It's funny going back "home." And I do use that word loosely. Anyways, after months of trying to find your own way, discover yourself, earn good grades, and develop yourself as a social being, it can be frustrating to return home. You find that the people you once hung out with are just...childish. Nerf guns are for junior high kids. (Okay, that's a lie, but shooting innocent bystanders in the face, repeatedly, is childish.). People you thought you could trust, and bare your soul to, are suddenly revealed to be immature and untrustworthy. Those you thought you could invest your time and care in, throw it back in your face. You might have stopped earlier, if you knew.
Meh. I'm pretending to be happy right now. I shall return...maybe. Always a maybe.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Verbally Impaired
Okay, so here's the deal, I can't tell a story to save my life.
No, no. I don't mean write a story. I could do that forever. I can and have spent several hours of my day doing nothing else. Just writing. It's not like I wrote more slowly than I speak, hence the atrocious grammatical and mechanical errors that have yet to be corrected in this blog. I don't know what it is, but my fingers speak more beautifully than my lips.
Imagine this: a bumbling, bloated, one-legged, no...quarter- legged, hunchbacked giant. It's monstrously large and entirely uncoordinated. Everywhere it goes it leaves destruction in its wake. Not intentionally, not usually. It trips and stumbles as it goes along, but it doesn't mean any harm. It tries to play with the other kids, desperately longs to be a part of the fun, but it can't. There's not even a glimmer of hope for this poor soul. It's running is neither smooth, nor swift, but slow and demented. It's companions fly by with the grace and speed of gazelles, but all it can do is stand and marvel in dumbfounded awe.
Always too slow. Too awkward. Too indirect. Too everything to work, to fit in, to succeed.
Every time, this giant comes to the same conclusion. Maybe I just shouldn't play.
Maybe, they would all have more fun if I did nothing. Maybe I could get closer to their joy if I didn't interrupt their merry making. Maybe they wouldn't mind my presence if I just stayed out of the way and watched. Maybe...
So, the giant gives it a try. But every day, while amusing and entertaining, is another slash at its handicapped spirit. It spends time wishing, dreaming for things it has already given up on doing. Even so, the giant, while sitting alone on the sidelines, conjures the most incredible fantasies. It can see itself, flying over the earth as though it were barely touching the ground at all. Such speed, such skill that its companions could not help but be swept along. Instead of being merely a witness to the creation of happiness, it acts as a herald. When the giant comes, so does the fun. And after all this time, it begins to hope, to wonder, to yearn for another chance. Maybe...maybe this time.
But it is the same every time. Its attempts are met with quiet disdain, or blatant disgust. Its failures bring sidelong glances and indirect mockery. Either no one comments on the sad attempts at freedom, or they respond with an alacrity that stings more than the irrevocable knowledge that curls up, burrowed deeply in the giant's mind.
"You will never be good enough." The voice whispers. "Never cool enough." It coos. "Never enough." It spits.
Such is the fate of the giant. One endless, spiteful circle of under-achievement.
No, no. I don't mean write a story. I could do that forever. I can and have spent several hours of my day doing nothing else. Just writing. It's not like I wrote more slowly than I speak, hence the atrocious grammatical and mechanical errors that have yet to be corrected in this blog. I don't know what it is, but my fingers speak more beautifully than my lips.
Imagine this: a bumbling, bloated, one-legged, no...quarter- legged, hunchbacked giant. It's monstrously large and entirely uncoordinated. Everywhere it goes it leaves destruction in its wake. Not intentionally, not usually. It trips and stumbles as it goes along, but it doesn't mean any harm. It tries to play with the other kids, desperately longs to be a part of the fun, but it can't. There's not even a glimmer of hope for this poor soul. It's running is neither smooth, nor swift, but slow and demented. It's companions fly by with the grace and speed of gazelles, but all it can do is stand and marvel in dumbfounded awe.
Always too slow. Too awkward. Too indirect. Too everything to work, to fit in, to succeed.
Every time, this giant comes to the same conclusion. Maybe I just shouldn't play.
Maybe, they would all have more fun if I did nothing. Maybe I could get closer to their joy if I didn't interrupt their merry making. Maybe they wouldn't mind my presence if I just stayed out of the way and watched. Maybe...
So, the giant gives it a try. But every day, while amusing and entertaining, is another slash at its handicapped spirit. It spends time wishing, dreaming for things it has already given up on doing. Even so, the giant, while sitting alone on the sidelines, conjures the most incredible fantasies. It can see itself, flying over the earth as though it were barely touching the ground at all. Such speed, such skill that its companions could not help but be swept along. Instead of being merely a witness to the creation of happiness, it acts as a herald. When the giant comes, so does the fun. And after all this time, it begins to hope, to wonder, to yearn for another chance. Maybe...maybe this time.
But it is the same every time. Its attempts are met with quiet disdain, or blatant disgust. Its failures bring sidelong glances and indirect mockery. Either no one comments on the sad attempts at freedom, or they respond with an alacrity that stings more than the irrevocable knowledge that curls up, burrowed deeply in the giant's mind.
"You will never be good enough." The voice whispers. "Never cool enough." It coos. "Never enough." It spits.
Such is the fate of the giant. One endless, spiteful circle of under-achievement.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
TBA
I wasn't sure what to call this one. I thought about adding it to the previous post, but I figured it could pretty much be stand alone.
So, I intended to take a nap, but that plan epic failed, as is its custom. Instead I wasted about an hour of my life surfing the internet. Boredom prompts me to look up weird things. Exhaustion brings out my emo (though that's technically not what emo is) side. Mix the two together, and you find me in a dark room researching the phrase "I Hate Myself." Shaun, that's what we're calling my emo side for now, Shaun was rather intrigued. I mean, what's not to like about the exploration of your own kind?
So, the search began. First, I stumbled upon someone's post on a website (since archived so no conversation could be started) where the writer went on and on about the perils of his life. He attempted to wax eloquent in his descriptions of pain and suffering. Then he complained about his soul sucking job with his so-called lousy pay. I'm not knocking his opinion about his life. Sure, I could point out a few things that he should consider being grateful for, but I did find the post interesting.
As I continued surfing the treasure trove that is Google search, I found pictures and buttons, t-shirts and messenger bags that carried the same or similar messages. Heck, when I went farther I began to find things that started talking about love.
When I started this post I'm sure there was a point. At this particular moment in time, I am at a loss for what it is, so I'll just tell you later. Or will I?
>=D
So, I intended to take a nap, but that plan epic failed, as is its custom. Instead I wasted about an hour of my life surfing the internet. Boredom prompts me to look up weird things. Exhaustion brings out my emo (though that's technically not what emo is) side. Mix the two together, and you find me in a dark room researching the phrase "I Hate Myself." Shaun, that's what we're calling my emo side for now, Shaun was rather intrigued. I mean, what's not to like about the exploration of your own kind?
So, the search began. First, I stumbled upon someone's post on a website (since archived so no conversation could be started) where the writer went on and on about the perils of his life. He attempted to wax eloquent in his descriptions of pain and suffering. Then he complained about his soul sucking job with his so-called lousy pay. I'm not knocking his opinion about his life. Sure, I could point out a few things that he should consider being grateful for, but I did find the post interesting.
As I continued surfing the treasure trove that is Google search, I found pictures and buttons, t-shirts and messenger bags that carried the same or similar messages. Heck, when I went farther I began to find things that started talking about love.
When I started this post I'm sure there was a point. At this particular moment in time, I am at a loss for what it is, so I'll just tell you later. Or will I?
>=D
'ello Lovers!
And by lovers, I mean myself. Maybe one day all this randomness will seem silly because there will be someone reading this blog, but it is not this day.
I know it's been a while since I have been here, but that's fine because I never promised you anything. I am far to tired to write anything good, so I'll just inform you that my pillow smelled like sausage for a second.
Anything else I write now will only be trash so I shall pause for a nap and to gather the scattered remnants of my tired mind.
Until later tonight, I bid thee adieu.
Slightly later...
Hold up, what? I was just looking at the stats for the blog. Apparently I've got one audience member in Alaska (on second thought, maybe they just highlighted it as part of America) and another from Australia! Man, for about two seconds, I was probably international! Now I can bask in the self-constructed glow of my awesomeness. If it is who I think it is, I may have an Australian to thank.
I know it's been a while since I have been here, but that's fine because I never promised you anything. I am far to tired to write anything good, so I'll just inform you that my pillow smelled like sausage for a second.
Anything else I write now will only be trash so I shall pause for a nap and to gather the scattered remnants of my tired mind.
Until later tonight, I bid thee adieu.
Slightly later...
Hold up, what? I was just looking at the stats for the blog. Apparently I've got one audience member in Alaska (on second thought, maybe they just highlighted it as part of America) and another from Australia! Man, for about two seconds, I was probably international! Now I can bask in the self-constructed glow of my awesomeness. If it is who I think it is, I may have an Australian to thank.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
A Dumb Idea
These things happen when I let my romantic side runaway with itself. The upside is that after a few miles it realizes that it is just that, by itself. However, not being one to quit...until I have a good reason (=P), I shall at least give it a shot. Somebody, quick! Tell me you don't like it so I can stop. I guess that's a good way to measure it. Problem being, no one ever comes here. Ah well, here it goes.
---------------
At first glance, he didn't seem all that interesting to me. Then again, who am I to judge? I've never really been interested in a persons looks. We'll all be wrinkled and saggy when we get old anyway, right?
There was the standard amount of excitement about having a teacher who wasn't thirty six thousand years old. Meaning, one or two mentioned the fact before he walked in and class started. It was a typical first day of class with syllabi, introduction lectures and general boredom until he suddenly stopped mid sentence.
"This is really very boring. So, we're going to read something today. This is, after all, a literature class. And lucky me, I just happen to have a few extra copies of the first play we're going to read. Who wants to read a part?"
The overall enthusiasm of the class was enough to knock a man out of his chair. If he was drunk and falling out anyway. Silence was his response, but he didn't seem phased by it. His voice didn't seem to help the situation. Not that it was boring, but it wasn't very authoritative. It probably didn't help his case that he was still so young.
Actually, there wasn't much remarkable about him in general. His hair was brown with little rivers of gold to break it up. It wasn't combed in any particular fashion, just out of his face, and it fell just below his ears. He didn't look or sound like much besides a professor.
"No volunteers? Excellent. That means I get to pick."
I was duly befuddled as to exactly why he was so darn excited about all of this, but I suppose you just become that way when you get to teach something you love. I would probably have been just as excited about teaching this class as he is. Literature is my secret passion.
Secret because I am well aware of how I am supposed to be. I am not supposed to have any interest in the arts because the arts simply aren't as profitable as the sciences, or so they say. Besides, I'm supposed to be "the science kid." I won the science fairs in elementary school, I got good grades in those classes, I was in the Science Honor Society and I was going to high places, in science. Goodness forbid my interest in these things extend any farther than a hobby. Who knows what would happen if it was discovered that I was taking this Shakespeare class for any reason besides my need for a humanities credit.
"Ms.Kleins, are you going to stay in your head or would you like to join us?"
I did it again. Drat. Professors always do the same thing when they discover you spacing out in class.
"Perhaps you would like to read one of these characters for us?"
"What play is it?"
"I figured we should start with something we have all run into so we can learn how to analyze Shakespeare with a play we are comfortable with, before we go onto his other works."
"Oh brother, Romeo and Juliet. How disgusting." I meant to mumble all of this under my breath, but I failed to notice that he was standing right next to my desk just as he said it.
"I'm so glad you're excited about this, Ms. Kleins. In fact, why don't you talk to me after class?"
"I didn't do anything!" I exclaimed. We had only been in class for thirty minutes and I was already in trouble. It figures the science gods would try to punish me for wandering from their path of light.
"Yes yes, I know. But you have inspired me." I had a feeling that we would quickly come to learn that when Professor Shailer, that was his name by the way, was inspired it wasn't always a good thing. "That's enough of that for now, though. Shall we begin?"
---------------
At first glance, he didn't seem all that interesting to me. Then again, who am I to judge? I've never really been interested in a persons looks. We'll all be wrinkled and saggy when we get old anyway, right?
There was the standard amount of excitement about having a teacher who wasn't thirty six thousand years old. Meaning, one or two mentioned the fact before he walked in and class started. It was a typical first day of class with syllabi, introduction lectures and general boredom until he suddenly stopped mid sentence.
"This is really very boring. So, we're going to read something today. This is, after all, a literature class. And lucky me, I just happen to have a few extra copies of the first play we're going to read. Who wants to read a part?"
The overall enthusiasm of the class was enough to knock a man out of his chair. If he was drunk and falling out anyway. Silence was his response, but he didn't seem phased by it. His voice didn't seem to help the situation. Not that it was boring, but it wasn't very authoritative. It probably didn't help his case that he was still so young.
Actually, there wasn't much remarkable about him in general. His hair was brown with little rivers of gold to break it up. It wasn't combed in any particular fashion, just out of his face, and it fell just below his ears. He didn't look or sound like much besides a professor.
"No volunteers? Excellent. That means I get to pick."
I was duly befuddled as to exactly why he was so darn excited about all of this, but I suppose you just become that way when you get to teach something you love. I would probably have been just as excited about teaching this class as he is. Literature is my secret passion.
Secret because I am well aware of how I am supposed to be. I am not supposed to have any interest in the arts because the arts simply aren't as profitable as the sciences, or so they say. Besides, I'm supposed to be "the science kid." I won the science fairs in elementary school, I got good grades in those classes, I was in the Science Honor Society and I was going to high places, in science. Goodness forbid my interest in these things extend any farther than a hobby. Who knows what would happen if it was discovered that I was taking this Shakespeare class for any reason besides my need for a humanities credit.
"Ms.Kleins, are you going to stay in your head or would you like to join us?"
I did it again. Drat. Professors always do the same thing when they discover you spacing out in class.
"Perhaps you would like to read one of these characters for us?"
"What play is it?"
"I figured we should start with something we have all run into so we can learn how to analyze Shakespeare with a play we are comfortable with, before we go onto his other works."
"Oh brother, Romeo and Juliet. How disgusting." I meant to mumble all of this under my breath, but I failed to notice that he was standing right next to my desk just as he said it.
"I'm so glad you're excited about this, Ms. Kleins. In fact, why don't you talk to me after class?"
"I didn't do anything!" I exclaimed. We had only been in class for thirty minutes and I was already in trouble. It figures the science gods would try to punish me for wandering from their path of light.
"Yes yes, I know. But you have inspired me." I had a feeling that we would quickly come to learn that when Professor Shailer, that was his name by the way, was inspired it wasn't always a good thing. "That's enough of that for now, though. Shall we begin?"
Monday, November 8, 2010
I was reading this manga...
I was reading this one manga about a teacher-student romance. Heck, who am I kidding? Those kinds of stories are all over manga! While some people think they're sick, we may need to back up a little. These teachers are definitely not 40+. That's just not okay (sorry pedo/geriophiles).
I have to admit though, I've definitely had my moments of fantasy in regards to a fictional Lit. Professor. Granted, my mental romance was limited to scintillating intellectual conversation by the fire while we cozy up and drink hot chocolate. This might not cut it for everyone, but to each his/her own. Anyways, I'm bored (not really, at all) and I figured it would be an interesting writing challenge to pretend to write a pretend diary as though I were in love with a lit professor. Heh heh heh. Anyways, I don't know how long this will last, but it's something to do. I may creep myself out and just stop, but who knows?
I think the way this is going to work is I'll do a regular post, then some sort of breaking symbol, then the diary...yeah.
So, I'll start this all next time, and we'll just have to see where it goes!
I have to admit though, I've definitely had my moments of fantasy in regards to a fictional Lit. Professor. Granted, my mental romance was limited to scintillating intellectual conversation by the fire while we cozy up and drink hot chocolate. This might not cut it for everyone, but to each his/her own. Anyways, I'm bored (not really, at all) and I figured it would be an interesting writing challenge to pretend to write a pretend diary as though I were in love with a lit professor. Heh heh heh. Anyways, I don't know how long this will last, but it's something to do. I may creep myself out and just stop, but who knows?
I think the way this is going to work is I'll do a regular post, then some sort of breaking symbol, then the diary...yeah.
So, I'll start this all next time, and we'll just have to see where it goes!
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
NaNoWriMo Lite
So, there's this thing called NaNoWriMo. This stands for National Novel Writing Month. It's when a bunch of people gather up the motivation to push out an entire novel (50,000 words) in one month.
I haven't been writing long enough to try to complete such a herculean task in such a short amount of time, but it's still pretty cool. Instead, I have decided to use it as motivation to try and spit out the rest of a story that has kind of faded into stagnation as of late. (Now that I think about it, I also need to come up with a better title. My working title sucks. I get embarrassed just opening the file.)
If you (yes, you nonexistant figment of my imagination, you) should be bored, or a masochist, I offer up the link to my writings thus far. It's called Hating to Love, I recommend starting at the first chapter.
I have only three rules.
1) Don't judge me.
2) If you have something to say about my writing, say it honestly. No more of less than necessary.
3) If you steal it, you're doomed to an inexplicable death.
Anyways, I mean to take great strides with this story over the course of November. I may also dabble a bit with Love Thief (yet another painfully titled piece of fiction), but I must focus on only one thing if I mean to accomplish anything.
We'll see! ;D
I haven't been writing long enough to try to complete such a herculean task in such a short amount of time, but it's still pretty cool. Instead, I have decided to use it as motivation to try and spit out the rest of a story that has kind of faded into stagnation as of late. (Now that I think about it, I also need to come up with a better title. My working title sucks. I get embarrassed just opening the file.)
If you (yes, you nonexistant figment of my imagination, you) should be bored, or a masochist, I offer up the link to my writings thus far. It's called Hating to Love, I recommend starting at the first chapter.
I have only three rules.
1) Don't judge me.
2) If you have something to say about my writing, say it honestly. No more of less than necessary.
3) If you steal it, you're doomed to an inexplicable death.
Anyways, I mean to take great strides with this story over the course of November. I may also dabble a bit with Love Thief (yet another painfully titled piece of fiction), but I must focus on only one thing if I mean to accomplish anything.
We'll see! ;D
Monday, October 25, 2010
Let's talk Romanticism...
Before we do, though, I would like to point out the general blogging trend of ellipses in a post title. Weird, ya?
Anyways, I like Knights. I think they're pretty cool. When I was younger, I was determined to become the equivalent of a Lady Knight. Never mind the fact that the era of knights and seemingly noble quests ended long before my grandparents were even thinking about children. I was determined. I read book after book, one of my favorite being those written by Tamora Pierce (Protector of the Small series, though I like her other stuff too). I became a crusader for truth and justice. Going into high school, my one goal was to catch a senior picking on and innocent and defenseless freshman. Then, gently I would pull the victim out of harms way before engaging in a duel with the dastardly upperclassman. Fists flying, battle cry tearing through the air, and ninja-like precision and grace would aid my in my noble conquest. Then, the final echoes of our valiant struggle would settle, and my newfound friend and I would leave my villainous foe alone and utterly defeated.
Yeah. So, I liked knights. However, I am surprised at how confused I, along with so many others were and continue to be. I quickly discovered that these knight were not all I had once thought they were. They served for money or for name. Sure, some of them worked out of the goodness of their hearts, but it was not a wide spread trend. Listening to this riveting podcast, I find more and more discrepancies from these one time heroes.
But this isn't just limited to knights. What about vampires? If you look at it objectively, the entirety of the idea is thoroughly ridiculous. Which is not to say that I don't really really really like vampire stories (excluding that one which shall remain nameless. Hint: Vampires DO NOT sparkle...EVER). One of my classmates pointed out to me the parallels between the whole entranced by the vampire thing and a woman wanting to get raped. It shocked me a bit, but it was a good point.
I know nobody reads this, but what else do you think has been romanticized? For better or for worse?
Anyways, I like Knights. I think they're pretty cool. When I was younger, I was determined to become the equivalent of a Lady Knight. Never mind the fact that the era of knights and seemingly noble quests ended long before my grandparents were even thinking about children. I was determined. I read book after book, one of my favorite being those written by Tamora Pierce (Protector of the Small series, though I like her other stuff too). I became a crusader for truth and justice. Going into high school, my one goal was to catch a senior picking on and innocent and defenseless freshman. Then, gently I would pull the victim out of harms way before engaging in a duel with the dastardly upperclassman. Fists flying, battle cry tearing through the air, and ninja-like precision and grace would aid my in my noble conquest. Then, the final echoes of our valiant struggle would settle, and my newfound friend and I would leave my villainous foe alone and utterly defeated.
Yeah. So, I liked knights. However, I am surprised at how confused I, along with so many others were and continue to be. I quickly discovered that these knight were not all I had once thought they were. They served for money or for name. Sure, some of them worked out of the goodness of their hearts, but it was not a wide spread trend. Listening to this riveting podcast, I find more and more discrepancies from these one time heroes.
But this isn't just limited to knights. What about vampires? If you look at it objectively, the entirety of the idea is thoroughly ridiculous. Which is not to say that I don't really really really like vampire stories (excluding that one which shall remain nameless. Hint: Vampires DO NOT sparkle...EVER). One of my classmates pointed out to me the parallels between the whole entranced by the vampire thing and a woman wanting to get raped. It shocked me a bit, but it was a good point.
I know nobody reads this, but what else do you think has been romanticized? For better or for worse?
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Hello My Lovlies
It's been a while, eh?
Well, the great beast that was midterms cast it's obnoxious shadow upon my free time. The wraith attacked and left me, inspirationless. Even if I had had time, I wouldn't have had anything to write. At least, nothing good. I mean, I don't know how much you want to read me ranting against the perils of Calculus II.
Speaking of Calculus II...
Explain to me exactly how one can study so much for a test, and do worse than when one doesn't study. I would love to know. So for now, I'll silently rail against Calculus and reconsider the course of my entire life.
Cool.
Funny, funny, who's got the funny?
I don't know. Wait! In my time of need my hallmates answered the call. Today, I will comment on a college student's capacity to stand a foot away from another person and still yell.
Two girls walk up to each other and proceed to converse, at 6 BILLION DECIBLES, about the price of rice in China. Meanwhile, a third and entirely unrelated girl sits in her room wondering why this must be discussed in HER doorway.
She could react in one of two-thousand ways, but I'm only going to tell you two.
1) She could ignore them.
2) She comes out, guns a'blazin, CHARGIN' HUR LAZR!!!!!
*ahem*
The choice is yours.
Well, the great beast that was midterms cast it's obnoxious shadow upon my free time. The wraith attacked and left me, inspirationless. Even if I had had time, I wouldn't have had anything to write. At least, nothing good. I mean, I don't know how much you want to read me ranting against the perils of Calculus II.
Speaking of Calculus II...
Explain to me exactly how one can study so much for a test, and do worse than when one doesn't study. I would love to know. So for now, I'll silently rail against Calculus and reconsider the course of my entire life.
Cool.
Funny, funny, who's got the funny?
I don't know. Wait! In my time of need my hallmates answered the call. Today, I will comment on a college student's capacity to stand a foot away from another person and still yell.
Two girls walk up to each other and proceed to converse, at 6 BILLION DECIBLES, about the price of rice in China. Meanwhile, a third and entirely unrelated girl sits in her room wondering why this must be discussed in HER doorway.
She could react in one of two-thousand ways, but I'm only going to tell you two.
1) She could ignore them.
2) She comes out, guns a'blazin, CHARGIN' HUR LAZR!!!!!
*ahem*
The choice is yours.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Building Fences
Well, the title seems a lot more deep and meaningful than I'm sure I can capture in this message, but the aim of a writer is to translate those feelings, shared or singular, that others deem indescribable, incomparable, or something you just wouldn't understand.
I'll be honest. I wasn't all that excited about going to see Fences. Call me shallow or cold if you will, but I don't really like inspirational or deep things. I don't mean in general, but I don't like things that are so obviously geared toward moving you that the story is inundated by the writer's will to inspire you. I also don't like to cry. According to popular culture, crying is directly related to inspiration. I don't know. There must be some secret formula that producers have in their secret handbooks of all things theatrically secretive that shows the relationship between buckets of tears and amount of soul shattering internal revolution. The point is, I don't like the whole soggy bag of snot and tears so I do my best to avoid it. Hence, my aversion to potentially serious and/or moving plays.
This fact becomes even more ridiculous once I describe to you one of the main reasons I love theatre. I love theatre's capacity to make you feel. I'll bet a dollar half of us have never been seventeen years old in the 1960's, but that doesn't matter. Theatre will put you there, in the moment, right with the characters. If done right, everything outside of the world the actors and technicians have created for you, simply disappears. You may be nineteen years old and don;t give a flying flip about who's dating who and all the weaksauce romance sold like candy on modern day television. But in a theater, you call fall in love with Cyrano just as Roxane does. You may be the most stoic person you know, but watching someone die on stage can put it as close to you as if you were watching your own family die.
So, the mixture of not enjoying the mixture of feelings and going to a place that has the magic of giving life to a story and making you feel, whether you want to or not, is liable to make a person a little less than happy. Fortunately for me, academic compensation is enough to motivate me to get over myself.
My train of though has started doing tour jetes over in a corner somewhere. I'll have to complete this when the performance is over. Until then, go grab some popcorn and sulk about your state in life. Or, you know, you could just eat it. :)
I'll be honest. I wasn't all that excited about going to see Fences. Call me shallow or cold if you will, but I don't really like inspirational or deep things. I don't mean in general, but I don't like things that are so obviously geared toward moving you that the story is inundated by the writer's will to inspire you. I also don't like to cry. According to popular culture, crying is directly related to inspiration. I don't know. There must be some secret formula that producers have in their secret handbooks of all things theatrically secretive that shows the relationship between buckets of tears and amount of soul shattering internal revolution. The point is, I don't like the whole soggy bag of snot and tears so I do my best to avoid it. Hence, my aversion to potentially serious and/or moving plays.
This fact becomes even more ridiculous once I describe to you one of the main reasons I love theatre. I love theatre's capacity to make you feel. I'll bet a dollar half of us have never been seventeen years old in the 1960's, but that doesn't matter. Theatre will put you there, in the moment, right with the characters. If done right, everything outside of the world the actors and technicians have created for you, simply disappears. You may be nineteen years old and don;t give a flying flip about who's dating who and all the weaksauce romance sold like candy on modern day television. But in a theater, you call fall in love with Cyrano just as Roxane does. You may be the most stoic person you know, but watching someone die on stage can put it as close to you as if you were watching your own family die.
So, the mixture of not enjoying the mixture of feelings and going to a place that has the magic of giving life to a story and making you feel, whether you want to or not, is liable to make a person a little less than happy. Fortunately for me, academic compensation is enough to motivate me to get over myself.
My train of though has started doing tour jetes over in a corner somewhere. I'll have to complete this when the performance is over. Until then, go grab some popcorn and sulk about your state in life. Or, you know, you could just eat it. :)
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Death Rays
This is a Death Ray.
Pretty intense, right? I thought so too. They claim it was an accident, but I feel as though somebody had to have considered the possibility of this happening. It's all part of their master plan. To do what? I sure as heck don't know. But they're doing it.
Speaking of Death Rays, I haven't heard from Marvin the Martian in a long time. It seems like kids have lost their taste for good old fashioned, mindless slapstick comedy. Instead of teaching our youngin's to have pent up rage and needless aggression towards others, inevitably resulting in ultimate hilarity, we are telling them to worry about who likes who and what she said about him. What happened to the beauty of a good mid air epiphany before falling into a valley of death, then respawn? Instead, I find my eyes and ears assaulted with the latest trends and styles. I just don't get it. Once upon a time, characters like Tweety (I was so mad when I discovered he was a boy) and Jerry (of Tom and Jerry) were my heroes. Now they all waste their lives making googley eyes at their favorite actor, often 20-30 years older. That, my friend, is sick.
Maybe we should make a Death Ray to destroy modern television so that we're forced to reevaluate our goals and have to build from the golden years up. It's a thought.
Pretty intense, right? I thought so too. They claim it was an accident, but I feel as though somebody had to have considered the possibility of this happening. It's all part of their master plan. To do what? I sure as heck don't know. But they're doing it.
Speaking of Death Rays, I haven't heard from Marvin the Martian in a long time. It seems like kids have lost their taste for good old fashioned, mindless slapstick comedy. Instead of teaching our youngin's to have pent up rage and needless aggression towards others, inevitably resulting in ultimate hilarity, we are telling them to worry about who likes who and what she said about him. What happened to the beauty of a good mid air epiphany before falling into a valley of death, then respawn? Instead, I find my eyes and ears assaulted with the latest trends and styles. I just don't get it. Once upon a time, characters like Tweety (I was so mad when I discovered he was a boy) and Jerry (of Tom and Jerry) were my heroes. Now they all waste their lives making googley eyes at their favorite actor, often 20-30 years older. That, my friend, is sick.
Maybe we should make a Death Ray to destroy modern television so that we're forced to reevaluate our goals and have to build from the golden years up. It's a thought.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Accidentally Offensive
I am plagued by being accidentally offensive. Things that, when framed by the context clues in my mind, seem harmless and, in fact, rather hilarious, suddenly become poison darts that wound the hearts of my companions.
I assure you, my intent is only to make you laugh. I seek not to offend, but to amuse. Instead, the parting of my thrice accursed lips yields naught but unspoken hurt and pain. They may end up laughing along with the joke, but the mood is spoiled, ruined, defiled by my flagging wit. Supposedly I'm a ball of sunshine. A spark of good humor on a cloudy day. That little bit of sarcastic humor that can turn even the most depressing of circumstances into a belly-clutching, knee-slapping bit of hilarity, but I know. I know that it is not so.
I can see it in their eyes. In the halfhearted smiles of those outside of the interaction. In the way they carefully avoid eye contact while uttering lies about how it's okay, how they're not really offended, how they misunderstood the joke. I know. I noticed the subtle stretching of distance between us. The way the rest of the group clusters together more tightly while I lag behind.
What's worse, sometimes I know exactly who I'm going to offend. Not that the moment is intentional, but I know who, it's only a matter of when. Gift or curse I can read people while being completely oblivious. I know well enough how people's temperaments will likely react to each other, or to my own. Even so, in that moment, in the rush of conversation, my flurry of wit knows no filter, no censor, no sense. Before I can somehow stop the words, capture them and sentence them to incineration, they have escaped to pollute the entirety of the universe.
Am I whining? I don't think so. Should I buck up and fix this? Probably. I try, I really do. Fasts of silence, separating myself from those I may hurt, but time after time I relax my vigilance and then the poison-tongued demon in me strikes out again. If I could but tame this beast, my undoing...
Enough with the doom and gloom. Give me an hour or so and I'll be back with something funny to say, I hope.
I assure you, my intent is only to make you laugh. I seek not to offend, but to amuse. Instead, the parting of my thrice accursed lips yields naught but unspoken hurt and pain. They may end up laughing along with the joke, but the mood is spoiled, ruined, defiled by my flagging wit. Supposedly I'm a ball of sunshine. A spark of good humor on a cloudy day. That little bit of sarcastic humor that can turn even the most depressing of circumstances into a belly-clutching, knee-slapping bit of hilarity, but I know. I know that it is not so.
I can see it in their eyes. In the halfhearted smiles of those outside of the interaction. In the way they carefully avoid eye contact while uttering lies about how it's okay, how they're not really offended, how they misunderstood the joke. I know. I noticed the subtle stretching of distance between us. The way the rest of the group clusters together more tightly while I lag behind.
What's worse, sometimes I know exactly who I'm going to offend. Not that the moment is intentional, but I know who, it's only a matter of when. Gift or curse I can read people while being completely oblivious. I know well enough how people's temperaments will likely react to each other, or to my own. Even so, in that moment, in the rush of conversation, my flurry of wit knows no filter, no censor, no sense. Before I can somehow stop the words, capture them and sentence them to incineration, they have escaped to pollute the entirety of the universe.
Am I whining? I don't think so. Should I buck up and fix this? Probably. I try, I really do. Fasts of silence, separating myself from those I may hurt, but time after time I relax my vigilance and then the poison-tongued demon in me strikes out again. If I could but tame this beast, my undoing...
Enough with the doom and gloom. Give me an hour or so and I'll be back with something funny to say, I hope.
Lateish Night Schtuffinz...
So...I could do my homework. OR I could realize I'm demented and left it in the Cafe at dinner. Awesome. Never mind the test I have tomorrow. Oh, and we can just ignore the project, excel datasheet, and homework questions I have due tomorrow. It's whatever.
So, what do we do when you're screwed? You stay up as late as you would if you WERE studying and waste time on the internet. That's not true, I did what I could without my notes, but that's severely limited. In case my parents happen to stumble upon this blog, I did study and I AM getting up early tomorrow to get my stuff and finish everything up...ideally.
I suppose now I should talk about something that resembles depth of content, right? Okay, easy enough.
How about we discuss the yearning to speak on an event, to share an experience, to commiserate, to gain comfort from a shared suffering. The Bible calls it sharing the yoke.Unfortunately, as much as we might like to do that, sometimes the wounds is simply still too raw. We had to write a personal essay/memoir for one of my classes. I had a topic, the perfect topic which may just have to be my next post. Heartbreak. And I could see, so clearly, what experience I could shape the piece around to make it really hit home with the reader, and with myself. I knew just how I would want to capture the moment to do it justice, but I knew it would hurt too much to frame my moment of heartbreak and place it on a mantle for others to gaze upon, judge and critique.
Now, some of you may be able to separate yourself from the piece in these processes, and typically, I am the same way. But, when you write about something that takes you back to a place of such vulnerability, something so fresh there is hardly a scab to keep it from bleeding over into the rest of your life. When something is still that raw for you, then their honest judgement and critique of your writing seems to turn their words into an attack on the validity of the experience. They're not correcting grammar and syntax, their criticizing your emotions. A compliment is reduced to a perfunctory task, in your mind, and each assessment of your literary skill becomes an arrow, carved and crafted to cut the memory into shreds that will tear you apart.
Yeah...I would continue, but I
m falling asleep just writing this. Rest assured (lol, so sleepy) there will be an update.
So, what do we do when you're screwed? You stay up as late as you would if you WERE studying and waste time on the internet. That's not true, I did what I could without my notes, but that's severely limited. In case my parents happen to stumble upon this blog, I did study and I AM getting up early tomorrow to get my stuff and finish everything up...ideally.
I suppose now I should talk about something that resembles depth of content, right? Okay, easy enough.
How about we discuss the yearning to speak on an event, to share an experience, to commiserate, to gain comfort from a shared suffering. The Bible calls it sharing the yoke.Unfortunately, as much as we might like to do that, sometimes the wounds is simply still too raw. We had to write a personal essay/memoir for one of my classes. I had a topic, the perfect topic which may just have to be my next post. Heartbreak. And I could see, so clearly, what experience I could shape the piece around to make it really hit home with the reader, and with myself. I knew just how I would want to capture the moment to do it justice, but I knew it would hurt too much to frame my moment of heartbreak and place it on a mantle for others to gaze upon, judge and critique.
Now, some of you may be able to separate yourself from the piece in these processes, and typically, I am the same way. But, when you write about something that takes you back to a place of such vulnerability, something so fresh there is hardly a scab to keep it from bleeding over into the rest of your life. When something is still that raw for you, then their honest judgement and critique of your writing seems to turn their words into an attack on the validity of the experience. They're not correcting grammar and syntax, their criticizing your emotions. A compliment is reduced to a perfunctory task, in your mind, and each assessment of your literary skill becomes an arrow, carved and crafted to cut the memory into shreds that will tear you apart.
Yeah...I would continue, but I
m falling asleep just writing this. Rest assured (lol, so sleepy) there will be an update.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Bugs
What. The. Heck. It would appear that my dorm has a bug problem, or maybe just my room. I mean, I'm not an exceptionally dirty person, and they're not the kind of bugs attracted to trash anyway, so that's not the point. The point, dear ladies and gentleman, is that they keep appearing! There must be a bug spawn point or something! And there are almost always two of them, always in the same place. On my window. Now, I'm not the sort to freak out about bugs every time I see them, but that doesn't mean I enjoy this invasion of my personal space. I don't even kill them. I find a container and help them relocate, but that is it. They have THE WHOLE WORLD! The least they could do is allow me my room. It's not even like my entire dorm is having this issue. Just me.
Simply to annoy me they seem to be multiplying asexually by sporing! Okay, so maybe they're not exactly doing it that way, but you get the point. It's like there's some quota they have to fill. There must be two bugs on this window at all times. Yeesh. It's not even like I need to worry about them crawling all over me at night. They just pick a spot on the window and stay there. They don't even move. What the heck?!
Sorry, I just really wanted to rant.
*UPDATE*
I just threw three of them. THREE! Then I left to go eat for about twenty minute. There are now TWO MORE! I ask you, why?! Where are they coming from? Why this room? Why did no one mention this from last year? Bah! I don't even have the necessary words! Maybe there were just...*counts* seven behind the blinds the whole time and they just took their time coming out. Maybe that's it. But why are there a million times more bugs in my room than in anyone else's? Why does that sound like it's grammatically incorrect? Why is Calculus II so hard? The mysteries of the universe can be fracking annoying. Eh?
Simply to annoy me they seem to be multiplying asexually by sporing! Okay, so maybe they're not exactly doing it that way, but you get the point. It's like there's some quota they have to fill. There must be two bugs on this window at all times. Yeesh. It's not even like I need to worry about them crawling all over me at night. They just pick a spot on the window and stay there. They don't even move. What the heck?!
Sorry, I just really wanted to rant.
*UPDATE*
I just threw three of them. THREE! Then I left to go eat for about twenty minute. There are now TWO MORE! I ask you, why?! Where are they coming from? Why this room? Why did no one mention this from last year? Bah! I don't even have the necessary words! Maybe there were just...*counts* seven behind the blinds the whole time and they just took their time coming out. Maybe that's it. But why are there a million times more bugs in my room than in anyone else's? Why does that sound like it's grammatically incorrect? Why is Calculus II so hard? The mysteries of the universe can be fracking annoying. Eh?
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Missing Someone
I'll be honest. I miss him. Sure, I know it;s ridiculous and preposterous. One could even claim that it's impossible to miss someone you've never met, but I can;t lie and say I don't notice his absence. It's nothing so dramatic as to say that my world has lost its color, or my existence no longer has purpose, but it us there all the same. Like a single pixel missing from a beautiful picture, it seems as though it's no big deal, but the picture is never quite as great as it once was. The rest of the picture may still be admired and enjoyed, the world does not stop, but some part of the mind will always wonder exactly what it missed out on. What was supposed to be? What could have been? Would the picture have been all the more perfect, or maybe even a little worse, had the piece been finished?
If pictures aren't your thing, then imagine with me a morning stroll through a lightly wooded area. The sunshine lights the trees, the path before, even the air itself seems bright. A gentle breeze swirls around you, setting the perfect temperature so that you may stay warm without overheating. It runs its fingers through the branches of the trees, the light rustle of leaves follows in its wake. Everything seems perfect, but there are no animals. No chirping of birds, no pretty flitting of butterfly wings, nothing. Sure, the walk is still peaceful and beautiful, but the silence taints the experience just the slightest bit. So, you whistle, hoping to fill up the emptiness, but it only sounds creepy as the sounds s absorbed into the listening trees.You wonder, where did they go? Did something scare then off? Are they afraid of me?
Maybe I'm reading too far into this. Maybe I'm romanticizing the whole experience. Maybe it's nothing more than this bothersome emptiness that nags at me while I stare at this blasted Physics book and try to do homework I've had for a week. Maybe it's the little niggling in my mind that has me opening and closing the same tab on my browser window, hoping he's there. Maybe it's the little push that made me write this instead of a memoir or personal essay for Creative Writing. Maybe it's that sporadic and annoyed scratching of the head, shifting of position, sighing and glancing at the computer that shows me the same, steady blankness as I saw the last time I looked four minutes ago.
Missing someone is annoying. Missing someone is inconvenient. Missing someone is stupid.
The fact remains that I miss him.
--------------
UPDATE:
Ask and you shall receive. He e-mailed me while I was writing this. XD I just thought that was funny. See, being whiny CAN get you places.
Disclainer: That's not true. No one likes whiny people unless they are also hilarious. =P
Saturday, September 25, 2010
About this Blog
So...what about this blog?
The incredible thing about a blog is it can be about anything. Incredible? I know. Then again, anything can be about anything, but I'll save the philosophical debates for when you've been reading so long you couldn't quit this if you tried. Good plan, eh? Where was I...
Oh yes, the fantasticness of a blog. Well, I could take this in any direction I could possibly conceive. I could lay it at the feet of the Internet cult of those who eat, breathe, speak and write about Love, or something like it. I could allocate my skill points towards turning this means of communication into a gamers paradise, riddling it with references like the bullets from an old-time Gatling gun. I could transform it into the enlightened sanctuary of a writer's dream, until every pixel oozes creative energy and a passion for the craft. I could be exact and precise, measuring and analyzing the world through an engineer's eyes, interpreting it as I see it and translating it into a language more palatable to the tastes of both sides of the geek line. I could accost you with humor and wit so you laugh so hard your teeth fall out of your ears and your hair turns purple. I could explore the depths of my spiritual psyche and take you with my on my walk with God. I could also share with you the burdens of my soul, the things that draw the long and weary sigh from my tired frame. I could explore and expand my somewhat limited musical knowledge and induce intense head banging which, admittedly, might make reading the screen a bit hard. I could make dumb jokes and stupid references to appeal to my fellow collegiate minds. I could paint pictures so beautiful of my favorite culinary experiences, turning word into scent and wreaking havoc on your disappointed stomach.
I could try to please you. I could try to please me. I could impress my mother, brother, sister, friends, teachers, whatever. I could be deep, or shallow, or funny, or lame, or serious, or noncommittal. I could share my life with you, or I could be a funny place to stop by and check out a funny picture.I could be your fantasy friend, or I could be the one you love to hate.
So...what about this blog?
I don't know. We'll just have to see. =P
The incredible thing about a blog is it can be about anything. Incredible? I know. Then again, anything can be about anything, but I'll save the philosophical debates for when you've been reading so long you couldn't quit this if you tried. Good plan, eh? Where was I...
Oh yes, the fantasticness of a blog. Well, I could take this in any direction I could possibly conceive. I could lay it at the feet of the Internet cult of those who eat, breathe, speak and write about Love, or something like it. I could allocate my skill points towards turning this means of communication into a gamers paradise, riddling it with references like the bullets from an old-time Gatling gun. I could transform it into the enlightened sanctuary of a writer's dream, until every pixel oozes creative energy and a passion for the craft. I could be exact and precise, measuring and analyzing the world through an engineer's eyes, interpreting it as I see it and translating it into a language more palatable to the tastes of both sides of the geek line. I could accost you with humor and wit so you laugh so hard your teeth fall out of your ears and your hair turns purple. I could explore the depths of my spiritual psyche and take you with my on my walk with God. I could also share with you the burdens of my soul, the things that draw the long and weary sigh from my tired frame. I could explore and expand my somewhat limited musical knowledge and induce intense head banging which, admittedly, might make reading the screen a bit hard. I could make dumb jokes and stupid references to appeal to my fellow collegiate minds. I could paint pictures so beautiful of my favorite culinary experiences, turning word into scent and wreaking havoc on your disappointed stomach.
I could try to please you. I could try to please me. I could impress my mother, brother, sister, friends, teachers, whatever. I could be deep, or shallow, or funny, or lame, or serious, or noncommittal. I could share my life with you, or I could be a funny place to stop by and check out a funny picture.I could be your fantasy friend, or I could be the one you love to hate.
So...what about this blog?
I don't know. We'll just have to see. =P
Friday, September 24, 2010
The Beginning
As I learned in Physics II: Electricity and Magnetism today, not everything starts in the beginning. Sometimes life gives you some know-it-all who decides to ruin the surprise ending and make you figure out how in the world you got there. Sometimes you start in the middle, often for dramatic effect, to pull you into the action and stuff your mind to overflowing with questions and speculation about where these people came from and where they're going. Sometimes, life plops you somewhere in a wrinkle in time and you've got no idea about anything whatsoever, but you're pretty sure that the jerk who made up MapQuest is laughing his rear off because he told you to drive 6.4 miles down a road that doesn't actually exist.
Well, here's what I say:
When life gives you lemons, squeeze them in life's eye and kick it in the shin.
I could write more and impress you with my incredible comic wit or my stunning intellectuality, but I'm feeling pretty good about what I have and I'd rather not spoil your, undoubtedly awesome, mental image of me.
So for now, I bid thee adieu, till next boredom may bring us together.
Well, here's what I say:
When life gives you lemons, squeeze them in life's eye and kick it in the shin.
I could write more and impress you with my incredible comic wit or my stunning intellectuality, but I'm feeling pretty good about what I have and I'd rather not spoil your, undoubtedly awesome, mental image of me.
So for now, I bid thee adieu, till next boredom may bring us together.
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