...and at once I knew I was not magnificent.

Just a quick drive-by shooting-ahem-blogging today. As you undoubtedly know, it is the first day of NaNoWriMo so this means my already unstable mental state is about to become further unloosed.

This year I have no outline just two characters and an idea. And maybe I named my main character Zelda after a certain figure in literary history because I am just so lame and pretentious. Or maybe she's named after Aunt Zelda from Sabrina, The Teenage Witch.

All marathons of The West Wing shall be put on hold. All binge-drinking will also be outlawed during this month (and hopefully from all months). Attempts at a regular diet will be deserted. All that will be left of me at the end of the month shall be coffee, cigarettes, and words.

Oh, and the novel is tentatively titled Magnificent, partly from the Bon Iver lyric quoted in the title of this post. It is also loosely based on the classical and Renaissance ideal of Magnificence and magnificentia. Or at least my interpretation of it - art to elevate the soul to the sublime.

My goal this year is 40,000 words. Keep in mind that I have to write 4,000 words of academic essays every week (around 15-16,000 in total for the month). I actually have only written a paragraph for NaNoWriMo today because I am writing 2,000 words on Measure for Measure and tomorrow I will be writing 2,000 words on art and patronage in Renaissance Italy.

In order to get any writing done, however, I need music. And so, without further ado (mainly because I have to get back to my essay), here is a selection of my music for the month*.


Writing Until You Die: A Playlist

1. Holocene - Bon Iver

2. Manic Depression - Jimi Hendrix

3. Choking on the Concrete - Greg Holden

4. Who Knows, Who Cares - Local Natives

5. A Field of Birds - The Tallest Man on Earth

6. Things Will Never Be the Same Again - jj

7. Please Concrete - Wye Oak

8. Berlin - Solander

9. All Around We Go - Twin Sister

10. NY State of Mind - Nas

11. Osaka Loop Line - Discovery

12. This Charming Man - The Smiths

13. The Great Procrastinator - Ivan Campo

14. When My Time Comes - Dawes

15. Ambivalence Avenue - Bibio

16. Stranger - Katie Costello

17. Fool - Cat Power

18. For You - Sharon von Etten

19. Pink Moon - Nick Drake

20. The Trapeze Swinger - Iron & Wine

*My real November playlist is 165 songs and growing; I just throw it on shuffle & repeat every time I open my laptop.

(or so the story goes)

I spent the day walking around London, retracing my drunken steps from the night before and trying to track down my lost belongings. This has been one of those weekends that seriously makes me wonder what the fuck I did to get so much bad karma. Did I inadvertently offend the universe in some horrendous fashion? Or is it just the cruel randomness of the universe?

But all of this bad luck is not unbearable. Bad things happen. I cry a bit and move on.

When you are me, however, bad things tend to morph into sad things. And those don't go away, the things that have you sitting awake at 1:16 AM listening to Bon Iver's For Emma, Forever Ago.

I should be writing my essay but I can't even write a thoughtful blog post at the moment. All I can think about is my mother telling me that I shouldn't have come to England.

This is no playground fight, it's a battle to the death.

I am seriously considering becoming a hermit. I feel like it would be an ideal lifestyle for me.

Last night at the pub, I got into a very serious debate with a British boy about marriage. It was a weird experience.

Since I live on the third floor and the fridge is in the basement, I've just given up and started drinking my Diet Coke room temperature.

Recently my diet has consisted of three things, and three things only: cole slaw, nutella, and tuna melts. This is not an exaggeration.

I've noticed that British people don't laugh very loudly. This is a problem for me. I just can't control my obnoxious cackle. Every time I laugh people look at me like I've personally offended them in some horrendous fashion.

I miss my dogs.

I have been going into every secondhand bookshop I find just to look for one particular edition of The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides.

I don't really have anything to blog about. I haven't done much writing beyond my essays. Most of my time is spent watching old episodes of The West Wing, reading, and getting drunk.

So I won't be a burden of tomorrow, dear

Living across the street from a pub makes me sad. I realise* that this is an odd reaction. Most people would be excited for the convenient access to alcohol. Or I suppose there are people who would be annoyed by the loud, drunken people standing outside their window every night. But I am me. Weird things make me sad.

Here are my thoughts: I am sitting alone on my bed as I write. I don't even have music playing. My room is small and messy because there just isn't enough room for all of my shit. And I've put no decorations on my walls. There is one small window covered with beige curtains to match the beige walls. The room is lit by a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling - no treatment to go with it, no sconce or shade or covering; it's just a plain light bulb. I don't mind.

But outside my window I can hear the sounds of happy people at the pub. People are laughing and talking as they smoke their cigarettes on the sidewalk. They are young and pretty and dressed nicely. Pubs in Oxford aren't like college bars in America. No one is shitfaced and yelling. The girls aren't scantily clad. Ed Hardy t-shirts are few and far between (at least at the pub I observe every night).

And this scene from my life is making me sad. I don't really know why.



Other things on my mind (in list form because I like to make lists of my thoughts):

1. Generally, I don't mind not having a phone. It's not intentional. I'm not one of those annoying people that is trying to be free and peaceful in the present or whatever. I just have crappy luck. But I've survived almost a month now without a phone and, although it has been very inconvenient at times, I haven't been too upset about it. At the moment, the worst part about not having a phone is that I have no alarm clock.

2. You know how you always dread that phone call out of the blue when someone you love is in the hospital? That phone call is the worst thing in the whole entire world. It's just plain awful. Well, when you live overseas and don't have a phone...you just get an e-mail a few day later. And the loved one is all, "So two days ago I was rushed to the hospital because of my heart 'thingy.' No biggie."** And you sit in your bedroom, an ocean away, gazing in horror at your computer screen. The e-mails goes on to talk about boy problems, but you can't read any more of it because all that's going through your head are memories of the time this particular loved one almost died at a party because of her heart 'thingy' over the summer. And you just can't stop remembering how awful it was to be there when your best friend was unconscious and not breathing. But this time you weren't there. And you just find out from a casual e-mail days later.

3. I have officially stopped converting everything from pounds to dollars in my head. This was completely necessary. I am going to be here for a long time. I have to just accept the fact that the American dollar is shit. I was poor in American. I am even poorer in England.

4. I know I should be blogging more about how much fun England is. I should be writing up posts about all the fun things I'm doing in Oxford. I should put up pictures. This is an adventure. I should document it. But I just can't be bothered. Also, that's all crap. Yes, I'm having fun and yes, I love it here. But I've also been working a lot and I've been sick. I haven't had many adventures. It's not new and exciting anymore. It's just another school.




*Since I am in England, the online spell-checker just corrected my American spelling. I don't know how I feel about this. This is one of the weirdest experiences I've had since moving to England. Everything here is so similar to America, just a little different.

** Exact quote from e-mail: "I sort of had to go to the hospital on Sunday night because of a thingie. Really it wasn't that big, they just wanted to make sure I hadn't upgraded to heart attack because I didn't wake up for a while." Thanks, Jocie. Nearly gave me a heart attack. ["sort of had to go to the hospital" - you can't sort of go to the hospital, you just GO, it's all or nothing]

There were moments of dreams I was offered to save...

Thoughts From Oxford Part One

Perhaps this will sound obvious to everyone else but me, but one of the most surprising parts of moving abroad has been the feeling of NOW. I am a person that is constantly caught up in her thoughts. I relive the past, I plan the future, I consider the absurd, and I keep up a silent ongoing rant about the shittiness of everything and everyone. In general, if you ever see me sitting quietly by myself, perhaps writing or just staring off into space as I am wont to do, then I am no doubt doing one of the above.

Since coming to Oxford, however, I have found my wandering thoughts acquiring focus. I have been living in the now and it's a new feeling. I can savor experiences as they happen, basking in the moments as they pass. Every second is pulsing with possibility and I want to uncover it all. For the first time, the "now" is full of enough feeling to hold my focus. And yet...it isn't a perfect change, of course it could never be. I am living in the moment but there is something missing. Sometimes I can go about and ignore the feeling completely, but I can't experience the here and now without acknowledging the existence of few wisps of gray. This "now" feels wonderful and new, but I can't live in the midst of such history without feeling its absence in my life. Oxford is all history. I cannot come to this city and live only in the present. "Now" can never be enough. To believe solely in the present is to be blind.

I've spoken a lot about  the power of leaving. I felt strengthened by the act of it, the self-agency of my choice. But here's what I've realized: As much as leaving is letting go, it is also a loss. I cannot mourn and wallow for too long but it is still a loss. And let's just be honest for a second, it's a loss that I has been haunting me. And now, I am sitting right in the middle of it all. The emptiness surrounds me. My awareness of the now is bittersweet because I cannot live in this moment without feeling the emptiness of this eerie loss.

I know there are people who are suffering from truly enormous loss - death and tragedy. My feeling of emptiness is terribly insignificant in comparison. But it is real to me. My loss is this: I gave up a life I had loved, I gave up the person that I used to be. Yes, I'm moving onto better and brighter things. That old life, that person I used to be - well, it wasn't that great. But I can still feel the loss. It was everything I knew.

It's going to take a while to fill up all the empty space. But already I am starting to gather new things to fill it up. Every day in Oxford I am amid beautiful history and architecture. I cannot even attempt to describe the solemn beauty of this city, it is breathtaking and perfect in its air of casual elegance. Even the air in this city feels as if it holds the great thoughts of those that came before.

I walk into my college (aptly named New College - it was founded in 1379 but to me the name is just right because this is the new phase of my life) and I feel that there is something to be discovered there. I am proud to be a member of New College. It has a distinguished history and maybe my "new" life in this here and now will add just a little bit to its history. I don't think I'll be remembered as one of its famous alumni, but I hope that I will leave something, even just the tiniest shadow of remembrance. The college's stone walls are old and resilient and imbued with its students' memories. I don't need to leave any living trace or tangible artifact of my time here - I feel, oddly enough, as if the college itself (the stones and the vines and the great wooden doors) will remember. Maybe I can let my loss fade into my history as I fade into the lustrous history of this noble city.

Ice cream for breakfast, lunch, and dinner?

I'm feeling like crap. So I'm watching "The Doctor's Wife."

Why can't I just fly off with The Doctor, explore time and space, and forget about my real life for a while?

I have to go to work in about fifteen minutes. I am not happy about this. Well, that is a bit harsh because the kids are taking me out for ice cream. But I am really just in the mood to sit around and wallow in self-pity, my favorite activity.

Sigh. Ice cream and Doctor Who aren't even making me feel better. This must be serious.


Remember when I was counting down to Oxford. Let's do that again:

Days Until Oxford: 5
FIVE. WHAT HAPPENED HERE? I DEMAND AN ANSWER. FIVE DAYS. WHAT THE FUCK?

Why the fuck won't this goddamn post save whenever I go to a different tab? Seriously pissed as fuck that I've had to type this up 3 times in the past hour because blogger is bullshit. As if I needed more reason to switch to wordpress.

I hate this goddamn iPad so much. I just want to use my laptop but apparently the world will end if I do so I have to use this piece of shit until I leave for school.

 Anyway, I don't feel like typing up the whole story behind this post. Basically, my local radio station is having a countdown of the top 500 songs of all time. The members each make a list of their top ten songs and then the final countdown is derived from the composite. So here is my list.

 Pippy's Top Ten Goddamn Songs of All Fucking Time
 1. Skinny Love - Bon Iver
2. Don't Think Twice, It's All Right - Bob Dylan
3. Summertime - Ella Fitzgerald
4. I Will Follow You Into the Dark - Death Cab for Cutie
5. All Along the Watchtower - Jimi Hendrix
6. In the Aeroplane Over the Sea - Neutral Milk Hotel
7. N.Y. State of Mind - Nas
8. Pink Moon - Nick Drake
9. While My Guitar Gently Weeps - The Beatles (George Harrison)
10. Fool - Cat Power

 Maybe you think it's an odd list. No doubt you are crying out in rage over some omission. But it's my list so I don't give a damn. I know the list says all time but I kept mine strictly to modern music (i.e. excluding classical or else this would be a list made almost entirely of Chopin, Beethoven, Rachmaninov, and Liszt.)

 Also, an explanation of sorts: I compiled this list of the ten songs I found to be the 'greatest' in my definition of the term. These aren't the top ten most meaningful songs in my life although some of my selections made it onto my list because of their special place in my personal history. I chose the songs that I find musically and lyrically superior. These are the songs I will be listening to decades from now. Obviously the list reflects the time and my age, I did not put Dylan, Fitzgerald, Hendrix, Harrison, or Drake in the top spot. Justin Vernon won that place because his song has traveled with me through my time and his is the song I see as lasting the longest in my heart.

 It's a strange task to make a list like this one. Songs can be astoundingly masterful in technique or lyricism and not make intona list like this one. When it comes down to it, songs become 'great' (to me personally), not because of the popularity or even the skill. It's something else. It's the feeling the capture and the meaning they obtain by playing through the lives of individuals.

 And just one last note. I've tried to explain why my list is a balance between new and old, with the new taking the top spot in a sense. My life and my listening habits have formed this list. Skinny Love is my greatest song of all time because it expresses that timeless greatness to me. And I know it is a product of circumstance.

But I did say that I excluded classical compositions and I had a very particular reason. Since I grew up playing classical piano, the music of that time period has taken on a whole different level of meaning for me. Chopin's Nocturnes are the most beautiful pieces of music I have ever heard. Classical piano is, in my opinion, the greatest form of musical expression. Obviously I am biased. That is why I excluded my own musical passion from my list. I simply cannot compare my Beethoven and Mozart to any other genres of music. They will always, always win. As they should.

You know you're emotionally unstable when you start crying from a Google Chrome commercial...just another reason to love my Chrome-y*.

Before I get into this blog post: Tom Brokaw gave my brother's commencement address. This is topical because I am watching him on the Colbert Report right now. He is talking about 9/11 so I guess I'll just keep right on crying all night. But this is not going to be a 9/11 blog post. I don't know if I really could write a proper 9/11 blog post. I believe in the power of words but I also believe that there is a lot of life that cannot be put into words. All of this discourse on the anniversary of 9/11 has me considering the balance between words and the substance they attempt to capture. As a writer, of course, I want to believe that these words that I write can convey a fully realized feeling and make it known completely to my reader. But there are some things, like 9/11, that cause me to question the power of words. I think this is how it should be. Writers should be aware of the enormity of our task. Writing should not be a passive, idle activity. When we write we should always be conscious of the question - as we remember and as we write, are these words enough? If I sit down and try to write about this weekend's anniversary, it will not be done lightly**. 


[And now we can move on to the regularly scheduled programming]


Last night I took it upon myself to clean up my computer. I need to start some serious cleaning and organizing in my life so I thought I would start with the easiest part - my hard drive. Well, I thought it would be the easiest task because I could just sit on the couch like I do every other day...but I forgot about everything I have hiding in forgotten corners of my computer. 


I am one of those people who keeps her computer password protected. This isn't just a diary with a lock on it. It's like a box of all my innermost secrets. I open up a word document, write down a few thoughts, and Save As in a back corner folder where it can live forever in peace...until last night. Maybe other writers are better than that but I have random little slips of writing hidden all throughout my computer. Most of them are crap, but these little short pieces come from the darkest, loneliest hours of the night when I am my most honest. Re-discovering all my thoughts from those miscellaneous nights was bittersweet. I'm too nostalgic to delete all of these little bits of writing (thank god for external hard drives), so I thought I would come here, where I post all my crappy random musings for any and all to see.


So here are 5 little pieces of writing that I found last night.


1. 
There is something I have always wanted to know: What is it that keeps us moving forward?


Everyone is moving forward through life in one synchronized motion. It may seem like some people are moving faster than others but they aren’t. Everyone moves through life at the same speed, passing through every moment at exactly the same time. And no matter how hard you try, you can’t slow down or stop for even just a moment. The seconds, minutes, hours, etc. keep passing, carrying us onward downstream the river of life. As long as you are alive you are caught in the current. Everyone moves forward. Time passes. And the pace of passing time is persistent. There is no pause button. There is only an eject function. Either you persist with passing time or you perish. 




2.
I try to think of what I believe, what I know to be true. And I can’t think of anything. I feel like nothing about life or the universe is fixed. I don’t feel like I know anything. Even what I thought I understood feels so strange to me now. Everywhere I look there is more chaos and confusions and I’m drowning in it. I can’t make sense of it all. I can’t make sense of anything.


I want to know something. I feel like I’m living in that moment when you can’t quite remember the right word. That feeling like you know you know the word but you can’t think of it. That’s how I feel every moment that I’m living. Like I know something but I can’t think of it. Like there’s something important on the very edge of my consciousness but I just can’t think of it. And I just want to know it. I just want to remember the word. I just want that certainty. That feeling of “Of course. I knew it all along.” But it’s lost to me.




3.

I know every detail of this night by heart - someone's parents are away, park down the street because neighbors are suspicious, don't look at any family photos but proceed straight down to the basement. There are the empty pizza boxes on the kitchen counter. Through the glass door to the porch I can see the dots of light at the end of cigarettes in the darkness. There's the sweet old family dog who is excited but confused by having so many new people around at night. I can hear music coming from the open door to the basement and sure enough I can now hear the unmistakable sounds of a good game of 'ruit, lots of sporadic yelling and cursing.

Play some drinking games. Drink some beer. Smoke too many cigarettes. Smoke a few bowls. Take some shots from the handle of vodka/rum/whiskey that was purchased for the extravagant price of $12.99. Trade stories and talk until night becomes morning.

In the basement, Johnny is talking philosophy. Ryan is playing the guitar. There's a book of poetry sitting on the table open to a William Carlos Williams poem.

"These
are the desolate, dark weeks
when nature in its barrenness
equals the stupidity of man."

This poem about the tragedy of war should seem out of place but I reread it several times before setting it down.

"Is this the counterfoil to sweetest

music? The source of poetry that
seeing the clock stopped, says,
The clock has stopped

that ticked yesterday so well?
and hears the sound of lakewater
splashing - that is now stone."

What does it mean here in this basement room? Well, it means that on an ordinary night of extraordinariness I found a moment of pure, unexpected beauty.

4.
The January sun glistened off the surface of the frozen lake. Loch Raven, the majestic man-made reservoir that provided the city of Baltimore with tap water, was quiet but not silent. An unexpected course of warm weather had settled upon the city. The sun had struggled out from behind the forlorn cloud cover if only for one afternoon. Baltimore, often undecided on its weather especially during the winter months, had made up its mind. It would be warm and sunny and pleasant. At least for the day. Who could know what tomorrow would bring—a cold front, blistering winds, surly clouds, frigid rain? The winter brought its fair share of surprises.


The uncharacteristically warm afternoon had drawn a smattering of locals out of their homes and back to Loch Raven. The reservoir provided some of the most picturesque parklands in the county and, during the summer months, it bustled with the energy of the nature lovers who looked to the park to fulfill their addiction. This warm January afternoon found among the park’s visitors an elderly couple walking hand-in-hand, a father and son flying a remote-controlled air plane, a young woman and a small brown pup, two young women deep in the heartfelt conversation of best friends, and a group of five boys who had been kept inside too long.


The stories of these visitors would never intersect except for one trip to the park. The elderly couple had raised their children, survived the turmoil and heartache that troubled children forced upon a family. The father and son were testing out a new Christmas gift and testing out new boundaries resulting from the recent divorce. The five boys had come to the park out of boredom. The young woman, alone after yet another break up, had just bought her puppy and named him Gatsby after her favorite novel. The two young women came to the park uneven, one broken and one trying to put her friend back together again. 


“Sometimes I feel like I’m trapped under the ice,” Sascha said. She was staring straight ahead at the frozen lake. Erin wordlessly reached over and took her best friend's hand, squeezing everything she felt into Sascha. The two young women looked out across the melting ice.


“Drowning in dark, freezing water and trapped under the ice.”

5.

The grass is cool and wet underneath my bare feet. I tilt my head back and can see another world spread out above me, the world of the stars. A light breeze pulls gently at my hair. I hear first the sound of crickets but then, faintly in the distant, the sound of cars. My back is to the house. There is nothing but fields spread out before me. It is nighttime. The world is cloaked in navy and gray with shadows of the deepest black. I can smell the sweet grass, the past rain, the organic scent of fresh compost drifting to me on the breeze.

This is what I know. I know it well. But now I feel lost in this scene that I know so well.

I know every detail of this moment. Midsummer. Midnight. But tonight it feels different. I think of how I reached this moment and the vague reality begins to whisper in my ear. I do not want to listen. 

-----------


*I just love Google Chrome, ok? And I like making cute nicknames for the things I love.


**Of course that turned into a nice little tangent. Why can't my tangents ever be light and fluffy? Why am I always wandering off into deep thoughts? 

Since I've never been on a "proper" date, Brandon said that if I come back from England without going on a "real date," then he would take me out just to show me that chivalry isn't dead.

Things that I am in love with today:
- The smell of September.
- Tea with lemon.
- Torchwood and Captain Jack Harkness
- Pizza (my life's one true love, forever and ever Amen**).
- My cowboy pillow.
- Chris and Brandon, who make 8 hour shifts at Italian Gardens fun (bitching about mall people and talking about sex).
- My new boots (in brown: http://www.stevemadden.com/Item.aspx?id=52462&np=127_282)
- Music by Timber Timbre (specifically the song "Black Water").
- Last night's episode of Doctor Who.
- Haagen Dazs Butter Pecan ice cream.
- Michel de Certeau.
- My new red suitcase.
- Secrets.

*I don't think chivalry is dead...I just don't really see the point. Maybe I'm slutty. Not a single one of the guys that I have slept with has ever taken me out on a date. I don't care, though. What's so great about going on a date? Why not skip the formalities, cut to the chase? If a guy and a girl are into each other we all know where it's going to end up...why postpone the best part?

**Just got home from work. I still smell like pizza. I know I should shower and wash away the grease...but I just don't want to say goodbye.

I am watching BBC's The Hour and it is superb, how all TV drama should be.

Just now I was upstairs in my room talking to my sister as we do most nights. It's nice. I love my sister and we get on wonderfully well. I could devote a whole blog post to her...and maybe I should because it was her birthday last Tuesday (the day of the earthquake actually). In fact, I think that's exactly what's about to happen. Why the hell not?

Brothers and sisters know you better than anyone in the world - they've known you from birth and they share the same set of parents, which is the most formative element in personal development and a relationship that can never be understood from the outside. All of this is to say that I can talk to Carlee about anything. She has been the best person in the family throughout my whole "ordeal" this past year. She asks questions calmly and shows concern without treating  me like I am mentally unstable. She really is amazing. All of my life I've looked up to Carlee (5 years my elder) more than anyone else in the world.

Some of my earliest memories are of sharing a room with her. We would talk every night until falling asleep. I remember that I couldn't go to sleep if she was angry with me and we always used that time alone in the dark to make up if we ever had fights. During the day we would fight and bicker about everything (she is SO BOSSY), but when it was just the two of us in the dark after bedtime we were sisters and stupid squabbles would be forgotten. Sometimes I would be the one to whisper "I'm sorry" first, sometimes she would speak first. But we always fell asleep with a sweet "Good night." Even after she moved into her own room and we had different bedtimes, she would still come into my room before going to sleep, wake me up, sit on my bed, just to chat and say good night - two sisters in the dark.

Of course, the squabbles were so annoying. She would lock me out of the room during the day to talk on the phone and wouldn't let me back in unless I had one of tickets she had made up. Yes, I would need a ticket to enter my own room. But then at night, if I woke up from I nightmare I just had to cross the room and crawl into Carlee's bed and she would keep the monsters away.

I don't know what I would do without Carlee. My mother was never one for life talks. She never even gave me the sex talk (seriously*). So my sister just took over on some of the Mom duties when it came to sensitive, personal issues. God, I don't know what girls without older sisters do after they have sex for the first time. A big sister is the perfect person for such a situation (better than any friend, no matter how close).

And now I've written a whole post just about my sister. I was planning to write about how I've been feeling manic all night. But this was better.


*And because my parents are very Catholic they kept me out of the school's sex-ed class. I literally learned about sex from a novel, TV and friends filled in the blanks. Thank God, my parents let me start getting books out from the adult section much too early. I had read my way through the kid's section by fourth grade and this was before my library even had a YA section. I moved straight onto adult books and I just happened to be going through an intense historical fiction phase at the time. Philippa Gregory's The Other Boleyn Girl taught me all I needed to know. Good thing my conservative parents weren't big readers. They were used to my nose being in a book and didn't really take all too much interest in what book it was. They would ask what I was reading and I would just say, "A book." They accepted the answer and moved onto their other more troubling children.

The hurricane was lame. Just a lot of rain and wind. Last time a tree fell on an electric wire and there was a huge fire next door. This time we only got a few branches in the yard.

I have had a headache for two days now. Let's just do a lazy post, ok?

What Pippy's Reading, Watching and Listening to (this week*)

Reading:
The Comedy of Errors - William Shakespeare
Menaechmi - Plautus
Miss Peregrine's home for Peculiar Children - Ransom Riggs
A Novel Bookstore - Laurence Cosse

Watching:
Torchwood Episode 1.3 Ghost Machine
Big Love Episode 2.4 Rock and a Hard Place
The Orphanage - Juan Antonio Bayona

Re-watching:
Rushmore - Wes Anderson
Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End - Gore Verbinsky
Grey's Anatomy Season 5

Listening To:

Songs:
Let's Win! - Alexander
Rad Pitt - Egyptian Hip Hop
Crazy For You - Best Coast
Black Star - Gillian Welch
The Writer - Ellie Goulding
Me and Armini - Emiliana Torrini
Canadian Girl - The Walkmen
Cigarettes In The Theater - Two Door Cinema Club
The Boy With Two Hearts - The Boy Least Likely To
Down Among The Wines & Spirits - Elvis Costello (from his Americana, bluegrass, folk 2009 album**)
Haikuesque (When She Laughs) - Bibio
Shadow People - Dr. Dog
Starring - Freelance Whales
Herringbone - Department of Eagles
Shakespeare's Sister - The Smiths
Hands Reversed - Tokyo Police Club
Peace & Quiet - White Lies
Vietnam - Crystal Castles
Sun Opens My Eyes - Wavves

Album on Repeat All Summer:
Bon Iver - Bon Iver


And there you have it. A week of my literature, television, film, and music consumption.

*As if anyone cares.
**Fact about me: I love folk music including Americana and bluegrass.

I have begun schoolwork again and I have never been happier. There is nothing I love more than reading and writing all through the night.

In exactly one month from today I will be flying over the Atlantic on my way to England. This is making me quite nervous. I have a terrible fear of the ocean - I am perfectly fine with flying, but i am terrified of flying over the ocean. Maybe it doesn't make much sense. If you're in an airplane, you're thousands of feet in the air and it doesn't really matter what is down below. But there is something about the vast unknown of the ocean. We don't know what is hiding in the darkest depths of the sea. There is some primal fear that engulfs me at the thought of crossing the ocean, which in my imagination is an abyss of watery shadows. The water is cold, heavy, black. It holds a sinister power, a dark magic. And my deepest human instinct seems to be telling me that man is no match against the sea's might.

Other than dreading my flight over the Atlantic, I am starting to feel rather nervous about moving to another country. It is common to take a semester abroad while in college, but I am going for a whole year. Yesterday I was visiting one of my best friends and we started to talk about how our lives are veering away from our carefully set plans. It was the sort of conversation you can only have with a best friend, someone who knows your whole story. And it reminded me that my story is still being written. I wanted to rush home and put a part of my story-in-progress into actual words. So here I am writing a blogpost.

I remember writing a blog post at the end of last semester about the power of leaving. Well, it is that force that has steered my life to this new direction. I hadn't planned on moving to Englad for a year. I was supposed to be returning to Syracuse to finish my degree. But that all changed. I know I keep dwelling on the shitty year I had at school, but it's hard to convey just how much changed in my life because of everything I went through. There is a line dividing my life into Before and After. The line falls directly on the first week of December. That's when I knew I would never be able to continue on with my fractured life as it was during the Before. I had to throw it all away and start from scratch because the pieces of my Before life were broken beyond repair.

I threw out my old life plan, the one that included not just a double major but also a minor. I had aspired to join Peace Corp or Teach for America. I was going to graduate with honors. I was going to live with my friends in an old house near campus. I was going to have a fabulous two years at Syracuse filled with golden memories. I pictured myself being a proud Orange alumna twenty years from now, still an avid fan of the basketball team. I would be married to an Orangeman I met during my picture-perfect college years; and, of course, I would be so proud when my son or daughter chose Syracuse for college years later. It was going to be an ordinary life, but a happy one. And I still wish I could have that. I wish I could have 4 college years to look back on as the start of it 'all' -whatever it would be.

I tried to hold onto the fraying threads of those possibilities. I tried so hard to hold that future together. But it was a futile attempt. That life plan was only ever a fantasy because, the truth is, I think this outcome was already set in motion before I set foot on my college campus. It started the first time I let my depression take control. And the depression just grew in strength all through high school and my first year and a half of college until everything broke into a million jagged pieces. Then, it was all After.

I didn't try to pick up the pieces and fit them back together. I threw them away and started from nothing. And when you have nothing and you are nothing, you can make anything. So I took the only thing I was sure of, my love of literature, and used that to put together a new life plan. That's how I ended up applying to Oxford. All I had was English literature and the power of leaving.

So I left Syracuse behind. Oxford lies ahead. After that, who knows? I'll probably have to return to Syracuse to finish my undergraduate degree but I know there's nothing left for me there. It's just where I have to return to receive my diploma before moving on. Now, I don't really have much of a life plan. It's only a fuzzy notion because I know better than to hand myself over to another conception of the future that will just splinter and fall apart with the tiniest disturbance. The hazy image includes returning to Syracuse for a last semester to pick up my B.A. in just English (no second major or minor, no Teach for America, no Peace Corp, hopefully honors because I still believe in academic excellence but other than that all I want is the degree). I would like to graduate a year from this December, then have the spring to work and save money for graduate school (wherever I end up...). But that's it. That's all I have for a future.

Right now I am going to leave the country, leave my Before, and seek out my After. There is power in leaving. I am choosing to depart. I am not taking any further questions; I am not saying goodbye. I am leaving. I do not know where I will end up. I am taking with me only what I truly need (including the selected friendships that are most important to me) and leaving all the rest behind. Will it be there waiting for me when I return? I don't know. I don't even know if I will be returning (metaphorically - I will be returning to America and most likely Syracuse, but I won't be returning to Before). I don't know and it's scary but it's also wonderful.

I am ready to fly over the ocean, even though it terrifies me with the shadowy depths of the unknown. I am ready to embark on the After.

Where was I during the earthquake?

In the basement level of an Ikea, the glassware section with everything falling off the shelves around me. I may or may have been a little blazed. Because sometimes it's fun to walk through Ikea with a nice floaty feeling. It was probably the weirdest way to experience my first earthquake.

I hate when my stupid microwave doesn't pop my bag of popcorn properly.

I have decided to start a new feature for this blog: What Pippy's Watching.

I love Netflix so much I don't even mind too much that they've hiked their prices (key words: too much). I have the 2 DVD and unlimited streaming plan. It is heaven on earth. Last semester I watched all of Bones, 30 Rock, Doctor Who, and Friday Night Lights.

Today, I've decided to blog my way through my newest series. I am currently watching the very first episode of Torchwood. I am also working my through Big Love.

I don't feel like I can review Torchwood just yet because I am only about ten minutes in but after I've got a feel for the show I will definitely report back. So far I am quite enjoying myself. Captain Jack Harkness is a dreamboat, fulfilling all the 1950's cheesy meanings of the word. As for Big Love, I am on Season 2 Episode 3. A review will follow sometime this week.

I think What Pippy's Watching will be a regular feature to track my daily viewing habits. Occasionally I will post longer reviews and posts for the feature. I am a bit of a television junkie.

I am also a book junkie...so I suppose I'll do a feature on What Pippy's Reading as well. It'll have the same premise and set up. To get started: I am currently in between books. I just finished reading The Help by Kathryn Stockett. I went to the library tomorrow so I have plenty of books to choose from for tomorrow.


Bedtime I think. This blog post is crap...but I just can't bring myself to actually look at my life and find something more to write about. I am going through one of those moments. I don't want to look at my life. So I'm just going to look at Captain Jack Harkness.

I inexplicably found an Ellie Goulding CD sitting on my kitchen counter today. No one in the family has even heard of her besides me. Does it count as stealing?

I've been thinking a lot about family really. Obviously, this is in part because I have spent the past three months living at home. This summer has been the first time in seven years that all seven members of the family have been living together in the farmhouse. Just six months ago Danny was living in California, Carlee in her own apartment in Baltimore, Johnny in New York City, and I was in Syracuse. Now, we're all back under one roof again. It's only for the summer, though. Danny will be moving back to California in the fall. Carlee just bought a new house downtown and will be moving in once the renovation is complete. Johnny is going back to school in New York soon. And I will be moving to England.

It's strange. I haven't lived in the same house as my older sister since 2004. When she left I was 14 and she was 19. We weren't exactly best friends. Now, I am 20 and she is 25. Finally we're at a time when we can be friends. We've always been close for sisters. She's been a great older sister, very supportive and always guiding me through hard times. But now I feel as if we can finally be friends. It's nice. I have always loved my sister, but this summer I've realized how much I like her. After I come home from England next year, I am planning to live with her downtown instead of with my parents.

Of course, every summer is another marker of how quickly time is passing. I said it last summer and the summer before that and it's still true now. This summer feels like it could be the last one before we're all officially "grown up." I put grown up in quotes because I know it is a ridiculous term. Do you ever reach  an official status as "grown up?" No, we never stop growing (or at least we should never stop), so that every summer has a bit of "final" to it.

The idea of the four of us growing up is daunting. For now, we are a "we." We are a collective. The Pipitone kids. It's us and everyone else is them. I know we'll never stop being four siblings, but I look at my parents and their siblings and I see that it becomes less important. Eventually we'll all be starting our own families, new "us" groups.

My mother is one of seven. She has five brothers and one younger sister. Now, she and her siblings are spread out over five states. She sees Uncle Joe, Uncle Mark, Uncle Steve, and Aunt Barbara once a year. Uncle Teddy comes for the major holidays*. Uncle Jeff hasn't visited in seven years. And none of these visits would happen at all if Grandma didn't live with us. My aunts and uncles come to visit Grandma not my mother, their sister. Some of the siblings don't even talk to each other anymore because of an unpleasant issue that no one talks about. It's just so sad. These brothers and sisters seem to have become mere acquaintances, just old childhood friends.

Will Carlee, Danny, Johnny, and I be like that someday?

*He is divorced and lives alone so he comes to be with Grandma. My mother isn't particularly close with him, though. She's closest with Uncle Joe, I think.

I think my eyes are too big for my head. My old piano teacher and her husband used to call me Big Eye Girl. I'm feeling rather self-conscious.

I am wearing a new top. This is how I imagine an illicit affair feels like - it's my dirty, little secret. I know it's wrong, in fact I know it's shameful, degrading,* and inevitably disastrous. I know I will end up hurt. But this reckless decision, deliberately turning my back on good sense, is cathartic. It's not thrilling. I don't take pleasure in being bad, like a Catholic schoolgirl sneaking her first cigarette and feeling drunk on the rebellious spirit. It's more masochistic than that.

Here's the thing. In about 6 weeks I'm flying to England to study at freakin' Oxford. How is that my life? That can't possibly be reality because that's not the sort of thing that happens to me. And to prove it, because I am self-loathing, I'm going to show Oxford and everyone who is proud of me and most importantly myself that it's all wrong, I'm all wrong. Don't expect anything but disappointment from me.

Hell, in my twisted mind, I don't deserve this opportunity. I used to spend months believing that I didn't even deserve to eat. I would use restriction as a form of self-punishment to remind myself not to get my hopes up about anything. Now, that starving high school girl is coming back.

I'm supposed to be saving money for my time abroad, but instead I'm just buying more clothes that I don't need. Yes, I have this burning need to appear perfect so no one will guess that I'm really on the maximum dosage for Prozac and I'm still unstable. My appearance is something I can control...so expect me to have cute clothes, expect me to be skinny, expect me to look good. But don't expect anything else from me. Certainly don't expect me to be smart.

God, this is a depressing blog post. I first intended it to be a light, joking piece about my shopping addiction. But, as always, the truth comes out when I start typing.

And now I can hear my father arguing with my mother on the phone. My mother is currently in Oklahoma. The house has been a lot more relaxed without her but somehow she can still bring the tension just over the phone. All I can do is sigh and let it pass. Just another source of stress in my life.

I guess it's time to go drink this whole week away.**

45 Days Until Oxford


*Yeah, I still use the Oxford comma. I like my grammar to be unambiguous, which is irrelevant in this example but it's the principle of the thing. I guess I'm old-school.

**But not really because I've been drinking a lot less this summer. See? I'm not completely destroying my life. At least I care enough to stop blacking out every weekend.

Just now I downloaded school forms and for some reason when I clicked on the newest document in my downloads folder...it was John Green's Zombie Apocalypse novella. Computer glitch is made of awesome.

Funny story about how I intended to blog last night but then a whole steaming pile of awkward and then awesome arrived instead. I was just sitting around coloring and watching Modern Family and then BAM! I get a text from Johnny and my night becomes a whole new story.

Let's just give a rundown:
- I have a tendency to hook up with my brother's best friends. Really just his 2 best friends Nick and Lou*. Timeline is as follows: summer after high school graduation I hooked up with Nick, then I went to college and was distracted by college boys, and finally this summer I hooked up with Lou for a few weeks when I returned home from college sick of the now annoying college boys.
- Nick dropped out of college, moved to New York, and wrote a screenplay, which he then turned into an AMAZING movie that will be entered into several major film festivals.
- Lou dropped out of college and I'm not entirely sure what he is doing with his life.
- AND last night Nick was in town for the first time all summer so...I ended up sitting on the purple couch in between him and Lou watching his movie.

Anyway...it was an interesting Wednesday night. We sat on the back porch and smoked cigarettes while talking about Shakespeare for a while. Nick and I rekindled our musical bond over Bon Iver and hipster music. Lou asked me to knit him a scarf. It was odd and awkward at first, but then I remembered why I liked the 2 of them out of all of Johnny's friends. I hadn't seen Nick in a long time so it was nice just to catch up and remember how awesome he is. Since the situation with Lou was so recent, it was awkward on its own** but we're moving back to normal, which is nice.

In all honesty, of course I compared the two in my mind, but in the end I came to the conclusion that it doesn't matter because it's all in the past. Whatever happens in the future will be its own story. I'm moving out of the country in 6 weeks so really my future is hazy and uncertain.

Also, before I go off to my doctor's appointment I just have to rave about Nick's movie. I am actually in awe at how talented he is. I think it's weird to watch a movie written by and starring your friend while you're sitting next to him. But it was beautifully written, intensely layered, and wonderfully shot. It is called The Circus Animals. Hopefully, I will write up a proper review when I have more time to do it justice.


*I am using real names because I don't really care. If they care enough to stalk me all the way to this little corner of my internet existence, then they can know exactly what I think.

**Anyone who has ever hooked up with a friend and then gone back to the old, non-sexy friendship knows that there is awkwardness. It's not a huge deal and it's not enough to begrudge each other anything. It's just how it it. With Lou, our little "thing" ended rather vaguely (as they always do) just a few weeks ago. I'm not hurt or upset, but there's just the awkwardness of adjusting back to some kind of normal and learning how our friendship has inevitably changed (but hopefully not for the worse).

A 14 hour day at work is no joke.

I know I should go to bed and I am really not in a good mood...but here I am. Ellipsis in the first sentence. I'm right on track for a typical blog post.

Today began with the morning argument with my sister over the bathroom. Seriously, I feel like it's 7 years ago. But the not-so-funny part is that it's not. She's 25 and I'm 20. Also, she's not supposed to be living with out parents anymore. She moved out 4 years ago. Technically, she's only staying here while she's remodeling her house. But she's still the bossy older sister and I'm the annoying baby sister.

Then, I continued onto my dull existence as a nanny. I read Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows while the kids built forts in the living room. At the beginning of the summer I was really involved with fun activities and nurturing playful imagination games. Now, I've given up. These kids like to play with toy guns. I hate guns. My kids will never own toy guns. It is not cute to see a 5 year olds pretending to kill each other. It's troubling.

But after a long day with heathen children I did not get to go home and snuggle with my puppy. I had to go to work at the pizza place. People were rude and the fire alarm went off for 15 minutes. It was a whole new kind of torture. Luckily, I love my co-workers so we bitched and laughed with each other.

Now, I am watching Modern Family as I try to cheer myself up. But it's just reminding me that in real life family is dysfunctional and annoying without the laugh track.

Phil is pretty hysterical, though: "I regularly drive through neighborhoods that have only recently been gentrified. So yeah, pretty much not afraid of anything."

Blogging More Frequently in August (and Perhaps September)

I am sitting on the purple couch. My brother and his friend Pete are watching Boardwalk Empire. I have been sitting on this couch since waking up at noon and I intend to sit here until I go back to bed later. My father just walked in with his t-shirt tucked into sweatpants. And Pearl the puppy is licking my foot. This is the exciting life I lead.

Despite the lack of action in my life, I think daily writing will get my brain back into shape. So here I am. I'm a little late for the party so I guess this technically isn't BEDA...but who the hell cares?

In about 2 months I will be starting Michaelmas term, but I feel like my brain has turned to sludge this summer. That is why I am writing. I need to get my brain back in shape - writing more frequently, reading more. I work 44 hours as a nanny and about 20 hours at a pizza place every week. When you spend your days with five year olds or serving pizza, your mind doesn't get much exercise.

Now, my sister and my mother are arguing over tiles. And I am still on the purple couch.

I feel like I need something to keep track of something here because that's what cool bloggers do. I'm going to countdown to England.

Days Until England: 49

I am at work...the little children are resting and so I have time to myself for once.

I am a rather nostalgic person. I could probably go through old posts here and find an excess of overly dramatic and unnecessary nostalgia. But this summer has been different.

I am moving to England in just under two months and yet I haven't found myself drenched in nostalgia as I have been before every other major change in my life. Perhaps this is growing up. More likely I have just been too busy to indulge my old habit. I work over 60 hours each week. That doesn't leave much time for nostalgia.

It could be that I am somehow different. Of course looking back on my past 12 months I can't deny that I've gone through a lot. But here I am. I carry on. And I think that's the difference. I can't bear to look back and bask in nostalgia because I have to keep moving forward. If I look back I'll see the things I don't want to be reminded of. And so I keep my eyes fixed on the horizon.

I spend eleven hours a day with two little kids. They are a constant reminder that I am no longer a child. But I don't feel sad. I don't want to go back to the carefree days of my childhood. I just want to keep moving. I want to put the past behind me.

This blog post is surprisingly hopeful. It is not because I am suddenly happy and well-adjusted and fine-just-fine. It's because I am coping. I have to live on thoughts of the future or else I will drown in the past and present. So I guess I am still dreaming.

Imagining the future is a kind of nostalgia. You spend your whole life stuck in the labyrinth, thinking about how you’ll escape it one day, and how awesome it will be, and imagining that future keeps you going, but you never do it. You just use the future to escape the present.
- John Green

Sitting in Starbucks while emotionally unstable is not recommended.

I hate expectations. They ruin everything.

Here is something I don't tell a lot of people: I am the ultimate dreamer. Maybe it's just a mild form of mental illness, but I dream so much that sometimes I think something I've thought up in my head actually happened. Then, I catch myself and it's like the end of a Disney movie. At the end of a classic Disney movie (especially a princess movie...I'm partial to princess stories because I grew up with a vagina), you switch off the TV and sigh because you know the real world is absolutely nothing like Disney. It's the same when I catch myself believing in a daydream.

It's hard for me to sit here in Starbucks and exist in reality at the moment. I've been living in my imaginary world for a long time. It's my refuge. I go there when things in real life get too hard. And sometimes it's really hard to come back to reality. This past year has been spent almost entirely in my head, hiding in the pearly light of What If's. And I know my daydream land is one of the only reasons I actually made it through the past 12 months.

First semester, even my daydream land was dark and scary. But since January, I've been living in one specific daydream - moving to England.

Yes, this daydream will become a reality in a few months...but getting there has been really hard. Real life is impossible to escape. And right now everything is a mess. I am broke, trying to save money for England but failing. I am incapable of having any sort of healthy relationship with anyone let alone a guy. Living with my family has brought up all of our old issues that made the first 18 years of my life so emotionally draining. And I keep making horrible decisions and screwing myself over. I swear I'm not trying to self-destruct, but everything I've done lately has been wrong.

I want to just curl up under the covers and live in my dreamland...but every time I close my eyes I keep replaying the awful scenes from my real life.

Day Off

Drinking tea.

Listening to Yann Tierson.

Writing.

I am going to make it through this year if it kills me.

I am a fan of The Mountain Goats. Some people who are reading this will not be surprised by this and will take the reference to be an example of my music snobbery. However, I would like to discuss their quote used for the title of this inevitable blog post.

John Darnielle's lyric is eerily relevant to my life. And yes, I am going to blog about it.

This is how it goes: I write a blog. So what? Sue me. I don't give a fuck if you're reading this. I've already covered this topic before. The value of writing isn't necessarily in the reading. There is worth in the writing. So stop giving me shit.

I don't need to put every detail about my personal life on this blog. But I could. If you tell me to "blog about it," maybe I will. And maybe you won't like it. I don't think I will like it.

If I were to "blog about it" ("it" being John Darnielle's lyric and the past year of my life), well, I would have to write about the following:

- I was scared to fall asleep not only because the nightmares I encountered in my unconscious mind were so disturbing, but also because I was afraid that I wouldn't be able to get out of bed in the morning. Both fears were very real to me. The nightmares came every night for months. And in the mornings, getting out of bed was almost impossible (and I often failed to do so).

- I wouldn't eat. I would test myself. I wanted to know how much pain and hunger I could take because I wanted to know just how strong my will was. And if I had the self agency to control my life, I also had the power to end it.

- I didn't just drink socially. I didn't just smoke socially. I drank too much because it was a means by which I could choose to escape and choose to live recklessly. I smoked every night because I didn't want to be in my natural state of mind. And I smoked too many cigarettes because I didn't care enough to try to quit anymore.

- I blacked out every weekend. On several occassions, I ended up alone in the middle of the night crying on the sidewalk. 

- I wasn't just having a bad year. I was falling apart. 

And I didn't know why. I still don't know why. I talk to a psychiatrist every week. She prescribes me anti-depressants, every week increasing the amount. I've just hit the maximum amount for the drug. And I don't know what she's going to suggest next. 

So, there you have it.  The year isn't over yet. And I am going to make it through this year if it kills me.

Pickle flavored Pringles. What The What?!

Updates:

1. I dyed my hair redder. My mom says I look "goth." I told her that "goth" isn't really a thing anymore...but I don't care if she thinks I'm a weirdo because I am quite odd.

2. I now have 2 jobs this summer.

3. I also have promised every single one of my friends to hang out constantly.

4. Basically, I'm going to be very busy.

5. But I have a good feeling about life right now.

6. Perhaps a more coherent blog post will follow this one shortly.

7. Right now I have to go clean my room, put on real clothes, and go to an interview. Then, later I have a family party to attend. And then after that I can finally watch the new Dr. Who episode.

8. Oh, and I've now moved onto reading The Iliad and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead (a play by Tom Stoppard).

9. And I might be writing album/track reviews for a music blog.

10. When did my life become so eventful?

Welcome to the family, Pearl.*

Thoughts on May 15, 2011:

1. Our new puppy won't be a puppy for long. I can't help but wonder at the meaning her arrival in my life. Pearl, who will only be a little girl for a few more weeks, comes to my family just as I, the baby of the family, is finally leaving. We call her our "little girl." The symbolism could not be more obvious. I'm not longer the little girl in this family. This metaphor is complicated by the fact that Pearly (as I affectionately call our new puppy) is Great Dane. She is relatively little now but in a few weeks time she will be double the size and she will continue to grow at an exponential rate so that by the time I leave the country Pearl will be in no way little. Poor little thing. She doesn't get to be little for 20 years as I did. She has to grow up in a matter of weeks.

2. I am watching Doctor Who as I write this. Specifically, the newest episode, "The Doctor's Wife." And we just passed the moment of Rory's weekly supposed death. How predictable. But otherwise this episode is rather awesome. Neil Gaiman is a boss.

3. The Orioles have won their past two series and it's reminding me of the importance of impossible hope. We are the underdogs, but we have heart. Summertime means baseball - going to Camden Yards for Friday home games, the familiar voices of the Orioles' radio announcers following me everywhere as they hum in the background, last night's game always the topic of conversation at the dinner table.

4. I have a Goodreads account now: www.goodreads.com/missrosepip

5. My brother and I have been bonding over Arrested Development marathons. Family.

*Edit: We changed the puppy's name!

Yes, I am sitting on the purple couch watching America's Next Top Model. It's just like three years ago, except everything has changed.

My grandmother just came home with a chocolate milk shake for me. This is one of the many reasons I love being home. Living with your grandmother definitely makes summer much sweeter. One of the best things in the world - when you're feeling like crap, having a bad day, and Grandma is there to tell you that you're beautiful.

I spent the afternoon sitting outside with my dogs, listening to the birds chirping and soaking up as much sunlight as possible. Everything is green and alive and I just want to lie in the grass all day.

I still have one last paper to write but being at home with the things that I love helps with the crippling stress that comes along with finals. At five o'clock I am going upstairs to write and by the time the sun comes up in the morning, it'll be summer.

Watching 'The Social Network' while laptop is open to Facebook.

There is power in leaving. I feel it as I consider these last few hours of my time here in Syracuse. These are my final hours of possibly one of the most important school years' of my life. If the human self is always changing and evolving, then the person I was in September at the start of the year is damn near unreckognizable now. That statement has power. A year has passed and I have changed.

By leaving, I am solidifying that person in my past. It is a rash move. All of my life I have been striving to maintain this illusion according to a false ideal. In the past nine months, you could say that I have grown up quite a bit. I do not want to simply say that I "grew up," because such a finite sentence suggests that "up" is something you can attain. In reality, there is no"up" except for the ideal we strive to attain. We are constantly growing toward this "up," moving in an upward direction. But we can never stop this motion. We never reach a state of "up." We can only reach higher.




.........and apparently on this night I begin my career as an inspirational speech writer.

What is this place called Oxford? Will they let me bring my Justin Bieber poster?

Seriously. I'm concerned.












And also ridiculously excited. I'm going to Oxford!!!

This is a true story about letters written in the dead of night.

(skip to paragraph 4, to get to the real point of this blog post)
The night of Sunday May 1 - Monday May 2, 2011 I didn't sleep very well. Who did? Everyone on my campus was celebrating the death of Osama bin Laden and the end of our annual spring weekend of alcoholism. Such an announcement couldn't have come at a time when the students at SU were in more of a party-mode. They would use any excuse to riot at midnight on a Sunday. I was not in a celebrating mood, however. In fact I was a little wary at the very idea of celebrating a death. Now a few days later I am reminded even more of how complex the situation is. I am reassured in my knowledge that to celebrate without considering these complexities is wrong. I can't even attempt to write about the complexities of the political situation because there are so many and they are so closely intertwined that I can't make sense of them. I suppose this is how you know some moments in history are important, because when they move from present to past you are left with more questions than answers.

This introduction did go a little off topic but I can still make it to the reason I took a break from writing my final papers. I came to the blog, once again in response to a video and also in response to the day of my life that I just began to describe. I will link to Rosianna's video at the end of this post*, but basically it is a thoughtful analysis of the worth of an unsent letter. A topic I've thought a lot about over this year.

On Monday morning, I woke up from very little sleep and somehow made it through my lecture presentation.** I was feeling stressed and zombie-like as I attended my last Shakespeare class of the semester. Now, I know there are a lot of English majors out there. And I know there are a lot of Shakespeare lovers out there. But sometimes people underestimate just how much I loved my Shakespeare class this semester. Last year I took the lower-division Shakespeare course with this professor and was inspired by her passion for early modern theater to take this advanced Shakespeare course with her. This was one of those classes that I didn't just look forward to going to, I took time away from my other classes to do extra reading and I went to my professor's office hours every week just to talk more about the plays (I'M A NERD). I've written multiple blog posts about topics discussed in the class. This single class took my love of Shakespeare and transformed it into an all-out passion (borderig on obsession). I'm the biggest Shakespeare nerd I know and I'm friends with a lot of English majors. It's not normal.

Anyway, in our last class we discussed the last act of The Tempest. I had never read the play before this semester and I can't say it's one of my favorites*** but after our final class discussion I went home and I wrote a letter.

I am a person who incessantly writes down her thoughts. I don't just keep this awkward and pointless blog. I also have a ridiculously narcisstic Tumblr and an even more pathetic Twitter. Then, of course, I keep the most private of all written journals, the kind of journal that you write in to unapologetically let loose the craziness of your uncensored mind. Despite all of that, however, I also write a lot of letters.

Some of the letters I do actually send. I try to keep up written correspondence with a few of my best friends who are away at different colleges. I've written here about my feelings on the worth of the written word. Well, writing letters is something I do to show my devotion to the power of words written by hand in pen and ink. And yet most of the letters I write are never sent.

And here is where I will attempt to tie the video, my Shakespeare class, and that letter all together.

The letter I wrote on Monday was addressed to a person who has been the intended recipient of several other unsent letters. This year there has been a lot I haven't been able to say and what I have said (in this blog, for example) has never been to the right people. Some of the letters I wrote in the dead of night over the course of the year I actually planned on sending at the time. I wrote them with impassioned abandon, unable to sleep until the words were out of my head. But whenever I finished the letter and signed my name, I would leave it sitting on my desk and go to sleep. And of course in the light of day those letters could never be sent. With those first letters I was unknowingly participating in a cathartic act even Shakespeare considered worthy of attention.

In Act 5 of The Tempest, Shakespeare's final play and certainly a very puzzling ending to his writing career, Prospero gathers the characters he has brought to the island and immobilizes them for an act of selfishness. For me, one of the troubling aspects of this play is that I didn't find the ending to be properly cathartic. As an audience we expect a certain kind of resolution to occur on stage. We want the bad guys to be punished**** and the good guys to be rewarded. This doesn't exactly happen. At the end of The Tempest, Prospero and his usurping brother make up and everyone goes back to Milan to live happily ever after. I don't know how Shakespeare's first audience reacted to this ending but especially since I know it to be his last play, I am somewhat unsatisfied with it (also, I didn't really like Prospero all that much?).

Before this scene of reconciliation occurs, though, Prospero takes the time to address his brother and the others while they are frozen by his magic. This is Prospero writing his unsent letter. He needs to freeze time and the complexities of life in order to have a cathartic release that is just his own. He does this for the same reason we don't send those letters we write in the middle of the night. If the letter is sent, if the addressee has a chance to respond, we will have to view the world more complexly and take into account the feelings of the other person. But we don't want to imagine the other person complexly. We just want to "get it out," say what we need to say because we need to say it. Those words, the ones spoken by Prospero in this scene and the ones written in a letter that is never sent, are selfish.

A play is supposed to be cathartic for the audience. A playwright is not supposed to be selfish. Why then does Shakespeare give us this ending? Prospero (the playwright/God figure) gets his cathartic release but the audience is left unsatisfied by an ending that seems too simple. And then in the epilogue we are asked to release Prospero by telling him how great his magic was? What the hell, Shakespeare?


I don't have an answer. But whatever else The Tempest makes us think about, it also beautifully captures the flawed, selfishness of the unsent letter. Of course, it is flawed. To the world, writing a letter in the dead of night and then never sending it seems pointless. If something is so important, say it! But sometimes it's not the reading of the letter that is important. It is the writing of the letter. Putting the words down on paper makes them real. It also makes them something that can be balled up and thrown in the waste basket. Those letters aren't written for the "Dear Whomever," they are written for the writer.

It becomes more complicated if you stop to think about whether or not this flawed sensibility is detrimental to the overall story of your life. In the same way that we're left puzzled by the ending of The Tempest.

Now, I have to go write 4 papers in 4 days. While listening to annoyingly upbead songs on repeat and stuffing my face with candy.

*http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=df77_6CiRZU&feature=feedu

**I had to give a 3 minutes speech in front of a 100 person lecture

***Othello and King Lear. Cliched perhaps but for good reason. I mean, come on. I'm a tragedy kinda girl.

****Interesting that I read this play just as the ultimate 21st century bad guy was given a final punishment.

*****Had this part in the blog post proper but decided to move it down here. Kinda off topic: We re-read the ending of the Book of Jonah in class as we discussed Act 5. It was very interesting to read the actual text (St. James' Bible, I believe?) from the perspective of a student of literature instead of from the perspective of student being taught a religion. I went to 12 years of Catholic school. When we talked about Bible stories, it was to teach us how to be good Catholics. Reading the Bible as a piece of literature is a completely different experience, and not necessarily one that eliminates all spirituality from the text. At the end of the Book of Jonah, the language particularly causes the reader to question the lesson of the story. The meaning we were given in our elementary school religion classes was flat and flimsy. There's mystery in the story of Jonah. I still don't totally understand it and it was intensely interesting to consider this particular Bible story in relation to the themes of The Tempest.

What does it say that this post has been re-titled 3 times now?

Yes, Thanks to a lovely video by a certain English major who makes lovely videos, today* I am thinking about "imagined communities." Of course, now the book she mentioned by Benedict Anderson is now going on my reading list for the summer**.

I am about to leave some very important communities. In a few days, I will be leaving the community I have made for myself at Syracuse University. And while I've posted here about my complicated relationship with the school, it is a community that I chose for myself. It has meaning in my identity. I will be away from the physical space but I'll still hold the Orange community with me as I go abroad and I'll be back in Fall 2012 (to graduate, how weird is that?!). Syracuse University is a "real" community, so in that way it's not completely "imagined." But it is also a community that I chose for myself, and I kept choosing for myself despite doubts. That's why I think my ties to this school are just as important as the inherent ties I have to other communities.

For example, in a few months I will be leaving my family and my nation. These are two communities that I was born into, and they are very, very much a part of my identity. I didn't choose them but they are a part of my selfhood. And I'll also be bringing them with me as I travel. So once again I hope the ties will not be weakened because of physical distance. One of the scary things about travel and changes is that it threatens the strengths of the bonds you've made and kept up over the years. It's a test.

There are also other communities (whether "natural" or "constructed") that are important to me: friends from school and home, various communities I've been a part of through the internet***, my hometown community of Baltimore, etc.

Perhaps this adventure of studying abroad that I am about to embark on will show the real strengths of my natural and constructed communities and identities of myself. Basically, what has more power over my identity: where I come from or who I choose to become? It's a balance, of course. Identity is a complex thing, made up of millions of bits of a person, i.e. these words that I'm writing, what I ate for breakfast, as well as what sports teams I support and my political beliefs. It's all part of an identity. Whether a certain aspect is natural or constructed does not change the overall identity****.

[EDIT, 5/2/2011 10am: I am astounded by the changes that can occur in 48 hours. There are thoughts expressed in this blog post that need to be reassessed. I'm not sure how my thoughts are changing in response to life events. As I post this, I still haven't made sense of how I'm feeling.]

Links to vides mentioned in this post:

Rosianna's video http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PJAouxYY4tg&feature=feedu

*This was written on Saturday, April 30. For some reason I have an overflow of blogs at the end of this month. Once again makes me wonder about the worth of this ritual. See my most recent posts for that discussion.

**It's beginning to get impossibly long. The curse of an English major - you can never conquer an ever-growing reading list.

***Harry Potter fandom, YouTube, etc.

****Obviously, I'm feeling very existential today.

Staying Awake.

After these last few posts I was drawn here again to say something, even though I don't know the real worth of these words.

At the beginning of the month I said I wasn't going to acknowledge the absence I took from this blog and from writing in general. That was probably a mistake, because I've known all along that one of the hazards of taking on this writing-everyday-endeavor was that it would force me to acknowledge what exactly had changed since before April 1.

This is on my mind because, before this month, I wasn't just absent from writing or keeping a personal blog (keyword: personal, for my benefit, and completely selfish), I was also absent from my life. In the time between consistent stretches of my regular writing, aka BEDAugust and BEDAPRIL, I disappeared because I needed to ignore what my life and what I had become.

But now, at the close of this month and at the end of the semester, I am faced with the knowledge that 7 months of my life actually occurred. They are in the past now. And I don't have any record of them except for painful memories. I don't even have many photographic records, i.e. pictures taken with friends for no other reason than to record memories for ourselves and no one else. And I don't even have private writings of my thoughts from that time. All I have are a few (fleeting and empty) images and snapshots of myself during that time, none of which I remember. Because I was living between blackouts*.

I can't say that I'm a different person now. Remember when I said I could only handle filling up this blog  with knick-knacks of my life? Well, I'm still unsure about whether or not this is the proper way for me to record life and myself. But the truth is I can't live my life with just knick-knacks and I can't become a writer by only writing about knick-knacks. The reality is that half a year went by and I didn't notice. I have to live with the knowledge that I can slip back into that state of ignorant-living-sleep very easily. And it's no one's business except my own**.


This month was a really difficult task for me, to return to daily writing. There's been a lot of talk about the worth of BEDA recently. I think in my case, it's a little different. I needed to realize that I was actually living a life and I suppose now I can see that, almost directly as a result of forcing myself to start writing again.

At one point in the month, I said the worth of these words was that they were words, not that they were mine. I think that's wrong. I have to acknowledge the fact that there is value in the bits of myself I put into these words. They are my thoughts made tangible. My thoughts. My life. And that gives them meaning that is a lot scarier than just ignoring my authorial power as the writer.


*Literally. In my very first post from this month I discussed the process of healing beginning with acknowledgement. I was flippant about it. I still am. I'm not a particularly optimistic person. But it's important to note that I can put a name on the issues. It's not just important to acknowledge problems, it's important to call them by their proper names and confess to them fully. I'm not sure how long it will take me to learn to cope with these issues, but it's much easier for me to admit to them.

**Interesting to see how ambiguous I was at the beginning of the month, vague references to "issues" that I wouldn't talk about. Now, a month later here I am really analyzing the worth in awareness and sharing and acknowledging. This is an important process for me. I'm still trying to decide if it's worth keeping public or not. I don't want to hide from who I am but I don't want to feel as though I am being judged unfairly (because of course these short blog posts can't represent a fully complex version of who I am as a person).

Today, I wore a top my mama bought me. Also, this is the end of BEDA. So, now I must ask, what was the point?

It's the last day of BEDA. I have to say I'm not sure how I feel about this past month of blogging. I just went back and read over all 29 of the posts preceding this in chronological order.

At the beginning of the month, I was set on using this opportunity and this space to practice my writing. I thought this could be something I could use to better my skills as a writer. Just through practice, my fingers might have gotten more agile at typing I suppose (although I still make plenty of typos). But as the month has progressed, I feel like I've undergone a change.

My first few posts are all about my thoughts. I valued my thoughts that I could just type into a box and press publish. It didn't matter if they were read or if anyone else had any opinion of them. They were my words and my thoughts and just by writing them they had worth.

Now, however, my last few posts have been questioning this worth of words and writing. So I'm left with this question that will directly affect whether or not I continue writing here consistently. Is it worth it? Did it help? Or did it make it worse?

I have lamented recently that blogging/writing has become difficult over the years because it has forced me to record a life I would rather forget. But I can't forget it. That clip from my story-in-progress-forever is all about NOT FORGETTING. There isn't just worth in the putting of the words out into the world. There is also worth in being forced to acknowledge them and remember them. And so perhaps this writing hasn't just help my technical writing skills, perhaps this exercise has been helpful for my mental health. And if it's painful now, there will be value in this ordeal/endeavor when (if) I come out on the other side.

I can't help but remember that the last time I attempted to blog every day was in August. At that point, I had thought it would help, too, and look where it got me. Is this the start of that same cycle? Who knows. I might go through my blog on Sunday and delete all of these posts.

It's also worth mentioning that I suppose the fact that I even consider writing as a part of my life is relatively atypical of most of my friends here at school. I'm not sure how I feel about these words that I've written.