my bike gotten stolen on tuesday.
but on the plus side, i can bend my finger four more degrees than i could last week.
that really makes up for it.
good thing my parents are bringing my phat ride down this weekend (aka a 1999 bonneville).
so sometimes i see these cars around that have these huge details painted on them. i always thought the drivers were paid money to drive around with a Monopoly board or Nerds candy advertising them. wrong. WRONG. these people pay thousands of dollars to get things like cinnamon toast crunch detailed on the side of their car. apparently a lot of drug dealers do it. ("so do different drugs have different types of cars?"my friend isabelle had asked one of her students. "like is snap, crackle, pop, code for crack? (no, it is not.)).
isabelle told me tonight that there was a shooting recently on the interstate between two of these cereal cars. it isn't quite clear if it was drug related, or if it was because they were competing to see had the faster cereal car. either way, one of them turned out to be a cereal killer.
seriously though, i'm not kidding: today i saw a purple nerds candy car, and then tonight i saw a pimped out monopoly car (that was actually kind of cool- in a 'i''d never want to drive it, but if the dude offered me a ride, i'd totally accept).
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
farthest.
Farther.
Imagine the farthest place you
think you can.
You’re not there.
Farther. Think farther.
Farther than lost
farther than never
farther than dead.
That’s where you are.
Farther.
It’s not lonely when you’re farther
but you’re alone.
It’s not cold when you’re farther
but you shiver.
It’s not bad when you’re farther
but somewhere else seems better.
You’re a face in a frame,
trapped in a locket,
printed in the paper,
you’re put in the ground.
You’re all of a sudden
would’ves and could’ves
I’m sorries
and under the stars.
You’re farther.
than ever.
You’re so far
that the eyes in the back of your head
can’t see the tears they are crying,
so far that tears don’t
exist any more.
You’re farther away than a voice can
call, and even prayer can’t reach you.
You’re far enough to know
there’s no coming back,
and still near enough to hope
you can.
Farther doesn’t get any nearer.
Not even with a map,
or a Bible. And even if you tried
moving nearer you would have gone
farther. Anyways, you might not want
to be nearer.
It’s lonely when you’re nearer
because you feel a space.
And it’s cold when you’re nearer
because warm is colder than before.
It’s bad when you’re nearer
because you remember farther.
Telephones don’t operate between
farther and nearer. And they say nothing
can. With you so far, all I want is
you near,
nearer than ground and gravity
nearer than skin on bones
nearer rather than farther.
Imagine the farthest place you
think you can.
You’re not there.
Farther. Think farther.
Farther than lost
farther than never
farther than dead.
That’s where you are.
Farther.
It’s not lonely when you’re farther
but you’re alone.
It’s not cold when you’re farther
but you shiver.
It’s not bad when you’re farther
but somewhere else seems better.
You’re a face in a frame,
trapped in a locket,
printed in the paper,
you’re put in the ground.
You’re all of a sudden
would’ves and could’ves
I’m sorries
and under the stars.
You’re farther.
than ever.
You’re so far
that the eyes in the back of your head
can’t see the tears they are crying,
so far that tears don’t
exist any more.
You’re farther away than a voice can
call, and even prayer can’t reach you.
You’re far enough to know
there’s no coming back,
and still near enough to hope
you can.
Farther doesn’t get any nearer.
Not even with a map,
or a Bible. And even if you tried
moving nearer you would have gone
farther. Anyways, you might not want
to be nearer.
It’s lonely when you’re nearer
because you feel a space.
And it’s cold when you’re nearer
because warm is colder than before.
It’s bad when you’re nearer
because you remember farther.
Telephones don’t operate between
farther and nearer. And they say nothing
can. With you so far, all I want is
you near,
nearer than ground and gravity
nearer than skin on bones
nearer rather than farther.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Pack Your Bags
I realized last night that in the past eight months, I have not completely unpacked myself in the places that I have been living. During the summer, I didn't have all of my stuff because I knew I'd be leaving. The last four months, I never even bothered settling in because there was an immeninent move looming in the future.
There's the difference between living and staying.
It takes time to live instead of staying. Maybe it takes less time to live than it does to stay.
I've become awfully neurotic, a likely side effect from trying to live and stay at the same time.
I'm going to unpack all my boxes this time. I'm going to throw them all away so there are no cardboard question marks asking what's going to happen next.
There's the difference between living and staying.
It takes time to live instead of staying. Maybe it takes less time to live than it does to stay.
I've become awfully neurotic, a likely side effect from trying to live and stay at the same time.
I'm going to unpack all my boxes this time. I'm going to throw them all away so there are no cardboard question marks asking what's going to happen next.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Friday, January 16, 2009
Saturday, January 10, 2009
My New Year's Resolutions
Usually I don't believe in New Year's Resolution. Most of the time, and almost anyone will tell you this, they fall to shit in mid-January. Consequentially, I generally avoid them as tools of the weak. However, this year, I have realized that I do, in fact, have some New Year's resolutions that I believe would be beneficial to my existence.
(Item #1)
For instance, when I went to the dentist over my break, I had a new hygenist (which was a little trying for me because Cheri has been cleaning my teeth since I was in jr. high). I am not a chronic flosser, but I would like to argue that I argue more than the average bear, you know, something like 3 times a week. Because I was on my break, my consumption was in overdrive, and I was verily refusing to do anything I did not want to. Like flossing. Half the time I forgot to brush my teeth. (Disgusting, but true.) Anyway, this new girl spent something like 20 minutes going at my mouth with her little metal stick, all the while giving me a lecture about how the food sticks to your teeth and then gets stuck there, and then you have to go through all of this at the dentist. Because of that, and the fact that my dentist insurance isn't as miraculous as I'd like it to be, and because I want to have teeth for a long time, I decided that I am going to brush my teeth in the morning and before I go to bed, and NOT forget to floss. So far, it is going well.
For instance, when I went to the dentist over my break, I had a new hygenist (which was a little trying for me because Cheri has been cleaning my teeth since I was in jr. high). I am not a chronic flosser, but I would like to argue that I argue more than the average bear, you know, something like 3 times a week. Because I was on my break, my consumption was in overdrive, and I was verily refusing to do anything I did not want to. Like flossing. Half the time I forgot to brush my teeth. (Disgusting, but true.) Anyway, this new girl spent something like 20 minutes going at my mouth with her little metal stick, all the while giving me a lecture about how the food sticks to your teeth and then gets stuck there, and then you have to go through all of this at the dentist. Because of that, and the fact that my dentist insurance isn't as miraculous as I'd like it to be, and because I want to have teeth for a long time, I decided that I am going to brush my teeth in the morning and before I go to bed, and NOT forget to floss. So far, it is going well.
(Item #2)
When I studied in Italy, every day was an adventure. While I drank my tea and ate my cookies for breakfast, I wondered what the day would bring. Not every day was perfect. There were days that were even boring. But because I was out of my own context, I was able to find adventure were there was none. I was able to look on the bright or the funny side of almost of every situation because I knew I was in Italy, and my days were numbered before I would return to the states.
I remember one day, it was in late October some time. I had been looking for schools to stay in, and looking for a way to stay in Italy instead of coming back to the States. After one of the most disappointing and unsupportive conversations of my life (which was certainly not from my parents), I realized I would be getting back on the plane to go home. After all this realization sank in, I walked through the city, eyeing every detail on every church, every crack in the cobblestone, every pigeon and gypsy. I remember saying to myself: You've got one month left. Do not waste it.
That's how I intend to live now. While work is important and all of that, I am not going to waste my time that I have here in New Orleans. I'm not really sure what's going to happen when my contract is up, but should I decide to move, I don't want to move with a list full of I-wish-I-would'ves.
Which leads me to.....
(Item #3)
I did not want to read the book Eat, Pray, Love. Mostly because it was on Oprah's book club, and every woman I saw in the El this spring was reading it. My old friend, Hop-a-long Jen, insisted that I read. She insisted so hard that she bought me the book. Appreciating the gift, I read it. But not in public. I took it with me to Europe when I left on the graduation trip I bought for myself. And even THERE, in Italy, I couldn't get away from that book. People were reading it there! (Ok, true, part of the story takes place there, but still.)
Anyway, I'm pretty sure Elizabeth Gilbert was writing this book for me. I'm quite sure there are many other people out there who feel the same way, but I like to think that she and I have so much in common. You know, except for the fact that I will never be bendy enough to do yoga, and I have no idea how to meditate. Minor details.
The first section of the book takes place in Italy, and Liz is learning to experience pleasure. She talks about il bel far niente, which is Italian for "the beauty of doing nothing." She explains that in the Italian culture, that is for which everyone is striving. Doing nothing and enjoying yourself along the way is life's goal.
I am absolutely terrible at that. I can't sit still. Especially these last six months, I've become more and more wound up. I have to know what's going to happen next, and in fact, I need to know so badly, I can't enjoy what I'm doing currently (no matter how marvelous it is) because I have to know what is going to happen next.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Dead or Something. This is Incoherent.
disclaimer: i shouldn't have to feel like i have to defend this post. but i do. what's wrong with that?
I had a phone call from a friend. When we were nothing but kids, he kissed me, and he’s been nothing but a true friend ever since. We talked about drugs and guns and why we wanted to die. If we had the courage to kill ourselves, there would be a remarkable freedom. And here I am, minutes later, with a larger than usual glass of red wine. Listening to John Denver. And wondering what it would be like to die, and would I even wonder if some I loved hadn’t tried his hand at it first. If he hadn’t, I wouldn’t have been able to talk irrationally with someone who needed to throw away the boundaries of everything completely rational for a while. I would still be listening to John Denver.
I’m still sitting here. My Dead Friend died two and a half years ago. It seems probably to you that when he died, so did our friendship. You’d be wrong to think that. The truest form of friendship keeps on giving, even when the person is gone. With time there’s more investment than before, and even though the memories are fading, the feelings aren’t. Conversations are now memorized pieces of scripture. Feelings are cemented into my soul. No matter how many plastic surgery words I’m given, guilt is branded into and it won’t come out. I’ve prayed Mary and Martha’s prayer, and as it turns out, my Dead Friend wasn’t Lazarus.
In this far from perfect world, there are moments when our humanity is exposed. We’re ashamed of our nakedness, those imperfections that, like freckles on skin or wrinkles at the corners of our eyes, don’t fall into what we think are supposed to look like.
But, you know, that’s not the fucked up part. This is, I think:
If it had all been perfect, if my Dead Friend had been Lazarus afterall, I would have been nothing to the Friend On The Phone. I would have been another number he scrolled past. Another person who just wouldn’t understand. And goddammit, I hate that I have to understand. I hate being the one that my friends call when their grandma dies, or their brother dies, or their cousin’s sister’s hamster’s dog dies (which hasn’t happened yet). But I have to be, don’t I? Because when I scrolled through my own phone book, there were startling few people that I actually felt I could call. And if my Friend On The Phone can call me, then isn’t the world a little bit smaller, and a little bit better? That’s cliche, but please, understand that some cliches are what you need to hear. When they’re from someone who has prayed the Mary and Martha prayer.
It’s all completely irrational, isn’t it? There isn’t anything that is rational. The very idea of rationality is completely irrational. Thank God for red wine and John Denver.
Rocky Mountain High
-John Denver
He was born in the summer of his 27th year
Comin' home to a place he'd never been before
He left yesterday behind him, you might say he was born again
You might say he found a key for every door
When he first came to the mountains his life was far away
On the road and hangin' by a song
But the string's already broken and he doesn't really care
It keeps changin' fast and it don't last for long
But the Colorado rocky mountain high
I've seen it rainin' fire in the sky
The shadow from the starlight is softer than a lullabye
Rocky mountain high
He climbed cathedral mountains, he saw silver clouds below
He saw everything as far as you can see
And they say that he got crazy once and he tried to touch the sun
And he lost a friend but kept his memory
Now he walks in quiet solitude the forest and the streams
Seeking grace in every step he takes
His sight has turned inside himself to try and understand
The serenity of a clear blue mountain lake
And the Colorado rocky mountain high
I've seen it rainin' fire in the sky
You can talk to God and listen to the casual reply
Rocky mountain high
Now his life is full of wonder but his heart still knows some fear
Of a simple thing he cannot comprehend
Why they try to tear the mountains down to bring in a couple more
More people, more scars upon the land
And the Colorado rocky mountain high
I've seen it rainin' fire in the sky
I know he'd be a poorer man if he never saw an eagle fly
Rocky mountain high
It's Colorado rocky mountain high
I've seen it rainin' fire in the sky
Friends around the campfire and everybody's high
Rocky mountain high
I had a phone call from a friend. When we were nothing but kids, he kissed me, and he’s been nothing but a true friend ever since. We talked about drugs and guns and why we wanted to die. If we had the courage to kill ourselves, there would be a remarkable freedom. And here I am, minutes later, with a larger than usual glass of red wine. Listening to John Denver. And wondering what it would be like to die, and would I even wonder if some I loved hadn’t tried his hand at it first. If he hadn’t, I wouldn’t have been able to talk irrationally with someone who needed to throw away the boundaries of everything completely rational for a while. I would still be listening to John Denver.
I’m still sitting here. My Dead Friend died two and a half years ago. It seems probably to you that when he died, so did our friendship. You’d be wrong to think that. The truest form of friendship keeps on giving, even when the person is gone. With time there’s more investment than before, and even though the memories are fading, the feelings aren’t. Conversations are now memorized pieces of scripture. Feelings are cemented into my soul. No matter how many plastic surgery words I’m given, guilt is branded into and it won’t come out. I’ve prayed Mary and Martha’s prayer, and as it turns out, my Dead Friend wasn’t Lazarus.
In this far from perfect world, there are moments when our humanity is exposed. We’re ashamed of our nakedness, those imperfections that, like freckles on skin or wrinkles at the corners of our eyes, don’t fall into what we think are supposed to look like.
But, you know, that’s not the fucked up part. This is, I think:
If it had all been perfect, if my Dead Friend had been Lazarus afterall, I would have been nothing to the Friend On The Phone. I would have been another number he scrolled past. Another person who just wouldn’t understand. And goddammit, I hate that I have to understand. I hate being the one that my friends call when their grandma dies, or their brother dies, or their cousin’s sister’s hamster’s dog dies (which hasn’t happened yet). But I have to be, don’t I? Because when I scrolled through my own phone book, there were startling few people that I actually felt I could call. And if my Friend On The Phone can call me, then isn’t the world a little bit smaller, and a little bit better? That’s cliche, but please, understand that some cliches are what you need to hear. When they’re from someone who has prayed the Mary and Martha prayer.
It’s all completely irrational, isn’t it? There isn’t anything that is rational. The very idea of rationality is completely irrational. Thank God for red wine and John Denver.
Rocky Mountain High
-John Denver
He was born in the summer of his 27th year
Comin' home to a place he'd never been before
He left yesterday behind him, you might say he was born again
You might say he found a key for every door
When he first came to the mountains his life was far away
On the road and hangin' by a song
But the string's already broken and he doesn't really care
It keeps changin' fast and it don't last for long
But the Colorado rocky mountain high
I've seen it rainin' fire in the sky
The shadow from the starlight is softer than a lullabye
Rocky mountain high
He climbed cathedral mountains, he saw silver clouds below
He saw everything as far as you can see
And they say that he got crazy once and he tried to touch the sun
And he lost a friend but kept his memory
Now he walks in quiet solitude the forest and the streams
Seeking grace in every step he takes
His sight has turned inside himself to try and understand
The serenity of a clear blue mountain lake
And the Colorado rocky mountain high
I've seen it rainin' fire in the sky
You can talk to God and listen to the casual reply
Rocky mountain high
Now his life is full of wonder but his heart still knows some fear
Of a simple thing he cannot comprehend
Why they try to tear the mountains down to bring in a couple more
More people, more scars upon the land
And the Colorado rocky mountain high
I've seen it rainin' fire in the sky
I know he'd be a poorer man if he never saw an eagle fly
Rocky mountain high
It's Colorado rocky mountain high
I've seen it rainin' fire in the sky
Friends around the campfire and everybody's high
Rocky mountain high
Sunday, January 4, 2009
In a Blizzard
Chicago welcomed me back with a blizzard. Instead of going down in a blaze of glory, I came home in a blaze of snow. I kind of felt like a blaze myself. I was a blaze of Molly. As a result, I am now exhausted. Being a blaze of yourself takes a lot out of you. I've been trying not to indulge in the binge eating that I subconsciously will restore all of my burnt out energy.
And now what you've all been waiting for:
Why I'll Never Sit in the Emergency Row Again.
If Chicago missed me enough to welcome me back with a blizzard, New Orleans missed me enough to welcome me back with a rain storm. The day just did not start off right. The day started off a little if-y. I got to the airport with enough time to get checked in, grab a bite to eat and get to my gate. I had taken careful precaution to pack my suitcase so that it was not obviously overweight, since it would cost an additional 40 bucks had it been overweight. I put it on the scale, and there it was, my worst nightmare: 50.5 lbs. A half pound overweight. Thank goodness the girl behind the counter had the presence of mind to adjust the scale, and save me $40 I didn't have to spend.
I got to my gate. And waited. And waited. And waited. I had to reschedule my connecting flight to New Orleans because there was no way I was going to make it. "Is the emergency row ok?" the man behind the ticket counter asked. "Sure, sure, no problem," I answered.
After sitting on the runway for about another hour, we finally made it to Atlanta. My flight to New Orleans was delayed. I ate a cheeseburger and talked to the people waiting next to me. Finally, we were able to start boarding. And then we sat on the runway and waited another hour.
"You realize that you are in the emergency row?" The flight attendant asked. "You are familiar with the procedures and are willing and able to perform the duties required?" After we all agreed, he walked away. No one looked at the flyer. Finally, I couldn't stand it any more. I had to look at the flyer. I never do because I know how to fly. This was my first time in the emergency row. It seemed easy enough. I put my head back, and fell asleep.
Up in the air, the first 45 minutes were smooth sailing. I woke up at snack time and read my book. The turbulence started out gradually, and I was unalarmed. And then it started bobbing so uncontrollably that my stomach started queasing, and I had to put my book down. I watched the plane drop in the front and move from side to side. It felt like a child's play toy that was being jerked from side to side. At any minute, I fully expected the forces that held the craft in the air to disappear.
"It's ok," I told myself. "I read a book about a plane crash in junior high. I've totally got this. I'll be okay. I'll just call 911."
And then, "Oh my God. What if we land in a swamp? Alligators? There's no solid ground. I'm going to be the first one to go." I was breathing hard. I started forming a plan in my head about what to do first. Then I decided that was stupid. I would have to wait and scope out the scenario before I could really formulate the plan. Which stressed me even more. Finally, I just prayed myself through it, and reminded myself, while bolts of lightning flashed next to the window, that the pilot had been trained to deal with situations such as this.
The difference between flying in Europe and flying in America is this: After the plane touches down in Europe, everyone bursts out in applause for the pilot bringing it safely to the ground. In America, everyone immediately whips out their Blackberries with the "what took so long" attitude, and begins to strategize who they can climb over to immediately exit the plane. After a flight like that, the pilot certainly deserved a round of applause. Tests have shown that individuals will rarely go against the crowd, even if they know the crowd was wrong. I am ashamed to admit that I did not initiate a round of applause for that wonderful pilot who made it possible for me to decide that I will never ever sit in the emergency row ever again.
And now what you've all been waiting for:
Why I'll Never Sit in the Emergency Row Again.
If Chicago missed me enough to welcome me back with a blizzard, New Orleans missed me enough to welcome me back with a rain storm. The day just did not start off right. The day started off a little if-y. I got to the airport with enough time to get checked in, grab a bite to eat and get to my gate. I had taken careful precaution to pack my suitcase so that it was not obviously overweight, since it would cost an additional 40 bucks had it been overweight. I put it on the scale, and there it was, my worst nightmare: 50.5 lbs. A half pound overweight. Thank goodness the girl behind the counter had the presence of mind to adjust the scale, and save me $40 I didn't have to spend.
I got to my gate. And waited. And waited. And waited. I had to reschedule my connecting flight to New Orleans because there was no way I was going to make it. "Is the emergency row ok?" the man behind the ticket counter asked. "Sure, sure, no problem," I answered.
After sitting on the runway for about another hour, we finally made it to Atlanta. My flight to New Orleans was delayed. I ate a cheeseburger and talked to the people waiting next to me. Finally, we were able to start boarding. And then we sat on the runway and waited another hour.
"You realize that you are in the emergency row?" The flight attendant asked. "You are familiar with the procedures and are willing and able to perform the duties required?" After we all agreed, he walked away. No one looked at the flyer. Finally, I couldn't stand it any more. I had to look at the flyer. I never do because I know how to fly. This was my first time in the emergency row. It seemed easy enough. I put my head back, and fell asleep.
Up in the air, the first 45 minutes were smooth sailing. I woke up at snack time and read my book. The turbulence started out gradually, and I was unalarmed. And then it started bobbing so uncontrollably that my stomach started queasing, and I had to put my book down. I watched the plane drop in the front and move from side to side. It felt like a child's play toy that was being jerked from side to side. At any minute, I fully expected the forces that held the craft in the air to disappear.
"It's ok," I told myself. "I read a book about a plane crash in junior high. I've totally got this. I'll be okay. I'll just call 911."
And then, "Oh my God. What if we land in a swamp? Alligators? There's no solid ground. I'm going to be the first one to go." I was breathing hard. I started forming a plan in my head about what to do first. Then I decided that was stupid. I would have to wait and scope out the scenario before I could really formulate the plan. Which stressed me even more. Finally, I just prayed myself through it, and reminded myself, while bolts of lightning flashed next to the window, that the pilot had been trained to deal with situations such as this.
The difference between flying in Europe and flying in America is this: After the plane touches down in Europe, everyone bursts out in applause for the pilot bringing it safely to the ground. In America, everyone immediately whips out their Blackberries with the "what took so long" attitude, and begins to strategize who they can climb over to immediately exit the plane. After a flight like that, the pilot certainly deserved a round of applause. Tests have shown that individuals will rarely go against the crowd, even if they know the crowd was wrong. I am ashamed to admit that I did not initiate a round of applause for that wonderful pilot who made it possible for me to decide that I will never ever sit in the emergency row ever again.
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