The requirement that Go-Co students attend chapel has been something I've loved and hated about this school. For the better part of three years I bitched and moaned about going, and often with good reason - it was boring, the worship was horrible and fake (how could required worship be authentic?), and the speakers were too conservative for me to relate to.
Oh, we would have the occasional gem: Norm Jones would perform a dramatic monologue or a preacher from an urban church would come shake us up a little bit. But until this year, chapel was something I habitually resented. Sometimes I would try to get something out of it, spiritually or intellectually, but I would almost always walk away frustrated. I came to think of myself not as a Christian but as an agnostic.
I'm not saying things have gotten tons better. My faith is still a fragile thing. But, for the first time in four years, I was actually starting to get something out of going to chapel. Perhaps the number of "Christian life and worship" credits I'd earned didn't reflect that, but I was going twice a week ready to engage (as well as attending Sunday night candlelight worship, which doesn't offer credit), and that was a huge step for me.
Then, halfway through the semester, I had five extra chapel credits tacked onto my requirements, pushing me up to 35 for the semester. Between my night shifts at the writing center, my afternoon classes, and my internship, I literally could not attend afternoon and evening events. I counted, and there were not enough morning chapels left in the semester for me to fulfill the requirement.
They don't stop you from graduating if you don't make all your chapels. As a part-time student next semester, my record will be cleared anyway. But it was the principle of the thing. I asked for a reduction in chapel requirements and was refused.
Suddenly what little motivation I had to attend was replaced by the same familiar resentment that kept me from God over the past few years. The expectation that I, a Christian teetering on the brink of faith, should have to make better than perfect chapel attendance for the rest of the semester was absurd. I determined that the chapel office was run by a slew of heartless bureaucrats with no concept of the Christian concept of mercy.
I almost decided to boycott and start having my own private worship time. After all, the idea of Christian life and worship is to bring you into communion with God, and I could do that just as well on my own. I thought, who the hell are the bureaucrats to tell me whether my Christian life and worship is sufficient? Are they saying I'm only good enough for God if I'm good enough for them? But we are not trying to please men, but God! He is the only one who should be attaching a value to my Christian life and worship.
Well, today I completed my 35th chapel of the semester. I am done. I don't know how I managed it; maybe it was the Thursday night movie screening that I only went to because Skipping Stone had a hand in its production, or the debate on human suffering, or the visiting author whose discourse I had to attend for my writing class. Regardless, I did it, and I think that the victory is as pleasing to God as it is to the chapel office. I at least know that I feel better rounded and spiritually stimulated than I have in past years.
Put that in your censer and smoke it.
Peace, love and truffles,
Miss Rex
Showing posts with label thoughts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label thoughts. Show all posts
Billy Madison learned the most important thing in high school
How to BS.
I had never seen Billy Madison until a couple of weeks ago, and that was on purpose. Let me tell you, after it was over I really sympathized with the guy who said "everybody in this room is now dumber for having listened to you."
But Billy Madison learned the most important thing you can learn in high school. It's sad but true: The ability to BS will get you through just about anything in life, or at least the rest of your schooling. I have my theories that it will get you far in the corporate world too, but I have yet to personally test this theory, and I think I will find it easier to be passionate in that world, so perhaps BS will be less necessary than it has been for the past 16 years of my life.
The tragic truth is, students don't have time to be sincere and thoughtful. Even if we had no other work/family/friend/etc. obligations, coursework alone would leave us with too little time for sincerity and thought. So, we get really good at sounding thoughtful as we crank out paper after paper, sometimes spending as little as a single afternoon on a major 8-ish page paper.
I've had teachers throughout the years tell me that it doesn't matter what point you argue as long as you back it up with evidence. By these standards, Billy's blathering about a lost puppy being a symbol for society gets top marks.
And so will my twelve-pager for Communication Theories. Rawr!
Peace, love, and finals,
Miss Rex
I had never seen Billy Madison until a couple of weeks ago, and that was on purpose. Let me tell you, after it was over I really sympathized with the guy who said "everybody in this room is now dumber for having listened to you."
But Billy Madison learned the most important thing you can learn in high school. It's sad but true: The ability to BS will get you through just about anything in life, or at least the rest of your schooling. I have my theories that it will get you far in the corporate world too, but I have yet to personally test this theory, and I think I will find it easier to be passionate in that world, so perhaps BS will be less necessary than it has been for the past 16 years of my life.
The tragic truth is, students don't have time to be sincere and thoughtful. Even if we had no other work/family/friend/etc. obligations, coursework alone would leave us with too little time for sincerity and thought. So, we get really good at sounding thoughtful as we crank out paper after paper, sometimes spending as little as a single afternoon on a major 8-ish page paper.
I've had teachers throughout the years tell me that it doesn't matter what point you argue as long as you back it up with evidence. By these standards, Billy's blathering about a lost puppy being a symbol for society gets top marks.
And so will my twelve-pager for Communication Theories. Rawr!
Peace, love, and finals,
Miss Rex
These are a few of my favorite things:
It's Thanksgiving Day, but I won't bore you with an essay of the same things everybody is thankful for today. I have amazing friends and an amazing family and an amazing boyfriend. I have a roof over my head and plenty to eat, I go to a great school, I have a great internship, and I always have something to wear (even when I despair that "I have nothing to wear!").
Of course I'm thankful for those things. But there are a lot of smaller, less cliché things that I am also thankful for, and I think they deserve some recognition. This Thanksgiving, I give thanks for...
What random things are you thankful for today? If anyone says "friends and family," I'm spamming your comments section with pictures of slow lorises!
This post is brought to you by my favorite fingerless gloves.
Peace, love and free-range turkey,
Miss Rex
Of course I'm thankful for those things. But there are a lot of smaller, less cliché things that I am also thankful for, and I think they deserve some recognition. This Thanksgiving, I give thanks for...
Light bulbs.
Forks.
Text messaging.
Candles.
Single stream recycling.
Plungers.
Soy milk (picture from Urban Blah).
Bass guitar.
Flannel.
Scott Westerfeld.
Swiss Miss hot chocolate.
Dirty feet.
Neon Trees.
Tuning forks.
Trippy dreams.
Vodka sauce.
Stickers.
Jalapeños.
Hot showers.
String.
Blue jeans.
Semicolons.
Ear goggles.
Forks.
Text messaging.
Candles.
Single stream recycling.
Plungers.
Soy milk (picture from Urban Blah).
Bass guitar.
Flannel.
Scott Westerfeld.
Swiss Miss hot chocolate.
Dirty feet.
Neon Trees.
Tuning forks.
Trippy dreams.
Vodka sauce.
Stickers.
Jalapeños.
Hot showers.
String.
Blue jeans.
Semicolons.
Ear goggles.
What random things are you thankful for today? If anyone says "friends and family," I'm spamming your comments section with pictures of slow lorises!
This post is brought to you by my favorite fingerless gloves.
Peace, love and free-range turkey,
Miss Rex
A Letter to Voldemort
Dear Voldemort:
Normally I would write to someone nicer about this (perhaps Albus Dumbledore or Sirius Black), but, well, first of all, you've had them both killed, but second (and more importantly), I feel that you have a special kind of expertise in the particular matter that concerns me.
I am speaking of the matter of sinuses. Since you, my dark liege, lack the protection afforded by a traditional protruding nose, I thought perhaps you would know of a spell or potion to combat discomfort or infection of the deep nasal passages. It has been a recurrent problem since the days of my youth; so recurrent, in fact, that I can pinpoint the day it will befall me before I even show symptoms. Precisely 365 days ago Monday, I was hospitalized for an especially brutal case of sinusitis. This Monday, I was forced to retire early by a sharp sinus headache and heavy congestion. I am sorry for the graphic description, although I'm sure my liege has seen worse in his decades of malevolence.
I know that you are very busy being evil, but if you get a chance, I would really appreciate your help in this matter.
Love,
Miss Rex
Normally I would write to someone nicer about this (perhaps Albus Dumbledore or Sirius Black), but, well, first of all, you've had them both killed, but second (and more importantly), I feel that you have a special kind of expertise in the particular matter that concerns me.
I am speaking of the matter of sinuses. Since you, my dark liege, lack the protection afforded by a traditional protruding nose, I thought perhaps you would know of a spell or potion to combat discomfort or infection of the deep nasal passages. It has been a recurrent problem since the days of my youth; so recurrent, in fact, that I can pinpoint the day it will befall me before I even show symptoms. Precisely 365 days ago Monday, I was hospitalized for an especially brutal case of sinusitis. This Monday, I was forced to retire early by a sharp sinus headache and heavy congestion. I am sorry for the graphic description, although I'm sure my liege has seen worse in his decades of malevolence.
I know that you are very busy being evil, but if you get a chance, I would really appreciate your help in this matter.
Love,
Miss Rex
Why people don't write first-person fantasy books
When I began work on my current fantasy project, I was eager to be one of the few to write a fantasy saga in the first person. Now I am beginning to see why this is done so rarely.
With fantasy, there's a lot happening at once. Rarely do all of the important characters take the stage at the same time. So, you can either have characters narrate their in-the-meantime stories to the first person narrator upon their reunion, or you can use third person and tell the simultaneous stories more or less simultaneously.
There's also a lot that needs to be explained in fantasy books. When you write a non-fantasy story that takes place in the real world, you can assume your reader knows how things work in that world - he or she lives there! But if you've invented a world, complete with locations, races, religions, cultures, magical rules, politics, and history, it's entirely up to you to make sure your readers know pertinent details.
So your options are to have a really smart first-person narrator who already knows everything, which ruins the adventure by making everything too easy; to have your first-person narrator stumble across information in the form of wizened old sorcerers or mysterious books that reveal information in a conveniently timed fashion (which again makes it seem that things are too easy; the world is helping the character complete this supposedly impossible mission); or to tell your story in the third person, so that you can fill in the details necessary for fleshing out the world and perhaps even create some dramatic irony, which is possible but difficult with first person.
I thought that I would be able to achieve a more distinct and quirky voice for my main character, Anna, by writing in first person, but in fact the more fun and satisfying chapters to read (and to write) have by far been the ones I've done in third person. Somehow Anna has more of a voice when someone else is telling the story for her. Anyway I think she's a little busy combating evil and all that to be giving people a play by play of her adventure. So third person it shall be.
Peace, love and power naps,
Miss Rex
With fantasy, there's a lot happening at once. Rarely do all of the important characters take the stage at the same time. So, you can either have characters narrate their in-the-meantime stories to the first person narrator upon their reunion, or you can use third person and tell the simultaneous stories more or less simultaneously.
There's also a lot that needs to be explained in fantasy books. When you write a non-fantasy story that takes place in the real world, you can assume your reader knows how things work in that world - he or she lives there! But if you've invented a world, complete with locations, races, religions, cultures, magical rules, politics, and history, it's entirely up to you to make sure your readers know pertinent details.
So your options are to have a really smart first-person narrator who already knows everything, which ruins the adventure by making everything too easy; to have your first-person narrator stumble across information in the form of wizened old sorcerers or mysterious books that reveal information in a conveniently timed fashion (which again makes it seem that things are too easy; the world is helping the character complete this supposedly impossible mission); or to tell your story in the third person, so that you can fill in the details necessary for fleshing out the world and perhaps even create some dramatic irony, which is possible but difficult with first person.
I thought that I would be able to achieve a more distinct and quirky voice for my main character, Anna, by writing in first person, but in fact the more fun and satisfying chapters to read (and to write) have by far been the ones I've done in third person. Somehow Anna has more of a voice when someone else is telling the story for her. Anyway I think she's a little busy combating evil and all that to be giving people a play by play of her adventure. So third person it shall be.
Peace, love and power naps,
Miss Rex
Fall Back
There was frost on the quad the other morning. En route to an early meeting*, I noticed the tree outside the library was shedding leaves so fast that they had pooled around him, leaving a yellow ring at his feet. I had to wonder what the hurry was.
I always think of Robert Frost at this time of year. But it's never the poem you'd expect. I took the road not taken years ago and I walk it every day. Instead, "To Earthward" comes to mind.
On the last warm day we had in October, I took my shoes off to wade in Gull Pond and stretched out to dry on the rough sand, thinking of the poem's ending:
"When stiff and sore and scarred
I take away my hand
From leaning on it hard
In grass and sand,
The hurt is not enough:
I long for weight and strength
To feel the earth as rough
To all my length."
Or I think of "The Mending Wall" as I wander the bike trails with JW. Stone walls criss-cross through the woods as they crumble into the realm of the forgotten. They once told someone what land was his and what was not; they may have been the one and only tie between two farmers. I think of Frost and his neighbor, who never spoke except to repair the wall between them, saying "Good walls make good neighbors."
The bleak hour is nigh! Winter doesn't officially start until December 21st, but he's already lurking like a peeping Tom. In a few days, we'll change the clocks and night will fall at 4:00. My epic tan lines have faded, even the ones I got from wearing the same Tevas to camp all season (though I don't think the white bikini outline will ever go away). My allergies are getting worse. My acne is getting worse. Even my goddamn vision is getting worse - I had to switch back to my older, stronger prescription when I realized I couldn't read the slides in chapel anymore.
The time has passed for wading and sunbathing and skinnydipping. There will be no more bare feet and no more hippie dresses. It's a sad prospect.
But at least there's Christmas to look forward to! Now if only I can remember to stay away from shopping malls this year...
Peace, love, and hazelnut mocha,
Miss Rex
*I discovered moments later that the meeting had been canceled... to think I could have continued my 80s-cartoon dream about the Star Princess! Alas and alack!
I always think of Robert Frost at this time of year. But it's never the poem you'd expect. I took the road not taken years ago and I walk it every day. Instead, "To Earthward" comes to mind.
On the last warm day we had in October, I took my shoes off to wade in Gull Pond and stretched out to dry on the rough sand, thinking of the poem's ending:
"When stiff and sore and scarred
I take away my hand
From leaning on it hard
In grass and sand,
The hurt is not enough:
I long for weight and strength
To feel the earth as rough
To all my length."
Or I think of "The Mending Wall" as I wander the bike trails with JW. Stone walls criss-cross through the woods as they crumble into the realm of the forgotten. They once told someone what land was his and what was not; they may have been the one and only tie between two farmers. I think of Frost and his neighbor, who never spoke except to repair the wall between them, saying "Good walls make good neighbors."
The bleak hour is nigh! Winter doesn't officially start until December 21st, but he's already lurking like a peeping Tom. In a few days, we'll change the clocks and night will fall at 4:00. My epic tan lines have faded, even the ones I got from wearing the same Tevas to camp all season (though I don't think the white bikini outline will ever go away). My allergies are getting worse. My acne is getting worse. Even my goddamn vision is getting worse - I had to switch back to my older, stronger prescription when I realized I couldn't read the slides in chapel anymore.
The time has passed for wading and sunbathing and skinnydipping. There will be no more bare feet and no more hippie dresses. It's a sad prospect.
But at least there's Christmas to look forward to! Now if only I can remember to stay away from shopping malls this year...
Peace, love, and hazelnut mocha,
Miss Rex
*I discovered moments later that the meeting had been canceled... to think I could have continued my 80s-cartoon dream about the Star Princess! Alas and alack!
Anniversaries
Today, is an anniversary. First of all it's my parents' anniversary (and, crazy kooks that they are, they're taking me and JW out to dinner... this somehow seems backwards, but who am I, a hungry and broke college student, to complain?).
The popular thing to do these days seems to be divorce. When there's a hitch in the going, the hitched get going, or something like that. Contrariwise, my mom and dad have stayed together through thick and thin, and I admire that.
But their anniversary is not the only one I'm celebrating today. I'm also celebrating my own anniversary, the anniversary of my freedom from my last crap-tastic relationship. I guess it was kind of selfish of me to get dumped on my parents special day, huh? But alas that is how it happened.
I thank that breakup for reminding me how to love God school, for getting me into Adam Ezra Group, for making it permissible to sneak out of monasteries to make out with Italian boys in the middle of the night, and for scaring me into working seriously on my novel (I'm scared to end up like that).
I thank that breakup for acting as foil to the relationship I have now. Without knowing the worst, I would have no idea I'd stumbled upon the best (or been stumbled upon by the best, as the case may be). The most I could muster would be a half-appreciation. JW deserves better than that.
I thank that breakup for re-defining and re-outlining who I am. I'm not your average Christian, but I'm feeling close to God for a change, and I sure couldn't say that last October.
I think we celebrate a lot of frivolous things in our culture (half birthdays, national kids day, etc.), but this isn't one of them. You can celebrate an ending as much as you can a beginning. After all, as Semisonic said many a year ago in the song Closing Time, "Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end."
Peace, love and apple cider,
Miss Rex
The popular thing to do these days seems to be divorce. When there's a hitch in the going, the hitched get going, or something like that. Contrariwise, my mom and dad have stayed together through thick and thin, and I admire that.
But their anniversary is not the only one I'm celebrating today. I'm also celebrating my own anniversary, the anniversary of my freedom from my last crap-tastic relationship. I guess it was kind of selfish of me to get dumped on my parents special day, huh? But alas that is how it happened.
I thank that breakup for reminding me how to love God school, for getting me into Adam Ezra Group, for making it permissible to sneak out of monasteries to make out with Italian boys in the middle of the night, and for scaring me into working seriously on my novel (I'm scared to end up like that).
I thank that breakup for acting as foil to the relationship I have now. Without knowing the worst, I would have no idea I'd stumbled upon the best (or been stumbled upon by the best, as the case may be). The most I could muster would be a half-appreciation. JW deserves better than that.
I thank that breakup for re-defining and re-outlining who I am. I'm not your average Christian, but I'm feeling close to God for a change, and I sure couldn't say that last October.
I think we celebrate a lot of frivolous things in our culture (half birthdays, national kids day, etc.), but this isn't one of them. You can celebrate an ending as much as you can a beginning. After all, as Semisonic said many a year ago in the song Closing Time, "Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end."
Peace, love and apple cider,
Miss Rex
Flashy flash flash
When I was 11, I got my first laptop. Yeah, I know: Spoiled. But I WAS in the middle of writing a novel; I suppose my parents justified it as their contribution to my child prodigism.
Not long after that, I got my first flash drive. This was back when flash drives were first invented and held, like, 256 megabytes of info (read: not a lot). It was always a hassle plugging it into the USB ports in school computers because the ports were set back farther than my drive would plug in.
But you know what? I'm still carrying that thing around, something like eight years later. I've had other flash drives along the way, but they always seem to disappear. Maybe I've kept track of this one because it's so big and ugly and useless.
Suffice to say, it is time to buy a new flash drive. One that holds more data. One that looks... cool.
For the days I'm feeling classy:
For the days I'm feeling kawaii:
For the days I'm feeling vintage:
For the days I'm feeling witty:
For the days I'm feeling rude:
For the days I'm feeling geeky:
For the days I'm feeling badass:
In my endless quest for epic, it seems pretty clear to me that I should go for the one that can simultaneously house my fantasy novel AND light things on fire.
Not to mention, I won't be able to afford a SWAROVSKI flash drive until AFTER said novel makes me sickeningly rich and famous. (Dreaming big is good, right?)
Peace, love and gigabytes,
Miss Rex
Not long after that, I got my first flash drive. This was back when flash drives were first invented and held, like, 256 megabytes of info (read: not a lot). It was always a hassle plugging it into the USB ports in school computers because the ports were set back farther than my drive would plug in.
But you know what? I'm still carrying that thing around, something like eight years later. I've had other flash drives along the way, but they always seem to disappear. Maybe I've kept track of this one because it's so big and ugly and useless.
Suffice to say, it is time to buy a new flash drive. One that holds more data. One that looks... cool.
For the days I'm feeling classy:
For the days I'm feeling kawaii:
For the days I'm feeling vintage:
For the days I'm feeling witty:
For the days I'm feeling rude:
For the days I'm feeling geeky:
For the days I'm feeling badass:
In my endless quest for epic, it seems pretty clear to me that I should go for the one that can simultaneously house my fantasy novel AND light things on fire.
Not to mention, I won't be able to afford a SWAROVSKI flash drive until AFTER said novel makes me sickeningly rich and famous. (Dreaming big is good, right?)
Peace, love and gigabytes,
Miss Rex
Chapstick, Chapped Lips, and Things Like Chemistry
On my way back from chapel this morning, I caught JW on his way to class and said hi. Like any good girlfriend I gave him a hug and a kiss and said I'd see him later.
Not two minutes went by and I got a text saying, "Put on chapstick. I just took half a stick from you :)"
I smiled; JW always notices and pokes fun at me when I'm wearing Chapstick. Secretly, I sometimes use the mentholated kind on purpose because he's so cute when he can't figure out why his lips are tingling. But it made me wonder - what is it with me and Chapstick? I've had this crazy obsession with it for as long as I can remember. I keep three sticks of it in my purse at all times.
And I'm not even as bad as I used to be. I used to refuse to go to sleep without putting some on because (in the words of the monstrously over-quoted Napoleon Dynamite) "my lips hurt real bad."
Which has led to some interesting developments. Ravin and TPO will remember the first time Ex slept at my house, which was before we were together - in fact, it was the first time we'd even really hung out. The four of us were going to stay up all night but Ex and I got tired and decided to go to sleep. My lips were dry, so I put on lip balm, and BAM! Make-out sesh.
I really did want to sleep that night, too.
I think that was when I learned that you shouldn't put nice-tasting things on your lips if you don't want someone else trying to taste it, no matter how bad your lips hurt. Dammit, Ex. This is why we can't have nice things.
Even before that, at the beginning of college, I did a twelve-day orientation/survival stint in the woods sans soap, shampoo, and deodorant. I brought mentholated lip balm and all week long I just kept saying that it was the only luxury I had in the world. I would put it on and smack my lips and go "mmmm...."
I've thought about it all day, and I've come to the conclusion that Relient K is to blame for everything. Their 2003 album "Two Lefts Don't Make a Right (but Three Do)" was the first album I remember falling in love with. And track number one was all about - you guessed it - Chapstick.
They're also to blame for my subsequent obsessions with mood rings (track two), the 80's (track five), speaking in gibberish (track 13), Canadians (their lead singer hails from the great white north), and boys in plaid (said lead singer also wears plaid 95% of the time).
It's good to know that the things you love as a teen will affect you for the rest of your life.
Peace, love, and good-night sleep-tight don't-let-the-bedbugs-bite,
Miss Rex
Not two minutes went by and I got a text saying, "Put on chapstick. I just took half a stick from you :)"
I smiled; JW always notices and pokes fun at me when I'm wearing Chapstick. Secretly, I sometimes use the mentholated kind on purpose because he's so cute when he can't figure out why his lips are tingling. But it made me wonder - what is it with me and Chapstick? I've had this crazy obsession with it for as long as I can remember. I keep three sticks of it in my purse at all times.
And I'm not even as bad as I used to be. I used to refuse to go to sleep without putting some on because (in the words of the monstrously over-quoted Napoleon Dynamite) "my lips hurt real bad."
Which has led to some interesting developments. Ravin and TPO will remember the first time Ex slept at my house, which was before we were together - in fact, it was the first time we'd even really hung out. The four of us were going to stay up all night but Ex and I got tired and decided to go to sleep. My lips were dry, so I put on lip balm, and BAM! Make-out sesh.
I really did want to sleep that night, too.
I think that was when I learned that you shouldn't put nice-tasting things on your lips if you don't want someone else trying to taste it, no matter how bad your lips hurt. Dammit, Ex. This is why we can't have nice things.
Even before that, at the beginning of college, I did a twelve-day orientation/survival stint in the woods sans soap, shampoo, and deodorant. I brought mentholated lip balm and all week long I just kept saying that it was the only luxury I had in the world. I would put it on and smack my lips and go "mmmm...."
I've thought about it all day, and I've come to the conclusion that Relient K is to blame for everything. Their 2003 album "Two Lefts Don't Make a Right (but Three Do)" was the first album I remember falling in love with. And track number one was all about - you guessed it - Chapstick.
They're also to blame for my subsequent obsessions with mood rings (track two), the 80's (track five), speaking in gibberish (track 13), Canadians (their lead singer hails from the great white north), and boys in plaid (said lead singer also wears plaid 95% of the time).
It's good to know that the things you love as a teen will affect you for the rest of your life.
Peace, love, and good-night sleep-tight don't-let-the-bedbugs-bite,
Miss Rex
On parachutes, props and pride
Today was awesome. Okay, some stuff went wrong here and there, also known as being a woman, but really I haven't a single complaint.
First off. It's been a while since I've updated. I'm working at summer camp again with the 3-5 year olds. I was disappointed they put me with the littlest littlies this year, but you know what? They are a-freaking-dorable, and they get bonus points for ALL being potty trained!
A couple weeks ago I told my supervisor we should get the kids a parachute because it always used to be my favorite part of camp, but she didn't think we had it in the budget. Then today she showed up with a parachute! All the other counselors gave me funny looks when I jumped up and down with excitement. I just love parachutes. I got to be the mouse for Cat and Mouse. My job is the best.
Then I went to The Pantsless One's house to film a commercial for a contest we're entering. I borrowed ALL sorts of equipment from a friend who works at a TV station (we won't name any names here ^_^) and I was pretty much set to shoot the thing.
Unfortunately, the guy putting in the floor in the room we needed to film in didn't leave until 7:00 (I swear the floor was done when I got there at 2), and our time-killing prop-shopping spree fell on its face when Wal*Mart failed to have a scuba mask.
But TPO's living room is now effectively a green screen studio, complete with amazing pro lighting that DIDN'T blow any circuits! It's a small miracle. Not to mention we have something resembling an actual script now that we've had time to talk it over, and it's leagues better than the vague idea I started with. Tomorrow we film!
After the studio was set, we picked up our friend The Italian and watched The Breakfast Club, which I shamefully have never seen. But I left early so I could get a good night's sleep before work. So why am I here online blogging at 1:30 in the morning, you ask?
I couldn't stop thinking about a sentence I lost. It was the last sentence of my entire fantasy series and it was possibly the most beautiful thing I'd ever written. But I hadn't had my notebook with me when I thought of it, so I jotted it down in... whatever I happened to be carrying at the time, which could have been anything.
I remembered the page being narrow but still having lines. I remembered it being the last empty page in the notebook. But I'd already checked the last page of every notebook I could find with no success.
Since sleep would not take pity on me, I got up and dug through some more school papers. I checked between the pages of books to see if I'd torn it out and used it as a bookmark. I found a $15 iTunes gift card, which was the next best thing, but no epic concluding sentence.
Then I got the crazy idea to start reading every page in all my notebooks until I found it. First I started flipping through one of the notebooks I'd used for my journalism class, and BAM! There it was! Right in the middle of the notebook. I think it really was the last blank page I had, it just wasn't at the end....
The last reason today was awesome is this article. Christians get a bad rep for hating on homosexuals, and I resent that. As I'm sure I've said many a time, being a Christian is about LOVE. Jesus didn't support prostitution, but he loved the Samaritan lady who had had five husbands and was living with another man. So too should we love the people we tend to judge. Judging is never our job.
I admire these Christians who showed up at a gay pride parade to humble themselves and apologize. I am moved and inspired by their bravery. I hope God blesses them and all they do in his name, the name of love.
Peace, love and panda hats,
Miss Rex
First off. It's been a while since I've updated. I'm working at summer camp again with the 3-5 year olds. I was disappointed they put me with the littlest littlies this year, but you know what? They are a-freaking-dorable, and they get bonus points for ALL being potty trained!
A couple weeks ago I told my supervisor we should get the kids a parachute because it always used to be my favorite part of camp, but she didn't think we had it in the budget. Then today she showed up with a parachute! All the other counselors gave me funny looks when I jumped up and down with excitement. I just love parachutes. I got to be the mouse for Cat and Mouse. My job is the best.
Then I went to The Pantsless One's house to film a commercial for a contest we're entering. I borrowed ALL sorts of equipment from a friend who works at a TV station (we won't name any names here ^_^) and I was pretty much set to shoot the thing.
Unfortunately, the guy putting in the floor in the room we needed to film in didn't leave until 7:00 (I swear the floor was done when I got there at 2), and our time-killing prop-shopping spree fell on its face when Wal*Mart failed to have a scuba mask.
But TPO's living room is now effectively a green screen studio, complete with amazing pro lighting that DIDN'T blow any circuits! It's a small miracle. Not to mention we have something resembling an actual script now that we've had time to talk it over, and it's leagues better than the vague idea I started with. Tomorrow we film!
After the studio was set, we picked up our friend The Italian and watched The Breakfast Club, which I shamefully have never seen. But I left early so I could get a good night's sleep before work. So why am I here online blogging at 1:30 in the morning, you ask?
I couldn't stop thinking about a sentence I lost. It was the last sentence of my entire fantasy series and it was possibly the most beautiful thing I'd ever written. But I hadn't had my notebook with me when I thought of it, so I jotted it down in... whatever I happened to be carrying at the time, which could have been anything.
I remembered the page being narrow but still having lines. I remembered it being the last empty page in the notebook. But I'd already checked the last page of every notebook I could find with no success.
Since sleep would not take pity on me, I got up and dug through some more school papers. I checked between the pages of books to see if I'd torn it out and used it as a bookmark. I found a $15 iTunes gift card, which was the next best thing, but no epic concluding sentence.
Then I got the crazy idea to start reading every page in all my notebooks until I found it. First I started flipping through one of the notebooks I'd used for my journalism class, and BAM! There it was! Right in the middle of the notebook. I think it really was the last blank page I had, it just wasn't at the end....
The last reason today was awesome is this article. Christians get a bad rep for hating on homosexuals, and I resent that. As I'm sure I've said many a time, being a Christian is about LOVE. Jesus didn't support prostitution, but he loved the Samaritan lady who had had five husbands and was living with another man. So too should we love the people we tend to judge. Judging is never our job.
I admire these Christians who showed up at a gay pride parade to humble themselves and apologize. I am moved and inspired by their bravery. I hope God blesses them and all they do in his name, the name of love.
Peace, love and panda hats,
Miss Rex
Things my mother doesn't understand
My mom and I have a great relationship. We're very open - I really do tell her most of what goes on in my life. I enjoy her company, she enjoys mine, and I value her advice, sometimes a little more than it's really wise to value a single person's input. But then I get a night like this and all I can really say is WTF?
I spent the first three weeks of my summer (excluding the time I was abroad) mostly bored out of my skull, to the point that mom was sick to death of me complaining about how bored I was and actually nagged me to get the heck out of the house. If there's one sure-fire way to get me out of the house, it's nagging, especially about how I ought to socialize.
The functioning and etiquette of college-aged social circles is #1 on the list of things my mother doesn't understand. Texting someone I've barely hung out with day after day asking to do stuff seems anti-etiquette to me, regardless of whether her theory that he's romantically interested holds any water.
On Wednesday my friend Bear, who I met through Ravin a few years ago, and who she in turn met at school in Ohio, came to visit. After a bizarre twist of events that ended with him not being allowed to stay at her house the first few nights, we put him up Wednesday and Thursday, and as good friends are wont to do I have hung out with him and Ravin and sometimes The Pantsless One (TPO) pretty much non-stop since Bear got here.
I should mention that Bear doesn't sleep more than four hours on a good night, so I stayed up late keeping him company the two nights he was here. This was not an act of pity on my part. The great thing about Bear is he puts me at ease so that Suppressed Me can show her face, and that's something special.
This brings me to item #2 on the list of things my mother doesn't understand: Teens/twenty-somethings' sleeping patterns, or lack thereof. I believe that, as people who are biologically alive, the most vital thing for us to do is to "live deep and suck out all the marrow of life" at whatever hour that marrow is there for the sucking, even if the hour is late or the place is far. I'm flexible; late hours and far places don't bother me, and if it gets too late or too far, I'd sleep just about anywhere.
I have friends who are early to bed and early to rise. I have friends who play all night, then sleep until the sun sets. I have friends who seem not to sleep at all. They are all dear to my heart and I will do everything I can to savor the marrow with them, especially friends like Bear, who I see twice a year if I'm lucky.
Obviously this is not exactly how my mother sees things. Sleeping in one's own bed at night seems to be very important to her. Oh, I can get away with a night or two a week at Ravin or TPO's house, but sleep away more than one consecutive night and I can feel the bad vibes beginning to pulse. Staying up late with people is irresponsible.
While yes, it may look that way, I'll point out that I have never been late for work, never missed a class, and have gotten straight As since I got to college because I know how to balance my time. No, I don't always make the best decision. Some days I'm so tired I can barely stay awake through chapel. But I am aware of my obligations and take them into account, and when it's summer and I have none, I don't worry too much.
Speaking of responsibility, driving long distances is also irresponsible, regardless of whether I am personally at the wheel and regardless of whether the car is likely to break down (though I'll concede that with Derry this is very likely).
Point #3: Distance is not an issue when it comes to doing something or seeing someone you love. Music is my passion. Driving two hours to a concert is more than reasonable. It's liberating. It actually gives me a little bit of an adrenaline rush. This is all the better when the bands I'm seeing are my friends, like Kiros and Adam Ezra Group, because it becomes not just about the music but about friends (see #2).
Mom says driving far away is ridiculous; don't my friends and I have any common sense? I get this even more when we drive ALL OVER the south shore in one car, which is convenient for no one because we live in an equilateral triangle of 35-minute sides, but it is fun for everyone because we're best friends and we're together and to us that's more important than gas money, car mileage or drive time.
Last night Bear and I slept at TPO's house. Ravin was supposed to as well until she found out around 11:30 PM that she had to be home early for a violin lesson. Then I woke up at 8:45 to a text from XL saying that he was at my house, which I totally wasn't expecting at such an early hour, and my mother was displeased that I had invited XL only to have him hang out with me and Bear all day as opposed to just me.
I have this memory (maybe real, maybe hallucinated) of a conversation with XL that went, "We have a friend in town so you'll probably be hanging out with all of us if that's cool," followed by something like, "yeah, I'd love to meet your friends" in response. But frankly it was none of my mother’s business to be concerned about it anyway.
Tonight Ravin, TPO, Bear and I went to see Toy Story 3 (WHICH I'll add was hysterically clever, surprising, touching, and featured a Totoro plush toy) and we were going to go swim at Ravin's after, except my mother insisted I come home.
I tried to argue my way out of sleeping at home tonight, since from tomorrow night onward I'll have to actually be responsible because I'm starting work, but no dice - it's father's day tomorrow, among other reasons that ranged from semi-legitimate to completely random. To be honest I was pissed. We were all hyper and having so much fun. We picked up our friend The Italian, who was drunk and therefore hilarious. But I had to leave, and it just didn't seem fair.
When I got home I found out the reason I needed to be there first thing in the morning on father's day is that I am supposed to help make breakfast for my dad. I think that's sweet. If I'd been told that to begin with I would have been so much more compliant! Disappointed, yes, but not angry. Instead I feel like this:
On a side note, I’m starting the process of making sure all the people mentioned in my blog get code names. Sorry if things get confusing ^_^
Peace, love, and residual Chocolixir/Mountain Dew/favorite people high,
Miss Rex
I spent the first three weeks of my summer (excluding the time I was abroad) mostly bored out of my skull, to the point that mom was sick to death of me complaining about how bored I was and actually nagged me to get the heck out of the house. If there's one sure-fire way to get me out of the house, it's nagging, especially about how I ought to socialize.
The functioning and etiquette of college-aged social circles is #1 on the list of things my mother doesn't understand. Texting someone I've barely hung out with day after day asking to do stuff seems anti-etiquette to me, regardless of whether her theory that he's romantically interested holds any water.
On Wednesday my friend Bear, who I met through Ravin a few years ago, and who she in turn met at school in Ohio, came to visit. After a bizarre twist of events that ended with him not being allowed to stay at her house the first few nights, we put him up Wednesday and Thursday, and as good friends are wont to do I have hung out with him and Ravin and sometimes The Pantsless One (TPO) pretty much non-stop since Bear got here.
I should mention that Bear doesn't sleep more than four hours on a good night, so I stayed up late keeping him company the two nights he was here. This was not an act of pity on my part. The great thing about Bear is he puts me at ease so that Suppressed Me can show her face, and that's something special.
This brings me to item #2 on the list of things my mother doesn't understand: Teens/twenty-somethings' sleeping patterns, or lack thereof. I believe that, as people who are biologically alive, the most vital thing for us to do is to "live deep and suck out all the marrow of life" at whatever hour that marrow is there for the sucking, even if the hour is late or the place is far. I'm flexible; late hours and far places don't bother me, and if it gets too late or too far, I'd sleep just about anywhere.
I have friends who are early to bed and early to rise. I have friends who play all night, then sleep until the sun sets. I have friends who seem not to sleep at all. They are all dear to my heart and I will do everything I can to savor the marrow with them, especially friends like Bear, who I see twice a year if I'm lucky.
Obviously this is not exactly how my mother sees things. Sleeping in one's own bed at night seems to be very important to her. Oh, I can get away with a night or two a week at Ravin or TPO's house, but sleep away more than one consecutive night and I can feel the bad vibes beginning to pulse. Staying up late with people is irresponsible.
While yes, it may look that way, I'll point out that I have never been late for work, never missed a class, and have gotten straight As since I got to college because I know how to balance my time. No, I don't always make the best decision. Some days I'm so tired I can barely stay awake through chapel. But I am aware of my obligations and take them into account, and when it's summer and I have none, I don't worry too much.
Speaking of responsibility, driving long distances is also irresponsible, regardless of whether I am personally at the wheel and regardless of whether the car is likely to break down (though I'll concede that with Derry this is very likely).
Point #3: Distance is not an issue when it comes to doing something or seeing someone you love. Music is my passion. Driving two hours to a concert is more than reasonable. It's liberating. It actually gives me a little bit of an adrenaline rush. This is all the better when the bands I'm seeing are my friends, like Kiros and Adam Ezra Group, because it becomes not just about the music but about friends (see #2).
Mom says driving far away is ridiculous; don't my friends and I have any common sense? I get this even more when we drive ALL OVER the south shore in one car, which is convenient for no one because we live in an equilateral triangle of 35-minute sides, but it is fun for everyone because we're best friends and we're together and to us that's more important than gas money, car mileage or drive time.
Last night Bear and I slept at TPO's house. Ravin was supposed to as well until she found out around 11:30 PM that she had to be home early for a violin lesson. Then I woke up at 8:45 to a text from XL saying that he was at my house, which I totally wasn't expecting at such an early hour, and my mother was displeased that I had invited XL only to have him hang out with me and Bear all day as opposed to just me.
I have this memory (maybe real, maybe hallucinated) of a conversation with XL that went, "We have a friend in town so you'll probably be hanging out with all of us if that's cool," followed by something like, "yeah, I'd love to meet your friends" in response. But frankly it was none of my mother’s business to be concerned about it anyway.
Tonight Ravin, TPO, Bear and I went to see Toy Story 3 (WHICH I'll add was hysterically clever, surprising, touching, and featured a Totoro plush toy) and we were going to go swim at Ravin's after, except my mother insisted I come home.
I tried to argue my way out of sleeping at home tonight, since from tomorrow night onward I'll have to actually be responsible because I'm starting work, but no dice - it's father's day tomorrow, among other reasons that ranged from semi-legitimate to completely random. To be honest I was pissed. We were all hyper and having so much fun. We picked up our friend The Italian, who was drunk and therefore hilarious. But I had to leave, and it just didn't seem fair.
When I got home I found out the reason I needed to be there first thing in the morning on father's day is that I am supposed to help make breakfast for my dad. I think that's sweet. If I'd been told that to begin with I would have been so much more compliant! Disappointed, yes, but not angry. Instead I feel like this:
On a side note, I’m starting the process of making sure all the people mentioned in my blog get code names. Sorry if things get confusing ^_^
Peace, love, and residual Chocolixir/Mountain Dew/favorite people high,
Miss Rex
New Years in June
Today is June 1st. It has been exactly six months since New Years, so I thought I would take a look at my resolutions and see how they’re coming along. New Years in June: It’s like Christmas in July, but with less of a ring to it…
1. Read. For my own enjoyment.
So far this is the only resolution that gets a big fat check mark next to it. Especially since classes conveniently decided to go away, I’ve been cracking into some quality books! I’m currently in the middle of Lord of the Rings, Eragon, and The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.
2. Learn the constellations.
Fail. Complete and utter fail. I brought my star wheel back to school with me, but spring is a really hard time for stargazing in these parts because it is very cold and often rainy, and I’d probably have to go all the way to the beach to escape light pollution and trees.
3. Write at least once a week!
This one gets half a check mark. While I’ve done little of my own personal writing, I have cranked out a few chapters of my novel, and my internship forced me to keep my writing gears well oiled. Now that it’s summer and I’m back from Italy, the time has come for serious work on the novel. I’m looking forward to my fiction class next fall because it’ll be an opportunity to workshop a lot of what I’ve been doing mostly on my own. And it will force me to meet deadlines! Sometimes that’s all I need to be productive.
4. Do something that scares me.
I don’t think I can honestly put a check beside this one. But then, I’m not sure I have a very good definition of what scares me.
5. Pray.
Another half-check. Although I broke the habit around the same time I broke the habit of sleeping while it was dark out, I did have a solid month or so for which I was writing letters to God as a way to try and “plug in” (as the Christians say). It was kind of nice; I think that’s another habit to start up now that my adventurous life is settling down.
As 2010 continues, I think I’m going to scratch number four for its sheer vagueness and probably number two as well so that I can really focus on reading, writing and praying. And perhaps now is a good time to tack on my new goal, which emerged in light of my recent travels: to learn Italian.
Did I mention I’m at least one eighth Italian? (The reason I say “at least” is because I’m adopted and we’re not actually sure how Italian I am.) So these past two weeks were like returning to the homeland in some weird way, even though I’d never been there. Now I’m determined to learn the language and save up enough money to go back.
Peace, love, and Eggo waffles (which I sorely missed overseas),
Miss Rex
1. Read. For my own enjoyment.
So far this is the only resolution that gets a big fat check mark next to it. Especially since classes conveniently decided to go away, I’ve been cracking into some quality books! I’m currently in the middle of Lord of the Rings, Eragon, and The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.
2. Learn the constellations.
Fail. Complete and utter fail. I brought my star wheel back to school with me, but spring is a really hard time for stargazing in these parts because it is very cold and often rainy, and I’d probably have to go all the way to the beach to escape light pollution and trees.
3. Write at least once a week!
This one gets half a check mark. While I’ve done little of my own personal writing, I have cranked out a few chapters of my novel, and my internship forced me to keep my writing gears well oiled. Now that it’s summer and I’m back from Italy, the time has come for serious work on the novel. I’m looking forward to my fiction class next fall because it’ll be an opportunity to workshop a lot of what I’ve been doing mostly on my own. And it will force me to meet deadlines! Sometimes that’s all I need to be productive.
4. Do something that scares me.
I don’t think I can honestly put a check beside this one. But then, I’m not sure I have a very good definition of what scares me.
5. Pray.
Another half-check. Although I broke the habit around the same time I broke the habit of sleeping while it was dark out, I did have a solid month or so for which I was writing letters to God as a way to try and “plug in” (as the Christians say). It was kind of nice; I think that’s another habit to start up now that my adventurous life is settling down.
As 2010 continues, I think I’m going to scratch number four for its sheer vagueness and probably number two as well so that I can really focus on reading, writing and praying. And perhaps now is a good time to tack on my new goal, which emerged in light of my recent travels: to learn Italian.
Did I mention I’m at least one eighth Italian? (The reason I say “at least” is because I’m adopted and we’re not actually sure how Italian I am.) So these past two weeks were like returning to the homeland in some weird way, even though I’d never been there. Now I’m determined to learn the language and save up enough money to go back.
Peace, love, and Eggo waffles (which I sorely missed overseas),
Miss Rex
Final thoughts on Rome, and VIDEO!
Rome may not be the center of the world anymore, but try telling that to the eight million tourists milling around the Vatican. For the number of people here and for the diversity of language and race, it’s easy to forget that all roads no longer lead to Rome. But the bustle of the city also begs the question: Has Rome been too commercialized? Or does it still retain some of the ancient magic that made it a cultural hub years ago? I think the answer is, “both.”
I believe it’s important for people to come here and see the artifacts and sites. It provokes a connection and sense of reverence regarding history that can only be gained in a hands-on way. It’s mind-boggling to picture a group of people more or less like me erecting hundred-foot-tall stone columns at their public forums or the thousand arches of the Coliseum, not out of aesthetic ambition but for practical use. Just as I walk to the dining hall and then to the chapel and then to the library each day without a thought, the ancient Romans worked, ate, worshiped, played and studied in these majestic structures every day.
Imagining a population for whom these sights were ordinary offers a moving peek into history that we are fortunate to have.
Beyond even that, structures such as the crumbling Coliseum remind us that no earthly empire is everlasting, no matter how vast or powerful. I am reminded of the poem “Ozymandias” by Percy Bysshe Shelley, which tells of a traveler who found the ruins of a huge statue. An inscription reads, “Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair.” Ozymandias thought his kingdom would last forever. In the same way, people thought Rome would never fall. Neither is with us anymore. It’s not hard to imagine tourists visiting the United States in a few millennia to see what’s left of the Pentagon or Mount Rushmore. It’s a sobering thought, but I think people need to grasp the transience of all we take for granted – not only so we can appreciate the good things we have, but also so we can learn to hold those things loosely, assigning greater value to the intangible qualities of culture.
Yet on the other hand, the commercialized aspect of the tourist scene makes me cringe, and it’s more than the pressing crowds that make me feel that way. It seems somehow wrong to “go see the Vatican,” a place that was built to be holy and honoring to God. It’s not a museum. It’s holy ground (or should be). I’m glad the Pope still used it for his weekly message and that pilgrims still worship there. In this way, it is still being used for its intended purpose. On the other hand, I think the builders’ original vision for some of the other monuments has been lost.
But then, we have progressed. Maybe it is too much to ask that a new culture in a new millennium cling to the values of a culture so old we can hardly understand it. To the ancient Romans, watching lions eat Christians was quality entertainment. It would turn our stomachs today. For us, it would be sick to reinstate gladiatorial fights in the Coliseum, yet I believe it is a good thing to use that space as the public arena it was meant to be. I heard there was recently a concert there. Surely the designers did not intend for power chords to resonate through the stone arches. At the same time, this use of the Coliseum holds true to a purpose the architects may not have intended, but which is nonetheless as old as the structure itself: spectacle.
The real disrespect is the way vendors and con artists have turned the historical and religious sites into marketplaces and stages for robbery. Walking out of the Vatican, souvenir shop windows display tacky gold souvenirs plastered with the face of the Pope as if he were some flamboyant celebrity. It makes me think of the Bible story about Jesus overturning the tables in the sanctuary. It’s an even greater shame that portions of the city, including some of the most ancient sites, bear the artwork and tags of vandals.
All else aside, the fact that the new Rome reflects aspects of the greater global culture can hardly be pegged as a bad thing. Global culture values green space. One can see this in the city of Rome. As a matter of fact, the Italians have valued green space for centuries. In the center of the city you’ll find the gardens of the Borghese palace, a sprawling grassy space with paths for horseback riders and knolls for picnickers. Trees are scattered about and green and yellow birds fight scrawny brown squirrels for branch space. The gardens have been there for six hundred years, way before the rest of the world had even begun to create the pollution we are now desperate to eliminate with our city parks and nature reservations. Rome does not just open a window on ancient cultures; it spotlights today’s in a manner that even the culturally semi-literate can comprehend as a good thing, in spite of what may have been lost in the sweep of time and tourism.
------------------------------
And now for the much-slaved-over video, for which my video partner Tyler went to great lengths to procure a firewire cable (which connects the camcorder to the Mac) and for which he was pick-pocketed in the process:
Peace, love, and jet lag,
Miss Rex
I believe it’s important for people to come here and see the artifacts and sites. It provokes a connection and sense of reverence regarding history that can only be gained in a hands-on way. It’s mind-boggling to picture a group of people more or less like me erecting hundred-foot-tall stone columns at their public forums or the thousand arches of the Coliseum, not out of aesthetic ambition but for practical use. Just as I walk to the dining hall and then to the chapel and then to the library each day without a thought, the ancient Romans worked, ate, worshiped, played and studied in these majestic structures every day.
Imagining a population for whom these sights were ordinary offers a moving peek into history that we are fortunate to have.
Beyond even that, structures such as the crumbling Coliseum remind us that no earthly empire is everlasting, no matter how vast or powerful. I am reminded of the poem “Ozymandias” by Percy Bysshe Shelley, which tells of a traveler who found the ruins of a huge statue. An inscription reads, “Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair.” Ozymandias thought his kingdom would last forever. In the same way, people thought Rome would never fall. Neither is with us anymore. It’s not hard to imagine tourists visiting the United States in a few millennia to see what’s left of the Pentagon or Mount Rushmore. It’s a sobering thought, but I think people need to grasp the transience of all we take for granted – not only so we can appreciate the good things we have, but also so we can learn to hold those things loosely, assigning greater value to the intangible qualities of culture.
Yet on the other hand, the commercialized aspect of the tourist scene makes me cringe, and it’s more than the pressing crowds that make me feel that way. It seems somehow wrong to “go see the Vatican,” a place that was built to be holy and honoring to God. It’s not a museum. It’s holy ground (or should be). I’m glad the Pope still used it for his weekly message and that pilgrims still worship there. In this way, it is still being used for its intended purpose. On the other hand, I think the builders’ original vision for some of the other monuments has been lost.
But then, we have progressed. Maybe it is too much to ask that a new culture in a new millennium cling to the values of a culture so old we can hardly understand it. To the ancient Romans, watching lions eat Christians was quality entertainment. It would turn our stomachs today. For us, it would be sick to reinstate gladiatorial fights in the Coliseum, yet I believe it is a good thing to use that space as the public arena it was meant to be. I heard there was recently a concert there. Surely the designers did not intend for power chords to resonate through the stone arches. At the same time, this use of the Coliseum holds true to a purpose the architects may not have intended, but which is nonetheless as old as the structure itself: spectacle.
The real disrespect is the way vendors and con artists have turned the historical and religious sites into marketplaces and stages for robbery. Walking out of the Vatican, souvenir shop windows display tacky gold souvenirs plastered with the face of the Pope as if he were some flamboyant celebrity. It makes me think of the Bible story about Jesus overturning the tables in the sanctuary. It’s an even greater shame that portions of the city, including some of the most ancient sites, bear the artwork and tags of vandals.
All else aside, the fact that the new Rome reflects aspects of the greater global culture can hardly be pegged as a bad thing. Global culture values green space. One can see this in the city of Rome. As a matter of fact, the Italians have valued green space for centuries. In the center of the city you’ll find the gardens of the Borghese palace, a sprawling grassy space with paths for horseback riders and knolls for picnickers. Trees are scattered about and green and yellow birds fight scrawny brown squirrels for branch space. The gardens have been there for six hundred years, way before the rest of the world had even begun to create the pollution we are now desperate to eliminate with our city parks and nature reservations. Rome does not just open a window on ancient cultures; it spotlights today’s in a manner that even the culturally semi-literate can comprehend as a good thing, in spite of what may have been lost in the sweep of time and tourism.
------------------------------
And now for the much-slaved-over video, for which my video partner Tyler went to great lengths to procure a firewire cable (which connects the camcorder to the Mac) and for which he was pick-pocketed in the process:
Peace, love, and jet lag,
Miss Rex
Thoughts from La Rocca
In Assisi, there is really nowhere to look but up. The buildings aren’t tall, but they loom as if reading over your shoulder, and when you feel their breath on your neck you must look.
When you do, you’ll see nothing but texture. In the architecture, yes – rough-hewn rock is mixed with more recent, geometrical stones and modern-day bricks in the walls. The streets, too, are mostly cobbled. Wood and metal doors to homes and yards are set in the walls like gates to secret gardens. And there are gardens in plenty. The greens are intoxicating. Pines and palm trees live side by side. People raise cactuses next to wild poppies. The flora hides dozens of different kinds of birds, from city street pigeons to happy darting finches, that chirrup and tweet in disregard of the many tourists.
In short, the place itself is a paradox. Sacred shares ground with secular. Modern infringes on ancient. The rustic lingers in the urban. There is an old wooden cart in an alley off the piazza and a red crane repairs a tower held up by Roman columns.
Yet much of the texture comes from the juxtaposition of the people. Assisi is a pilgrimage town, which makes it more of a melting pot than even our home in the States. I’ve heard Italian, Spanish, German, and Swedish. Once in a while I even catch a snatch of English.
Visitors of all ages and races gather in the piazza. A class on tour takes pictures by the fountain. A group of Swedish tweens plays some version of sharks and minnows. Families dine under umbrellas at an open-air restaurant. A man wearing a beret sits on a stone bench and scribbles in a notepad. There are parents, grandparents and children, schools, couples, seekers and pilgrims, all bundled together in one jostling, joyful square. Countless camera eyes are poised to remember what the photographers fear they will not.
So, I have described the people in any tourist town. What makes Assisi unique is that all of these gather in the shadow of churches and basilicas that played major roles in Christian history. The streets bear the names of saints. Shop windows showcase religious souvenirs. To this day, friars and nuns walk the narrow streets, heads covered, alongside bare-shouldered visitors, Vespas, cars and buses.
And it’s relaxed. American tourist towns are so rushed in comparison, urging guests to squeeze in as much activity as possible. Assisi seems to call us simply to be. Enjoy. Take a leisurely meal. Nothing remotely like fast food exists here – the thought must be as appalling as requesting to check books out of the library (which is not allowed; most of the libraries are not even public).
Even groups on tours aren’t frazzled. The only ones in a hurry are the little children, who can’t wait to see the next new thing. As for the rest, they have nowhere to rush to, nothing to cause them stress. Assisi is a sanctuary from such things. Thus, the wine bar bubbles with company throughout the day. A man sits by himself, drinking and watching the traffic. A kid gets water all over his face at the bubbler and simply laughs. Most of the shopkeepers are gracious and patient while we try to communicate with them and everyone seems eager to help, like the friar who brought us around the library and even to the rooms and secret passages below. It seems Assisi extends as far down as it does up.
And everywhere you go, there is always something to look up at. But with the direction of up comes a compulsion to climb, and thus I find myself at La Rocca, a mountaintop castle that kept its eye on the rival city of Perugia once upon a time. From here the city is only patterns – unfolded origami rooftops, quilted farmland laced with wild poppies. You could play tic tac toe with the property lines. Patches of green pepper the rooftops where people have planted gardens. The city spills down the hillside into a valley of a thousand greens.
There are no people or cars from up here, no storefronts or pizzerias or wine bars. It’s hard to call Assisi a city from the mountaintop. With a castle behind me and the quilt below, I’d sooner say I got caught in a time warp. Tradition still holds sway in the stone labyrinths below me; it’s in the very mortar. One might say it is the mortar. Something has held this city together for over a thousand years, and I’m guessing it’s more than rocks.
----------------------
Still sorting through pictures from Rome, but I'll post them in the next couple of days provided I have time. Which I may not since I have to go back to Rome to replace my freaking passport. I dunno what happened to it. I didn't have it leaving for Rome on Friday, but I had it coming through customs at the airport. I remember the guy was all impatient because it took me a second to open up to the page with my photo and he just waved me through without even taking it. But beyond that things get a little fuzzy. I had been traveling for 12 hours at that point. Anything is possible. I could've gotten pick-pocketed by aliens and never known it.
Anyway, the fact now stands that I have to get the damn thing replaced before I can leave the country. I actually would not be opposed to spending a few extra days here, but you know... I might've rationed my Euros better if I'd known that would be the case, as opposed to indulging in so many of those yummy sprize things at the local bar...
When you do, you’ll see nothing but texture. In the architecture, yes – rough-hewn rock is mixed with more recent, geometrical stones and modern-day bricks in the walls. The streets, too, are mostly cobbled. Wood and metal doors to homes and yards are set in the walls like gates to secret gardens. And there are gardens in plenty. The greens are intoxicating. Pines and palm trees live side by side. People raise cactuses next to wild poppies. The flora hides dozens of different kinds of birds, from city street pigeons to happy darting finches, that chirrup and tweet in disregard of the many tourists.
In short, the place itself is a paradox. Sacred shares ground with secular. Modern infringes on ancient. The rustic lingers in the urban. There is an old wooden cart in an alley off the piazza and a red crane repairs a tower held up by Roman columns.
Yet much of the texture comes from the juxtaposition of the people. Assisi is a pilgrimage town, which makes it more of a melting pot than even our home in the States. I’ve heard Italian, Spanish, German, and Swedish. Once in a while I even catch a snatch of English.
Visitors of all ages and races gather in the piazza. A class on tour takes pictures by the fountain. A group of Swedish tweens plays some version of sharks and minnows. Families dine under umbrellas at an open-air restaurant. A man wearing a beret sits on a stone bench and scribbles in a notepad. There are parents, grandparents and children, schools, couples, seekers and pilgrims, all bundled together in one jostling, joyful square. Countless camera eyes are poised to remember what the photographers fear they will not.
So, I have described the people in any tourist town. What makes Assisi unique is that all of these gather in the shadow of churches and basilicas that played major roles in Christian history. The streets bear the names of saints. Shop windows showcase religious souvenirs. To this day, friars and nuns walk the narrow streets, heads covered, alongside bare-shouldered visitors, Vespas, cars and buses.
And it’s relaxed. American tourist towns are so rushed in comparison, urging guests to squeeze in as much activity as possible. Assisi seems to call us simply to be. Enjoy. Take a leisurely meal. Nothing remotely like fast food exists here – the thought must be as appalling as requesting to check books out of the library (which is not allowed; most of the libraries are not even public).
Even groups on tours aren’t frazzled. The only ones in a hurry are the little children, who can’t wait to see the next new thing. As for the rest, they have nowhere to rush to, nothing to cause them stress. Assisi is a sanctuary from such things. Thus, the wine bar bubbles with company throughout the day. A man sits by himself, drinking and watching the traffic. A kid gets water all over his face at the bubbler and simply laughs. Most of the shopkeepers are gracious and patient while we try to communicate with them and everyone seems eager to help, like the friar who brought us around the library and even to the rooms and secret passages below. It seems Assisi extends as far down as it does up.
And everywhere you go, there is always something to look up at. But with the direction of up comes a compulsion to climb, and thus I find myself at La Rocca, a mountaintop castle that kept its eye on the rival city of Perugia once upon a time. From here the city is only patterns – unfolded origami rooftops, quilted farmland laced with wild poppies. You could play tic tac toe with the property lines. Patches of green pepper the rooftops where people have planted gardens. The city spills down the hillside into a valley of a thousand greens.
There are no people or cars from up here, no storefronts or pizzerias or wine bars. It’s hard to call Assisi a city from the mountaintop. With a castle behind me and the quilt below, I’d sooner say I got caught in a time warp. Tradition still holds sway in the stone labyrinths below me; it’s in the very mortar. One might say it is the mortar. Something has held this city together for over a thousand years, and I’m guessing it’s more than rocks.
----------------------
Still sorting through pictures from Rome, but I'll post them in the next couple of days provided I have time. Which I may not since I have to go back to Rome to replace my freaking passport. I dunno what happened to it. I didn't have it leaving for Rome on Friday, but I had it coming through customs at the airport. I remember the guy was all impatient because it took me a second to open up to the page with my photo and he just waved me through without even taking it. But beyond that things get a little fuzzy. I had been traveling for 12 hours at that point. Anything is possible. I could've gotten pick-pocketed by aliens and never known it.
Anyway, the fact now stands that I have to get the damn thing replaced before I can leave the country. I actually would not be opposed to spending a few extra days here, but you know... I might've rationed my Euros better if I'd known that would be the case, as opposed to indulging in so many of those yummy sprize things at the local bar...
When in Assisi, do as the Franciscans do
Ciao, friends! I'm writing to you from Assisi, Italy! So fear not, there IS a good reason for my neglecting you all week.
I'm here for a journalism seminar with 11 other Go-Co kids. I'm in charge of documenting the trip and compiling a promotional video, since this is a new seminar. Thus I have waaay too many pictures to upload them all, but I'm trying to pick out the best of them. I shall post them tomorrow for Photofinish Friday! Until then, some thoughts:
There is something pleasantly surreal about living in a city that is centuries older than my entire country.
Passing under stone archways, I wonder how they are still standing and what it was like for Saint Clare to pass under those same arches in the 1200s. Climbing the hill to the castle called La Rocca, I wonder how many battles were fought on these ancient slopes and for what. I wonder how this rich culture and civilization could be so deeply rooted in these mountains for thousands of years without tarnishing the green of the valley. I wonder how an ancient religious order still draws practicing friars in the 21st century.
Here in this place, free from cell phones and wireless Internet and the general hubbub of the States, where the gardens encroach on the city, where you can wash down gelato with a glass of wine, where the locals need their afternoon siesta, here where history is in the very mortar of the walls and where learning is not a chore but a privilege – here I can breathe.
We have a fantastic group without whom this beautiful place would be infinitely less beautiful. Everyone is so chill and there is almost always someone up for doing something (especially drinking vino!). It's hard to buckle down and do work when you're surrounded by so many great friends and such a rich culture, but thankfully the load isn't as heavy as our professor keeps making it out to be. At least I haven't found it to be so. Video work isn't stressful for me; in fact, except for the headache that is logging and capturing videos from a camcorder, I find it almost therapeutic. And with that I am off to play with my new buddy, Final Cut Express. Arrividerci!
Peace, love and gelato,
Miss Rex
I'm here for a journalism seminar with 11 other Go-Co kids. I'm in charge of documenting the trip and compiling a promotional video, since this is a new seminar. Thus I have waaay too many pictures to upload them all, but I'm trying to pick out the best of them. I shall post them tomorrow for Photofinish Friday! Until then, some thoughts:
There is something pleasantly surreal about living in a city that is centuries older than my entire country.
Passing under stone archways, I wonder how they are still standing and what it was like for Saint Clare to pass under those same arches in the 1200s. Climbing the hill to the castle called La Rocca, I wonder how many battles were fought on these ancient slopes and for what. I wonder how this rich culture and civilization could be so deeply rooted in these mountains for thousands of years without tarnishing the green of the valley. I wonder how an ancient religious order still draws practicing friars in the 21st century.
Here in this place, free from cell phones and wireless Internet and the general hubbub of the States, where the gardens encroach on the city, where you can wash down gelato with a glass of wine, where the locals need their afternoon siesta, here where history is in the very mortar of the walls and where learning is not a chore but a privilege – here I can breathe.
We have a fantastic group without whom this beautiful place would be infinitely less beautiful. Everyone is so chill and there is almost always someone up for doing something (especially drinking vino!). It's hard to buckle down and do work when you're surrounded by so many great friends and such a rich culture, but thankfully the load isn't as heavy as our professor keeps making it out to be. At least I haven't found it to be so. Video work isn't stressful for me; in fact, except for the headache that is logging and capturing videos from a camcorder, I find it almost therapeutic. And with that I am off to play with my new buddy, Final Cut Express. Arrividerci!
Peace, love and gelato,
Miss Rex
On Being a Loser
I wrote this for my internship in light of the fact that yet another school year is ending, possibly the best school year I've had yet at Go-Co, and how depressing it is that summer break is starting even now while my friend KZ packs his stuff into a mini-van and drives away.
I had the best hall ever this year. Thanks, guys, for resurrecting my social life. I made great friends in Claymore and I am sad to see the ghetto basement coffee house relocate to our lame fake pub next year. It's weird to say goodbye to the seniors after looking up to them for the past three years, and even though I have fewer close friends graduating this year than I did last, the ones that are leaving..... how will Go-Co ever be Go-Co without you? It will become a different place, and it will always be deficient without your presence, your advice, your laughter. Without you.
So yeah, before I start bawling my eyes out, here's the thing I wrote, entitled "On Being a Loser."
Every time I go home for the summer I find myself excavating the closet under the eaves in search of something I’ve lost. This also happens at Christmastime, Easter, Thanksgiving, and on sundry weekends throughout the year. I can’t help it; I’m a loser.
My favorite pants went missing for more than half a year. I haven’t seen my hiking boots since high school. There is a tragic space between Mae and Muse on my CD shelf where Matchbox Twenty should be. Sometimes when I leave my dorm I don’t even know where I parked my car. For the record, I hardly ever lose the keys.
But these things are only misplaced. More regrettable are the things that promise to stay lost: the poem I wrote in fourth grade, the recording of my best friend singing about green tea and the word “pshaw,” the plush bear my birth father gave me when I was born (one of the only mementos I had of him).
Are these important losses? I don’t know. For now, I still have the memories. The poem was less important than how nice it felt to see people smile when they read it. It’s not important that the recording got deleted as long as my friend and I can still scream “green tea!” to each other at random and confuse everybody else at parties. Knowing that my father wanted to be remembered is enough to remind me to remember him.
I think the greater losses are the ones we couldn’t hold to begin with. I lost a best friend once, and not knowing what happened to our friendship was volumes worse than not knowing what happened to the many books and CDs absent from my shelves.
I lost my childhood a few years back, and that was a shame, too. Finally realizing what a blessing I had in spite of stupid bullies at school, I’ve returned to my tree-climbing, Disney-watching days as best I can, but it’s not the same as having no obligations.
With the end of the school year looming, I realize I am about to lose something again. More friends are soon to graduate. In another year, I’ll be the one leaving school behind. Maybe then I will look back on these four years the way I look at childhood now.
But I don’t think we really lose the things we leave behind. I think we carry them forever. They carve themselves into the fleshy pink tissue of our brains and into the caverns of our hearts. We don’t lose them because they are us, and if we do lose them it’s because we meant to, or maybe they didn’t pierce us as sharply as we once thought.
My grandfather is losing his memory to Alzheimer’s. To me this seems the greatest loss of all. Everything I create, writing or otherwise, comes back to the friends who left and the ones who stayed, to the parents who loved me enough to give me up to a better life through adoption, to the songs that served as soundtracks through the high school gauntlet. To the things I carry in the compartments of my mind.
I know how to love because I’ve been hated. I know how to sacrifice because I’ve been shown more than selfishness. These are things I haven’t lost and will never lose, even if I can one day forget where they came from. I can tell that my grandfather still has them, and because of that, I can hope that wherever I may have left my car, there are some things I’ll never lose.
RIP, Go-Co 2009-2010. We'll go out with a bang at the Batrave tonight!
Peace, love and black lights,
Miss Rex
I had the best hall ever this year. Thanks, guys, for resurrecting my social life. I made great friends in Claymore and I am sad to see the ghetto basement coffee house relocate to our lame fake pub next year. It's weird to say goodbye to the seniors after looking up to them for the past three years, and even though I have fewer close friends graduating this year than I did last, the ones that are leaving..... how will Go-Co ever be Go-Co without you? It will become a different place, and it will always be deficient without your presence, your advice, your laughter. Without you.
So yeah, before I start bawling my eyes out, here's the thing I wrote, entitled "On Being a Loser."
Every time I go home for the summer I find myself excavating the closet under the eaves in search of something I’ve lost. This also happens at Christmastime, Easter, Thanksgiving, and on sundry weekends throughout the year. I can’t help it; I’m a loser.
My favorite pants went missing for more than half a year. I haven’t seen my hiking boots since high school. There is a tragic space between Mae and Muse on my CD shelf where Matchbox Twenty should be. Sometimes when I leave my dorm I don’t even know where I parked my car. For the record, I hardly ever lose the keys.
But these things are only misplaced. More regrettable are the things that promise to stay lost: the poem I wrote in fourth grade, the recording of my best friend singing about green tea and the word “pshaw,” the plush bear my birth father gave me when I was born (one of the only mementos I had of him).
Are these important losses? I don’t know. For now, I still have the memories. The poem was less important than how nice it felt to see people smile when they read it. It’s not important that the recording got deleted as long as my friend and I can still scream “green tea!” to each other at random and confuse everybody else at parties. Knowing that my father wanted to be remembered is enough to remind me to remember him.
I think the greater losses are the ones we couldn’t hold to begin with. I lost a best friend once, and not knowing what happened to our friendship was volumes worse than not knowing what happened to the many books and CDs absent from my shelves.
I lost my childhood a few years back, and that was a shame, too. Finally realizing what a blessing I had in spite of stupid bullies at school, I’ve returned to my tree-climbing, Disney-watching days as best I can, but it’s not the same as having no obligations.
With the end of the school year looming, I realize I am about to lose something again. More friends are soon to graduate. In another year, I’ll be the one leaving school behind. Maybe then I will look back on these four years the way I look at childhood now.
But I don’t think we really lose the things we leave behind. I think we carry them forever. They carve themselves into the fleshy pink tissue of our brains and into the caverns of our hearts. We don’t lose them because they are us, and if we do lose them it’s because we meant to, or maybe they didn’t pierce us as sharply as we once thought.
My grandfather is losing his memory to Alzheimer’s. To me this seems the greatest loss of all. Everything I create, writing or otherwise, comes back to the friends who left and the ones who stayed, to the parents who loved me enough to give me up to a better life through adoption, to the songs that served as soundtracks through the high school gauntlet. To the things I carry in the compartments of my mind.
I know how to love because I’ve been hated. I know how to sacrifice because I’ve been shown more than selfishness. These are things I haven’t lost and will never lose, even if I can one day forget where they came from. I can tell that my grandfather still has them, and because of that, I can hope that wherever I may have left my car, there are some things I’ll never lose.
RIP, Go-Co 2009-2010. We'll go out with a bang at the Batrave tonight!
Peace, love and black lights,
Miss Rex
Defying woman's intuition
In my head, I have a pretty good sense of what's a good idea and what's not. You hear about a woman's intuition, and I definitely have it. Yet that doesn't stop me from doing a lot of things that I think are bad ideas. Why? I can't explain it. I guess it... generates writing material...?
Even as I'm goofing up, there's a little voice in my head by the name of Jiminy Cricket asking me what the hell I'm getting myself into this time. But what fun would life be if we didn't spend 90% of it defying our better judgment? Thankfully Jiminy is only a cricket, and easy enough to ignore; thus I continue to do the following.
1. Using Facebook. It's such a black hole. At any given moment that I am on Facebook I can usually think of at least fifteen better things I could be doing, yet how can I fight that kind of gravity...?
2. Procrastinating. If it's not due tomorrow, I'm not worried about it (blame #1). Then when it's due tomorrow I don't have enough time to do it. Vicious cycle.
3. Drinking coffee at night. I can only do this if I intend to stay up for at least six more hours, and even after six hours, going to sleep can be problematic. This means I am tired the next day and need more coffee. Another vicious cycle.
4. Foregoing sleep. I can almost get away with alternating nights of no sleep and 12 hours of sleep. Almost. But I'm not saying it's healthy.
5. Agreeing to nap with a certain friend of mine. You'd think by now one of us would have realized we have totally different definitions of napping. If I say I want to nap, it means "I didn't sleep last night. Unconsciousness is necessary RIGHT NOW. I am saying it's cool if you join me a) because you are comfy, b) because I am too tired to argue with you, and/or c) because I want to retain some hope in your half of the species." Somehow my intentions always get lost in translation...
6. Being the sober one. You'd think I'd regret being drunk more than staying sober, but the fact is I hate playing babysitter and I can't handle it when people barf. And I get tired and cold and hungry, which I don't think I would notice if I was drunk.
7. Breaking visitation. I'm not even sure what the consequences are for spending the night in a dude's room but I'm sure they are not pretty, regardless of what actually goes down in said dude's room (the handbook does not differentiate between hawt sex and watching movies about journalism).
8. Climbing buildings. It's a $400 fine if you get caught... but everything is more exciting at higher altitudes, and visitation hours don't apply to rooftops.
9. Playing the awkward game. Letting people know you have no shame is pretty much an invitation for them to try and make you feel uncomfortable. Case in point? I have this one friend who's been trying to wig me out by putting his face really close to mine, so last night I kissed his cheek, which freaked him the heck out. He jumped across the lobby and turned bright red. Funniest thing I've ever seen. So today he happens to walk by while I'm taking down the whiteboard outside my room, runs over, and kisses me on the mouth. And runs away.
Peace, love and true confessions,
Miss Rex
Even as I'm goofing up, there's a little voice in my head by the name of Jiminy Cricket asking me what the hell I'm getting myself into this time. But what fun would life be if we didn't spend 90% of it defying our better judgment? Thankfully Jiminy is only a cricket, and easy enough to ignore; thus I continue to do the following.
1. Using Facebook. It's such a black hole. At any given moment that I am on Facebook I can usually think of at least fifteen better things I could be doing, yet how can I fight that kind of gravity...?
2. Procrastinating. If it's not due tomorrow, I'm not worried about it (blame #1). Then when it's due tomorrow I don't have enough time to do it. Vicious cycle.
3. Drinking coffee at night. I can only do this if I intend to stay up for at least six more hours, and even after six hours, going to sleep can be problematic. This means I am tired the next day and need more coffee. Another vicious cycle.
4. Foregoing sleep. I can almost get away with alternating nights of no sleep and 12 hours of sleep. Almost. But I'm not saying it's healthy.
5. Agreeing to nap with a certain friend of mine. You'd think by now one of us would have realized we have totally different definitions of napping. If I say I want to nap, it means "I didn't sleep last night. Unconsciousness is necessary RIGHT NOW. I am saying it's cool if you join me a) because you are comfy, b) because I am too tired to argue with you, and/or c) because I want to retain some hope in your half of the species." Somehow my intentions always get lost in translation...
6. Being the sober one. You'd think I'd regret being drunk more than staying sober, but the fact is I hate playing babysitter and I can't handle it when people barf. And I get tired and cold and hungry, which I don't think I would notice if I was drunk.
7. Breaking visitation. I'm not even sure what the consequences are for spending the night in a dude's room but I'm sure they are not pretty, regardless of what actually goes down in said dude's room (the handbook does not differentiate between hawt sex and watching movies about journalism).
8. Climbing buildings. It's a $400 fine if you get caught... but everything is more exciting at higher altitudes, and visitation hours don't apply to rooftops.
9. Playing the awkward game. Letting people know you have no shame is pretty much an invitation for them to try and make you feel uncomfortable. Case in point? I have this one friend who's been trying to wig me out by putting his face really close to mine, so last night I kissed his cheek, which freaked him the heck out. He jumped across the lobby and turned bright red. Funniest thing I've ever seen. So today he happens to walk by while I'm taking down the whiteboard outside my room, runs over, and kisses me on the mouth. And runs away.
Peace, love and true confessions,
Miss Rex
Narcissism.me
Have you heard of formspring.me? Of course you have, you good little social networker, you. It's the new Twitter, the grandchild of the 200-question MySpace bulletin survey. ANYONE CAN ASK YOU ANYTHING, AND YOU'LL LOVE IT.
EVERYONE will ask you bazillions of questions, because EVERYONE wants to know the deep dark secrets of quirky, fabulous YOU, and you will get social networker's high telling them all the TMI they never wanted to know about quirky fabulous you. To the umpteenth degree. Am I right or am I right?
Problem. As much as quirky fabulous narcissistic you loves telling un-quirky un-fabulous everyone-else about YOU, well, everyone else would much rather be telling YOU how quirky and fabulous THEY are. It's all one big cry for attention. And look, I get it; we all love the feeling of eyes on us, we all want to be loved, we all want to feel like others find us interesting and unique. I want that, too. But frankly they don't give a damn about your deep dark secrets.
At least this is the theory behind why I don't have a formspring. It seems like people are always using their Facebook statuses to beg their friends to ask them questions on formspring.me, and that is just sad. Sorry if you do this, but when I see that on my news feed, I think, "This is stupid." I always want to ask a question because I feel bad that they have been so unsuccessful in their ventures of narcissism that they need to go on Facebook to ask people to ask them questions, but I can never think of anything interesting or creative to say.
I was never too good at truth or dare, either.
But I was always good at those 200-question MySpace surveys (probably because they were all about quirky fabulous ME), which makes formspring sound like it COULD be fun. I just... can't be okay with further fueling said narcissism. I mean, I guess it's narcissistic to blog, too, as if anyone should care what I have to say, but at least a blog is a legitimate way to get your name out there en route to authordom.
I also have a problem with the anonymity factor. Some small interactive feature might redeem this Me machine, but you don't even know who's asking you these (sometimes highly personal/inappropriate) questions. Yeah, sometimes that affects the answer; but it should, shouldn't it? In a normal, healthy, face-to-face conversation it would.
I guess it also comes down to the fact that I don't expect anyone would be very interested in asking me anything anyway, and I think that would just be depressing.
EVERYONE will ask you bazillions of questions, because EVERYONE wants to know the deep dark secrets of quirky, fabulous YOU, and you will get social networker's high telling them all the TMI they never wanted to know about quirky fabulous you. To the umpteenth degree. Am I right or am I right?
Problem. As much as quirky fabulous narcissistic you loves telling un-quirky un-fabulous everyone-else about YOU, well, everyone else would much rather be telling YOU how quirky and fabulous THEY are. It's all one big cry for attention. And look, I get it; we all love the feeling of eyes on us, we all want to be loved, we all want to feel like others find us interesting and unique. I want that, too. But frankly they don't give a damn about your deep dark secrets.
At least this is the theory behind why I don't have a formspring. It seems like people are always using their Facebook statuses to beg their friends to ask them questions on formspring.me, and that is just sad. Sorry if you do this, but when I see that on my news feed, I think, "This is stupid." I always want to ask a question because I feel bad that they have been so unsuccessful in their ventures of narcissism that they need to go on Facebook to ask people to ask them questions, but I can never think of anything interesting or creative to say.
I was never too good at truth or dare, either.
But I was always good at those 200-question MySpace surveys (probably because they were all about quirky fabulous ME), which makes formspring sound like it COULD be fun. I just... can't be okay with further fueling said narcissism. I mean, I guess it's narcissistic to blog, too, as if anyone should care what I have to say, but at least a blog is a legitimate way to get your name out there en route to authordom.
I also have a problem with the anonymity factor. Some small interactive feature might redeem this Me machine, but you don't even know who's asking you these (sometimes highly personal/inappropriate) questions. Yeah, sometimes that affects the answer; but it should, shouldn't it? In a normal, healthy, face-to-face conversation it would.
I guess it also comes down to the fact that I don't expect anyone would be very interested in asking me anything anyway, and I think that would just be depressing.
Boss Fugly Bug
Sometimes when Taz and I are sitting around doing homework we hear loud crashes from above our room.
We live on the top floor.
The only possible explanation is that there is some kind of monster who lives in the space between the ceiling and the roof. I've popped my head through the ceiling tiles to look for him, but so far I haven't caught so much as a glimpse. However, we have strong evidence that what we are dealing with is a giant bug.
We call him the Boss Fugly Bug because he seems to be the last line of defense for all the flicky, fugly, flying insects that come to visit us when it gets warm, like the final boss that kicks your ass in video games.
We've never been sure what kind of insect our visitors actually are. When they fly, they're easy to mistake for wasps, but they're really harmless unless you squish them, in which case they emit the fugliest smell you can imagine. Hence they are "fugly bugs."
The thing we've noticed about these fugly bugs is that most of them are horribly mutilated by the time they get inside. They are supposed to have six legs, but we've found bugs missing two, three, even four legs.
Naturally this is because they had to do epic battle to get into our room. Or perhaps it's the border price. Seems it costs them an arm and a leg to come here (funny, it costs my family about that much to send me here, too).
One way or the other though, the Boss is responsible. Either the fugly pilgrims fight him to gain entry, losing legs in the process, or the Boss demands leggy payment and grants peaceful passage once the price is paid. Possibly the reason some are missing so many legs is that we bring them outside and they are forced to pay the border fee again to get back inside.
It's a fugly life for a fugly bug.
We live on the top floor.
The only possible explanation is that there is some kind of monster who lives in the space between the ceiling and the roof. I've popped my head through the ceiling tiles to look for him, but so far I haven't caught so much as a glimpse. However, we have strong evidence that what we are dealing with is a giant bug.
We call him the Boss Fugly Bug because he seems to be the last line of defense for all the flicky, fugly, flying insects that come to visit us when it gets warm, like the final boss that kicks your ass in video games.
We've never been sure what kind of insect our visitors actually are. When they fly, they're easy to mistake for wasps, but they're really harmless unless you squish them, in which case they emit the fugliest smell you can imagine. Hence they are "fugly bugs."
The thing we've noticed about these fugly bugs is that most of them are horribly mutilated by the time they get inside. They are supposed to have six legs, but we've found bugs missing two, three, even four legs.
Naturally this is because they had to do epic battle to get into our room. Or perhaps it's the border price. Seems it costs them an arm and a leg to come here (funny, it costs my family about that much to send me here, too).
One way or the other though, the Boss is responsible. Either the fugly pilgrims fight him to gain entry, losing legs in the process, or the Boss demands leggy payment and grants peaceful passage once the price is paid. Possibly the reason some are missing so many legs is that we bring them outside and they are forced to pay the border fee again to get back inside.
It's a fugly life for a fugly bug.
The Rainbow Connection
Most days I hate New England weather, but today was special. It was gorgeous and sunny all morning. Then around 4:30 there was a thunderstorm. This is a rare treat for us. We get a lot of dreary days, drizzly days, and downright downpour days, but usually we have to go to the mountains for a good thunderstorm.
Our room got really dark, and Taz and I amused ourselves counting seconds between lightning and thunder. The storm never got very close, so we got bored, she went somewhere else, and I went back to work. Then I suddenly noticed it had gotten very bright and the sunlight was bright gold on the pine trees outside. It was still pouring, which somewhat gave away the surprise, but as an avid rainbow-watcher I would have known that shade of gold anywhere. I ran to the window. There was a triple rainbow outside.
Luckily I have a fabulous new camera, so I booked it out to the quad and started snapping. While I was out there more rainbows appeared. I believe at one point there were five. Now for the record, I occasionally have random trippy dreams where I'm walking down the street and millions of rainbows appear, so after number four I started to wonder whether I was awake. Why yes I am on crack, thank you very much.
But this really happened, and I have the pictures to prove it!!
Most regrettably I do not have photo or video footage of this, but there was random spider lightning in between the two arcs at one point. It was epic on an apocalyptic scale.
For me, though, this is the best part:
Ever since the flood, the rainbow has been a sign from God, at least according to the Bible. And for a while now, I've been pleading with God to give me some concrete sign that he's paying attention and that I'm not crazy for writing him letters every day. My spirit is willing but my mind is weak. I can't seem to believe absent some miraculous, tangible evidence.
I think five rainbows is a fairly compelling sign.
Our room got really dark, and Taz and I amused ourselves counting seconds between lightning and thunder. The storm never got very close, so we got bored, she went somewhere else, and I went back to work. Then I suddenly noticed it had gotten very bright and the sunlight was bright gold on the pine trees outside. It was still pouring, which somewhat gave away the surprise, but as an avid rainbow-watcher I would have known that shade of gold anywhere. I ran to the window. There was a triple rainbow outside.
Luckily I have a fabulous new camera, so I booked it out to the quad and started snapping. While I was out there more rainbows appeared. I believe at one point there were five. Now for the record, I occasionally have random trippy dreams where I'm walking down the street and millions of rainbows appear, so after number four I started to wonder whether I was awake. Why yes I am on crack, thank you very much.
But this really happened, and I have the pictures to prove it!!
Most regrettably I do not have photo or video footage of this, but there was random spider lightning in between the two arcs at one point. It was epic on an apocalyptic scale.
For me, though, this is the best part:
Ever since the flood, the rainbow has been a sign from God, at least according to the Bible. And for a while now, I've been pleading with God to give me some concrete sign that he's paying attention and that I'm not crazy for writing him letters every day. My spirit is willing but my mind is weak. I can't seem to believe absent some miraculous, tangible evidence.
I think five rainbows is a fairly compelling sign.
