it swells up if I walk too much. But no answer was found. I don't know what to do.

I can't turn my back on soccer, yet I don't know what to compromise.

May I One Day Fling Away My Staff and Touch the Star

As the dark lines stand in stark contrast to the shadows of my ribs and the paleness of my skin,
Yes.
There is a reason I chose this monologue
and
Yes.
It means something to me.

I was exposed to this poem, and several others, during my very first theater show as a freshman in highschool. I had done half-hazard lighting and props etc for my middle school's choral group but theater was a whim that first semester of high school. (That I was there, anyway- long story, but basically I wasn't around a lot in high school) I tried it because I had a lot of experience pretending to be someone I wasn't, and wanted to see a use of that skill in a more artfull fashion, honest practice. I never wanted to be on stage...the thought of assuming another personality terrified me...but I wanted to witness the magic.

This first show was Spoon River Anthology, by Edgar Lee Masters. This play is a series of monologues featuring the people, well...ghosts, of the city of Spoon River reflecting on life and death and every step in between. It was actually a rather heavy show for a group of high school students...the suicide monologue falling on a mere sophomore and the monologue featuring someone watching their father die fell to someone who would do the same in the following year.

The experience as a whole jolted me. Theater no longer became a whim, but a source of discovery of the world. Never underestimate the power theater has to show you the world, to show you yourself even. Its truths are mighty, and its presentation (when done correctly) can be life changing.

This show was life changing for me, at the first of many cross roads of my life. It was existential as much as my little 14 year old brain could handle at the time.

One particular monologue always struck me as being the heart of the show. It was performed by a-then senior who later told me he felt the same way about the monologue, especially after we competed with it at a state competition.

Why would a competition give it more power?

Because of how I lit the scene.

It was, appropriately, my first time using a light board. And also appropriate to this task of living life to the fullest? This board was in the Morsani Hall in Tampa Bay. (Google it-- its gorgeous and huge and high tech and an opportunity of a life time) The guy at the board who was supposed to be watching me had been there for 8 hours already and really needed a break. He showed me what the board was already set up to do, how to set my cues, and how to adjust should my actors wander (which, of course, they did...it was their first time on the stage!) During that, I noticed they had an odd light programed. It was down stage center, and focused straight down. (This is odd in the effect it creates) Also, to the stage up-right of this light another light was focused to travel through it and out into the audience. Why? I have no clue. But I was allowed to play around with it for about 20 minutes before our call.

While playing with it, I starting thinking to myself...I could really highlight some moments in this play with this new board. Its possibilities are endless. I chickened out at first...I was the ickle freshman at the new board. So I didn't talk to my stage manager ahead of time to show her my thoughts.

But when the show started, and that amazing cast of six actors hit their boards, I was enveloped in the experience all over again. I quietly got on the crew headsets and ask my poor stagemanager "Hey Jackie...mind if I try something with the lights"' I immediately hear two things: an unidentified gasp (later we found out the judges were listening to us and found this whole situation amusing) and the sound board opp laughing his head off. The stage manager (Jackie) replies "Uh....what?"
Me: You know how I was playing with the lights before the show? I think there is one moment in particular I can light.
Jackie: Let me think about it.
Me: In the mean time, do you care if I do area accenting while the actors deliver their monologues? If I do well, trust me?
Jackie: fine.

The show progresses. I am manually cross fading and adding cool and warm colors to the stage to match the monologue. The monologue I want to try the trick on is about to start.

Me: Jackie....trust me?
Seth (sound board op) laughs again
Jackie: Uh...I guess.

You may want to scroll down and read the monologue first. But lets just say that at the moment the actor needed to reach out and touch a star? His hand found one. And the look of triumph on his face, the look of surprise on the other actors faces (all rehearsed) suddenly took an air of beauty as the shadows cast downward and the light emanated from his outstretched fingers.

And the second he reached down, and accepted his death, and truth, the light faded and stretched across the up-raised faces of the remaining actors, showing their life and wonder.

This was all luck, with some gusts and design, but sheer luck. But maybe it wasn't. Because if you ask many members of that cast and crew, or the director...its that monologue they remember. because the acting was amazing, the words honest and moving, and a little lighting miracle to touch their hearts.

and mine.

Ive mentioned that the monologue also means a lot to me in its words.....At the end of my explanation, I've posted a version of the poem. The pieces I chose to become a part of me are in bold. Its cited if you are curious.

Whats actually most interesting in the pieces I chose. The part of the poem that means the most to me I did not pick...because I don't I deserve such words on me.

The poem, to me, is about the perceptions you choose to take in your life. Perceptions of yourself, your decisions, your peers, those you love. Its about deciding what kind of person you want to be. Its about how you chose to view life's obstacles and rewards. Thus, the culmination of the poem ends in death, beautiful death. Death of the kind that only comes to those who accomplish something in their lives, by their own standards.

The moment the star is touched, he no longer regrets, he knows, he accepts.

I am 20 years old, I am no where near that point in my life (or so I hope!) . But I am at the point in my life (and will be forever) where I must choose to define myself.

I choose to define myself by who I am in that instant, and who I could be. I choose to constantly work towards something better, stronger. I want to be able "to reach up and touch that star" one day, but it will be a life-long journey.

Thus it will remain relevant, and demanding. I am committed to it, and it is branded on my very being.

There is a theme of things that shine, and glitter. There is a theme of laughter and reflection. There is a theme of an ever-appearing slope. There is a theme of work, and struggle. There is a theme of the different tastes of love.

In short,
I want to be able to say that I climbed to the pinnacle of my potential. So I made a pledge to myself to make that climb.

And now, the poem/monologue:

I WAS among multitudes of children
Dancing at the foot of a mountain.
A breeze blew out of the east and swept them as leaves,
Driving some up the slopes. . . .
All was changed.
Here were flying lights, and mystic moons, and dream-music.
A cloud fell upon us.
When it lifted all was changed.
I was now amid multitudes who were wrangling.
Then a figure in shimmering gold, and one with a trumpet,
And one with a sceptre stood before me.
They mocked me and danced a rigadoon and vanished. . . .
All was changed again.
Out of a bower of poppies
A woman bared her breasts and lifted her open mouth to mine.
I kissed her.
The taste of her lips was like salt.
She left blood on my lips.
I fell exhausted.
I arose and ascended higher, but a mist as from an iceberg
Clouded my steps.
I was cold and in pain.
Then the sun streamed on me again,
And I saw the mists below me hiding all below them.
And I, bent over my staff, knew myself
Silhouetted against the snow.
And above me
Was the soundless air, pierced by a cone of ice,
Over which hung a solitary star!
A shudder of ecstasy, a shudder of fear
Ran through me.
But I could not return to the slopes--
Nay, I wished not to return.
For the spent waves of the symphony of freedom
Lapped the ethereal cliffs about me.
Therefore I climbed to the pinnacle.
I flung away my staff.
I touched that star
With my outstretched hand.
I vanished utterly.
For the mountain delivers to
Infinite Truth
Whosoever touches the star.

Character: Elijah Browning
Author: Edgar Lee Masters
Play: Spoon River Anthology
Version: Original 1915

http://spoonriveranthology.net/spoon/river/view/Elijah_Browning
(though it matches the print copy I have)

A Suddenly Noticed Absence....Creativity is but fleeting.

I opened this document hours ago. However, I kept getting side tracked and now this post is going to be something very different than what I intended.

Original idea? I was going to talk about music. I probably still will write that entry because it gnaws at me being all the time. But for now? A more immediate story/concern.

Money.

Girls shouldn't talk about money and politics, they only make fools of themselves? You may be right about some people, but I am not going to talk about how it works or what the right way of approaching it is. Im just going to talk about how I view it.

I hoard money, big time. Ive worked for as long as I can remember and have stockpiled obscene amounts of money through various other means. I dont say this to brag, but to prove a point.

I work because I love to. I love using my hands and earning a wage. Its the second most calm state of my being (after hiking, just for your information). But! I hate spending it on small things. I keep it and save it and spend it on big projects.

Like financing my high school's first musical in 50 years
Spending weeks doing service
Going on the 8th grade hiking trip
and possibly this summer, a new camera. An SLR. (if I buy it, trust me you will be treated to a post about that too)

and the other thing I like to spend my money on?
Other People.

Ill buy you something if I know it will make you happy. I love holidays because they give me an excuse to spend money on other people.

Ill buy food to make you a meal, a book because I think you will love it, supplies for a group event because I know it will make others smile, a silly gift that reminds you of an inside joke or will otherwise make you smile.

I live to see other people happy, to make other's lives better. Its selfish, really. I can not find happiness except through other people. I dont mean that in a super-depressed way, I just can't be alone and happy. ever.

Money to me is a pont of access. Ive been blessed with constantly having spare change around (or have just gotten good at being cheap elsewhere) and feel the need to spread the wealth, literally. There are things in life that take money.

Some of the best things don't take money, I know this for a fact now. But until I master being able to bring about change with out the all-governing green? I will be quick to share.

What brought this post on was a sharp change in enthusiasm. I thought I had finally found a way to make an individual happy. And yes, it required spending money, but really not that much. Their response to my enthusiastic explanation for a plan was simply: Don't. And it quite literally crushed me.

But now, as I type this, I can chose to take this another way. I can chose to say:

Fine! I'll take this as a challenge. How can I illicit the same response without spending a single penny (aside from postage, im hoping this friend will be willing to understand that obstacle).

I am not sure yet...I have a few ideas. Most of which rely on a few talents of mine that I have failed to nurture over the years and may make these ideas near impossible...

and that makes me even more irreversibly sad. I have relied on my hard earned money and opportunity too much and have lost what I could truly claim as my own. The only thing I have left is my ability to work hard....with no creativity to supplement.

lesson to be learned? Don't loose sight of your creative streak.

This is my new funk. It may not be conquerable.

Just Another Day, One in Several to Come.

(unedited)

Before I begin, I want to relate a few stories that happened today....ideally saying them here will prevent me from telling them elsewhere. Scroll down to number 5 to get to the real post if you are uninterested in my day to day movements.

1) I saved $29 dollars at Walgreens today due to coupons. Granted, I still spent $50, but I got a lot of stuff we needed for the apartment in that chunk on change. Special thanks to the darling Mrs. Dohmen for pushing me this direction :)

2) Today began a series of behaviors that may lead me to hate ice less. Or maybe just pickier about the ice. Two reasons: One, my nalgene has a narrower top, as in, its more bottle shaped. When I freeze the water inside, the ice doesn't bash into my teeth. Secondly, I seem to be drinking primarily out of the Kerr jars despite having normal glass ware. These are also shaped such that the ice doesn't come crashing down.

3) I am buying a Hookah. A small one, but a nice one. Im actually allergic to tobacco and dont feel the need to flush my system with nicotine, so no, I will not be using it for that purpose. They sell flavored molasses you can smoke. I am pretty sure I was pre destined to fall in love with some form of smoking-- my dad's side of the family are all tobacoo farmers. Genetics are strange.

4) I am going for three experiments in one summer. Hurrah? I wont write much about my experiments here. Just because I signed something saying I wouldnt.

okay, and number five launches into the real purpose of the post so,

Read On My Patient Friend.

5) I bought my newest clock today, in celebration of the new apartment. My other clocks are still in a box back home, sadly, but I feel this is a good start to this side collection.

I should back up-- I collect clocks. I have since I was ten. I have basically since my adopted-much-older-sister left for college. Interestingly, I hate the sound and it takes way too many batteries to properly operate. So most lay dormant.

This new clock is interesting, think a renaissance clock builder anticipating the 50"s diner look. If no image comes to mind, I apologize, I realize its a strange explanation. It fits my new room well, with the dark wood bookshelf filled with a combination of text books, my rare books, and the ones I just happen to be interested in at the moment along side the almost tweed couch with a glass and gold table and matching lamp. Its basically all 50's-marketing-meets-the-professor-on-the-couch-with-pipe. The remaining furniture is matching dark wood in the white room and the black futon mattress plopped on the floor.

I would have loved to have been a male in Ireland in the 1950's with access to an English (England) education. I feel like my room wouldnt be much different.

Things, as in objects, dont normally attract me....they are just objects and I generally dont put much stock into them. One of my goals upon graduation is to be able to fit everything I own in the back of my car (maybe with the futon on the rack and the bike and some suitcases on one of those shelves off the back of the car...) and drive to where ever I would next call home.

But clocks are different. They hold time. They control the human perception of the human-created concept. After physics this year and the brief introduction to relativity, I both respect and question time more. These clocks, bought at major milestones or gifted from my favorite uncle and grandfather, constantly remind me that time will always move forward.

No, this isnt cheesy, I am entirely serious.

There are moments I want time to stand still, I am sure everyone does at some point in their life. I want to halt it to have time to calm down, to think, and sometimes because I am afraid of what continued time will bring. With my past, in all of its up and downs, I generally can look back and find something to smile about. My future? Who knows. But its going to happen whether I like it or not.

Time will move forward. I will move forward.

The spent waves of freedom will forever lap the ethereal cliffs about me. I have earned my freedom in some things, yet find myself forever trapped upon this cliff face.

I am fine with this. And the clocks remind me to smile, and move forward.

Hopefully on beat :)

The Source

The source of what? You may ask. In this case, water, but really of thought.

I am reading a book titled "The Source" by Michener that can be described as a sweeping history, and introduction to the creativity of an archaeological dig or my favorite (credited to Dr. Nemitoff, Elana's dad) as "the best foray into and explanation of Jewish thought I've read"

Interesting, as this is a fictional piece. It follows a site at Makor Tell(ancient Hebrew word for "Source") as the lead archaeologist delves creatively into the possible stories surrounding the finds of his site.

Ive actually read this book several times, and each time I draw something new from the history it unfolds. This particular read is drawing more thoughts and questions than before. Possibly because I am older. Possibly because I have two years of college experience and education under my belt.

I began the book reading on the brand new plush carpet of a Rabbi's home, moving to a lonely shell of an apartment echoing of its true owner onto an evening curled up in my new apartment- with pieces of my past surrounding me adorning the new white plaster. Each time alone, each time in a place not truly mine, but mine for the instant.

Ill discuss my thoughts in increasing difficulty for me to write about, hoping to find a train to ride on. And who knows? I may end this post thinking something very different than how I began.

That's sort of the point, anyway.

First, the objects I surround myself with: the remnants of my own history, those remnants of other's histories halfhazardly slung in due to mere thrift, and the new pieces waiting to be broken in. If each of these did in fact have a spirit or a soul, I am sure they would be ruffled in their new location and with their new neighbors. My room was designed and oriented with one thought in mind-- don't block any of the windows pocketing three of the four walls. The room is primarily filled with light, secondly with my items, and thirdly with myself.

What does it mean to have things, items, and how much do I rely on the presence of these things for my stability? Is my room "mine" merely because I occupy the space as a being, because I pay for the room, or because I feel the need to fill it with items ranging in qualities of utility to decoration?

Which leads quickly to a similar thought-- one more typical of a book surrounding an archaeological dig. What will I leave behind? How will the material remains of my existence contrast with that of my legacy, if I have one? I am not concerned by what the people of the future in a similar station will think of me; I am driven by pure curiosity. What dichotomies exist already in my past? I have secrets, no more than the normal college student and no more dramatic either, but these secrets are what will probably be left behind of me. Records can speak louder than unrecorded deeds, good or bad.

So who am I? The person represented in the anonymous and taunting Manila file (or, digital file...) the person I am this instant with you, you who could be reading this as a stranger or as a friend, or am I the person I want to be? Like I said earlier, that's what I want to figure out this summer, but now I am adding a twist:

Whose judgment do I face beyond my own?

This book chronicles the history of a single inland site in the heart of the evolution of religion. Spirits evolved to gods, more importantly to my mind, spirits limited to things and places evolved into deities that knew no bounds and occupy no space.

Along the way, different gods have different amount of human character. Did they feel jealousy, fear, pain, love, hope, lust? Depended on the culture and the era. But what I find most interesting is most religions evolved in the same way. Does this verify each step in the process as a "truth" about gods? Or is it merely a comment on humans as a species and how they respond psychologically to the various types of civilization? (a hard term to use- I am not ranking any, merely pointing out there are different degrees of organization and the manifestations of such)

That is, is god a human construct like numbers and languages that share similar properties without contact? Or is/are god/gods real and they happen to manifest themselves to humans in similar ways?

I struggle with my own beliefs. My family is religious, but couldn't bring me to church as a kid and it fell out of habit by the time I could have gone. My dad (who I respect endlessly and often look to for advise on how to begin thinking about any subject) particularly seems firm in his belief, but feels no need to be public about it. My friends vary in commitment and in choice of religion. As mentioned above, one of my best friends is Jewish, I am dating a Catholic, I come from a long line of Irish Protestants, and I have had heavy influence from a variety of "Indian" or "Pre-Civilization" religions. (I use quotes become some people choose to label them as such but I don't feel like typing out all of my disagreements with the terms and then communicate what I mean without using the terms)

In a city? I feel nothing. I feel no need to approach this problem. My day to day dealings are governed by my trust that other human beings will not be stupid. I am vulnerable, as I sit in my car at a stop light, before I lock my door at night, simply eating food others have prepared, but the chaos is so loud I can not see beyond the individual free wills, and my thankfulness that up till now no one has succeeded in using that free will to cause me deadly harm.

In the outdoors, in the mountains, in the caves...all places I want to be. There, the laws of nature prevail and I am at the mercy of the rock I stand upon. There, I feel the emptiness....the desire to find/discover/create an all governing power. There I feel my weakness in a different way: my energy is so much less than what I am surrounded by. The forces of the world that create the mountains I so long for and love are "amazing" (in the true sense of the word). There I am confident in my belief.

I believe, simply, that most religions are explanations of energy and forces we can not otherwise explain. However, I also believe that science is missing the point somewhere and it will eventually discover a few things: 1) there will never be an end to science, we can never know everything and 2) there is a greater picture here. all forces and energies are in fact the same and emanate from one source. That is, the world is connected to itself and to all its pieces. Not in an "Avatar" sort of way (as someone once mocked my belief) but in a way closer to the spectrum religions develop on-- spirits of each being, absorbed into a greater being.

But this is obviously a mercurial belief, easily adjusted and often thought upon.

Today, I was supposed to go on a hike. But the weather looked bad and I made the self-preserving decision not to face such hard elements. Turned out to be a good decision, the rain caused flash floods and it hailed. It would have been a beautiful sight to see from the rock faces, alone, but its was also a beautiful sight to see with company through my house's stained glass windows. I hope one day I can face the beautiful lightning and stunning thunder from the slopes of some mountains, with the company of a friend. All of these forces coming together in a single moment...its, hm, hard to think about all at once. I could spend my life merely identifying all the factors that created the scene without truly analyzing or drawing a conclusion.

Which makes me believe that it will take someone much smarter or much dummer than me to ever be at peace and come to some conclusion. I can not come to a conclusion because I consider too many things yet can not form thoughts when bombarded with too many images.

I love the rain.

and thunderstorms.

the wooden floors vibrate with their approval of such unconquerable forces.

The Great Debate: Chem vs. Physics

I refuse to become one of those people who has to blog about every major decision before coming to a conclusion.

In the mean time...

A little background. When I was in high school, the primary goal was to get a soccer scholarship. As for what I wanted to study once I got to college? Who knew. It ranged from marketing to forensics to PT to whatever program the school had that was unique or particularly strong.

Then I got hurt, losing the scholarships that I was supposed to sign in the following weeks. Now what? O, school. Right, that thing I've been going to for the past 10 years of my life. That could be useful for something.

I somehow or another fell into Chemistry and latched onto it as the hope that would guide me through another four years of school. Which, to its credit, it was doing okay until this past semester.

I hate school. As in, the structure of school in general. I love to learn, and I tend to do better when left to my own devises and a list of people I can ask for help. Even now in classes, I learn the material...I don't memorize things. Thus I get A's in classes that ask me to think and B/C's in classes that feature tests that specialize in regurgitation techniques. Which is what chemistry sadly became last semester. And no, it wasn't just the professor, its the content.

I took Physics this year, as a good Chem student does, and found out that I loved the puzzles, the thinking, the theory. Especially quantum. I also started working in a lab in the Biomedical Magnetic Resonance division at the Med School and found that I was really interested in that sort of research, but couldn't necessarily see myself sticking with one project for my whole life.

I charted out the remaining two years of my education before picking classes for the Fall. Thanks to the new love of Physics and pressure from my research group, I designed a curriculum to take Physical Chemistry and Lab, four semesters of Quantum, Astrophysics and two more incredibly engaging labs called Radio Nuclear Chemistry and Physical Measurements.

This particular set of classes is two classes away from a Chemistry major, Inorganic and Inorganic lab, both of which I am dreading. Severely. I hate synthetic chemistry.

It is also a mere two classes away from a Physics major (E&M and mechanics). I wasnt aware of this fact until yesterday when somehow or another this all came up with Logan (as mentioned in the previous post) who promptly started pushing me towards the Physics major.

O, and the plot thickens. I bring this up with someone in my lab who said "Arent you going to the conference in Quebec next spring? How are you going to present this without a strong background in E&M? You really should take that class."

So now it comes down to this: Do I want to take Mechanics or Inorganic?

Do I want to abandon the subject (and dreams) that got me through two grueling years of dreaded schooling? Or, do I forget my excitement discovered in lab this year? Further, do I leave a department that, for whatever reason, has bent over backwards to keep me and leave it for one that was not particularly nice to me this semester and who is loosing the person who believes in me the most (Trousil is leaving!)?

I dont have to decide right now. This is something I can sit on until the end of the summer. The only changes that would be exacted for the Fall would be to drop the silly Archaeology class and pick up E&M. Which is a sharp work load increase, but its doable. Its 18 credits of classes, with 3 of them being a Theater class and another 3 of "Intro to Glass"....and the remaining 12 being Physics at heart.

Ultimately? I want to take two years off before going to grad school. Teach For America, doing ice-core research in Alaska, chasing a silly three-letter-type-agency dream, joining a Archaeological dig, hike around the Andes helping with a ethnobotanical study....something. Then grad school. For what? Imaging Sciences, Seismology, Physics, Chemistry? All of this could be done with either degree.

In the end? Its not going to matter much. Thus- I refuse to waste more than a minimal amount of energy over worry. I will graduate.

That's all that matters.

A Preview of Summer

It was brought to my attention that I tell a lot of stories.

Which is true, I suppose, but I tell them for a reason that you may not expect: to collect more stories. When anyone tells a story, it is quite likely that someone in the crowd had a similar or directly opposite experience. Not only do stories spark further discussion, they are at times like tiny psych experiments: how will someone respond, how will the group interact with the characters, does inflection create bias in story, how does the environment that its told in change the ability for people to be able to re-tell the story?

However, this is not what I propose my blog will be about.

My blog will be a place for me to tell my stories, achieve my own retrospective analysis independent of a direct audience. (If you are reading, good for you! I like commentary, so have at. But this is different in that I am finished by the time you comment) Reason for this is two fold; one, so I tell less stories in conversation, its annoying to other people; two, in order to spend more time thinking. Talking is an automatic reaction for me. Writing has been a problem since day one. So this is reflective.

So what is this summer about? Self assessment.

And how did this begin? In two situations...

One: Car ride to Kansas City, with Paul

Paul is my absolutely incredible boyfriend. But dont worry, Ill spare you my gushy and oddly committed commentary mostly because it shocks me to pieces. Anyway, he actually gets credit for prompting me to start this at all. Basically, he is gone for the summer. I get to see him for two days in July but otherwise I will be in radio silence until August 14ish which is sadly the week of my Orgo final. I have this summer to figure out and straighten out who I want to be, as an individual, before he comes back and my existence becomes closely tied to his again. Not to say that I loose my individuality, we just have a joint personality that is a bit different than the personality I share with say professors, parents and some friends. I am not sure where exactly I am headed, but I have some ideas. And he helped me realize this during this conversation.

Two: An evening with Logan and Joel

This is far more amusing. The night started with a proposal to eat a box of hamburger left in the freezer of the apartment I am living in until Sunday. Some how became a night of water beer pong, a long conversation that may ultimately convert me to a physics major, a 16 round match of Mario Cart 64, discussions of flamethrowers, skype, communication in relationships, zelda, world cup,, studying, and a weird battle where somehow I ended up shielding Joel only to be later smacked in the face by my ally by the ping pong balls. It was a typical night that I would have expected at the TKE house, so to find it off campus wasn't particularly surprising. I just apparently don't venture out enough anymore.

Is this a preview of my summer? Day spent in lab, evenings doing ridiculous things with friends, lunch break on here, reflecting on said events?

Who knows. We will see, with time.