I Would Walk Some Number of Miles

The trip from my hometown to my college town is a long one when driving all alone. It takes more than two and a half hours and, for a girl who's never driven that far on her own before, is extremely tedious. There were too few starry bright spots throughout the trip.

There was one, however, that sticks to my mind incessantly, though I drove here almost two weeks ago. It happened during the final leg of the journey, and I was sorely tempted to turn around and take a picture, but I didn't. I will resort to describing it through the medium of feeble words. 

First, the sky. The sky was dark. A purply, blue color, the color of an immense storm from which you cannot escape. The way the world would look always if we lived in the sea. The color of the night sky lit up by spotlights. It was huge, clouds high in the atmosphere, and towering, crawling toward the highway menacingly. A kind of storm you knew would have low thunder and the kind of lightning that is shrouded by others clouds, so you never see the line of light, only the clouds lit up subsequently. The sky takes up most of the world, here. 

Next, the land. This is farmland Missouri. Smalls hills of course grasses and tall, barley-colored stalks of something not quite wheat. It is mid-winter and the world is windy and bleak. The wind on the plains is harsh and ever-lasting, nothing to stop it or slow it down. The grass sways violently, then gently, beautiful no matter what. 

And there in the midst of all that is a large, old, gray sewer pipe, spilling out near the road. The water in its basin is still and not any specific color. The wind does not reach it because the land dips here and cups the water in a cache of soft earth and solid concrete. The grass is green. 

And there are birds. Not more than thirty, if my memory is correct. White, small (at least from where I was looking), and frenzied. They dove gracefully into the water, pecking at some small, uncatchable specimen there, taking turns of two or three at a time. They seemed to be dancing on the air, letting their bodies plummet toward the earth and arching back up in cursive motions. They were smooth and fluid, wonderfully living. If standing closer, one might have seem the fevered way in which they fought for whatever was down there in the water, but from a distance, in a silent car, the scene is beautiful beyond measure. 

And then it was past. And I thought about turning around. But what picture can do that justice? None that I could take. I drove on. 

Whether the Weather is Normal or Not

Leaves swirling. Rustling, the rattling of bones or dead flora. Curling limbs of thin, paper skin. Leaves swirling.
Sky purple. Colors bleeding into one another, a painter's paradise. The world a snow globe of cloud and sunset. Sky purple.
Wind crying. A kind of animal, primal, lovely sound, whispering in the ears of people. Plastic bags rolling in parking lots. Wind crying.
Air cool. Jacket weather that is appreciated only by those who have recently dealt with extreme's of heat or cold. Air cool.
Halloween weather. This is how I would describe it. Creepy and hauntingly beautiful. Variations in the day, strange images caught in the mind. That was today, and today is January ninth, 2009. And this... is this normal? I can't help but wonder.
I don't know much about science, or climate change, global warming. I've read a book, watched a movie, and beyond that have no interest. I do a bad job of being 'green.' I am politically conscious about a few things, but, like most people, I don't have motivation to care much beyond that. I'm a little ashamed to admit it.
There are, however, moments in my life that make me want to take action. After I finished "Field Notes from a Catastrophe" by Elizabeth Kolbert, for instance, I was ready to write letters and protest in the streets. I'm not much of a risk taker, however, and I let these feelings pass most times without much change in routine. I am slowly beginning to take more action, now. I see the world and its idiosyncrasies and I realize that things are changing, that things are wrong. I recycle more and more, and I think about this problem, and I try to think of what I can do.
And I think that must be normal. People cannot be expected to change so drastically and so suddenly as all the scientists are saying we must. The world, and by that I mean the human population within, must be given leeway time. This, of course, leaves for procrastination in humans unwilling to let go of old traditions, and really, there will be cycles beginning there that will not go well for the earth.
I watch the purple sky, leaves swirling at my feet, wind crying in my ears, air cool on my skin. I know something needs to be done to help our world and ourselves. I just don't know what it is, exactly. For now, I can try to appreciate the beauty in my life, and slowly integrate the new ways of the world into my old routines.

On Death and Holidays

Emotional Range. That shock and sadness when you recognize the reality of the situation. The headache you get from crying so much that your sinuses swell as though you're three days sick. The denial and denial and denial you feel. The way you expect to see them as you walk around the corner, in their usual spot, and happy. 

This December and two days into January, two people close to me have died. My mom's best friend, my aunt, my second-mother, Lauren. My dog, my puppy, my Buddy. Death is not something to which I am accustomed. Pets have died before. Dogs and cats, and usually that's okay. People are something different. People you do not expect to die at fifty. People you do not expect to die. 

And Lauren was healthy. Bike-riding, wine-tasting, cooking, laughing, loving Lauren. Bright colors and dreams Lauren. Animals and pictures Lauren. Caring mother and cursing friend Lauren. She was alive. Healthy and alive. 

And then she wasn't. And that was unexpected. For me, the process was surreal. I was gone, at college, when she went to the hospital. I was gone when she died. I was gone when her kids cried and needed more comfort than anyone could give. I was gone when her mother tried to believe in a miracle that everyone knew would never come. It was all described to me, in phone calls and emails. Everything real, everything not. 

I came home, with a bit of first-semester-of-college-finished glow, but mostly wet-eyed and in denial. Still. I was incapable of believing it had happened. For me, it hadn't. I wasn't sure what to do about that. The only bit of closure I could grasp was at the service they held for her. Friends and family, slideshows and speeches, and a goddamn ton of tears. 

Sometime after that, I went to their house. Tim and Lauren. The couple. That was how they were referred to; Tim and Lauren. 'We're going to Tim and Lauren's house.' Now, just Tim. 'We're going to Tim's house.' Whenever my mom said it like that, I was screaming on the inside. Wishing she could still say that second, precious name. Wishing we could hold on to that past. Knowing that we couldn't. It was Tim's house now. Tim and the kids and a few remaining memories. Ashes and sand and brightly colored bangles. 

...

It was different when Buddy died. The second I saw him, home from college over Thanksgiving break and again for Christmas, I knew the end was coming. It was expected. And that's easier, and harder. 

Easier because you can try to mentally prepare yourself, harder because that is impossible to do. Easier because the denial comes beforehand, harder because it still comes afterward. 

That denial. Tough feeling to understand. As though any feeling is easy. Denial that he's stopped breathing, even as he's in your arms. Denial that his eyes don't see you and his ears are not moving of their own, happy accord. Denial that he can't feel your tears, that he won't get up in a moment or two and lick them from your face. 

Realization. The moment when you walk around the corner from the kitchen to the living room and you expect to see him there. And he's not. And, of course, you know why, but... why not? Where is he? My puppy. 

We always called him that. Puppy. He never was a puppy with us, we got him two years into his life. But he was young, and wonderful, and happy. Mr. Buddy. He was alive. Soft and reddish-gold and handsome. Constantly ignoring the constant affection of Nina, one of our cats. She loved him. 

My holiday season. 

Good gifts, family time, friends with problems of their own. Death and sorrow, joy and laughter. Lots of emotional range. 

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.