Back to Listing

Bonjour, bloggity-followers! Remember how I used to make lists? Well, I still do it, and here's one for you.

Reading Material I Have Purchased on My New Kindle:

The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien
The Road by Cormac McCarthy
The latest issue of The Onion
Uncle Tom's Cabin (author unnecessary, you know who wrote it.)
Great Expectations (see parenthesis above)
War and Peace (see parenthesis above above)
Emma by Jane Austen-- I hate reading Jane Austen novels, but I figure I need to have an educated hatred.

I'm very nearly finished reading The Things They Carried and I must admit it's one of the best books I've ever read. I'm quickly becoming a bleeding-heart pacifist thanks to this grim look at the Vietnam Conflict. Some people complain that O'Brien made it all up, but even he says that some fiction, especially about war, can tell the truth better than a simple presentation of the facts would do. Some favorite quotes:

"They carried all they could bear, and then some, including a silent awe for the terrible power of the things they carried."

"They shared the weight of memory."

"They carried the land itself--Vietnam, the place, the soil--a powdery orange-red dust that covered their boots and fatigues and faces. They carried the sky. The whole atmosphere, they carried it, the humidity, the monsoons, the stink of fungus and decay, all of it, they carried gravity."

"...for all the ambiguities of Vietnam, all the mysteries and unknowns, there was at least the single abiding certainty that they would never be at a loss for things to carry."

"He enjoyed not being dead."

"They died so as not to die of embarrassment."

"You take your material where you find it, which is in your life, at the intersection of past and present."

"A true war story is never moral...you can tell a true war story by its absolute and uncompromising allegiance to obscenity and evil."

"Real hoity-toity, all very civilized, except this isn't civilization. This is Nam."

"...all I felt was the awkwardness of remembering."

Festivus

As I type this, I am enjoying a cool glass of Soy Nog (spiced with nutmeg, a stick of cinnamon, and possibly, maybe, improbably, a splash of spiced rum) and a delicious molasses spice cookie, warm from the oven. Eartha Kitt sings "Santa Baby" in the background. My mind wanders to pages 47-48 of Mark Kurlansky's "1968: The Year that Rocked the World", where he details Kitt's shocking toast at a dinner given by Lady Bird Johnson, opposing the war in Vietnam and nearly defending illegal drug use among young people.

After a day at work at J.C. Penney, dealing with all the crazies doing their last-minute shopping, I can't think of anything else I'd rather be doing than relaxing right here at home, in my gaudy Christmas sweater, getting ready to watch The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation, White Christmas, or It's a Wonderful Life. I don't care how cheesy it sounds.

I've been using the same recipe for Christmas cookies for the past several years, stolen from Better Homes and Gardens' "Christmas Comfort & Joy", published in Des Moines (fittingly) in 2002. It may be the world's most domestic book, and thus, its recipes are top-notch. This one is pretty easy to follow and fills the house with the most festive scent imaginable.

Soft Ginger Cookies

Ingredients:
2 1/4 c all-purpose flour
2 tsp ground ginger
1 tsp baking soda
3/4 tsp ground cinnamon
1/2 tsp ground cloves
1/4 tsp salt
3/4 c butter, softened
1 c sugar plus 2 tbsp
1 egg
1/4 c molasses

Steps:
1. Preheat oven to 350. Combine flour, ginger, baking soda, cinnamon, cloves, and salt. Set aside. In a large mixing bowl with an electric mixer beat butter for 30 seconds. Add 1 cup sugar. Beat until fluffy.
2. Add egg and molasses; beat well. Add half the flour mixture; beat until combined. Stir in remaining flour mixture with a wooden spoon.
3. Shape dough into 1-inch balls. Roll in 2 tbsp sugar; place on ungreased cookie sheets 2 inches apart. Bake in the preheated oven 10 minutes or until light brown and puffed. Let cool on cookie sheets 2 minutes. Transfer to wire racks to cool. Makes about 36 cookies.

Merry Christmahanukkwanzaa to all of you, dear readers, and enjoy your celebrating.

Black Swan

I saw the new Natalie Portman movie last night, Black Swan. It's a beautiful film full of drama and suspense. One review called it a "psycho-sexual thriller" and I couldn't agree more with that description. Portman is certain to get an Academy nod for her portrayal of a neurotic ballerina like we've never seen before. The film is dark and twisted, grotesque and perfect at the same time.

The following poem was inspired by the film. I imagined what would have happened if the protagonist, Nina, had not gotten the role of the Swan Queen in Swan Lake at all. I figured her madness would have overtaken her anyway, even though it would have made for a much less poignant story.


The Cast List

It was a veritable lunar eclipse--
The white moon hidden by the dark stain of night--
as the pieces of her confidence shattered into bits
like mirror shards on the ground,
reflecting in broken pixels the looks of
“I’m so sorry” and “What a disappointment”
and “That must feel awful”
Yes, you are.
And it was.
And it does.

Je suis retournée!

Hello, dearest bloggity-followers! I know I haven't written in the greater part of a year, but the Glorious Archduke of Fracophony issued a mandate yesterday that I could not ignore. Thanks to the undeniably moralistic overtones of the word "ought", a subject the Archduck has much researched, the statement "you ought to write again" carried with it immeasurable weight, and here I am again.

I love William & Mary and can't say enough positive things about the school or my friends here.

I visited my old high school in October. It was a strange experience to say the least. It’s odd when you’ve changed but everything else is still the same. The school is still a cold cinder block castle on a hill, the administration still hates me, and my teachers are exactly the same as when I left. Tyler May and I snuck in the side door as we’ve done a million times because the mean guy in the office wouldn’t let us in the building. 

I have a lot to say about my new friends (they're eclectic and funny and gorgeous and brilliant), my romantic relationships (the Czar and I very dramatically had a falling-out, these things always end), my academic pursuits (the first semester of school is over now), and my job (I call alumni and demand donations for the school), but now that I'm writing again, I don't want this to turn into a diary. I'm going to concentrate on pieces of original fiction and poetry, reviews of movies, music, and books, and descriptions of interesting things I learn.

Today's entry was prompted by a stumbleupon page called "Exercises for Fiction Writers". The prompt says: Write a dramatic scene between two people in which each has a secret and neither of them reveals the secret to the other or to the reader. It reminded me of Hills Like White Elephants, a fantastic piece I read in high school.

Bonnie: (taking off her coat as she slides into the booth) I’m so sorry I’m late. I'm always late.

Charlie: (looking up from his coffee) It’s fine! I’m just glad you could make it.

B: It’s been such a tough week. The closer it gets to Christmas, the worse my hours get. I’ve been on my feet for ten plus every day this week. 

C: Look! It just started snowing. (He looks out the window) Just look at it coming down!

B: (looking out the window) That’s not snow, it’s sleet. The roads will be hell once we leave here. God, I hope it doesn't freeze when it hits the ground.

A waiter appears- to Bonnie: Can I get anything for you?

B: Sure, I’ll take a coffee. Decaf, please.

C: I think the city is beautiful this time of year. It’s so…alive.

B: I can’t stand it. It’s too cold. Too many tourists, they jack up prices on everything. Hey, have you heard from Denise?

C: Yeah, I got a nice Christmas card from her. She has such gorgeous kids. Why?
B: She and Tom are getting a divorce.

C: (Nearly spits out his coffee) What?! They seemed so happy!

B: He was cheating on her. With a 23-year-old waitress. He moved out last Sunday, he’s got a little apartment down the street from here, actually. They haven’t figured out custody of the kids yet. She’s a total wreck about it.

C: I’ll bet. I’m so sorry to hear that. You know, love is a beautiful thing. It’s so sad when it doesn’t work out. Makes you want to just go up and ask God why, you know? Like, why do bad things happen to good people?

B: I’m surprised you’re so upset. It’s not like you and Denise were ever particularly close. I mean, she was my best friend in high school, not yours.

C: Yeah, but when you and I were together, we spent a lot of time with her and Tom. I’m sure you remember the double dates we had.

B: Of course I remember. I’m just saying, you’d never really have known her if it wasn’t for me.

C: I guess that’s true. (Pause). I miss you, Bonnie.

B: I live ten minutes away. That’s not even possible.

C: No, I mean I miss us, I guess. I mean, a couple of months ago, when we were at the reunion, and we went home together, it wasn’t just a thing for me. I wanted to, you know, because I miss being with you. And now that I've been thinking about things, it just sort of came into perspective. 

B: Charlie…

C: What?

B: I have something to tell you. You need to promise me you can handle it.

C: I have something to tell you too. You first.

I'll post what each person's secret was sometime soon, but I want to give you some time to try and figure it out. Comment if you think you know.

Update Time!

It has been a full month since my last post, but as I don't apologize to my blog followers, I shan't. Instead, I shall attempt to fill my avid readers in on what all has been going on in my life...


I have committed to the College of William & Mary. I'm beside myself with anticipation for college- more on that later. 


I'm in the midst of AP Hell Week.


My job is becoming higher-maintenance by the week.


My friendships have grown stronger than ever.


I've been spending far too much time listening to sad folk songs by neofeminist acoustic guitar players.


The Czar and I are happy as ever.


I turned eighteen, bought a losing lottery ticket, and went clubbing.


So, I suppose that about covers it. I figured describing a whole month would take more effort, but apparently my life is less interesting than I thought. Instead of boring you, dear readers, with more diary-like writing, I'm going to quote some recent emails I have given and received to and from the Archduke. The Czar has sent emails as well, but they are mushy and poetic and not nearly as absurd as the following.


"Kate told me today that currently school is comparable to a lame-duck presidency. This is because anything important in our high school careers has already been done and we're not seeking a chance to return ever again. Thus, we are only looking to the future and all time in school is an utter waste."


"Dearest Dear of Dear Dear Dearness,

At this time, I sit on my unmade bed.  My feet are tangled in my comforter.  My arm and about 10% of my arse are resting on a moderately stuffed pillow.  The rest of my arse has no pillow."

"I now have an iGoogle homepage. It has a hamster. And of course, my facebook, gmail, NY Times, etc. But mostly a hamster. He's cute."

"Do I get to call you the Archgoose?  Since apparently geese and ducks are, in common language, essentially the same species according to certain individuals.."

"I discovered that even were I to major in maths, I would still make no monies, as all monies are in applied and not pure maths."

"During first period, I took a physics test.  This is because my first period is physics."

Every day I attend school lately, I feel like I'm losing intelligence. Sometimes I look back on my high school career and wonder why I can't remember positive things. It's not that nothing good has happened in the past four years; I'm sure good things have come to pass. It's just that so much more of this time period has been negative than positive...all those people who call it the best four years of their lives don't have a clue what it's like to try for Valedictorian. It's stressful and boring and requires far too much commitment and motivation. In one's pursuit of this title, one loses one's best friends, one's Me Time, one's positive outlook, and one's four years. Something I can say, though, is that high school has fostered my flame for sarcasm and bitingly negative wit. I promise to write again, soon, dear readers.

Poor Man's Poached Pears

Take one ripe Asian pear. Use an apple slicer to cut it into wedges and remove the core. Lay the wedges on their sides on a microwave-safe plate and microwave for 8 seconds. Drizzle honey over the warm slices and dip them in whipped cream.

Trust me, this is amazing. Like poached pears, but crunchier, cheaper, and more delicious. I think it's an excellent excuse to say you eat fruit for dessert.

Update

Another day passes with an empty mailbox. Oh, how slowly come letters when we are expectant of them! The following are my college application statuses, in ascending order of how badly I want to attend the school.

Pitt- accepted, offered merit scholarship and Honors College
UNC- accepted
NYU- applied, no word yet
Columbia- applied, phone-interviewed, no word yet
Princeton- applied, interviewed, no word yet
Harvard- applied, interviewed, no word yet
William and Mary- applied, no word yet

As you can see, I am waiting on quite a few decisions this month. April 1st is the last day letters will be sent. It is also, coincidentally, the date of prom. Not the prom date, however, because that is the Czar. (The preceding sentences were a pun.) Anyhoosier, it shall be an eventful day to the utmost. Wish me luck, dear readers.

The Republican

The man, they said he was insane,
Threw himself into the Seine
Lamenting the horrors he could not undo
And the punishments that were undue.

All his life he'd been a whipping-post
For the cause of liberty
His head, it filled with cracking sounds--
The whip of oppression
The snapping of the corners of the flag
The cannons, whose power grew, and
The canons, now obsolete

He had married, merry, once--
A patriot named Egalitte
(And wasn't that fitting?)
But for the love of the tricolor's thick red stripe,
He lost his own.

Never again stood he idly by
All the fighting he internalized
Through the beatless hearts of slain tyrants
Egalitte he immortalized.

He was old, now,
Egalitte still so young
Awaited him in heaven--or hell--
The single picture he had of her
Green leaves tucked in her hair
Mocked his cowardly life
From yellow sunrise to yellow set.

"Allons, enfants de la patrie"
Her lusty voice filled his chest
The weight of the song
Extended the wait 'til the day he'd take
His life
His rest
His breath
His death
His end

The Seine swirled.
The wind whirled.
His heaves hurled over the bridge's edge.
His sobs stabbed the light of day.

Egalitte broke the river's surface first
Green leaves softened
His body followed heavily
One more Revolution's casualty.

Law of Life

The following is an essay I composed for my English class. The prompt was vague an oddly worded, something along the lines of "explain a law by which you live your life".

One of my favorite books is Nicolo Machiavelli’s The Prince. Although it was originally a manual for the art of statecraft, it contains a great many pieces of advice useful for everyday life. One quote from the book has stuck with me ever since the first time I read it. “A ruler cannot rely upon what he sees happen in peaceful times…because then everyone comes running, everyone is ready with promises, and everyone wants to die for him, when the prospect of death is far off.” In laymen’s terms, true friends are those who stick by us when we’re down and out, because it’s easy to be a friend to someone at the pinnacle of success. My life has been one big illustration of the truth in this statement.

In elementary school, I had a very best friend- let’s call her Lisa. Lisa and I spent all our time together, pretending we were grown-ups, dancing around my living room, swinging on the playground. One day, as they often do, the clouds came and obstructed the sun that was our friendship. I said some things that were very unpopular in class. Lisa and I had a little spat over something that doesn’t matter now, and just like that, our friendship was over. I realized then, for the first time, that not everyone who claims to be a friend will be there forever.

I had a very best friend in middle school as well. I knew Sarah and I would be friends forever, and I never doubted it for a moment. But then, once high school began, with its stress and its petty fights, we rapidly grew apart. She wasn’t prepared to stand by me when mean kids poked fun at my eccentricities or when our other friends fought. Boys and schoolwork came between us; she was jealous of my every action and she didn’t have time for my problems. Suddenly, my very best friend was gone, for the second time in my life.

I started blaming myself at that point. I was convinced that it was my responsibility to be the best friend a person could have and never to be whiny or brutally honest or do anything that could make a situation awkward. After all, I didn’t have a best friend any more. It did not cross my mind that the issues might have lain in the instable and superficial natures of my relationships.

I was still crying over my crumbling friendship with Sarah when I looked around and noticed people I’d never seen before. They had been standing by me all along, but I was so wrapped up in silly, immature friendships, that I hadn’t seen them. Suddenly, my life took a wrong turn again. I began to fight with my father constantly, I went through a painful breakup, and I lost my job. I was angry, resentful, and sad all of the time. Lisa or Sarah would have separated themselves from me. I was too much to deal with, too complicated, a buzzkill. Something amazing happened, however. The friends I’d had all along were still there. They handed me Kleenex, listened to my ranting, gave lots of hugs, commiserated, and forced me to do things that would take my mind off of my problems.  Now, those people are my very best friends.

Like Machiavelli said, everyone is willing to die for you when the prospect of death is far off. Little girls will make vows of everlasting friendship and say they’ll love you through thick and thin, but until they’ve been through the thin, their promises have to be taken at face value. A true friend is one that stays with you when you’re sad, angry, immature, or unattractive. The people that belong in your corner are those that have always been there, even when the going got tough.

Two Poems about Schoolchildren

I have been thinking a lot about school lately, in that nostalgic end-of-mandatory-education sort of way. As graduation approaches, my mind grows more and more poetic. Two poems have sprung from these thoughts. I hope you appreciate them, dear readers. Also, I haven't got titles for them, so any suggestions will be very helpful!

Poem #1

The prophetic ringing
Of a dingy old school-bell
Sends long brown braids swinging
As they file down the hall.

Amidst flurried pearls and loafers
And chinos topped with argyle
They coyly reject offers
From the boys who wink and smile.

They glide across the parquet floor
At the ball for debutantes-
Their fathers' lectures are such a bore
And their mothers are nonchalant.

But behind carefully lined lids
Of deep blue sparkling eyes
Something is ill and amiss-
It tells of a coming demise.

One day, cornflower preppies wilt
In the spotlight of the scene
And though their lives are wholly gilt
It's hard to live a dream.

Poem #2

The lengthy scratches of thirty pencils grating
Against white paper with blue lines
Evokes a memory of days spent waiting
For summer, long in coming-

And of students taking up arms in their minds
Against the clock, a foe unsurmountable.
The deaths of snarling dragons on tridents' gleaming tines
Swirl in the imagination as seconds fade away.

The smell of rubber eraser-shavings
Throws a mental switchboard's breaker
Back to times when a few hours of daylight lasting
Repaid a year of dull submission.

Now we have lost the wand'ring spirits
We had when we were children
When joy, a dime could buy it,
Was ever our only aim.

The Happenings of the Day Thus Far

I started my morning by repairing the computers in our house.
My stepfather came upstairs a few minutes ago and heaves this big-ass melodramatic sigh.
Him: "Are you using BOTH of them?!" (Indignance!)
Me: "Yes, I'm defragging the hard drives. They're horribly corrupted."
Him: "But I neeeeeeed that one." (More indignance!)
Me: "Fine. It has less than 250 MB of free space. It's not going to work."
He whisks the computer away and closes out the defragging which I have been working on for 2.5. hours. He is now pissed that the computer is not working and is calling my mother to complain.
So that's my morning.

Also, I have a crapload of homework. And I don't want to do it. Quel supris. Tant pis.


On a positive note, I have a new job that I adore. I am (drumroll please!!!) a magician's assistant. My employer is David the Magician. His website: http://davidmagic.net/ I now have such skills as nonchalance, sparkly eyeliner-application, lifting heavy things, and disappearing. It is a very glamorous, albeit difficult, emploi. More positive news: my dearest boyfriend shall be returning home tomorrow. I await his arrival on the imaginary edge of my imaginary chair.

And that is all, my readers. Good day.

A Crisis

Although I have a great many more important, albeit more mundane, things to be doing right now, I feel a need to write, in order to sort out my thoughts.

I have identified as a utilitarianist since this summer, and I made utilitarian decisions prior to then, just not knowing how to label my system of ethics. Utilitarianism has not failed me; I find its mathematical approach very appealing and logical and its emphasis on happiness well placed.

However.
I do not support the death penalty in any circumstance.
I think developed societies have a responsibility to provided welfare and healthcare for their citizens.
I think some human rights are fundamental.

If you do not yet see the issue with this, I will spell it out. A utilitarianist believes that it is ethical to make the decision that helps the greatest number of people or harms the least, even if it compromises the rights of an individual or a group. I am lately coming to think certain human rights are uncompromisable, though there are very few rights that fit into this category.

So therein lies my dilemma. I still stand behind utilitarianist ethics in most situations, but I am for the first time seeing a gaping hole in my own argument. I do not yet know how to reconcile the idea of certain inalienable rights with a system that consistently compromises them in the interest of the greater good. I will keep you posted, dear readers, as I come to my conclusion.

A Poem Called Trees

The following poem was inspired by a couple of pages out of one of my favorite poetry anthologies, FEG (Ridiculous Poems for Intelligent Children) and from a conversation with my stepfather.

Have you ever had the chance to see
Three-hundred and sixty degrees of pine trees?
Can you describe it?

Alone in the forest
The boughs reaching all around
Above and below and
Right at you.

And in an instant
Those beautiful trees transform into something sinister
And you're expecting the appearance of the
Big
Bad
Wolf

You can't make an escape
Because you still have the sun's reflection off green needles in your eyes
And in that bleary miasma
You melt.

Lost Rings

I realized this morning that everyone has a Lost Ring story.
Ie: Me
     Gollum
     My friend Jay
     My current English teacher
     Jay's grandfather
    A story written by my ex-English teacher Mr. Orr

I find this to be interessant. Rings seem to hold such a deeply personal meaning to the wearer that losing them is a horrible atrocity, one that is remembered forever. My Lost Ring story is about my mother's engagement ring:

The setting- I'm in the third grade. My mother is about to marry, after 3 very long years of making him wait, the man who will become my stepfather. I'm dressed in a green silk dress as the maiden of honor; it's December 16th and the chapel is decorated with holiday-themed gold and silver. My soon-to-be stepfather is already tearing up. He cries at the drop of a hat. I say a little blessing to my parents and step behind my mother. Before the vows between her and my stepfather begin, she takes off her modest engagement ring. She hands it to him. He steps forward and says to the congregation that he knows he's not just marrying my mother but also me, in that he will be from this point onward tied to my life as well. He turns to me and hands me the engagement ring. The vows are said and my mother is given a beautiful new ring with three sparkiling diamonds. Everyone tells her how beautiful it is, and so do I, but I keep catching glances of the round diamond in my new ring, at the shining platinum of its band.
Fast-forward five years- It's my freshman year of high school. I'm being forced to take P.E., which I hate. Our teacher has told us that we must remove all jewelry before we endure our torture. I take my ring off as I do every day for the class and set it on my school clothes, folded up on a bench. When I return to the locker room, I don't notice my ring is missing.
Later, I realize my ring is gone, and I scour the locker room for it. My ring is not there. I put in a request to the school's lost and found, but to no avail. Eventually, I come to grips with the truth- my ring has been lost forever. I cry; big, heaving sobs for a silly object, a shiny material possesion. And yet it was so much more than that to me; I'm in tears because the ring's happy and rich new owner will either sell it for cash or wear it, never knowing how much it meant to someone else.
I've come to grips with the loss of my ring, but I continually miss it in its absence. Four years later, I still run my thumb around the base of my ring finger expecting it to be there and being just a little surprised when it isn't.

This morning, in English class, my friend Jay thought he had lost his Eagle Scout ring. His concern upset our teacher, who, it turns out, once lost a special tiger's-eye ring of his own. Jay mentions his grandfather, who lost his Annapolis class ring. My classmates start throwing out their own stories of lost rings. It seems there is no jewelry or bauble that could be more important to a person than their ring, and hardly anything is easier lost. Makes one think of the fleeting nature of life; how quickly we can lose what means the most to us...

Un Petit Morceau de Poesie

Directionally,
He's on the up and up...
Keep it on the down low
Lowly
Like the worms in the ground
Piling filth into mounds
For to be found by the birds
For the birds
Idiomatically
Thematically
There's a motif--
To rise from the ashes like a thief
Escaping the smoke in a field
Using her body as a shield
In too deep--
As deep as the shovel goes
To raise those worms from the musty throes
Of their dank mausoleum.

Favorites

I have a confession to make. I once thought, and perhaps still think Emily Dickinson's "If You Were Coming in the Fall" was my favorite love poem of all time. It's beautiful in its simplicity and the imagery is vivid. It also has a wonderfully musical meter that makes it incredibly pleasing to hear. But it is not the sort of poem that an intellectual should list as their favorite. It's somewhat juvenile stylistically and the symbolism therein is either very obvious or nonexistent. Understanding it didn't take a lot of effort. I don't sound more intelligent for being able to decipher what it means. Essentially, my love of this poem is as if I thought Taylor Swift's lyrics were better than Of Montreal's.

http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/emilydickinson/10463

Now, I may have a new favorite love poem. It is T. S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock". Eliot is the more intelligent choice, and I do think his poetry has more depth than Dickinson's. It still has the beautiful flow, vivid imagery, and simplicity that I liked in "If You Were Coming in the Fall", but it's the grown-up version. I read or hear "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock", and instead of the warm fuzzy feeling I get from Emily Dickinson's poetry, I get a feeling of a deep stillness, a wisdom that I seldom find in myself. This poem is a love story for adults, for realists, for those who have loved and those who have lost, and for those who are still searching. It's a poem that embodies longing, a motif I've touched on in previous posts. It sees beauty in the everyday sadness of the last glowing embers of a passion. It sees that love is ironic sometimes and that nothing, as unique as it feels to you, is ever really as new to the world as it is to you. In essence, this isn't a love poem at all, not in the traditional sense. Regardless, it's beautiful and perhaps you, dear reader, should take a look.

http://www.bartleby.com/198/1.html

Plans. AKA The Post With No Direction.

Plans.
Death Cab has them. Harvey Dent has them. Your Mom has them and your Dad has them and your grandparents had them.Your children will have them.

I have a love-hate relationship with plans. I need them for stability; I make more lists than anyone else I know. It seems as if, as long as there's a plan, everything will turn out all right. If it's on the list, somehow it will get done, and even if it doesn't get done, at least it was on the list. At least I planned to do it. And as I listened to the haunting, soothing melody of What Sarah Said, I began to think about the Joker.

"It came to me then that every plan is a tiny prayer to Father Time."
Death Cab for Cutie

"Do I really look like a guy with a plan? You know what I am? I’m a dog chasing cars. I wouldn’t know what to do with one if I caught it! You know, I just, do things. The mob has plans, the cops have plans, Gordon’s got plans...Nobody panics when things go according to plan. Even if the plan is horrifying."
The Joker (The Dark Knight)

So why do we need them? What makes plans so very important? Why can't we just go with the flow, just allowing things to come to pass? As I've said before...human beings are strange creatures. We feel a constant need to manipulate our environments, as if letting control leave our hands will collapse our universes. It's not as if our respective universes are always within our own control, even when we make plans. Planning for something doesn't miraculously make it come true...we can't plan things into existence.

There's a positive spin on this, though. We can't plan for the good things that will happen to us, a majority of the time. They will just occur, whether we expect them or not.

I'm not suggesting it would be better to float lightly on the surface of life, allowing things to happen to us, rather than seeking them out. I couldn't do that any more than I can say it, and honestly, I don't see the purpose in trying to suppress my desire to make plans. And I'm not suggesting fate exists, either. I'm simply saying that things will happen even when (especially when) we don't plan for them. I don't think God makes them happen. I don't think Fate makes them happen. I don't think they're meant to be. They just come to pass.

I Believe

I've been upset lately, after looking back on four years of required high school English classes. It turns out I can't pinpoint one single thing I've learned in English. I feel like I've gotten something out of it, don't get me wrong. I have had some brilliant people for English teachers. I just haven't absorbed a single, outstanding fact. One thing I do remember, however, was an activity we completed in Mr. Orr's AP English Language and Composition class called "I Believe Statement". Essentially the idea is to write "I believe" and then what you believe. Sounds easy, but it isn't. I strongly suggest every one of my readers tries it, though. There's a lot you can learn about yourself by asking what you believe. I'll go first.

I believe in science. I believe in logic. I believe in Charles Darwin, Audrey Hepburn, and John Steinbeck.

I believe in ethics. I believe we're affected by our circumstances but not determined by them. I believe culture is irrelevant. I believe history isn't just the past, it's the future.

I believe in the power of lyrics and poetry and the beauty of Indie rock. I believe in protest and in raising awareness. I believe in saying what you mean. I believe in truth, always. I believe omission is lying. I believe in the dangers of global climate change. I believe change starts at the bottom and works its way up, but it can start from one person and work its way down too.

I believe Christmas isn't just for Christians. I believe facebook has an amazing power to connect and I believe Mac owners are one hundred times cooler than P.C. owners. I believe we should only have children if we want them and our mistakes shouldn't define our lives. I believe in conserving water, but also in an at least weekly long bath.

I believe that women and men are equal, period. I believe in writing and thinking and listening and speaking and reading and loving and laughing and crying and winning and losing and wanting and needing and longing and hoping. I believe everyone will have one great heartbreak, and I believe I got mine early. I believe a tree can grow in Brooklyn. I believe a family can grow out of the Dust Bowl. I believe in black and white films and in vinyl. I believe in pushing the boundaries just to show where they are. I believe in Lady Gaga.

I believe everyone has the right to safety and liberty. I believe that the most important thing in the world is happiness. I believe we all believe that deep down, whether or not we say it. I believe humankind is too judgemental. I believe we should, could, and would be happy, if we let ourselves. I believe no one can really stand between you and achieving the happiness you deserve.

Honesty? More Like Insult

So I have a little something about which to rant. Why are people fascinated with formspring.me and with the Honesty Box? The idea behind these applications, as you may or may not know, is that they are an anonymous way for people to ask or answer questions about you. In other words, they invite people who would never insult you to your face to do it surreptitiously over the internet. I suppose these things could be used for good, although I'm not sure how...amusement, maybe. But more often than not, they become vessels for insult. I'll never forget my own brief stint with Honesty Box. I received plenty of responses to the silly little questions I asked, and generally, they were not nice. Not at all nice. So I deleted the Honesty Box. As a matter of fact, most of my friends came to the same conclusion and deleted theirs. This was about six months ago. It seems everyone has forgotten, as now the trend of getting a formspring.me account is sweeping through my friends like proverbial wildfire. Do yourselves a favor, dear readers, and just don't. Resist the temptation to encourage people to lower your self-esteem.

Crazy

Why are we so fascinated with crazy people? Okay, I know that "crazy" isn't politically correct. I also realize that I can not speak for everyone. Perhaps you, dear reader, have no interest in crazy people. But anyway, I do, and it's something I need to think about...

I'm currently reading Shutter Island by Dennis Lehane, which is about a mental institution. My favorite movies of the past week have been Gray Gardens and Uninvited. My best girl friend is thinking about becoming a psychologist. One of my favorite exhibits in Colonial Williamsburg is a restored mental hospital. You see, I always make fun of psychology. Or psychological SCIENCE, as its proponents like to call it. But the truth is, I find it interesting. I love the idea of defining what kind of crazy people are, especially people who seem outwardly indefinable.

Why do we love to hear about, talk about, and read about crazies? What is it about people who have snapped that so interests us? I have a few theories, but truth be told, I don't rightly know.

Maybe it's because everyone's afraid they're a little crazy, and hearing about people with bigger problems than themselves provides some evidence that they're stable. As in, I might be a bit off, but at least I'm not crazy like that person. Do we need people so far away from the accepted norm in order to prove that we're closer to the norm than we think?

My other theory is that we are always fascinated by things we don't understand, like when I met a computer hacker once. I don't understand how computers work, and I stared at the poor guy in wonder for five minutes straight. Maybe it's like that. This makes sense to me, because I always try to put people in categories, little mental compartments. Someone who is so far out of my abilities to categorize rolls over and over in my mind until I find a way to make them fit. We don't really know much about how the mind works in a sane person, so how it works in an insane one is beyond our sphere of comprehension and categorization. There is another possibility, as I see it...what if we're worried that the insane ones are the only people who really understand the way the world works?

Just a little something to think about.

Et Encore, Je Fais Des Listes

Good afternoon, readers. I hope you all fare well. Not that you asked, but yes, I fare well. Particularly well, in fact, because I am now finished with the first semester of the most stressful class I have ever taken. Here is a list to explain.

Things I Have Learned from Online AP European History:

• The defenestration of Prague is hilarious.
• The Concert of Europe involves no music whatsoever.
• The French are amazing, always have been amazing, and always will be amazing.
• Russia is cold, always had been cold, and always will be cold. It's their primary military strategy.
• Germans can not unify, ever.
• Italians are very pro-Italy.
• England and France fight all the time over meaningless things.
• Industry is good for money, bad for people.
• Jeremy Bentham was not only RIGHT, he was considered a Liberal. Which makes him even better.
• Writing an essay full of BS about a subject on which you know nothing will warrant a higher grade than writing a factual one about some subject with which you are familiar.
• Some things are better heard than read.
• Some things are better read than heard.
• Teamwork!

Blackout!

Hello again, dear readers! I want to begin by informing you all how much I appreciate your support. This project started out as a sort of online diary- I figured no one would ever read it. But this has not been the case thanks to you! Big hugs. Also, if you're trying to comment on my posts and it isn't working, send me an email at lindseybrigitte@gmail.com. I know the comment system hasn't been working for a while...as a matter of fact, if you've left a comment AT ALL, go ahead and email me...I haven't gotten any of them. I want to know what you think about my writing!

Enough logistics. Back to writing and such.

I held a workshop for the literary magazine members on Tuesday that was a great success! It was inspired by the poetry of Austin Kleon. Basically, Kleon takes pages out of newspapers, selects the words he likes, and colors the rest in with Sharpie, such that only the poem shows through. Here's his website if you're interested: http://www.austinkleon.com/

My Austin-Kleon-style newspaper blackout poem went as follows:


Crazy people              think               there's actually     a precedent
        For the         drop in gas prices
                                                               hopefully, it won't take
                                     another 40 years       to
                             get         change we can all believe in


There were a great many good poems produced at the workshop, all of them better than mine. But it was a fun experience, and I think I helped to get the LitMag's creative juices flowing. You see, there seems to have been a contagious strand of writer's block going around, and I wanted to do something to help. Thus the balckout poem workshop. The point behind newspaper blackout poetry isn't just to make cool poem art out of cheap stuff. It's to show that there is poetry everywhere, you just have to know where and how to look for it. Even the Business section of USA Today can be artistic. (That's where my poem came from!)

A Day in the Life

Good afternoon, dear readers. Today was the return to school. *eyes rolling* I shall recount my day for my own amusement.

6:50 am: I get several text messages wishing me a good morning and day at school. I am very lahved.
7:10 am: I get accidentally elbowed in the nose. I swear it's broken. My friend tells me it isn't. It still hurts as I write.
7:30 am: We begin to study the Reproductive System in Honors Coloring. Much awkward ensues.
8:45 am: Online, my friend finds a wooly mammoth stuffed animal for sale. He stares at it for twenty minutes, drooling over its cute combination of Wookie and Lolrus. We then have a conversation about an aspic cat, and whether this is a cat encased in aspic or a cat made of aspic. Either is disgusting.
9:00 am: My nose still hurts.
9:30 am: I do some actual work.
10:00 am: My friends are listening to an acoustic Three Days Grace Album.
11:00 am: I discover a poet from Texas who writes by taking pages out of newspapers and blacking out the parts he doesn't want. I am mesmerized for quite a while.
12:20 pm: Lunch time! My friends are discussing D&D, and I feel left out, but I don't want to be included, either...I start gossiping with the only girls at the table.
1:40 pm: Part one of four of the calculus exam. Brain rape. So painful...until my teacher informs me my grade on it doesn't matter because I am exempt from the exam!!!
2:20 pm: I sit in my car in the parking lot at school for at least 15 minutes. I am cut off by a truck with the number 2400 on its side. This is the biggest effing truck I have ever seen. My car shakes in horror.
2:30 pm: My nose hurts.
3:45 pm: I attempt to return some unopened DVDs to Wal-Mart for store credit to give to my mom. I hate Wal-Mart. I hope no one sees me...two people do. One asks what I'm doing in Wal-Mart.
4:00 pm: I am hungry, and I have a coupon for a free apple pie at McDonald's. A McDonald's happens to be attached to Wal-Mart. I claim my pie. Upon closer inspection, after leaving the store, there is a wiry black hair in my pie. My hair is neither wiry nor black. I take a bite anyway, only to discover the expiration date. Which has already passed. I am angry, grossed out, and still hungry, so I go to Taco Bell for a taco. Tacos are similar to pies, are they not?
4:30 pm: I am finally home, to attempt some homework. Perhaps tomorrow will be a better day...As a matter of fact, I'm sure it shall be, as I shall be spending some time with the Czar, a very agreeable person. :)