I sent out my first little queries to people renting apartments in Pamplona last night. Oddly enough, this is the part of planning that's been freaking me out the most... because, I dunno, it's the sort of thing that you don't really do long distance - and I have to do it long distance. And because I've never looked for and signed in apartment before, period, not in English, not in America, nothing, so I have to cope with complications even as I tackle the basic concept for the first time.
I find that I really don't care much about the apartment. What I mean is, I've never chosen where to live before, really, and I know I'm not all that picky. If the apartment is drafty, I'll put on more clothes. If it's hot, that's a bit tougher but I'll be there in fall semester, so I can cope for a bit - just pretend I'm at summer camp and wear lots of deodorant. Yummy. If the apartment is untidy, I really really don't care. If the apartment is actually dirty, even then I don't mind terribly unless it is smelly or unhealthy (the kitchen or the bathroom is filthy and resists efforts to keep it to a reasonable standard)... and I'm living with girls, so I doubt it'll be too big of an issue. Spanish apartment prices are pretty low, so while I'm looking for a reasonable value, I don't have to spend hours trying to find the lowest possible rent.
I'm looking through the pictures and the listings and I can imagine myself in all of these different apartments. It's only for a few months, anyway, I feel I can handle anything for so long! Obsessing over finding the perfect perfect place probably would only increase my chances of disappointment if the place is not perfect, and of course it won't be. But if things are good, then how nice, it's luxurious - if they're not so good, then meh, it's a bit of a character builder, an experience - if they border on the comically horrific, then it's still a story, right? And it's still only for a few months. "One time, I lived in Spain, in a Maison Ikkoku, an Auberge Espagnole both literally and figuratively..."
Still, I had to draw up at least a few preferences to narrow my choices down - it was that or flip coins. I looked through the ads on the Unav website. First I searched for shared apartments who were looking for a female roommate. Then, I asked Jorge about good areas, compared walking times, and started my search by looking in Iturrama, with the idea that the closer the places were to campus, the better, and they also got a few points if they were near the Parque Yamaguchi. Internet was the one facility I absolutely could not compromise on, so all places without internet were automatically out. Then, I took out any apartments that were in the overpriced range (seemed as if they would top 350 a month with utilities). Now, this was all I felt that I really needed - girls, close to campus, internet, not too expensive. And I only had about 40 ads to wade through! :) I had to get pickier.
I spent some time chatting with Lucia and trying to decide how else to sort through the pile. I decided to cut out all the ones that didn't have pictures - this was about half the listings. Although it would be easy enough to ask for pictures, by the time I did so they would know that I would be agreeing to the apartment long distance - I feel that pictures posted in advance of this knowledge might be more trustworthy, and anyway I still had enough choices to be flexible. I went through again and scrutinized lists of facilities, ruthlessly cutting those that, for example, had no central heating. I looked at the fine print and canceled the ones that seemed just too complicated - one seemed to be saying that it was for rent every month but October?
In the end I'd become pickier, and ended up with about 12 listings. Not terrible. I sorted these into good (4), better (4), and best (2) piles. The good ones were fine, but the better and best ones had slightly more ideal locations, sometimes lower prices, and sometimes even perks like a sauna or a private balcony. I emailed the 2 listings in the best category first and I'm planning to give them a few days to respond before I start emailing the better people too. I'm asking for more info, whether they'd be okay with an international student staying only one semester, what I would need to do before arriving, for more pictures, etc.
I'm lucky to have such great friends helping me with everything I do - Jorge for Pamplona advice, Allan for big kid advice (finding an apartment? Oh noes!) and Lucia for Spanish correction etc. ^^ It really is a comfort.
I'm very excited and yet not at the same time, at least in the stereotypical sense. I am 100% confident that I will love being in Spain, but I do believe that I'm going and it does feel real. I've been preparing for this for a long time, in lesser and greater ways, and I've travelled enough and learned enough about what I'm capable of that it takes some of the radical, chaotic nerves and excitement out of the situation. I'm not jumping up and down and shrieking about going to Spain - it's more of a big smile of anticipation.
Besides, I'm enjoying my life right now too in a way - the preparation time was much needed, it's nice to rest up, to cook for my family and help around the house, spend time with mom and dad and Tidbit, and see Melissa graduate high school. We moved her into college today and that's in most ways a bigger step than I'm taking by moving to Spain, I'm not going to miss any of that by being too blinded by excitement by what's coming up next.
Showing posts with label Family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Family. Show all posts
June 16, 2010
June 12, 2010
Summer School
Since summer vacation started, I've scanned hundreds of family photos so that we will have them in digital format. I've read dozens of books - about travel, about landscape photography, about Scotland. I've started my travel blog in earnest and trying to finish my Japan journal.
I've learned about f-stops, ISO speeds, aperture, exposure compensation, UV and polarizing filters, the rule of thirds, the golden mean, framing...
I've learned about my mother's childhood, about my grandmother and my grandfather, about how young and happy my parents looked and how cute my sister and I were, and about my godfather, who had scars on his back from WWII and once played guitar with the Rolling Stones and used to sing Streets of London at parties.
I've learned things about blogging and about writing and I've learned that it's not always easy, for some reason, to do it all the way I know I should. I've learned I've got some phobias, some hang-ups, some reservations when it comes to putting myself on paper, as if I'm afraid I'll run out of ink. And I'm learning to tackle them.
There's a lot I'm finding that I need to learn, far away from the classroom.
I've learned about f-stops, ISO speeds, aperture, exposure compensation, UV and polarizing filters, the rule of thirds, the golden mean, framing...
I've learned about my mother's childhood, about my grandmother and my grandfather, about how young and happy my parents looked and how cute my sister and I were, and about my godfather, who had scars on his back from WWII and once played guitar with the Rolling Stones and used to sing Streets of London at parties.
I've learned things about blogging and about writing and I've learned that it's not always easy, for some reason, to do it all the way I know I should. I've learned I've got some phobias, some hang-ups, some reservations when it comes to putting myself on paper, as if I'm afraid I'll run out of ink. And I'm learning to tackle them.
There's a lot I'm finding that I need to learn, far away from the classroom.
March 03, 2010
Presents from My Mom
I was thinking, while writing my posts about technology memories, about video games and how every time we got a new console or something for Christmas, three times in all, Mom used to give us two games with it, and one of them was always AWESOME and the other always... kind of sucked.
With the Gameboy Pocket, she got us Pokemon Yellow and Ducktales: Become the Richest Duck in the World.
With the Playstation Two, she got us Kingdom Hearts, and some incredibly crappy racing game.
I smile as I think about her going into a video game store, asking the guys behind the counter what's good. Probably, they give her their expensive, newest bestseller. And then, they rummage behind the counter for some game they're worried about selling, and tell her that's great too. It's a pretty funny mental image.
I giggle to myself, at the guy's short stint as a con-man, at my mom's naivete.
Then I think about my mom again, why she went into the store in the first place and asked what was good, that she was thinking about Melissa and I at home, unwrapping the presents for Christmas and then sitting in the basement for hours, playing together.
I really love my mom.
With the Gameboy Pocket, she got us Pokemon Yellow and Ducktales: Become the Richest Duck in the World.
With the Playstation Two, she got us Kingdom Hearts, and some incredibly crappy racing game.
I smile as I think about her going into a video game store, asking the guys behind the counter what's good. Probably, they give her their expensive, newest bestseller. And then, they rummage behind the counter for some game they're worried about selling, and tell her that's great too. It's a pretty funny mental image.
I giggle to myself, at the guy's short stint as a con-man, at my mom's naivete.
Then I think about my mom again, why she went into the store in the first place and asked what was good, that she was thinking about Melissa and I at home, unwrapping the presents for Christmas and then sitting in the basement for hours, playing together.
I really love my mom.
March 01, 2010
My Technology Memories, Part I (5-8 years old)
Since I'm almost twenty, two decades old, I kind of feel like filling my March posts full of nostalgia. Don't think the world has changed in the last 15 years? (I can't really count my infancy, you know). At first I think, it hasn't really. And then I think of the internet. Whoa. I grew up with computers and the internet, was one of the first generations to do so.
The first website I ever visited was yahoo, the search engine. I looked for Lion King pictures to print out and colour at my aunt's house in D.C. I lost my first tooth later during that same trip.
I used to love libraries, not only for the books but for the computer labs they had back then, with all those interactive story book games. Little Critter's Trip to the Beach was often, and so was that one about the dog who travels under the sea, across space, etc. Everything you clicked on seemed to do something surprising! The off-brand Pocahontas adventure was somewhat disappointing, but I loved Pocahontas enough to play it once in a while. There were also tons of educational games. Lovely science games where you mix weather in labs or follow out complicated sequences. I destroyed Reader Rabbit - my first Journalism experience. ;)
My dad had a computer too. A big black laptop with a little red dot for a mouse. He brought it home from work and we have a picture of my sister and I playing on it together. There were exactly two programs that were of use to us on it; some panorama viewing tool that got old quickly, and Build a Park. That one started with an almost-voice sound saying, "Build a Park!!". It enchanted everyone including my mom. Maybe a frog said it - I'm pretty sure a frog was involved somehow. All the game entailed was placing things - benches, lamps, shrubs - here and there like a sticker book. A really early version of Roller Coaster Tycoon. ;)
Later, we got a P.C. with Windows 95 on it. We had some game with Bumble Bees on it that wasn't all that fun, and another game, a Snoopy themed one, that was awesome. There were different levels, but we all remember the bowling because when you did poorly, which in my case was nearly always, the game would say, "Bummer Man!" with a kind of hippy-accent. We were thrilled because back then sound bites were few and far between. We'd bowl time and again and giggle every time we failed.
The Windows 95 also had screensavers. One with stars shooting across - one with a maze - one with pipes. They were awesome.
When I got a wee bit older, dad showed me the grown-up games. Minesweeper (awesome). Solitaire (which bored me once I'd seen all the card designs). Pipe Dream (scary btu awesome). For some reason he steered away from the skiing one. I probably would have sucked. I had little to no natural aptitude for video games and such, but my enthusiasm was indomitable.
The best of my dad's games came from a floppy. It was called Battle for Atlantis, and was basically Risk. There was a simple map of islands, four nations represented by colour, and each territory was marked with a colour and a number - the population of that island. The goal was to conquer everything with your colour (blue). The game was long and there wasn't a good way to pause it. I spent many a long afternoon conquering Atlantis.
My best friend Kirsten had a game on her computer that we didn't have. You had to run around with a mouse and try to get cheese while a cat chased you. I loved that game. I made us play it far more often than Kirsten would have liked. Kirsten's family computer had a password back then. Ours didn't at home, and anyway I thought it was something very important, very private. Kirsten told me her father's password as if it was something of upmost secrecy. It thrilled me to have this knowledge, and to not be able to tell anyone. I never did, tell anyone. And I still remember the password, although it's been more than twelve years.
I probably would have tried to buy my own computer games, but actually a large part of my video game mania was satisfied by going across the street to Richard's house and playing Nintendo 64 there. Banjo Kazooie was the favourite, we (Richard) beat it and then we (Richard) kept playing for hours and hours, dreaming about the Ice Key and Sharkfood Island. Mario Kart was also beloved. And, at the very end, just before the move, Zelda, the Ocarina of Time was released.
Windows 98 was possibly the best thing that ever happened to me. The computer room once we moved to St. Louis was upstairs, across from my own bedroom. I missed Kirsten and Richard and Banjo Kazooie terribly, and I put a lot of energy into this new system and it's many wonders.
Encarta Encyclopedia. I devoured it - it was even better than my Children's dictionary, because it was hyperlinked all over! And occasionally you could even find a picture! Or, rarer yet, a sound file! Or, rarest of all, a short, bad quality video. I spent hours reading articles in search for these, until I found an 'advanced search' option that let me look for 'multimedia'. What a word, multimedia! I watched every video on Encarta again and again. Whenever you read about the rainforest or some such, and the word Biodiversity appeared, you had but to click on the word to be taken to a page with a brilliant full screen picture of a poison dart frog in lush foliage, with this great jungle soundtrack, and the words Biodiversity. I wasn't sure what it was, but I understood that it was HIGHLY desirable.
On Encarta there was a nutrition analyzing application, a basic phrases in a few foreign languages application, and a brilliant game, where you wander through a castle answering trivia questions to open doors. There was a mystery in the castle which I never solved, but I learned a lot. (Actually, this might be a lie. I have a vague half formed memory of going back at 14 or so and beating the game. But that might have been wishful thinking).
But soon we got the internet. Right at the beginning, websites addresses were something to be harvested from the real world, from t.v. ads and magazine pages. All the big companies had them. Nintendo.com. I collected these addresses like pogs.
Then I discovered search. Google didn't exist back then. For a long time I used search.com, going onto Yahoo when I had exhausted all results. With dedication, it was possible to do that back then - even with a topic as broad as, say, 'Banjo Kazooie'. I probably looked at every Banjo Kazooie page that existed on the internet at that time. I read walkthroughs, rumours, fanfiction... I remember how sites were laid out back then. Remember guestbooks? If you look up my name Google to this day you see posts from 1998 in BK guestbooks. :) There were few pictures online back then and everytime I was lucky enough to find one, especially, almost unimaginably, an animated GIF, I saved it to my hard drive.
Nickelodeon.com had GAMES to download. This blew me away. I picked one at random - it was called Crying Baby. It was 2-point-something megabites and took a half hour to download. I walked downstairs and felt pretty cool while it was downloading. I ran into my dad and said, "Doesn't it take a long time, downloading?" He got angry with me! He told me I wasn't allowed to download anything, that it was bad. I was pretty scared and I didn't download any more games for a while. He was well intentioned - he didn't want a silly 8 year old downloading viruses onto a new computer. But still, I was confused. Even the pictures I downloaded took a while back then. Was I not allowed to download them? In secret, I continued hoarding images.
Guiltily, I kept Crying Baby. It sucked. This baby cried until you gave him one of his six toys. He would be happy for a few seconds, then destroy the toy and start crying again. Just that. Forever. But it was mine, my game, my illegal and bad game that I wasn't supposed to have. I figured out how to make a hidden folder and I hid Crying Baby there.
... But after a while, the computer still seemed to be running fine. And I thought - if Crying Baby didn't destroy the computer, maybe it's okay to get just one more game from Nickelodeon.com? Slowly, I acquired each and every one of them, in fear and secrecy. I'd sneak on the computer at night to download them, or while my dad was at work, knowing I couldn't let my dad see and praying that mom didn't know any better. Playing the games was fine, I could always close them fast enough to avoid being seen. But the downloads, now, that was risky business.
The first website I ever visited was yahoo, the search engine. I looked for Lion King pictures to print out and colour at my aunt's house in D.C. I lost my first tooth later during that same trip.
I used to love libraries, not only for the books but for the computer labs they had back then, with all those interactive story book games. Little Critter's Trip to the Beach was often, and so was that one about the dog who travels under the sea, across space, etc. Everything you clicked on seemed to do something surprising! The off-brand Pocahontas adventure was somewhat disappointing, but I loved Pocahontas enough to play it once in a while. There were also tons of educational games. Lovely science games where you mix weather in labs or follow out complicated sequences. I destroyed Reader Rabbit - my first Journalism experience. ;)
My dad had a computer too. A big black laptop with a little red dot for a mouse. He brought it home from work and we have a picture of my sister and I playing on it together. There were exactly two programs that were of use to us on it; some panorama viewing tool that got old quickly, and Build a Park. That one started with an almost-voice sound saying, "Build a Park!!". It enchanted everyone including my mom. Maybe a frog said it - I'm pretty sure a frog was involved somehow. All the game entailed was placing things - benches, lamps, shrubs - here and there like a sticker book. A really early version of Roller Coaster Tycoon. ;)
Later, we got a P.C. with Windows 95 on it. We had some game with Bumble Bees on it that wasn't all that fun, and another game, a Snoopy themed one, that was awesome. There were different levels, but we all remember the bowling because when you did poorly, which in my case was nearly always, the game would say, "Bummer Man!" with a kind of hippy-accent. We were thrilled because back then sound bites were few and far between. We'd bowl time and again and giggle every time we failed.
The Windows 95 also had screensavers. One with stars shooting across - one with a maze - one with pipes. They were awesome.
When I got a wee bit older, dad showed me the grown-up games. Minesweeper (awesome). Solitaire (which bored me once I'd seen all the card designs). Pipe Dream (scary btu awesome). For some reason he steered away from the skiing one. I probably would have sucked. I had little to no natural aptitude for video games and such, but my enthusiasm was indomitable.
The best of my dad's games came from a floppy. It was called Battle for Atlantis, and was basically Risk. There was a simple map of islands, four nations represented by colour, and each territory was marked with a colour and a number - the population of that island. The goal was to conquer everything with your colour (blue). The game was long and there wasn't a good way to pause it. I spent many a long afternoon conquering Atlantis.
My best friend Kirsten had a game on her computer that we didn't have. You had to run around with a mouse and try to get cheese while a cat chased you. I loved that game. I made us play it far more often than Kirsten would have liked. Kirsten's family computer had a password back then. Ours didn't at home, and anyway I thought it was something very important, very private. Kirsten told me her father's password as if it was something of upmost secrecy. It thrilled me to have this knowledge, and to not be able to tell anyone. I never did, tell anyone. And I still remember the password, although it's been more than twelve years.
I probably would have tried to buy my own computer games, but actually a large part of my video game mania was satisfied by going across the street to Richard's house and playing Nintendo 64 there. Banjo Kazooie was the favourite, we (Richard) beat it and then we (Richard) kept playing for hours and hours, dreaming about the Ice Key and Sharkfood Island. Mario Kart was also beloved. And, at the very end, just before the move, Zelda, the Ocarina of Time was released.
Windows 98 was possibly the best thing that ever happened to me. The computer room once we moved to St. Louis was upstairs, across from my own bedroom. I missed Kirsten and Richard and Banjo Kazooie terribly, and I put a lot of energy into this new system and it's many wonders.
Encarta Encyclopedia. I devoured it - it was even better than my Children's dictionary, because it was hyperlinked all over! And occasionally you could even find a picture! Or, rarer yet, a sound file! Or, rarest of all, a short, bad quality video. I spent hours reading articles in search for these, until I found an 'advanced search' option that let me look for 'multimedia'. What a word, multimedia! I watched every video on Encarta again and again. Whenever you read about the rainforest or some such, and the word Biodiversity appeared, you had but to click on the word to be taken to a page with a brilliant full screen picture of a poison dart frog in lush foliage, with this great jungle soundtrack, and the words Biodiversity. I wasn't sure what it was, but I understood that it was HIGHLY desirable.
On Encarta there was a nutrition analyzing application, a basic phrases in a few foreign languages application, and a brilliant game, where you wander through a castle answering trivia questions to open doors. There was a mystery in the castle which I never solved, but I learned a lot. (Actually, this might be a lie. I have a vague half formed memory of going back at 14 or so and beating the game. But that might have been wishful thinking).
But soon we got the internet. Right at the beginning, websites addresses were something to be harvested from the real world, from t.v. ads and magazine pages. All the big companies had them. Nintendo.com. I collected these addresses like pogs.
Then I discovered search. Google didn't exist back then. For a long time I used search.com, going onto Yahoo when I had exhausted all results. With dedication, it was possible to do that back then - even with a topic as broad as, say, 'Banjo Kazooie'. I probably looked at every Banjo Kazooie page that existed on the internet at that time. I read walkthroughs, rumours, fanfiction... I remember how sites were laid out back then. Remember guestbooks? If you look up my name Google to this day you see posts from 1998 in BK guestbooks. :) There were few pictures online back then and everytime I was lucky enough to find one, especially, almost unimaginably, an animated GIF, I saved it to my hard drive.
Nickelodeon.com had GAMES to download. This blew me away. I picked one at random - it was called Crying Baby. It was 2-point-something megabites and took a half hour to download. I walked downstairs and felt pretty cool while it was downloading. I ran into my dad and said, "Doesn't it take a long time, downloading?" He got angry with me! He told me I wasn't allowed to download anything, that it was bad. I was pretty scared and I didn't download any more games for a while. He was well intentioned - he didn't want a silly 8 year old downloading viruses onto a new computer. But still, I was confused. Even the pictures I downloaded took a while back then. Was I not allowed to download them? In secret, I continued hoarding images.
Guiltily, I kept Crying Baby. It sucked. This baby cried until you gave him one of his six toys. He would be happy for a few seconds, then destroy the toy and start crying again. Just that. Forever. But it was mine, my game, my illegal and bad game that I wasn't supposed to have. I figured out how to make a hidden folder and I hid Crying Baby there.
... But after a while, the computer still seemed to be running fine. And I thought - if Crying Baby didn't destroy the computer, maybe it's okay to get just one more game from Nickelodeon.com? Slowly, I acquired each and every one of them, in fear and secrecy. I'd sneak on the computer at night to download them, or while my dad was at work, knowing I couldn't let my dad see and praying that mom didn't know any better. Playing the games was fine, I could always close them fast enough to avoid being seen. But the downloads, now, that was risky business.
February 16, 2010
Melissa's Visit
Melissa came up to visit me for the weekend. It was a lot of fun - she met all of my friends and visited most of my favourite places. We made a lot of jokes about being Valentine dates, and ate rediculous amounts of frozen yogurt.
Here we are at Rockbridge! From left: Me, Melissa,, Zahra, Sarah, and Jenny.
Here we are in the Devil's Icebox! :)
<3 you sissie.
Here we are at Rockbridge! From left: Me, Melissa,, Zahra, Sarah, and Jenny.
Here we are in the Devil's Icebox! :)<3 you sissie.
July 07, 2009
Unhappy Families
"Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in a different way."
- Anna Karenina
- Anna Karenina
July 05, 2009
Homesick
It rarely happens to me that I wake up in the night, unsure of my surroundings. But it's happened here, in the darkest hours of the night, when I'm woken by rain on tile roofs and the swishing of palms on my windowpane. I stretch, am surprised by the cool metal of the home gym as my arm hits the weight machine, which comes right up to the edge of my mattress. I don't know where I expected to find myself - at home on Burgundy Lane, or back in Laws.
Laws, Mizzou, last year, is an awkward memory for me. There are moments, especially in the waking day, arguing with my family, that it's hard to believe I ever went away, and lived for a year alone, with a bunch of loveable and crazy foreigners (and even crazier Americans) in the huge concrete monstrosity of Laws hall. Mayumi, Mitsuki, Ben, Clint, Mimi, Laurence, Tomomi... Timur, Santi, Pat and Maria... even Laura, Tabi, and Jorge to a lesser extent - is it really possible that we met, lived together for a long year, and then, now, it is over? And Mayumi, having been my roommate, that is the strangest.
When I wake up at night I don't wonder about having lived there - the whole environment is absolutely present in my mind, less as a memory than as a reality. Without my eyes, I could climb out of my bed, make my way out of my room, and to the bathroom, or perhaps down the stairs. I might even get as far as Dobbs.
But no, I am here in Florida. And that's strange indeed. My family is here and all of my things. The furniture and paintings that surrounded me throughout my childhood have been transplanted to a new climate, almost a new nation. It feels like a crossover fanfiction or something, strange.
I am vaguely aware that this is one of those magical places people leave their own homes and spend loads and loads of money to come to and go to the beach rain or shine and take pictures and bring home memories. And that's strange. I've never lived in such a place before, and I always thought that if I did I should appreciate it a bit more. But the beach isn't really my scene, at least not yet.
When I walk on the beach I feel old. I feel like walking slowly and watching clouds and sunsets and seagulls and thinking about my life, maybe even writing about it. Except that I haven't hardly lived my life. It is a peaceful place - no place for me now. I am not ready for peace.
Being transplanted has had another effect on me - one that raises questions and may have long term implications. Or it may mean nothing. I am homesick for Missouri. It happens a little bit with silly things, like longing to hear "Dierbergs" and "Schnucks" instead of "Winn Dixie". And it happens more with bigger things, like Winter.
I miss it for myself, a bit. I watched a few minutes of Greys Anatomy and Meridith walked outside in a coat, the whole world grey and her breath coming out in a mist, and I felt it in my chest. I am so grateful that I am going back to Missouri in the fall - I'm not sure I could manage without the winter. Go ahead and tell me it makes no sense, I already know it.
But it gets more complex than a longing for snow - I was playing Rosetta Stone, and some of the pictures show late fall, and early winter... and in no exotic way whatsoever, but perhaps a little girl in a little coat, smiling shyly and standing in front of a suburban street with bare trees and pale grass behind, the last few leaves of fall dancing on the lawn. That street could be in my old neighborhood, that coat could come from Wal Mart or Target, that child could be my own -
I understand suddenly, this want to have your children grow up in the same way you did. It gives me a certain feeling to imagine my children growing up in colourful warm parkas, playing with scattered leaves, feeling their cheeks and ears and nose turn bright red in the cold, going door to door on halloween, going off to the woods because they know thick winter clothing makes the thorns more bearable, cracking frozen puddles with their feet, watching sleet hit the windows as they snuggle under blankets indoors...
A lot of images go through my mind. I don't require my future children to experience each and every one of them, but each one of them makes me smile and think of them. Not that we need be in Missouri - almost all of these things could happen, for example, in New England, and most of them (swapping out Wal Mart and giving up Halloween) could happen in Scandinavia (if I went far enough north I would lose the leaves, and they won't be exactly the same anywhere else).
Just some thoughts and feelings, is all. And even if I were to move off to some exotic land, there's nothing saying that I might not be able to take my kids home for a year or two for them to understand America. I am planning on shipping or accompanying them back to the states for a month most summers anyway. Still, it's imperfect - there's a difference between having Trick or Treated, and growing up doing it every year, from being carried by mommy dressed up as a pumpkin to being a little witch whose daddy follows her around holding pounds of candy to going to high school costume parties dressed as a... bunny?
And I've avoided mentioning deep winter and Christmas and New Years altogether! I've avoiding thinking about them, if you want to know the truth. If leaves falling and winter coats make me so lonesome, what will the thought of Christmas without snow or Santa do to me? :P But I'm sure I'll give it all due thought before I make any of that sort of life decision.
And one can't have everything. Even people who never leave their own small town grumble about "when I was your age", and I know my children won't have Pokemon or Pottermania as part of their childhood. So, I dunno. :)
I'm just thinking onto paper.
Laws, Mizzou, last year, is an awkward memory for me. There are moments, especially in the waking day, arguing with my family, that it's hard to believe I ever went away, and lived for a year alone, with a bunch of loveable and crazy foreigners (and even crazier Americans) in the huge concrete monstrosity of Laws hall. Mayumi, Mitsuki, Ben, Clint, Mimi, Laurence, Tomomi... Timur, Santi, Pat and Maria... even Laura, Tabi, and Jorge to a lesser extent - is it really possible that we met, lived together for a long year, and then, now, it is over? And Mayumi, having been my roommate, that is the strangest.
When I wake up at night I don't wonder about having lived there - the whole environment is absolutely present in my mind, less as a memory than as a reality. Without my eyes, I could climb out of my bed, make my way out of my room, and to the bathroom, or perhaps down the stairs. I might even get as far as Dobbs.
But no, I am here in Florida. And that's strange indeed. My family is here and all of my things. The furniture and paintings that surrounded me throughout my childhood have been transplanted to a new climate, almost a new nation. It feels like a crossover fanfiction or something, strange.
I am vaguely aware that this is one of those magical places people leave their own homes and spend loads and loads of money to come to and go to the beach rain or shine and take pictures and bring home memories. And that's strange. I've never lived in such a place before, and I always thought that if I did I should appreciate it a bit more. But the beach isn't really my scene, at least not yet.
When I walk on the beach I feel old. I feel like walking slowly and watching clouds and sunsets and seagulls and thinking about my life, maybe even writing about it. Except that I haven't hardly lived my life. It is a peaceful place - no place for me now. I am not ready for peace.
Being transplanted has had another effect on me - one that raises questions and may have long term implications. Or it may mean nothing. I am homesick for Missouri. It happens a little bit with silly things, like longing to hear "Dierbergs" and "Schnucks" instead of "Winn Dixie". And it happens more with bigger things, like Winter.
I miss it for myself, a bit. I watched a few minutes of Greys Anatomy and Meridith walked outside in a coat, the whole world grey and her breath coming out in a mist, and I felt it in my chest. I am so grateful that I am going back to Missouri in the fall - I'm not sure I could manage without the winter. Go ahead and tell me it makes no sense, I already know it.
But it gets more complex than a longing for snow - I was playing Rosetta Stone, and some of the pictures show late fall, and early winter... and in no exotic way whatsoever, but perhaps a little girl in a little coat, smiling shyly and standing in front of a suburban street with bare trees and pale grass behind, the last few leaves of fall dancing on the lawn. That street could be in my old neighborhood, that coat could come from Wal Mart or Target, that child could be my own -
I understand suddenly, this want to have your children grow up in the same way you did. It gives me a certain feeling to imagine my children growing up in colourful warm parkas, playing with scattered leaves, feeling their cheeks and ears and nose turn bright red in the cold, going door to door on halloween, going off to the woods because they know thick winter clothing makes the thorns more bearable, cracking frozen puddles with their feet, watching sleet hit the windows as they snuggle under blankets indoors...
A lot of images go through my mind. I don't require my future children to experience each and every one of them, but each one of them makes me smile and think of them. Not that we need be in Missouri - almost all of these things could happen, for example, in New England, and most of them (swapping out Wal Mart and giving up Halloween) could happen in Scandinavia (if I went far enough north I would lose the leaves, and they won't be exactly the same anywhere else).
Just some thoughts and feelings, is all. And even if I were to move off to some exotic land, there's nothing saying that I might not be able to take my kids home for a year or two for them to understand America. I am planning on shipping or accompanying them back to the states for a month most summers anyway. Still, it's imperfect - there's a difference between having Trick or Treated, and growing up doing it every year, from being carried by mommy dressed up as a pumpkin to being a little witch whose daddy follows her around holding pounds of candy to going to high school costume parties dressed as a... bunny?
And I've avoided mentioning deep winter and Christmas and New Years altogether! I've avoiding thinking about them, if you want to know the truth. If leaves falling and winter coats make me so lonesome, what will the thought of Christmas without snow or Santa do to me? :P But I'm sure I'll give it all due thought before I make any of that sort of life decision.
And one can't have everything. Even people who never leave their own small town grumble about "when I was your age", and I know my children won't have Pokemon or Pottermania as part of their childhood. So, I dunno. :)
I'm just thinking onto paper.
June 28, 2009
The Florida State Fairgrounds
It had been on the calendar for months. We were going to the Florida State Fair Grounds to see Trace Atkins and Toby Keith.... mostly Trace Atkins. We've lived on our island for almost a month now and had unbelievable weather. We've had rain twice - hard rain with wind, too - but short lasting, and this during the worst season in Florida. It seems the winds around here blow storms inland, or out to sea - they miss the island. But we went into the interior for the concert, far enough that the palms thinned and turned into trees draped in Spanish moss. And as we sat on the highway, stuck in Tampa traffic, the skies darkened and it began to rain.
We had planned to go to the Hard Rock Cafe for dinner first, but it seemed as though the rest of the concertgoers had the same idea. The parking garage nearby was full - absolutely full. We went up five stories of wet dripping concrete only to find every spot full and dozens of cars circling. Madness. We cut out losses and headed to Steak and Shake. Twice during dinner the power went out and we heard the generators buzz as it flickered back on. But the worst was when it came time to pay. They sent me to the register with the money, and I waited. And waited. The rest of the family joined me and we waited. No one came to help us. There was a crowd of employers there who stared at us blankly.
"Can we pay?" my dad asked, again and again.
One woman just kept staring at us with an absolutely blank expression, shaking her head slowly. My dad was ready to just walk out, but my mom was sure we'd be arrested. So I reached into my purse, found exact change, and laid it out on the counter. Then we left. What that was all about, we had no earthly idea.
The sight of the fairgrounds looked like it had been taken out of some horror movie. Everything was grey-blue and threatening, wet with rivulets of running rainwater and lit up by flashes of lightening. Here and there revelers waved the Confederate Flag proudly over impromptu wet shirt contests and tailgating parties.
We parked the car and started the long walk, through marshy, swampy areas. We were in sandles, my sister in high heels, and the mud and water came up over our feet with almost every step. We dodged the deep puddles, but even the shallow ones put sand under our toes and set frothy foam coming up out of the soles of my mom's sandles. And she kept muttering about snakes and gators. Gators was rediculous, unimaginable in the crowded parking lot, even with the wilder areas surrounding it. Snakes seemed unlikely as well, but at least possible. I kept telling her that there wouldn't be any snakes there, it would be a snakes' worst nightmare, etc.
There were cowboy boots and hats and American flags everywhere. Women hard before their time. The ubiquitous beer belly. The smell of cigarettes. Harsh voices. All excited. This was a big night. We got our tickets, walked a little further. We had reserved seats, so we were part of the half of the audience with a tarp over their heads to keep the rain off.
Trace was good. He was a huge man, just as described. My mom kept shrieking that he was an absolute monster. He's about 6'6'' and filling every inch with muscle, anyway. The screens sometimes showed him from the pack, a profile, topped with that big cowboy hat. He looked almost rediculous, like a giant shuddering snowman as he moved to the beat. It was just the angle, though. Straight on, he was the picture of masculinity - traditional, arrogant, muscle-bound masculinity.
The young boys in the row in front of us were rather interested in my sister and I. I sat on the far end from them, so my sister got the worst of it. Between Trace and Toby, the older one came over to sit by me and started flirting rather shamelessly with me. I replied only when absolutely necessary to be polite. I felt a bit sorry for him, after all. It's not as if he knew. He told me he was 15, and I sort of gave a smile and a laugh, and thought I'd finally end it.
"I'm nineteen," I told him.
Well, he was surprised, and seemed to acknowledge at first that he was way out of his league, but then he pressed on at a slightly different angle, admitting that he could at least brag to his friends about 'impressing' a college girl or something like that. He didn't know. Didn't know that the youngest boy I'd ever kissed was six years older than this boy was, that all I kept thinking was, "Boys and Men, Boys and Men." And it was a little bit too bad. We had a few things in common, and he was cute enough. If only he had been five years older. ;)
Toby Keith came on. He's who the rest of the crowd had been waiting for, and they exploded. Out came the American Flags. The show started with a Ford Commercial on the big screen, admittedly an absolutely hilarious one. I looked for it on Youtube but I couldn't find it. :( It was called, "America's Toughest", and was a contest between different fake celebrities, and Toby Keith. The rappers tried to meet every challenge with cursewords and shooting, the pop group was made up of absolute pansies, there was a new age woodwind player who tried to chant and magick his way to victory, and best of all a heavy metal group who tried to be scary and ended up just looking stupid and rediculous in the hot sun, with their high heels breaking as they tried to run, and failing utterly to lift weights or do anything other than scream and hiss. And then Toby Keith, confident, smiling mockingly at the other contestants, easily winning each contest singlehandedly and by a huge margin, as teams of sexy blonde midwestern girls cheered him on. It truly was amusing.
Then he sang a few songs. It was just hard to care much about him after Trace, so we packed up after the third or fourth song and thought we'd head on out before the herds followed us and filled the concert grounds with traffic again. We waved goodbye to the flirting high schoolers, went down to the concession stand area, and my sister bought a shirt.
Then we ventured back onto the grounds, the swampy, swollen parking areas. We walked and walked. My sister couldn't decide whether it was more painful to walk with or without her high heels on, my mom was still petrified of snakes. Slowly it became apparent that we didn't know where we had parked.
Abandoned ticket counters, mossy trees, groups of latrines... each one began to look the same as those we had passed a thousand times. Were we going in circles? It was eerie to be walking around in the rain and flashing lightening, with water up to our ankles, our sandles soaked and slimy, through the rows and rows of shiny parked cars, all alone. We searched together. We split up. We shouted at each other from reasonable distances when we had gone a while without seeing the others. Each time we shouted, the other group responded hopefully, thinking we'd found the car. We hadn't.
Finally mom and sis parked themselves by a group of latrines and a tree labled "H" and my dad and I set off again, just the two of us. My dad kept clicking the alarm button on his keys to no avail. The fear that we would continue searching until the herd poured out, all found their cars and drove off, leaving only our G35, grew in us and suddenly felt very real. We found a G35, but it had Florida plates. We kept looking. Finally I found it, gave a screech... we all assembled and piled in, my sister and I wet and exhausted in the tiny back seat, pulling off wet shoes and revealing slimy dirty feet that were beginning to itch mightily. We tried to sleep on the long drive back.
We had planned to go to the Hard Rock Cafe for dinner first, but it seemed as though the rest of the concertgoers had the same idea. The parking garage nearby was full - absolutely full. We went up five stories of wet dripping concrete only to find every spot full and dozens of cars circling. Madness. We cut out losses and headed to Steak and Shake. Twice during dinner the power went out and we heard the generators buzz as it flickered back on. But the worst was when it came time to pay. They sent me to the register with the money, and I waited. And waited. The rest of the family joined me and we waited. No one came to help us. There was a crowd of employers there who stared at us blankly.
"Can we pay?" my dad asked, again and again.
One woman just kept staring at us with an absolutely blank expression, shaking her head slowly. My dad was ready to just walk out, but my mom was sure we'd be arrested. So I reached into my purse, found exact change, and laid it out on the counter. Then we left. What that was all about, we had no earthly idea.
The sight of the fairgrounds looked like it had been taken out of some horror movie. Everything was grey-blue and threatening, wet with rivulets of running rainwater and lit up by flashes of lightening. Here and there revelers waved the Confederate Flag proudly over impromptu wet shirt contests and tailgating parties.
We parked the car and started the long walk, through marshy, swampy areas. We were in sandles, my sister in high heels, and the mud and water came up over our feet with almost every step. We dodged the deep puddles, but even the shallow ones put sand under our toes and set frothy foam coming up out of the soles of my mom's sandles. And she kept muttering about snakes and gators. Gators was rediculous, unimaginable in the crowded parking lot, even with the wilder areas surrounding it. Snakes seemed unlikely as well, but at least possible. I kept telling her that there wouldn't be any snakes there, it would be a snakes' worst nightmare, etc.
There were cowboy boots and hats and American flags everywhere. Women hard before their time. The ubiquitous beer belly. The smell of cigarettes. Harsh voices. All excited. This was a big night. We got our tickets, walked a little further. We had reserved seats, so we were part of the half of the audience with a tarp over their heads to keep the rain off.
Trace was good. He was a huge man, just as described. My mom kept shrieking that he was an absolute monster. He's about 6'6'' and filling every inch with muscle, anyway. The screens sometimes showed him from the pack, a profile, topped with that big cowboy hat. He looked almost rediculous, like a giant shuddering snowman as he moved to the beat. It was just the angle, though. Straight on, he was the picture of masculinity - traditional, arrogant, muscle-bound masculinity.
The young boys in the row in front of us were rather interested in my sister and I. I sat on the far end from them, so my sister got the worst of it. Between Trace and Toby, the older one came over to sit by me and started flirting rather shamelessly with me. I replied only when absolutely necessary to be polite. I felt a bit sorry for him, after all. It's not as if he knew. He told me he was 15, and I sort of gave a smile and a laugh, and thought I'd finally end it.
"I'm nineteen," I told him.
Well, he was surprised, and seemed to acknowledge at first that he was way out of his league, but then he pressed on at a slightly different angle, admitting that he could at least brag to his friends about 'impressing' a college girl or something like that. He didn't know. Didn't know that the youngest boy I'd ever kissed was six years older than this boy was, that all I kept thinking was, "Boys and Men, Boys and Men." And it was a little bit too bad. We had a few things in common, and he was cute enough. If only he had been five years older. ;)
Toby Keith came on. He's who the rest of the crowd had been waiting for, and they exploded. Out came the American Flags. The show started with a Ford Commercial on the big screen, admittedly an absolutely hilarious one. I looked for it on Youtube but I couldn't find it. :( It was called, "America's Toughest", and was a contest between different fake celebrities, and Toby Keith. The rappers tried to meet every challenge with cursewords and shooting, the pop group was made up of absolute pansies, there was a new age woodwind player who tried to chant and magick his way to victory, and best of all a heavy metal group who tried to be scary and ended up just looking stupid and rediculous in the hot sun, with their high heels breaking as they tried to run, and failing utterly to lift weights or do anything other than scream and hiss. And then Toby Keith, confident, smiling mockingly at the other contestants, easily winning each contest singlehandedly and by a huge margin, as teams of sexy blonde midwestern girls cheered him on. It truly was amusing.
Then he sang a few songs. It was just hard to care much about him after Trace, so we packed up after the third or fourth song and thought we'd head on out before the herds followed us and filled the concert grounds with traffic again. We waved goodbye to the flirting high schoolers, went down to the concession stand area, and my sister bought a shirt.
Then we ventured back onto the grounds, the swampy, swollen parking areas. We walked and walked. My sister couldn't decide whether it was more painful to walk with or without her high heels on, my mom was still petrified of snakes. Slowly it became apparent that we didn't know where we had parked.
Abandoned ticket counters, mossy trees, groups of latrines... each one began to look the same as those we had passed a thousand times. Were we going in circles? It was eerie to be walking around in the rain and flashing lightening, with water up to our ankles, our sandles soaked and slimy, through the rows and rows of shiny parked cars, all alone. We searched together. We split up. We shouted at each other from reasonable distances when we had gone a while without seeing the others. Each time we shouted, the other group responded hopefully, thinking we'd found the car. We hadn't.
Finally mom and sis parked themselves by a group of latrines and a tree labled "H" and my dad and I set off again, just the two of us. My dad kept clicking the alarm button on his keys to no avail. The fear that we would continue searching until the herd poured out, all found their cars and drove off, leaving only our G35, grew in us and suddenly felt very real. We found a G35, but it had Florida plates. We kept looking. Finally I found it, gave a screech... we all assembled and piled in, my sister and I wet and exhausted in the tiny back seat, pulling off wet shoes and revealing slimy dirty feet that were beginning to itch mightily. We tried to sleep on the long drive back.
June 14, 2009
Update on My New Floridian Life
We moved out of the hotel and into the new home. Dad returned from Paris. The house is full of our furniture and the number of boxes obstructing our passage is quickly diminishing. The music and several T.V.s are up and running, and the large black dachshunds next door have discovered Tidbit and vice versa, so it's goodbye to the quiet we had before!
The dock is very different from the one we have at Lake of the Ozarks - it's on piles, instead of floating, so it doesn't go up and down with the tides, and doesn't rock in the wake of boats or dolphins. When the tide is low it's several feet under the dock, and reveals a mass of white-grey-green barnacle/shellfish-stuff encrusting the wooden pilings. I need to catch up on my vocabulary to describe such things - I've just spent too much of my life far from the sea. I am nearly as surprised as Tidbit by the salty taste of the water.
Yesterday we worked. I pulled the tape off of so many boxes that the tips of my fingers ached and felt carpet burned. I also set up the home computer and everything, and it's all running very well now! The house begins to feel a bit like a home. Our furniture is all here and some rooms, such as the Master Bedroom, are even respectably nice. Both bathrooms and the kitchen, however, are still miserable - probably will be until we make some fundamental changes to the house. But ah well. The big piles of book boxes from my room and the office are gone, as are most of the random boxes in the family/dining room and my parents' closet.
Last night while we were trying to set up the home gym, the weight machine fell over on me. It only fell about forty five degrees, and while it hurt, I knew right away I wasn't seriously injured. Took a while to convince my parents of that, though, and they ran over and started patting me everywhere and asking what hurt. I was more worried about my laptop, which was also involved in the accident - it has a good scratch in the screen, almost penetrating. But it doesn't affect how it works at all, so I'm grateful for that.
Immediately following this incident Teddy and Maxine arrived. They are, or Teddy is, if you want to be specific, our only blood relatives in Florida. Teddy is my grandmother's brother, and Maxine is his wife. We visited them in Florida once growing up, and of course we've seen them at numerous family functions across the States (okay, so overwhelmingly in Missouri), so they are a slice of home, family, normality, if those can be associated.
They are very Floridian. Maxine is from Tennessee and speaks and cooks with a decidedly southern style. I volunteered to help her cook for Thanksgiving, as we'll be spending this Thanksgiving with them, and I've heard she makes cornbread stuffing and sometimes deep-fries the turkey. Teddy has such a strong something accent that he can be difficult to understand at times. He is bald and almost a caricature of himself, but very nice, underneath the bravado ;), and a 'hoot', as my mom puts it. He goes freshwater fishing on a fast motorboat in gator infested, inland waters.
We went out with them to a restaurant in John's Pass called Gators. I had this massive appetite, I dunno where from. I helped with the peel and eat shrimp and gator appetizers, and then ate every bite of my blackened Mahi Mahi with yellow rice, and then got a dessert - Key Lime Pie - to split with my sister. It was all good, especially the Key Lime Pie. What's very strange is that I never, ever order dessert - I'm usually so full that I bring half my entree home and still feel abused. And afterward I was contented, but not so full as I usually am - I could have helped out with another few desserts, or another round of appetizers, had there been more to come!
The sunset was unbearably lovely. Pictures later, I'm planning to post a few from the move.
My 'room' consists of a bookshelf filled with books, two crates with clothes, one crate of debris, one crate labeled sentimental, an alarm clock, and an air bed, all in the home gym. It's cozy. No, really. Well, there's nowhere to sit down on, or anything to eat. (/tolkienfandom) Tidbit and I slept there last night and it worked out pretty well. This house is wired really poorly, and all the light switches and knobs are on the outsides of the rooms they belong to, meaning that I have to decide whether I want my light on or off /before/ I go into my room and shut the door. Luckily my closet has it's own light, and a pretty nice one, which I have been reading by.
Today I woke up when Tidbit wanted to go outside. It was about half an hour earlier than I would have liked. She went out and hunted for geckos and I got out Liebe Total and read about five pages, underlining, but not looking up, the words I didn't know. I can never decide whether it is better to read, ignoring or figuring out from context the words I don't know, or go through making a notice of them, maybe looking them up if I have the computer handy, and that's it, or to go through and study every new word. It's hard to say, so I sort of play it by ear each day. Liebe Total is pretty easy, and from the subject matter I think it's written for teenagers, which would explain that. German prose, such as in a newspaper, can be very difficult - making it one of the few languages that I'm almost as confident listening in as reading it! But Liebe Total (actually, Immer Cool Bleiben, the first novel of two in the book) is very reasonable.
Then we did a bit more work, and then I went to the grocery store, Winn Dixie. At first I worried because they didn't seem to have anything I sought. Organic 1% milk, for example. I found the ordinary milk, a small enough section, and beside it saw several organic varieties. There were three kinds each of organic whole, and skim milk, and two kinds of organic 2%, and one kind of organic 1% chocolate milk! Finally I asked someone and it turns out they keep it in a different area of the store. ?? Similar thing happened with the feta cheese, all the flavoured and low fat kinds are at one end, and the ordinary varieties at the other.
I've been attempting to cook with the new kitchen and sometimes it has me pining for my 'kitchen' in the dorm. The drawers don't pull out well, the stove and oven are old and hardly trustworthy, we have no microwave, etc... but we brought the knives and pans, etc, from home, and they are quite nice. :D I can cut through onion and garlic like butter! Right now the smell of Greek chicken and jasmine rice are permeating the room.
My main complaint here is the sun. It takes me down. I was sensitive enough to the heat in St. Louis, but I dunno... here it's a drier heat, which most people prefer, but not me, for some reason. A wet heat exhausts, sure, and may even feel hotter in the mouth and nose, but this dry heat makes my skin burn and itch. Or maybe it's that the sun's rays are so much stronger closer to the equator? It's thoroughly unpleasant and I can't even describe it in a way that does it justice. I realize suddenly that before this I never really went to Florida in summer, usually in Winter, and found it balmy enough then! I'm just not built to survive this climate, or this latitude, or somethign!
The dock is very different from the one we have at Lake of the Ozarks - it's on piles, instead of floating, so it doesn't go up and down with the tides, and doesn't rock in the wake of boats or dolphins. When the tide is low it's several feet under the dock, and reveals a mass of white-grey-green barnacle/shellfish-stuff encrusting the wooden pilings. I need to catch up on my vocabulary to describe such things - I've just spent too much of my life far from the sea. I am nearly as surprised as Tidbit by the salty taste of the water.
Yesterday we worked. I pulled the tape off of so many boxes that the tips of my fingers ached and felt carpet burned. I also set up the home computer and everything, and it's all running very well now! The house begins to feel a bit like a home. Our furniture is all here and some rooms, such as the Master Bedroom, are even respectably nice. Both bathrooms and the kitchen, however, are still miserable - probably will be until we make some fundamental changes to the house. But ah well. The big piles of book boxes from my room and the office are gone, as are most of the random boxes in the family/dining room and my parents' closet.
Last night while we were trying to set up the home gym, the weight machine fell over on me. It only fell about forty five degrees, and while it hurt, I knew right away I wasn't seriously injured. Took a while to convince my parents of that, though, and they ran over and started patting me everywhere and asking what hurt. I was more worried about my laptop, which was also involved in the accident - it has a good scratch in the screen, almost penetrating. But it doesn't affect how it works at all, so I'm grateful for that.
Immediately following this incident Teddy and Maxine arrived. They are, or Teddy is, if you want to be specific, our only blood relatives in Florida. Teddy is my grandmother's brother, and Maxine is his wife. We visited them in Florida once growing up, and of course we've seen them at numerous family functions across the States (okay, so overwhelmingly in Missouri), so they are a slice of home, family, normality, if those can be associated.
They are very Floridian. Maxine is from Tennessee and speaks and cooks with a decidedly southern style. I volunteered to help her cook for Thanksgiving, as we'll be spending this Thanksgiving with them, and I've heard she makes cornbread stuffing and sometimes deep-fries the turkey. Teddy has such a strong something accent that he can be difficult to understand at times. He is bald and almost a caricature of himself, but very nice, underneath the bravado ;), and a 'hoot', as my mom puts it. He goes freshwater fishing on a fast motorboat in gator infested, inland waters.
We went out with them to a restaurant in John's Pass called Gators. I had this massive appetite, I dunno where from. I helped with the peel and eat shrimp and gator appetizers, and then ate every bite of my blackened Mahi Mahi with yellow rice, and then got a dessert - Key Lime Pie - to split with my sister. It was all good, especially the Key Lime Pie. What's very strange is that I never, ever order dessert - I'm usually so full that I bring half my entree home and still feel abused. And afterward I was contented, but not so full as I usually am - I could have helped out with another few desserts, or another round of appetizers, had there been more to come!
The sunset was unbearably lovely. Pictures later, I'm planning to post a few from the move.
My 'room' consists of a bookshelf filled with books, two crates with clothes, one crate of debris, one crate labeled sentimental, an alarm clock, and an air bed, all in the home gym. It's cozy. No, really. Well, there's nowhere to sit down on, or anything to eat. (/tolkienfandom) Tidbit and I slept there last night and it worked out pretty well. This house is wired really poorly, and all the light switches and knobs are on the outsides of the rooms they belong to, meaning that I have to decide whether I want my light on or off /before/ I go into my room and shut the door. Luckily my closet has it's own light, and a pretty nice one, which I have been reading by.
Today I woke up when Tidbit wanted to go outside. It was about half an hour earlier than I would have liked. She went out and hunted for geckos and I got out Liebe Total and read about five pages, underlining, but not looking up, the words I didn't know. I can never decide whether it is better to read, ignoring or figuring out from context the words I don't know, or go through making a notice of them, maybe looking them up if I have the computer handy, and that's it, or to go through and study every new word. It's hard to say, so I sort of play it by ear each day. Liebe Total is pretty easy, and from the subject matter I think it's written for teenagers, which would explain that. German prose, such as in a newspaper, can be very difficult - making it one of the few languages that I'm almost as confident listening in as reading it! But Liebe Total (actually, Immer Cool Bleiben, the first novel of two in the book) is very reasonable.
Then we did a bit more work, and then I went to the grocery store, Winn Dixie. At first I worried because they didn't seem to have anything I sought. Organic 1% milk, for example. I found the ordinary milk, a small enough section, and beside it saw several organic varieties. There were three kinds each of organic whole, and skim milk, and two kinds of organic 2%, and one kind of organic 1% chocolate milk! Finally I asked someone and it turns out they keep it in a different area of the store. ?? Similar thing happened with the feta cheese, all the flavoured and low fat kinds are at one end, and the ordinary varieties at the other.
I've been attempting to cook with the new kitchen and sometimes it has me pining for my 'kitchen' in the dorm. The drawers don't pull out well, the stove and oven are old and hardly trustworthy, we have no microwave, etc... but we brought the knives and pans, etc, from home, and they are quite nice. :D I can cut through onion and garlic like butter! Right now the smell of Greek chicken and jasmine rice are permeating the room.
My main complaint here is the sun. It takes me down. I was sensitive enough to the heat in St. Louis, but I dunno... here it's a drier heat, which most people prefer, but not me, for some reason. A wet heat exhausts, sure, and may even feel hotter in the mouth and nose, but this dry heat makes my skin burn and itch. Or maybe it's that the sun's rays are so much stronger closer to the equator? It's thoroughly unpleasant and I can't even describe it in a way that does it justice. I realize suddenly that before this I never really went to Florida in summer, usually in Winter, and found it balmy enough then! I'm just not built to survive this climate, or this latitude, or somethign!
December 02, 2008
The Family Tragedy
Is the family sacred? I never can decide.
In other words: are the bonds of a family more than just a constructed social ideal, are they always somehow above the level of mere friendship?
There is this idea that the family is there when all others turn away. Indeed - how many elderly do you see living in the homes of friends?
But there is too much suffering in the home for families to be sacred. Too much neglect, abuse, even murder; and of course the lesser things. Some say that surely, at least the bond between mother and child is irrefutable. But even there are exceptions, so I wonder where the line is drawn.
Must tragedy strike for two siblings to be closer to their friends than to each other? Or is it merely luck that brings two siblings to the place where they can be both, siblings and friends.
Is it only that a tragedy can separate them, or is it a tragedy in and of itself when they are not so lucky? And why?
For the sake of discussion, let's simplify and call love the feeling that you want to spend time with someone. Let's call duty the other kind of 'love', that compels family to keep trying, to take care of each other, to bring the elderly into their basement and... in short, what friends don't intrinsically have.
The legend is that for family the two are tightly woven. Family is sacred.
But that cannot be!
Love may or may not follow blood, but duty seems more strictly relegated to the family.
So - is this the Family Tragedy?
Not that it was tragic misunderstanding and circumstances which must have unnaturally torn the family - sacred and destined for both love and duty - asunder.
Rather that if luck does not join the two within the family, then the individual has lost their chance for that ultimate, sacred goal - love and duty intertwined - save only by marriage.
Yes, I think it may be the truth.
That's why... Childless widows, Bitter old men...
Motherless Daughters. Fatherless Sons.
They carry it with them. And invent legends.
You know of what I speak.
In other words: are the bonds of a family more than just a constructed social ideal, are they always somehow above the level of mere friendship?
There is this idea that the family is there when all others turn away. Indeed - how many elderly do you see living in the homes of friends?
But there is too much suffering in the home for families to be sacred. Too much neglect, abuse, even murder; and of course the lesser things. Some say that surely, at least the bond between mother and child is irrefutable. But even there are exceptions, so I wonder where the line is drawn.
Must tragedy strike for two siblings to be closer to their friends than to each other? Or is it merely luck that brings two siblings to the place where they can be both, siblings and friends.
Is it only that a tragedy can separate them, or is it a tragedy in and of itself when they are not so lucky? And why?
For the sake of discussion, let's simplify and call love the feeling that you want to spend time with someone. Let's call duty the other kind of 'love', that compels family to keep trying, to take care of each other, to bring the elderly into their basement and... in short, what friends don't intrinsically have.
The legend is that for family the two are tightly woven. Family is sacred.
But that cannot be!
Love may or may not follow blood, but duty seems more strictly relegated to the family.
So - is this the Family Tragedy?
Not that it was tragic misunderstanding and circumstances which must have unnaturally torn the family - sacred and destined for both love and duty - asunder.
Rather that if luck does not join the two within the family, then the individual has lost their chance for that ultimate, sacred goal - love and duty intertwined - save only by marriage.
Yes, I think it may be the truth.
That's why... Childless widows, Bitter old men...
Motherless Daughters. Fatherless Sons.
They carry it with them. And invent legends.
You know of what I speak.
August 19, 2007
Meh
I stayed up late during the night listening to Italian songs and doing copious amounts of English homework that I left to the last minute. I thought dark thoughts about my parents. It's best they don't read this, I suppose.
I can't help but feel that they don't understand me. When I try to communicate myself to them I get no where and only make matters work. They either mock me as though I was a small child or the criticize what I say or they comfort me and say, "oh, you don't mean it, you are tired..." and often I give in and agree because I know they are not really hearing me anyway.
This problem between my mom and I is deeper than a single fight which burns and then recedes. It even goes beyond her never ending nagging, although that is an undeniable part of it.
When it suits her I am not her daughter but her friend and her confidante. When that does not suit her I am her daughter. There is no democracy, she says, though I don't ask for democracy, only the right to lobby and make my feelings known.
And my dad is no better, he is almost worse. I think he could understand me if he tried, but of course he must support my mother. He mocks me and says "I know you can't stand to not be heard." That was cruel - to mock me for that earlier this summer. It's true! I admit as much! I will not be ignored. I am not that sort.
And when he said I didn't find acceptance in my peer group, so I searched for it within the family... Ha! What are families good for if you have to search for acceptance within them? To hell with them all.
I'm well liked. I am. No one else has a quarrel with me. I even have good friends, though not many of the classic sleepover variety. I have people I trust and care about very much. And my teachers love me - not just as a student, but as a person. I adore them too and love the stimulation of the school day, even when it leaves me exhausted. My babysitting clients love me - I'm quite popular. And I do a good job at work and adore my coworkers.
But whatever I do, it's never quite enough for my mother. Oh, when she's in the mood to be she can be perfect. She shines so much in those moments it's harder to blame her in the others. But if only it could be more spread out! When she is not in the mood... when she is unhappy or even just discontent, which happens rather often, it's never enough. My grades are good and my character is outstanding and I don't ask for money. So she moves on to friends and fashion and calls me out for that. When I do well enough there and she can't blame me, she finds other stuff. I try to meet her demands, but there is no pleasing her, she'll keep moving down the line. My room isn't kept well enough, I don't walk Tidbit often enough, why haven't I planned the trip yet?, I never help with the meals, why am I so dreary?, I'm not nice to mommy, I shouldn't use that tone of voice, I don't get enough protein, I don't get enough calcium, I need to not do so much, I should stop babysitting at the Maniscalco's, I shouldn't take so many classes, I should brush Tidbit's teeth more often, I haven't burned her CD yet, why haven't I helped with the scrapbook?, why do I always waste food?, why do I spend so much time on my homework and not enough on the house?, why is the bathroom a mess?, I keep too many books, what about that journaling I should have done... I DONT ANSWER MY CELL PHONE... WHEN IM IN THE HOUSE...
There are times I wish I could really be bad at something so the nagging might at least be consolidated and I could hide behind the old "I'm working on it." And other times I fantasize about being bad at something to punish her. And still other times I dream that I might somehow do everything she asks and still live, still work, still attend school with passing grades, still be cheerful. And then she'd be happy with me. All of the time. But that fantasy's harder to keep up now that I haven't even time to properly check my email or write or read, and even to write this blog post cuts into my sleep and I will pay for it later...
They always say I'm going hysterical and throwing a fit. I am not throwing a fit - I am quite cold. It has been hours since the last incident, because thankfully they are in bed. They wont take me seriously and despite the fantasies I start accepting that they never will. So I look out to the exit, when I will go away. After that when I come home I will be visiting and things will be different. And once I'm out in the world, far away, whose to say that I will ever look back?
Yes, they've been good to me in so many ways...
... And don't think I've forgotten...
... But I'd rather be heard. Taken seriously. Accepted.
No, I am not hysterical, I am not throwing a fit, this is not about not wanting to take the trash out or go pick up my sister. This is a basic question of respect and understanding. You do not understand me, mother.
Do you even know what really brings me joy, when math and work and nagging starts to blur together? I stay up late if I must, cutting into my sleep, because I must... And when I study languages that keeps me sane... you don't understand that it is my passion, that it heals me.
I know you don't understand me and can only laugh when you say, "Miranda, drop a language, don't do the Italian, you'll have more time." Maybe I should have more time... but I should lose myself.
Strange that I can hardly rely on people. Some times I can rely on my mother, but I can't rely upon relying on her, if that makes sense. It's not her fault, she is human after all. But so is everyone else. How can I describe this? It's mad. Absolutely mad.
But when my soul feels quite heavy and I weep, because I never want to look back, and I feel that I should, for she is my mother and has provided for me so well so often, it is my studies that I turn to, that comfort me. The written word that shines on new smelling pages, the flash cards I write with a shaking hand, and use over and over again, the words I whisper as I fall asleep.
And how can I give that up? I can't. But you can't understand. Who can? I'm not sure. I think I must be quite mad. But still... if I trouble you then leave me alone. I am happy with myself and content with my madness. You have your own, even if you don't see it. And someday I'll find my place in the world as you have in yours.
You've said before that you hope I have a daughter just like myself. A freak, you mean. Yes, I hope I do too. I can understand a freak like me. I'm frightened of not understanding my daughter, but of course I won't because she can't be just like me. Still, I want her to feel understood. I want to understand the lack of understanding, and be comfortable with it.
Please, understand that you don't understand. Let me be who I am. I'll try to help you. I'll try to remember you're nagging me for my own sake. But it's all a little much. I don't need things slower and louder. Try to understand that you don't understand...
When I close my eyes I see a world you don't see. I think of things you don't think of. I don't know what you think of, but I don't think you're happy with it, either, so don't pity me. We have our own heavens and our own hells.
Someday soon I'll walk away from this place. And I'll find acceptance. Even if I have to walk all the way to my death to find it... Someday I will. Acceptance of what isn't me isn't really acceptance. I cannot change. I think... I believe I will find it before the end. But if I don't I will still walk bravely. I can be strong.
Please. Understand that you don't understand. Let me try to find my own happiness, even if I don't find it until I walk all the way to my death. I cannot be otherwise...
I can't help but feel that they don't understand me. When I try to communicate myself to them I get no where and only make matters work. They either mock me as though I was a small child or the criticize what I say or they comfort me and say, "oh, you don't mean it, you are tired..." and often I give in and agree because I know they are not really hearing me anyway.
This problem between my mom and I is deeper than a single fight which burns and then recedes. It even goes beyond her never ending nagging, although that is an undeniable part of it.
When it suits her I am not her daughter but her friend and her confidante. When that does not suit her I am her daughter. There is no democracy, she says, though I don't ask for democracy, only the right to lobby and make my feelings known.
And my dad is no better, he is almost worse. I think he could understand me if he tried, but of course he must support my mother. He mocks me and says "I know you can't stand to not be heard." That was cruel - to mock me for that earlier this summer. It's true! I admit as much! I will not be ignored. I am not that sort.
And when he said I didn't find acceptance in my peer group, so I searched for it within the family... Ha! What are families good for if you have to search for acceptance within them? To hell with them all.
I'm well liked. I am. No one else has a quarrel with me. I even have good friends, though not many of the classic sleepover variety. I have people I trust and care about very much. And my teachers love me - not just as a student, but as a person. I adore them too and love the stimulation of the school day, even when it leaves me exhausted. My babysitting clients love me - I'm quite popular. And I do a good job at work and adore my coworkers.
But whatever I do, it's never quite enough for my mother. Oh, when she's in the mood to be she can be perfect. She shines so much in those moments it's harder to blame her in the others. But if only it could be more spread out! When she is not in the mood... when she is unhappy or even just discontent, which happens rather often, it's never enough. My grades are good and my character is outstanding and I don't ask for money. So she moves on to friends and fashion and calls me out for that. When I do well enough there and she can't blame me, she finds other stuff. I try to meet her demands, but there is no pleasing her, she'll keep moving down the line. My room isn't kept well enough, I don't walk Tidbit often enough, why haven't I planned the trip yet?, I never help with the meals, why am I so dreary?, I'm not nice to mommy, I shouldn't use that tone of voice, I don't get enough protein, I don't get enough calcium, I need to not do so much, I should stop babysitting at the Maniscalco's, I shouldn't take so many classes, I should brush Tidbit's teeth more often, I haven't burned her CD yet, why haven't I helped with the scrapbook?, why do I always waste food?, why do I spend so much time on my homework and not enough on the house?, why is the bathroom a mess?, I keep too many books, what about that journaling I should have done... I DONT ANSWER MY CELL PHONE... WHEN IM IN THE HOUSE...
There are times I wish I could really be bad at something so the nagging might at least be consolidated and I could hide behind the old "I'm working on it." And other times I fantasize about being bad at something to punish her. And still other times I dream that I might somehow do everything she asks and still live, still work, still attend school with passing grades, still be cheerful. And then she'd be happy with me. All of the time. But that fantasy's harder to keep up now that I haven't even time to properly check my email or write or read, and even to write this blog post cuts into my sleep and I will pay for it later...
They always say I'm going hysterical and throwing a fit. I am not throwing a fit - I am quite cold. It has been hours since the last incident, because thankfully they are in bed. They wont take me seriously and despite the fantasies I start accepting that they never will. So I look out to the exit, when I will go away. After that when I come home I will be visiting and things will be different. And once I'm out in the world, far away, whose to say that I will ever look back?
Yes, they've been good to me in so many ways...
... And don't think I've forgotten...
... But I'd rather be heard. Taken seriously. Accepted.
No, I am not hysterical, I am not throwing a fit, this is not about not wanting to take the trash out or go pick up my sister. This is a basic question of respect and understanding. You do not understand me, mother.
Do you even know what really brings me joy, when math and work and nagging starts to blur together? I stay up late if I must, cutting into my sleep, because I must... And when I study languages that keeps me sane... you don't understand that it is my passion, that it heals me.
I know you don't understand me and can only laugh when you say, "Miranda, drop a language, don't do the Italian, you'll have more time." Maybe I should have more time... but I should lose myself.
Strange that I can hardly rely on people. Some times I can rely on my mother, but I can't rely upon relying on her, if that makes sense. It's not her fault, she is human after all. But so is everyone else. How can I describe this? It's mad. Absolutely mad.
But when my soul feels quite heavy and I weep, because I never want to look back, and I feel that I should, for she is my mother and has provided for me so well so often, it is my studies that I turn to, that comfort me. The written word that shines on new smelling pages, the flash cards I write with a shaking hand, and use over and over again, the words I whisper as I fall asleep.
And how can I give that up? I can't. But you can't understand. Who can? I'm not sure. I think I must be quite mad. But still... if I trouble you then leave me alone. I am happy with myself and content with my madness. You have your own, even if you don't see it. And someday I'll find my place in the world as you have in yours.
You've said before that you hope I have a daughter just like myself. A freak, you mean. Yes, I hope I do too. I can understand a freak like me. I'm frightened of not understanding my daughter, but of course I won't because she can't be just like me. Still, I want her to feel understood. I want to understand the lack of understanding, and be comfortable with it.
Please, understand that you don't understand. Let me be who I am. I'll try to help you. I'll try to remember you're nagging me for my own sake. But it's all a little much. I don't need things slower and louder. Try to understand that you don't understand...
When I close my eyes I see a world you don't see. I think of things you don't think of. I don't know what you think of, but I don't think you're happy with it, either, so don't pity me. We have our own heavens and our own hells.
Someday soon I'll walk away from this place. And I'll find acceptance. Even if I have to walk all the way to my death to find it... Someday I will. Acceptance of what isn't me isn't really acceptance. I cannot change. I think... I believe I will find it before the end. But if I don't I will still walk bravely. I can be strong.
Please. Understand that you don't understand. Let me try to find my own happiness, even if I don't find it until I walk all the way to my death. I cannot be otherwise...
June 13, 2007
Racquetball
So, I've really enjoyed playing on the Racquetball team. It's been really stressful at times, downright annoying at others, but by and large it's been fun, and it's one of those things that you can only experience once. It's the classic high school sport, and I feel like I've come far enough with it that I want to finish.
My mom thinks I need to call it good enough and quit, but she's hated Racquetball from the beginning. Now that I can drive, I think it's none of her business. But she's really angry that I'm playing again. :(
Anyhow, I told Mark that it's a tentative yes for next year, and that I want to see how the summer and the first few weeks of the season go before I commit myself to the nastier bits such as State later in the season. Junior year was hard, but Senior Year is a lot easier. Also, I am not going on the Nationals trip. I'm willing to do Rolla or something, but I've got Costa Rica and Finland to think about, so a Racquetball trip is out of the question. :P Sorry, Mark!
My mom thinks I need to call it good enough and quit, but she's hated Racquetball from the beginning. Now that I can drive, I think it's none of her business. But she's really angry that I'm playing again. :(
Anyhow, I told Mark that it's a tentative yes for next year, and that I want to see how the summer and the first few weeks of the season go before I commit myself to the nastier bits such as State later in the season. Junior year was hard, but Senior Year is a lot easier. Also, I am not going on the Nationals trip. I'm willing to do Rolla or something, but I've got Costa Rica and Finland to think about, so a Racquetball trip is out of the question. :P Sorry, Mark!
March 14, 2007
A Spring Fed River
There are rivers born in mountains, high above the earth. There are rivers that spill from lakes filled with spring rain. There are rivers that flow from glaciers, snow, and rainwater, cleaving the earth before them in search of the sea.
My own river rises from the deep wells of nature, from the bedrock of Missouri. A spring fed river is cold and clear, a child of the earth. It remembers its source; its heart in the subterranean halls of stone, cradled by limestone and dolomite. Such a river has a particular smell, a particular feel; there is a memory about it, a memory it carries all the way to the ocean at the end of its path.
On the banks of my river, I set my feet in the water.
I’ve grown up on the banks of this river, making mud pies, swinging on ropes, and canoeing the length of it with coolers of bud light, hi-C, and ham sandwiches. I love the gentle sloping of the south side, the gravel and the straggly brush, filled with sun and songbirds. I love the darkness of the northern bank, where all the trees bend over, reaching for the sun, shielding the river beneath them. There are tangled tree roots twisting and blending into the dark water, there are snakes long and slender, gleaming like ebony, there are reeds and moss and tiny black butterflies flitting from shade to shade. Even the mosquitoes are sacred. I know their buzzing, their paths on the surface of the water, the strange satisfaction of their itching bite, the sickly sweet citronella candles we light as dusk falls over the water.
Today we eat our fill of country fare, loading our plates with hot dogs and baked beans, chili and hobo stew. Around the campfire, the stories are beginning. Granddaddy can remember the Great Depression and long ago County Fairs; Uncle Jim can trace our lineage all the way from Charbonneau of the Lewis and Clark Expedition. The Womacks are an old breed, with roots deep in the rich Missouri soil. You can still see traces of Indian Blood in their skin, and harsh Scottish features in their craggy faces.
The river sits behind us as the sun sinks slowly in the sky, dancing in the filtered brown of the shallows. Not far upstream a hawk flies over the water, casting a shadow that ripples and vanishes. The steady sound of the current blends with our voices; rural drawls and harsher backwoods dialect together. The tones are striking in their simple honesty, far removed from the hollow, artificial speech of West County. As the evening slowly passes I am swept away in their words, and I shed my own pale accent like a shadow.
The talk turns away from history, spreading into the realities of our lives. Cindy tells us about a guy she’s met dancing at Plumbers’, where David plays in the Timberline band and students of the Farmington School District often go to dances. Janet mentions a squirrel her husband found in a tree at the lumber mill, which she kept for years as a pet. With great passion, Uncle John tells Joe about a huge hunk of meat they came across a few weeks ago at the restaurant. The aunts, comparatively, sit together quietly: Jane looking timid and tired, Julie in her overalls, Janet smelling of cigarettes. Terry describes a recent hunt with his characteristic, bullet-like narrative. “Shot that buck right ‘tween the eyes…” He tells us, “dropped him like a stone.” Sara tells me her old black horse finally died, and that the barn cats have spawned another generation of feral kittens. Somehow the stories of my life – a Valentines Card from Norway, the Acropolis and the Ancient Agora, the Gutenberg Museum, Christmas with Curacao natives – don’t quite flow into the conversation. I do a lot of smiling and listening, fascinated by how tightly and comfortably this world is knit together.
Jim, the patriarch, was a maintenance man at the state mental hospital. David fixes the busses for the local school district. The town’s football star in his glory days, James is a social worker and a counselor at the prison. Carol’s the bank manager – she’s worked her way up from teller in a long life at the bank. Terry was a meter reader for forty years, Weedy was a mailman, and Granddaddy was the ‘city boy’ who left Farmington with Maytag. My dad has tried to explain that he’s a consultant for the automotive aftermarket industry half a dozen times, but they still don’t quite understand just what it is that he does all day.
The crickets begin to sing as things wind down, as I find a lawn chair and stare out over the river. Idly, I flip through the songs on my iPod, searching for something that fits the mood. It’s difficult to match.
“Hey,” says Little Jason, wanting to annoy me. “What are you listening to?”
“It’s called ‘Anima Libera’”, I say, hoping he’ll be confused and run along. “It’s in another language”.
“… You mean… Spanish?”
“Sort of”, I reply, nodding. “It’s Italian.”
“… You mean… like Pizza?”
“Sort of.” I say, looking away with a slow smile. I watch the river under the fast moving clouds and the darkness of the night. I watch the river flowing to the sea.
November 13, 2006
No reprieve
I admit, there is no crushing pressure anywhere. Not from grades... to be honest, I care more about them now, but they are the same as they've always been - satisfactory. Not my best, but satisfactory. Work is going swimmingly, and I like it. Tidbit's alive, and on the mend. My family sucks, but they're not like abusing me or anything, and they love me, they're just loud and angry and 'used up' or whatever. I REALLY need to get my license, but that's hard to manage - Racquetball can quietly take the backburner and that's life...
So no, no crushing pressure. But no reprieve, either. Nowhere to hide. Not in free time or immaculate grades or in friends or even in family. That's what's cutting into me.
Emails are really the only thing I have. And that's little enough - and a guilty pleasure in reading.
So no, no crushing pressure. But no reprieve, either. Nowhere to hide. Not in free time or immaculate grades or in friends or even in family. That's what's cutting into me.
Emails are really the only thing I have. And that's little enough - and a guilty pleasure in reading.
October 31, 2006
Letting Things Lie
Once, when I was little, I fancied I saw something buried in my wrist. I dug, with a fingernail and a paper clip, layer by layer, until I couldn't see it for the blood.
Once, when I was little, I fancied that when I twisted my arm about, an unsightly pocket of air came to surface in the crook of my arm. Out came the safety pins, and I don't think it ever really popped.
Once, when I was older, I misspoke - I said "På" for "For", and I wouldn't forget it. It haunted me for two days, until I remembered where I had learned it, burned it out from that very source. "Vent på meg..." never meant "Wait for me..." but, "Wait on me...". Sweet epiphany.
Once, when I was older still, I couldn't get stewardship and presidential together in my head, opposite taftian and congressional. I followed it to it's source, deep in a mountain of trivia long forgotten, moldered, all for the better, now feeding the mind. The Stewards of Gondor were less than the Kings.
So I'm sorry if I can't let things lie. It's never been my nature.
Once, when I was little, I fancied that when I twisted my arm about, an unsightly pocket of air came to surface in the crook of my arm. Out came the safety pins, and I don't think it ever really popped.
Once, when I was older, I misspoke - I said "På" for "For", and I wouldn't forget it. It haunted me for two days, until I remembered where I had learned it, burned it out from that very source. "Vent på meg..." never meant "Wait for me..." but, "Wait on me...". Sweet epiphany.
Once, when I was older still, I couldn't get stewardship and presidential together in my head, opposite taftian and congressional. I followed it to it's source, deep in a mountain of trivia long forgotten, moldered, all for the better, now feeding the mind. The Stewards of Gondor were less than the Kings.
So I'm sorry if I can't let things lie. It's never been my nature.
October 30, 2006
Utilitarian Garage Family
I don't know who to turn to. No, that's wrong. It's really completely off. I have plenty of people to turn to, and the diety of my choosing - that's one blessing. And I'm counting every one right now - not for warm and fuzzies, but because I have to.
Tidbit just drug herself up a flight of steps. Does anyone remember another little puppy who did that? Don't ever get a dachshund. Save yourself the heartache. They're the cutest dogs in the whole world, and the bravest (per size ratio), and the most loyal and sweetest. But you can love a mut just the same. I just want her to be Tidbit again.
Then there's my family. Coming home feels like going out to the garage nowadays. Cold and empty and old and worn out and above all utilitarian. Yeah. That's about it. My mind keeps going back to a day we all went hiking and played frisbee and cooked hotdogs and Tidbit and Tootsie chased each other down the trail as the leaves changed colours.
They're falling off the trees now - right as they've finally turned their brightest colours. The oaks are in full bloom right now, as it were - mom and dad say they've never seen such a bright oak. I took pictures so that when my heart is not as heavy I can enjoy them.
So yeah, Mom, she's still tired. Tired, she says. I don't know what I can do. My god, I'm sorry. I've tried my best. I try to be a good daughter. So, it's bad enough you yell at me. Tell me I'm the reason our family is breaking. Yeah, bad enough. Then you get Melissa in on it.
Go ahead. Tell her I'm the devil. I heard you tell her that I'm what's wrong with this family, that I'm a special needs child and I've taken all you have to give. Go ahead, tell her everything. Tell her if it wasn't for me... If it wasn't for me we'd still be throwing frisbees down by the river banks.
But I won't forgive you for that. I swear it - I'll forgive whatever you've said to me, in time, but I won't forget or forgive what you said to my sister. Not unless you see what you've done and paid for it, or until I've changed and all the world with me, become a better person, the good Christian I ought to be. I guess then I won't be wrecking any families, either.
Layla emailed me. How happy that makes me feel. When the whole world is spinning, I think, a kind word smooths it out and brightens it, too. Thank you, Layla.
My grades are going to hell. I can feel it and I care but I don't care and I hate myself for that too. I suppose my German grades holding up fine, I have no idea about English or Chemistry, never do... Gym I need my make ups, Gov I should have a solid B, and then there are the two I have to focus on: Math and Spanish: Borderline B-C and H-A, respectively.
But Math is hard and I don't have the stomach for it. So I throw myself into Spanish and it holds me for awhile. And food. I like to cook whole loaves of garlic bread and curl up on the couch and read Marianela and cry. Okay, no, I really don't, but I did yesterday and it made me feel better. And I love my Spanish.
No, I won't be emo about it. I promised that much and I won't back down. But if I have to burn that away with anger, I guess I'll have to do just that. And I'll live on emails dropped like rays of sunshine, and hugs from those who care, and my Spanish, and Tidbit in the morning when she first wakes up, and is almost Tidbit again until she remembers.
Tidbit just drug herself up a flight of steps. Does anyone remember another little puppy who did that? Don't ever get a dachshund. Save yourself the heartache. They're the cutest dogs in the whole world, and the bravest (per size ratio), and the most loyal and sweetest. But you can love a mut just the same. I just want her to be Tidbit again.
Then there's my family. Coming home feels like going out to the garage nowadays. Cold and empty and old and worn out and above all utilitarian. Yeah. That's about it. My mind keeps going back to a day we all went hiking and played frisbee and cooked hotdogs and Tidbit and Tootsie chased each other down the trail as the leaves changed colours.
They're falling off the trees now - right as they've finally turned their brightest colours. The oaks are in full bloom right now, as it were - mom and dad say they've never seen such a bright oak. I took pictures so that when my heart is not as heavy I can enjoy them.
So yeah, Mom, she's still tired. Tired, she says. I don't know what I can do. My god, I'm sorry. I've tried my best. I try to be a good daughter. So, it's bad enough you yell at me. Tell me I'm the reason our family is breaking. Yeah, bad enough. Then you get Melissa in on it.
Go ahead. Tell her I'm the devil. I heard you tell her that I'm what's wrong with this family, that I'm a special needs child and I've taken all you have to give. Go ahead, tell her everything. Tell her if it wasn't for me... If it wasn't for me we'd still be throwing frisbees down by the river banks.
But I won't forgive you for that. I swear it - I'll forgive whatever you've said to me, in time, but I won't forget or forgive what you said to my sister. Not unless you see what you've done and paid for it, or until I've changed and all the world with me, become a better person, the good Christian I ought to be. I guess then I won't be wrecking any families, either.
Layla emailed me. How happy that makes me feel. When the whole world is spinning, I think, a kind word smooths it out and brightens it, too. Thank you, Layla.
My grades are going to hell. I can feel it and I care but I don't care and I hate myself for that too. I suppose my German grades holding up fine, I have no idea about English or Chemistry, never do... Gym I need my make ups, Gov I should have a solid B, and then there are the two I have to focus on: Math and Spanish: Borderline B-C and H-A, respectively.
But Math is hard and I don't have the stomach for it. So I throw myself into Spanish and it holds me for awhile. And food. I like to cook whole loaves of garlic bread and curl up on the couch and read Marianela and cry. Okay, no, I really don't, but I did yesterday and it made me feel better. And I love my Spanish.
No, I won't be emo about it. I promised that much and I won't back down. But if I have to burn that away with anger, I guess I'll have to do just that. And I'll live on emails dropped like rays of sunshine, and hugs from those who care, and my Spanish, and Tidbit in the morning when she first wakes up, and is almost Tidbit again until she remembers.
October 22, 2006
To Do List
Yesterday I worked from 8:30-5:00, then had church from 6:15-10:30.
My to do list today? My mom lovingly wrote it out for me.
Sleep in.
Relax.
Install printer.
Install keyboard.
Go to Racquetball.
Shower.
Do Homework.
Clean Room.
Sort School Stuff.
Clean White Crate.
Clean Office.
Clean Bathroom.
Watch Scarlet Letter.
Right... you know, just because a Day is technically empty doesn't mean it's infinite...
So far I've slept in, sorted school stuff, cleaned my white crate, and installed the keyboard. It's four in the afternoon...
My to do list today? My mom lovingly wrote it out for me.
Sleep in.
Relax.
Install printer.
Install keyboard.
Go to Racquetball.
Shower.
Do Homework.
Clean Room.
Sort School Stuff.
Clean White Crate.
Clean Office.
Clean Bathroom.
Watch Scarlet Letter.
Right... you know, just because a Day is technically empty doesn't mean it's infinite...
So far I've slept in, sorted school stuff, cleaned my white crate, and installed the keyboard. It's four in the afternoon...
September 29, 2006
Choices?
I haven't even started my job yet, and mom's trying to convince me to quit. She's got issues, I swear... she just doesn't want to accept that I'm at an age where I might have commitments that supercede our trips to the lake and such. That's okay... I'm fine with them leaving me at home when I go to the lake. But she's throwing a fit about it.
Furthermore, as a blatant, burning mark that her selfishness is the primary factor here, she brings up that I'm going to have to choose between my job and Racquetball, which makes no sense at all. Yes, I'll be doing two things. Hardly impossible. Yes, I'll occasionally have to miss a Tuesday or Thursday game for work. Layla missed half the Freshman games for Violin practice. Life goes on.
She's always wanted me to quit Racquetball, and does nothing to hide that fact. Why can't she accept that I have a life complete with interests and commitments?
Furthermore, as a blatant, burning mark that her selfishness is the primary factor here, she brings up that I'm going to have to choose between my job and Racquetball, which makes no sense at all. Yes, I'll be doing two things. Hardly impossible. Yes, I'll occasionally have to miss a Tuesday or Thursday game for work. Layla missed half the Freshman games for Violin practice. Life goes on.
She's always wanted me to quit Racquetball, and does nothing to hide that fact. Why can't she accept that I have a life complete with interests and commitments?
September 07, 2006
Die Gefährten
So. I've deliberately held off from posting too much on the blog, because I did promise it wouldn't be so emo anymore. But now... he has come home at last. From the iron clutches of Mainz, Germany and General Motors Europe, Dad's come back home, and it seems there may be peace.
P.S. - He brought presents. When he said that, you could read the thoughts going through our heads: Mom - "I hope it isn't a goddamn Cuckoo Clock..." Melissa - "Clothes?!?! Chocolate!?!?!" Miranda - "A pamphlet from the trains station or some-odd in German!?"
But my present was better than a pamphlet from the train station. It was Der Herr der Ringe, Band 1 - Die Gefährten. ^^ I am le-happy. I'm thinking of collecting each book in the series in a different language... starting with El Hobbit and Die Gefährten...
P.S. - He brought presents. When he said that, you could read the thoughts going through our heads: Mom - "I hope it isn't a goddamn Cuckoo Clock..." Melissa - "Clothes?!?! Chocolate!?!?!" Miranda - "A pamphlet from the trains station or some-odd in German!?"
But my present was better than a pamphlet from the train station. It was Der Herr der Ringe, Band 1 - Die Gefährten. ^^ I am le-happy. I'm thinking of collecting each book in the series in a different language... starting with El Hobbit and Die Gefährten...
August 31, 2006
Oh the Mirth
Life's not been great here lately. Okay, it's been bad. No bonus this summer, so we're lower than we've ever been, Dad's still in Mainz, the house is full of Hormonal Females, Tidbit's developed a taste for trash, and the good old domicile itself is falling in around us. So far, the water heater turned itself into a bomb and my toilet and tub conspired to leaky mutiny over our family room ceiling.
Oh, not to lie, it's been bad. But, we're recovering, picking up pieces. We'll live, I suppose. :(
Oh, not to lie, it's been bad. But, we're recovering, picking up pieces. We'll live, I suppose. :(
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