Isn't it weird how just one class can change the direction of your life so easily? I always stress the importance of school, to the annoyance of my family and friends, I'm sure. A lot of school is just crap, busy work, and state-mandated fluff designed to make it look like they really care.
The important stuff in school isn't the schoolwork. There's so much else we learn there that we carry with us for the rest of our lives. One college class can end up becoming a major, a career, a life. Just that single three credit hours can mean so much to one person. Why would you want to miss out on that possibility?
What got me thinking about all this is that I found my 7th grade Science and Social Studies notebook. You would think your 7th grade class would be pretty insignificant in the grand scheme of things, and I did, until I read through that notebook and started thinking about that class.
In it, we learned more than about the structure of cells and the history of the Constitution. My teacher, Mrs. White, was determined to make us interested in politics, current events, and the general world outside of our middle school lives. I'd never really paid attention until that class. Every day, she would have us write an inspirational quote beside the date, followed by a few current events. I was surprised that I actually grew to look forward to this daily ritual.
A lot of times, teachers start the year out with aspirations of daily rituals, and they usually only last a few weeks. Not Mrs. White. Not a single day of class is without a quote or event. She really, truly wanted us to think, not just pass our EOG's. This is admirable.
This also happen to be 2004, the Bush and Kerry Presidential election. She had us keep an election journal, not just of the Presidential race, but of many of the local ones, too. She even had Harrell and Virginia Foxx have a small debate at our school. They even answered one of my questions. That single project opened my eyes to a world of politics of which I'd previously been blissfully unaware. I started to understand the parties and what they stood for (eventually aligning myself with one), the issues, the jobs these people did. No other teacher had ever thought to even try to teach us such things, real things. It instilled in me a political awareness I still value today. I might still be living in a bubble if not for that class.
I can attribute so many things to Mrs. White when I think back about it. I never realized how much of me I found in there until I started reading that notebook again. The strongest memory I have, besides the election journal, is how she encouraged me to enter this essay contest that I ended up winning. Another part of me she helped me discover.
Who ever said school was useless definitely wasn't in Mrs. White's seventh grade Social Studies and Science class.
(Ha, this is the most boring blog entry ever. I apologize, but not enough to delete it. =] )
Jul 30, 2009
Jul 28, 2009
The empty and the hopeless
I was watching the movie Revolutionary Road tonight, and there's this clinically insane character. Throughout the whole movie, he's the only one telling anything remotely like it is. I could write a whole entry on just that, but the thing that sticks out in my head is this one line:
"Hopeless emptiness. Now you've said it. Plenty of people are onto the emptiness, but it takes real guts to see the hopelessness."
I missed the next five or ten minutes of the movie because I was stuck pondering that line. Even my mother, who usually doesn't care to ponder the deep and philosophical, gave a realizing, appreciative "oh".
It's just so blindingly true. A lot of people claim their lives are empty. That's easy. People throw around how their lives have no meaning all the time. But rarely do they add "and it's always going to be that way." Such complaints about the futility of one's life are typically punctuated by
by the making of goals and resolutions, pacts and contracts with yourself to make your life better. We're trained to end on a high note, so we hold onto the hope that now we've realized our mistakes and can fix them with a new mental attitude and a montage of impulse buys like on the movies.
We don't think "oh well, I've maxed out my potential. I just suck." But that has got to be the case sometimes. Maybe more often that not. We usually fall right back into our old routines, living the same ole life that we consider substandard. Empty.
So is all that hope completely false? That's the most depressing thing I've heard in a long time.
So that crazy movie guy was right. It doesn't take any guts at all to realize your life sucks. To admit it's hopeless, however, takes serious guts.
The question I'm asking myself now is, are my guts serious enough?
"Hopeless emptiness. Now you've said it. Plenty of people are onto the emptiness, but it takes real guts to see the hopelessness."
I missed the next five or ten minutes of the movie because I was stuck pondering that line. Even my mother, who usually doesn't care to ponder the deep and philosophical, gave a realizing, appreciative "oh".
It's just so blindingly true. A lot of people claim their lives are empty. That's easy. People throw around how their lives have no meaning all the time. But rarely do they add "and it's always going to be that way." Such complaints about the futility of one's life are typically punctuated by
by the making of goals and resolutions, pacts and contracts with yourself to make your life better. We're trained to end on a high note, so we hold onto the hope that now we've realized our mistakes and can fix them with a new mental attitude and a montage of impulse buys like on the movies.
We don't think "oh well, I've maxed out my potential. I just suck." But that has got to be the case sometimes. Maybe more often that not. We usually fall right back into our old routines, living the same ole life that we consider substandard. Empty.
So is all that hope completely false? That's the most depressing thing I've heard in a long time.
So that crazy movie guy was right. It doesn't take any guts at all to realize your life sucks. To admit it's hopeless, however, takes serious guts.
The question I'm asking myself now is, are my guts serious enough?
Jul 27, 2009
TV, Internet, or Cell Phone?
I recently read an article in Reader's Digest about this world-wide poll somebody conducted. It asked the citizens of a bunch of different countries which they'd sooner give up- television, internet, or their cell phones.
The results were really interesting. If I remember correctly, only one country voted to give up the internet, Brazil. Apparently, only 44% or so of the people even use it in the first place. I also saw a study somewhere that said Brazil has one of the fitter, more attractive populations in the world. Correlation, maybe?
I can't even remember which one the U.S. gave up, but I'm thinking cell phones. What would all those texting drivers do instead to avoid looking at the road??
All of this got me thinking about which one I'd give up. It seemed pretty simple at first. The cell. It's definitely the one I use the least. I could easily live without the handful of text messages I send a month, and you'd still have the home phone for any necessary calls.
But then I remembered that the cell phone is how I notify my parents to come get me. What if I were in trouble and needed to contact somebody? The cell phone is pretty good safety measure. Maybe it wouldn't be the smartest to give up.
The thing I use next least, but not exactly sparingly, is television. If I gave that up, I could still watch several of my regular tv shows on the Internet, no problem. But then again, watching tv sort of brings my family together. We've watched the Thursday night comedy block on NBC together for as long as I can remember. I wouldn't want to give up that family tradition. TV also plays a big part in our pop culture, which brings pretty much everybody together. It's like a universal language. That seems pretty important as well.
And so we have the internet. I spend way too much time on it. But it helps me keep in touch with people, and it's basically where I get my news. And I just like it. There's so many useful things on the internet, stuff that's not possible anywhere else. I really wouldn't want to give that up either, but it's the most plausible. The least consequential, anyway.
That was a much harder decision than I ever thought it would be. It amazes me how interwoven these technologies are in our lives, when they didn't even exist not an incredibly long time ago.
I don't really know what the point of all that was, but there it is! Food for thought, I hope.
The results were really interesting. If I remember correctly, only one country voted to give up the internet, Brazil. Apparently, only 44% or so of the people even use it in the first place. I also saw a study somewhere that said Brazil has one of the fitter, more attractive populations in the world. Correlation, maybe?
I can't even remember which one the U.S. gave up, but I'm thinking cell phones. What would all those texting drivers do instead to avoid looking at the road??
All of this got me thinking about which one I'd give up. It seemed pretty simple at first. The cell. It's definitely the one I use the least. I could easily live without the handful of text messages I send a month, and you'd still have the home phone for any necessary calls.
But then I remembered that the cell phone is how I notify my parents to come get me. What if I were in trouble and needed to contact somebody? The cell phone is pretty good safety measure. Maybe it wouldn't be the smartest to give up.
The thing I use next least, but not exactly sparingly, is television. If I gave that up, I could still watch several of my regular tv shows on the Internet, no problem. But then again, watching tv sort of brings my family together. We've watched the Thursday night comedy block on NBC together for as long as I can remember. I wouldn't want to give up that family tradition. TV also plays a big part in our pop culture, which brings pretty much everybody together. It's like a universal language. That seems pretty important as well.
And so we have the internet. I spend way too much time on it. But it helps me keep in touch with people, and it's basically where I get my news. And I just like it. There's so many useful things on the internet, stuff that's not possible anywhere else. I really wouldn't want to give that up either, but it's the most plausible. The least consequential, anyway.
That was a much harder decision than I ever thought it would be. It amazes me how interwoven these technologies are in our lives, when they didn't even exist not an incredibly long time ago.
I don't really know what the point of all that was, but there it is! Food for thought, I hope.
Jul 24, 2009
I'm Starting With the Man in the Mirror
Yeah, I know, everybody's tired of Michael Jackson. But I've always loved that song, and it's very apt for where I'm at right now.
In recent years, I've found myself steadily losing self-confidence, and not liking myself very much for it. This isn't really the healthiest way to live.
Now, I don't really believe in fate or signs and predestination or anything like that, but my friend showed me a website last night that might actually make a difference in my life. It might be a way for me to find myself, the old self, that I liked so much more.
You simply post your list of goals that you want to accomplish, and keep up with progress by making diary-style entries. Other members can comment and cheer you on. I already had one person comment on the goal that's probably the most important to me with encouragement and camaraderie and I already feel better about accomplishing that goal. I feel more hopeful and optimistic about myself than I've felt in a long time. I think this is something I can actually stick with and improve myself. I want to so bad but I lack the self-discipline. Writing things down concretely, that I can reread, and admit problems to myself that I never really put into words before is exponentially helpful in motivating me and keeping me on track. This website is amazing and I fully intend to take advantage of it.
In a random PS note: we took my cat to the specialist today and it turns out he has this herpes (we knew he had herpes, 99.9% of cats actually have it because it's airborne. no biggie.) sore in his eye. It does have to be surgically removed, but it's not a very risky surgery. It's going to be rough and uncomfortable and insanely expensive, but without it, his eye could rupture and nobody wants that! I'm just so happy that it's not cancer! I was so worried.
That's all for now. I'm going off to make a change for once in my life! It's gonna feel real good, gonna make a difference, gonna make it right! =]
In recent years, I've found myself steadily losing self-confidence, and not liking myself very much for it. This isn't really the healthiest way to live.
Now, I don't really believe in fate or signs and predestination or anything like that, but my friend showed me a website last night that might actually make a difference in my life. It might be a way for me to find myself, the old self, that I liked so much more.
You simply post your list of goals that you want to accomplish, and keep up with progress by making diary-style entries. Other members can comment and cheer you on. I already had one person comment on the goal that's probably the most important to me with encouragement and camaraderie and I already feel better about accomplishing that goal. I feel more hopeful and optimistic about myself than I've felt in a long time. I think this is something I can actually stick with and improve myself. I want to so bad but I lack the self-discipline. Writing things down concretely, that I can reread, and admit problems to myself that I never really put into words before is exponentially helpful in motivating me and keeping me on track. This website is amazing and I fully intend to take advantage of it.
In a random PS note: we took my cat to the specialist today and it turns out he has this herpes (we knew he had herpes, 99.9% of cats actually have it because it's airborne. no biggie.) sore in his eye. It does have to be surgically removed, but it's not a very risky surgery. It's going to be rough and uncomfortable and insanely expensive, but without it, his eye could rupture and nobody wants that! I'm just so happy that it's not cancer! I was so worried.
That's all for now. I'm going off to make a change for once in my life! It's gonna feel real good, gonna make a difference, gonna make it right! =]
Jul 22, 2009
For the Love of a Cat
People have always had pets. I don't know what it is about them that makes us need them so. Why do we want to reign in wild creatures for our own personal satisfaction?
I guess it makes sense. It gives us a (sometimes false) sense of superiority and we like having something dependant on us.
Pets' love sure does seem unconditional. No matter what I put my cat through, he still looks at me with such adoration and trust. Even that one time he ended up on the pool steps, or after a particularly traumatizing trip to the vet...
Like today. This weird black dot developed in his eye awhile back, a few months, and we should've taken him sooner. But we brushed it off as something trivial that would go away on its own. It didn't. We took him today because his face had started to swell and emit puss. Yeah, gross.
Turns out it's a tumor and has to be removed. This requires taking him to a specialist in Greensboro, a lot of money, surgery, and possibly the loss of his eye. Dad's not going to want to pay for it; the poor thing might lose his eye. I feel horribly guilty for not taking him sooner, but it would probably have the same diagnosis anyway. I gave him way too many treats when we got home anyway, as if the things could make up for possible loss of half your senses.
The thing that kills me is he still looks at me with those trusting eyes, around the tumor. I just know it would kill me for him to only be able to look at me with one eye.
I could never have children. If I'm this attached to a pet, if his injuries upset me so much, what would I do if it were my child?? I know I'm far from the only person this attached to their pets, but that doesn't make it suck less. I love that cat more than the majority of people. After all, people's love isn't nearly as unconditional as his, nor their trust as enduring, or as innocent.
I can't even write anymore about it; it just makes me too sad to think about. I'm so sorry, my dear cat.
I guess it makes sense. It gives us a (sometimes false) sense of superiority and we like having something dependant on us.
Pets' love sure does seem unconditional. No matter what I put my cat through, he still looks at me with such adoration and trust. Even that one time he ended up on the pool steps, or after a particularly traumatizing trip to the vet...
Like today. This weird black dot developed in his eye awhile back, a few months, and we should've taken him sooner. But we brushed it off as something trivial that would go away on its own. It didn't. We took him today because his face had started to swell and emit puss. Yeah, gross.
Turns out it's a tumor and has to be removed. This requires taking him to a specialist in Greensboro, a lot of money, surgery, and possibly the loss of his eye. Dad's not going to want to pay for it; the poor thing might lose his eye. I feel horribly guilty for not taking him sooner, but it would probably have the same diagnosis anyway. I gave him way too many treats when we got home anyway, as if the things could make up for possible loss of half your senses.
The thing that kills me is he still looks at me with those trusting eyes, around the tumor. I just know it would kill me for him to only be able to look at me with one eye.
I could never have children. If I'm this attached to a pet, if his injuries upset me so much, what would I do if it were my child?? I know I'm far from the only person this attached to their pets, but that doesn't make it suck less. I love that cat more than the majority of people. After all, people's love isn't nearly as unconditional as his, nor their trust as enduring, or as innocent.
I can't even write anymore about it; it just makes me too sad to think about. I'm so sorry, my dear cat.
Jul 17, 2009
Harry Potter Is My Forever BFF
Warning: Nerdiest post ever! =]
With all the Harry Potter hoopla surrounding the release of the new movie, I started thinking about how big of a role Harry has played in my life. He practically defined my childhood.
It all started one fateful day when my grandmother and I wandered into a bookstore. She was probably trying to buy my affections with literature. The bookstore was filled with all sorts of excited people dressed in robes and wizard's hats prancing around, carrying a green and gold emblazoned book with a boy's head on it. It quite a sight. Little did I know I would share in their craziness in just a few year's time. Curiosity got the best of me, and I asked a sales associate what all the chaos was about. She looked at me like I was a moron and told me the new Harry Potter book just came out. I figured the books must be good for everybody to act so insane about them, so I purchased Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's stone.
I began reading it on the way home. Maybe it's because I don't like reading in cars, or I was just in a bad mood, or Grandma kept interrupting me, but I didn't even like it. Obviously, I tried again and fell in magical love the novel. I went on to get the next three, reading my way up to the most recently published book that was being celebrated that day in the bookstore. It was then that I joined the amazing HP fandom...
I could type for days about the amazingness of the HP fandom. It sounds hopelessly nerdy and cheesy if you're not part of it. True member of the fandom are people like myself who have speculated for hours on message boards about Snape's allegiances, who RAB is, bashed H/Hr shippers, cried when characters died, solved puzzles on JKR's website, waiting in line at midnight for a new book, scoffed at Hermione's pink dress robes in the Goblet of Fire movie, analyzed movie trailers... the list goes on and on. It was more than the great fun had by analyzing and discussing the books to pieces. It's about a sense of belonging to something much bigger. The hugeness and popularity of Harry Potter is quite a unique phenomenon. Nothing has reached its popularity, in books, movies, merchandise, and fans. What other ficitional character makes national news for coming out of the closet? Only Albus Dumbledore!
There's an entire genre of music, Wizard Wrock, dedicated to Harry Potter-themed songs. There's countless bands and they release CD's and tour and everything. Fansites are unmatched. I check mugglenet.com before nytimes.com every day. I've listened to Mugglecast for years, 170some episodes, and never been let down. I feel like I almost know the hosts personally.
It seems crazy to all those who didn't catch the fandom in its heydey. The feeling of anticipation while waiting for Deathly Hallows to be released was one of the greatest experiences of my life, which sounds extremely sad, but I don't think it's that pathetic. Only those a part of it can truly understand.
So here's to all my fellow fans... Here's to everyone who's ever drawn a lightening bolt shaped scar on their forehead or poofed their hair like Hermione's, started using only their first two intials like J.K. Rowling (even though one of hers is fake!), read a supplement to the HP series, treated Beedle the Bard like an 8th release, wanted to kill Steve Vander Ark for going against JKR, owned a plastic Hogwarts and HP trading cards, had a Richard Harris vs. Michael Gambon debate, attended a release party at midnight, and wished they'd gotten a Hogwarts acceptance letter... I'm glad you got to be part of the magic with me.
I can't hardly think of a facet of my childhood that can't be connected to Harry Potter. I grew up with Harry. I started reading the books when I was 8, and Harry was 11. As I was discovering who I was, Harry was learning he was a wizard. As I grew into teenhood, so did Harry. As he was filled with angst, so was I, and where he had friends to turn to, I had fellow fans and great books to escape to.
So to anyone who says they are just books, I'll have to answer them with my favorite HP quote, courtesy of Dumbledore: "Of course it's happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean it is not real?"
With all the Harry Potter hoopla surrounding the release of the new movie, I started thinking about how big of a role Harry has played in my life. He practically defined my childhood.
It all started one fateful day when my grandmother and I wandered into a bookstore. She was probably trying to buy my affections with literature. The bookstore was filled with all sorts of excited people dressed in robes and wizard's hats prancing around, carrying a green and gold emblazoned book with a boy's head on it. It quite a sight. Little did I know I would share in their craziness in just a few year's time. Curiosity got the best of me, and I asked a sales associate what all the chaos was about. She looked at me like I was a moron and told me the new Harry Potter book just came out. I figured the books must be good for everybody to act so insane about them, so I purchased Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's stone.
I began reading it on the way home. Maybe it's because I don't like reading in cars, or I was just in a bad mood, or Grandma kept interrupting me, but I didn't even like it. Obviously, I tried again and fell in magical love the novel. I went on to get the next three, reading my way up to the most recently published book that was being celebrated that day in the bookstore. It was then that I joined the amazing HP fandom...
I could type for days about the amazingness of the HP fandom. It sounds hopelessly nerdy and cheesy if you're not part of it. True member of the fandom are people like myself who have speculated for hours on message boards about Snape's allegiances, who RAB is, bashed H/Hr shippers, cried when characters died, solved puzzles on JKR's website, waiting in line at midnight for a new book, scoffed at Hermione's pink dress robes in the Goblet of Fire movie, analyzed movie trailers... the list goes on and on. It was more than the great fun had by analyzing and discussing the books to pieces. It's about a sense of belonging to something much bigger. The hugeness and popularity of Harry Potter is quite a unique phenomenon. Nothing has reached its popularity, in books, movies, merchandise, and fans. What other ficitional character makes national news for coming out of the closet? Only Albus Dumbledore!
There's an entire genre of music, Wizard Wrock, dedicated to Harry Potter-themed songs. There's countless bands and they release CD's and tour and everything. Fansites are unmatched. I check mugglenet.com before nytimes.com every day. I've listened to Mugglecast for years, 170some episodes, and never been let down. I feel like I almost know the hosts personally.
It seems crazy to all those who didn't catch the fandom in its heydey. The feeling of anticipation while waiting for Deathly Hallows to be released was one of the greatest experiences of my life, which sounds extremely sad, but I don't think it's that pathetic. Only those a part of it can truly understand.
So here's to all my fellow fans... Here's to everyone who's ever drawn a lightening bolt shaped scar on their forehead or poofed their hair like Hermione's, started using only their first two intials like J.K. Rowling (even though one of hers is fake!), read a supplement to the HP series, treated Beedle the Bard like an 8th release, wanted to kill Steve Vander Ark for going against JKR, owned a plastic Hogwarts and HP trading cards, had a Richard Harris vs. Michael Gambon debate, attended a release party at midnight, and wished they'd gotten a Hogwarts acceptance letter... I'm glad you got to be part of the magic with me.
I can't hardly think of a facet of my childhood that can't be connected to Harry Potter. I grew up with Harry. I started reading the books when I was 8, and Harry was 11. As I was discovering who I was, Harry was learning he was a wizard. As I grew into teenhood, so did Harry. As he was filled with angst, so was I, and where he had friends to turn to, I had fellow fans and great books to escape to.
So to anyone who says they are just books, I'll have to answer them with my favorite HP quote, courtesy of Dumbledore: "Of course it's happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean it is not real?"
Jul 12, 2009
My Closet is an X on My Personal Pirate Map
So something randomly got me thinking about all the stuff that I have compiled in my room.
Most of it, I admit, is junk. So why do I keep it around? I do not need it. This is for sure. Half of my closet is filled with empty boxes, some of which the original contents have long been discarded. Every time the order arrives to clean my room, I question my own sanity. Why, oh, why do I have so much stuff?
I keep it all for the faintest possibility that I *might* by some rarest of rare occasions, need the box the CD player I got in six years ago came in and will never need to be placed back into. It takes up space, gathering dust, doing nothing. But I never remove it. It's there now and will be there probably until I move out of this house. It's madness, I tell you.
I have shoes I'll never wear again- a broken, ill-fitting, ugly pile. Stacks of papers and folders dating back to before I could even write. Baby books my parents epic failed in filling out. Every essay I've written since I could hold a pen. Books that were too easy for me to read when I was 7. Random assignments from middle school. Will I ever wake up one morning with a sudden urge to read my sixth grade Social Studies quiz on cities in Germany? I highly doubt it. But, it's there if I ever want it.
But throw out this crap? Never! Whenever I do summon the courage to throw some useless object out, I begin to mourn the object as soon as it is no longer possible for me to retrieve it. To most, this is crazy. Am I that materialistic?
No, I don't think I am. It's not the object itself I grieve. It's being in that 6th grade classroom, taking that quiz, after doing a project on Germany with this kid I had a huge crush on and trying to impress him with my stick-drawing portraits of Hitler (I still have those). It's the times all the useless stuff reminds me of that I have such trouble letting go of.
So I shall remain surrounded my humble heaps of junk, letting it remind me of the life I've lived. People always say real writers don't use cliches, but I say they're cliches for a reason. This one holds true: One man's trash is another man's treasure.
Most of it, I admit, is junk. So why do I keep it around? I do not need it. This is for sure. Half of my closet is filled with empty boxes, some of which the original contents have long been discarded. Every time the order arrives to clean my room, I question my own sanity. Why, oh, why do I have so much stuff?
I keep it all for the faintest possibility that I *might* by some rarest of rare occasions, need the box the CD player I got in six years ago came in and will never need to be placed back into. It takes up space, gathering dust, doing nothing. But I never remove it. It's there now and will be there probably until I move out of this house. It's madness, I tell you.
I have shoes I'll never wear again- a broken, ill-fitting, ugly pile. Stacks of papers and folders dating back to before I could even write. Baby books my parents epic failed in filling out. Every essay I've written since I could hold a pen. Books that were too easy for me to read when I was 7. Random assignments from middle school. Will I ever wake up one morning with a sudden urge to read my sixth grade Social Studies quiz on cities in Germany? I highly doubt it. But, it's there if I ever want it.
But throw out this crap? Never! Whenever I do summon the courage to throw some useless object out, I begin to mourn the object as soon as it is no longer possible for me to retrieve it. To most, this is crazy. Am I that materialistic?
No, I don't think I am. It's not the object itself I grieve. It's being in that 6th grade classroom, taking that quiz, after doing a project on Germany with this kid I had a huge crush on and trying to impress him with my stick-drawing portraits of Hitler (I still have those). It's the times all the useless stuff reminds me of that I have such trouble letting go of.
So I shall remain surrounded my humble heaps of junk, letting it remind me of the life I've lived. People always say real writers don't use cliches, but I say they're cliches for a reason. This one holds true: One man's trash is another man's treasure.
Jul 2, 2009
A wild hair...
So I just got the random need to fix this thing up.
I changed the title from "A Totally Lame Blog" to "Ideal Idealogies" which is much cooler (by my weirdo standards of "cool" anyway) and more descriptive of the actual thing, I hope. I don't think "idealogies" is very grammatically correct, but I like it. You have no idea how rarely that occurs. More descriptive of me at the very least. With that, I changed the little description underneath, which probably has a technical name I'm not aware of. That little bit of genius comes from:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q77-ggkzWRI
There's probably a fancier way to get that there, but whatever. Ugly but effective.
Obviously, I also finally figured out how to jazz up the layout. I like this one much better.
Woo, improvements are fun.
I also, amazingly enough, just noticed how freakin long my posts always are. I'm sure that encourages the reading of them! I'm going to shut up now before this one becomes inordinately long as well, and hopefully be more conveniently concise in the future. =]
I changed the title from "A Totally Lame Blog" to "Ideal Idealogies" which is much cooler (by my weirdo standards of "cool" anyway) and more descriptive of the actual thing, I hope. I don't think "idealogies" is very grammatically correct, but I like it. You have no idea how rarely that occurs. More descriptive of me at the very least. With that, I changed the little description underneath, which probably has a technical name I'm not aware of. That little bit of genius comes from:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q77-ggkzWRI
There's probably a fancier way to get that there, but whatever. Ugly but effective.
Obviously, I also finally figured out how to jazz up the layout. I like this one much better.
Woo, improvements are fun.
I also, amazingly enough, just noticed how freakin long my posts always are. I'm sure that encourages the reading of them! I'm going to shut up now before this one becomes inordinately long as well, and hopefully be more conveniently concise in the future. =]
Jul 1, 2009
What am I so afraid of?
Today, I stumbled upon some blogs that my friends have been writing for awhile. I never knew they wrote them. They're on this very site, too.
This made me think about how I haven't told a single person that I actually know in real life that I started this blog. It seems silly to think that I don't care if the entire Internet world that I'll never meet face to face reads this, but I'd hate for one of my classmates to read it. What difference does it truly make?
I think, in the post under this one, I talked about how I could only ever show the actual me to anyone except through written word. I'm a crappy conversationalist, and I always feel like I'm letting the other person or people down when I speak. I know I have some at least halfway worthwhile words inside me, but I can't get them just right unless I write them out and study them. I have to edit everything!
Why do I have to send an edited version of myself to everyone else? Why can't I just be open? This issue is at the heart of any other issue I've ever had. There's not a reason in the world I shouldn't be at least a fairly open person. I don't have some tragic past that's too painful to discuss, or some mental illness that keeps me from functioning normally. I haven't got an excuse in the world to keep everything I think under lock and key. Even the simplest things, I keep to myself.
I could easily put this link somewhere visible to my friends. I could let them read it. I could put myself out there. But I know I won't. Even if I do, I would instantly regret it and be ashamed of every word. I know I shouldn't be ashamed. They're my words and I mean every one of them. I doubt anyone would give any of the posts a second glance. They wouldn't remember them. What am I so afraid of? Am I afraid that when I did see them again, they'd be thinking about what I wrote and not what I'm saying? This should be a good thing- what I write is much better than what I say!
I used to tell myself that I only wrote here as a therapeutic measure for myself. It makes me feel better to write a little, and this blog somehow encourages me to write. I always feel good when I submit a new entry. Why shouldn't I want to share that? Am I afraid it'd lose the magic?
Maybe one day, I'll work up the courage to send somebody this link. Until then, I shall remain faceless...
This made me think about how I haven't told a single person that I actually know in real life that I started this blog. It seems silly to think that I don't care if the entire Internet world that I'll never meet face to face reads this, but I'd hate for one of my classmates to read it. What difference does it truly make?
I think, in the post under this one, I talked about how I could only ever show the actual me to anyone except through written word. I'm a crappy conversationalist, and I always feel like I'm letting the other person or people down when I speak. I know I have some at least halfway worthwhile words inside me, but I can't get them just right unless I write them out and study them. I have to edit everything!
Why do I have to send an edited version of myself to everyone else? Why can't I just be open? This issue is at the heart of any other issue I've ever had. There's not a reason in the world I shouldn't be at least a fairly open person. I don't have some tragic past that's too painful to discuss, or some mental illness that keeps me from functioning normally. I haven't got an excuse in the world to keep everything I think under lock and key. Even the simplest things, I keep to myself.
I could easily put this link somewhere visible to my friends. I could let them read it. I could put myself out there. But I know I won't. Even if I do, I would instantly regret it and be ashamed of every word. I know I shouldn't be ashamed. They're my words and I mean every one of them. I doubt anyone would give any of the posts a second glance. They wouldn't remember them. What am I so afraid of? Am I afraid that when I did see them again, they'd be thinking about what I wrote and not what I'm saying? This should be a good thing- what I write is much better than what I say!
I used to tell myself that I only wrote here as a therapeutic measure for myself. It makes me feel better to write a little, and this blog somehow encourages me to write. I always feel good when I submit a new entry. Why shouldn't I want to share that? Am I afraid it'd lose the magic?
Maybe one day, I'll work up the courage to send somebody this link. Until then, I shall remain faceless...
A Rough Beginning
I found this beginning to an essay on my computer and thought it would make a nice blog entry... so I finished up and think I rather like the result.
Nobody wants to read anything ordinary.
This is the assumption I worked under during most of my life. Despite a desperate desire to write something the world would want to read, my position on the planet was just too ordinary to commit to paper. Essentially, “Who cares?” was the only thought my feeble stab at prose rendered. What is an aspiring author to do when life provides no inspiration? This plagued me throughout my blissfully plague-free teen hood.
My family, the usual inspiration for outrageous memoirs, was mundane. I love them, but they were just not quirky enough. I live in a white house with black shutters, a mini-van, a pool. A middle-class portrait, complete with a cat on the porch mysteriously matching the color scheme. Nothing, to me, was unusual. Not interesting enough for anybody to care.
Yet, if somebody told me my life sucked or that it was boring, I would be sorely offended. I like my little life and all the little things in it. It's this appreciation for what you have, taught to me second-nature by my ordinary parents, where one might find some literary inspiration.
When I was little, I wanted to be a scientist. What kind varied, but mostly settled upon geologist. I liked rocks. I picked them up everywhere I went and stuffed them in my pockets, bookbag, whatever I could find. Mom would fuss at me when crystal quartz showed up in the wash along with solitary socks and shrunken t-shirts. Instead of looking ahead of me when I walked, I looked down at the ground, searching for a gem among the run-of-the-mill grass and concrete and dirt. When I found the perfect rock, which to my mother or most anyone else was only gravel, I would wash and polish it and store it away in my carefully organized shoeboxes.
It wasn't until fourth grade, when writing short stories was woven into the school curriculum in the form of a standardized test, did I discover the magic of the written word. While everyone else groaned about another essay, I was actually sad when I reached the last few lines of the confining paper. I was excited about each new prompt, a new opportunity to open up a world nobody else had the key to. I could string words together into sentences that no other human being might form in exactly the same way. I found bigger canvases with no lines and rubrics to box me in, and wrote and wrote. The stories came out almost effortlessly when I was eight, and they were pretty good for an eight-year-old.
In fifth grade, the weekly reading of our stories became the highlight of my existence. Most of the time, nobody in that class knew my name or even cared to. But for those odd three or five minutes that was reading my words aloud, everybody was listening. The true me that I never dared expose to my classmates lifted itself off the page and danced around on their desks, flashy and unashamed. I couldn't dare show any personality without the cover of fiction, but I could type every piece of my soul onto that copy paper.
I wouldn't admit it then, but I truly loved reading those stories to that class I otherwise regarded with utmost distaste. I loved their admiring glances, wishing they had thought of that description or that character. I loved my teacher's heaps of praise and perfect marks. I was sold. Writing was what I wanted, needed to do. Most people don't find their passion at 11 years old, and people always tell me I'll change my mind like when I went from geologist to author, but I know deep down that writing is the only thing in this world that will give me that feeling of full satisfaction.
But alas writing is not an easy profession, lifestyle, or dream. Making it is almost impossible and what works in a fifth grade classroom does not work at Random House. I'm fully aware of the improbability of ever feeling the way I did in front of my elementary school peers. I've caught very few glimpses of that feeling since then, and have dedicated my life to finding it again.
Maybe I didn't really have it wrong in the fourth grade. The way to go about being an actual writer, besides practicing and dreaming, is to be like a rock-hunting geologist. Perhaps when I was stowing away half of the topsoil in west Texas, I was still being the writer I now want to be; I was just substituting rocks for words. I still don't watch where I'm walking- I observe the world around me. I stuff my experiences into notebooks and Microsoft word files and the dusty catacombs in the back of my mind. Life's gravel-those ideas and thoughts and words-are still in my metaphorical shoeboxes. Now I have to take the step I never took in my short-lived geology career. I need wash the ideas and polish the thoughts and try to spit them out as something valuable to somebody else. Valuable rocks go to the Smithsonian; valuable words go into the New York Times.
It needs some more polishing, this essay, but I actually don't hate it. This is quite the feat for myself. I need to pop it a few more times into the proverbial rock-tumbler that is my crazy mind, but I'm pretty sure there's a shiny, perfect gem waiting underneath to be uncovered.
Nobody wants to read anything ordinary.
This is the assumption I worked under during most of my life. Despite a desperate desire to write something the world would want to read, my position on the planet was just too ordinary to commit to paper. Essentially, “Who cares?” was the only thought my feeble stab at prose rendered. What is an aspiring author to do when life provides no inspiration? This plagued me throughout my blissfully plague-free teen hood.
My family, the usual inspiration for outrageous memoirs, was mundane. I love them, but they were just not quirky enough. I live in a white house with black shutters, a mini-van, a pool. A middle-class portrait, complete with a cat on the porch mysteriously matching the color scheme. Nothing, to me, was unusual. Not interesting enough for anybody to care.
Yet, if somebody told me my life sucked or that it was boring, I would be sorely offended. I like my little life and all the little things in it. It's this appreciation for what you have, taught to me second-nature by my ordinary parents, where one might find some literary inspiration.
When I was little, I wanted to be a scientist. What kind varied, but mostly settled upon geologist. I liked rocks. I picked them up everywhere I went and stuffed them in my pockets, bookbag, whatever I could find. Mom would fuss at me when crystal quartz showed up in the wash along with solitary socks and shrunken t-shirts. Instead of looking ahead of me when I walked, I looked down at the ground, searching for a gem among the run-of-the-mill grass and concrete and dirt. When I found the perfect rock, which to my mother or most anyone else was only gravel, I would wash and polish it and store it away in my carefully organized shoeboxes.
It wasn't until fourth grade, when writing short stories was woven into the school curriculum in the form of a standardized test, did I discover the magic of the written word. While everyone else groaned about another essay, I was actually sad when I reached the last few lines of the confining paper. I was excited about each new prompt, a new opportunity to open up a world nobody else had the key to. I could string words together into sentences that no other human being might form in exactly the same way. I found bigger canvases with no lines and rubrics to box me in, and wrote and wrote. The stories came out almost effortlessly when I was eight, and they were pretty good for an eight-year-old.
In fifth grade, the weekly reading of our stories became the highlight of my existence. Most of the time, nobody in that class knew my name or even cared to. But for those odd three or five minutes that was reading my words aloud, everybody was listening. The true me that I never dared expose to my classmates lifted itself off the page and danced around on their desks, flashy and unashamed. I couldn't dare show any personality without the cover of fiction, but I could type every piece of my soul onto that copy paper.
I wouldn't admit it then, but I truly loved reading those stories to that class I otherwise regarded with utmost distaste. I loved their admiring glances, wishing they had thought of that description or that character. I loved my teacher's heaps of praise and perfect marks. I was sold. Writing was what I wanted, needed to do. Most people don't find their passion at 11 years old, and people always tell me I'll change my mind like when I went from geologist to author, but I know deep down that writing is the only thing in this world that will give me that feeling of full satisfaction.
But alas writing is not an easy profession, lifestyle, or dream. Making it is almost impossible and what works in a fifth grade classroom does not work at Random House. I'm fully aware of the improbability of ever feeling the way I did in front of my elementary school peers. I've caught very few glimpses of that feeling since then, and have dedicated my life to finding it again.
Maybe I didn't really have it wrong in the fourth grade. The way to go about being an actual writer, besides practicing and dreaming, is to be like a rock-hunting geologist. Perhaps when I was stowing away half of the topsoil in west Texas, I was still being the writer I now want to be; I was just substituting rocks for words. I still don't watch where I'm walking- I observe the world around me. I stuff my experiences into notebooks and Microsoft word files and the dusty catacombs in the back of my mind. Life's gravel-those ideas and thoughts and words-are still in my metaphorical shoeboxes. Now I have to take the step I never took in my short-lived geology career. I need wash the ideas and polish the thoughts and try to spit them out as something valuable to somebody else. Valuable rocks go to the Smithsonian; valuable words go into the New York Times.
It needs some more polishing, this essay, but I actually don't hate it. This is quite the feat for myself. I need to pop it a few more times into the proverbial rock-tumbler that is my crazy mind, but I'm pretty sure there's a shiny, perfect gem waiting underneath to be uncovered.
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