I can smell it - NYC's human traffic, crowds so thick every back is pressed against every stomach and everyone is wondering why the hell they decided to do this in the first place. The excessively cold wait, huddled against strangers and friends, again thinking this was a terrible idea. Food plastered in pockets, empty bottles hanging from frozen fingertips, just in case.
And of course I'm not there, not yet. Tyler and I will drive from Huggiesville to State College, spend the night, meet up with Michelle and Curtis, and make the what seems to be 5.5 hour journey to the heart of New York. We will stand pressed against each other for a meager 10 hours, listening briefly to Daughtry and J.Lo, and I will be smiling, no need to worry there.
Crowds don't bother me in the slightest. I love to get lost in them. I will stow cash in one pocket, my pretty pink mace bottle in another, and whatever food might be able to fit where, because we're gonna be hungry.
And then we'll count down the precious hours, minutes, seconds until the ball drops. Lots of kissin', huggin', drinkin', chattin', laughin', glad to be in the midst of the greatest New Year's party. Confetti will fall from the sky, making the night that much more fun.
What a glorious way to ring in 2010. Bring it on.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Monday, December 28, 2009
olympic diving boards
It's one in the morning and you wonder where
the time has gone, where it's been, why it's not
stopping
for you.
You feel the hope of each new day cloud beneath
a silver moon, and panic escapes, panting,
breathing labored like lips under pressure.
The feel of turmoil slithers in dreams, you're
not dreaming, but you lie awake at night
wondering why it can't be you who falls
asleep smiling.
It's not you. It never has been you.
Time waits for nobody, but somebody must move
the pawn because the sand sinks slowly
between closed fingers and runs out.
And suddenly, you fall asleep with that smile,
those dreams replaying in your head, but
they don't last for long. They move between reality
and hope, but which is true
you ask. Laced fingers feel the truth, and only
time will tell.
the time has gone, where it's been, why it's not
stopping
for you.
You feel the hope of each new day cloud beneath
a silver moon, and panic escapes, panting,
breathing labored like lips under pressure.
The feel of turmoil slithers in dreams, you're
not dreaming, but you lie awake at night
wondering why it can't be you who falls
asleep smiling.
It's not you. It never has been you.
Time waits for nobody, but somebody must move
the pawn because the sand sinks slowly
between closed fingers and runs out.
And suddenly, you fall asleep with that smile,
those dreams replaying in your head, but
they don't last for long. They move between reality
and hope, but which is true
you ask. Laced fingers feel the truth, and only
time will tell.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
The gift that...makes your eyes bleed?
Moni gave me pepper spray for Christmas. It's in a pretty pink bottle and hisses every time I unlock the cap.
Hmmmm.
Hmmmm.
Friday, December 25, 2009
good night, and good luck.
Christmas craziness is over. I'm numbingly tired and sweetly satisfied. I don't know about your family, but my family wakes up early every Christmas morning. I'm talking 5 or 6AM. Actually, let me set you straight; I wake up at 5 or 6 in the morning and I tip-toe out to our tree in the dark and set my presents underneath the tree. Then I race upstairs to shake my sister awake, who then shakes our brother awake, who in turn wriggles on our parents' bed like a worm in water.
It's a scene. I start the scene and they finish it, and we all stumble downstairs in a frenzy because by then, we've all been sitting around in a sleep-deprived daze waiting for cameras to be found and orange juice to be drank and teeth to be brushed. Do you have odd rituals like that? This year, after I poured each glass of pulp-filled orangeness, I gradually hid my glass behind the coffee table. Nobody, and I mean nobody, drinks orange juice right after brushing their teeth.
An hour later, our living room was covered in wrapping paper and boxes and pretty bags. Legos and board games and a Nintendo Wii and a ping pong table and weird things like a ukulele (!!!) and socks, lots of socks, (all mine) littered every available corner of the room. Our Christmas tree twinkled beautifully amidst the chaos.
And then...then come the post-Christmas gift unwrapping rituals. It's a funny thing, really. See, I don't like clutter. So as soon as everyone is finished searching their stockings, I collect every last one of my gifts and unload them in my room. I don't just stop there, though. I put everything away in its place (because there is a place for everything). My sister stacks all of her gifts neatly and orderly in piles, but then leaves them there, in the living room, for days. Drives me nuts. And then my brother is the absolute worst. His stuff is everywhere. It's all over the living room, in the dining room, on the kitchen table, strewn around the dog and the lamps and we're finding gifts for days that he forgot he even unwrapped. It's madness.
So, I now bid Christmas farewell. It's almost over, and I'll miss it greatly until next year when the craziness can consume me once again. Relaxation and a new year are staring me in the eye, and this year, I welcome both with open arms.
Let the fun keep on comin'. :)
It's a scene. I start the scene and they finish it, and we all stumble downstairs in a frenzy because by then, we've all been sitting around in a sleep-deprived daze waiting for cameras to be found and orange juice to be drank and teeth to be brushed. Do you have odd rituals like that? This year, after I poured each glass of pulp-filled orangeness, I gradually hid my glass behind the coffee table. Nobody, and I mean nobody, drinks orange juice right after brushing their teeth.
An hour later, our living room was covered in wrapping paper and boxes and pretty bags. Legos and board games and a Nintendo Wii and a ping pong table and weird things like a ukulele (!!!) and socks, lots of socks, (all mine) littered every available corner of the room. Our Christmas tree twinkled beautifully amidst the chaos.
And then...then come the post-Christmas gift unwrapping rituals. It's a funny thing, really. See, I don't like clutter. So as soon as everyone is finished searching their stockings, I collect every last one of my gifts and unload them in my room. I don't just stop there, though. I put everything away in its place (because there is a place for everything). My sister stacks all of her gifts neatly and orderly in piles, but then leaves them there, in the living room, for days. Drives me nuts. And then my brother is the absolute worst. His stuff is everywhere. It's all over the living room, in the dining room, on the kitchen table, strewn around the dog and the lamps and we're finding gifts for days that he forgot he even unwrapped. It's madness.
So, I now bid Christmas farewell. It's almost over, and I'll miss it greatly until next year when the craziness can consume me once again. Relaxation and a new year are staring me in the eye, and this year, I welcome both with open arms.
Let the fun keep on comin'. :)
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Butterfly Kisses
Context: Driving my brother (8) and sister (10) to meet my mom for dinner. Conversation:
Bro: Aeriale! Guess where I want to live when I grow up?
Me: Where Gav?
Bro: Well, I'm going to live with Logan (his friend) and we're going to live in the rain forest behind a waterfall. And I'm going to have a pet jaguar. And you need a code to get in.
Me: Wow. That sounds amazing! What's the code?
Bro: 67603. Don't tell anyone.
Me: Promise. So, where do you want to live Lacey?
Sis: I'm gonna live with Courtney (her friend), and I want to have an underground tunnel for all of my pets to roam around in.
Me: Sweet! So, I'm thinking that I want to live on a cloud.
Bro: Yeah!!
Sis: Aeriale, don't you fall through clouds?
Me: No! Cherubs sit on clouds all the time.
Bro: Yeah!!
Me: Either a cloud, or a sunken pirate ship.
Bro: YEAH!! Me tooooo!!!
*chuckles*
My siblings are still at that age when serious conversations are hilarious, and anything seems possible. It's so great. For a lovely fifteen minute drive, we listened to Norah Jones and talked about houses under water and jaguars for pets and cherubs on clouds. Those are my favorite conversations. Nothing seemed unrealistic because to them, it all made sense. Everything makes sense. Why bother with regular neighborhoods when you can live behind a waterfall in the rain forest? Why mess with dogs and cats when jaguars are at your fingertips?
Until I was probably 9, I wanted to be a butterfly when I grew up. Not even joking. I wanted to fly. I used to climb the highest trees and sit on the limbs for hours, pretending that whenever I felt like leaving, I could simply spread my wings and take off. I was never one to build cardboard wings and jump off roofs, but I was the kind of child that would lay in the grass and pretend that I could soar through the clouds. Being a butterfly was my aspiration -- to shed this life and move onto something completely radical, something that was beautiful and peaceful and able to jet off at a moments notice.
I'm no longer 9, but I'm still that dreaming girl in the grass. My idea of the perfect house may not be in the rain forest with jaguars, but I'm thinking more log cabin meets cottage by lake. With a tin roof to hear the rain. There must be a tin roof.
My dreams are more realistic, more manageable, but sometimes...sometimes, I still want to be a butterfly. And that's one dream I save for rainy days when my life seems too bogged down with callous rigidity. I spread my colorful wings and fly away.
Monday, December 21, 2009
O Christmas Tree
There's something to be said for sitting in my living room long after everyone has gone to bed, absentmindedly watching the christmas tree lights flicker on and off. There's something to be said for a mug in one hand and a novel in the other, the smell of our Douglas Fir drifting lazily throughout the house.There's something to be remembered, this tradition, about christmas tunes slowly putting me to sleep, the swirling lights another dream waiting to be had.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Forgotten.
Context:
Step-dad needed me to bring my Ipod to the high school on Friday night. He was in need of a few songs. It was a semi-formal high school dance...boys were wearing tuxes, girls were wearing heavy make-up and looked rather whorish. All of a sudden I was a sophomore at Hughesville again. I walked into the entrance of the school and immediately recognized my 8th grade history teacher. He was sitting at a desk outside the cafeteria (where the dance was being held) taking tickets from the students.
Conversation:
Me: Hey, Mr. Peterman, you probably don't remember me...
Mr. P: Hey, of course I remember you!
Me (very suprised): Uhh..
Mr. P: Let's see, you and your brothers and sisters!
Me (still very surprised..and a bit confused - my brothers and sisters are in elementary...): Uhh..
Mr. P: Okay. I don't really remember your name..
Me (finally, a question I could answer!): Aeriale. It's Aeriale.
Mr. P: (Blank stare. Silence)
Me: Cooksey-Kramer. Aeriale Cooksey-Kramer? I graduated in 2007.
Mr. P: Nope. No, I don't think I remember you. Sorry...I thought you were someone else. Hey, who did you used to hang out with?
Me: Um. Becka Newhart. (she was the track star, tennis champ, beauty-queen extraordinare. We are still close to this day).
Mr. P: Oh yeah! Becka..I remember her!
Me (feeling rather uncomfortable and stupid): Listen, can I just go into the dance..my dad's the DJ, and he needs my Ipod....
Mr. P: Oh, sure. Sure. It was good seeing you again!
...You know, I never was the lead in the musicals. I was never in the top three Varsity spots on the tennis team. I was never Valedictorian, and I never really stood out anywhere.
But oh, to be long forgotten. Now there's an achievement that many people will never gain. I suppose you can say I was never remembered. At least by those who don't matter. :)
Step-dad needed me to bring my Ipod to the high school on Friday night. He was in need of a few songs. It was a semi-formal high school dance...boys were wearing tuxes, girls were wearing heavy make-up and looked rather whorish. All of a sudden I was a sophomore at Hughesville again. I walked into the entrance of the school and immediately recognized my 8th grade history teacher. He was sitting at a desk outside the cafeteria (where the dance was being held) taking tickets from the students.
Conversation:
Me: Hey, Mr. Peterman, you probably don't remember me...
Mr. P: Hey, of course I remember you!
Me (very suprised): Uhh..
Mr. P: Let's see, you and your brothers and sisters!
Me (still very surprised..and a bit confused - my brothers and sisters are in elementary...): Uhh..
Mr. P: Okay. I don't really remember your name..
Me (finally, a question I could answer!): Aeriale. It's Aeriale.
Mr. P: (Blank stare. Silence)
Me: Cooksey-Kramer. Aeriale Cooksey-Kramer? I graduated in 2007.
Mr. P: Nope. No, I don't think I remember you. Sorry...I thought you were someone else. Hey, who did you used to hang out with?
Me: Um. Becka Newhart. (she was the track star, tennis champ, beauty-queen extraordinare. We are still close to this day).
Mr. P: Oh yeah! Becka..I remember her!
Me (feeling rather uncomfortable and stupid): Listen, can I just go into the dance..my dad's the DJ, and he needs my Ipod....
Mr. P: Oh, sure. Sure. It was good seeing you again!
...You know, I never was the lead in the musicals. I was never in the top three Varsity spots on the tennis team. I was never Valedictorian, and I never really stood out anywhere.
But oh, to be long forgotten. Now there's an achievement that many people will never gain. I suppose you can say I was never remembered. At least by those who don't matter. :)
Friday, December 18, 2009
Aeriale's Semi-Plans/Aspirations/Big To-Do's over Christmas Break....
These are not in order, nor are many of them set in stone, but here's how I hope these lovely 3 weeks pan out:::
>> Experience a Times Square New Year ;)
>> Roadtrip to Maine for a few days ((sleep in van, if necessary))
>> Read these novels:
Hand to Mouth to India - Tom Thumb
Breakfast of Champions - Kurt Vonnegut
Local Girls - Alice Hoffman
The Road - Cormac McCarthy
...and any other travel lit. that I can get my hands on.
>> Did I mention read?
>> Find somewhere amazing to let loose on my iceskates.
>> Watch a million movies.
>> Sleeeeeeeeep. Because next semester is going to allow for no sleep. At all. Ever.
>> Experience a Times Square New Year ;)
>> Roadtrip to Maine for a few days ((sleep in van, if necessary))
>> Read these novels:
Hand to Mouth to India - Tom Thumb
Breakfast of Champions - Kurt Vonnegut
Local Girls - Alice Hoffman
The Road - Cormac McCarthy
...and any other travel lit. that I can get my hands on.
>> Did I mention read?
>> Find somewhere amazing to let loose on my iceskates.
>> Watch a million movies.
>> Sleeeeeeeeep. Because next semester is going to allow for no sleep. At all. Ever.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Today is the 6 Month Anniversary of...
...stepping onto the MV Explorer for the first time. These videos capture some of my favorite memories of the summer :) I miss you all dearly!
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Stethoscope.
Can you hear me in this short string of words
This incompatible vocal of syllables and mesh
Looped through genuine smiles and loud bursts of gut-wrenching giggles?
Can you hear my voice in this tacky jingle,
my delirious melancholy and niceties shoving themselves
between your insults and intellectual moonshine?
Can you hear my rolling eyes, they give in and burn
and trickle to a watery sludge that is in constant battle
with your bullshit, if you'll pardon my language.
I am not accustomed to cursing, cursing, and I'd like
to blow my nose with the dreg that hangs from pouty lips,
so with little adieu, I'll be on my lonely way home.
Stop trying to hear my footsteps; they are simply tip-toeing
in the opposite direction and even if you linger to watch me glide away
don't expect me to turn around. Not this time.
This incompatible vocal of syllables and mesh
Looped through genuine smiles and loud bursts of gut-wrenching giggles?
Can you hear my voice in this tacky jingle,
my delirious melancholy and niceties shoving themselves
between your insults and intellectual moonshine?
Can you hear my rolling eyes, they give in and burn
and trickle to a watery sludge that is in constant battle
with your bullshit, if you'll pardon my language.
I am not accustomed to cursing, cursing, and I'd like
to blow my nose with the dreg that hangs from pouty lips,
so with little adieu, I'll be on my lonely way home.
Stop trying to hear my footsteps; they are simply tip-toeing
in the opposite direction and even if you linger to watch me glide away
don't expect me to turn around. Not this time.
Iris.
and I don't want the world to see me
'cause I don't think that they'd understand
when everything is made to be broken
i just want you to know who I am
i just want you to know who I am
i just want you to know who I am.
'cause I don't think that they'd understand
when everything is made to be broken
i just want you to know who I am
i just want you to know who I am
i just want you to know who I am.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Leonard Cohen <3
"Let's meet tomorrow if you choose
upon the shore, beneath the bridge
that they are building on some endless river
Then he leaves the platform
for the sleeping car that's warm
You realize, he's only advertising one more shelter
And it comes to you, he never was a stranger
And you say okay, the bridge or someplace later."
upon the shore, beneath the bridge
that they are building on some endless river
Then he leaves the platform
for the sleeping car that's warm
You realize, he's only advertising one more shelter
And it comes to you, he never was a stranger
And you say okay, the bridge or someplace later."
Friday, December 11, 2009
The weather outside is frightful...
...but I love, love, love it. Did I mention I love it?
The pearly white flakes blow around in a frenzy and my cheeks flush and my nose numbs and all is right in the world because nothing gets better than this. Who couldn't fall in love with the crunch under their boots, or that feeling that I might just be the only other person on the planet because not a soul is seen when trudging to my 8AM? The trees that haven't lost their leaves hold the snow, their limbs drooping and sagging from the pressure of carrying such a delicate weight.
My absolute favorite aspect about winter? Nighttime strolls. It doesn't matter if the wind is blowing harshly and I can't feel my fingers and my toes are frozen stiff.
I can't describe to you the feeling of peace that overrides all other feelings when I'm strolling through the frigid night air...no anxiety, no sorrow, no anger... just a feeling that everything is the way it should be, that everything is okay.
The pearly white flakes blow around in a frenzy and my cheeks flush and my nose numbs and all is right in the world because nothing gets better than this. Who couldn't fall in love with the crunch under their boots, or that feeling that I might just be the only other person on the planet because not a soul is seen when trudging to my 8AM? The trees that haven't lost their leaves hold the snow, their limbs drooping and sagging from the pressure of carrying such a delicate weight.
My absolute favorite aspect about winter? Nighttime strolls. It doesn't matter if the wind is blowing harshly and I can't feel my fingers and my toes are frozen stiff.
I can't describe to you the feeling of peace that overrides all other feelings when I'm strolling through the frigid night air...no anxiety, no sorrow, no anger... just a feeling that everything is the way it should be, that everything is okay.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Burned.
I know I'm playing with fire.
Sometimes fire is mesmerizing. Sometimes it's addicting, a flicker of craving.
But just how close can I play without getting burned?
How close can I play without going up in flames?
How close will the fire allow me to play before it shoves me down on the ground again because the heat is unbearable, a lame excuse for following my heart?
Sometimes fire is mesmerizing. Sometimes it's addicting, a flicker of craving.
But just how close can I play without getting burned?
How close can I play without going up in flames?
How close will the fire allow me to play before it shoves me down on the ground again because the heat is unbearable, a lame excuse for following my heart?
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Retrospect.
Here I sit: in a beret that is sure to be gawked at, in my warm room after just taking a shower and eating Cinnamon Toast Crunch (which is sure to make anyone contemplative), mesmerized by the sight of snow. Louis Armstrong and Amy Grant are celebrating Christmas through my laptop speakers. And I can't help but remember. Isn't that what December is all about? Remembering, cherishing, keeping in mind?
So, here is what I'm thinking about; a kind of ode to anyone who has shared a noteworthy memory with me. To anyone who has made me smile, laugh, and embrace everything life has to offer. This December, I'm thinking of you.
An Ode To You, and You, and You.
Remember when we sat in the middle of the road at my cabin on Thanksgiving, mimicking Sir Mix A Lot and videotaping ourselves?
Remember when we went horseback riding in the Poconos for your birthday...and you didn't want to at first?
Remember when we sat at Starbucks until closing one night until they told us nastily to just leave already?
Remember when we went Geocaching by the baseball field for what seemed liked hours, and still found absolutely nothing?
Remember when we were getting ready to go out one night, and to prepare, we belted N'SYNC from my back porch on my karaoke machine?
Remember when we raced on the Bayfront at night because we could? Remember how we danced and sang at every stoplight?
Remember sipping wine on the last night of finals, wishing you didn't have to leave?
Remember skinny-dipping in the State Park while it was not only thunder storming out, but still broad daylight?
Remember getting lost in the woods after we picnicked, and then driving down dirt roads that were literally deserted and terrifying?
Remember watching trashy, poorly made horror flicks that always provided us with giggles and conversation for months to come?
Remember spooning in Egypt because who knew the desert froze over at night?
Remember trying to teach me for hours how to snowboard and then giving up and just counting the stars instead?
Remember going through wax museums in Canada and flipping out because the one wax figure really looked like Jeffrey Dahmer?
Remember going to see Cats and how I could not stop laughing at the absurdity of it all?
Remember when you told me to 'Go For It', and I didn't?
Remember trying on the hunting gear in Gander Mountain, and trying to take pictures without freaking out the other customers?
Remember sleeping under the stars on my back porch, and then waking up at 4AM freezing and covered in morning dew?
Remember playing Drop-Off at the cabin and seeing the 'prisoner' walk past?
Remember riding in the bed of your truck in the rain and spitting sunflower seeds over the side?
Remember eating chocolate cake and drinking wine from those classy red plastic cups on my bedroom floor?
Remember?
I'm thankful for these times and so many, many more. I can't wait for the memories that are waiting to happen. I just wanted you to know that.
So, here is what I'm thinking about; a kind of ode to anyone who has shared a noteworthy memory with me. To anyone who has made me smile, laugh, and embrace everything life has to offer. This December, I'm thinking of you.
An Ode To You, and You, and You.
Remember when we sat in the middle of the road at my cabin on Thanksgiving, mimicking Sir Mix A Lot and videotaping ourselves?
Remember when we went horseback riding in the Poconos for your birthday...and you didn't want to at first?
Remember when we sat at Starbucks until closing one night until they told us nastily to just leave already?
Remember when we went Geocaching by the baseball field for what seemed liked hours, and still found absolutely nothing?
Remember when we were getting ready to go out one night, and to prepare, we belted N'SYNC from my back porch on my karaoke machine?
Remember when we raced on the Bayfront at night because we could? Remember how we danced and sang at every stoplight?
Remember sipping wine on the last night of finals, wishing you didn't have to leave?
Remember skinny-dipping in the State Park while it was not only thunder storming out, but still broad daylight?
Remember getting lost in the woods after we picnicked, and then driving down dirt roads that were literally deserted and terrifying?
Remember watching trashy, poorly made horror flicks that always provided us with giggles and conversation for months to come?
Remember spooning in Egypt because who knew the desert froze over at night?
Remember trying to teach me for hours how to snowboard and then giving up and just counting the stars instead?
Remember going through wax museums in Canada and flipping out because the one wax figure really looked like Jeffrey Dahmer?
Remember going to see Cats and how I could not stop laughing at the absurdity of it all?
Remember when you told me to 'Go For It', and I didn't?
Remember trying on the hunting gear in Gander Mountain, and trying to take pictures without freaking out the other customers?
Remember sleeping under the stars on my back porch, and then waking up at 4AM freezing and covered in morning dew?
Remember playing Drop-Off at the cabin and seeing the 'prisoner' walk past?
Remember riding in the bed of your truck in the rain and spitting sunflower seeds over the side?
Remember eating chocolate cake and drinking wine from those classy red plastic cups on my bedroom floor?
Remember?
I'm thankful for these times and so many, many more. I can't wait for the memories that are waiting to happen. I just wanted you to know that.
Monday, December 7, 2009
For what it's worth..
I am a sister, a loyal friend, your confidant.
I am who you need me to be, but not because I'm flaky or wishy-washy.
I am a very strong-willed, ambitious individual.
I am God's kid.
I am the smile on your face.
I am an artist, a magician of words, a creator of plots and characters.
I am a feeler, an emotional wreck at times, but don't hold it against me.
I am on the back-burner, behind the curtains, waiting for my spotlight.
I am a fan of movies and laughing and always saving room for dessert.
I am that girl who has her head in the clouds.
I am a listener.
I am a collector of hearts.
I am an acceptable excuse for a planner, but I'm in my element when spontaneity hits the fan.
I am a dreamer.
I am a traveler, a wanderer, an explorer of places vast and barely on the map.
I'm a hat wearin', music lovin', curious gal ready to conquer the world one smile at a time.
I am.
Now excuse me, it's snowing. My duck boots are waiting. My beanie is on. I am out the door.
I am who you need me to be, but not because I'm flaky or wishy-washy.
I am a very strong-willed, ambitious individual.
I am God's kid.
I am the smile on your face.
I am an artist, a magician of words, a creator of plots and characters.
I am a feeler, an emotional wreck at times, but don't hold it against me.
I am on the back-burner, behind the curtains, waiting for my spotlight.
I am a fan of movies and laughing and always saving room for dessert.
I am that girl who has her head in the clouds.
I am a listener.
I am a collector of hearts.
I am an acceptable excuse for a planner, but I'm in my element when spontaneity hits the fan.
I am a dreamer.
I am a traveler, a wanderer, an explorer of places vast and barely on the map.
I'm a hat wearin', music lovin', curious gal ready to conquer the world one smile at a time.
I am.
Now excuse me, it's snowing. My duck boots are waiting. My beanie is on. I am out the door.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Self-Portrait
From now on, I'd rather keep looking into someone else's eyes... this self-portrait thing is not my ideal Sunday project.
Glasses- Check.
Eyes - Uhm. Maybe they are not my own eyes, but they are there.
Nose - Cross hatched and crooked.
Ears - Ack.
Lips - What lips?
The shadow under my neck - There in all its glory.
Hair - Nope. I'm still bald.
Anything else that I might have missed? Oh. Yeah. Me.
Glasses- Check.
Eyes - Uhm. Maybe they are not my own eyes, but they are there.
Nose - Cross hatched and crooked.
Ears - Ack.
Lips - What lips?
The shadow under my neck - There in all its glory.
Hair - Nope. I'm still bald.
Anything else that I might have missed? Oh. Yeah. Me.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Culturalization.
The triumph of integrating oneself into the art scene of downtown Erie is, surprisingly, a kind of unique other-world affair.
That's how I spent my Friday night -- meandering through comfortable crowds of wine connoisseurs and those with a taste for beautiful artwork and people. Everyone was dressed up. Big hats sat on permed heads, Burberry shawls lounged on pin-straight shoulders, men wore ties and sports jackets and were cleanly shaved in an arrogant, wealthy sort of way.
I've always wondered where these kinds of people hide. I drive through Erie quite frequently and I must say, the selection of people is nothing short of depressing. I can point out which corners the hobos frequent, where the Crackdonalds is located, and which types are always hopping the guardrails in the middle of the highway, pulling their pants up with a lazy finger. To put it bluntly, downtown Erie is not the kind of place I'd like to find myself lounging around in at night. It's not what one might call 'rough', but it's just kind of run-down and dead-ended.
So, I park the Beast outside of the Crackdonalds and maneuver past the hoards of thick perfume and wads of money into my first gallery. Bright lights, Big city. Everything is shiny, well-kept. Price tags litter shelves and my eyes bulge at the glassware, the couture of Vera Wang, the utter style and motion of mastery design. It's perfect.
Of course I find the food -- a lovely selection of brownie bites (with a thin layer of fudge slapped in the middle), crackers and bread bits ready to be sloughed with crab dips and artichoke paste. This, I thought with a smile, is going to be a good night.
I ended up purchasing a Christmas gift, and one of those yummy oreos with the frosting made to look like a cutesy snowman, and made my way to the next four galleries all in a matter of two some hours.
Through the course of the night, I stared at Picasso's artwork, thinking I myself could mimic something like that. I ran a finger along the earth ware that I should not have touched. I sipped punch and wine and had my fair share of cookies and strawberries and crackers filled to the brim with dips galore. I lingered too long, and stared too much, and had an absolute blast mingling with the artsy types.
If only my wallet were fuller, my stomach a bit hungrier, my gas tank not screaming FEED ME, then I might have walked around a little more. But every good night must end. So, indeed, here I am on a Saturday night, waiting to make my way out into the flurry of snow for another round of Christmas shopping and taste-testing and beautiful people-watching.
I suppose Friday night might have ended, but who says I can't keep making it last forever? Saturday night, here I come.
That's how I spent my Friday night -- meandering through comfortable crowds of wine connoisseurs and those with a taste for beautiful artwork and people. Everyone was dressed up. Big hats sat on permed heads, Burberry shawls lounged on pin-straight shoulders, men wore ties and sports jackets and were cleanly shaved in an arrogant, wealthy sort of way.
I've always wondered where these kinds of people hide. I drive through Erie quite frequently and I must say, the selection of people is nothing short of depressing. I can point out which corners the hobos frequent, where the Crackdonalds is located, and which types are always hopping the guardrails in the middle of the highway, pulling their pants up with a lazy finger. To put it bluntly, downtown Erie is not the kind of place I'd like to find myself lounging around in at night. It's not what one might call 'rough', but it's just kind of run-down and dead-ended.
So, I park the Beast outside of the Crackdonalds and maneuver past the hoards of thick perfume and wads of money into my first gallery. Bright lights, Big city. Everything is shiny, well-kept. Price tags litter shelves and my eyes bulge at the glassware, the couture of Vera Wang, the utter style and motion of mastery design. It's perfect.
Of course I find the food -- a lovely selection of brownie bites (with a thin layer of fudge slapped in the middle), crackers and bread bits ready to be sloughed with crab dips and artichoke paste. This, I thought with a smile, is going to be a good night.
I ended up purchasing a Christmas gift, and one of those yummy oreos with the frosting made to look like a cutesy snowman, and made my way to the next four galleries all in a matter of two some hours.
Through the course of the night, I stared at Picasso's artwork, thinking I myself could mimic something like that. I ran a finger along the earth ware that I should not have touched. I sipped punch and wine and had my fair share of cookies and strawberries and crackers filled to the brim with dips galore. I lingered too long, and stared too much, and had an absolute blast mingling with the artsy types.
If only my wallet were fuller, my stomach a bit hungrier, my gas tank not screaming FEED ME, then I might have walked around a little more. But every good night must end. So, indeed, here I am on a Saturday night, waiting to make my way out into the flurry of snow for another round of Christmas shopping and taste-testing and beautiful people-watching.
I suppose Friday night might have ended, but who says I can't keep making it last forever? Saturday night, here I come.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Glycerine::An Insider's Scoop into the Happenings of Dobs
I feel like it is my obligation to give you the inside scoop, the lithe truth, the ucky details and completely ridiculous behind-the-scenes of my workplace: Behrend's one and only cafeteria-style fine dining -- Dobbins.
I've worked here now since Freshman year. I've held numerous titles in the place -- dish room attendant, line server, Chef's help, salad prep, grille cook, checker, and my latest, Pasta Girl. I can flip onions and peppers and garlic to students' hearts' content. I can toss the Alfredo in the air and land it smack back in the pan without splattering it all over myself. I can eavesdrop (my favorite past time, by the way) on so many interesting conversations so that I will never run out of stories to write about.
Perhaps I should introduce you to my co-workers on Wednesday nights? Maybe you can get a feel for an average Pasta Girl night? I will be as uncensored and politically incorrect as possible, rest assured. Can you handle the truth?
Let's begin with Pasta Boy, my sidekick, my Alfredo partner in crime. He is actually kind of beautiful, and I'm sure he knows it. He has this untameable brown hair and thick black glasses, similar to my own. The guy never fails at making me crack up, and I don't think I ever fail at putting a smile on those handsome, dimpled cheeks. So we whistle and throw pasta into the air and talk about everything. He's going to tune my Bouzouki for me next week. And then there's his girlfriend (of course there's a girlfriend. What kind of nice guy would I meet without a girlfriend?)...
Dessert Girl..who is gorgeous, of course. She wears pearls to work every night. They glimmer around her neck every time she bends down to show a little cleavage to Pasta Boy. I really can't dislike her because she always saves me a piece of cake, or a sliver of brownie that she stores under her counter. I eat my fair share of yummy goodness over at her station.
Then there's Line Server Dude who is forever winking at me and making these crude gestures with his hands while I am sipping my chocolate milk during breaks. He's always touching me on the arm, lacing his fingers through mine when I'm not looking, calling me sweetie and baby, rubbing my shoulders. See, he's this black guy who's absolutely hilarious, which is why his gestures are not sexual harassment. I like the guy. He makes me laugh. And he brings me whatever is on the line to snack on throughout the night...
which leads me to introduce you to Tattooed Supervisor and Mohawk Supervisor. They are something else, and if I can even begin to describe them accurately, I think I deserve a nice pat on the back (which Line Server Dude will probably have covered next week). Tattooed Supervisor constantly lifts up his shirt for me to admire the brilliant ink scribbled all over his back and shoulders. We do this out of eye shot by the sink. I'm sure it's not very becoming of him (who sports a RED shirt, while the rest of us sport the dull blue ones), but he's great. He has this drawl that makes me smile. Then Mohawk Supervisor enjoys whipping other workers with wet towels. I try to stay out of his line of fire. It's amusing to watch, however, and there are constant wars between the guys at Dobbins to see who can leave the nastiest welts in the most private of places. Pasta Boy was trying to enlighten me on the techniques of "wrist snapping" tonight, but it was a major fail.
Now there's Bus Boy who never fails to stare awkwardly at me whenever he's passing by with various carts of dishes. Bus Boy is funny in a dry, awkward kind of way, and although he waits every night to walk me back to my apartment, I feel the need to tell him very soon that nothing is going to happen between us. Ever. Not even in the Dairy Freezer, where people go to feel each other up during breaks.
I'm half tempted to call the Dairy Freezer the Rape Closet because every time I go back there I feel like very bad things could happen. It's this vibe, you know. The heavy metal door slams behind me as I grab some more Parmesan cheese, and WHAM...you just never know.
There's also the Stoner Pizza Maker, who is strung out on lethal things every time he comes into work. He's always throwing pepperoni at me and trying to 'scare' me by jumping out of hidden corners into my face. He talks with this slow, drawn out voice and is never really 'with it', if you know what I mean. He told Dessert Girl tonight that she should try some Meth with him sometime. Her pearls glimmered as she shook her curls at him in a "what the hell?" kind of way.
And I really can't forget about Check Mate, the checker girl who is boisterous, obnoxious, and ready to fight you. I'm sure she could take anyone who talked back to her, and she tries to pick a fight every night with one of the supervisors. Her numerous mouth piercings give her a lisp, and she's a pretty hefty black girl with this boulder on her shoulder. It's hilarious. I like to provoke her, just to see what she'll say to me, which is not much. I took her to the beach last year, so we have an understanding.
I really don't even want to go into the Managers...who are all sadistic and utterly ridiculous. So I won't. But you get the idea.
This is where I spend my Wednesday nights...and I love every minute of it. Sure, I complain about how I hate Dobbins and how I can't stand swiping my card to sign onto my shift, but I'm lying. Once I'm there, I don't stop smiling. I love to people-watch, and stare at Pasta Boy's dimples, and make a fool of myself while singing into the mop as I clean up, pretending to be Cinderella. I enjoy the people I work with a little too much, I think, and I wouldn't trade them for the world. Which is why I felt the need to share this little tid-bit of my life with you.
I mean, there's also my tutoring job that consumes more of my time than Dobbins does...but we'll save that analysis for another time, another blog, another rant...
I've worked here now since Freshman year. I've held numerous titles in the place -- dish room attendant, line server, Chef's help, salad prep, grille cook, checker, and my latest, Pasta Girl. I can flip onions and peppers and garlic to students' hearts' content. I can toss the Alfredo in the air and land it smack back in the pan without splattering it all over myself. I can eavesdrop (my favorite past time, by the way) on so many interesting conversations so that I will never run out of stories to write about.
Perhaps I should introduce you to my co-workers on Wednesday nights? Maybe you can get a feel for an average Pasta Girl night? I will be as uncensored and politically incorrect as possible, rest assured. Can you handle the truth?
Let's begin with Pasta Boy, my sidekick, my Alfredo partner in crime. He is actually kind of beautiful, and I'm sure he knows it. He has this untameable brown hair and thick black glasses, similar to my own. The guy never fails at making me crack up, and I don't think I ever fail at putting a smile on those handsome, dimpled cheeks. So we whistle and throw pasta into the air and talk about everything. He's going to tune my Bouzouki for me next week. And then there's his girlfriend (of course there's a girlfriend. What kind of nice guy would I meet without a girlfriend?)...
Dessert Girl..who is gorgeous, of course. She wears pearls to work every night. They glimmer around her neck every time she bends down to show a little cleavage to Pasta Boy. I really can't dislike her because she always saves me a piece of cake, or a sliver of brownie that she stores under her counter. I eat my fair share of yummy goodness over at her station.
Then there's Line Server Dude who is forever winking at me and making these crude gestures with his hands while I am sipping my chocolate milk during breaks. He's always touching me on the arm, lacing his fingers through mine when I'm not looking, calling me sweetie and baby, rubbing my shoulders. See, he's this black guy who's absolutely hilarious, which is why his gestures are not sexual harassment. I like the guy. He makes me laugh. And he brings me whatever is on the line to snack on throughout the night...
which leads me to introduce you to Tattooed Supervisor and Mohawk Supervisor. They are something else, and if I can even begin to describe them accurately, I think I deserve a nice pat on the back (which Line Server Dude will probably have covered next week). Tattooed Supervisor constantly lifts up his shirt for me to admire the brilliant ink scribbled all over his back and shoulders. We do this out of eye shot by the sink. I'm sure it's not very becoming of him (who sports a RED shirt, while the rest of us sport the dull blue ones), but he's great. He has this drawl that makes me smile. Then Mohawk Supervisor enjoys whipping other workers with wet towels. I try to stay out of his line of fire. It's amusing to watch, however, and there are constant wars between the guys at Dobbins to see who can leave the nastiest welts in the most private of places. Pasta Boy was trying to enlighten me on the techniques of "wrist snapping" tonight, but it was a major fail.
Now there's Bus Boy who never fails to stare awkwardly at me whenever he's passing by with various carts of dishes. Bus Boy is funny in a dry, awkward kind of way, and although he waits every night to walk me back to my apartment, I feel the need to tell him very soon that nothing is going to happen between us. Ever. Not even in the Dairy Freezer, where people go to feel each other up during breaks.
I'm half tempted to call the Dairy Freezer the Rape Closet because every time I go back there I feel like very bad things could happen. It's this vibe, you know. The heavy metal door slams behind me as I grab some more Parmesan cheese, and WHAM...you just never know.
There's also the Stoner Pizza Maker, who is strung out on lethal things every time he comes into work. He's always throwing pepperoni at me and trying to 'scare' me by jumping out of hidden corners into my face. He talks with this slow, drawn out voice and is never really 'with it', if you know what I mean. He told Dessert Girl tonight that she should try some Meth with him sometime. Her pearls glimmered as she shook her curls at him in a "what the hell?" kind of way.
And I really can't forget about Check Mate, the checker girl who is boisterous, obnoxious, and ready to fight you. I'm sure she could take anyone who talked back to her, and she tries to pick a fight every night with one of the supervisors. Her numerous mouth piercings give her a lisp, and she's a pretty hefty black girl with this boulder on her shoulder. It's hilarious. I like to provoke her, just to see what she'll say to me, which is not much. I took her to the beach last year, so we have an understanding.
I really don't even want to go into the Managers...who are all sadistic and utterly ridiculous. So I won't. But you get the idea.
This is where I spend my Wednesday nights...and I love every minute of it. Sure, I complain about how I hate Dobbins and how I can't stand swiping my card to sign onto my shift, but I'm lying. Once I'm there, I don't stop smiling. I love to people-watch, and stare at Pasta Boy's dimples, and make a fool of myself while singing into the mop as I clean up, pretending to be Cinderella. I enjoy the people I work with a little too much, I think, and I wouldn't trade them for the world. Which is why I felt the need to share this little tid-bit of my life with you.
I mean, there's also my tutoring job that consumes more of my time than Dobbins does...but we'll save that analysis for another time, another blog, another rant...
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Coffee Shop Talk
Sometimes, school work comes second to good conversation.
Sometimes, illusions are drowned in the midst of authenticity.
Sometimes, it's promising. Sometimes, it's not. But always, it makes me smile.
Sometimes, illusions are drowned in the midst of authenticity.
Sometimes, it's promising. Sometimes, it's not. But always, it makes me smile.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Curtain Call
you hide behind the curtain
waiting to come out, out
of the darkness and into
the spotlight because
who longs for the shade,
the dull, lifeless reckoning
with one's self, yourself
beckons, calls but
who are you, I wonder
behind the black veil
behind the red velvet curtain
you step into the spotlight and
I'm already gone, it's just too late
too late to figure out which
stage direction you need to take
stage left, I call out, stage left
but of course you don't hear me
you don't see me
I am not the director, I'm
just a person who points the spotlight
and tells you to go.
waiting to come out, out
of the darkness and into
the spotlight because
who longs for the shade,
the dull, lifeless reckoning
with one's self, yourself
beckons, calls but
who are you, I wonder
behind the black veil
behind the red velvet curtain
you step into the spotlight and
I'm already gone, it's just too late
too late to figure out which
stage direction you need to take
stage left, I call out, stage left
but of course you don't hear me
you don't see me
I am not the director, I'm
just a person who points the spotlight
and tells you to go.
Roots
Do you ever dream of someone else's memories? Do you ever think of moments that aren't yours to remember?
It's like this:
I used to travel to Brown County, Indiana for Thanksgiving most of my childhood and up until I left for college. It's a small town, but not quite small enough that everyone knows each other. It's a beautiful little town about an hour away from Indianapolis (where I was born). It's full of rich history and eccentric shops. It's a place of culture and wisdom, like it knows where you're from and why you came. It's an art colony, luring in the artists of the midwest. It's a place that I always find myself drawn to -- not for the culture and shopping, but because my mom's and dad's roots lie around this small town.
I find myself imagining things in this place. I dream of my mom and dad and their friends. I dream of what once was, before I was even around. I've never felt like this about a place before -- a place that I'm so strongly attached to simply because my mom and dad grew up there. It's odd. I feel like I'm a part of this place -- as if there is still some part of me that was left there.
I've read the love letters. I've flipped through the yearbooks. I've left my own footprints in this place, this place that I feel so strongly for, and I can feel the history swimming through my bones when I think about what was left behind.
They may not be my memories to hold onto, but for my own roots' sake, I cannot let them go. It's been a few years since I've been back to Brown Country now, and every year, I think maybe I might be able to set foot there again. But to no avail, I've not returned.
It might be a few more years before I make it back, but I will surely be there, remembering, smelling the forests and fudge shops and snowy winter nights. Roots don't leave just because you left -- they hang on, awaiting your return, and breathe a silent air of relief when you finally, finally, go home.
It's like this:
I used to travel to Brown County, Indiana for Thanksgiving most of my childhood and up until I left for college. It's a small town, but not quite small enough that everyone knows each other. It's a beautiful little town about an hour away from Indianapolis (where I was born). It's full of rich history and eccentric shops. It's a place of culture and wisdom, like it knows where you're from and why you came. It's an art colony, luring in the artists of the midwest. It's a place that I always find myself drawn to -- not for the culture and shopping, but because my mom's and dad's roots lie around this small town.
I find myself imagining things in this place. I dream of my mom and dad and their friends. I dream of what once was, before I was even around. I've never felt like this about a place before -- a place that I'm so strongly attached to simply because my mom and dad grew up there. It's odd. I feel like I'm a part of this place -- as if there is still some part of me that was left there.
I've read the love letters. I've flipped through the yearbooks. I've left my own footprints in this place, this place that I feel so strongly for, and I can feel the history swimming through my bones when I think about what was left behind.
They may not be my memories to hold onto, but for my own roots' sake, I cannot let them go. It's been a few years since I've been back to Brown Country now, and every year, I think maybe I might be able to set foot there again. But to no avail, I've not returned.
It might be a few more years before I make it back, but I will surely be there, remembering, smelling the forests and fudge shops and snowy winter nights. Roots don't leave just because you left -- they hang on, awaiting your return, and breathe a silent air of relief when you finally, finally, go home.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Winter Song
I think it's finally winter. I can feel it in the way my hair blows softly against my cheeks, in the way my nose and fingertips numb after fifteen minutes of walking around outside. Although you may disagree with me, I find it very hard to believe that it has been 'winter' all November. The leaves were still falling in November. People were outside raking their yards, sitting on their porches chatting the evening away.
It's not like that anymore. It may not be snowing, but winter has slipped its way through chattering teeth and windburned faces.
I walked my lab this late afternoon, my favorite time of the day. He pulled me through town and as I was delightfully strolling along, I noticed something. I listened to the clap of my footsteps and I listened to the wind, and I listened to my own thoughts -- but the cheeriness of peoples' conversation is long gone. There were no kids playing in the streets, or climbing trees. No couples were sitting on porches. I saw maybe two cars drive by during my entire 45 minute walk through town. This surely equals winter.
There's also that absent feeling in the air, like something is missing. It's a loneliness that you can't shake. Winter clears your head, but puts your heart in a muddle -- and you can never really pinpoint what it is that you think you're looking for. I love the loneliness, though. That particular feeling is what I look forward to most. I think it makes being close to people that much more enjoyable.
My personal remedy for the Winter Blues?
-> Switch between hot tea and hot chocolate, and make sure you always have a mug in hand.
-> Cuddle up with a novel, and maybe a certain someone.
-> Wear a beanie! I don't know about you, but hats always improve my moods.
-> Tune into the Christmas music. Don't be afraid to let loose once in a while, Jingle Bell Rock awaits!
-> Take a walk. Let yourself think. Listen.
-> Break out the wool socks. And the knitted scarves. And the leather gloves.
-> ...and last but not ever least... go Christmas shopping. You don't have to have any money to be creative, this I know very well. But I find that when I'm thinking about others, my mood generally tends to lighten. It's magic, I swear.
The color of springtime is in the flowers, the color of winter is in the imagination.
-- Ward Elliot Hour
It's not like that anymore. It may not be snowing, but winter has slipped its way through chattering teeth and windburned faces.
I walked my lab this late afternoon, my favorite time of the day. He pulled me through town and as I was delightfully strolling along, I noticed something. I listened to the clap of my footsteps and I listened to the wind, and I listened to my own thoughts -- but the cheeriness of peoples' conversation is long gone. There were no kids playing in the streets, or climbing trees. No couples were sitting on porches. I saw maybe two cars drive by during my entire 45 minute walk through town. This surely equals winter.
There's also that absent feeling in the air, like something is missing. It's a loneliness that you can't shake. Winter clears your head, but puts your heart in a muddle -- and you can never really pinpoint what it is that you think you're looking for. I love the loneliness, though. That particular feeling is what I look forward to most. I think it makes being close to people that much more enjoyable.
My personal remedy for the Winter Blues?
-> Switch between hot tea and hot chocolate, and make sure you always have a mug in hand.
-> Cuddle up with a novel, and maybe a certain someone.
-> Wear a beanie! I don't know about you, but hats always improve my moods.
-> Tune into the Christmas music. Don't be afraid to let loose once in a while, Jingle Bell Rock awaits!
-> Take a walk. Let yourself think. Listen.
-> Break out the wool socks. And the knitted scarves. And the leather gloves.
-> ...and last but not ever least... go Christmas shopping. You don't have to have any money to be creative, this I know very well. But I find that when I'm thinking about others, my mood generally tends to lighten. It's magic, I swear.
The color of springtime is in the flowers, the color of winter is in the imagination.
-- Ward Elliot Hour
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
It's a little like this.
And maybe I was a tad wrong. Maybe I smelled like coffee and oversized chairs and conversation filled with laughter and memories. Maybe I showed too much appreciation, too many thanks for the good times, and maybe my cheeks burned red with happiness.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe love comes from novels and baristas and big silver bracelets. Maybe it comes in the form of piano keys and Christmas tunes and secrets that were never shared before tonight.
Maybe friendship isn't about scars or paintings or streetlights. Maybe it's more about how you interpret what you have. Maybe it's a bear hug wrapped up in time spent apart, and maybe it smells a little like coffee and apple pie and flurries of snow that never appear.
Maybe I was wrong all along.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe love comes from novels and baristas and big silver bracelets. Maybe it comes in the form of piano keys and Christmas tunes and secrets that were never shared before tonight.
Maybe friendship isn't about scars or paintings or streetlights. Maybe it's more about how you interpret what you have. Maybe it's a bear hug wrapped up in time spent apart, and maybe it smells a little like coffee and apple pie and flurries of snow that never appear.
Maybe I was wrong all along.
Monday, November 23, 2009
::away we go::
I opened one eye this morning in an attempt to shoo away whatever was disturbing my slumber. Then I noticed that I was in my room, my room back home, and the bickering and pestering and slamming of doors were not the sounds of Behrend, but my home back home. Pulling my comforter over my head in a valiant effort to fall back into my wonderful dreamworld, I epically failed.
An hour later, I met an old friend for breakfast and we chatted over omelets and home fries. And although I've mentioned this several times before, it was delightfully weird. It was weird in the way that you go back to a place that once held precious memories, and now it's a place that you cannot get back to; either you've changed or the place has weathered, or maybe it's both.
But it's like that with old friends, I think. You've shared all of these memories, but then when you're eating omelets and chatting the morning away, you notice that your friend has a new haircut, and new frames, and has she always used the word "fuck" in every other sentence?
Then there's the 'trying to relate to each other' thing. It's hard when you don't see each other or talk much in six months and then try to 'catch up' over breakfast. In fact, it's kind of ridiculous. She told me about her boyfriend that I would approve of, and she explained her plans for Christmas and Spring Break. And you know, as much as people share of their lives with me, I'm still weary of sharing my summer with people, even old friends.
I brought it up a few times in our conversation, "That reminds of me Turkey!" or "There was this one guy in Bulgaria...."
.....and then I would get that stare. It's familiar, you know, but that doesn't make it any easier to take. It makes me uncomfortable. It's the kind of stare that screams, "I don't even know what the hell you're going on about, but maybe if I listen intently enough, you'll change the topic and we can move on to more normal conversation."
And so we did. We moved on, and that was that. It slips in conversation, sometimes, and there are only certain people that I will blatantly reference my trip to on a regular basis. I try to hide it, as if it were a bad thing, because I A) don't want to sound arrogant about it because I am most certainly not, and B) because it's this big black hole of unrelatable-ness. People get fidgety when they don't have anything to contribute to a conversation.
So, I listened and listened, and I talked a little and then I dropped her back off at home. "I'll see you for Christmas!" she said, hugging me, and then we separated until the next time.
They are interesting, these "quickie" friendships. We see each other for 1.5 hours every few months (or in this case, 6 months), and we expect that to get us through the next few dry spells. If this were anything but a friendship, I guarantee it wouldn't work. I would call that an epic fail of a relationship. But as a friendship, we pick back up where we left off, and all seems okay in the world. Even though so much has changed, so much has shifted and gone away, everything is as it used to be -- new frames, new haircut, new lingo that wasn't ever used in high school, and all -- it is part of being away, I suppose.
And away we go, back into our own lives. Until the next time, until the next time.
An hour later, I met an old friend for breakfast and we chatted over omelets and home fries. And although I've mentioned this several times before, it was delightfully weird. It was weird in the way that you go back to a place that once held precious memories, and now it's a place that you cannot get back to; either you've changed or the place has weathered, or maybe it's both.
But it's like that with old friends, I think. You've shared all of these memories, but then when you're eating omelets and chatting the morning away, you notice that your friend has a new haircut, and new frames, and has she always used the word "fuck" in every other sentence?
Then there's the 'trying to relate to each other' thing. It's hard when you don't see each other or talk much in six months and then try to 'catch up' over breakfast. In fact, it's kind of ridiculous. She told me about her boyfriend that I would approve of, and she explained her plans for Christmas and Spring Break. And you know, as much as people share of their lives with me, I'm still weary of sharing my summer with people, even old friends.
I brought it up a few times in our conversation, "That reminds of me Turkey!" or "There was this one guy in Bulgaria...."
.....and then I would get that stare. It's familiar, you know, but that doesn't make it any easier to take. It makes me uncomfortable. It's the kind of stare that screams, "I don't even know what the hell you're going on about, but maybe if I listen intently enough, you'll change the topic and we can move on to more normal conversation."
And so we did. We moved on, and that was that. It slips in conversation, sometimes, and there are only certain people that I will blatantly reference my trip to on a regular basis. I try to hide it, as if it were a bad thing, because I A) don't want to sound arrogant about it because I am most certainly not, and B) because it's this big black hole of unrelatable-ness. People get fidgety when they don't have anything to contribute to a conversation.
So, I listened and listened, and I talked a little and then I dropped her back off at home. "I'll see you for Christmas!" she said, hugging me, and then we separated until the next time.
They are interesting, these "quickie" friendships. We see each other for 1.5 hours every few months (or in this case, 6 months), and we expect that to get us through the next few dry spells. If this were anything but a friendship, I guarantee it wouldn't work. I would call that an epic fail of a relationship. But as a friendship, we pick back up where we left off, and all seems okay in the world. Even though so much has changed, so much has shifted and gone away, everything is as it used to be -- new frames, new haircut, new lingo that wasn't ever used in high school, and all -- it is part of being away, I suppose.
And away we go, back into our own lives. Until the next time, until the next time.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Waitamoment!
Wow. I just realized that I sounded a bit domesticated in my previous post.
I will never be domesticated, just get those ideas out of your pretty little head.
I am a free wanderer, a sort of hippie-minded, kin-to-the-mountains kind of gal.
Let's just keep this straight, okay?
I will never be domesticated, just get those ideas out of your pretty little head.
I am a free wanderer, a sort of hippie-minded, kin-to-the-mountains kind of gal.
Let's just keep this straight, okay?
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Tastefully Simple.
I was seated at the right corner of the dining room table, twiddling my thumbs and watching, waiting. Something was bound to happen soon.
Ten women (including my little sister) chatted animatedly about seasonings and dips and Oh My! Chai. It was incredible. These kinds of parties always take the cake (no pun intended). My mother was hosting a Tastefully Simple party, and the attendees had that anxious Feed Me! gleam in their eyes. You could tell they had skipped dinner especially for the occasion. I myself had skipped dinner because it might have been a sin to indulge the stomach before passing around the first appetizer without partaking. It was kind of like Communion, in a sick, greedier fashion.
Chris, the woman in charge, gleefully cooed about each item in the booklet we held in our hands. She explained deals and benefit buys and how to make/use/mix each product, and then we slowly, very slowly, passed around 18 different appetizer-sized food samplings. They were all delicious. I got up twice to refill my glass of 1%. You don't mess with Chipotle Terriyaki dip without milk.
I watched each woman as they passed around the different plates and bowls. There was a certain pattern to it, to these women. Some of them were eaters, you could tell. The woman sitting two seats to my right never dipped just one tortilla chip -- she was in this for the filling of her stomach. She would swirl both chips around the bowl in a rather obnoxious fashion and then proceed to scoop out the largest portion of garlic/bacon/Chipotle dip she could manage onto the chip. The woman sitting diagonal from me barely stuck her beer bread into the dips and salts. I think she might have been afraid of trying new flavors of whatever. My sister hogged the bowl of spinach and artichoke dip, and since I had the pleasure of sitting next to her, I dipped one chip after another into the scrumptious green goo.
Then came the time to actually spend money. I filled out my pretty little order form and handed it to my mom, who smiled appreciatively at me. She was going to purchase what I wanted because she is just that cool. Here's a shout out to you, Mama. Thanks for being so dang cool. :)
But the women all huddled together, putting on their reading glasses and talking about the upcoming Christmas holiday. Who should they buy for? What packaged deal should they splurge on? But weren't those cookies just Uh-Maze-Ing?
I love these parties because I see myself in twenty years in some of these women. I suppose I, too, will look forward to yummy food get togethers and find reasons to splurge my well-earned paycheck of the week on some seasonings and broths and desserts. I, too, will sit back in the dining room of a friend or relative in about twenty years and think about what my husband would like and what he would frown upon me buying. I like to think that I might be plump and happy with rosy cheeks and (gasp!) a double-dipper of tortilla chips.
People say that the 20's are your "prime years", but I'm telling you what. As much as I love being 20, when I can attend these parties with money to spend and a family to feed, I think that will be the life.
So tastefully simple, eh?
Ten women (including my little sister) chatted animatedly about seasonings and dips and Oh My! Chai. It was incredible. These kinds of parties always take the cake (no pun intended). My mother was hosting a Tastefully Simple party, and the attendees had that anxious Feed Me! gleam in their eyes. You could tell they had skipped dinner especially for the occasion. I myself had skipped dinner because it might have been a sin to indulge the stomach before passing around the first appetizer without partaking. It was kind of like Communion, in a sick, greedier fashion.
Chris, the woman in charge, gleefully cooed about each item in the booklet we held in our hands. She explained deals and benefit buys and how to make/use/mix each product, and then we slowly, very slowly, passed around 18 different appetizer-sized food samplings. They were all delicious. I got up twice to refill my glass of 1%. You don't mess with Chipotle Terriyaki dip without milk.
I watched each woman as they passed around the different plates and bowls. There was a certain pattern to it, to these women. Some of them were eaters, you could tell. The woman sitting two seats to my right never dipped just one tortilla chip -- she was in this for the filling of her stomach. She would swirl both chips around the bowl in a rather obnoxious fashion and then proceed to scoop out the largest portion of garlic/bacon/Chipotle dip she could manage onto the chip. The woman sitting diagonal from me barely stuck her beer bread into the dips and salts. I think she might have been afraid of trying new flavors of whatever. My sister hogged the bowl of spinach and artichoke dip, and since I had the pleasure of sitting next to her, I dipped one chip after another into the scrumptious green goo.
Then came the time to actually spend money. I filled out my pretty little order form and handed it to my mom, who smiled appreciatively at me. She was going to purchase what I wanted because she is just that cool. Here's a shout out to you, Mama. Thanks for being so dang cool. :)
But the women all huddled together, putting on their reading glasses and talking about the upcoming Christmas holiday. Who should they buy for? What packaged deal should they splurge on? But weren't those cookies just Uh-Maze-Ing?
I love these parties because I see myself in twenty years in some of these women. I suppose I, too, will look forward to yummy food get togethers and find reasons to splurge my well-earned paycheck of the week on some seasonings and broths and desserts. I, too, will sit back in the dining room of a friend or relative in about twenty years and think about what my husband would like and what he would frown upon me buying. I like to think that I might be plump and happy with rosy cheeks and (gasp!) a double-dipper of tortilla chips.
People say that the 20's are your "prime years", but I'm telling you what. As much as I love being 20, when I can attend these parties with money to spend and a family to feed, I think that will be the life.
So tastefully simple, eh?
Friday, November 20, 2009
The Muse has slapped my wrist..
what my mother never told me
sprinklers are just faucets
of tears that water the earth
with joy
I thought when I was six
or maybe I heard that from a T.V Evangelist
who spouts the salt and light
of the Word
my word
you can never believe what your friends tell you
about the wood gnomes in the garden or about the boys
across the street
because lies are lies
no matter whose mouth they spew from
and Jake only kissed me
on the cheek
in the closet
and I thought, when I was 13,
that it might have meant something,
that kiss
but boy
he told me to relax, breathe deep,
it would only hurt a little
like a pinch, like a pinch
and it was over in a pinch
why had I never questioned
what I was never told
that sprinkler
that preacher
that kiss
sprinklers are just faucets
of tears that water the earth
with joy
I thought when I was six
or maybe I heard that from a T.V Evangelist
who spouts the salt and light
of the Word
my word
you can never believe what your friends tell you
about the wood gnomes in the garden or about the boys
across the street
because lies are lies
no matter whose mouth they spew from
and Jake only kissed me
on the cheek
in the closet
and I thought, when I was 13,
that it might have meant something,
that kiss
but boy
he told me to relax, breathe deep,
it would only hurt a little
like a pinch, like a pinch
and it was over in a pinch
why had I never questioned
what I was never told
that sprinkler
that preacher
that kiss
Thursday, November 19, 2009
It's downhill skiing
...until Thanksgiving break, at least. And then it's back to the grind of incessant reading and project-doing and poster board prettifying...but at least for today and tomorrow, all of my work (except for a lone response paper) is completed.
I've polished my fiction, nonfiction, and 3 poems thoroughly and will proceed to turn them in for the big contest on Friday.
The sky is gloomy and rain splatters occasionally on my windowpane, and this is me being happy.
Until all hell breaks loose again, I'm homeward bound tomorrow.
This week will be the longest I've spent at home for about 6 months. Oh, how nice it shall be.
I've polished my fiction, nonfiction, and 3 poems thoroughly and will proceed to turn them in for the big contest on Friday.
The sky is gloomy and rain splatters occasionally on my windowpane, and this is me being happy.
Until all hell breaks loose again, I'm homeward bound tomorrow.
This week will be the longest I've spent at home for about 6 months. Oh, how nice it shall be.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Fortune Teller
I spent 12 straight hours on Saturday huddled over two novels, exhaustion stinging my eyes, the dull inside lamps casting eventual shadows along each tired page.
I spent my Sunday (after managing to step into the sunlight for church in the morning), gazing into the taunting eyes of my laptop, writing critiques for 30 page stories, and writing (and still writing) the first of at least five essays that I have due before Thanksgiving.
Perhaps a glimpse into my future?
IlovemymajorIlovemymajorIlovemymajor.
I spent my Sunday (after managing to step into the sunlight for church in the morning), gazing into the taunting eyes of my laptop, writing critiques for 30 page stories, and writing (and still writing) the first of at least five essays that I have due before Thanksgiving.
Perhaps a glimpse into my future?
IlovemymajorIlovemymajorIlovemymajor.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Deuce to Love.
So, I've come to the realization (not recently, might I add, but rather over the course of my college career) that I profoundly miss the game. The game of spinning that worn grip between my palms, of scuffing my heels and bouncing my toes along the white lines of concrete or clay (if it was a special tourny). I even miss the mindgame, the anticipation of my performance, my opponents' performance, and keeping track of when to switch sides of the court. I miss seeing my family sitting in the bleachers, or behind the glass, silently cheering me on, begging me to keep my head in the game.
I miss tennis.
I devote my time to writing and reading now. I think in highschool I was much more well-rounded. I was in all of the musicals and I played tennis with vigor and ease, and I was on National Honor Society and a member of the Christian Club. I did things with my spare time.
Nowadays I laugh in the face of spare time. There is no 'spare time'. All of my time is devoted to my craft, to the honing and carving of my writing, my reading, my critiquing of others' writing and reading. And then the next day comes and I write and read some more. And I love it, don't get me wrong.
But I need something else. There's more to my life than my craft...because when I get tired of the writing and the reading, I need a break. I need tennis back in my life. It was this huge stress reliever, this chasing of ambition and exertion, this release of adrenaline and anger and sadness. It was my outlet for the longest time. And now I no longer have it when I need it the most.
I need the challenge of winning and losing, and keeping not only my mental skills sharp, but my physical skills in check. I am way out of shape, and I am slowly losing what was once my biggest love. I'm no longer quick on my toes, and I don't keep score like I used to, and I don't have anyone to play against that will be competitive with me, push me.
I need to get out of this tennis-less rut. I need my love back.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Monday, November 9, 2009
13 ((ways of looking at a blackbird))
On Saturday, I didn't just buy a new fluffy pet. I became 13 again.
The boys across from us were having a party and the bass of their music thumped our floor. And I didn't want to be any one of those drunken college students. I was content with the coloring books that Mary had broug
ht over, and I was content with the hemp and Vanilla Ice on the laptop.
It's now Monday and I still can't help but smile when thinking about the past weekend. I think many twenty-somethings take life too seriously, and you might be thinking, Really? What about the ones that drink themselves into a stupor every weekend? What about the non-intellects sitting in classrooms, doodling on their essays and worksheets? Those people don't take life too seriously.
Well. I could agree with you and make this whole blog super agreeable, but I think I'll beg to differ this time. I'm going to argue that no, those people may not be super intellectual, but I don't think they are being childish, either. What kind of child drinks herself into a stupor on the weekends?
I was 13 again on Saturday and it was a nice change. When I was actually 13, I hated it. I ha
ted being at that weird age; it was the age of puberty and hormones and heartbreaking crushes and pigtails. It was the age of pining and always being right and realizing that maybe my mom can't help me with all of my problems.
ted being at that weird age; it was the age of puberty and hormones and heartbreaking crushes and pigtails. It was the age of pining and always being right and realizing that maybe my mom can't help me with all of my problems. It was an age of transition. It was an age of ups and downs and plenty of semi-friendships and semi-boyfriends.
That's not the 13 I'm talking about, though. No, on Saturday night, the girls and I broke out the hemp and beads. We sat on my bedroom floor, giggling over 80's and 90's music videos on YouTube, trying and failing to make bracelets and necklaces for each other. Mary dyed her hair a dark red over my sink while I scooped large quantities of ice cream into bowls. I doused the ice cream with sprinkles and M&M's and Shell. It was a little slice of Heaven.
The boys across from us were having a party and the bass of their music thumped our floor. And I didn't want to be any one of those drunken college students. I was content with the coloring books that Mary had broug
ht over, and I was content with the hemp and Vanilla Ice on the laptop.I was 13, and for once in my life, I missed being that young and naive. I missed that awful, awkward age of braces and half-hearted arguments and notes that were passed in the shape of a football.
And so it goes.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Saturday's Whim.
I walked into the pet store today with very few intentions...
And I walked back out with a 10-gallon tank, paper bedding, a spin wheel, a water-sucking contraption, a small pink hut house, a cute polka dot food bowl, some seed-nut assortment of feed, and a puffball of a dwarf hamster.
I named her Erma.
My spontaneous, brilliant, decision-making skills never cease to amuse, or amaze, me.
...Michelle is going to kill me.
And I walked back out with a 10-gallon tank, paper bedding, a spin wheel, a water-sucking contraption, a small pink hut house, a cute polka dot food bowl, some seed-nut assortment of feed, and a puffball of a dwarf hamster.
I named her Erma.
My spontaneous, brilliant, decision-making skills never cease to amuse, or amaze, me.
...Michelle is going to kill me.
Friday, November 6, 2009
...
They say that college is supposed to help you find yourself, find your voice.
But.
What if you end up losing yourself in the process?
But.
What if you end up losing yourself in the process?
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
lisztomania
...is the one with the windows open in November, trying (and failing), but trying nonetheless to serenade the wind with the delicate notes of music. This is badly butchered by the hands of one who does not know the tune.
...is currently seeking and not currently finding.
...is not here right now, or tomorrow, or ever so please leave a message after the obnoxiously long beeeeeeeeeep.
.....is out buying cookies and cream truffles with a boy who has just been cheated on.
...is throwing her hands up in frustrated delight.
...is a bunch of xoxoxos waiting to happen.
...is currently seeking and not currently finding.
...is not here right now, or tomorrow, or ever so please leave a message after the obnoxiously long beeeeeeeeeep.
.....is out buying cookies and cream truffles with a boy who has just been cheated on.
...is throwing her hands up in frustrated delight.
...is a bunch of xoxoxos waiting to happen.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Black and Gold
I found myself sitting in the Presque Isle Art Gallery (and coffee shop) this afternoon, a mug in one hand, my chin in the other, listening to a friend talk about his upcoming thesis. The black clouds swirled angry in the sky, and we were catching up under the heat of a sea-glass lamp.
Time is a funny thing. And the future is, too. When you consider them (both time and the future), you really have no control over what happens. Sure, you can make some things happen, but what about the spontaneity that is so unique and beautiful to each life? What about the fun in letting every moment run its course? Why drain every day of its natural What Ifs?
So, around this time last year, I was sitting on the hill by OBS, watching the stars, holding his hand. We had a thing, whatever that thing might have been, and then it was over.
And here we sit, almost a year later (a year full of not-really-talking-and-being-kind-of-awkward-around-each other), laughing over paninis and Chai in a coffeehouse. I never would have guessed it would be this way, not after a full year of semi-awkwardness.
It's weird. But it gives me faith in people, I think. It gives me hope that our futures are still precious, and who's to say what will happen? Who's to say who will leave your life and who will come sauntering into it? Who's to say who will come back and stick around for a while?
I think that's the fun of it, of everything. Sometimes it's enough to just take life as it is instead of trying to make things happen.
Sometimes, you just need to chill out and wait. Relish in the possibilities.
Time is a funny thing. And the future is, too. When you consider them (both time and the future), you really have no control over what happens. Sure, you can make some things happen, but what about the spontaneity that is so unique and beautiful to each life? What about the fun in letting every moment run its course? Why drain every day of its natural What Ifs?
So, around this time last year, I was sitting on the hill by OBS, watching the stars, holding his hand. We had a thing, whatever that thing might have been, and then it was over.
And here we sit, almost a year later (a year full of not-really-talking-and-being-kind-of-awkward-around-each other), laughing over paninis and Chai in a coffeehouse. I never would have guessed it would be this way, not after a full year of semi-awkwardness.
It's weird. But it gives me faith in people, I think. It gives me hope that our futures are still precious, and who's to say what will happen? Who's to say who will leave your life and who will come sauntering into it? Who's to say who will come back and stick around for a while?
I think that's the fun of it, of everything. Sometimes it's enough to just take life as it is instead of trying to make things happen.
Sometimes, you just need to chill out and wait. Relish in the possibilities.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Sunday, November 1, 2009
::A Halloween Melodrama::
Bob and I had finally, finally confirmed our plans for the Halloween weekend: We were going to spend Saturday getting our fill of adrenaline rushes on the Cedar Point coasters, and then listen to the amazing, melodious voice of Ingrid Michaelson and her band members in Cleveland at night, where we would proceed to meet up with Michelle and Maya.
The trip started off with rain bubbles popping on the windshield of the Beast. It was gloomy, cold, and the kind of day best spent in bed with a novel. But we were on a mission. So, not even seven minutes into highway time, my van starts to rumble. I look over at Bob to see if he has noticed. He hasn't. I stare down at my gas gauge into the troublesome orange square that indicates LOW FUEL. My car rumbles again and this time Bob glances over.
Three minutes later, we found ourselves pulled over on the side of the highway not even three exits away from Behrend. Bob and I laugh, saying this would happen, and he offers to walk to the nearest gas station, which is maybe a ten minute walk from the van. After offering to come with him a million and one times, I found myself sitting in my van, listening to the rain and the tinktinktink of my four way flashers.
Twenty minutes, and three phone conversations later, I see Bob (the Hero) sauntering along the exit, his cheeks flushed with the cold and trudge of carrying gasoline uphill. I could have called AAA, but honestly, who thinks of that in such a situation? I had forgot I was even a member.
I held the mucky stick into my gas gauge as Bob tried, and kind of failed, at getting all of the gasoline into the tank. Mostly it ended up all over us and the back left tire of my van.
We drove off with laughable expectations, but goofy grins adorned our faces because who knew what would come next? We had the whole day waiting, waiting.
About 1.5 hours later, we decided to stop for lunch before reaching the park. Neither of us had 8 dollars to pay for a lone hamburger. Geez. So, after walking into the restaurant, we sat down, took off our jackets, and the fire alarm proceeded to go off. We stared at each other for what must have been five minutes, and then burst out laughing. We laughed and laughed, and ordered a million plates of food for cheap, and laughed some more. This was too absurd.
We eventually arrived at Cedar Point at 2:30 (the original plan was supposed to be around noonish), and giddily ran to our first coaster: Top Thrill Dragster. After waiting in line for about twenty-minutes, the ride broke down and we laughed again. If I would have gotten a ticket for speeding, that would have been the cherry, but I didn't, (thank goodness), and so we shook our heads and moved on to Millenium Force. We ended up doing all the coasters our hearts could have handled, and eventually got on the Dragster (which took my breath away, literally) last. After a solid five hours of line-waitin', coaster-hoppin' glory, we raced back to the van and I sped down the interstate to make sure not to miss Ingrid Michaelson.
The concert was mind-blowingly amazing, to say the least. Aside from the fact that I could not see much, and the ballroom was packed body-to-costumed body, I had an absolute blast. Michelle, Maya and I sang along and made complete fools out of ourselves. I bought two of her CD's and a poster that I would have loved to be signed, but she was not having any of the crowd. She and her band really put on a show, though, and no doubt will I be a returning fan to future concerts.
We stopped at Sheetz after the show because Bob and I hadn't eaten since lunch earlier in the day, and I was starving. And after the much-needed Sheetz run, we made our way back (blaring my new Ingrid CD's) to campus.
I walked back through the trash-ridden, pumpkin-smashed' Quad at 2 in the morning with sticky hair and glazed eyes, but I was genuinely happy. It was, for sure, one memorable Halloween.
The trip started off with rain bubbles popping on the windshield of the Beast. It was gloomy, cold, and the kind of day best spent in bed with a novel. But we were on a mission. So, not even seven minutes into highway time, my van starts to rumble. I look over at Bob to see if he has noticed. He hasn't. I stare down at my gas gauge into the troublesome orange square that indicates LOW FUEL. My car rumbles again and this time Bob glances over.
Three minutes later, we found ourselves pulled over on the side of the highway not even three exits away from Behrend. Bob and I laugh, saying this would happen, and he offers to walk to the nearest gas station, which is maybe a ten minute walk from the van. After offering to come with him a million and one times, I found myself sitting in my van, listening to the rain and the tinktinktink of my four way flashers.
Twenty minutes, and three phone conversations later, I see Bob (the Hero) sauntering along the exit, his cheeks flushed with the cold and trudge of carrying gasoline uphill. I could have called AAA, but honestly, who thinks of that in such a situation? I had forgot I was even a member.
I held the mucky stick into my gas gauge as Bob tried, and kind of failed, at getting all of the gasoline into the tank. Mostly it ended up all over us and the back left tire of my van.
We drove off with laughable expectations, but goofy grins adorned our faces because who knew what would come next? We had the whole day waiting, waiting.
About 1.5 hours later, we decided to stop for lunch before reaching the park. Neither of us had 8 dollars to pay for a lone hamburger. Geez. So, after walking into the restaurant, we sat down, took off our jackets, and the fire alarm proceeded to go off. We stared at each other for what must have been five minutes, and then burst out laughing. We laughed and laughed, and ordered a million plates of food for cheap, and laughed some more. This was too absurd.
We eventually arrived at Cedar Point at 2:30 (the original plan was supposed to be around noonish), and giddily ran to our first coaster: Top Thrill Dragster. After waiting in line for about twenty-minutes, the ride broke down and we laughed again. If I would have gotten a ticket for speeding, that would have been the cherry, but I didn't, (thank goodness), and so we shook our heads and moved on to Millenium Force. We ended up doing all the coasters our hearts could have handled, and eventually got on the Dragster (which took my breath away, literally) last. After a solid five hours of line-waitin', coaster-hoppin' glory, we raced back to the van and I sped down the interstate to make sure not to miss Ingrid Michaelson.
The concert was mind-blowingly amazing, to say the least. Aside from the fact that I could not see much, and the ballroom was packed body-to-costumed body, I had an absolute blast. Michelle, Maya and I sang along and made complete fools out of ourselves. I bought two of her CD's and a poster that I would have loved to be signed, but she was not having any of the crowd. She and her band really put on a show, though, and no doubt will I be a returning fan to future concerts.
We stopped at Sheetz after the show because Bob and I hadn't eaten since lunch earlier in the day, and I was starving. And after the much-needed Sheetz run, we made our way back (blaring my new Ingrid CD's) to campus.
I walked back through the trash-ridden, pumpkin-smashed' Quad at 2 in the morning with sticky hair and glazed eyes, but I was genuinely happy. It was, for sure, one memorable Halloween.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
An Ode to Andrew
I have a plan. An actual (and therefore not metaphorical) plan. One that might just sprout wings this summer and take off. I am stoked.I'll admit, sometimes I don't think I know how to be a writer. Sometimes, I forget that we have to invest in self-promoting, and use our writerly capabilites to entice business people to merely glance at our work. Sometimes, I don't realize how hard I might just have it for the rest of my life, because writers, we're going to have it hard. It's inevitable.
The Plan:
--Write a proposal/inquiry stating my offer of being a travel writer for the Williamsport area, meaning that I will be encouraging/promoting the idea of the "staycation".
--This will include traveling to local restaurants/Susquehanna events/local natural attractions and anything else that Williamsport and the surrounding areas that may have become lost treasures.
--Send in the inquiry/proposal to tourism services/local newspapers/college campuses/Chamber of Commerce and smiling really big in hopes of obtaining some form of recognition for my writerly efforts and creativity.
--Waiting, waiting, waiting to hear back, and although this will probably be an unpaid venture, I can work from home and indulge myself with the idea of publication in something other than in my campus newspaper.
And that, folks, is my big idea for this summer. I plan on fleshing it out and asking until my voice becomes hoarse with pleading acceptance. Relish in it.
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