The day after the unofficial first day of summer
I find it hard to write about anything anymore because I fear that the people I would write about are the same people who would read my stories. I would change theirs names, but they would still know, and then they would ask why, when I felt however I felt, hadn’t I said anything about it. Not to mention, why would I bother changing their names anyway. So, instead I’ll write about Dennis Hopper. He died today.
Earlier, I was listening to a radio broadcast of an interview with him. He explained that there are a million ways to say Hello, how are you?, that there’s not just this one way that you decide on in a room somewhere. Why would you decide that in a room somewhere. Being in a room makes me think about my obligations to the world. Rooms make me feel the need to prepare for people and things and play out scenarios in my head and iron clothes for the next day. I thought back to a conversation I had with an exboyfriend who explained a temporary moment of clarity he had during a high: What if we had no walls? Then we would have no rooms…
Cabin Fever
It started last Tuesday with a twinge in my throat. Something I recognized, but thought I might be imagining. Then came the forecast for snow showers that same night. Groundhog Day.
I skipped my evening class, went straight home so I wouldn’t get stuck in the snow. I fell asleep watching Groundhog Day and woke up wishing I didn’t have to get up and start a new day. Since then it’s been a blur of half-days, cancellations, sleeping in, and a constantly runny nose. I’ve begun to wonder if I’m sick because I’m stuck at home or if I’m stuck at home because I’m sick. Either way, I’ve had more than enough time to sit and think.
A few days ago (after blizzard number one), I was trying to dig my mom’s car out of knee-deep snow. I just couldn’t see the end to the shoveling, and even if I could manage to lift shovel-full after shovel-full of snow, where could I even put it? I looked to my mom for motivation, but realized I just needed to shut my eyes, just needed to keep shoveling and stop worrying about the end.
Today I asked Kelsey, what do you do when you have trouble picturing the future?
Dwell on the past is what she said.
I’ve been talking with an old friend, Stephan more than ever. He’s reminded me of my old self, one that hasn’t gotten so caught up in my to-do lists and preparations. In his world there is always time. I miss him, and being a part of that world.
I’ve been trying to find a way to recreate the contentment I felt last year, only here and now. There was something, or more often someone to look forward to every weekend. I took comfort in waking up every morning with someone elses list of things to do and knowing that when I crossed everything off, I hadn’t a care in the world. I knew that every night the house would be filled with warmth and noise and family as everyone came home. I knew that I would be cared for just as I cared for them, and that I would never be alone.
Then came last summer, a time when I just struggled to keep my head above water. I spent every night preparing for the next day and every moment thinking about theories and planning a life as a teacher. Now, eight months in, I imagine that I might be a lot happier if I started taking one day at a time again. Stop planning, stop dwelling, just be, right here, right now. I will figure out the future when it happens.
Now, as the snow buries me in again, I just hope that when the time comes to dig myself out, I won’t see my shadow.
Waste of Paint
It’s been awhile since I’ve had much to say, but right now I’m sitting home alone in my pajamas, protesting the rain and cold outside.
My mom went somewhere with a friend, so I turned the heat up higher than she agrees to pay for. She’s probably reading this.
I’m knee deep in Art & Activities magazines, trying to remember how I ended up here, home, writing lesson plans when I actually just want to read this really old copy my grandma gave me of A.A. Milne’s Winnie the Pooh which is sitting on the table next to me. I was listening to Julie Andrews read “The King’s Breakfast” on some radio show, and it just sounded so lovely in a British accent. Anyway, I get this urge to listen to Bright Eyes, specifically “Waste of Paint”. It’s been awhile since I’ve listened to Bright Eyes, mainly because I remember a friend telling me once that “you can only listen to that stuff if you’re really messed up too” (like Connor?). I don’t know if that’s true, but I guess I don’t like to think of myself as messed up. So I’m listening anyway and thinking about that awful landscape that I started last summer and never finished because it was so bad. Actually I haven’t painted since. It’s tucked in a corner of the basement (after spending a few months hiding in the truck of my car).
Then, he sang this line and it stuck with me for a minute: “Will my number come up eventually? Like Love’s some kind of lottery, where you scratch and see what’s underneath. It’s “Sorry”, just one cherry, or “Play Again.” Get lucky.” I’m reminded of last Friday at the MAEA conference lunch. They were raffling all of these cool prizes that I wasn’t winning. Then, the very last prize was presented: “a bag of goodies”. “More like a bag of trash” I muttered under my breath. Instantly, I knew I’d regret saying that, imagining them calling my number. I’d give a fake crooked smile and claim my goodies. Then they did, but it didn’t happen at all like a imagined. Actually it was exhilarating just to win. That doesn’t change the fact that I won a bag of trash though.
Is it just me? Doesn’t it seem like we’re never handed something we want? Does nothing come easy? Is chance truly kind to those who come prepared?
unconditional love
Yesterday I had a staring match with my cat.
At first I thought he wanted me to pet him, but I didn’t want to. When I didn’t reach out, he just kept staring back. We just looked straight into each others eyes for about a minute before he decided to lay down at my feet. I found myself filled with love, even if only for that moment. This kind of interaction probably sounds familiar to anyone who has a pet, and I hope that everyone experiences this plain, altruistic connection to another living being at least once in their lives.
I just that can’t stop thinking about this article I read in the August 2009 edition of Oprah Magazine. In her article, “The Praise Drug,” contributor Martha Beck discusses praise addictions, centering ones life around arousing positive feedback from others. She tells the story of one woman who attempts to give up her praise addiction. In a moment of weakness, the woman looks to her cat to leap into her arms in comfort. Instead, the cat just looks at her. In that moment, the woman felt, for the first time in her life, actual love. The cat didn’t need her, but accepted her absolutely.
It was kind of the same with me and Alex yesterday. Maybe he was looking for praise, and maybe I was looking for it too, but instead, we both just locked eyes. To feel connected so deeply with just one other living thing is, I don’t know? Comforting.
The Zoo
Yesterday I went to the Catoctin Wildlife Preserve and Zoo. I kind of just wanted to see the animals, but also I thought it would be a good opportunity to do some sketching. Lately, my interest in graphic novels has made me want to try drawing comics. This isn’t my usual style because I’m not very good at making “funny” drawings.
Well, this day was no different. I guess I had problems because the only animals who showed any sort of character moved around too much for me to get a good sketch. For instance, there was this alligator monitor who looked like he was swimming against the glass while a zoo keeper tried to clean the glass from the other side. It was actually quite comical because the monitor fell off his log and flipped over backwards more than once while I was standing there.
I guess what is more interesting about my trip though is how much I guess I stood out among the dozens of stroller pushing mommies. While I was standing there trying to sketch this silly alligator monitor, the zoo keeper was surprised to see me sketching. He asked me some questions, and said that if I came up with anything, I should come back, that they would love to see it. He told me that so many people come in with their digital cameras these day, but he never sees people sketching anymore. I’ll be honest, I did try taking a few photos with my phone of those animals who squirmed and bounced around too fast to draw, but when I looked at the image, all I saw was the cage, not the animal. I know that these places are made to keep animals around that would otherwise be killed in the wild, but some of there cages were just so concrete-y, and some of the animals just looked so bored. I do think that zoos are generally good places, but when I see certain animals just staring at me like they’re waiting for something, I really question the whole concept of “preserving” animals like this.
a painter’s perspective
I spent most of the day painting, trying to finish the dining room and kitchen. We started yesterday (my mom and I), but today I was one my own. It was a nice way to spend the first day of my week off, but of course it got me thinking. Closed in my house, alone, listening to music, glancing out the window between strokes, I realized I could be anywhere in world…just painting my kitchen. For whatever reason, I imagined myself in France. Then, another thought. Sure I could be painting a room anywhere in the world, but I definitely can’t assume that I would be able to afford a home anywhere in the world or that there would even be homes that one might paint anywhere in the world. I came to the conclusion that well, I could be painting someone’s home anywhere in the world.
I thought about the guy who was in my summer painting class a few years back. He was a fence-painter by profession and a landscape painter by passion. It occurred to me that no one could live off the commissions of just painting white picket fences. Then I remembered. No, he was a landscaper…
I thought back to the painter who came to work for a week in my au pair family’s home in Switzerland. He had it pretty sweet. Yea, he had to paint all day, but it was just me, him, and the dog in the house all day. I even served him coffee, cookies, and strawberries everyday. Maybe if we spoke the same language we might have even sat down to chat. However, he never got to choose the color or the style or his schedule. Also, if he missed a spot here or there he might have lost his job or not gotten paid. It was the same for me as an au pair, living in constant fear that one slip-up would get me kicked out and sent home. Sometimes the perks just never outweigh the loss of freedom that comes with being a (for lack of a better term) servant.
It was then that I realized, actually, I’m really happy just painting the walls in my mom’s house, where I grew up and live now. I’m not getting any money, but I get to enjoy my work by living in the space I’ve created. Also, I know that my mom won’t scold me for my mistakes, she’ll simply point them out, and maybe even fix them for me 
Later this evening I took a look at earthalbum.com (thanks Kelsey). Of course my first reaction to the first photos I pulled up was “Oh, how beautiful! I want to go there!” But then, I looked closer and realized that I have similar scenary around me everyday, it’s just a matter of having an eye for things, seeing the beauty in everything. This is obvious. I know. I guess my point is just that I could be anywhere and be happy, so why not just be happy right here
Graphic Novels!
If you’ve seen or heard from me in the past few weeks, you’re one of the few. My days have been filled with reading, writing, speaking academically, and being a slave to my professors. But now, my summer classes are over now, and I can finally live a little (well after I finish one more final paper…) So, for my first morning of freedom, I finally had time to go to the library to find some books of my choosing, but I do have to credit one of my classmates for getting me to finally pursue graphic novels.
Over the years I was always aware of them, but never realized how cool they actually are! I mean, in high school there were plenty of strange, pale kids who were all into Manga, and of course I’ve always been vaguely aware of DC and Marvel comics just because of the movies. I was never remotely interested in either of these genres. I was further introduced to graphic novels in films I’d watched in college (Sin City, American Splendor, Ichi the Killer, etc), but still, no one ever suggested I bother to read the graphic novels these films were based on.
Now, I’ve come to realize that there are a whole slew of these books that actually tell very mature stories and address complex and controversial topics. So, I’ve picked out a few to start my exploration (who knows someday I might try writing some of my own). Look for me to write more on this topic, but for now, I will just reminisce about my childhood monthly order placed in the Scholastic Book Catalog for the latest Garfield comic.
