Quixotic Penguin

Before I die, I want to . . .

2011-04-06T11:16:00.003-06:00

First, look at this: http://www.creativereview.co.uk/cr-blog/2011/april/before-i-die-candy-chang

Now, look at this: http://today.msnbc.msn.com/id/7669043/ns/today-live_for_today/

It seems that what we assume our lives should be full of fantastic adventure and erudite epiphanies. Our concept of a fulfilled life seems to bear little to the reality of what individual people want their lives to be. Maybe as we get older, our expectations diminish. We learn to revel in a bit of sunshine or a cold drink or any number of the small delights in life.

When I was little, I wanted to visit every country in the world. I was going to graduate from high school early, finish my B.A. in three years, and be rich by the time I was 25. I was going to have a string of broken hearts behind me. I was going to publish a cogent, revolutionary novel before I left high school. I was going to be one of a kind, so that those who passed me by on the street would pause and think to themselves, "Gee-golly, that Rosemary sure is one of a kind."

Needless to say, none of these things have happened.

And if these were still my goals, I would be a glum little thing.

I've changed. I've lived, and because of that, I have new aspirations, ones that actually have a slim chance of making me happy.

Before I die, I want to spend a whole day just writing.
Before I die, I want to sing by myself in a field.
Before I die, I want to see the Northern Lights.
Before I die, I want to have have a truly selfless moment.
Before I die, I want to fall in love with someone who love me back.
Before I die, I want to feel certain.
Before I die, I want to climb a tree.
Before I die, I want to dye my hair blue (all of it).
Before I die, I want to grow up.
Before I die, I want to do a lot of things, but I don't want to be boring!

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrreat

2011-03-24T15:53:00.003-06:00

Two months to the day since I last posted. During this time, I have gotten sick, seen many movies, witness heartbreak, reestablished friendships, experimented with J-Dawgs sauce, reignited passion for music, bought a few books, and wondered where the two months went.

Two months . . . what do I have to say for myself?

I say . . . I have great friends.

It sounds trite, I know, but I find it miraculous. I haven't always had great friends, you see, and I am constantly surprised when my friends don't disappoint me. Call me a cynic, a pessimist, a drama queen, or even a teddy bear full of needles, but it's true.

It's not that I choose bad friends. I just choose flawed friends, and while generally flaws are what make a person lovable, I have a history of choosing friends with destructive flaws. I've had friends just use me to cover up how much time they've spent with their boyfriends. I've had friends ignore me for weeks at a time until they face crisis and need to talk. I've had friends steal from me. I've had friends slowly tear me down until I have no confidence left. I've had friends abruptly stop talking to me.

I'm not trying to throw a pity party. I've had good friends, too! And I was no picnic for a few years there. I was plenty messed up, which is probably why I surrounded myself with companions even more screwed up than me.

I share these examples to punctuate my point: I have great friends.

I have friends who make me homemade soup when I'm sick. I have friends who get up and drive out to my house in the morning to give me a ride if I miss my bus. I have friends that feed me when I'm too broke to eat. I have friends that drive miles and miles to see me. I have friends who love my flaws. I have friends who listen to my emotional freak-outs and accept them.

Great friends, people. Great friends.

Penny Short of a Quarter

2011-01-24T12:07:00.005-07:00

Happy birthday to me!

Yes, I have embarked into the merciless years known as the mid-twenties. These years should herald my true independence. Graduation, employment, and car payments eagerly await me. My hair is graying and my joints are aching, but I still refuse to grow up. I rebel against the idea that just because I am 2.4 decades old, I must now be this so-called "adult." Pffffffft. Who says?

I punctuated my point by snarfing a piece of cake for breakfast.

(No, it doesn't matter that my stomach is now trying to consume every happy, healthy cell in my body. Point proven.)

In celebration of my 24th birthday, I'm sharing once more the song that defines my life. Or will, when I get around to graduating.

http://listen.grooveshark.com/s/Twentysomething/2EozW7

Twentysomething
by Jamie Cullum

After years of expensive education,
A car full of books and anticipation,
I'm an expert on Shakespeare and that's a hell of a lot,
But the world don't need scholars as much as I thought.
Maybe I'll go traveling for a year,
Finding myself, or start a career.
I could work for the poor, though I'm hungry for fame.
We all seem so different but we're just the same.
Maybe I'll go to the gym, so I don't get fat--
Aren't things more easy, with a tight six-pack?
Who knows the answers, who do you trust?
I can't even separate love from lust...
Maybe I'll move back home and pay off my loans
Working nine to five, answering phones,
But don't make me live for Friday nights,
Drinking eight pints and getting in fights.
I don't want to get up, just let me lie in.
Leave me alone, I'm a twentysomethin'.
Maybe I'll just fall in love:
That could solve it all.
Philosophers say that that's enough,
There surely must be more.
Love ain't the answer, nor is work.
The truth eludes me so much it hurts,
But I'm still having fun and I guess that's the key.
I'm a twentysomething and I'll keep being me.

Go mbeire muid beo ar an am seo arís

2010-11-17T12:07:00.006-07:00

Most of you are aware of my homeland's fiscal difficulties, but for those of you who don't follow world news (and let's face it--most of us don't), I'll summarize. Ireland is in trouble. I'm not referring to the latest bombing in Northern Ireland or the football losses that enraged the nation; no, I am talking about well and truly bankrupt.

Ireland has faced many depressions and economic disasters in the past, but I have to admit that I naively thought that the late 90s prosperity, only heightened by joining the EU in 2001, would ensure that Ireland would be safe. The economy was soaring. Foreign companies were setting up shop, investing in the country and its success. Ireland was recovering in a way it had never been able to enjoy. People weren't worried about starvation or civil war or invading forces or plague or any number of things that had been ever constant in the past. Forgive me for being so Irish, but of course it was too good to last. Ireland is teetering on the edge of bankruptcy.

It's not entirely their fault. True, they haven't have to support a booming economy before, but they managed well until they started losing so much foreign investing. On top of this were issues they had never had to deal with before, such as immigration, EU regulations, booming tourism, etc. They were handling it well . . . until they weren't. It's taken 3 years of steady downward spiraling for them to be a position where people are lining up to bail them out. Britian has offered the bailout, which Ireland will not take. I actually don't blame them for that. There is 700 years of festering mistrust and racism between Ireland and the UK. That aside, there is the delicate state of Northern Ireland, and by accepting British aid, Ireland would be forfeiting power over those issues. This fight has been too long, too bloody, and too painful to give it up now. The EU handout, though, is more of a possibility. True, Ireland would lose a lot of respect, possibly earning Germany's everlasting resentment (seriously, Germany has been relegated to the sugar daddy of the EU), but this is why they joined. They contributed, and now they need help. The EU is offering, but Ireland has to ask.

Ah, therein lies the rub. They have to ask for help. Many of you may have noticed through your interactions with me and other Irish that we do not like asking for help. Our pride and stubbornness is often relentless, and I'm becoming more convinced that it is a chronic condition, possibly with no cure, but even I can see that in this case, the country NEEDS to swallow its pride and ask for help. They are part of the EU. They have a responsibility to the other countries, and Spain and Portugal will also implode if the EU loses any more footing. Greece was bad enough, and I'm not even going to touch Romania and Malta (I'll leave that to Mary).

It's time to remember our roots. Our ancestors were warriors. Our forefathers struggled and survived under hellish oppression and abuse. We fought wars for independence. We lost the best of our men, women, and children to starvation, execution, slavery, famine, emigration, and alcohol, but we survived nonetheless to flourish into a member of a successful global community and a respectable country in our own right. Yes, we need help. Yes, we will have to again earn our friends' trust. Yes, we will still need to work and sacrifice. But I have no doubt we can do it, and neither did our ancestors.

Soldier's Song (Ireland's National Anthem)

We'll sing a song, a soldier's song,
With cheering rousing chorus,
As round our blazing fires we throng,
The starry heavens o'er us;
Impatient for the coming fight,
And as we wait the morning's light,
Here in the silence of the night,
We'll chant a soldier's song.

Chorus:
Soldiers are we , whose lives are pledged to Ireland;
Some have come from a land beyond the wave.
Sworn to be free, No more our ancient sire land
Shall shelter the despot or the slave.
Tonight we man the gap of danger
In Erin's cause, come woe or weal
'Mid cannons' roar and rifles peal,
We'll chant a soldier's song.

In valley green, on towering crag,
Our fathers fought before us,
And conquered 'neath the same old flag
That's proudly floating o'er us.
We're children of a fighting race,
That never yet has known disgrace,
And as we march, the foe to face,
We'll chant a soldier's song.

Chorus

Sons of the Gael! Men of the Pale!
The long watched day is breaking;
The serried ranks of Inisfail
Shall set the Tyrant quaking.
Our camp fires now are burning low;
See in the east a silv'ry glow,
Out yonder waits the Saxon foe,
So chant a soldier's song.

No School For Me

2010-11-09T13:59:00.005-07:00

I have a legion of teachers and students trying to convince me to teach, so I thought I'd share the reasons why I can't be a teacher.

1. Grading: It sucks. It sucks so bad. Most kids write the same essays or answers and after a while you begin to forget what words mean and why you're there and what the sun looks like . . .

2. Excuses: I swear, if I have to listen to one more excuse about how it took a kid an hour to talk to their teacher during lunch (which is of course why they showed up with a drink from Del Taco), I might just scream. Plus, they all have an excuse as to why their homework is not done or why they didn't do the journal entry that they were working on for 20 minutes. And what good to they think showing up 10 minutes before the end of school on the last day of the term will do? When you tell them too bad, they whine to the administration, who then tell you to pass the little beasts because our football team just can't loose the only player that can run in a straight line!

3. Crushes: It's creepy weird when high schoolers ask you to Homecoming or bring you an apple or sit and try to impress you with their sports prowess during lunch. #1: It's a felony, #2: they really aren't as cool as they think they are, and #3: ew.

4. Patience: I have none, and supposedly you're not allowed to yell at students. Or punch them in the face.

5. Bureaucratic BS: Administrators micromanage with no respect for the challenges of the classroom. I hate hoop-jumping.

6. Repetition: I hate repeating myself, but if I don't repeat something 6 or 7 times, no one remembers it let alone does it, but it's my fault because I didn't repeat it 8 times.

7. Angry Parents: Remember those kids who lie about stuff? They tell their parents all kinds of crap about why their failing (the truth being they don't turn stuff in) and then have their parents email the teacher about how the teacher is being unfair and has too high expectations. How to correct them without accusing their kid of being a weasel . . .

8. Co-workers: Other teachers are petty and mean and try to steal your batteries and printer paper.

9. Food: You can't buy freakin' caffeine in the vending machines and food is scarce and mediocre at best.

10. I don't wanna.

Summat Ironical

2010-10-07T13:28:00.003-06:00

Did you know that "ironical" is accepted usage? That hurts me a little.

Rutter's Creative Writing class recently discovered irony. Every day since has been a delightful forum for the airing of ironic stories, such as the creator of the Segway dying in a Segway accident. As is natural, there have been many discussions about what is and is not ironic. I got onto a rant at one point about Alanis Morissette's song "Ironic" and how nothing actually labelled as ironic in the song could truly be construed as irony. An upstart student, however, pointed out that if this were true, then the title "Ironic" was indeed irony. Clever little thing . . .

Anyway, this week has been dominated with my internal criticism and identification of irony. I was sorting computer files and stumbled across this poem (one of my favorites) that I use to introduce the concept of poetry and figurative language to my reading kids. It struck me that using a poem to introduce poetry was indeed ironic.

Ah, life: it's so ironic.

I'm going to post the poem because it's just a damn good poem.

Introduction to Poetry
By: Billy Collins

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.

Deciphering My Dress

2010-09-29T12:56:00.005-06:00

I don't have much diversity in my wardrobe. In fact, my fairly orthodox outfits are almost studious in their dullness. True, I have a few novelty tees and nicer shirts, but in general my presentation never varies far from the 90s tried and true jeans and t-shirt motif.

However, if you study closely, you can tell what kind of day it is by my outfit. (I'm guessing this is true of most people, especially girls, and thus any "Did you read that in Cosmo" comments are hereby addressed with a simple: Back off, this is MY blog!)

For example, today I woke up, tired, cold, and groggy. I knew the day would be warm, so I nixed the XXXL Provo High hoodie, despite the sore temptation to suffer through the heat stroke. I didn't want anything too fitted because I was feeling sloppy and fat, and didn't want to have to think about such taxing activities as posture. So, jeans (duh) and a one-size, unflattering, black t-shirt was the final verdict. If Rosemary-land, this also entitles me to eat like a 6-year-old.

Now, if I had elected to go with something colored or fitted or remotely cute, it would have been selective snacking and water all day. Seeing as I already looked like grunge-stricken teenager, it was soda, chocolate, crackers, chocolate frosted flakes, and 1/3 loaf of sourdough bread with jam. Mmmmmmmm. It really didn't help my roll-in-each-hand image that my hair was lankly hanging down either side of my face. Hey, at least I put make up on today. (For those of you who haven't seen me regularly, that's becoming an increasingly rare event.)

And so, as I sit here munching on the heel of a sourdough loaf, I think of a surprised Michael Cera exclaiming, "Bread makes you fat?!" and wonder if tomorrow, it will be cold enough for an over sized sweater.

Here's to hoping!

My Day of Teaching Snot-Nosed High Schoolers and the Psychological Repercussions

2010-09-21T11:47:00.003-06:00

I stole this idea from Mary's sister Kristen's friend because it amused me so much that telling the events of the day in bullet points can real be more revealing about just what kind of day you've had than if you actually explained it all in detail.

So.

My Day of Teaching Snot-Nosed High Schoolers and the Psychological Repercussions
(in bullets)

-Got to work 20 minutes late and was on receiving end of the nastiest crusty from the office secretary when I went to pick up the key.

-Tripped on the stairs heading to the classroom.

-It's about 40 degrees in here.

-Got locked out when I went for a drink.

-Duct taped the office open.

-Spilled a palm-full of hand sanitizer on my pants.

-Noticed a gaggle of students watching me try to soak the blob of hand sanitizer up with a spare piece of printer paper.

-Took attendance in 3rd period (Creative Writing) on the nifty laminated seating chart with a wet-erase marker.

-Got wet-erase marker on my face.

-Opened my Diet Coke.

-Got Diet Coke on my face.

-Sent the Seniors to SEOPS. Juniors started on their in class essay. Juniors tried to convince me that they were Seniors.

-Explained for the nth time what a thesis sentence is. One student turned it in at the end of class.

-17-year-old flirted with me for 45 minutes while I was ignoring him and working on my own homework. Yes, I totally cared about how you flipped a guy over your shoulder in front of his totally hot girlfriend and then got her number.

-Helped a little baby junior with her essay during the stupid 1/2 hour of wasted time (thank you, Mrs. Briggs) called Enrichment/Intervention. Go me.

-Sent Seniors from 5th period to SEOPS.

-In-class essay. They actually did it. AP: 1, Creative Writing: I hate you.

-Ran to meet my mom.

-Drove my mom to class.

-Drove back to PHS, late.

-Ran into 7th period (Technical Writing).

-Panicked and yelled, "Seniors, to the Presentation room."

-Ran after them and gave them their homework.

-Ran back to class. Gave juniors their work.

-Ran into my reading class. Turned on a movie. (Oh, hush. It's kinda teaching.)

-Ran back to Tech Writing. Went over handout. Started computers up.

-Computers wouldn't work.

-Restarted computers.

-Told them to do it anyway.

-Wrote this blog.

-Cried a little inside.

-Bell rang.

Literature Abuse: America's Hidden Affliction

2010-09-13T15:53:00.002-06:00

Are You a Literature Abuser?
by Michael McGrorty

LITERATURE ABUSE: AMERICA'S HIDDEN AFFLICTION

Once a relatively rare disorder, Literature Abuse (or "readaholism") has risen to crisis levels due to the accessibility of higher education and increased college enrollment since the end of the Second World War. The number of literature abusers is currently at record levels.

CAUSES of PROBLEM READING:
Excessive reading during pregnancy is the major cause of prenatal Literature Abuse (LA) among the children of heavy readers. Known as Fetal Fiction Syndrome, it leaves its tiny victims prone to a lifetime of nearsightedness, daydreaming, and emotional instability.

Most abusers have at least one parent who abused literature, often beginning at an early age and progressing into adulthood. Siblings of abusers are also likely to become literature abusers. Spouses of an abuser may themselves become problem readers.

Other predisposing factors: parents who are English teachers, professors, or heavy
fiction readers; parents who do not encourage children to play games, participate in
healthy sports, or watch television.

SOCIAL COSTS of LITERARY ABUSE:
Abusers become withdrawn and uninterested in society or normal relationships. They
fantasize, daydreaming about "castles in the air," while neglecting work, friends, and family. In severe cases "problem readers" develop bad posture from reading in awkward positions or from carrying heavy book bags.

SELF-TEST FOR LITERATURE ABUSE
How many of these apply to you?

I have read fiction when I was depressed, or to cheer myself up.
I have gone on reading "binges."
I read rapidly, often "gulping" chapters.
I sometimes read early in the morning, or before work.
Sometimes I avoid friends or family obligations in order to read novels.
I often read alone.
I have pretended to watch television while secretly reading.
I keep books or magazines in the bathroom for a "quick nip."
I have denied or "laughed off" criticism of my reading habit.
Heavy reading has caused conflicts with my family or spouse.
I am unable to enjoy myself with others unless there is a book nearby.
I seldom leave my house without a book or magazine.
When traveling, I pack a large bag full of books.
At a party, I will often slip off unnoticed to read.
Reading has made me seek haunts and companions which I would otherwise avoid.
I have neglected personal hygiene or household chores until I finished a novel.
I become nervous, disoriented or fearful when I must spend more than 15 minutes
without reading matter.
I have spent money meant for necessities on books instead.
I have sold books to support my reading "habit."
I have daydreamed about becoming a rich & famous writer, or "word- pusher."
I have attempted to check out more library books than is permitted.
Most of my friends are heavy fiction readers.
I have sometimes woken groggy or "hung-over" after a night of heavy reading.
I have wept, become angry or irrational because of something I read.
I have sometimes wished I did not read so much.
Sometimes I think my fiction reading is out of control.

If you answered "yes" to five or more of these questions, you may be a literature abuser--know the risks. Affirmative responses to ten or more indicates a serious reading problem --seek help now! Fifteen or more "yes" responses indicates a severe or chronic "readaholic" personality; intervention is seldom effective at this stage.

WARNING: "Reading Addiction" has been classified as "behavior with a significant voluntary component," as defined in the Beatty-Eisner Amendment. If you are declared a "known literature abuser," you will become INELIGIBLE for SSA disability payments and/or ADA protections. Your fate is likely to be a life of poverty and despair, drifting from one dead-end job to another, as you wallow shamelessly in and escape into the causes of your addiction.

Source: http://home.tiac.net/~cri/1999/abuse.html

I always knew . . .

2010-09-09T12:28:00.000-06:00

http://imgs.xkcd.com/comics/the_carriage.png

Emily Dickinson is such a rock star.

Running

2010-08-30T12:15:00.004-06:00

I was thinking of songs with "run" or "run"-ish words in the titles, and I came up with a surprising number. Check this out.

"Run Run Run" - Phoenix
"Run for Your Life" - The Beatles
"Born to Run" - Bruce Springsteen
"Run" - Snow Patrol
"Run" - Collective Soul
"Run" - Vampire Weekend
"Run On" - Moby
"Man on the Run" - Dash Berlin
"Runaway" - Bon Jovi
"Run Around" - Blues Travlers
"Running Down a Dream" - Tom Petty
"We Run Things Another Way" - Jamie Cullum
"Run, Joey, Run" - David Geddes
"Running Away" - Hoobastank
"Easier to Run" - Linkin Park
"Run" - Leona Lewis
"We Run This" - Missy Elliot
"Running Away" - Linkin Park
"Run to You" - Bryan Adams
"Run Rabbit Run" - Eminem
"Run" - George Straight
"Run to the Hills" - Iron Maiden
"Keep the Car Running" - Arcade Fire
"Roadrunner" - Joan Jett
"Time Is Running Out" - Papa Roach
"Time Is Running Out" - Muse
"Run Like Hell" - Pink Floyd
"Band on the Run" - The Wings
"Runaround Sue" - Dion
"Run Through the Jungle" - Creedence Clearwater Revival
"Still Running" - Chevelle
"Running to Stand Still" - U2
"Run Away With You"- Jack Ingram
"Run Run Run" - The Velvet Underground
"Run It" - The Replacements
"Run Away" - Staind
"Run So Far" - Eric Clapton
"Run" - Nada Surf
"Running on Ice" – Billy Joel
"Run This Town" - Jay-Z, Kanye West, Rihanna

These are the ones I know. Can you think of any?

To the Future

2010-08-27T13:24:00.004-06:00

When was I young, a wee little Irish lass running wild in the fields (although let's be honest--I rarely ran wild. There were bugs and stuff out in the grass), my mother took me in hand and forced culture on me. Forced it on me so strongly that I have carried the burning passion for it strongly for my 23 years, it's flame only growing (probably since I can't stop feeding it). Have you guessed yet? Yep. Star Trek.

You all know of my deep and abiding love for Star Trek. I've seen it all (except for the last two seasons of Enterprise, but really? That one sucked) more than once. I love it. Now, I've recently discovered that some of my friends think that Star Trek is the exception and that I mostly shun Sci-Fi. To these friends, I say just because you have a post-it-thin imagination doesn't mean the rest of us do. Who can resist imagining the future? Or, I should say, The Future.

The future! Awesome! I love it. I love it all. I love the robot-ruled futures, the alien-invaded futures, the once-upon-a-time futures, the clone-riddled futures, the genetically enhanced futures, the Dystopian depression futures, the Utopian Star Trek futures and any other future you can imagine in the mix. I cannot get enough of it all.

Correction: I can't get enough of it all in theory. The Dystopian futures get a little depressing. Sometimes I feel like standing up in the theater and yelling, "Give me a future without human enslavement just this once!" But I can't get enough of the cynicism, so my rants quickly melt to fascination and I watch, read, and find more. (As I write this, I'm eying my phone down. It's a little TOO smart, if you know what I mean.)

But again, that is why I love Star Trek so much because Star Trek hopes. It hopes that we can overcome the petty aspects of our natures and love unequivocally. It hopes that our technological developments expand and make our lives better. It hopes that we can find in ourselves the thirst for excellence. It hopes that we can perfect democracy and be an example to whatever cultures we encounter, be they hostile or benign. It hopes it can make us hope--and they have succeeded with me.

And don't bother posting that I'm a nerd, geek, or awesome. I already know.

To infinity . . . and beyond!

And the Night Shall Rise Up

2010-06-22T12:55:00.003-06:00

This post is about vampires. Before you begin to a) freak out with barely disguised heart palpitations, b) roll your eyes and sneer derisively at the screen, or c) expect my usual Twilight smack down, I want to pause and remind you and the rest of the web world that vampires are cool. Vampires rock. They are the sweetest depiction of demons ever because they are human, but all of the base, horrifying, evil bits of everyday humanity. They are symbols that reminds us that we have to balance and fight our own evil natures. Plus, they just make good stories. Blood sucking fiends? Who wouldn't enjoy that?

But before I go on, I do want to clear something up just in case you had any doubts: Twilight sucks. I'm not changing my opinion of that at all. Boo Twilight, but yay vampires.

Moving on. At the urging of a few of my close friends, I watched a couple of episodes of The Vampire Diaries. Yeah, yeah, judge me with those judgey eyes, but listen to what I have to say. I'm not converted to it. I don't think it's super awesome, but I have to be honest. It's not bad. It's certainly not Twilight even though the rest of the show is a true teen drama (sometimes you just need fluff). It's a lot more like Buffy and Angel (two shows that I do adore with my whole heart). And the best part? Vampire are vicious, nasty ugly killers! They tear people apart, and manipulate and use them to satiate their appetites, be them hunger or more physical. The vampires on the show are evil.

And they don't freakin' sparkle in the sunlight.

Along the vampire theme, I also read the book The Historian, which was also not what I expected. It's like an in-depth historical analysis of Dracula myths, thinly veiled as a novel. It's a little dry and tough to read, but the stories are really good. It's a hefty book, though, so be careful because one wrong blow and it could easily take out a roommate.

Seriously, vampires are cool, but I wish they could be used as more awesome than just teen heartthrobs. What I wouldn't do for a vampire show about a vampire who feeds on criminals and tackles the issues of capital punishment and moral grey areas.

A girl can dream.

True Love

2010-05-12T13:12:00.004-06:00

I got a book of poetry by Philip Larkin from the library. He is an Irish poet who hasn't achieved much international fame and has only received critical acclaim since his death. The bulk of his work tends to dwell on rural Irish life and the discouraging futility of it all, but he does have a secret love of love. I found one such indulgence that may be my new favorite love poem of all time (suck it, Barrett-Browning).

Love

The difficult part of love
Is being selfish enough,
Is having the blind persistence
To upset an existence
Just for your own sake.
What cheek it must take.

And then the unselfish side--
How can you be satisfied,
Putting someone else first
So that you come off worst?
My life is for me.
As well ignore gravity.

Still, vicious or virtuous,
Love suits most of us.
Only the bleeder found
Selfish this wrong way round
Is ever wholly rebuffed,
And he can get stuffed.

-Philip Larkin

Isn't that sweet?

Define me

2010-04-23T10:14:00.005-06:00

Definitions worry me. So many complicated words and definitions should not be minimized to black and white print. Some words are seriously misrepresented in the dictionary. Introvert, for example. Regarding psychological inversion, Google defines an introvert as "one who focuses primarily on their own mind, feelings, or affairs." That just makes me sound selfish. In fact, Google goes on to define selfish as "concerned chiefly or only with yourself." Hmmmmmm . . . I get what you're saying, Google, and I just have to ask: where do you get off? Let us not forget that Google is very similar to ogle, which means (as we well know) "to stare at impertinently, flirtatiously, or amorously." You cyber slut.

It might be ridiculous to get so worked up over such a definition, but I believe in accuracy, and the Google definition for "introvert" is far from accurate. Let's consult a real dictionary. "Introvert: one whose personality is characterized by introversion." I hate when dictionaries do this! Using another form of the word in the definition is not a definition; it's a pansy-ass cop out. Still, I'm committed enough to this blog post to also look up introversion and get a complete definition. "Introversion: the state of or tendency toward being wholly or predominantly concerned with and interested in one's own mental life." Merriam-Webster just made my list.

Is this seriously an accepted definition? The introverts are just selfish, caustic individuals who cannot see beyond their own experience even if they wished to? Because I am going to follow in Luke's example and throw the flag up on that one. Bullshit.

That's a prime note to end on, but I'm going to ruin it because I have more to say. Google, Merriam-Webster, and all others who buy into this official definition crap, I just want to clear a few things up. Being an introvert does not make a person asocial. In fact, introverts can be quite adept in social situations. Introversion is not synonymous with shyness or awkwardness. Simply put, introverts are drained by being with people and energized by being alone. It's a different mentality, but in no way does it ill-equip someone for life, and introverts can enjoy the company of others just as much as an extrovert can sometimes enjoy spending time alone.

There. I've said my piece. And, just to punctuate my point, I'm going to throw the flag on Google and Merriam-Webster again. Bullshit.

More Book Reviews

2010-04-16T11:30:00.003-06:00

More of my condescending reviews. Got some good 'uns today.

Cranford by Elizabeth Gaskell

Elizabeth Gaskell has style, wit, and grace in the face of charged social issues, both in the delightfully repressive 1800s as well as now. Cranford is no different even though it has a different ring to it. Unlike North & South, Wives and Daughters, and Mary Barton, Gaskell focuses on a different crowd and practically removes romance from the equation. Her focus is on elderly, single women who rule the small town of Cranford with an iron fist. The humor is satirical and winsome, and the plot unfolds naturally with surprising grace. So long as 19th century vocabulary and elderly British women don't annoy you, I recommend this one. 4/5 stars.

Desert Solitude by Edward Abbey

Ever been to Arches National Park? If not, you should go. Now. Drop whatever mind-addling exercise you are doing and go. It's only a few hours away, and you deserve a break every once in a while. Just don't bring Edward Abbey's Desert Solitude (inspired by Arches) with you. He manages to make it try and a little laborious to read. I quite like Abbey in general. He's an interesting man, and The Brave Cowboy is my favorite Western novel. In fact, that one is worth dropping everything to read. This one? Not so much. 2/5 stars. (Don't tell Rutter.)

The Book Thief by Markus Zusak

This book was a surprise. I started reading it, expecting your basic WWII fall out story with a wonderful literary twist, but this book is different. For starters, it's told from the perspective of DEATH, who is fascinated by this girl he sees when he collects her brother. She displaces her sense of lost by stealing books. It's a little difficult to get into Death's head, though, so I'm deducting points for presentation. 4/5 stars.

The Mortal Instruments by Cassandra Clare

We all have our guilty indulgences. Mine, as many know, are fluff books which I read only for entertaining dialogue and ridiculous characters. Even I had to be a little convinced to read these books. The series is a trilogy (City of Bones, City of Ashes, City of Gold) exploring a fantastical world that plays with demons, angels, family, werewolves, vampires, etc. Yes, I was skeptical. The Stephanie Meyer endorsement on the color dramatically injured the case. However, despite all of this, I read these. Voraciously read them. These are fun, fun books, and if you enjoy a good plot, interesting characters, thwarted teen love, and near death experiences, read them. If you don't . . . yeah, really don't. You'll hate them, but I give it 3/5 stars in the normal world, and 5/5 stars in the fantasy world.

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime by Mark Haddon

This book follows an autistic boy who is trying to unravel the mystery of his neighbor's dog's death. As the mystery deeps, it starts to raise questions about his mother's death years before. The hook in this is how the boy, Paul, tries to figure out his world and compute his discoveries. I loved it. It was clever and fresh and endearing. Read this. It's wonderful. 5/5 stars.

It's Much Easier to be Critical . . .

2010-03-10T16:58:00.004-07:00

. . . than to be correct. -Benjamin Disraeli

Since I rarely get the motivation to share pure thoughts on my blog, I'm going to expand my entries to include book and movie reviews. Starting now.

I had a stressful week last, and to relieve my stress, I reactivated my library card and went nuts. I'm going to report back on a few of these reading adventures. Lucky you.

Travels in the Scriptorium by Paul Auster

I love this author. I think he has a unique perspective even though it is highly plausible that he takes himself far too seriously. His usual themes of fate and subjective identity provide mind-blowing plot twists and revelations. Scriptorium, however, not only lacked the usual hook and plot development, but it lacked a compelling parallel storyline. The book follows the day of a man who wakes up in a sterile room with no memory. He ties to piece together what has happened to land him here as various acquaintances flit in and out of the room, some wanting to help him, the majority wanting to kill him. He finds a manuscript that tells a story of a man similar to him but living in a 1800-ish sci-fi world. Auster may have expected us to draw parallels from it, but I failed to see anything other than both men didn't know much about their own lives. The premise of the book is solid; it is the execution that lacked Auster's usual sparkle. His images, usually so rich, were incomplete, and his characters were pretty flat, although I was told that they had very interesting and rich lives. I don't think this book would be worth reading, but the author is definitely worth investigating. Try Man in the Dark. It is one of his best.

How I Live Now by Meg Rosoff

This author has a gift. Her style is quick and her humor is biting. Her characters are memorable and distinct. However, her plot is idiotic. It meant well, truly it did. Children trapped in the countryside as war breaks out world wide. The internet is not working, cell phones are dead, and adults are stranded in Norway. So, we have 5 kids trying to survive. The basics are good. Now insert a creepy love affair with a cousin (ew) and sacrificing the good of the plot for the sake of teen angst, and I was thoroughly annoyed. However, if sexual awakening with 15-year-old cousins is right up your alley, you'll love this book on all of its levels.

When We Came to the End by Joshua Ferris

At first glance, this book is The Office, Office Space, and Michael Clayton rolled into one book. Now take away everything you like about those movies. You have just hit page 25. The initial scenes of the book contain caricatures of classic office minutiae and passive aggressive cubicle drama. It toys with the mob mentality, layoffs, and coffee mugs. It's great. It's entertaining. It's short-lived. Once the plot kicks into high gear, I was left with the memory and occasional reminder of the once witty characters who are becoming increasingly annoying and pathetic. The bright yellow cover is quickly tainted by dark rain clouds that refuse to drop their comforting waters. If it was good old-fashioned misery, I can get on board. But it is just the possibility of misery and the perpetual limbo of waiting for the plot. I guess it really is a book about office life.

If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things by John McGregor

Awesome. This book juggles terse narration with sweeping lyricism and expert stream of consciousness. The book follows the events of a single day on a normal street in London, as reflected by a tenant three years later, ending with a devastating car accident that won't quite fade from memory. The images are beautiful, the prose is delightful, and the humor is unexpected. I would read this one again. And again. I do adore.

That's all for now. Up next week is America (the Book) by Jon Stewart, Cranford by Elizabeth Gaskell, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay by Michael Chabon, and Desert Solitude by Edward Abbey. Stay tuned.

A Thirst of Irish

2010-02-02T10:17:00.005-07:00

I am a woman of many secrets. Secrets piled on secrets like an 7-layer bean dip. Except I don't like bean dip. I am also a woman of many dislikes.

One of my secrets is that I am an aficionado of collective noun phrases.

These little beauties are not used enough in everyday conversation. Then again, that may be a blessing as collective noun phrases should be used with laser-like precision.

The following are a few of my favorites.

abomination of clergy
ambush of widows
ascension of larks
bellowing of bullfinches
blessing of unicorns
bloat of hippopotami
clashing of economists
coalition of cheetahs
congress of baboons
dropping of pigeons
eleven of cricketers
embarrassment of riches
flourish of strumpets
gang of elk
illusion of painters
intrusion of cockroaches
multiply of husbands
pocket of oranges
ponder of philosophers
rhumba of rattlesnakes
scourge of mosquitoes
singular of boars
zeal of zebras
wolfpack of submarines

Twisted minds developed these beauties. Twisted and genius.

Epic Love Affairs (of the One-Sided Variety)

2010-01-28T08:34:00.005-07:00

I'm in love. Again.

Don't give me that look! For all your judging eyes and snide comments, I know that you have at least one poster stashed somewhere, embodying a long-time-yet-ultimately-doomed-and-unrequited love. We all know.

I tend to be more vocal about mine. This may surprise you, but I am very occasionally in touch with reality, and I know exactly what chance these love affairs have.

That said, I can't help but still have them, hold them, and cherish them. The love affiars, not the object of them. Naturally.

Many of you know of my little crushes. Most of them are fictional characters, such as Dean from Supernatural, Sam Seaborn from The West Wing, and Mat Cauthon from The Wheel of Time. A very few of them are actors. Matthew Gray Gubler comes to mind, as does Seth Green.

One is a speech writer.

A real one, not of Aaron Sorkin's creation.

Let me fill you in a little.

Jonathan Favreau is President Obama's Director of Speechwriting. He is 28, and has worked on two presidential campaigns, one of which was (obviously) successful. He is also very attractive and is incredible talented.

Take the State of the Union, for example. Holy hell. Did you see that thing?? Hear it?? Read it?? The man is a writing god! Whether you approve of the Obama Administration's policies or not, whether you like Democrats or not, whether you want to kill him or not, there is no denying that the man has genius. Just take a gander at the following snippets from the State of the Union.

"For 220 years, our leaders have fulfilled this duty. They've done so during periods of prosperity and tranquility, and they've done so in the midst of war and depression, at moments of great strife and great struggle."

"For these Americans and so many others, change has not come fast enough. Some are frustrated; some are angry. They don't understand why it seems like bad behavior on Wall Street is rewarded, but hard work on Main Street isn't, or why Washington has been unable or unwilling to solve any of our problems." (Do you SEE that parallelism???)

"And if there's one thing that has unified Democrats and Republicans -- and everybody in between -- it's that we all hated the bank bailout. I hated it. You hated it. It was about as popular as a root canal."

"In the 21st century, the best anti-poverty program around is a world-class education."

"We have to recognize that we face more than a deficit of dollars right now. We face a deficit of trust, deep and corrosive doubts about how Washington works that have been growing for years.

To close that credibility gap, we have to take action on both ends of Pennsylvania Avenue, to end the outsized influence of lobbyists, to do our work openly, to give our people the government they deserve."

Let it be noted that I am not endorsing or refuting any of the policies. I am merely providing examples of rousing and eloquent speech writing.

Literary music like this would sway the heart of anyone.

Adventures in Nerdom

2010-01-04T08:25:00.005-07:00

You all know I'm a nerd. I delight in my nerdiness to an annoying extent. I think about half of my blog posts have been about poetry or literature, and all of the drafts that I've refrained from publishing are. (Everyone should employ a filtering system on their blogs. I'm talking to you, emo kids.)

Yes, I am a Lord of the Rings loving, History Channel watching, video game playing, sci fi viewing, alien believing, flashlight under the blanket reading, art . . . something . . . nerd.

So, naturally, I want to publish something. What self respecting nerd doesn't want to inflict her nerdiness on an unsuspecting world? I bet you have some unfinished manuscript stashed under the bathroom sink. Okay, maybe it's just in some long forgotten computer file you haven't opened since high school, but it's there.

(Random side note: I just displayed my weirdness to my 1st period student by fashioning a screwdriver from a paper clip and tape. She is now staring at me like I may be a robot. On the bright side, my desk doesn't wobble. I am worthy of an 80s action TV show.)

I gave up on the pipe dream of writing a book long ago. I don't have that kind of concentration. I can barely write an email anymore, so to write a novel without previous monetary incentive is a little unfathomable.

Poetry I can do. It's easy and eager like that girl that sits half way back in your Survey of Philosophy class. You know the one. And who would have thought there would be so many? Poetry contests, not easy and eager 18-year-olds.

So here I go. I'm submitting. Yay! It's an adventure in nerdom, and expedition into the world outside of my own head and my own gigs of black text. Tie up the string, drop the bread crumbs, and point the compass north. After all, I do want to make it home safe.

Meditation

2009-11-13T09:02:00.003-07:00

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

Going Home

2009-11-11T08:53:00.000-07:00

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.

My Life is Average

2009-10-23T08:19:00.003-06:00

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?

Sharing Time

2009-10-01T09:32:00.005-06:00

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

Poetic Justice

2009-09-11T08:11:00.001-06:00

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.

Cotton Candy

2009-09-09T08:28:00.006-06:00

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.

Still the Fat Kid Up to Kick

2009-08-30T15:21:00.000-06:00

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.

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.

Maybe I am going to hell, but it'll be a party.

Multiple Personality Disorder

2009-07-01T03:41:00.004-06:00

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:

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?

Silver Dollars and How To Spend Them

2009-06-13T14:02:00.004-06:00

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.

Eternal Battle

2009-05-23T16:01:00.006-06:00

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.

Imagine Your Imagination . . .

2009-05-02T14:11:00.006-06:00

"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.

Hey, Winter Wonderland . . .

2009-04-18T02:06:00.000-06:00

. . . 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

First Impressions

2009-04-15T21:08:00.001-06:00

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