According to a Scientific American podcast, "time" is the most used word in the English language. Time is an awful thing really. It wasn't as important before the Industrial Revolution, which is when time-based sports like football and basketball became popular, whereas baseball, an untimed game, is a farm sport. But I digress.
I've been thinking about my time and how I've been spending (or wasting) it. All I care about lately is roller derby and relationships. I'd rather spend my time skating than anything else. And I spend a bit too much time worrying about men and the effects certain ones have on my life.
One thing I don't spend enough time on is my school work. I spend the times I should be in class, sleeping. I spend the time I should be studying anf reading, drinking and playing video games. For instance, I have a test and a paper due on Friday, but I;m going to rush them early so I can spend Thursday night at Eastside's karaoke contest. Because that's more important to me.
This lack of "class time" is going to effect what I'm doing with my time in the future. If I don't get my grades up, I will get kicked out of school. I will have to move back home with my parents and I will have to give up derby because of that. My realization is that how I spend my time now directly determines my future times. If I don't use my time effectively, I won't get to have any fun later.
And this brings me back to relationships. As I am getting older, I start to think about settling down after graduation. If I start seeing someone now, especially someone older, by the time I graduate we'll have been together for a year and a half. Settling ready, right? The problem is, right now I'm not ready to settle. Though I want to be in a relationship, once I get in one all I can see are the the things and men I can't have. I don't want to miss out on any time I could spend with someone. But at the same time, what about the time I could spend in love?
I recently decided that I want to spend my time in social servitude, a career where you aren't paid nearly enough for your time. Either teaching the forgotten or just doing all I can to better the lives of the lower class. "Blessed are the poor, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven." I'm not sure what God ans time have in store for me, I think that's what scares me the most.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
A bit of Non-fiction
There is a girl in my literature class who I think I would despise. I have deducted that she is a poet; she has a knowledge of Frost and the different styles like iambic pentameter and couplets and all that. Her eye make-up is always smudged and she wears fake nails, dirty brown shoes and a hoodie. The nails don't make sense with the rest of her. Her hair is always a nappy mess. Today she is wearing two hoodies: a navy one and her everyday-worn brown hoodie with mushroom print lining.
I see her falling in love with some phony old English professor, like the one played by Donald Sutherland in "Animal House" who is actually full of shit but she thinks he is so deep and "gets her."
She seems like the type of girl who would totally take herself and her writing so seriously, but it is actually so mundane and typical. Like the "poetry" we all wrote when we were sixteen. Like Jewel's book of poems. A line of Shel Silverstein's poems are deeper than all the pages of her Mead notebook combined.
She probably thinks she isn't understood or appreciated for the creative, delicate flower she is. But then again, she may think her loneliness is good for her writing.
She makes notes of everything the professor says, which plays a part in my affair suspicions. I don't think she would have an affair with this professor though; he isn't some pot-smoking romantic-era bullshitter, not at all like the theoretical professor I described before.
She will never be a Dylan Thomas (<3) or a realist like T.S. Eliot, she will write forever in mediocrity. She reads too much into symbolism in stories, which tells me her poems are probably full of symbols and metaphors. But like the way she misreads symbols in class, her poems are probably all wrong. Her constant note-taking tells me she doesn't form these ideas on her own, that she constantly cares about what others. But alas, like this tragic main character, perhaps I am reading too much into it.
But then again, the other day in class she just started reading another student's test answers, so I really think I am right.
I see her falling in love with some phony old English professor, like the one played by Donald Sutherland in "Animal House" who is actually full of shit but she thinks he is so deep and "gets her."
She seems like the type of girl who would totally take herself and her writing so seriously, but it is actually so mundane and typical. Like the "poetry" we all wrote when we were sixteen. Like Jewel's book of poems. A line of Shel Silverstein's poems are deeper than all the pages of her Mead notebook combined.
She probably thinks she isn't understood or appreciated for the creative, delicate flower she is. But then again, she may think her loneliness is good for her writing.
She makes notes of everything the professor says, which plays a part in my affair suspicions. I don't think she would have an affair with this professor though; he isn't some pot-smoking romantic-era bullshitter, not at all like the theoretical professor I described before.
She will never be a Dylan Thomas (<3) or a realist like T.S. Eliot, she will write forever in mediocrity. She reads too much into symbolism in stories, which tells me her poems are probably full of symbols and metaphors. But like the way she misreads symbols in class, her poems are probably all wrong. Her constant note-taking tells me she doesn't form these ideas on her own, that she constantly cares about what others. But alas, like this tragic main character, perhaps I am reading too much into it.
But then again, the other day in class she just started reading another student's test answers, so I really think I am right.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
to weird to live, to rare to die (or so I thought)
I'm not sure what it is, but something in my self-conscious has been making me relive parts of my senior year. For no apparent reason, I've been listening to the pop-punk that littered the eighteenth year of my life. Random thoughts have brought out of no where the memories of the red-haired kid I called love in that year. And today, today reminded me of a college campus visit in 2005. That's because that day was exactly three years ago today. That was the day my hero died.
President's Day,ironically enough, was the day I woke up in a Columbia hotel with a U.S. News at my door and the words on the front of the paper. Writer Hunter Stockton Thompson had killed himself. It was a surprise at first, then I realized it really wasn't. And here I was visiting Mizzou to become a journalist. Something I wanted to do because of Thompson. Three years have passed, and I've given up on that shell of a dream.But not a day goes by where he doesn't affect me.
I won't kid myself and pretend that Thompson didn't affect my curiosity with drug usage. The Robo-trip, the ecstasy, the acid: non of these were taken without thinking about him first. Back in that year it happened, in 2005, I got my Thompson-based nickname "Raoul Duchess" from a man involved in the local drug culture scene.The word "Duchess" is now on me forever in the handwriting of Ralph Steadman on my left arm.
I admire admiration for Thompson in other people. When I meet another fan, one who almost meets my level of adoration, it's instant attraction. A man once called me gonzo, and for Christ's sake I dated him for three months! Mutual love for HST has even given me the strangest attraction to an older man. But I know that a shared fascination isn't enough for him to leave her and cross state lines for a silly little girl. But with gonzo, anything is fucking possible, right?
The subject of Thompson's death is a hard on for me. Some call it murder, a government conspiracy cover-up due to Thompson's discussion of Sept. 11 and the involvement of the current administration. But Thompson has begun winding down his life before that final day. He gave his prized possession, a gift he had recieved from "Dr. Gonzo," to his son Juan. Thompson wasnever quiet about his feelings on suicide; he would never want to die slowly and out of his control. After watching my Grandpa slowly waste away, I am of the same belief, but I think I will be too cowardice to do anything.
Most people fall back on religion to comfort them in the wake of death, but how does the idea of Heaven and Hell soften the blow of Thompson killing himself after the life he lived? I find comfort in celebrating his life and all the good he has done for me (with heavy drinking!) But even if judgment is someday passed, I will show up to his heavenly trial, full of praise for his soul. This day always brings death to my attention. Like relationships, I will miss the good times when life is gone, but it will be for the best because of all the pain.
President's Day,ironically enough, was the day I woke up in a Columbia hotel with a U.S. News at my door and the words on the front of the paper. Writer Hunter Stockton Thompson had killed himself. It was a surprise at first, then I realized it really wasn't. And here I was visiting Mizzou to become a journalist. Something I wanted to do because of Thompson. Three years have passed, and I've given up on that shell of a dream.But not a day goes by where he doesn't affect me.
I won't kid myself and pretend that Thompson didn't affect my curiosity with drug usage. The Robo-trip, the ecstasy, the acid: non of these were taken without thinking about him first. Back in that year it happened, in 2005, I got my Thompson-based nickname "Raoul Duchess" from a man involved in the local drug culture scene.The word "Duchess" is now on me forever in the handwriting of Ralph Steadman on my left arm.
I admire admiration for Thompson in other people. When I meet another fan, one who almost meets my level of adoration, it's instant attraction. A man once called me gonzo, and for Christ's sake I dated him for three months! Mutual love for HST has even given me the strangest attraction to an older man. But I know that a shared fascination isn't enough for him to leave her and cross state lines for a silly little girl. But with gonzo, anything is fucking possible, right?
The subject of Thompson's death is a hard on for me. Some call it murder, a government conspiracy cover-up due to Thompson's discussion of Sept. 11 and the involvement of the current administration. But Thompson has begun winding down his life before that final day. He gave his prized possession, a gift he had recieved from "Dr. Gonzo," to his son Juan. Thompson wasnever quiet about his feelings on suicide; he would never want to die slowly and out of his control. After watching my Grandpa slowly waste away, I am of the same belief, but I think I will be too cowardice to do anything.
Most people fall back on religion to comfort them in the wake of death, but how does the idea of Heaven and Hell soften the blow of Thompson killing himself after the life he lived? I find comfort in celebrating his life and all the good he has done for me (with heavy drinking!) But even if judgment is someday passed, I will show up to his heavenly trial, full of praise for his soul. This day always brings death to my attention. Like relationships, I will miss the good times when life is gone, but it will be for the best because of all the pain.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
here's what I think about today.
Is it really the day? There isn't anything to say about Valentine's Day that hasn't been said so many times. We've all heard the argument that it's just a greeting card holiday, it's a singles awareness day, that love should be proclaimed anyways and not just once a year. We've heard the complaints that our society places too much importance on romantic relationships. We've heard the moans and groans of singles on this day, and I call for a change in perspective on this day.
The February fourteenths of childhood are really ideal. You give a small card and candy to everyone in your class; everyone is equally loved! Maybe you save the best cards for your best friends, maybe you give them two candies or stickers. Your daddy gives you a card and a little token of his love. He's the most important man in your life. But by middle school, things have become complicated.
Most of my Valentine's are forgettable. In fact, it took me dozens of minutes to remember the V-day picnic my senior year boyfriend surprised me with. Maybe other years I got a flower, but more than likely I just let it pass. Junior year was a big one though. The week leading up to it, I left notes and poems on the car and in the locker of my hardcore crush, a senior we'll call Lank. I was the props master and set worker for a play he was acting in. Finally, on the big Fourteenth, I placed a box of chocolate and another love note in his costume box. I couldn't talk to the man, so a few days later I left a note in his coat pocket revealing myself as the admirer. He later told me he was flattered, and we never spoke again. Imagine my horror when we ran into each other almost four years later at a house party.
The point is, that Valentine's Day felt like it had the potential to be life-changing, but the memory of it, like the memories of the Valentine's before and since, will pass out of my memory banks (I had actually completely forgotten about him until the aforementioned house party.) These Valentine's Days may feel important on this day, but in a week, no one's going to care what you did (including you!)
In my personal opinion, Valentine's Day should be shared with the people you love. Yes, it might remind you that you're single, but hopefully you will also realize that you're not alone. Give a token to your best friend, call your mother and grandmother, remind yourself of the other loves of your life. Do something you love. Send a card to an old friend or invite some fellow singles over for dinner. Valentine's Day should be spent loving youself, spent with the people you love, and doing something good, full of love, for the rest of the world.
The February fourteenths of childhood are really ideal. You give a small card and candy to everyone in your class; everyone is equally loved! Maybe you save the best cards for your best friends, maybe you give them two candies or stickers. Your daddy gives you a card and a little token of his love. He's the most important man in your life. But by middle school, things have become complicated.
Most of my Valentine's are forgettable. In fact, it took me dozens of minutes to remember the V-day picnic my senior year boyfriend surprised me with. Maybe other years I got a flower, but more than likely I just let it pass. Junior year was a big one though. The week leading up to it, I left notes and poems on the car and in the locker of my hardcore crush, a senior we'll call Lank. I was the props master and set worker for a play he was acting in. Finally, on the big Fourteenth, I placed a box of chocolate and another love note in his costume box. I couldn't talk to the man, so a few days later I left a note in his coat pocket revealing myself as the admirer. He later told me he was flattered, and we never spoke again. Imagine my horror when we ran into each other almost four years later at a house party.
The point is, that Valentine's Day felt like it had the potential to be life-changing, but the memory of it, like the memories of the Valentine's before and since, will pass out of my memory banks (I had actually completely forgotten about him until the aforementioned house party.) These Valentine's Days may feel important on this day, but in a week, no one's going to care what you did (including you!)
In my personal opinion, Valentine's Day should be shared with the people you love. Yes, it might remind you that you're single, but hopefully you will also realize that you're not alone. Give a token to your best friend, call your mother and grandmother, remind yourself of the other loves of your life. Do something you love. Send a card to an old friend or invite some fellow singles over for dinner. Valentine's Day should be spent loving youself, spent with the people you love, and doing something good, full of love, for the rest of the world.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
shit where i eat.
The weather outside reflects the cloud over her thoughts. The poor vision on the roads, like her inability to see in her mind's eye the actions of Saturday night. It's such a pity, she would have liked to remember what it was like to be with him. She tried as hard as she could to picture in her mind him on top of her, tugging at each other's clothes, pinning one another down. She tried to conjure up the memories of the kisses she had dreamed about before. Nothing. All she could remember was the moments she was beckoning him into her bedroom, and his entrance.
"Hey you," she had said. After that, everything goes black. Her memories start up again a few hours later, where she is crying about something else with two other friends on her couch. But the time spent with him on her bed is lost forever. All that remains in her mind from their tryst is a split second of dominance. He's on top. She has one arm above her head, the other below his belt. She'd trade all the tequila in the world to get the memory of this one-time pleasure back.
It was especially upsetting that her memories were gone, because so was he. They had talked, and he was uninterested in making this a recurring event. So her old memories were lost, and there was no chance for new ones. Now, lost in the fog of her mind, she continued to search. She pictured his face, she pictured her bedroom. She could see him standing in the doorway, walking towards her. What happened after that? Did they talk for a bit, or get straight to her obvious intentions? Was she any good? Too drunk to function, but still amazing in the sack? She sincerely doubted it. Damn.
Later that night, she told a good friend the details of what had happened, after he had fled from her bedroom, leaving her topless, confused, and drunkenly hurt. Although her close friend told her the next day what she had said that night, she still couldn't conjure the memories. The bite mark he left could have been like a string tied around a finger, a sign to remind her of what happened. But it couldn't do its job. It remained on her body as useless as her feelings for him. The feelings that made her wish she had a second chance with him and a clear head. She would never be clear on what happened that night, what events came to pass or if he did. She would live confused until she accepted it and let go of the importance of these memories. Now all she needed was time, and a tall, cold glass of water.
"Hey you," she had said. After that, everything goes black. Her memories start up again a few hours later, where she is crying about something else with two other friends on her couch. But the time spent with him on her bed is lost forever. All that remains in her mind from their tryst is a split second of dominance. He's on top. She has one arm above her head, the other below his belt. She'd trade all the tequila in the world to get the memory of this one-time pleasure back.
It was especially upsetting that her memories were gone, because so was he. They had talked, and he was uninterested in making this a recurring event. So her old memories were lost, and there was no chance for new ones. Now, lost in the fog of her mind, she continued to search. She pictured his face, she pictured her bedroom. She could see him standing in the doorway, walking towards her. What happened after that? Did they talk for a bit, or get straight to her obvious intentions? Was she any good? Too drunk to function, but still amazing in the sack? She sincerely doubted it. Damn.
Later that night, she told a good friend the details of what had happened, after he had fled from her bedroom, leaving her topless, confused, and drunkenly hurt. Although her close friend told her the next day what she had said that night, she still couldn't conjure the memories. The bite mark he left could have been like a string tied around a finger, a sign to remind her of what happened. But it couldn't do its job. It remained on her body as useless as her feelings for him. The feelings that made her wish she had a second chance with him and a clear head. She would never be clear on what happened that night, what events came to pass or if he did. She would live confused until she accepted it and let go of the importance of these memories. Now all she needed was time, and a tall, cold glass of water.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Pay attention to me.
Here's something I'd write about Channing if I was writing:
Channing Kennedy is a friend of mine, which makes this article totally unscrupulous. I am totally biased. This probably shouldn't exist, just like this man shouldn't leave me with our friendship so young. Well, not as young as he thinks it is, at least.
I first encountered Channing when I still cared about journalism and The Maneater, when MOVE did an article about his mullet and I was set to the task to find mullet related websites. After multiple visits to Maude Vintage, he learned my name. I started telling people we were best friend as a joke, because i thought our friendship would be as ridiculous as he was. Now we are legit friends.
That mullet is gone as so are my feelings for that paper, but my feelings for Channing have only developed into something more mature. What was once a silly crush and hipster adoration is now respect and admiration. He is sort of everything I admire in a man. Creative and the one quality I could never develop: he's amazing without trying or caring.
I hope Channing has an effective on my life (besides introducing me to a pretty good kisser named Erik.) I'm going to miss him, but I hope when he leaves Columbia he won't really be leaving my life.
that's all for now. more later?
Channing Kennedy is a friend of mine, which makes this article totally unscrupulous. I am totally biased. This probably shouldn't exist, just like this man shouldn't leave me with our friendship so young. Well, not as young as he thinks it is, at least.
I first encountered Channing when I still cared about journalism and The Maneater, when MOVE did an article about his mullet and I was set to the task to find mullet related websites. After multiple visits to Maude Vintage, he learned my name. I started telling people we were best friend as a joke, because i thought our friendship would be as ridiculous as he was. Now we are legit friends.
That mullet is gone as so are my feelings for that paper, but my feelings for Channing have only developed into something more mature. What was once a silly crush and hipster adoration is now respect and admiration. He is sort of everything I admire in a man. Creative and the one quality I could never develop: he's amazing without trying or caring.
I hope Channing has an effective on my life (besides introducing me to a pretty good kisser named Erik.) I'm going to miss him, but I hope when he leaves Columbia he won't really be leaving my life.
that's all for now. more later?
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
too left for the left?
Why isn’t every liberal in love with Dennis Kucinich? The man is everything a liberal should be.
My love affair with Kucinich started one night while watching the recap of a Logo debate. Issues addressing the homosexual community are number one on my list, because I won’t let assholes treat my best friend like he’s a second-class citizen. On this night, I fell completely out of love with former favourite John Edwards when he preached tolerance and then said he didn’t support gay marriage.
Just when I was ready to quit this race and go totally socialist, Kucinich took the stage. It was immediately brought up that there is nothing the LGBT community wants that he is against. He wholly supports same-sex marriage. All evening he talked about love and compassion: whether it was the love between same-sex couples, compassion for those who need medicinal marijuana, helping the sick with affordable nation-wide healthcare, every word he said was spot-on.
I have always had a strange affinity for short politicians (it all began with the super-cute super-short Jeff Smith) so I grew curious about Kucinich. I looked him up on the Internets and found out he is the only candidate who opposed the war with Iraq when it was originally proposed. His healthcare, his care for the middle class, everything was spot-on. How had I missed this guy for so long! How hasn’t he jumped to the front of the left, leading the left with all the liberal ideals we preach?
But then a friend injected some unwanted reality into my fantasy: Kucinich is too left to appeal to a broader audience. She claimed that the undecided masses would vote for a more middle-of-the-road democrat, and Kucinich was too left to gain favour with even some liberals!
My question is, in an election where the flaws of the right have never been more obvious, where the public is so against our current Conservative administration, wouldn’t this be the perfect time to inject the office with ALL the good of liberals? Why put forth a candidate that supported our awful current administration and this war that has killed so many? Why not push forward our entire agenda of equality? He stands for equality in marriage, in healthcare, in bringing up those below the poverty line, and giving future generations a sustainable life. Kucinich is a leftist dream, but has somehow been swept under the rug for being… too perfect?
It was Kucinich’s closing words at that Logo debate that I later found online that really sealed our love affair. He said about his gorgeous supermodel-esque wife Elisabeth:
“We have talked about this and I can’t imagine what it would be like to have met the love of my life and to have such a depth of feeling for her, and then be told that no you can’t be married because there’s a certain rule or law that can’t let that happen. That would be devastating! And because we understand that, because I understand it, I’m ready to be your president. I’m ready to be the person that transforms this nation, that lifts up this nation, that causes not just and American evolution but reconnects us with the deeper truths of who we are!” People wonder how he scored that hot wife, but who wouldn’t love a man like this?
So forget your fears of going too left (and that alien claim) and see Kucinich for what he really is: a man unafraid. He wasn’t afraid to stand up against the war when that idea was unpopular, and he is afraid to stand up for what is right. He is a caring and compassionate candidate who has the best interest of those that have been stomped on in his heart.
My love affair with Kucinich started one night while watching the recap of a Logo debate. Issues addressing the homosexual community are number one on my list, because I won’t let assholes treat my best friend like he’s a second-class citizen. On this night, I fell completely out of love with former favourite John Edwards when he preached tolerance and then said he didn’t support gay marriage.
Just when I was ready to quit this race and go totally socialist, Kucinich took the stage. It was immediately brought up that there is nothing the LGBT community wants that he is against. He wholly supports same-sex marriage. All evening he talked about love and compassion: whether it was the love between same-sex couples, compassion for those who need medicinal marijuana, helping the sick with affordable nation-wide healthcare, every word he said was spot-on.
I have always had a strange affinity for short politicians (it all began with the super-cute super-short Jeff Smith) so I grew curious about Kucinich. I looked him up on the Internets and found out he is the only candidate who opposed the war with Iraq when it was originally proposed. His healthcare, his care for the middle class, everything was spot-on. How had I missed this guy for so long! How hasn’t he jumped to the front of the left, leading the left with all the liberal ideals we preach?
But then a friend injected some unwanted reality into my fantasy: Kucinich is too left to appeal to a broader audience. She claimed that the undecided masses would vote for a more middle-of-the-road democrat, and Kucinich was too left to gain favour with even some liberals!
My question is, in an election where the flaws of the right have never been more obvious, where the public is so against our current Conservative administration, wouldn’t this be the perfect time to inject the office with ALL the good of liberals? Why put forth a candidate that supported our awful current administration and this war that has killed so many? Why not push forward our entire agenda of equality? He stands for equality in marriage, in healthcare, in bringing up those below the poverty line, and giving future generations a sustainable life. Kucinich is a leftist dream, but has somehow been swept under the rug for being… too perfect?
It was Kucinich’s closing words at that Logo debate that I later found online that really sealed our love affair. He said about his gorgeous supermodel-esque wife Elisabeth:
“We have talked about this and I can’t imagine what it would be like to have met the love of my life and to have such a depth of feeling for her, and then be told that no you can’t be married because there’s a certain rule or law that can’t let that happen. That would be devastating! And because we understand that, because I understand it, I’m ready to be your president. I’m ready to be the person that transforms this nation, that lifts up this nation, that causes not just and American evolution but reconnects us with the deeper truths of who we are!” People wonder how he scored that hot wife, but who wouldn’t love a man like this?
So forget your fears of going too left (and that alien claim) and see Kucinich for what he really is: a man unafraid. He wasn’t afraid to stand up against the war when that idea was unpopular, and he is afraid to stand up for what is right. He is a caring and compassionate candidate who has the best interest of those that have been stomped on in his heart.
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