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.

Once again I am writing this early because tomorrow is my college's Day Drinking and Night Partying Extravaganza. Basically, I will be in no state to write. I'll be too busy going to concerts and enjoying one of the last days I have on this campus before I leave for over a year.

In a little over a week I will be leaving this campus and I don't plan on returning until fall of 2012. That is a long time.

Here are some thoughts on my college experience here:

- Winters are brutal here and this year we had the snowiest one in Syracuse's recent history. In December, snowfall broke national records - 95 consecutive hours of uninterrupted snowfall. We didn't get one day off from classes. Annoying? Yes. But it's one of those things that you look back on and smile about. It's miserable and seems impossible, but you get through it. Then, spring doesn't really come here until May (for example, today was one of the first nice days of the year and April is almost over. Last year it snowed on Mother's Day, which was in May). I think the fact that we are all on one campus, buckling down to make it through the harsh winters actually bonds our campus closely together. Not in the way that we're all friends. But we go through the same bad weather and we still go to class. We can laugh about it together when the sun finally comes out for the last 2 weeks of classes.

- I have a new appeciation for the color orange. I hadn't really thought about whether or not I wanted to go to a school with big sports. It wasn't really something I thought about. I came to this university because of it's academics (specifically Newhouse, the renowned communications school, but then I switched my major so that reason didn't apply anymore). It was an unexpected surprise to have such great school spirit here. I never thought I would care about college sports but now I'm a die hard Syracuse Orange fan. I got season tickets to the basketball games this year. I wear orange all the time and I've even painted my face for games. It's a lot fun and now I have a team to support for the rest of my life (in addition to the Baltimore Ravens and Orioles, of course).

- My time here hasn't been easy but I this college still means a lot to me. I've met some really important friends here. I learned just how strong I can be when faced with difficulties. I got to have the quintessential college experience, complete with frat parties and dorm living and bad dining hall food and afternoons spent on the quad. While I can't look back on the past two years without being reminded of the really painful memories, I'm still glad that I came here. And I think I'll miss Syracuse a lot next year. It's my school.

I've seriously considered transferring multiple times but I can't seem to leave this school (for longer than a year abroad). It's not perfect and it hasn't been easy, but I think the school was the right place for me perhaps because I made it through. I had a really hard time this year and I still came back here, I stayed. That means something.

P.S. Royal Wedding made me want to move to England right now! Can't wait until September.

I will be posting this as soon as it is tomorrow because I know I won't get around to blogging properly while I go about my Thursday.

Ever feel a lot of pressure to be smart? I have to think smart thoughts and put them into words. I have to be smart here. I have to be smart in class. I have to be smart in my free time. I have to be smart in my term papers. I have to be smart in my presentations. I have to be smart when I go abroad to study. I have to be smart when I apply for grad school. I have to be smart as I read. I have to be smart as I eat. I have to be smart as I breathe. I have to be smart.

Or I suppose a better word would be intelligent.

I have to be intelligent.

Of course, this necessarily begs the question: why do I have to? Well, it's simple really. Because it's who I am. I don't mean to say, "Oh, I am just so intelligent." What I mean is that it is part of my personality to value intelligence and to strive for intelligence. This directly relates to the part of my personality that is obsessed with perfection. It's not exactly the best part of my personality. It's caused me a lot of psychological strife*, this inherent desire to be perfect. And for me being perfect is not just being skinny and pretty and well-dressed, it's also being smart.

I need to look smart. I need to act smartly. I need to be smart.

This means I have to take all my thoughts on Gym Meet, performance theory, obedience, and the philosophy of female education and put them into a paper that makes sense and actually says something. I can't just produced the required word count and be satisfied. I have to say something and I have to say it intelligently.

But I don't feel smart and at this exact moment. I don't know how to arrange my thoughts in any kind of imitation of intelligence. It's times like this, when I have a piles of books and papers fanned out around me as I stare at a blank word document, that I feel completely inadequate. I just can't do it. I just can't want to do it anymore.

But I have to.


Tonight/today this act of blogging has been to let loose my frustration. Over the course of the month I've been seriously considering the value, worth, usefulness of this act of writing. What does it matter that I type these words and put them on the internet? Is it just the writing of these words that has worth or do they have worth in being read? Or do they have worth in even just the possibility of being read? Is it the making of these thoughts public that gives them worth? If I kept them to myself would they mean less? Do they mean more when they become a performance, as anything created to possibly be viewed by an audience is a performace? What is the point of these thoughts that I put here, in a "space" on the internet that doesn't have a physical manifestation? If these words are my thoughts made tangible, where exactly can I find them made physical? They aren't printed on a piece of paper. They exist in the incoherent codes of the images that apper on our screen and make up the internet. If making thoughts tangible is important, does it make a difference if they are only put out into this massive cyberspace that is an abyss, a black hole, of overflowing information? Why do I write? And specifically why do I write this blog right now in this moment?

I don't have the answers to these questions. Just like I don't know how to be perfect and I don't know how not to want to be perfect. I get by. Tomorrow I'll send in my assignment. I'll finish my work for the semester. I'll go abroad. I'll graduate. But through it all I will be constantly questioning myself. I will always feel inadequate as long as I strive for this notion of perfection. I know that to be perfect is impossible. I just don't know how to accept the impossibility. I don't know how to not want to be perfect, even though I know it's impossible.



*Ask my parents how much money all of this strife has cost them in psychiatry bills**. Then, ask my pediatrician why I was underweight for a while in highschool. Then, ask my roommate about that time I had a mental breakdown right in front of her. And, finally, ask my bank about the number of times I have overdrawn my account just to buy the right clothes. All the results of my pursuit of perfection. And, of course, all failures in the very fact that I thought perfection could be something performed.

**Because our health insurance doesn't cover it. Obviously because mental health is not important. Wait. What's that you're saying, Gabrielle Giffords? Oh, you thinks mental health is a serious issue and that our country's health care and insurance system needs to address its utter failure to properly treat mental health disorders. Interesting thought, Gabrielle. Sorry that crazy man shot you, by the way!

I want to be a better writer. But I just don't have the time right now. Maybe tomorrow. And that is so sad.

It was almost exactly midnight. I had driven all day to get to Baltimore. I stood outside a stranger’s house. The night was hot, sticky. Cars driving down city streets, muffled music from a neighbor’s house, cicadas buzzing, every now and then a dog barking—the sounds of this night were strange to me. The night was filled with sound and I remembered that the world will always talk when we are speechless. I just couldn't understand what the night was saying to me. In that moment, I knew everything that had led up to this night was important. And I wanted to remember it all. I knew that twenty years from now it would become vague. There was nothing I could do. Perhaps that was what the world was always trying to tell us with its noises—we will forget, right now in this moment we are forgetting. But it was not right. I knew it was a tragedy. It was not right that I would forget, I was already forgetting. Bea deserved to be remembered.

I knocked on the door and waited for the stranger to appear. Sarah O’Hearn. When she opened the door, I cringed. The gaze of this girl scalded my skin. She was tall and thin and not as pretty as Bea.

“I want to read the letter,” I said. She knew who I was from the funeral.

Sarah nodded. “Wait here.”

She disappeared into the house, leaving me alone with the noises of the night again. I wanted to tell the night that I didn’t understand it. Of course, I really wanted to tell Bea the same thing. But Bea was gone. And the night kept talking and making noise. It should be quiet. Just for a minute. Just so I could remember Bea.

Sarah returned with the letter. “Here it is,” she said holding the letter out for me to take.

“What does it say?” I asked. 

“I didn’t read it,” said Sarah.

I took the letter. As soon as I pulled my hand out of the doorway, Sarah shut the door in my face. I walked back to my car and read the letter there. I was crying by the end. I should have loved Bea. She deserved to be loved. She deserved to be remembered.

-------------------------------------------------

This is a piece of a very rough story I've been working on. I need to fix this scene, but I can't do it right now. Since I have to leave to go to my doctor's appointment I can't write a real blog today so this is all I'm going to use. I'm so stressed and busy. I don't know if I'm going to have the time to write the next few days. But anyway, this piece is very simple. The story is purposefully written in stark prose. Ehh. I'm not sure how I feel about it.

It is warm and sunny outside*...I didn't know this could happen in Syracuse. Did I enter an alternate universe?

I have so many different things to keep track of over the next 12 days that I keep making lists and lists and lists just to make sure I don't forget anything important. I keep going over in my head everything I have to do:

- Write Critical Response (500 words) to The Tempest supplementary reading.
- Finish research and statistical analysis for project on gender roles.
- Research history of the School Sisters of Notre Dame and women's education in the United States for research project on Gym Meet.
- Review performance theories for analysis of Gym Meet.
- Read for my citizenship class and prepare for lecture presentation.
- Research and outline for term paper on King Lear
- Prepare presentation on Gym Meet project.
- Prepare presentation on gender roles research.
- Write 4 final papers (all 5-10 pages)
- Figure out summer plans (jobs, traveling, etc.)
- Figure out study abroad plans (money, living situation, courses, travel plans, etc.)
- Meet with scholarship office to discuss applications of graduate study opportunities.
- Meet with policy professor to discuss plans for completing my minor.
- Meet with dean of English to discuss the Distinction Program and possible independent study/graduate work when I return from study abroad.
- Plan for Anders' birthday this weekend.
- WHAT ELSE?! WHAT AM I FORGETTING?!**

You know that feeling you have when you know you've forgotten something important but you just can't figure out what it is. I am living in a constant state of that feeling.

At the end of the semester, I need to have basically the whole next year planned out so that I can leave for study abroad. I need to make sure that when I come back to Syracuse for senior year I'll be on track for graduate applications, scholarship/grant applications, and completing my majors/minors/graduation requirements. Leaving campus for a whole year means that I have to do everything I would otherwise have done junior year on campus before I leave. Basically I have 2 weeks to figure out the rest of my undergraduate career.

I wanted this month of blogging to help me use the opportunity to develop my thoughts into more coherence. But right now I really can't think of anything other than what I have to get done. I can't have thoughts about anything except my classes, my study abroad plans, and other school concerns.


*Directly after writing this blog post I was caught in the craziest thunder/hail storm I've ever experienced. I literally ran between two building right across the street from each other and I got completely soaked. I had to wait half an hour before I could leave the building again and go home. Then,   the storm sirens started going off, classes were canceled, and everyone was told to take shelter. WTF, Syracuse?! Seriously?!

**FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK***

***I know what I forgot - ANNOTATED BIBLIOGRAPHY FOR ETS 305

I left my favorite Orioles cap at home this weekend...What am I going to do on bad hair days? Also, I'm considering dying my hair a completely ridiculous shade of red just for the hell of it. Brown is boring.

As an undergraduate English major who is considering postgraduate work in the humanities, I am always a little worried when I hear some of my peers bemoaning their literature courses. Most of their complaints are aimed at literary criticism in its various forms. I know I am biased but I am genuinely upset by their ignorance. I very well might end up devoting my life to literary criticism. When one of my friends questions the literary academia, I feel like they are saying that they view my chosen future as useless.

My parents equate entering a PhD program in English to living as a professional student. And of course that's exactly what it is...but it's also teaching and researching and devoting your life to critical discourse. Literary studies encompasses all subjects under the sun and views them through the lense of a writer. In my work this semester I've been studying the representation of selfhood, self-agency, and self-authority. This topic involves historical, philosophical, and theological discourse as well as scientific knowledge. My semester hasn't just been spent reading. I've been asking questions and researching and asking more questions. Isn't that what a scientist does? Except instead of trying to explain how the physical world works, I'm trying to explain how the mind works (which then influences our lives in the physical world).

And still people ask, "So what?"

"Why can't you just enjoy literature without analyzing it?"

"What difference does it make?"

Yes, I'm not curing cancer or making laws. But there's still worth in the work of scholars. We analyze* for the same reason scientists and policy experts analyze - to find meaning. There wouldn't be any meaning if we didn't ask the questions. What is this saying? Why is this being said? How is it being said?  For whom and by whom and about whom is it being said? If we just thought To Kill a Mockingbird was a nice story about a girl named Scout...why the hell would we read it? To enjoy it? But you can't just enjoy a work of literature without understanding it and interacting with it. Literary criticism just formalizes that process. A good book makes you think. A book that you can read one day and forget about the next day is not a good book. The study of literature just takes the thoughts we all have when reading independently and creates diverse discourse.

And it's an important discourse. Maybe discussing selfhood in Hamlet seems useless compared to discussing reform of the health care system, but it has worth. The literary discourse embodies the philosophies that underlie the political and scientific and every day topics of life. The power of an individual's selfhood is vitally important to health care reform - what is the value of an individual's self? does poor health devalue the sense of self?

Purely scientific study of the human mind has show that we think through metaphors, stories**. Any piece of writing is a manifestation of a cognitive process. The reason Hamlet is important is not because it's a good story about a prince and a ghost, but because it is the representation of one of the questions we all grapple with in our lives and which ultimately dictates our lives. Studying Hamlet isn't important to become cultured or educated. It's important because it allows us to interact with the important questions of life. Literature can present these questions, which are impossible to comprehend when limited just to our own real life, in a way that allows us to comprehend them more fully.

When I study Shakespeare, I'm actually trying to study the world through a more manageable lense.


P.S. Interesting, no? http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/04/25/dorothy-and-the-tree-a-lesson-in-epistemology/?ref=opinion?hp



*I don't like this term for literary studies. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

**We understand human anatomy and physiology through complex metaphors from our outer-lives - the brain is like a computer as it "processes," the heart "beats" like a drum, sperm "swim" like fish, etc.

I go to church on Christmas and Easter. Afterwards it's like an obstacle course to get out alive without getting sucked into conversations with old classmates and teachers.

This is springtime. I spent the morning with my dogs and horses. The window are open and birds are actually singing. My family is arguing in the kitchen as we cook Easter Brunch and make appetizers for our family dinner at Aunt Rita's. The Orioles game is on the TV.

This is home.

And I don't want to spend too much time on the computer when I could be enjoying my family and the sunshine and the candy.

Happy Easter!

I am going to sit here in front of this blank document until something worthwhile comes out of my brain and onto the computer screen.

Sometimes I feel old, grown up. It's an odd feeling but it's becoming more familiar to me over time. This Grown Up Feeling used to only appear fleetingly. Now, the feeling always sticks around for a while when it comes for a visit. I'm getting to know some of the little quirks of this Grown Up Feeling. For example, today I woke up at 9 AM on a Saturday. I still felt annoyed and groggy and resented the universe for making such early hours on the weekends. But I didn't roll over and sleep until the very last possible minute like I do before class. Most mornings I linger in bed so long that I have to rush to get ready for class, trading off straight hair for more sleep. This morning, however, I got out of bed with plenty of time to straighten my hair, pick out an outfit, and do my makeup. That what adults do.

Once out of bed, the Grown Up Feeling continued to grow stronger. I met some friends for brunch at our favorite diner*. We have a favorite diner. We meet for breakfast on weekends**. We order cup after cup of coffee. We talk about life. Just like adults, specifically like characters from a sitcom (or my beloved Gilmore Girls).

Then, I stopped by the bridal shop where one of my friend's works to pick up an ID card. There were brides there trying on dresses, mothers crying, and bridesmaids clucking. It was an odd experience for a Saturday morning. The Grown Up Feeling grew even stronger as I went to the bank. Actually, I went to two banks because I have different accounts in each. It is rather annoying but it is a very adult kind of annoyance. The day was overcast but warm. It was spring. I was banking. I was an adult.

I'm an adult with adult siblings. The Grown Up Feeling really set in this afternoon. First, I was a responsible student and went to the local university library to do research for one of my final projects. I prowled the stacks, collected actual books***, then took notes by hand with a pencil. No technology required. Again - I felt old.

My sister picked me up for a coffee date after I was finished with my research. We planned the day around a very exciting premise. My sister bought a house and she wanted to show it to me.

My sister bought a house. My sister bought a house. She is now a homeowner. She is planning renovations and landscaping. We browsed through antique shops for furniture for her new house.

Carlee's new house is in a cute neighborhood filled with hipsters. She described it as the Brooklyn of Baltimore. Main street is lined with independent bookstores, antique shops, small specialty coffee shops, cute one-of-a-kind boutiques, and trendy cafes. The sun came out as we walked down the street, talking about travel plans and upcoming weddings of her friends and other adult topics. People were walking their dogs, mothers and children sat outside the ice cream shop. Everything was bright and colorful. Even the air smelled sweet (perhaps from the ice cream?). I ordered a lovely coffee blend from Ethiopia. We giggled over shoes adorned with avant-garde flowers and bows. We drooled over an old Steinway piano we found in one of the shops. And I found an annotated collection of Shakespeare's tragedies****.

Then, I came home and did the crossword puzzle. We dyed Easter eggs and had quality family time. Now, I'm watching Doctor Who. My dad just came over and started to watch with me. Apparently he watched the original series when he was a kid. I had no idea. My dad is pretty cool I guess*****.


And that was my day. I feel weird writing a blog in the style of this-is-what-I-did-today. But I'm trying to write about my life, not just my thoughts. Today, I did quite a lot. I had a good day.




*Actually a new favorite diner because I've decided that our old favorite diner is getting a little tired. Your diner is an important decision. Nautalus or Towson?

**Ok...sometimes after a party when we're hungover but still.

***Like from the olden days before the internet.

****I collect collections of Shakespeare. $4 and it's annotated!

*****The other day he got to drive a Formula One race car! Apparently, he's like the top salesman on the East Coast for air conditioners. Bryant is always giving him cool perks. He's basically a rockstar of the air conditioning and heating world.

All of my life I wanted to grow up and be like Rory Gilmore...Now, I'm grown up just like Rory but my life is nothing like a witty TV show

At the beginning of this month I thought I needed to force myself to write. I also needed to force myself to look at my life and not let it pass me by. I don't like to look too closely at my life because I've always been afraid of what I might see. Now, with only a week left of this blogging every day endeavor, I can't help but think that I've wasted this writing opportunity. And yet at the same time I know I am a quitter. It's so easy for me to just quit, walk away, put writing off to another day.

Yesterday I didn't write at all because I was too high. The day before...too high again. I can feel myself falling into my old pattern. I get scared when I have to look at my life, so I start to self-destruct. I smoke cigarettes, I get high, I drink till I blackout. I convince myself I don't care and pretend like it doesn't hurt.

Well, now I'm sitting on my parents' famous purple couch. And I can't help but wonder if this couch has mystical powers. I can't sit on this couch and pretend to be anyone except myself. There's something about this ritual. A child* returning to her parents' house only to realize that it isn't really her house anymore.


So I'm still here. I'm still writing every day until the end of April. But I'm wondering why? I defended BEDA in the discussion over on Kayley's and Hayley's blogs. I believe writing has worth, all types of writing. But how do I believe in the worth of my writing when I don't believe in the worth of myself?



*Grown up? Nearly grown up? Stuck in-between childhood and adulthood.

Now, I don't feel like writing at all.

What is going on with Alec Baldwin right now This is insanity.










(Note: I'm watching 30 Rock while ripped.)

In defense of writing.

These are my thoughts made tangible, commodified. It's not the fact that they are mine. It's the fact that this process exists.

Early Easter candy, new clothes, Diet Coke, home in a few days, exciting life decisions.

I know one thing for sure. I won't be coming back to Syracuse University next year!

I have a complicated relationship with my school. Yes, I have made some great friends and had some fun times. And yes, I've loved almost all of my classes. I've even survived the long winters. But the truth is that I haven't been very healthy or very happy during my time here. I applied to transfer after freshman year and returned hoping for a better sophomore year. Then, I almost left school last fall and even my parents were reluctant to send me back to Syracuse for this spring semester.

Obviously something hasn't been working out in my life. And I know it's partly because of my myriad of personal issues but feeling unhappy at college has made it worse. I need a change.* I need something to be happy and excited about. So I'm going to study abroad in England for a year.

It's not 100% finalized but...Oh my gosh, I'm just so excited! I can't really blog about anything else right now because I have a ton of work to do. I'm going to eat all of this candy, do my happy dance, and get back to work now.

*I needed to make a change last year but I was too scared.

I updated my Twitter and was about to update Tumblr* with the notification that I would be going into a cave of studying for the next 3 weeks...Then I remembered I had to blog every day until the end of April. Fuck.

Today was one of the zombie days. Somehow I made it through classes while staying alert and engaged (mainly because I was running on coffee and sugar). Directly after classes, though, I climbed into bed and passed out. I was supposed to wake up for a review session and studying but I was dead to the world for 2 hours more than I had planned. And then of course after I did get out of bed again, I was in no state for any kind of serious work.

I've found that after classes I need a break from intellectualism but I can't just sit and watch Netflix because my brain will just shut down. That's why I do the crossword every day. I can keep my mind active but I don't have any pressure to perform at a certain level of intelligence. It doesn't matter if I get the crossword clue wrong. I can fill out a whole puzzle and then throw it in the recycle. It's cathartic, a release.

While I did the crossword today I watched Friday Night Lights. I fell in love with this show when I discovered all of the previous season on Netflix Instant Play. I watched all 4 seasons in as many weeks. Now, the final season is just starting to air on NBC (then up on Hulu). This final season is also already out on DVD so I could have just gotten the DVD's and watched it all at once like I did for the other seasons...But I want to savor it. I've become attached to the characters and since I discovered the show late, I've only had a short time with them. I want to make this final season last.



I did not plan on blogging about the crossword and Friday Night Lights today, but I suppose it's a pretty good represenation of my life. As I go through classes, I keep notes in my planner of ideas I want to write about (in this blog or just for myself or whatever). Today I had a ton of notes. Despite lack of sleep I was thoroughly engaged in my class discussions (on various subjects: the success of our democracy, scholarship as architecture of the mind, post-colonial narratives as allegories for Christian servitude, the performance of disability, and even a comparison of Gollum and Caliban). Oh well. Maybe I'll return to write on those topics another time. Or maybe not.

I just scheduled my work over the next 20 days. Every day I have serious studying/writing/research to do. The end of the semester always throws me into an obsessive scheduling mode. I plan out every second of every day. I make endless to-do lists. 1 exam, 2 final presentations, 1 short writing assignment, 1 annotated bibliography, 2 research projects and analyses, and 2 ten-page research papers. Plus, I go home for Easter and we have 4/20 and Mayfest thrown in. This is definitely a marathon not a sprint, a test of stamina.

If I can get through this...I will have survived this year, something that 5 months I thought would be impossible for me to achieve. So. Deep breath. AND......

Let's Go.


* I guess I'm feeling particularly narcissistic. No one cares. But you know what. I don't care if anyone cares. Self-expression in all its various forms is therapeutic.

I went for a walk today and enjoyed the cool, spring air on my face and the birds chirping.

I just watched a video which included a discussion of the state of the human person in crisis. I would definitely consider myself to be in that category. Crisis. Crisis of what? Crisis of self? Crisis of mind? Crisis of the body? Crisis of the spirit?

A crisis isn't just a traumatic event. It is also the aftermath. It is also what is set unstable by the event. A crisis is illuminating in its horror. We are forced to see what we don't want to look at. The crisis isn't just the looking or knowing; the crisis is the object, the subject. The crisis is both the before, the after, and the in-between. And in this case it is me.

This year of crisis is coming to an end. I am on the cusp of great change. This is what growing up entails - crises and changes and surviving. I'm 20 years old. I don't know where I'm going in life and the going so far hasn't been easy...but I'm going. I am uneasy in this forward motion only because I felt my personal crisis this year knock me off-kilter, off-balance, and I haven't regained my footing yet.

This is the time in a crisis that you just have to keep going, keep surviving. Maybe some crises of state or politics can be righted quickly, with one sure action. But this type of personal crisis is different. It can't be solved. It must be accepted. When I get to a point where I feel sure of myself once again I won't consider this crisis to be "righted." The crisis happened and it's part of my story and that can't be made right. It can only be made a part of a larger story. I can only learn how to keep going.


I'm scared with this semester coming to an end. I still don't know for sure what I am doing next year. I hope that I will be studying abroad in England for the year but those plans haven't been finalized. Right now, a semester and a year are coming to a close but I don't have any closure or certainty in my life. All I have are frayed edges, possibilities, and questions. But this is the time for questions and unfinished edges. Everything is being stitched into place with every passing second. I'm young. I don't have to have my whole life set in place just yet. This is the time to live in England for a year and not think about a life plan.

After a year like I just had. That's all I can do. I can go away. Live a different life for a while. And we'll see where I end up.

This post was pre-written on Friday night while waiting for my brother to arrive so we could go out and rage and/or blaze. Siblings bonding in real life.

Thoughts:

1. Today I watched Food, Inc. a documentary about the food industry in America. Now, I've read Fast Food Nation and started reading The Omnivore's Dilemna (both books' authors took part in the documentary). I've heard and researched factory farming etc. I'm a vegetarian. But honestly I can't count the number of times I was wimpering and hiding my eyes. I just can't stand watching animals get hurt. And I really, really can't stand seeing the deplorable conditions in factory farms. My heart was breaking.

2. A short thought - When you really need people to be there for you and help you through hard times, and no one is actually there, it sucks. You find out who your real friends are...and unfortunately they go to different colleges. It's been such a hard fucking year and I really wish it could have been different.

3. I know in college we aren't given summer reading but this semester I've written down every author, book, or article mentioned by my ETS professor. The list fills a whole page and I keep adding to it. This summer I am going to sit down and read all of them. Even re-read stuff like The Iliad because as an English major I have to be well-read and there are gaps in my reading. This will be the summer of Getting Smart.*

4. I really want a cigarette right now. Really, really, really. I've been smoking off and on for about 2 years. Of course I started smoking just randomly at parties. Then, I bought my first personal pack. And I tried to say I was still just a social smoker...but it became my crutch. I was never a 'pack a day' kinda smoker. But I used to need to smoke a lot just to get through the day. Some of my best friends at college were made during smoke breaks outside Day Hall. I really have gotten better and I've been trying to quit for almost a year (many failed attempts at going cold turkey). I was proud when I got to the point where I could control myself except when I was drunk, then I just couldn't fight it. But I've fallen back into smoking as a crutch. Now, I smoke when I'm upset or when I'm having a bad day. And that's where it starts because I know I'll start making up stupid excuses to have cigarettes and I'll go back to where I was a year ago.

5. I want this weekend to be fun. I feel like there's this great expectation*** and it's forcing me to hope. But I gave up on hope a long time ago**** and it hurts when life doesn't live up to expectations. I don't need to be hurt anymore this year. I just need to get through the next few weeks and go home and really try to put myself back together again. I'm like Humpty-freaking-Dumpty, here. Where are all the fucking king's men that are supposed to be helping me? Fuck it...I'm going to have a cigarette*****.



*Because up until this point I've just been playing at being smart. In order to actually be smart, I have to fill in the gaps in my reading. David Foster Wallace was once asked how he became such a genius.** He replied, "I did the required reading."

**Taken from us too soon...

***Oh, oh. See what I did there? Great expectations...like the book. Where I got the title of this blog. Get it? Pip like from the book? And my name is Pip. Clever, aren't I?

****Sorry Emo Pip slipped in there...couldn't help it. I just really want a cigarette.

*****I feel much better now...Guilt and shame will come later. Right now I just feel better.

I have a poster of Zac Efron on my bedroom door and right now, with the door open, he is directly smiling at me and it is adorable.

I am almost halfway through my college career. That is a scary thought. What do I have to show for the past 2 years? What will the next 2 years bring? Sometimes I would love to have some certainty in my life.

Here is what my day has included thus far: Wake up. Sign up for classes next semester that I probably won't be here to take. Go to ATM. Do laundry. Write MAX 201 interpretation. Read The Tempest. Fold laundry. Watch  Grey's Anatomy while filling online shopping bag at Sephora.com to get Beauty Insider points. Eat a chocolate bunny. Write this blog post.

Maybe things will get more interesting when I go to take out the recycling. Never know. There might be ninjas waiting outside my door or something. It could happen.


This is the week apparently that everyone is finding out about summer internships. Every time I log onto Facebook another person has updated his or her status - "Smithsonian Institute Internship!" "J. P. Morgan and Chase Internship!" "Maryland Governor's Internship!" "BMW Internship!""NBC Internship!"

That's great, guys. Congratulations. You are on the path to a worthwhile career. I wish I knew what that felt like. Apparently I've gotten to the point in my life where summers are supposed to be used for something more than just making money. Maybe I should get an internship...You know, somewhere I can read Shakespeare? I don't think that internship exists. Whatever.

Here are 3 things I would like to accomplish this summer:
1. Go to the beach.
2. Read all of the books I've been meaning to read but never had the time.
3. Make money.

I am still in bed. I know I will have to get out of bed eventually but right now I can just hug my pillow and pretend I'm far, far away.

I would really like to know what I am going to be doing next year, where I will be living and studying etc. But as of right now I'm still waiting.

I've been thinking about waiting times. Waiting is all about the absence of what you desire. As I wait, I have nothing except a hope and a question. "Patience is a virtue." We have to learn from a young age that waiting is a part of life. To be patient is to accept the state of not-knowing. I guess it's a good life lesson. We can't know everything. We have to be patient. We have to be comfortable in the not-knowing.

As I have not gotten out of bed today I don't have anything to say about my life. I need to get two assignments done by the time my brother comes to visit...that's probably not going to happen. And I should probably shower at some point.

My life is so exciting.

I love pizza. I love blueberry poptarts. But I don't love blueberry poptart pieces on my pizza. Sometimes two things you love should be kept separate.

What do I need after a long, rainy day followed by a stressful doctor's appointment? Chocolate. Unfortunately, I don't have any. I did however come home to a package full of new clothes so that made me feel better. After the day I had (which stretched from 10 AM to 6 PM nonstop), I needed a pick-me-up and for a girl who uses online shopping as emotional therapy, new clothes was just the thing. I got a flowery top, a new purse, a pair of bug-eye sun glasses*, and a vintage-y ring today. Coming next week are two new pairs of jeggings, a pair of jean shorts, and another top.

Maybe my life sucks but at least I look cute.

In other clothing-related and uninteresting news:

Today I wore my saddle shoes to class. Most people assumed I was one of those hipster girls who thinks she's so much cooler and quirkier than the rest of the world. And while I can't deny that I fulfill many of the hipster criteria (vegetarian, English major, creative writing, indie music, Tumblr, cigarettes, photography, etc. etc.), I try not to be annoying. I don't presume to be cooler than anyone. I am sometimes ironic but not in an annoying, oh-I'm-so-funny-and-smart kind of way. I don't reject anything just because it's too mainstream. I don't try to be hipster and I don't try not to be hipster.

I wore my saddle shoes to class today because they are comfortable. Yes, Urban Outfitters is selling shoes of similar style to the alternative, hipster crowd, but my saddle shoes are actually 11 years old. I brought them to college because they are the most comfortable shoes I own and they just happened to be the shoes I wore every day for 4 years of high school. And before that my sister wore the same pair for her 4 years at our high school. I loved my saddle shoes when they were actually lame, long before hipsters tried to make them cool for being uncool. And I didn't love them just to be defiantly different from trends. I loved my saddle shoes because I loved my high school. Yes, my all girls Catholic school is small and old-fashioned and annoying...but it is still my high school. And I miss wearing our uniform** every day.


*Funny and too big but still cute. I mean, is there anything cuter in the summer than big sunglasses, long, flowing hair, jean shorts, and sandals?

*It hasn't changed since 1865. Blue dress with white Peter Pan collar (which is oddly in style now, too) and our beloved saddle shoes.

Fryderyck Chopin, II. Waltz in A Minor Op. 34 CT 209

"If philosophy sometimes looks as if it wishes nothing more than to strike us dumb then it should not be overlooked that philosohpy also claims to know only what an ordinary man can know, and that we are liable to silence so produced only because we have already spoken, hence thought, hence justified and excused, hence philosophized, and are hence always liable not merely to say more than we know (a favorite worry of modern philosophy) but to speak above the conscience at the back or our words, deaf to our meaning" (Cavell, p. 271)*.

Today, I was that girl sitting in the school cafe with a pile of books and papers surrounding her at a table all by herself. You know that girl. The one who is so immersed in her studying that her hair has fallen to cover her face and she is bent close to the page, pen in hand to mark up important passages. I sat in that pose for a full three hours. People came and went around me, sitting down for a short coffee break or stopping for a full lunch. Still I read, took notes, and read some more. Such is the life of a college student.

Now, do you see why most of my posts are pointless and rambling? Because that is how I spend my days. I read a 50 page article on the philosophy of language and then spent the afternoon marking up my copy of King Lear with my new questions and observations.

In case you're wondering what an English major's copy of King Lear** looks like, here's mine***:

In case you're wondering what my Statistics notes look like on the other hand, here's a little different image of my study habits:

See why I'm an English major? I can fill the margins of Shakespeare with endless notes and questions. But the only way I can stay awake in my morning Statistics class is to fill the margins of my notebook with flower doodles****.

*Quote from my reading for today. Quite nice, don't you think?

**In case you're wondering, this is a copy of the Arden Shakespeare version. I find Arden to have nice versions of Shakespeare's plays for reading in college courses. It includes Quarto and Folio (lines marked as appropriate) and the introduction gives thorough background knowledge of the text and performance of the play.

*** I look creepy and mannish here, I know.

****These were the notes I gave to a friend the other day and he said he couldn't read them. I write perfectly legible script. You're in college, you should know how to read cursive writing by now.

Long lingering gazes seem sexy on TV but in real life are actually just awkward and creepy.

It's hard coming to terms with that fact that you need help. I know firsthand. The truth hurts etc. etc. But to come to terms with one possible problem only to learn that it may be something entirely different is disconcerting. I know I'm talking in annoying ambiguities here but I don't feel comfortable being completely explicit regarding my personal issues. This is something that's been on my mind all week. And I'm just having trouble comprehending what any future change could mean. It's scary this not-knowing.

So I'm going to think about something else, anything else. Here goes:

In my Cognitive Shakespeare class we've been discussing a lot of theological topics recently. I'm not a particularly religious person and I haven't been for a long time. But my religion, Roman Catholic, was very present and an important force in my childhood. Having graduated from 12 years of Catholic school, I've become my Shakespeare class's resident expert on Catholicism. It's a little odd. I haven't gone to church regularly for several years but I still remember everything. I can still discuss obscure Bible stories with my professor and pick up on the subtle theological echoes in Shakespeare's plays.

Now with Easter only a few weeks away, I feel closer to my religion than I have in several years. The topic is clogging up my brain because I've spent the evening re-reading Act 5 of King Lear (for the second time this week actually). And anyone who has read the play knows that it is perhaps the most overtly theological of Shakespeare's plays. It's final image is especially powerful - a reverse pieta. Lear holds Cordelia's dead body in his arms just as Mary held Jesus's body when he was taken down from the cross.

There's a certain nostalgia attached to Catholicism for me. Like I said, I'm not very religious but I grew up with the images and stories of my religion ever present. Catholicism and its rituals are comforting to me not because I feel particularly close to God but because they are a link to a simpler time in my life. Catholic prayers, hymns, Bible stories, and rituals are all ingrained in my mind forever because of the relentless reinforcement provided by 12 years of Catholic education and an actively Catholic family.

Since it's Lent, I am thinking specifically of Friday afternoons spent in the church with my elementary/middle school to perform* the Stations of the Cross. I can still remember those afternoons so clearly. Everyone was glad to get out of class but we sat bored and uncomfortable in the wooden pews. And it wasn't like a boring class that you could just sleep through. There was kneeling and standing and singing and reciting prayers. We went through the motions as the afternoon sunlight streamed in through the stained glass windows, casting the scene in a golden hue. Three hundred kids were squirming in the seats. The weekend, so full of the promise of sunshine and fun to be had, was so close we could see it waiting just outside the church. But first, before we went off and enjoyed our carefree spring weekends, we needed to act out Jesus's suffering and death, even though we were young children who didn't fully understand the significance of the ritual we were performing**.


*I use "perform" here because after a semester of Performance Studies I am now acutely aware of what constitutes a performance. In the Stations of the Cross, the congregation actively takes part in the ritual being performed. It is a ritualistic remembering/recreating/reproduction of Jesus's journey to crucifixion. It has a set script. It is a ritual that is meant to be repeated every Friday in Lent. Repetition. Repetition. Repitition. We're not supposed to forget the script. But we have to remember that the script was created by society. It is not a (completely) historically accurate account of the events and we have to keep that in mind. Why was this specific script produced to recreat Jesus's suffering? What does it mean that we are, in a sense, acting out the scenes and not just hearing the story?

**And what exactly does that say? What does it mean to perform a ritual without fully understanding its meaning? Is the acting of the ritual enough? Catholicism places a strong value on the performance of ritual - the physical, tangible acts. The visual imagery and the poetic words are integral to the Catholic faith. This is directly opposite of the Protestant view. In the Protestant Reformation, they got rid of all the visual and ritualistic aspects of the religion: no more body on the cross, no more stained glass windows, etc. Protestantism rejects the emphasis on the visual and bases faith on a wholly spritual realm. Catholicism places value on the tangible, the real, the substantive. Catholics believe the eucharist is Jesus's body. It is real and present, something to be physically taken into your body.

I only have to survive 30 more days in Syracuse. Hopefully, I'll be able to make it through but honestly it seems impossibly long to me.

I've been watching too much Grey's Anatomy lately. Netflix is my newest addiction and so I've powered through the first two seasons in a week. It's been a chance for me to bask in bittersweet nostalgia. It's also been a chance for me to contemplate mortality, life and death and the practice of saving lives. Because of course I can't just watch a trashy primetime soap opera without getting all philosophical. Also I am a morbid person so contemplating death is not an uncommon passtime for me*.

To counteract the macabre musings on death elicited by a few too many emotional episodes of Grey's Anatomy, I have spent a lot of time this weekend indulging two of my most comforting addictions. Online shopping and smoking cigarettes. I am self-destructive. I have a pathological need to screw up my life. So I spend all of my money on clothes I don't need and I smoke too many cigarettes. Maybe this new outfit will make me feel better and I'll finally be perfect and happy. And this cigarette can take the edge off my annoying existence. I'm just trying to get through the day.

Obviously I am not in a blogging mood. I am in a stay-in-bed-and-wallow-in-my-misery kind of mood. So I am going to stop this worthless waste of internet space and go back to my important Sunday plans i.e. lying in bed and pretending that I don't exist.



*Yes, I am fully aware that I sound like an emo fourteen year old...but really I'm just like those pale kids who wear black all the time. I may dress in bright colors and floras and appear to be a normal college kid. But I'm dark and twisty inside just like Meredith on Grey's Anatomy. Pathetically cliched, but such is my life.

I forgot how much fun it is to actually play outside. Why don't college students get to play outside more?

When I was younger my mom was always telling me to go outside and get some fresh air. I never really understood her obsession with fresh air. It's just oxygen just like we have in the house, except it also has bugs flying around in it. I just want to read my book in peace, please, Mommy.

But now I think I understand why she felt it was so important. I think she knew that one day I would wish I had spent more time outdoors when I was a kid and had endless opportunity. Looking back on my childhood I know now that I was extremely lucky. I grew up on a horse farm with 25 acres of outdoors to run around in. We have a pond, small woods, a stream, a barn, and lots of fields. Everything you need to have the most idyllic childhood adventures. Yes, I was a bookworm and carried a book around with me everywhere I went but I also spent a good deal of my childhood exploring the farm, lost in my own world of wild imaginations.

There's something to be said just for the very feeling of "fresh air." Four hundred years ago people thought that the air and weather surrounding your body directly affected their thoughts and feelings and health. If a person got too much sun, he or she would be hot-tempered, etc. And while obviously the most literal interpretations of the value of the air around us are false, there is still some truth in the idea. There is something of a sponginess in our mood. It soaks up everything around us.

I had a lot more to say on this topic. I actually felt a good, long philosophical rambling post coming on. But then I was distracted by my cousins screaming and fighting. For about ten minutes all I could hear was shrieking. One minute we're climbing trees and having a jolly good time. Then, they're viciously screaming at each other. Boys will be boys. Brothers will be brothers.

So now I'm just going to leave this blog and try to regain my sanity. I'm going to remember how much fun it is to climb trees and I'm not going to think about my stressful life. I want to be a kid again.

Last night I may or may not have watched Tron. I also may not have been in a natural state of mind. It was awesome. Especially the part where Jeff Bridges was crossing a bridge.

For most college students, Friday is a time to catch up on sleep. At my university, we have a Monday-Wednesday, Tuesday-Thursday set schedule of classes, which means that only random discussion sections and lab sections meet on Fridays. By the time you're a junior* and you have more control over your schedule, there is practically no reason to have a class on Friday. Today, however, I had to trek up to campus.

I was not very happy about this. My professor had set up a mysterious meeting and I had a forboding feeling about it. To make matters worse, I had to wait outside his office for ten minutes and the hallway smelled strongly of Ramen Noodles. It was an unpleasant experience to say the least.

Basically, as I sit here writing this blog post, I feel sick to my stomach. I just returned from campus. Of course, I have to acknowledge the irony. Just yesterday I wrote a whole blog post about my uncertainty about life and my future. And then today my professor surprised me with a stressful meeting to discuss my future plans. It's cruel to spring such a distressing discussion on a college student without any warning. Let's just say that I don't want to talk about it.

And so, instead I am going to go ahead wtih the blog post I had already had planned for today.

50 Books Challenge 2011

I am not doing too well with the challenge this year. Last time I completed the challenge was in 2009. It hadn't been particularly hard to read 50 books that year because for the first half of the year I was a second-semester high school senior and had a lot of free time. Now, I'm a college student and that is definitely no longer the case. It's hard to find any free time to read for pleasure when at school**.

And so here is an update of the books I have read so far in 2011:

1. Skippy Dies - Paul Murray
2. Clockwork Angel - Cassandra Claire
3. Half Broke Horses - Jeannette Walls
4. Franny and Zooey - J. D. Salinger
5. A Midsummer Night's Dream - William Shakespeare
6. Othello - William Shakespeare
7. Atonement - Ian McEwan
8. Hamlet - William Shakespare
9. A Game of Thrones - George R. R. Martin
10. King Lear - William Shakespeare

I am about 3 books behind where I should be right now. Hopefully, I will be able to make up for lost reading time over the summer when I will have no classes to worry about.



*I have junior standing because I came in with an extra semester of credits, but I'm only in my second year.

** I include books read for classes in the challenge, however. Otherwise there would be no way I could ever read 50 books in one year.

For some reason, springtime and sunshine make me want to listen to The Mountain Goats. It's happy nostalgia.

As any college student and young adult knows all too well, people expect you to have a life plan. Every time I have to make small talk with an adult acquaintance, at family parties or at the hair salon or in the grocery store, the conversation follows the same course: Where do you go to school? What are you studying? What do you hope to do with that major? What are you going to do after college? What is your life plan? Obviously you must have a life plan because your parents are paying an ordinate amount of money to send you to university. You're not a kid anymore. You should know what you want to do with your life.

And every time I have to take part in this conversation another part of my soul dies a very painful death. I have to explain that no, I'm not studying journalism anymore. I don't know what to do with my life. An English major is pretty much useless. I don't have a life plan. I don't even have a plan for next year.

I can talk about Shakespeare and Early Modern philosophy until the cows come home. Ask me about the theories of Derrida or Foucault and I'll have plenty to say. If you want to discuss the history of theater and the theological implications of performance, I'd be happy to oblige. But ask me about my life and I'd be at a loss for words.

Sometimes I feel as though I'm living in a perpetual state of "not-not." I am not not an adult. I am not not living my life. I am not not present.

I am here but I am not here completely. Nothing is certain. I feel as thought I exist in a continual state of ambiguity. I can't be me but I can't not be me. My future is a hazy form on the horizon. It exists but it doesn't have a shape.

And so when someone asks me what I want to do with my life, I can't answer with any certainty. I may be 20 years old, a college student and a young adult, but I don't know what my life is at this moment and I don't know what it is going to be in the next moment. I exist in not-knowing.



But I still exist in the real world. For example, today I spent the afternoon wandering around campus. I don't have classes on Thursdays and so I had the day free to myself. There were several errands I had to complete but I had the whole day available. I met a few friends and chatted about classes and our weekend plans. It's a lovely mystery, how just a day of sunshine and pleasant weather can lift the spirits. Everything seems sweeter. The day can be something to be cherished and enjoyed instead of just another day to be bitterly endured. Sometimes the world isn't such a horrible place.

Every Wednesday on my way back from my doctor's appointment I stop at Wegmans and buy junk food. It always makes me feel better.

I know yesterday I said I didn't have anything to blog about and then once I started writing I wandered off into my mind's thicket of unruly thoughts. Today, however, I have plenty of thoughts already clogging up my brain, just none that I want to share on this blog.

My blog posts this month have all be suspiciously void of many mentions of my personal life. I supposed I've just been stuck in my head. Yes, at the end of each post I share an aspect of my day but I haven't really delved into the real substance of my life. Sharing my crossword puzzle habit, my trailmix snack, and my love of Grey's Anatomy doesn't really consitute as confiding much here. That's just the surface of my life, little knick-knacks sitting on the bookshelf.

But I'm not comfortable sharing much more of my present life. And so I will clutter up this blog with knick-knacks until I'm ready to put anymore real life into it. Thoughts will be overflowing, of course. I will always share my reactions to Gloucester's tragic, imagined suicide attempt and my thoughts on Certeau. But I don't know if I can share my reactions to certain personal issues that I deal with in my daily life. At least, not today.

All of this is to say that I don't have anything to blog about today. Not because there is nothing on my mind but because I just can't share it. Let's just say that I am eating Gummy Bears.

I took notes for a friend who missed class yesterday but when I gave him my notebook he said he couldn't read anything I had written because he never learned cursive writing. What?!

Apparently it was 80 degrees in Baltimore yesterday. In Syracuse, however, I walked through snow to get to class this morning. Obviously, my life is a cruel joke. God is having a nice little chuckle at my expense.

I honestly don't have anything to write about today. My brain is empty of thoughts.

I am sitting in a small cafe on campus, looking out the window at the people walking to class down below me. A lecture just let out of the law school auditorium. It's probably PSY 205 because I took that last semester and this was the end of the lecture time. The students streaming out of the law building onto the sidewalk look so very collegiate. Pretty young people in their warm coats carrying their bags filled with books. Some of them are walking in pairs and chatting together but most are either talking or texting on their cell phones or listening to their iPods. Everyone looks generally the same, College Student Q. It's interesting because I know that if I were walking among the students on the sidewalk I would be able to see the details of each person's day - a girl perusing notes for a test in her next class, a boy retelling a tale of college life to his brother on the phone, another clutching a large coffee thermos with the desperation that comes from sleep deprivation.

I am reminded of the chapter of Certeau's The Practice of Everyday Life in which he is viewing Manhattan from the 110th floor of the World Trade Center* and considering how the life of the city can be "read" like a text when viewed from such a perspective.

"To be lifted to the summit of the World Trade Center is to be lifted out of the city's grasp. One's body is no longer clasped by the steets that turn and return it according to an anonymous law; nor is it possessed, whether as player or played, by the rumble of so many differences and by the nervousness of New York traffic. When one goes up there, he leaves behind the mass that carries off and mixes up in itself any identity of authors or spectators. An Icarus flying above these waters, he can ignore the devices of Daedalus in mobile and labyrinths far below. His elevation transfigures him into a voyeur. It puts him at a distance. It transforms the bewitching world by which one was 'posessed' into a text that lies before one's eyes. It allows one to read it, to be a solar Eye, looking down like a god. The exaltation of a scopic and gnostic drive: the fiction of knowledge is related to this lust to be a viewpoint and nothing more" (Certeau, 127).

I want to be a voyeur. Today I am viewing my college campus from above and I can read it like a text. And yet, Icarus' viewpoint is folly of course. He flies too high. And so, while I am fascinated by this scopic view of life displayed below me as a text, I am also aware that as a writer my role needs to be more than that. To be a writer is to be at once a viewpoint from a place on high and a character in the crowd. And to be a great writer is an even more challenging role - a voyeur who is also every character in the text at the same time.

And so today, as a writer I can look down upon the college campus spread below me and read the text of  its life, students and professors on their way to various scholarly experiences. But I also must be possessed by the characters in the scene and the story of this moment. If I were to write the story of this campus today, I couldn't just be looking down as a viewpoint on high (as I am now). I would also need to be every person that is walking across the quad - the girl with the plaid tote bag, the older professor who wears jeans to lecture, the boy carrying an ambiguous instrument in a black case (a trumpet? oboe? saxophone?). It's a daunting task**.

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Now, before I go to my next class, I will end this surprisingly thoughtful blog post with a bit of my real life:
Yesterday, I wrote someone a Facebook message that took quite a bit of courage to send. In fact, I wrote two previous versions of the message over the weekend and deleted them. It was an odd message. I knew I had something I wanted to say to this certain person but I just didn't know how to say it. There is something terrifying about that moment before you press "Send" on a message. As much as I thought about every possible outcome, in the end, I had no idea how the recipient of my message would respond, what he would think of the words I had chosen so carefully. I had to send the message into the tumultuous sea of possibility and wait.



*It is haunting to read his essay, which was written in 1984, in the post-9/11 world.

** I think this blogging habit is a constructive exercise for me. Just a few moments ago I was staring out the window, my mind blank and at a loss for words. But the very practice of sitting in front of a blank document gave me reason to nurture my vague thoughts and notions into a fuller form. And so this blog post about nothing ended up as another opportunity for me to explore my role as a writer.

Mama who bore me, Mama who gave me no way to handle things...

[Title: 'Mama Who Bore Me' from Spring Awakening, performed by Lea Michele (before Glee) in one of my favorite musicals*]

Note: I shouldn't blog after my classes because my brain is too stuffed with academic discourse...But that is exactly what I am doing today. Sorry. Boring academic ramblings follow. Be warned.

I love Shakespeare.

I am taking a Cognitive Shakespeare class, which is the explanation for the excessive Shakespeare references in this blog. Cognitive literary theory is a relatively new approach. In the course, we are studying Shakespeare's plays through the lense of early modern science and philosophy. For example, in early modern Europe, to view a play was believed to be an active and potentially dangerous experience. Historical scientific beliefs about perception held that a human's eyes (and ears) actually sent out "grabbers" or "agents" that went into the world and collected images (sounds), then brought them back to the brain where they stayed and lived on their own. Within this view of cognition, to "perceive" is to "receive" and to "mistake" is to actually, physically "take" an idea wrongly. Images and sounds and other sensory effects were believed to be physical commodities.

When you consider this view of human cognition in relation to the theater's history in early modern society, Jacobean and Elizabethan plays take on great theological and philosophical significance. Theater in the modern sense originated from religious rituals and the closing of the theaters in 1642 was a direct result of the Protestant Reformation, which rejected Catholic visual imagery and ritual as indulgent and dangerous. Shakespeare's plays are highly conscious of their relevance in this discourse. In my classroom this semester, we have been tracing Shakespeare's language of free will and agency, thinking and perceiving, morality and judgment. It's fascinating.

Today, for example, we discussed King Lear's narcissism and its significance when considered alongside Christian doctrines of compassion. Last week, we discussed Ophelia's suicide as a result of falling into the abyss of "nothing" that is a woman's agency in early modern society, even as suicide itself is the ultimate act of personal agency (to deny/despair in God and take life into one's own hands). Before that we read Othello and considered how ocular, tangible proof is weaker than poisonous ideas, which can be "planted" in one's mind (an interesting metaphor to portray human thoughts as vegetation, mirroring the language in Hamlet of weeds and the rank, overgrown vegetative state of Denmark and Hamlet's mind**).

Fascinating stuff for an English major but obviously a dry, dense topic for most people.

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Back to real life now. I did in fact live a little outside of my Shakespeare class. I walked through the rain to get to class. I straightened my hair. I ate a bowl of Captain Crunch. I listened to the Spring Awakening soundtrack. I watched too many episodes of Grey's Anatomy. I attempted to heal a broken frienship at the risk of bringing up old pain. And I did the NYT crossword puzzle.

I do the NYT daily crossword puzzle every Monday - Thursday. And I use pen. I used to be a pencil puzzler but then my Uncle Steve set me right. "The only difference between doing the crossword in pen or doing it in pencil is confidence," he said. "If you're going to do something, do it with confidence at least."



*In case you're confused by my irrelevant titles...I don't give a fuck. I title each blog post whatever random thought is in my mind when I sit down to write.

**An overgrown garden is one without an attentive gardener...just as an overgrown mind is one without direction, purpose, sense of interior self, and definition of personal agency. Iago, unlike Hamlet, is a masterful gardener.

I am eating Fruit by the Foot and it makes me strangely happy.

As I've mentioned before, this blogging every day project is not going to contain too many action-packed posts. But I need to get back into the habit of writing every day. I can't really call myself a writer if I don't write something or attempt to write something every day. Unfortunately, writing is not a glamorous passtime. And so some days I will only have this to write, pointless ramblings.

What is the point of writing anyway? Throughout history visual and auditory stimuli have been privileged over the written word. They say the pen is mightier than the sword, but our society certainly doesn't hold up this assertion.Wars aren't fought through letter-writing. But I think the modern world's preference of action is misplaced. Reasoned action can only come through organization and understanding of internal thought. Writing is active thinking, it is cognitive action as opposed to physical action.

Why do we judge Hamlet so harshly? Because he's the hero who can't act. He spends the whole play thinking, fooling with words. But when he finally does take action, the audience is forced to watch everything go horribly wrong. And when we think about the play, we shouldn't ask, why didn't Hamlet act sooner. We should ask, why did he act at all when clearly he had not fully understood the complexities of the reasons for action. Shakespeare is asking us to consider the significance of acting* because action means nothing without a fully realized thought process.

I am twenty years old, a college student, and the daughter of two hard-working parents. When I say that I want to be a writer, my parents say, "That's nice. And what else?" I could say that I wanted to be a trapeze artist and it would be easier for my parents to comprehend because at least I would have a physical skill. I would be doing something and they would be able to see my life's worth through the visual, tangible proof of my physical action.


Now, as I promised, I will take a moment to move out of my head (and the murky, tangled forest of my thoughts) and into the real world. I do in fact live in a physical world and I live a life of experiences. So here is a bit of my day:

I made my own trail mix. Perhaps this makes me nauseatingly hipster/liberal/vegetarian but I am not moving to California anytime soon. It is not a particularly unique trail mix. Basically, I mixed honey granola, almonds, dried cranberries, and dried blueberries together. Now, I am going to eat this healthy, home-made snack as I watch Grey's Anatomy**.

*Interestingly, this is complicated by the fact that we are experiencing the play through the performance of actors (professionals of false action).

**The most unhipster/mainstream show on TV and I am not ashamed to say that I love it. I cried during last week's episode (yes, the musical episode that everyone said was horrible cheesiness). I have all the seasons on DVD and I am re-watching the whole series from the very beginning because I am a loser with no life.

I hope winter is really over and this sunshine is here to stay.

I am the sort of girl who spends a lot of time in her head. It's why most of my blog posts are merely musings on life as opposed to an actual record of events. It's also why I sometimes feel like life is just passing me by before I've had the chance to actually relish the experience. I think about things too much.

It's annoying. But it's why I'm a writer.

I don't know why I thought to bring it up today...Returning to this blog, even just for a month of entries, means that I am once again faced with the task of articulating my overflowing thoughts into coherent paragraphs. Since there will not be many significant events taking place this month as I write, I'm afraid most of my posts will be like this. Thoughtful posts about nothing. And yet, perhaps...

There's matter in these sighs.*

In an attempt to actually record something of this month other than my ethereal thoughts, I am going to try to record at least one thing of substance from my day with each post. And by substance I don't mean intelligent or even ultimately worthwhile. I just mean something that is tangible from my day, something of matter (as in has a mass, takes up space, exists in the real world). An experience or an object. Not just thoughts, but something of life.

So here is a little part of my day:

I am eating Nutella on crackers while listening to sad songs and writing. The crumbs keep falling onto my laptop's keyboard. The sun is streaming in through the sheer curtains my mother put up at the beginning of the year so I could let the sun in without letting people see into the room. My pink nail polish has begun to chip. And my fingers move across the keyboard, stringing together words to make a whole new world in my imagination.



* Hamlet, 4.1.1

I just can't quit you.

It's April. That means it is time to delude myself into believing that this mode of expression has real worth. Which is to say that I will once again be attempting BEDA (Blog Every Day in April).

I'm not going to acknowledge the long hiatus I took from writing. I'm not going to give any reasons or explain what my life has been like since last we spoke. I'm just going to move forward because really that's all we can do in this life.

And so, without further ado, here is a blog post on this the very first day of April in the year 2011:

Thoughts for Today

1. I do not care for April Fools Day. The whole point of pranks is that they be unexplained and unanticipated. People expect pranks on April Fools Day...so they aren't true pranks. April Fools pranks know that they are a performance. The people pulling the pranks and the subjects know the pranks are performances. A true prank should be an unacknowledged performance*.

2. Today is Opening Day at Camden Yards for the Orioles season. There is so much hope in this day. As of right now, we have the whole season spread out before us. Anything could happen. We are, as of now, undefeated. We could be anything. And that hope is what makes the game of baseball so worthwhile. Maybe** our dreams of victory and championships won't be realized but that doesn't make this hopeful feeling any less real. Hope and Opening Day are not about end results. It's about coming together to believe in the What If. It is an extended state of the subjunctive. And it can be endless because it does not have to exist in the definitive just yet.

3. People say the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem. That is crap. For example, I readily admit that I have many problems. I am about to spend $63.40 on clothes that I do not need. The purchase will take my bank account balance into the single digits. I know this is the wrong thing to do. I know that my overspending is a problem. But I'm not about to stop shopping. I don't even want to stop. Right now, I shop for the same reasons I drink and I smoke. I know my life choices are unhealthy and irrational. But they are choices, problematic choices but still choices. I am asserting my own personal angency and authority because that's all I have.

4. Sometimes I wonder how I appear to strangers on the street. Today, I am wearing my favorite purple Chucks with leggings and a very pink T-shirt. This is a "Relaxed, Girly, and Alternative" look. Then, on top of that, I am sporting my Orioles cap in honor of Opening Day and I have feathers in my hair (blue and white; I've had them in since spring break). Perhaps some people can go out into the world and not feel conscious of the appearance they are projecting, but I am always acutely aware of how every time I am in the company of strangers, I am exerting an image, however fleeting. And although we profess to just leave the house without putting much thought into our clothes, even that assertion shows a facet of our identity. So today as strangers passed me on the street they glimpsed an image of my identity in that moment, made up of stereotypes and assumptions but also containing truth. Because wherever we go, whatever we wear, we are still ourselves, even in the passing glance of a stranger.



*I think I've been taking my Performance Studies class too seriously because I can actually imagine April Fools Day as a great subject for performance analysis. Schechner and Brecht and Turner are jumping into my mind at very odd times these days.

**Most likely...We're talking about the Baltimore Orioles here.