I'm not really one for setting goals. Even something as simple as 'brush your hair at least once a day' is destined to be followed for exactly 27 hours, after which I will brush my hair whenever I darn well please, thankyouverymuch.
I have this theory.
You see, we set goals in the present, expecting our future selves to be as on board with them as our present selves are. But, our future selves, when faced with the actual reality of having to do the thing present (but now past) self set a goal to do, future self (but now present) balks and decides that it's a much better idea to spend the afternoon plucking eyebrows and watching Star Trek: The Next Generation on Netflix and wondering where on earth all the cheesecake has gotten to. And the goal to volunteer at the doggie shelter gets swept aside. Until, of course, a future self which becomes a present self sets another goal for the future future self. And the cycle continues.
Past selves and present selves and future selves are not really the same people. Not exactly. And it's really always present self we have to live with.
My present self is kinda lazy. She likes sleeping and bumming around on the internet and playing video games. She does not like exercise, nor giving up her time for worthy causes, nor trying to reinvent her self.
So this year, I resolve to read books. As many as I feel like reading at the time. I also resolve to smile at my parents. And I resolve, most of all, to make snide remarks to future Beth about past Beth's atrocious spending habits.
Because seriously, did she think that dolphin necklace was actually fashionable?
Showing posts with label revealing my faults. Show all posts
Showing posts with label revealing my faults. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 02, 2013
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Conversational Angst
I always feel uncomfortable when I'm with a group of people and the conversation turns to dieting or exercise regimens, and how much everybody wishes they could lose those last two or three pounds.
I sort of feel like adding to the conversation with my own personal experiences. Things like, "Did you know that, if humans were like amoebas, I'd probably already have divided into two people by now? Maybe three if they were particularly svelte?"
Or, "Yes. My darn gravity well just keeps getting deeper and deeper. I think if I have any more of this chocolate cake, I'll probably become a black hole."
Or, "Hey, do you see this softball rotating around my middle? It's a small moon I acquired just last week. It's the latest in plus-size accessories."
But instead I sit there, looking like a human beanbag chair, nodding sympathetically as people talk about elliptical machines and only being able to muscle down two bites of the incredibly sweet dessert that I've already had two servings of. As if I know what they're talking about. As if we're even from the same universe.
My back aches all the time, my ankle twists with great regularity, and I will probably die of a heart attack at age 39. Now. Can we please talk about something else? Books, I hear, are very nice conversational topics this time of year.
Friday, October 09, 2009
Leaking
I seem to be having trouble with water lately.
I spill it, inhale it, and otherwise do things with it that were not ever meant to be done by a human being. Ever.
Like that time when, using the convenient in-door dispenser on our refrigerator, I held my cup in long enough to do a scale model recreation of Yosemite Falls, soaking my hand, my shirt, and temporarily resurrecting Lake Bonneville.
Or when I attempted to swallow a bit of that saliva that accumulates in the mouth (come on now--let's not pretend that gross things don't exist, or that you don't do them) and decided to inhale rather than wisely blocking the passage to my windpipe (kind of like when you breathe in right before biting into a donut covered in powdered sugar and wind up curled up on the floor having spasms for half an hour) thus possibly resulting in the cough I've had for the past two weeks.
Or just now, when, bringing my cup (a different cup, for we have many) to my lips, instead of pouring fresh quaffs of delightfully chill'd water into my parch'd throat, I instead poured said delightfully freezing water down my front, resulting in a sodden mess, from which I was somehow able to squeeze more liquid than had actually been contained in my cup at the time of spillage. (The laws of physics do not apply in situations like these.)
I know I am not the world's most graceful person. I do not do graceful things like ballet dancing (although my niece somehow seems to have The Gift for it), or moving through a room like a whisper from a butterfly, or balancing stacks of books on my head (instead I read them, people). But I still cannot quite believe how clumsy I seem to be.
And how very, VERY dangerous water has become.
I spill it, inhale it, and otherwise do things with it that were not ever meant to be done by a human being. Ever.
Like that time when, using the convenient in-door dispenser on our refrigerator, I held my cup in long enough to do a scale model recreation of Yosemite Falls, soaking my hand, my shirt, and temporarily resurrecting Lake Bonneville.
Or when I attempted to swallow a bit of that saliva that accumulates in the mouth (come on now--let's not pretend that gross things don't exist, or that you don't do them) and decided to inhale rather than wisely blocking the passage to my windpipe (kind of like when you breathe in right before biting into a donut covered in powdered sugar and wind up curled up on the floor having spasms for half an hour) thus possibly resulting in the cough I've had for the past two weeks.
Or just now, when, bringing my cup (a different cup, for we have many) to my lips, instead of pouring fresh quaffs of delightfully chill'd water into my parch'd throat, I instead poured said delightfully freezing water down my front, resulting in a sodden mess, from which I was somehow able to squeeze more liquid than had actually been contained in my cup at the time of spillage. (The laws of physics do not apply in situations like these.)
I know I am not the world's most graceful person. I do not do graceful things like ballet dancing (although my niece somehow seems to have The Gift for it), or moving through a room like a whisper from a butterfly, or balancing stacks of books on my head (instead I read them, people). But I still cannot quite believe how clumsy I seem to be.
And how very, VERY dangerous water has become.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
My lack of a job is starting to interfere with my night life.
Some of you may be shocked when you read this entry, namely because I did not indulge in Pirate Speak during the writing of it. Or at least not much. Arr.
But try to rein in your discontent for a moment. I wish to write of a matter of vital importance.
I am sleeping really weird(ly?) lately.
Not that my dreams are odd, or rather are no more odd than usual, but my sleeping schedule seems to be slipping further and further away from the norm (as defined by what normal people do during normal hours of the day, as opposed to what imaginary people like me do).
For instance, take yesterday. I woke up at 11am. As in eleven o'clock in the morning. I ate breakfast while my parents had lunch. And then I played video games. (So much for job hunting.) And then I went to bed at 4am this morning. And woke up about five minutes before noon today.
For a while after a moved home, I was still on Eastern Time. On early-rising ET, even. When I lived just outside of Boston, I would frequently get up at 6am so I could get ready and out the door and on the (unpredictable) T and arrive at work on time and have the library all nice and open when patrons started showing up.
So, just to point this out to you, I would frequently get up at the exact same time that I went to bed this morning. So, basically the slippage has now shifted me ahead the amount of one entire sleep schedule.
Not cool, me peeps. Not cool. Especially because when I start sleeping this late, my dreams get really lucid and. Disturbing. Like ex-boyfriends visiting a woman in a prison and killing her with fishing tackle and leaving her for her little boy to find. Oh, and same dream: day-old soft-serve ice cream cones that have somehow retained their shape, but are room-temperature and stale.
So, no more domestic (in-prison?) violence in my dreams, please. No more stale ice cream cones. I needs to get me a job. Pronto.
But try to rein in your discontent for a moment. I wish to write of a matter of vital importance.
I am sleeping really weird(ly?) lately.
Not that my dreams are odd, or rather are no more odd than usual, but my sleeping schedule seems to be slipping further and further away from the norm (as defined by what normal people do during normal hours of the day, as opposed to what imaginary people like me do).
For instance, take yesterday. I woke up at 11am. As in eleven o'clock in the morning. I ate breakfast while my parents had lunch. And then I played video games. (So much for job hunting.) And then I went to bed at 4am this morning. And woke up about five minutes before noon today.
For a while after a moved home, I was still on Eastern Time. On early-rising ET, even. When I lived just outside of Boston, I would frequently get up at 6am so I could get ready and out the door and on the (unpredictable) T and arrive at work on time and have the library all nice and open when patrons started showing up.
So, just to point this out to you, I would frequently get up at the exact same time that I went to bed this morning. So, basically the slippage has now shifted me ahead the amount of one entire sleep schedule.
Not cool, me peeps. Not cool. Especially because when I start sleeping this late, my dreams get really lucid and. Disturbing. Like ex-boyfriends visiting a woman in a prison and killing her with fishing tackle and leaving her for her little boy to find. Oh, and same dream: day-old soft-serve ice cream cones that have somehow retained their shape, but are room-temperature and stale.
So, no more domestic (in-prison?) violence in my dreams, please. No more stale ice cream cones. I needs to get me a job. Pronto.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Nothin' to see...
It's nearly 2 o'clock in the morning. And I'm sitting here at my desk ("my" being a metaphorical term standing in for the phrase "my parents'") catching up on my Google Reader feed and ruminating on the latest episode of Lost I've gotten to (post-popularity-ly).
And peeps, I'm staring down the barrel of a gun that has a terrible message written on it. "You're, well, you're kind of dull," it says, etched in its metal sides. Which is a kind of difficult thing to read, since I'm staring down the barrel and all, and the sides are at an oblique angle to my field of vision.
Also, that is a really awful metaphor.
I wish there were things I could write about. But right now, my life consists mainly of filling in the same information into numerous application forms for jobs I will never receive replies from, watching Lost online, catching up on all the years of video gaming I never got as a child, and (when life demands it) doing laundry.
I think the blogging spirit consists of two main parts. First, one needs a topic. Second, one must have a desire to share said topic. And I haven't had much of either lately.
But, ne'er fear. I'm sure something will come along sometime (in its vague sort of way) and I'll be somewhat more inclined to spout somesuch stuffs.
In the meantime, I'll try to think of stuff to share.
Like crazy dreams of flying around a crowded shopping mall. Or my adventures in cookie-making. Or my belief that my mother and I may be recovering from swine flu.
See? Even the dull (and yikes--really whiny) occasionally have things to talk about. Sort of.
And peeps, I'm staring down the barrel of a gun that has a terrible message written on it. "You're, well, you're kind of dull," it says, etched in its metal sides. Which is a kind of difficult thing to read, since I'm staring down the barrel and all, and the sides are at an oblique angle to my field of vision.
Also, that is a really awful metaphor.
I wish there were things I could write about. But right now, my life consists mainly of filling in the same information into numerous application forms for jobs I will never receive replies from, watching Lost online, catching up on all the years of video gaming I never got as a child, and (when life demands it) doing laundry.
I think the blogging spirit consists of two main parts. First, one needs a topic. Second, one must have a desire to share said topic. And I haven't had much of either lately.
But, ne'er fear. I'm sure something will come along sometime (in its vague sort of way) and I'll be somewhat more inclined to spout somesuch stuffs.
In the meantime, I'll try to think of stuff to share.
Like crazy dreams of flying around a crowded shopping mall. Or my adventures in cookie-making. Or my belief that my mother and I may be recovering from swine flu.
See? Even the dull (and yikes--really whiny) occasionally have things to talk about. Sort of.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
A little hefty bit
Let me be frank: this semester has been dang hard. It's been hard scholastic-wise, social-wise, personal-state-of-self-wise, hair-wise, glasses-wise, pretty much every conceivable -wise possible.
Well, actually, that isn't true. I've had no difficulties with, say, species identity. I'm pretty sure I'm Homo sapiens. Also, my fingers have given me little trouble over the past few months. And hey, my continual acquisition of books has gone swimmingly.
But other things have been hard. When I say that the semester has been difficult scholastic-wise, I don't want to imply that I haven't enjoyed it; it's been one of the most enjoyable semesters I've had here. In fact, I feel that during this semester I finally got into the meat of what I hope to do as a professional librarian: reference work with children, preferably ages birth (yes, we do provide library services to babies) through 8th grade or so. I learned about programming for children, during which time I got to both construct a box of resources for a themed story time and later use someone else's box to perform a story time in class. It was, frankly, extremely awesome. Particularly the whole reading-picture-books-and-singing-songs in graduate school thing. I learned about children's literature, including how to write reviews and analyze the library's current collection to better meet the needs of the community. I spent hours and hours and even more hours getting familiar with reference source after reference source. It was intense, but oh-so-informative.
I guess that's the point: this semester's schoolwork was pretty heavy, but I feel like I learned more, or at least more valuable, pertinent-to-me information than I'd learned in any previous semester.
So, school was actually pretty good. Stressful, HECK YES, but good.
Let me just breeze through a few of these others before I get to the real meat of this: my hair is currently way too long and frazzled at the end. I needs a trim. This equals hardship for my poor self. My poor straggly-haired self.
Glasses: lost a screw. One of the lens frames is now held together with a fashionable piece of copper wire. I dare you to try to spot it without knowing about it beforehand. (And now you know about it! So you lose! Automatically! Dang, I'm sly.)
Personal-state-of-self. Dude. I consumed a ton of cookies tonight. I ordered Chinese food and pizza and I'm down to one pair of jeans that fits properly. Which makes me feel that I stink as a human being.
Which kind of leads me to the point of this whole post, the subject that I'm kind of reluctant to discuss, mostly because it reveals my really real deep inner flaws in a way that makes me intensely uncomfortable.
You see, this last semester, I also withdrew a lot from human contact.
It's not as bad at the moment, so I know have to write about this in a looking-back sort of way, rather than an I'm-in-this-right-now sort of way, so I don't know if I can fully recapture all the things that've been going on in my internal parts these past few months. Frankly, I could probably recapture it best at about 3:00 in the morning, with the occasional murmur of a single car passing outside my window making me feel, somehow, not less alone, but more so.
But, my roommates are home, and in and out of the room, being friendly (which is great) so let's see if I can grasp on to this slippery feeling that settled on me like a film of soap this past semester...
I have a feeling that my withdrawal from human contact has stemmed, to a large degree, from my growing dissatisfaction with myself. It's manifested itself in different ways: I can recall, for instance, sitting in church and feeling so unable to deal with people and the crowds and the press and the noise and the pressure that I had to escape outside in a near panic. I think I couldn't stand being around other people because, in part, I couldn't stand myself, or rather, I couldn't stand how I was sure other people viewed me.
So, I got out. And I kept getting out. And I kept not connecting with people, and I kept shutting the door to my room when I got home and I kept not really talking to people in class and.
And I just drew myself in and encrusted myself with as much armor-thick I-don't-care-ness as I could muster.
So, I had only myself to deal with. And, reluctantly, rarely, other people. When they absolutely refused not to be admitted. Which some did refuse, thank goodness.
And yeah, my relationship with God suffered too, mostly because I didn't take time for anyone besides my own brain. And, as crazy and entertaining as my brain can be, it can't provide insight into tremendously difficult life problems or answers to questions about the nature of the universe and our place in it (although it can come up with hecka-awesome dreams).
And. Good grief. NONE OF THIS explains really what I've been feeling or thinking or anything. And it's already too long by about 458%.
I guess, suffice it to say, I've had the door to my room closed far too often and for far too long. And I'm starting to reemerge back into the world, but it's hard. And I feel vulnerable and shaky, particularly because I'm still not entirely happy with myself, and because I'm afraid that other people can see the flaws in me that I can see in myself and that they scorn me for it.
But, you know, I'll still get up tomorrow morning. I'll still put on my skirt and those ugly brown shoes that are nonetheless comfortable and I'll wrap that blue scarf around my neck and button my slightly-too-tight coat over my bulgy self and I'll sit in church and listen to people talk and maybe even make a comment or two. If I'm feeling particularly daring. And it's even possible I'll feel the spirit. I hope so, because that's why I keep doing it.
And maybe, this week, and this next semester, maybe I can work on some of the things that have lately made me so unhappy about myself.
Maybe I can start to leave the door to my room open. Just a little bit more.
Well, actually, that isn't true. I've had no difficulties with, say, species identity. I'm pretty sure I'm Homo sapiens. Also, my fingers have given me little trouble over the past few months. And hey, my continual acquisition of books has gone swimmingly.
But other things have been hard. When I say that the semester has been difficult scholastic-wise, I don't want to imply that I haven't enjoyed it; it's been one of the most enjoyable semesters I've had here. In fact, I feel that during this semester I finally got into the meat of what I hope to do as a professional librarian: reference work with children, preferably ages birth (yes, we do provide library services to babies) through 8th grade or so. I learned about programming for children, during which time I got to both construct a box of resources for a themed story time and later use someone else's box to perform a story time in class. It was, frankly, extremely awesome. Particularly the whole reading-picture-books-and-singing-songs in graduate school thing. I learned about children's literature, including how to write reviews and analyze the library's current collection to better meet the needs of the community. I spent hours and hours and even more hours getting familiar with reference source after reference source. It was intense, but oh-so-informative.
I guess that's the point: this semester's schoolwork was pretty heavy, but I feel like I learned more, or at least more valuable, pertinent-to-me information than I'd learned in any previous semester.
So, school was actually pretty good. Stressful, HECK YES, but good.
Let me just breeze through a few of these others before I get to the real meat of this: my hair is currently way too long and frazzled at the end. I needs a trim. This equals hardship for my poor self. My poor straggly-haired self.
Glasses: lost a screw. One of the lens frames is now held together with a fashionable piece of copper wire. I dare you to try to spot it without knowing about it beforehand. (And now you know about it! So you lose! Automatically! Dang, I'm sly.)
Personal-state-of-self. Dude. I consumed a ton of cookies tonight. I ordered Chinese food and pizza and I'm down to one pair of jeans that fits properly. Which makes me feel that I stink as a human being.
Which kind of leads me to the point of this whole post, the subject that I'm kind of reluctant to discuss, mostly because it reveals my really real deep inner flaws in a way that makes me intensely uncomfortable.
You see, this last semester, I also withdrew a lot from human contact.
It's not as bad at the moment, so I know have to write about this in a looking-back sort of way, rather than an I'm-in-this-right-now sort of way, so I don't know if I can fully recapture all the things that've been going on in my internal parts these past few months. Frankly, I could probably recapture it best at about 3:00 in the morning, with the occasional murmur of a single car passing outside my window making me feel, somehow, not less alone, but more so.
But, my roommates are home, and in and out of the room, being friendly (which is great) so let's see if I can grasp on to this slippery feeling that settled on me like a film of soap this past semester...
I have a feeling that my withdrawal from human contact has stemmed, to a large degree, from my growing dissatisfaction with myself. It's manifested itself in different ways: I can recall, for instance, sitting in church and feeling so unable to deal with people and the crowds and the press and the noise and the pressure that I had to escape outside in a near panic. I think I couldn't stand being around other people because, in part, I couldn't stand myself, or rather, I couldn't stand how I was sure other people viewed me.
So, I got out. And I kept getting out. And I kept not connecting with people, and I kept shutting the door to my room when I got home and I kept not really talking to people in class and.
And I just drew myself in and encrusted myself with as much armor-thick I-don't-care-ness as I could muster.
So, I had only myself to deal with. And, reluctantly, rarely, other people. When they absolutely refused not to be admitted. Which some did refuse, thank goodness.
And yeah, my relationship with God suffered too, mostly because I didn't take time for anyone besides my own brain. And, as crazy and entertaining as my brain can be, it can't provide insight into tremendously difficult life problems or answers to questions about the nature of the universe and our place in it (although it can come up with hecka-awesome dreams).
And. Good grief. NONE OF THIS explains really what I've been feeling or thinking or anything. And it's already too long by about 458%.
I guess, suffice it to say, I've had the door to my room closed far too often and for far too long. And I'm starting to reemerge back into the world, but it's hard. And I feel vulnerable and shaky, particularly because I'm still not entirely happy with myself, and because I'm afraid that other people can see the flaws in me that I can see in myself and that they scorn me for it.
But, you know, I'll still get up tomorrow morning. I'll still put on my skirt and those ugly brown shoes that are nonetheless comfortable and I'll wrap that blue scarf around my neck and button my slightly-too-tight coat over my bulgy self and I'll sit in church and listen to people talk and maybe even make a comment or two. If I'm feeling particularly daring. And it's even possible I'll feel the spirit. I hope so, because that's why I keep doing it.
And maybe, this week, and this next semester, maybe I can work on some of the things that have lately made me so unhappy about myself.
Maybe I can start to leave the door to my room open. Just a little bit more.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Resurgence
Shall I post about why I haven't blogged in over a month?
Shall I write about this past semester and its joys, worries, hardships and my unaccountable desire to reread Asimov's entire Foundation series?
Shall I spend time profusely apologizing for being ineffably boring and neglectful by not providing my faithful readership with new and fascinating, periodically updated reading material?
I probably will. Soonish. But, having turned in my last assignment this morning, I believe I'm scheduled for a recovery period. Which means sleeping. Lots.
Shall I write about this past semester and its joys, worries, hardships and my unaccountable desire to reread Asimov's entire Foundation series?
Shall I spend time profusely apologizing for being ineffably boring and neglectful by not providing my faithful readership with new and fascinating, periodically updated reading material?
I probably will. Soonish. But, having turned in my last assignment this morning, I believe I'm scheduled for a recovery period. Which means sleeping. Lots.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Um, hey. So...it's been awhile.
Oh, you know. I've just been keeping myself busy with this and that and the other thing (although, if I'm going to be honest, I have to admit that the other thing is really what's been taking up the bulk of my time).
Yeah, I know you've been wondering why I haven't called lately, why all those texts stay unanswered in my inbox, why all those posts you've made to my Facebook wall have gotten no response, why I never even acknowledged that time you threw the brick through my window. (You know--the one with the ultimatum wrapped around it, secured with a piece of fraying twine?)
And believe me--I kind of feel like a jerk about it all. I sit in my room or on the couch and just think of all the great times we used to have and how bad I feel about the way I never seem to keep in touch with people and how I wish I had the time and energy to call people and chat it up or send an awesome lengthy email or, say, post to my blog for instance. Maybe.
And then I sigh and get back to working on assignments I've procrastinated until the day before that end up taking about 10 hours more than what I expected and I cut felt for a flannelboard story until my hands ache and I curse the dull scissors that I need to replace but I haven't really got the money and why the heck would I want to buy another pair of scissors when I'm most likely going to be moving sometime in the next seven or eight months and that'd be just one more thing to pack and I really kind of hope I pass all my classes this semester so I can graduate and get a real job so I don't turn into one of those over-30 folks who live in their parents' basements and make my family ashamed to be seen with me in public.
So, I'm sorry. I'm sorry because I know how it looks to you, and I just wanted to let you know that there are good reasons why I'm turning into an unresponsive hulk of Lizardbreath.
Thanks for being there, though. Thanks for understanding. Thanks for still liking me despite it all.
--Your loving Lizardbreath McGee
P.S. Oh, yeah. And you owe me 300 bucks for that shattered window.
P.P.S. Realistic (i.e. factual and uninflated) depiction of my sleeping schedule over the past few days:
Awake: Thursday morning at 6am until Friday morning at 3:30am
Asleep: Friday morning at 3:30am until Friday morning at 7:00am
Awake: Friday morning at 7:00am until Friday afternoon at 3:30pm
Asleep: Friday afternoon at 3:30pm until early Saturday morning at 12:30am
Awake: Early Saturday morning at 12:30am until slightly later Saturday morning at 4:00am
Asleep: Slightly later Saturday morning at 4:00am until Saturday morning at 6:10am
Awake: Saturday morning at 6:10am until BLOGPOSTTIME. Whenever that is. (i.e. NOW.)
I am trying to resist taking a nap. Please, please send good wakey-wakey vibes my way.
Yeah, I know you've been wondering why I haven't called lately, why all those texts stay unanswered in my inbox, why all those posts you've made to my Facebook wall have gotten no response, why I never even acknowledged that time you threw the brick through my window. (You know--the one with the ultimatum wrapped around it, secured with a piece of fraying twine?)
And believe me--I kind of feel like a jerk about it all. I sit in my room or on the couch and just think of all the great times we used to have and how bad I feel about the way I never seem to keep in touch with people and how I wish I had the time and energy to call people and chat it up or send an awesome lengthy email or, say, post to my blog for instance. Maybe.
And then I sigh and get back to working on assignments I've procrastinated until the day before that end up taking about 10 hours more than what I expected and I cut felt for a flannelboard story until my hands ache and I curse the dull scissors that I need to replace but I haven't really got the money and why the heck would I want to buy another pair of scissors when I'm most likely going to be moving sometime in the next seven or eight months and that'd be just one more thing to pack and I really kind of hope I pass all my classes this semester so I can graduate and get a real job so I don't turn into one of those over-30 folks who live in their parents' basements and make my family ashamed to be seen with me in public.
So, I'm sorry. I'm sorry because I know how it looks to you, and I just wanted to let you know that there are good reasons why I'm turning into an unresponsive hulk of Lizardbreath.
Thanks for being there, though. Thanks for understanding. Thanks for still liking me despite it all.
--Your loving Lizardbreath McGee
P.S. Oh, yeah. And you owe me 300 bucks for that shattered window.
P.P.S. Realistic (i.e. factual and uninflated) depiction of my sleeping schedule over the past few days:
Awake: Thursday morning at 6am until Friday morning at 3:30am
Asleep: Friday morning at 3:30am until Friday morning at 7:00am
Awake: Friday morning at 7:00am until Friday afternoon at 3:30pm
Asleep: Friday afternoon at 3:30pm until early Saturday morning at 12:30am
Awake: Early Saturday morning at 12:30am until slightly later Saturday morning at 4:00am
Asleep: Slightly later Saturday morning at 4:00am until Saturday morning at 6:10am
Awake: Saturday morning at 6:10am until BLOGPOSTTIME. Whenever that is. (i.e. NOW.)
I am trying to resist taking a nap. Please, please send good wakey-wakey vibes my way.
Friday, August 01, 2008
Misery is utterly irrational.
Guys, I've been thinking a lot about it, and my last post was kind of out of line.
The truth is, there are plenty of things more horrifying than missing a flight: things like being in a car accident, having your identity stolen, being trampled to death by a herd of rhinos. (Do rhinos come in herds? Or are they solitary animals...?) You know. Things like that.
In short, I've been feeling pretty guilty about the whole thing. And this guilt was intensified while I was shelving today and came across the book: The Children We Remember, basically a brief and simple photo essay of Jewish children during the Holocaust. I felt a thrill of horror and grief reading it, and I realized that nothing I go through is bad. Not really. Nothing, nothing like that.
So I think I'm going to try complaining just a little less. And maybe talking about lovely things just a little more. Like books. And the wondrous medley of colors that blue and white and green make together. And what fun it is to make rocket ships out of construction paper.
And just how utterly, utterly confusing string theory can be. And also how darn interesting it can be to read about it.
That is all.
The truth is, there are plenty of things more horrifying than missing a flight: things like being in a car accident, having your identity stolen, being trampled to death by a herd of rhinos. (Do rhinos come in herds? Or are they solitary animals...?) You know. Things like that.
In short, I've been feeling pretty guilty about the whole thing. And this guilt was intensified while I was shelving today and came across the book: The Children We Remember, basically a brief and simple photo essay of Jewish children during the Holocaust. I felt a thrill of horror and grief reading it, and I realized that nothing I go through is bad. Not really. Nothing, nothing like that.
So I think I'm going to try complaining just a little less. And maybe talking about lovely things just a little more. Like books. And the wondrous medley of colors that blue and white and green make together. And what fun it is to make rocket ships out of construction paper.
And just how utterly, utterly confusing string theory can be. And also how darn interesting it can be to read about it.
That is all.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Dissatisfaction
I was very foolish yesterday.
While reading the first few chapters of The Eyre Affair, (which, thus far, has been quite delightful), I decided to just shut my eyes for a few moments and 'rest.'
Many hours later (after dreaming of trying to get impossibly huge trucks out of a garage and driving around in neighborhoods that were completely flooded) I woke up. In the dark. And realized that I didn't think I'd be able to sleep at all that night.
Well, I was mostly right. I finally fell asleep at approximately 4:30am, just as the sky was turning from very dark blue to a medium dark (and vaguely luminescent) blue. Of course, I nearly didn't wake up in time for work (I just barely had time for a shower, thank goodness--the people on the T would have lynched me otherwise, I think) and now I feel mostly normal, oddly enough.
Mostly I'm just irritated with myself for taking a nap; I should know better. I do know better. I know that if I fall asleep and have no mechanism in place to wake myself, I will continue to sleep indefinitely until A) someone else wakes me, B) the shouting of my bladder overcomes my desire to find out where the aliens have hid the baby's shoe in my dream, or C) the apocalypse.
So, I'm a little dissatisfied with myself. But heck--oh, well. I'm sure I'll get over it.
Now, if I can just stay awake until 10 or so...
While reading the first few chapters of The Eyre Affair, (which, thus far, has been quite delightful), I decided to just shut my eyes for a few moments and 'rest.'
Many hours later (after dreaming of trying to get impossibly huge trucks out of a garage and driving around in neighborhoods that were completely flooded) I woke up. In the dark. And realized that I didn't think I'd be able to sleep at all that night.
Well, I was mostly right. I finally fell asleep at approximately 4:30am, just as the sky was turning from very dark blue to a medium dark (and vaguely luminescent) blue. Of course, I nearly didn't wake up in time for work (I just barely had time for a shower, thank goodness--the people on the T would have lynched me otherwise, I think) and now I feel mostly normal, oddly enough.
Mostly I'm just irritated with myself for taking a nap; I should know better. I do know better. I know that if I fall asleep and have no mechanism in place to wake myself, I will continue to sleep indefinitely until A) someone else wakes me, B) the shouting of my bladder overcomes my desire to find out where the aliens have hid the baby's shoe in my dream, or C) the apocalypse.
So, I'm a little dissatisfied with myself. But heck--oh, well. I'm sure I'll get over it.
Now, if I can just stay awake until 10 or so...
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
What guilt will drive you to:
Did you know that feeling guilty will drive you to do all sorts of things?
Like, for instance, typing something into a post when you have absolutely nothing to say?
Nothing except, perhaps, that I think I try to talk like I'm more wise than I really am. Because I get all philosophical (not real-philosophical; only Lizardbreath-style, which usually ends up being as philosophical as toast, which, while delicious, does not necessarily help you understand the world any better) and write things, thinking I'm saying something meaningful and insightful and really I'm just stuck here trying to figure things out and mostly changing my mind while still wanting to talk about whatever and wherever my opinion is at the moment.
I'm like a mixed-up bundle of me-ness, which often just doesn't feel like it's quite good enough.
But.
Daffodils are wonderfully yellow.
And library school is awesome.
Especially when I'm only three weeks away from summer break.
Like, for instance, typing something into a post when you have absolutely nothing to say?
Nothing except, perhaps, that I think I try to talk like I'm more wise than I really am. Because I get all philosophical (not real-philosophical; only Lizardbreath-style, which usually ends up being as philosophical as toast, which, while delicious, does not necessarily help you understand the world any better) and write things, thinking I'm saying something meaningful and insightful and really I'm just stuck here trying to figure things out and mostly changing my mind while still wanting to talk about whatever and wherever my opinion is at the moment.
I'm like a mixed-up bundle of me-ness, which often just doesn't feel like it's quite good enough.
But.
Daffodils are wonderfully yellow.
And library school is awesome.
Especially when I'm only three weeks away from summer break.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Comment panic
So, I have this thing I do in class sometimes.
The professor is standing up there, talking about something important (like video games in libraries--it's a serious subject, people!) and then she asks a question of the class.
And the class just kind of sits there. Squirming.
And then I get this panicky feeling, like all the air is going out of the room and the only way to get air back into the room is to say something, so I do and...
I say something really dumb.
I, in fact, make a dumb comment. Or ask a stupid question (and no matter what your teachers tell you, they really do exist).
The worst part is that once you've started saying a dumb comment and you recognize it, you can't really stop; you just feel like you have to keep on going, as if you just keep talking somehow the words will twist themselves about and form the structure of a good comment, a smart comment, a wow, she's such a great library student comment.
And you end up in even more of a train wreck than where you started.
Ach, the agonies of studenthood.
(But really, I'm loving it.)
The professor is standing up there, talking about something important (like video games in libraries--it's a serious subject, people!) and then she asks a question of the class.
And the class just kind of sits there. Squirming.
And then I get this panicky feeling, like all the air is going out of the room and the only way to get air back into the room is to say something, so I do and...
I say something really dumb.
I, in fact, make a dumb comment. Or ask a stupid question (and no matter what your teachers tell you, they really do exist).
The worst part is that once you've started saying a dumb comment and you recognize it, you can't really stop; you just feel like you have to keep on going, as if you just keep talking somehow the words will twist themselves about and form the structure of a good comment, a smart comment, a wow, she's such a great library student comment.
And you end up in even more of a train wreck than where you started.
Ach, the agonies of studenthood.
(But really, I'm loving it.)
Friday, March 07, 2008
Tagalicious
Wow. I've just been tagged.
I feel... I feel pretty sweet about that, actually. Mostly because it gives me a chance to share some random stuff about myself with you.
Just for the record, here's what Pat says about the tag in her tagging post: "*Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird.* Tag 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blogs.* Let them know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog."
So, I guess my first random thing would be,
1. After quoting from Pat's blog, I felt a strong need to use APA citation. I think grad school is starting to get to me.
(Just for the record, I think it would be something like:
Pat. (2008, March 6). Granny's house. Retrieved March 7, 2008, from http://grannytsbungalow.blogspot.com/.)
2. I once made a movie with some friends that starred a small, terrycloth-covered, bean animal named Chobee. And I was the female lead.
3. I also once ate (as part of an initiation ceremony) an Oreo dipped in salsa. The weird thing is that, as gross as it sounds, the actual experience wasn't all that bad. I guess Oreos win out over all.
4. My biggest dream currently is to become a youth services librarian who writes books on the side. So far, I'm getting pretty far in the librarian business. The book writing thing? Not so much.
5. Okay. This one may be TMI, but I kind of enjoy plucking my face. I love that little tug you get right before a hair pops out. Um. Yeah. I'm sick.
6. Speaking of sick, and speaking of facial hair, I have this growing fetish for beards on men. We're not talking Lorenzo Snow type beards, here. C'mon, people. But I must confess: I really, really love that well-trimmed, full beard look (none of your goatees for me). Kind of like Commander Riker during his be-bearded days, but a little further up the cheek. Nice.
7. Which brings me to this one: I am a closet Trekkie. (It is true. In addition to being an APA citing, Chobee-loving, salsa & oreo-eating, author-wanna-be-librarianing, hair plucking, beard fetishing girl, I am also a nerd.)
And that's all you need to know about me.
So, to pass on the goodness, I think I'll tag:
Kim
Jekka
Nerd Goddess
Lindsay
Joseph
Christian
Joellen
Ethenielle
Which pretty much sums up my blogging acquaintances. (Although I would have tagged Pinto if she hadn't cursed given up blogging for Lent.)
*******************************************************
Edit: Aha. Hum. So, I tagged 8 people instead. I am not so good with numbers.
I feel... I feel pretty sweet about that, actually. Mostly because it gives me a chance to share some random stuff about myself with you.
Just for the record, here's what Pat says about the tag in her tagging post: "*Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird.* Tag 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blogs.* Let them know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog."
So, I guess my first random thing would be,
1. After quoting from Pat's blog, I felt a strong need to use APA citation. I think grad school is starting to get to me.
(Just for the record, I think it would be something like:
Pat. (2008, March 6). Granny's house. Retrieved March 7, 2008, from http://grannytsbungalow.blogspot.com/.)
2. I once made a movie with some friends that starred a small, terrycloth-covered, bean animal named Chobee. And I was the female lead.
3. I also once ate (as part of an initiation ceremony) an Oreo dipped in salsa. The weird thing is that, as gross as it sounds, the actual experience wasn't all that bad. I guess Oreos win out over all.
4. My biggest dream currently is to become a youth services librarian who writes books on the side. So far, I'm getting pretty far in the librarian business. The book writing thing? Not so much.
5. Okay. This one may be TMI, but I kind of enjoy plucking my face. I love that little tug you get right before a hair pops out. Um. Yeah. I'm sick.
6. Speaking of sick, and speaking of facial hair, I have this growing fetish for beards on men. We're not talking Lorenzo Snow type beards, here. C'mon, people. But I must confess: I really, really love that well-trimmed, full beard look (none of your goatees for me). Kind of like Commander Riker during his be-bearded days, but a little further up the cheek. Nice.
7. Which brings me to this one: I am a closet Trekkie. (It is true. In addition to being an APA citing, Chobee-loving, salsa & oreo-eating, author-wanna-be-librarianing, hair plucking, beard fetishing girl, I am also a nerd.)
And that's all you need to know about me.
So, to pass on the goodness, I think I'll tag:
Kim
Jekka
Nerd Goddess
Lindsay
Joseph
Christian
Joellen
Ethenielle
Which pretty much sums up my blogging acquaintances. (Although I would have tagged Pinto if she hadn't cursed given up blogging for Lent.)
*******************************************************
Edit: Aha. Hum. So, I tagged 8 people instead. I am not so good with numbers.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
I Fail.
At life, at human relationships, at whathaveyou.
Yep. Yep, I do.
And I'm all frustrated with myself because I Fail.
So, okay. Let me list some of my more recent foibles for you.
Yeah. So, opinions? I should just not have them. And, I think perhaps, one reason why I am so wishy washy with said opinions is that when I finally do have an opinion on something, a good and solid and glorious opinion, which I am so happy to have because normally I am an opinionless blob of nothingness and slobber, I get so excited about this opinion that I go blazing off about it and just kind of blare said opinion to anyone willing to stand still and not hit me over the head with a stick to put me out of my misery long enough to let me get it out.
However. Problematically. Other people have different opinions. In fact, they may have opinions that they cherish muchly and deeply and fully and when I go blaring out my own spectacularly loud opinions I think I sometimes and maybe frequently cause pain.
And that is probably the thing I hate doing most of all.
I think sometimes that if I could agree with everyone I would because then everyone would be happy and no one would be uncomfortable or hurt and there would be flowers and sunshine and chocolate pudding for all.
So, for example, if I read a book recently that I happened to find...not quite my cup of tea...but it came highly recommended from someone and I happened to tell someone else loudly that I had a low opinion of the book, completely forgetting or not even thinking about the presence of the recommender-person nearby, I would feel pretty darn crappy.
Sort of, in fact, like I Fail. Miserably and fully and.
Just.
I hate hurting people.
Stupid. Bad.
BADbadbad. Dumb.
Also, I stink at writing papers.
The End.
Yep. Yep, I do.
And I'm all frustrated with myself because I Fail.
So, okay. Let me list some of my more recent foibles for you.
Yeah. So, opinions? I should just not have them. And, I think perhaps, one reason why I am so wishy washy with said opinions is that when I finally do have an opinion on something, a good and solid and glorious opinion, which I am so happy to have because normally I am an opinionless blob of nothingness and slobber, I get so excited about this opinion that I go blazing off about it and just kind of blare said opinion to anyone willing to stand still and not hit me over the head with a stick to put me out of my misery long enough to let me get it out.
However. Problematically. Other people have different opinions. In fact, they may have opinions that they cherish muchly and deeply and fully and when I go blaring out my own spectacularly loud opinions I think I sometimes and maybe frequently cause pain.
And that is probably the thing I hate doing most of all.
I think sometimes that if I could agree with everyone I would because then everyone would be happy and no one would be uncomfortable or hurt and there would be flowers and sunshine and chocolate pudding for all.
So, for example, if I read a book recently that I happened to find...not quite my cup of tea...but it came highly recommended from someone and I happened to tell someone else loudly that I had a low opinion of the book, completely forgetting or not even thinking about the presence of the recommender-person nearby, I would feel pretty darn crappy.
Sort of, in fact, like I Fail. Miserably and fully and.
Just.
I hate hurting people.
Stupid. Bad.
BADbadbad. Dumb.
Also, I stink at writing papers.
The End.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
When librarians get embarrassed:
When we find ourselves mouthing the 'ABCs' song under our breath, trying to remember whether K comes before or after L.
For some reason, I can never remember that one.
At least I've got the numbers straight.
For some reason, I can never remember that one.
At least I've got the numbers straight.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
I have this sneaking suspicion...
I knew it.
I knew it.
Because you wouldn't all be misleading me all this time, hinting at it and then having it not be the case, would you?
No, not you.
Because you're great; that's why I like you.
And you like me.
In fact, I'm totally your favorite.
I know you've tried to hide it, just so other people around wouldn't feel too bad. I see you being nice to them and all, laughing at their jokes, telling them a story, patting them on the arm.
But we know, you and I; we know that it's me you like the most. I can tell by the way you turn and crinkle your eyes at me in just that way. Ha! That's our own little secret look, like a handshake, but much easier to do across a roomful of people. Much better for you to nod your head and wink, then turn back to the person talking to you, all the time knowing that I'm your favorite person of all.
The rest of the world doesn't have to be in on it; let that tall guy think he's your favorite; we won't disillusion him just yet--let him be happy for a little while first; maybe he'll even buy you chocolates. And the girl in the plaid skirt? Yeah. I know she was your confidante before we met, but she's only getting side details now; I'm getting the real stuff--the dish on your life.
It's true; I'm pretty much everybody's favorite. Yep, that's me. I look around and everybody's smiling just at me because I'm so pretty and so fun to be around. Guys may go off and talk to those perky blond girls, but really they're just looking for advice on how to approach me, practicing their man-skills on lesser objects. And those same perky blond girls? Yeah. I'm totally their favorite too. Because I'm clever and funny and so, so nice.
They all love me.
And you know you do too. Really. Go ahead and deny it, but we both know it's true.
'Cause I'm your favorite too.
I knew it.
Because you wouldn't all be misleading me all this time, hinting at it and then having it not be the case, would you?
No, not you.
Because you're great; that's why I like you.
And you like me.
In fact, I'm totally your favorite.
I know you've tried to hide it, just so other people around wouldn't feel too bad. I see you being nice to them and all, laughing at their jokes, telling them a story, patting them on the arm.
But we know, you and I; we know that it's me you like the most. I can tell by the way you turn and crinkle your eyes at me in just that way. Ha! That's our own little secret look, like a handshake, but much easier to do across a roomful of people. Much better for you to nod your head and wink, then turn back to the person talking to you, all the time knowing that I'm your favorite person of all.
The rest of the world doesn't have to be in on it; let that tall guy think he's your favorite; we won't disillusion him just yet--let him be happy for a little while first; maybe he'll even buy you chocolates. And the girl in the plaid skirt? Yeah. I know she was your confidante before we met, but she's only getting side details now; I'm getting the real stuff--the dish on your life.
It's true; I'm pretty much everybody's favorite. Yep, that's me. I look around and everybody's smiling just at me because I'm so pretty and so fun to be around. Guys may go off and talk to those perky blond girls, but really they're just looking for advice on how to approach me, practicing their man-skills on lesser objects. And those same perky blond girls? Yeah. I'm totally their favorite too. Because I'm clever and funny and so, so nice.
They all love me.
And you know you do too. Really. Go ahead and deny it, but we both know it's true.
'Cause I'm your favorite too.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Two things:
First, a conversation I had with myself this morning:
Setting: I was washing dishes at our kitchen sink, my hair still wet from showering, and the hot water I was using was starting to steam things up a little.
First part of brain: What the--I'm sweating!
Second part of brain: Yep.
First part: Gross!
Second part: Yep.
First part: Oh. Well...yeah. I guess that's all I have to say about that.
Second part: *smiles*
Frankly, it's always a little disturbing when one has a conversation with oneself. Also, it's really great when one part of your brain says something, and another part responds with, "Oh, I totally agree!" And then you realize that you've just agreed with yourself.
(I'll tell ya--it makes you feel a leeeetle bit crazy.)
Second thing:
My hand kept going numb while I was washing said dishes. I'm not sure if it was reacting to the heat of the water (what? weird.) or to the presence of fish scales in the stuff I was washing (ew! fish scales!) or if just decided that being numb was a good state? Because...because...... Er...
Because, apparently, it has a mind of its own? ('Cause there seem to be plenty of minds to be had within this one frame of mine. And I guess I'll be lucky if they all agree all the time.)
And now you will make comments saying that you can no longer be friends with me because I have numb hands and a tendency to agree with myself. Well. Fine. But before you go, just ask yourself if you've ever done the same thing; you may be surprised by what you'll tell yourself.
Setting: I was washing dishes at our kitchen sink, my hair still wet from showering, and the hot water I was using was starting to steam things up a little.
First part of brain: What the--I'm sweating!
Second part of brain: Yep.
First part: Gross!
Second part: Yep.
First part: Oh. Well...yeah. I guess that's all I have to say about that.
Second part: *smiles*
Frankly, it's always a little disturbing when one has a conversation with oneself. Also, it's really great when one part of your brain says something, and another part responds with, "Oh, I totally agree!" And then you realize that you've just agreed with yourself.
(I'll tell ya--it makes you feel a leeeetle bit crazy.)
Second thing:
My hand kept going numb while I was washing said dishes. I'm not sure if it was reacting to the heat of the water (what? weird.) or to the presence of fish scales in the stuff I was washing (ew! fish scales!) or if just decided that being numb was a good state? Because...because...... Er...
Because, apparently, it has a mind of its own? ('Cause there seem to be plenty of minds to be had within this one frame of mine. And I guess I'll be lucky if they all agree all the time.)
And now you will make comments saying that you can no longer be friends with me because I have numb hands and a tendency to agree with myself. Well. Fine. But before you go, just ask yourself if you've ever done the same thing; you may be surprised by what you'll tell yourself.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Oh, don't stop talking on my account.
So...this confession may make me seem a little bit more like a scary-stalker-like person than I actually am, but...
I really like eavesdropping.
I've realized this before (and usually blushed after said realization, most becomingly) but I was reminded of this little taste of mine today while riding the shuttle bus up to work.
During the ride, I noticed two twenty-something women talking to each other on the bench opposite the aisle to where I sat, purse in lap, hands clasped securely over said purse, eyes staring politely (i.e. vacantly) ahead, ears (obviously) wandering freely. As we passed one of the many schools in the area, one of the women commented to the other that she was thinking about a grad program there, but it was kind of expensive. They talked about other programs and I discovered that they were interested in pursuing vocations as early childhood educators, that they were both either married or in semi-permanent relationships with men, that they were both pretty well informed about the costs of private schools and that one at least was pro-private school and decidedly against living in the city.
(I know I gleaned other bits of information from the conversation, but that's all I can remember at the moment.)
I realized a couple of things from this encounter: firstly, that it's easy to pass along information to those around you even when you're not engaged in direct conversation with them. And that it's definitely best to be cautious. (You never know when a stalker-like blogger like me is sitting supposedly innocuously in a seat next to yours, mentally taking note of your semi-private conversation.)
Secondly, that it is (as I mentioned before) fun to eavesdrop. And a little wistful. I will (most likely) never see these two young women again. And yet, during a span of about 25 minutes I was able to learn things about them enough to tell that I'd probably enjoy getting to know them, that I'd probably have things in common with them, that we could (in short) become friends if the circumstances were right.
And that's probably the oddest thing of all. Most of the encounters we have with people during the course of a day are brief one-time deals: you see someone, you may say a word or two (or not) and then the moment is over. For good. And yet the possibility always exists that with each person you encounter you could build a potentially lifelong relationship. That man in a business suit jogging past you could have been your best friend; the elderly woman with a poodle might have given you art lessons; the smoking man in a ballcap sitting on the curb could have been the first man ever to tell you you're beautiful. And yet they're not.
I feel amazed at all the relationships we do develop with people, and sometimes at how chancy and random the circumstances that create those relationships seem to be. And yet, for my part, the people I've had in my life seem to have been just the people I needed at just the time I needed them. And that, more than anything, seems to indicate to me that the people we know when we know them are not accidental. Not in the least.
And that when eavesdropping on conversations really does (as unlikely as it may seem) lead to friendship, there's a reason for that too.
I really like eavesdropping.
I've realized this before (and usually blushed after said realization, most becomingly) but I was reminded of this little taste of mine today while riding the shuttle bus up to work.
During the ride, I noticed two twenty-something women talking to each other on the bench opposite the aisle to where I sat, purse in lap, hands clasped securely over said purse, eyes staring politely (i.e. vacantly) ahead, ears (obviously) wandering freely. As we passed one of the many schools in the area, one of the women commented to the other that she was thinking about a grad program there, but it was kind of expensive. They talked about other programs and I discovered that they were interested in pursuing vocations as early childhood educators, that they were both either married or in semi-permanent relationships with men, that they were both pretty well informed about the costs of private schools and that one at least was pro-private school and decidedly against living in the city.
(I know I gleaned other bits of information from the conversation, but that's all I can remember at the moment.)
I realized a couple of things from this encounter: firstly, that it's easy to pass along information to those around you even when you're not engaged in direct conversation with them. And that it's definitely best to be cautious. (You never know when a stalker-like blogger like me is sitting supposedly innocuously in a seat next to yours, mentally taking note of your semi-private conversation.)
Secondly, that it is (as I mentioned before) fun to eavesdrop. And a little wistful. I will (most likely) never see these two young women again. And yet, during a span of about 25 minutes I was able to learn things about them enough to tell that I'd probably enjoy getting to know them, that I'd probably have things in common with them, that we could (in short) become friends if the circumstances were right.
And that's probably the oddest thing of all. Most of the encounters we have with people during the course of a day are brief one-time deals: you see someone, you may say a word or two (or not) and then the moment is over. For good. And yet the possibility always exists that with each person you encounter you could build a potentially lifelong relationship. That man in a business suit jogging past you could have been your best friend; the elderly woman with a poodle might have given you art lessons; the smoking man in a ballcap sitting on the curb could have been the first man ever to tell you you're beautiful. And yet they're not.
I feel amazed at all the relationships we do develop with people, and sometimes at how chancy and random the circumstances that create those relationships seem to be. And yet, for my part, the people I've had in my life seem to have been just the people I needed at just the time I needed them. And that, more than anything, seems to indicate to me that the people we know when we know them are not accidental. Not in the least.
And that when eavesdropping on conversations really does (as unlikely as it may seem) lead to friendship, there's a reason for that too.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
In which my concept of self is put sorely to the test
I've realized something about myself, and it's a something I don't like very much.
I don't really write much.
And that stinks.
I mean, I write on my blog, I guess, and I sometimes write in my journal. I write emails, I write little notes in little little notebooks, I write grad school application essays...
But I don't write stories. I don't. And that's...
That's just not acceptable, people. And it doesn't jive with what I imagine myself to be.
I once told a good friend of mine that I felt that writing was my real calling in life, that I had stories I wanted to tell.
But since then, I've spent much more time reading than writing, or watching movies or checking blogs or filing my fingernails or eating sandwiches or doing pretty much anything but writing.
So my question to myself is this: "Self, are you ever going to get down to it? Are you ever going to seriously sit down and make yourself write every blasted day so that you will eventually become an Author? (With a capital 'A?') Will you finish those novels you have lurking in the dusty corners of your computer's hard drive? Will you?"
And my answer to myself is still pending. I just don't know if I have the perseverance.
(But I hope I do.)
I don't really write much.
And that stinks.
I mean, I write on my blog, I guess, and I sometimes write in my journal. I write emails, I write little notes in little little notebooks, I write grad school application essays...
But I don't write stories. I don't. And that's...
That's just not acceptable, people. And it doesn't jive with what I imagine myself to be.
I once told a good friend of mine that I felt that writing was my real calling in life, that I had stories I wanted to tell.
But since then, I've spent much more time reading than writing, or watching movies or checking blogs or filing my fingernails or eating sandwiches or doing pretty much anything but writing.
So my question to myself is this: "Self, are you ever going to get down to it? Are you ever going to seriously sit down and make yourself write every blasted day so that you will eventually become an Author? (With a capital 'A?') Will you finish those novels you have lurking in the dusty corners of your computer's hard drive? Will you?"
And my answer to myself is still pending. I just don't know if I have the perseverance.
(But I hope I do.)
Sunday, August 12, 2007
No... No, wait. I've gotten it wrong.
It wasn't them. It was me.
I never opened up.
So you see, it wasn't that they weren't interested; it was that I was unwilling or unable to communicate my deepest self to them.
I hate realizing that I've been wrong. But somehow it's liberating too.
I never opened up.
So you see, it wasn't that they weren't interested; it was that I was unwilling or unable to communicate my deepest self to them.
I hate realizing that I've been wrong. But somehow it's liberating too.
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