Do this!
http://kevan.org/johari?name=emily+gant
Friday, July 23, 2010
Thursday, July 08, 2010
Writing & Sylvia Plath
Since I was a teenager and I discovered "The Bell Jar", I realized writing was what I was meant to do with my life. Even though when I entered college, I chose this journalism profession because it was such a dream of mine to become a magazine editor. Though this dream has since faded, since you have little to no personal life and that's not a life I want, I have found other skills learned through it that I enjoy and want to do things with when I graduate.
But that's not the point of this post. Since I was about fourteen, I started writing. Most of it, if not all of it was pretty horrible, mediocre stuff. When I was sixteen, and thought I had fallen in love, I wrote some equally bad poetry. Though I do think some of that stuff was fair. One in particular about a beaten horse, I was particularly fond of. Now, I was not beaten. It was obviously a metaphor for the way I was treated. Unfortunately, I'm not sure I still have it. There was another poem about a cocoon, which needs to be reworked a bit, but is still a fairly decent poem. That cocoon poem was written towards the end of our "affair", or whatever is equally meaningless that would describe whatever "it" was. I was involved with this same guy from about sixteen to nineteen. We were off and on fairly frequently, and it was not ever official. He was using me, and I let him. He was the first guy that I went on a date with, that ever showed me romantic attention. And I thought it would be the only guy that ever would, so I became a little clingy. Even after he told me he only called me when he wanted to fool around. He was such a dick.
The point which I am so good at dancing around, is that I have always had these urges to write. Even as a child, I loved to steal different writing books from elementary school for the summer so I could practice my cursive, do word problems, or write stories. It's always been something I yearn for. My mother always bought me journals which I would fill out for a week or two and then forget about. I've always had this love for metaphor, imagery, and poetry. It's an easy thing to wrap my brain around. I think that's just the way it works in there.
Looking back, it should have been my degree all along. However journalism has taught me that there is a certain journalistic style of writing that I love. These are character pieces. These are factual stories, but where you go and stay with the person you're writing about, you become their friend, and these beautiful stories come out of it. That reality is what makes them so beautiful to me. While I do love writing, and fiction writing has never been hard for me, there's something so much grittier, so much more beautiful about portraying real people.
I have read fictional stories of course, and I'm sure there are writers out there who don't think the story they're making up about the people/situations that inspire them can be as interesting as the real thing, but that's precisely why they are.
I myself have decided to embark, finally, upon these novels, that stew around in my head all day long. Just these beautiful quotes floating around in my head that most wouldn't give second glance to. I love the story. I love the intracacies of everyday people. The very strange part is it's the workplace that does it. I don't want to write a novel about my personal life, as Plath tried to for years. That's not as interesting to me as other people. As a journalist, just listening to people at work tell me their stories is fascinating. The novel I will write about where I'm working now, in which the place will be concealed as much as possible, is going to have character chapters. I'm not sure if there will be several chapters of different characters. My stronger suit in writing that is not poetry is short stories. So it will be like a string of short stories, about people who work in this place. Novels are hard for me because I tend to want to get to the point quickly. While I may use imagery quite frequently, it's hard to build a novel around that, for me anyway. There really is no story here, just a collaboration of different people with their own ongoing problems, their own continuing stories. My story won't be continuing here and this will be the only meaningful thing to come out of it.
Though I'd be lying if I said it was completely original. These stories are based off of real people, some actual facts, and others I'm adding. I guess that's where the journalist in me comes along. I don't want to distort the facts so much that the real beauty of these people is lost. But at the same time, you have to add more than you know to tell the story.
This summer I'm finally able to delve into reading again. You know, really reading for pleasure. "Her Husband", about Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes, which I now have the time to get back into inspires me in almost the way her diary does with writing, and new ideas. Her journal keeping was insane. She wrote about everything. Things like ingredients for cooking, or the immaculate details of her husband's wardrobe. I wish I could keep a journal. I'm so bad at writing every day, especially about the mundane details of my life. However, this is said to be the way to really become the writer you're supposed to be, to really find your style of writing. I am very bad at this. I may possibly be the longest winded person on the planet, and all I can think about is how long I just spent writing or typing, and the other stuff I could have been wasting time with. But the more I think about it, the more I realize that those other things really are a waste of time, this is not.
As a sidenote, well another side note: I have ideas and notes about seven poems right now. I've become dreadfully afraid of being creative again. Though it isn't something I can even forcefully keep myself from for very long, there's something exposing about it. As though I'm exposing a plethora of emotions, along with exposing myself to my own harsh rejection. I don't know if that's why writing can be laborious for me to start. Once I start I'm great, and most of the time I feel better. But I avoid even writing down ideas for poems, so that I will not have to write them. Very strange, I know. But I think I avoid the things I am actually good at, to avoid finding out that I'm not as good as I thought.
Another sidenote: I am a smoker again, I am not running, and I have not been cleaning as much as I should. However, my kitchen is spotless after I cleaned it this afternoon, and before we cooked dinner. ;) Alas, I am not the housekeeper Plath was. She would have found my housekeeping to be atrocious. And with that, I promise I'm through.
But that's not the point of this post. Since I was about fourteen, I started writing. Most of it, if not all of it was pretty horrible, mediocre stuff. When I was sixteen, and thought I had fallen in love, I wrote some equally bad poetry. Though I do think some of that stuff was fair. One in particular about a beaten horse, I was particularly fond of. Now, I was not beaten. It was obviously a metaphor for the way I was treated. Unfortunately, I'm not sure I still have it. There was another poem about a cocoon, which needs to be reworked a bit, but is still a fairly decent poem. That cocoon poem was written towards the end of our "affair", or whatever is equally meaningless that would describe whatever "it" was. I was involved with this same guy from about sixteen to nineteen. We were off and on fairly frequently, and it was not ever official. He was using me, and I let him. He was the first guy that I went on a date with, that ever showed me romantic attention. And I thought it would be the only guy that ever would, so I became a little clingy. Even after he told me he only called me when he wanted to fool around. He was such a dick.
The point which I am so good at dancing around, is that I have always had these urges to write. Even as a child, I loved to steal different writing books from elementary school for the summer so I could practice my cursive, do word problems, or write stories. It's always been something I yearn for. My mother always bought me journals which I would fill out for a week or two and then forget about. I've always had this love for metaphor, imagery, and poetry. It's an easy thing to wrap my brain around. I think that's just the way it works in there.
Looking back, it should have been my degree all along. However journalism has taught me that there is a certain journalistic style of writing that I love. These are character pieces. These are factual stories, but where you go and stay with the person you're writing about, you become their friend, and these beautiful stories come out of it. That reality is what makes them so beautiful to me. While I do love writing, and fiction writing has never been hard for me, there's something so much grittier, so much more beautiful about portraying real people.
I have read fictional stories of course, and I'm sure there are writers out there who don't think the story they're making up about the people/situations that inspire them can be as interesting as the real thing, but that's precisely why they are.
I myself have decided to embark, finally, upon these novels, that stew around in my head all day long. Just these beautiful quotes floating around in my head that most wouldn't give second glance to. I love the story. I love the intracacies of everyday people. The very strange part is it's the workplace that does it. I don't want to write a novel about my personal life, as Plath tried to for years. That's not as interesting to me as other people. As a journalist, just listening to people at work tell me their stories is fascinating. The novel I will write about where I'm working now, in which the place will be concealed as much as possible, is going to have character chapters. I'm not sure if there will be several chapters of different characters. My stronger suit in writing that is not poetry is short stories. So it will be like a string of short stories, about people who work in this place. Novels are hard for me because I tend to want to get to the point quickly. While I may use imagery quite frequently, it's hard to build a novel around that, for me anyway. There really is no story here, just a collaboration of different people with their own ongoing problems, their own continuing stories. My story won't be continuing here and this will be the only meaningful thing to come out of it.
Though I'd be lying if I said it was completely original. These stories are based off of real people, some actual facts, and others I'm adding. I guess that's where the journalist in me comes along. I don't want to distort the facts so much that the real beauty of these people is lost. But at the same time, you have to add more than you know to tell the story.
This summer I'm finally able to delve into reading again. You know, really reading for pleasure. "Her Husband", about Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes, which I now have the time to get back into inspires me in almost the way her diary does with writing, and new ideas. Her journal keeping was insane. She wrote about everything. Things like ingredients for cooking, or the immaculate details of her husband's wardrobe. I wish I could keep a journal. I'm so bad at writing every day, especially about the mundane details of my life. However, this is said to be the way to really become the writer you're supposed to be, to really find your style of writing. I am very bad at this. I may possibly be the longest winded person on the planet, and all I can think about is how long I just spent writing or typing, and the other stuff I could have been wasting time with. But the more I think about it, the more I realize that those other things really are a waste of time, this is not.
As a sidenote, well another side note: I have ideas and notes about seven poems right now. I've become dreadfully afraid of being creative again. Though it isn't something I can even forcefully keep myself from for very long, there's something exposing about it. As though I'm exposing a plethora of emotions, along with exposing myself to my own harsh rejection. I don't know if that's why writing can be laborious for me to start. Once I start I'm great, and most of the time I feel better. But I avoid even writing down ideas for poems, so that I will not have to write them. Very strange, I know. But I think I avoid the things I am actually good at, to avoid finding out that I'm not as good as I thought.
Another sidenote: I am a smoker again, I am not running, and I have not been cleaning as much as I should. However, my kitchen is spotless after I cleaned it this afternoon, and before we cooked dinner. ;) Alas, I am not the housekeeper Plath was. She would have found my housekeeping to be atrocious. And with that, I promise I'm through.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Smoking
I would just like to congratulate myself on not having a single cigarette since Monday!
It sort of happened because I became sick Monday night after going to Lake Murray. But now I think I might be sick because I've stopped smoking.
I have heard that quitting smoking can cause a "psuedo" cold, where you have cold-like symptoms, but are not actually sick. I've been coughing (productively if you know what I mean), having to blow my nose constantly, sinus headaches left and right, and just a general sense of malaise. Some of it was from the loads of medicine I've been on. However, I think it's on it's way out and I think the "psuedo" cold actually makes me want to quit smoking even more. I love the way I feel after a few weeks after I've stopped smoking.
Did you know that nicotine is as addictive as heroin and cocaine? Every time I look at a list of the ingredients in the cigarettes, I'm shocked it's even legal. That should be motivation to quit, right? It's amazing how addictive heroin can be ... ahem, nicotine that is.
And I've decided that almost every morning this summer, when I don't have to get up super early for work, I will get up an hour earlier than I would normally, and go for a run. I used to walk or run every day when I was a teenager, from about ages 16 to 19, and then I just quit. Probably because I started smoking at age 19. But no more! I want to be healthy! No more excuses! Wow, I sound corny.
I'm also thinking about starting a new clean up routine, where I clean fifteen or thirty minutes every day when I get home, and my place will stay clean that way. Well, that's thrilling.
Now, I've got to get off and call James. He is over at a friend's house playing Dungeons and Dragons. Yes, I'm pretty much marrying one of the top five nerdiest people in the world. ;) Anyways, he has to get up at 8:30, it's 2:30 and he said he would be finishing up at 12:30, and he's still not home. And with that, I bid you goodnight. =P
It sort of happened because I became sick Monday night after going to Lake Murray. But now I think I might be sick because I've stopped smoking.
I have heard that quitting smoking can cause a "psuedo" cold, where you have cold-like symptoms, but are not actually sick. I've been coughing (productively if you know what I mean), having to blow my nose constantly, sinus headaches left and right, and just a general sense of malaise. Some of it was from the loads of medicine I've been on. However, I think it's on it's way out and I think the "psuedo" cold actually makes me want to quit smoking even more. I love the way I feel after a few weeks after I've stopped smoking.
Did you know that nicotine is as addictive as heroin and cocaine? Every time I look at a list of the ingredients in the cigarettes, I'm shocked it's even legal. That should be motivation to quit, right? It's amazing how addictive heroin can be ... ahem, nicotine that is.
And I've decided that almost every morning this summer, when I don't have to get up super early for work, I will get up an hour earlier than I would normally, and go for a run. I used to walk or run every day when I was a teenager, from about ages 16 to 19, and then I just quit. Probably because I started smoking at age 19. But no more! I want to be healthy! No more excuses! Wow, I sound corny.
I'm also thinking about starting a new clean up routine, where I clean fifteen or thirty minutes every day when I get home, and my place will stay clean that way. Well, that's thrilling.
Now, I've got to get off and call James. He is over at a friend's house playing Dungeons and Dragons. Yes, I'm pretty much marrying one of the top five nerdiest people in the world. ;) Anyways, he has to get up at 8:30, it's 2:30 and he said he would be finishing up at 12:30, and he's still not home. And with that, I bid you goodnight. =P
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Untitled #1
As it is, I'm very depressed. So much so, I can only bring myself to watch depressing shows about murder, death, and divorce. But really, I'm just sad. I've just been exhausted lately. And the first part of my day was fine. The last four hours not so much. After work it got much, much worse. I'd rather not write about it. Tomorrow, it will be better. And at least what I'm upset about is not as bad as murder, death, or divorce. It will pass. I've just been tiptoeing an emotional tight rope lately. I'm so blessed to be a woman right?
I don't really want to get into a tirade about my issues, so I will instead share something I wrote a week ago. It's very short, and it's mine. Copyrighted bitches. It doesn't have a title. Most of what I write gets titles after I write it, or never. Perhaps I should number my untitled poems, like Emily Dickinson, or Bob Dylan (sort of). So, here it is:
Shaking and crying into dreams,
we awaken like newborn babes.
Shaken and fragile,
Puffy and swollen,
Red and new,
to collapse into the arms of the one we love.
Learning to walk again,
quivering and frightened
to awaken once again to the newness of love.
Katrina, tell me what you think.
Goodnight loves. As much as I'd like to fight sleep, as it's a hobby of mine, I need it badly. I just can't get over myself and my insignificant problems tonight. I need the clarity of sleep.
I don't really want to get into a tirade about my issues, so I will instead share something I wrote a week ago. It's very short, and it's mine. Copyrighted bitches. It doesn't have a title. Most of what I write gets titles after I write it, or never. Perhaps I should number my untitled poems, like Emily Dickinson, or Bob Dylan (sort of). So, here it is:
Shaking and crying into dreams,
we awaken like newborn babes.
Shaken and fragile,
Puffy and swollen,
Red and new,
to collapse into the arms of the one we love.
Learning to walk again,
quivering and frightened
to awaken once again to the newness of love.
Katrina, tell me what you think.
Goodnight loves. As much as I'd like to fight sleep, as it's a hobby of mine, I need it badly. I just can't get over myself and my insignificant problems tonight. I need the clarity of sleep.
Saturday, May 01, 2010
Punk Rock
Last night, I watched the movie "Sid and Nancy" for the first time. Now I will be the first to admit that I know very little about the punk "movement", and perhaps my first sign that I shouldn't be talking about it. I don't even particularly like punk music with the exception of a few bands. There are things I like about the punk mindset as a whole. I like the big middle finger to the law and just people in general. Now, I'm not an anarchist, and I love people, I don't hate them. I just enjoy the idea that you can be and are an island of yourself, and the comments and ideas of society don't affect you. Everyone, to a certain extent, likes the idea that caring about nothing is cool. Now, I don't believe that and I believe like every fashion or pop culture movement is hollow at it's core. No one is completely alien to what people think, except for children really, and only very young children at that.
Back to the movie, the whole thing was drug-addled and the woman who was chose to play Nancy Spungen was outrageously annoying, and downright ugly. It made me glad I wasn't born in New York with a horrible Bronx accent. The real Nancy Spungen was much prettier. Though aside from that, I would've loved to have been raised there. Anyways, it was pathetic. The 80's were a narcisstic, materialistic, drug-infused period of time. That being said most things about the 80's I love. Hello, oversized sweaters, legwarmers, and 80's music. However, the drug aspects of 80's movies I've seen have never seemed glamorous, and this movie was no exception.
While obviously I had heard of Sid Vicious, and Sid & Nancy, I didn't know that much about it. I had heard people describe love affairs as a "Sid & Nancy" type of ordeal, and I think I thought of it as romantic. I've always found love stories of famous influential people interesting to say the least. However, the entire movie was Sid and Nancy stumbling around because they were so fucked up, or Nancy crying about Sid not loving her, or them basically beating the you know what out of each other. There were a couple of things done within the movie that I enjoyed. One was the scene where Sid is performing in front of an audience of really old wealthy people, and one of the later scenes where Sid has just gotten out of prison and goes to a pizza place. When he leaves, he dances to 70's disco with a three little black kids. I don't know why I enjoyed this, as every scene after Nancy's murder was creepy to say the least. It also shocked me that anyone would willingly admit their relationship was anything like theirs. It was sad and pathetic. After seeing him hit her, and her hit him, and their constant struggle to obtain drugs, because this is all they did it ruined forever my image of liking or admiring anything about punk.
The murdering of Nancy was downright creepy. He stabs her in an argument they were having because Sid had promised Nancy they would go out together in a blaze of glory because they were so tired of the drugs, but Sid doesn't want to anymore because he wants to get straight. So she's hysterical and saying she wants to die, and Sid says, "You want to die?" And they're both crazy high on speed so he stabs her, and she's crying and laying on the floor. The next scene shows them cuddling in bed together with Nancy's massive stomach wound. In the night, she gets up and goes to the bathroom because her stomach is hurting so bad, dripping blood everywhere, and passes out on the bathroom floor. She's trying to get Sid's attention but he is fast asleep. The next morning, he just sits there on this massively blood stained bed watching cartoons staring straight ahead, while Nancy is carried out in a body bag and apparently didn't think she was dead. The real story is a little different, but he apparently told the cops he thought she was alive when he left in the morning and went to the methadone clinic to get her methadone when he realized she was dead. He then phoned either the cops or the hotel front that: "Someone is sick. Need help." I believe those were the actual words. SO unbelievably creepy.
But anyways, the entire point of this post that reminded me of my first impression of SLC Punk, was the scene where Nancy and Sid are in a phone booth calling Nancy's mom to send them money, which she said she wouldn't because they'd spend it on drugs. Reportedly, the real story, she demanded $2,000. It's only 200 in the movie. However, it reminded me of the ending scenes of SLC Punk where he becomes a lawyer and decides to actually care about something. There's something so naive in this mindset where you don't care about anything. It's all bull. Both movies were just about people getting fucked up, and pretending not to care. Was that what the punk movement was? A numbing?
The biggest impression SLC Punk left on me about punk was how pathetic it is. We don't feel like working for anything, and we need more money for drugs and booze, so we depend on mommy and daddy for our money. You can't be punk and get a job. I still like SLC Punk quite a bit. I like the way it "grows up", and how naive it is to think you don't have to work for anything or care about anything. All drugs do for you is kill you. I think it's sad that he killed her and killed himself four months later from an overdose. It's so interesting how "teenage" punk is at it's core, and the maturation that it goes through in SLC Punk. It's this impossible ideal to be an island, to not care about anything, to never get a job, or work for anything. But I like the rebellion in it.
Back to the movie, the whole thing was drug-addled and the woman who was chose to play Nancy Spungen was outrageously annoying, and downright ugly. It made me glad I wasn't born in New York with a horrible Bronx accent. The real Nancy Spungen was much prettier. Though aside from that, I would've loved to have been raised there. Anyways, it was pathetic. The 80's were a narcisstic, materialistic, drug-infused period of time. That being said most things about the 80's I love. Hello, oversized sweaters, legwarmers, and 80's music. However, the drug aspects of 80's movies I've seen have never seemed glamorous, and this movie was no exception.
While obviously I had heard of Sid Vicious, and Sid & Nancy, I didn't know that much about it. I had heard people describe love affairs as a "Sid & Nancy" type of ordeal, and I think I thought of it as romantic. I've always found love stories of famous influential people interesting to say the least. However, the entire movie was Sid and Nancy stumbling around because they were so fucked up, or Nancy crying about Sid not loving her, or them basically beating the you know what out of each other. There were a couple of things done within the movie that I enjoyed. One was the scene where Sid is performing in front of an audience of really old wealthy people, and one of the later scenes where Sid has just gotten out of prison and goes to a pizza place. When he leaves, he dances to 70's disco with a three little black kids. I don't know why I enjoyed this, as every scene after Nancy's murder was creepy to say the least. It also shocked me that anyone would willingly admit their relationship was anything like theirs. It was sad and pathetic. After seeing him hit her, and her hit him, and their constant struggle to obtain drugs, because this is all they did it ruined forever my image of liking or admiring anything about punk.
The murdering of Nancy was downright creepy. He stabs her in an argument they were having because Sid had promised Nancy they would go out together in a blaze of glory because they were so tired of the drugs, but Sid doesn't want to anymore because he wants to get straight. So she's hysterical and saying she wants to die, and Sid says, "You want to die?" And they're both crazy high on speed so he stabs her, and she's crying and laying on the floor. The next scene shows them cuddling in bed together with Nancy's massive stomach wound. In the night, she gets up and goes to the bathroom because her stomach is hurting so bad, dripping blood everywhere, and passes out on the bathroom floor. She's trying to get Sid's attention but he is fast asleep. The next morning, he just sits there on this massively blood stained bed watching cartoons staring straight ahead, while Nancy is carried out in a body bag and apparently didn't think she was dead. The real story is a little different, but he apparently told the cops he thought she was alive when he left in the morning and went to the methadone clinic to get her methadone when he realized she was dead. He then phoned either the cops or the hotel front that: "Someone is sick. Need help." I believe those were the actual words. SO unbelievably creepy.
But anyways, the entire point of this post that reminded me of my first impression of SLC Punk, was the scene where Nancy and Sid are in a phone booth calling Nancy's mom to send them money, which she said she wouldn't because they'd spend it on drugs. Reportedly, the real story, she demanded $2,000. It's only 200 in the movie. However, it reminded me of the ending scenes of SLC Punk where he becomes a lawyer and decides to actually care about something. There's something so naive in this mindset where you don't care about anything. It's all bull. Both movies were just about people getting fucked up, and pretending not to care. Was that what the punk movement was? A numbing?
The biggest impression SLC Punk left on me about punk was how pathetic it is. We don't feel like working for anything, and we need more money for drugs and booze, so we depend on mommy and daddy for our money. You can't be punk and get a job. I still like SLC Punk quite a bit. I like the way it "grows up", and how naive it is to think you don't have to work for anything or care about anything. All drugs do for you is kill you. I think it's sad that he killed her and killed himself four months later from an overdose. It's so interesting how "teenage" punk is at it's core, and the maturation that it goes through in SLC Punk. It's this impossible ideal to be an island, to not care about anything, to never get a job, or work for anything. But I like the rebellion in it.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Sharing Is Caring And It Can Be Fun!
Quick! Name the commercial.
I was/am reading every single one of Kat's blogs entries (sorry about all the comments), and it made me want to do some sharing of my own.
In my last blog entry, I spoke about my last little episode of depression. My excruciating awareness of each moment passing me by. Melodramatic, I'm aware.
One of the comments I made on Kat's blog made me realize something else about why I may have also been feeling the way I was.
For years, I've always worn my heart on sleeve. I still do. It's my personality to be passionate, to feel everything, to wear my feelings where everyone can see them.
I used to hate this aspect of my personality. I'm sensitive to everything. I'm the first to admit it. Some people would call this reckless, to be so open about the way I feel.
The last couple of years I've really started to embrace it. I love my capacity to feel. I love my compassion for everyone.
However, a memory sticks out. Something that stays in my mind. It's funny how insignificant something can feel when it happens, but it stays with you.
I've spoken about it with multiple people, but the first time I really spoke about it was with my mom. I remember complaining about how much the things people say affect me, and how emotional I am period. I am so passionate and emotional that I can literally have an intense intellectual conversation with someone, and find myself holding back tears. I can start crying, or tearing up when I realize that I'm in a moment, or sharing something with someone that I will remember, that will mean something to me.
She told me it would get better with age, and honestly that was about four years ago, and while it has subdued somewhat, it really hasn't to the extent she made it sound like it would. However, when I was about 21, after a somewhat callous conversation with a professor, it seemed that most people had no compassion, or passion for anything. I started thinking about all the people that go to work every day, and don't think about anyone or anything outside of their own personal experiences. Not like I had never thought about this before, just not to the extent that I started to. I started realizing how numb most older people are, my parents, professors, and others. My mother is emotional, and that's where I get it, but I see how little things that would upset me, don't upset her. And I know this sounds stupid, but I started crying while I was driving home, great idea I know. But I don't ever want to be so numb to not notice beauty in everything, to not feel life and love the way I do. I can still well up, when I think about how amazing James is, how amazing what we have is.
And while I realize it's an obvious good thing to not be so upset by small things, or fall apart at criticism or impoliteness (which I do not do), I don't want to lose those tears.
When I was a teenager, I remember these wonderful, beautiful conversations I would have with my father. I think intellectually, my father and I are very similar. We would talk about history, science, literature, or anything really. History was/is a favorite of my father's, and I do have a hidden love for it. Anyways, back to the point, I would find myself tearing up during these conversations. My father and I are very similar, and as I've gotten older I find myself much more like him in many ways than my mother, and I fight less with him. I'm very close to both my parents, however I think I "get" my father more. I used to fight with him much more when I was a teenager, I think because of our similarities, and so when we would have these conversations it was amazing to me, those connections. Realizing that deep down, my dad really did understand me.
My mother is intelligent, but not intellectual. It's funny because you always think of an intellectual as someone who has a college degree. My mother has a bachelor's degree, and my dad dropped out after two years, but he is one of the smartest people I've ever met. My dad is intellectual, and my mother attempts to be, succeeds with a couple of subjects, but my dad just has this insatiable love for learning, like I do. My mother is not a lover of history, literature, or science. She loves politics, but both my parents have that, which could be part of the reason I am so passionate politically. For instance, my father could watch the History Channel for eight hours straight, even if every single program is about The Holocaust. He loves the Discovery Channel, Nat Geo, anything educational.
I guess what I'm trying to say besides incessant rambling, is that I love these connections. I've even teared up in conversations with friends, though I'm sure none of them would know. I'm just afraid that with age, I'm going to lose passion. I'm going to stop caring. I'm going to lose those tears. I guess it's just a self defense mechanism, or maybe it's a loss of naivety. I don't see older people as seeing all the beauty and discovery in the world. I can still see novelty in the world around me, I can still feel stirrings in me about pursuing my dreams. I hope it doesn't happen to everyone. I hope I just have some kind of special gene that allows me to keep that sense of curiosity and novelty in the same old things. I hope I never become so focused on myself that I can no longer feel for other people with the same intensity I do now. Numbness scares me. Apparently it creeps up on you like old age. I guess that's what happens. A deadening, because I guess your soul is dying. In order to cope, you have to feel less. And I never want to feel anything less than the full scope of my emotions. Isn't that what makes life special?
I was/am reading every single one of Kat's blogs entries (sorry about all the comments), and it made me want to do some sharing of my own.
In my last blog entry, I spoke about my last little episode of depression. My excruciating awareness of each moment passing me by. Melodramatic, I'm aware.
One of the comments I made on Kat's blog made me realize something else about why I may have also been feeling the way I was.
For years, I've always worn my heart on sleeve. I still do. It's my personality to be passionate, to feel everything, to wear my feelings where everyone can see them.
I used to hate this aspect of my personality. I'm sensitive to everything. I'm the first to admit it. Some people would call this reckless, to be so open about the way I feel.
The last couple of years I've really started to embrace it. I love my capacity to feel. I love my compassion for everyone.
However, a memory sticks out. Something that stays in my mind. It's funny how insignificant something can feel when it happens, but it stays with you.
I've spoken about it with multiple people, but the first time I really spoke about it was with my mom. I remember complaining about how much the things people say affect me, and how emotional I am period. I am so passionate and emotional that I can literally have an intense intellectual conversation with someone, and find myself holding back tears. I can start crying, or tearing up when I realize that I'm in a moment, or sharing something with someone that I will remember, that will mean something to me.
She told me it would get better with age, and honestly that was about four years ago, and while it has subdued somewhat, it really hasn't to the extent she made it sound like it would. However, when I was about 21, after a somewhat callous conversation with a professor, it seemed that most people had no compassion, or passion for anything. I started thinking about all the people that go to work every day, and don't think about anyone or anything outside of their own personal experiences. Not like I had never thought about this before, just not to the extent that I started to. I started realizing how numb most older people are, my parents, professors, and others. My mother is emotional, and that's where I get it, but I see how little things that would upset me, don't upset her. And I know this sounds stupid, but I started crying while I was driving home, great idea I know. But I don't ever want to be so numb to not notice beauty in everything, to not feel life and love the way I do. I can still well up, when I think about how amazing James is, how amazing what we have is.
And while I realize it's an obvious good thing to not be so upset by small things, or fall apart at criticism or impoliteness (which I do not do), I don't want to lose those tears.
When I was a teenager, I remember these wonderful, beautiful conversations I would have with my father. I think intellectually, my father and I are very similar. We would talk about history, science, literature, or anything really. History was/is a favorite of my father's, and I do have a hidden love for it. Anyways, back to the point, I would find myself tearing up during these conversations. My father and I are very similar, and as I've gotten older I find myself much more like him in many ways than my mother, and I fight less with him. I'm very close to both my parents, however I think I "get" my father more. I used to fight with him much more when I was a teenager, I think because of our similarities, and so when we would have these conversations it was amazing to me, those connections. Realizing that deep down, my dad really did understand me.
My mother is intelligent, but not intellectual. It's funny because you always think of an intellectual as someone who has a college degree. My mother has a bachelor's degree, and my dad dropped out after two years, but he is one of the smartest people I've ever met. My dad is intellectual, and my mother attempts to be, succeeds with a couple of subjects, but my dad just has this insatiable love for learning, like I do. My mother is not a lover of history, literature, or science. She loves politics, but both my parents have that, which could be part of the reason I am so passionate politically. For instance, my father could watch the History Channel for eight hours straight, even if every single program is about The Holocaust. He loves the Discovery Channel, Nat Geo, anything educational.
I guess what I'm trying to say besides incessant rambling, is that I love these connections. I've even teared up in conversations with friends, though I'm sure none of them would know. I'm just afraid that with age, I'm going to lose passion. I'm going to stop caring. I'm going to lose those tears. I guess it's just a self defense mechanism, or maybe it's a loss of naivety. I don't see older people as seeing all the beauty and discovery in the world. I can still see novelty in the world around me, I can still feel stirrings in me about pursuing my dreams. I hope it doesn't happen to everyone. I hope I just have some kind of special gene that allows me to keep that sense of curiosity and novelty in the same old things. I hope I never become so focused on myself that I can no longer feel for other people with the same intensity I do now. Numbness scares me. Apparently it creeps up on you like old age. I guess that's what happens. A deadening, because I guess your soul is dying. In order to cope, you have to feel less. And I never want to feel anything less than the full scope of my emotions. Isn't that what makes life special?
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Some things I've been thinking about.
Do you ever stumble across journal entries or blog entries from years ago?
I had forgotten all about having a blog until a few days ago, and I discovered the blog I started my freshman year at UNT, when I was eighteen.
It was a kind of look at myself, kind of a mirror of my past. However, I found that the majority of things I wrote in my blog were about boys. :) It was extremely vapid, but still funny, and an appropriate finding for the way I've been perceiving myself lately.
About a week after my birthday, I was in kind of a depressive funk. For those of you who saw my posting about my birthday party on facebook, I had all kinds of jokes about being old, denture cream, etc. After that, whenever anyone mentioned it or asked about it, I explained myself. It's not that I really feel like I'm old. I just never saw myself at this age. Let me explain: when you're young you picture what your life will be like at 18, and you anxiously anticipate 21. Nothing really happened when I turned 22. About a week after my 23rd birthday, it was like time was moving at the speed of light. I couldn't stop thinking about every second, every minute, every hour, and how my whole life is just going down the drain. I know it sounds like complete nonsense, but stick with me here. I was so painfully concious of each minute, and I felt like I wasn't living my life the way I was supposed to.
When it didn't go away after a couple of days, I talked to James about it. He told me this is normal, and what most people go through at 25. I was still too concious of everything, and basically depressing the hell out of myself. Then Saturday when James and I went to Germanfest with my mom and dad, I decided I wanted to talk about it with her. She also told me it was normal, but with a cheesier twist: that I'm becoming a "woman", but that has already been in the making.
What it really is, is a glimpse at my own mortality. I see that now, and talking to my mom actually helped me realize that. I'm still a young woman, but I'm leaving a part of myself in the past. In a way, I'm grieving my childhood. I'm not so painfully aware of the seconds lately, but I'm so much more aware of consequences of my career decisions, my health, and of the actual act of growing older. I'm so motivated now to do things I've been putting off for months, or years even. Even though it still sounds weird to say I'm 23, I accept the fact that I will continue to grow older to ages I've never seen myself at, and I accept the fact that I will grow old, and I will die one day. Even though it's terrifying, it REALLY REALLY is, I'm going to embrace it and make the most of it, because I owe that to myself.
And in honor of my old blog, I'm going to start the old tradition of including a five song "playlist" of songs that had special meaning this week, or I've been listening to a lot:
"The Skin of My Yellow Country Teeth" - Clap Your Hands Say Yeah
"Climbing Up The Walls" - Radiohead
"Get Gone" - Fiona Apple (about an ex I wrote about in my old blog)
"At The Bottom of Everything" - Bright Eyes
"1901" - Phoenix
I had forgotten all about having a blog until a few days ago, and I discovered the blog I started my freshman year at UNT, when I was eighteen.
It was a kind of look at myself, kind of a mirror of my past. However, I found that the majority of things I wrote in my blog were about boys. :) It was extremely vapid, but still funny, and an appropriate finding for the way I've been perceiving myself lately.
About a week after my birthday, I was in kind of a depressive funk. For those of you who saw my posting about my birthday party on facebook, I had all kinds of jokes about being old, denture cream, etc. After that, whenever anyone mentioned it or asked about it, I explained myself. It's not that I really feel like I'm old. I just never saw myself at this age. Let me explain: when you're young you picture what your life will be like at 18, and you anxiously anticipate 21. Nothing really happened when I turned 22. About a week after my 23rd birthday, it was like time was moving at the speed of light. I couldn't stop thinking about every second, every minute, every hour, and how my whole life is just going down the drain. I know it sounds like complete nonsense, but stick with me here. I was so painfully concious of each minute, and I felt like I wasn't living my life the way I was supposed to.
When it didn't go away after a couple of days, I talked to James about it. He told me this is normal, and what most people go through at 25. I was still too concious of everything, and basically depressing the hell out of myself. Then Saturday when James and I went to Germanfest with my mom and dad, I decided I wanted to talk about it with her. She also told me it was normal, but with a cheesier twist: that I'm becoming a "woman", but that has already been in the making.
What it really is, is a glimpse at my own mortality. I see that now, and talking to my mom actually helped me realize that. I'm still a young woman, but I'm leaving a part of myself in the past. In a way, I'm grieving my childhood. I'm not so painfully aware of the seconds lately, but I'm so much more aware of consequences of my career decisions, my health, and of the actual act of growing older. I'm so motivated now to do things I've been putting off for months, or years even. Even though it still sounds weird to say I'm 23, I accept the fact that I will continue to grow older to ages I've never seen myself at, and I accept the fact that I will grow old, and I will die one day. Even though it's terrifying, it REALLY REALLY is, I'm going to embrace it and make the most of it, because I owe that to myself.
And in honor of my old blog, I'm going to start the old tradition of including a five song "playlist" of songs that had special meaning this week, or I've been listening to a lot:
"The Skin of My Yellow Country Teeth" - Clap Your Hands Say Yeah
"Climbing Up The Walls" - Radiohead
"Get Gone" - Fiona Apple (about an ex I wrote about in my old blog)
"At The Bottom of Everything" - Bright Eyes
"1901" - Phoenix
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
First Post
This will be my blog where I talk about my life, the people in it, music, interests, causes, and passions. Basically, anything I'm feeling or wanting to share. It's really late and I need to sleep, but I will try to start posting sooner rather than later.
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