I wrote this when my head was about to explode, and I couldn't find a way of sorting through the roiling thoughts and worries crammed in there. I seem to be facing a similar situation, so I'm going to share it.
Meditation
Behold this glass orb I hold,
With all of the swirls and twirls
Within the artist's vision
Akin to dollish blonde curls,
And look at the light reflecting,
Trapped inside the glass.
So little can escape,
Jumbling the rest en masse.
And could the orb but think
Perhaps the tumult would sleep,
Or if the orb could dream
It would perhaps not weep.
For in sleep could it sanctuary find
And let the roiling, poisonous bile
In its pit perhaps some peace find
And file into quiet lines, waiting trial.
It could be that judgment is mete
With nominal sighs and tears
And mercy jumps to obey
Instead of instilling me with fears.
-Rosemary Larkin
11.13.2009
11.11.2009
Going Home
Listening to metal alarm bass lines and rapid frets while watching the unfiltered sun twist its way through bleached leaves and power lines. Lull. Cymbals clash. It's all for you. You got me where you want. Turning a corner only shifts my gaze to the heartless blue stretched over an empty, watery expanse. You got me where you want. The bus bounces in time with the thumping bass. End. Countdown to next time.
10.23.2009
My Life is Average
Rachel introduced me to a website that is literally just page after page of mediocre stories that make people's days. I love reading it, especially when I'm pretending to be busy and important at work. I've even submitted a few stories. I'm going to share a few.
Today, I was sitting on campus when I started to choke on a pop-tart. A girl passed by, mumbled "You probably deserve it," and kept walking. How did she know? MLIA
Today,we had "deaf day" for my American Sign Language class. We had to wear ear plugs and couldn't talk. I wanted to talk to my friend and ended up being late to class. I wrote a note and handed it to my ASL teacher. It read: "Sorry, I did not hear the bell." Needless to say, I didn't get marked tardy. MLIA
Today, my English teacher was talking about parts of speech. When we got to verbs she was explaining how they appear everywhere and they always need to be surrounded. Out of no where, she yelled, "Verbs are the needy whores of the grammar world." MLIA.
Today, I went to Target. In the toy aisle, there was an original Buzz Lightyear. He was in his spaceship box just like in the movies. On the bottom, it said, "WARNING: This toy does not fly. It falls, with style." I was glad to see this. MLIA
Last night the batteries in my electric toothbrush died. It took me at least a minute to remember I could still use it to brush my teeth. MLIA
Today, I went to the doctor to get a flu shot. The little kid who went before me got a Winnie the Pooh sticker when they left, so I asked the receptionist for one. When she asked me how old I was, I said, "You're going to put an age limit on happiness?" MLIA
These are just a few stories. I thought I would share.
www.mylifeisaverage.com
P.S. One of them is my story. Which do you think it is?
Today, I was sitting on campus when I started to choke on a pop-tart. A girl passed by, mumbled "You probably deserve it," and kept walking. How did she know? MLIA
Today,we had "deaf day" for my American Sign Language class. We had to wear ear plugs and couldn't talk. I wanted to talk to my friend and ended up being late to class. I wrote a note and handed it to my ASL teacher. It read: "Sorry, I did not hear the bell." Needless to say, I didn't get marked tardy. MLIA
Today, my English teacher was talking about parts of speech. When we got to verbs she was explaining how they appear everywhere and they always need to be surrounded. Out of no where, she yelled, "Verbs are the needy whores of the grammar world." MLIA.
Today, I went to Target. In the toy aisle, there was an original Buzz Lightyear. He was in his spaceship box just like in the movies. On the bottom, it said, "WARNING: This toy does not fly. It falls, with style." I was glad to see this. MLIA
Last night the batteries in my electric toothbrush died. It took me at least a minute to remember I could still use it to brush my teeth. MLIA
Today, I went to the doctor to get a flu shot. The little kid who went before me got a Winnie the Pooh sticker when they left, so I asked the receptionist for one. When she asked me how old I was, I said, "You're going to put an age limit on happiness?" MLIA
These are just a few stories. I thought I would share.
www.mylifeisaverage.com
P.S. One of them is my story. Which do you think it is?
10.01.2009
Sharing Time
I've been having two of my students work on poetry for the last few days. They both complained bitterly about it. I've tried everything from luring them into it with song lyrics to threatening them with a lifetime of darkness and self hatred if they do not embrace poetry.
Nothing is really working. One of my snot-nosed freshmen thought he was awfully clever when he chirped up, "What, Teach? What poetry have you written?"
Rather than trying to defend myself and validate my authority (and with maybe just a little B.S. to cover up for being put on the spot), I coolly stared at him and replied, "I doubt you'd understand it. Now get to work."
He deserves so much worse.
Still, I rant and rave about poetry on this blog even though I never start out with the intention of ranting and raving, but I have yet to post anything original. Until today. Yes, today is the Big Day. I will . . . . . . share a poem that I first wrote as a senior in high school and have since edited to my liking.
The background:
'Tis a temperamental, autumnal day. Musty sweaters are making their first appearances of the season, and the smell of mothballs permeates the room. Seniors are chatting superficially, awaiting the presence of their teacher - nay, their mentor. Their leader. Their prophet.
He appears at the back of the room, emerging suddenly from the shadows of his office to the pounding bass line of Pink Floyd. We turn in anticipation. He waits until all eyes are fixed on him, all mouths are hanging open, and all minds are craving his words of wisdom before stepping forward.
He strides to the front of the room, the power of his footfalls sending pencils clattering and blinds swaying. Inches from the blackboard, he pivots and swirls around, a beauty queen pandering to her judging panel.
"Hello, children," he booms, snatching his sidekick from his worn podium. He raps it smartly on the dented wood. "Attention," he demands from the silent room.
With a satisfied twinkle in this be-windowed eyes, he faces is blank slate once more and writes in sloppy, large, eye-sore letters "WAR."
He proceeds to scar our young minds with poetry from Wilfred Owen about men choking on gas and falling to their deaths on the battlefield for love of country, Sigfried Sassoon's legless war heroes hating life and wanting death, and Michael Rutter's own creations of exploding landmines sending hunks of flesh into spinning helicopter blades.
Our turn. "Write me a war poem that makes me want to melt down my guns!"
We collectively gasp--no force on earth has ever been able to part Michael Rutter from his weapons.
Challenge accepted.
The following is the fruits of my war-torn labors, recently edited and rewritten. I based it off of the Vietnam War, when so many men were dying, the government sometimes hijacked taxis to deliver death telegrams, notices of sons and husbands killed in action.
Enjoy.
Taxis
Out of place
Idles the burning chariot,
Blackening fumes spewing
From an ailing exhaust,
Engine resounding through cramped houses,
Painted grey
In the whited dawn.
Cracked pavement
Leads a passing angel
From one barred door to another,
His message left propped
Against the threshold,
No red paint
To block his path.
Stark cards,
Etched with dooming messages,
Wait with godly patience
While women push open mesh screens,
Excited hope of word
From a silent battlefield
Glowing in weary eyes.
-Rosemary Larkin
Nothing is really working. One of my snot-nosed freshmen thought he was awfully clever when he chirped up, "What, Teach? What poetry have you written?"
Rather than trying to defend myself and validate my authority (and with maybe just a little B.S. to cover up for being put on the spot), I coolly stared at him and replied, "I doubt you'd understand it. Now get to work."
He deserves so much worse.
Still, I rant and rave about poetry on this blog even though I never start out with the intention of ranting and raving, but I have yet to post anything original. Until today. Yes, today is the Big Day. I will . . .
The background:
'Tis a temperamental, autumnal day. Musty sweaters are making their first appearances of the season, and the smell of mothballs permeates the room. Seniors are chatting superficially, awaiting the presence of their teacher - nay, their mentor. Their leader. Their prophet.
He appears at the back of the room, emerging suddenly from the shadows of his office to the pounding bass line of Pink Floyd. We turn in anticipation. He waits until all eyes are fixed on him, all mouths are hanging open, and all minds are craving his words of wisdom before stepping forward.
He strides to the front of the room, the power of his footfalls sending pencils clattering and blinds swaying. Inches from the blackboard, he pivots and swirls around, a beauty queen pandering to her judging panel.
"Hello, children," he booms, snatching his sidekick from his worn podium. He raps it smartly on the dented wood. "Attention," he demands from the silent room.
With a satisfied twinkle in this be-windowed eyes, he faces is blank slate once more and writes in sloppy, large, eye-sore letters "WAR."
He proceeds to scar our young minds with poetry from Wilfred Owen about men choking on gas and falling to their deaths on the battlefield for love of country, Sigfried Sassoon's legless war heroes hating life and wanting death, and Michael Rutter's own creations of exploding landmines sending hunks of flesh into spinning helicopter blades.
Our turn. "Write me a war poem that makes me want to melt down my guns!"
We collectively gasp--no force on earth has ever been able to part Michael Rutter from his weapons.
Challenge accepted.
The following is the fruits of my war-torn labors, recently edited and rewritten. I based it off of the Vietnam War, when so many men were dying, the government sometimes hijacked taxis to deliver death telegrams, notices of sons and husbands killed in action.
Enjoy.
Taxis
Out of place
Idles the burning chariot,
Blackening fumes spewing
From an ailing exhaust,
Engine resounding through cramped houses,
Painted grey
In the whited dawn.
Cracked pavement
Leads a passing angel
From one barred door to another,
His message left propped
Against the threshold,
No red paint
To block his path.
Stark cards,
Etched with dooming messages,
Wait with godly patience
While women push open mesh screens,
Excited hope of word
From a silent battlefield
Glowing in weary eyes.
-Rosemary Larkin
9.11.2009
Poetic Justice
This week, I rediscovered my adoration for John Keats.
After posting the poem “Oh Blush Not So!” on here, I began to remember how ingenious he was. So, I hie-d me up to Borders with the companionship of darling Nichole, and I found the Penguin Classics complete poetry of John Keats. I may have hyperventilated and grasped the window for support just a little. Maybe a little more than a little, but it was far shy of a lot.
The poetry section at Borders is sporadically restocked. Rarely do you find exactly what you are looking for. Since I happened across the complete works of John Keats, I took it as a sign and purchased it immediately. (Don’t judge; I had a coupon to reduce it from $16 to $11.75. How could I refuse?)
Here’s where the story takes an unexpected turn that caused Nichole to shoot me wary and worried glances all day.
Rather than leaving the book in the safety of the car while we finished our errands, I brought it with me. I couldn’t keep my hands off of it. I kept it in my arms all day. I opened it at random and read some of my old favorites as well as some I had never read before. I toyed with Keats for hours, letting him elate and depress me, confide in and rebuff me, fascinate and bore me. I’ve creased Keats’ spine already, and those of you who have seen my library know I take special care to preserve the original condition of my books.
This frenzied obsession with the sexy, black-covered volume made me reminisce as t how my deep passion for poetry developed.
I was never a literary child. While I enjoyed books, I didn’t feel driven to read them. That’s what the movie was for, right? (Oh, irony.) In fact, I hated reading. When we first moved to the U.S., I tested several grades above level, so I got lazy. I’ve always been easily seduced by the easy life. I only began to read voraciously in 7th grade, and I it wasn’t until 9th grade that I began an acquaintance with poetry.
I mean, I used to see poetry everyday in Mr. Williams’ class, say hi, listen to it for a minute or two, then forget about it. Occasionally, my eyes drifted across the room to it, waiting in the corner, but I looked away before anyone could notice. We weren’t close. We didn’t move in the same circles. Sure, I was vaguely interested (as I believe it was in me), but we never forged a major connection. Until Coleridge.
Ah, Samuel! I discovered Coleridge in 10th grade. “Kubla Khan” changed my life. It pulled me out of class and sent me through a whirling spiral of space/time, and I found that, once there, I never wanted to come home. No thanks, Dorothy; keep your ruby red slippers. Xanadu kicks Oz’s ass anyway.
Why my abrupt fixation with poetry?
I have always fought an internal battle between logic and emotion. My emotions are hasty and so eager; they jump to react to everything around me, reigning craziness down of the innocents nearby. My logic, however, is learned, carefully crafted, and precise. It lets my emotion leap . . . and then smacks it with a board on the head. Within this discord lies my answer: Poetry allows my extremes to work in cooperation rather than competition.
My emotions are fed by the passion and the beauty of the poet’s apparition while my logic is undulated with form, allusions, pieces of a puzzle that must be assembled quickly before the magic is gone. Poetry can be intellectual, zealous, structured, wild, beautiful, dour, uplifting, disheartening, and everything buried in between.
Why settle for something simple when I can feast on something so sustaining?
Here endeth the rant.
After posting the poem “Oh Blush Not So!” on here, I began to remember how ingenious he was. So, I hie-d me up to Borders with the companionship of darling Nichole, and I found the Penguin Classics complete poetry of John Keats. I may have hyperventilated and grasped the window for support just a little. Maybe a little more than a little, but it was far shy of a lot.
The poetry section at Borders is sporadically restocked. Rarely do you find exactly what you are looking for. Since I happened across the complete works of John Keats, I took it as a sign and purchased it immediately. (Don’t judge; I had a coupon to reduce it from $16 to $11.75. How could I refuse?)
Here’s where the story takes an unexpected turn that caused Nichole to shoot me wary and worried glances all day.
Rather than leaving the book in the safety of the car while we finished our errands, I brought it with me. I couldn’t keep my hands off of it. I kept it in my arms all day. I opened it at random and read some of my old favorites as well as some I had never read before. I toyed with Keats for hours, letting him elate and depress me, confide in and rebuff me, fascinate and bore me. I’ve creased Keats’ spine already, and those of you who have seen my library know I take special care to preserve the original condition of my books.
This frenzied obsession with the sexy, black-covered volume made me reminisce as t how my deep passion for poetry developed.
I was never a literary child. While I enjoyed books, I didn’t feel driven to read them. That’s what the movie was for, right? (Oh, irony.) In fact, I hated reading. When we first moved to the U.S., I tested several grades above level, so I got lazy. I’ve always been easily seduced by the easy life. I only began to read voraciously in 7th grade, and I it wasn’t until 9th grade that I began an acquaintance with poetry.
I mean, I used to see poetry everyday in Mr. Williams’ class, say hi, listen to it for a minute or two, then forget about it. Occasionally, my eyes drifted across the room to it, waiting in the corner, but I looked away before anyone could notice. We weren’t close. We didn’t move in the same circles. Sure, I was vaguely interested (as I believe it was in me), but we never forged a major connection. Until Coleridge.
Ah, Samuel! I discovered Coleridge in 10th grade. “Kubla Khan” changed my life. It pulled me out of class and sent me through a whirling spiral of space/time, and I found that, once there, I never wanted to come home. No thanks, Dorothy; keep your ruby red slippers. Xanadu kicks Oz’s ass anyway.
Why my abrupt fixation with poetry?
I have always fought an internal battle between logic and emotion. My emotions are hasty and so eager; they jump to react to everything around me, reigning craziness down of the innocents nearby. My logic, however, is learned, carefully crafted, and precise. It lets my emotion leap . . . and then smacks it with a board on the head. Within this discord lies my answer: Poetry allows my extremes to work in cooperation rather than competition.
My emotions are fed by the passion and the beauty of the poet’s apparition while my logic is undulated with form, allusions, pieces of a puzzle that must be assembled quickly before the magic is gone. Poetry can be intellectual, zealous, structured, wild, beautiful, dour, uplifting, disheartening, and everything buried in between.
Why settle for something simple when I can feast on something so sustaining?
Here endeth the rant.
9.09.2009
Cotton Candy
As I stumbled blearily into work this morning before the sun peeked over the shadowed mountains, I was greeted with the sight of Rutter (my mentor and now boss) furiously decorating his whiteboard with his unseemly scrawl. (Unseemly considering I could hardly see my hand properly, let alone attempt to decipher his handwriting.) I managed to make out the word "love," and coupling it with my own memories of taking his class in high school, I yawned, "Creative Writing?"
"Of course!" he chimed.
How could he be so cheery at 7 a.m.?!
He didn't stop there, though. "Fairytale love is a pipe dream, Rosemary! Here," he added, thrusting a xeroxed paper at me, "read this aloud to me. I need to ruminate."
I glanced down, and my resentment at having to help without a drop of caffeine in my body melted away. John Donne's glorious words shone up at me, reassuring me that there was indeed something worth living for today. I proceeded to read "The Flea" out loud to Rutter, as he wrote his notes on Disney Princess movies on the board.
I finished with the glorious and somewhat tawdry line, "Just so much honour, when thou yield'st to me,/Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee."
He squinted at my slouching form. "Too risque for high school?"
Probably. "Not at all."
"It's a metaphorical union. An intellectual consummation. They're in love, Rosemary."
"I know, Rutter. I think it's perfectly acceptable. Besides, even if there is a sexual undertone--not that I'm implying there is!--these are your advanced students. They should be able to discuss complex issues maturely and intellectually." Besides, I really want to see their faces flush at the line, "This flea is you and I, and this/Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is."
Now, that's a love poem. All of the real men died 100 years ago, and with them went the civilized passion that made romances great, poetry lasting, declarations forceful, men manly, and women womanly. Real men, that made women want to be women instead of asserting themselves to the point of arrogance and contempt simply to prove that someone could still be strong.
This Disney trash that relies on physical attraction and sex to build a lifetime romance is only encouraging people to seek a sweeping and picture perfect romance. But it's not real. There's no emotion, no passion, no meat. Why be content with words when you can have feeling?
Compare.
My Angel
My sweet beautiful angel.
Sent to me from above.
I am so grateful to have found you,
and I give you all my love.
You must have come from heaven,
because you have pretty little angel eyes.
When you gaze at me with them,
my heart begins to fly.
Your sweet angelic voice,
continuously rings in my ears.
With you by my side,
there is nothing I fear.
Whenever we are together,
You shine with a heavenly glow.
Your beautiful angel face,
raises me up from feeling low.
Yes, heaven is missing an angel,
because you are here with me.
You're my sweet, beautiful angel,
and I'll love you for eternity!
- David Mendez-Yapkowitz (2003)
Sweet, in the way that your fifth helping of cotton candy is sweet.
Oh Blush Not So!
O blush not so! O blush not so!
Or I shall think you knowing;
And if you smile the blushing while,
Then maidenheads are going.
There's a blush for want, and a blush for shan't,
And a blush for having done it;
There's a blush for thought, and a blush for nought,
And a blush for just begun it.
O sigh not so! O sigh not so!
For it sounds of Eve's sweet pippin;
By these loosen'd lips you have tasted the pips
And fought in an amorous nipping.
Will you play once more at nice-cut-core,
For it only will last our youth out,
And we have the prime of the kissing time,
We have not one sweet tooth out.
There's a sigh for aye, and a sigh for nay,
And a sigh for "I can't bear it!"
O what can be done, shall we stay or run?
O cut the sweet apple and share it!
-John Keats
Now, that's a poem that delves into the complicated emotion that is love. That's a five-course meal.
No contest.
So, Disney movies be damned! Rather than pandering to the base instincts and the ideals of happily ever after, show us something real. Or if not real, something not so twisted.
"Of course!" he chimed.
How could he be so cheery at 7 a.m.?!
He didn't stop there, though. "Fairytale love is a pipe dream, Rosemary! Here," he added, thrusting a xeroxed paper at me, "read this aloud to me. I need to ruminate."
I glanced down, and my resentment at having to help without a drop of caffeine in my body melted away. John Donne's glorious words shone up at me, reassuring me that there was indeed something worth living for today. I proceeded to read "The Flea" out loud to Rutter, as he wrote his notes on Disney Princess movies on the board.
I finished with the glorious and somewhat tawdry line, "Just so much honour, when thou yield'st to me,/Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee."
He squinted at my slouching form. "Too risque for high school?"
Probably. "Not at all."
"It's a metaphorical union. An intellectual consummation. They're in love, Rosemary."
"I know, Rutter. I think it's perfectly acceptable. Besides, even if there is a sexual undertone--not that I'm implying there is!--these are your advanced students. They should be able to discuss complex issues maturely and intellectually." Besides, I really want to see their faces flush at the line, "This flea is you and I, and this/Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is."
Now, that's a love poem. All of the real men died 100 years ago, and with them went the civilized passion that made romances great, poetry lasting, declarations forceful, men manly, and women womanly. Real men, that made women want to be women instead of asserting themselves to the point of arrogance and contempt simply to prove that someone could still be strong.
This Disney trash that relies on physical attraction and sex to build a lifetime romance is only encouraging people to seek a sweeping and picture perfect romance. But it's not real. There's no emotion, no passion, no meat. Why be content with words when you can have feeling?
Compare.
My Angel
My sweet beautiful angel.
Sent to me from above.
I am so grateful to have found you,
and I give you all my love.
You must have come from heaven,
because you have pretty little angel eyes.
When you gaze at me with them,
my heart begins to fly.
Your sweet angelic voice,
continuously rings in my ears.
With you by my side,
there is nothing I fear.
Whenever we are together,
You shine with a heavenly glow.
Your beautiful angel face,
raises me up from feeling low.
Yes, heaven is missing an angel,
because you are here with me.
You're my sweet, beautiful angel,
and I'll love you for eternity!
- David Mendez-Yapkowitz (2003)
Sweet, in the way that your fifth helping of cotton candy is sweet.
Oh Blush Not So!
O blush not so! O blush not so!
Or I shall think you knowing;
And if you smile the blushing while,
Then maidenheads are going.
There's a blush for want, and a blush for shan't,
And a blush for having done it;
There's a blush for thought, and a blush for nought,
And a blush for just begun it.
O sigh not so! O sigh not so!
For it sounds of Eve's sweet pippin;
By these loosen'd lips you have tasted the pips
And fought in an amorous nipping.
Will you play once more at nice-cut-core,
For it only will last our youth out,
And we have the prime of the kissing time,
We have not one sweet tooth out.
There's a sigh for aye, and a sigh for nay,
And a sigh for "I can't bear it!"
O what can be done, shall we stay or run?
O cut the sweet apple and share it!
-John Keats
Now, that's a poem that delves into the complicated emotion that is love. That's a five-course meal.
No contest.
So, Disney movies be damned! Rather than pandering to the base instincts and the ideals of happily ever after, show us something real. Or if not real, something not so twisted.
8.30.2009
Still the Fat Kid Up to Kick
Don't get PC on me and start crusading on my blog for more tolerance in the public schools! I'm not talking about the weird kid who sniffs glue and might come after you with a soggy animal cracker. I'm talking about the kid whose friends pressured him into playing a friendly game of kickball at recess only to have to be comforted by said friends and glared at by other team members because he: a) can't kick the ball, b) can't run fast, c) is terrified of physical activity.
And, no, I do not mean it literally.
And, no, I do not mean it literally.
I'm not going to hellsies.
I was chatting with a friend last night online. He was asking for my perspective and advice about this girl he has set his cap to. So I shared my thought. Then he asked the hard question. "How do I do that?"
I glibly responded, "I dunno. I suck at romance. I'm like the fat kid playing kickball."
I laughed even though he didn't. I think he was picturing my burning fate in the afterlife for my callous use of sensitive topics for comedic effect.
I was chatting with a friend last night online. He was asking for my perspective and advice about this girl he has set his cap to. So I shared my thought. Then he asked the hard question. "How do I do that?"
I glibly responded, "I dunno. I suck at romance. I'm like the fat kid playing kickball."
I laughed even though he didn't. I think he was picturing my burning fate in the afterlife for my callous use of sensitive topics for comedic effect.
Maybe I am going to hell, but it'll be a party.
7.01.2009
Multiple Personality Disorder
Personality tests have taken over the internet.
It seems every page I visit has some variation of a traditional personality test. Whether it's a traditional personality test or a "which character are you" test, the pigeonholes are anxiously awaiting new residents.
I've taken a few. Don't judge me: they're fun! I can tell you that I am Robin Scherbatsky from the show "How I Met Your Mother," the Doctor from "Star Trek," Belle from the Disney heroines, and I am of the Chaotic Good alignment. (If you know what that last one means, we are birds of a feather, my friend. You know what I mean.)
My friend introduced me to the supposed ultimate personality test: the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator (MBTI). The test classifies each personality into one of sixteen configurations. The factors occur in pairs.
I/E: Introvert or Extrovert. This one is pretty self-explanatory, and there is no doubt as to which I am.
N/S: Intuition or Sensing. This distinguishes whether you experience things through your senses or the patterns your senses present to you.
F/T: Feeling or Thinking. This looks at your motivation when making decisions. Are they emotion based or logic based?
P/J: Perceiving or Judging. This describes your interaction with the outside world. Do you like options or do you like decisions?
I've taken this test (or variations of it) a couple of times. Each time I took the written version, I tested as an INTJ. I was a little surprised, but the more I read it and the more I tested as it, I began to see the similarities. Check it out.
INTJ:
That kind of fits me, right? It isn't exact, but you can see it. Well, I, at least, can.
Now, I just attended a discussion of sorts with a guy who has studied this way of defining personalities, and he viewed me as a very, very different personality, or temperament as he called it. He quite definitely saw me as an ISFP.
ISFP:
Have you met me? I couldn't be this person if I tried. I have tried! I discussed it with him after the presentation, and he (as well as my darlingest Nichole) convinced me that I am an F. I can see it. I do think of my emotions although I try not to let them influence decisions too much.
So, since I can't see myself as an ISFP, I did a little research. I've narrowed it down to two, but I need your feedback. I think I know which one fits me best, but I'd like to know what you guys think. Share!
INTP:
INFJ:
*********UPDATE************
INFP:
What do you think? Or do you think I am one of the afore mentioned configurations?
It seems every page I visit has some variation of a traditional personality test. Whether it's a traditional personality test or a "which
I've taken a few. Don't judge me: they're fun! I can tell you that I am Robin Scherbatsky from the show "How I Met Your Mother," the Doctor from "Star Trek," Belle from the Disney heroines, and I am of the Chaotic Good alignment. (If you know what that last one means, we are birds of a feather, my friend. You know what I mean.)
My friend introduced me to the supposed ultimate personality test: the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator (MBTI). The test classifies each personality into one of sixteen configurations. The factors occur in pairs.
I/E: Introvert or Extrovert. This one is pretty self-explanatory, and there is no doubt as to which I am.
N/S: Intuition or Sensing. This distinguishes whether you experience things through your senses or the patterns your senses present to you.
F/T: Feeling or Thinking. This looks at your motivation when making decisions. Are they emotion based or logic based?
P/J: Perceiving or Judging. This describes your interaction with the outside world. Do you like options or do you like decisions?
I've taken this test (or variations of it) a couple of times. Each time I took the written version, I tested as an INTJ. I was a little surprised, but the more I read it and the more I tested as it, I began to see the similarities. Check it out.
INTJ:
Have original minds and great drive for implementing their ideas and achieving their goals. Quickly see patterns in external events and develop long-range explanatory perspectives. When committed, organize a job and carry it through. Skeptical and independent, have high standards of competence and performance – for themselves and others.
That kind of fits me, right? It isn't exact, but you can see it. Well, I, at least, can.
Now, I just attended a discussion of sorts with a guy who has studied this way of defining personalities, and he viewed me as a very, very different personality, or temperament as he called it. He quite definitely saw me as an ISFP.
ISFP:
Quiet, friendly, sensitive, and kind. Enjoy the present moment, what’s going on around them. Like to have their own space and to work within their own time frame. Loyal and committed to their values and to people who are important to them. Dislike disagreements and conflicts, do not force their opinions or values on others.
Have you met me? I couldn't be this person if I tried. I have tried! I discussed it with him after the presentation, and he (as well as my darlingest Nichole) convinced me that I am an F. I can see it. I do think of my emotions although I try not to let them influence decisions too much.
So, since I can't see myself as an ISFP, I did a little research. I've narrowed it down to two, but I need your feedback. I think I know which one fits me best, but I'd like to know what you guys think. Share!
INTP:
Seek to develop logical explanations for everything that interests them. Theoretical and abstract, interested more in ideas than in social interaction. Quiet, contained, flexible, and adaptable. Have unusual ability to focus in depth to solve problems in their area of interest. Skeptical, sometimes critical, always analytical.
INFJ:
Seek meaning and connection in ideas, relationships, and material possessions. Want to understand what motivates people and are insightful about others. Conscientious and committed to their firm values. Develop a clear vision about how best to serve the common good. Organized and decisive in implementing their vision.
*********UPDATE************
INFP:
Idealistic, loyal to their values and to people who are important to them. Want an external life that is congruent with their values. Curious, quick to see possibilities, can be catalysts for implementing ideas. Seek to understand people and to help them fulfill their potential. Adaptable, flexible, and accepting unless a value is threatened.
What do you think? Or do you think I am one of the afore mentioned configurations?
6.13.2009
Silver Dollars and How To Spend Them
Most of you know that my family doesn't have immediate relations around us. Family reunions are few and far between and mostly depend on the availability of $1000 odd dollars to fly across the Atlantic. In fact, I sometimes forget that people have grandparents that randomly show up from time to time, give their grandchildren a silver dollar, and tell them to be careful how they spend it. I've never been able to figure out if this lack of silver dollars is a blessing or a curse.
However, my past lack of silver dollars aside, it seems that I have the opportunity to kindle familial relations with my mom's grandfather's sister's descendants. This seems like a "why bother" situation, I met these distant relations just the other night and they are fantastic.
I'm faced with the possibility of having family around me. Please advise.
However, my past lack of silver dollars aside, it seems that I have the opportunity to kindle familial relations with my mom's grandfather's sister's descendants. This seems like a "why bother" situation, I met these distant relations just the other night and they are fantastic.
I'm faced with the possibility of having family around me. Please advise.
5.23.2009
Eternal Battle
I used to be a hard-copy fanatic. I would keep a paper trail thick enough and long enough to put most libraries to shame. While computers were still tentatively making their way into my life, I trusted the permanent quality of paper. After all, paper-like documents have been found dating back millenia. And I, being the intellectual idealist I was, adored the idea that my 3rd grade penmanship homework would some day provide archaeologists with key insights into 1995 culture.
Computers were good and well for the lesser and mundane tasks of writing emails, school papers, fliers, and other dull yet necessary functions. Being a child of one of the first real technological generation, I remember the spread of computers--the way they were reluctantly allowed to creep into daily life, the way school time was set aside to educate students and teachers alike, the way adults advised caution while using the most simplistic of programs, the way logging onto to internet was a huge deal, the way Microsoft Word used to have competitors.
It seemed every little change in their software and every advance in their usage was monumental. And each time, we had to practically relearn how to use the programs.
But since college . . . ah, since college. Immersing myself in a culture of technologically addicted youth has fed my computer savvy and addiction. My computer contained my life. CDs became archaic, as did TV. Why bother to work my schedule around watching something when I could look it up on surfthechannel.com and watch it in the dead of night as my roommate innocently slumbered on? No need to expose my new friends to the creepy world of monsters getting their heads shot off by salt-packet cartridges.
I admit it: I became addicted to immediacy. My computer remembers my preferences. Waiting 5 seconds for a page to load seems like an eternity. I've gotten to the point where even paper seems redundant and wasteful. Paper takes up space. Literal, physical space, not just the imaginary idea of space that exists within the two inch height of my laptop.
Those were the good days. My computer has since died (R.I.P.), but I still consider technological solutions as the primary ones. Technology is so easy.
So easy, in fact, that I believe my ability to physically hold a pen and write on paper is deteriorating. I was scribbling on some blank pages in my notebook the other day, and I was astonished to find that my hand was spazzing after a mere two pages.
Thus the conundrum is born of which is worth more: typing or handwriting. My conclusion? Typing on a computer throws me under a more technical influence while hand writing makes me think more carefully. Plus, sometimes it's just fun to get a little ink on my fingers. It makes me feel young again.
Computers were good and well for the lesser and mundane tasks of writing emails, school papers, fliers, and other dull yet necessary functions. Being a child of one of the first real technological generation, I remember the spread of computers--the way they were reluctantly allowed to creep into daily life, the way school time was set aside to educate students and teachers alike, the way adults advised caution while using the most simplistic of programs, the way logging onto to internet was a huge deal, the way Microsoft Word used to have competitors.
It seemed every little change in their software and every advance in their usage was monumental. And each time, we had to practically relearn how to use the programs.
But since college . . . ah, since college. Immersing myself in a culture of technologically addicted youth has fed my computer savvy and addiction. My computer contained my life. CDs became archaic, as did TV. Why bother to work my schedule around watching something when I could look it up on surfthechannel.com and watch it in the dead of night as my roommate innocently slumbered on? No need to expose my new friends to the creepy world of monsters getting their heads shot off by salt-packet cartridges.
I admit it: I became addicted to immediacy. My computer remembers my preferences. Waiting 5 seconds for a page to load seems like an eternity. I've gotten to the point where even paper seems redundant and wasteful. Paper takes up space. Literal, physical space, not just the imaginary idea of space that exists within the two inch height of my laptop.
Those were the good days. My computer has since died (R.I.P.), but I still consider technological solutions as the primary ones. Technology is so easy.
So easy, in fact, that I believe my ability to physically hold a pen and write on paper is deteriorating. I was scribbling on some blank pages in my notebook the other day, and I was astonished to find that my hand was spazzing after a mere two pages.
Thus the conundrum is born of which is worth more: typing or handwriting. My conclusion? Typing on a computer throws me under a more technical influence while hand writing makes me think more carefully. Plus, sometimes it's just fun to get a little ink on my fingers. It makes me feel young again.
5.02.2009
Imagine Your Imagination . . .
"Imagination is the beginning of creation. You imagine what you desire, you will what you imagine, and at last you create what you will." -George Bernard Shaw
Since I was a little girl, I have loved stories. I think my fascination derives from my mother's bedtime readings of such classics as The Lord of the Rings, The Chronicles of Narnia, and Winnie the Witch. Our family bonded over the impossible worlds of star destroyers, warp power, and fantastical magic. Rather than telling us to grow up, my mom encouraged us to believe in things outside of ourselves.
And none of us have turned into violent serial killers or whatever.
The cynicism that arrives with each birthday has forced me to consider this world more. It's easy to start from scratch and make everything the way you want it to be in a magical land with clouds for pillows and skittles raining from the sky, but to find the good in what surrounds you and use that to imagine this world as something else . . . that takes some real imagination.
While in high school, I fell in love with literature. Not just with reading, but with the tortured artist and the wide-eyed idealist and the incurable cynic. Stories are found everywhere. Stories are found with no real effort. Pick up a newspaper or magaxine, turn on the tv, look out your window, walk past a conversation, enjoy a piece of art: these stories are found anywhere you look.
To take a story and develop it . . . to have an entire generation identify with your telling . . . to unveil meanings beyond the mere facts . . .. These skills are how literature sweeps me away by.
Before I was told that I probably wouldn't cut it, I wanted to be a writer. In fact, just the other day I found a letter I had written when iw as 14 to my 19-year-old self. I had sloppily inquired if I had yet published a series of fairy tale parodies I had been working on. While it is still a buried desire of mine to be a published author, I am not tempted by the prospect of publishing a much loved and much read popular book that holds no value beyond a mildly diverting story. (You know I'm talking about Twilight.) I don't want to be well-known or highly paid. I have my editing career ahead of me for that. As a writer, I want to change someone's life.
I want to help someone like me. I found my answers through literature. It helped me ground my beliefs to the reality around me, and it helped me to sympathize with others and consider individuality. My heroes are long dead writers, most of which as still not acknowledged as giants in their own time. However, their impact was on the small scale that keeps the world from imploding in on itself. I mean, if individuals aren't strong, what holds up those lofty ideals? Nothing.
And we individuals do what we can to keep the world on our shoulders.
The Poet: A Fragment
WHERE'S the Poet? show him! show him,
Muses nine! that I may know him!
'Tis the man who with a man
Is an equal, be he King,
Or poorest of the beggar-clan,
Or any other wondrous thing
A man may be 'twixt ape and Plato;
'Tis the man who with a bird,
Wren or Eagle, finds his way to
All its instincts; he hath heard
The Lion's roaring, and can tell
What his horny throat expresseth,
And to him the Tiger's yell
Comes articulate and presseth
On his ear like mother-tongue.
-John Keats
Maybe I'll post something original next time.
Since I was a little girl, I have loved stories. I think my fascination derives from my mother's bedtime readings of such classics as The Lord of the Rings, The Chronicles of Narnia, and Winnie the Witch. Our family bonded over the impossible worlds of star destroyers, warp power, and fantastical magic. Rather than telling us to grow up, my mom encouraged us to believe in things outside of ourselves.
And none of us have turned into violent serial killers or whatever.
The cynicism that arrives with each birthday has forced me to consider this world more. It's easy to start from scratch and make everything the way you want it to be in a magical land with clouds for pillows and skittles raining from the sky, but to find the good in what surrounds you and use that to imagine this world as something else . . . that takes some real imagination.
While in high school, I fell in love with literature. Not just with reading, but with the tortured artist and the wide-eyed idealist and the incurable cynic. Stories are found everywhere. Stories are found with no real effort. Pick up a newspaper or magaxine, turn on the tv, look out your window, walk past a conversation, enjoy a piece of art: these stories are found anywhere you look.
To take a story and develop it . . . to have an entire generation identify with your telling . . . to unveil meanings beyond the mere facts . . .. These skills are how literature sweeps me away by.
Before I was told that I probably wouldn't cut it, I wanted to be a writer. In fact, just the other day I found a letter I had written when iw as 14 to my 19-year-old self. I had sloppily inquired if I had yet published a series of fairy tale parodies I had been working on. While it is still a buried desire of mine to be a published author, I am not tempted by the prospect of publishing a much loved and much read popular book that holds no value beyond a mildly diverting story. (You know I'm talking about Twilight.) I don't want to be well-known or highly paid. I have my editing career ahead of me for that. As a writer, I want to change someone's life.
I want to help someone like me. I found my answers through literature. It helped me ground my beliefs to the reality around me, and it helped me to sympathize with others and consider individuality. My heroes are long dead writers, most of which as still not acknowledged as giants in their own time. However, their impact was on the small scale that keeps the world from imploding in on itself. I mean, if individuals aren't strong, what holds up those lofty ideals? Nothing.
And we individuals do what we can to keep the world on our shoulders.
The Poet: A Fragment
WHERE'S the Poet? show him! show him,
Muses nine! that I may know him!
'Tis the man who with a man
Is an equal, be he King,
Or poorest of the beggar-clan,
Or any other wondrous thing
A man may be 'twixt ape and Plato;
'Tis the man who with a bird,
Wren or Eagle, finds his way to
All its instincts; he hath heard
The Lion's roaring, and can tell
What his horny throat expresseth,
And to him the Tiger's yell
Comes articulate and presseth
On his ear like mother-tongue.
-John Keats
Maybe I'll post something original next time.
4.18.2009
Hey, Winter Wonderland . . .
. . . Wonder how long it's going to take me to END YOU???
Now that my introduction is over, I get to move onto the fun stuff. Well, it's fun for me. A lot of fun. Most people reading this know me and will not be surprised but will merely shake their heads and smile softly to themselves. I wouldn't put it past a few to murmur a sympathetic and almost pitying, "Oh, Rosemary." Those few of you who do not know me and are exposing your minds to my influence (oh, ye naive ones) are welcome to comment on just how ridiculous I am.
Anyway, I was taken yesterday by a flight of fancy. Do not be alarmed! This happens often and, thankfully, this time my feet did not actually leave the ground. Watching the tulips and apple blossoms fill up with snow from the freak April blizzard, I wished violently for summer. I have long been a defender and comrade of winter, but 8 months of snow is a little much for even my cold-loving spirit. And so I began musing on the fun that summer would bring. (I startled myself at the fondness in my thoughts!)
Oh, Summer! Bring forth thy blue skies that never see a cloud! Shine down the harsh sunlight to blind mine eyes! Show mine eyes the brown grasses now turned to straw! Share thy bounty of insects and their bites of doom! Descend like an unwanted relative and ravage the happiness in my life!
. . . yeah . . .
. . . . . . . I'm so sick of winter, I am actually wishing for hell on earth. Summer sucks, but if I have to wade through one more effing snow storm, I'm going to throw lighter fluid on every pile of powdery white I can find and time long it takes for pile after pile to learn its lesson.
I'm at the stage where I'm shaking my fist at the poor mouthpiece who drew the short straw and has to report the weather. The adult in me knows that they only report what satellites show them, so it really isn't their personal responsibility to give me my spring, but the 7-year-old that will not be silenced is determined that if I had followed my original childhood dream and become a meteorologist, winter would have returned to the friendly and frozen north a long time ago and spring would be rolling over and dying under summer's stare.
Where can I live that will give me spring and autumn? We'll skip the temperamental seasons. They can sit in their room until they feel like behaving!
Snow everywhere! Like a plague of human disinterest, reflecting back on passersby our own captivating tedium. Seasons infect our hearts and minds, inactively reminding us of everything we want to change but cannot affect. We put boots and scarves over the truth and let the snow insulate us from the soggy, dead grass underneath.
Yes, I debated putting the above paragraph in quotes so I wouldn't sound so romantically lyrical and so I could pretend like I was quoting someone. But I want to stab the eyes out of people who quote themselves. I'm talking to you, Mark Twain!
But seriously. Snow bonfire after the next storm. I'll bring the lighter fluid. You bring the Starburst for toasting.
And Santa's getting hate mail because Frosty doesn't have a P.O. box!
Rosemary
Now that my introduction is over, I get to move onto the fun stuff. Well, it's fun for me. A lot of fun. Most people reading this know me and will not be surprised but will merely shake their heads and smile softly to themselves. I wouldn't put it past a few to murmur a sympathetic and almost pitying, "Oh, Rosemary." Those few of you who do not know me and are exposing your minds to my influence (oh, ye naive ones) are welcome to comment on just how ridiculous I am.
Anyway, I was taken yesterday by a flight of fancy. Do not be alarmed! This happens often and, thankfully, this time my feet did not actually leave the ground. Watching the tulips and apple blossoms fill up with snow from the freak April blizzard, I wished violently for summer. I have long been a defender and comrade of winter, but 8 months of snow is a little much for even my cold-loving spirit. And so I began musing on the fun that summer would bring. (I startled myself at the fondness in my thoughts!)
Oh, Summer! Bring forth thy blue skies that never see a cloud! Shine down the harsh sunlight to blind mine eyes! Show mine eyes the brown grasses now turned to straw! Share thy bounty of insects and their bites of doom! Descend like an unwanted relative and ravage the happiness in my life!
. . . yeah . . .
. . . . . . . I'm so sick of winter, I am actually wishing for hell on earth. Summer sucks, but if I have to wade through one more effing snow storm, I'm going to throw lighter fluid on every pile of powdery white I can find and time long it takes for pile after pile to learn its lesson.
I'm at the stage where I'm shaking my fist at the poor mouthpiece who drew the short straw and has to report the weather. The adult in me knows that they only report what satellites show them, so it really isn't their personal responsibility to give me my spring, but the 7-year-old that will not be silenced is determined that if I had followed my original childhood dream and become a meteorologist, winter would have returned to the friendly and frozen north a long time ago and spring would be rolling over and dying under summer's stare.
Where can I live that will give me spring and autumn? We'll skip the temperamental seasons. They can sit in their room until they feel like behaving!
Snow everywhere! Like a plague of human disinterest, reflecting back on passersby our own captivating tedium. Seasons infect our hearts and minds, inactively reminding us of everything we want to change but cannot affect. We put boots and scarves over the truth and let the snow insulate us from the soggy, dead grass underneath.
Yes, I debated putting the above paragraph in quotes so I wouldn't sound so romantically lyrical and so I could pretend like I was quoting someone. But I want to stab the eyes out of people who quote themselves. I'm talking to you, Mark Twain!
But seriously. Snow bonfire after the next storm. I'll bring the lighter fluid. You bring the Starburst for toasting.
And Santa's getting hate mail because Frosty doesn't have a P.O. box!
Rosemary
4.15.2009
First Impressions
My computer and I have recently suffered from a long separation. Mat (yes, I named my computer) left me for maintenance that took 2 months. 2 MONTHS! What the hell??? I didn't even know what the problem was by the time I got it back. All I do know if that the problem was apparently wide-spread enough that Windows would have to be reloaded, thus I would not lose my documents but merely lose all of the programs that allow me to access them!
Anyway.
After our reunion, I made a few resolutions.
1: Dust laptop more often. Seriously, the keyboard is a little gross.
2: Do not let the internet take over my life again.
3: Start a blog.
I've tried the blogging thing many a time before and each time ends the same way: neglect. I think the ghosts of past blogs are going to haunt me the eve before I get a new computer or something. That would be creepy and the story for a really bad B-rated movie that Bill Dragon would no doubt show at Movie Night.
So, here is my blog. I'll probably last longer if I get feedback, so comment away. Don't be afraid to call me an idiot or tell me to stop rambling about nonsensical stuff. I do that often. At least you don't live with me. I'm sure my poor roommates would agree if they weren't so rambling and nonsensical themselves.
Later for now.
Rosemary
Anyway.
After our reunion, I made a few resolutions.
1: Dust laptop more often. Seriously, the keyboard is a little gross.
2: Do not let the internet take over my life again.
3: Start a blog.
I've tried the blogging thing many a time before and each time ends the same way: neglect. I think the ghosts of past blogs are going to haunt me the eve before I get a new computer or something. That would be creepy and the story for a really bad B-rated movie that Bill Dragon would no doubt show at Movie Night.
So, here is my blog. I'll probably last longer if I get feedback, so comment away. Don't be afraid to call me an idiot or tell me to stop rambling about nonsensical stuff. I do that often. At least you don't live with me. I'm sure my poor roommates would agree if they weren't so rambling and nonsensical themselves.
Later for now.
Rosemary
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