Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Some Little Things And One Very Important Thing
I woke up this morning and felt as if I had gotten enough sleep.
I went through the day fully caffeinated.
I want you to watch this video. 30 minutes is all it takes. It is very, very important. It will change lives. Help these children. Help the world.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y4MnpzG5Sqc
That'll be all.
I went through the day fully caffeinated.
I want you to watch this video. 30 minutes is all it takes. It is very, very important. It will change lives. Help these children. Help the world.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y4MnpzG5Sqc
That'll be all.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Poetry In The Morning
I do a lot of writing. I know that's fairly obvious because you are currently reading my blog which I use to post some things I have written and have deemed acceptable for viewing. But it's true. I love to write.
I love the swirl and swing of words as they tangle with human emotions.
I don't know who said that, but it perfectly describes my feelings on the subject. Words have a graceful feel to them. Like a head of long and curly hair, they are a tangled, swinging mess of grown out hopes. (Side note: I would give anything for some nice curls.)
I filled one pretty little notebook with some poems my eighth grade year, and since then that notebook is nowhere to be found. I grieve a little for it- that was the year that I embraced my need to write, and some of what I wrote was good. The words came easier to me then. Freshman year I struggled with everything; even the simple act of putting pencil to paper was a battle.
This year is different. Poetry is becoming more than just a little nighttime free-writing deal. I am slamming. Well, I'm going to try it. A group of us at school have started meeting Monday and Thursday mornings to draft, prompt, perform, and discuss poetry that could be used for a citywide slam in April. We're coached by a cheery and lovely and oh-so-talented poet who is super excited about working with us and keeps bringing in more cheery and lovely and oh-so-talented poets. She's the best. I like her a lot.
These meetings color my entire day. Something about sharing my words with others and listening to theirs gets my adrenaline pumping, carrying me through to the final bell.
I'm going to a workshop on Saturday afternoon, and I might stop by open mic that night.
Poetry is magic and words are love.
I love the swirl and swing of words as they tangle with human emotions.
I don't know who said that, but it perfectly describes my feelings on the subject. Words have a graceful feel to them. Like a head of long and curly hair, they are a tangled, swinging mess of grown out hopes. (Side note: I would give anything for some nice curls.)
I filled one pretty little notebook with some poems my eighth grade year, and since then that notebook is nowhere to be found. I grieve a little for it- that was the year that I embraced my need to write, and some of what I wrote was good. The words came easier to me then. Freshman year I struggled with everything; even the simple act of putting pencil to paper was a battle.
This year is different. Poetry is becoming more than just a little nighttime free-writing deal. I am slamming. Well, I'm going to try it. A group of us at school have started meeting Monday and Thursday mornings to draft, prompt, perform, and discuss poetry that could be used for a citywide slam in April. We're coached by a cheery and lovely and oh-so-talented poet who is super excited about working with us and keeps bringing in more cheery and lovely and oh-so-talented poets. She's the best. I like her a lot.
These meetings color my entire day. Something about sharing my words with others and listening to theirs gets my adrenaline pumping, carrying me through to the final bell.
I'm going to a workshop on Saturday afternoon, and I might stop by open mic that night.
Poetry is magic and words are love.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Lonely Girl
I’ve always thought that I've been so fiercely independent my entire life. That I live in my own little world where no one has the right to tell me what to wear or how to live or what to say and how to say it. I take care of myself. I am the guardian of my emotions. I am my own keeper. I need no one else.
Maybe I deluded myself into thinking I was invincible. If that’s the case, then the illusion is up. I find myself clinging tighter to the relationships I have not yet ruined, holding with a vice grip to the ones I’ve come to love so deeply, so dearly that it hurts. I will not let them go. They’ve taught me how to love people in ways I never knew; from them I have gained friendships so deep and beautiful that it’s hard to imagine living without them.
With that learning to love comes an irrepressible desire to be loved. I want someone to dance with me, to trace my freckles. Yes, I want those things.
But I need to be held. Just rocked to sleep and kept away from the world. Despite all my attempts to convince myself of my strength, I crave feeling breakable. My greatest wish is for someone to recognize that no matter the front I put up, I am not always strong.
It disgusts me to feel this way, to have this overwhelming need to be taken care of. But we all need to feel fragile sometimes, I think.
Maybe I deluded myself into thinking I was invincible. If that’s the case, then the illusion is up. I find myself clinging tighter to the relationships I have not yet ruined, holding with a vice grip to the ones I’ve come to love so deeply, so dearly that it hurts. I will not let them go. They’ve taught me how to love people in ways I never knew; from them I have gained friendships so deep and beautiful that it’s hard to imagine living without them.
With that learning to love comes an irrepressible desire to be loved. I want someone to dance with me, to trace my freckles. Yes, I want those things.
But I need to be held. Just rocked to sleep and kept away from the world. Despite all my attempts to convince myself of my strength, I crave feeling breakable. My greatest wish is for someone to recognize that no matter the front I put up, I am not always strong.
It disgusts me to feel this way, to have this overwhelming need to be taken care of. But we all need to feel fragile sometimes, I think.
No Lohan
Saturday, March 3
I am kind of disgusted with my lack of productivity today.
I didn't leave my house, I didn't do homework, I didn't do anything exercise-related, I pretty much sat and slept and let my three million dogs out and in.
FG came over, though, bringing along a sassy new haircut and one Big Funny Kid. It was nice. I haven't seen either of them in what feels like forever. BFK had just come from a speech tournament in some sort of Children of the Corn town about an hour and a half away. We talked, we laughed, we ate. Some of us made inappropriate jokes. Such is life when these two come to visit.
I was so prepared for Saturday Night Live last night. I made my little bowl of ice cream and my little bit of chocolate sauce and sat down only ten minutes before it started. You have no idea how excited I was to see what they'd do with Lindsay Lohan as host. I turned all the ideas around in my mind until there were only two minutes left to wait.
And then...the power went out.
It wasn't just a blown fuse. All of the power on the whole block and the block north of ours went as well. I was not thrilled. I went to bed.
Some Saturdays don't go according to plan.
I am kind of disgusted with my lack of productivity today.
I didn't leave my house, I didn't do homework, I didn't do anything exercise-related, I pretty much sat and slept and let my three million dogs out and in.
FG came over, though, bringing along a sassy new haircut and one Big Funny Kid. It was nice. I haven't seen either of them in what feels like forever. BFK had just come from a speech tournament in some sort of Children of the Corn town about an hour and a half away. We talked, we laughed, we ate. Some of us made inappropriate jokes. Such is life when these two come to visit.
I was so prepared for Saturday Night Live last night. I made my little bowl of ice cream and my little bit of chocolate sauce and sat down only ten minutes before it started. You have no idea how excited I was to see what they'd do with Lindsay Lohan as host. I turned all the ideas around in my mind until there were only two minutes left to wait.
And then...the power went out.
It wasn't just a blown fuse. All of the power on the whole block and the block north of ours went as well. I was not thrilled. I went to bed.
Some Saturdays don't go according to plan.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
What My Father Doesn't Say
Tonight I finally got to watch Father Steinbecker onstage and in his element. He was playing a blind and very drunk Irishman. I've seen this particular play four times now, the first three times being four years ago when he played the same role. This is a revival. And good lord, is it great. I'm going to gush about him now.
The stage is his tool, and he is an expert craftsman. Sorry, that last sentence sounds a bit stuffy and pompous, but it is the honest-to-goodness truth. He is the best. I am in awe every time I see him onstage. His acting actually makes me emotional. I don't cry or anything-I rarely cry in the theatre-but when I watch my father act I get an overwhelming feeling of "oh wow, that is beautiful." Yes, he's my dad and I love him, but I also respect him as an actor.
What I find the most interesting about going to the theatre to watch my father perform is his biography in the program. I have learned more about his educational and professional backgrounds by piecing together information from various playbills than I have from actually talking to him. This isn't because he is inclined to keep his past a secret, it's just because we never talk about that. Mostly we exchange cynical comments about the state of the nation. Honestly, I think we need to host our own talk show.
I'm going to have my father as a teacher next year. I will be in his American Literature Honors class. The curriculum is going to be tough, but that is not what I am concerned about at this point. I am worried as to what he will say (or refrain from saying) when I am in his classroom. The juniors taking his class right now tell me that he says the most profound things and gives the greatest life advice. They've provided examples that shake me.
"At one point or another in your life, you will fall in love with someone who cannot love you back."
"We continually return to the places, the people, that hurt us the most. I suppose you could say we haunt them."
I worry that I am not ready to hear these words come out of my father's mouth. They are words of pain that I am sure have a story to them. But whatever the story is, I will never know it.
After all, that is not the kind of thing you publish in a playbill.
My father is a good man. He is a talented, literary, educated, well-dressed man. He is a man who understands. He is a man who does not say everything, but he is a man who does not lie.
My father is an actor.
The stage is his tool, and he is an expert craftsman. Sorry, that last sentence sounds a bit stuffy and pompous, but it is the honest-to-goodness truth. He is the best. I am in awe every time I see him onstage. His acting actually makes me emotional. I don't cry or anything-I rarely cry in the theatre-but when I watch my father act I get an overwhelming feeling of "oh wow, that is beautiful." Yes, he's my dad and I love him, but I also respect him as an actor.
What I find the most interesting about going to the theatre to watch my father perform is his biography in the program. I have learned more about his educational and professional backgrounds by piecing together information from various playbills than I have from actually talking to him. This isn't because he is inclined to keep his past a secret, it's just because we never talk about that. Mostly we exchange cynical comments about the state of the nation. Honestly, I think we need to host our own talk show.
I'm going to have my father as a teacher next year. I will be in his American Literature Honors class. The curriculum is going to be tough, but that is not what I am concerned about at this point. I am worried as to what he will say (or refrain from saying) when I am in his classroom. The juniors taking his class right now tell me that he says the most profound things and gives the greatest life advice. They've provided examples that shake me.
"At one point or another in your life, you will fall in love with someone who cannot love you back."
"We continually return to the places, the people, that hurt us the most. I suppose you could say we haunt them."
I worry that I am not ready to hear these words come out of my father's mouth. They are words of pain that I am sure have a story to them. But whatever the story is, I will never know it.
After all, that is not the kind of thing you publish in a playbill.
My father is a good man. He is a talented, literary, educated, well-dressed man. He is a man who understands. He is a man who does not say everything, but he is a man who does not lie.
My father is an actor.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Friday Eve
This is another Thursday Hatred Post. I'm pretty sure I've got quite a few of them on this blog. Oh well. Bear with me.
Thursdays suck for a variety of reasons. I have eighty minutes each of my four most challenging and/or demanding classes. My morning consists of trying to stay afloat in Chemistry and attempting to wrap my head around Inverse Trig Functions in PreCalc. Interestingly enough, I completely adore everything about Trigonometry save for the inverse functions. Those are stupid, and unfortunately for me I've been stuck with them for two weeks.
Thursday drags. It is the slovenly twenty-something wearing a stained white T-shirt, playing Pokemon in his mother's wood-paneled basement that he keeps full of empty beer cans and napkins covered in pizza grease. I apologize for what could be seen as mildly disturbing imagery, but that's honestly what comes to mind. My head is funny.
Thursdays, however, are decidedly not funny.
Thursdays suck for a variety of reasons. I have eighty minutes each of my four most challenging and/or demanding classes. My morning consists of trying to stay afloat in Chemistry and attempting to wrap my head around Inverse Trig Functions in PreCalc. Interestingly enough, I completely adore everything about Trigonometry save for the inverse functions. Those are stupid, and unfortunately for me I've been stuck with them for two weeks.
Thursday drags. It is the slovenly twenty-something wearing a stained white T-shirt, playing Pokemon in his mother's wood-paneled basement that he keeps full of empty beer cans and napkins covered in pizza grease. I apologize for what could be seen as mildly disturbing imagery, but that's honestly what comes to mind. My head is funny.
Thursdays, however, are decidedly not funny.
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