getting lost?

So it’s been a while.
And a thousand starts have come into my head, flitting through, because I want to do this again (I do) but at the same time I worry all these things. Like, what if I’m just boring? Or what if I suck at writing? What if I have nothing to say? What if I type so fast that my hands catch on fire and then after that my computer catches on fire and I lose all my pictures and papers and then my university calls and is like “uh.. we had a tragic and strange mishap, we need to see all your papers again or we’re going to revoke your degree.” And I’m like “I can’t I was blogging and my hands caught on fire and I lost all my stuff and all my backups got eaten by a wildebeest” and they are like “You blog? Minus 10 points for Gryffindor.” Or whatever they say to let you know that they think you are a nerd and also that you are about to lose something you value. Except by something, I mean pretty much everything. Because then I lose my degree and therefore my job and also because I lost my pictures and music nobody remembers they are friends with me and I have nothing to comfort me as I go slowly crazy and end up alone until I am befriended by a kind but smelly wall named Mike until they put up a NO LOITERING sign and then I’m really all alone in the world.

Well here I am, months later, trying again because I think this new job will provide the opportunity for many amusing stories. As for catching up, suffice to say, after leaving the glory of the twenty third year of my existence, I hit a rough patch. It was one of those times where my weaknesses followed me around wherever I went. Creepy crawly ones would climb in places and I would have to turn over my shoes and knock them out before putting them on. Large, heavy ones would sit in my chair and laugh as I would grunt and heave them out of the way so I could sit down. Small, impish ones carved little thrones for themselves out of the erasers in my pencils where they would sit leaning wildly left and right and would compose operas which they would sing for me all day long at the very top of their tiny voices that were so clever that I found myself listening to them. Soft, furry ones would replace my pillows with themselves and whisper to me in my sleep. Every surface, every room, every silence. There. Mustached and tweed hatted, they opened the doors for me until I found myself thanking them. Thank you. Thank you being here. Thank you for reminding me of my faults. Thank you. And then, as I walked away, they would tsk “look at her, thanking us. So insecure, that one. Never used to be like that. What happened? Doesn’t appreciate what she has. No sir.” And in this state of mind I moved to one of the only cities I never wanted to live. Columbus.

There was a moment, a day, when my friend Tommy almost had me that Columbus was a decent city by showing me a fantastic time. In the words of the immortal Sam DeLong, sometimes it’s difficult to distinguish between a place you like and people you liked and times you enjoyed. Guess what, Tommy? My first week in Columbus defeated even your awesome day.

(side note: having to compare itself to Scotland may have helped)

The first week of working in Columbus I got lost every single day. Every. Single. Day. Mostly the kind of lost where I knew where I was and where I wanted to be but I would go around in circles because the on and off ramps aren’t intuitive (like you can’t get right back on where you got off)… and also because I had already turned into the Incredible Hulk. Now, I like to think that, in general, I’m not a super uptight person. Getting lost is one of the things that grates on my every nerve and causes me to scream cuss words and bite chunks out of the steering wheel and spit them at passing drivers. I remember one time when I had my temporary permit. We were lost, I think in Kansas City, at night, and I was doing something wrong so my mother (whose Achilles heel was definitively teaching children, particularly me, to drive) was yelling and grabbing the steering wheel. My younger brother, who at this moment was as punk ass a thirteen year old as ever existed, was in the back making gross accusations about my total incompetence as a human in general based on the fact that we were not where we were meant to be yet. I don’t know where my dad was at this point. What I do remember is what happened next. Right then, right when I am on the very brink of hyperventilating and mental collapse. My sister, sitting directly behind me, started giggling. And then, she started tapping my head. For no reason other than to join in the fun. And that’s how she lost her finger.

Do I begrudge them? No. They are hilarious, and probably the reason I can say that I'm not super uptight. They tapped it out of me. At the time, it was traumatic.

However when I get lost while driving, my subconscious, I think, takes me back to this moment and I just start raging. Which is why all the one way streets in Columbus make my eyes turn red and my foot turns to lead and I forget the whole “middle of the lane” principle and hit every mailbox. To clarify, I don’t find one way streets confusing, merely frustrating, since at this point I'm usually at a state of anger where I've eaten the directions I printed out earlier that day by way of punishment to them.

Now of course things are a little easier. I can get to work and home and I know that I live west of the city but work east of it and that the Hilltop (where I live) and Franklinton are separate places. I like my job, and I’m good at it. I want to stay creative and positive, and if I were to venture a guess it’s not the big things that I think are going to wear me down. I think it’s slowly raising my voice more and more until I become a person that yells. I don’t want to be a person that yells. I have opinions about yelling at kids, you know? And I think it’s those things, the things where you slack off on the things that are actually important (loving people) in lieu of the things that feel important (programming).

So yeah. I guess in the end, it’s all about priorities. Meaning that I really want to get a good set of friends here, because I miss Scotland, just like I once missed Ohio, but someone really awesome and smart once told me that it’s difficult to distinguish between a place you like and people you liked and times you enjoyed. Last Saturday I had some fabulous people come up and regale me with their words and smiles and it reminded me of this good truth in the best way. And I think if I can borrow more words, that I can get by with a little help from my friends. Or, if you prefer: I am going to make it through this year if it kills me.


tl;dr version: references to me turning into the Incredible Hulk when I get lost. what should contain an apology for being a pity party of one the past few months.

Why it's been so long.

as excerpted from an instant message conversation with the lovely lauren

Lauren: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MojZ6Ew0Vas&feature=related
song im listening to on repeat :)
brad loves me right now
also i love the commercial

me: hahaha, I sort of do, but it also sort of creeps me out. I'm in the middle of trying to write a blog post and I'm surprised at how scary it is

Lauren: lol i just picture myself as a baby and having that kind of adventure

me: I didn't realize how worried I am that I can't write anymore

Lauren: eh i can imagine. why is writing so scary

me: since the headaches DUN DUN DUNNNNNNNNNNNN

Lauren: i hate that i feel that way too
lol or just the time has passed
i feel that same way
i avoid it

me: I'm trying, but it's hard when I can't remember why I think I should

Lauren: i know! i wish i could tell you why
it used to be fun?

me: no... that can't be it
something about feeling superior
or not owning a television
and not knowing about hulu

Lauren: HA
the first time back to writing is always the worst i remember...like working out after a long time
of not working out*
see i can't even write sentences that make sense in casual conversation
writing ego at all time low
haha

me: hahahaha that is my experience exactly

me too

or as my 14 year old who wants to be a journalist spelled it the other day "tew"

Lauren: HAHA


me: I feel sad for public education

Lauren: for real...public education is not going to exist in 50 years i think

like only for poor kids

me: it legit sucks

Lauren: everyone else will be home schooled or go to private

me: or live in the burbs

Lauren: okkkk i'll let you write. sorry if im distracting. brad is on his game and im bored of the computer.

me: hahahahahaha

Lauren: now im listening to lady gaga cause he banned me from the other song
hehe take that brad
maybe i'll write something...
eh

Editing a Dissertation

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.

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.

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.

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”

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!