Lately I've been carrying with me feelings of disease and disillusion, so much so that I'm constantly reshaping my views on the world, on myself, my relationships, my ambitions, my values. I thought I'd already been through this before. Wasn't that post-high school "coming out of your shell" experience surely past? Haven't I already grasped who I am as an individual? Don't I know what I want already?
Apparently, not.
Shouldn't I want stability? Is it so bad to want to be comfortable? Considering my past, I would think these things essential. And I thought I had achieved this state, but what kind of achievement is this anyway? One of settlement and dashed dreams? One of a predilection to loss? There is something to be said for comfort: I enjoy the comfortable autumn weather, eating macaroni and cheese, wearing flip-flops, getting a good night's rest. But what about the heat of summer? Stinging sun and sweat-strewn bodies, exhilaration and rejuvenation. And how about linguine in a cheesy cream sauce with shrimp and scallops and seasonings and such and Mmmmm. And I like wearing high heels. Sometimes. If they are black and shiny with pretty studded rhinestones on the side. But most of all, staying up all night, drinking, dancing, laughing, snacking, conversing, chilling, then looking out at the twilight sky, the responsibilities of the day on the horizon, the thrill of the night still fresh amongst hazy atmosphere.
I'm not sure what I'm trying to say. And I'm not sure what I'm doing at all (insert chuckle). But maybe this is just me.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
frustration and imitation
As my laptop is yet in the hands of my now (ex) boyfriend, I cannot write this on the privacy of my comfy couch. Instead, I'm currently in the computer lab at my apartment complex, which I thought would prove superfluous, along with the tennis courts, tanning bed, swimming pool, billiards room, and basketball goals - but I was sorely mistaken. I actually like using most of these things, as I damn well should, considering I'm taking out excess loans to live here (though it's worth it in my opinion). The abundance of trees and westside location sold me. Maybe it is all a bit much...
ANYWAY, I digress.
So, getting back to life and such. Richie and I broke it off, in a surprisingly mutual and civil manner I might add. Though I made the late-night-sobby-text the next evening, which is to be expected from someone as over-emotional and hyper-sensitive as me. And now he is fixing my laptop. The absence of such a seemingly marginal possession has been extremely frustrating for me, since I am sort of an internet junkie, along with being addicted to my iTunes library. But I'm able to use the computers at school and the ones here, so my situation isn't all that desperate.
Speaking of school, the reason I wanted to post today is because I just turned in an extra credit assignment for Dr. Rivers' rhetoric class today that I think is pretty jazzy. He calls it "creative imitations," where an excerpt from a written piece is re-written on an (ideally) completely different subject matter, using not more than 20 to 25% of the original words, keeping the same sentence structure and style.
And I wanted to share mine.
So here it is. :-)
Original (Philip Caputo’s A Rumor of War, Page 18)
Whenever I think back to those days at Basic School, the recollection that first comes to mind is always the same: A double file of green-clad men, bent beneath their packs, are tramping down a dirt road. A remorseless sun is beating down. Raised by our boots, a cloud of red dust powders the trees alongside the road, making them look sickly and ashen. The dust clings to our uniforms, runs in muddy streaks down our sweating faces. There is the rattle of rifle slings and bayonet scabbards, the clattering of mess kits bouncing in our haversacks. Our heads ache from the weight of steel helmets, and the cry “Close it up, keep your interval, close it up” is echoing up and down the long column.
Imitation
Whenever I think back to my days at parochial school, the memory that remains clearest in my mind is always the same: row after row of uniformed boys and girls in khaki shorts and plaid-pleated skirts, knelt beneath the crucifix, are mouthing the words of the hymnal printed in our praise books. A merciless god is beating down. Raised by their prayers, a cloud of holiness surrounds the priests and deacons situated just behind the altar, making them appear righteous and devout. The cloud envelops our visages, moves in hypnotizing tufts about our credulous bodies. There is the ring of the altar boy’s bell, the pounding of organ notes bellowing in the church. Our small bodies restless from the endless duration of weekly mass, and the monotony of “Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy, Lord have mercy” is reverberating through and through the wooden pews.
Peace out, y'all.
ANYWAY, I digress.
So, getting back to life and such. Richie and I broke it off, in a surprisingly mutual and civil manner I might add. Though I made the late-night-sobby-text the next evening, which is to be expected from someone as over-emotional and hyper-sensitive as me. And now he is fixing my laptop. The absence of such a seemingly marginal possession has been extremely frustrating for me, since I am sort of an internet junkie, along with being addicted to my iTunes library. But I'm able to use the computers at school and the ones here, so my situation isn't all that desperate.
Speaking of school, the reason I wanted to post today is because I just turned in an extra credit assignment for Dr. Rivers' rhetoric class today that I think is pretty jazzy. He calls it "creative imitations," where an excerpt from a written piece is re-written on an (ideally) completely different subject matter, using not more than 20 to 25% of the original words, keeping the same sentence structure and style.
And I wanted to share mine.
So here it is. :-)
Original (Philip Caputo’s A Rumor of War, Page 18)
Whenever I think back to those days at Basic School, the recollection that first comes to mind is always the same: A double file of green-clad men, bent beneath their packs, are tramping down a dirt road. A remorseless sun is beating down. Raised by our boots, a cloud of red dust powders the trees alongside the road, making them look sickly and ashen. The dust clings to our uniforms, runs in muddy streaks down our sweating faces. There is the rattle of rifle slings and bayonet scabbards, the clattering of mess kits bouncing in our haversacks. Our heads ache from the weight of steel helmets, and the cry “Close it up, keep your interval, close it up” is echoing up and down the long column.
Imitation
Whenever I think back to my days at parochial school, the memory that remains clearest in my mind is always the same: row after row of uniformed boys and girls in khaki shorts and plaid-pleated skirts, knelt beneath the crucifix, are mouthing the words of the hymnal printed in our praise books. A merciless god is beating down. Raised by their prayers, a cloud of holiness surrounds the priests and deacons situated just behind the altar, making them appear righteous and devout. The cloud envelops our visages, moves in hypnotizing tufts about our credulous bodies. There is the ring of the altar boy’s bell, the pounding of organ notes bellowing in the church. Our small bodies restless from the endless duration of weekly mass, and the monotony of “Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy, Lord have mercy” is reverberating through and through the wooden pews.
Peace out, y'all.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
the power of language
I wanted to write this yesterday, but because of weak internet connections, that just didn't happen. So, here it is.
After a depressive start to the week, I began to feel moderately better in ways, probably a combination of not having to work at the soul-crushing bureaucracy they call Applebees, feeling confident about summer classes, and maybe a little - receiving some much needed appreciation from the boyfriend. I now had some momentum for the week.
Little did I know that Wednesday's words - a few light-shining phrases - would completely change my bleak mood.
I woke up late yesterday morning, semi-prepared for the daunting task of cramming for my British literary history midterm, then actually taking the test at 12. So I grabbed breakfast at McD's, studied like a hermit crab in a room by myself in the Orr Center, took the midterm, presumably rocked the bitch out, then proceeded to my car to head home for lunch.
There I found the first of my "Wednesday's words."
Just as I pulled my keys out to start my rockin' Monte Carlo, i spied on the windshield a note ... for me? I slid it off the surface, "This is a ticket for Being so damn Cute! :-) ." What?!? I laughed my "tehehe" and smiled shyly, almost ashamedly, for I don't know what reason. I thought it was the boyfriend, but I found out later, apparently not. Regardless of the sender, it made me smile like I hadn't in at least a month.
So after lunch and a nice, brief siesta, it was time for class with Dr. Rivers. This is the third course that I've taken with him, a hint that I might either desperately be hunting or a letter of recommendation or actually enjoy his presence in the classroom. Either way, though Rivers rarely gives any abundance of praise or attention to any one person, something he said to me nearly brought me to tears. Just as we were walking out for our ten-minute break, Rivers clumsily dropped a few papers in front of his desk, and as I sit in the very front row, I instantly reached to grab them for him. He creaked up a bit, half ready to grab them himself when he realized that I was already there, "Oh - oh you're getting those for me.
Oh, you're so sweet."
I handed him his papers as I grinned my you-can't-see-I'm-smiling smile, and rushed out of the room. At once, I wanted to run to the bathroom and cry. Not only because I was so touched by the subtle sign of affection and attention that was shown to me, but also because I realized how starved my poor heart was for some genuine love. I knew that such simple flattery shouldn't be enough to elicit such a strong sentiment.....
I have to interrupt and promise that I'm holding this thought. Time for class. :-(
After a depressive start to the week, I began to feel moderately better in ways, probably a combination of not having to work at the soul-crushing bureaucracy they call Applebees, feeling confident about summer classes, and maybe a little - receiving some much needed appreciation from the boyfriend. I now had some momentum for the week.
Little did I know that Wednesday's words - a few light-shining phrases - would completely change my bleak mood.
I woke up late yesterday morning, semi-prepared for the daunting task of cramming for my British literary history midterm, then actually taking the test at 12. So I grabbed breakfast at McD's, studied like a hermit crab in a room by myself in the Orr Center, took the midterm, presumably rocked the bitch out, then proceeded to my car to head home for lunch.
There I found the first of my "Wednesday's words."
Just as I pulled my keys out to start my rockin' Monte Carlo, i spied on the windshield a note ... for me? I slid it off the surface, "This is a ticket for Being so damn Cute! :-) ." What?!? I laughed my "tehehe" and smiled shyly, almost ashamedly, for I don't know what reason. I thought it was the boyfriend, but I found out later, apparently not. Regardless of the sender, it made me smile like I hadn't in at least a month.
So after lunch and a nice, brief siesta, it was time for class with Dr. Rivers. This is the third course that I've taken with him, a hint that I might either desperately be hunting or a letter of recommendation or actually enjoy his presence in the classroom. Either way, though Rivers rarely gives any abundance of praise or attention to any one person, something he said to me nearly brought me to tears. Just as we were walking out for our ten-minute break, Rivers clumsily dropped a few papers in front of his desk, and as I sit in the very front row, I instantly reached to grab them for him. He creaked up a bit, half ready to grab them himself when he realized that I was already there, "Oh - oh you're getting those for me.
Oh, you're so sweet."
I handed him his papers as I grinned my you-can't-see-I'm-smiling smile, and rushed out of the room. At once, I wanted to run to the bathroom and cry. Not only because I was so touched by the subtle sign of affection and attention that was shown to me, but also because I realized how starved my poor heart was for some genuine love. I knew that such simple flattery shouldn't be enough to elicit such a strong sentiment.....
I have to interrupt and promise that I'm holding this thought. Time for class. :-(
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