i won't worry my life away

The news from back home was much better yesterday. I won't have to worry as much anymore and can get my own life back in order without fretting about someone else's. Perhaps yesterday's leap day was the sign of good things to come - mostly because it signaled the end of February's gloomy reign over my mood. March promises to be so much better.

But since the events of February are still weighing on my heart and my head, it seems appropriate that this particular passage stuck out to me in my reading of Margaret Atwood's Blind Assassin:

"She began to fret about God's exact location. It was the Sunday-school teacher's name: God is everywhere, she'd said, and Laura wanted to know; was God in the sun, was God in the moon, was God in the kitchen, the bathroom, under the bed? [...] Laura didn't want God popping out at her unexpectedly, not hard to understand considering his recent behavior. [...]

Probably God was in the broom closet. It seemed the most likely place. He was lurking in there like some eccentric and possibly dangerous uncle, but she couldn't be certain whether he was there at any given moment because she was afraid to open the door. "God is in your heart," said the Sunday-school teacher, and that was even worse. If in the broom closet, something might have been possible, such as locking the door."

I don't know if I can particularly explain what drew me to this without detailing the exact ins and outs of my religious faith. That would be far too complicated. But I guess when it comes to death and when bad things happen, sometimes it feels as though God really is just lurking out of sight. Sometimes it feels as though we anticipate His presence when it can't be confirmed, as if by knowing his exact location He would not be so alien to us.

I don't know where I was going with that. I apologize if that made no sense.

Unfortunately, I can't give much context to the passage given that I wouldn't want to spoil the story for anyone, but I think it works fine on its own because it is part of a flash back - the other half of the novel reads to me like a novelization of Fantastic Planet, which is an animated French film from the 70's that I (strangely enough) really enjoy. Here are some stills, which will most likely confirm to everyone reading this of how utterly bizarre I am as a person. Ah well.

And though I am probably giving you a completely inaccurate account of Blind Assassin to you because I have not yet finished the book, I would still recommend it. I've read so many books of late which have left me with this unsatisfied and vaguely repulsed feeling that it's nice to gain some relief. I would also recommend Fantastic Planet as well, though it probably brands me as the hipster I don't mean to be because it's almost impossible to find.

I hope I haven't scared you off. It is past one o'clock in the morning and I should be asleep by now, but my thoughts have kept me awake. Lots of creative ideas brewing, so maybe something will come of them when I finally pick up my pen.

Night all. Enjoy March.

i set fire to the rain

The boy has been playing that Adele song repeatedly for the last two days, and it's been such a gloomy day today with all the rain and cold hovering outside that it just seems appropriate. It's been the strangest week for me - I find myself stressed and burdened with the knowledge of problems I cannot fix.

But February is almost over. That is some solace at least. March always promises to bring good news, or at least a brighter aspect to my life in relief from the persistent sadness that pervades February's character.

I'm writing again. I've been very inconsistent the past year, and have neglected my journal and this blog - which I do often. But the fact that many of my friends have taken up their own blogs has inspired me to return here to see if I can make sense of what direction I would like to take from this point on. An old friend told me a while ago they enjoyed seeing my own writing here, which I'm still somewhat shy about because of that nagging self-consciousness that nothing I write is really worth reading. But a creative writing class I took last semester definitely helped develop my confidence, so perhaps I will post a little more often. And I would like to discuss the books I read, though not necessarily in a formalized book review sort of way. I just like good writing, and would like to share those passages I come across that I find particularly compelling.

Currently, I've been reading Margaret Atwood's Blind Assassin off and on since the new semester began. During Christmas break I was able to read a lot of books within a short period of time, but I really do like to allow myself time to digest Margaret Atwood fully, and so I find myself trying to fit in a chapter or two between the mountain of reading and work I have for school. I came across a paragraph or two that really seemed poignant to me, but I don't want to overwhelm myself in ambitiousness with this first post back and will share and discuss it in the future.

Besides reading, I'm scrambling to figure out my future. This time next year I will be a college graduate, which is both exciting and terrifying. I'm attempting to ignore that for now, though. The summer is what is proving to be an obstacle. So far, I've applied for four different internships at publishing companies in Nashville and New York, and am contemplating applying to three separate internships with PR firms in Atlanta. I haven't heard back from any of them given that it is so early in the year, but I'm still waiting in eager anticipation until the end of March. Wish me luck, amigos.

I suppose that is enough to inundate you with for the time being. Until next time (there will be a next time, promise).

the whole world is moving, but i'm standing still

In this whole unpacking and repacking debacle that has taken over the living room, I managed to find my travel journal from the last time I ventured across the pond. The first entry was an observation of my flight experience. Here it is, redundancies, non sequiturs, and general fluffy formal language included:

July 28, 2008 Atlantic Ocean

I'm wondering if I can trick my body into rest if I just close my eyes and pretend to sleep. but my mind will not sleep; it remains aware of the engine hum and the little girl behind me whose periodic burst of upset are a a constant reminder that it is not the middle of the night to my inner clock. I cannot force the cluster of thoughts in my brain that bounce off its imagined walls waiting for attention to be paid them to settle until the sun pokes up its bright head. They win my hand and here I am, up with the people contentedly watching their in-flight movies, unbothered by the fact that in a few hours their inner clocks will go haywaire with frantic confusion because it is not the time it is supposed to be. Maybe we should all take a note from the Mad Hatter and smash the clocks to pieces and serve them to each other with jam and butter.

the plane windows are cold with the breath of night. The wings are flashing red light beams into the sky, silent signals to the stars, which will never receive our communication because millions of years is too long and the light is too feeble to be of much consequence. It is a weird thing, to be at an even level with the sky, to have something substantial miles beneath you. I used to think heaven was in the clouds, where God and His angels frolicked joyfully, but now I see that he has hidden His kingdom well beyond the reach of man. Heaven will never be a most-desired vacation resort for the well-travelled journeyman.

Restlessness, and nothing else to write of. Maybe now I can force my mind to be still and conform the the ever-changing time zones. Good night.

Expect a longer, more personal entry soon. There has been a lot to reflect upon these past two weeks.

day 4, oxford

Tonight I find myself in Oxford with some down time to actually update on my British excursion, so you’re welcome. I’m staying in a charming little cottage on one of the main thoroughfares, far from the center of the city (a good 30/40 minute walk) but quiet enough that I feel immersed in the stereotypical small-town England that so charms us on the west side of the Atlantic.

So I guess I’ll work backward, shall I?

The voice in my head is currently sporting a British accent, so forgive me if my writing at the moment seems incredibly formal. Also, the television is on some talking head program, so that might be the culprit.

So, today.

We left London on a charter bus at 9 this morning, arrived in Oxford around 11:30. After we moved in and killed the various spiders inhabiting the corners of our house, we made the walk back to the group’s meeting place and did a walking tour of Oxford. I love the quiet of the colleges; we went inside Corpus Christi and Trinity Colleges and they remind me of the quiet little bubble that is Oglethorpe. Coincidentally, Corpus Christi is the birthplace of Oglethorpe, a fact which I already knew, but was amazing to witness in person.

Dinner was at a seafood restaurant. I had some of the most delicious salmon and cous cous; the Brits really know how to do seafood right. After that, a bunch of us popped over to the pub next door to the restaurant, but I only stayed for a bit before walking home with Hillary through some of the neighborhoods around where we’re staying. It was so quaint.

And now I’m sitting in the common room watching The Inbetweeners, which is a very amusing show, to my surprise. It’s an early night; I’m exhausted.

I must admit before I sign off that it’s strange, writing this way. I feel as if it’s not nearly as interesting recounting my daily experience in writing. Please don’t hold it against me, I’m tired.

beyond the daylight, who knew what it could feel like?

"What do you think of James Spader?"
"He needs to call me."

That's the best of what I've gleaned from watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer today, viewed in the midst of washing dishes and folding clothes and general room/apartment cleaning. Or, what I had originally claimed as reading and relaxing on Saturday. Either way, I found the show to be mildly amusing, but I don't think I can find myself obsessing over it as some of my friends who love it. I watched three episodes. Maybe I'll give it another try later. For now, I'll do as my mother does and watch Star Trek while I take care of the laundry. How thoroughly domestic of me.

In other news, I finished A Single Man last night. I thoroughly enjoyed it, especially Isherwood's well-crafted style. There are very few books I feel I could extract more than a few lines from, and this is an exception. I know I've subjected you already to one of my favorite passages, but please bear with me as I share another:

"And now, an hour maybe, has passed. And they are both drunk: Kenny fairly, George very. But George is drunk in a good way, and one that he seldom achieves. He tries to describe to himself what this kind of drunkenness is like. Well - to put it very crudely - it's like Plato; it's a dialogue. A dialogue between two people. Yes, but not a Platonic dialogue in the hair-splitting, word-twisting, one-up-to-me sense; not a mock-humble bitching match; not a debate on some dreary set theme. You can talk about anything and change the subject as often as you like. In fact, what really matters is not what you talk about, but the being together in this particular relationship. George can't imagine having a dialogue of this kind with a woman, because women can only talk in terms of the personal. A man of his own age would do, if there was some sort of polarity; for instance, if he was a Negro. You and your dialogue-partner have to be somehow opposites. Why? Because you have to be symbolic figures - like, in this case, Youth and Age. Why do you have to be symbolic? Because the dialogue is by its nature impersonal. It's a symbolic encounter. It doesn't involve either party personally. That's why, in a dialogue, you can say absolutely anything. Even the closest confidence the deadliest secret, comes out objectively as a mere metaphor or illustration which could never be used against you."

And now onto a third book. I have plenty to choose from, but first, I must get through two books and evaluations for work on Monday. Scratch that, three. My life these days is full of books and manuscripts. I've developed the ability to absorb 300 pages in 4 hours. Such is the projects I've been getting from work lately: not merely slush and mediocre writing taken from the mailroom, but full manuscripts given to me by the editors who act as my supervisors. It's nice, the responsibility. But it's also a lot of pressure. The good kind of pressure, not the Queen + David Bowie kind.

it's 3am, i must be lonely

"A performer at the circus has no theatre curtain to down and hide him and thus preserve the magic spell of his act unbroken. Poised high on the trapeze under the blazing arcs, he has flashed and pulsed like a star indeed. But now, grounded, unsparkling, unfollowed by spotlights, yet plainly visible to anyone who cares to look at him - they are all watching the clowns - he hurries past the tiers of seats toward the exit. Nobody applauds him any more. Very few spare him a single glance.

Together with this anonymity, George feels a fatigue come over him which is not disagreeable. The tide of his vitality is ebbing fast, and he ebbs with it, content. This is a way of resting. All of a sudden he is much, much older. On his way out of the parking lot he walks differently, with less elasticity, moving his arms and his shoulders stiffly. He slows down. Now and then his steps actually shuffle. His head is bowed. His mouth loosens and the muscles of his cheeks sag, His face takes on a dull dreamy placid look. He hums queerly to himself, with a sound like bees around a hive. From time to time, as he walks, he emits quite loud, prolonged farts."

It's been good to do some reading beyond what is required for class and work. This snippet comes from A Single Man by Christopher Isherwood. It's the second novel in my summer-long odyssey to finish the books on top of my dresser - I forget how many there are in total. I'll take a picture of it tomorrow. I find books to be so attractive; each one is unique, and when aligned together they make a very attractive picture. But back to my odyssey...I'm excited to be reading for leisure again. It's the curse of the student, reading academic literature and writing academic papers and at the end of the day too exhausted to even read another book.

Perhaps in the effort to keep myself writing I'll talk about the books I read; I think it'll be a nice direction for the blog, you think?

you, i cannot judge

I'm back in Birmingham for the night, and after a nice hot bath I'm feeling refreshed and in a better mood. And though at 10:30 at night this is probably a bad thing, I'm feeling more alert too. It's been gloomy weather for the past few days; I was so tired at work, it was hard to keep awake even with my Dr. Pepper pick-me-up around noon. Alas, at certain moments even my addiction to caffeinated beverages cannot rouse me from the clutches of lingering sleep.

Other things have gotten me in a better mood since that somber post yesterday. A surprise phone call and the promise of a future dinner from an old friend lifted my spirits significantly. It's nice to start things over, get things off my chest, and be honest with someone again. I look forward to reestablishing a friendship I once thought lost completely.

One of the reasons I love driving to Birmingham and back is that I get to really listen to my music. There's not a lot of moments in my life that I have the opportunity to listen to my music library uninterrupted, but the two and a half hour commute from home to second home is one of those times where I can let it run as the soundtrack to some imaginary movie in which I am the star, driving down the interstate to some unknown destination. Silly, perhaps. I'm not ashamed.

This song in particular, struck me. I rediscovered my love for R.E.M. today:



Tomorrow brings a big change.