Yesterday was the infamous family summer party. It is not some odd barbecue. This is a once a year event that has been going on... I'd say for the last half century. It happens every summer, around the same time in June, and it is a BIG deal. I cannot remember missing one family summer party. I don't think it's allowed.
Before I go on, I must acknowledge the absolutely obscene amount of family members who I found out this weekend read my blog. My great aunt read my blog. My aunt's best friend reads my blog--probably more faithfully than most of my friends. It is shocking how tuned into my blog they all seem to be. And of course they all love it. And of course they all hate the name. "It's not dumbshit, sometimes it is very smart shit, so why such an awful title?" Many of my family members spent a large portion of the day brainstorming new titles for me. Some of them like the name, think it's fun how "spunky" I am, and how "spunky" my title is. But knowing they are all waiting with baited breath for my next update is intimidating especially with my desire to divulge to you, my readership, my thoughts on my family.
Do you remember the movie My Big, Fat Greek Wedding? Well replace wedding with family summer party. And delete Greek, because this side of the family originates from the Midwest. And take out, fat, and put in tall and/or gangly.
My Big, Tall and/or Gangly, Midwestern Family Summer Party.
Yes. That's it.
Somehow, over the last 50-some-odd years we have amassed this tradition of the most motley group of people. Now I say this is a family party and it is. But it is by no means exclusive. My family does not only include people I am related too. My family has adopted all these people from all sorts of backgrounds, mostly families of my grandparents' friends, and I know them as family. My aunt's best friend is as much part of my family as my aunt, or at least I consider her as such. When your a kid growing up with all these familiar faces, it's hard understanding the intricacies of everyone's relationships to each other; and when you get older you realize it doesn't matter.
The family summer party is at my grandparents' house every year. Tucked away in a remote part of the north Bay, it is the perfect atmosphere for a big gathering. The yard is big enough, with plenty of room for everyone to meander through and chat. The kitchen, as I think most are, is too small for all the commotion it must endure. My aunt is the ring master in all this, having inherited the responsibilities from her mother.
A quick, or maybe not so quick, note on my grandmother: Almost two years ago my grandmother died of skin cancer. Last summer was the first time our family summer party was not conducted by her. She was tough. She was the woman no one could beat. No one could live up too. She met my grandfather at a Sierra Club meeting, I do believe, had three kids, one being my fantastic father, and she was a teacher. My grandma, she had the life force, as Eddie Izzard would say. She biked, she hiked, she knew which way was up. She put raisins in my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and I HATED her for it. But every once in a while I do crave raisins in my pbj, just as a reminder of her and her influence on me. I don't think I ever told anyone that. She nearly poisoned my mother with her oyster stuffing on Thanksgiving one year (my mom is allergic to shellfish). She had a habit of annoying my mother when she came over to our house by pulling weeds in our front yard. She and my grandfather took me to Alaska to go explore the wilderness. She made a photo album of our travels. I have always wanted to go back. Sometimes she and my grandpa were a little stoic. Stiff huggers or quiet talkers. But I still miss her laugh, ripping through the crowd, kind of a cackle. I still miss her bickering with grandpa even if it made things tense, at least they were both there to keep each other honest. I'm so young, I know so very little, and I wish I had been old enough to ask her all the things in life she must have known. The secret to life, or happiness, or strength during hardship. How to be a strong woman, or a good wife, or an empowering mother-- empowering grandmother. Ask her what I was missing. But knowing her, I'm not sure she would answer. She might not know the answer. She might not be able to vocalize the answer. She's gone now, but sometimes I still think I see her out of the corner of my eye, pulling a weed or bossing someone around or just laughing.
My aunt has inherited a very hard job. I think she, more than anyone, realized how much my grandmother controlled this summer party. It took her and 14 of the closest family members to do what one 70-something woman did for decades (okay, well she wasn't 70 for decades, but whatever). It took all of us--and I do mean all us-- 15 minutes to find the freaking salad tongs.
The event went off well, actually. Surprisingly so. Our family can be... quarrelsome. We have very strong opinions about very trivial things. 10 of us stood in the dining room for 30 minutes "discussing" whether there should be one or two leaves in the dining room table. We settled on one leaf, but some people were still fuming about it. Sometimes, when we can't even decide on how long the table should be (much less if it's angled or straight), I worry about the important things. But they tend to work out in the end--miraculously. I actually decided on the title of this blog before the actual event. Thinking Family Dysfunction at a Family Function was bound to happen. Maybe if I didn't think of it before hand, I wouldn't have used it. But I thought it was too clever to pass up.
Plus as my aunt was quick to remind me, there was a *little bit* of dysfunction during the party, for me anyway. I had gone out the night before to a friends birthday party and hadn't gotten a huge amount of sleep the night before the summer party. I was low energy and a little groggy the next day, and my relatives were quick to comment on it. I was, truth be told, dysfunctional. But I couldn't deny my duties as a part of this family. I had some coffee, took some painkillers, put on some cute heels, ate some pasta salad out of the serving bowl, and sucked it up.
There is a lesson behind this, children. Don't party it up with your friends the night before a family function. It's less fun, and you are automatically subjected to familial ridicule. Or worse, family members recalling their own family dysfunction. Just kidding. I love hearing about my aunt who was so hungover during the Christmas party (another family tradition as old as the hills) that she store bought what was supposed to be a homemade cheese ball and slept all day in my great aunts bed. Hilarious.
Family is very important to be. More important than a lot of things actually. I have a good relationship with my family. We are all funny people. Funny as in odd-birds and funny as in just plain hilarious folks. And we get eachothers humor. When my cousin asks, "When do we get to meet your boyfriend?", I don't answer seriously, lamenting my single-hood. I say, "Which one?" and walk away. We are good conversationalists, we like talking. My grandpa has a penchant for light-hearted interogation. It's great. I love him and his awkward hugs.
So there. A few thought's on my family. I'm sure they will all have something to say about it.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Friday, June 24, 2011
Dear Gotham: A Slam Poem
I lost my identity
It disappeared the day I called it Secret
My Secret Identity
How could I know one day it would become a secret to me too?
When did I become more comfortable with my underwear on the outside?
Now I fly the streets at night
Suspended by the city’s invisible puppet strings
As I spin my wheels, my head spinning
I remember playing Batman and Robin as a kid
When did that stop being a Joke?
It stopped the day the Joker no longer laughed at child’s play
And took more joy in children’s screams
What happened Gotham?
What kind of bleak, post-apocalyptic, post-industrial, post-consumer society thought up you?
Your people are dying, Gotham.
Consumed by fire, consumed by hate,
Costumed by their own gaudy misdeeds
Your streets stink of the poor and down trodden—
Trodden into the dust of your crumbling walls.
Alleys scattered with the most beautiful of mankind in the most repulsive destitution.
Do you embrace the ugly, Gotham?
Do you welcome the misshapen misfits?
Does your modern gothic architecture beckon like liberty’s silhouette from across the sea?
Who is left to clean up, but those who created the mess?
Our ancestors built this city on the bones of the dead—
My ancestors built upon your dead
And I alone have sanity enough to stop it.
My heart is black like this city.
Black with soot. Black with broken dreams
This city never had dreams.
It only had the broken blackened people who knew better than to dream.
Count me with the dreamers, Gotham.
Tell the folks back home I pulled this city up by my spandex.
The Bat Man was an appropriate title in a city where the evil cry out their sonic song
Where the glint of hope in a child’s heart cannot be seen through the smog.
The Bat Man. Good or evil—in this city all signs point to yes.
I used to find confusion in their doubts of my intent
But how could they see anything but bad intentions in a city like this?
Where are born the worst scum of the earth—
Sent to disrupt the already disturbing existence of these wretches.
These wretches that crawl across your dirtied streets,
Slither through your slime
They come out like night crawlers in the dark,
Looking for dreams to make nightmares
Their muddy hands thrown up in front of their faces as dawn approaches
Are they afraid of the light?
Gotham, are you afraid of the light?
Or do you just find the dark more enlightening?
In the dark the demons come out.
They are locked in little gilded cages in the light,
But their pen doors are unhitched in the last fleeting rays of sun.
Of sun and of hope.
The demons play upon the temples of Gotham’s people.
They tap-dance across craniums until the pitter-patter echoing through the skulls bid a Scarecrow come and play
We are all afraid, Gotham.
Of bats, of leather-clad cat burglars, of the seething poison that you spew.
We are afraid of you, Gotham.
What are you afraid of?
The better side of humanity?
I picture you 100 years—
No, 1000 years ago Gotham.
I picture you with gullies and meadows, and no smog so you can see the sun.
What wondrous wildflowers used to bloom on the streets that are now decimated by Harvey’s dented coin
I know better than to think of you like this.
You were the breeder of pond scum from the beginning and you will be the breeder of pond scum until the end.
Oh but the end could come more quickly.
You were built on mysteries that not even Edward Nashton himself could answer
But riddle me this, Gotham.
While women scream themselves awake from night terrors about your hallowed streets
Why do I carry on the way that I do?
Bats are not solitary creatures by nature, you know
I am here, darkening your streets with the shadow of my wings,
Bringing enlightenment to the people.
Do not fear, citizens of Gotham.
You’re knight of the dark night is here.
I watch from on high, my senses buzzing with the thrum of Gotham’s hum.
Not so much a hum as a roar
I watch a woman get mugged,
Watch the thief run down east 53rd and I know it is no use following him.
A few dollars and some pennies, maybe.
Not worth whatever it should be worth.
At the end of the night I find myself drunken with apathy,
Dribbling curse words down my chin,
Making spit bubbles out of my shattered emotions.
The sun rises and I am reminded about the poor scattered souls, who made it through the night,
To live another day in this city.
It disappeared the day I called it Secret
My Secret Identity
How could I know one day it would become a secret to me too?
When did I become more comfortable with my underwear on the outside?
Now I fly the streets at night
Suspended by the city’s invisible puppet strings
As I spin my wheels, my head spinning
I remember playing Batman and Robin as a kid
When did that stop being a Joke?
It stopped the day the Joker no longer laughed at child’s play
And took more joy in children’s screams
What happened Gotham?
What kind of bleak, post-apocalyptic, post-industrial, post-consumer society thought up you?
Your people are dying, Gotham.
Consumed by fire, consumed by hate,
Costumed by their own gaudy misdeeds
Your streets stink of the poor and down trodden—
Trodden into the dust of your crumbling walls.
Alleys scattered with the most beautiful of mankind in the most repulsive destitution.
Do you embrace the ugly, Gotham?
Do you welcome the misshapen misfits?
Does your modern gothic architecture beckon like liberty’s silhouette from across the sea?
Who is left to clean up, but those who created the mess?
Our ancestors built this city on the bones of the dead—
My ancestors built upon your dead
And I alone have sanity enough to stop it.
My heart is black like this city.
Black with soot. Black with broken dreams
This city never had dreams.
It only had the broken blackened people who knew better than to dream.
Count me with the dreamers, Gotham.
Tell the folks back home I pulled this city up by my spandex.
The Bat Man was an appropriate title in a city where the evil cry out their sonic song
Where the glint of hope in a child’s heart cannot be seen through the smog.
The Bat Man. Good or evil—in this city all signs point to yes.
I used to find confusion in their doubts of my intent
But how could they see anything but bad intentions in a city like this?
Where are born the worst scum of the earth—
Sent to disrupt the already disturbing existence of these wretches.
These wretches that crawl across your dirtied streets,
Slither through your slime
They come out like night crawlers in the dark,
Looking for dreams to make nightmares
Their muddy hands thrown up in front of their faces as dawn approaches
Are they afraid of the light?
Gotham, are you afraid of the light?
Or do you just find the dark more enlightening?
In the dark the demons come out.
They are locked in little gilded cages in the light,
But their pen doors are unhitched in the last fleeting rays of sun.
Of sun and of hope.
The demons play upon the temples of Gotham’s people.
They tap-dance across craniums until the pitter-patter echoing through the skulls bid a Scarecrow come and play
We are all afraid, Gotham.
Of bats, of leather-clad cat burglars, of the seething poison that you spew.
We are afraid of you, Gotham.
What are you afraid of?
The better side of humanity?
I picture you 100 years—
No, 1000 years ago Gotham.
I picture you with gullies and meadows, and no smog so you can see the sun.
What wondrous wildflowers used to bloom on the streets that are now decimated by Harvey’s dented coin
I know better than to think of you like this.
You were the breeder of pond scum from the beginning and you will be the breeder of pond scum until the end.
Oh but the end could come more quickly.
You were built on mysteries that not even Edward Nashton himself could answer
But riddle me this, Gotham.
While women scream themselves awake from night terrors about your hallowed streets
Why do I carry on the way that I do?
Bats are not solitary creatures by nature, you know
I am here, darkening your streets with the shadow of my wings,
Bringing enlightenment to the people.
Do not fear, citizens of Gotham.
You’re knight of the dark night is here.
I watch from on high, my senses buzzing with the thrum of Gotham’s hum.
Not so much a hum as a roar
I watch a woman get mugged,
Watch the thief run down east 53rd and I know it is no use following him.
A few dollars and some pennies, maybe.
Not worth whatever it should be worth.
At the end of the night I find myself drunken with apathy,
Dribbling curse words down my chin,
Making spit bubbles out of my shattered emotions.
The sun rises and I am reminded about the poor scattered souls, who made it through the night,
To live another day in this city.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
There is No Place Like Home
I am back in California. I have been home for a week and it is surprising how fast I fall into old patterns. I drive to the same places, see the same people, eat the same food. It's like I never left. Right? Right... Right??? I'm not sure. I got home, looked in my closet at the clothes I had kept here and cringed. I used to wear THAT? I look in my bathroom and found no toiletries, old crappy make-up, and some really weird bits of jewelry. Things that a year ago I was still attached enough keep, (but not to take with me to college) I now find... useless and unwanted. So I am clearing out. I'm starting fresh. This summer is going to be all about starting fresh! Because home is not fresh. College is fresh, but home can be stagnant. So I'm not letting it be. My new motto is FRESH! Fresh clothes, fresh people, fresh places, fresh food, fresh attitude! Home is the same but I am not and I can feel myself retracing old paths. I say, "No!" to those old paths. They are mind-sets, they are habits, and I'm breaking them. This place has to mean something to me, it does mean something to me. But I can't walk down memory lane every time I set foot out of my house. I have to make new memories, I have to make this place mean something to be in contemporary terms. Maybe this isn't the most cohesive post, but right now I'm still figuring it all out--home wise. Short but sweet.
Friday, June 10, 2011
The Quiet Before the Storm
Rain clouds roll in like the tumbleweeds in the old west. This is Washington after all. It's not surprising, just disappointing. The clouds make half-hearted threats. A drizzle is all they can muster. Not very sinister weather, but quiet. The clouds throw a blanket of gray over the backyard.
A silent pall falls over the house with no neighbors, a gravel driveway, and a make-shift bamboo forest. A sad place, maybe. Broken, like many of the dreams in this town; like many of the people here.
Small but sprawling. Few people, but many miles. Miles between them physically, but emotionally too. I wish I could say there was a glimmer of hope, some small ray of light out there. But those rolling tumbleweed clouds have blocked out the sun.
On summer days like these, the evenings last longer than other places. They stretch forever like the one lane roads in this town. But the evenings here are dark and knowing; omniscient clouds watching the lost wanderings of the citizens here.
A car rolls into the driveway of this gray-blue house. The red trim fading to brown, but still managing to be quaint. Quaintness abounds in this place.
The car doors open, and like some sort of warped-reality-infused clown car, three people, two milk crates, two purses, one back pack, two shoulder bags, one laundry basket, and many, many boxes tumbled out in a wave of mix-matched belongings. Two young women and a mom, cramped but swollen with a sense of accomplishment, stumble and stretch in the driveway, gravel crunching under their shoes.
Home for one young woman, the other a stranger to this place. Her scuffed chuck taylor's shift uncomfortably as she looks around. The clouds shift as well, watching this new person stepping into this old place.
There are secrets here. They live in the walls of this gray-blue house. They lurk in the shadows. They peek from the corners, wary of this intruder. If they had voices they would murmur "You don't belong here". If they were boisterous they would shriek "Get out!". It's a good thing secrets are never boisterous. They must be contented to watch, like the clouds overhead that creep over the rooftop, whisper past the chimney and rustle through the bamboo.
For the one who's home this is, it is a bittersweet day. The bitterness overcomes her as the tension between mother and daughter mounts. Then passes. To be home is both a comfort and a risk for the young woman. The secrets held in the walls of this house are also held in her heart, and cannot be aired out in front of a guest. It would mar the quaintness this visitor is subjected to.
The two women are bonded by their similarities but enriched by their differences. They are still learning and yet still hesitant to learn. That's why they have decided to spend a week in each person's home town. To lean an ear to each other's walls and listen to their secrets. The secrets that have no voices, but speak so loudly.
The house is quiet. Cool inside, but not cold. The carpet quiets the sound of feet marching up and down stairs, carrying in the scattered belongings from the car. The muffled sounds only last a little while and then quiet inhabits the house again.
The young women are not quiet, and thus do not belong here. They have voices and ideas and passion. All things this town lost many years ago. College kids, they are brimming with potential and here potential had the risk of being squandered. It was unsafe for young minds, like these women's, to stay in this place for long, lest they and their ideas get stuck here forever only to fade and be forgotten.
The women see some of their peers stuck like gnats in flypaper. And some who, like them, are only here as long as they have to be. This place is limbo; a stepping stone on the path to success. It is not a way station for lost souls for them, unlike others here. They see the horizon and they move towards it, not away.
Rain clouds roll by like the tumbleweeds in the old west. And before long, the two women roll away with them.
A silent pall falls over the house with no neighbors, a gravel driveway, and a make-shift bamboo forest. A sad place, maybe. Broken, like many of the dreams in this town; like many of the people here.
Small but sprawling. Few people, but many miles. Miles between them physically, but emotionally too. I wish I could say there was a glimmer of hope, some small ray of light out there. But those rolling tumbleweed clouds have blocked out the sun.
On summer days like these, the evenings last longer than other places. They stretch forever like the one lane roads in this town. But the evenings here are dark and knowing; omniscient clouds watching the lost wanderings of the citizens here.
A car rolls into the driveway of this gray-blue house. The red trim fading to brown, but still managing to be quaint. Quaintness abounds in this place.
The car doors open, and like some sort of warped-reality-infused clown car, three people, two milk crates, two purses, one back pack, two shoulder bags, one laundry basket, and many, many boxes tumbled out in a wave of mix-matched belongings. Two young women and a mom, cramped but swollen with a sense of accomplishment, stumble and stretch in the driveway, gravel crunching under their shoes.
Home for one young woman, the other a stranger to this place. Her scuffed chuck taylor's shift uncomfortably as she looks around. The clouds shift as well, watching this new person stepping into this old place.
There are secrets here. They live in the walls of this gray-blue house. They lurk in the shadows. They peek from the corners, wary of this intruder. If they had voices they would murmur "You don't belong here". If they were boisterous they would shriek "Get out!". It's a good thing secrets are never boisterous. They must be contented to watch, like the clouds overhead that creep over the rooftop, whisper past the chimney and rustle through the bamboo.
For the one who's home this is, it is a bittersweet day. The bitterness overcomes her as the tension between mother and daughter mounts. Then passes. To be home is both a comfort and a risk for the young woman. The secrets held in the walls of this house are also held in her heart, and cannot be aired out in front of a guest. It would mar the quaintness this visitor is subjected to.
The two women are bonded by their similarities but enriched by their differences. They are still learning and yet still hesitant to learn. That's why they have decided to spend a week in each person's home town. To lean an ear to each other's walls and listen to their secrets. The secrets that have no voices, but speak so loudly.
The house is quiet. Cool inside, but not cold. The carpet quiets the sound of feet marching up and down stairs, carrying in the scattered belongings from the car. The muffled sounds only last a little while and then quiet inhabits the house again.
The young women are not quiet, and thus do not belong here. They have voices and ideas and passion. All things this town lost many years ago. College kids, they are brimming with potential and here potential had the risk of being squandered. It was unsafe for young minds, like these women's, to stay in this place for long, lest they and their ideas get stuck here forever only to fade and be forgotten.
The women see some of their peers stuck like gnats in flypaper. And some who, like them, are only here as long as they have to be. This place is limbo; a stepping stone on the path to success. It is not a way station for lost souls for them, unlike others here. They see the horizon and they move towards it, not away.
Rain clouds roll by like the tumbleweeds in the old west. And before long, the two women roll away with them.
Monday, June 6, 2011
At Last, Here We Are
I find myself at the end. The end of freshman year of college, that is. It has been a long journey. I have changed a lot, I suppose. I guess if you've been keeping up on reading this blog you know that. I know it. For certain. It wasn't linear growth, that's for sure. But growth has happened. I can't say exactly what has changed. I'm certainly the same person. I'm just... several months older? But it's more than that. I have had so many experiences this year that have made me who I am today, consciously and probably subconsciously.
Here are some things I learned:
1. Do laundry on Monday mornings or Tuesday nights. Those times are consistently the least crowded. Wednesdays are pretty good too.
2. Befriend your roommate. It makes things easier. If you gotta sleep next to them, you might as well not have to worry that they are going to stab you in the night. Or what have you.
3. Make the best of the dorms. Decorate, make friends, relax. This is your home, make it homey.
4. Plan ahead so fun can be had. Get your homework down, take care of your responsibilities. Then when fun comes around you aren't stuck on a Friday night doing laundry because you don't have pants to go to that party.
5. Get advised, go to office hours, don't be afraid to ask for help. If you are lucky like me your adviser will be a super hottie. If you're really lucky, your professors and TA's will always be there for help. And if you ask for help, you will be one step ahead of your peers-- and you won't feel as overwhelmed after.
6. You are here to get a degree. I know that freshman year is to figure your shit out, but take it from me, once you DO figure out what you want to do, you are going to regret the time you have wasted. It seems impossible to finish my (hopefully) double major in the next two years. Fuuuuuuu--. Get on top of your shit. Now. Not later.
7. Join a community of people. I joined a writers collective and have submerged myself fully in that group of people. Without Manic Mouth Congress, and the people who take part in that group, I would be adrift. They have become a huge anchor for me, who is a bit lost in college life. If you guys are reading this, this is a specific shout out to y'all.
8. Take it one day at a time. College is hard. And complicated. LIFE is hard. LIFE is complicated. Break it down day by day and know that there is always tomorrow. Don't overwhelm yourself. It can happen easily. Don't let it get you down.
9. Read my blog. Ok, so this is purely selfish of me. I do want to amass a readership. So keep reading, share it on facebook, twitter, what have you.
I'm sure that there are THOUSANDS of other things but I have finals to study for and I don't have time to think of them ALL. Plus, I can't tell you all the secrets of life, you gotta figure this out yourself! I guess, that's a good note to end on. Go get 'em tiger!
Happy End of Freshman Year Everyone! Let's go finals! Bring me summer!
Here are some things I learned:
1. Do laundry on Monday mornings or Tuesday nights. Those times are consistently the least crowded. Wednesdays are pretty good too.
2. Befriend your roommate. It makes things easier. If you gotta sleep next to them, you might as well not have to worry that they are going to stab you in the night. Or what have you.
3. Make the best of the dorms. Decorate, make friends, relax. This is your home, make it homey.
4. Plan ahead so fun can be had. Get your homework down, take care of your responsibilities. Then when fun comes around you aren't stuck on a Friday night doing laundry because you don't have pants to go to that party.
5. Get advised, go to office hours, don't be afraid to ask for help. If you are lucky like me your adviser will be a super hottie. If you're really lucky, your professors and TA's will always be there for help. And if you ask for help, you will be one step ahead of your peers-- and you won't feel as overwhelmed after.
6. You are here to get a degree. I know that freshman year is to figure your shit out, but take it from me, once you DO figure out what you want to do, you are going to regret the time you have wasted. It seems impossible to finish my (hopefully) double major in the next two years. Fuuuuuuu--. Get on top of your shit. Now. Not later.
7. Join a community of people. I joined a writers collective and have submerged myself fully in that group of people. Without Manic Mouth Congress, and the people who take part in that group, I would be adrift. They have become a huge anchor for me, who is a bit lost in college life. If you guys are reading this, this is a specific shout out to y'all.
8. Take it one day at a time. College is hard. And complicated. LIFE is hard. LIFE is complicated. Break it down day by day and know that there is always tomorrow. Don't overwhelm yourself. It can happen easily. Don't let it get you down.
9. Read my blog. Ok, so this is purely selfish of me. I do want to amass a readership. So keep reading, share it on facebook, twitter, what have you.
I'm sure that there are THOUSANDS of other things but I have finals to study for and I don't have time to think of them ALL. Plus, I can't tell you all the secrets of life, you gotta figure this out yourself! I guess, that's a good note to end on. Go get 'em tiger!
Happy End of Freshman Year Everyone! Let's go finals! Bring me summer!
Something Epic
Sometimes I lack something epic; something that takes my breath away. I need something awesome, using the proper definition: Extremely impressive or daunting; inspiring great admiration, apprehension, or fear. I want something legendary.
I want to read epic things. I want to read about King Arthur and Camelot. I want to read about Bilbo and Gandalf. I want to read about Zeus and Hades. I want to read about damsels in distress, heroes in danger, evil being conquered, dragons, fairies, magic, elves, adventure.
I want to do epic things. I want to explore unknown lands, invent something useful, discover something amazing, meet inspiring people, see the good, the bad and the ugly in the world. I want to see what I can see, do what I can do, wonder all that I can wonder.
I have a definite lack of epicness. I need to feel inspired. I need to be rejuvenated. It’s like I need to have an electric shock. I feel limp. Like I’m floating through life. Like everything I read is fluff. Like all the movies I see are… either horribly scripted, horribly acted, horribly filmed, horribly directed… or all of the above. Like all the things I do are automatic reflexes. I’m performing the motions of life, the things required or expected of me. The things I do for “fun” these days are also uninspiring. Watching TV or a movie, sleeping, eating, wandering around aimlessly. That’s my problem. I feel aimless. I need an aim. I need to be aimful.
I think that’s why I want something epic—because it’s aimful.
I tried to watched Merlin, this TV show on Netflix Instant watch. I will probably continue to try to be inspired by it. However, it is just in general a horrible show. It’s an awesome premise, the story of young Merlin. But… Oh Dear LORD is it predictable, poorly made, and half-heartedly acted. I want desperately to love it. It’s just hard to force yourself to perceive something as awesome (see above definition).
When I get home (10 days bitches!) I am going to DIVE into mythology. Favorite thing about summer is that I can basically do what I want. And I am going to submerse myself in several things. Italian, fairy tales, and other EPIC THINGS.
I keep using this term epic. There are so many things. I guess when I say epic it is the classic tales of adventure, fantasy, fairy tales, legends, myths… It’s a vague term I admit, but I have a vague sense of it. I WANT IT and I’ll look just about anywhere to find it.
My first step is King Arthur. If the TV show Merlin did anything it was inspire me to delve deeper into the legends of Camelot.
While I was thinking about this issue I realized a kind of exciting revelation: I could write my own epic story. In fact, I have had an epic story boiling in my brain for as long as I can remember but it seems stuck in my head and I’m a little afraid of writing it down. That will be summer goal number… whatever. I am going to start that story.
This story is unlike anything I have ever written. It has one fundamental difference. It’s… A novel.
Yes. That’s right. I am going to start writing a novel. A novel I have been telling myself I would write for…ever.
But first. I read.
I want to read epic things. I want to read about King Arthur and Camelot. I want to read about Bilbo and Gandalf. I want to read about Zeus and Hades. I want to read about damsels in distress, heroes in danger, evil being conquered, dragons, fairies, magic, elves, adventure.
I want to do epic things. I want to explore unknown lands, invent something useful, discover something amazing, meet inspiring people, see the good, the bad and the ugly in the world. I want to see what I can see, do what I can do, wonder all that I can wonder.
I have a definite lack of epicness. I need to feel inspired. I need to be rejuvenated. It’s like I need to have an electric shock. I feel limp. Like I’m floating through life. Like everything I read is fluff. Like all the movies I see are… either horribly scripted, horribly acted, horribly filmed, horribly directed… or all of the above. Like all the things I do are automatic reflexes. I’m performing the motions of life, the things required or expected of me. The things I do for “fun” these days are also uninspiring. Watching TV or a movie, sleeping, eating, wandering around aimlessly. That’s my problem. I feel aimless. I need an aim. I need to be aimful.
I think that’s why I want something epic—because it’s aimful.
I tried to watched Merlin, this TV show on Netflix Instant watch. I will probably continue to try to be inspired by it. However, it is just in general a horrible show. It’s an awesome premise, the story of young Merlin. But… Oh Dear LORD is it predictable, poorly made, and half-heartedly acted. I want desperately to love it. It’s just hard to force yourself to perceive something as awesome (see above definition).
When I get home (10 days bitches!) I am going to DIVE into mythology. Favorite thing about summer is that I can basically do what I want. And I am going to submerse myself in several things. Italian, fairy tales, and other EPIC THINGS.
I keep using this term epic. There are so many things. I guess when I say epic it is the classic tales of adventure, fantasy, fairy tales, legends, myths… It’s a vague term I admit, but I have a vague sense of it. I WANT IT and I’ll look just about anywhere to find it.
My first step is King Arthur. If the TV show Merlin did anything it was inspire me to delve deeper into the legends of Camelot.
While I was thinking about this issue I realized a kind of exciting revelation: I could write my own epic story. In fact, I have had an epic story boiling in my brain for as long as I can remember but it seems stuck in my head and I’m a little afraid of writing it down. That will be summer goal number… whatever. I am going to start that story.
This story is unlike anything I have ever written. It has one fundamental difference. It’s… A novel.
Yes. That’s right. I am going to start writing a novel. A novel I have been telling myself I would write for…ever.
But first. I read.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
I've Started Talking to Myself...
I was going to write a poem. Or maybe some prose. About fallen stars. I had my first line down: To find the fallen stars, do not look up, look down. Then I got stuck. So as of now I must keep that line in mind for future creative writing. I have a whole list of single lines that sound perfect in my head but can't seem to inspire anything but themselves.
So I write them down and move on.
This is me moving on.
...
But really, brain, you can do this.
...
Okay, let's go...
Fallen stars.
Stop it.
Do not look up.
Brain, you gotta move on, buddy.
Look down.
You're fixating again.
Look down, not up.
I'm gunna go out on a limb here and say this is becoming an obsession.
Stars...
You have a problem.
Nope, I can't get there today.
The first step to fixing a problem is recognizing it.
But...
No! You were doing so well.
You're right.
I know.
I know you know, I'm you remember.
Now this is confusing.
I'm lost.
Is this the rational side or the irrational side.
I don't know
Get out of my head!
Dammit I AM your head.
Let's not fight.
You're right.
I know.
I know you know.
This is how our last argument began.
You're right.
I know.
Ha! You fell for it.
Reaaaal mature.
Yeah? As mature as pretending you are arguing with yourself? Cheap laughs.
Shut up.
I can't shut up, I'm your stream of consciousness.
Yeah, well I'm redirecting the stream.
I don't think it works like that.
Well I got you to stop thinking about fallen stars didn't I?
You're right.
I know.
Heh. You did it again.
Let's get past this.
After you.
Well... Whaddya wanna talk about?
I don't know.
The people are waiting.
...
They are going to want something.
...
They are expecting something enlightening.
...
Illuminating?
...
Okay, now your just being childish.
AM NOT.
ARE TOO.
AM NOT.
ARE-- enough. I am above this.
AM NOT.
ARE TOO.
Gotcha!
Dammit.
Heh. I win.
We're not getting anywhere today are we?
Nope.
Should I just give up?
Probably.
At least I tried.
You're right.
I know.
Oh, I know you know.
...
So I write them down and move on.
This is me moving on.
...
But really, brain, you can do this.
...
Okay, let's go...
Fallen stars.
Stop it.
Do not look up.
Brain, you gotta move on, buddy.
Look down.
You're fixating again.
Look down, not up.
I'm gunna go out on a limb here and say this is becoming an obsession.
Stars...
You have a problem.
Nope, I can't get there today.
The first step to fixing a problem is recognizing it.
But...
No! You were doing so well.
You're right.
I know.
I know you know, I'm you remember.
Now this is confusing.
I'm lost.
Is this the rational side or the irrational side.
I don't know
Get out of my head!
Dammit I AM your head.
Let's not fight.
You're right.
I know.
I know you know.
This is how our last argument began.
You're right.
I know.
Ha! You fell for it.
Reaaaal mature.
Yeah? As mature as pretending you are arguing with yourself? Cheap laughs.
Shut up.
I can't shut up, I'm your stream of consciousness.
Yeah, well I'm redirecting the stream.
I don't think it works like that.
Well I got you to stop thinking about fallen stars didn't I?
You're right.
I know.
Heh. You did it again.
Let's get past this.
After you.
Well... Whaddya wanna talk about?
I don't know.
The people are waiting.
...
They are going to want something.
...
They are expecting something enlightening.
...
Illuminating?
...
Okay, now your just being childish.
AM NOT.
ARE TOO.
AM NOT.
ARE-- enough. I am above this.
AM NOT.
ARE TOO.
Gotcha!
Dammit.
Heh. I win.
We're not getting anywhere today are we?
Nope.
Should I just give up?
Probably.
At least I tried.
You're right.
I know.
Oh, I know you know.
...
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