College App Essay Part ZOMBIE.

Recently, at the behest of several friends of mine I started reading yet another series of graphic novels. This one is about zombies. I used to snobbishly avoid graphic novels, deeming them inferior to "real" books. I liked to say that graphic novels were for those who had never grown out of picture books. Now I cannot get enough of them and laud their ability to tell stories in a way that no other medium can quite replicate. The series I just started, "The Walking Dead", chronicles a man trying to keep his family together as zombies overrun the world. I cannot say the book has made a difference in my life (although I have had a few messed up dreams recently), but the series manages to ask pertinent, powerful questions amidst the blood and gore without coming off as pretentious...only curious.

What happens if the world crumbles and cannot be fixed? How do people live when those they love most are constantly in harm's way? To whom can we turn when our leaders, police forces and armies fall? What must we become when the only rulebook to a hell on earth is the one we write and rewrite as life continues to surprise and shock us as we tramp through the darkness, trying not to succumb to it?

"The Walking Dead" does not provide definitive answers to any of these questions. What I especially enjoy about this series is that it acknowledges the diversity amongst personalities. A preacher locks his congregation out of his church, denying them a safe-haven, so he can survive. A small band of young adults turn into cannibals out of "necessity" and explain their motives to their victims, almost looking fot understanding if not forgiveness. Murderers, rapists, and thieves: criminals of all kinds appear when the law disappears.

Then there are those few that give us hope. Our survivors might be ruthless at times, but they love and protect each other as best they can. They always try to do what is right, whatever right may be in their newly diseased world. Each individual is broken in his or her own way, but their fluid community offers a necessary sense of security and family they cannot find anywhere else.

The first two or three books of the series spend most of their time exploring how different personalities take shape when exposed to severe and extended trauma (in this case a zombie epidemic). There are those who become leaders out of necessity, those who lie to get what they need, those who sell themselves or their skills for protection, those who go a little crazy or break completely, and those who are so set in believing in a greater force, be it God or the government, that is going to save them that they become a hindrance to themselves and their friends.

The later books in the series focus are more situational in nature, Members of our group are constantly dying, but there is also new life, and new recruits, an underlying desire in everyone to pursue as conventional of a life as is possible, and a wariness (sometimes warranted and sometimes not) whenever meeting new people.

These books offer a glimpse at humanity purified by fire. In book twelve, a young boy leaves his dying father's side for a moment to lure away the zombies outside their door. Three zombies attack him and somehow he manages to kill them singlehandedly. He returns to his comatose father and tells him he has outgrown his Daddy and can take care of himself. Not five pages later, he is a child again and he begs his father to wake up because he cannot face the world alone.

It is these moments that make these books so powerful. I am not fond of gore, but I can look past it for watching the process of growing up expedited by circumstance, seeing how love and greed are equally powerful motivators for all kinds of people and learning, along with those in the book, that evil can be performed and experienced for both right and for wrong. The only thing that we can hope is to always be able to distinguish between the two.

An Educational Experience for Your Perusal

College Application Essay Numero Uno:

Upon initially reading this prompt I starting thinking about all the classes and teachers I have encountered in 15 years of school. I have had inspiring teachers and challenging classes along with teachers who made interesting subjects seem useless and classes that could not hide their frivolity if they tried. During the time I have spent away from school, though, I have learned an educational experience does not require either texts or lectures. As such, I would like to tell an illustrative story regarding something I recently learned that is simultaneously frustrating and beautiful.

My friend Caspian* and I agree that our friendship hinges on our conversations. We talk deeply about religion, politics, family, friends, love - anything is fair game. Generally speaking, there is no one with whom I am more candid.

One night, on the way home from a "Ninja Assassin" viewing, our conversation turned to religion. Neither Caspian nor I are religious, but I see the validity of religion when it brings personal peace and happiness and is not used as an excuse to hurt others. I love that some people can put their faith in the unknowable, and I like listening to people talk about what they believe and why. Caspian says that he adheres to a "to each his own" code as well, but religion is clearly a sore spot for him. He would prefer that the religious keep their religion to themselves.

We talked about religion for hours that night. Caspian expressed his disgust for the evangelical, to which I responded by asking how missioning is any different from arguing for the superiority of Star Wars. Although the ramifications are different, the sentiment is the same. When a person loves something they share it, and hating them for trying to spread something from which they derive profound meaning makes no sense. The advocated individual has no more need to become a Christian than they do a Star Wars fanboy, and preemptively deciding not to be convinced is silly.

Although I did not know it at the time, what I said affected Caspian. When I returned to Minnesota several months later I found out that he and a very religious girl had given a romantic relationship a shot. He had many times before told me that he would never date anyone religious, but told me that the conversation we had that night swayed him.

I consider this series of events a rewarding educational experience even though it is unconventional. The things that we learn outside of a classroom, through relationships and conversations tend to be more truthful and meaningful than anything gleaned from a text, no matter how classic, or anything said by a teacher, no matter how inspired. I learned definitively that people change and that simply through a conversation I can personally shape those changes.

The frustrating part of this experience was that when the relationship did not work Caspian blamed it singularly on the girl's religion and used that one experience as incontrovertible proof that his former stance had been correct. He is once again convinced that religion is nothing more than a tool of alienation.

I realized that people are wonderfully malleable, but they do not want to be, so whenever they have a chance to revoke a personal change, no matter how positive it may have been, they will do so. That is a tragedy. It takes so much willpower to change in the first place that I hate to see how easily we are willing to wipe away all of that hard work for nothing more than a hollow "I told you so" that probably will not even ring true in our own ears.

*Name change for the internet because I'm a good person like that.

I want to call you a fool.

Fool.

I'm listening to a song for you. It's Jenny Owen Youngs' "Fuck was I" and it fits your current situation almost to a tee. Give it a listen:



Seriously, darling. What are you thinking?

We've talked it over several times and I understand that the two of you have certain similarities that make it easy for you to relate to each other in a powerful way. A large part of your relating to one another seems to be your desire to protect her and what seems to be an underlying sense of guilt...perhaps you feel that if you hadn't acted how you did initially she wouldn't have run into the problems that she did. (A logical fallacy, if I may offer an extra two cents of mho here.) I understand that you were both brought up in similar environments and that you reacted in similar ways. I understand that you have essentially fallen into the place that you are now, but what I don't understand is how you now refuse to do anything about the pit into which you have fallen.

What you have stumbled into is sacred and beautiful and important and you know and believe this as much as I do, but instead of treating this thing of yours with reverence you mold and shape your situation to fit it. You rip, tear, recolor, glue and cut your circumstance until it almost fits into what this thing requires. You are bastardizing what you are a part of in an attempt to make it more worthy of the this thing you're forcing it into. Essentially, you are dressing your infant child in clothing its' older siblings aren't yet big enough to wear.

But I can't shake the feeling that you're in the right for sticking with it, even if you're an idiot for being in this situation. This sacred thing you've committed yourself to requires work, a reality too few people realize these days. Maybe your fall into...whatever you're calling this, is a good thing. People find themselves where you are younger and less prepared and with more baggage than you have and make it work. Despite your relative freedom (the only thing holding you where you are is your guilty conscience) you are determined to make this work, supposedly for the long term.

I'm stuck between my "what the fuck are you thinking" mentality and a nagging sense of admiration.

Just make sure that you're in the right place for you. And her.

That is all.

Sidewalk Cruising

There have been two separate occasions in my life (that I can think of) when I have gone sidewalk driving with two different friends. Both of these excursions have been made unique by two things: 1) We were stone cold sober. 2) The activity was done solely for fun, not out of necessity. Today was different. Allow me to introduce you to the culprit, the devil, the MINI COOPER:



Okay...this wasn't THE mini cooper, but as far as I'm concerned, this one is guilty by association.

Allow me to tell my most traumatic story.

I was innocently driving down a half-hearted residential street (45 mph speed limit, mostly just a street, but sporadic driveways every half mile or so, just to keep drivers confused and, therefore...attentive?) I looked down for a MOMENT to switch the radio station and when I looked up again I realized that the two cars in front of me have come to an unexplainable dead stop in the middle of the road, a solid quarter mile from the nearest stop sign. I use my viper-like reflexes to slam on my brakes, but I realize that the screaming metal death trap that I drive (1996 Chrysler LHS, weighing in at 3596 lbs, thank you very much) will not stop as quickly as it needs to, so I pull the oldest trick in the book and also swerve to the side while breaking, but the FOOLS in front of me favor the right side of the lane, so, even with the shoulder, there is not enough space for me to roll to a halt beside them. Next best scenario: I drive up with a clunk and a crash and a thud over the curb and onto the sidewalk, narrowly missing the mailbox.

And of course the hijinks do not cease here. The mini cooper does not realize that she barely escaped creating a three car pile up and instead of doing the wise thing and just driving up to the nearest intersection and turning around there, she continues to sit in the middle of the road. (This is a reasonably well-traveled road, btws.) The Jeep that had been occupying the space between myself and Stupid Cooper drives around the mobile, white roadblock and I stare out my windshield at her. I am not about to drive over the curb again, because my car is already struggling these days, and unless it is an emergency I don't plan on scraping the bottom of my car, because, last time I checked, that's not a fantabulous idea. After readjusting my car slightly on the sidewalk so the nose of my car is pointed down the driveway I wave at the mini cooper lady to make it clear that she should drive on so I can drive out. She is about one car length past the driveway she wants to enter and I am occupying, making it impossible for me to drive past her without entering the opposing lane of traffic. Finally she realizes that she should move, but instead of moving FORWARD like a NORMAL PERSON she reverses her stupid, tiny car until she is on the other side of the driveway, forcing more oncoming cars to halt mid-road so I can exit the driveway.

Someone needs to get her license revoked, and I swear to Bokonon it is not me.

There comes a point when a person just needs to pick a side instead of moseying around no-man's land. So...I should do that.

Possibly the greatest way to start a day: wake a solid hour earlier than necessary without catching the mistake until almost @ work. (please note heavy sarcasm)

Ham is delicious.

legit: not a big fan of drinking: the more i drink the more i realize this. so why must all young people's activities revolve around alcohol?

Viney Revelation

I do believe that I just had a, how you say, epiphany of sorts.

As I was cleaning my room I was listening to a sermon by Efrem Smith, which he evidently gave way back in 2004. Mostly it was about people saying "no" when God asks them to do something, and how that is completely counterproductive to what His hope for the Kingdom (why does it seem like so many words should be capitalized when one writes about Christianity?) is, because every day one of us wakes up it is because God has said "yes" to us and we should return the favor. As long as He's letting us plod along on His green Earth (non-religious capitalization) we may as well do something about it.

Then, in what was just a tiny supporting argument Efrem brought up John 15 (the "I am the vine" passage) and, somehow, the way he read it made me get something out of it that I never had before. It also had nothing to do with what he was talking about or his overarching point, but I'll take what I can get, yo.

Lemme quote for you:

"I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinedresser (I'm sorry...this is a weird translation. English Standard Version..published in Chi-town). Every branch of mine that does not bear fruit he prunes, that it might bear more fruit."

The bolded line, obviously, is the one to which I would like to call your attention. To me that line has always meant that if you're not working for God he snips you out of the way and then throws you and all other inadequate persons into a bonfire, after which he and all his angels roast cloud marshmallows over your twiggy, burning body. (I'm being macabre and poetic, and not entirely serious. Calm down. This ain't no "sinners in the hands of an angry God" talk here.)

Now, I'm getting something new. Pruning, although sometimes awful (in more ways than one), does not always mean maiming or bastardization. Maybe sometimes when we feel a little snip snip in our lives (and yes, it fucking hurts) it is God, knowing best, and making a few cuts to help us grow in a way that we otherwise may not have been able. What he takes away can seem vital. It might seem impossible to continue without whatever it is that he so painfully wrenched away from our side.

Anyone who knows me knows already what loss I am referring to in my life, and I'm not going to come out and say it because it is exactly what I never wanted anyone to say to me. It still doesn't make any sense to me, and if it was purposeful it was seemingly mean and premature. But it gave me comfort for a couple seconds. Maybe the comfort will return, maybe not.

Weeee shallll seeeeee.

The Social Network

Tonight Heather and I went to a preview showing of The Social Network in Saint Louis Park. Movie theaters these days are doing this newfangled (old fashioned?) thing where viewers get assigned seats, so upon arrival they flipped around their computer screen and let us pick which two gray, digital seats we wanted to turn green. I felt like I was booking tickets for a flight. It was all very new and exciting.

Getting into the preview was a bit of an ordeal. The movie theater seemed extraordinarily worried about people pirating the movie, so we had to surrender our cellphones to brown paper lunch bags and concede to metal detecting wand searches before we were allowed into the theater. As we only arrived 15 minutes early we had the immense treat of sitting in the second row, which made it very hard to read any text on the screen without supreme effort AND made me, personally, hyper-aware of how much makeup characters were wearing for the first scene (until the storyline of the movie caught up to me and made me focus more on the action and less on how cakey people's faces looked.)

The Social Network is not a happy-go lucky adventure story of a college student who starts up a billion-dollar company and has a great time doing it. It is not an exciting comedy-romp based in nerd-dom that is dumbed down just enough for us poor, unassuming commonfolk, who are mastered by instead of being masters of technology, to understand and enjoy.

It's actually kind of depressing.

Zuckerberg, although undeniably funny, is so consistently a jerk that it is really hard to like him (and this is coming from a girl whose taste in males tends towards witty, intelligent assholes.) His best friend, Saverin seemed to be portrayed as the quasi-hero of the movie, which was odd, because he was clearly a secondary character and most of his screen time was spent with him blinking back betrayed tears. The most likeable character in the movie was one who we we weren't supposed to like: Sean Parker. The thing about Sean Parker, though, was that he offered an energy, a love for life, that no other character had. While Parker was enjoying life to its maximum (albeit while being a skank, yes I will call a dude a skank), Saverin and Zuckerberg were so lost in their personal life-drama that it was hard to ever see them as what they probably were most of the time: college students who, although angsty, enjoyed their lives and friendship. One of my favorite scenes was when the two of them realized they had groupies, because, for a moment, they looked like exactly what they were: a couple of kids who were overwhelmed by, but excited about, what they were in the middle of.

This is not to say the movie is bad, because it's not. In fact, it is very, very good. The script is tight, witty, and interesting (I just looked up the screenwriter, because I was so impressed with his work. Turns out he's pretty much just worked on the West Wing. Also Charlie Wilson's War.) The actors are believable and talented. (I cannot tell you how many times my heart broke for Saverin and how many times I snorted into my ICEE when Zuckerberg drolly let fly another rude, defensive, but oh so comical aside. Even relatively unimportant characters, like Amy, the Stanford panties girl, were natural and added significantly to the development of other characters.) The cinematography is solid (there were a few shots that stuck out in a bad way, but usually shots ranged somewhere between functional and slightly artsy, which was exactly where they should be for a movie like this one.)

I definitely suggest seeing the movie. If nothing else it explains where our number one addiction these days comes from and even for those who have no interest in facebook or the lawsuits brought against Zuckerberg, there is the story of a lovelorn boy wedged delicately somewhere in the middle, who never quite learns how to say what he wants to say.

and it only took a week for me to get sick of mn again. that HAS to be a record.

get me out.

Hey Pop.

How you doing?

Today is a day dedicated to men like you. Today is the day that we remember men who have children. For some, today sucks because they're reminded of how shoddy their father is. For others, today is lovely because it's a time to celebrate a great man. And for some it sucks because the great man they want to celebrate doesn't exactly exist in the conventional sense any more.

I wish our family was getting together today. It would be great for all of us to sit around a table, with you at its head. We would begin with a prayer that lingers halfway between poetry and blue-collared frankness, led by you, of course. The prayer would be capped with an amen that would ripple around the table like soft, surprised applause. Unbowing our heads, we would look around, grinning, probably in response to the babbling of nieces and nephews that struggled for attention against your supplication for good conversation and thanks for each person around the table.

Words would flit across steaming dishes. Commentary on the food, queries about recent life events, jokes, stories, expositions...

It would be natural. It would be normal. It would be full of life. It would be what we used to be before you were gone. We've changed since then. Not severely, by any means, but we're different. We seem a little quieter, maybe.

Your absence is like a scar. It's becoming less and less obvious that we're missing something, because we've grown used to it, but you're still gone and when we take the time to look for you it's hard to remember what you're supposed to be like. All that is clear is that there's a slight discoloration where you used to be, hinting at what once was.

I miss you. A lot. And at the same time not at all. You seem so far away. Two years is a long time. I remember stories and sometimes I can feel what your hug felt like, hear how your laugh sounded. More than anything I miss what could have been.

If only I could have known you as an adult. What would our relationship have been like if you were around now? What would you think of the ways in which I've changed? What would you let slide and what would gain me lectures, either stern or soft? What new kinds of conversations would we have had? You always respected my opinions and made me feel like I presented my ideas well, even when I didn't. What could I have learned when I finally realized that conversations are not competitions?

How would you have changed? What would be sparking your interest, taking up your time now?

I don't think about you enough. I realize that we're not supposed to live in the past, but we are supposed to acknowledge it. It's just getting harder to do as it gets further away. I don't even know if I remember any of it properly anymore. What if my memories are fabrications? Pathetic attempts at re-weaving a history that didn't exist the way I see it? Why can't you still be here so I could be making new memories with you at their center instead of grasping at the ones that continue to dim? Like a sunset, they're still colorful, but they keep getting darker and there's no telling how much longer the sun will stay above the horizon and keep them lit.

Here's hoping Heaven is bliss.

Your daughter,

Holly

David, the Dancing Ghetto Suburbanite

I am watching Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog as I write this, so please forgive any lack of coherency along with any random and slightly familiar lyrical additions to my story.

On Friday night my friend Anna and I were going to go to a concert in Minneapolis. We have kind of gotten stuck in an activity rut lately wherein pretty much every single Friday night we go to this club in St. Paul called Valentinos. We were planning on mixing it up a little by going to a place called Honey for some live-music dance partying. Unfortunately, we parked in the wrong place when we got to Minneapolis and, after asking a couple police officers if they knew about the place we were looking for, we found out that we'd have to walk 7 blocks (in our super cute, super painful heels) to the venue. And then, of course, we would have to walk those 7 blocks in reverse after dancing blisters into our feet. Anna decided (wisely) that that would be a bad idea and instead we tried to be spontaneous and looked for something to do nearby. We were, after all, in downtown Minneapolis, and although it is no NYC or Chi-town, we definitely have a good selection of places to do things.

We couldn't find anything. We felt overdressed for most of the venues, and the one that we did try out was dead and not playing any music that we liked or knew. We each took a shot and then left, which was kind of lame because we had just stood in line for a solid half hour. (Also at the end of that half hour about six people cut in front of us, which was extra-lame. The guy at the end of the budging group started drunkenly small talking with us and evidently I responded kind of coolly, because he commented on my nonchalance by slurring"Don't worry...I don't have a gun or drugs on me or anything. I'm not into that stuff," clearly implying that because he was black I assumed that he was a gangster or morally corrupt individual of some kind.

I got my snarky on and said, "No...you just cut in line, right...that's your thing?" at which point his companions turned around to give me angry death-glares. I added a "I'm just playing, I'm just playing," to soften what was evidently an earth-shattering blow to the group's collective ego, and then we were friends. Or something. I also obtained a new ghetto clubbing name. 'Tis G.G. Or JiJi. Or GeeGee. I don't know. JeeJee? You get the point.)

Anywho, after that clubbing failure Anna and I decided to default back to our regular Friday night excursion of Valentinos dancing, which wound up being the best choice we could have made. I danced with a few people, most notably a blond-haired blue eyed (not my usual, but nice) fellow who went by the name of David. Hands down the best dancer I've danced with (recently?) and fricking wicked attractive. He also tried to convince me that Apple Valley (a suburb of the Twin Cities) is ghetto. Something about the inherently ghetto qualities of apples? Also a former swimmer, with the remnants of a six pack he showed me as testament to that claim. And you know the best part of the story? I didn't get his phone number or give him mine because (CAN I GET A DRUMROLL PLEASE)...he told me he's studying to be an accountant.

The instant he said that he became at least 40x less attractive to my drunken self who was, at that particular moment, lusting after adventure and could not possibly abide to associate herself with anything so conventional. Sober me says who really cares if there is one not so savory piece to him (and accountants make bank, so the gold-digger that lurks deep within all women should have perked up at such a revelation, yes?) Everything else he said or did (except for his intial attempts at complimenting me) made him seem pretty stellar. I mean, we're talking sex-god level of attractiveness here...There are definitely worse unsavory characteristics than accountantism, but...

Things like that are what make me Holly.

As a sidenote, I have a new favorite song. I would like for it to be my life theme-song because it is that good and it sums up my life-philosophy pretty well. Please allow me to introduce you to Frank Turner's The Road. Love, love, love.

Taste Testing, Taste Taste Testing

It's tough to find work these days. I scour craigslist, newspaper listings and websites that offer work. I peek in windows, looking for needy employers who could use a cute, talented, charismatic girl like myself. Application after redundant application is filled out with all the boring details of my work history, oftentimes followed by what I was once told are illegal personality questionnaires. (Seriously...employers aren't allowed to insist that you must fill them out. It's an invasion of our oh so private privacy.) Rejection after rejection rings lovely in my inbox and voicemail, which, still, are better than those who never get back to me on top of giving me no way to contact them, either. And then there are those who seem to want to hire me, but never give me quite enough information for me to drop everything and move to where they are. *cotridentugh*

Suffice it to say, I am taking whatever I can get it this point. Two jobs is not quite doing it for me right now. Part time work makes for a rough schedule...full of emptiness and not enough money. Today, in desperation, I did a taste test to supplement my income. It took about an hour total and I was paid $35 at the end of it. Being sworn to sacred secrecy, I can't tell you what I tasted, but the process was interesting, and there's nothing either sacred or secret about that, so I am going to write about it.

The taste testing was held in a church. We checked in by showing a photo id and redoing all the paperwork they had already had us do over the phone. Everyone sat by themselves, some with magazines or books to occupy them and others simply staring blankly into space and trying not to make eye contact with anyone else. After (almost) everyone arrived (there were at least eight people who didn't show up) they escorted us into the next room and assigned us to sit at chairs designated with our personalized numbers. We were immediately instructed not to talk to our neighbors, which had already been made clear by the fact that each paper and plastic place setting was divided from its neighbor by an upended white piece of cardboard.

Overall the job felt like a standardized test. An awkwardly shaped, but friendly and surprisingly energetic woman read instructions to all of us from her packet, instructing us to open ours and informing us of the strict process of look at cereal, answer question, pour milk, taste cereal, answer questions, taste cereal, answer questions, taste cereal again to see if it got soggy. Three samples and a printed stop sign mid-test later, we were well on our way to passing. A few more questions and instructions later and we were all handed a check and fairly pushed out of the door. Easiest $35 I ever made in my life. Granted, once upon a time I made $100 for helping someone buy a plane ticket on the interwebs, but that was in Alaska, and there are different rules in Alaska than there are in the lower 48.

There is more I would kind of sort of like to say about the taste testing, but I think that would actually get into the product and I would rather not get an email or phone call one day telling me I can't get any more free money/food because I divulged too much information on the interwebs.

Also I think I hurt my wrist pretending to be a boxer the other day. Owie.

...this is my life...

what is wrong with the world, the current is playing the black eyed peas' i've got a feeling...

Just Call Me Midas

Today I was thinking about the story of King Midas. For those who are not aware:

Once upon a time there was a king named Midas who entertained a magical creature of some kind for a few weeks. This mythical creature appreciated the favor and, before he left, told Midas that he would give him anything he wanted. Unlike King Solomon, Midas did not think to ask for something that would make him a better person or ruler. Instead, he went for riches and asked that everything he touched would turn to gold. His wish was granted. He touched a rock: gold. He touched a chair: gold. Good King Midas was ecstatic and ordered his chefs to put together a huge banquet to celebrate. (This is where too many people let the story drop off. Lookitt Mr. Midas and his magic fingers! He's gonna be the richest dude EVER.) Midas goes to his banquet and picks up a turkey leg. It turns to gold. He laughs at his stupidity and uses a fork to scoop up some mashed potatoes. As soon as they touch his lips they turn to gold. He suddenly realizes what he's asked for. He cannot touch anything without it turning to gold. Surprise... He cannot eat, he cannot drink, he cannot hug his daughter (in the Nathaniel Hawthorne version he does and he's left with a statue instead of a child). Of course he tries to revoke his wish, but that's not important to my blog entry. Brush up on your Greek mythology or read some Hawthorne if you're curious.

Anywho, I've been feeling a bit like Midas because it seems I ruin everything I touch. I've heard people change "gold" to "shit" when they are trying to express what I am, but gold is just as bad. It is just as useless and heavier. (Although it would be less smelly...pros and cons, my loves, pros and cons.) I suppose I could sell everything I turn to gold, but what am I going to buy? More things to turn into gold? That's a terrible idea. It would be impossible to enjoy anything. The point of the story (aside from the "don't be greedy" moral) is that things are perfect as they are. Trying to change one thing to another because the latter is more "valuable" is ludicrous, because things are as they are. Let it be.

Urgh, getting sidetracked.

I ruin people by not expressing myself properly. When I was at J2M2 there were some communication issues (which I had nothing to do with, for the record), so one night we all sat in the front room and were reminded about how to have a fruitful conversation. In an ideal conversation one person should express himself and his friend should repeat what she heard. If it matches what he thought he said, they are supposedly golden. If not, they should continue until they understand each other. The problem is that people are too ready to assume that they understand each other when they really don't.

If you've ever had a conversation of moderate depth with me, you've probably noticed that I'm constantly asking questions. Occasionally I'll catch myself stupidly nodding in agreement with a statement I don't understand, or flippantly believing that I understand something that I do not. However, for the most part, I will ask questions constantly in an effort to wholly understand the person to whom I am speaking. We're not as identical as we think we are. What I mean when I say "he was a jerk" is probably different than what you mean.

So my problem is that I say things and then assume that people know what I meant when I said them. For instance. I was having a conversation with a good friend of mine and he was telling me about how he's a selfish person. He said it with a tinge of shame, as well he should. I told him that I admired him for at least knowing that selfishness was one of his flaws. He heard the admiration, but did not get the implications underneath it. I had a similar conversation with him later, this time with a larger group of people, and this time he spoke with outright, brash pride of his selfishness. The vice was not and is not admirable (and he really hasn't ever struck me as a selfish person...he's a generous dude), it was the self-awareness that is admirable. But, because I am evidently incapable of expressing myself, he got the wrong impression and I may very well have messed him up.

It is so easy to forget how influential small words and conversations can be. There are so many tiny words and phrases that have stuck with me for years and years because they hit my ears at the right time and were delivered by the right person in the right way. Whether they are actually any more legitimate than the scores of actual advice I've also received is up for debate, but...

Knowing that we are all constantly altering people's life paths, how are we supposed to ever say anything of depth? What if I'm exploring my own beliefs when I tell someone something? At least 50% of what I say and imply about myself is completely untrue. Not because I want to deceive anyone, but because I don't know what is true and a generic, grayscale image is easy to project and informative. When I find that I'm projecting something that I don't like based on the way it makes people treat me, I know to alter x, y, or z. ...This is way off topic.

There have been other instances where something will happen in my life and I watch my actions play out in front of my and turn people or events of my life into stone (metal, the point is they're frozen and useless) temporarily.

I think I want to be done with writing this entry now. I have no idea what I'm trying to say anymore.

Fin.

National Day of Prayer

Yesterday, as I was walking to my chemistry class, I saw a student uncomfortably kneeling in a corner, face toward the wall, performing his daily prayers. It was obvious that he was trying his best to be as unobtrusive as possible, while still doing what his religion mandates. It made me smile, despite my neither being Muslim or a person who prays very often. There's something beautiful about a person praying, even if those prayers are ritualized and even if they are praying to Something I don't believe in.

That little story brings me to today. President Obama declared today the National Day of Prayer, despite Barbara Crabb's recent ruling that the day is unconstitutional. Both sides seem upset about the day. Some people are upset because Obama doesn't do the prayer service Bush did, and others are upset because the day "infringes on their constitutional rights."

I think everyone should just calm down. First, I don't think it's a bad idea to cancel the prayer service. Although it would be cool to have an official gathering of different religious groups praying together, it is not necessary. Our religious leaders can organize smaller get-togethers on their own AND, especially when everyone is so worried about money, it does not make much sense to throw it away on a prayer service. Prayer can be effectively done alone and in a closet. We don't need microphones or over-paid religious officials to do it for us. Prayer is a community activity, so it would be better to find people you care about and pray with them instead of watching someone else do it on television.

Now, for the left. Since we are making the National Day of Prayer into a constitutional issue, let's take a look at what the first amendment actually says: "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof." The first half, regarding establishment of religion, is obviously inapplicable to the National Day of Prayer. The second half is a bit of a gray area, but because it regards the prohibition of religious practices, I would argue that it has no authority over encouraging citizens to "pray, or otherwise give thanks, in accordance with their own faiths and consciences." Were Obama telling everyone to pray to a certain God, then we would have a problem. However, simply recognizing that people have "cherished beliefs" and giving them a day to "publicly recognize the importance of prayer" is. not. wrong.

Discounting the National Day of Prayer because one does not pray or believe in a god to whom one could pray, seems similar to discounting Black history month on the grounds that one is not black. Just because one person is different than another, it does not mean that they can not appreciate each other. If the National Day of Prayer became a day of religious reconciliation (not conversion), I think it would be doing its job. It is possible for people who do not believe in God to be involved in the day, or to turn a blind eye to it if it bothers them that much. There is no reason to complain about the existence of something that IS NOT HARMFUL.

I don't know why, in a country that prides itself on the acceptance of people of all kinds, we have so much trouble actually accepting people who do not agree with us. We don't need to require superficial assimilation. Let's appreciate each other's differences. Let's learn about and experience the things that other people love and might make us uncomfortable and then offer to teach those who are different the things we love and might make them a little uncomfortable.

...yes I'm probably a bit of a hippie.

no breathing

Okay: necessary preface:

The following is a very bitter song that I started writing in March as a quasi-love song. Today I found the paragraph or so of rhymes I had and I rolled with it, updating the story to its current state. It was initially going to be a rap, because as a very white girl I've always kinda sorta wondered what I would be able to do with rap. It turned into more of a song and what you are going to listen to is a free beat that I downloaded off the internet (http://beatstorm.com/) that perfectly fit my song and five different takes that I think sounded kind of cool played on top of each other. I might work on it some more and clean it up a little, but...I don't know...there's something about this version that I liked. If you don't like it, cool. If you do, cooler.

Take it with a grain of salt, though...I guess that's what my preface was trying to say. And there's only a video because blogger won't let me upload mp3s on their own. The video is just a picture of me the whole way through. Do something else while you listen. :)



yo yo yo

you wanna be my beau?

you've gotta say no

or else you should just go.

'cause i just like to kiss you

an' sure i'll prolly miss you

but when you get down to it

we couldn't ever do it

you ain't got the brains

no you ain't got the smarts

i'm just bein' vain

but i'm better than you are.

see it's funny though

'cause it ain't true

you're prolly on my level

i'm just gonna revel
in my self-centered groove.
oh no. too slow? let's go.

now you're gone
it's a relief
because now i know what you think of me
you stay in touch with her and him
but somehow i fell off the rim

we stared at the stars
always hitting par
on a blanket in the grass
you pretended what i asked
was silly and distrustful
and you whispered little lies
i guess...nice try.

you're a liar and cheat
and a bit of a whore
i'm so glad i didn't trust you
'cause i don't need more
proof that the pretty ones
always let you down
this time around
i wasn't ground into the ground

so take your baby blondie
and your motherfucking friends
and show them the poetry they'll never comprehend
sail on the ocean, play in the sea
and never ever try to get back with me.

Reconciling Where I Am With Who I Was

Today is one of those days where I really don't like myself. I don't like that I'm 21 and living with my mother. I don't like that I'm working two half-assed jobs while attending a community college. I don't like that all of my high school friends are going to graduate college before me. I don't like that my little sister will either graduate before or at the same time as me. I don't like that I'm not getting the "college experience." And most of all I don't like that I don't like these things, because I'm really not that dissatisfied with my life. What I really don't like is that there is a timeline I feel obligated to follow. I don't like that I'm starting to feel old simply because I'm not doing everything in the right order. (Also, as a brief sidenote: I don't like that for the last year [if not more] I have never felt legitimately mentally challenged by a peer. Obviously there are people who know more things than I do, but learning something is very different [and far inferior to] being challenged by something.)

I was watching the television show Community the other day, which chronicles the existence of a Spanish study group at a community college. Wonderfully often the characters run up against certain experiences that are unique to community colleges. This week a group of high school students was featured as a collection of overly intelligent, snobbish jerks who follow our beloved study group around, taunting them for being at a community college, because, obviously, unless you are a high school student proving your super-intelligence by attending a college whilst being in high school, community colleges represent stupidity or failure of some kind.

10-1 says most high school students (people) believe this. I say this for several reasons:

1. Community colleges are notorious for being for:
a. Those who cannot afford a 4-year school. (Which shouldn't mean anything, but it implies a lack of money, and any deficiency, even if it is as basal a thing as money, can be grounds for viewing an individual as less-than. Stupid? Yes. True, irregardless? Yup.)
b. Those who slacked off in high school and are now making up for it by using a community college to up their gpa.
c. Those who ran into some kind of life issue that prohibits them from taking the usual route. Dropouts, the kids that got pregnant, the ones who decided to do life before they did school or maybe it was as simple as *insert tragic/mundanely common circumstance here*. The reality is that they couldn't do what everyone else did, so they're following plan b (c, d, e, f, g...etc.)

2. When I was in high school and doing PSEO (Post-secondary education option, ie college in high school) I was pretty well convinced that I was more intelligent than my fellow students. (Hey, anecdotal evidence counts for something. 99% of life experience can be summed up anecdotally, so I refuse to not take it into account.)

3. Largely because of point 2 (which stands despite my encouragement and support of friends who attended community colleges before me) I would never have planned to attend one outside of a PSEO program. My decision to go to this school was literally of the split second variety. I had no other plan, so I emailed the school late one night and asked if they'd let me sign up for classes, even though they had started the previous week. They did and badda-bing, badda-boom, here I am. (The very observant will notice that this doesn't really support my point, meaning that it is anecdotal evidence minus the evidence. Mwahaha. It's my blog, I'll do what I want.)

4. It's pretty obvious that the current high school students attending my community college believe in the inferiority of community college students. They would never seriously say as much, but a large group of them implied as much the other day, and honestly, as points 2 and 3 prove, I can't really blame them because I've felt the same way.

5. It's largely true. Most of my classes are made up of students with children, stay at home moms who are finally trying to do something for themselves, international students who had to start somewhere, slackers, the grossly unintelligent, people with family issues who need/want to stay close to home, and those who try really hard to keep their heads down because they think they are better than anyone else, a fact which makes them more ashamed than it does proud. Some people fall into several of these categories.

Now, for the record, I've loved my time at my community college. I've had several teachers here who are better (more caring, intelligent, well-spoken, better prepared, etc.) than teachers at my 4-year schools. I have met some really amazing (charismatic, witty, unique, fun) peers during my time here. I've been involved in an, although small, really solid theater program. I have participated in several other student organizations that are well put-together and composed of wonderfully passionate students and teachers. And despite all of this, social stigma or something similar dictates that a little ember of shame about my time at a community college remains niggling inside of me.

The problem is that my current dissatisfaction with myself has very little to do with myself and everything to do with other people. The way I am living my life does not conform to the standards that our world suggests is the "right way" of doing things and the thought of that actually thrills me a little bit, because it's trendy to be different these days. Conformity by virtue of uniqueness, yo.

It's just so easy to tell a person that they are either bound to be a failure or already are because they aren't doing life the "right" way. I know that I shouldn't take offense to this because of its unoriginality and because of our supposed need, as people, to find our importance in ourselves instead of in others, but... I'm human. It sucks when people make untrue assumptions about me because of where my life and my respective decisions have put me. It sucks that I'm too much of a pansy to put them in their place with anything more creative or true than "well...what have you done with YOUR life that you're excited about?"

Their life paths are no less legitimate than mine just because they are following the world's suggestion as to how to do life right, either. If they're happy, they're happy. Ad hominem aside, I just want for people to see me as I am.

Let me be confused without adding to my confusion. I guess that's what I'm asking. I am nowhere near where I expected to be in this 5th month of 2010. I was going to follow the 4-year plan, double majoring in philosophy and film at a four year school on the east coast. I was going to be your typical, liberal arts student with a passion for the world and a trendy detachment from herself that she would never recognize as such. I got accepted to every school I applied to. I picked one, I went there, I started down the road to my potential future life... Shit happened and I'm not close to that person or path anymore.

Let's make a deal:

Don't illegitimize my hurt and its repercussions just because it doesn't look like your life plan and I won't bash you for being a lemming.

The Destruction of the Plan I Had

(copied from my family's blog)

Hello friends and family. Let me tell you about my weekend:

First I got an email telling me that my chances of simply getting an interview for the wonderful, splendid Americorp program I wanted to be in are slim to none, emphasis on the none. Then my car was towed and it cost me $150 (that I don’t really have) to get it back. Those are the two really bad parts of the weekend, but they were accented marvelously by my rather depressing realization that my life in Minnesota right now is not conducive to the creation or continuation of a respectable, beautiful, upright Holly Peterson. This was coupled with a similar realization that leaving Minnesota for the summer is becoming less likely, so my Washingtonian escape plan is no longer as viable an option. (At this moment I don’t know if those realizations are true, or simply my overactive imagination trying really hard to make it seem even worse that I don’t get to do what I wanted to do with my summer.)

Really, I just wish that Americorp could have told me they weren’t interested in me ONE week earlier, because then I would have auditioned for Shakespeare and Co. (a Shakespearian summer theater production that is done OUTSIDE), and provided my audition went well, I could be spending the summer doing outdoorsy theater. That would have been fricking awesome. Suffice it to say that my summer has been destroyed because I stupidly had no back-up plan to the Americorp thing and it’s a little late to have super great options available to me anymore. I’m looking, I’m looking.

I’m thinking of working in a cannery in Alaska, but I wanted to spend my summer outside and honestly I probably don’t have enough money to get up to Alaska to begin with. Perhaps more hitch hiking is in order? Poll that won’t be answered because no one comments on this blog: how long do you think it would take to hitchhike to AK? I would probably have to take a ferry from WA to either AK or somewhere in Canada, because last time I tried hitching over the border it did not go over so well. I was barred from entering the country and I’d rather that that didn’t happen again. It’s kind of embarrassing to not be allowed into a country.

Anyway, if anyone has suggestions as to what I can do with my newly freed up summer, I would appreciate it. Ideally, I would be doing something outside and hands-on, but it’s late enough now that I would take whatever I could get. If you know somebody who knows somebody who knows somebody…I’ll go anywhere and do (almost) anything. Hook a Holly up?

Flattered

Flattered
Dimly flattered
But sad,
Yes, also, too.
That so many turn around,
Believe,
I'm better than them or you.
It's lonely, though,
To be alone
When they see I'm not a one.
I watch faces fade.
The shiny dims and grays
And nothing's ever true.
I'm tired of feeling distant
Miles away and somehow truant.
I'm a child in adult skin
Who somehow never grew.
The space between,
Harsh and mean,
According to the they,
Is in a stupid, hurtful way
an
upside down
backwards
reversed
compliment.
I'd rather you insult me,
Yes,
Kick with steel toed shoes.
If that's what it takes
For me to be.
(With you.)
Like everyone else
In this sweet, earthy hell
I just want the lovely
Always beside me.
To be loved and love
Is all I would request
In the loneliest, aching
Chambers of my chest.
That request
She won't rest
And she won't be met.

buzzed 'n' bored. suddenly, after the fact, i remember that clubbing does not interest me in the slightest. why am i here?

secret

Secrets secrets secrets secrets.
Secrets secrets secrets secrets.
I want to hear his side
Because hers was so sweet.
Secrets secrets secrets secrets.
Secrets secrets secrets secrets.
Mentioning her he was snide
Superior, condescending, elite.
Secrets secrets secrets secrets.
Secrets secrets secrets secrets.
I'm certain he's lying to her
And she bought into him.
Secrets secrets secrets secrets.
Secrets secrets secrets secrets.
I don't want to be sure
But the chances of my being wrong are slim.
Secrets secrets secrets secrets.
Secrets secrets secrets secrets.
Using, abusing, manipulating, both.
It's a two-way street so maybe it's okay.
Secrets secrets secrets secrets.
Secrets secrets secrets secrets.
Worst though, is his braceleted oath.
They pretending in rosy pink and live in lying gray.

Truth-tellers

Tonight I had a short-lived conversation with a friend of mine about what my "type" is. I went for the cop-out answer of "asshole" for several reasons, one of which is that in order to get a real answer from me (regarding anything of moderate depth) the question usually needs to be posed twice, so I know that my fellow conversant is actually looking for an answer, not simple, superficial conversation. The necessity of this was learned the roundabout way for yours truly. He dropped it, like I expected him to, but I've been mulling over it a bit since then.

My "type" and now I am speaking in the broadest sense, the sense in which friendship and any other valued relationship would be included in this category, is a truth-teller. I need to be with people who tell the truth, feel the truth, live the truth. Let me explain.

I have recently found, in most of my relationships (broadest sense, again) that there is a point where my friend and I hit a metaphorical wall of considerable girth. This wall is one that is hard, if not impossible, to pass and is, to me at least, inhibitive of the relationship proceeding or even continuing. What I am referring to is friends' refusal to answer questions about their lives. Perhaps it is something from their past that isn't pleasant to think about or something from the present about which they only share with certain people.

Regardless, I don't want to spend time with people who won't share themselves wholly with me, because I know that I am not invited to share myself wholly with them, and if that is that case, why the hell am I wasting my time with them? True, there is something to be said for the pleasant company of other human peoples, but I can enjoy the casual, pleasant company of people who will also share more of themselves than what they tell everyone else.

I hate when I can tell a story has been told a hundred times and those are the only kinds I get, even when it's clear that the story is one that should be heartfelt. I hate when I am trying to care about a person and they skate around my questions or make it blatantly clear that the information they are holding away from me is not something I would ever be told. I hate when there are parts of people's lives that they refuse to share with anyone.

I am a truth-teller, in a way. If someone wants to know my painful stories I will share them, and I'm just as willing to share my good ones. It's weird, though, because where a lot of people label themselves good, kind and loving (and then either do or do not live up to their label) I prefer to call myself a terrible person, and then do good.

There is a parable about a father who has two sons. He asks one of them to do a chore for him and is snubbed. He moves on to the other and asks him to do the chore as well, and the son agrees joyfully. The first son changes his mind and does the chore anyway. The second son gets lazy and doesn't even try to do it. I'm the first son. That has nothing to do with what I was talking about.

My hair is tangled. I'm tired. I couldn't buy shampoo today because I forgot that I hid my debit card because I don't have enough money to buy anything anymore. Urgh. Life is good when it's not.

Edit:

What I was trying to get at is this: there are a few people in my life, one of whom I have literally only known for about a month, who mean the world to me. These people mean the world to me because they share of themselves. They are honest about what they feel both with themselves and with people who ask. That is my type. A person who can recognize their own reality for what it is, but not let it either destroy or define them...those are the people I love. Those are the people I want to surround myself with.

nothing to see here.

I am trying to write an entry about my recent crazy-ass mood swings and I am not doing a very good job of it. Two or three entries (one of which was actually a reasonable length) have now been deleted. I wouldn't be entirely surprised if this one wound up digitally erasified as well. I make up words. Shoot me.

(Side story relating to word invention: My Research Paper Professor makes us title all of our sections and he said that we should title them creatively. As such I titled one of mine "Exploitionships" (it was about people who use their friends instead of appreciating them for the great individuals that they are). Obviously "exploitionship" is a made up word, but I was told to be creative and that is creative AND it would make a kick-ass word. Professor did not think so. Le sigh. EXCITING story. Heehee.)

Anywho: Recently I have been mood-swinging like CRAZY and for no discernible reason. I'll wake up being wickedly excited about life and then three hours later I'll be ready to go home and drown myself in a toilet bowl. I'll be having an all-around awful day and next thing I know I'm running about laughing and having a grand old time with a group of people. I don't get it and it's really starting to piss me off. Calm the eff down, emotions. Calm the eff down.

Random thoughts:

I have a sliver in my hand. I wish I understood people. I wish I were better at telling people what I think/feel when it is pertinent. Friends are like rainbows. They're purty while they last, but they don't. I like taking walks. I wish I had never left Hofstra. I hate role-reversal that puts me in an uncomfortable place. I think I ruined a pair of shoes today. But it was worth it. I should be more honest. With everyone. Including myself. I wish I knew what he thought in particular. I am trying to catch up on all the podcasts I am subscribed to. Takes for-frickin'-ever. I am also trying to get to the point where I've listened to all the music I have on my computer. Also takes for-frickin' ever. It would help if I wasn't constantly clearing my library and re-installing the same music. It makes it very hard to tell what I have and have not actually listened to. I want a bowl of ice cream. There is no ice cream in my house. That is enough for now. I hope I can be in Washington for the summer. Really, really, really a lot. I miss him and he's not even gone yet. My new obscenity is fuckhead. Deliciously juvenile and explicit. My blocker is forbidding me to go on facebook, but midnight is supposed to be a new day and it's five past midnight now. what de hell? ahhh...there we go. ciao.

Naknek, AK

I spent the summer in Naknek, AK a couple summers ago. I didn't have a camera at the time, so I had no pictures. But my buddy Joey just sent me this video he made about the experience. It does a pretty good job of showing what the place was like, albeit from a slightly different perspective than my own.

Joy isn't always beautiful

Tonight I went to a movie called Oddsac. It is a collaboration between Danny Perez and Animal Collective and, essentially a feature-length music video. Yes, I realize a feature-length music video sounds like a bad idea, but it held my attention the whole time. I really enjoyed it.

Afterward Perez and some dude from Collective went up front and answered questions that the audience had. I almost wish they hadn't because I didn't think they said anything worth hearing. They were both almost certainly a drunk (or a little drugged out) and answered most of the audience's questions with responses that ran roughly along the lines of "it's really not that interesting". Most terribly, someone asked what the makers of the movie and the music wanted audiences to walk away with, what was the point of the film, why should people watch it? The answer was that there was no point. They simply enjoy watching it and hoped other people would too.

Part of me is okay with that, because I've always loved the Golding quote: "an author should forget the point of his book as soon as he's finished writing it" (that's a very rough reinterpretation of what he said, but it is something like that). I like that quote because I think everyone should be able to derive their own meaning from the things they read, watch and listen to. I've also always liked the exchange in Tristram Shandy: A Cock and Bull Story where the filmmakers are trying to figure out why they are making their movie. Finally one man says "To make people laugh." His friend responds, "Is that all?" And HE says, "Is that not enough?" Simply being given the excuse to laugh, the opportunity to feel amused can be incredibly valid.

However, it seemed to me that Animal Collective had no meaning of their own to begin with, which bothered me. I appreciate an artist refusing to impose their values or ideas on their audience, but why oh why are you doing something if it doesn't mean anything to you? Why invest so much of your time and energy into something that you only LIKE? As there is no meaning to the movie, it is a project that simply exists. (And is that so wrong? For something to simply exist? Is it as necessary as I want it to be for things to MATTER in more ways than simply for their aesthetic appeal? Maybe not. But I want them to. I want for us to at least try to find something bigger.)

Anywho, there was one scene at the end of the movie that I found particularly interesting and that is what inspired the title of this post. In this scene there are four women in a kitchen making cookies or something similar. They seem to be having a pleasantish time. Then this creepy creature appears between them. It has red, glittery skin and a white turban on its head, which doubles as its eyes and are large, fist sized knots. He seems to attempt to interrupt their conservation, which made me think he was supposed to be the proverbial "elephant in the room", but whenever he tries to shift their attention to him, they just laugh, and among each other, not at him. Finally he starts screaming and screaming and screaming and dancing and, next thing you know, the four ladies have joined in the dancing. It's very tribal, and throughout the entire thing they are laughing about as hard as it is possible to laugh. They are also having an epic food fight, throwing flour and eggs and sugar everywhere throughout the rest of the sequence. And as I was watching the sequence all I could think was that joy is not always beautiful. But it's joy and it feels hella good even when it's ringed by fear or violence.

2-2-6

oopsies,

lost it.

it slipped between the seats.

somewhere,

last night,

it got away from me.

dead air,

no sparks,

in our in between.

fresh eyes

see it

perhaps this shouldn't be.

not sad,

joyful,

cascading with happy.

power,

control,

because i am now free.

fingers,

pulling,

detached from him and me.

smile,

heehee,

and all the dead is green.

Will someone please make me better? Water and snot keep pouring down my face and I can't stop coughing and sneezing. Being ill is the worst.

What is a Community Service Officer? The title is worse than rent-a-cop...and according to the SUV that keeps driving past me, it's actually official. HA!

Lies

I lie to me

So constantly

It's hard to know the truth.

I fantasize

Through fibs and lies

I love my sweet untruths.

These Belong Together...

Skin

Shame.

Squeeze,

Fingernails,

Breathe in, 2, 3...

Not me

Not me

Not me

Then who?

Then who?

Then who?

Smooth skin slipping

Like wet stones

Beneath these fingers.

What strings pull them

That way, then this

As I try to find those lips?

Mistake.

Stupid.

Nothing there,

Merely smoke beneath my fingers.

That silken marble just as solid

As a broken promise on the breeze.

It isn't mine,

It's not for me,

But in a certain frame of mind

I let myself believe

With a dead drunk, sad caress

That this wrongness

Between we two

Could be a little true.

Murder

Lies, lies, lies

So sick of breathing LIES.

Look me in the face and

See the truth here in my eyes.

I cannot say the words;

They scare me.

(That's the truth.)

Hard as I try, I can't free me

And it's all because of you.

You knew, you knew, you really knew

I heard it in your voice.

Then, of course, I knew you knew

So I had no choice.

I laughed and called it stupid

Cocked, aimed, and I shot Cupid.

He fluttered, hit the pavement.

And with an ultrasonic crack,

That little darling Cupid

Broke his tiny back.

"I Was" Series

Going to Tell You
I was going to tell you.
Not the time you tried to ask.
I was going to tell you.
She (I?) convinced me you should know.
I was going to tell you.
Because I love the way you feel.
I was going to tell you.
Because your smile's like the sun.
It doesn't make my heart melt.
(But makes the ice around it start to run.)
I was going to tell you.
Was going to give it to you straight.
I was going to tell you.
But it will have to wait
Until it is no longer true.
And then when all its color
Has faded into blacks and blues
I'll still refuse to tell you
Because I hate to lose.

Getting Better
I was getting better.
It took me way too long.
I was getting better.
Things didn't feel so wrong.
I was getting better.
But it got obvious so
You killed it.
Now it's dead.
You say you want me happy
And in a way I think that's true
But unless it's happiness on your terms
You've made it clear you won't approve.
I was getting better.
Both in myself and in the world.
I was getting better.
Glee had been unfurled.
Its colors were so stunning
It shone both light and dark.
I was getting better.
Now everything is stark.
I was getting better.
But now I've lost my way.
I was getting better,
I breathed deeper every day.
The air was clear, cool and sweet.
The ground smoothed out beneath my feet.
Everything was better.
Then you pushed.
I fell.
Defeat.

Sleep is for the weak.

Sleep is one of my favorite things in the entire world. I have a habit of sleeping too much, because I have epic dreams that I enjoy participating in. Being in a world where violence of epic proportions is acceptable, painless, and generally non-fatal is pretty fricking sweet. Everything is technicolor and simple and accessible and controllable. Interpreting dreams is one of my favorite past-times, not because I think dreams themselves can tell us anything, but because I think that what we think our dreams are trying to tell us is incredibly indicative of what's actually going down in us. Never would I ever seriously ask someone to interpret one of my dreams for me, because I would get an interpretation of their inner-state instead of mine. Once upon a time I wrote down a dream and coupled it with an interpretation. About a year later I stumbled across the dream and started interpreting it before I got to my old interpretation. They were black and white different. Try the same yourself. I can tell you for shizzley that your interpretations will not match unless you do not change as a person, in which case...I'm sorry.

RAMBLING.

POINT: I don't just love sleep because I love dreaming or because it is invigorating or because it's healthy...I love sleep because of what happens when you DON'T. I think it's cool that there's a dude who has gone 35 years without sleeping. Not sleeping kills some people, but he makes it work. I dug The Machinist as much as the next gal and I fricking love the questions it raises. How badly do we need sleep, really? What brings on sleep deprivation? If we don't sleep will dreams start to overwrite reality? Someone once told me that everything that people feel via drug use can also be achieved through sleep deprivation. I don't have a source for that one. HEARSAY.

We can go about this experiment however we want. If you want to overload yourself with caffeine, do it. If you want to pinch yourself whenever your eyes start to get heavy, sweet. If you want to hire someone to follow you with a horn (me! I need another job, yo), perfect. I'm going to go the natural route. I'm going to eat as natural of foods as I can, with as few preservatives and caffeine and unnaturally occurring sugars as is humanly possible in this day and age. A website just told me that people die from sleep deprivation. The record is 11 days. I don't plan on hitting that because spring break is only a week. Regardless, if you feel on the cusp of death, hit the sack. Holly will not be responsible for your untimely, sleepless demise. But I'm going to see how far I can push myself and you're invited to join. I will be starting on Friday.

Sleep is for the weak. Shun it with me.

A Streetcar Named Desire

This is a post I put up on my family's blog...I don't really think that anyone looks at that blog, though, so I'm reposting it here because I'm vain and I want attention or something (heeheehee):

For the past month or so my every thought and action has been tainted by a certain fictional, manipulative, and very messed up someone known to the world as Blanche DuBois. She's an alcoholic and a smoker, she makes bad decision after bad decision and her need for constant and hearty approval means that every bad decision impacts the people she loves most as well. Of course, like everyone out there, she does have her redeeming qualities. She loves deeply, sees the poetry in the world where others see blandness or mire, and understands people in a way that many do not. Blanche DuBois is a character that I first fell in love with, then found myself hating but, finally found a kind of kindred spirit in her.

In the conversations I realized the play was a lot more relevant than I initially believed. I had trouble wanting to invite people to this play because, although it is a classic, it is not a pretty story. By the end Blanche has been driven insane and her sister's life in New Orleans, once imperfect but happy, is left in shambles. Of course my character's habits of drinking, smoking, cussing, and indulgence in casual sexual encounters, coupled with the rape at the end of the play also made it hard to invite family members. It is not exactly a "bring the kids" kind of production. However, once I was able to get over my discomfort with my family's ability to separate Blanche's behavior from mine, I started to find valuable tidbits of gold that were surprisingly applicable to my life that I would like to share with you, if you have the patience to indulge me:

There are two bits of monologues in particular that I would like to offer to all of you because of the incredible meaning I found in them. The first was actually cut from our production because it evidently did not have the same profundity for my director as it did for me, but I think it one of the most beautiful pieces of writing in the play. I have now realized that it is so meaningful to me because I missed this part of my father's death. The guilt that Blanche is here reproaching her sister with is a guilt that I have felt. Although everyone in my family says my Dad passed away quietly I have always gotten the very subtle impression that this part of his journey is one that I should not have missed.

"Funerals are quiet, but deaths- not always. Sometimes their breathing is hoarse, and sometimes it rattles, and sometimes they even cry out to you, "Don't let me go!" Even the old, sometimes, say, "Don't let me go." As if you were able to stop them! But funerals are quiet, with pretty flowers. And, oh, what gorgeous boxes they pack them away in! Unless you were there at the bed when they cried out, "Hold me!" you'd never suspect there was a struggle for breath and bleeding. You didn't dream, but I saw!"

The other monologue that is so meaningful to me is nearly at the end of the play where I have been cornered by my love interest. He has realized that I am not the moral pillar of "old-fashioned ideals" that I have painted myself as and is confronting me about it. Finally I cave and I tell him the truth. It is the second sentence in the following quote that I find the most powerful because it encompasses how I felt and acted after my Dad died. I didn't run around having sex with strangers like Blanche did, but I did find myself repeatedly ripping myself out of places before they could become meaningful. I found my protection in isolation by way of constant movement. I found the goodness in people by refusing to get to know them on a more than superficial level. It seems to me that it was the same for Blanche. Blanche found the goodness in people by only having physical relations with them. She had been hurt so badly by the loss the person who was most important to her in life that she couldn't sustain another relationship for years. She could only ping-pong her way through life, looking for happiness everywhere it wasn't and hoping that eventually she would find someone that could understand and fix her.

"Yes. I had many intimacies with strangers. After the death of Allan intimacies with strangers seemed all I was able to fill my empty heart with. I think it was panic, just panic, that drove me from one to the next, looking for protection in the most unlikely of places."

It's a good play. All y'all missed out if you didn't get to see it. We've been hearing really good things from everyone who has come so far, which is a lot of fun. Especially considering how much time we've put into the play. It's only been a month, but Blanche is a verbose little lady, and I have spent a LOT of time sticking her words into my head. :)

No Fucking Pandas, No Fucking Pandas

I just had the first legitimate nightmare that I can remember having since I was five and dreamed that an innocent, happy Ken doll turned into a giant black snake and swallowed the Barbie doll to whom he'd been speaking. I'm not used to having nightmares. My dreams are normally action-packed, violent and exciting. There are explosions, leaps from tall buildings, swordfights, gunfights, knifefights, fistfights, but there is never an accompanying sense of fear. Tonight is different for some reason. FYI: After finishing writing the story of my dream there still seem to be small bits and pieces missing. I apologize for that, but it is still a cohesive(ish) story, so I'm publishing it here on m'blog anyways.

Dream:

I came home, entering through the door in the entry way that leads out to the garage. It was early afternoon and sun was gently streaming through our small octagonal window. Small motes of dust spun lazily in the bar of sunshine, the only movement in all the house. No one else was supposed to be home.

I walked down the stairs and noticed that the tub (that we don't actually have against the wall by the computer in the family room) was full of water. Inside was also what I would later discover through dream ESP was my grandmother. Her face was missing. I drained the tub, getting the impression that, although she didn't have a face anymore, she was still alive. I went to my room to get something to help her. Returning moments later, empty handed but prepared to help, I found that the tub was full of dark, gray colored water again. This time I knew she was dead. With a very slight pang of fear (the kind of "fear" I feel in most dreams like these: that insignificant excitement that is nothing more than a slight adrenaline rush) I realized that the killer was still in the house and that I might have the opportunity to catch it.

In my room again, I heard a noise and saw a flash of color, like a red cloth being shaken out, in the hallway outside my door. Curious, I quietly walked out into the hall. There she was, mere feet away from me, a tall blond stranger with a large hooked nose and smallish chin. Her face was narrow and worn slightly with age; she was probably in her early 40s. She was folding a green towel. Showing no fear of embarrassment at being caught in a house where a murder had just been committed, she looked at me evenly. I stared back and asked why she had done what she had done. (Magic dream transition)

We were upstairs, where Mum, Matt and Evie were handcuffed, sitting on or standing near the couch. The killer told me she thought it had been for love. She said that sometimes a person loves someone more than they would have ever thought possible, but they are denied that love and it eats away at them. The only way they can confront that denied emotion is to let it out in some way. I nodded and cited Ted Bundy and other random serial killer names to agree with her. Other than feeling slightly uncomfortable that my entire family was handcuffed while I roamed free with our serial killer, I enjoyed talking to her and didn't want her to leave. Everything she said was intriguing and much of what she said resonated with me in some way, even if I would never consider killing people to let an unrequited love breathe.

I worried that my family would look at me badly after this encounter because of my desperate questions and the relative cool with which I addressed what we now knew was a serial killer. Matt cleared his throat and held out his hands. The woman nodded and uncuffed him, my sister and my Mother and then started for the door. We all crowded around the top of the stairs, as we tend to do when a person is leaving our home, and waved goodbye to her. Now it was my family's turn to reek of normalcy and I took on the burden of fear.

I broke down. I collapsed to the floor, dry sobbing as soon as the woman left. I almost wondered if I was faking the emotion at first, in an attempt to convince my family that the coldness they'd seen before wasn't indicative of what I felt on the inside. The door re-opened and there she was again, mask removed and the red muscle of her face accented by the new, deranged clown makeup she had started to apply to her face. There were two white diamonds painted around her eyes and her lips were painted a bronze that was eerily close in color to the red of the underside of her face. Smiling hugely, she picked up a small item she had left in the entry way and exited again. She was disgusting. I had tried to re-gather myself in her presence so she wouldn't think I was fazed, but without success. Already my eyes were pink and my hair askew from my pulling fretfully at it. She knew she had gotten to me, which made her trip to our house all the more succesful.

I made my way downstairs and curled up on my bed, but I couldn't sleep. Terrible images kept flashing through my mind, but not of the gore. The gore wasn't so scary as the fact that I had conversed with her like a normal human being. Her evil wasn' so bad as my receptiveness to it. I stood, mind alternatively sputtering and reeling, and began to walk up the stairs. Halfway up the first flight I stopped myself, grasping the handrail for support, and turned down again. I couldn't face my family.

Down in my room again, curled in a ball in the corner, I recalled a dream I'd had quite some time ago (but I recalled it as a reality because I was in my dream world) and I realized that she had been to our home before, and had committed atrocities then as well. I staggered out my door again, leaning on furniture for support, I made my way back upstairs and tried to convince my family that we had to change our locks, that we had to prevent her coming into our home again. They also remembered my dream-memory, but wrote off the need for locks and better security with the decidedly illogical logic that:

"She probably has a key anyway."

There was no point in trying to get around it. We would just have to be very aware all the time. I felt like Job. I tore at my hair and my clothes and invisible tears flew down my face as my stomach twisted itself into terrible knots and my mind ran in useless circles. I was afraid in a way that I have never been in a dream and will hopefully never be in real life. I was convinced that she was coming back and would kill me in the same terrible way she'd done my grandmother and, moreso, I was still petrified of my initial friendliness with this lady. I was afraid of the implications that spawned and I was afraid that I wouldn't just die if she came and tore my face off. I would become like her, her unwilling (or perhaps enthusiastic) apprentice. God knows there's enough unrequited love in my life to start my killing spree if that's all it takes.

The doorbell rang. I looked out the window and there were pandas flouncing in the snow. Suddenly more terrified than ever I ran back upstairs, this time managing to find my feet and run with relative coordination. The door was open and I could see two of them standing there behind the glass door. Making it into my Mum's office upstairs I looked out the window, where I could see the pandas more clearly. Two or three were playing in the snow, wrestling and laughing airy, panda laughs. Two were standing at the door and they had a huge golden box at their side. Convinced that they were also murderers of some kind, probably bombers, based on the box they carried with them, I refused to admit them.

I started screaming shrilly at everyone in the house not to get the door by way of "No fucking pandas, no fucking pandas" and I ran up and down the stairs, quite properly wigging out. One of the pandas, this one actually a human person in a costume saw me and reached out to open the door. I slammed it back on them, now convinced they were indeed dangerous criminals because one had taken the initiative to open the door, probably thinking it should assist what seemed to be a DERANGED PSYCHOPATH (me).

Still only screaming "no fucking pandas" I continued to run about my house, pulling at my hair and looking the very image of a crazy person as the rest of my family sat passively by. The only reaction I got from any of them was a general sense of disproval from my mother at my use of the f-bomb.

Are they making tic tacs differently these days? I just bought a box and they taste like minty cardboard with a hint of whipped cream.

Poetry

I'm doing a daily poetry thing this year. I'll post them for all y'all every now and then. I was going to post one that I wrote about a little experience I had tonight, but I don't think I should. Instead I'll post my calm, serene one from yesterday.

Satisfied
Always on his lips:
After clearing a plate,
On a comfortable day,
Or as a conscious commentary
Regarding his untimely departure.
Now it reverberates within me.
My aching muscles, bruises, scrapes
Harmonize with a greater inner peace
And reconcile his word with
The feeling it encompassed then,
Encompasses now.
I am not he.
His feeling was undoubtedly different,
But I feel that much closer to him
Now that satisfaction laps at my skin
Like a tide slowly coming in.