It's no secret that I'm a sap for love songs. So tonight when Grandma starting singing to me...well...lets just say I wanted to cry a little bit. Just a little bit. I have to admit that I never heard this particular song before, though it's one I should have known my whole life.
It was my grandfather's favorite song and he wasn't shy about singing it. "He just loved the words!" Grandma says. I never met my grandfather--he died before I was born--but I'm going to go ahead and pretend he sang this song for me.
Grooveshark Widgets - Music Playlists for Your MySpace & Blog
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Monday, September 27, 2010
Love Song for Lake Murray
My reading cave doesn't afford many opportunities for escape. My mind is a reading cave, it seems. The internal voice that speeds through hundreds of pages a day won't shut off! Even in my dreams I am outlining essays and scribbling notes and reading invisible books. The words don't stop. I need my own kind of anti-drug to prevent this sort of craziness. I guess it would be something like an anti-crazy.
Ahhh...silence. Here my internal outliner is quieted as I take the Asics and "This American Life" for a walk around the lake. Warm air, fresh breeze, endless trail, and Ira Glass: my anti-crazy.
In gratitude, dear Lake Murray, I dedicate this lovely little tune to you.
Grooveshark Widgets - Music Playlists for Your MySpace & Blog
And so there is Lake Murray.
Ahhh...silence. Here my internal outliner is quieted as I take the Asics and "This American Life" for a walk around the lake. Warm air, fresh breeze, endless trail, and Ira Glass: my anti-crazy.
In gratitude, dear Lake Murray, I dedicate this lovely little tune to you.
Grooveshark Widgets - Music Playlists for Your MySpace & Blog
Sunday, September 26, 2010
What a Difference 4 Years Make
Organizing closets and sorting through papers is a never-ending process, especially if your name is Grandma and you are sorting through a lifetime of clothes and notes. She isn't getting very fair. Last week she found a box full of letters from her grandchildren and, like every normal person who is easily distracted, proceeded to read every single one. Apparently Bjorn and Kevan wrote some "lovely" long letters. What sweet boys. Today she brought me a 3-page typed (single-space, 12 point) letter that I had written to her four years ago.
Dated August 30, 2006, I knew this letter could be dangerous to read.
"Oh man...I don't think I want to read that."
But of course I did and its oozingly sweet drama didn't disappoint me. Still recovering from my dream-crushing and confidence-deflating AmeriCorps experience (and a few other things), I wrote this letter under no delusion that 2006 was a good year. But Grandma needed a letter.
On my short-lived Starbucks career: "my hair is permanently stained with coffee odor" and "what is it about my '4:30am eye-twinkle' that encourages 50-year old men to hit on me at 4:30am? Who wakes up in the morning (at 4:30am) and think, hey...I'm going to flirt with the barista girl because she'll be too tired to refuse me at 4:30am? When are men going to realize that flirting works so much better when the girl is actually awake? Good riddance, Starbucks." (Nowadays I only ask that men offer a cookie or a donut. The perfect one-liner: "Hi my name is [insert name here], I bought this donut for you. Will you go out with me?")
On my exciting new job: "Interning at Redwood Camp just might reduce me to a puddle of twice-abused emotional rot, but hey...I get to live in a cottage called 'Huckleberry!'" (So full of optimism was I)
On shopping: "Everyone must own a pair of red shoes" and "because I had nothing to wear with my new red shoes, I bought an entire new wardrobe. Now I have too many clothes. I worry that uncontrollable spending runs in the family." (It doesn't)
On creativity: "Only after completing the village puzzle, the Little Mermaid puzzle, the princess puzzle, and the Mickey Mouse puzzle did my mom and I realize that we were addicted...and bored. So we decided to make a quilt." (Best quilt ever made. P.S. - Mom, can you bring it with you in November?)
And thankfully, I also made note of my anti-dating philosophy: "I've decided that relationships are kind of ridiculous. After a while all you can see are problems and everything is so serious and stupid. These little insignificant things become huge issues and then, without any warning at all, you get told that every single one of those issues is your fault. Who wants that?" (I guess some things don't change)
Although somewhat strange, I consider this brief encounter with 2006 to be the best part of my day. As I spent the day hunched over my computer, agonizing over a paper on 18th-century racial identity, I was so happy to remember the crazy 4-year path that brought me here. No more AmeriCorps, no more serving lattes, no more planning camp, no more helping lawyers. I'm finally doing what I want to be doing: hunched over a computer, agonizing over racial identity. Damn it's good to be here in 2010!
Dated August 30, 2006, I knew this letter could be dangerous to read.
"Oh man...I don't think I want to read that."
But of course I did and its oozingly sweet drama didn't disappoint me. Still recovering from my dream-crushing and confidence-deflating AmeriCorps experience (and a few other things), I wrote this letter under no delusion that 2006 was a good year. But Grandma needed a letter.
On my short-lived Starbucks career: "my hair is permanently stained with coffee odor" and "what is it about my '4:30am eye-twinkle' that encourages 50-year old men to hit on me at 4:30am? Who wakes up in the morning (at 4:30am) and think, hey...I'm going to flirt with the barista girl because she'll be too tired to refuse me at 4:30am? When are men going to realize that flirting works so much better when the girl is actually awake? Good riddance, Starbucks." (Nowadays I only ask that men offer a cookie or a donut. The perfect one-liner: "Hi my name is [insert name here], I bought this donut for you. Will you go out with me?")
On my exciting new job: "Interning at Redwood Camp just might reduce me to a puddle of twice-abused emotional rot, but hey...I get to live in a cottage called 'Huckleberry!'" (So full of optimism was I)
On shopping: "Everyone must own a pair of red shoes" and "because I had nothing to wear with my new red shoes, I bought an entire new wardrobe. Now I have too many clothes. I worry that uncontrollable spending runs in the family." (It doesn't)
On creativity: "Only after completing the village puzzle, the Little Mermaid puzzle, the princess puzzle, and the Mickey Mouse puzzle did my mom and I realize that we were addicted...and bored. So we decided to make a quilt." (Best quilt ever made. P.S. - Mom, can you bring it with you in November?)
And thankfully, I also made note of my anti-dating philosophy: "I've decided that relationships are kind of ridiculous. After a while all you can see are problems and everything is so serious and stupid. These little insignificant things become huge issues and then, without any warning at all, you get told that every single one of those issues is your fault. Who wants that?" (I guess some things don't change)
Although somewhat strange, I consider this brief encounter with 2006 to be the best part of my day. As I spent the day hunched over my computer, agonizing over a paper on 18th-century racial identity, I was so happy to remember the crazy 4-year path that brought me here. No more AmeriCorps, no more serving lattes, no more planning camp, no more helping lawyers. I'm finally doing what I want to be doing: hunched over a computer, agonizing over racial identity. Damn it's good to be here in 2010!
Friday, September 17, 2010
Thursday, September 9, 2010
An Introduction
It seems my life has been hi-jacked by Arab slaves and Mayan rebels. Welcome to grad school, Joanna...now DRIVE! Or, more aptly, gimme your car or I'll shoot you in the head. I didn't expect this sort of violent interaction with history when I began this whole endeavor. First of all, I expected to study 20th century U.S., so why the hell am I in the Middle East in the Middle Ages and the Yucatan in 1884?? Second, when I gave myself that motivational speech months ago about pursuing my dreams ("You can this, Joanna...you're smart, your confident...this is what you've always wanted to do...blah blah blah!"), I didn't consider the fact that this would be impossible. Apparently I was expecting something easy. Oh silly, silly me! Welp...I was wrong. (Enter Arab slaves, Mayan rebels, and a devastatingly overwhelming amount of reading here). My life has been reduced to the turning of pages and the pages never end. Ever.
I want to murder that motivational speech now. I would slit its throat and let it bleed out...slowly.
Yes, I have resorted to violence. This is what happens when you lose your words and you're desperately flirting with impossibility. In my case, I start ranting and raving about things that shouldn't matter. Like, for instance, Bristol Palin on "Dancing with the Stars."
Ugh. Let me pause a moment to work out my disgust.
Who is the idiot responsible for this awful decision? This is a travesty and my favorite show is ruined forever. ABC could redeem itself, however. I propose the Tanya Harding method of elimination. This would not only satisfy my current fascination with violence, but it'd be damned entertaining. The other option is to introduce the negative vote. If I could caste -1 vote for every call, I would call 100 times every Monday night. Bristol would be gone after week 1 and I could watch my show in peace.
Not that I have time for TV or anything. I have better things to do. Like figuring out how to be a grad student without losing my mind. It seems like an unattainable ambition after only my second week of classes. I wonder if perhaps I should stop looking for apartments and start looking for jobs. Real jobs. But then Brother Bjorn calls me. We commiserate together about the insane workload and I want to cry because finally someone understands. And then he delivers the Clear Eyes, Full Hearts sort of game-changing speech that I needed to hear. Thanks, brother. Maybe this is possible after all.
But I'm still worried about the hi-jacking issue. I wonder if it is possible for this pursuit to run away with my life and leave only a skeleton of boringness. I have seen the end result of that progression (or regression) and it isn't good. Let's just say that those professors wear sweat pants to work and they forget how to make eye contact or say "hello." They are the ones who are lost in their own oblivion and no amount of social interaction or goading can bring them back from a total and complete state of permanent awkwardness. This is the worst possible outcome for my life. More than failing out of grad school or being buried alive, I fear sweatpants and irreparable awkwardness. So I write this blog to preserve my humanity and save my soul. Practically, it is a chance to exhale, to take a mental break, and to explore the lighter side of life--the innocent, the trivial, and the truly inspiring.
Like this cupcake...
Or this view...
I want to murder that motivational speech now. I would slit its throat and let it bleed out...slowly.
Yes, I have resorted to violence. This is what happens when you lose your words and you're desperately flirting with impossibility. In my case, I start ranting and raving about things that shouldn't matter. Like, for instance, Bristol Palin on "Dancing with the Stars."
 |
| Is it just me or does she have no armpit? |
Ugh. Let me pause a moment to work out my disgust.
Who is the idiot responsible for this awful decision? This is a travesty and my favorite show is ruined forever. ABC could redeem itself, however. I propose the Tanya Harding method of elimination. This would not only satisfy my current fascination with violence, but it'd be damned entertaining. The other option is to introduce the negative vote. If I could caste -1 vote for every call, I would call 100 times every Monday night. Bristol would be gone after week 1 and I could watch my show in peace.
Not that I have time for TV or anything. I have better things to do. Like figuring out how to be a grad student without losing my mind. It seems like an unattainable ambition after only my second week of classes. I wonder if perhaps I should stop looking for apartments and start looking for jobs. Real jobs. But then Brother Bjorn calls me. We commiserate together about the insane workload and I want to cry because finally someone understands. And then he delivers the Clear Eyes, Full Hearts sort of game-changing speech that I needed to hear. Thanks, brother. Maybe this is possible after all.
But I'm still worried about the hi-jacking issue. I wonder if it is possible for this pursuit to run away with my life and leave only a skeleton of boringness. I have seen the end result of that progression (or regression) and it isn't good. Let's just say that those professors wear sweat pants to work and they forget how to make eye contact or say "hello." They are the ones who are lost in their own oblivion and no amount of social interaction or goading can bring them back from a total and complete state of permanent awkwardness. This is the worst possible outcome for my life. More than failing out of grad school or being buried alive, I fear sweatpants and irreparable awkwardness. So I write this blog to preserve my humanity and save my soul. Practically, it is a chance to exhale, to take a mental break, and to explore the lighter side of life--the innocent, the trivial, and the truly inspiring.
Like this cupcake...
 |
| "Yes I will have a chocolate chip cookie cupcake." |
Or this view...
 |
| Not a bad view for studying, eh? |
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