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 :)