Take Note

Being the nostalgia slave that I am—and trust me, with my pack rat ways and my love of anything tinged with melancholic atmosphere, I am a slave to the nostalgia—I sometimes enjoy going back through past notebooks.  During college, I would use the back pages of my notebooks to scribble less-than-stellar poetry/lyrics, angsty paragraphs about the state of my relationships at the time, and quick rants about my classes.  Today, in lieu of a freshly-written post, I present a sampling of notebook scribbles.  These date between January and April 2011.  This was a tumultuous time.  It was my last on-campus semester of college, an experience I was ready to leave behind.  I officially broke up with the boy my world revolved around.  I started dating the man I would marry.  

There was a lot going on.

Some of these quick writings are strangely prescient now.  It's also odd to look back and see that even though I have completely changed, at the core my self, my views, and my experience remains the same.  

I was so organized back in the day.
Now I use smaller, soft-backed books.
When I take notes at all.  Heh.

CLIP ONE: ANGST.  SUSPECTED DATE - JANUARY/FEBRUARY.

I am in a dark hole with dirt walls.  There is a hint of sunshine above, but I can't be sure.  All I know is that I want to get out of the hole.  I start climbing the walls, grabbing fistfuls of earth and digging platforms, but instead of elevating me further it's burying me.  My throat is closing, filling up with mud and gravel, and yet I'm still scrabbling away at the walls, desperate for some breath of air.

CLIP TWO: FRUSTRATION IN POETIC FORM.  SUSPECTED DATE - MARCH.

He loves to play the martyr,

He loves to play the fool,

He loves to play the one that was abandoned, it's his rule.

He loves to play the slighted, 

The one destined to lose,

The one....

CLIP THREE: PEOPLE ARE IDIOTS.  SUSPECTED DATE - LATE JANUARY, PROBABLY THE 26th.

In one of my education classes this morning, we had a topical writing essay.  The front of the class is littered with a heady array of composition books—gray, red, blue, marbled covers—each with a topic printed in Sharpie on the corner.  I grabbed "TV" and scribbled away, waxing poetic about Bryan Fuller, Aaron Sorkin, and J.J. Abrams.

The trouble came when we exchanged books and responded to others.  I was cornered by the girl I secretly refer to as "my nemesis."  That girl who has to raise her hand and comment on everything, whether she is qualified to voice an opinion or not.  The girl who spent the first five minutes of class quoting racist anti-Obama bumper stickers and dismissing the State of the Union as drivel.  The girl who, after we responded to each other's writing, turned to me and smugly commented on how interesting it was that she chose reading and I chose TV, clearly implying that her choice made her intellectually superior.  The girl who, after reading my ode to worthwhile TV, dismissed my arguments and points for quality TV shows and stated that she didn't like TV, that it "rots your brain," and as such should be condemned.

I just love people who live in a box and refuse to learn from others, don't you?

See, it just frustrated me that she so carelessly tossed aside television, because I think that certain shows can be incredibly stimulating, that some can raise intellectual debate and foster learning.  And I don't like that some snot-faced brown-noser can waltz in and claim that her voracious reading of Jane Austen and fantasy makes her more intelligent than my watching "Dead Like Me" and "The West Wing."  Because that is wrong.  It's false.

CLIP FOUR: I SHOULD LISTEN TO MYSELF.  DATED 4-24-11, MY 22nd BIRTHDAY.

Here's why I never would have made a good journalist—I want people to like me.  That's what attracted me to the field.  Meeting interesting people, talking, it all sounds great.  Except for the part about asking questions.  I'm too cautious to be curious.  Shame, really.

Also—I suspect I am like Chuck Klosterman.  My fiction is meticulous, labored, and overly self-conscious.  Observation is my medium, and I should embrace it.

lost

Currently looking for: motivation.

Seriously. I don't have any right now. It's the midst of finals, and none of mine are especially difficult or stressful. All I have to do is quickly write a review, study some adolescent development (yeah, it's as not exciting as it sounds), and I'm free. But what do I care?

I can't bring myself to work on anything. All I want to do is listen to Jimmy Cliff* and the Raconteurs, sleep, make donuts, sleep some more, and read books that aren't required for class.

Oh. And burn my copy of Jane Austen's Persuasion. But I've complained enough about that.

On a completely unrelated note, has anyone checked out the list of Golden Globe nominees? Wow, this awards season looks horrible. And I thought last year was bad. Avatar? Are you joking me? Remind me to completely over-hype all my projects from now on. Apparently that's the recipe for success. "But Professor, you don't understand. This paper has the greatest usage of semi-colons you've ever seen! These semi-colons will BLOW YOUR MIND. Just wait! We are talking about some seriously almost realistic semi-colons here!"

I blame winter for all of this. Take that how you will.

*Shout out to The Professor at Wounded Mosquito for this one.

Following those Country Roads

Well, it's official. I am home... whatever that means. By that, I mean I am back in Utah. It's odd. Yesterday, as I sat on the airplane, curled up in some absurd position to avoid the steady stream of cold air rushing in from the emergency exit door that was my seat mate, I looked through the window at the Rockies for the first time in over two months.

Europe was such a big part of my life, but as I cruised around SLC today I felt as if no time had passed. The trip was a dream, and the last thing I remembered was standing outside of that teppanyaki restaurant in the rain, wondering what was in store for me. That sounded lame. This is why tired posts should never be allowed. Which I almost spelt "aloud". I thought you might like to know that. I think I'll give up on the retrospective now.

Summer has officially started, my first real summer since 2006, and I am out of my mind excited. Freedom! No school! No required papers! I can write anything I want and read any book I choose when I choose! Is this Heaven? Quite possibly.

Like the organized dreamer I am, I have already written a list of things I want to do this summer, a list that I will now share with you, my lovely blog audience. I am doing this for two reasons. A: I have nothing else to write about, and creativity is so last week, and B: so that if I run into one of you, dear cyber friends, we will have something to talk about. As in, you will ask me about these and I will feel pride if I have done it and shame if I have not. The basic principle.

Things To Do, This Summer, Part 1A:

-Practice the guitar and become a blues goddess.
-Cook often, with emphasis on artisan breads and pastries.
-Finish all those books I've started, including the rest of the Border Trilogy, Executioner's Song, and House of Seven Gables, along with just reading a lot in general.
-Get a bike at DI. Use it.
-Go to every concert at the Gallivan Center.
-See 500 Days of Summer, along with many Broadway film offerings.
-Flesh out all of those essays I've outlined in my notebook, and to write more creative pieces.
-Get efficient at playing the organ.
-Watch that documentary on the Vietnam War, try to talk to father about it.
-Clean my closet.
-Get a JOB.