It's official. My last day of retail will be July 23rd. Ad's b-day festivities July 24th. Visiting my favorite cop in MD maybe after that?
Talked to my dad about having a going-away party. He's all for it. He volunteered to make sloppy joes and french toast. "That's the extent of my skills." Or meatballs. He makes killer meatballs. The logic for the french toast was that after people have been drinking all night they'll want some french toast.
WHY DO I HAVE THE GREATEST FUCKING DAD?!
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
A thing about dreams or destiny
I was sorting out some shit, per usual, and I came across some yearbooks from middle school (in which everyone told me to have a "kick ass summer"), and a few books I "published" in elementary school. It got me thinking about my whole life as sort of a time-line of events that led me to becoming (or attempting to become) a writer, specifically a poet.
Here is that time-line:
April 1992 (1st Grade)- "Published" a book entitled MY CAT. Also dedicated to my cat. "My cat's name is Sebastian. He has soft fur. My cat is cute. He slept under the Christmas tree last Christmas. My cat bites my head and bats my head. My cat always eats his treats. My cat slept on my foot last night. My cat's birthday is January 1st. My cat has brown eyes. The end." And so the Crazy Cat Lady foundation was laid.
1992-1993 (2nd Grade) - Decided that I really want to publish books. Began my prolific elementary school writing career. Published a book called SUMMER that detailed the types of bathing suits you could have.
1993-1994 (3rd Grade) - Realized I'm not good at math when my teacher had a talk with my parents about how I'm not good at math. She sent home a special book to help me with my math skills, but I never studied. Being bad at math made me feel special. This is probably where my habit of (and later belief in) not studying began.
1994-1995 (4th Grade) - Made friends with a 14 year-old girl in our class (she had a rough life) who was really "into" "art". We sat next to each other and drew portraits of each other. Decided I wanted to be an artist despite being terrible at drawing. My perception of art was extremely limited to drawing. Continued to do poorly in math, but my writing and editing skills were exceptional. Wrote a book called WHY BABIES CRY about a couple who has a baby that won't stop talking, so they pray to some mythical baby god for help, and the baby god takes away the baby's ability to speak.
Fourth and Fifth graders had to gather for the 5th grade spelling bee. I wrote down the proper spelling of every word and decided I was going to be in the 5th grad spelling bee.
1995-1996 (5th Grade) - Decided I wanted to be an artist, a writer, and a lifeguard. Wrote a book called MISCHIEF NIGHT about a gang of 9 kids who made up a club called "The Spray Paint Kids" because "they spray paint buildings, houses, etc. Sometimes they'd dress up in black and silly string people." They were caught by a 70-year-old man and thrown into his basement that HAD NO STAIRS!! Hilarity and hi-jinx ensue as they plot to escape the basement and "get" the old man. Miraculously there were horses waiting for them outside and they all rode off into the sunset. My favorite word was "sarcastically"--had no idea what it meant, and rereading it now that I know what it means, the story makes even less sense.
Also, I was in the fifth grade spelling bee. I didn't win, but I did well. The kid next to me--Bob White--kept farting. Nasty.
1996-1997 (6th Grade) - The summer Olympics in Atlanta took place before the start of 6th grade. My brother was really impressed with the female swimmers, because of how jacked they were. He said something about how they could beat him up, and I joined the swim team that fall. This begins the phase of trying to find my little self without making any friends. Seriously, even my teachers thought I was a loser. This is probably why I'm good at making friends now.
1996-1999 (6th-8th Grade) - Off and on wanted to be some sort of athlete or pop star. (In 8th grade I wanted to be Gwen Stefani specifically.) I frequently sang and danced in front of my mirror and watched every sporting event with my dad. I just wanted to be famous really. Took up ballet and jazz, swimming, softball, cheerleading, and basketball (hated). The one friend I made in dance class I ended up kicking really hard because she did something I thought was mean. She cried, and I felt terrible, but neither one of us told the instructor about it. I can't remember if this is why we stopped talking.
Towards the end of middle school, all the activities I did were just to get out of the house. I was a good swimmer, but competitions scared me, so I just went to practice. I just wanted to swim. That was probably my favorite.
In 7th grade I openly admitted that I wanted to be a boy. Actually, the picture in my head was something of a 7' tall black man. I remember asking my parents why I wasn't black, and they really weren't sure what to do with this.
In 8th grade we went on a class trip to the new Regal theater to see 10 Things I Hate About You. Discovered Letters to Cleo and decided I wanted to be "alternative" and a "feminist". One of those lib arts kids with a nose ring and funky hair that read a lot.
1999-2000 (9th grade) - dropped all extracurricular activities. Made the volleyball team. Still wanted to be an artist, but still thought this meant I had to be good at drawing. Also decided I wanted to be an actress. This may have been around the time I learned the difference between job and career. Nothing traditional felt right, though I periodically wanted to be a teacher.
2000-2003 (10th-12th grades) - Off and on I wanted to be an extreme sport athlete, in a punk band, or an astronomer (until I realized how much math was involved). Taught myself how to snowboard at 15. Experienced my first concussion and thought that made me badass. Thought I could go pro even though I sucked and was too afraid to attempt any tricks.
Joined Art League. Built a haunted house. Mosaic. Gardened a little. Did some sets for plays.
Really liked set design. Wanted to get into that for a while.
Got selfish by the end of high school and began thinking it was pointless to become a teacher. To go to school your whole life just to teach someone else how to do the same thing. It just seemed like a dead-end cycle and the thought of it made me feel limited.
Found out I'm good at stuff without really trying. Like I got good grades without putting much effort out. Made me wonder what would happen if I did try. But I never tried. My mom left and that sort of killed all the trying I had in me, among other things.
10th grade--started writing what is typically referred to as "rant poetry". The kind where it's like a one-sided fight. Also known as teen angst poetry. TAP occurs when kids listen to really shitty music and think the lyrics are really profound. Often, their favorite poets are Papa Roach and Taking Back Sunday. I thought it was very good and I was prolific. Wrote all the time. Thought I was fucking brilliant.
In 11th grade I still wanted to be a lifeguard, so I took a lifeguarding course and got certified. I was too self-conscious in a bathing suit to apply for any lifeguard jobs. Summer before 12th grade I made a poetry blog (the word blog didn't exist then. Back then it was "open diary".) where I posted all of my shitty poems. A girl from GA liked some of them. She had a diary, too and wanted to be a fiction writer. We corresponded some, and then stopped sometime in college, though we're still friends on Facebook. I think we're waiting to see if we become famous writers. At least, that's what I'm doing.
12th grade--still wanted to be an artist. Still had no idea what this meant or what my options were. No clue what my talents were. Applied at the absolute last minute to BCCC for fine arts.
2003-2004 (Freshman year) - Realized I definitely hated drawing, but I desperately wanted to be an artist. Enjoyed painting. My work suffered because of a boy, and this is where I began learning a hard-learned lesson about boys vs. work and which one is more important. This may be why I come off as "the guy" sometimes, especially when I have something I want to focus on. I think I could've been so much more and so much better if it wasn't for boys.
Went to Boston for a few days with a friend over the summer. Decided I want to live in Boston, specifically Beacon Hill.
2004-2005 (Sophomore year) - Scratch what I said about boys a second ago. Met one that pushed me in a good way. In that he was in a real art school, and I wanted desperately to impress him because I, for some reason, thought if I sucked at anything he would lose interest. So this was a very productive year, though burdensome. Very creative. I loved my classes, loved my work, but didn't see a future in art. My writing teacher was floored with my essays, and other professors asked me what I was doing not writing and "what are you doing at Bucks?" Discovered photography (finally, my niche!), and began a long tug-of-war between photo and writing. In my comp class I read The Prince of Tides (which sucked) and decided I wanted to be a "moody writer". This pleased my teacher very much (though my poetry was still abominable). Transferred to Temple at the end of the year for no other reason than my friend (boyfriend's best friend) was transferring to Temple for Journalism. He was trying to be a writer, and I thought that's what I need to do too. The boyfriend was also at Temple, and I felt like I was being left behind. Like I HAD to do SOMETHING. I felt a sense of urgency, and the decision was very abrupt. I'm normally (painfully) indecisive.
2005-2007 (Junior and Senior years) - Struggled through my course load while working odd hours catering. Realized quickly that I didn't know how to write a proper research paper, and that Bucks must've been kindergarten. Missed my art classes terribly. Realized after reading some of the same material covered in high school (ie, Beowulf) that I hate old literature, and I don't see the point in dwelling much in the past, as far as literature goes. I mean, Shakespeare is great, but he's not the only good thing about English literature. I wanted to know what was happening NOW. I wanted to be a part of that. The now. Began looking for the now.
Applied to Tyler School of Art for photography. Wanted to attempt some sort of double major with English. They told me it wasn't possible, though I knew people who were doubling in academic and art majors, but they let me apply anyway. The woman I spoke with was a snot and condescended me when I said that my drawing skills were ok, but not as strong as my other skills. Gave some shit about their expectations, though I knew full well the kind of shit that has come out of Tyler. Granted, most of it is really fucking good, but not all of it. Not enough to be elitist about. Anyway, didn't get accepted, and it was like the universe telling me to choose, and I'd better choose writing. Can't do both.
Took a fiction writing class--realized I'm not a fiction writer. Took another--still not a fiction writer, but maybe experimentally? Took a poetry workshop--bingo. Put all energy into that.
During my last semester I took a photo class. It was the best class I ever had in my life. Definitely made me consider going to grad school for photo, and I looked into it, but still didn't see a future. It didn't feel like who I really was, though I wanted it to be.
A philosophy major gave me shit in our Georges Bataille grad seminar about being an English major and wanting to be a writer, and how this essentially means I'm wasting money. I simply said, "You're a fucking philosophy major." And always really sweaty because he would bike to class from Fishtown. Other kids biked from Fishtown and didn't look so sweaty. He and his boyfriend shared a cat, but lived in separate apartments, so they would transport the cat back and forth like a bizarre child custody arrangement. Anyway, he was in the process of applying to grad school for Library Sciences, and it got me thinking about grad school. Finally understood that a writer was who I was gonna be.
I think I found Emerson in this time and thought that sounded like a good program. ( Though, since I was 20 I wanted to go to Sarah Lawrence. I looked into Sarah Lawrence a dozen times between high school and right before I applied to writing programs. It was just too expensive.) I ultimately put off grad school for two years because I didn't feel mature enough--as a person and as a writer. This is also why I turned down a position with Teach for America. They bypassed me to the final interview based on my initial essay alone, but I didn't feel mature enough to commit 2 years of my life to teaching--especially to teaching kids who could probably kill me.
2008-2009 (post graduation) - Was given a scholarship to attend the Philadelphia Writers Conference in June of 2008, but ultimately didn't go because of a severe ringworm epidemic. (Thanks, Casey.) I'm curious what would've changed in me if I did go.
I worked at VSI for a year and a half and completely forgot what it was like to have dreams. Got fed up in summer 09 and needed to do something drastic. Decided to just fucking go for it. Originally planned to go to school for fiction (because I thought I'd make more money being as fiction has a better market than poetry), but quickly realized/remembered that I'm a poet, or at least a prose poet. I can write short short fiction, which actually is a thing gaining popularity. Anyway, quit my job and cut out a handful of distractions, and put all efforts into getting accepted to Emerson.
2010- Accepted to Emerson's poetry program. Moving to Boston. Ta da! Now I'm trying to figure out how to be more serious as a poet. Now I'm starting to flesh out my plans and career options. How very exciting.
Here is that time-line:
April 1992 (1st Grade)- "Published" a book entitled MY CAT. Also dedicated to my cat. "My cat's name is Sebastian. He has soft fur. My cat is cute. He slept under the Christmas tree last Christmas. My cat bites my head and bats my head. My cat always eats his treats. My cat slept on my foot last night. My cat's birthday is January 1st. My cat has brown eyes. The end." And so the Crazy Cat Lady foundation was laid.
1992-1993 (2nd Grade) - Decided that I really want to publish books. Began my prolific elementary school writing career. Published a book called SUMMER that detailed the types of bathing suits you could have.
1993-1994 (3rd Grade) - Realized I'm not good at math when my teacher had a talk with my parents about how I'm not good at math. She sent home a special book to help me with my math skills, but I never studied. Being bad at math made me feel special. This is probably where my habit of (and later belief in) not studying began.
1994-1995 (4th Grade) - Made friends with a 14 year-old girl in our class (she had a rough life) who was really "into" "art". We sat next to each other and drew portraits of each other. Decided I wanted to be an artist despite being terrible at drawing. My perception of art was extremely limited to drawing. Continued to do poorly in math, but my writing and editing skills were exceptional. Wrote a book called WHY BABIES CRY about a couple who has a baby that won't stop talking, so they pray to some mythical baby god for help, and the baby god takes away the baby's ability to speak.
Fourth and Fifth graders had to gather for the 5th grade spelling bee. I wrote down the proper spelling of every word and decided I was going to be in the 5th grad spelling bee.
1995-1996 (5th Grade) - Decided I wanted to be an artist, a writer, and a lifeguard. Wrote a book called MISCHIEF NIGHT about a gang of 9 kids who made up a club called "The Spray Paint Kids" because "they spray paint buildings, houses, etc. Sometimes they'd dress up in black and silly string people." They were caught by a 70-year-old man and thrown into his basement that HAD NO STAIRS!! Hilarity and hi-jinx ensue as they plot to escape the basement and "get" the old man. Miraculously there were horses waiting for them outside and they all rode off into the sunset. My favorite word was "sarcastically"--had no idea what it meant, and rereading it now that I know what it means, the story makes even less sense.
Also, I was in the fifth grade spelling bee. I didn't win, but I did well. The kid next to me--Bob White--kept farting. Nasty.
1996-1997 (6th Grade) - The summer Olympics in Atlanta took place before the start of 6th grade. My brother was really impressed with the female swimmers, because of how jacked they were. He said something about how they could beat him up, and I joined the swim team that fall. This begins the phase of trying to find my little self without making any friends. Seriously, even my teachers thought I was a loser. This is probably why I'm good at making friends now.
1996-1999 (6th-8th Grade) - Off and on wanted to be some sort of athlete or pop star. (In 8th grade I wanted to be Gwen Stefani specifically.) I frequently sang and danced in front of my mirror and watched every sporting event with my dad. I just wanted to be famous really. Took up ballet and jazz, swimming, softball, cheerleading, and basketball (hated). The one friend I made in dance class I ended up kicking really hard because she did something I thought was mean. She cried, and I felt terrible, but neither one of us told the instructor about it. I can't remember if this is why we stopped talking.
Towards the end of middle school, all the activities I did were just to get out of the house. I was a good swimmer, but competitions scared me, so I just went to practice. I just wanted to swim. That was probably my favorite.
In 7th grade I openly admitted that I wanted to be a boy. Actually, the picture in my head was something of a 7' tall black man. I remember asking my parents why I wasn't black, and they really weren't sure what to do with this.
In 8th grade we went on a class trip to the new Regal theater to see 10 Things I Hate About You. Discovered Letters to Cleo and decided I wanted to be "alternative" and a "feminist". One of those lib arts kids with a nose ring and funky hair that read a lot.
1999-2000 (9th grade) - dropped all extracurricular activities. Made the volleyball team. Still wanted to be an artist, but still thought this meant I had to be good at drawing. Also decided I wanted to be an actress. This may have been around the time I learned the difference between job and career. Nothing traditional felt right, though I periodically wanted to be a teacher.
2000-2003 (10th-12th grades) - Off and on I wanted to be an extreme sport athlete, in a punk band, or an astronomer (until I realized how much math was involved). Taught myself how to snowboard at 15. Experienced my first concussion and thought that made me badass. Thought I could go pro even though I sucked and was too afraid to attempt any tricks.
Joined Art League. Built a haunted house. Mosaic. Gardened a little. Did some sets for plays.
Really liked set design. Wanted to get into that for a while.
Got selfish by the end of high school and began thinking it was pointless to become a teacher. To go to school your whole life just to teach someone else how to do the same thing. It just seemed like a dead-end cycle and the thought of it made me feel limited.
Found out I'm good at stuff without really trying. Like I got good grades without putting much effort out. Made me wonder what would happen if I did try. But I never tried. My mom left and that sort of killed all the trying I had in me, among other things.
10th grade--started writing what is typically referred to as "rant poetry". The kind where it's like a one-sided fight. Also known as teen angst poetry. TAP occurs when kids listen to really shitty music and think the lyrics are really profound. Often, their favorite poets are Papa Roach and Taking Back Sunday. I thought it was very good and I was prolific. Wrote all the time. Thought I was fucking brilliant.
In 11th grade I still wanted to be a lifeguard, so I took a lifeguarding course and got certified. I was too self-conscious in a bathing suit to apply for any lifeguard jobs. Summer before 12th grade I made a poetry blog (the word blog didn't exist then. Back then it was "open diary".) where I posted all of my shitty poems. A girl from GA liked some of them. She had a diary, too and wanted to be a fiction writer. We corresponded some, and then stopped sometime in college, though we're still friends on Facebook. I think we're waiting to see if we become famous writers. At least, that's what I'm doing.
12th grade--still wanted to be an artist. Still had no idea what this meant or what my options were. No clue what my talents were. Applied at the absolute last minute to BCCC for fine arts.
2003-2004 (Freshman year) - Realized I definitely hated drawing, but I desperately wanted to be an artist. Enjoyed painting. My work suffered because of a boy, and this is where I began learning a hard-learned lesson about boys vs. work and which one is more important. This may be why I come off as "the guy" sometimes, especially when I have something I want to focus on. I think I could've been so much more and so much better if it wasn't for boys.
Went to Boston for a few days with a friend over the summer. Decided I want to live in Boston, specifically Beacon Hill.
2004-2005 (Sophomore year) - Scratch what I said about boys a second ago. Met one that pushed me in a good way. In that he was in a real art school, and I wanted desperately to impress him because I, for some reason, thought if I sucked at anything he would lose interest. So this was a very productive year, though burdensome. Very creative. I loved my classes, loved my work, but didn't see a future in art. My writing teacher was floored with my essays, and other professors asked me what I was doing not writing and "what are you doing at Bucks?" Discovered photography (finally, my niche!), and began a long tug-of-war between photo and writing. In my comp class I read The Prince of Tides (which sucked) and decided I wanted to be a "moody writer". This pleased my teacher very much (though my poetry was still abominable). Transferred to Temple at the end of the year for no other reason than my friend (boyfriend's best friend) was transferring to Temple for Journalism. He was trying to be a writer, and I thought that's what I need to do too. The boyfriend was also at Temple, and I felt like I was being left behind. Like I HAD to do SOMETHING. I felt a sense of urgency, and the decision was very abrupt. I'm normally (painfully) indecisive.
2005-2007 (Junior and Senior years) - Struggled through my course load while working odd hours catering. Realized quickly that I didn't know how to write a proper research paper, and that Bucks must've been kindergarten. Missed my art classes terribly. Realized after reading some of the same material covered in high school (ie, Beowulf) that I hate old literature, and I don't see the point in dwelling much in the past, as far as literature goes. I mean, Shakespeare is great, but he's not the only good thing about English literature. I wanted to know what was happening NOW. I wanted to be a part of that. The now. Began looking for the now.
Applied to Tyler School of Art for photography. Wanted to attempt some sort of double major with English. They told me it wasn't possible, though I knew people who were doubling in academic and art majors, but they let me apply anyway. The woman I spoke with was a snot and condescended me when I said that my drawing skills were ok, but not as strong as my other skills. Gave some shit about their expectations, though I knew full well the kind of shit that has come out of Tyler. Granted, most of it is really fucking good, but not all of it. Not enough to be elitist about. Anyway, didn't get accepted, and it was like the universe telling me to choose, and I'd better choose writing. Can't do both.
Took a fiction writing class--realized I'm not a fiction writer. Took another--still not a fiction writer, but maybe experimentally? Took a poetry workshop--bingo. Put all energy into that.
During my last semester I took a photo class. It was the best class I ever had in my life. Definitely made me consider going to grad school for photo, and I looked into it, but still didn't see a future. It didn't feel like who I really was, though I wanted it to be.
A philosophy major gave me shit in our Georges Bataille grad seminar about being an English major and wanting to be a writer, and how this essentially means I'm wasting money. I simply said, "You're a fucking philosophy major." And always really sweaty because he would bike to class from Fishtown. Other kids biked from Fishtown and didn't look so sweaty. He and his boyfriend shared a cat, but lived in separate apartments, so they would transport the cat back and forth like a bizarre child custody arrangement. Anyway, he was in the process of applying to grad school for Library Sciences, and it got me thinking about grad school. Finally understood that a writer was who I was gonna be.
I think I found Emerson in this time and thought that sounded like a good program. ( Though, since I was 20 I wanted to go to Sarah Lawrence. I looked into Sarah Lawrence a dozen times between high school and right before I applied to writing programs. It was just too expensive.) I ultimately put off grad school for two years because I didn't feel mature enough--as a person and as a writer. This is also why I turned down a position with Teach for America. They bypassed me to the final interview based on my initial essay alone, but I didn't feel mature enough to commit 2 years of my life to teaching--especially to teaching kids who could probably kill me.
2008-2009 (post graduation) - Was given a scholarship to attend the Philadelphia Writers Conference in June of 2008, but ultimately didn't go because of a severe ringworm epidemic. (Thanks, Casey.) I'm curious what would've changed in me if I did go.
I worked at VSI for a year and a half and completely forgot what it was like to have dreams. Got fed up in summer 09 and needed to do something drastic. Decided to just fucking go for it. Originally planned to go to school for fiction (because I thought I'd make more money being as fiction has a better market than poetry), but quickly realized/remembered that I'm a poet, or at least a prose poet. I can write short short fiction, which actually is a thing gaining popularity. Anyway, quit my job and cut out a handful of distractions, and put all efforts into getting accepted to Emerson.
2010- Accepted to Emerson's poetry program. Moving to Boston. Ta da! Now I'm trying to figure out how to be more serious as a poet. Now I'm starting to flesh out my plans and career options. How very exciting.
Monday, June 28, 2010
The Fundamental difference between me and my brother
Yesterday I watched my brother wage chemical warfare on a small hive of hornets that was building under one of our deck chairs. He doused their nest, them. They fell to the deck, twitching, one or two trying to crawl away. They never saw it coming; they had been working quietly, diligently. He walked away like it wasn't anything, leaving their little insect bodies scattered. Some curled, like the Raid was eating away their intestines, if they even have those. I felt bad--I was the one who remembered it was there, who set them up--and he shrugged like he could do it for a living.
Checked Emerson's student employment listing. Nothing available for the fall yet. Once I find an apartment the job search will be easier. I'll have roots somewhere.
Also, I finished reading The Keep in about 3 days. Mostly in one day. It was what they call a "fast read." It's about this guy, Danny, who flees NY due to complications with these guys busting up his knee (presumably mob guys), and he goes to Eastern Europe to work on renovating a 900-year-old castle with his cousin, Howard. As a child, Danny and Howie (and another cousin) explored some cave, and Danny pushed Howie into this glowing pool of water before he and the other cousin ran out with the flashlight, leaving Howie alone in there for 3 days before anyone found him. This is the "traumatic incident." Upon arriving at the castle, almost immediately, Danny thinks Howard is plotting revenge. All of this is told by an inmate in prison for murder, writing the story for his prison writing class.
It was sort of like ghost story meets neurotic paranoia. Like it's all in your head, but maybe it's not. It creeped me out reading it alone last night after my dad went out. But I'm always creeped out alone at night. I don't know how I feel about all the twists, though. Sort of like M. Night Shyamalan. That could be good or bad.
Also, I finished reading The Keep in about 3 days. Mostly in one day. It was what they call a "fast read." It's about this guy, Danny, who flees NY due to complications with these guys busting up his knee (presumably mob guys), and he goes to Eastern Europe to work on renovating a 900-year-old castle with his cousin, Howard. As a child, Danny and Howie (and another cousin) explored some cave, and Danny pushed Howie into this glowing pool of water before he and the other cousin ran out with the flashlight, leaving Howie alone in there for 3 days before anyone found him. This is the "traumatic incident." Upon arriving at the castle, almost immediately, Danny thinks Howard is plotting revenge. All of this is told by an inmate in prison for murder, writing the story for his prison writing class.
It was sort of like ghost story meets neurotic paranoia. Like it's all in your head, but maybe it's not. It creeped me out reading it alone last night after my dad went out. But I'm always creeped out alone at night. I don't know how I feel about all the twists, though. Sort of like M. Night Shyamalan. That could be good or bad.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Someone told me today that you don't talk about Egyptian politics online. You meaning everyone. Someone meaning I think I loved him. Loved meaning he never wrote and I realize this as I pull all the books off my shelves.
I found a postcard I wrote to my dad when I was 13 and on vacation with family in Disney World: Everyone is ok. I didn't lose my marbles yet and didn't lose mom yet. I added the last yet as an afterthought. I found a letter my grandma sent me, also when I was 13. She had taught my 4 year old cousin how to use her type writer. It went something like this: oinvaoalkdmncnwdjm vklkk l kf;sl,m xlikmopvmvp;sz mom oinvklz cniwp-jmvm nz;ljvn stop ao lnkld,.xc. He scribbled his name huge and shaky at the bottom. Grandma circled the only two words he made: mom. stop. Things are funny after the fact.
I found a postcard I wrote to my dad when I was 13 and on vacation with family in Disney World: Everyone is ok. I didn't lose my marbles yet and didn't lose mom yet. I added the last yet as an afterthought. I found a letter my grandma sent me, also when I was 13. She had taught my 4 year old cousin how to use her type writer. It went something like this: oinvaoalkdmncnwdjm vklkk l kf;sl,m xlikmopvmvp;sz mom oinvklz cniwp-jmvm nz;ljvn stop ao lnkld,.xc. He scribbled his name huge and shaky at the bottom. Grandma circled the only two words he made: mom. stop. Things are funny after the fact.
What happens in the past stays in Vegas
I have a very non-linear approach to sorting things out for moving. For instance, today I packed some dishes, measured my kitchen table, and then started sorting through a mess of letters, postcards, greeting cards, other correspondence that I've collected my whole life and stored (stuffed) in an old Longaberger basket. Letter writing is definitely a dying art, if not completely dead. It's sad. We would decorate the envelopes with different colored pens and stickers, and it made you feel special and excited to get a really boring letter that said, "I'm watching Home Improvement. It's a re-run. Well, I have to go do my homework now."
I want to make an effort to send at least postcards from Boston to my best friends. Maybe everyone initially. I had an idea to send poems via postcards, which I stole from Abe's Penny.
I'm keeping all the letters from pen pals, my brother and his army buds, and ones from best friends I'm still best friends with (ie, the twins, Raub Daub). Things that document places I've never been, and in some cases people I've never met. Out of curiosity I read through some of the ones I'm tossing out...letters from people I was friends with in elementary and middle school that don't really mean anything anymore. Mostly because they go something like, "What did you get for Christmas? My vacation was nice." I think in every case I'm the one that stopped writing. I found one that said, "This is the 4th or 5th letter and I still haven't heard from you!" Typical me.
But here are some lines from various people that I thought were particularly funny (I didn't bother reading the ones I'm actually keeping. Too many.). Keep in mind they're mostly from late elementary and into middle school:
"You know how I told you that Brian of the Backstreet Boys had heart surgery? Well, he didn't have it yet. He is going to have it soon, though." --Amanda W.
[A postcard I sent to my dad from Disney World] "Everyone is ok. I didn't lose my marbles yet and didn't lose mom. ^yet"
"I got a new job, at the bread shop, I start at the end of January. Randy [my brother] is gonna be pissed. I think he is a real loser. Well, I gotta go." --Terri H.
"Did you hear about Walt Disney World's new park, Animal Kingdom? That seems fun. It has animals there from all over the world." --Amanda W.
"Well, do you remember that kid Danny I told you about? Well I was going out with him for 1 month and 21 days. Then we broke up. Then a week later I was asked out by a kid named David Snyder. But he was a jerk so I dumped him. Then today Danny asked me out so me and him are together again. Do you have a boyfriend?" --Amanda S.
"I heard that Baby Spice is pregnant?!? It might be a rumor." --Amanda W.
"I can't believe they took BSB off the countdown on TRL. Their a whole lot better than Korn!" --Amanda S.
"OO, I gotta tell you want I did at the Valentine's Day dance at the Fullerton playground. I frenched Danny 3 times. That is so unlike me." --Amanda S.
"Everyone in Florida hates Hanson now." --Amanda W.
"I'm not going out with Danny anymore. But I might be going out with Tom." --Amanda S.
"Yesterday I went to K-Mart and bought this lotion. It smells really good. Well, it's almost dinner time. Bye!" --Amanda W.
"Or you could rent Buffy the Vampire Slayer! I'd give it 10 thumbs up, even if I don't have 10 thumbs!" --Julie V.
"I wrote to Justin Timberlake the other day." --Amanda S.
"I was going to beat up this girl in Research class. I told her she better watch her back." --Rachelle (cousin by marriage)
"Write back unless you ran out of papper. Then what would you do?" --Julie V.
"When do you get out of school? Anyway Tom has a great personality. I met another kid. Here's some info...1- Cute, 2- Nice, 3- Good personality, 4- Great dancer, 5- In 6th grade (but that doesn't matter. --Amanda S.
"In all, I have 3 Beanie Babies." --Amanda W.
"Right now, I am listening to Hanson, the music group." --Amanda W.
"First of all, girl! I wouldn't go out with Jeff even if I was given 1 million dollars. I don't go out with "things"! [...] I will never forgive you after you said that! I don't like him or her, whatever he/she is." --Amanda S.
"I have ten beany babies and two tamagothi beany babies. All my friends say the one looks like a sperm. In a way it does." --Amanda S.
"P.S - Did you get sunburn yet?" --Amanda S.
"Do you remember Jeff Buss from elementary school or should I say last year for you. [...]You know what he said about you? He said you were the ugliest girl he ever saw." --Amanda S.
I want to make an effort to send at least postcards from Boston to my best friends. Maybe everyone initially. I had an idea to send poems via postcards, which I stole from Abe's Penny.
I'm keeping all the letters from pen pals, my brother and his army buds, and ones from best friends I'm still best friends with (ie, the twins, Raub Daub). Things that document places I've never been, and in some cases people I've never met. Out of curiosity I read through some of the ones I'm tossing out...letters from people I was friends with in elementary and middle school that don't really mean anything anymore. Mostly because they go something like, "What did you get for Christmas? My vacation was nice." I think in every case I'm the one that stopped writing. I found one that said, "This is the 4th or 5th letter and I still haven't heard from you!" Typical me.
But here are some lines from various people that I thought were particularly funny (I didn't bother reading the ones I'm actually keeping. Too many.). Keep in mind they're mostly from late elementary and into middle school:
"You know how I told you that Brian of the Backstreet Boys had heart surgery? Well, he didn't have it yet. He is going to have it soon, though." --Amanda W.
[A postcard I sent to my dad from Disney World] "Everyone is ok. I didn't lose my marbles yet and didn't lose mom. ^yet"
"I got a new job, at the bread shop, I start at the end of January. Randy [my brother] is gonna be pissed. I think he is a real loser. Well, I gotta go." --Terri H.
"Did you hear about Walt Disney World's new park, Animal Kingdom? That seems fun. It has animals there from all over the world." --Amanda W.
"Well, do you remember that kid Danny I told you about? Well I was going out with him for 1 month and 21 days. Then we broke up. Then a week later I was asked out by a kid named David Snyder. But he was a jerk so I dumped him. Then today Danny asked me out so me and him are together again. Do you have a boyfriend?" --Amanda S.
"I heard that Baby Spice is pregnant?!? It might be a rumor." --Amanda W.
"I can't believe they took BSB off the countdown on TRL. Their a whole lot better than Korn!" --Amanda S.
"OO, I gotta tell you want I did at the Valentine's Day dance at the Fullerton playground. I frenched Danny 3 times. That is so unlike me." --Amanda S.
"Everyone in Florida hates Hanson now." --Amanda W.
"I'm not going out with Danny anymore. But I might be going out with Tom." --Amanda S.
"Yesterday I went to K-Mart and bought this lotion. It smells really good. Well, it's almost dinner time. Bye!" --Amanda W.
"Or you could rent Buffy the Vampire Slayer! I'd give it 10 thumbs up, even if I don't have 10 thumbs!" --Julie V.
"I wrote to Justin Timberlake the other day." --Amanda S.
"I was going to beat up this girl in Research class. I told her she better watch her back." --Rachelle (cousin by marriage)
"Write back unless you ran out of papper. Then what would you do?" --Julie V.
"When do you get out of school? Anyway Tom has a great personality. I met another kid. Here's some info...1- Cute, 2- Nice, 3- Good personality, 4- Great dancer, 5- In 6th grade (but that doesn't matter. --Amanda S.
"In all, I have 3 Beanie Babies." --Amanda W.
"Right now, I am listening to Hanson, the music group." --Amanda W.
"First of all, girl! I wouldn't go out with Jeff even if I was given 1 million dollars. I don't go out with "things"! [...] I will never forgive you after you said that! I don't like him or her, whatever he/she is." --Amanda S.
"I have ten beany babies and two tamagothi beany babies. All my friends say the one looks like a sperm. In a way it does." --Amanda S.
"P.S - Did you get sunburn yet?" --Amanda S.
"Do you remember Jeff Buss from elementary school or should I say last year for you. [...]You know what he said about you? He said you were the ugliest girl he ever saw." --Amanda S.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Why I write: #47
Because I want to fight the good fight against Nicholas Sparks.
In a recent interview with USA Today, Nicholas Sparks criticized Shakespeare, Jane Austen, Ernest Hemingway, and romance novelists in general for essentially writing the same story over and over:
"(Romances) are all essentially the same story: You've got a woman, she's down on her luck, she meets the handsome stranger who falls desperately in love with her, but he's got these quirks, she must change him, and they have their conflicts, and then they end up happily ever after."
But he claims that he is not a romance novelist. He is a fiction writer who writes love stories.
"You read a romance because you know what to expect. You read a love story because you don't know what to expect."
Really Nicholas Sparks? Really?
I gave up on the Diaz book. The plot wasn't holding my interest. I didn't really like the prose.
After reading the interview with Jennifer Egan, I had a dream that I found her books on a shelf in a used bookstore. I took it as a sign and went to the library and checked out The Keep.
Last week I went through my amazon.com wishlist and ordered all the books I could find for a penny. This is what I got:
Cake by Sandra Newman (Have been waiting 3 years to read this. Had to order it from England. It's not available anywhere in the US. Not that I found. She taught my fiction writing class at Temple. But that was before I knew who she was. After the class ended I checked her first book out of the library on a whim, read it in 2 days, loved it, and proceeded to feel like a stupid piece of shit for writing shitty crap in her class. How embarrassing. But during a meeting, I explained to her that I'm a poet, and maybe that's excuse enough.)
Plainwater: Essays and Poetry by Anne Carson (I kind of really look up to her. In ways.)
This is Not Chick Lit edited by Elizabeth Merrick (To feed my addiction to women writers. Huge, massive fan of women writers. Good ones. Somehow this makes me a feminist, but if I were to read poetry and literature written by only men this would make me normal. No one would think anything of it. Of course she's reading a book written by a man. Just as anyone should.)
Poets Teaching Poets (ordered for my workshop. Looks boring.)
White Elephants by Reetika Vazirani (to satisfy my craving for Indian and Middle Eastern female poets, and my fascination with poets who commit suicide.)
Can't wait to quit my job and spend the day reading under a tree.
After reading the interview with Jennifer Egan, I had a dream that I found her books on a shelf in a used bookstore. I took it as a sign and went to the library and checked out The Keep.
Last week I went through my amazon.com wishlist and ordered all the books I could find for a penny. This is what I got:
Cake by Sandra Newman (Have been waiting 3 years to read this. Had to order it from England. It's not available anywhere in the US. Not that I found. She taught my fiction writing class at Temple. But that was before I knew who she was. After the class ended I checked her first book out of the library on a whim, read it in 2 days, loved it, and proceeded to feel like a stupid piece of shit for writing shitty crap in her class. How embarrassing. But during a meeting, I explained to her that I'm a poet, and maybe that's excuse enough.)
Plainwater: Essays and Poetry by Anne Carson (I kind of really look up to her. In ways.)
This is Not Chick Lit edited by Elizabeth Merrick (To feed my addiction to women writers. Huge, massive fan of women writers. Good ones. Somehow this makes me a feminist, but if I were to read poetry and literature written by only men this would make me normal. No one would think anything of it. Of course she's reading a book written by a man. Just as anyone should.)
Poets Teaching Poets (ordered for my workshop. Looks boring.)
White Elephants by Reetika Vazirani (to satisfy my craving for Indian and Middle Eastern female poets, and my fascination with poets who commit suicide.)
Can't wait to quit my job and spend the day reading under a tree.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Target's HR rep talked to me about my Boston plans. Apparently the store manager was/is under the impression that I'm not definitely moving, that I'm probably not moving at all, and has shared this with HR. Target being Target, shit like that spreads. Since I haven't left yet people are wondering if I'm going at all.
"So, you're 100% going to Boston?"
"Yes."
"Without a doubt, you're definitely going, there's no way you're not going."
For the 54th fucking time. YES.
He asked me again if I considered transferring to a Target up there. I said that I don't think I'll be able to support myself with Target money, so I want to explore other options. For some reason he thought it was unbelievable that all of my living expenses are on me. Part of me wonders if there's a bonus involved in getting someone to transfer locations. Unless they want to pay me at least 11 an hour my stint in retail will end this summer.
Will end next month.
C0ntrary to popular belief, you cannot pack up your entire life in one week.
Sold 7 CDs so far. Not sure how much I made off those...I didn't keep track. Money I didn't previously have, though. The cool thing about selling them is that before I list them online I make sure they're on my itunes, and I'm rediscovering all the music I've collected since I started collecting. I've been time traveling. Tracing my roots. It's all very symbolic
Last night, before my headache got too bad (been getting a lot of those lately), I read an interview with Jennifer Egan on Narrative.com. Unfortunately, you have to sign up to read it, so I won't even bother linking it. Anyway, it got me really excited to be a writer, and got me thinking about a side career in journalism. She's a journalist for the NY Times magazine. She researches all sorts of things and people that inevitably make their way into her stories. Like a twin sister rap duo that didn't really go anywhere, or gay teens who live their "real" lives online and their "fake" lives in the real world, women who worked in a naval yard during WWII. It's fascinating.
I'm less nervous about the move. Probably not nervous at all anymore. I think because I know it's something I must do, like self-preservation maybe. I'll die if I don't. My dad said when you're on the right path things just sort of fall into place and happen for you. I'm pretty sure I'm on the right path and that's why I'm not nervous. I'm excited to do what I've always wanted to do. What I think I was always meant to do.
Anyway, I just got called into work. Great. Got shit to do, son.
"So, you're 100% going to Boston?"
"Yes."
"Without a doubt, you're definitely going, there's no way you're not going."
For the 54th fucking time. YES.
He asked me again if I considered transferring to a Target up there. I said that I don't think I'll be able to support myself with Target money, so I want to explore other options. For some reason he thought it was unbelievable that all of my living expenses are on me. Part of me wonders if there's a bonus involved in getting someone to transfer locations. Unless they want to pay me at least 11 an hour my stint in retail will end this summer.
Will end next month.
C0ntrary to popular belief, you cannot pack up your entire life in one week.
Sold 7 CDs so far. Not sure how much I made off those...I didn't keep track. Money I didn't previously have, though. The cool thing about selling them is that before I list them online I make sure they're on my itunes, and I'm rediscovering all the music I've collected since I started collecting. I've been time traveling. Tracing my roots. It's all very symbolic
Last night, before my headache got too bad (been getting a lot of those lately), I read an interview with Jennifer Egan on Narrative.com. Unfortunately, you have to sign up to read it, so I won't even bother linking it. Anyway, it got me really excited to be a writer, and got me thinking about a side career in journalism. She's a journalist for the NY Times magazine. She researches all sorts of things and people that inevitably make their way into her stories. Like a twin sister rap duo that didn't really go anywhere, or gay teens who live their "real" lives online and their "fake" lives in the real world, women who worked in a naval yard during WWII. It's fascinating.
I'm less nervous about the move. Probably not nervous at all anymore. I think because I know it's something I must do, like self-preservation maybe. I'll die if I don't. My dad said when you're on the right path things just sort of fall into place and happen for you. I'm pretty sure I'm on the right path and that's why I'm not nervous. I'm excited to do what I've always wanted to do. What I think I was always meant to do.
Anyway, I just got called into work. Great. Got shit to do, son.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Why I don't eat meat: #27
"Down in the blood pit the say that the smell of blood makes you aggressive. And it does. You get an attitude that if that hog kicks at me, I'm going to get even. You're already going to kill the hog, but that's not enough. It has to suffer...You go in hard, push hard, blow the windpipe, make it drown in its own blood. Split its nose. A live hog would be running around the pit. It would just be looking up at me and I'd be sticking, and I would just take my knife and--eerk--cut its eye out while it was just sitting there. And this hog would just scream. One time I took my knife--it's sharp enough--and I sliced off the end of a hog's nose, just like a piece of bologna. The hog went crazy for a few seconds. Then it just sat there looking kind of stupid. So I took a handful of salt brine and ground it into his nose. Now that hog really went nuts, pushing its nose all over the place. I still had a bunch of salt left on my hand--I was wearing a rubber glove--and I stuck the salt right up the hog's ass. The poor hog didn't know whether to shit or go blind...I wasn't the only guy doing this kind of stuff. One guy I work with actually chases hogs into the scalding tank. And everybody--hog drivers, shacklers, utility men--uses lead pipes on the hogs. Everybody knows it, all of it."
--From Gail Eisnitz's Slaughterhouse (as quoted in JSF's Eating Animals)
--From Gail Eisnitz's Slaughterhouse (as quoted in JSF's Eating Animals)
Why I write: #34
"The artist's job is to expose us to what is hidden, what is 'imperfect', what popular culture might not be ready to hear."
---Elizabeth Merrick (from the introduction to This is Not Chick Lit)
---Elizabeth Merrick (from the introduction to This is Not Chick Lit)
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Money, money makes the world go 'round
Money never mattered to me in the sense that I would sacrifice my personal happiness in pursuit of it. I thought I made this obvious when I abruptly quit my last job and decided I wanted to move 6 hours away from all my security and stability to pursue a graduate degree in poetry.
I understand that a lot of my friends are concerned; they don't want to see me struggle, or at the very least they don't want to hear about it. But I'm disappointed that I'm asked, "what about the money?", "don't you need money?", "what are you going to do for money?" more than I'm asked, "how are we going to spend your last summer here?" or "what's going to make you happy?".
What's not making me happy is spending almost 40 hours a week standing in a 10' x 3' area for $8.36/hr, knowing the money I make won't even make a dent in terms of savings, knowing that for $62.70 before taxes I'm missing out on family and friends--you know, priceless things. Sure, I could work the rest of the summer, maybe save $200 and get my bills paid on time. Or I could do what doesn't crush my soul and make me miserable. I don't know, it seems obvious to me, but I'm finding my values aren't exactly in line with everyone else's.
And now, an open letter to Elizabeth Hasselbeck of The View:
Dear Elizabeth Hasselbeck,
I do admire that you're so vocal about your opinions, and that you passionately defend what you believe in. I feel these are very important traits for a woman to have. That being said, you're a fucking moron. One of your hot topics was about how Janeane Garofalo said that Obama's call for prayer (for the Gulf situation) is anti-intellectual and essentially non-productive. (And don't get me started on the site I found that video on.) You took it as a personal hit against people who pray, saying anti-intellectual means "dumb". Means you're dumb. I'll explain how you're dumb and how it's not because you pray.
Intellect isn't necessarily the same as intelligence. I understand your confusion. Semantics. But intellect, as defined by dictionary.com means "the mind by which one knows or understands, as distinguished from that by which one feels and that by which one wills; the faculty of thinking and acquiring knowledge." Just to further clarify, prayer--the thing by which one feels and one wills--is not faculty of the mind, but of the heart. It's vague. It's blind-faith. Nothing against prayer, but it's surely a desperate situation when our president asks us to pray because we really have no other hope. Literally. No hope whatsoever.
Lastly, you said Janeane's comment was bigoted, and you called Joy a bigot when she tried to explain the difference between intellect (thought) and intelligence (smarts) and prayer (faith), and how this is the separation of church and state (something you seem to not support). It's great that you know the first amendment protects your right to pray to whatever god you choose, but it also protects our right to not be blanketed by American Brand religion, and you're a bigot for thinking Janeane (and myself) is an asshole for thinking prayer is not really a viable solution. For thinking we're assholes for not wanting to pray at all. To clarify once more, bigot means "intolerant of any differing creed, belief, or opinion". She wasn't being intolerant. She was being intellectual. (See what I did there?)
In the future, argue more with your intellect and less with your prayer.
Sincerely,
Shannon Wagner
I understand that a lot of my friends are concerned; they don't want to see me struggle, or at the very least they don't want to hear about it. But I'm disappointed that I'm asked, "what about the money?", "don't you need money?", "what are you going to do for money?" more than I'm asked, "how are we going to spend your last summer here?" or "what's going to make you happy?".
What's not making me happy is spending almost 40 hours a week standing in a 10' x 3' area for $8.36/hr, knowing the money I make won't even make a dent in terms of savings, knowing that for $62.70 before taxes I'm missing out on family and friends--you know, priceless things. Sure, I could work the rest of the summer, maybe save $200 and get my bills paid on time. Or I could do what doesn't crush my soul and make me miserable. I don't know, it seems obvious to me, but I'm finding my values aren't exactly in line with everyone else's.
And now, an open letter to Elizabeth Hasselbeck of The View:
Dear Elizabeth Hasselbeck,
I do admire that you're so vocal about your opinions, and that you passionately defend what you believe in. I feel these are very important traits for a woman to have. That being said, you're a fucking moron. One of your hot topics was about how Janeane Garofalo said that Obama's call for prayer (for the Gulf situation) is anti-intellectual and essentially non-productive. (And don't get me started on the site I found that video on.) You took it as a personal hit against people who pray, saying anti-intellectual means "dumb". Means you're dumb. I'll explain how you're dumb and how it's not because you pray.
Intellect isn't necessarily the same as intelligence. I understand your confusion. Semantics. But intellect, as defined by dictionary.com means "the mind by which one knows or understands, as distinguished from that by which one feels and that by which one wills; the faculty of thinking and acquiring knowledge." Just to further clarify, prayer--the thing by which one feels and one wills--is not faculty of the mind, but of the heart. It's vague. It's blind-faith. Nothing against prayer, but it's surely a desperate situation when our president asks us to pray because we really have no other hope. Literally. No hope whatsoever.
Lastly, you said Janeane's comment was bigoted, and you called Joy a bigot when she tried to explain the difference between intellect (thought) and intelligence (smarts) and prayer (faith), and how this is the separation of church and state (something you seem to not support). It's great that you know the first amendment protects your right to pray to whatever god you choose, but it also protects our right to not be blanketed by American Brand religion, and you're a bigot for thinking Janeane (and myself) is an asshole for thinking prayer is not really a viable solution. For thinking we're assholes for not wanting to pray at all. To clarify once more, bigot means "intolerant of any differing creed, belief, or opinion". She wasn't being intolerant. She was being intellectual. (See what I did there?)
In the future, argue more with your intellect and less with your prayer.
Sincerely,
Shannon Wagner
Monday, June 21, 2010
Fundraising
1. Selling about 3/4 of my cd collection on half.com
2. Permission from dad to sell his shoe collection on ebay
3. Picking up loose change wherever found
4. Tuition refund should be disbursed automatically in October after the drop/add period. Should be.
5. Switching to part-time. Not exactly helping to raise funds, but will go a long way in raising levels of morale and sanity. Dad gave me his blessing to quit. He said stick it out for as long as you can, and then give your 2 weeks if you have enough to cover bills for the summer. Mom-mom gave me some money for "school expenses", and he said I could use that for the summer, but I'm not sure yet. Just...sick of standing for 8 hours a night when I could be spending time with people I love or doing one of the 10,000 important things I need to do or sitting outside/swimming because it's gorgeous out. It's summertime, people.
6. Thinking about pawning some of mom's jewelry (i.e, wedding/engagement rings, another ring from my dad...things she gave me that don't fit and that I secretly think are bad luck).
7. Yard sale?
8. I'm in the process now of just sorting things out. What I'm taking vs. What I'm not taking.
9. Can't view student employment opportunities till they give me an email address. Thinking about getting in with a temp agency after I move. If I only have 2 classes a semester, I could probably swing full-time and still have time to work on my poetry. I'm thinking regular pay and benefits. But who knows, really.
Miscellaneous
1. I watched some of CBS Sunday Morning yesterday. They did a segment on Bob and Ziggy Marley. Spent the rest of the day with "Could this be love" stuck in my head. Ad's friend Zee reminds me vaguely of Bob Marley.
2. Forgot to request off for Boston. Forgot/thought it was a week further away than it really is. The request was due yesterday (but I called out to see my family). I'm hoping I can still get it in today. There's no way I can miss this trip. It's absolutely out of the question. So...I'll quit if I have to. (I think I'm just looking for an excuse at this point.) (Also, I increasingly hope to be fired, though I don't really give them a reason to fire to me other than I consistently show up 3-5 minutes late.)
3. I turned the cartoon dad on the father's day card I bought into a crossdresser.
4. I think I need a new dresser. The one I have is way too big for an apartment. The one I used in Ambler has a couple broken drawers. The one at my mom's makes my clothes smell weird. Like wood chips and animal.
5. Dabbling with veganism. It's freakin' expensive. So I switched to soymilk. It's actually really good and doesn't expire as quickly as milk. Baby steps.
2. Permission from dad to sell his shoe collection on ebay
3. Picking up loose change wherever found
4. Tuition refund should be disbursed automatically in October after the drop/add period. Should be.
5. Switching to part-time. Not exactly helping to raise funds, but will go a long way in raising levels of morale and sanity. Dad gave me his blessing to quit. He said stick it out for as long as you can, and then give your 2 weeks if you have enough to cover bills for the summer. Mom-mom gave me some money for "school expenses", and he said I could use that for the summer, but I'm not sure yet. Just...sick of standing for 8 hours a night when I could be spending time with people I love or doing one of the 10,000 important things I need to do or sitting outside/swimming because it's gorgeous out. It's summertime, people.
6. Thinking about pawning some of mom's jewelry (i.e, wedding/engagement rings, another ring from my dad...things she gave me that don't fit and that I secretly think are bad luck).
7. Yard sale?
8. I'm in the process now of just sorting things out. What I'm taking vs. What I'm not taking.
9. Can't view student employment opportunities till they give me an email address. Thinking about getting in with a temp agency after I move. If I only have 2 classes a semester, I could probably swing full-time and still have time to work on my poetry. I'm thinking regular pay and benefits. But who knows, really.
Miscellaneous
1. I watched some of CBS Sunday Morning yesterday. They did a segment on Bob and Ziggy Marley. Spent the rest of the day with "Could this be love" stuck in my head. Ad's friend Zee reminds me vaguely of Bob Marley.
2. Forgot to request off for Boston. Forgot/thought it was a week further away than it really is. The request was due yesterday (but I called out to see my family). I'm hoping I can still get it in today. There's no way I can miss this trip. It's absolutely out of the question. So...I'll quit if I have to. (I think I'm just looking for an excuse at this point.) (Also, I increasingly hope to be fired, though I don't really give them a reason to fire to me other than I consistently show up 3-5 minutes late.)
3. I turned the cartoon dad on the father's day card I bought into a crossdresser.
4. I think I need a new dresser. The one I have is way too big for an apartment. The one I used in Ambler has a couple broken drawers. The one at my mom's makes my clothes smell weird. Like wood chips and animal.
5. Dabbling with veganism. It's freakin' expensive. So I switched to soymilk. It's actually really good and doesn't expire as quickly as milk. Baby steps.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Relieving a little anxiety
Got my tuition statement today. I'll get a $1,041.00 refund and won't need to take out any additional loans this year. (Hopefully.)
Things are starting to make sense. I'm really doing this.
Things are starting to make sense. I'm really doing this.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Risk be damned
I watched the CBS Sunday Morning show this morning, as I typically try to do every Sunday morning, and today Ben Stein's commentary had significant impact. It was about happy people vs. unhappy people, and how you end up in one category or the other. Essentially, the happy ones
"decided to do what their hearts told them to do, to do what was in them to do. They took risks and they took chances, and they tried a lot of different things until they got to where they wanted to be.
This very often means working incredibly hard and living on the edge. But it gets you to where you can look back on your life and say it wasn't wasted."
While his inadvertent moral support got me pumped to be a poet and to be among the few Americans who follow their hearts and stay true to themselves, it got me thinking about alternate meanings of "risk" and why I feel I might puke for the duration of the 6 hour drive on moving day. (Well, it's all stuff I've thought of before, but now I'm vocalizing it.)
I'm not scared that my endeavor will fail. I have no question about my capabilities and my future success. Granted, there are a lot of gray areas in my process because I'm really shooting in the dark, having never attempted something this life-changing before. But I'm not afraid of failure in that sense. Good things will come of this. I'll establish a good career that I enjoy, and I'll meet amazing people. And I know that this is what I need to do; this is who I am.
But what happens to everyone I leave behind? How many will I never see again? In what ways will we grow apart? Will they get used to not having me around? Will I get used to not being around? Will we replace each other? The principal risk lies with the people I love, and I wonder how far-reaching will be the impact of my move.
You see, it's not that I can't live without them; I just don't see the point.
"decided to do what their hearts told them to do, to do what was in them to do. They took risks and they took chances, and they tried a lot of different things until they got to where they wanted to be.
This very often means working incredibly hard and living on the edge. But it gets you to where you can look back on your life and say it wasn't wasted."
While his inadvertent moral support got me pumped to be a poet and to be among the few Americans who follow their hearts and stay true to themselves, it got me thinking about alternate meanings of "risk" and why I feel I might puke for the duration of the 6 hour drive on moving day. (Well, it's all stuff I've thought of before, but now I'm vocalizing it.)
I'm not scared that my endeavor will fail. I have no question about my capabilities and my future success. Granted, there are a lot of gray areas in my process because I'm really shooting in the dark, having never attempted something this life-changing before. But I'm not afraid of failure in that sense. Good things will come of this. I'll establish a good career that I enjoy, and I'll meet amazing people. And I know that this is what I need to do; this is who I am.
But what happens to everyone I leave behind? How many will I never see again? In what ways will we grow apart? Will they get used to not having me around? Will I get used to not being around? Will we replace each other? The principal risk lies with the people I love, and I wonder how far-reaching will be the impact of my move.
You see, it's not that I can't live without them; I just don't see the point.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
I don't know why I only write late at night. My sleep is all sorts of fucked from staying up late trying to have meaningful connections with friends. I work from 2-10, hang out from 10-2, sleep from 2-10. My day in 8 hour increments. I recently started getting those sleep headaches. Like the ones you get kind of above your eyebrows that make you squint and want to pass out everywhere. I miss my buds. My security blanket is getting on a plane tomorrow for another hemisphere.
What am I going to do in stupid fucking Boston.
Oh yeah, and I've been reading The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz. Not really sure what the point is yet. I'm almost half-way through the fucking thing and it's all back-story. Everything is happening in the super past tense just to give you a sense of what a character's deal is. But so far I don't think anything has actually happened. Maybe I'm missing something. It's like Sherman Alexie meets Jonathan Safran Foer, and I don't like Sherman Alexie AT ALL.
Please, someone understand what I mean.
What am I going to do in stupid fucking Boston.
Oh yeah, and I've been reading The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz. Not really sure what the point is yet. I'm almost half-way through the fucking thing and it's all back-story. Everything is happening in the super past tense just to give you a sense of what a character's deal is. But so far I don't think anything has actually happened. Maybe I'm missing something. It's like Sherman Alexie meets Jonathan Safran Foer, and I don't like Sherman Alexie AT ALL.
Please, someone understand what I mean.
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