I was doing some weird shit when I wrote the first blog. Just watching some dude while he watched music videos. Often times I find myself opting for observation over action, and having been asked to write without rewriting/editing was a new thing to me so I tried to combine observation and action. Usually I scribble ideas and scratch pictures and just make enough half-sentences to eventually create a whole idea. So I recall it distinctly, the experience of trying to write authentic and real and composed without the opportunity to return and recompose. No chance to cut and paste. Like right now, I am trying to do the same. (I just started to write the words -I don’t- as opposed to the words –I am-. Realize it was heading in the wrong sentence direction. I hope this slight edit can be forgiven.) I’m here in the library again because I think paying for internet is bullshit when Charter wants me to fork over near 30 bucks a month for very very slow “high speed internet”. That money belongs elsewhere. So I find myself in the library often when an assignment is due. First floor this time. Third computer from the wall. Directly below a faded yellow clock with a hauntingly fast second hand. Is that how fast my life is shooting by? Is this how slow I’m typing? There are two pictures on either side of me. Left- dancers? Theater majors? In poses aimed at elegance? I’m not sure what this picture is about. I think I know a guy in it, but I never can tell for certain if it is him because he’s not wearing his glasses in the photo. I wouldn’t wear glasses while doing pilates-dance-stretch-strange pose either though, so I don’t hold it against him. If it is him. Right- An Asian man with a glass bottle of something in it and-what I assume is a professor-looking on. The prof has a read polo style shirt and wire glasses. The Asian grad student, a lab coat and thick plastic framed glasses. I just wrote flasses both times I meant to write glasses. The other computers, once occupied, are now deserted. Except for a really cute black chick seated at the row of computers behind me, I am momentarily all alone. Do I ask her name? Her number? Nah, more blogs to post.
Life has been relatively easy for the past two years. I figured out my major, went gung-ho for it, and there hasn't been much else besides small personal decisions that I had to worry about. Then I find out I'm about to graduate after summer last spring. I had no idea. I had no plans. All the sudden life was difficult again. I have to worry about the lease on my house, leaving Auburn, moving back home (God help me), and looking towards a grad school I can't get into because I fucked around too much my first two years at college. All these decisions came back into view and all the sudden life is difficult again. The glory days of the safe stasis of college life are over and real life comes back into view. I got angry, sad, lonely, a myriad of emotions over the stress of having to make such life changing decisions that I truly don't want to make. Knowing I'm setting myself up for rejection attempting to get published and get into masters school somewhere. But then I started making such decisions and the context became more clear and life seemed worth the strife again. Road trip across the country, applying for jobs at national parks in the Colorado area, near my brother, the attempt at a stability in life that will also allow me to work on what I want to, not what I'm being told to work on. No more excuses, no more horse-shit from myself. It's time to put-up or shut-up, as people are apt to say. No more lying to myslef. It's time to test my limits, see if I belong in the writing world or in the academic world. Maybe neither, but at least life keeps moving. I realize that now better than ever.
He stares at me with those once mischievous eyes. They now only serve the purpose of a dam. To not let the flood gates open. They refuse because they’re as stubborn as he is.
I’d done it. It was over. The downpour on my own cheeks made up for any lack on his.
Bobby. My first boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend.
I’ll never forget the blood stained hat that never left his sight. The effortless country swag in dressing for church in the driveway. His goofy-ass smile and Tucan Sam nose. I “loved” him anyway. And dumped him just the same over the so-wrong-it-feels-right way that he told me he wouldn’t mind a proposition of sex in the backroom of the neighbor hood (family owned) grocery store Foodland.
I find myself today writing comments to blogs to finish up my last English class at Auburn University. My birthday is tomorrow and I’m enjoying my week off of school hanging out with friends and family before I move out to Knoxville to start the next chapter of my life at the University of Tennessee. And I’m petrified. How will I be able to move to Tennessee when I haven’t been so far away from my comfort zone ever? In applying to schools I could have easily gone to Samford, about 15 minutes from my home. It would have been so easy. I know all the teachers there and I have friends here already. No fresh start. But then I wondered. Did I want easy? Did I want to stay in Birmingham and not change at all? I chose Knoxville thinking it would help me grow up a little more and be better for me to learn from a different kind of area. So I get ready to move there next week and while yes I’m scared out of my mind, I think it’ll be for the best. I know it’s for the best, but I hate doing things out of my comfort zone. But then my grandparents and my family are so proud. The first grandchild to even finish undergrad let alone go to graduate school. And so I think. Here goes – I’m doing something else because of people’s reactions. I want to be amazing but is that wrong if it’s in the eyes of someone else? Of course I do it because I want to…but sometimes I wonder what’s really driving me.
In reading back over the blogs I notice this common themes of food and family. It seems that a lot of us took the chance to get very personal during this blog. I am not going to lie this blog appeared as a free for all. Dr. P wanted us just to write. When we talked about this blog in class, she gave her rationale of sometimes if we don't write for pleasure we can loose the beauty in it. I agree. After countless of research paper and proposal in college, the FUN of writing is taken out an dit seems to be a CHORE.
When I first was writing the blog, I was thinking What am I going to write about? I need to do it quick cause I want to go to Todd's Dance party.
I sat down and eventually I decided to write about my dad or Daddy as I like to call him. I am very close to my Daddy. I guess I use this blog to express my love for him and just my realization of how I beg him for money too much. lol.
I think in another writing class I wrote about my dad. I feel like sometimes in writing I can express things about my dad I don't always vocalize to him. A lot of stuff I wish to say to him, but I guess it is easier to write it down at times. Perhaps, I should show him some of the writing I did about him.
You asked us to write something real so I wrote about moving to a new home. I tried to make my readers feel my emotion with explicitly stating I was sad. It was really hard because I remember as I wrote, those feeling from that first night were there with me, surrounding me, choking me again. I was able me make myself feel again through writing, but did I make anyone else feel anything at all? Daniel wrote on something that made me feel. The rut, the resentment of the rut, the saddness we feel for realizing there is a rut and resenting the ones we love for it. I could feel his emotion. It made me think about myself. I put myself in his shoes. I was sitting across from my grandfather who can't chew a well-done steak anymore and wouldn't want to go to a restaurant in the first place. Complacency is not something I have seen much of though. After my father passed away, my mother made a decision to go back to school and get a degree. She did that while taking care of my sister and brother and me and having a full-time job. She doesn't realize it, but I learned a lot from that.
Something real huh? I’m pretty sure this goes against what I just wrote for the last blog. You want me to show you something real? Without editing it? I just don’t know if I can do that. I’ll try I guess. We spent the day walking the streets of Paris. It was my sophomore year in high school and up to this point I had never even kissed a boy… The romance practically oozed off those Paris streets. We had gotten to France early that morning and had ridden on a cramped bus to get to our small little hotel a little distance away from the center of the city. We arrived in the lobby of our hotel, the smell of fresh bread and the excited chatter of conversation drifted into the lobby with us, surrounding us. We spent the entire day walking, sight-seeing and shopping. By the time night fell, we were exhausted. We stopped at a tiny square a little distance away from down town and had our portraits drawn. I remember the way the light glowed around the square as I sat still for an hour. Drinking in every moment of this experience. He was so excited to see my drawing. In fact, he had been excited about everything I did while we were on the trip. He had sat next to me on the way over the pond and let me calm his fear of flying. He had listened to me explain every detail of my day since then. He had slept in my room with my friends and I for the whole week. I decided that this was going to be the night. I was going to give myself to him. He was so sweet and charming. That night I went back to my hotel room and put on the nicest pajamas that I brought with me. I slipped on a ring that I had bought earlier in the day and I waited for him to come to my room. I wasn’t thinking clearly. The oozing romance and the ever-present smell of bread must have been getting to me. Or maybe it was something about the way that light glowed off of the old buildings in the scare that night. Whatever it was doesn’t matter. He came to my room that night, just like I thought he would. But nothing happened. The truth is I wasn’t ready. I guess that is good enough. It’s pretty true and it kinda hurt to tell it.
I'm probably going to regret pulling this trigger. "The Velveteen Writer" was my favorite post. I freaking loved that book (the velveteen rabbit). LOVED IT. And I guess inspiration struck, because I love my post. It's one of the few things I've ever written that I really just... feel. I can't bulldoze my sunflowers with a re-write. It would never compare (to me at least). It would be a defiling of the one blog I hit "enter" and smiled. And in my head I'm thinking "wtf morgan this is a FINAL. With a real GRADE attached. Stop being so obstinate". But then I'm thinking- Isn't this what our entire class has been about? Finding your warrant, pulling triggers, pushing yourself, writing blindly and taking risks? Well, here you go.
The seeds are spread out in the fleshy palms of my hands. So tiny, so insubstantial and inconsequential. I could chuck them over my shoulder and not give them another thought... but I don't. I carefully spade out the tough chunks of Georgia clay and pile them up next to the neat little holes I've dug in a row. The sweet scent of upturned earth floats me to a euphoric level. The grasshoppers and tumbling bumblebees sing out in the spring air ripe with promise. Life is all around me, from the worms and beetles scurrying away from the spade, to the cardinals and bluejays darting through the spears of sunlight between the trees. I drop the seeds into their little graves of hope one by one. Covering them ignites something primal inside me, a deep, inexplicable satisfaction. I soak the earth with rain from a watering can. It turns dark and rich, did I add too much? Did I drown them before they ever got the chance to live? Am I giving life or taking it away? They need extra water, the suffocating Georgia heat will suck all the moisture out within a few hours tomorrow. I go inside the glowing house and forget about the tiny seeds.
Blades shoot out of the earth at a mind blowing rate. One day they reach my knees, the next my hips. Their big brown faces explode up towards the sun, and yellow petals as big as my pinkies unfurl. They stand like giants, some towering over my head; others I can look at face to face. They start each day expectantly gazing towards the East and end it sleepily watching the sun slide behind the trees in the West. It's incredible that these gargantuans that adore the sun sprouted from the dark hole of uncertainty.
Being alone. It's something I have done my whole life.
I am an only child. My dad traveled the first 17 year of my existence. I don't get along with my mother. At all.
Yea, I know how to be alone. Hell, I could practically teach a class on it at this point in my life.
One best friend is engaged. The room mate can hardly separate from her boyfriend long enough to even pee by herself. The other best friend is already married.
Yea, I am still alone. 22 years later.
It seems to me that no one can manage to be alone at this point in our lives. Everyone feels like they need someone to be complete. Does that make me a weirdo for enjoying my alone time?
My mother seems to think so. I have been single for 6 months and (considering this is the longest single streak I have had since I was 13 years old) she thinks I am a freak of nature. She pushes every guy she runs into on me. Hell, she even tried to pick up a guy in the mall for me... turns out he was gay. Thanks mom.
I don't feel the need to find my soul mate right now. I am still working on finding my soul right now.
In the first blog I wrote about a southern summer night. It’s a special time in my life that I don’t get to experience much anymore because 1. I’m in school year-round & 2. the place where I usually go camping was destroyed by a tornado. These summer nights hold a place in my heart because I was able to share them with people that I love and care for. They stand for a teenager, or young adult, who was carefree at the time…not too many worries in the world, just trying to figure out what to do the next weekend.
The post that caught my eyes was one by Tyler. He was talking about sibling rivalry. My brother and I have had our fights and disagreements. We would take each other’s stuff and hide it somewhere. Most of the time my brother was the one hiding things. He was a trickster, too. Jake would always tell me some bogus story and I would believe it. Now that we are older, we have grown closer. He still is a bit of a trickster, but I’ve wised up. So, I don’t believe everything he says. I wouldn’t trade Jake for all of the pairs of shoes ever made (and I do like shoes haha). What would I do without him? Well…let’s not answer that question.
Zeke is totally correct in saying that we often write about family and friends and food.. and maybe even life. I wrote about my sister in the last blog. I wrote things that I have never said to her, even though they may not seem that significant to y'all, just writing them was big for me. But today I want to tackle Catherine Wright's topic of being alone. I want to write for fun and I want to write what I really feel. First, let me send you to a link that is a giant middle finger to many people: http://www.relevantmagazine.com/life/relationship/blog/25590-single-and-not-alone Next, while yes, at this time I do have a boyfriend, it is out of the ordinary so take my words as you wish. (and I apologize for offending people in advance...)
"So do you have a boyfriend?" "Oh, um... no." The implied "fuck off" hangs in the air surrounded by awkwardness. Way to make me feel like shit... why does everyone always ask us if we have a boyfriend or girlfriend? It is the first question people ask right after "how are you?" and "how's school?" Top five ways to ask if you have a significant other: "Soooo... any new men in your life?" (Puhlease... are we on sex and the city?) "Are you dating anyone right now?" (Blunt, to the point, yet, still cuts just as sharply) "So are there any guys you're hanging out with?" (If we're jut hanging out it means it's not serious enough to tell you... so no.) "[insert name] is so cute. You guys should date." (If I had someone I would say oh yeah... dude may not like that. or if I didn't I would respond with an obvious eye roll.) "Like, Omg, My boyfriend did the cutest thing the other day, blah, blah, blah. Does yours do stuff like that?" (Bitch.)
I always want to scream. "Guess what! I am ridin' solo! But, I do go to a great school, I have excellent friends, people like me, and I think you're an idiot."
I don't know why we are infatuated with the idea of infatuation. Who really cares. 98% of the time I was perfectly content doin' my thang as a single lady. That 2% comes when people barge into my personal life, and when my grandmother acts like she might die because I won't be married by age 23. There is so much to do in life, people we have met, things we haven't experienced, why must we be so preocupied by a status box on applications. Personally and emotionally, fine, I agree relationships are more, but globally speaking, they simply exist as a statistic, so why do you care? We don't ask what race people are or what bracket our income falls into, so butt out, dude. Catherine talked about finding her soulmate and finding her soul, but, girlfriend, I think you've found it, it's just hanging around waiting to be recognized by everybody else.
This blog asked me to write something that was real... Ive tried to convey emotion without expressing it with words, and I feel like Im getting better at it. My first blog on this was about the rivalry my sister and I have had during our lives together (this was all true mind you) it felt so good to write about it, to relive old memories..even if they were filled with rage or emotion.
My sister and I...well we still don't get along, infact we down-right hate one another but we pu our differences aside for the holidays (that's more than I can say for other people in my family.) I guess you need to understand my family before you can fullty grasp that last comment. Long story short, if there isnt some kind of drama going on during the holidays(usually instigated by my mother or her sister) then something is wrong.. very wrong. Since my being born.. I have yet to experience a drama free christmas.
I degress, this blog was actually one of the ones that I honestly enjoyed writing. i loved being myself and writing my true memories, ones that have stuck with me for years.
Sometimes you just need to go home. There’s no place like it, right? Well, home is where I desperately needed to go when I responded to this blog, so I went. But I didn’t board a plane and head on back to Maryland – didn’t have to.
I wrote myself home.
And every time I read my post it takes me back there. See, I didn’t write with the hopes that someone else would be able to picture Christmas at my house. I didn’t write for anyone but me. I knew others would read it, and I imagined that they would react with the usual sigh and smile that accompany any reference to the most wonderful time of the year, but I had no intention of taking my reader home with me.
But, I love this post. I love it. It may be one of my favorite things I’ve ever written. Why? Because it moves me. It takes me somewhere else. It sends me on a roller coaster of emotions and sets my mind racing with memories – and it hardly says anything! All that happens in this little narrative is that I sit on the floor in front of a Christmas tree. But, it evokes in me a love for my family that is enough to make me pick up the phone and call them. Just reading the words brings me such indescribably comfort, I re-live the moment over and over every time I read and I don’t care if anyone else gets it because – well, because I don’t think I’ve ever written something that was more, ME.
Well, what can I say? The first blog I wrote was funny, but I thought it lacked that sad, real emotion I was truly looking for. I thought about this in my head until... my best friend/roommate read it.
Watching her laugh, remembering every second of the incident, showed me I was writing for a purpose. I was writing to reminisce. We all do it. Some of us use hardened words and heart felt moments, and others, like me, use embarassing incidents that probably shouldn't be read by the general public. Oh well. We all have our moments.
Truth is, I cried after re-reading my first blog. I know, sounds super lame, but I actually miss the days when I had all of my closest friends in Auburn with me. Now, half of them have moved across the country and I never talk to them unless there's a birthday. Any other time we talk it's almost awkard. We know our lives have changed. We have become different people.
So, I decided to send my post from this drunken night to all those friends who were there that night. (Including the ex: yuck) Best thing I've ever done. I was able to reminisce with these people and bring back the old days.
These old days mostly consisted of cheap wine, david gray, and an occassional cigarette. We would sit on my front porch for hours and hours talking about where we want to be in five years. I never would have imagined two of my friends being in texas within the NEXT year. It sucks, but we all have to grow up at some point.
I don't regret my previous, embarassing post. Instead I cherish it with all my heart because it brought a close knit group of crazy college girls back together for a brief phone call. That's what writing is all about right? Bringing an audience together to experience one great piece. I think so.
I thought that was it. I had my two shots. Done. They say you only have one great love... and well, I had mine. Or did I? Never say never, right? There I was in shambles, then slowly I scraped myself back off the ground, one limb at a time... and I stood- Step 1. I got busy, focused on myself, and it started to get a little better- Step 2. Started loving being single and doing my own thing... on the track to a great future, not too concerned about love or marriage- Step 3. Then I was good... being alone. But then....
BOOM!
It hit me like a ton of bricks! Love. It was back! What!? Could this really be happening to me? But I thought you only get one? Is this it? And then the feeling of shock turned into... Oh... so this is what it feels like. This is love. Wow. It DID happen to me. Suddenly I was making plans in my head, and smiling all the time. Slow down!!! Don't get ahead of yourself.... you could still get hurt.
Then... engagement? I'm THE one? He's THE one? Yes... he is. In two year... whoa. That shakes up my plans a little. But I like it. It's comfortable, and it feels.... so right. Hm. Who would have thought?
In my original post, I decided to write about one of the happiest moments of my life (which was followed, shortly after, by one of the most painful moments). I’m guessing that I was feeling sadly, so I wrote about something happy, hoping to feel those warm fuzzies once more. This is what you may call overcompensation. I call it a defense mechanism.
But this time, I want to write in real time. Yesterday, today - what’s real to me now, this very moment. And I owe it to you all to be as real as I am able. So…
I’m stuck in this river of ups and downs. My memory sucks (I have a sneaking suspicion that my memory is trying to do me a favor by being incompetent); last Friday feels like years ago - in that I can recall very few specifics, highly selective memory. I do remember that my apartment was crowded with guests. Friends, even. And amidst all the drunken laughter and banter, it felt like I was in some other realm - a dark, cold, isolated realm which exists in a grayscale. Not a color in sight. I retreated several times that night into my locked bedroom, trying not to attract any attention to my puffy red eyes. I skipped out on an invitation to see a good friend play a little show at Bourbon Street. The same thing happened Saturday. And Sunday. And maybe Monday; I can’t be sure. This morning I woke up jittery with no apparent cause. (I even had to skip the coffee because I knew it would only make things worse). I was almost fifteen minutes late to my “meeting” that happens every Tuesday at two o’clock (I have a therapist!). I was highly agitated when she came to retrieve me from the waiting room. Why? I did not know. I looked out the window. Maybe because I’m scared of the future? What will I do? Where will I live? Will I be alone? However, I could not bring myself to blurt out the thought that was flashing in neon light in my brain: I realize that this is unrealistic, and that I am in no way capable right now, but I WANT A CHILD. Someone to love unconditionally, and (hopefully) love me back, unconditionally. I did talk about being afraid all the time and missing out on things as a result of my fear. In summary, her conversational point was that we can make our own adventures. But I can never follow through. Laziness would be an easy excuse, but that’s not it. I sit in my house wanting so badly to see what’s outside, but I am absurdly frightful. She gave me a homework assignment: write down ten places I’d like to go/things I could experience, within driving distance. I left the office in my car and realized that I was not trembling for the first time all day (maybe all week). All I have to do is DO IT. My miracle worker doctor had said, paraphrasing, that I will never get stuck as long as I keep on moving. That even now, in Auburn, I can make my own REALLY fucking cool adventures.
Aunt Kat asked me once where fear gets us. I didn’t know. Her response: NOWHERE. But fear is my most highly accessible emotion, so it goes without saying that I was a little uncomfortable when assaulted by this truth. But I think I may get it now. I can stay in my bedroom all day pretending to work on school assignments instead of telling my roommate that her arguments with her boyfriend remind me of the most hellish environment I’ve ever been in - experiences which still haunt me. But my roommate (among the sweetest of people I’ve ever met) has no idea. Because I’m afraid to say it out loud. But the happy part is that I am finally learning how to speak and how to experience. Yes, my voice is quiet, but I am more resilient than I am quiet.
I’m sorry if this looks like a diary entry. And I told much more than I showed. But it is the real, however confused, ME. Right now. Confused and disoriented as could be possible.
Laura: I love you. “We looked inside each other and shared our first kiss. Our first kiss felt like the thousandth, and I believed a thousand more would follow.” I totally know this feeling.
Rachel: Love it!!!
This blog was awesome! Joy is what writing is at its deepest roots! That’s why we all took this class, right? We write because we love it! Sometimes I forget this. Especially when I have a research paper on 18th Century British Literature (gag), or have to respond to some God-awful poem. Sometimes I feel so jaded by life as an English Ed major that I completely give up on why I became one. Because I love to write. Because I want to share this with young people. Everyone can write. Everyone has a story.
It’s assignments like these that get me goin’ again. Loved it.
I told my family goodbye and headed to Atlanta with the rest of my team. The three hour drive was filled with a mixture of discussion as well as silence. We talked about our mission and how excited we were that we had been given this opportunity, but we also sat in silence because we knew the seriousness of the task ahead. Excitement and fear flowed through my veins as we approached the airport. Yes, I was leaving my country and had no idea what to expect from the third world country that was to be my home for the next week.
Flight Attendant: “We are now about to begin our descent to our destination of Managua, Nicaragua”. The anticipation was almost too much. As I rolled my luggage out of the Managua airport after our landing, I had no idea what this country had in store for my mission team and myself. I stepped out into the hot, humid Nicaraguan air, not knowing that this country and its people would forever change me.
I found that I could relate – in some way – to everyone’s post for this blog. These stories are so real… and highlight the parts of life that make life worth living. I absolutely loved Katy Perry’s post. We can all relate to the fear of love, as well as the excitement of finding a love that we never thought possible. This is one of the joys that we as humans are blessed enough to have. Too often we take for granted the sacredness of love… and of the human experience altogether.
Just a little oil (half a cup or so) and equal parts flour. They swirl around together on heat just high enough to change the color. First to wheat, then to coffee with creamer, then to milk chocolate. The perfect color for my undertaking. Chopped onions sting my eyes so badly I want to run into the shower and scrub them hard enough to draw blood. But I don't. By the time I got back, the rue would be burnt. So I throw in those pungent, irritating sweet onions, those beautifully green peppers,those awful-when-raw celery peices, a couple teaspoons of wonderfully minced garlic and creole seasoning. I can hear the cajuns singing now. Rather hollering like those on Swamp People. "Shoot 'im 'Lizabif." And I am shooting him. I'm killing this recipe so far, and the future of it is looking scrumptious. Chicken broth and black-eyed peas dance around in joy glad to be added to the bunch. Soon comes juicy shredded chiken, spicy andoiulle sausage, and suculently pink shrimp. All unaware that their lives served the sole purpose of joining my Monday night gumbo fleet. (sorry PETA; thank you Jesus) But oh what a life calling it was! Poured over rice, their God-given flavors skip across the tongues of my family in waves. First of great flavor, then of heat, then of satisfaction. We wipe our brow and dive into the pool of the only French cuisine we know, and we're thankful. But I'm the most thankful. Not for the food, and not for the music or wine. But for the laughter, the "mmms", the "my goodness"s, the smiles, and the propositions for seconds. I'm sure glad to get them. Vanilla ice cream with homemade peach sauce is next. And I can't wait for their reactions, Not so much the words as the pats on their full bellies, ready for more wine and longer stories. My mother says, "One day you'll make some man a fine wife." But until then, this hungry sea of familiar faces drenched in cajun food love is more than enough for me.
I don't feel the need to find my soul mate right now. I am still working on finding my soul right now. --beautiful, Catherine. I love this..
something real... this semester saved me. for the first time in my college career, I've given a shit about.. well, my college career. I eased up on my ridiculous boozing... I tend to go dead behind the eyes after one drink too many... almost drowned in a bath tub once... that was a close one... but most importantly, this was my final try at having a college career. For far too long I chose booze and partying over books and studying. I knew I had it in me, and that it comes REALLY fuckin' easy to me... but I never had the fear that in one millisecond I would never have the chance to be a college graduate. I fucked around so much that I'm currently on my last "last try." Next time (who am I kidding- there is no next time) I step out of line I'm expelled. No one knows that, other than my parents who are about to cut my throat and my best friend... my roommates don't even know. I think I just like to see how close to the edge I can possibly get without falling... its a game to me.. I love mind games.. I just never knew I liked playing them with myself... that sorta makes me sound like I need to head straight to the looney bin, but whatever just roll with it. But anyway-- peep this-- after all that bs, I'm still only graduating a semester late. Suck on that AU... I win. (I don't want to jinx myself.. but I promise I won't revert to my old ways...) I like the feeling of a win. Can't wait ta beat ya in December ya bitch... (bitch being college)
So I was super confused when this blog was first posted (many of you will remember this class day). She wanted us to write whatever and I couldn't figure that out. But anyway, here's a thing:
Sometimes you are the window and sometimes you are the bug. In this case I'm the bug just flying around town pollinating various flowers and shit near a highway, and the windshield of life is coming at me 18 miles a minute. I mean damn it. I still feel like a freshman, I still fart, I still FART ON MY GIRLFRIEND, and yet Auburn and my parents have both come to the agreement that it is time for me to graduate. SPLAT! I hope that driver has a pair of big ole windshield wipers because I'm a 140 pound bug, most of that weight is in guts. But I guess if I do have anything it is guts. I'm afraid of the future but I will face it, nay I will stare it down with blue eyes shinning. Because I have learned since the beginning of this class; I learned you don't have to make the news to be a good person (hello Osama) just like you don't have to be the worlds most talented writer. You can work hard on writing but more importantly work hard on being honest. Say somethings you will regret! Don't apoligize when some kid cuts you in line at Six Flags "The rides aren't going anywhere you little bastard!" Dammit guys I've learned so much from this class. Thanks Dr. P, thanks Steve Almond, and thanks Bill Nye the science guy for teaching me you can never not fully be jerkin your gerkin too much.
She wanted us to write something, so I will not apologize for this post. You're welcome.
I messed up that Osama metaphor. I just reread it and I made it sound like Osama was a good person inspite not making the news. When, in fact he did make the news and he was also a really awful guy. Someone I wouldn't invite to a bar-b-que (oh, wait he can't eat pork anyway). Also, he died. I guess that was a good thing he gave us via the news.
Unlike Morgan Birdsong, this was not the one post that I smiled as I pressed enter. I knew I wasn’t writing something real. I was writing something, alright, and something that really happened, but it wasn’t real. I was telling instead of showing… But I did better the next time. I smiled when I posted The Push blog, a part of that was what I really wanted to write. So I’m going to try again. Try again to write something real.
I was sitting by her bed, watching her struggle to breath. It had been so gradually going downhill for so long that this sudden plummet downward was even more of a surprise. We had been fighting the cancer for so long. First it started as skin cancer, rushing to pluck them off one at a time. Then mammary cancer. A full mastectomy had to be the answer. Get it all before it could invade, spread, infect… And then her breathing became troubled. X-rays revealed lung cancer, we hadn’t moved fast enough. That morning, only four days after Christmas, I had to make the call to my sister, telling her it was time. Scoop up her brown body and carefully carry her to the car. Cradle her head in my lap as we make the 10-minute trip to the vet’s office, her warm brown eyes looking up at me, telling me it was ok to let go, that it was time. She was tired of fighting. Carrying her brown body into the office because she was barely breathing and my mom was already breaking down into tears. 12 years of love and faithfulness and what does she get? Cancer, suffocating cancer. They rush us to a back room and I settle her now-slight weight on the exam table. She is wheezing and shivering now. I can’t cry, even as my mother is sobbing. The vet turns to me, trying to explain the options. But there is only one option. I turn my gaze back to her and find those caring eyes on me. It is time and she is telling me so. I nod. As the needle slides into her arm, I once again cradle her blocky Boxer head in my arms, struggling to remember the feeling one more time before it is lost forever. Her breath slows and then stops completely, but my head stays buried in her neck. I can’t watch her die. The vet says quietly, “She’s gone.”
I really like this post because it pushed me to the limits. I wrote about Thanksgiving day with my family and all the sights, smells, and sounds that go along with it. It really allows me to relive those moments in my writing and in my mind without actually being there. It's great.
I think this post allowed me to use emotions and imagery more than just trying to tell it. Like Dr. P always said, "Show it don't tell it". I think I did a good job of this in my original post, and feel like it would be a good model for me to aspire to in the future. I think I shy away from using emotions in my pieces because I'm afraid to be real and let others experience that emotion with me, but this is a good start. And makes me want it to be Thanksgiving so I can eat all that food. :)
Writing gives us that glorious opportunity to revisit and remember events without actually having to be there physically. Writing is unique because it's you telling it from your point of view and how that moment and that memory affected you. We all may remember it differently, but your voice and your POV deserve to be heard too.
I think this post might have been my favorite on both sides, and I think it encompasses one of the biggest lessons I’ve learned here…how to be real. As I think I’ve said before, the first time I went to write on here, I was so worried about how I sounded. I felt like I had something to prove, for myself and in what I was saying. And I ended up sounding boring, pretentious, and kind of fake (none of which I actually consider myself). When I look back at what I wrote for this post and the ones to follow after, I find myself liking it more and more with no intention of sounding conceded. It’s just that it sounds more like me. I read back over it and re-feel what I felt before, and I think that’s because I wasn’t trying so hard. I wasn’t trying to mask my words with glitter and glue hoping it shines and catches an eye. I wrote some shit and it was real. Now I think I’m going to tackle the next step. Taking my writing from real to raw. Peel back another layer. Sounds terrifying, but so did being real at first.
There has been a serious and troubling lack of lols on this blog. I fully expected people to follow up a funny post with a quick lol or smh. (Im not sure what "smh" means, I always assumed it meant 'Shetlands are Midget Horses' but that doesnt seem to fit in most of the places that some ignorant people like to put it. Who cares what it really means, I'll let it continue to be an informative little tidbit on the lives and sizes of horses) When I read through the posts on the original blog for the first time, there were a couple o times that I really wanted to follow up a post with a lol, and others that I found myself crying like John Boehner. Thats a good thing? I'm not sure what to write here, because literally nothing is coming to my head. I tell people all the time that the little monkey crashing the cymbals together inside my brain like to ttake breaks every now and then. He only plays percussion when he's drunk.
I was doing some weird shit when I wrote the first blog. Just watching some dude while he watched music videos. Often times I find myself opting for observation over action, and having been asked to write without rewriting/editing was a new thing to me so I tried to combine observation and action.
ReplyDeleteUsually I scribble ideas and scratch pictures and just make enough half-sentences to eventually create a whole idea. So I recall it distinctly, the experience of trying to write authentic and real and composed without the opportunity to return and recompose. No chance to cut and paste. Like right now, I am trying to do the same. (I just started to write the words -I don’t- as opposed to the words –I am-. Realize it was heading in the wrong sentence direction. I hope this slight edit can be forgiven.)
I’m here in the library again because I think paying for internet is bullshit when Charter wants me to fork over near 30 bucks a month for very very slow “high speed internet”. That money belongs elsewhere. So I find myself in the library often when an assignment is due. First floor this time. Third computer from the wall. Directly below a faded yellow clock with a hauntingly fast second hand. Is that how fast my life is shooting by? Is this how slow I’m typing?
There are two pictures on either side of me.
Left- dancers? Theater majors? In poses aimed at elegance? I’m not sure what this picture is about. I think I know a guy in it, but I never can tell for certain if it is him because he’s not wearing his glasses in the photo. I wouldn’t wear glasses while doing pilates-dance-stretch-strange pose either though, so I don’t hold it against him. If it is him.
Right- An Asian man with a glass bottle of something in it and-what I assume is a professor-looking on. The prof has a read polo style shirt and wire glasses. The Asian grad student, a lab coat and thick plastic framed glasses. I just wrote flasses both times I meant to write glasses.
The other computers, once occupied, are now deserted. Except for a really cute black chick seated at the row of computers behind me, I am momentarily all alone. Do I ask her name? Her number? Nah, more blogs to post.
Life has been relatively easy for the past two years. I figured out my major, went gung-ho for it, and there hasn't been much else besides small personal decisions that I had to worry about. Then I find out I'm about to graduate after summer last spring. I had no idea. I had no plans. All the sudden life was difficult again. I have to worry about the lease on my house, leaving Auburn, moving back home (God help me), and looking towards a grad school I can't get into because I fucked around too much my first two years at college. All these decisions came back into view and all the sudden life is difficult again. The glory days of the safe stasis of college life are over and real life comes back into view. I got angry, sad, lonely, a myriad of emotions over the stress of having to make such life changing decisions that I truly don't want to make. Knowing I'm setting myself up for rejection attempting to get published and get into masters school somewhere. But then I started making such decisions and the context became more clear and life seemed worth the strife again. Road trip across the country, applying for jobs at national parks in the Colorado area, near my brother, the attempt at a stability in life that will also allow me to work on what I want to, not what I'm being told to work on. No more excuses, no more horse-shit from myself. It's time to put-up or shut-up, as people are apt to say. No more lying to myslef. It's time to test my limits, see if I belong in the writing world or in the academic world. Maybe neither, but at least life keeps moving. I realize that now better than ever.
ReplyDeleteHe stares at me with those once mischievous eyes. They now only serve the purpose of a dam. To not let the flood gates open. They refuse because they’re as stubborn as he is.
ReplyDeleteI’d done it. It was over. The downpour on my own cheeks made up for any lack on his.
Bobby. My first boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend.
I’ll never forget the blood stained hat that never left his sight. The effortless country swag in dressing for church in the driveway. His goofy-ass smile and Tucan Sam nose. I “loved” him anyway. And dumped him just the same over the so-wrong-it-feels-right way that he told me he wouldn’t mind a proposition of sex in the backroom of the neighbor hood (family owned) grocery store Foodland.
I find myself today writing comments to blogs to finish up my last English class at Auburn University. My birthday is tomorrow and I’m enjoying my week off of school hanging out with friends and family before I move out to Knoxville to start the next chapter of my life at the University of Tennessee. And I’m petrified. How will I be able to move to Tennessee when I haven’t been so far away from my comfort zone ever? In applying to schools I could have easily gone to Samford, about 15 minutes from my home. It would have been so easy. I know all the teachers there and I have friends here already. No fresh start. But then I wondered. Did I want easy? Did I want to stay in Birmingham and not change at all? I chose Knoxville thinking it would help me grow up a little more and be better for me to learn from a different kind of area. So I get ready to move there next week and while yes I’m scared out of my mind, I think it’ll be for the best. I know it’s for the best, but I hate doing things out of my comfort zone. But then my grandparents and my family are so proud. The first grandchild to even finish undergrad let alone go to graduate school. And so I think. Here goes – I’m doing something else because of people’s reactions. I want to be amazing but is that wrong if it’s in the eyes of someone else? Of course I do it because I want to…but sometimes I wonder what’s really driving me.
ReplyDeleteIn reading back over the blogs I notice this common themes of food and family. It seems that a lot of us took the chance to get very personal during this blog. I am not going to lie this blog appeared as a free for all. Dr. P wanted us just to write. When we talked about this blog in class, she gave her rationale of sometimes if we don't write for pleasure we can loose the beauty in it. I agree. After countless of research paper and proposal in college, the FUN of writing is taken out an dit seems to be a CHORE.
ReplyDeleteWhen I first was writing the blog, I was thinking What am I going to write about? I need to do it quick cause I want to go to Todd's Dance party.
I sat down and eventually I decided to write about my dad or Daddy as I like to call him. I am very close to my Daddy. I guess I use this blog to express my love for him and just my realization of how I beg him for money too much. lol.
I think in another writing class I wrote about my dad. I feel like sometimes in writing I can express things about my dad I don't always vocalize to him. A lot of stuff I wish to say to him, but I guess it is easier to write it down at times. Perhaps, I should show him some of the writing I did about him.
You asked us to write something real so I wrote about moving to a new home. I tried to make my readers feel my emotion with explicitly stating I was sad. It was really hard because I remember as I wrote, those feeling from that first night were there with me, surrounding me, choking me again.
ReplyDeleteI was able me make myself feel again through writing, but did I make anyone else feel anything at all?
Daniel wrote on something that made me feel. The rut, the resentment of the rut, the saddness we feel for realizing there is a rut and resenting the ones we love for it.
I could feel his emotion. It made me think about myself. I put myself in his shoes. I was sitting across from my grandfather who can't chew a well-done steak anymore and wouldn't want to go to a restaurant in the first place. Complacency is not something I have seen much of though. After my father passed away, my mother made a decision to go back to school and get a degree. She did that while taking care of my sister and brother and me and having a full-time job. She doesn't realize it, but I learned a lot from that.
Something real huh? I’m pretty sure this goes against what I just wrote for the last blog. You want me to show you something real? Without editing it? I just don’t know if I can do that. I’ll try I guess.
ReplyDeleteWe spent the day walking the streets of Paris. It was my sophomore year in high school and up to this point I had never even kissed a boy… The romance practically oozed off those Paris streets. We had gotten to France early that morning and had ridden on a cramped bus to get to our small little hotel a little distance away from the center of the city. We arrived in the lobby of our hotel, the smell of fresh bread and the excited chatter of conversation drifted into the lobby with us, surrounding us. We spent the entire day walking, sight-seeing and shopping. By the time night fell, we were exhausted. We stopped at a tiny square a little distance away from down town and had our portraits drawn. I remember the way the light glowed around the square as I sat still for an hour. Drinking in every moment of this experience. He was so excited to see my drawing. In fact, he had been excited about everything I did while we were on the trip. He had sat next to me on the way over the pond and let me calm his fear of flying. He had listened to me explain every detail of my day since then. He had slept in my room with my friends and I for the whole week.
I decided that this was going to be the night. I was going to give myself to him. He was so sweet and charming. That night I went back to my hotel room and put on the nicest pajamas that I brought with me. I slipped on a ring that I had bought earlier in the day and I waited for him to come to my room. I wasn’t thinking clearly. The oozing romance and the ever-present smell of bread must have been getting to me. Or maybe it was something about the way that light glowed off of the old buildings in the scare that night. Whatever it was doesn’t matter. He came to my room that night, just like I thought he would. But nothing happened. The truth is I wasn’t ready.
I guess that is good enough. It’s pretty true and it kinda hurt to tell it.
I'm probably going to regret pulling this trigger. "The Velveteen Writer" was my favorite post. I freaking loved that book (the velveteen rabbit). LOVED IT. And I guess inspiration struck, because I love my post. It's one of the few things I've ever written that I really just... feel. I can't bulldoze my sunflowers with a re-write. It would never compare (to me at least). It would be a defiling of the one blog I hit "enter" and smiled. And in my head I'm thinking "wtf morgan this is a FINAL. With a real GRADE attached. Stop being so obstinate". But then I'm thinking- Isn't this what our entire class has been about? Finding your warrant, pulling triggers, pushing yourself, writing blindly and taking risks? Well, here you go.
ReplyDeleteThe seeds are spread out in the fleshy palms of my hands. So tiny, so insubstantial and inconsequential. I could chuck them over my shoulder and not give them another thought... but I don't. I carefully spade out the tough chunks of Georgia clay and pile them up next to the neat little holes I've dug in a row. The sweet scent of upturned earth floats me to a euphoric level. The grasshoppers and tumbling bumblebees sing out in the spring air ripe with promise. Life is all around me, from the worms and beetles scurrying away from the spade, to the cardinals and bluejays darting through the spears of sunlight between the trees. I drop the seeds into their little graves of hope one by one. Covering them ignites something primal inside me, a deep, inexplicable satisfaction. I soak the earth with rain from a watering can. It turns dark and rich, did I add too much? Did I drown them before they ever got the chance to live? Am I giving life or taking it away? They need extra water, the suffocating Georgia heat will suck all the moisture out within a few hours tomorrow. I go inside the glowing house and forget about the tiny seeds.
Blades shoot out of the earth at a mind blowing rate. One day they reach my knees, the next my hips. Their big brown faces explode up towards the sun, and yellow petals as big as my pinkies unfurl. They stand like giants, some towering over my head; others I can look at face to face. They start each day expectantly gazing towards the East and end it sleepily watching the sun slide behind the trees in the West. It's incredible that these gargantuans that adore the sun sprouted from the dark hole of uncertainty.
Being alone. It's something I have done my whole life.
ReplyDeleteI am an only child.
My dad traveled the first 17 year of my existence.
I don't get along with my mother. At all.
Yea, I know how to be alone. Hell, I could practically teach a class on it at this point in my life.
One best friend is engaged.
The room mate can hardly separate from her boyfriend long enough to even pee by herself.
The other best friend is already married.
Yea, I am still alone. 22 years later.
It seems to me that no one can manage to be alone at this point in our lives. Everyone feels like they need someone to be complete. Does that make me a weirdo for enjoying my alone time?
My mother seems to think so. I have been single for 6 months and (considering this is the longest single streak I have had since I was 13 years old) she thinks I am a freak of nature. She pushes every guy she runs into on me. Hell, she even tried to pick up a guy in the mall for me... turns out he was gay. Thanks mom.
I don't feel the need to find my soul mate right now. I am still working on finding my soul right now.
In the first blog I wrote about a southern summer night. It’s a special time in my life that I don’t get to experience much anymore because 1. I’m in school year-round & 2. the place where I usually go camping was destroyed by a tornado. These summer nights hold a place in my heart because I was able to share them with people that I love and care for. They stand for a teenager, or young adult, who was carefree at the time…not too many worries in the world, just trying to figure out what to do the next weekend.
ReplyDeleteThe post that caught my eyes was one by Tyler. He was talking about sibling rivalry. My brother and I have had our fights and disagreements. We would take each other’s stuff and hide it somewhere. Most of the time my brother was the one hiding things. He was a trickster, too. Jake would always tell me some bogus story and I would believe it. Now that we are older, we have grown closer. He still is a bit of a trickster, but I’ve wised up. So, I don’t believe everything he says. I wouldn’t trade Jake for all of the pairs of shoes ever made (and I do like shoes haha). What would I do without him? Well…let’s not answer that question.
Zeke is totally correct in saying that we often write about family and friends and food.. and maybe even life. I wrote about my sister in the last blog. I wrote things that I have never said to her, even though they may not seem that significant to y'all, just writing them was big for me. But today I want to tackle Catherine Wright's topic of being alone. I want to write for fun and I want to write what I really feel. First, let me send you to a link that is a giant middle finger to many people: http://www.relevantmagazine.com/life/relationship/blog/25590-single-and-not-alone
ReplyDeleteNext, while yes, at this time I do have a boyfriend, it is out of the ordinary so take my words as you wish. (and I apologize for offending people in advance...)
"So do you have a boyfriend?"
"Oh, um... no." The implied "fuck off" hangs in the air surrounded by awkwardness.
Way to make me feel like shit... why does everyone always ask us if we have a boyfriend or girlfriend? It is the first question people ask right after "how are you?" and "how's school?"
Top five ways to ask if you have a significant other:
"Soooo... any new men in your life?" (Puhlease... are we on sex and the city?)
"Are you dating anyone right now?"
(Blunt, to the point, yet, still cuts just as sharply)
"So are there any guys you're hanging out with?"
(If we're jut hanging out it means it's not serious enough to tell you... so no.)
"[insert name] is so cute. You guys should date."
(If I had someone I would say oh yeah... dude may not like that. or if I didn't I would respond with an obvious eye roll.)
"Like, Omg, My boyfriend did the cutest thing the other day, blah, blah, blah. Does yours do stuff like that?"
(Bitch.)
I always want to scream. "Guess what! I am ridin' solo! But, I do go to a great school, I have excellent friends, people like me, and I think you're an idiot."
I don't know why we are infatuated with the idea of infatuation. Who really cares. 98% of the time I was perfectly content doin' my thang as a single lady. That 2% comes when people barge into my personal life, and when my grandmother acts like she might die because I won't be married by age 23. There is so much to do in life, people we have met, things we haven't experienced, why must we be so preocupied by a status box on applications. Personally and emotionally, fine, I agree relationships are more, but globally speaking, they simply exist as a statistic, so why do you care? We don't ask what race people are or what bracket our income falls into, so butt out, dude. Catherine talked about finding her soulmate and finding her soul, but, girlfriend, I think you've found it, it's just hanging around waiting to be recognized by everybody else.
This blog asked me to write something that was real... Ive tried to convey emotion without expressing it with words, and I feel like Im getting better at it. My first blog on this was about the rivalry my sister and I have had during our lives together (this was all true mind you) it felt so good to write about it, to relive old memories..even if they were filled with rage or emotion.
ReplyDeleteMy sister and I...well we still don't get along, infact we down-right hate one another but we pu our differences aside for the holidays (that's more than I can say for other people in my family.) I guess you need to understand my family before you can fullty grasp that last comment. Long story short, if there isnt some kind of drama going on during the holidays(usually instigated by my mother or her sister) then something is wrong.. very wrong. Since my being born.. I have yet to experience a drama free christmas.
I degress, this blog was actually one of the ones that I honestly enjoyed writing. i loved being myself and writing my true memories, ones that have stuck with me for years.
Sometimes you just need to go home. There’s no place like it, right? Well, home is where I desperately needed to go when I responded to this blog, so I went. But I didn’t board a plane and head on back to Maryland – didn’t have to.
ReplyDeleteI wrote myself home.
And every time I read my post it takes me back there. See, I didn’t write with the hopes that someone else would be able to picture Christmas at my house. I didn’t write for anyone but me. I knew others would read it, and I imagined that they would react with the usual sigh and smile that accompany any reference to the most wonderful time of the year, but I had no intention of taking my reader home with me.
But, I love this post. I love it. It may be one of my favorite things I’ve ever written. Why? Because it moves me. It takes me somewhere else. It sends me on a roller coaster of emotions and sets my mind racing with memories – and it hardly says anything! All that happens in this little narrative is that I sit on the floor in front of a Christmas tree. But, it evokes in me a love for my family that is enough to make me pick up the phone and call them. Just reading the words brings me such indescribably comfort, I re-live the moment over and over every time I read and I don’t care if anyone else gets it because – well, because I don’t think I’ve ever written something that was more, ME.
Well, what can I say? The first blog I wrote was funny, but I thought it lacked that sad, real emotion I was truly looking for. I thought about this in my head until... my best friend/roommate read it.
ReplyDeleteWatching her laugh, remembering every second of the incident, showed me I was writing for a purpose. I was writing to reminisce. We all do it. Some of us use hardened words and heart felt moments, and others, like me, use embarassing incidents that probably shouldn't be read by the general public. Oh well. We all have our moments.
Truth is, I cried after re-reading my first blog. I know, sounds super lame, but I actually miss the days when I had all of my closest friends in Auburn with me. Now, half of them have moved across the country and I never talk to them unless there's a birthday. Any other time we talk it's almost awkard. We know our lives have changed. We have become different people.
So, I decided to send my post from this drunken night to all those friends who were there that night. (Including the ex: yuck) Best thing I've ever done. I was able to reminisce with these people and bring back the old days.
These old days mostly consisted of cheap wine, david gray, and an occassional cigarette. We would sit on my front porch for hours and hours talking about where we want to be in five years. I never would have imagined two of my friends being in texas within the NEXT year. It sucks, but we all have to grow up at some point.
I don't regret my previous, embarassing post. Instead I cherish it with all my heart because it brought a close knit group of crazy college girls back together for a brief phone call. That's what writing is all about right? Bringing an audience together to experience one great piece. I think so.
I thought that was it. I had my two shots. Done. They say you only have one great love... and well, I had mine. Or did I? Never say never, right? There I was in shambles, then slowly I scraped myself back off the ground, one limb at a time... and I stood- Step 1. I got busy, focused on myself, and it started to get a little better- Step 2. Started loving being single and doing my own thing... on the track to a great future, not too concerned about love or marriage- Step 3. Then I was good... being alone. But then....
ReplyDeleteBOOM!
It hit me like a ton of bricks! Love. It was back! What!? Could this really be happening to me? But I thought you only get one? Is this it? And then the feeling of shock turned into... Oh... so this is what it feels like. This is love. Wow. It DID happen to me. Suddenly I was making plans in my head, and smiling all the time. Slow down!!! Don't get ahead of yourself.... you could still get hurt.
Then... engagement? I'm THE one? He's THE one? Yes... he is. In two year... whoa. That shakes up my plans a little. But I like it. It's comfortable, and it feels.... so right. Hm. Who would have thought?
In my original post, I decided to write about one of the happiest moments of my life (which was followed, shortly after, by one of the most painful moments). I’m guessing that I was feeling sadly, so I wrote about something happy, hoping to feel those warm fuzzies once more. This is what you may call overcompensation. I call it a defense mechanism.
ReplyDeleteBut this time, I want to write in real time. Yesterday, today - what’s real to me now, this very moment. And I owe it to you all to be as real as I am able. So…
I’m stuck in this river of ups and downs. My memory sucks (I have a sneaking suspicion that my memory is trying to do me a favor by being incompetent); last Friday feels like years ago - in that I can recall very few specifics, highly selective memory. I do remember that my apartment was crowded with guests. Friends, even. And amidst all the drunken laughter and banter, it felt like I was in some other realm - a dark, cold, isolated realm which exists in a grayscale. Not a color in sight. I retreated several times that night into my locked bedroom, trying not to attract any attention to my puffy red eyes. I skipped out on an invitation to see a good friend play a little show at Bourbon Street. The same thing happened Saturday. And Sunday. And maybe Monday; I can’t be sure. This morning I woke up jittery with no apparent cause. (I even had to skip the coffee because I knew it would only make things worse). I was almost fifteen minutes late to my “meeting” that happens every Tuesday at two o’clock (I have a therapist!). I was highly agitated when she came to retrieve me from the waiting room. Why? I did not know. I looked out the window. Maybe because I’m scared of the future? What will I do? Where will I live? Will I be alone? However, I could not bring myself to blurt out the thought that was flashing in neon light in my brain: I realize that this is unrealistic, and that I am in no way capable right now, but I WANT A CHILD. Someone to love unconditionally, and (hopefully) love me back, unconditionally. I did talk about being afraid all the time and missing out on things as a result of my fear. In summary, her conversational point was that we can make our own adventures. But I can never follow through. Laziness would be an easy excuse, but that’s not it. I sit in my house wanting so badly to see what’s outside, but I am absurdly frightful. She gave me a homework assignment: write down ten places I’d like to go/things I could experience, within driving distance. I left the office in my car and realized that I was not trembling for the first time all day (maybe all week). All I have to do is DO IT. My miracle worker doctor had said, paraphrasing, that I will never get stuck as long as I keep on moving. That even now, in Auburn, I can make my own REALLY fucking cool adventures.
Aunt Kat asked me once where fear gets us. I didn’t know. Her response: NOWHERE. But fear is my most highly accessible emotion, so it goes without saying that I was a little uncomfortable when assaulted by this truth. But I think I may get it now. I can stay in my bedroom all day pretending to work on school assignments instead of telling my roommate that her arguments with her boyfriend remind me of the most hellish environment I’ve ever been in - experiences which still haunt me. But my roommate (among the sweetest of people I’ve ever met) has no idea. Because I’m afraid to say it out loud. But the happy part is that I am finally learning how to speak and how to experience. Yes, my voice is quiet, but I am more resilient than I am quiet.
I’m sorry if this looks like a diary entry. And I told much more than I showed. But it is the real, however confused, ME. Right now. Confused and disoriented as could be possible.
Kristin Michelle: Your piece was delicious.
ReplyDeleteLaura: I love you. “We looked inside each other and shared our first kiss. Our first kiss felt like the thousandth, and I believed a thousand more would follow.” I totally know this feeling.
Rachel: Love it!!!
This blog was awesome! Joy is what writing is at its deepest roots! That’s why we all took this class, right? We write because we love it!
Sometimes I forget this. Especially when I have a research paper on 18th Century British Literature (gag), or have to respond to some God-awful poem. Sometimes I feel so jaded by life as an English Ed major that I completely give up on why I became one. Because I love to write. Because I want to share this with young people. Everyone can write. Everyone has a story.
It’s assignments like these that get me goin’ again. Loved it.
Oh, and Catherine. You and I are totally in the same boat.
ReplyDeleteLet's just be creepy old cat ladies together, kay?
March 13, 2010.
ReplyDeleteI told my family goodbye and headed to Atlanta with the rest of my team. The three hour drive was filled with a mixture of discussion as well as silence. We talked about our mission and how excited we were that we had been given this opportunity, but we also sat in silence because we knew the seriousness of the task ahead. Excitement and fear flowed through my veins as we approached the airport. Yes, I was leaving my country and had no idea what to expect from the third world country that was to be my home for the next week.
Flight Attendant: “We are now about to begin our descent to our destination of Managua, Nicaragua”. The anticipation was almost too much. As I rolled my luggage out of the Managua airport after our landing, I had no idea what this country had in store for my mission team and myself. I stepped out into the hot, humid Nicaraguan air, not knowing that this country and its people would forever change me.
I found that I could relate – in some way – to everyone’s post for this blog. These stories are so real… and highlight the parts of life that make life worth living. I absolutely loved Katy Perry’s post. We can all relate to the fear of love, as well as the excitement of finding a love that we never thought possible. This is one of the joys that we as humans are blessed enough to have. Too often we take for granted the sacredness of love… and of the human experience altogether.
Just a little oil (half a cup or so) and equal parts flour. They swirl around together on heat just high enough to change the color. First to wheat, then to coffee with creamer, then to milk chocolate. The perfect color for my undertaking. Chopped onions sting my eyes so badly I want to run into the shower and scrub them hard enough to draw blood. But I don't. By the time I got back, the rue would be burnt. So I throw in those pungent, irritating sweet onions, those beautifully green peppers,those awful-when-raw celery peices, a couple teaspoons of wonderfully minced garlic and creole seasoning. I can hear the cajuns singing now. Rather hollering like those on Swamp People. "Shoot 'im 'Lizabif." And I am shooting him. I'm killing this recipe so far, and the future of it is looking scrumptious. Chicken broth and black-eyed peas dance around in joy glad to be added to the bunch. Soon comes juicy shredded chiken, spicy andoiulle sausage, and suculently pink shrimp. All unaware that their lives served the sole purpose of joining my Monday night gumbo fleet. (sorry PETA; thank you Jesus) But oh what a life calling it was! Poured over rice, their God-given flavors skip across the tongues of my family in waves. First of great flavor, then of heat, then of satisfaction. We wipe our brow and dive into the pool of the only French cuisine we know, and we're thankful. But I'm the most thankful. Not for the food, and not for the music or wine. But for the laughter, the "mmms", the "my goodness"s, the smiles, and the propositions for seconds. I'm sure glad to get them. Vanilla ice cream with homemade peach sauce is next. And I can't wait for their reactions, Not so much the words as the pats on their full bellies, ready for more wine and longer stories. My mother says, "One day you'll make some man a fine wife." But until then, this hungry sea of familiar faces drenched in cajun food love is more than enough for me.
ReplyDeleteI don't feel the need to find my soul mate right now. I am still working on finding my soul right now. --beautiful, Catherine. I love this..
ReplyDeletesomething real... this semester saved me. for the first time in my college career, I've given a shit about.. well, my college career. I eased up on my ridiculous boozing... I tend to go dead behind the eyes after one drink too many... almost drowned in a bath tub once... that was a close one... but most importantly, this was my final try at having a college career. For far too long I chose booze and partying over books and studying. I knew I had it in me, and that it comes REALLY fuckin' easy to me... but I never had the fear that in one millisecond I would never have the chance to be a college graduate. I fucked around so much that I'm currently on my last "last try." Next time (who am I kidding- there is no next time) I step out of line I'm expelled. No one knows that, other than my parents who are about to cut my throat and my best friend... my roommates don't even know. I think I just like to see how close to the edge I can possibly get without falling... its a game to me.. I love mind games.. I just never knew I liked playing them with myself... that sorta makes me sound like I need to head straight to the looney bin, but whatever just roll with it.
But anyway-- peep this-- after all that bs, I'm still only graduating a semester late. Suck on that AU... I win. (I don't want to jinx myself.. but I promise I won't revert to my old ways...) I like the feeling of a win. Can't wait ta beat ya in December ya bitch... (bitch being college)
So I was super confused when this blog was first posted (many of you will remember this class day). She wanted us to write whatever and I couldn't figure that out. But anyway, here's a thing:
ReplyDeleteSometimes you are the window and sometimes you are the bug. In this case I'm the bug just flying around town pollinating various flowers and shit near a highway, and the windshield of life is coming at me 18 miles a minute. I mean damn it. I still feel like a freshman, I still fart, I still FART ON MY GIRLFRIEND, and yet Auburn and my parents have both come to the agreement that it is time for me to graduate. SPLAT!
I hope that driver has a pair of big ole windshield wipers because I'm a 140 pound bug, most of that weight is in guts. But I guess if I do have anything it is guts. I'm afraid of the future but I will face it, nay I will stare it down with blue eyes shinning. Because I have learned since the beginning of this class; I learned you don't have to make the news to be a good person (hello Osama) just like you don't have to be the worlds most talented writer. You can work hard on writing but more importantly work hard on being honest. Say somethings you will regret! Don't apoligize when some kid cuts you in line at Six Flags "The rides aren't going anywhere you little bastard!" Dammit guys I've learned so much from this class. Thanks Dr. P, thanks Steve Almond, and thanks Bill Nye the science guy for teaching me you can never not fully be jerkin your gerkin too much.
She wanted us to write something, so I will not apologize for this post. You're welcome.
I messed up that Osama metaphor. I just reread it and I made it sound like Osama was a good person inspite not making the news. When, in fact he did make the news and he was also a really awful guy. Someone I wouldn't invite to a bar-b-que (oh, wait he can't eat pork anyway). Also, he died. I guess that was a good thing he gave us via the news.
ReplyDeleteUnlike Morgan Birdsong, this was not the one post that I smiled as I pressed enter. I knew I wasn’t writing something real. I was writing something, alright, and something that really happened, but it wasn’t real. I was telling instead of showing… But I did better the next time. I smiled when I posted The Push blog, a part of that was what I really wanted to write. So I’m going to try again. Try again to write something real.
ReplyDeleteI was sitting by her bed, watching her struggle to breath. It had been so gradually going downhill for so long that this sudden plummet downward was even more of a surprise. We had been fighting the cancer for so long. First it started as skin cancer, rushing to pluck them off one at a time. Then mammary cancer. A full mastectomy had to be the answer. Get it all before it could invade, spread, infect… And then her breathing became troubled. X-rays revealed lung cancer, we hadn’t moved fast enough. That morning, only four days after Christmas, I had to make the call to my sister, telling her it was time. Scoop up her brown body and carefully carry her to the car. Cradle her head in my lap as we make the 10-minute trip to the vet’s office, her warm brown eyes looking up at me, telling me it was ok to let go, that it was time. She was tired of fighting. Carrying her brown body into the office because she was barely breathing and my mom was already breaking down into tears. 12 years of love and faithfulness and what does she get? Cancer, suffocating cancer. They rush us to a back room and I settle her now-slight weight on the exam table. She is wheezing and shivering now. I can’t cry, even as my mother is sobbing. The vet turns to me, trying to explain the options. But there is only one option. I turn my gaze back to her and find those caring eyes on me. It is time and she is telling me so. I nod. As the needle slides into her arm, I once again cradle her blocky Boxer head in my arms, struggling to remember the feeling one more time before it is lost forever. Her breath slows and then stops completely, but my head stays buried in her neck. I can’t watch her die. The vet says quietly, “She’s gone.”
I really like this post because it pushed me to the limits. I wrote about Thanksgiving day with my family and all the sights, smells, and sounds that go along with it. It really allows me to relive those moments in my writing and in my mind without actually being there. It's great.
ReplyDeleteI think this post allowed me to use emotions and imagery more than just trying to tell it. Like Dr. P always said, "Show it don't tell it". I think I did a good job of this in my original post, and feel like it would be a good model for me to aspire to in the future. I think I shy away from using emotions in my pieces because I'm afraid to be real and let others experience that emotion with me, but this is a good start. And makes me want it to be Thanksgiving so I can eat all that food. :)
Writing gives us that glorious opportunity to revisit and remember events without actually having to be there physically. Writing is unique because it's you telling it from your point of view and how that moment and that memory affected you. We all may remember it differently, but your voice and your POV deserve to be heard too.
I think this post might have been my favorite on both sides, and I think it encompasses one of the biggest lessons I’ve learned here…how to be real. As I think I’ve said before, the first time I went to write on here, I was so worried about how I sounded. I felt like I had something to prove, for myself and in what I was saying. And I ended up sounding boring, pretentious, and kind of fake (none of which I actually consider myself). When I look back at what I wrote for this post and the ones to follow after, I find myself liking it more and more with no intention of sounding conceded. It’s just that it sounds more like me. I read back over it and re-feel what I felt before, and I think that’s because I wasn’t trying so hard. I wasn’t trying to mask my words with glitter and glue hoping it shines and catches an eye. I wrote some shit and it was real. Now I think I’m going to tackle the next step. Taking my writing from real to raw. Peel back another layer. Sounds terrifying, but so did being real at first.
ReplyDeleteThere has been a serious and troubling lack of lols on this blog. I fully expected people to follow up a funny post with a quick lol or smh. (Im not sure what "smh" means, I always assumed it meant 'Shetlands are Midget Horses' but that doesnt seem to fit in most of the places that some ignorant people like to put it. Who cares what it really means, I'll let it continue to be an informative little tidbit on the lives and sizes of horses) When I read through the posts on the original blog for the first time, there were a couple o times that I really wanted to follow up a post with a lol, and others that I found myself crying like John Boehner. Thats a good thing? I'm not sure what to write here, because literally nothing is coming to my head. I tell people all the time that the little monkey crashing the cymbals together inside my brain like to ttake breaks every now and then. He only plays percussion when he's drunk.
ReplyDelete