initial reading of the final draft: Ok... it needs cleaned up, but I think I made the points ok
second reading: Wow, it all sounds so trite. Maybe I should redo these sections.
third reading: This is a really crap paper. The arguments are simultaneously confusing and simplistic. I'm fairly certain a goldfish on acid could have written a better paper, and they can't even type all that well.
fourth reading: *skimming pages pretending to read*
fifth reading: I CAN'T TURN THIS IN! THIS IS THE WORST THING EVER WRITTEN! IF I TURN THIS IN I WILL BE JAILED FOR CRIMES AGAINST HUMANITY!
hysterical crying on the floor ensues
first glass of wine, sixth reading: Ok. let's just calm down and try to cut our losses
second glass of wine, seventh reading: Oh... this isn't so bad. I was overreacting.
third glass of wine, eighth "reading": THIS IS THE BEST PAPER EVER! NOBODY IS AS GOOD AT ANYTHING AS I AM! you know what would make this EVEN BETTER? if I replaced the conclusion with a picture of a duck! OH man... I have such good ideas because I AM THE SMARTEST PERSON ALIVE!!!!!!!
end of bottle: make a hopscotch path through the house using the pages of my dissertation, feed the final pages to a turtle, pretend finding the conclusion is a treasure hunt.
tl;dr version: I guess I just don't understand how it's possible that no matter how much I delete, this damned dissertation just won't get any shorter.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Monday, August 16, 2010
wander lust
It's something I wrote ages ago, just after my return from Africa. I stand by it, because to me it's still true as true. I was asked to put it where it could be found. I'm putting it here.
If I have any advice to give to those who, like me, suffer from incurable wanderlust it is this: Adventure is not what you think it is. Adventure rarely will change you, not much anyway. You can go around the world and do amazing things, but it is not those things which change you. It is the in between times that change you; the people who chewed loudly at every meal, that you had to avoid eye contact with because, at every meal, it made you gag. It’s the way you never noticed that someone’s eyes light up when they talk about cartoons, but you return with the sudden desire to wake up early on Saturday mornings with a bowl of cereal and, inexplicably, miss that person. It’s the way you can never look at a chicken the same way. It’s the way that, after having an adventure, you think about it and that thinking changes you. The way you go over and over it in your mind until it seeps into you. It’s what you can never tell. It’s what nobody will ever ask you, what you couldn’t tell them if they did. That, my friend, is what changes you in the end. Spectacular stories last for a moment. And yes, sometimes that story is worth it. You will change. There is no doubt about that.
Someone once said that the problem with life is that it’s so daily. This, I find, is precisely the problem. Daily life is often not glamorous or sexy, it’s sometimes not even that much fun, but it is above all untellable. How do you go back home and tell of the times where you were unreasonably moody and spent the day doing nothing much, except maybe pouting. Why, when you were so far away, would you talk of the day that it rained and you spent the day inside playing solitaire? No no no. The thing about life is that it’s so daily. You have your ups and downs. Sometimes you’re in a bad mood. Sometimes you get diarrhea. Sometimes you have a lot of fun sitting up every night playing cards and talking. But even if you try to tell that story, it’s one sentence and then moving on. Sometimes you forget the comment that left your friend not speaking to you. Sometimes you forget why you smiled so much. There will be days when you will wake up and keep your eyes closed, praying to God that you will be somewhere else when you open them. There will be days when you cannot breath in the greatness of this life deeply enough. Wanderlust takes you away from home, from safety, to faraway places and grand adventures, but it is the being away that actually changes us. Being away gives home meaning. Until you leave, you can’t know what you loved. You can’t feel out the places in your heart that had always been filled until you wake up one day with a dull ache. That ache lets you know you’re still alive. And it’s the ache that changes you.
And don’t be afraid when you return and it all seems like a dream. When you tell people stories of your adventures like they are your own, when really you only feel like you are telling them the plot of a story in which you had no part. It’s like that. You come back and settle in, feeling as though you should be so much more different than you actually are, or feeling as though everything should be the same. And like waking up from a dream, the details fade quickly. The stories are what remain, and because that is what everybody is convinced that matters, that is what you talk about. Eventually, you will believe it matters too. You’ll think that is what changed you. Let me tell you now, let me assure you of this: It didn’t.
Please don’t let me lead you to think that it is anyway not worth the time and money and effort. It is so very worth it. You will change in ways that you could not have imagined, in ways you didn’t even know could change. You may stay the same in ways you had hoped against. It’s worth it still. For one thing, you will never be happy as long as the wind calls your name, sweetly and softly whispering of places unknown. If you ignore its call, you will sit in a pool of your own apathy until your heart atrophies and the twinkle in your eye sparkles one last time before it goes out forever.
If I have any advice to give to those who, like me, suffer from incurable wanderlust it is this: Adventure is not what you think it is. Adventure rarely will change you, not much anyway. You can go around the world and do amazing things, but it is not those things which change you. It is the in between times that change you; the people who chewed loudly at every meal, that you had to avoid eye contact with because, at every meal, it made you gag. It’s the way you never noticed that someone’s eyes light up when they talk about cartoons, but you return with the sudden desire to wake up early on Saturday mornings with a bowl of cereal and, inexplicably, miss that person. It’s the way you can never look at a chicken the same way. It’s the way that, after having an adventure, you think about it and that thinking changes you. The way you go over and over it in your mind until it seeps into you. It’s what you can never tell. It’s what nobody will ever ask you, what you couldn’t tell them if they did. That, my friend, is what changes you in the end. Spectacular stories last for a moment. And yes, sometimes that story is worth it. You will change. There is no doubt about that.
Someone once said that the problem with life is that it’s so daily. This, I find, is precisely the problem. Daily life is often not glamorous or sexy, it’s sometimes not even that much fun, but it is above all untellable. How do you go back home and tell of the times where you were unreasonably moody and spent the day doing nothing much, except maybe pouting. Why, when you were so far away, would you talk of the day that it rained and you spent the day inside playing solitaire? No no no. The thing about life is that it’s so daily. You have your ups and downs. Sometimes you’re in a bad mood. Sometimes you get diarrhea. Sometimes you have a lot of fun sitting up every night playing cards and talking. But even if you try to tell that story, it’s one sentence and then moving on. Sometimes you forget the comment that left your friend not speaking to you. Sometimes you forget why you smiled so much. There will be days when you will wake up and keep your eyes closed, praying to God that you will be somewhere else when you open them. There will be days when you cannot breath in the greatness of this life deeply enough. Wanderlust takes you away from home, from safety, to faraway places and grand adventures, but it is the being away that actually changes us. Being away gives home meaning. Until you leave, you can’t know what you loved. You can’t feel out the places in your heart that had always been filled until you wake up one day with a dull ache. That ache lets you know you’re still alive. And it’s the ache that changes you.
And don’t be afraid when you return and it all seems like a dream. When you tell people stories of your adventures like they are your own, when really you only feel like you are telling them the plot of a story in which you had no part. It’s like that. You come back and settle in, feeling as though you should be so much more different than you actually are, or feeling as though everything should be the same. And like waking up from a dream, the details fade quickly. The stories are what remain, and because that is what everybody is convinced that matters, that is what you talk about. Eventually, you will believe it matters too. You’ll think that is what changed you. Let me tell you now, let me assure you of this: It didn’t.
Please don’t let me lead you to think that it is anyway not worth the time and money and effort. It is so very worth it. You will change in ways that you could not have imagined, in ways you didn’t even know could change. You may stay the same in ways you had hoped against. It’s worth it still. For one thing, you will never be happy as long as the wind calls your name, sweetly and softly whispering of places unknown. If you ignore its call, you will sit in a pool of your own apathy until your heart atrophies and the twinkle in your eye sparkles one last time before it goes out forever.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
a thought on feeding babies
I guess I just don't understand how people fed babies before airplanes. I mean, seriously, herding the cow into the barn doesn't seem nearly as compelling reason to open your mouth, plus you can't make the brrrrrrrrrrrr noise and make the spoon swing from side to side. Who ever saw a cow that flies like that? They would fly straight and maybe bob up and down a little.
interesting note: cows can swim from island to island to get more food. It's true. I was on a huge lake in Uganda and there were these totally uninhabited islands way out there, but there would be a cow sitting on the island and we asked how they got there and the locals looked at us like we were dumb and said "They swim." So apparently their fat keeps them up and they just kick their little legs like paddles, which I guess means they can't be too hungry when they go looking for more food because otherwise they would just sort of sink and I don't know how long cows can hold their breath.
interesting note: cows can swim from island to island to get more food. It's true. I was on a huge lake in Uganda and there were these totally uninhabited islands way out there, but there would be a cow sitting on the island and we asked how they got there and the locals looked at us like we were dumb and said "They swim." So apparently their fat keeps them up and they just kick their little legs like paddles, which I guess means they can't be too hungry when they go looking for more food because otherwise they would just sort of sink and I don't know how long cows can hold their breath.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
A silly game of football
Beautiful, beautiful day out today.
So lately I haven’t been doing much other than working on my dissertation and finding uncreative ways to act out from stress involved with writing said dissertation, or the onslaught of well-meaning people who ask me about a future job which seems increasingly likely to exist and I will end up digging a hole in Alabama and talking to rolypolys or the fact that I can’t even understand that recording of the Scottish woman who tells me to hold or checks my security information when I call Scottish Power to ask if it’s true that my bill really is $1300 or my first born child. And when I'm stressed I like to be melodramatic because it amuses me and also because it's infinitely more satisfying. So I sulk around the flat, or absolutely refuse to clean my flat until I have no clean utensils and end up just burning my tongue trying to eat soup without a spoon or I sit around and bake pies and watch Pushing Daisies or go grocery shopping just to start crying at the cash register when the worker asks if I’m finding everything I need because, do we really ever find what we need? Would we even want to? What if we aren’t even sure what we were looking for? And the guy at the register is all like…um… I meant did you need help finding the milk or anything? Which I haven't actually done, but Will and I were talking and agreed that it would be a very fun thing to do.
So anyway, that’s where I’ve been lately.
My neighbor has recently been inviting me to play football (soccer) with a bunch of people on sundays and today I decided, what the heck, and went out despite the fact that I have no experience playing whatsoever. But it was perfect. The air was chilly, like maybe mid 60s, and it was windy. There were a ton of people playing and it was all good fun, despite the fact that mostly I just hung out “playing defense” by which I mean ran around so that people I knew were good at least had someone near them even though we all know if it came to it there is no way I could do anything, and occasionally if the guy with the ball was running and nobody was guarding him I would run up and stay between them and the goal, which I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to do because I got lots of congratulations for it, but mostly I just sort of watched the game while standing on the field and did what people shouted for someone to do.
It was a really good time, people of all ages were playing. There was this old guy, probably 70s or so. He didn’t run too much, but he did sometimes and he liked to steal the ball from the hot stuffs trying to show off, then he would pass it to one of the little kids and go back to walking around. There were a bunch of kids, maybe 6 years old at the youngest and they would touch the ball, I mean just barely touch it, and instantly the older guys on their team would shout “BRILLIANT!” “Amazing foot work!” “Incredible, world cup, mate.” And those little boys would just beam and beam like little boys do as their older brothers ran behind them and slapped them on the back of the head. And it didn’t really matter how many people were on a team, they just let anyone who wanted to play on the field. And the sun would periodically peek through the clouds, making it so it wasn’t ever cold, but not warming it up so much that it was hot in the jersey shirts running around.
Stewart, my neighbor, apologized because there were some more hard core guys on the teams that week- they aren’t normally this aggressive, he said- and they were doing things like hogging the ball (to which you would undirected hear cries of “You know, it’s allowed to pass in football”) or steal the ball from the little ones. But it was generally accepted that it detracted from the game, not added to it, and one time from behind me I heard one of the older men (and really good players) say “Not too serious lads, we’re just going to play a silly game of football.” At which point I started laughing because I imagined tons of Scottish men of all ages running around the field giggling with their hands in the air over their heads, all doing runs that would be valid in the ministry of silly walks, tossing the football back and forth, and singing and dancing… you know, a silly game of football. But then I looked as one of the guys was patting his bum, taunting his friend as he threw it in, and members of separate teams laughing about fouls and everyone talking about how THIS was the world cup game and the occasional guy skipping across the field and I realized they were serious, they really did just want to play that silly game of football. And I just smiled as they joked because the parts I understood were funny and friendly and it was such a perfect day to be playing a silly game of sunday football.
It was good.
Real good.
I think I'll go again.
Also, while out there, I was reminded of the time in the 6th grade PE class so now I’ll tell you about that too. We had a lot of chauvinistic guys in our class, so despite our teacher Mr Lion’s best efforts to make things equal, the guys would do everything in their power to stop girls from ever getting near the ball or the action of a game. I thought of this because playing soccer is one of those times where I’m not offended for not getting the ball at all. I don’t expect to. I know I suck at football. In fact, I was just thrilled when those guys would pass it to me today, because they wanted everyone to play. It was really nice of them. But some sports, like volleyball or ultimate frisbee, I actually at one point in my life was pretty decent at and get real pissed when some know-it-all asshole runs from his side of the court to knock me aside and get it. I mean in those games I actually can contribute, and even if I couldn't stealing the ball/frisbee from me would certainly not help. Dicks.
Anyway, back to sixth grade: You know how sometimes as a kid you become the hero and everyone is like WOAAAAAAAAh and they get all obsessed and everyone talks about how good you are at crazy eights or drawing or singing and you are like the hero even if maybe in hindsight it turns out you aren’t that good, but at the time you are considered the expert so they all go to you to help them draw a squirrel or something? And you know how you feel like the greatest thing that has ever happened and you start to think that maybe you should get a job in whatever it is, like do they maybe have professional pretty handwriting people? Well, this is about one of those moments.
Like I said, my class had a bunch of twerps who were convinced that girls didn’t even have the capacity to understand sports. I remember the guys would carefully explain what they wanted you to do like you were a child… I mean, we were children, but SO WERE THEY and that’s my point. Like we would play this game where you would kick a ball and then run to a base which was a mat so lots of people could be on it at once, but before you kicked the guys would be like “Ok, when the ball gets here kick it, and then you need to run to that base, you see it? See it? The one over there. That’s the one you run to first.” And we would all be like “Yeah, Whateva. I’ve been playing this since, like… the second grade, and I think I figured it out in 4 years. Pshha” But they would do it every time. It was really annoying. So there was this one kid, Pat, who was particularly bad about it. And one day, he had a sprained ankle. We were playing kickball, and if you don’t know, the person is automatically out if you catch the ball. Now, I’m not claiming to have good hand eye coordination or to be a great athlete by any means. Mostly when I played basketball I was playing this game in my own head where I raced everyone for the ball or to be the first one across the court when it changed sides, which I guess is why I liked running. But sometimes, and it happens more the more I play, sometimes I can be really good. So this day when Pat had a sprained ankle, I was near him, but sort of behind. The first kid got up to bat and kicked. It was in the air, going super fast, and coming straight towards me. Pat had this look of dread on his face like I was about to ruin all his hopes and dreams because there was no way he could get to it in time, and if he wasn't there nobody could get it, but I just reached up and plucked it out of the air. It was beautiful. Then, it happened again. And again. All three times one of those things where you just are on FIRE and are everywhere you need to be. After the last one, where I jumped in the air way over our heads and grabbed it, the whole room was quiet and then everyone broke out cheering. And after that everyone at recess talked about how they wanted me on their team and the guys would pass to me even if Mr Lion hadn’t made a rule that you had to alternate if a boy got it and a girl got it. And I was the queen of kickball.
I mean, unfortunately, it was in the spring and so we only played like twice more before school got out for the summer and then we moved to middle school so it didn’t last long since in middle school people there didn't realize I am the queen of kickball. Oh well. I could still beat most of them on the hurdles, which might have been why I picked that particular event.
TL;DR version: One of the guys started trash talking, another guy looked at him and said “Dinnae talk shite, mate”
So lately I haven’t been doing much other than working on my dissertation and finding uncreative ways to act out from stress involved with writing said dissertation, or the onslaught of well-meaning people who ask me about a future job which seems increasingly likely to exist and I will end up digging a hole in Alabama and talking to rolypolys or the fact that I can’t even understand that recording of the Scottish woman who tells me to hold or checks my security information when I call Scottish Power to ask if it’s true that my bill really is $1300 or my first born child. And when I'm stressed I like to be melodramatic because it amuses me and also because it's infinitely more satisfying. So I sulk around the flat, or absolutely refuse to clean my flat until I have no clean utensils and end up just burning my tongue trying to eat soup without a spoon or I sit around and bake pies and watch Pushing Daisies or go grocery shopping just to start crying at the cash register when the worker asks if I’m finding everything I need because, do we really ever find what we need? Would we even want to? What if we aren’t even sure what we were looking for? And the guy at the register is all like…um… I meant did you need help finding the milk or anything? Which I haven't actually done, but Will and I were talking and agreed that it would be a very fun thing to do.
So anyway, that’s where I’ve been lately.
My neighbor has recently been inviting me to play football (soccer) with a bunch of people on sundays and today I decided, what the heck, and went out despite the fact that I have no experience playing whatsoever. But it was perfect. The air was chilly, like maybe mid 60s, and it was windy. There were a ton of people playing and it was all good fun, despite the fact that mostly I just hung out “playing defense” by which I mean ran around so that people I knew were good at least had someone near them even though we all know if it came to it there is no way I could do anything, and occasionally if the guy with the ball was running and nobody was guarding him I would run up and stay between them and the goal, which I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to do because I got lots of congratulations for it, but mostly I just sort of watched the game while standing on the field and did what people shouted for someone to do.
It was a really good time, people of all ages were playing. There was this old guy, probably 70s or so. He didn’t run too much, but he did sometimes and he liked to steal the ball from the hot stuffs trying to show off, then he would pass it to one of the little kids and go back to walking around. There were a bunch of kids, maybe 6 years old at the youngest and they would touch the ball, I mean just barely touch it, and instantly the older guys on their team would shout “BRILLIANT!” “Amazing foot work!” “Incredible, world cup, mate.” And those little boys would just beam and beam like little boys do as their older brothers ran behind them and slapped them on the back of the head. And it didn’t really matter how many people were on a team, they just let anyone who wanted to play on the field. And the sun would periodically peek through the clouds, making it so it wasn’t ever cold, but not warming it up so much that it was hot in the jersey shirts running around.
Stewart, my neighbor, apologized because there were some more hard core guys on the teams that week- they aren’t normally this aggressive, he said- and they were doing things like hogging the ball (to which you would undirected hear cries of “You know, it’s allowed to pass in football”) or steal the ball from the little ones. But it was generally accepted that it detracted from the game, not added to it, and one time from behind me I heard one of the older men (and really good players) say “Not too serious lads, we’re just going to play a silly game of football.” At which point I started laughing because I imagined tons of Scottish men of all ages running around the field giggling with their hands in the air over their heads, all doing runs that would be valid in the ministry of silly walks, tossing the football back and forth, and singing and dancing… you know, a silly game of football. But then I looked as one of the guys was patting his bum, taunting his friend as he threw it in, and members of separate teams laughing about fouls and everyone talking about how THIS was the world cup game and the occasional guy skipping across the field and I realized they were serious, they really did just want to play that silly game of football. And I just smiled as they joked because the parts I understood were funny and friendly and it was such a perfect day to be playing a silly game of sunday football.
It was good.
Real good.
I think I'll go again.
Also, while out there, I was reminded of the time in the 6th grade PE class so now I’ll tell you about that too. We had a lot of chauvinistic guys in our class, so despite our teacher Mr Lion’s best efforts to make things equal, the guys would do everything in their power to stop girls from ever getting near the ball or the action of a game. I thought of this because playing soccer is one of those times where I’m not offended for not getting the ball at all. I don’t expect to. I know I suck at football. In fact, I was just thrilled when those guys would pass it to me today, because they wanted everyone to play. It was really nice of them. But some sports, like volleyball or ultimate frisbee, I actually at one point in my life was pretty decent at and get real pissed when some know-it-all asshole runs from his side of the court to knock me aside and get it. I mean in those games I actually can contribute, and even if I couldn't stealing the ball/frisbee from me would certainly not help. Dicks.
Anyway, back to sixth grade: You know how sometimes as a kid you become the hero and everyone is like WOAAAAAAAAh and they get all obsessed and everyone talks about how good you are at crazy eights or drawing or singing and you are like the hero even if maybe in hindsight it turns out you aren’t that good, but at the time you are considered the expert so they all go to you to help them draw a squirrel or something? And you know how you feel like the greatest thing that has ever happened and you start to think that maybe you should get a job in whatever it is, like do they maybe have professional pretty handwriting people? Well, this is about one of those moments.
Like I said, my class had a bunch of twerps who were convinced that girls didn’t even have the capacity to understand sports. I remember the guys would carefully explain what they wanted you to do like you were a child… I mean, we were children, but SO WERE THEY and that’s my point. Like we would play this game where you would kick a ball and then run to a base which was a mat so lots of people could be on it at once, but before you kicked the guys would be like “Ok, when the ball gets here kick it, and then you need to run to that base, you see it? See it? The one over there. That’s the one you run to first.” And we would all be like “Yeah, Whateva. I’ve been playing this since, like… the second grade, and I think I figured it out in 4 years. Pshha” But they would do it every time. It was really annoying. So there was this one kid, Pat, who was particularly bad about it. And one day, he had a sprained ankle. We were playing kickball, and if you don’t know, the person is automatically out if you catch the ball. Now, I’m not claiming to have good hand eye coordination or to be a great athlete by any means. Mostly when I played basketball I was playing this game in my own head where I raced everyone for the ball or to be the first one across the court when it changed sides, which I guess is why I liked running. But sometimes, and it happens more the more I play, sometimes I can be really good. So this day when Pat had a sprained ankle, I was near him, but sort of behind. The first kid got up to bat and kicked. It was in the air, going super fast, and coming straight towards me. Pat had this look of dread on his face like I was about to ruin all his hopes and dreams because there was no way he could get to it in time, and if he wasn't there nobody could get it, but I just reached up and plucked it out of the air. It was beautiful. Then, it happened again. And again. All three times one of those things where you just are on FIRE and are everywhere you need to be. After the last one, where I jumped in the air way over our heads and grabbed it, the whole room was quiet and then everyone broke out cheering. And after that everyone at recess talked about how they wanted me on their team and the guys would pass to me even if Mr Lion hadn’t made a rule that you had to alternate if a boy got it and a girl got it. And I was the queen of kickball.
I mean, unfortunately, it was in the spring and so we only played like twice more before school got out for the summer and then we moved to middle school so it didn’t last long since in middle school people there didn't realize I am the queen of kickball. Oh well. I could still beat most of them on the hurdles, which might have been why I picked that particular event.
TL;DR version: One of the guys started trash talking, another guy looked at him and said “Dinnae talk shite, mate”
Saturday, June 5, 2010
missing poem
because I've had a few requests, here is a poem about home. or about everyone I like. same thing. it's about you. and it's sappy. (it really is). hopefully it's also kind of cute though.
it isn't meant to be sad. it's meant to be nice.
it is called
Missing poem
or
Because the odd and unfortunate truth is you can’t hold a hole.
Some days I miss.
I miss you,
all
us
Not like keys you can’t find
But like a hole in my heart
Like a empty place
And I wonder why we didn’t take more pictures
Or make more stories
Of all the times we spent together.
And I know it was because we were too busy
Actually living
And genuinely loving
And really laughing
And doing all sorts of other things that begin with L.
Maybe things beginning with other letters too.
Things that kept us busy
And really happy
And breathing
But I hate that I can’t tell the story of how we spent our time
I can’t remember all our jokes
And all the things I saw when I sat back and watched you all interact with each other
And all our conversations
And all our silences
So comfortable with each other
Sitting close together
Or throwing things from across the room
Like paper balls, and shoes, and glances
What were you doing all those times
when I stood there
and thought that I felt exactly the way I want to feel all my life?
And I know how the word love makes you uncomfortable
And you know how I think that’s really lame
Because love is what it was
And it was really good
Maybe the only good thing ever
So I’ll say it and someday I hope you do too
It was love
the real kind of love
such I like who you are love
a sort of still, calm love in a maddening, spinning world
love love love love love (ha!)
Maybe the only good thing ever
in all the world.
But I want you to remind me
that it was constant
and full
So full of liking and loving and content that it wasn’t even comfortable
It was like thanksgiving
with our hearts stretched like stomachs after eating way too much food
until we could barely walk
Because you can’t say no to something that good
That available
That free
And we just sit around being happy
delighting in each other
And oh gosh I can’t eat another bite
But then we did
Abundantly content
Painfully and blissfully and comfortably accepting
And real
like an old pair of jeans
and everything I wish I had proof of
better proof
like more pictures
or videos
something I can hold in my hand
something other than the missing.
tl;dr version: bleg! bleg! bleg!
it isn't meant to be sad. it's meant to be nice.
it is called
Missing poem
or
Because the odd and unfortunate truth is you can’t hold a hole.
Some days I miss.
I miss you,
all
us
Not like keys you can’t find
But like a hole in my heart
Like a empty place
And I wonder why we didn’t take more pictures
Or make more stories
Of all the times we spent together.
And I know it was because we were too busy
Actually living
And genuinely loving
And really laughing
And doing all sorts of other things that begin with L.
Maybe things beginning with other letters too.
Things that kept us busy
And really happy
And breathing
But I hate that I can’t tell the story of how we spent our time
I can’t remember all our jokes
And all the things I saw when I sat back and watched you all interact with each other
And all our conversations
And all our silences
So comfortable with each other
Sitting close together
Or throwing things from across the room
Like paper balls, and shoes, and glances
What were you doing all those times
when I stood there
and thought that I felt exactly the way I want to feel all my life?
And I know how the word love makes you uncomfortable
And you know how I think that’s really lame
Because love is what it was
And it was really good
Maybe the only good thing ever
So I’ll say it and someday I hope you do too
It was love
the real kind of love
such I like who you are love
a sort of still, calm love in a maddening, spinning world
love love love love love (ha!)
Maybe the only good thing ever
in all the world.
But I want you to remind me
that it was constant
and full
So full of liking and loving and content that it wasn’t even comfortable
It was like thanksgiving
with our hearts stretched like stomachs after eating way too much food
until we could barely walk
Because you can’t say no to something that good
That available
That free
And we just sit around being happy
delighting in each other
And oh gosh I can’t eat another bite
But then we did
Abundantly content
Painfully and blissfully and comfortably accepting
And real
like an old pair of jeans
and everything I wish I had proof of
better proof
like more pictures
or videos
something I can hold in my hand
something other than the missing.
tl;dr version: bleg! bleg! bleg!
Sunday, May 23, 2010
lawls
I can’t remember my first thought.
I wish I could.
I can’t.
But I write down my thoughts. Some of them. And that is why I remember what I was thinking when I thought about law. My mature and well articulated thoughts followed this general pattern:
Bleg! Law! Bleg! Barfbarfbarf.
Bleg.
Bleg.
And the universe agreed with me. I know because while I was running my eyes back and forth across the meaningless drivel lawyers like to call writing, the computer at the library I was using froze. Three times. I’ve never had one of those computers freeze on me. But I wasn’t even mad. I sort of liked the break. In fact, one of those times I may have convinced myself it was frozen when it wasn’t. Plus, I mean, if I was a computer, I would have frozen too. Having to have that latin encrusted nonsense on me. Gross. Why use latin when there are perfectly good English words? You silly lawyer types.
And, along with me, nearly everyone in the class sat waiting for our professor, discussing (complaining about) how difficult the reading was to understand. Patrick, our token gay guy, said “yeah, but have you seen him?”
When he walked in I understood. Every persons eyes in the class did that buggy thing on cartoons and I’m pretty sure somewhere a boat was going AUGA OW OW. Anyway, he’s a total cutie and a really incredible teacher. Turns out also that I really love international law. Like really. I’m even considering going to law school, but the thing is I don’t really like reading law commentary and I’m pretty sure I would hate torts and contract law and I’m not all that fond of lawyers (with the total exception of Hoodie who is a heckuva guy and my hottie greek law professor and from stories I hear my grandpa was a swell so I will include him on my list of lawyers I like) because they tend to argue over stupid things but I’m pretty sure it has something to do with insecurity and the need to hear themselves talk (says the blogger). So maybe law school isn’t the best option. Yet.
and in memory of my classes being over, I have decided to enlighten you all with some quotes from my professor:
So on the first day our professor was explaining something and one of my classmates started arguing with him and he basically was like…um, you are wrong. So she said, “well, I have been educated.” (which, incidentally, I like to think is the British version of me saying “I got schooled.”)
He nodded sadly and said “You grow old being educated.”
In response to some idealists in my class who got upset at the unfairness of some laws:
“It is a structure created by elites to keep elites in power. It is not a force for good. It is not a force for human rights. It is not a force for anything other than it is a force. I say this and people get shocked, as if I said ‘There may be drugs in the fashion world.’”
“States are legal fictions. We anthropomorphize them, but they don’t exist. They can’t do anything. I can lift a chair. France cannot lift a chair. It’s amazing what they can’t do.”
“Lawyers love latin, for reasons that remain unclear.”
Unrelated to law, but a funny statement nonetheless (to me)- someone walked in late and there were no seats left:
“You can take my chair. It’s ok. I sit on desks.”
Also, on the first day of class:
“My name is Antonios. My last name is very long and very Greek. You will not be required to say it, but at some point you may have the misfortune of having to write it. And for that I am sorry.”
And not one of Professor Antonios, but Judge Bruno Simma in a speech I went to:
“States protecting human rights is a little like foxes guarding the rights of chickens.”
tl;dr version: I write direct quotes that people say at the top of my notes in classes I like. In other classes, I draw pictures.
I wish I could.
I can’t.
But I write down my thoughts. Some of them. And that is why I remember what I was thinking when I thought about law. My mature and well articulated thoughts followed this general pattern:
Bleg! Law! Bleg! Barfbarfbarf.
Bleg.
Bleg.
And the universe agreed with me. I know because while I was running my eyes back and forth across the meaningless drivel lawyers like to call writing, the computer at the library I was using froze. Three times. I’ve never had one of those computers freeze on me. But I wasn’t even mad. I sort of liked the break. In fact, one of those times I may have convinced myself it was frozen when it wasn’t. Plus, I mean, if I was a computer, I would have frozen too. Having to have that latin encrusted nonsense on me. Gross. Why use latin when there are perfectly good English words? You silly lawyer types.
And, along with me, nearly everyone in the class sat waiting for our professor, discussing (complaining about) how difficult the reading was to understand. Patrick, our token gay guy, said “yeah, but have you seen him?”
When he walked in I understood. Every persons eyes in the class did that buggy thing on cartoons and I’m pretty sure somewhere a boat was going AUGA OW OW. Anyway, he’s a total cutie and a really incredible teacher. Turns out also that I really love international law. Like really. I’m even considering going to law school, but the thing is I don’t really like reading law commentary and I’m pretty sure I would hate torts and contract law and I’m not all that fond of lawyers (with the total exception of Hoodie who is a heckuva guy and my hottie greek law professor and from stories I hear my grandpa was a swell so I will include him on my list of lawyers I like) because they tend to argue over stupid things but I’m pretty sure it has something to do with insecurity and the need to hear themselves talk (says the blogger). So maybe law school isn’t the best option. Yet.
and in memory of my classes being over, I have decided to enlighten you all with some quotes from my professor:
So on the first day our professor was explaining something and one of my classmates started arguing with him and he basically was like…um, you are wrong. So she said, “well, I have been educated.” (which, incidentally, I like to think is the British version of me saying “I got schooled.”)
He nodded sadly and said “You grow old being educated.”
In response to some idealists in my class who got upset at the unfairness of some laws:
“It is a structure created by elites to keep elites in power. It is not a force for good. It is not a force for human rights. It is not a force for anything other than it is a force. I say this and people get shocked, as if I said ‘There may be drugs in the fashion world.’”
“States are legal fictions. We anthropomorphize them, but they don’t exist. They can’t do anything. I can lift a chair. France cannot lift a chair. It’s amazing what they can’t do.”
“Lawyers love latin, for reasons that remain unclear.”
Unrelated to law, but a funny statement nonetheless (to me)- someone walked in late and there were no seats left:
“You can take my chair. It’s ok. I sit on desks.”
Also, on the first day of class:
“My name is Antonios. My last name is very long and very Greek. You will not be required to say it, but at some point you may have the misfortune of having to write it. And for that I am sorry.”
And not one of Professor Antonios, but Judge Bruno Simma in a speech I went to:
“States protecting human rights is a little like foxes guarding the rights of chickens.”
tl;dr version: I write direct quotes that people say at the top of my notes in classes I like. In other classes, I draw pictures.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
not my words
You know how there are some times, times when you are just looking for the right words to say, and every other word that just isn't right makes you more and more frustrated? I like to watch Dr. Who. I guess if you believe there is such a thing as excess of Dr Who then, yeah, maybe I watch it in excess. Luckily, I don't have that belief so it's not a problem. Anyway, I like the role in it that naming things plays. That words are so important. That maybe, if you can just figure out the name, you can know something, and in knowing it and naming it maybe it will all be ok.
But because all the words I try have been coming out sloppy and wrong, I have decided to put down here two things, neither mine, that are just right. They make me feel safe because they are exactly what I had wanted to say.
the first, as a way to rewrite in better terms everything I was trying to say earlier:
It seems to me the less he said, the more beauty he made. Do you know what sentence of his I admire the most? It is “The bright day is done, and we are for the dark.”
I wish I’d known those words on the day I watched those German troops land, plane-load after plane-load of them – and come off ships down in the harbor! All I could think of was "damn them, damn them", over and over. If I could have thought the words “the bright day is done and we are for the dark,” I’d have been consoled somehow and ready to go out and contend with circumstance – instead of my heart sinking to my shoes.
-from the Guernsey literary and potato peel pie society
but the second, the second is about how I feel. And because I only gave this to people I like, and presumably only people who like me read it, and I feel like we're connected. like maybe you remember me and I remember you, and it helps when I am missing
When you remember me, it means that you have carried something of who I am with you, that I have left some mark of who I am on who you are. It means that you can summon me back to your mind even though countless years and miles may stand between us. It means that if we meet again, you will know me. It means that even after I die, you can still see my face and hear my voice and speak to me in your heart.
For as long as you remember me, I am never entirely lost. When I'm feeling most ghost-like, it is your remembering me that helps remind me that I actually exist. When I'm feeling sad, it's my consolation. When I'm feeling happy, it's part of why I feel that way.
If you forget me, one of the ways I remember who I am will be gone. If you forget, part of who I am will be gone. "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom." the good thief said from his cross (Luke 23:42). There are perhaps no more human words in all of Scripture, no prayer we can pray so well.
-frederick buechner (the magnificent)
But because all the words I try have been coming out sloppy and wrong, I have decided to put down here two things, neither mine, that are just right. They make me feel safe because they are exactly what I had wanted to say.
the first, as a way to rewrite in better terms everything I was trying to say earlier:
It seems to me the less he said, the more beauty he made. Do you know what sentence of his I admire the most? It is “The bright day is done, and we are for the dark.”
I wish I’d known those words on the day I watched those German troops land, plane-load after plane-load of them – and come off ships down in the harbor! All I could think of was "damn them, damn them", over and over. If I could have thought the words “the bright day is done and we are for the dark,” I’d have been consoled somehow and ready to go out and contend with circumstance – instead of my heart sinking to my shoes.
-from the Guernsey literary and potato peel pie society
but the second, the second is about how I feel. And because I only gave this to people I like, and presumably only people who like me read it, and I feel like we're connected. like maybe you remember me and I remember you, and it helps when I am missing
When you remember me, it means that you have carried something of who I am with you, that I have left some mark of who I am on who you are. It means that you can summon me back to your mind even though countless years and miles may stand between us. It means that if we meet again, you will know me. It means that even after I die, you can still see my face and hear my voice and speak to me in your heart.
For as long as you remember me, I am never entirely lost. When I'm feeling most ghost-like, it is your remembering me that helps remind me that I actually exist. When I'm feeling sad, it's my consolation. When I'm feeling happy, it's part of why I feel that way.
If you forget me, one of the ways I remember who I am will be gone. If you forget, part of who I am will be gone. "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom." the good thief said from his cross (Luke 23:42). There are perhaps no more human words in all of Scripture, no prayer we can pray so well.
-frederick buechner (the magnificent)
Friday, April 2, 2010
postgrad lounging
I was sitting in the postgraduate study lounge: a lounge which, in order to enter, you must be a student of the post graduate variety (ie- phd or masters)
I tell you this, not to brag, but because I want to emphasize that people here are students presumably because they feel strongly about learning and are at least moderately more likely to be interested in their subject of research than undergraduates. Well, the post graduate study lounge has windows that face out into a gorgeous garden in the middle of the castle-like structure that is our school and just now, outside these windows, someone started playing a bagpipe and- I thought this was so cute- everyone, and I mean EVERY PERSON in the room got up and stood by the window and watched for probably 5 minutes. Not one person stayed seated (I totally tried to act to cool for school for a little bit longer but I definitely succumbed and ran up to the window to watch). All these little post graduate students, posing as grown ups, but secretly the type of people who would press their nose up against a window and watch a guy with a bagpipe as people go parading past. It was funny because some of them, particularly those of the male persuasion, tried to act all nonchalant about it. They sauntered over slowly, looking around as if to say "Oh, I'm not going to watch the bagpipes, I just left my notes etched into this glass." or "I've been here a while but gave up my watch for lent so I'm just checking the sun to see what time it is."
tl;dr: I knew we were all secretly children inside
I tell you this, not to brag, but because I want to emphasize that people here are students presumably because they feel strongly about learning and are at least moderately more likely to be interested in their subject of research than undergraduates. Well, the post graduate study lounge has windows that face out into a gorgeous garden in the middle of the castle-like structure that is our school and just now, outside these windows, someone started playing a bagpipe and- I thought this was so cute- everyone, and I mean EVERY PERSON in the room got up and stood by the window and watched for probably 5 minutes. Not one person stayed seated (I totally tried to act to cool for school for a little bit longer but I definitely succumbed and ran up to the window to watch). All these little post graduate students, posing as grown ups, but secretly the type of people who would press their nose up against a window and watch a guy with a bagpipe as people go parading past. It was funny because some of them, particularly those of the male persuasion, tried to act all nonchalant about it. They sauntered over slowly, looking around as if to say "Oh, I'm not going to watch the bagpipes, I just left my notes etched into this glass." or "I've been here a while but gave up my watch for lent so I'm just checking the sun to see what time it is."
tl;dr: I knew we were all secretly children inside
Thursday, April 1, 2010
stand on your head!
Three really great things about today:
1)The sun was out and gorgeous and I drank a white chocolate mocha. I feel as though both these things are really great things in and of themselves. But there is something about living in a place where it rains all the time to make people appreciate the sun more. So it's not just that it was sunny, I like rainy days too, but it was that the whole world seemed to be outside enjoying life. So many of the people I passed smiled, said hello, commented on the weather with a shared solidarity. We have something in common, they seemed to say, we have something worth enjoying. And no matter how terrible life was, it was like everyone seems to quietly agree that there is one thing- at least just that one thing- to be thankful for, and even better is that there are people to be thankful with. The second- the white chocolate mocha- was a splurge on my part. I have this little cafe that I love because the owner and I get along famously and she gives me discounts.
2)I was helping prepare a seder meal because my church was celebrating passover. In the kitchen there is a sign which reads
"After washing pans, please stand upside down in the sink.
No hot bottoms on the formica counter."
Both. those. sentences. are. hilarious.
Nobody else seemed to appreciate the humour in being instructed to stand upside-down in the sink after washing the pots. I giggled every time I glanced at the sign. I even seriously contemplated if I could stand on my head in the sink long enough for someone to come in and ask what I was doing and I would point at the sign. And then the whole town would be like "Oh, Amelia" but it would be ok because I can bake one mean pie. But I figured since nobody even understood when they walked by me pointing at the sign and laughing, they probably wouldn't find me taking it further funnier. The best part is that we rent the church from the congregation that owns it- a congregation filled with old people. So it is apparently tiny little scottish ladies who ritualistically stand upside-down in the sinks after washing the pots.
I also like the second part, in which only the unsexy little old ladies where allowed to sit on the counter. Maybe they rate bottoms as they come in the door and if you are a 5 or higher you can't sit on the counter, but maybe they give you a nice little pat as you walk by as a consolation prize.
Needless to say I had to stand the whole time.
...because I have a hot bottom
...and they can't go on the counter
yeah, you get it.
3) I picked up a cookie and asked if it was raisin or chocolate chip. A boy replied he didn't know. So I said "I guess it's both until I eat it." and another boy looked up and said (much more loudly and excitedly than I expected) "Its a quantum cookie!"
I really appreciate a good nerd, especially one who not only catches, but gets excited about my references.
1)The sun was out and gorgeous and I drank a white chocolate mocha. I feel as though both these things are really great things in and of themselves. But there is something about living in a place where it rains all the time to make people appreciate the sun more. So it's not just that it was sunny, I like rainy days too, but it was that the whole world seemed to be outside enjoying life. So many of the people I passed smiled, said hello, commented on the weather with a shared solidarity. We have something in common, they seemed to say, we have something worth enjoying. And no matter how terrible life was, it was like everyone seems to quietly agree that there is one thing- at least just that one thing- to be thankful for, and even better is that there are people to be thankful with. The second- the white chocolate mocha- was a splurge on my part. I have this little cafe that I love because the owner and I get along famously and she gives me discounts.
2)I was helping prepare a seder meal because my church was celebrating passover. In the kitchen there is a sign which reads
"After washing pans, please stand upside down in the sink.
No hot bottoms on the formica counter."
Both. those. sentences. are. hilarious.
Nobody else seemed to appreciate the humour in being instructed to stand upside-down in the sink after washing the pots. I giggled every time I glanced at the sign. I even seriously contemplated if I could stand on my head in the sink long enough for someone to come in and ask what I was doing and I would point at the sign. And then the whole town would be like "Oh, Amelia" but it would be ok because I can bake one mean pie. But I figured since nobody even understood when they walked by me pointing at the sign and laughing, they probably wouldn't find me taking it further funnier. The best part is that we rent the church from the congregation that owns it- a congregation filled with old people. So it is apparently tiny little scottish ladies who ritualistically stand upside-down in the sinks after washing the pots.
I also like the second part, in which only the unsexy little old ladies where allowed to sit on the counter. Maybe they rate bottoms as they come in the door and if you are a 5 or higher you can't sit on the counter, but maybe they give you a nice little pat as you walk by as a consolation prize.
Needless to say I had to stand the whole time.
...because I have a hot bottom
...and they can't go on the counter
yeah, you get it.
3) I picked up a cookie and asked if it was raisin or chocolate chip. A boy replied he didn't know. So I said "I guess it's both until I eat it." and another boy looked up and said (much more loudly and excitedly than I expected) "Its a quantum cookie!"
I really appreciate a good nerd, especially one who not only catches, but gets excited about my references.
Monday, March 22, 2010
home appreciation
I guess it shouldn’t surprise me that people don’t appreciate their home. I remember as a child looking at my parents and wanting to ask them why, why after having lived in San Fransisco, Austen and Ghent, why would you choose to settle down in Dayton, Ohio. When people ask where in the states I live, I always answer the same way. “Ohio,” I pause and watch them look questioningly “It’s one of the ones in the middle.”
(“Ohio?” the Scottish girl said on Saturday when I introduced myself, “I’m not sure where it is, but it sounds like a friendly state. It sounds like hello.”
“It is hello, in Japanese.” I replied).
I don’t think you ever appreciate home until you leave. You don’t realize until you start to travel that all over the world- everywhere- it’s so different from everything you’ve ever known. The way people interact. How much you will be touched. The way you get hit on. The food. The toilet bowls. Hygene expectations. The likelihood you will die while crossing the street. The words you use.
And then, when you travel more, you realize that everything everywhere is exactly the same. Everywhere there are rainy days, and there are people that complain about them, and there are people that go and dance in them, and there are people that want their lawns greener, and there are people who can’t afford yards. And there are times when the wind blows everywhere you go and that wind feels like it might blow right through you and you remember that you are alive. And there are times when you feel claustrophobic inside your own body and you just want to run- anywhere- to somehow escape yourself. to be free. but instead you sit, hoping nobody notices, that your body is too small and you can’t figure out how to leave it behind you.
You will be busy. You will be bored.
And you will realize that you run out of milk regardless of whether or not you can buy it in bulk. And you will be too lazy to go out and get some more regardless of if there are stores open late.
And the same petty fights happen among the same petty people,
Except that in Scotland she will say “I pulled him pure two months ago. I’m gutted he hasn’t called.”
And her friend will respond “I’m not trying to rip you so don’t start raging, but he was pure minging.”
And in the US she will say “I kissed him like two months ago. I’m upset he hasn’t called”
and her friend will reply “I’m not trying to make fun of you, so don’t get all pissy, but he was disgusting.”
[the first part is an excerpt of an actual conversation I heard two scott girls having]
And what brought this about was that three times in the past week someone has told me how cool it is that I’m from America and why on earth would I move to boring old Scotland?
The first was from my snowboarding instructor.
“Man. I really want to visit America. I definitely will someday. But I wouldn’t live there. What scares me is your ridiculously high punishments for crimes. Like you steal a car and go to jail for 20 years. Seems a bit disproportionate, and it’s not like it seems to have decreased the crime. That, and the guns.” Everyone seems to be afraid of the guns. “But why would you leave the United States and come to Scotland of all places? Man, I’m pure leaving as soon as I can.” And yet, he went admits, it could be worse. He could be English.
The second and third came while volunteering in Paisley with high schoolers.
“OH MY GOD. You’re from America?” she sits at my feet. “Tell me anything I just want to sit here and listen to your accent. Why would you leave and come to somewhere like Scotland? I mean, it’s Scotland. Scotland.”
Her friend over hears. She sits next to her.
“It’s like story time. Tell us everything.” But instead of waiting, she continues talking. “I really want to go to America. But I wouldn’t live there. All those guns.” I smile a little, because there really isn’t a way to refute this stereotype. “When I go to America, I want to go to Miami. And LA… Orange County.”
When statements like these are made, and they are made a lot, I have to bite my tongue to keep from asking “WHY? Good gracious. Why for all that is good and holy would you want to go to MIAMI?” I think movies and television have done their job of shaping the minds of youth. I mean… Miami? Gross. More like Portland, am I right?
But then I think about why everyone thinks it’s cool that I’m in Scotland, when everyone here seems to see it completely differently. I feel like to them it’s Michigan of Europe. Except where Michigan has snow, they have more rain. And maybe we were shaped by tv too. We love the mountains because we were told to by Braveheart. We love the rain because it’s romantic and we sort of like when men run around with the collars on their raincoats popped and scarves around their neck. We like the accents because someone at some point told us it’s cool… again, possibly Mel Gibson.
Don’t get me wrong. I love it here. I love the people. I love the rain (mostly). I love the constant supply of tea. I love the highlands and the way the sky is heavily textured. I love the way there is light and dark and green and music and wind. I love the parks and the old buildings and the tea houses and used book stores. I love how it is full of superlatives.
But I wonder if I can appreciate that because it is, if nothing else, not what I knew.
But I will tell you what I know.
I know I love home. I love Ohio more than I ever could have if I hadn’t left it.
I love the people. I love how each corner looks different. I love the history.
And no matter where I go, I will never stop missing the way October smells.
It will always feel like home to me.
Ohio is a friendly place. It feels like hello.
(“Ohio?” the Scottish girl said on Saturday when I introduced myself, “I’m not sure where it is, but it sounds like a friendly state. It sounds like hello.”
“It is hello, in Japanese.” I replied).
I don’t think you ever appreciate home until you leave. You don’t realize until you start to travel that all over the world- everywhere- it’s so different from everything you’ve ever known. The way people interact. How much you will be touched. The way you get hit on. The food. The toilet bowls. Hygene expectations. The likelihood you will die while crossing the street. The words you use.
And then, when you travel more, you realize that everything everywhere is exactly the same. Everywhere there are rainy days, and there are people that complain about them, and there are people that go and dance in them, and there are people that want their lawns greener, and there are people who can’t afford yards. And there are times when the wind blows everywhere you go and that wind feels like it might blow right through you and you remember that you are alive. And there are times when you feel claustrophobic inside your own body and you just want to run- anywhere- to somehow escape yourself. to be free. but instead you sit, hoping nobody notices, that your body is too small and you can’t figure out how to leave it behind you.
You will be busy. You will be bored.
And you will realize that you run out of milk regardless of whether or not you can buy it in bulk. And you will be too lazy to go out and get some more regardless of if there are stores open late.
And the same petty fights happen among the same petty people,
Except that in Scotland she will say “I pulled him pure two months ago. I’m gutted he hasn’t called.”
And her friend will respond “I’m not trying to rip you so don’t start raging, but he was pure minging.”
And in the US she will say “I kissed him like two months ago. I’m upset he hasn’t called”
and her friend will reply “I’m not trying to make fun of you, so don’t get all pissy, but he was disgusting.”
[the first part is an excerpt of an actual conversation I heard two scott girls having]
And what brought this about was that three times in the past week someone has told me how cool it is that I’m from America and why on earth would I move to boring old Scotland?
The first was from my snowboarding instructor.
“Man. I really want to visit America. I definitely will someday. But I wouldn’t live there. What scares me is your ridiculously high punishments for crimes. Like you steal a car and go to jail for 20 years. Seems a bit disproportionate, and it’s not like it seems to have decreased the crime. That, and the guns.” Everyone seems to be afraid of the guns. “But why would you leave the United States and come to Scotland of all places? Man, I’m pure leaving as soon as I can.” And yet, he went admits, it could be worse. He could be English.
The second and third came while volunteering in Paisley with high schoolers.
“OH MY GOD. You’re from America?” she sits at my feet. “Tell me anything I just want to sit here and listen to your accent. Why would you leave and come to somewhere like Scotland? I mean, it’s Scotland. Scotland.”
Her friend over hears. She sits next to her.
“It’s like story time. Tell us everything.” But instead of waiting, she continues talking. “I really want to go to America. But I wouldn’t live there. All those guns.” I smile a little, because there really isn’t a way to refute this stereotype. “When I go to America, I want to go to Miami. And LA… Orange County.”
When statements like these are made, and they are made a lot, I have to bite my tongue to keep from asking “WHY? Good gracious. Why for all that is good and holy would you want to go to MIAMI?” I think movies and television have done their job of shaping the minds of youth. I mean… Miami? Gross. More like Portland, am I right?
But then I think about why everyone thinks it’s cool that I’m in Scotland, when everyone here seems to see it completely differently. I feel like to them it’s Michigan of Europe. Except where Michigan has snow, they have more rain. And maybe we were shaped by tv too. We love the mountains because we were told to by Braveheart. We love the rain because it’s romantic and we sort of like when men run around with the collars on their raincoats popped and scarves around their neck. We like the accents because someone at some point told us it’s cool… again, possibly Mel Gibson.
Don’t get me wrong. I love it here. I love the people. I love the rain (mostly). I love the constant supply of tea. I love the highlands and the way the sky is heavily textured. I love the way there is light and dark and green and music and wind. I love the parks and the old buildings and the tea houses and used book stores. I love how it is full of superlatives.
But I wonder if I can appreciate that because it is, if nothing else, not what I knew.
But I will tell you what I know.
I know I love home. I love Ohio more than I ever could have if I hadn’t left it.
I love the people. I love how each corner looks different. I love the history.
And no matter where I go, I will never stop missing the way October smells.
It will always feel like home to me.
Ohio is a friendly place. It feels like hello.
Friday, March 5, 2010
pant...ies
The first thing to understand is that the world "pants" it doesn't really MEAN pants. Not like we think of them. It means underwear...panties...knickers. And for some reason I have the worst trouble with this. In Uganda it was the same case, and I caused my conservative professor great embarrassment when he asked why I was fidgeting in class and I proclaimed that it was nothing, I was just fixing my pants (you know how jeans get tight on your knees after too long sitting).
And freshman year, in Liverpool, when we were talking about if you tied someone's shoelaces together they wouldn't be able to remove their pants and Nikki overheard a very posh woman lean over to her child and say in hushed tones (though apparently not hushed enough tones) that "The Americans are talking about their underwear"
And this problem just continues for me.
And I am truly amazed how often I talk about my pants.
Really, you would think it wouldn't come up that much.
Things I have said that have caused snickers or open mouthed stares before they say (or think) "Oh... you mean trousers."
Oh hey, sorry I'm late. I totally spaced and didn't realize it was raining so I had to run back inside to throw on some pants
It's really cold so I ended up wearing two pairs of pants
I just bought snow pants. They were on sale
Oh I really like your pants.
I don't think I can pull off those really skinny spandex pants.
I can't wait to get home and get out of these pants into something more comfortable.
I love these pants.
Other words that don't mean the same thing: Fanny. It doesn't mean butt. It means (watch out kids, a naughty word is coming up... no real way around it) pussy. Which is why when we had been sitting in a lecture on uncomfortable chairs for hours and my butt was getting really sore and I leaned over to my friend steph and said "Man, I hope we get out soon. I'm getting some pretty epic fanny fatigue." She burst out laughing uncontrollably.
tl;dr version: "Camp" is a term that means flamboyantly gay, similar to when one might use the term "flaming"
And freshman year, in Liverpool, when we were talking about if you tied someone's shoelaces together they wouldn't be able to remove their pants and Nikki overheard a very posh woman lean over to her child and say in hushed tones (though apparently not hushed enough tones) that "The Americans are talking about their underwear"
And this problem just continues for me.
And I am truly amazed how often I talk about my pants.
Really, you would think it wouldn't come up that much.
Things I have said that have caused snickers or open mouthed stares before they say (or think) "Oh... you mean trousers."
Oh hey, sorry I'm late. I totally spaced and didn't realize it was raining so I had to run back inside to throw on some pants
It's really cold so I ended up wearing two pairs of pants
I just bought snow pants. They were on sale
Oh I really like your pants.
I don't think I can pull off those really skinny spandex pants.
I can't wait to get home and get out of these pants into something more comfortable.
I love these pants.
Other words that don't mean the same thing: Fanny. It doesn't mean butt. It means (watch out kids, a naughty word is coming up... no real way around it) pussy. Which is why when we had been sitting in a lecture on uncomfortable chairs for hours and my butt was getting really sore and I leaned over to my friend steph and said "Man, I hope we get out soon. I'm getting some pretty epic fanny fatigue." She burst out laughing uncontrollably.
tl;dr version: "Camp" is a term that means flamboyantly gay, similar to when one might use the term "flaming"
Friday, February 26, 2010
secrets secrets
Recently, instead of being studious, I have began watching tv.
Yes, I know. I still hold the theory that television rots your soul and numbs your brain.
But this isn't just any television.
It's
(wait for it)
DUN DA DUNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN
DOCTOR QUINN, MEDICINE WOMAN!!!!!!!!!!!
I even have this little song I sing before hitting play and pushing off homework for another episode. It goes like this: Docta Quinn, Medicine Woman. Docta Quinn
I kind of love it.
My friend Mimi, who got me into it, told me that she is reasonably sure that her image of the ideal male was partially formed through watching Dr Quinn as a kid. I can TOTALLY see where she's coming from on that one
That got me to thinking
So, off the top of my head, I would say my image of the ideal mate was formed (in part) by the following fictional characters:
Gilbert Blythe (Anne of Greene Gables)
Mr. Darcy (Pride and Predjudice... and no, I haven't the foggiest idea why)
Jim Halpert (the Office... so?)
Arnold (hey Arnold)
The Cookie Monster (I like his passion)
So what I want to know is, what characters developed your idea of the ideal mate? GO
ps- today's forecast: Rather cloudy with rain, sleet and snow at times.
update: Dr. Quinn gets boring around the middle of the second season. I stopped watching. Also, I have no idea how I forgot Sir Peter Whimsy from the list, as I am and will always be madly in love with him.
Yes, I know. I still hold the theory that television rots your soul and numbs your brain.
But this isn't just any television.
It's
(wait for it)
DUN DA DUNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN
DOCTOR QUINN, MEDICINE WOMAN!!!!!!!!!!!
I even have this little song I sing before hitting play and pushing off homework for another episode. It goes like this: Docta Quinn, Medicine Woman. Docta Quinn
I kind of love it.
My friend Mimi, who got me into it, told me that she is reasonably sure that her image of the ideal male was partially formed through watching Dr Quinn as a kid. I can TOTALLY see where she's coming from on that one
That got me to thinking
So, off the top of my head, I would say my image of the ideal mate was formed (in part) by the following fictional characters:
Gilbert Blythe (Anne of Greene Gables)
Mr. Darcy (Pride and Predjudice... and no, I haven't the foggiest idea why)
Jim Halpert (the Office... so?)
Arnold (hey Arnold)
The Cookie Monster (I like his passion)
So what I want to know is, what characters developed your idea of the ideal mate? GO
ps- today's forecast: Rather cloudy with rain, sleet and snow at times.
update: Dr. Quinn gets boring around the middle of the second season. I stopped watching. Also, I have no idea how I forgot Sir Peter Whimsy from the list, as I am and will always be madly in love with him.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
weather and pancakes
so one of my new hobbies (besides counting how many people in class look at my hot law professor's butt when he turns around) is to look up the weather, because in addition to giving the normal hour by hour forecast of temperature, precipitation and cloud cover, there is a phrase written at the top describing the weather and it always seems to stereotypically british.
today's forecast:
Generally fine but frosty with some fog reluctant to clear
about a week ago:
Dry with some bright spells developing
speaking of things adorably stereotypical, last weekend one of my classmates asked what I was going to do for pancake day.
Pancake day, I asked, what's that?
So he began describing it to me, every year people invite friends and family over and make pancakes together.
He said it was the coming tuesday.
Tuesday? that's Mardi Gras.
Oh yeah, I've heard about Mardi Gras, something to do with New Orleans, right? What is it exactly, he asked me
Oh you read that correctly.
Mardi Gras.... is Pancake Day
that's right my friends, while the americans celebrate a religiously rooted holiday that is traditionally filled with all manner debauchery, the British celebrate by making pancakes. secular pancakes.
hahahahahhahahaha, oh, my cute little understated brittypes.
I bought a crepe on tuesday after my snowboarding lessons, thereby joining in the festivities.
today's forecast:
Generally fine but frosty with some fog reluctant to clear
about a week ago:
Dry with some bright spells developing
speaking of things adorably stereotypical, last weekend one of my classmates asked what I was going to do for pancake day.
Pancake day, I asked, what's that?
So he began describing it to me, every year people invite friends and family over and make pancakes together.
He said it was the coming tuesday.
Tuesday? that's Mardi Gras.
Oh yeah, I've heard about Mardi Gras, something to do with New Orleans, right? What is it exactly, he asked me
Oh you read that correctly.
Mardi Gras.... is Pancake Day
that's right my friends, while the americans celebrate a religiously rooted holiday that is traditionally filled with all manner debauchery, the British celebrate by making pancakes. secular pancakes.
hahahahahhahahaha, oh, my cute little understated brittypes.
I bought a crepe on tuesday after my snowboarding lessons, thereby joining in the festivities.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
gazers
So this is one reason I love Glasgow:
In most cities people ignore each other. They go along their way. “Live and let live” which really means “I don’t actually care about you.” In Glasgow, they very much like to pretend they are city types, but they aren’t. For one thing, if you ask a Glaswegian for directions, nine times out of ten they will actually walk you to where you want to go just to make sure you get there.
But here’s what happened yesterday;
I was walking through the park and passed a man holding a huge branch. Probably 8 feet long, 1.5 inches in diameter. He was holding it over the edge of the bridge (it’s a pretty big bridge, probably 20 feet high or so) above a fairly torrential river, yelling down into the waters.
Are you ready?
Are you ready?
He asked.
Alright, then.
And he threw the branch off the bridge. Naturally I tried to subtly look over the edge of the bridge. There were two dogs there, swimming in the rushing current towards the branch. That in and of itself was pretty funny and cute and not city like. What was better was when I looked back, there were probably 5 people who had run to the edge of the bridge and leaning over the edge to watch the dogs grab the branch. Not even a little attempt at subtlety.
Brilliant.
In most cities people ignore each other. They go along their way. “Live and let live” which really means “I don’t actually care about you.” In Glasgow, they very much like to pretend they are city types, but they aren’t. For one thing, if you ask a Glaswegian for directions, nine times out of ten they will actually walk you to where you want to go just to make sure you get there.
But here’s what happened yesterday;
I was walking through the park and passed a man holding a huge branch. Probably 8 feet long, 1.5 inches in diameter. He was holding it over the edge of the bridge (it’s a pretty big bridge, probably 20 feet high or so) above a fairly torrential river, yelling down into the waters.
Are you ready?
Are you ready?
He asked.
Alright, then.
And he threw the branch off the bridge. Naturally I tried to subtly look over the edge of the bridge. There were two dogs there, swimming in the rushing current towards the branch. That in and of itself was pretty funny and cute and not city like. What was better was when I looked back, there were probably 5 people who had run to the edge of the bridge and leaning over the edge to watch the dogs grab the branch. Not even a little attempt at subtlety.
Brilliant.
belly button lent
I sort of like the idea of Lent. It’s like a New Year’s Resolutions lite. Less commitment, because I mean, it's only forty days what WHAT.
Anyway, I’ve decided to give up cynicism for Lent. I’ve been thinking about cynicism a lot lately. I feel like cynics, or those who “more mildly” engage in acts of cynicism, seem to think they are right simply on the basis that they are jaded. And I’ve decided it’s lame. I don’t know what it is that makes us certain that looking at everything in the worst possible light makes us right. It’s such a cop out. For some reason, it’s so easy to argue. I think maybe because it assumes a black and white world, a world where things are either all good or all bad and because there is clearly some bad in the world there must be nothing else. What bothers me is not the acknowledgment of evil, it’s the blatant manipulation of beauty and willful degradation of good to make them evil as well. And that really bothers me, it pisses me off. How dare we? How dare we take the things that are beautiful and good in the world and declare them spoiled? Because there are some good and perfect things in the world. Things like love, and laughter, and connecting. Things like shadow and light and mountains. Things like the sea. Things like holding hands and creating and breathing. Things like people when they are human. Things like caring when they are not. These things, these and many more things, are good. Even though sometimes they are not. And yet my cynical side is pointing to me that hurricanes come from the sea and destroy lives and people are capable of great evil. And somehow, the fact that they are (sometimes, and exceptionally) forces for bad seems to instantly degrade that those times are the anomaly, they are the exception, and that most of the time, most of the world is filled with very very beautiful things. Beautiful things that exist in the midst of the most horrific ugly. But for some reason we find it easier to ignore them rather than accept that good and bad mix together, that they can coexist, that they same thing can be both good and bad.
But I wonder about it. I wonder when or why we decided that any bad discounts all good? Why is it like that? Do we really believe that bad is stronger than good? Do we really believe that the existence of evil, no matter how rare, undermines the validity of all the rampant good in the world? It’s weird. And it’s wrong. I would even go so far to say that it’s mildly offensive to a God who claims to be source of every good and perfect thing in the world. And I think it’s a cop out. I think it’s taking the easy way out. It seems to make sense. Society seems to accept jaded answers as valid arguments. I submit that it is not a valid argument. It is the cowardly and lazy view of the world. Because I think that beautiful things take a lot of courage to stand up for, to believe in. Not because they are not there, but because they themselves are acts of courage. And they take pointing out when you live in a society which refuses to acknowledge them.
OKOKOKOKOKOKOKOK so that’s my rant on cynicism, and all that to say that I made a little Lent promise to notice good things, and funny things, in my life. To point them out. And I want to share them. So for the next 40 days I am going to try to notice and write down something funny or good that happened every day. And I’m going to mostly put them here so you can enjoy them too.
I’m doing this for me
But also, for you.
But mostly for me.
Anyway, you may point out that I am already a day late, well that’s because I didn’t know whether to post this or just put up the funny things. I couldn’t decide. I may end up deleting it.
also, for your voyeuristic pleasure, an excerpt from a gmail chat conversation I had with Kimi about death (sorry kimi for not asking permissions.)
me: also, if I am ever murdered, I want you to know that I am against the death penalty and I want all my family and friends to try to practice forgiveness and love
to make the world a better place and honor my memory
Kimberly: ow i just got a paper cut trying to get a cracker
me: also, I want you to wear a shirt with my face on it at all times
or just iron my likeness on all your clothes preferably with little tiny figurines of me as all zippers and models of my face as all the buttons of your clothes
Kimberly: and i will have ones for different days with different expressions
me: right, and consult me outloud when making mundane decisions like, what to order at the restaurant or what socks to wear and if someone asks why tell them I was a micromanaging bitch and I would have wanted it that way. then, under your breath, whisper "irony"
tl;dr version: I’m going to write many short posts in the next few days.
Anyway, I’ve decided to give up cynicism for Lent. I’ve been thinking about cynicism a lot lately. I feel like cynics, or those who “more mildly” engage in acts of cynicism, seem to think they are right simply on the basis that they are jaded. And I’ve decided it’s lame. I don’t know what it is that makes us certain that looking at everything in the worst possible light makes us right. It’s such a cop out. For some reason, it’s so easy to argue. I think maybe because it assumes a black and white world, a world where things are either all good or all bad and because there is clearly some bad in the world there must be nothing else. What bothers me is not the acknowledgment of evil, it’s the blatant manipulation of beauty and willful degradation of good to make them evil as well. And that really bothers me, it pisses me off. How dare we? How dare we take the things that are beautiful and good in the world and declare them spoiled? Because there are some good and perfect things in the world. Things like love, and laughter, and connecting. Things like shadow and light and mountains. Things like the sea. Things like holding hands and creating and breathing. Things like people when they are human. Things like caring when they are not. These things, these and many more things, are good. Even though sometimes they are not. And yet my cynical side is pointing to me that hurricanes come from the sea and destroy lives and people are capable of great evil. And somehow, the fact that they are (sometimes, and exceptionally) forces for bad seems to instantly degrade that those times are the anomaly, they are the exception, and that most of the time, most of the world is filled with very very beautiful things. Beautiful things that exist in the midst of the most horrific ugly. But for some reason we find it easier to ignore them rather than accept that good and bad mix together, that they can coexist, that they same thing can be both good and bad.
But I wonder about it. I wonder when or why we decided that any bad discounts all good? Why is it like that? Do we really believe that bad is stronger than good? Do we really believe that the existence of evil, no matter how rare, undermines the validity of all the rampant good in the world? It’s weird. And it’s wrong. I would even go so far to say that it’s mildly offensive to a God who claims to be source of every good and perfect thing in the world. And I think it’s a cop out. I think it’s taking the easy way out. It seems to make sense. Society seems to accept jaded answers as valid arguments. I submit that it is not a valid argument. It is the cowardly and lazy view of the world. Because I think that beautiful things take a lot of courage to stand up for, to believe in. Not because they are not there, but because they themselves are acts of courage. And they take pointing out when you live in a society which refuses to acknowledge them.
OKOKOKOKOKOKOKOK so that’s my rant on cynicism, and all that to say that I made a little Lent promise to notice good things, and funny things, in my life. To point them out. And I want to share them. So for the next 40 days I am going to try to notice and write down something funny or good that happened every day. And I’m going to mostly put them here so you can enjoy them too.
I’m doing this for me
But also, for you.
But mostly for me.
Anyway, you may point out that I am already a day late, well that’s because I didn’t know whether to post this or just put up the funny things. I couldn’t decide. I may end up deleting it.
also, for your voyeuristic pleasure, an excerpt from a gmail chat conversation I had with Kimi about death (sorry kimi for not asking permissions.)
me: also, if I am ever murdered, I want you to know that I am against the death penalty and I want all my family and friends to try to practice forgiveness and love
to make the world a better place and honor my memory
Kimberly: ow i just got a paper cut trying to get a cracker
me: also, I want you to wear a shirt with my face on it at all times
or just iron my likeness on all your clothes preferably with little tiny figurines of me as all zippers and models of my face as all the buttons of your clothes
Kimberly: and i will have ones for different days with different expressions
me: right, and consult me outloud when making mundane decisions like, what to order at the restaurant or what socks to wear and if someone asks why tell them I was a micromanaging bitch and I would have wanted it that way. then, under your breath, whisper "irony"
tl;dr version: I’m going to write many short posts in the next few days.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Mallaig
There is, along the east coast of Scotland, a little town called Mallaig. During the summer it is a tourist town. Over run with people taking day trips to the Isle of Skye. Tourists that the locals both avoid and make their living on. During the winter, however, it is a fishing town. One where everyone knows everyone else. One where all the hotels are closed but one. There are boats in the harbor. People with knit caps. People standing in the middle of empty streets talking. And if you walk into a pub, the locals will come up and flirt. They will put money in the juke box and ask you to sing and dance with them. And at that pub, you will stuff yourself into a coma on something called "fish pie," a dish consisting of salmon and haddock in a creamy sauce over mashed potatoes. I am convinced it has the capacity melt the hardest heart.
these are pictures from mallaig.
these are pictures from mallaig.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
rainbows chasing
Another saturday walk.
This time, not alone.
I began the day, as I do most days, with waking up. The day started less than ideally since I somehow managed to rip the handle off of my washer/dryer, effectively locking all my pants inside. Then my friends called and said that they had decided to meet at the train station instead of my flat, rendering my frantic cleaning useless (but not the awesome playlist I made).
So I stopped cleaning and watched parts of dear reader until I realized I was going to be late for the train and had to book it to the station. I ran into a small child. He was in my way. If I had looked back, I would know for sure if it was him who was left crying on the ground in my wake. As it is I think it’s safe to assume that he was fine and happy and didn’t even notice.
I made it to the train.
I sat as it moved.
Our talk was small
About things like the English language, and PDA, and the over-sexualization of perfectly good words like “penetrate” that make it difficult to write papers in politics.
But then- when the train stopped- then we began the walk.
At first we took a path which was so muddy and soggy that less than a quarter mile in, we decided to turn around and take the pebbled path.
We walked.
We talked some, but mostly we tried to hide how hard we were breathing from each other, and stopped to take pictures instead of rest breaks.
It’s after that, after the picnic on tree roots overlooking the river below, after the discussions on if it were possible to pee on the birds below us (“Hey look. Those are birds,” Mimi said, “they are below us”) After Mimi and I explained what senior pictures were to our European counterparts, after the batteries in my camera died and Mimi and Nora went back so they could get home in time to work on their projects. After all that, Charlotte and I kept walking, and we saw things. Really great things. I also got very, very wet and cold in the shoes. Charlotte’s boots were waterproof
We were walking, and I was unsuccessfully trying to show her that in order to get the sheep to stay still while you walked towards them you had to send out good vibes. Sheep know about these things. She insisted that it probably isn’t possible to consciously send out good vibes, and she may have been right because they sheep just kept tossing me dirty looks and jogging away. Stupid sheep. Have I mentioned that large numbers of Scottish sheep freak me out? Walk into a group of sheep. One of them is looking at you at all times. And there’s no way to tell what’s going on behind those beady eyes.
Despite my growing fear of sheep, I really love sheep.
(It’s ironic, I know)
You know how sometimes you have in your mind exactly how you picture a place? Exactly how it ought to be?
Today, in Scotland, it was rainy. Patchy clouds of every shade of gray littered the sky. In the valley and along the river was a thick white fog. The green was almost blinding. It was so wet that stepping down hard on any piece of ground brought out water, like squeezing a sponge. Then, as we walked around the hill and looked out over the lake, Charlotte stopped me.
Listen, she said.
There is nothing.
You cannot hear anything
(except a quiet wind. )
I thought it was perfect
And it was
And then,
it got better.
We got to a section so wet and so wide that we couldn’t walk through it or jump over it. I imagine that watery bog of a swampy mess is what crocodiles would thrive in if it weren’t frozen on top. At least I hope. Because, ohmygosh, if crocodiles could survive in frozen climates and wreak terror on Scotland with their dinosaur like vengeance…. What would happen? What hope would we have? HUGE FREEZE PROOF CROCODILES OF SCOTLAND. Brrrr. Makes me squirm just thinking about it… with excitement. I bet I could take one. It’s in my blood. We have alligator wrestlers in my family. I bet it’s a quality the entire genetic line shares. Yeah, I could survive and be queen of the freeze proof crocodiles, a kind but firm ruler. You guys, on the other hand. Pretty sure you’re screwed. Tough luck there
A mildly related side note: We were at a pub quiz the other day and started talking to some Brits. It came to the joke round, during which you put a joke on the back of that round’s answer sheet and they are read aloud and voted on. The team that gets voted to have the winning joke gets ridiculous prizes, like a miley cirus poster and some rubber bands or something. ANYWAYYYYYYYYY, we were talking and I said something to the effect of “Wouldn’t it be funny if instead of a joke we put a fact, like: Why are bubbles round? Answer: Because it is the most energy efficient form as pressure is distributed evenly across the surface. Or: What’s the difference between a crocodile and an alligator? Answer: They’re different species and live in different parts of the world, and I’m not sure but I think crocodiles get bigger and has teeth on the outside… maybe something to do with salt water… I can’t remember.” Which I think would have been a good joke to have read aloud. The brit boys looked at me.
“Is that true? Are they really different?”
A conversation ensued about how much scarier allidiles (alligator + crocodile… come on, do I have to explain everything to you? gosh.) are than sharks and how we would rather be stuck in a shark hole than an crocogator (figure it out.) hole because they seem to live in murkier water and can RUN after you if you make it to land and plus they’re meaner and don’t have that thing where you can just bop them in the nose and they’ll swim away like the little wimps they are (sharks, that is)
(dear sharks, I was just kidding, don’t eat me, please. Please. Really, it was just a joke. Can’t you take a joke? Do you even know what one is? No. NO! I wasn’t insulting your intelligence… sir… ma’am? Oh come on how is it my fault that I can’t tell? No, you don’t all look alike. In conclusion, please don’t eat me. Yes, sharks are just as fierce as crocodiles… and alligators.)
(no they aren’t)
“Yeah,” I said “But I think it’s both crocodiles and alligators that have really strong jaw shutting muscles, but really weak jaw opening muscles so you can hold their mouths shut with one hand. Also, they can’t turn quickly, but they can run fast straight and so if you are being chased you should zigzag a lot.”
The British boys thought this was amazing. Apparently the nature shows are lacking across the ocean.
“So you can run in a circle, backwards, just flicking it off and taunting it and it can’t catch you? Brilliant!”
“Maybe you should carry a rubber band with you, so you can just turn around and wrap it around its mouth real quick and run away and it will be stuck”
“Yeah, or replace it’s toothpaste with glue!”
At this point the one turned to the other with a look of complete disgust.
“You’re such an idiot, it’s a crocodile. I’m sure they can tell the difference between the taste of glue and toothpaste.”
OK BACK TO THE STORY
Soooooooooo… FREEZE PROOF CROCODILE-ALLIGATOR HYBRIDS (yes, lots of yelling and abuse this time around. DEAL WITH IT YOU PANSIES)
So we’re getting our feet thoroughly soaked by the deceptively solid looking ground which tries to suck us down into its boggy depths… or get our feet wet. And we see a shepherd and his dogs herding all his sheep. Over bridges, around corners, and right past us. At first we thought he was yelling at us to “get over there” and “see if you can catch that one.” (Which I almost tried with my good vibes technique). Turns out, he was chatting with his dogs. And his dogs listened. At the risk of sounding cheesy, it was really cool. I thought.
Onward!
We got to a point where we were a bit tired and cold and, as luck would have it, we could see a huge, dark storm cloud of sleet and freezing rain was coming in, offering the perfect excuse to head back without seeming like a wimp. But then we saw the prettiest, tiniest rainbow at the edge of the storm front. We decided to climb the little hill to our side and see it better. As we watched, the rainbow grew. It grew and stretched and stretched and grew until it was all the way across to the other side of the ground. A perfect, full rainbow. I have never seen a rainbow so beautiful in my life. Charlotte and I stood completely silent, staring awestruck as we watched it, hypnotized until the wind blew the sleet into our faces. We turned and started walking. Very quickly. And the rainbow followed us. It was catching up, we didn’t mind. We kept walking, trying to avoid being stuck in freezing weather, miles away from civilization, and soaking wet. But that rainbow. Naturally both our cameras were out of batteries, so there is no proof but the image just burned into my head. The green and shiny fields, the steep and rocky hills, the lake, the textured sky, the dark storm clouds and, most of all, that bright, bright rainbow. God, that rainbow. We kept stopping to turn and look at it. It was mesmerizing. At one point, and I am not exaggerating, the end was maybe 100m from us. If it weren’t across the bog, I could have walked over and touched it. We could see where it hit the ground, and then, much further away, where the other side hit the ground. I’d never been attacked by a rainbow before, but this one seemed intent on catching us and giving us hypothermia. It kept following us with that sheet of rain, both astounding and threatening. Eventually it was over top of the frozen lake, and we could see it dive into the lake and light up the water underneath it with color, sort of like in Fantasia where they little goats and unicorns jump into the rainbow puddles and it splashes the colors and there is that really adorable little Pegasus that is learning to fly and it's so cute I just want to cuddle it and play in the rainbows coochie coochie yes, who's a cutie? who's a… oh... yeah… I mean *cough* it was alright.
Of course, it had to end, and did so right when people came around the hillside, except for the little side rainbow. Although, for about thirty seconds, when the hills were empty again, it reappeared in full and then vanished completely as the rain clouds turned and headed east. Amazing.
Little final pieces of interest:
Further down the mountain, the fog had rolled in and at one point when we looked away from the hill, we could see nothing but white and then a strip from the sun onto where it hit on the river. It was incredible. I’ve never seen anything like it. It looked so… weird. So painting like. Later, the sun was so covered it looked like the moon, and the reflection on the water was so bright you couldn’t look at it. It looked like we were on another planet, one with two suns directly above each other. So weird, so great, but also such an inopportune time for a lack of camera. Also, in hindsight I think maybe the rainbow wasn’t so much attacking as trying to play tag.
tl;dr version: I was chased down by a rainbow. I have reason to believe it had harmful intentions.
This time, not alone.
I began the day, as I do most days, with waking up. The day started less than ideally since I somehow managed to rip the handle off of my washer/dryer, effectively locking all my pants inside. Then my friends called and said that they had decided to meet at the train station instead of my flat, rendering my frantic cleaning useless (but not the awesome playlist I made).
So I stopped cleaning and watched parts of dear reader until I realized I was going to be late for the train and had to book it to the station. I ran into a small child. He was in my way. If I had looked back, I would know for sure if it was him who was left crying on the ground in my wake. As it is I think it’s safe to assume that he was fine and happy and didn’t even notice.
I made it to the train.
I sat as it moved.
Our talk was small
About things like the English language, and PDA, and the over-sexualization of perfectly good words like “penetrate” that make it difficult to write papers in politics.
But then- when the train stopped- then we began the walk.
At first we took a path which was so muddy and soggy that less than a quarter mile in, we decided to turn around and take the pebbled path.
We walked.
We talked some, but mostly we tried to hide how hard we were breathing from each other, and stopped to take pictures instead of rest breaks.
It’s after that, after the picnic on tree roots overlooking the river below, after the discussions on if it were possible to pee on the birds below us (“Hey look. Those are birds,” Mimi said, “they are below us”) After Mimi and I explained what senior pictures were to our European counterparts, after the batteries in my camera died and Mimi and Nora went back so they could get home in time to work on their projects. After all that, Charlotte and I kept walking, and we saw things. Really great things. I also got very, very wet and cold in the shoes. Charlotte’s boots were waterproof
We were walking, and I was unsuccessfully trying to show her that in order to get the sheep to stay still while you walked towards them you had to send out good vibes. Sheep know about these things. She insisted that it probably isn’t possible to consciously send out good vibes, and she may have been right because they sheep just kept tossing me dirty looks and jogging away. Stupid sheep. Have I mentioned that large numbers of Scottish sheep freak me out? Walk into a group of sheep. One of them is looking at you at all times. And there’s no way to tell what’s going on behind those beady eyes.
Despite my growing fear of sheep, I really love sheep.
(It’s ironic, I know)
You know how sometimes you have in your mind exactly how you picture a place? Exactly how it ought to be?
Today, in Scotland, it was rainy. Patchy clouds of every shade of gray littered the sky. In the valley and along the river was a thick white fog. The green was almost blinding. It was so wet that stepping down hard on any piece of ground brought out water, like squeezing a sponge. Then, as we walked around the hill and looked out over the lake, Charlotte stopped me.
Listen, she said.
There is nothing.
You cannot hear anything
(except a quiet wind. )
I thought it was perfect
And it was
And then,
it got better.
We got to a section so wet and so wide that we couldn’t walk through it or jump over it. I imagine that watery bog of a swampy mess is what crocodiles would thrive in if it weren’t frozen on top. At least I hope. Because, ohmygosh, if crocodiles could survive in frozen climates and wreak terror on Scotland with their dinosaur like vengeance…. What would happen? What hope would we have? HUGE FREEZE PROOF CROCODILES OF SCOTLAND. Brrrr. Makes me squirm just thinking about it… with excitement. I bet I could take one. It’s in my blood. We have alligator wrestlers in my family. I bet it’s a quality the entire genetic line shares. Yeah, I could survive and be queen of the freeze proof crocodiles, a kind but firm ruler. You guys, on the other hand. Pretty sure you’re screwed. Tough luck there
A mildly related side note: We were at a pub quiz the other day and started talking to some Brits. It came to the joke round, during which you put a joke on the back of that round’s answer sheet and they are read aloud and voted on. The team that gets voted to have the winning joke gets ridiculous prizes, like a miley cirus poster and some rubber bands or something. ANYWAYYYYYYYYY, we were talking and I said something to the effect of “Wouldn’t it be funny if instead of a joke we put a fact, like: Why are bubbles round? Answer: Because it is the most energy efficient form as pressure is distributed evenly across the surface. Or: What’s the difference between a crocodile and an alligator? Answer: They’re different species and live in different parts of the world, and I’m not sure but I think crocodiles get bigger and has teeth on the outside… maybe something to do with salt water… I can’t remember.” Which I think would have been a good joke to have read aloud. The brit boys looked at me.
“Is that true? Are they really different?”
A conversation ensued about how much scarier allidiles (alligator + crocodile… come on, do I have to explain everything to you? gosh.) are than sharks and how we would rather be stuck in a shark hole than an crocogator (figure it out.) hole because they seem to live in murkier water and can RUN after you if you make it to land and plus they’re meaner and don’t have that thing where you can just bop them in the nose and they’ll swim away like the little wimps they are (sharks, that is)
(dear sharks, I was just kidding, don’t eat me, please. Please. Really, it was just a joke. Can’t you take a joke? Do you even know what one is? No. NO! I wasn’t insulting your intelligence… sir… ma’am? Oh come on how is it my fault that I can’t tell? No, you don’t all look alike. In conclusion, please don’t eat me. Yes, sharks are just as fierce as crocodiles… and alligators.)
(no they aren’t)
“Yeah,” I said “But I think it’s both crocodiles and alligators that have really strong jaw shutting muscles, but really weak jaw opening muscles so you can hold their mouths shut with one hand. Also, they can’t turn quickly, but they can run fast straight and so if you are being chased you should zigzag a lot.”
The British boys thought this was amazing. Apparently the nature shows are lacking across the ocean.
“So you can run in a circle, backwards, just flicking it off and taunting it and it can’t catch you? Brilliant!”
“Maybe you should carry a rubber band with you, so you can just turn around and wrap it around its mouth real quick and run away and it will be stuck”
“Yeah, or replace it’s toothpaste with glue!”
At this point the one turned to the other with a look of complete disgust.
“You’re such an idiot, it’s a crocodile. I’m sure they can tell the difference between the taste of glue and toothpaste.”
OK BACK TO THE STORY
Soooooooooo… FREEZE PROOF CROCODILE-ALLIGATOR HYBRIDS (yes, lots of yelling and abuse this time around. DEAL WITH IT YOU PANSIES)
So we’re getting our feet thoroughly soaked by the deceptively solid looking ground which tries to suck us down into its boggy depths… or get our feet wet. And we see a shepherd and his dogs herding all his sheep. Over bridges, around corners, and right past us. At first we thought he was yelling at us to “get over there” and “see if you can catch that one.” (Which I almost tried with my good vibes technique). Turns out, he was chatting with his dogs. And his dogs listened. At the risk of sounding cheesy, it was really cool. I thought.
Onward!
We got to a point where we were a bit tired and cold and, as luck would have it, we could see a huge, dark storm cloud of sleet and freezing rain was coming in, offering the perfect excuse to head back without seeming like a wimp. But then we saw the prettiest, tiniest rainbow at the edge of the storm front. We decided to climb the little hill to our side and see it better. As we watched, the rainbow grew. It grew and stretched and stretched and grew until it was all the way across to the other side of the ground. A perfect, full rainbow. I have never seen a rainbow so beautiful in my life. Charlotte and I stood completely silent, staring awestruck as we watched it, hypnotized until the wind blew the sleet into our faces. We turned and started walking. Very quickly. And the rainbow followed us. It was catching up, we didn’t mind. We kept walking, trying to avoid being stuck in freezing weather, miles away from civilization, and soaking wet. But that rainbow. Naturally both our cameras were out of batteries, so there is no proof but the image just burned into my head. The green and shiny fields, the steep and rocky hills, the lake, the textured sky, the dark storm clouds and, most of all, that bright, bright rainbow. God, that rainbow. We kept stopping to turn and look at it. It was mesmerizing. At one point, and I am not exaggerating, the end was maybe 100m from us. If it weren’t across the bog, I could have walked over and touched it. We could see where it hit the ground, and then, much further away, where the other side hit the ground. I’d never been attacked by a rainbow before, but this one seemed intent on catching us and giving us hypothermia. It kept following us with that sheet of rain, both astounding and threatening. Eventually it was over top of the frozen lake, and we could see it dive into the lake and light up the water underneath it with color, sort of like in Fantasia where they little goats and unicorns jump into the rainbow puddles and it splashes the colors and there is that really adorable little Pegasus that is learning to fly and it's so cute I just want to cuddle it and play in the rainbows coochie coochie yes, who's a cutie? who's a… oh... yeah… I mean *cough* it was alright.
Of course, it had to end, and did so right when people came around the hillside, except for the little side rainbow. Although, for about thirty seconds, when the hills were empty again, it reappeared in full and then vanished completely as the rain clouds turned and headed east. Amazing.
Little final pieces of interest:
Further down the mountain, the fog had rolled in and at one point when we looked away from the hill, we could see nothing but white and then a strip from the sun onto where it hit on the river. It was incredible. I’ve never seen anything like it. It looked so… weird. So painting like. Later, the sun was so covered it looked like the moon, and the reflection on the water was so bright you couldn’t look at it. It looked like we were on another planet, one with two suns directly above each other. So weird, so great, but also such an inopportune time for a lack of camera. Also, in hindsight I think maybe the rainbow wasn’t so much attacking as trying to play tag.
tl;dr version: I was chased down by a rainbow. I have reason to believe it had harmful intentions.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
look what I can do.
In case you can't read the title, it's a graph of the likelihood I am doing various activities when I should be doing homework versus how much fun they seem at the time. You can also click for a larger view.
And if you're wondering, I spent about 20 minutes making it, then a good hour redoing it until all the lines were straight, everything was included and apocalypse was spelled correctly.
tl; dr version: I'll joining procrastinators anonymous eventually
Monday, January 4, 2010
a bit of confusion.
An unrelated photo:
now the story:
An actual conversation I had today
(as a result of shoe-betrayal and the blistered mayhem which resulted):
there was a shop, and a counter. Behind the counter were various things of a medical nature. There was also a shop boy, and there was me.
me: Hello, do you have any bandaids?
shop boy: any what?
me: bandages?
shop boy: um... what?
me: plasters
shop boy: Plasters! Yeah, right here.
now the story:
An actual conversation I had today
(as a result of shoe-betrayal and the blistered mayhem which resulted):
there was a shop, and a counter. Behind the counter were various things of a medical nature. There was also a shop boy, and there was me.
me: Hello, do you have any bandaids?
shop boy: any what?
me: bandages?
shop boy: um... what?
me: plasters
shop boy: Plasters! Yeah, right here.
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