I've been called one before, but I did not, until today, realize just how big of an email-addict I am.
I discovered this little thing on bottom right corner of the Elon email page that, if you click on it, allows you to observe the number of times you've visited the Web site in the past. On my computer, which I've had since the spring of my freshman year, I have visited the Elon email web page 2,549 times.
Yes. And that's only on my computer. Can you imagine the countless number of times I've visited on the myriad of other computers I work with on a day to day basis? The numbers are staggering.
Hello, my name is Bethany...
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Sunday, December 7, 2008
paper towels
Last night I was reminded of this story, and I just wanted to share:
We roadtripped for 10 days. We drove for more than 3,000 miles, from North Carolina, to Tennessee, Arkansas, Texas, Louisiana, Alabama, Florida, Georgia, South Carolina and back. Ten days in the car, just the two of us. We did a lot of talking, even more singing and we developed a case of kleptomania.
I've always been one to take the soaps and shampoo, pens and lotions from hotel rooms. I would never take towels or things of real value, but for some reason, I've forever felt entitled to the things that they would replace anyway if I hadn't taken them -- might as well put it to good use, I say. Waste not, want not, I say. He made fun of me a little that first morning in the hotel when I stuffed the lotion into my purse.
But then we went to the Peabody Hotel in Memphis, just to take a look at the ducks. The hotel is gorgeous, mission style furniture, stained glass, dark wood, marble floors and white flower arrangements. We each went to the bathroom. They're beautiful. Granite countertops, gold fixtures and these glorious luxury paper towels. We each walked out with three. They went promptly into the glove box. Only to be used in emergencies. These things are way too nice for just runny noses and random McDonald's spills. These are our special towels. And so begins our obsession.
Further into our trip, we're in Charleston. We stop to pee in a hotel after a day wandering around what has become one of our favorite cities. We come out of the bathroom, and walk out of the hotel. He takes my hand as we cross the street, walking his fingers up my right arm to my purse. Finding the zipper, he opens the bag and slyly shoves luxury hotel bathroom towels into my purse. "Who are you?" I ask. I've turned him into a towel snatcher.
Our trip ended and we'd filled the glove box with towels. Memorabilia from the multiplicity of nice hotels we'd peed in, but never slept at.
Two months later, we're in Boston saying goodbye. We had walked all day, through the public gardens and the common, lunch in Fanuiel Hall, dinner on Newbury Street and now it was time to pee. We stopped at a hotel a few blocks from Fenway. It was beautiful.
Marble. Dark-stained hardwood. Flower arrangements larger than the wingback chairs in my parents' house. The kind of place with nice paper towels.
I smile to the doorman as we walk by. He knows our purpose, but doesn't hesitate. We're two good looking 20-somethings, harmless and handsome. Holding hands as we walk in. We're blending. We're fitting in. We belong here. Hell, we go to Elon, half of my 9:25 a.m. Media History class has probably stayed here, so who's to say we couldn't be guests?
The bathroom is spectacular as I expected. I pee, walk to the beautiful Corian countertop to wash my hands. And there they are. The lux towels. They're perfect, thick paper towels that are so nice they feel like cloth. They're Peabody towels, but from Boston. I should grab some. No. No. I shouldn't do it. I can't, we've moved passed our spring break kleptomania.
After some mental sommersaults, I walk out of the bathroom empty handed. He takes my hand and we walk back out, fitting in as before, past the doorman and on to the street.
"Did you take the towels?" I asked once we were about half a block down the street.
"What? Of course not," he turns, his smile lighting up as he reaches to the big pocket on his khaki cargo shorts, which now, I notice, is bulging with four paper towels.
We roadtripped for 10 days. We drove for more than 3,000 miles, from North Carolina, to Tennessee, Arkansas, Texas, Louisiana, Alabama, Florida, Georgia, South Carolina and back. Ten days in the car, just the two of us. We did a lot of talking, even more singing and we developed a case of kleptomania.
I've always been one to take the soaps and shampoo, pens and lotions from hotel rooms. I would never take towels or things of real value, but for some reason, I've forever felt entitled to the things that they would replace anyway if I hadn't taken them -- might as well put it to good use, I say. Waste not, want not, I say. He made fun of me a little that first morning in the hotel when I stuffed the lotion into my purse.
But then we went to the Peabody Hotel in Memphis, just to take a look at the ducks. The hotel is gorgeous, mission style furniture, stained glass, dark wood, marble floors and white flower arrangements. We each went to the bathroom. They're beautiful. Granite countertops, gold fixtures and these glorious luxury paper towels. We each walked out with three. They went promptly into the glove box. Only to be used in emergencies. These things are way too nice for just runny noses and random McDonald's spills. These are our special towels. And so begins our obsession.
Further into our trip, we're in Charleston. We stop to pee in a hotel after a day wandering around what has become one of our favorite cities. We come out of the bathroom, and walk out of the hotel. He takes my hand as we cross the street, walking his fingers up my right arm to my purse. Finding the zipper, he opens the bag and slyly shoves luxury hotel bathroom towels into my purse. "Who are you?" I ask. I've turned him into a towel snatcher.
Our trip ended and we'd filled the glove box with towels. Memorabilia from the multiplicity of nice hotels we'd peed in, but never slept at.
Two months later, we're in Boston saying goodbye. We had walked all day, through the public gardens and the common, lunch in Fanuiel Hall, dinner on Newbury Street and now it was time to pee. We stopped at a hotel a few blocks from Fenway. It was beautiful.
Marble. Dark-stained hardwood. Flower arrangements larger than the wingback chairs in my parents' house. The kind of place with nice paper towels.
I smile to the doorman as we walk by. He knows our purpose, but doesn't hesitate. We're two good looking 20-somethings, harmless and handsome. Holding hands as we walk in. We're blending. We're fitting in. We belong here. Hell, we go to Elon, half of my 9:25 a.m. Media History class has probably stayed here, so who's to say we couldn't be guests?
The bathroom is spectacular as I expected. I pee, walk to the beautiful Corian countertop to wash my hands. And there they are. The lux towels. They're perfect, thick paper towels that are so nice they feel like cloth. They're Peabody towels, but from Boston. I should grab some. No. No. I shouldn't do it. I can't, we've moved passed our spring break kleptomania.
After some mental sommersaults, I walk out of the bathroom empty handed. He takes my hand and we walk back out, fitting in as before, past the doorman and on to the street.
"Did you take the towels?" I asked once we were about half a block down the street.
"What? Of course not," he turns, his smile lighting up as he reaches to the big pocket on his khaki cargo shorts, which now, I notice, is bulging with four paper towels.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
in the end it was the twinkies
I've been reading some pretty heavy philosophy for my methodologies in art history class. This week we're focusing on Martin Heidegger's The Origin of the Work of Art. Basically, Heidegger claims that the essence of a thing, especially and specifically a thing that works or produces some sort of good for the communal being (he was a Marxist...), lies in its ability to do that work. It is its true self when it is performing the function it was meant to perform. His example: a pair of peasant's (again, Marxist) shoes.
There are problems with his interpretation, the biggest according to one critic, being that the shoes he was inspired by, a painting by Van Gogh, are actually not peasant's shoes, they were Van Gogh's own shoes. To this one critic, the essence of the shoe lies in the fact that they aren't anyone else's shoes but Van Gogh and that is precisely why he chose to paint them. They were his and they represented him.
So I started thinking about my shoes. Bare with me here, there is a point, I promise. I started thinking about my shoes and what they say about me. I have lots of shoes, as do a lot of women, and some men, I suppose. And they all serve different purposes. Some are play shoes, the ones that I wear when we go out dancing or to the bar. I have dressy shoes, ones that I wear when I have to look all grown up and professional. I have comfy shoes, athletic shoes, and practical shoes. Slippers, pumps, flats, peep toes, red, brown, black (lots of black), blue, pink (yes, my sneakers are pink)... etc., etc., and the list goes on. One hundred years from now, when an archeologist uncovers my shoes, how in the world will they know who I am?
To Van Gogh, the shoes made the man, so to speak. He had probably only one or two pair, and they, like the lines on his face, bore the imprints of the miles he'd walked, the mud he'd schlepped through and the doormats he'd crossed. They probably had splats of paint, and maybe drops of blood from when he cut off his ear... only kidding, sort of. But Van Gogh truly believed that we could read a pair of shoes like a book -- the shoes maybe didn't make the man, but they were inexorable. You cannot have the pair of shoes be that pair of shoes without that man, and a man can't get very far (without lots of glass and prickly things in his feet) without the shoes.
Again, I swear I have a point. So I started thinking about my shoes again and my legacy. I've done this before, when I was holed up in the British Library about two years ago. Our consumerism has left us with dozens of pairs of shoes, tons of clothing, jewelry, CDs, DVDs. You name it, we have it in droves. What will archaeologists say about us? Because we're so forward-looking (heh, sure), theorists have already started predicting what will kill us all in the end and historians have already started anticipating how some of us will be remembered. But what about the every day people? What about you and me? How will what we leave behind shape how we're remembered?
There certainly isn't an answer, and I suppose there really wasn't a point other than to ask these questions. I would hope that some of the legacy will be good -- we managed to create a society where equality and justice, honesty and truth (hey, I can dream) were key doctrines. It'll probably be something along the lines of the indestructibility of Twinkies.
I can see it now, 150 years post-Armageddon...
Archaeologist 1: "Floyd, I just found something."
Archaeologist 2: "What is it, Vanessa?"
A1: "It's a strange yellow cylinder wrapped in plastic; it seems to have once been edible?"
A2 unwraps said shrink wrap and pops said yellow cylinder into his mouth: "Still is!"
There are problems with his interpretation, the biggest according to one critic, being that the shoes he was inspired by, a painting by Van Gogh, are actually not peasant's shoes, they were Van Gogh's own shoes. To this one critic, the essence of the shoe lies in the fact that they aren't anyone else's shoes but Van Gogh and that is precisely why he chose to paint them. They were his and they represented him.
So I started thinking about my shoes. Bare with me here, there is a point, I promise. I started thinking about my shoes and what they say about me. I have lots of shoes, as do a lot of women, and some men, I suppose. And they all serve different purposes. Some are play shoes, the ones that I wear when we go out dancing or to the bar. I have dressy shoes, ones that I wear when I have to look all grown up and professional. I have comfy shoes, athletic shoes, and practical shoes. Slippers, pumps, flats, peep toes, red, brown, black (lots of black), blue, pink (yes, my sneakers are pink)... etc., etc., and the list goes on. One hundred years from now, when an archeologist uncovers my shoes, how in the world will they know who I am?
To Van Gogh, the shoes made the man, so to speak. He had probably only one or two pair, and they, like the lines on his face, bore the imprints of the miles he'd walked, the mud he'd schlepped through and the doormats he'd crossed. They probably had splats of paint, and maybe drops of blood from when he cut off his ear... only kidding, sort of. But Van Gogh truly believed that we could read a pair of shoes like a book -- the shoes maybe didn't make the man, but they were inexorable. You cannot have the pair of shoes be that pair of shoes without that man, and a man can't get very far (without lots of glass and prickly things in his feet) without the shoes.
Again, I swear I have a point. So I started thinking about my shoes again and my legacy. I've done this before, when I was holed up in the British Library about two years ago. Our consumerism has left us with dozens of pairs of shoes, tons of clothing, jewelry, CDs, DVDs. You name it, we have it in droves. What will archaeologists say about us? Because we're so forward-looking (heh, sure), theorists have already started predicting what will kill us all in the end and historians have already started anticipating how some of us will be remembered. But what about the every day people? What about you and me? How will what we leave behind shape how we're remembered?
There certainly isn't an answer, and I suppose there really wasn't a point other than to ask these questions. I would hope that some of the legacy will be good -- we managed to create a society where equality and justice, honesty and truth (hey, I can dream) were key doctrines. It'll probably be something along the lines of the indestructibility of Twinkies.
I can see it now, 150 years post-Armageddon...
Archaeologist 1: "Floyd, I just found something."
Archaeologist 2: "What is it, Vanessa?"
A1: "It's a strange yellow cylinder wrapped in plastic; it seems to have once been edible?"
A2 unwraps said shrink wrap and pops said yellow cylinder into his mouth: "Still is!"
Thursday, November 20, 2008
hovering
Lately I've had this very odd sensation that I'm sort of floating, in a way, hovering around something big, but I can't quite get there. I know it has to do with the time of year, and the fact that I'm going to be seriously looking for jobs soon. But I have a sense of dullness that I can't quite shake. I feel like I should be more nervous about finding a job, more anxious about the fact that I have no clue where I'll be in six months, but over the last few weeks, I've been so focused on my life in the present, that the future hasn't really caught up with me yet.
That's good, right? I've been saying forever that my goal was to live more in the now, and not worry about what's coming and where I'm going. I've always been a strident planner, and incredible organizer, yet right now I feel like there's so much on my plate that needs to be organized and planned in addition to all the other stuff going on in my life, something had to give, and it was the future.
There have been multiple instances in the last few days where this Future has been poking my shoulder, creeping into my daily life as a reminder of its imminence. I delivered a package yesterday for one of the women at University Relations, it was a set of proofs for the program for the Spring Honors Convocation. That's the thing they hold in April to honor all the students who've performed well -- seniors wear their caps and gowns. Holy crap. And yet, it seems so unreal right now, so completely foreign and far away. Denial? Maybe. Survivalist instinct? Probably more likely.
I think my mind is compartmentalizing because I know that if I start worrying about it now, I'll fall apart. I have no plan. I have no job, not a lot of money and at this point no clue as to where I'll be living in six months. But saying that doesn't freak me out as much as it should right now because it's still six months away. A lot happens in a week for me, six months is a lifetime at this point.
That being said, check back with me after Christmas. It'll be a different story I'm sure.
That's good, right? I've been saying forever that my goal was to live more in the now, and not worry about what's coming and where I'm going. I've always been a strident planner, and incredible organizer, yet right now I feel like there's so much on my plate that needs to be organized and planned in addition to all the other stuff going on in my life, something had to give, and it was the future.
There have been multiple instances in the last few days where this Future has been poking my shoulder, creeping into my daily life as a reminder of its imminence. I delivered a package yesterday for one of the women at University Relations, it was a set of proofs for the program for the Spring Honors Convocation. That's the thing they hold in April to honor all the students who've performed well -- seniors wear their caps and gowns. Holy crap. And yet, it seems so unreal right now, so completely foreign and far away. Denial? Maybe. Survivalist instinct? Probably more likely.
I think my mind is compartmentalizing because I know that if I start worrying about it now, I'll fall apart. I have no plan. I have no job, not a lot of money and at this point no clue as to where I'll be living in six months. But saying that doesn't freak me out as much as it should right now because it's still six months away. A lot happens in a week for me, six months is a lifetime at this point.
That being said, check back with me after Christmas. It'll be a different story I'm sure.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
panorama ding dong
A life update will come soon, but as I'm in the middle of some reading and still have about 50 pages to go tonight, that can't happen now.
But, as I was doing this reading for my Methodologies in Art History class, I stumbled upon this really cool website when I looked up a piece of contemporary art that was being described.
It's called gigapan. It takes high resolution images, especially panoramas, and allows you to zoom in, zoom out and view different sections of the image in seriously high definition. Totally cool.
This easily distracted me for 15 minutes.
But, as I was doing this reading for my Methodologies in Art History class, I stumbled upon this really cool website when I looked up a piece of contemporary art that was being described.
It's called gigapan. It takes high resolution images, especially panoramas, and allows you to zoom in, zoom out and view different sections of the image in seriously high definition. Totally cool.
This easily distracted me for 15 minutes.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
yes we can.
Standing on the edge of history, I'm brought to my knees with tears in my eyes by the power of the unified voice of the people. Today, I am so proud to be an American. I am so proud to have voted in this historic election and to have been accompanied by one of the highest voter turnouts in history. I am proud to say that our democracy works. I am proud to say that for the first time in its nearly 300-year history, the United States has broken tradition in the search for change and hope and has spoken its mind in the favor of a new way of looking at the world, a way that ceases to recognize strength and wisdom, leadership and truth based on the color of skin.
I am proud to align myself with a party that has never ceased to fight for the equality and good of all people. But it is in the following days, weeks, months and years that we as Americans must look to ourselves to see past the colors red and blue and on to the bigger issues that we're facing. Both candidates recognize we are only as strong as we are united. Party politics is petty and divisive, and now is a time for unity and change.
"Where we breathe we hope. Yes, we can."
check out The Pendulum coverage
I am proud to align myself with a party that has never ceased to fight for the equality and good of all people. But it is in the following days, weeks, months and years that we as Americans must look to ourselves to see past the colors red and blue and on to the bigger issues that we're facing. Both candidates recognize we are only as strong as we are united. Party politics is petty and divisive, and now is a time for unity and change.
"Where we breathe we hope. Yes, we can."
check out The Pendulum coverage
Sunday, November 2, 2008
peaches
I spent the weekend in Atlanta with the freshmen Journalism and Communications Fellows. It was a blast. I made some new friends, and some excellent contacts and had a great time visiting a new city.
From Thursday to Saturday we were a whirlwind of nice clothes, clicky heels, notebooks and questions. I was placed with the strategic communications (PR) and print journalism group. We went to Atlanta Magazine (met the group at CNN briefly, see below), the Weather Channel, Weber Shandwick (the PR firm that holds the accounts for the got milk? campaign and Coca Cola), and Turner Field where the Braves play. I've posted some pictures below.
Unfortunately, I didn't get to visit the High Museum. It'll just give me another reason to go back to Atlanta.
In other big news -- The Pendulum was just awarded third place in the Pacemaker awards competition by the Associate Collegiate Press for our online election coverage package, and was given Best of Show for our Oct. 29, 2008 issue. This is huge, these awards are considered the Pulitzer Prizes of collegiate journalism. I'm so proud!
OK, on to the photos:
This is the view from my hotel window. We stayed in the Marriot Marquis, it was a beautiful hotel, the interior architecture is fabulous. I had my own room, care of Elon, and enjoyed a king-sized bet to myself.
This is the whole group in front of the CNN sign in Atlanta. Half the group went to the studio, then the rest of us met up with them for a photo-op. (I'm the one in the white shirt and brown pants.)
This is the view of Turner Field from the press box. We were taken on a tour of the press box and video production booth and then onto the field itself.
This is all of us in the dugout. (Green skirt, front row.)
And that's me, in the dugout feeling fully major league
From Thursday to Saturday we were a whirlwind of nice clothes, clicky heels, notebooks and questions. I was placed with the strategic communications (PR) and print journalism group. We went to Atlanta Magazine (met the group at CNN briefly, see below), the Weather Channel, Weber Shandwick (the PR firm that holds the accounts for the got milk? campaign and Coca Cola), and Turner Field where the Braves play. I've posted some pictures below.
Unfortunately, I didn't get to visit the High Museum. It'll just give me another reason to go back to Atlanta.
In other big news -- The Pendulum was just awarded third place in the Pacemaker awards competition by the Associate Collegiate Press for our online election coverage package, and was given Best of Show for our Oct. 29, 2008 issue. This is huge, these awards are considered the Pulitzer Prizes of collegiate journalism. I'm so proud!
OK, on to the photos:
This is the view from my hotel window. We stayed in the Marriot Marquis, it was a beautiful hotel, the interior architecture is fabulous. I had my own room, care of Elon, and enjoyed a king-sized bet to myself.
This is the whole group in front of the CNN sign in Atlanta. Half the group went to the studio, then the rest of us met up with them for a photo-op. (I'm the one in the white shirt and brown pants.)
This is the view of Turner Field from the press box. We were taken on a tour of the press box and video production booth and then onto the field itself.
This is all of us in the dugout. (Green skirt, front row.)
And that's me, in the dugout feeling fully major league
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
when it rained on tuesdays
Today was the first Tuesday this semester that it has not rained. It has consistently rained every Tuesday since the first day of classes. Invariably, the day after every grueling Monday production night, the zombie day after has been met by gray skies and at least a chance of showers, if not a fully functional downpour.
But not today. Today wasn't particularly dreary at all. It was sunny, a little windy and crisp. Yesterday was, both personally and percipitatively (Is that a word?) miserable. Dreary inside, dreary outside.
I've been struggling lately with an overbooked schedule and an overworked mind. I like to be busy and I'm pretty good at organizing my time. But the past few days I've been in over my head. It all came to a head yesterday as I sat at 8 a.m. still working on finishing reading I'd abandoned at midnight from the night before, desperately trying to stay awake over my Cheerios. I realized as I looked at the little life rafts floating in my milk that if I didn't slow down, I'd be needing more than one Bethany-sized life raft to keep me from drowning.
The stress has passed -- today was the biggest day of the week for things to be finished. The rest of the week will be easier (and supposedly sunny also): I'm seeing Minus the Bear with Kiersten tomorrow night and then am heading down to Atlanta for the weekend with the Journalism and Communications Fellows. That's not exactly a holiday, but it will be a welcome change of scenery.
I often find it odd how one day can be so different from the last. It's cliche, but hindsight is completely 20/20. Historical perspective is absolutely everything. I think that's something I need to remember, when things look bad, just give it a little time and don't forget to carry the umbrella.
But not today. Today wasn't particularly dreary at all. It was sunny, a little windy and crisp. Yesterday was, both personally and percipitatively (Is that a word?) miserable. Dreary inside, dreary outside.
I've been struggling lately with an overbooked schedule and an overworked mind. I like to be busy and I'm pretty good at organizing my time. But the past few days I've been in over my head. It all came to a head yesterday as I sat at 8 a.m. still working on finishing reading I'd abandoned at midnight from the night before, desperately trying to stay awake over my Cheerios. I realized as I looked at the little life rafts floating in my milk that if I didn't slow down, I'd be needing more than one Bethany-sized life raft to keep me from drowning.
The stress has passed -- today was the biggest day of the week for things to be finished. The rest of the week will be easier (and supposedly sunny also): I'm seeing Minus the Bear with Kiersten tomorrow night and then am heading down to Atlanta for the weekend with the Journalism and Communications Fellows. That's not exactly a holiday, but it will be a welcome change of scenery.
I often find it odd how one day can be so different from the last. It's cliche, but hindsight is completely 20/20. Historical perspective is absolutely everything. I think that's something I need to remember, when things look bad, just give it a little time and don't forget to carry the umbrella.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
well done
Speaking of duty, my cousin Cooper made the front page of the Washington Post today for his work in the Peace Corps in Mizque, Bolivia. He's been there for two years, working very very hard for the benefit of those he's grown to know and love there. He and the rest of the Peace Corps volunteers were evacuated from Bolivia a month ago and the program was dissolved. Cooper chose to return to Mizque to finish his work there. He'll be back to the United States in February, most likely, and I cannot wait to see him when he returns. I'm so proud of him and his dedication to the work he's done.
Well done, Coop. Well done.
Policy and Passions Collide in Bolivia
Well done, Coop. Well done.
Policy and Passions Collide in Bolivia
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
civic duty
I voted in my first presidential election today. I filled in my absentee ballot, No. 2 pencil in hand as I ate my Cheerios. I voted for Board of Education, a bunch of constitutional amendments and my representative to Congress should I choose to live in Montgomery County again sometime soon.
I expected it to be a bigger deal, like all of a sudden there would be patriotic music that chimed in when I plopped it into the mailbox, or there would be little flags waiving behind me as I penciled in my bubbles. Not so much. Maybe in my head. But it's still significant, I think, that I did it. I took the time, and the 53 cents to cast my ballot and let my voice be heard.
On my way back from break yesterday, I was sitting in the airport waiting for my flight, and I was eavesdropping on this girl's conversation with the guy next to her. I've owned up to eavesdropping before, people just fascinate me. I can't help it. But she was talking about how disgusted she was by politics and that's why she wasn't voting. She didn't feel any sort of loyalty to either major party candidate, and just didn't care. And then she launched into how she thought her vote wouldn't make a difference anyway, and how she was sick of all the problems in America. Now, let me be honest, I don't deign to claim that I'm so idealistic to believe that my one liberal vote in a county that historically always goes blue makes that great of a splash. But, I do think that it's important to exercise my duty as a citizen in a democratic society.
I could rant and rave at this for a few hours and a multitude of pages. But it frustrates me that part of her argument dealt with how sick of America she was and how tired she was of politics as usual. I understand this. I get a little weary of listening to the candidates sling mud and bad-mouth each other. Studies have proven that this is the quickest way to reduce voter turnout. If this girl is so sick of America and business as usual, then I don't think she has any excuse not to vote. Anyone who says politics doesn't affect them is badly informed. What happens in Washington touches everyone. Apathy itself is a political choice, but no one is truly apathetic.
Personally -- if you don't vote, you don't get to complain. Don't give up your opportunity not only to declare yourself and make a difference, but to give yourself the right to say, hey, I didn't like that guy, but we'll get it next time.
Oh, and here's the other thing: It's free. In an economy this bad, anything free is basically awesome. So why wouldn't you do it?
I expected it to be a bigger deal, like all of a sudden there would be patriotic music that chimed in when I plopped it into the mailbox, or there would be little flags waiving behind me as I penciled in my bubbles. Not so much. Maybe in my head. But it's still significant, I think, that I did it. I took the time, and the 53 cents to cast my ballot and let my voice be heard.
On my way back from break yesterday, I was sitting in the airport waiting for my flight, and I was eavesdropping on this girl's conversation with the guy next to her. I've owned up to eavesdropping before, people just fascinate me. I can't help it. But she was talking about how disgusted she was by politics and that's why she wasn't voting. She didn't feel any sort of loyalty to either major party candidate, and just didn't care. And then she launched into how she thought her vote wouldn't make a difference anyway, and how she was sick of all the problems in America. Now, let me be honest, I don't deign to claim that I'm so idealistic to believe that my one liberal vote in a county that historically always goes blue makes that great of a splash. But, I do think that it's important to exercise my duty as a citizen in a democratic society.
I could rant and rave at this for a few hours and a multitude of pages. But it frustrates me that part of her argument dealt with how sick of America she was and how tired she was of politics as usual. I understand this. I get a little weary of listening to the candidates sling mud and bad-mouth each other. Studies have proven that this is the quickest way to reduce voter turnout. If this girl is so sick of America and business as usual, then I don't think she has any excuse not to vote. Anyone who says politics doesn't affect them is badly informed. What happens in Washington touches everyone. Apathy itself is a political choice, but no one is truly apathetic.
Personally -- if you don't vote, you don't get to complain. Don't give up your opportunity not only to declare yourself and make a difference, but to give yourself the right to say, hey, I didn't like that guy, but we'll get it next time.
Oh, and here's the other thing: It's free. In an economy this bad, anything free is basically awesome. So why wouldn't you do it?
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
coverage
Hey everyone, sorry I didn't get on this sooner. But check out the Sarah Palin coverage by The Pendulum by visiting our Web site: www.elon.edu/pendulum
I compiled the video with the interviews with supporters/dissenters. As well as some of the video of the protester being carried away by police.
Oh, and I also interviewed D.L. Hughley who was here promoting his new show on CNN. It was totally on the fly, and he had cameras with him. They turned the cameras on me as I conducted the impromptu interview, so it's possible that I might be on the show ... we'll have to see!
Anyway, a proper update is necessary at some point. I had a really great fall break ... now back to the grindstone. Luckily there's only 3 weeks until I get to see John again ... makes it easier, not a whole lot, but a little.
More soon, I promise.
I compiled the video with the interviews with supporters/dissenters. As well as some of the video of the protester being carried away by police.
Oh, and I also interviewed D.L. Hughley who was here promoting his new show on CNN. It was totally on the fly, and he had cameras with him. They turned the cameras on me as I conducted the impromptu interview, so it's possible that I might be on the show ... we'll have to see!
Anyway, a proper update is necessary at some point. I had a really great fall break ... now back to the grindstone. Luckily there's only 3 weeks until I get to see John again ... makes it easier, not a whole lot, but a little.
More soon, I promise.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
playing with the big boys/girls
[EDIT]
Press credentials were revoked by the campaign about an hour or two after I posted this. They cut the press in half, essentially, for the university. Even University Relations got cut -- just goes to show how little the campaign respects the venue they're using for their stage. I'll still be reporting from the field, but I won't have any special bling or badges. C'est la vie.
I just got my clear for a media credential for the Sarah Palin rally that's taking place on campus tomorrow afternoon. As much as I cannot stand her political stance on basically everything. I'm super super excited about this.
This is the second time I will have been credentialed as an official member of the media during this campaign, and I have to say, it's pretty sweet. You get the best views of everything and you get to play with the big boys. For the Bill Clinton rally we took serious pride in the fact that we got to the podium first and when Fox News 8 tried to squeeze us out, we held our ground with our tiny tripods against their mongo daddy cameras. We may be little, but we pack a punch, and we know not to move for anyone.
I'm going to be on the floor for this one, I'll be among the audience taking still photos of participants and doing reaction interviews to the size of the crowd and stuff like that. The rally starts at 3. I'll be there at noon. That is the one bummer about being a member of the media -- you have to be early. It's a whole lot of hurry-up and wait. But it's an incredible high to stand with the media, the only group of people at a rally who aren't clapping, cheering or jeering. We're not allowed to, and we're working, pens scribbling, laptop keys clicking, cameras rolling and shutters blinking. It's exhilarating. And I'm so excited.
I'll report back with the coverage of the rally after tomorrow. Ryan, I'll try my best to get the photo you asked for ... but no guarantees.
To see what we did for the Bill Clinton rally for Hillary in April, check out The Pendulum Web site mini site.
Press credentials were revoked by the campaign about an hour or two after I posted this. They cut the press in half, essentially, for the university. Even University Relations got cut -- just goes to show how little the campaign respects the venue they're using for their stage. I'll still be reporting from the field, but I won't have any special bling or badges. C'est la vie.
I just got my clear for a media credential for the Sarah Palin rally that's taking place on campus tomorrow afternoon. As much as I cannot stand her political stance on basically everything. I'm super super excited about this.
This is the second time I will have been credentialed as an official member of the media during this campaign, and I have to say, it's pretty sweet. You get the best views of everything and you get to play with the big boys. For the Bill Clinton rally we took serious pride in the fact that we got to the podium first and when Fox News 8 tried to squeeze us out, we held our ground with our tiny tripods against their mongo daddy cameras. We may be little, but we pack a punch, and we know not to move for anyone.
I'm going to be on the floor for this one, I'll be among the audience taking still photos of participants and doing reaction interviews to the size of the crowd and stuff like that. The rally starts at 3. I'll be there at noon. That is the one bummer about being a member of the media -- you have to be early. It's a whole lot of hurry-up and wait. But it's an incredible high to stand with the media, the only group of people at a rally who aren't clapping, cheering or jeering. We're not allowed to, and we're working, pens scribbling, laptop keys clicking, cameras rolling and shutters blinking. It's exhilarating. And I'm so excited.
I'll report back with the coverage of the rally after tomorrow. Ryan, I'll try my best to get the photo you asked for ... but no guarantees.
To see what we did for the Bill Clinton rally for Hillary in April, check out The Pendulum Web site mini site.
Friday, October 3, 2008
looking back
I was reading one of my friend Bryan's blog entries today, it's about memory and change. And it got me thinking about how different my life is from a year ago. So much has changed, so much growth. It got me thinking about the fluidity of life, and whether or not this supposedly linear idea of time is truly true at all.
Bryan's blog entry (I suggest you read his blog in its entirety, because it's awesome) was about memories from a year ago, it was about change and love and how we remember things. Perhaps it's because I'm in phase of life where things are about to change big time, but I've been thinking a lot about people, relationships and life in general a lot lately.
At this time last year, to the day, my grandmother died. That feels like a lifetime ago, but I still remember details of my brother and I walking out of the wake, him ready to be in tears, but already at 13 unable to shed them because he wanted to be a man for Mama. I still remember talking to Nick on the phone, crying and feeling like he didn't understand, and holding my cousin Elsie, 2 years old at the time, and wanting to cry for her because she will never know our perfect grandmother. Perhaps sadness is something we try to distance ourselves from more because it's so painful, but I haven't thought of these memories for a whole year. I've put them away because they're sad, because even as I write them I start to cry.
I wrote a while ago that I don't like to relive the bad, that I hang on to it but choose not to revisit those things that bring back anger, frustration and bitterness. But as I dig back into the memories of Grandma's death, I realized that there's a lot of catharsis in coming back to things that hurt. There's a lot of wisdom in perspective. So maybe it's not so bad after all.
A year later, my life has taken a few turns. I've had a few guys, a few big decisions and a new direction for my career goals.
Most people measure a year from January to January, but why not measure from October to October? Or big decision to big decision? This year has been a year of change for me, and a year of learning to trust myself and take for myself what I want. I've always thought of myself as one who only likes to move forward, but more and more I'm starting to see that looking backward has it's importance too.
Bryan's blog entry (I suggest you read his blog in its entirety, because it's awesome) was about memories from a year ago, it was about change and love and how we remember things. Perhaps it's because I'm in phase of life where things are about to change big time, but I've been thinking a lot about people, relationships and life in general a lot lately.
At this time last year, to the day, my grandmother died. That feels like a lifetime ago, but I still remember details of my brother and I walking out of the wake, him ready to be in tears, but already at 13 unable to shed them because he wanted to be a man for Mama. I still remember talking to Nick on the phone, crying and feeling like he didn't understand, and holding my cousin Elsie, 2 years old at the time, and wanting to cry for her because she will never know our perfect grandmother. Perhaps sadness is something we try to distance ourselves from more because it's so painful, but I haven't thought of these memories for a whole year. I've put them away because they're sad, because even as I write them I start to cry.
I wrote a while ago that I don't like to relive the bad, that I hang on to it but choose not to revisit those things that bring back anger, frustration and bitterness. But as I dig back into the memories of Grandma's death, I realized that there's a lot of catharsis in coming back to things that hurt. There's a lot of wisdom in perspective. So maybe it's not so bad after all.
A year later, my life has taken a few turns. I've had a few guys, a few big decisions and a new direction for my career goals.
Most people measure a year from January to January, but why not measure from October to October? Or big decision to big decision? This year has been a year of change for me, and a year of learning to trust myself and take for myself what I want. I've always thought of myself as one who only likes to move forward, but more and more I'm starting to see that looking backward has it's importance too.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
life is beautiful, swanson
My senior year of high school I had an amazing teacher for an ancient Mediterranean civilizations class and Medieval history. His name was Mr. Baxter. A tall, heavy-set black man, his voice boomed when he called us by our last names. His podium was painted with camouflage and he had a riding crop that he'd use to emphasize points about cathedral building, Piltdown Man and Gregorian chants.
His classroom ceiling was covered with flags, his walls covered in maps and images of his travels. Some how he'd managed to get framed paintings to hang on the cinder blocks. You were always "Private," or "Comrade Swanson," or just "Swanson." No one had a first name. And everyone loved him.
Most classes in high school are fairly forgettable, you may remember the teacher, you may not. And most of the time, you definitely don't remember what you learned. I have about four teachers from high school whose lessons have stuck with me, whose voices I can still hear in my head and whose mentoring I pray I never forget. Baxter's voice is in my head in certain instances when I'm doing certain things, when I have to recall random European historical facts. But I hear it most of all when I wear a certain sweatshirt.
I'm wearing that sweatshirt today. It's light weight, so only for certain weather. Today seemed right, I guess.
It's funny how things just dawn on you. You forget about them until all of a sudden it makes its rounds in your brain and comes back.
My sweatshirt is silk-screened and it says "Life is beautiful," on the front.
In my head I can see myself. I am 18 years old, standing next to his desk about to ask about a paper. I can see him look at me, directly in the eyes, and say in his clear but weathered voice, "Life is beautiful, Swanson."
And then he smiled that smile that stretched from ear to ear, he always knew when he was being profound and knew that you knew it too.
I think few of us ever get to meet someone who is truly wise. He was wise. And he was right, for all the disaster and chaos that prevails most of the the time, through all that, life is beautiful.
His classroom ceiling was covered with flags, his walls covered in maps and images of his travels. Some how he'd managed to get framed paintings to hang on the cinder blocks. You were always "Private," or "Comrade Swanson," or just "Swanson." No one had a first name. And everyone loved him.
Most classes in high school are fairly forgettable, you may remember the teacher, you may not. And most of the time, you definitely don't remember what you learned. I have about four teachers from high school whose lessons have stuck with me, whose voices I can still hear in my head and whose mentoring I pray I never forget. Baxter's voice is in my head in certain instances when I'm doing certain things, when I have to recall random European historical facts. But I hear it most of all when I wear a certain sweatshirt.
I'm wearing that sweatshirt today. It's light weight, so only for certain weather. Today seemed right, I guess.
It's funny how things just dawn on you. You forget about them until all of a sudden it makes its rounds in your brain and comes back.
My sweatshirt is silk-screened and it says "Life is beautiful," on the front.
In my head I can see myself. I am 18 years old, standing next to his desk about to ask about a paper. I can see him look at me, directly in the eyes, and say in his clear but weathered voice, "Life is beautiful, Swanson."
And then he smiled that smile that stretched from ear to ear, he always knew when he was being profound and knew that you knew it too.
I think few of us ever get to meet someone who is truly wise. He was wise. And he was right, for all the disaster and chaos that prevails most of the the time, through all that, life is beautiful.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
all hail the comma!
Today is National Punctuation Day! And being the nerd that I am, I'm excited.
Kiersten met me at work today to hand me a card that had two cut out over-sized quotation marks and read: Happy National Punctuation Day! My friends know me so well.
In honor of National Punctuation Day, here's a clip of Dean Martin and Victor Borge doing a bit about verbalized punctuation. It's cute, it's about punctuation, and you just have to love Dean Martin's face as he's trying to mimic the sounds in the beginning, and then they just dissolve into hysterics as it progresses.
It's a classic. And you can be assured that "Oxford Comma," by Vampire Weekend will be on heavy rotation today.
Kiersten met me at work today to hand me a card that had two cut out over-sized quotation marks and read: Happy National Punctuation Day! My friends know me so well.
In honor of National Punctuation Day, here's a clip of Dean Martin and Victor Borge doing a bit about verbalized punctuation. It's cute, it's about punctuation, and you just have to love Dean Martin's face as he's trying to mimic the sounds in the beginning, and then they just dissolve into hysterics as it progresses.
It's a classic. And you can be assured that "Oxford Comma," by Vampire Weekend will be on heavy rotation today.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
writing down the bones
More than once in my life I've been told that when I'm having a problem, I should write about it. Journaling has always been cathartic to me, but I realized recently after talking to other people about their journaling habits, that I only write for myself (read: in a tiny hand-written journal that no one reads) when I'm upset or going through something that's causing me anxiety or stress.
I rarely, if ever, write for myself when I'm happy.
As a result, I have journal upon journal full of angst, sadness and in some cases, anger. These journals contain the bones of bad relationships, uncomfortable situations, awkward encounters and ugly moments. They harbor all the yuck. All the icky in my life.
I'm naturally a worrier. Even when things are going well for me, I worry. I look ahead with that strange mom-complex that women tend to have and I see the worst. I'm working on it. Trust me. And journaling helps.
McKenzie and I were talking yesterday about what should be done to or with old journals. She rereads hers. She likes to go back through and re-experience with new perspective. Her mom, she said, burns old journals to release their contents back into the world. I love the cycle of it, and the karmic nature of that approach. But I do neither. I cannot bring myself to re-experience what I've written, and I cannot bring myself to part with it at the same time. Having that grave for the bones, for me, something I know is there, but don't have to revisit if I can't, serves as a reminder of the memories the books hold. I don't have to dig them up to know what they are.
I haven't really been journaling for myself lately, and that's generally a good sign. But I think I'm going to start. McKenzie used the metaphor of doctors: People only go to the doctor's when they're sick, she said, but sometimes a check up when you're healthy, to prevent the sickness, is really good.
I think she's right.
I rarely, if ever, write for myself when I'm happy.
As a result, I have journal upon journal full of angst, sadness and in some cases, anger. These journals contain the bones of bad relationships, uncomfortable situations, awkward encounters and ugly moments. They harbor all the yuck. All the icky in my life.
I'm naturally a worrier. Even when things are going well for me, I worry. I look ahead with that strange mom-complex that women tend to have and I see the worst. I'm working on it. Trust me. And journaling helps.
McKenzie and I were talking yesterday about what should be done to or with old journals. She rereads hers. She likes to go back through and re-experience with new perspective. Her mom, she said, burns old journals to release their contents back into the world. I love the cycle of it, and the karmic nature of that approach. But I do neither. I cannot bring myself to re-experience what I've written, and I cannot bring myself to part with it at the same time. Having that grave for the bones, for me, something I know is there, but don't have to revisit if I can't, serves as a reminder of the memories the books hold. I don't have to dig them up to know what they are.
I haven't really been journaling for myself lately, and that's generally a good sign. But I think I'm going to start. McKenzie used the metaphor of doctors: People only go to the doctor's when they're sick, she said, but sometimes a check up when you're healthy, to prevent the sickness, is really good.
I think she's right.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Avedon
The Richard Avedon show at the Corcoran Gallery of Art where I worked this summer just finished its first week. It's been getting some great press, both national and international. I figured, since I spent most of my summer stuffing press packets for this show, I'd keep track of the press that's come out of it.
Here's a piece by the BBC with curator Paul Roth. He's explaining Avedon's legacy and his intent when taking the portraits. It ends with a view of the Obama portrait that was essentially one of his last. It's a really well done package, except that the background music is a little distracting.
Enjoy!
Here's a piece by the BBC with curator Paul Roth. He's explaining Avedon's legacy and his intent when taking the portraits. It ends with a view of the Obama portrait that was essentially one of his last. It's a really well done package, except that the background music is a little distracting.
Enjoy!
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
gulp
It's striking to me how being a college student is essentially like being impoverished. The two are practically synonyms. Except that it's actually nothing like being impoverished, because most of us have a meal plan and all of us have a roof. So really, we're asset rich and penny poor. Or something like that.
I'm mentioning all of this because I had to turn down going to the Ben Folds concert because it was $50 a ticket. I just couldn't do it. Not since I haven't been paid since May. And not since I've seen him four times already. He's pretty fantastic in concert, probably one of the best I've ever seen. But I just couldn't do it, and neither could my equally impoverished friends.
I think college students have an odd outlook on money. Since we're not quite adults and for most of us, our parents foot the bill for the big stuff (car payment, tuition, room and board) our big purchases are frivolous things. My most recent big purchase was a $200 plane ticket. But $50 for Ben. Can't do it! Priorities...
I'm finding it hard to believe that in eight short months the big ticket purchases, the rent, the food, will all be mine. Insert sarcastic gleeful exclamation here.
We had a meeting for the senior class yesterday. It was all colored lights and spectacle -- the university and student government association's attempt at making graduating sound less scary. That was until the Registrar stood up and listed on his two hands the number of steps (there are eight) we are away from graduating. Two and two-thirds semesters, a few meetings with advisers, the registrar, and a $70 graduation fee. Um. What? Does someone want to explain to me where the last four years have gone?
After the registrar had thoroughly petrified us, our president, Leo Lambert, got up and announced that in eight short months, he'd be addressing us again as graduates. No amount of orange balloons, fake red carpet or flashing lights will make that sound less scary.
I've been saying for a while now that I'm ready to not be in school any more, and that's true. That's as true today as it was yesterday before the Nickelodeon-themed senior survival extravaganza. I think my anxiety comes less from my fear of going out into the world and "growing up" and more about the change associated with saying goodbye to friends and faculty members who've become my family. But I have a while, eight "short" months actually, to get used to the idea of turning the page to the next chapter.
Look out world, here I come, tentatively.
I'm mentioning all of this because I had to turn down going to the Ben Folds concert because it was $50 a ticket. I just couldn't do it. Not since I haven't been paid since May. And not since I've seen him four times already. He's pretty fantastic in concert, probably one of the best I've ever seen. But I just couldn't do it, and neither could my equally impoverished friends.
I think college students have an odd outlook on money. Since we're not quite adults and for most of us, our parents foot the bill for the big stuff (car payment, tuition, room and board) our big purchases are frivolous things. My most recent big purchase was a $200 plane ticket. But $50 for Ben. Can't do it! Priorities...
I'm finding it hard to believe that in eight short months the big ticket purchases, the rent, the food, will all be mine. Insert sarcastic gleeful exclamation here.
We had a meeting for the senior class yesterday. It was all colored lights and spectacle -- the university and student government association's attempt at making graduating sound less scary. That was until the Registrar stood up and listed on his two hands the number of steps (there are eight) we are away from graduating. Two and two-thirds semesters, a few meetings with advisers, the registrar, and a $70 graduation fee. Um. What? Does someone want to explain to me where the last four years have gone?
After the registrar had thoroughly petrified us, our president, Leo Lambert, got up and announced that in eight short months, he'd be addressing us again as graduates. No amount of orange balloons, fake red carpet or flashing lights will make that sound less scary.
I've been saying for a while now that I'm ready to not be in school any more, and that's true. That's as true today as it was yesterday before the Nickelodeon-themed senior survival extravaganza. I think my anxiety comes less from my fear of going out into the world and "growing up" and more about the change associated with saying goodbye to friends and faculty members who've become my family. But I have a while, eight "short" months actually, to get used to the idea of turning the page to the next chapter.
Look out world, here I come, tentatively.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
oh. my. gosh.
Definitely peed my pants a little when I found out this was happening. And if I can't get tickets, I might die inside. I plan on buying two tickets. The second has been tentatively reserved for Olivia as her birthday present. If for some reason it turns out she cannot go, it will go to the highest bidder.
Ben Folds Five
Ben Folds Five
Friday, September 5, 2008
good.
That's how I feel right now. Basically about everything in my life. I feel good.
It's not really that often that that happens, to any one really. I've never had bad luck, per se, but I'm not particularly charmed or anything either. Right now, things are just pretty good.
I'm happy with my classes and projects. I'm happy with the paper and my job at University Relations. I'm happy with my romantic situation, which isn't ideal, due to a familiar mileage problem, but has potential. I'm happy with my friends. I'm happy with my family. And I'm happy with myself.
I hate to use the word comfortable, because I think that can sometimes suggest stagnancy, but after worrying for weeks about how weird and uncomfortable this year was going to be with out my best friends, I think it's actually OK that they're not here. I miss them terribly. Like, more than I can explain. And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't lonely here without them. But I had an incredible night last night with some amazing, fairly new friends.
I'm not really one to make good, close friends easily. I make acquaintances and friends without any trouble -- I can talk to anyone, and I've always been proud of that. But I have a bit of a hard time really letting people in.
Last night, I think one of my "friends" passed into the realm of "really good friend." We spent the evening watching Project Runway (guilty pleasure, leave me alone...) and laughing about the UrbanDictionary.com definitions of fairly dirty sexual positions after her roommate came home from a human sexuality class with a list of colloquialisms. It was a cheerful night filled with mint chocolate cookies, jelly beans and multiple instances of the two of us and her two roommates laughing until tears fell. As I drove home at 11:30, my face hurt from laughing so hard.
I think it's nights like that that we all live for. We all cherish moments where you're truly happy and comfortable, where you simply exist without worry or fear of the future or the past. You just are.
I've had a few moments like that this semester already. I hope they don't stop.
It's not really that often that that happens, to any one really. I've never had bad luck, per se, but I'm not particularly charmed or anything either. Right now, things are just pretty good.
I'm happy with my classes and projects. I'm happy with the paper and my job at University Relations. I'm happy with my romantic situation, which isn't ideal, due to a familiar mileage problem, but has potential. I'm happy with my friends. I'm happy with my family. And I'm happy with myself.
I hate to use the word comfortable, because I think that can sometimes suggest stagnancy, but after worrying for weeks about how weird and uncomfortable this year was going to be with out my best friends, I think it's actually OK that they're not here. I miss them terribly. Like, more than I can explain. And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't lonely here without them. But I had an incredible night last night with some amazing, fairly new friends.
I'm not really one to make good, close friends easily. I make acquaintances and friends without any trouble -- I can talk to anyone, and I've always been proud of that. But I have a bit of a hard time really letting people in.
Last night, I think one of my "friends" passed into the realm of "really good friend." We spent the evening watching Project Runway (guilty pleasure, leave me alone...) and laughing about the UrbanDictionary.com definitions of fairly dirty sexual positions after her roommate came home from a human sexuality class with a list of colloquialisms. It was a cheerful night filled with mint chocolate cookies, jelly beans and multiple instances of the two of us and her two roommates laughing until tears fell. As I drove home at 11:30, my face hurt from laughing so hard.
I think it's nights like that that we all live for. We all cherish moments where you're truly happy and comfortable, where you simply exist without worry or fear of the future or the past. You just are.
I've had a few moments like that this semester already. I hope they don't stop.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
fun splats!
So I stumbled upon this Web site. It's called JacksonPollock.org. You get to be your own version of Jackson Pollock -- you know, the ink splatter painter guy. Click the mouse and the "paint" changes color.
I could sit and play with this for hours. Here's one of mine:
Happy drawing! :o)
I could sit and play with this for hours. Here's one of mine:
Happy drawing! :o)
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
icky
What is that called when the weather matches your mood? I know there's a literary term for it, but alas, it's been a while since I've taken a true English class -- John? A little help? Regardless, it's basically been raining non-stop here in Elon for about 3 days. And not just the random little drizzly obnoxious rain, but the monsoon, you're going to get swept away kind. I wish a photo would capture the intensity of the rain as it falls outside my window right now. It's basically amazing.
Don't get me wrong, I love the rain. It's probably my favorite sort of weather pattern, followed closely by sun, and then an even closer third place, snow. I love the sound it makes in the gutters and the way it smells on the concrete of the parking lots and sidewalks. Rain smells different everywhere. Arizona rain smells different than Maryland rain. D.C. rain smells different than London rain. But like most things, I like it in moderation. This rain in particular seems to have coincided nicely with a marathon newspaper putting-out session.
Starting Monday, I believe I clocked a total 28 hours in the Pendulum office, designing, writing and perfecting Friday's edition. Usually, as you Elon readers know, the paper comes out on Wednesdays and production is just Monday nights. It's not unusual for us to be in the office from 5 p.m. to midnight most weeks. But this edition was a bit of a nightmare. Olivia, our fearless leader, was called away to Denver to be with her family during a time of sadness. I was left in charge. I don't mind being in charge. I'm good at bossing people around. I just got really overwhelmed with this one. I think because it was the first one back, and a double issue (two sections, due two different days) this one really worked me over.
So as it rained outside, dreary and sad, looking like 7 p.m. at 10 a.m., we worked away in the office, consuming insane amounts of Twizzlers, Sun Chips and homemade cupcakes. But it's done. We finished.
The rain just always seems to make things worse. It's like being sick at night. You always feel like you're going to die somewhere between 2 a.m. and 5 a.m., until the sun comes out and you know you'll make it through.
Another lesson in endurance, I think. I have a feeling there'll be a lot of those this year...
Don't get me wrong, I love the rain. It's probably my favorite sort of weather pattern, followed closely by sun, and then an even closer third place, snow. I love the sound it makes in the gutters and the way it smells on the concrete of the parking lots and sidewalks. Rain smells different everywhere. Arizona rain smells different than Maryland rain. D.C. rain smells different than London rain. But like most things, I like it in moderation. This rain in particular seems to have coincided nicely with a marathon newspaper putting-out session.
Starting Monday, I believe I clocked a total 28 hours in the Pendulum office, designing, writing and perfecting Friday's edition. Usually, as you Elon readers know, the paper comes out on Wednesdays and production is just Monday nights. It's not unusual for us to be in the office from 5 p.m. to midnight most weeks. But this edition was a bit of a nightmare. Olivia, our fearless leader, was called away to Denver to be with her family during a time of sadness. I was left in charge. I don't mind being in charge. I'm good at bossing people around. I just got really overwhelmed with this one. I think because it was the first one back, and a double issue (two sections, due two different days) this one really worked me over.
So as it rained outside, dreary and sad, looking like 7 p.m. at 10 a.m., we worked away in the office, consuming insane amounts of Twizzlers, Sun Chips and homemade cupcakes. But it's done. We finished.
The rain just always seems to make things worse. It's like being sick at night. You always feel like you're going to die somewhere between 2 a.m. and 5 a.m., until the sun comes out and you know you'll make it through.
Another lesson in endurance, I think. I have a feeling there'll be a lot of those this year...
Sunday, August 24, 2008
whistling teapot
My shower sounds like a whistling teapot. It sings. Not nicely, though. It's more of a shrill, constant, high E above middle C sort of sound. It's one of those showers where you turn on the water, and then pull up on the little knobby thing on the spout to start the shower flowing. Pull up all the way on this one, and it starts whining. Sort of like me? My old one didn't do this. Physical plant is getting a call tomorrow.
So, I was standing in the shower, listening to it sing its brain-numbing song, and I started to get mad. This isn't right! I kept thinking. This is so unfair! I was pissed. My old one didn't do this! How did I get stuck with this P.O.S.!? And then, because I wasn't paying attention, I got shampoo in my eye. Um, ouch!? I think it was the universe telling me to stop complaining and fix the problem. So I leaned over, and fiddling with the little knobby thing, I played with it, pushing it down and up and turning it until I could get the whistling to stop. I fixed it. At least for that shower. Physical plant is still getting a call.
I finished Rainer Marie Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet this morning. This series of letters is absolutely incredible. It's a philosophical text, so not appropriate for someone looking for a quick throw-away beach read. But it's amazing. If you're a writer, an artist, a philosopher or basically a human being, you should read this text. Rilke's writing is direct and and laden with advice, some I agree with and some I don't. As an artist and a writer, I was overtaken by the honesty and incite of this German poet. His thoughts on the necessity of solitude, art and creation, God, and love were not only universally relevant, but profound and beautiful. He was a poet after all.
One of the things he discusses is the necessity of struggle and pain. I've always believed, however sadistic it sounds, that pain is the most formidable education. But struggle falls right there as well. That whistling shower this morning, as petty as that is, was a struggle that I found I had to overcome. Every struggle forces growth and maturity. I know, I know. I'm reading way too far into a whistling shower, but bear with me... Or not. But it's about learning to take charge and believe in the struggle, as my adviser always says.
Rilke writes, "... it is clear that we must hold to the difficult; ... everything in Nature grows and defends itself according to its own character and is an individual in its own right, strives to be so at any cost and against all opposition. We know little, but that we must hold to the difficult is a certainty that will not leave us; ... the fact that a thing is difficult must be one more reason for our doing it."
I can't even begin to explain, and I won't try, how that paragraph affects me. How it involves me on a level that were I to explain, would, I think, diminish it's value. So, take it for what it is, let it wash over you. No one ever reads the same text as someone else. The same words, the same punctuation, yes. But the experience is never the same. Our lives and our histories prevent that.
I have a new book to add to my list of favorites. And I am a firm believer of passing on the good stuff. So there you go. Oh, and thanks, Bryan for cluing me in.
So, I was standing in the shower, listening to it sing its brain-numbing song, and I started to get mad. This isn't right! I kept thinking. This is so unfair! I was pissed. My old one didn't do this! How did I get stuck with this P.O.S.!? And then, because I wasn't paying attention, I got shampoo in my eye. Um, ouch!? I think it was the universe telling me to stop complaining and fix the problem. So I leaned over, and fiddling with the little knobby thing, I played with it, pushing it down and up and turning it until I could get the whistling to stop. I fixed it. At least for that shower. Physical plant is still getting a call.
I finished Rainer Marie Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet this morning. This series of letters is absolutely incredible. It's a philosophical text, so not appropriate for someone looking for a quick throw-away beach read. But it's amazing. If you're a writer, an artist, a philosopher or basically a human being, you should read this text. Rilke's writing is direct and and laden with advice, some I agree with and some I don't. As an artist and a writer, I was overtaken by the honesty and incite of this German poet. His thoughts on the necessity of solitude, art and creation, God, and love were not only universally relevant, but profound and beautiful. He was a poet after all.
One of the things he discusses is the necessity of struggle and pain. I've always believed, however sadistic it sounds, that pain is the most formidable education. But struggle falls right there as well. That whistling shower this morning, as petty as that is, was a struggle that I found I had to overcome. Every struggle forces growth and maturity. I know, I know. I'm reading way too far into a whistling shower, but bear with me... Or not. But it's about learning to take charge and believe in the struggle, as my adviser always says.
Rilke writes, "... it is clear that we must hold to the difficult; ... everything in Nature grows and defends itself according to its own character and is an individual in its own right, strives to be so at any cost and against all opposition. We know little, but that we must hold to the difficult is a certainty that will not leave us; ... the fact that a thing is difficult must be one more reason for our doing it."
I can't even begin to explain, and I won't try, how that paragraph affects me. How it involves me on a level that were I to explain, would, I think, diminish it's value. So, take it for what it is, let it wash over you. No one ever reads the same text as someone else. The same words, the same punctuation, yes. But the experience is never the same. Our lives and our histories prevent that.
I have a new book to add to my list of favorites. And I am a firm believer of passing on the good stuff. So there you go. Oh, and thanks, Bryan for cluing me in.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
fresh starts
I've been mulling over this idea because I'm back at a school I've known so well and so comfortably for 3 years, but through multiple instances of situational insanity, I'm back at a school that feels so foreign. So as I'm unpacking my room, I find myself wondering if I should rearrange furniture. I'm finding it weird that I am different and my life has changed, but the scenery hasn't. Is it better to power through the old, and eventually find myself comfortable again? Or is it better to rearrange it all and start fresh?
Something to think about until I get around to something more extended and thoughtful.
Also -- am reading Letters to a Young Poet, it's incredibly thought provoking, and I have so much to say about it. That's another upcoming post...
more soon, I promise.
b
Something to think about until I get around to something more extended and thoughtful.
Also -- am reading Letters to a Young Poet, it's incredibly thought provoking, and I have so much to say about it. That's another upcoming post...
more soon, I promise.
b
Friday, August 15, 2008
two!
I know. Two in one day. It's a record. Bring out the cake. I just found out that this was published and I just had to share this interview with you all. I was responsible for the press release that made this interview possible, and was literally sitting next to Betsy Lowther, the interviewer, as she playfully grilled the fabulous Simon Doonan.
It's a wonderful interview, and Doonan has great advice on how to be loud and proud about being yourself. Check it out!
Recap: Simon Doonan Dishes on Fashion
It's a wonderful interview, and Doonan has great advice on how to be loud and proud about being yourself. Check it out!
Recap: Simon Doonan Dishes on Fashion
slowing down
What's that line from "Top Gun"? "I have a need, a need for speed." While this may be a necessity for fighter pilots, swimmers, cyclists and runners, for your average 21-year-old girl, it may not be so important to be constantly rushing through things.
I've been trying to slow myself down the last few weeks and months, to really take in all that's happening around me. I've never been good at being present in a moment -- I constantly find myself thinking ahead, planning and anticipating. I walk fast, and I talk fast, and recently the latter has gotten me in some trouble. So it's time to slow down, think before I speak and really allow myself to absorb my surroundings.
As I was walking to work today, the last day of my internship at the Corcoran, I took my time. I simply wanted to experience the morning walk for the last time: the smells, the sounds and the motion. I alighted at my station to the voice of my favorite street performer: An older black man with killer dreadlocks, with a voice so soulful and expressive. He sings to his guitar and into a microphone. Plugged into an amp, he's broadcast for at least a few blocks. He plays James Taylor, Cat Stevens and Van Morrison -- easy listening for me. On days that he's playing, I always ride up the escalator instead of walking. Today, he was playing a song I didn't know. And the only line I caught was this:
"The future is uncertain, embrace the present, never forget the past."
How's that for perfection?
I've marveled recently how life seems to give you exactly what you need when you need it. I was talking to a friend yesterday, and she mentioned that she's been having bad luck in the dating world. She just can't seem to find someone. But perhaps, regardless of the fact that she wants someone, now is just not the right time. Perhaps, regardless of whether it's what you think you want or not, we subconsciously provide ourselves with what we truly need.
I've come to believe that some how it all seems to resolve itself. Resolution, regardless of whether it's the outcome I'd hoped for or not, has incredible merit. Resolution is not an end, it's not a period. But rather, more like a paragraph break, separating one part of the story, one moment from another. Resolutions create breathing room, they allow us to step back, observe and understand.
My new school year resolution is to absorb, to step back, observe and allow my final year as a student to wash over me with my friends surrounding me and my life playing out as it should.
I'll be sure to let you know how it goes.
I've been trying to slow myself down the last few weeks and months, to really take in all that's happening around me. I've never been good at being present in a moment -- I constantly find myself thinking ahead, planning and anticipating. I walk fast, and I talk fast, and recently the latter has gotten me in some trouble. So it's time to slow down, think before I speak and really allow myself to absorb my surroundings.
As I was walking to work today, the last day of my internship at the Corcoran, I took my time. I simply wanted to experience the morning walk for the last time: the smells, the sounds and the motion. I alighted at my station to the voice of my favorite street performer: An older black man with killer dreadlocks, with a voice so soulful and expressive. He sings to his guitar and into a microphone. Plugged into an amp, he's broadcast for at least a few blocks. He plays James Taylor, Cat Stevens and Van Morrison -- easy listening for me. On days that he's playing, I always ride up the escalator instead of walking. Today, he was playing a song I didn't know. And the only line I caught was this:
"The future is uncertain, embrace the present, never forget the past."
How's that for perfection?
I've marveled recently how life seems to give you exactly what you need when you need it. I was talking to a friend yesterday, and she mentioned that she's been having bad luck in the dating world. She just can't seem to find someone. But perhaps, regardless of the fact that she wants someone, now is just not the right time. Perhaps, regardless of whether it's what you think you want or not, we subconsciously provide ourselves with what we truly need.
I've come to believe that some how it all seems to resolve itself. Resolution, regardless of whether it's the outcome I'd hoped for or not, has incredible merit. Resolution is not an end, it's not a period. But rather, more like a paragraph break, separating one part of the story, one moment from another. Resolutions create breathing room, they allow us to step back, observe and understand.
My new school year resolution is to absorb, to step back, observe and allow my final year as a student to wash over me with my friends surrounding me and my life playing out as it should.
I'll be sure to let you know how it goes.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
decisions
Decisions. Life is full of them. Socks vs. flip-flops. Red shirt or blue shirt. Sam vs. Harry. Boston University or Elon University. Spain or London. Big or little, decisions occupy the majority of our daily thought process. The little ones cause are minimally distracting -- Cookie dough ice cream or Lime sorbet? But the big ones often result in equally large headaches, stomach aches and in some cases, anxiety attacks.
As the summer rolls on, my friends who are recent Elon graduates find themselves making those gut-busting decisions. And I find myself on the receiving end of apprehensive phone calls and text messages. I love listening. I love being the ear and the shoulder. And I love sharing the excitement when a decision is made and a victory won. For the most part, I'm talking about the job search.
Of my three best friends who've graduated, two are now employed and the last just received her first job offer -- one she's not sure she can take, but an offer nonetheless.
And as I listen to her agonize over low pay without benefits and dish out advice, I wonder just how well I'll be able to take my own advice next year when it's my turn to hit the pavement running and begin the next chapter.
My friend McKenzie and I always refer to ourselves as "ducks in a row" kind of people. We like to know where we're going, how we're getting there and what's going to happen when we arrive. More and more I'm realizing that life doesn't work that way. There's always someone waiting with a monkey wrench to toss into your gears. Cynical? Yes. Realistic? In my experience, very.
Over the last few years I've slowly and sometimes painfully begun to understand that the only thing I should plan on is the unexpected. Come September I will have nine months to start my march toward that stage Under the Oaks and then across to the parking lot, my car and the rest of my life. Every instinct in me is telling me to start planning, make lists and phone calls. And to some extent I know I have to just resist all of them for a little while longer and just let myself enjoy the last summer of freedom.
As the summer rolls on, my friends who are recent Elon graduates find themselves making those gut-busting decisions. And I find myself on the receiving end of apprehensive phone calls and text messages. I love listening. I love being the ear and the shoulder. And I love sharing the excitement when a decision is made and a victory won. For the most part, I'm talking about the job search.
Of my three best friends who've graduated, two are now employed and the last just received her first job offer -- one she's not sure she can take, but an offer nonetheless.
And as I listen to her agonize over low pay without benefits and dish out advice, I wonder just how well I'll be able to take my own advice next year when it's my turn to hit the pavement running and begin the next chapter.
My friend McKenzie and I always refer to ourselves as "ducks in a row" kind of people. We like to know where we're going, how we're getting there and what's going to happen when we arrive. More and more I'm realizing that life doesn't work that way. There's always someone waiting with a monkey wrench to toss into your gears. Cynical? Yes. Realistic? In my experience, very.
Over the last few years I've slowly and sometimes painfully begun to understand that the only thing I should plan on is the unexpected. Come September I will have nine months to start my march toward that stage Under the Oaks and then across to the parking lot, my car and the rest of my life. Every instinct in me is telling me to start planning, make lists and phone calls. And to some extent I know I have to just resist all of them for a little while longer and just let myself enjoy the last summer of freedom.
Monday, July 14, 2008
a long hiatus
So I've been pretty all around terrible with this whole blogging thing the last few months. But I have a good reason. Actually, no I don't. But I've decided to just do it. To bite the bullet and post something, even if it's boring and meaningless to anyone but myself. I've realized that the longer I wait the more pressure builds up to post something spectacular, and really, that's just too much anticipation. Too much pressure.
Essentially my life the last few months has consisted of my internship in the communications department at the Corcoran Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C.
Just a few words on that. The first would have to be: awesome. I'm learning so much. I'm the public relations intern, officially, so I spend most of my time dealing with external communications, writing pitch letters and press releases. And basically spend my time pumping up public programming with the likes of Simon Doonan, Thurston Moore, and other famous artsy folks, and getting excited about upcoming exhibitions: Richard Avedon. Maya Lin. Can anyone say holy mackerel!? I've worked with press from Spain covering the Elena del Rivero opening (If you click on the "press information tab," I wrote that release...) and some how have managed to be on a first-name basis with the cultural attache to Spain (this isn't my life, right?). You can see me in this news reel for CNN+, the Spanish affiliate of CNN. And I was recently (read: My arm.) on the Spanish version of the Associated Press, Efe!
Here is the package for CNN+ covering the installation process of the Elena del Rivero exhibtion, Home Suite. I am the one in the gray skirt. Sorry, it's in Spanish:
In addition to random encounters with Spanish press, I have been helping with the editing process for the catalog that will accompany the Richard Avedon show due to open mid-September. I edited the essay by the curator, Paul Roth, that will appear in the catalog. I also compiled the text for the brochure that will be handed to every patron. I've been a busy B.
And it's just all around fun. The program consists of 14 girls and one guy and I've found a group of three other interns who are just so great. We have lunch everyday and talk and gossip about our lives. Very Sex and the City-esque. It's fabulous.
It was my goal this summer to blog more and keep on top of this thing, but yet again, and as always it seems that life has gotten in the way of life.
More soon.
b
Essentially my life the last few months has consisted of my internship in the communications department at the Corcoran Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C.
Just a few words on that. The first would have to be: awesome. I'm learning so much. I'm the public relations intern, officially, so I spend most of my time dealing with external communications, writing pitch letters and press releases. And basically spend my time pumping up public programming with the likes of Simon Doonan, Thurston Moore, and other famous artsy folks, and getting excited about upcoming exhibitions: Richard Avedon. Maya Lin. Can anyone say holy mackerel!? I've worked with press from Spain covering the Elena del Rivero opening (If you click on the "press information tab," I wrote that release...) and some how have managed to be on a first-name basis with the cultural attache to Spain (this isn't my life, right?). You can see me in this news reel for CNN+, the Spanish affiliate of CNN. And I was recently (read: My arm.) on the Spanish version of the Associated Press, Efe!
Here is the package for CNN+ covering the installation process of the Elena del Rivero exhibtion, Home Suite. I am the one in the gray skirt. Sorry, it's in Spanish:
In addition to random encounters with Spanish press, I have been helping with the editing process for the catalog that will accompany the Richard Avedon show due to open mid-September. I edited the essay by the curator, Paul Roth, that will appear in the catalog. I also compiled the text for the brochure that will be handed to every patron. I've been a busy B.
And it's just all around fun. The program consists of 14 girls and one guy and I've found a group of three other interns who are just so great. We have lunch everyday and talk and gossip about our lives. Very Sex and the City-esque. It's fabulous.
It was my goal this summer to blog more and keep on top of this thing, but yet again, and as always it seems that life has gotten in the way of life.
More soon.
b
Monday, March 17, 2008
the edge of the knife
Everyone always asks the same question on you birthday: Does seven feel any different than eight; is 16 drastically different than 15? How about 21 versus 20?
Having just done the last one, I have to admit that for the first time, it does feel a bit different.
I have just passed into American adulthood. In the United States, you can drive at 16, vote and serve your country at 18, but you're not really considered an adult until you can mosey up to the bar and order a beer (or whatever). It was weird to sit at dinner yesterday and drink a margarita with my Mexican food. It all still feels very dangerous and foreign.
My friends and I have been talking a lot recently about growing up. Since most of my friends are graduating, this is a topic of great interest, one that brings a barrage of uncertainty and general terror. Yet, there is a surprisingly low concentration of excitement in this mix.
As American children, adulthood is the coveted status. As little girls we play house, wanting to be mommies with husbands and houses and families. As teenagers we wear make-up and dress to simulate age beyond our years. But I've noticed recently that once adulthood is actually within our reach, we seem to hit a wall. College undergrads forgo jobs and responsibility for two more years of graduate school. Middle-age women get Botox and boob-jobs.
It seems to be a case of situational dissatisfaction. We all want what we can't have. To children, the responsibility of adulthood and the ability to make decisions for oneself is incredible because the ability doesn't exist. For adults, the idealism of being young and free of responsibiliy is the utmost desire in the face of "grown-up problems" like a job, a mortgage and kids.
Why can't we be happy with what we've got? As some one standing in limbo, on the edge of the knife of adulthood and childhood, I'm scared to tip both ways. I'm not quite ready for one and I'm not quite ready to leave the other.
I think it's all a matter of adjustment. With time, hopefully I'll learn to accept my new place. Either that, or come 40, I'll just invest in some plastic surgery. Only kidding.
Having just done the last one, I have to admit that for the first time, it does feel a bit different.
I have just passed into American adulthood. In the United States, you can drive at 16, vote and serve your country at 18, but you're not really considered an adult until you can mosey up to the bar and order a beer (or whatever). It was weird to sit at dinner yesterday and drink a margarita with my Mexican food. It all still feels very dangerous and foreign.
My friends and I have been talking a lot recently about growing up. Since most of my friends are graduating, this is a topic of great interest, one that brings a barrage of uncertainty and general terror. Yet, there is a surprisingly low concentration of excitement in this mix.
As American children, adulthood is the coveted status. As little girls we play house, wanting to be mommies with husbands and houses and families. As teenagers we wear make-up and dress to simulate age beyond our years. But I've noticed recently that once adulthood is actually within our reach, we seem to hit a wall. College undergrads forgo jobs and responsibility for two more years of graduate school. Middle-age women get Botox and boob-jobs.
It seems to be a case of situational dissatisfaction. We all want what we can't have. To children, the responsibility of adulthood and the ability to make decisions for oneself is incredible because the ability doesn't exist. For adults, the idealism of being young and free of responsibiliy is the utmost desire in the face of "grown-up problems" like a job, a mortgage and kids.
Why can't we be happy with what we've got? As some one standing in limbo, on the edge of the knife of adulthood and childhood, I'm scared to tip both ways. I'm not quite ready for one and I'm not quite ready to leave the other.
I think it's all a matter of adjustment. With time, hopefully I'll learn to accept my new place. Either that, or come 40, I'll just invest in some plastic surgery. Only kidding.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
fitting
Have you ever had one of those moments when you realize that your life fits? I hadn't had one in a while.
Friday night was Fellow's Mixer Night - the incoming freshmen vying for a place in Elon as a Journalism and Communications Fellow come to our building and meet the current Fellows.
I was in demand this year, being the managing editor for our newspaper, and it was weird to suddenly be somewhat important. But it wasn't the power that got me, it was the conversation.
As I was standing there schmoozing with the students, selling Elon and its glories, I started talking with a few of my professors. The conversation turned to grammar and punctuation, and split infinitives. I marveled as I listened to these people discuss something so esoteric as a split infinitive, passionately debating whether they're actually a grammatical error or not.
I stood there, smiling, offering my input, and I realized that I could not have chosen a better place to try to belong.
All my life, I've been a wordy. No one ever really seems to get it - boyfriends, parents, friends, no one seems to understand how I can find extra spaces between words, or anguish over dangling modifiers, comma splices or the correct use of affect versus effect. No one seemed to understand, until Friday. They got it. My professors, I'm just like them.
I feel like it's easy for cinema buffs, or painters or biologists -- there are plenty of people who get excited about those things. Copy editing, that's a niche market. There are so few of us. It was so nice to finally feel like I fit in.
Call me a nerd, or a dork, or a geek, whatever. But you know that when you're writing your resume, cover letters, grad school applications and/or wedding vows, you hand them to me, and they'll never sound better.
Friday night was Fellow's Mixer Night - the incoming freshmen vying for a place in Elon as a Journalism and Communications Fellow come to our building and meet the current Fellows.
I was in demand this year, being the managing editor for our newspaper, and it was weird to suddenly be somewhat important. But it wasn't the power that got me, it was the conversation.
As I was standing there schmoozing with the students, selling Elon and its glories, I started talking with a few of my professors. The conversation turned to grammar and punctuation, and split infinitives. I marveled as I listened to these people discuss something so esoteric as a split infinitive, passionately debating whether they're actually a grammatical error or not.
I stood there, smiling, offering my input, and I realized that I could not have chosen a better place to try to belong.
All my life, I've been a wordy. No one ever really seems to get it - boyfriends, parents, friends, no one seems to understand how I can find extra spaces between words, or anguish over dangling modifiers, comma splices or the correct use of affect versus effect. No one seemed to understand, until Friday. They got it. My professors, I'm just like them.
I feel like it's easy for cinema buffs, or painters or biologists -- there are plenty of people who get excited about those things. Copy editing, that's a niche market. There are so few of us. It was so nice to finally feel like I fit in.
Call me a nerd, or a dork, or a geek, whatever. But you know that when you're writing your resume, cover letters, grad school applications and/or wedding vows, you hand them to me, and they'll never sound better.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
pulling back
I've been having trouble reflecting lately. My life, since my last post, has performed some serious acrobatics. And I find myself struggling to keep up. I'm terribly afraid that the continuous movement and forward momentum, the constant push ahead, is going to catch up with me soon, and it's really not going to be very pretty.
They say burning the candle at both ends is bad for you - but it's nothing a little vitamin C can't fix. Elon students, I've found, have an obsession with this tasty citrus nutrient. They believe, and I've realized that I do too, that orange juice cures all ails.
But as I sit here with my Minute Maid, I'm struck by the fact that orange juice, no matter how potent, will not cure a restless mind.
Two of my best friends at Elon were fitted for their caps and gowns today. They're graduating at the end of this semester and going on to start their lives. One is thinking of moving to Singapore or South Korea to teach English, and the other is considering moving to London to work for a study abroad coordinator as an RA. My entire life at Elon has involved these two in some way. The last year has not seen a day without them. Seriously. So what do I do next year? Make new friends, obviously. I know this sounds really very petty and third grade, but the prospect of a year without my surrogate family is terribly daunting.
In the last few weeks, I've learned more about myself and my friends than in the lifetime before that. I have found a strength in their unconditional love that I thought only existed in bloodlines. I was so wonderfully wrong.
I've always been a firm believer that true friends never leave you, that all relationships have something of value to offer and that no one ever enters or exits your life for no reason. And in today's technologically advanced, effortlessly connected society, it's next to impossible to lose touch. But nothing beats a late-night movie, a drive to Greensboro or Sunday night dinners.
I've never been very good with change, and I think part of the reason is I never anticipate it very well. I never expect it until it's bumping noses with me, pulling my hair and pinching me, begging me to take notice.
I find myself today wishing I could pull back a bit on the reigns. But putting a stop on life isn't living, and legs were meant to act as more than just pillars.
So I must move along with the changes, embrace the futures of my friends and myself, and know that in this Lion King-coined circle of life, there is no such thing as an end.
They say burning the candle at both ends is bad for you - but it's nothing a little vitamin C can't fix. Elon students, I've found, have an obsession with this tasty citrus nutrient. They believe, and I've realized that I do too, that orange juice cures all ails.
But as I sit here with my Minute Maid, I'm struck by the fact that orange juice, no matter how potent, will not cure a restless mind.
Two of my best friends at Elon were fitted for their caps and gowns today. They're graduating at the end of this semester and going on to start their lives. One is thinking of moving to Singapore or South Korea to teach English, and the other is considering moving to London to work for a study abroad coordinator as an RA. My entire life at Elon has involved these two in some way. The last year has not seen a day without them. Seriously. So what do I do next year? Make new friends, obviously. I know this sounds really very petty and third grade, but the prospect of a year without my surrogate family is terribly daunting.
In the last few weeks, I've learned more about myself and my friends than in the lifetime before that. I have found a strength in their unconditional love that I thought only existed in bloodlines. I was so wonderfully wrong.
I've always been a firm believer that true friends never leave you, that all relationships have something of value to offer and that no one ever enters or exits your life for no reason. And in today's technologically advanced, effortlessly connected society, it's next to impossible to lose touch. But nothing beats a late-night movie, a drive to Greensboro or Sunday night dinners.
I've never been very good with change, and I think part of the reason is I never anticipate it very well. I never expect it until it's bumping noses with me, pulling my hair and pinching me, begging me to take notice.
I find myself today wishing I could pull back a bit on the reigns. But putting a stop on life isn't living, and legs were meant to act as more than just pillars.
So I must move along with the changes, embrace the futures of my friends and myself, and know that in this Lion King-coined circle of life, there is no such thing as an end.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
getting stuck
It always happens to other people, a cousin’s best friend, an uncle, a coworker or maybe a professor. It’s not a cancer diagnosis, or a car accident, or any thing else as doom and gloom or tragic. This is on a different level of horror completely.
I’m talking about spending the night in Chicago O’Hare Airport.
I did it. Much to my dismay. I’m not proud, nor am I happy. But I did it. I can add myself to the list of unfortunate travelers who’ve been stuck in that terrible airport in the middle of the winter. I know that if I took a poll, everyone I talked to would know someone who’s been stuck there. One would think that the grand-poobah of O’Hare would have figured it out by now. It’s the Midwest. It snows every year. It shouldn’t be a big deal. But apparently snow is still a new thing in Chicago. Go figure.
I spent the last weekend of Fake Break in Grinnell, Iowa. I managed to make it out of that fine Midwestern state with no problem on Sunday afternoon. It was my layover in Chicago where things started to go wrong.
I arrived in Chicago at about 6 p.m. Central time only to find out that my plane had already been delayed about an hour. As we finally boarded the aircraft at 7 p.m., the snow outside began to fall lightly, ominously, but soon escalated to the snow equivalent of a downpour.
Before I even got on the plane in Iowa I knew I was in for an adventure. The trip out had been too easy; I kept saying to myself, I’m going to get stuck! I boarded the plane anyway. What is one to do when one knows they’re in for trouble but can’t help themselves? I couldn’t jump up and yell, Let me off the plane! I wanted to get home. I had to get back to Elon. And they probably would have arrested me thinking I was a terrorist. I was doomed. It’s hard to know helplessness until you’ve been stuck in the snow on an airplane that’s pulled back from the jet-way.
So I sat. And I sat. They de-iced our plane. We taxied to the runway. And we sat. Then the de-icing material stopped working, so we taxied back. And then we sat. Then the flight attendants were over time. So we got news ones. And then we sat. About two hours later, the captain comes over the loud speaker to inform his weary passengers that the crew has now gone “illegal” and it had become unlawful for us to remain on the plane. You see, at this time, we could have flown to Washington, D.C. and back about three times.
We got off the plane and there I stayed. Booked on the 8 a.m. flight the next day, on stand-by for the 6 a.m. flight. I could have stayed in a hotel, but to be back for the 6 a.m. flight, I would have had to have left the hotel at 4 a.m. I made the decision to stay in Chicago about a half hour after getting off the plane, which happened to be at 12:15 on Monday morning.
I found my gate, B5, and made myself cozy on a bench. At about 2:30 a.m. the cleaning lady came through with her industrial vacuum. Seemingly unaware that the pile of coats, bags and feet belonged to a person, she kept running the vacuum under my bed, hitting the legs of the bench with torturous inconsistency, slowly driving me mad.
I wanted to jump up suddenly and yell, STOP! But was afraid I’d give her a heart attack, for which I would have probably been sued. It wasn’t worth it.
I made it out on the 6 a.m. flight, only to find out upon my arrival in D.C. that the 8 a.m. flight had been canceled. I made it back to my house around 10:45 a.m. on Monday, took a much-needed shower, an hour-long nap and then hopped in the car for my ride back to Elon.
Five hours, one stop at McDonald’s and one speeding ticket later, I was back in Burlington, cursing my luck but happier than I’ve ever been to see campus across the railroad tracks.
I’m talking about spending the night in Chicago O’Hare Airport.
I did it. Much to my dismay. I’m not proud, nor am I happy. But I did it. I can add myself to the list of unfortunate travelers who’ve been stuck in that terrible airport in the middle of the winter. I know that if I took a poll, everyone I talked to would know someone who’s been stuck there. One would think that the grand-poobah of O’Hare would have figured it out by now. It’s the Midwest. It snows every year. It shouldn’t be a big deal. But apparently snow is still a new thing in Chicago. Go figure.
I spent the last weekend of Fake Break in Grinnell, Iowa. I managed to make it out of that fine Midwestern state with no problem on Sunday afternoon. It was my layover in Chicago where things started to go wrong.
I arrived in Chicago at about 6 p.m. Central time only to find out that my plane had already been delayed about an hour. As we finally boarded the aircraft at 7 p.m., the snow outside began to fall lightly, ominously, but soon escalated to the snow equivalent of a downpour.
Before I even got on the plane in Iowa I knew I was in for an adventure. The trip out had been too easy; I kept saying to myself, I’m going to get stuck! I boarded the plane anyway. What is one to do when one knows they’re in for trouble but can’t help themselves? I couldn’t jump up and yell, Let me off the plane! I wanted to get home. I had to get back to Elon. And they probably would have arrested me thinking I was a terrorist. I was doomed. It’s hard to know helplessness until you’ve been stuck in the snow on an airplane that’s pulled back from the jet-way.
So I sat. And I sat. They de-iced our plane. We taxied to the runway. And we sat. Then the de-icing material stopped working, so we taxied back. And then we sat. Then the flight attendants were over time. So we got news ones. And then we sat. About two hours later, the captain comes over the loud speaker to inform his weary passengers that the crew has now gone “illegal” and it had become unlawful for us to remain on the plane. You see, at this time, we could have flown to Washington, D.C. and back about three times.
We got off the plane and there I stayed. Booked on the 8 a.m. flight the next day, on stand-by for the 6 a.m. flight. I could have stayed in a hotel, but to be back for the 6 a.m. flight, I would have had to have left the hotel at 4 a.m. I made the decision to stay in Chicago about a half hour after getting off the plane, which happened to be at 12:15 on Monday morning.
I found my gate, B5, and made myself cozy on a bench. At about 2:30 a.m. the cleaning lady came through with her industrial vacuum. Seemingly unaware that the pile of coats, bags and feet belonged to a person, she kept running the vacuum under my bed, hitting the legs of the bench with torturous inconsistency, slowly driving me mad.
I wanted to jump up suddenly and yell, STOP! But was afraid I’d give her a heart attack, for which I would have probably been sued. It wasn’t worth it.
I made it out on the 6 a.m. flight, only to find out upon my arrival in D.C. that the 8 a.m. flight had been canceled. I made it back to my house around 10:45 a.m. on Monday, took a much-needed shower, an hour-long nap and then hopped in the car for my ride back to Elon.
Five hours, one stop at McDonald’s and one speeding ticket later, I was back in Burlington, cursing my luck but happier than I’ve ever been to see campus across the railroad tracks.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
stress stinks, YouTube works
Winter Term. Wow. Where to begin? Perhaps with the monstrous work-load I've taken on over the past two weeks. Perhaps with my ever waining desire to work while it's 20 degrees outside. Or perhaps with my inability to keep in touch with my out-of-state friends due to my monstrous work-load.
That being said, my class is fantastic. I'm learning more than I could have ever hoped about Flash and interactive media. I find our class discussions so fascinating, and I'm really starting to feel like I can use my creativity to create something both functionally and aesthetically interesting and innovative. I'll have to figure out a way to post my projects for viewing. I'm not sure if I can do it here, but I'll figure it out.
In my class we've been viewing a lot of online interactive content. There's this Web site, which is essentially the Web site for an annual Flash convention, that has lists of award-winning Flash animated Web pages. It's mind-boggling and totally worth a visit. Look at the Ikea Dream Kitchen in the 2006 winners. It's amazing. I love the 3D elements and the musical accompaniment - the integration is so seamless and so perfect for their product. I love it! I've been "dorking out" pretty hard core the last week and a half or so, going through tons of YouTube videos and awesome Web sites for class.
My professor is big on breaking up monotony with fun YouTube videos, many of which I've been passing on to my friends. Please go watch David Blaine Street Magic. It's a bit vulgar, but oh so hilarious if you understand the context. We've been seriously discussing YouTube as well as this sort of new wave, or Web 2.0, of how people use the internet.
YouTube has become my savior. Sad, I know. But true. Mindless entertainment has become my vice. And to some extent, I'm really okay with that. There's a ton of stuff, good and bad out there, that can be used educationally and to just break up the day.
That said, I'm going to leave you with an embed of something I found quite amusing, albeit a bit odd...
cheers!
That being said, my class is fantastic. I'm learning more than I could have ever hoped about Flash and interactive media. I find our class discussions so fascinating, and I'm really starting to feel like I can use my creativity to create something both functionally and aesthetically interesting and innovative. I'll have to figure out a way to post my projects for viewing. I'm not sure if I can do it here, but I'll figure it out.
In my class we've been viewing a lot of online interactive content. There's this Web site, which is essentially the Web site for an annual Flash convention, that has lists of award-winning Flash animated Web pages. It's mind-boggling and totally worth a visit. Look at the Ikea Dream Kitchen in the 2006 winners. It's amazing. I love the 3D elements and the musical accompaniment - the integration is so seamless and so perfect for their product. I love it! I've been "dorking out" pretty hard core the last week and a half or so, going through tons of YouTube videos and awesome Web sites for class.
My professor is big on breaking up monotony with fun YouTube videos, many of which I've been passing on to my friends. Please go watch David Blaine Street Magic. It's a bit vulgar, but oh so hilarious if you understand the context. We've been seriously discussing YouTube as well as this sort of new wave, or Web 2.0, of how people use the internet.
YouTube has become my savior. Sad, I know. But true. Mindless entertainment has become my vice. And to some extent, I'm really okay with that. There's a ton of stuff, good and bad out there, that can be used educationally and to just break up the day.
That said, I'm going to leave you with an embed of something I found quite amusing, albeit a bit odd...
cheers!
Saturday, January 5, 2008
breathe out
The holiday season is always hectic for everyone. I don't think I'd ever experienced, or truly understood that until this year. I was home in Maryland for about 10 days total; the whole time rushing around running errands, seeing friends or just being occupied by something.
My family spent about a week in Arizona, like we do every year. This was the first year without my grandmother. It's funny how when someone leaves us, everyone else sort of scoots in to fill the space they left behind. It's like when you have birds on a wire, and one flies off, all the rest shove down. But we can only fill so much, there will always be a void, I think. My aunts, my mother, my cousins and I can make the cookies, the salad dressing, the mashed potatoes and do the wrapping, the cleaning and the laundry. But Christmas just didn't feel like Christmas this year.
New traditions must be forged, though in the company of ones still in tact. We did our annual cousins movie trip and our big family party. But they were held at my aunt Suzy's house instead of Grandma's. Oh that's another thing, it will always be Grandma's house. I mean no disrespect to Grandpa, but that's just how it's always been.
She's everywhere in that house on 44th Lane in Glendale. Her scent is still on her clothes, and her touch still lingers on the pots and pans and the candy dish that sits on top of the clothes dryer.
It was a very bittersweet Christmas, but I'm glad to be back at school. It's not that I'm an escapist, I am perfectly happy to face sadness and grief, but there are moments when you're ready to just breathe out and let the sadness disappear, surrounded by friends and family.
I'm excited about winter term this year. I'm taking a class about interactive and new media. Essentially, it's a class about Internet publishing and digital imaging. We had our first class yesterday (they started school on a Friday, I know, I'm taking it up with the proper authorities) and I think the class shows a lot of promise to be something both informative and engaging in terms of artistic growth and thought development.
I'm going to try to blog more this month. I've fallen off the wagon a bit. I'm going to be heavily engrossed in my search for an internship. So, if anyone knows anyone in the art publishing industry who's looking for an eager student to fill an internship position. Call me.
My family spent about a week in Arizona, like we do every year. This was the first year without my grandmother. It's funny how when someone leaves us, everyone else sort of scoots in to fill the space they left behind. It's like when you have birds on a wire, and one flies off, all the rest shove down. But we can only fill so much, there will always be a void, I think. My aunts, my mother, my cousins and I can make the cookies, the salad dressing, the mashed potatoes and do the wrapping, the cleaning and the laundry. But Christmas just didn't feel like Christmas this year.
New traditions must be forged, though in the company of ones still in tact. We did our annual cousins movie trip and our big family party. But they were held at my aunt Suzy's house instead of Grandma's. Oh that's another thing, it will always be Grandma's house. I mean no disrespect to Grandpa, but that's just how it's always been.
She's everywhere in that house on 44th Lane in Glendale. Her scent is still on her clothes, and her touch still lingers on the pots and pans and the candy dish that sits on top of the clothes dryer.
It was a very bittersweet Christmas, but I'm glad to be back at school. It's not that I'm an escapist, I am perfectly happy to face sadness and grief, but there are moments when you're ready to just breathe out and let the sadness disappear, surrounded by friends and family.
I'm excited about winter term this year. I'm taking a class about interactive and new media. Essentially, it's a class about Internet publishing and digital imaging. We had our first class yesterday (they started school on a Friday, I know, I'm taking it up with the proper authorities) and I think the class shows a lot of promise to be something both informative and engaging in terms of artistic growth and thought development.
I'm going to try to blog more this month. I've fallen off the wagon a bit. I'm going to be heavily engrossed in my search for an internship. So, if anyone knows anyone in the art publishing industry who's looking for an eager student to fill an internship position. Call me.
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