So... What is This Post Supposed to be About, Exactly?...

I cannot decide. I'll go with variety. 

First- books I need to read.. This is compiled by a) books I got for christmas and b) books people are telling me to read. 

A Lion Among Men (in process)

A Tale of Two Cities

The Neverending Story

The Outlaws of Sherwood

The Unbearable Lightness of Being

The Thief

Feed

Love in the Time of Cholera

Ghostwritten

One Hundred Years of Solitude

The Book of Laughter and Forgetting

The Phantom Tollbooth

Watchmen

Exodus

Kazik

The Dream Stealer

Master and Commander

Post Captain

H.M.S. Surprise

and voila! 

so then... what else to say. apologize to my lack of an audience for having been remiss at updating my blog? I think not. 

perhaps I could recommend books to my 'readers!' haha. 

...

well, my favorites include:

Mortal Engines (part of the Hungry City Chronicles, which one should read all of if only to read the last chapter of the last book, A Darkling Plain). sci-fyi, future. setting is eurasia, approximately. The reason I love these books is because they focus on the characters. the characters and everything they go through are important. the elaborate plot-line is not centered around some uncontrollable factor but around the character's mishaps and actions. perhaps, also, because I LOVE apocalyptic themes. :D

Anything by Gregory Maguire. that was not a book title, I'm talking about the author, here. He wrote Wicked, which, although it was turned in a dark musical with a sickeningly happy ending (still bitter about that one), it is a phenomenal book, and even better are the sequels, "Son of a Witch," and "A Lion Among Men."* *actually, I don't know about that one, as I haven't finished it. so far, it's fab.* Personally, however, my favorite of his is called "Mirror Mirror" which is the wonderfully written account of Snow White, from Maguire's stygian perspective. absolutely entertaining. 

I like other books. I am lazy. List ends here.

...

any other topic? probably. like letters, and the subject of chocolate and/or weight gain and/or pimples. ha. 

I get letters from my friend Kaitlin in South Carolina. she's wonderful at writing letters. we mostly focus on the envelope's, and their various decorations. The things we talk about generally stick to the same subjects: boys, various amusing encounters of the week, and some lyrics to newly obsessed-over songs. Not anything deep or profound, and yet, these letters are often the highlight of my day. 

and chocolate, of which I got TOO MUCH of for christmas. If I start on that, however, it will turn into a rant. I need sleep. 

To Die Would Be An Awfully Big Adventure. Maybe A Little Too Big...

There was a feeling. I felt it each time I passed, sweeping me aside like a powerful, rocky-shored wave on the ocean. A breath of wind that turns abruptly into an awful gale. 

Subtle, and for weeks I never noticed. I walked, and I passed the clear glass window with the gold lettering. I passed the table with fliers and keychains, the people behind desks with pens and computers. I was unaware. I looked on these people as I always had. A little too ordered. A little too scary. Not for me. 

But something had taken hold in me. Every time I went to class, passing that window, that table, I felt it. After awhile, I noticed it, too. The feeling was subtle, and slowly grew until one day all that I knew when I passed the table was the longing and I stopped. My feet no longer functioned. I stared at the table and tried to decipher what had happened. I was not supposed to feel this way. 

I have never been a person who would join the United States Armed Forces. ROTC... Anything. But the table, the window, the bulletin boards, the people hiding behind desks, camouflaged, this is what they represented. I did not understand. I walked on, hurrying, because I could not be a part of this. I was not that person. I never have been. I am not a camouflage type of girl.

...

After I got out of class that day, I called my dad. I told him what I wanted. I wanted to join. I did. I had seen the table once (I mean really seen it), I had not talked to a single person about any program, and I wanted to join. "Why?" He asked me, voice faltering. 

"I don't know..."

I told him about the feeling. The longing. How I did not know what was happening, why I felt when I never had felt before. 

"You are a citizen, now. You feel patriotic. You feel the need to serve your country. It's pride, and it's respect. You feel this patriotic duty pulling on you and you want to follow."

And I think he was right. I wanted to join. I was going to join. This feeling... it was strong enough to stop me in my tracks. 

I ignored it. 

I have plans. 

I cannot dump my future because of a feeling. I cannot afford to be that spontaneous. I will have a family one day, when my future comes. And I know that I am being self-centered. I have been a risk taker, though, and I have to think. 

But I feel that tug, that pull, that pride, every time I walk past the table. And I take a deep breath and ignore it, walk on. And it gets easier to do every time. It gets easier not to open the door and say, "I am ready." 

I do not know if I am ready. Maybe later. 

The Fence

There was a moment today, walking across the bridge between two buildings on campus, when I saw a flower. I was looking down at the alley in-between the buildings on ground level. Trash blows around in the breeze created by the funnel of the buildings. Concrete dominates the ground. It comes as close to an abandoned city as small-town college campus alley's can come. A few cars park in the alley during the day, but mostly the focal point of the negative space between the red brick walls is a dumpster. The large receptacle sits directly behind a high, solid fence, hidden from all eyes but those walking across the bridge, and I have a feeling that most people look the other way.

On the other side of this fence is an entirely different scene. The campus lies in ivy covered glory, each patch of unpaved ground covered in lush grasses, small trees, and flowers. Even directly against the fence there is a small flower garden, and it was this particular place that caught my attention. A strand of bright, green vine crawls up the rough wood of the high fence, and three purple flowers bloom. 

The contrast those three, simply flowers create against the ugliness of the alley makes the entire scene beautiful. It's a cold day and they might not be there tomorrow.

The Full Recycling Bin

As a freshman, I suppose I cannot expect all of my classmates to be interested in the mandatory classes we all have to take. I certainly am not interested in my math class to any degree. There are some classes, however, that I feel people should be taking an interest in. 

Maybe it is simply because I am considering Political Science as my major, but there is a sinking feeling I get every time I step out the door of my American Government class. It is not because I have to go to another, less interesting or meaningful class. And usually, that feeling only comes after I pass the recycling bin. Let me explain.

Our professor made it clear in the first few days of class that he wanted his students to read the newspaper, to be well informed. I had never really took an interest in reading the newspaper before, and after only a few weeks of class, I have begun reading the New York Times daily. Looking or biases in the printed press, or simply reading up on the latest Stock Market drama; it is fun for me. I find these matters interesting. I know that they matter, both to my personal life and my life as an American citizen. 

So here's where I get that sink, that feeling of utter helplessness. Every day as I walked up the stairs to the classroom, I see four or five or my classmates grab the first paper they see, tucking the bulky print under their arms as they race up to the door. Every day as I leave class, I see those same students drop unread newspaper into the nearest recycling bins without a second guilty glance. 

I cannot help but feel angry. These people, who often are just coming into their rights to vote, simply do not care. Forget the dying soldiers in Iraq. Forget the thousands losing their jobs because of our struggling economy. Obama and McCain? Who cares. Let's go to lunch. It makes me sick. 

I do not know what I believe. I have always tried to believe in the good of people. I grew up as a strong democrat, and as I listen to Obama and McCain's policies, and my beliefs become more and more muddled. Who is right? Are either of the candidates really wrong? How am I supposed to know?

I read the newspaper to become informed, as much as I can be. But every other day, watching papers fluttering lifelessly into tall blue bins, I want to scream. I suppose it is not all that bad. They could be throwing the papers into the trash-cans. 

The Scattering of the Leaves

My body is tired. I leave the gym with a sense of accomplishment and hope. Running and sweating to Mika can be helpful to anybody. But it's the feeling I have afterward that really locks my mind in place. 

I am walking slowly, my legs aching slightly, and listening to the very opening of "Any Other World." The piano notes, two alternating at first, and then going into a recognizable tune, play off of the wind scattering the leaves across the sidewalk at my feet. It is a simple moment, but one that stays in my mind for a little while after, bringing me some kind of peace. 

The people walking in the same area, all listening to their own songs with firmly secured headphones, they all stay the course. They walk, undisturbed by the dead, curling leaves tossing about in patterns unrecognizable by human eyes. One girl in-particular stares pointedly at the ground ahead of her, her light pink sweatshirt shrouding her beating heart. 

I stop, maybe only for a moment, less than a second, watching the leaves as they are thrown about. The intro with the piano, before Mika's voice comes in, lasts less than 20 seconds. This feeling lasted maybe twenty milliseconds. This moment. 

It was enough. 

Over 2000 Multi-Colored Balloons (which is similar to the song, but not close enough to be cool)...

As though twenty, fat, latex babies are rubbing up against your legs like cats begging for attention litter the floor around you, these ovarian objects float obnoxiously through the room, following the currents of air. Dancing with large balloons bouncing about at your feet is not the ideal way I would choose to have fun, especially as, after another hour, the balloons are slimy with beer. I could write another post complaining of the idiocy of college students, but that is not really something I want to talk about again, considering I am one of them. 

So onto another topic...

When I sleep in a sort-of half-awake stage, normal happenings seem very strange to me. I have opinions about everything that I hear, though my eyes are not open and my mind is not really on. Sleeping like this, the world seems very warm and cosy; the pillows and blankets surrounding me are dreamlike, and too comfortable to make me want to move at all. My world is an orb of soft, golden light and I am pleasantly resting in the middle of it all. 

Waking up is a  long process, involving several failing attempts paced hours apart and interrupted by roommates coming and going. Eventually, my senses begin to be restored. I breathe deeply and purposefully. My eyes flutter, and my world is still very warm and golden, but sharper now, and more real. As the world begins to slow down, my body begins to wake up and my life moves on once again. And my life moves on once again...

The Shaking House

Remember the vibration: the beat. The floor is slippery from beer or sweat, and shoes slide in screeching patterns. The shivering of the dance floor pulses throughout my entire body, my pelvis trembling with a sensual feeling that only blasted, twenty-first century rap can give me.
Strobe lights overhead accelerates the feeling of complete disorientation, and for a moment I feel as though I am being tortured into senselessness. My eyes try to blink in time to the flickering light and cannot keep up with its fast pace. 
Every once in awhile the lights switch to disco-like colors, or that one would find in a nineties skating rink. Black lights along the walls give an underground sensation, and a slightly scary one. Teeth, when exposed in wide smiles in a dark room under the black light, are very bright. They glow with a terrifying, alien gleam that tends to match equally opaque eyes. Those with contact lenses are especially noticeable.
There is something to said for the closeness of humans in such an environment. Bodies pressed together, elbows and knees slamming into each other, girls in sweaty, silky shirts swaying to the rhythm of the bass-line beat, boys staring in fear or confidence, hands on the hips of his two-minute dancing partner: this seems very primal. 
Stepping into a room full of inebriated minors and dancing wildly to awful rap music (really, who came up with 'bag you like some groceries'? is that art?) for two hours has never been my idea of fun, but; welcome to college. All I can really say is that I'll try to enjoy myself while I can, out in the dark, cool night with my friends; ready to feel that bass again.

My Post-Secret

Following a recent trend I've noticed about a program (if one could really call it that) named Post-Secret, I have decided to reveal something about myself. I tried to think of a meaningful secret. Something relatable to other's lives and hopefully one that has not been mentioned too often yet (I do enjoy trying to be unique). 

So here is my secret: 

All my life, I have generally considered any religious person's to be one of two things. Liars, or severely misguided. 

I want a miracle. I want to be shown the way. I want to be one of those misguided people, because I want that comfort of just knowing. 

Having said that, I'd like to prepose a (mostly) rhetorical question. Why do humans feel the need to be certain about things?

I know it is a comforting feeling, to know for certain, to know exactly what is going to happen, why and where and how and the effect of the cause the the reaction to the action and the place your soul will go when you die and whether or not you even have a soul, but why? Why do we need to be comforted? Why do we need to be loved? It certainly isn't for reasons of reproduction, a creature does not need to love in order to reproduce. So why do we need this? 

If there happen to be any experts browsing the thousands of miles of cyber-space who fall upon this page, I need some answers. I just don't know.

Sun Salutation

Yoga. It is nine on an already warm morning, and I am in a brilliantly colored tie-dye long sleeved shirt and white pants. Movement clothing. The classroom for our once-in-awhile yoga sessions is warmer than the air outside, and the sun shines in cruelly on our un-caffeinated eyes. We pull long, thin yoga mats out and sit, strategically placing ourselves throughout the large room according to whether we want to be noticed or not. I sit in the very front row, to the left of the instructor. I like seeing what I'm doing in the mirror; I'm well aware of my vanity. 

Already, warming up with poses named, it seems, by children, I am hot. My long clothing is stuffy and I know it will get worse, I will become quite uncomfortable. I try to relax. I breathe, inhaling, exhaling at my "own pace." 

My mind is concentrated in the room. I see myself perform the poses, stretching and moving. I notice but try not to pay attention to the others in the room. The instructor keeps my constant attention. And for awhile, this is the exact truth. We reach a series of movements called the Sun Salutation; and I begin to dream. 

I see myself, or perhaps my dream self, dressed in brilliant gold. I am an Indian princess, posed gracefully on a bejeweled elephant, high above the people of the world. I am the sun and they greet me, as I greet them; one yoga position at a time. I am so high I can see the curve of the horizon, proof of the roundness of the world. I gaze in pride at my land, my world. 

I see no global warming. I see only warmth.

I see no wars and bloodshed. I see only peace.

And I see myself in a undulated mirror; my tie-dye shirt fraying at the hem, my hair in a strange and effortless bun. And I see my classmates and the sun shining in. 

I greet the sun. "Sun... Salutations." 

First- Following the Blind Man.

The air is crisp and I can feel goosebumps rise on my limbs. I take each step with purpose, however lethargic I feel at nine in the morning. The concrete path I travel on is smoothly paved; light in color and mostly unbroken. The light yellow sun is hidden behind the grayish-white clouds. A breeze picks up and chills me even further, and I stare at the green and yellow trees around me in an ever-returning awe for the beauty of nature. 

My ears prick up as I hear the erratic click of an animals paws on the pavement. I turn to see a dog leading a man my age, the human's eyes roaming aimlessly and his light brown hair tousled, uncombed. He wears a simple outfit, a green shirt, blue jean shorts and black tennis shoes. Short white socks peek out from the interior of the shoe. The dog, is a deep, glossy, black color. His fur is well-kept and his harness is a leather brown rectangle. I slow down to stare, my mind whirring through all the vast possibilities of how he inherited the condition. Ignorant and thirsty for knowledge as I am, I nearly stop in my tracks watching the two make their way along the left hand edge of the sidewalk. 

The black dog watches every multi-colored person that passes, carefully, noting each movement; and every person that passes watches him as well. Students with  purple and brown and gray hoodies, black and green backpacks, walking in the opposite direction swerve out of the blind man's path as soon as they see him coming. Following a few feet behind and to the side, I watch as well. I record passersby reactions when they realize the man is blind. Most reveal faces of pity, never trying to hide their blatant expressions as they would when watching a person who could see. Some smile gently, as though comforted by the dog's presence in the man's life. Many ignore the very existence of the two, going on their way, purposefully looking everywhere but at the man and his dog. 

In my haste to follow the man, I forget my purpose in walking in the first place. I follow him, watching as the dog leads him through an open door with a bright yellow "Automatic" sign pasted onto it, and as the boy pauses for a moment, hesitantly feeling the space where the door should be when closed. I follow through the dark hallway, the gray-blue carpet dull in the dim lighting, students rushing to class and jerking out of his way in their hurry. I follow him up the stairs, watching at the dog leads the man first to the rail with chipped blue paint, then up, to the rail and up. We reach the second floor and I realize I have followed the two into the wrong building. I begin walking the way I need to go to get to the correct one, I can use a sturdy red bridge between the two, and realize with a shock of upmost joy; he is going the same way. 

I try not to think about whether or not he would be offended by my curiosity. I try to watch him with only the curiosity of a child, knowing I should know better and stop following him on his way. I watch his feet, clumsy in their movements on the steps. I watch his hands as they grope for the door handles, opening each door quickly, letting his dog lead him dutifully through.

I make it to class. I concentrate on my test. I forget about the blind man. I remember this though, the colors are bright for me. I live in a world of possibilities.