I am a reserved person. It is unusual that I will do something that defies the norm, or that is noticeably different from the standard of behavior I have established. But sometimes, it's nice just to let go and change things, shake up the routine. It gives life a little sense of adventure.
Today that sense of adventure asserted itself by wearing my scarf on top of my head to ward off the rain, instead of just enduring it like I usually would (I hate the feeling of my hair when it's been rained on- feels just as if it were dirty).
So, as I'm walking to the cafeteria, enjoying my different-ness amidst the sprinkle of drops, it occurs to me to wonder what would happen if a certain guy crossed my path- how amusing it would be, if Murphy's law would work for me like that, and what would his reaction be?
See, he grew up in the Middle East, and so his first thought would probably be "hijab," the head-covering worn by muslim women. It's unusual to see one around here in the first place... and so my thoughts progressed. And although the idea that he might actually see me persisted, I dismissed it as foolishness, since we rarely cross paths outside of class anyway.
(Those of you who have read a lot of books or know what Murphy's Law is can guess what happened next)
As I was rounding the corner of a building, continuing on my quest for food, lo and behold, who should round it from the other corner but the very person I was thinking of. I tell you, it was uncanny. At first, I just had to look at the sky, in utter disbelief. Then, the polite part of me kicked in, and I waved, said hi, and continued on my merry way- laughing and sighing at the irony of it all.
The only possible answer to this happening is- ah, life.
Plus, after I came out from the cafeteria, it had completely stopped raining. I think God is playing jokes on me. But, all in all, I'd rather he were. =)
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Complex Thoughts
So yesterday I was sitting on a bus. I love public transportation most of the time. It's convenient, not as much work as a car ('cause you don't have to worry about parking it), and it provides you w/intimate knowledge of the city's corners and faces.
Sitting on that bus, I closed my eyes and remembered doing the same thing... I went back to the days when I used to travel on the BCN metro, the blue and yellow lines. I remember falling asleep there too. And watching people. I remember promising myself that I would stop falling asleep on the metro, because it would cause me to miss my stop and be late if I fell too deeply asleep... And sitting there, on the campus shuttle bus, I remembered the habit of an entire year of my life. It brought me, eventually, to reflect on how much I have changed in the past two years.
I had a job as a nanny for this family with two kids, a girl of 7 and a boy of 3. I was supposed to speak to them only in English- but that didn't work very well for very long. The kids knew me, and knew I spoke their language, and I wasn't strong-willed enough or creative enough to keep out time together in English. The parents didn't blame me for it. But I wonder, if I went back to the job now, if I wouldn't be better able to pull it off.
Who has time made me? That is the question I am always asking. But is it a valid question to ask? Isn't it also, who have I made myself? We are always taught that choices make us who we are. The little things, the big things, the in-between ones. What would it take to live intentionally, I wonder. What would that entail?
Sitting on that bus, I closed my eyes and remembered doing the same thing... I went back to the days when I used to travel on the BCN metro, the blue and yellow lines. I remember falling asleep there too. And watching people. I remember promising myself that I would stop falling asleep on the metro, because it would cause me to miss my stop and be late if I fell too deeply asleep... And sitting there, on the campus shuttle bus, I remembered the habit of an entire year of my life. It brought me, eventually, to reflect on how much I have changed in the past two years.
I had a job as a nanny for this family with two kids, a girl of 7 and a boy of 3. I was supposed to speak to them only in English- but that didn't work very well for very long. The kids knew me, and knew I spoke their language, and I wasn't strong-willed enough or creative enough to keep out time together in English. The parents didn't blame me for it. But I wonder, if I went back to the job now, if I wouldn't be better able to pull it off.
Who has time made me? That is the question I am always asking. But is it a valid question to ask? Isn't it also, who have I made myself? We are always taught that choices make us who we are. The little things, the big things, the in-between ones. What would it take to live intentionally, I wonder. What would that entail?
Saturday, February 21, 2009
...oh, my friends...
Note: This time the title is from a favorite poem of Roald Dahl's that I found waaay back when in the back of an edition of the BFG:
My candle burns at both ends,
It gives a lovely light.
But ah my foes and oh my friends
It will not last the night.
Yesterday was Friday night. Usually my Friday nights are not spent with my friends across the hall because they are at work (Telefund. *shudders*) However, yesterday they got out of work, so we got to order takeout and watch (the last half of) Benjamin Button. It was great fun, and afterwards as we were hanging out, Felicia said something to me that unleashed a torrent of pent-up thought. She asked me if my friends were like me (referring to a website that I found distasteful, but that they were thoroughly enjoying, an animation for the entertainment of the masses on 14 different ways to violently kill your boss) It set me thinking because of the ambiguous nature of the phrase "your friends" My first question was, of course, who are my friends? The first answer was, well, they are. And so are Wells, and Lamp, and other mk people. And some Spanish people too... but they are all so scattered, and I haven't talked to them in so long. What constitutes a friend? Is it someone you were once close to? Someone you spent some measure of time with at some point in your life? Someone with whom you discovered that you have something in common? A friend of your parent's? You see, I know many, many people in each of these categories, but only a tiny fraction of them are present in my life anymore. In the end I settled on the definition that a friend is someone who, if you came into their life again, in need of some manner of assistance, would welcome you and try to help you in some way.
That is the best way I can think of to reconcile myself to all the people that have been lost from my life like marbles off a chinese-checkers playing-board.
My candle burns at both ends,
It gives a lovely light.
But ah my foes and oh my friends
It will not last the night.
Yesterday was Friday night. Usually my Friday nights are not spent with my friends across the hall because they are at work (Telefund. *shudders*) However, yesterday they got out of work, so we got to order takeout and watch (the last half of) Benjamin Button. It was great fun, and afterwards as we were hanging out, Felicia said something to me that unleashed a torrent of pent-up thought. She asked me if my friends were like me (referring to a website that I found distasteful, but that they were thoroughly enjoying, an animation for the entertainment of the masses on 14 different ways to violently kill your boss) It set me thinking because of the ambiguous nature of the phrase "your friends" My first question was, of course, who are my friends? The first answer was, well, they are. And so are Wells, and Lamp, and other mk people. And some Spanish people too... but they are all so scattered, and I haven't talked to them in so long. What constitutes a friend? Is it someone you were once close to? Someone you spent some measure of time with at some point in your life? Someone with whom you discovered that you have something in common? A friend of your parent's? You see, I know many, many people in each of these categories, but only a tiny fraction of them are present in my life anymore. In the end I settled on the definition that a friend is someone who, if you came into their life again, in need of some manner of assistance, would welcome you and try to help you in some way.
That is the best way I can think of to reconcile myself to all the people that have been lost from my life like marbles off a chinese-checkers playing-board.
Monday, February 16, 2009
The Difference
between writing an essay and writing for yourself is that, when you write for yourself, you have an argument and a series of thoughts that are important to you, that you want to set down, all layed out. With an essay, you have to laboriously extract thoughts from the text, and once you've got them, you're not always entirely pleased with them, but you have to set them down anyway.
That is the way of the world.
Of course, with some essays it's different. Some essays are important to you. So I guess I should specify and say comparative literature essays.
sigh.
Tally ho!!!
That is the way of the world.
Of course, with some essays it's different. Some essays are important to you. So I guess I should specify and say comparative literature essays.
sigh.
Tally ho!!!
Good ol' MLB
It's interesting how writing an essay on this book has changed (read, deepened) my understanding of it. I am- slowly -beginning to understand what's going through Malte's head as he writes and what the connections are between some of the things he says.
And in writing this essay, I have found a song that I would like to dedicate to him.
Malte, this song is for you:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fGDIxcuPT7s
It's "Change the World" by Eric Clapton.
I know, it's bizarre to want to dedicate a song to a fictional character but if Jasper Fforde is anywhere near right, and there's such a thing as Bookworld (lol!), then maybe poor, undefined Malte will see this and take it as his anthem. I certainly feel like it describes a facet of him, at least.
over 'n out.
And in writing this essay, I have found a song that I would like to dedicate to him.
Malte, this song is for you:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fGDIxcuPT7s
It's "Change the World" by Eric Clapton.
I know, it's bizarre to want to dedicate a song to a fictional character but if Jasper Fforde is anywhere near right, and there's such a thing as Bookworld (lol!), then maybe poor, undefined Malte will see this and take it as his anthem. I certainly feel like it describes a facet of him, at least.
over 'n out.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Tätig
*Note: The title really doesn't have anything to do w/the post, I just happen to have been writing a German paper and wanted to use that word but couldn't, so now it's stuck in my head. In order to un-stick it, I have given it a station of importance, and hope it will be content.
What this post is REALLY about, however, is my finger. Yes, that's right. The tip of my right-hand ring finger, to be precise. You see, I have been maltreating it, and it is getting back at me. I shall tell you the story. You can read it or not, as you like.
The other night, I was decorating cupcakes with some friends, for Valentine's day. We were having a blast, using sprinkles, and chocolate, and jelly ranchers and starbursts... A. made a 3-story cupcake for one girl whose birthday was the next day. It was great fun. So about an hour into his decorating frenzy, I get the creative idea to turn a starburst into a heart-shape and put it on one of the cupcakes. But the candy was too hard to cut with our lovely little plastic knives, so I did the best thing I could think of (which doesn't really speak for my brains, but hey, we'll just chalk it up to lack of sleep, like just about every other mistake in this world) and put it in the microwave for 10 seconds. Bright, I know.
So I pull the thing out of the microwave and of course, the sugar on one side is boiling, and the poor tip-of-my-ring-finger bore the brunt of all that unloaded energy. The long and the short of the dancing around, blowing, shrieking, and laughing and lots of cold water is that I now have a blister.
Now you might think that's the end of the story, but you'd be wrong. The every-day story never ends! Aha! And I have chosen to reveal just a bit more of this one...
So things have calmed down, I am sitting there in pain, making dashes to the sink for cold water at 5-minute intervals, when G. decides to ask me to write the inside of her valentine's day card for her (as I'm supposedly good with words- huh.) I told her, if she cured my finger, I'd do it, thinking she'd never rise to the challenge. (Lord, teach me never to assume...) Two minutes later she came back with a tube of toothpaste and a slightly crazed look on her face, like she gets when very intent on something (usually studying). She proceeded to smear toothpaste all over my finger and my blister...
Oddly enough, it did help a bit. The pain subsided, and here the story pauses for an interlude.
...interlude...
A day later, my blister has changed shapes. Yes, that's right. A little bit that was blister-y before is now perfectly healthy, whereas a part that wasn't even burnt now looks like it's dead. I can't understand it. What physical/chemical process would cause such a wonder??
And with this wonderment, I shall drop the curtain on this every-day story.
For those of you who quit reading after "finger" in the first paragraph (and miraculously came back), and are wondering what the heck could be so fascinating about a burnt finger that it calls for whole paragraphs, let me summarize:
I have two papers to write and a project to work on, all for tomorrow, and I had to get away. Plus, I find incidents relating to my own pain to be infinitely fascinating. Don't you yours?
over 'n out
E.O.
What this post is REALLY about, however, is my finger. Yes, that's right. The tip of my right-hand ring finger, to be precise. You see, I have been maltreating it, and it is getting back at me. I shall tell you the story. You can read it or not, as you like.
The other night, I was decorating cupcakes with some friends, for Valentine's day. We were having a blast, using sprinkles, and chocolate, and jelly ranchers and starbursts... A. made a 3-story cupcake for one girl whose birthday was the next day. It was great fun. So about an hour into his decorating frenzy, I get the creative idea to turn a starburst into a heart-shape and put it on one of the cupcakes. But the candy was too hard to cut with our lovely little plastic knives, so I did the best thing I could think of (which doesn't really speak for my brains, but hey, we'll just chalk it up to lack of sleep, like just about every other mistake in this world) and put it in the microwave for 10 seconds. Bright, I know.
So I pull the thing out of the microwave and of course, the sugar on one side is boiling, and the poor tip-of-my-ring-finger bore the brunt of all that unloaded energy. The long and the short of the dancing around, blowing, shrieking, and laughing and lots of cold water is that I now have a blister.
Now you might think that's the end of the story, but you'd be wrong. The every-day story never ends! Aha! And I have chosen to reveal just a bit more of this one...
So things have calmed down, I am sitting there in pain, making dashes to the sink for cold water at 5-minute intervals, when G. decides to ask me to write the inside of her valentine's day card for her (as I'm supposedly good with words- huh.) I told her, if she cured my finger, I'd do it, thinking she'd never rise to the challenge. (Lord, teach me never to assume...) Two minutes later she came back with a tube of toothpaste and a slightly crazed look on her face, like she gets when very intent on something (usually studying). She proceeded to smear toothpaste all over my finger and my blister...
Oddly enough, it did help a bit. The pain subsided, and here the story pauses for an interlude.
...interlude...
A day later, my blister has changed shapes. Yes, that's right. A little bit that was blister-y before is now perfectly healthy, whereas a part that wasn't even burnt now looks like it's dead. I can't understand it. What physical/chemical process would cause such a wonder??
And with this wonderment, I shall drop the curtain on this every-day story.
For those of you who quit reading after "finger" in the first paragraph (and miraculously came back), and are wondering what the heck could be so fascinating about a burnt finger that it calls for whole paragraphs, let me summarize:
I have two papers to write and a project to work on, all for tomorrow, and I had to get away. Plus, I find incidents relating to my own pain to be infinitely fascinating. Don't you yours?
over 'n out
E.O.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
W.B.
There is something unspeakably awful about having writer's block in only the one subject you HAVE to write about. I could write sonnets about the stars, hai-ku's about facebook, tirades about music, or professors, or time, or dance, or the book I'm supposed to be writing about- about 20 different themes that I discovered in it.
But I find it simply (nearly) impossible to turn out anything intelligent on the subject of "how art relates to life" in Rainer Maria Rilke's The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge. One would think that this would not be so difficult. One would think that, having discussed such things in depth in class, it would be a simple matter to set them down, and add to them as I saw fit, in beautifully worded, flowing, convincing english. But no! Alas, my usual writer's block before every essay has struck. It is a typical thing, I realize this. Every time I am assigned an essay with a prompt, I go through a period of panic in which I have no idea what to set down. It is simply a matter of unlocking and finding the ideas that I know are in there SOMEwhere... they just HAVE to be.
They have to be there....
and now, dear friends, I shall proceed to root around in the recesses of my goldfish tank and see what lovely golden fish are hiding in its depths....
if you'll excuse me.
-------
Aha!! There was a fish... =) And now I shall write him down, scale for beauteous golden scale.
But I find it simply (nearly) impossible to turn out anything intelligent on the subject of "how art relates to life" in Rainer Maria Rilke's The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge. One would think that this would not be so difficult. One would think that, having discussed such things in depth in class, it would be a simple matter to set them down, and add to them as I saw fit, in beautifully worded, flowing, convincing english. But no! Alas, my usual writer's block before every essay has struck. It is a typical thing, I realize this. Every time I am assigned an essay with a prompt, I go through a period of panic in which I have no idea what to set down. It is simply a matter of unlocking and finding the ideas that I know are in there SOMEwhere... they just HAVE to be.
They have to be there....
and now, dear friends, I shall proceed to root around in the recesses of my goldfish tank and see what lovely golden fish are hiding in its depths....
if you'll excuse me.
-------
Aha!! There was a fish... =) And now I shall write him down, scale for beauteous golden scale.
New Plan
I've got it. I can solve all my people problems at once.
I shall simply crawl into a hole and never come out.
Voilà!
And in case anyone reading this is (stereotypically) american, let me just clarify that the above is a sarcastic, pessimistic form of humor. It is not literal, so please do not read it as such. Sheesh.
I shall simply crawl into a hole and never come out.
Voilà!
And in case anyone reading this is (stereotypically) american, let me just clarify that the above is a sarcastic, pessimistic form of humor. It is not literal, so please do not read it as such. Sheesh.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Rocks and Sand
It's funny how college eats up time. I find myself dividing my day up into blocks of it, by classes, work, free; morning, afternoon/evening time. 3 of my evenings each week are full. It always takes a half-turn of the minute hand, or 3/4 of a turn, for any meal- more if there are other people involved. These blocks of time are my rocks in a jar, and there are scant open spaces left to be filled by the normal, banal things of life. The pebbles and sand. But then when I reach an empty space, where I COULD be doing anything- writing, homework, chatting, laundry, reading... I find myself not wanting to do any of it. I want something else. What? I don't know... to get away from this atmosphere maybe? To indulge in escape by watching TV or reading a book (but if I do, I feel guilty that it's not some of the pages and pages and endless loose pages of reading I have to do for class, so it's usually TV, which as of yet is untainted).
It's not that I don't like what I do with my life. I do. There are even parts of it that I love. It's in the in-between times, when I realize that all my best, most caring, wonderful friends and people that I'm attached to are all somewhere-other-than-here-with-me. Those are the times that make me want - instead of forging out into the world to make more such connections - to escape into fiction. To relax. To stop, and think, and figure out what is the deal with this weird existence we call life.
over 'n out.
E.O.
It's not that I don't like what I do with my life. I do. There are even parts of it that I love. It's in the in-between times, when I realize that all my best, most caring, wonderful friends and people that I'm attached to are all somewhere-other-than-here-with-me. Those are the times that make me want - instead of forging out into the world to make more such connections - to escape into fiction. To relax. To stop, and think, and figure out what is the deal with this weird existence we call life.
over 'n out.
E.O.
J'aime beaucoup ma mére
"I'm finding myself
at a loss for words
and the funny thing is,
that's ok.
The last thing I need
is to be heard..."
~Mercyme
Though it sounds somewhat corny- I love my mom, throughout all of everything, like no other person in the world.
at a loss for words
and the funny thing is,
that's ok.
The last thing I need
is to be heard..."
~Mercyme
Though it sounds somewhat corny- I love my mom, throughout all of everything, like no other person in the world.
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