Lauraland

Ten little words in black and white typeface. Words I wasn't expecting. At least not yet. Words that twisted my stomach and dried my mouth. Made my hands shake and fingertips go cold. As they danced before my eyes, the crystalline palace I had erected about myself shattered.

I had one of those heart-stopping moments today, where you realize something about yourself that you probably always knew, but never really acknowledged. You know the feeling...a sudden squeeze at your heart, a physical reaction to a mental realization. A tingly-frozen feeling in the pit of your stomach, akin to panic or the stomach-drop sensation when you know someone is on the verge of telling you some very bad news.

Was the news I received really that earth-shattering? No. I knew it would come some day. I suppose I just wasn't expecting to have to face it in the stone-cold, no ifs ands or buts about it, reality of facebook. "In a relationship with." It implies intimacy and a sense of forever. "Dating" would be so much easier to accept. 

And I realized how self-centered I am. How self-centered we all are. I can try my hardest to see things from other people's perspectives, to step outside the box, take a walk in their shoes. But in the end, it's from my own unique--and utterly self-centered--vantage point from which I view the world. I am still, at base, the infant who doesn't understand that the world outside of me doesn't freeze when I'm not directly involved--that people move on in their own directions and forget about me and my world.

The thing about us egotistical humans (or perhaps it's just me...who knows) is that we never expect to be replaced. Even if I have already replaced the person in question. In my own little world of pink ponies and butterflies, no one will ever get over the loss of moi, the one and only. I reign as queen of Lauraland, and outside of that, nothing ever happens or changes.

The weird thing, the thing that led to the sudden panic and twisting in my stomach, is that I never realized I had created Lauraland in the first place. It just kind of cropped up. And I only realized it was there when it shattered into a million little pieces of rose-tinted glass. And all because of those stupid ten words. And that stupider social networking system. (By the way, this is only part of the reason I deactivated my account tonight. But that's another post for another day.)

The more I pondered this broken fortress, the more its presence spread before my eyes, until it overshadowed much more than just this one long-ended relationship. It covered all relationships, not just those of a romantic nature. Friends I've grown apart from, people I was once so close to but didn't make enough of an effort to maintain the relationship--they've all moved on. I don't really matter anymore.

Of course, I did realize all of this in one part of my brain. The rational, practical portion. You know, the deathly boring place I tend to avoid. Anyone who knows me at all probably suspects that that one corner of my brain is far overpowered by the emotional, mostly-if-not-completely irrational part. And they would be correct. It's so much easier to face difficult and painful truths once they've been diluted in some way. For me, it's through writing--fiction or non. It creates a barrier you don't get when forced to deal with things face-to-face with no warning or time for preparation. I need the time to figure out how I'm going to react, what's reasonable. Can I scream and cry and demand to be made the center of attention once more? Probably not. Can I accept that my irrational feelings of betrayal and replacement are inevitable and painful, but perfectly normal? Yeah, I think I can handle that.

And so I take a moment, call a friend, and let that vice-grip on my heart slowly begin to melt. "That's life," she says. And I know she's right. "Just be strong and brave, and show the world who you are. Because that's what matters." And then the three words. The words that get us into so many troubles in the first place. But also, miraculously, the only words that can get us back out. 


"I love you."

What Do You Do With a BA in English?

I had a conversation the other night with a friend. It went something like this:

Him: I've never understood liberal arts degrees.
Me: What do you mean?
Him: Well, I just don't understand why someone would want to major in writing or history or something like that.
Me: Why not?
Him: There just doesn't seem to be anywhere to rise to, no higher levels to achieve.
Me: You can teach.
Him: Do you want to teach?
Me: No.
Him: Case in point. I mean, I majored in nursing, will further hone my nursing degree with a masters in anesthesiology, and then I will be a nurse anesthetist. Simple, logical, surefire. I will climb the steps until I achieve my ultimate goal; a goal I knew all along. I guess that's why I'm a Republican. (That comment fit in with an earlier part of the conversation, although it sounds somewhat random here.)
Me: Well, for me it's not about money or success. I'd rather be doing something I love.
Him: I get both.
Me: Well aren't you lucky.

The two of us are very good friends, although we disagree on just about everything political and professional. Opposites attract? I don't know. We drive each other nuts sometimes, I think. But anyway, this post isn't about politics or anything like that. (Thank God! I've had enough of that in the last week.) It's about why I'm an English major.

In true "Laura" fashion, I had absolutely no rebuttal ready for my friend's challenge. However, I got to thinking about it and have now had time to formulate an answer for him and anyone else who wonders why some of us would pick a career path that almost undeniably leads to a life in a cardboard box. Or at least a roach-infested apartment.

... Or our parents' house ...

So, why was I an English major? Well, the easy, totally honest, practical answer is that I love to read, and I always have. I'm a decent writer. I hate memorizing facts. Science and math make my head spin uncomfortably fast. And while I was interested in psychology, I didn't want to do labs. So I figured I could just apply simple psych to literature and call it a day.

The more analytical, English-major answer is more complicated. I like to think. Let me qualify that: I like to think creatively. Now, this is not an acceptance of the common misunderstanding of liberal arts students to be a bunch of egotistical elitists who sit around making up BS all day and calling it knowledge or fact. 1) It's more complex than that. 2) I, at least, have never claimed that the theories I came up with about Moby Dick's incapacity for humanoid intentions or Dr. Jeckyll's relation to the Ego or Id are fact. Not even that it was the author's intention.

You see, the liberal arts are about creative thinking--critical thinking. Saying, "Bakhtin had some interesting thoughts on the grotesque. How could his theory be applied to Tristram Shandy?" (Yes, I'm aware that I just outed myself as a complete lit. theory nerd.) The way you learn to think and analyze is completely different than memorizing facts and regurgitating them in a little blue book twice a semester. In fact, I would argue (completely biased, of course) that it's actually more practical in real life than a lot of other disciplines might be. Or at least that it is more practical and valuable than commonly given credit for.

Liberal Arts students are constantly bombarded by professors or classmates saying, "Well, that's one way to look at it, but think about this. Isn't it just as likely? Or maybe even more so?" Professors constantly urged us to "Think harder!" To really dig in and not just gloss over the obvious points.

Now, forgive me, but I feel a spurt of politics coming on. I'll try to keep it tame.

For me, at least, I feel that learning to think in this way gave me an incredibly valuable tool when it comes to dealing with the people and situations we encounter every day. Yes, to me this particular situation might come off in one light. But if I stop and consider the circumstances, I can come to realize that the other person's point of view is equally valid. Or at least I can understand where they are coming from and how to better communicate my thoughts and ideas with them, without coming off as a hard-headed egotistical jerk.

So, if any of that made sense, and you made it through my obnoxious literary allusions (sorry, I'm going through a spurt of learning-withdrawal at the moment), then you have my answer as to why I was an English major. Or at least, that's what I got out of being an English major. And if you're still skeptical, then let me leave you with this:

At least I wasn't a philosopher major*!


(*Sorry Kate and Eric, couldn't resist it!)

A Walk in the Woods

I went for a walk in the woods today. It wasn't a long walk, but it was nice. Sometimes I get too caught up in my mind. It's a dangerous place to be, I tell you. Today was one of those days, unfortunately. Election day was getting me thinking about the innate greed and self-centeredness that corrupts the political world. The ignorance and basic racism I find even here in Wellsboro (perhaps especially here, in Wellsboro?) was getting to me. The fact that the average, good-hearted American doesn't have the ability to get people to listen to reason and the truth, unscarred by political agendas was eating at me. And then there are personal issues that don't really need to be discussed. My brain was being tugged at in all directions, and there didn't seem to be a single answer in sight. No solutions, very little hope.

When I get like this, little things set me off. So naturally, I got unnecessarily upset that we weren't having pizza for dinner like I had thought. And when Dad wanted me to help research recipes for this non-pizza dinner, well, I was about in tears. Don't get me wrong: I know it's stupid. I knew then that it was stupid. And of course it had nothing to do with pizza. But the tears were threatening, and at that point there's no turning back. So I took a walk in the woods.

I wanted to feel my nose run in the cold, the numb, leathery sensation of the wind on my face. The slight burning in my legs as I climb the hill, and the jelly-leg weakness as the leaf-strewn ground evens out. I wanted to see my no-longer-a-puppy dog frolic through the leaves and in the creek like he hadn't a care in the world (he probably doesn't).

And so I walked. I passed the old treehouse my brothers and I built ten years ago, with it's plywood floors now green with mossy age. I came upon the creek we used to have leaf-boat races on, and listened to it's tired gurgle for a while. I was cold.

It wasn't any sort of novel-worthy spiritual experience. I spent most of the time watching the ground and trying not to fall over. Making sure the dog didn't get too excited and run out of my sight. And did I mention it was cold?

But when I came back up once again, I felt glad that I had taken the walk. I didn't have any illusions about being at peace with the world, but I was grateful for the physical sensation of the walk itself. It was something other than thinking. I started at the top of the hill, and when I was finished, I may have ended up in the same place, but I had been somewhere; I had seen something new along the way. My runny nose and jelly legs gave testament to that. So maybe the circuitous journey was worth it in the end, even if I can't put my finger on why or how it helped. And that is strangely comforting, in a way.

Sister from Another Mister

I was thinking earlier that I knew what I wanted to write about tonight. I wanted to share my thoughts on music, and how certain songs or artists are forever connected in my mind to certain people and times in my life. And I still do want to write about that.

But then, I read my sister(not-in-law-but-close-enough)'s latest blog post. It stirred my heart and got me thinking about the really important things in my life, and in society as a whole. It got me thinking in so many different directions that I can hardly formulate my own post. I don't know where to start. Let's say it's a matter of heart, politics, religion, and so much more. But let's start with the heart, because that, to me is purest and most important.

My "sister," we'll call her K, is one of the sweetest people I know. I met her for the first time a little over a year ago, when she accompanied my older brother to my twin brother and sister-in-law's wedding reception. I could tell she was nervous (can't blame her, either), but my first impression was that she was very sweet and eager to get to know us and befriend us. And since then, we have become very close, sisters at heart, if not legally. Looking back, it was really impossible not to become fast friends. We are similar in many ways, and she, being more outgoing than me, reached out to me constantly, sending funny messages and sharing little girly, sisterly secrets with me. (Don't worry David, nothing about you, of course! :p) I don't see how anyone could dislike this sweet, loving young woman.

But one thing about her tends to stick out to people. Something that's not her fault and shouldn't really matter, but does anyway, in this country and at this time. She's not white. And she speaks with an accent. A latino accent. K was born in Peru, and has only lived in the States and spoken English for three years. Personally, I am constantly amazed how well she speaks English--it's fifty times better than my Spanish. And I think she is absolutely gorgeous. I frequently tell her she looks like a supermodel. But for some reason, in this country, having dark skin and imperfect English immediately demotes one to a second-class citizen, or even worse, an illegal alien. (And yes, she and her family are here legally.) She was looked down upon, assumed ignorant and unworthy. It didn't matter that she had completed college in Peru. Strangers told her to her face to "go home", that she didn't have a place here. She was unwanted.

These things took a toll on K, but thankfully she is a strong person, and decided it wasn't worth listening to the ignorant people degrading her. She decided to get an American degree, so she worked two full-time jobs to earn enough money for tuition. She succeeded, and now works in a management position, impressing her superiors with her work-ethic and drive to succeed.

And she is still the sweetest, most loving person. We talk multiple times a week, even if it's just a text or silly e-mail forward. She's going to teach me how to flirt, because she says I'm too shy. She makes me smile on rough days, and I hope I do the same for her. I, for one, am infinitely glad she came here to the U.S. and had the guts to stick it out, ignore the jerks, and maintain her beautiful smile and silly sense of humor.

But learning more in depth what she went through when she first came here (and what she still goes through, to some extent), hurts me to the core. Because she came here for opportunity and a better life--the American Dream. And she was met with self-righteous, self-centered jerks. What kind of a society are we, that this happens? We all know she's not the only one. And she's lucky in that she's in a relatively tolerable part of the States. I imagine the Americans of Mexican or Central or South American descent living in Arizona and other border states are harassed ten times the amount she is.

This is racism, pure and simple. It's been fifty years since the Civil Rights Movement. Things have improved, but there is still such a long way to go. And the people affected by racism are growing to include latinos and, more recently, those of Middle Eastern descent. I saw a skit on The Colbert Report the other night, in which a black correspondent and a Muslim correspondent discussed the gradual changeover from whites fearing blacks to whites fearing Muslims. They compared notes on their favorite ways to scare whites. Of course, in true Colbert fashion, they were hyperbolic and sarcastic, but the trend is so very real. And in the long run, it's America as a whole that's losing out. Just think of all the smart, talented, incredible people we miss out on because we fear their differences. What if we had sent Einstein back to Germany in the 40s? Where would the world be now? It seems to me, that those making arguments about abortion potentially destroying the next Einstein or Mozart should consider sending Muslim, African, or latino people back to certain death and destruction just as deplorable. But that's just my opinion, and I'm sure many people have comebacks ready and waiting for me.

After all, they had the audacity to be born something other than American. So they don't deserve the same rights as us, right?

Discouraging Words

I'm beginning to wonder if college ruined (or at least maimed) my capacity for enjoying literature. I have heard music majors say school destroyed their ability to just enjoy music, because now all they can do is analyze and critique, judge as they listen. Music became mechanical and fundamental, no longer really about art and indulgence. I don't think this is quite the case with me, but I do wonder sometimes. Am I being too judgmental, too critical? Am I allowing my own preferences and opinions to masquerade as some artificial and unsubstantiated apex of literary perfection? In other words, am I becoming an insufferable literary snob?

I do my best to "not judge a book by its cover." And I mean that literally, as well as in the time-old, tired metaphoric sense. When I was young I came to realize that the best books weren't always the ones with the most colorful, appealing covers. Some of my favorites turned out to be the cloth-bound volumes tucked away in the back of the library's reading room. (A particularly large, red, cloth-bound copy of The Secret Garden comes to mind, especially, with its simple gold script.) And throughout my reading career, I have always been driven to finish every book I've started, no matter how bad it seems at first, or how long it takes to get through. (The one notable exception to this being Charles Dickens. I've tried to enjoy him, but every single book of his that I've started, I have been unable to finish, including but not limited to Great Expectations, Oliver Twist, Bleak House, A Tale of Two Cities, and Nicholas Nickleby.) Even if someone "ruins" the ending for me by telling me what happens in the end, I can't help but finish it for myself, partly because I think I've always known that a book is not just about finding out what happens. The truly exciting part is discovering the characters and worlds created by the author.

Lately, however, it seems this no longer applies to the books I read. The only thing that keeps me reading is to see how it ends. The last three books I read have been disappointingly...well, disappointing. The characters were dull and unchanging, the setting was tired and boring (and in some cases blatantly copied from earlier, better books), and the writing itself was downright painful at times. Let me tell you, reading just to see what happens is tiring and not very enjoyable, especially when the tiny spark of hope that it will get better flickers harder with each dry sentence and predictable plot device.

I guess I'm thinking about this more than usual, mainly because I've been thinking I should start a second blog, solely dedicated to reviews of the books I read. Not because I think everyone should listen to my opinions and take them as their own, but because my brain is desperately begging to be challenged and do some critical thinking. I've actually already created this blog; I've just yet to post anything. I'd like to start with a good review, but at the rate I'm going, it seems that everything I post will be negative and critical. That doesn't sound fun to me. That's just not the kind of blogger I want to be. It makes me feel like a snobbish, "better than thou," jerk.

But at the same time, I guess blogging is sort of intrinsically self-centered and egotistical. So maybe I should just push forward and spread my opinions to the far ends of the worlds. After all, in the words of the ever-wise Dr. Seuss, "Those who matter don't mind, and those who mind don't matter."

A Colorblind Society, Revisited

I have received a number of comments about my post "A Colorblind Society" from 10 August 2010. People disagreeing with me, saying it's important to keep a sense various ethnicities and backgrounds. And they're right. I'm not sure if it's a matter of me not saying what I meant to say in the first post, or if I just hadn't thought of it that way before, but I agree with you all. "Colorblind" maybe isn't the word I should have used. I wasn't trying to say that everyone should be the same, or assume that everyone is the same as them. What a boring world that would lead to. We should be aware of the differences in who we are and where we come from. It is what makes the world the rich tapestry of human lives it should be. To use a terribly elementary and cliche metaphor, we should aim to be a salad bowl, rather than a melting pot; a place where different ingredients come together to create a well-complemented whole, rather than melting into one big glob of unidentified mush. It's okay if the carrots stain the radishes a little orange, or the dressing soaks into the croutons a bit along the way. But if it becomes one big, wilted, soggy mess, and no one knows who they are or what they started out as, well, that doesn't create a very satisfactory meal, now does it?

I don't want my godson to think that black people or asians should be exactly like him, at least not in the way they act or talk or any sort of physical or outward manifestation of who they are. I just want him to know that inside, they are the same as him, in that they dream and love and think and feel. And if that Mexican immigrant's English isn't perfect, or that Brit's teeth are a little crooked, it doesn't mean they're any less of a person. I want him to be able to see things from outside his own point of view, so he can understand that his way isn't the only right way, and just because someone does something differently, it doesn't mean they're a worse or less sophisticated person.

I guess I just want him to transcend the ignorance that causes so many misunderstandings and so much unnecessary pain in this world: the ignorance that all of us fall prey to on occasion, myself included. Sometimes it just seems like we have so far to go. Will we ever make it? But at the same time, I have to believe we will. It gives me hope and the will to live, trying to make the world a little bit better every day. (I just realized what a Jewish concept that is...making heaven (perfection) on earth. Interesting.) I like to think there's a heaven, but the truth is I have no idea what awaits me after death. So for now, it seems to me that the best use of my time is trying to make things better here in this world. And if there is something after this, then I hope whoever is in charge up there will approve of my humble attempts at improvement, both of the self and the world.

Remembrances of Christmas Past

Christmas with the Reindls

Packing into the family van for a two hour drive to Dayton from Lancaster. Pulling into the steep blacktopped driveway, past the huge tree surrounded by the flower box we liked to use as a balance beam, looking to see if Aunt Susie's van was there yet; it usually wasn't. Pouring out of the car, climbing over the slower sibling by the door, following Dad into the covered back porch, knocking at the door and walking into the kitchen, greeted by a blast of warmth. Grandpa greeting us with hugs: "There's my little Tweety Bird!" (So my voice was a bit high and squeaky as a small child...) Feeling the warmth from the brown double decker oven right next to the door, hugging Great Aunt Rose because I was supposed to, but resenting her a little for taking Grandma's place; knowing that something wasn't right there, but never being told what (until she died last Christmas).

All sitting in the living room, with the marble side tables, Rose's very floral couch with fringey pillows-braiding the fringes-Grandpa's gray recliner with the towel over the head rest, Rose's brown recliner, the Christmas tree in the corner by the rarely-used front door and the grandfather clock, the brass goose on the gray polished stone hearth, the built-in bookcases with Grandpa's carved wooden birds, many of his carved Santas all around the wooden mini grandfather clock he made with the fancy face.

Getting bundled up in snow clothes, Dad and Grandpa wearing old suits; one bright orange, one gray. Getting the sleds from Grandpa's back shed. Wondering at the old-fashioned wooden slat sled with red runners and the metal disc sled. Sledding on the front hill, seeing Mom and Aunt Rose watching from the front bay window. Sitting on the sled with Dad or Grandpa, or one of them pulling Michael and I on the sled. David hogging the good sleds. Grandpa bringing out his tractor mower and attaching the cart to the back and taking us for a ride around the yard. Finally tramping into the warm kitchen again and getting dried off and warmed up.

Kneeling backwards on the couch, looking out the bay window waiting for Aunt Susie's blue minivan to drive down the street, finally seeing it and jumping up and running to the back door, opening it and waiting impatiently for Susie and the boys to get out of the car and come in. Willy and Thomas running up, Susie carrying baby Charlie, Uncle Joe following them all up. Suddenly becoming shy and hiding behind Mom a little bit, coming out to hug Aunt Susie and the boys, hugging Uncle Joe but being a little wary of him because he likes to tease a lot. Listening to Thomas's never-ending and semi-pointless stories, playing fireman with Willy, trying to teach Charlie to walk; being unsuccessful.

Watching Mom and Susie pull the dining table out from the wall and opening the wings to make it big enough for everyone. Helping set the table with the good silverware from the china cabinet, waiting for all the food to be brought in, finally sitting down to dinner with all twelve of us. Saying grace, and remembering that Dad used to have to fold his hands together flat and point the tips of his fingers to the sky because if he pointed them down the prayer would go to hell and if he interlocked the fingers it wouldn't go anywhere. Wondering why Aunt Cindy and John never came anymore; not realizing what MS was. Watching Grandpa's hands shake as he lifted up his glass of water and imitating him out of curiosity as to how he didn't spill; not realizing what Parkinson's Disease was. Eating the roast, potatoes, carrots, rolls, gravy. Listening to Grandpa rant about politics and hearing his say "Damn" and giggling to myself. Feeling too full.

Playing with the cousins some more, waiting impatiently for it to be time to open presents, Grandpa watching us with a twinkle in his eye I didn't notice until years later. Finally bothering the parents enough that they agreed it was time to open presents. Digging under the Christmas tree and reading the names on the tags and handing them out with only a few mix-ups. Begging Grandpa and Dad for the olives in their martinis and sometimes being successful. Ripping the paper off the presents and years later having no clue what I got, but remembering the warmth and happiness pervading it all.

Going down to the basement and singing Christmas carols while Aunt Susie played the old upright piano. Thinking I'll never be as good as she is. Following the grown-ups back upstairs into the living room. Sitting on the couch next to Dad or Grandpa and falling asleep on him while listening to the adults talk about distant family and politics and old family stories. Feeling happy and warm. Finally being put to bed in the back room on the couch, with the furry blanket Grandma used to get out especially for me. Looking up at the stained glass in the little window above the couch. Being a little bit afraid of sleeping in the room alone, but hearing the adults talking in the living room and hearing the grandfather clock chiming every quarter of an hour and finally falling asleep, feeling safe and warm and happy, never expecting anything to change.

A Colorblind Society

I was swimming today at a lake in a state park near me with my godson and goddaughter and their aunt, one of my best friends. There were two busloads of kids from a YMCA swimming as well. I'm not sure where they were from, but probably a bigger city somewhere near here. The kids were being quite rowdy, and my six-year-old godson--we'll call him Ned--had a few pails of water dumped on him and a couple narrow misses with various limbs coming close to his head. So my friend called him and the other kids with us over to where we were and told them they had to stay near us until the rowdy kids left. And Ned, with the innocence of a small-town six-year-old, asked, "You mean until the brown kids leave?"

A majority of the kids from the YMCA were African American, which in our small town is uncommon, so I guess he knew they were different somehow. His question wasn't malicious or angry. He had probably heard himself referred to as "white," so in his head it made sense to call them brown. Of course we told him that wasn't what we called them; they're just kids like you. But, while his innocence was sort of amusing at first, the more I watched him and thought about it, the more it saddened me. Ned is a smart kid, and I could see him processing this new information in his head, where it would surely leave an indelible mark: "Dark-skinned people are different from me. They're rowdy and I shouldn't play with them."

Now I'm not saying that I think he'll turn into a malicious racist or anything like that; his family will raise him better than that. But it does make me wonder if we'll ever live in a color-blind world. It seems like a pretty far reach to hope so. Sure, it's gotten better since the fifties and sixties, but there are still cultural and ethnic differences that are apparent even to a six-year-old. I don't know if it's better or worse in bigger cities where there may or may not be more integration. But in small towns, it seems pretty universal: there is a stigma attached to being different from everyone else.  In my high school class there was one African American. And he was adopted by a white mother. People keep their distance when someone different comes to town. They're wary and uncomfortable. 

And it makes me sad. "A person's a person, no matter how small," says Dr. Seuss, probably one of the wisest men of my childhood. Of course "small" is interchangeable with any number of words, including "color" or "race" or "religion" or "wealth." In society's eyes, I'm lucky that I was born into a Caucasian, middle-class family. And to me, that's all it is, is luck. I'm no better or worse than anyone else. But despite my efforts to look past race, I'm not always successful. Like Ned, there are certain stereotypes that are so ingrained in me, I don't even realize they exist until something brings it up, and I'm forced to confront that little bit of ugliness in me. To bring up another of America's wisest men, Stephen Colbert frequently claims he can't see race. "They're all just people."

If only that was possible for all of us.

Why I'm Not Ready for Marriage

This post is inspired by the five or six friends of mine who have gotten hitched this summer. I'm very happy for all of them, however it has made me acutely aware of how much the thought of marriage at this point in my life is completely alien and disconcerting.

He's actually kind of creepy...

Reason 1: I don't have a man.

Duh. I suppose if I was desperately in love with someone, and they completed me and made me whole and I couldn't imagine life without them things would be different. As it is, this is not the case. In fact, that whole concept strikes me as odd, because I feel quite whole as I am, thank you very much. Even if I did have a man, though, I would not necessarily be ready for marriage. It's probably best that I'm not committed to anyone at the moment. It takes away any pressure that might possibly be there from the guy himself, parents, grandparents, etc. (Not that I think my family would pressure me, just the assumption that this might be THE ONE would be enough to make me reconsider doing things that I might otherwise just go ahead with.)

Reason 2: I may just jet off to England someday soon.

Especially if Sarah Palin even comes close to inhabiting the White House again. But seriously, I want the ability travel and do whatever I want right now. I've been dealing with a traveler's bug like no other the last few weeks, probably exacerbated by living in middle-of-nowhere-PA for so long. Don't get me wrong, I love this place in its own way, but I'm not ready to settle down here for the long haul. I want to get out and explore a bit. (Mom - Don't worry, I'll at least wait until Michael comes home. :p)

Um, no.

Reason 3: I am only mildly domestic.

I told my mom today that she and Dad have probably spoiled my expectations for marriage. I come from a home in which men can and like to cook. My dad is a great cook, as are both of my brothers. It only struck me a couple weeks ago that not all homes are like this. Now, I don't consider myself overly feministic, but I also don't plan to revert to the 40s and 50s either. A man can and should help out around the house. Gender roles be damned. I don't buy into the idea that God created woman to serve man. Sorry, but no. Ours will be an equal-opportunity household. I.e. the Mr. will have plenty of opportunities to change diapers and wash dishes. Especially if I'm working outside the home as well, which seems to be more and more the norm these days.

Don't get me wrong, I like to cook and have no problem doing that. I even like to clean (in intense and random bursts of what I call binge-cleaning). Living with male roommates for a year taught me that I have a latent clean freak hidden in me somewhere.

And what if it turned out to be evil??

Reason 4: I want kids in my life, just not my own.

Someday I definitely want children. No question about it. I can already feel the biological clock beginning to whir and stir. BUT right now I'm content to hold them, play with them, then give them back after a couple hours. Children are fascinating and adorable and wonderful...and exhausting. I guess getting married doesn't necessarily mean the babies start coming immediately, but that's the next step; one I'm nowhere near ready to take.

Reason 5: I have a lot of ME to discover still.

This is probably the biggest factor in my marital immaturity. I have a lot to discover and find out about myself still. Lots of questions to ask, opinions to form, beliefs to iron out. College turned over a whole new leaf for me, and I'm still trying to figure out where exactly that's leading me. It seems rather risky to commit my life to someone, when I'm not even sure where I'm headed or how I'm going to go about getting there.


Alright, I think five reasons are enough for now. Besides, I keep getting distracted by a beautiful yellow butterfly flitting about under the clear blue sky of a summer afternoon. See I do love this place...sometimes.

Toy Story 3

I've gotten a lot accomplished so far today, so I'm pushing on and including a long-overdue blog post in my spurt of productivity. The question is, what do I want to write about? I have a number of topics saved up that I just never seemed to get around to. I'm feel in the mood for something happy and nostalgic at the moment, though, so I'll go with what I deem the best movie I've seen in a very long time. Toy Story 3.

*SPOILER ALERT*

I am fully aware that some of you may be very skeptical about my taste in movies at this point. But this is my own personal opinion and based solely on my emotions and whims. So I'm not interested in arguing about plot or anything like that. I went to see Toy Story 3 a few weeks ago with my mom. I figured that it would be cute and fun, as I had always enjoyed the first two films. In fact I even went back and watched the first two with friends the night before, just to get in the spirit and remind myself what happened in them. What I forgot about was how the Toy Story movies are every bit as enjoyable for adults as they are for kids. There are a number of jokes that are definitely aimed at the parents in the crowd--jokes that I didn't get or even recognize as jokes when I was ten or eleven.

Toy Story 3 did not disappoint in this department. In fact, I think that of the three, the third movie is most geared toward adults. Sure, kids will enjoy the adventures Woody and Buzz have as they try to escape from Lotso, the pink, strawberry-scented bear. But the brunt of the movie, the real core is about growing up. Andy is going to college and leaving behind his toys, his childhood best friends. It's heart-wrenching to watch the abandonment Buzz and the others feel when they think Andy is throwing them out, disregarding all of their history together for something newer and more exciting. We've all been left behind before, whether it be by siblings or friends or significant others.

The thing that makes the Toy Story movies so successful is that they are universal. The premise behind the movies, that your toys come alive when you leave the room, is something I think every little kid believes is true for some amount of time. I know I did. My toys were alive to me. They had stories, backgrounds, likes and dislikes. They loved me, and I loved them. Watching this fantasy come to life on screen draws you in; it takes you back to your own childhood.

There is one scene in particular, where Andy's playtime is illustrated as a child would see it while playing. Everything becomes real. Evil Mr. Porkchop is trying to take over the world with his Barrel O' Monkeys minions and Sheriff Woody and Ranger Buzz have to save the day. It is so perfectly imaginative. I can't get over it. One of my goals in writing is to recapture the child's imagination, because  to me it is one of the most incredible, fascinating things ever. Toy Story has done that. Three times. And it's gotten better every time, in my opinion.

So all of this combined makes the final scene in Toy Story 3 one of the most emotional scenes in a movie I have ever experienced. It had me in tears. And I don't cry during movies. I honestly cannot think of another movie that I've actually cried in. Teared up, maybe, but no rolling tears. It ends with Andy finding the toys that his mother accidentally donated just as he is about to leave for college. And there is a note (written by Woody) telling him about a little girl who lives around the block. So he takes his toys and makes the little girl promise to take good care of them for him. And he has one last playtime session. You can feel the love and reconnection well up in every single heart in the theater, watching Andy play with his toys one last time. It's not something I can get across in words. I strongly recommend that you go and see it for yourself if you haven't already.

It may not have been made for 3D or visually amazing, but it was emotionally outstanding. And I know I'm not alone. A 99% score on rottentomatoes.com is not something to be scoffed at.  All I know for sure is that when I got home that night, I went into my closet and checked on my old friends--Baby Susie, Pink Bear, Samantha and Megan, and all the rest. And I reassured them that I still loved them. And I always would.

I Feel Home

Becca reprimanded me for not posting anything recently. So here is something small. These are the lyrics to one of my favorite songs at the moment. "I Feel Home" by O.A.R. I'm mildly obsessed with the band, and every time this song comes up, it makes me smile. So here are the lyrics, and I suggest you find the song and listen to it at some point.

There are few things pure in this world anymore,
and home is one of the few.
We'd have a drink outside,
maybe run and hide if we saw a couple men in blue.
To me it's so damn easy to see
that true people are the people at home.
Well, I've been away but now I'm back today,
and there ain't a place I'd rather go.
I feel home,
when I see the faces that remember my own.
I feel home,
when I'm chilling outside with the people I know.
I feel home,
and that's just what I feel.
Home to me is reality,
and all I need is something real.

Feeling alright, heading out tonight,
maybe out to a dark driveway.
I say now some feel bored,
and some are looking for more.
Well, we all just decide to stay.
We got nothing to do,
and I look at you
I see something that I know and love.
and with the crack of a smile we all stay a while
we know from home there ain't nothing above.

Well in the end we can all call a friend
well that's something I know as true.
And then a thousand years and a thousand tears
I'll come finding my original crew

cause to me throughout eternity
there's somewhere where you're welcome to go
I said it's something free that means a lot to me
when I'm with my friends I feel home.

I feel home,
when I see the faces that remember my own
I feel home,
when I'm chilling outside with the people I know.
I feel home,
and that's just what I feel.
Home to me is reality,
and all I need something real
Home to me is reality,
and all I need something real

I feel home.

Altered State of Mind.

It occurs to me that many of the world's most influential writers were alcoholics, drug addicts, or severely depressed. I've even been told that in order to succeed in the writing field these conditions are prerequisites.  I wonder if this is true. These three conditions have something in common. All three involve a sort of hypersensitivity. An understanding of the state of consciousness that cannot be reached by the sane, sober self. (I must admit I've never been on drugs, but I understand from others that this is the case.) There is a complete focus on every thought and every notion. One picks up on things that might otherwise be overlooked, assumed stupid and unimportant. But isn't this what most of the great writers focus on? The seemingly silly and unimportant things, which experienced at a different level are actually highly interesting and remarkable?

The questions of motivation--why we do things--are suddenly obvious. Completely obvious and no longer complicated by the excuses of the sane. Every motivation is clear and obvious. We are at peace with our base selves. Or if not at peace, we at least admit their existence--the fact that it is impossible to ignore the most embarrassing faults of our inner selves. They are real and unavoidable.

I'm not saying that I want to be an alcoholic, drug addict, or severely depressed. But I do think that they are interesting states of being. And perhaps more in tune with the desires and thoughts that drive us on a deep level. Thus they are what make us think and consider on the basest level of sobriety.

Oh, Summer Days

I went biking in the PA Grand Canyon today. It's one of my favorite places to be, to tell you the truth. Especially at this time of year, when tourist season is still in its beginning stages and the trail is still a little rutted from the winter, discouraging the tourists who are around from going too far. My friend Heather was with me: just the two of us. We rode in silence for most of the trip, only stopping once to watch a doe bent over drinking in the middle of the river. I couldn't help but revel in the memories that flowed along like the river next to me.

A good portion of my high school and college summers were spent at the canyon. There was a group of five or six of us who would go every week or so, as often as we could. Given the small town we lived in, it was one of the few places we could go to just hang out, and we often had it to ourselves. I would make the rounds, picking up various friends along the way (I had my dad's SUV and a bike rack, making me automatic designated driver). We almost always unloaded in the Darling Run vicinity and biked to the bottom of the Turkey Path, where there was prime access to the river (because, let's be honest, playing in the water was really the highlight of the trip). 

As I rode along today, I remembered many games of bike tag, usually started out of the blue and wavered on and off as we rode, the best strategy being to ride along until everyone forget who was it and sneaking up behind someone. No tag-backs, of course. I recalled the year three of us came in March, anxious to get the summer underway, only to find snow still covering the trail. Biking in snow, let me tell you, is extremely difficult, but makes for some great stories. Certain places reminded me of one accident-prone friend who always brought a first aid kit with him, just in case he skidded out on the gravel or managed to fly over his handle bars in one way or another. And of course the summer nights after a canyon trip: rinsing off in Catherine's pool and inevitably running around the perimeter until we had created a whirlpool, hunting for raspberries on Casey's property, a bonfire at my house, or lying in someone's yard on the sleeping bags we kept in our cars all summer, watching for shooting stars.

But the most vivid memories were more centered on what summer meant back then: our first tastes of freedom, late nights, and true friends of the opposite sex. The sticky red flush of skin under the hot sun; the salty smell of sweat mingling with the pungent odors of bug repellent and Coppertone Sport; the warm yet strangely refreshing breeze in our faces. The inevitable ache in butt, legs, and arms after a winter away from bikes and hiking. Dust, earth, the occasional rotting fish. Everything that makes summer the most magical season for kids and teens alike.

The friendships that came about as a result of those summer canyon trips are still some of my strongest and most treasured relationships. I'll never forget the boys struggling along with the red Radio Flyer wagon rigged up to the back of their bikes, carrying a picnic lunch we ate on a large rock in the middle of the Turkey Path waterfall. "Yellow Submarine" will always reserve a special place in my heart for the summer we found a plastic yellow submarine floating in the river. Rocks piled high in the middle of a river will send a shiver of dread through my spine as my mind's eye watches a friend narrowly avoid being hit by a tumbling tower of rocks he built.

Even though it was just Heather and me this time, and the bottom of the Turkey Path was swarming with pesky flies so we couldn't stand to stay too long, I feel as though my summer has finally, really begun. And that makes me indescribably happy.

Jump

There's a time in everyone's life that comes just as you're about to embark on a new project or journey. You can't wait to get started, but at the same time you're just not totally into it yet. You find yourself holding back, unsure of how to start. It doesn't matter how many times you remind yourself that it's easy: you just have to take that first step, and you'll be fine from there. Sometimes you can make yourself do it; close your eyes, plug your nose, and plunge into the cold waters of uncertainty. Other times you need someone else to push you, assuring you that they're there to catch you just in case you need some help. It's a very frustrating place to be. You're excited, anxious, ready, and uncertain all at the same time. You know in your heart that somehow you're going to get into that water. It's just a matter of how long you stand there trying to convince yourself to just get it over with, so you can move on and have fun. Sometimes it's just so much easier if someone comes up behind you and pushes you with no warning and no chance to look back. You may have to fight your way up for a little while, but in the end things will calm down, and you'll be in a better place.

And you know this. But you still can't bring yourself to jump.

I Was Thinking...

I've been jolted back into the world of blogging, it seems, thanks to a good friend's recent decision to launch herself into the world of internet words. I admit that I'm cheating a little, because I'm going to steal her thoughts and add on to them with my own. You can see her original post here. She begins with a quoted ad that's really a poem about thoughts and the importance of thinking them. We all think; whether our thoughts are average, subconscious, grandiose, or just plain bizarre. Some people argue that the capacity to think is what makes us humans distinctly different from all the other species of the world. I have no idea if that's true or not, but thinking is a pretty incredible thing.

I often have conversations with myself in my head. Or I have conversations with other people. I recite poetry, sing songs, compose fiction, yell at myself, curse others, obsessively repeat words or phrases that strike my fancy, and count my breaths. I see pictures, hear voices, remember past events. A teacher once told me she thought I did a lot of living in my head. It's true. My head is a sounding board for real life. Before I say anything, write anything, or do anything, I think it through first. (And if I don't, I usually regret it almost immediately.) Sometimes my brain is so wired I can't sleep at night. At times I wish I could just shut it off and stop thinking for a while. But overall, I love to think.

Some of my most productive thinking takes place in my bed late at night when I should be falling asleep. That's when I come up with solutions to life's problems, stories that need to be written, conversations that must be had. It's dark and quiet and there are no distractions to lure my thoughts away from where they should be. (This post is being written as I lie in bed.) Another place I do a lot of thinking is in the car when I'm driving. My most creative thoughts come through then, which is unfortunate, because most of them then disappear before I have the chance to write them down.

My brain is also supercharged by theatre and concerts. After watching (or better yet, performing) I feel like I can do anything I want. I can write that novel or play. I could change the world for the better. I'm not sure exactly what it is about performance that charges me so powerfully, but my brain churns out the thoughts left and right in the hour or two after a performance. It's a creative high that is really quite impossible to describe, but one of the most extraordinary experiences I've ever had. If it wasn't 2 a.m., I might do a better job of explaining, but as it is, my brain is slowing down bit by bit.

I wonder, though, where do you do your best thinking? And what charges your brain?

Insomnia

It’s a dream, this life. A dream of the morning, a half-awake dream. There is something more, something clearer and sharper and more real, but the heavy comfort of sleep prevents a full recognition and understanding of the real life just a step away. And so we live on the edge, on the brink of consciousness, too overcome by the fluffy, cottony dream world to care much about what there really is, what there is meant to be just beyond our waking (dreaming?) reality.

There is something so much more important beyond oneself. Those brief moments when I realize, “This is me, I am living and alive and doing these things.” What does it all mean? What is the point? There has to be a reason I survived. Those are moments of truth, and more than that, of hope. Hope for the future, that I will break out of the dream and accomplish something, realize something, do something. Something that is more important than the day-to-day antics we busy ourselves with and consider so important. They aren’t, really. What is important is the other being, the being that can only be channeled randomly, unexpectedly, saying, “This is me. I’m alive and I’m doing these things. Why? I should be…”

But then the channel ends, and there is only this dream world, and it’s too comforting, too suffocatingly soft to leave room for anything else. Maybe that’s all there is, after all. Maybe that’s all there’s meant to be.


***

The words wouldn’t come anymore. They stuttered, faltered. Never the right word. Gone was the vocabulary, the vernacular; no living-walking-breathing dictionary. Not anymore. Writing was no longer an outlet for that which could never be expressed in spoken word. The brain-to-finger connection as faulty as that to the mouth, the vocal chords. Stutters, stops, painful pauses, disruptions. No clear thoughts nothing perfect anymore. So much to get out that it doesn’t know how to come. Fitful, fretful, in bursts. Not fluid. Gone are Flannery and James, no more to be found. Too much work writing, not enough for her. Words and thoughts like sloughed-off hair and soap scum and toothpaste down the bathroom sink. Rigid and dougy and clunky. Like play-doh or clay. Rigid, unbudging. Only blown out in chunks in unidentifiable shrapnel, word-shrapnel. Sharp and stinging and bludgeoning. No flowers or purple patches, just word shit. Use enough drain-o, write long enough, push out enough of the crap until the words start flowing more smoothly, with only a few chunks here and there a rush of words at once. But then more liquid, smooth, wet, words flowing out, just a few flakes here and there, nothing more of the rot and harried stabs at words that blocked the tunnel, the tube, that channel to the fingers. Finally, at last, the words flow smoothly, unobstructed, effortlessly. And once again the brain-world is right, and that is all that matters.

Reflections on Anger

Anger. You know, that tightness that starts with a lurch of the stomach and claws its way up your chest. The glinting eyes, pursed lips, and flared nostrils. Hands that ball into fists, fingernails digging into fleshy palm. The lump in your throat that prohibits you from talking, because you know if you do, you'll spray a vulgar, biting venom that's best left locked in a leak-proof box somewhere near your kidneys.

I hate being angry. I just really, really don't like it. Luckily, I don't get angry easily. There are only a few times in my life that I can remember being really, truly angry to the point where I burst and spewed that venom like a wild banchee. My brothers used to be able to make me angry to the point of screaming, slamming doors, and sobbing in my room for an hour. (The biggest problem is that they both enjoy the sport of argumentation. Me...not so much.) The only other time I remember getting that angry was in high school. I was sitting at the lunch table with a group of friends who I had come to realize talked behind each other's backs incessantly. One of them said something (jokingly) to another one's face, and I blew up. "CAN'T YOU GUYS JUST BE NICE TO EACH OTHER FOR A CHANGE?!?" I proceeded to get up from the table and stalk away, leaving behind a very shocked group of teenagers. ("Have you ever heard Laura yell before?" "No way, not like that." "Wow. What's up with her? She never gets mad.") I ate lunch in the band room instrument storage closet that day.

Up until last week, that was the last time I remember being really angry over something. To be honest, I knew that this fit of anger was coming. I had felt the annoyances and frustrations building up for months. I had hoped to contain it as just that, though: a feeling of annoyance and frustration, but not full-blown anger. But then something happened that just threw all inhibitions to the wind, and I got angry. I won't go into details, since this is a public forum, but basically I had had enough of a certain person's complete lack of responsibility and consideration for other people. This individual continually put things off and avoided problems they had created, causing issues for everyone around them and never bothering to say, "Hey, I'm sorry. My bad, I should have done that sooner." Instead, this person just blamed everything on other people (read: me). It wasn't the incident itself that so upset me. It was absence of any sort of consideration of other people's time, feelings, and schedules, as well as blatant lies told to cover up their fault.

But I digress. I got angry. I didn't blow up this time, as that would have been inappropriate given the circumstances, but I did fume. Everyone else who saw me knew I was spitting mad and stayed far away. I vented to family and friends, and eventually got over it. But one thing kept running through my mind: I really hate being angry.

I like to think of myself as a very laid back, easy-going kind of girl. It takes a lot to phase me to the point of agitation, and I get along with just about everyone. So if you succeed in getting me angry (other than my brothers, because that's just a sibling's prerogative {huh, never knew that had two "r"s}), you had to have done something pretty extensively anger-worthy. I don't like the unbalanced, irrational feeling of being angry. I think there's probably a good reason the word "mad" has a double entendre: anger often leads to a feeling of insanity. And that's just no fun. Also, getting angry accomplishes nothing. A friend told me today that a little anger is a good thing, because it protects your sense of injustice, which is an important aspect of anyone's well-being: no one wants to be a pushover doormat. While I see her point, I think frustration can take care of that, without resorting to full-blown anger. Anger will only lead to regrets. (Crimes of passion, anyone?)

So I guess my point to all of this is it's important to stay happy and calm. Anger is pointless and makes you feel bad. Whatever caused the anger in the first place will dissipate with a positive attitude and a relativity check. (In the long run, does it really matter that this person thinks my shirt is ugly?)

Stay happy, friends.

Robin Hood Ethics

When you're young, ethical behavior was black and white: stealing - bad; God - good; swearing - bad; helping others - good; homosexuality - bad; church - good; abortion - bad; priests - good. Our elders tell us what is bad and what is good, and we believe them. Because they are our elders, so of course they're right. We take it all for face value and move on with our lives.

But what happens when our brains develop enough to where we can begin thinking for ourselves? When "Robin Hood" ethics take over: when stealing from the rich and giving it to those who have nothing might not be so bad after all? What happens when your friends and cousin are gay? When your brothers and best friends don't go to church? When your teachers and those you look up to don't believe in God and priests are caught doing horrible things? Suddenly we no longer have our black-and-white childhood to fall back on. Everything is a varied shade of gray: some things still almost completely black and others mostly white, but nothing is absolute in its ethical standing, and more often than not, things are a dreary, confusing shade of gray, right in the middle of black and white, bad and good. What do we do then?

For some people this moment never seems to come. They continue on with their childhood ethics system, either because they are miraculously blessed with immediate communication with God or because their system was never tested or they just blind themselves to the tests and obstinately insist that they are right and there is no need to even think about where they may be wrong. In some ways I envy these people. I miss knowing right away what is right and what is wrong. When people ask me what I believe, I'd like to be able to tell them: A is good, B is bad, C is unspeakable. But I can't, because the fact is I don't know what I believe, and it's all Robin Hood's fault.

He's made me think about things. He's introduced me to different viewpoints and new ideas; different ways of thinking. And some of them make a whole lot of sense, even though they are sometimes polar opposites of what I was raised to think in my black and white world. Jewish law says abortion is not only legal, but sometimes it is legally mandated. Because the Jews believe that life begins with the first breath, since Adam was created when God breathed the breath of life into him. So until that baby is born, it is important, but not as important as the mother's life, because she is already breathing. So if the mother's life is in jeopardy, the pregnancy must be terminated, according to Jewish law. In general, I agree that abortion is bad. But sometimes, there may be circumstances where it is necessary, or at least something to consider. What if a single mother with three children is raped, and giving birth to the rapist's child will result in complications that will kill her, sending her three living children into a fatally flawed foster care system which will turn them out at the age of 18 to fend for themselves, perhaps even before they've graduated from high school? Are the unborn baby's rights greater than those of the mother and her three children?

To some extent, I can see the importance of bringing the abortion debate into politics, even though it is a largely moral issue. If you believe that personhood begins at conception, then it is important to stand up for the unborn child's rights. I am not denying that, and to some extent I sympathize with it. But things like homosexuality--whether you believe it's right or wrong, it's not hurting anyone. What happened to Jesus's teaching: "Let the one among you who is free from sin throw the first stone." If it is a sin, (and I'm not convinced it is, personally), then that is between that person and God. But what about the sanctity of marriage and the family, some people ask. I don't know. I'm not that worried about it. Maybe I should be, but I'm not. I think that within the Church, it isn't an issue. They will never allow gay marriage (and I'm not saying they should, either.) But as far as homosexuals having the same rights and privileges in the political world, I see no harm.

I guess the moral (no pun intended) of all of this, is that I am helplessly lost and confused about what is right and what is wrong. I have some convictions, but they are far from concrete.  And actually, I'm not sure that I would have it any other way. Because despite the confusion and frustration, I think it is generally a good thing to be open to different ideas and ways of thinking. Once you're "sure" about something, you fall into the closed-minded ways that allowed slavery and other racially or socio-economically motivated injustices to take such widespread control of today's societies. I hope I never fall into that trap.

And yet, I wish I knew where I stood. Is it wrong to be too open minded? Am I overcompensating for my uncertainties and "sinning" in ways that I should know better than to do? Am I becoming too defensive and closed minded against the Church, when I really only want to remain a little bit distanced, a little bit unsure? Has Robin Hood taken too complete a hold on my ethics, to the point where I'm sliding too far the other way? Am I a God-forsaken liberal Commie, as I've been told? I like to think I'm not. But really, who knows?