Friday, December 18, 2009

Surprise and Remark

I just realized that I have absolutely no record of my life written down since November the 9th. However, I cannot say that much has changed since then; merely names, dates, events, thoughts, feelings, words. Nothing of massive significance. Nothing that Milankovich would find too terribly interesting.

Today, though, is of the highest significance for me because it is the day of absolute liberation. Freedom. Release. Detachment from caring about academia, I suppose, and absolute lack of anything severely important to do. What now? Hibernation. Rejuvenation. Mending of the soul. Things like that.

As usual, awfully theatrical. What to expect, though, from a woman just fresh out of way too many credits? I've decided that I don't care how long undergrad takes me, within reason, because it's just not worth it. I'd rather do well than alright. I'd rather not feel the things that I was feeling this week. The itching, burning, dizzy, nauseating feelings that bombarded my existence. The what-ifs and have-tos and not going outside for three straight days. Human beings can't live that way, they can't even survive that way. I refuse, I refuse, I refuse.

So after spring of 2010, I bite the bullet. The bullet that's made out of time. Bite, chew, digest time. Take time. Taste time. Take and taste my sweet time.

Why? Because I remain unconvinced that the world will end the year that I'm theoretically supposed to graduate. Rubbish. And even if the world does end that year, I could not care less. I still live my life such that it is brimming over with...fulfillment.


Monday, November 09, 2009

Backwards Pulse

Every time I walk toward a door, I half-expect it to slam right in my face. Not cynically, though, but realistically, and with a smile. Because when I get up there and it shuts, leaving me stranded, I know I'm not really stranded. There's nothing stopping me from going around, walking through the next door in line with the same smirk and saunter.

I like a life where I can afford to procrastinate a little, where I can wear t-shirts and stay out after dark and not freeze. Such worlds are short-lived and will be gone the next time I blink. I know they will be back, though.

In other news, I've been showing many symptoms of robot-itis. No cure for that, though, none that I can come up with. It's a two-sided disease of chemical back-flips and things of that nature. No pill for that.


Friday, October 23, 2009

The Lucky Resistance

They said that journalling helps. I already knew that. But since I've been numb all this time I've charted out my emotions instead of just feeling. Things go from terrifying to fascinating and back to terrifying. Humanity was never promising, but I naturally always wished to find the best in everybody and believed that there was much more good inside of them than bad. But people refuse to look at the facts, the law, the ramifications; begin to disregard common sense and decency; slip backwards into into ignorance. All the intelligence in the world cannot triumph over ignorance, only because ignorance in its purest form refuses to learn, to be taught. Where is the progress then? Where is the hope?

"Pressed but not crushed, struck down and oppressed but not destroyed, persecuted but NOT ABANDONED."

Maybe I was looking for something that was right under my nose. Just that phrase. Just that hope. Crawling back into the rows and columns of community to hear that verse. I collapsed on a bench only to be met with support. I've had so much support this year but refuse to become totally dependent, emotionally. I want to save so much, to heal so much, to be somebody who makes some sort of difference but does so with strength, dignity and confidence. However, there is just so much to fix and my head is filled with so many things from so many different directions that I wonder if all of my passion is being spread ocean-wide and inch-deep. Do I have what it takes to accomplish everything? What makes sense and what doesn't? What will kill me and what will save me? I am afraid of being too mentally exhausted to be able to have that mandatory go-getter attitude, but I go-and-get a lot of things.

No more limits.

If I need to do something, I do it. If I need to say something, I say it. If I have the ability to make it better, I make it better. Fulfillment comes in different forms, and it comes to me in a very strange way. It comes after a passionate discussion, a musical collaboration, honest contact, unapologetic intelligence, concrete community. It comes when I am not afraid, when I know exactly where my voice is, when my bathroom walls are covered in physics equations. Fulfillment comes to me and presents itself in an opportunity; often times it comes in silence and finds me when I need it the most. This is how I define or imagine a purpose for my life. This is how I manage; how I not only survive, but live.


Thursday, October 08, 2009

The Elsewhere Otherwise Alternative

No complaining allowed, just honesty. Actually...we'll see.

I feel like a whole lot of people will make lists of the "Things I Learned in College" that have absolutely nothing to do with academia, and I'll admit, I do this occasionally as well. No shame in that. However, my list does have a bit to do with academia. Rephrase: I've a bone to pick with academia, at the moment.

This semester feels a bit different than the previous two. I've a little more time but a lot more stress. I've a couple more classes but a lot less sanity. I'm in charge of a few more things but I feel exponentially less important. Where is the balance?

Here's how it seems at the moment: I can study and review and communicate until my brain is just replete with knowledge, but it isn't making a dent. I can work all hours of the day, but it isn't making a dent. Fail fail. Lose lose. Because if I can't achieve 35 credits of awesome this year, I can wave goodbye to every honor organization, every honor course. Does that matter?

It does, and I'll tell you why. Not only do I lose my dignity but I also lose money. Thousands of dollars invested into who I am, into my higher education. Why does it all depend on a GPA when courses are designed to lower it? There has to be something more. There has to be another way, a better way.

But in about 24 hours, my aunt is taking me to get a decent meal. Not that I deserve it, or any of my precious friends, or anything else nice that is happening in life. A few hours after that, more nice things to come. I have a near future of "nice" and a distant future of "?". That's...comforting, at least a bit. At least I can turn a question mark. At least I can do my best. At least I can try and roll with the system.

And if nothing gets better? It isn't because I'm not trying; it's just because I'm not winning.


Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Panic Eve


It's been worse, yeah, but on a shorter timescale...ish. Biggest one last year: 18 hours. Never four days. Never. I've never never felt this dark for this long, or at least not in a while.

So there's an excerpt from the Vagina Monologues, I suppose, from one Latina to another. Something about a short skirt. A short, empowering skirt. A short, empowering skirt and how everything underneath it is mine. MINE.

So auditions are Sunday and Monday, but I think I've decided that my mental well-being can't take much more of that. It might be too much. One more tiny pick-axe chipping away at my soul. Don't need that.

Because moods have been low. Spirit is in denial and distant. Intelligence took a dive. Panic symptoms higher than usual. I can't cry. So what is the deal?

Beats me. In all forms.

Friday, September 18, 2009

Funny Things

Here's how it seems:
I live in a cube.
I live in a cube with a girl and a lizard.
I leave my cube to go to Physics in the morning to learn about Electromagnetism.
I leave Physics in the morning to go to Sociology or Biology to learn about the Ecosystem.
I leave Sociology or Biology to go to Calculus IV to learn about Differential Equations.
I leave Calculus IV to go to Astronomy to learn about Cosmology.
I leave Astronomy to go to Choir to learn to use my Voice.
I leave Choir to go to Work to Teach Algebra.
I leave Work to go to E5M to Promote Social Justice.
I leave E5M and go back to my cube to do Homework and Things.
I live in a cube.

Here's how it is:
I live in a polygon.
I live in a polygon with a friend and a pet and a coffee maker and lots of pictures.
I leave my polygon because I haven't the slightest idea how to master Electromagnetism.
I leave EM because life is precious but friends are better, and everything is interrelated.
I leave again because math can be learned, can be solved; it's possible.
I leave math to go to a class in which I laugh and click and relieve stress.
I leave that to sing at the top of my lungs with beautiful people.
I leave rehearsal to learn from my students; to feel important.
I leave work to mix my passions with the passions of others; to stop a crime.
I leave to go back to my polygon; back home.
I live at home.


Sunday, August 30, 2009

I've Been British RTed?

These past few days have been filled with incredibly good news. Elaborate? Nah. Nothing of substance is really actually going on in my life for once. If I tried, though, substance would show up. I'm not worried. It'll be here soon.

Here's the thing. I'm getting up early tomorrow to move back to the university, which sounds like love at first sight to me. Living there is like living in an asylum in the best possible way. That is why I must go.

For example, I dropped by yesterday and in the twenty minute span of me being in Holmes Hall, SO many ridiculous shenanigans took place. Long story short, I learned a very valuable lesson: do not attempt to use toilet paper that has been accidentally doused in scented oil. And then I'm left asking why these things ALWAYS happen to me...but really? I love my hilarious existence. A friend told me yesterday that I lived such an adventurous life while she had worked all summer, and I responded by pointing out that I've no money to show for all of my adventure. Looking back, though, I'd much rather have adventure than cash. So lets see how long I last with that mentality.

On a new subject though, I was explaining my hectic fall schedule to another friend, and like most people after hearing that list of nincompoopery, she asked if I wanted to kill myself, as if I made the rules for the university and had a personal death-wish. I said yes; and the sooner the better.

Obviously, I was kidding. But what am I doing all of this for? I've been flippantly telling people that, no, I'm not going to work for NASA--NASA will work for me. That's the plan. And I see no reason why not.

But then I realize how little I know. How hard I've been working and how much harder I must work. How much strife is worth it? How do I measure success, because I certainly don't measure it like the rest of the world seems to. Not deep down.

So here's the real answer. If you want to know what in the world I'm going to do with an Astrophysics doctorate, why the hell I am in love with Ireland so much, why I didn't choose music school over science school, why I've awakened the activist in me, here's why:

It makes me happy. This is the closest thing to fulfillment that I can find; everything that I do I have at least a little reason for doing. However I don't and shouldn't have a concrete plan for life; that's silly. I have a general outline that looks like a ball of yarn. It goes in a million directions but it comes together into a semi-perfect sphere. What is life if you can't enjoy at least a portion of the ride? It doesn't have to make sense. I do what makes me happy.

See, nothing of real substance here. Can't make this mean anything today, but like I said, I'm not worried. Substance is near. Stay tuned.


Sunday, August 23, 2009

Justice And/Or Mercy

There is a song by Flyleaf called Justice and Mercy, and from the moment I heard it I was sold. Lyrically, it's empowering. Musically, it's powerful in itself. Theoretically, it's revolutionary. Literally? I'm not so sure. I didn't actually think about or decompose the words 'justice' and 'mercy' until this morning, when Pastor Marvin was talking about 'the demands of justice' versus 'the longings of love'.

Because until now I figured that justice and mercy were attainable concurrently.


People want justice for those who have done them wrong, but mercy for when they themselves do others wrong. It's just so very human.

I'm not a fool. I don't really actually think that justice fully exists. We live in a relatively justice-less world, where getting away with it, whatever 'it' may be, is the only thrill that people want. Getting away with it is pretty simple here, because people have added fluff to justice. Fluffy minimum sentences. Fluffy parole dates. Fluff. Justice is not a fluffy word. It's heavy and it has its own baggage. Justice will condemn a person. Justice will assign and enforce responsibility. Justice will rightfully kill a person.

On the flip side, though, mercy exists a bit. Mercy is the reason that justice is so absent. America, or Michigan, or Ingham County, rather, will give second chances out like candy. It's a free-for-all. You've made a mistake? Oh, you've killed? You've raped? Well, darling, crawl onto the judge's lap and say you're very, very sorry; he or she will give you a stern talking-to and maybe even smack your knuckles, but then wipe your tears, pat your back, and send you on your way. So go ahead. Kill again. Rape again. Mercy will set you free, because mercy trumps justice here.

That is so unbearably twisted. Justice would condemn; mercy just...forgave. Flippantly. With disregard. I'm not so sure that was in the original plan for mercy.

I just wish that the two could coexist. Not a mixture of two extreme opposites, but just a cooperation. The ONLY place where the two meet is at the cross. The ONLY person who experienced justice and mercy concurrently is Jesus Christ.

Because the demands of justice required a brutal death, but the longings of love, this depth of mercy, required a second chance for every man, every woman, every child. Everybody.

It's massive. It's ground-breaking. Justice meets Mercy. North meets South. East meets West.

That means that there exists a hope for me. I deserve the very depths of literal, condemning justice, but I don't experience that. I get away with it, BUT more than that, though, I have the option to make things right. I have the option to experience mercy, but not without the requirements of judgment. I'm judged by what I do, and I am sentenced to death, but Somebody has mercy on me. This is important: the foot of the cross is where the two meet. It isn't anywhere else, certainly not any courtroom in America. Justice and Mercy, at the cross: the opposites coming together.


Saturday, August 15, 2009

The Post-Eire Era

Update: I am in America, currently. Back from a ridiculously successful trip to Ireland, but not really sure what to say. I remember when I got back from Ireland for the first time, I sat down and typed out page after page of memories and stories and...I have just as many things to tell this time, I just would rather tell them to you face-to-face, if you ask. I'll tell you that Ireland is getting better. I'll tell you about the darkness but then I'll tell you about the light that is to come. I'll tell you about the huge amount of power in the land and sea. I'll tell you about the kiddos, about the parents, about the friends and foes. I'll tell you about the team, about the food, about the victories, about the laughter, about the tears, about the unity, about the signs, the wonders, the miracles. If you ask.

Because I'm head-over-heels in love with it; with it and the people within it. If you usually read my documentations of thought, you probably know this already. You know how much I felt like I had to go back. You know how addicted I am. You know how obsessed. You know, so you must know how incredibly good it was for me to breathe Irish air again. But that's all terribly dramatic, isn't it?

As I said, I'm in America. I look and feel like a wild child of the summer, complete with burned nose and wispy, sun-blonde hair. It is good to be home, whatever "home" is. I'm moving back to the university soon, where I will disappear into a void of scheduled pandemonium and all I will have to worry about is achieving seventeen credits of awesome. Well, that and swimming until my lungs give out. And fighting along with the colleagues as hard as ever to eradicate the existence of sexual assault. And grading a zillion math papers. And all the things that I do.

But when all of that smoke clears away, and I take with me the things I learn and the memories and friendships and empowerment, support, experience, growth, I will be left with opportunity after opportunity. I have a rough plan, but it's foolish to plan. So, version two of my plan, or Plan B, if you will, is to jump on every opportunity that I have enough sanity for.

So basically just do what I do always. Keep living life. Keep. Living. Life.


Friday, July 17, 2009

Cyclic Conundrums


Interesting few days, to say the very least. And in advance, please do your best to forgive the jumbled nature of the following. There has been plenty on my mind, for worse and for much, much better.

If you're reading, though, you should know that the FBI forms are on their way, and soon after I will be on my way back to Ireland. It's difficult to imagine the depth of how much I need this. Sometimes it's a physical ache. Sometimes it's a mental strain. Sometimes it's a lump in my throat. Sometimes it's a fondly-kept memory. Mostly it's a passion I don't understand; rather, I understand that there exists a reason for feeling the way I do but I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do with it.

Enough about that, though.

Lately, life is back to a place it's been before. That is to say: the things that are occurring now mirror things that have occurred in the past, some five years back. I am beginning to remember things, things I'd just as soon forget but really shouldn't. One should never forget the past, just learn things from it.

Among other things, I've happened upon the support-less existence I once lived. Usually, the thing I want most is to be understood, although "to be great is to be misunderstood" [R.W.E]. Or maybe it's just being accepted as who I am. I am a fighter. I fight for things I believe in and I fight against things that defy justice and security and humanity. If it pleases you to take comfort in an overtly peaceful, comfortable and apathetic existence, so be it. But do understand that I am not like that. Do not whip out a fake drawl in your speech while expressing how much you do not care about equality. I won't take it lightly.

So it reminds me of something.

And something else.

And I can't help but wonder if my life is beginning a second cycle of similar events, but in doing so, life is not getting more difficult but less. Less because I've fought these battles before. I've grown hopelessly lax in my self-sufficiency [although I'm told that self-sufficiency is a sin, I digress] and I know I used to be stronger than this. What now? Grow calloused and comfortable in already-fought and already-victorious battles? Where is the zeal then? If this is so, then my life is growing monstrously lackluster.

But I refuse to believe that.

I think that the cycle is not a cycle but rather a regression of thought, a memory, a place to go in order to relate. I expressed to friends earlier this week how important it was for me to find a community, where alienation was minimal, where judgments were not passed, where I was safe.

I cling to it.

Community is one thing, though, regression is another. I suppose it would be prudent to try and decipher between regression and the comfort of a been-there-done-that situation. Perhaps it would be wise to sort out fact and fiction, place them in categories, and put them in storage for later. But I've never been that organized.

I think what I'll actually do is go off to Ireland. It's no vacation, but in a way, I'm vacating from everything here. It's comforting, because the moment I remember why I moved out is the moment I just have to leave again.

And the moment is near, if not already passed.


Sunday, July 12, 2009

Sick Repeat

It's no secret that I'm anxious, that I'm scared. I should be, but I also know that I should also have faith. Faith like Mountains, or even Faith like Potatoes.

I think that when women pray for the hearts of men, it's usually for the heart of a man that they wish to marry someday; a prayerfully-crafted mystical being with rippling muscles and a golden heart, although we know that such a creature might not actually exist in the real world. However, we all know that I'm different from those women. So tonight I think I'll pray for the heart of a man who I do not plan to marry, much less meet face-to-face. The heart of a man who does actually exist. The heart of the man who will read my email tomorrow morning. The heart of the man who will hear my plea, be my judge, and God-willing, be the instigator of an absolute miracle. The heart of a man who works for the FBI-CJIS Division. The heart of a man who will not stumble in to work with a case of "The Mondays". The heart of a man who will be compassionate, who will be understanding, who will be patient, who will be diligent.

That's who I'm praying for.

Because I really, really need this document back.


Sunday, June 28, 2009

Here's My Story

Sometimes I wish that I could voice-record these entries so that you can feel the passion and the inflections in my voice; so that you can understand and interpret what my tone is suggesting. Ah, well. I suppose that the point of reading is to imagine and create, and my voice is trivial. However...

For the first time, I had a split second in which I enjoyed the company of a cat more than that of a dog. See, yesterday, I went to look after two dogs and a cat and sometime in the middle of all of the structured tranquility that accompanies a home so deeply settled into the forest and so far from the road, I had some sort of falling-out with myself. You see, I had already had a stressful day, beginning with my bake sale that was profitable, however hectic. I broke out in poison ivy, or something like it, for the first time in my life, (plenty of firsts, here...) and I was tired and uncomfortable. But the breaking point occurred when I realized that I had accidentally backed the van too far off the driveway down a steep bank so it was resting on its middle and none of the four tires could grasp the ground enough to turn properly.

Usually, I would be ashamed to tell you this; I am not the type of girl who usually lets tears flow freely in front of judgmental faces. Perhaps, though, this will allow you to know me a little better, if you dare. In my own defense, I was exhausted and hungry and just wished to be home in my room without this hair-tangle of a situation, so I cried a bit. I wandered over to the two wooden chairs (probably meant for two lovers and not a single crier) and plopped down and brought my knees up to myself and...I wasn't even embarrassed because there was nobody around to hear me. Nothing but the ducks on the pond and the clouds in the sky. And a cat.

I am a dog person. I think cats are devious little creatures. But this cat...this cat thinks he's a dog, in my opinion, and he was different. He came up, meowing and purring, and climbed on my lap. I didn't mind that he was shedding globs of white hair on my black shirt. He let me hold on to him until my angry father arrived, until I didn't need his softness anymore, until I wasn't alone.

So driving back today, I thought that I should perhaps make sure I gave the cat a little extra care, because he deserves to live.

And driving back today also, while listening to Lake Michigan by Rogue Wave on repeat, I noticed how beautiful Williamston is in the summer. While sticking my arm out the car window and caressing the speed-induced wind with my fingers, I noticed the trees. Summer trees have so much life about them; there is something that makes them so much less inanimate than other Earthly things around them. The six-eight ballad lilted out of my car's stereo and I swear that the Evergreens swayed to the beat. The Crab-Apples shook like uproarious laughter or thunderous applause. The Maples and Oaks and Birches softly whirred amongst themselves, waving at me like graceful pixies.

So the artistic half in my soul took over, for a moment. I didn't have to be a scientist, for once. I wasn't just a day-laborer. I wasn't a broke college student. I breathed in some fresh Michigan summer air, and realized that I am never in love with my own land so much as during summer, autum, or sunset. No matter how much the snow sparkles in winter, if you ask me, a landscape needs a bit of color. I will never be okay with the color white everywhere. In summer, in autumn, at sunset, there is so much diversity. There exists an entire pallette of hues: dominant pinks, royal blues and purples, joyful oranges and luminous yellows.

It sounds crazy, but just look at it.

Maybe this is my mind reacting with the new concept of "allergy medication" or my most recent bout of dizzy spells, but just look at it. It won't last long. Drink it in. Summer is over soon, and personally, I won't have time to enjoy it half as much as I wish to during school.

So maybe we can enjoy our own town for a moment. Instead of constantly looking for somewhere else to go, maybe we can just drive around Michigan because the sun shines golden on the corn fields and glitters in the lakes and rivers.

Summer is here now. Don't miss it.


Friday, June 26, 2009


I've been thinking, for the past couple of days, about how my body looks like a disease. A sun-poisoned, sweat-poisoned, plant-poisoned, bug-poisoned disease. An itchy, crampy, sleepy, liquid disease. Boo.

But all is well.

Today I made a bazillion cookies to sell tomorrow. Regardless of how this works out, I think it will be fun. There's an awful lot of support on my side, though, and I think we'll be fine. Casey and I are singing, anyway, so that will be nice in and of itself.

Moving on.

Let's see. Alienation has made a grand entrance again. It's either my fault or not at all. Who gives a toss? Nobody, and I shouldn't either. People love anyway. People will understand. Will they? Your mother will be coming downstairs to make breakfast. Will she?

I am so exhausted.


Monday, June 08, 2009

Mix Tape Madness

Chords on fire. Stinging prints with tiny callouses. Something red and something sweet. Voices behind pearly whites.
Silver trucks in front of me. Black holes behind me. Left turn and race home. Fidgety fingers and short little breaths. Dots all over. Dots all over. Dots all over. A late night phone call.
Roads stretched out and going forever. Music tickles my ears. Dancing sprites and smiling tots and proud, proud mums and dads. Stage fright conquered. A ham with a kiss. An ice cream shop. A chance to see, to smile.
A long-overdue conversation. Walking back in time and smelling the potent past. A rickety box to take and make loud. Prospects of more road, more time--something so fragile and precious.
Roots and leaves tugging at me, I tugging at them. Sun likes to caress me. Likes to brown me. Likes to burn me. I let it.
People I admire. People I judge. People I hug. People I watch. People I love. People everywhere.

Sunday, May 17, 2009

Scattered Versus Battered

There was a time when I really believed that I could do anything. I believed that given proper resources, time, and energy, the world was at my fingertips.

As it turns out, "believing" in something does not make it automatic. "Believing" something will happen does not guarantee it a spot in the future. However, "believing" in things is what keeps me alive.

I wish I could take the quotations off.

But I've been lazy. I've been forgetful. I've been distracted. I've been burned out?

Just what is it that I am struggling with? Heaven forbid the coming of the day that I have nothing to struggle with. God knows that, in that event, I would certainly find something to weigh me down.

I never thought of myself as that kind of person.

I've listened to "World Spins Madly On" two hundred and ninety seven times and counting, not including the times that Casey and I have sung it ourselves. Yikes. It always does this to me.

Am I cut out for this? Is it supposed to feel like this? Is it supposed to try and kill me? It's summer. Nothing should be killing me, but everything feels like an ambush. Guilty sleeps and lazy wakes. Double-edged fun and repressed hurts. Story of my life. Really?

Nope. Here's the story of my life:

Alex and I almost got locked in a museum after re-navigating Michigan for a change. Adrienne and I successfully avoided the creepers. Amy and I grew up a little. Karri put up with me and my grass stains and my Irish ring-tones and let me watch "Charlie and Lola" with Kyan and play tag with Hudson. Right there? There's where the freedom is, the laughter. But there's always, always, always something slinking up behind me, something I can't see but can feel always. It feels like a little bit of failure mixed with a touch of disappointment, a pinch of un-zipped zippers and a dash of uncertainty and old, moldy paranoia; all grinded into my tense shoulder muscles.

BUT there is always hope. So...

Attention Calculus III, Acute Leukemia, and The Terrifying Past: Your days are few, and your power is no match for me, for us.


Wednesday, April 29, 2009

How Much, How Fast

I'm kicking Facebook to the curb for the time being, even though this note will still filter in to it automatically. Don't let it fool you. Crystal changed my password, anyway, so I couldn't get on even if I really wanted to.

Figured I should write something; it's been a whole twenty days. (GASP) I know. Truth is, I've been so busy with and without school that...I don't even know what to tell you. Here's the thing. In 26 minutes, I'm going to my last chemistry lab. I only have to work my job for three more shifts, that's twelve and a half more hours, that's a lot of dishes and salad. At 9:15 on Tuesday night, my work jeans will turn into my newest pair of summer shorts. It's exciting.

I guess I realized that I'll have to come to terms with not being awesome all the time. Sarcastically, really. It's possible to rock at something and suck at it later; likewise, it's possible to suck at something and rock at it later. It's all in the variables, people. All in the variables.

But I think that every time I got a little green box, every time I picked up a glitter glue pen, every time I printed off a photo, every time I printed off a paper, every time I smelled my little pink carnations, every time I check something off of my window-marker to-do list, every time I laugh so hard that it hurts...these are the small victories that have come to define and inspire my life. So what if I can't focus on the big picture? I want the small things. The important things. The things that help me deal, the things that help me survive.

I want sunburns. Pianos. Tension rods. Laughter. A severe lack of Chemistry lab and Physics. Flowers. Friendships. Anything that gives me a reason to roll off of the futon in the morning. Anything.

I am so in hate, so in love with this.


Thursday, April 09, 2009

Blind Karma

Caitlin, Crystal and I were strolling down the sidewalk when we noticed all of the little patches of sneachta lying around and refusing to melt. So we kicked them, we stomped on them until their brains spilled onto the sidewalk; the clear blood splattered and seeped into our shoes. And people, shocked, looked at us in disbelief and horror. Nobody talked to us. We didn't care. We were laughing together; the merry murderesses, killers in tandem, bosom slayers with a mean, mean kick.

But then we walked to Physics, and Physics did the same thing to us.

Oh well. I guess it makes sense. Somebody In Charge, at Some Point, said Something to the effect of this: Whosoever kills by the sword will die by the sword.

So I guess that can be a phrase which here means: Whosoever murders sneachta on the way to Physics class will be absolutely slaughtered by Physics class.

I wonder why we didn't think of that before...


Wednesday, April 01, 2009

April Fails

Instead of finishing my chemistry homework, or starting my physics homework or my humanities paper, or reading that book again, or recovering from failing my physics exam, or checking and re-check-checking my chemistry lab report, or thinking about going to get fingerprinted, or anything anything that I need to do, I'm going to write here.

Because I fail.

Something has been vibrating and banging above our heads since eight o'clock this morning. I figure it's either construction or very painful sex. Very.

On top of that, apparently, my roommate left in an ambulance last night and spent the better half of it in the hospital; I didn't even wake up...good one, Becca.

I can't help but thinking that I'm not cut out for this at all. It's school. It shouldn't be this difficult to comprehend or succeed at. I have a hard time believing that I'm so lazy that I can't even do my best, but who else can I blame but myself?

Stop blaming. Move on.

Fail more.

This post isn't even worth posting.


Friday, March 13, 2009


The following document was written over the course of March ten, eleven, and twelve in the year two-thousand and nine.

The concept of holiday has been well-encompassed this week. Honestly, I could not imagine staying one more day at the university; I would literally explode (please allow me to be dramatic like this; I go to Science School). Nothing huge in particular. Just several little things that mounted up and festered in my fragile mental state until I, in my degraded-demoted existence, loathed it there.

But it is so, so very good for me to get away. It's impossible to express how blessed I am just to be here today, here in Chicago, where the lights never turn off and it's well nigh impossible to watch where I'm going because I constantly crane my neck to see the tops of the buildings that were specifically crafted with such intricate and stunning architecture. I never thought I'd be so star-struck. I've been here before, but hardly. Just to fly out and fly back in. Going to London excited, then to Shannon, leaving Shannon and rolling my eyes at London then gliding safely into O'Hare. That doesn't count really, but I always include my airport stops in my travelling extravaganzas.

Nevertheless, I was only excited to be in Chicago (partly) because Dillon wrote a screenplay for me and we plan to film some of the scenes at the Art Institute of Chicago. Little Miss Becca Robinson and her first starring role in an amateur short film to be partially shot in the Windy City. Extravagant beyond comprehension.

Today, though, many dramatic events later, mum and I ended up at Union Station bound for not Best Western but the Presidential Towers (woah) tucked like time-bombs into a penthouse-esque 48th floor corporate suite. One look out the window and I was sold. This city entrances me in a different way than most places; it just has so much to offer to so many. And I walked about ten miles of it today.

I won't go into mundane touristy-glazed-over details, because I hate that. Idiotically but prudently, I do try to blend into the atmosphere wherever I travel. I hate looking lost. That's when sweet-talking alcoholics follow you around innocently yet not-so-innocently offering their version of help and direction to deer-in-the-headlights travelers. Looking lost is just about the worst thing you can do in a city, or any place. It's like going to Europe and looking American. Big mistake.

I did feel privileged, though, or maybe I just felt like a pre-economic-failure human being. I actually dined out twice; one of those times being at a quaint little French cafe across from Loyola University. That's not important, but regardless. Today mum and I encountered some of the kindest, most accommodating and friendly individuals; none of which I expected to meet, of course, but was glad afterward. This place is replete with smiling faces, and luckily, the majority of these smiling faces have been hired to deal with everyday Magnificent Mile shoppers. Their jobs have got to be some of the most stressful jobs in the country; people skills have to be perfected and polished; bad moods and personal lives kept at bay. Somehow they pull it off with skill and poise that I just didn't expect in Big Bad Chicago.

What happened next was one of the zeniths of my entire year, to put it that way. Hannah and I made a scene outside of the Disney Store because we haven't seen each other since Halloween and I'm in Chicago and she got out of rehearsal (hooray!). Many a Chicago-ite wondered what these two girls were doing practically glued to each other while simultaneously jumping up and down outside of Disney Store Chicago and squealing near-unintelligible salutations, but most dismissed it with a grin. The two of us and mum then proceeded to prance about the city for a while longer, lingering in stores and playing with Legos and seeing Hannah's day-in-the-life in her apartment-style Columbia dorm. We attempted to get into a sold-out Columbia show, failed, and went to dinner instead. Bittersweet goodbyes, then repetitive I-love-yous, then a prospect of tomorrow, then more sore polka-dotted-rubber-booted feet headed to Madison Street.

Upon entering the penthouse that night, proceeded by many toothy grins and have-a-good-ones, oxygen was sucked out of my lungs again when I saw the night skyline of Chicago out of the 48th floor window. My mum said it looked like smoldering campfure coals when you pour water over the embers. She said it more eloquently, like she always does; she should have been a writer, but I just roll my eyes in flippant disregard. It is later now. I can't stop looking at it. I can't wait for what Tomorrow holds. Filming, as long as Dillon gets here. Filming; my own personal ego-boost of an event. Squeezing more beauty out of a gallery. Squeezing more beauty out of myself. That's the goal.

That WAS the goal, but a turn of events can turn an opinion. So somebody's missed-train later, a whole conundrum of dramatic events spun madly out of control next to the statues of Buddha and Chinese jade. We all wasted too much time playing the Blame Game and roasting in our R-rated attitudes with our R-rated thoughts and our R-rated language to go with our R-rated realities. Then, plans were gashed out of their respective time-slots, re-morphed, and sporadically slammed into different time-slots with all the fury we could muster.

Then, mum and I entered into a room filled with miniature rooms, and somehow felt much, much better.

The smiling individuals at the baggage-check counter told me that my boots reminded them of Put Me In The Zoo, the childrens' book. A recently broken-up gal told me that my "Music is my Boyfriend" T-shirt was, well, pretty legit. I skipped across the street with a man wishing to sell magazines to help the homeless. Since I can't afford to support everybody in need (including myself), I decided to make a spectacle of myself. Given the choice of donating or skipping, I skipped. I do enjoy skipping. In the street. In the sunshine. Across from a tenor saxophone.

Sunshine does wonders for my outlook on life. Mum and I decided to walk about until we found something to do that wouldn't cost a fortune and that also didn't close at four, thus eliminating Shedd Aquarium and Adler's Planetarium. No Ariums for us. Eventually, we stumbled upon Millennium Park; complete with a giant hematite-resembling jelly bean in Chase Promenade. And an alien-spacecraft-esque opera house. And a steel-shingle-snakey BP Bridge. Then off to the Cheesecake Factory to add to my already hypo-carbohydrated body, then to brave the gusts back down the Mag Mile to Madison and Jefferson.

At Chicago dusk, we entered the penthouse. Sunset was in full-swing, and air-traffic was in full-flight, and Venus was out. Ironically, I found that my phone takes better pictures than my camera does. When that happens, there's nothing to do but take a shower and attempt to connect to a weak wireless signal for the zillionth time.

And for the zillionth time, shenanigans on a Thursday. Somehow, with no prior scanning of a script, we have an hour to attempt to film fifteen shots of this puppy. Then, like an idiot, I shall run to Union Station in a pencil skirt and Put-Me-In-The-Zoo boots to catch a three-o'clock home.

In theory.

Holidays are best when you're okay with going back home, because you can't have too much good luck without enough bad luck, but I'm drawn to the busy magic...sans nincompoopery.


Thursday, February 26, 2009

Unearned Guilt

Turns out, I fell off the face of the Earth. So many things to do. So many important things. So many tedious things. So many infuriating things. So many lovely things. So many damn things, because I'm so addicted to being busy.

But somehow, I found solace in orange salt. I found it in pasta. I found it in Symone. I found it in open ears. I keep finding it in connection, because I'm so addicted to connection.

Still more, though.

I just keep thinking about myself, about everybody. I continue to be furious, but silently. I lull myself to sleep and I rest. Finally.

I feel like the air is so moist that I could drink from it simply by breathing.


Wednesday, February 11, 2009

Anniversary of Melancholy

It is raining today.

Four years ago today, it was raining as well. I remember.

The sky looked just as gray; the tree branches drooped then as they do now.

That day, I listened to slow, lilting songs just like I am doing today.

February 11th 2005 was very similar to today, February 11th 2009.

But I distinctly remember that four years ago today, the thing I fantasized about most was jumping off of the balcony and plummeting to my death.

Today, although I am feeling just as weary, I don't think I want to do that anymore.

Maybe that's what healing looks like.


Thursday, February 05, 2009

Light Finally

I know I've been grumpy with well nigh everyone lately, but not necessarily noticeably so. Grumpy with the system, grumpy because I'm alright now, grumpy with fickle things. A lot foggy and a lot soggy. I drank six cups of coffee on Monday night for no particular reason, although I did have a massive checklist to accomplish.

I really, really wanted to get some flowers because it's winter in Michigan, which means four months of frozen-solid and oppressive-white and numb-ears. And no flowers. And so I was reading a sentence in a book about a woman addicted to bittersweet rebellion. She would be flying back to England from Kenya soon, and she wondered if her flowers would mean anything to the next person who occupied her house and garden. Her character means little to nothing in the book; she merely serves as a symbol of a white-woman-black-servant relationship. However, she's the one I liked the most because she's the one who planted flowers; and she planted them, I think, so she could have some beauty back in her life after her marriage dried up and her love-affair died as well.

If my life wasn't replete with beauty, I'd say the same thing about myself. But maybe it's because I wanted to make something grow instead of...watching everything die?

But nothing is dying. Except justice as we think we know it. But it's not my story, it is my story; it's my story on crack. My story is always a smaller-scale version of something bigger going on and I almost don't feel justified enough to identify with these women. I had no physical injury. I had only five nightmares. I grew out of paranoia. I forgave. My panic attack was a little one. I'm only slightly destroyed. I just want to help. what? If I want to help change the world, I'm going to help change the world. I'm right behind you; I'm right beside you; I've shaken too. Somehow we grow up to be women who do things for ourselves, for the rest of the world; without the influence of attempted ruin but always growing stronger from denying that attempted ruin.

I've never encountered people with stories similar to mine. I've never felt like less of an alien. I've never felt so safe.

So there's a light, finally.


Saturday, January 17, 2009


I realized that it would never work out. And then I realized that everybody else is broken too.

And then I realized the enormous magnitude of my dreams and what I know I will accomplish. And then I realized that I have a reason to keep living.

And then I realized I had never smiled so much in my life. And then I realized how shy I am around some people. And then I realized how outgoing I am around everybody else. And then I realized what I am capable of.

And then I realized how much my guitar sets me free. And then I realized that I would give almost anything for a stage. And then I realized that I am naive, in a sense. And then I realized that I am not naive, in a different sense.

And then I realized how enormously well the people here know me. And then I realized that people will love me anyway, in spite of a certain opinion. And then I realized that I must grow, even if I am stinted. And then I realized how often I speak. And then I realized what was holding me back.

Coming soon: And then I let it go.