This whole blogging thing is pretty addicting.
I'm feeling good today. I think it's cause I worked out and haven't been eating crap all day. Imagine that. I need to start treating my body better. Making time for myself, going to yoga more regularly, it's really insane how much better I feel, mentally and physically and emotionally. It's easy to let yourself go and forget to do these things.
I'm craving simplicity today. I don't want anything to be complicated, I want all feelings to be told straight out, I don't want to have to play games, and guess. Games have lost all appeal: tell me plainly what you want me to know. This is a resolution for me. I will not go out of my way any longer, I'm honestly waiting for something to fall into my lap. Maybe this is unrealistic of me, but I feel like I've been let down recently. Maybe it's also unrealistic to think that I can stop myself from wondering, guessing, worrying, hoping. That hoping part gets me every time.
Lately I've been dreading going to sleep every night. I haven't been able to sleep soundly for a while. I wake up sometimes and my whole body is tense.
I forget people read these posts sometimes.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Monday, September 7, 2009
I'm going to stop being angsty for two seconds
Yesterday was my 21st birthday, and my friends came through. I felt really really special. I ordered a margarita at Cafe Ole, and of course the server didn't ask to see my ID, so I showed it to him anyway. Jayme had made me a cake, and everyone sang to me, and it was marvelous. I thought that would be it, but we went back to campus and all my friends surprised me. Best birthday ever.
I am so, so lucky.
I have a ridiculous amount of cake in my apartment.
I am so, so lucky.
I have a ridiculous amount of cake in my apartment.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
I'm about to head home for the day or so. I feel like I really need a night at home right now.
I woke up this morning terrified of how fast my life is going by. I just lay there in my bed for a couple of minutes and wanted to curl into a ball, and have the ability to control the passage of time. I turn 21 tomorrow. I just worry that I'm not doing enough. Sometimes my life scares me. I don't want to be 21 yet. I don't know why I can't just enjoy my birthday, it always makes me sort of sad.
There's also something about the fall that makes my heart ache, I can't put my finger on it. It makes me want to be all the ages I've ever been at once: I want to be a college freshman again, with all the possibility ahead, around people who have the same sense of possibility, having my first drink. I want to be seven years old again, on the first day of school, with a lunchbox that smells like new plastic. I want to be in high school again, if you can believe it, waiting and waiting for the bell to ring so I can step on leaves on the way to my car. I want to be in seventh grade again, during recess when it was just starting to feel good outside, when the dust smell rising up from the field was a little less because, finally, it was less hot. I want to be in fourth grade, planning a haunted house and swimming in the pool for the last time, when the air was colder than the water.
I woke up this morning terrified of how fast my life is going by. I just lay there in my bed for a couple of minutes and wanted to curl into a ball, and have the ability to control the passage of time. I turn 21 tomorrow. I just worry that I'm not doing enough. Sometimes my life scares me. I don't want to be 21 yet. I don't know why I can't just enjoy my birthday, it always makes me sort of sad.
There's also something about the fall that makes my heart ache, I can't put my finger on it. It makes me want to be all the ages I've ever been at once: I want to be a college freshman again, with all the possibility ahead, around people who have the same sense of possibility, having my first drink. I want to be seven years old again, on the first day of school, with a lunchbox that smells like new plastic. I want to be in high school again, if you can believe it, waiting and waiting for the bell to ring so I can step on leaves on the way to my car. I want to be in seventh grade again, during recess when it was just starting to feel good outside, when the dust smell rising up from the field was a little less because, finally, it was less hot. I want to be in fourth grade, planning a haunted house and swimming in the pool for the last time, when the air was colder than the water.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Some Things
Some Things I'm Bad At:
1. Filling out forms.
2. Returning forms on time.
3. Keeping up with my bank account.
4. Untying knots.
5. Math.
6. Memorization
7. Remembering dates and times.
8. Multitasking
9. Planning.
10. Any kid of video/computer games.
1. Filling out forms.
2. Returning forms on time.
3. Keeping up with my bank account.
4. Untying knots.
5. Math.
6. Memorization
7. Remembering dates and times.
8. Multitasking
9. Planning.
10. Any kid of video/computer games.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
"And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.”
-Sylvia Plath
At the risk of sounding too inspirational, I think this quote can apply to a lot of different things. Everything in life is doable if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to anything is self-doubt. I know I need to be reminded of this daily.
Also, I love Sylvia Plath. I want to be her, minus the depression and suicide.
And Ted Hughes cheating on her.
Everything else, I'll take. Especially her poetry. Or prose.
Anyway, I think that writing, like anything else, is all about striking a balance between confidence and criticism. You have to have both--confidence especially helps me start anything, and then criticism helps me keep it in check. It's easy to spot people who have an excess of one and too little of another. People who don't know how to edit have too much confidence, and people who edit and question themselves too much have too little confidence.
-Sylvia Plath
At the risk of sounding too inspirational, I think this quote can apply to a lot of different things. Everything in life is doable if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to anything is self-doubt. I know I need to be reminded of this daily.
Also, I love Sylvia Plath. I want to be her, minus the depression and suicide.
And Ted Hughes cheating on her.
Everything else, I'll take. Especially her poetry. Or prose.
Anyway, I think that writing, like anything else, is all about striking a balance between confidence and criticism. You have to have both--confidence especially helps me start anything, and then criticism helps me keep it in check. It's easy to spot people who have an excess of one and too little of another. People who don't know how to edit have too much confidence, and people who edit and question themselves too much have too little confidence.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
What the Water Feels Like to the Fishes
The Guardian, Saturday 8 July 2005
by Dave Eggers
Like the fur of a chinchilla. Like the cleanest tooth. Yes, the fishes say, this is what it feels like. People always ask the fishes, 'What does the water feel like to you?' and the fishes are always happy to oblige. Like feathers are to other feathers, they say. Like powder touching ash. We smile and nod. When the fishes tell us these things, we begin to understand. We begin to think we know what the water feels like to the fishes. But it's not always like fur and ash and the cleanest tooth. At night, they say, the water can be different. At night, when it's very cold, it can be like the tongue of a cat. At night, when it's very very cold, it's like cracked glass. Or honey. Or forgiveness, they say, ha ha. When the fishes answer these questions - which they are happy to do - they also ask why. They are curious things, fish are, and thus they ask, 'Why? Why do you want to know what the water feels like to the fishes?' And we are never quite sure. The fishes press further. 'Do you breathe air?' they ask. The answer is yes. Well then, they say, 'What does the air feel like to you?' And we do not know. We think of air and we think of wind, but that's another thing. Wind is air in action, air on the move, and the fishes know this. Well then, they ask again, 'What does the air feel like?' And we have to think about this. Air feels like air, we say, and the fishes laugh mirthlessly. 'Think!' they say. 'Think,' they say, now gentler. And we think and we guess that air feels like hair, thousands of hairs, swaying ever so slightly in breezes microscopic. The fishes laugh again. 'Do better, think harder,' they say, encouraging us. It feels like language, we say, and they are impressed. 'Keep going,' they say. It feels like blood, we say, and they say, 'No, no, now you're getting colder.' The air is like being wanted, we say, and they nod approvingly. The air is like being pushed and pulled and yanked, punched and slapped and misunderstood and loved, we say, and the fishes sigh and touch our forearm sympathetically.
by Dave Eggers
Like the fur of a chinchilla. Like the cleanest tooth. Yes, the fishes say, this is what it feels like. People always ask the fishes, 'What does the water feel like to you?' and the fishes are always happy to oblige. Like feathers are to other feathers, they say. Like powder touching ash. We smile and nod. When the fishes tell us these things, we begin to understand. We begin to think we know what the water feels like to the fishes. But it's not always like fur and ash and the cleanest tooth. At night, they say, the water can be different. At night, when it's very cold, it can be like the tongue of a cat. At night, when it's very very cold, it's like cracked glass. Or honey. Or forgiveness, they say, ha ha. When the fishes answer these questions - which they are happy to do - they also ask why. They are curious things, fish are, and thus they ask, 'Why? Why do you want to know what the water feels like to the fishes?' And we are never quite sure. The fishes press further. 'Do you breathe air?' they ask. The answer is yes. Well then, they say, 'What does the air feel like to you?' And we do not know. We think of air and we think of wind, but that's another thing. Wind is air in action, air on the move, and the fishes know this. Well then, they ask again, 'What does the air feel like?' And we have to think about this. Air feels like air, we say, and the fishes laugh mirthlessly. 'Think!' they say. 'Think,' they say, now gentler. And we think and we guess that air feels like hair, thousands of hairs, swaying ever so slightly in breezes microscopic. The fishes laugh again. 'Do better, think harder,' they say, encouraging us. It feels like language, we say, and they are impressed. 'Keep going,' they say. It feels like blood, we say, and they say, 'No, no, now you're getting colder.' The air is like being wanted, we say, and they nod approvingly. The air is like being pushed and pulled and yanked, punched and slapped and misunderstood and loved, we say, and the fishes sigh and touch our forearm sympathetically.
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