I know this is roughly the same topic I always write about, but hey, it's my life. Whatcha gonna do?
I feel like a baby bird getting tossed out of a nest. It's necessary, and I want to do it, know I have to do it, and know it'll be wonderful being able to fly. But before you can leap, you have to sever connections with everything inside that nest.
My nest is considerably bigger than a baby bird's.
It feels like life sort of makes these disconnects for you. Lately, I've been feeling more disconnected than I used to be from everything and everyone. At first, I was sort of depressed about that feeling, like it indicated some kind of failure on my part to keep in touch. Then I started thinking it was just me being beaten into sad monotony by the same life I've lived for five years. But now I sort of think it's just me subconsciously preparing for leaping out of the metaphorical nest. It's a lot easier to jump if the things that hold you back aren't holding on quite so tightly anymore.
I figured this out when I noticed myself becoming irrationally annoyed at the few things that haven't really changed. It seems as though they're stuck in the past, and they need to hurry up and join us in the future. I couldn't really pinpoint why they became annoying; they just were.
It is still a little depressing though. I don't talk to the same people I used to talk to every day, and if I do, conversation seems superficial, separate, obligatory. It's only natural to miss people, and it's perfectly possible to miss somebody you see every day. It's like my relationships are preparing themselves to downgrade to the Christmas card level they'll soon be reduced to.
Tonight, I sat at my grandma's kitchen table and looked through the photo albums that captured three generations' worth of life. In the pictures of my dad's youth, he was surrounded by people he never talks to anymore. The people are so happy in the pictures, so unaware of the diverging paths they're about to walk down. The closeness of the relationships are captured on the photo album's page even if they don't exist in Dad's current reality.
Most of the pictures had a story behind them. These are the parts that truly matter. All of these people left some sort of impression on Dad, whether it's an anecdote he still tells from time to time or a life lesson learned hard. I suppose the people, for the most part, are making the transition from my reality to my photo album. They're anecdotes and lessons learned. Through that, they'll always exist at their full intimacy in my life. I will remember them for what they were then, and only partially for what they are now and what they will become.
I'm sad, but I'm happy. I know I'll find a new set of people to make their own invaluable impressions and create their own memories; I know the ones I've got now are permanent and strong. A successful life, perhaps, should be measured by weight of the photo albums stacked in the bottom drawer of the bureau in the living room.
Feb 6, 2011
Feb 4, 2011
Don't Bother Reading This
Whenever my not-posting-in-forever guilt sets in, but I still don't have anything I feel inspired to write about, I go find a self-indulgent writing exercise on the internet and post it here for my own enjoyment.
This seemed interesting, so I shall use it. It comes in five parts. It wants you to pick a real person "you have strong feelings for," but mine will probably be a fictional person. That's much more fun.
Part one: Describe the person's hands.
The evenly colored, soft skin gave away the hands' secret--they'd never plunged into the depths of dirty dish water or scrubbed the rim of a convenience store toilet. They hadn't been washed the customary twenty times a day like a single mom or toiled away in the topsoil of a garden. They simply sat, politely crossed, in her lap. Expertly applied, subtly colored creamy clear nail polish shined on the tip of each finger, projecting cleanliness and efficiency, with a smallest hint of luxury. The ring finger on the left hand bore the brunt of a brilliant diamond ring, almost too big for the dainty hand to carry. Barely visible beneath the monster ring was a small circle of slightly paler flesh. The hands were young and beautiful but maybe slightly naive.
Part two: Describe something he/she is doing with his/her hands.
A little smear of ink smudged off the paper she was writing on with a calligraphy pen. The hands glided across the paper, effortlessly leaving behind a series of perfectly balanced loops and lines that spelled out "You're Invited." Beneath, in simpler script, the hands scribbled the details of forthcoming nuptials. The hands folded the elegant stationary with a sharp crease and slid each invitation into its envelope. Suddenly, the left hand jerked to her mouth as a small dash of blood pooled on the ring finger. To nurse the papercut, she slid the engagement ring off and put a bandaid on the wound.
Prompt three: Use a metaphor to say something about some exotic place. (It must know me well--there is a note that says not to worry about it coming together, just write it. Will do, prompt, will do.)
The private beach in the Bahamas is something of an old hole in the wall. People pool there looking to show off their impressive physiques or hook up with other hot singles. There are vacationers trying to get away from it all, to forget the monotony of their lives for awhile and have fun. Or perhaps they sit seaside to meditate on their lives and the points that brought them to that beach at the moment. Maybe they just like the scenery--the familiarity of the waves crashing over and over, the consistency of the bar's regulars ordering their usual poisons. The waves crash methodically, reassuringly, toppling expertly crafted sandcastles, like the bartender's rag routinely wipes away the remainders of bar patrons past.
Part Four: Ask this person a question somehow involving Part 2 and 3 from above.
While she nursed her hand, the girl noticed a colorful brochure poking out from under the pile of wedding invitation carnage. "Enjoy the romantic beachside view from your deluxe Honeymoon Suite!" it commanded.
"Are you going there immediately after the wedding?" a voice asked from behind her.
Part Five: The person looks up, notices you there, and gives an answer that shows he or she only knows part of what you were asking.
"I think so. Jack makes most of the decisions..."she trailed off.
Then it tells you go to make a short story out of it. Mine was shaping up to be something of soap opera... the girl is marrying some rich dude, but she doesn't actually want to cause she just broke off her engagement with a poor guy cause he's poor. (As evidenced by the smaller ring from the poor guy's tan line being overshadowed.) The guy that enters could easily be the ex-fiancee.
But that is horrible and includes themes I don't really want to write about. Since I made her good at calligraphy, she could work as a person who makes wedding invitations, and she keeps getting engaged and breaking it off, which results in a huge pile of wedding invitations she's made for herself stacked up in her closet. And all of that most culminate in the bar/beach comparison, which I actually rather like. Perhaps she could actually marry one of the guys, get the honeymoon part, and realize on the beach why she's been so indecisive, in a rather Edna Pontellier-esque scene.
What do you know, this exercise provided lots of fodder. Sorry for thinking out loud all over the internet.
This seemed interesting, so I shall use it. It comes in five parts. It wants you to pick a real person "you have strong feelings for," but mine will probably be a fictional person. That's much more fun.
Part one: Describe the person's hands.
The evenly colored, soft skin gave away the hands' secret--they'd never plunged into the depths of dirty dish water or scrubbed the rim of a convenience store toilet. They hadn't been washed the customary twenty times a day like a single mom or toiled away in the topsoil of a garden. They simply sat, politely crossed, in her lap. Expertly applied, subtly colored creamy clear nail polish shined on the tip of each finger, projecting cleanliness and efficiency, with a smallest hint of luxury. The ring finger on the left hand bore the brunt of a brilliant diamond ring, almost too big for the dainty hand to carry. Barely visible beneath the monster ring was a small circle of slightly paler flesh. The hands were young and beautiful but maybe slightly naive.
Part two: Describe something he/she is doing with his/her hands.
A little smear of ink smudged off the paper she was writing on with a calligraphy pen. The hands glided across the paper, effortlessly leaving behind a series of perfectly balanced loops and lines that spelled out "You're Invited." Beneath, in simpler script, the hands scribbled the details of forthcoming nuptials. The hands folded the elegant stationary with a sharp crease and slid each invitation into its envelope. Suddenly, the left hand jerked to her mouth as a small dash of blood pooled on the ring finger. To nurse the papercut, she slid the engagement ring off and put a bandaid on the wound.
Prompt three: Use a metaphor to say something about some exotic place. (It must know me well--there is a note that says not to worry about it coming together, just write it. Will do, prompt, will do.)
The private beach in the Bahamas is something of an old hole in the wall. People pool there looking to show off their impressive physiques or hook up with other hot singles. There are vacationers trying to get away from it all, to forget the monotony of their lives for awhile and have fun. Or perhaps they sit seaside to meditate on their lives and the points that brought them to that beach at the moment. Maybe they just like the scenery--the familiarity of the waves crashing over and over, the consistency of the bar's regulars ordering their usual poisons. The waves crash methodically, reassuringly, toppling expertly crafted sandcastles, like the bartender's rag routinely wipes away the remainders of bar patrons past.
Part Four: Ask this person a question somehow involving Part 2 and 3 from above.
While she nursed her hand, the girl noticed a colorful brochure poking out from under the pile of wedding invitation carnage. "Enjoy the romantic beachside view from your deluxe Honeymoon Suite!" it commanded.
"Are you going there immediately after the wedding?" a voice asked from behind her.
Part Five: The person looks up, notices you there, and gives an answer that shows he or she only knows part of what you were asking.
"I think so. Jack makes most of the decisions..."she trailed off.
Then it tells you go to make a short story out of it. Mine was shaping up to be something of soap opera... the girl is marrying some rich dude, but she doesn't actually want to cause she just broke off her engagement with a poor guy cause he's poor. (As evidenced by the smaller ring from the poor guy's tan line being overshadowed.) The guy that enters could easily be the ex-fiancee.
But that is horrible and includes themes I don't really want to write about. Since I made her good at calligraphy, she could work as a person who makes wedding invitations, and she keeps getting engaged and breaking it off, which results in a huge pile of wedding invitations she's made for herself stacked up in her closet. And all of that most culminate in the bar/beach comparison, which I actually rather like. Perhaps she could actually marry one of the guys, get the honeymoon part, and realize on the beach why she's been so indecisive, in a rather Edna Pontellier-esque scene.
What do you know, this exercise provided lots of fodder. Sorry for thinking out loud all over the internet.
Jan 14, 2011
Password Please?
As snow days put me in a cleaning mood (or as in a cleaning mood as I'm capable of achieving), I ended up going through my computer files and deleting extraneous junk cluttering my aging hard drive.
In a file reserved for random writings, aptly titled "Writings," there are many documents. Most of these documents are unfinished pieces of crap, with inspirations long forgotten and trains of thought derailed. I vaguely remember writing most of them, though there is one curious file I don't remember. It is ever-so helpfully titled "stuff."
But when you click "stuff," a prompt appears asking for a password. I apparently password protected this file. I am not even sure how to do that, but I guess I knew at one time. I wonder how many similar skills I have forgotten. I know I have forgotten the password to access this file.
It is a very strange thing to be locked out of something you created yourself. I'm not sure who I was hiding it from, considering nobody uses this computer but me. I am also not sure of what sort of sensitive information I would deem it necessary to password-protect. This all has me very curious as to what I wrote there.
Lately, I have been very critical of my fourteen year old brother's illogical secrecy, but here is a nice example of my own. I bet that file and his facebook page contain many similar contents, and perhaps he will forget the password to his eventually as well.
My file also goes to illustrate what I've been trying to tell him about his adolescent woes--what seems so important then, important enough to set up security measures, is easily forgotten in a few year's time. I am sure what is written there was very pressing at fourteen, but is now laughable and probably embarrassing.
It is easy to make these presumptions about a time when it's easy to criticize yourself, but I'm sure the idea remains the same for any other stage of life as well. I will probably look back on this blog some day with absolute shame; I already do at some of the older posts.
But that doesn't invalidate the feelings I had at the time when I decided to commit them to hypothetical paper. Maybe my new prospective on them actually validates them; it shows growth in how I view the world and prioritize.
There's an essay that most English students around here have to read called "Dwellings." The author describes the experience of reading all her past journals and seeing past versions of herself almost as characters in the various books. They are all herself, but such variations of herself that they almost seem foreign. Very relatable, but not the same person. This concept is lost on many students who read the essay for class--they can only envision one possible conception of themselves, and they believe they've been this singular person their whole lives.
Anybody who writes at all or journals themselves knows this is simply not true. The essay resounded greatly with me; she is absolutely correct. Every time I read something I've written, I can definitely recognize myself in it, but it is not the same me that is reading it. I find that a highly valuable part of writing at all.
So past me that felt the need to password protect obviously wasn't thinking about future me's need to learn from my past writing. And she is also very good at thinking of hard to guess passwords.
In a file reserved for random writings, aptly titled "Writings," there are many documents. Most of these documents are unfinished pieces of crap, with inspirations long forgotten and trains of thought derailed. I vaguely remember writing most of them, though there is one curious file I don't remember. It is ever-so helpfully titled "stuff."
But when you click "stuff," a prompt appears asking for a password. I apparently password protected this file. I am not even sure how to do that, but I guess I knew at one time. I wonder how many similar skills I have forgotten. I know I have forgotten the password to access this file.
It is a very strange thing to be locked out of something you created yourself. I'm not sure who I was hiding it from, considering nobody uses this computer but me. I am also not sure of what sort of sensitive information I would deem it necessary to password-protect. This all has me very curious as to what I wrote there.
Lately, I have been very critical of my fourteen year old brother's illogical secrecy, but here is a nice example of my own. I bet that file and his facebook page contain many similar contents, and perhaps he will forget the password to his eventually as well.
My file also goes to illustrate what I've been trying to tell him about his adolescent woes--what seems so important then, important enough to set up security measures, is easily forgotten in a few year's time. I am sure what is written there was very pressing at fourteen, but is now laughable and probably embarrassing.
It is easy to make these presumptions about a time when it's easy to criticize yourself, but I'm sure the idea remains the same for any other stage of life as well. I will probably look back on this blog some day with absolute shame; I already do at some of the older posts.
But that doesn't invalidate the feelings I had at the time when I decided to commit them to hypothetical paper. Maybe my new prospective on them actually validates them; it shows growth in how I view the world and prioritize.
There's an essay that most English students around here have to read called "Dwellings." The author describes the experience of reading all her past journals and seeing past versions of herself almost as characters in the various books. They are all herself, but such variations of herself that they almost seem foreign. Very relatable, but not the same person. This concept is lost on many students who read the essay for class--they can only envision one possible conception of themselves, and they believe they've been this singular person their whole lives.
Anybody who writes at all or journals themselves knows this is simply not true. The essay resounded greatly with me; she is absolutely correct. Every time I read something I've written, I can definitely recognize myself in it, but it is not the same me that is reading it. I find that a highly valuable part of writing at all.
So past me that felt the need to password protect obviously wasn't thinking about future me's need to learn from my past writing. And she is also very good at thinking of hard to guess passwords.
Jan 10, 2011
Football
My whole life, my parents really wanted me to like football. For a period when I was about seven, I felt extreme pressure to choose a preferred team. I made what seemed to be the logical choice: I lived in North Carolina, so I selected the Panthers. I didn't understand football in the slightest, never watched the games, but for almost entire year's worth of Sundays, I would be dressed in Panther garb and adults would endlessly spout the Panther's score to my uncomprehending and apathetic ears.
As time passed and my true feelings about football became apparent, the Panther-mania gave way to just the occasional comment by the distant behind-the-times relative. I'm now very glad I didn't stick with the Panthers, as they are a horrible team to be fan of these days.
It isn't much of a wonder that I didn't grow up liking football. I've written about previously about mom's football insanity, which didn't paint a blissful picture of an American pastime. I regarded the behavior as insane, not something I'd ever want to participate in. I guess I ignored my dad's rational football viewing--he would simply watch the games with interest, root for his favorite team, be a little sad if they lost, and then move on with his life in a timely manner. But the crazies always get the attention.
This all changed through a couple of random events. The first didn't have much to do with football. One evening, I was passing through the living room and saw my parents utterly transfixed by something on the television. They were watching the Celtics and the Lakers in the NBA finals, and it was a close game. They've always been big Celtics fans, so they were pretty (but reasonably) into the game.
Out of boredom and intrigue, I sat down and watched the rest of the game with them. It was almost fun--the drama and intensity of the game was appealing, and I have a decent understanding of the game from having played youth league basketball, so I could watch with a degree of intelligence. I ended up watching the rest of the exciting seven-game series, and even though the Celtics lost to the Lakers in game seven, it was a pretty fun experience. I even found myself looking forward to the next games, which was something I'd never before experienced about a sport event, short of the Olympics and maybe the Sunday round of the Master's.
The second event was a pretend stint as a sports writer at the local newspaper. The boss guy ended up being an incompetent jerk, and I never actually performed the job, but when I thought I was going to have to attend and report upon a lot of football games, I tried to learn the game. My gleeful parents taught me all about first downs, pass rushes, and sacks. I watched a few games to test my knowledge. I've always been decent at retaining information, and soon possessed a fairly decent working knowledge of football.
Another fateful evening, I found myself bored. It happened to be the first regular season game of my dad's favorite football team, the Indianapolis Colts. I sat down with them to watch, and ended up absorbing every second. It turns out football isn't so bad when you understand it.
I then watched every single Colts game, up until their first round playoffs loss to the New York Jets on Saturday. I was actually sad, for both their loss and the end of my extended interest in the NFL season.
My parents couldn't be more proud. They bought me a personalized Colts jersey, which I actually find pretty awesome; they explain the nuances of the game, and are super thrilled when I site some article I read online about analyzing the Colts' running game or recent injury report. I could win the Nobel Peace Prize while studying at Cambridge University to become a neurosurgeon, and they would still remember the day I watched my first full football game with them as their proudest day.
I still occasionally get weird reactions from people who knew me before I cared about screen passes and pylons, but I now entertain some weird attraction to the game. It really doesn't make sense to emotionally invested in something where you have no real connection the people involved and the outcome is virtually irrelevant to life in any meaningful way. And yet millions of people watch it, cry over it, rejoice over it every week.
I guess the attraction is a very base human appeal: rooting for a team gives you something to be apart of, something bigger than yourself. Wanting the same team to win gives two people a kind of unique camaraderie that is not easily replicated elsewhere. Identifying yourself with a solidified group--Jets fans, Colts fans, Steelers fans--that is cut and dried is a very rare thing. You may subscribe to a political party, but there is so much variance within that you might not have anything real in common with the other members at all. You can attend the same schools or work in the same business, but still be miles apart. But if you both are diehard Cowboys fans, well that's something you can bond over.
So maybe that's why my parents were so glad that I took an interest in the game they hold so dear. It's not about the football players or the score in the end. It's about the people you celebrate wins or mourn losses with.
As time passed and my true feelings about football became apparent, the Panther-mania gave way to just the occasional comment by the distant behind-the-times relative. I'm now very glad I didn't stick with the Panthers, as they are a horrible team to be fan of these days.
It isn't much of a wonder that I didn't grow up liking football. I've written about previously about mom's football insanity, which didn't paint a blissful picture of an American pastime. I regarded the behavior as insane, not something I'd ever want to participate in. I guess I ignored my dad's rational football viewing--he would simply watch the games with interest, root for his favorite team, be a little sad if they lost, and then move on with his life in a timely manner. But the crazies always get the attention.
This all changed through a couple of random events. The first didn't have much to do with football. One evening, I was passing through the living room and saw my parents utterly transfixed by something on the television. They were watching the Celtics and the Lakers in the NBA finals, and it was a close game. They've always been big Celtics fans, so they were pretty (but reasonably) into the game.
Out of boredom and intrigue, I sat down and watched the rest of the game with them. It was almost fun--the drama and intensity of the game was appealing, and I have a decent understanding of the game from having played youth league basketball, so I could watch with a degree of intelligence. I ended up watching the rest of the exciting seven-game series, and even though the Celtics lost to the Lakers in game seven, it was a pretty fun experience. I even found myself looking forward to the next games, which was something I'd never before experienced about a sport event, short of the Olympics and maybe the Sunday round of the Master's.
The second event was a pretend stint as a sports writer at the local newspaper. The boss guy ended up being an incompetent jerk, and I never actually performed the job, but when I thought I was going to have to attend and report upon a lot of football games, I tried to learn the game. My gleeful parents taught me all about first downs, pass rushes, and sacks. I watched a few games to test my knowledge. I've always been decent at retaining information, and soon possessed a fairly decent working knowledge of football.
Another fateful evening, I found myself bored. It happened to be the first regular season game of my dad's favorite football team, the Indianapolis Colts. I sat down with them to watch, and ended up absorbing every second. It turns out football isn't so bad when you understand it.
I then watched every single Colts game, up until their first round playoffs loss to the New York Jets on Saturday. I was actually sad, for both their loss and the end of my extended interest in the NFL season.
My parents couldn't be more proud. They bought me a personalized Colts jersey, which I actually find pretty awesome; they explain the nuances of the game, and are super thrilled when I site some article I read online about analyzing the Colts' running game or recent injury report. I could win the Nobel Peace Prize while studying at Cambridge University to become a neurosurgeon, and they would still remember the day I watched my first full football game with them as their proudest day.
I still occasionally get weird reactions from people who knew me before I cared about screen passes and pylons, but I now entertain some weird attraction to the game. It really doesn't make sense to emotionally invested in something where you have no real connection the people involved and the outcome is virtually irrelevant to life in any meaningful way. And yet millions of people watch it, cry over it, rejoice over it every week.
I guess the attraction is a very base human appeal: rooting for a team gives you something to be apart of, something bigger than yourself. Wanting the same team to win gives two people a kind of unique camaraderie that is not easily replicated elsewhere. Identifying yourself with a solidified group--Jets fans, Colts fans, Steelers fans--that is cut and dried is a very rare thing. You may subscribe to a political party, but there is so much variance within that you might not have anything real in common with the other members at all. You can attend the same schools or work in the same business, but still be miles apart. But if you both are diehard Cowboys fans, well that's something you can bond over.
So maybe that's why my parents were so glad that I took an interest in the game they hold so dear. It's not about the football players or the score in the end. It's about the people you celebrate wins or mourn losses with.
Dec 31, 2010
Happy New Year
This week contains both my birthday and New Year's, which makes it naturally overly-contemplative. Thus, a year in review is born.
The ending of this year feels not only like the closing of 365 days, but the last year that can truly be classified as my youth. I realize that the twenties are also considered young, but this is the last year where there were more carefree days than not. In the coming years, I'm going to have to work my butt off, and I look forward to it, but that doesn't mean I can't mourn the eighteen years of relative coasting that are now dwindling to mere hours.
This year, I occasionally felt like an adult. I got a wonderful first job that I wouldn't trade for anything. In this job, I met amazing people who I now call friends, as well as finally found what I consider my true calling, if there are such things as callings. This year, I let a false calling slip away, gradually but assuredly, and embraced a new picture of my future that I grow more excited about all the time.
I feel like I broke free from some of the crippling shyness I've endured over the years, and even if it's not totally gone, I now consider it conquerable, and that's all I need to succeed.
I applied to my dream school, and they've given me many heart attacks along the way, and I still don't know if the damage to my cardiac system is worth it, but hitting that "submit" button felt like hitting the "submit" button on twelve years of education.
But I was also a kid in 2010. I took New York City with my Grandma and Dad, felt the allure of the concrete jungle under my feet and the security of my favorite people by my side.
I felt like a kid when I heard that terrifying word--cancer. I felt the almost cliched emotions that accompany it: this could never happen to me, somebody I love; it must be wrong; I must be dreaming. But I came to terms with it and though it still pains me every time I see a little of the happiness drained from my grandma's eyes, replaced with the dingy darkness of defeat and fatigue, it overjoys me to hear her laugh a laugh reminiscent of the pre-cancer days and hug me as tightly as she ever has.
I delighted my parents by belatedly taking an interest in one of their greatest joys, football. I've watched every Colts game this season, cheering alongside my parents, as they welcome the opportunity to finally share something so pivotal to them with me. And it really is fun, sitting on pins and needles, clutching my lucky quilt, as the Peyton leads the Colts down the field in an overtime drive towards the in-zone.
I read 22 books this year, and while I wish it had been more, those books are now a part of me, my subconscious. Many people say "you are what you eat" but I think "you are what you read" is much more accurate.
I also got thirteen new books waiting to be read. There isn't much better than a teetering stack of unread pages and uncreased spines just waiting to be enjoyed. These will soon become part of my 2011 year in review.
I'm sure there is much more I could say, but now it's late and I'm tired, so I will end. Here's to the amazing friends, new and old, that made 2010 great; here's to academic successes and learning experiences and a few mistakes along the way; here's to good health; here's to loving and supportive family; here's to sappy end of the year posts.
Happy 2011!
The ending of this year feels not only like the closing of 365 days, but the last year that can truly be classified as my youth. I realize that the twenties are also considered young, but this is the last year where there were more carefree days than not. In the coming years, I'm going to have to work my butt off, and I look forward to it, but that doesn't mean I can't mourn the eighteen years of relative coasting that are now dwindling to mere hours.
This year, I occasionally felt like an adult. I got a wonderful first job that I wouldn't trade for anything. In this job, I met amazing people who I now call friends, as well as finally found what I consider my true calling, if there are such things as callings. This year, I let a false calling slip away, gradually but assuredly, and embraced a new picture of my future that I grow more excited about all the time.
I feel like I broke free from some of the crippling shyness I've endured over the years, and even if it's not totally gone, I now consider it conquerable, and that's all I need to succeed.
I applied to my dream school, and they've given me many heart attacks along the way, and I still don't know if the damage to my cardiac system is worth it, but hitting that "submit" button felt like hitting the "submit" button on twelve years of education.
But I was also a kid in 2010. I took New York City with my Grandma and Dad, felt the allure of the concrete jungle under my feet and the security of my favorite people by my side.
I felt like a kid when I heard that terrifying word--cancer. I felt the almost cliched emotions that accompany it: this could never happen to me, somebody I love; it must be wrong; I must be dreaming. But I came to terms with it and though it still pains me every time I see a little of the happiness drained from my grandma's eyes, replaced with the dingy darkness of defeat and fatigue, it overjoys me to hear her laugh a laugh reminiscent of the pre-cancer days and hug me as tightly as she ever has.
I delighted my parents by belatedly taking an interest in one of their greatest joys, football. I've watched every Colts game this season, cheering alongside my parents, as they welcome the opportunity to finally share something so pivotal to them with me. And it really is fun, sitting on pins and needles, clutching my lucky quilt, as the Peyton leads the Colts down the field in an overtime drive towards the in-zone.
I read 22 books this year, and while I wish it had been more, those books are now a part of me, my subconscious. Many people say "you are what you eat" but I think "you are what you read" is much more accurate.
I also got thirteen new books waiting to be read. There isn't much better than a teetering stack of unread pages and uncreased spines just waiting to be enjoyed. These will soon become part of my 2011 year in review.
I'm sure there is much more I could say, but now it's late and I'm tired, so I will end. Here's to the amazing friends, new and old, that made 2010 great; here's to academic successes and learning experiences and a few mistakes along the way; here's to good health; here's to loving and supportive family; here's to sappy end of the year posts.
Happy 2011!
Dec 12, 2010
In a Box
The older I get, the more I feel like life is most akin to one of those money machines they have on game shows--those machines where the contestant stands in a little glass elevator-shaped contraption. Money, in various denominations, flies around them in a hectic furry and the poor person tries to grab as much as they can and stuff it anywhere they can until time runs out and it all disappears.
I'm standing in the middle of my own machine, perpetually grabbing at the little slips of paper around me. Written on those papers is everything important to me. Some have short term goals, scholastic things, stuff I have to get done, finish Christmas shopping. Some have people's names, family and friends that I want around. Others have long term goals. Get into college.
I'm standing in the middle of this chaos, grabbing at all of these things. There isn't enough time and they aren't slow enough to prioritize. I just have to snatch at them as they fly around, hoping I manage to grab something worth keeping.
And even once I do get hold of something I want or need, it's even harder to hold onto it. I try to put it in my pocket, but the wind sweeps it out again. It's a constant struggle, a constant fight against elements I can't control.
That's the worst part. I can't control it.
I hate not being in control. I can't control it when the Carolina admissions people lose my transcript three days before they want to seal my fate. I can't control what people think of me, how they interpret my actions. I can't control schedules made by others or the weather or the law.
I can only control my feeble little arm, reaching out into the uncontrollable, grasping for something worth it.
Some people believe if you grab one of those things, all the rest of them won't matter. For some people, it's God. I never got the hang of that one. For others, it's love. That one's out of my reach too. Others find it in their work. Well, my transcript's lost in translation.
Is my vital piece of paper still swirling undetected over my head? Or have I missed it completely? Has the thing I need to make life worth it slipped through my fingers already?
I'm standing in the middle of my own machine, perpetually grabbing at the little slips of paper around me. Written on those papers is everything important to me. Some have short term goals, scholastic things, stuff I have to get done, finish Christmas shopping. Some have people's names, family and friends that I want around. Others have long term goals. Get into college.
I'm standing in the middle of this chaos, grabbing at all of these things. There isn't enough time and they aren't slow enough to prioritize. I just have to snatch at them as they fly around, hoping I manage to grab something worth keeping.
And even once I do get hold of something I want or need, it's even harder to hold onto it. I try to put it in my pocket, but the wind sweeps it out again. It's a constant struggle, a constant fight against elements I can't control.
That's the worst part. I can't control it.
I hate not being in control. I can't control it when the Carolina admissions people lose my transcript three days before they want to seal my fate. I can't control what people think of me, how they interpret my actions. I can't control schedules made by others or the weather or the law.
I can only control my feeble little arm, reaching out into the uncontrollable, grasping for something worth it.
Some people believe if you grab one of those things, all the rest of them won't matter. For some people, it's God. I never got the hang of that one. For others, it's love. That one's out of my reach too. Others find it in their work. Well, my transcript's lost in translation.
Is my vital piece of paper still swirling undetected over my head? Or have I missed it completely? Has the thing I need to make life worth it slipped through my fingers already?
Nov 27, 2010
Some Things Never Change
Yesterday, my grandma excitedly ushered me to a drawer in her spare bedroom and produced a letter addressed to her in my ten year old handwriting. I knew embarrassment was nigh.
I'd written the letter just before my family moved from Texas to Virginia. It was in two different colors of gel pen, written on the back of the notebook paper, and a few words were misspelled, but I could see my current self plain as day in the childish cursive handwriting.
It was written with weirdly adult phrasing. "They're shipping us out today," I began like the enlisted protagonist of a Tim O'Brian short story. I continued, "Sorry I didn't write earlyier (I'm ashamed, fifth grade me. Very ashamed.) as I was tied down with school work." I was tied down with school work. I was ten. Some things never change.
I said I had to pack up my stuff for our "diddy move." Eighteen year old me doesn't even know what a diddy move is, or why ten year old me put quotation marks around it. Dad explained it to me, and I did use the quotation marks correctly. That redeems some of the earlier spelling errors.
That letter is a perfect example of why I think writing is so important. I would never remember the mindset of myself eight years ago without it. The feelings that seem so monumental one moment are completely forgotten the next. I don't remember writing that letter at all, but while I was reading it, I was sucked back into that time of my life in a way I wouldn't do without that small reminder.
It also goes to show you that despite all the changes people undergo, there are parts of us that just stay the same. If I wrote those two paragraphs right now, I would probably phrase some of it the same. I'm proud of how mature I sounded, even if I don't remember it.
Grandma carefully tucked the letter back in her drawer, remembering the old me, hugging the current me. I'm glad both mes could bring her joy, and I'm glad that's something else that will never change.
I'd written the letter just before my family moved from Texas to Virginia. It was in two different colors of gel pen, written on the back of the notebook paper, and a few words were misspelled, but I could see my current self plain as day in the childish cursive handwriting.
It was written with weirdly adult phrasing. "They're shipping us out today," I began like the enlisted protagonist of a Tim O'Brian short story. I continued, "Sorry I didn't write earlyier (I'm ashamed, fifth grade me. Very ashamed.) as I was tied down with school work." I was tied down with school work. I was ten. Some things never change.
I said I had to pack up my stuff for our "diddy move." Eighteen year old me doesn't even know what a diddy move is, or why ten year old me put quotation marks around it. Dad explained it to me, and I did use the quotation marks correctly. That redeems some of the earlier spelling errors.
That letter is a perfect example of why I think writing is so important. I would never remember the mindset of myself eight years ago without it. The feelings that seem so monumental one moment are completely forgotten the next. I don't remember writing that letter at all, but while I was reading it, I was sucked back into that time of my life in a way I wouldn't do without that small reminder.
It also goes to show you that despite all the changes people undergo, there are parts of us that just stay the same. If I wrote those two paragraphs right now, I would probably phrase some of it the same. I'm proud of how mature I sounded, even if I don't remember it.
Grandma carefully tucked the letter back in her drawer, remembering the old me, hugging the current me. I'm glad both mes could bring her joy, and I'm glad that's something else that will never change.
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