I've got that same uneasy feeling I get before I go back to Chicago. Everytime. There is no state of mind that makes it any different. Whether or not I'm reluctant to go (which I usually am), it's always a sense of foreboding that fills me in the days leading up to my departure.
I've had so much fun being home. Last night, Val and Heidi and her dad and I played trivia. It was excellent. We won, and the judge developed a fondness for me based on my answer of "Wolverine (growl)" to a question about the largest in the weasel family in the US.
I've loved going out downtown. I will say that Denver's eligible bachelors are infinitely more attractive than the ones in Chicago and quite a bit nicer too. I wish...a few things but fate must have something up its sleeve. Perhaps not all is lost, but then again, I can never read the people that I need to the most. Character is one thing, intentions are completely another.
My senses are spinning. Especially now, when I know what lays in store for me for the next semester. The break up was horrible, not on my end, not at all, but for him. The way he's reacted to it has made me cringe at the thought of seeing any of our mutual friends. While the old adage, "stick and stones may break my bones..." seems to apply here, it's taken me all that I can do not to fire back. I've slipped once and have since received even worse treatment. I do not have to tolerate such abuse.
I thought everything would be done and over by the time I got back, thought that time would heal all wounds, but alas, it has not. However, Simon has been put in the safekeeping of Madeline, so I feel a little bit better about that situation. I will be picked up from the airport on Sunday afternoon and will immediately be taken for drinks. Immediacy is the prescription for the evening, just as overcome and avoid has been the plan of action since Thanksgiving.
I'm hesistant to leave the house. (I just re-read that sentence and realized it sounds nutty. I am not hesitant to leave the house in terms of going outside, I am hesistant to leave because it's my home and has been for the last 18 years.) I'm hesistant to leave Mom alone for the next few months. I'm going to miss Katie (always).
I feel the loose ends piling up and I realize that there's nothing to be done but take flight and hope for the best.
48 hours until Chicago (give or take 1 hour).
4 days until classes resume.
6 weeks until I set foot back in Colorado.
4 months until I am a college graduate.
6 months until I move back to Colorado.
6 months until jury duty (thrilled).
7 months until I hopefully have a job with DPS.
18 months until I begin graduate school.
This semester is about me. I'm not going to let anyone dictate my terms. I'm going to eat all my vegetables, learn how bake, fight for something I believe in (this may mean finally joining the anti-death penalty people who always call), get straight As (I believe that this can be accomplished simply by doing my homework. What a novel idea), write, and learn how to love myself.
So wish me luck on the 8th leg of the grand adventure that has been Chicago. Let's hope the city saved the best for last (and by best I don't mean worst).
Friday, January 15, 2010
Monday, January 11, 2010
poetry
Youth poetry slam was thought provoking, but the thoughts that sprung to mind weren't necessarily brought on by the insights that the young poets were sharing. Insights, hardly. The repetition repetitively repeated itself until there was very little left to say. One poet, however, chose to perform a piece about chili-mac-and-cheese. Unique.
It was an enjoyable evening, dark wine to match the dark curtains hung behind the stage. Red like the lights draped across the ceiling. Wooden chairs, clustered young adults throughout a crowded room. Music from another room floated in as the waitstaff flitted back and forth, carrying clear pitchers of water.
Four performers, or five, maybe. I whispered the scores I'd have given, not really wanting to give scores at all. Poetry is such a personal art, I thought, held so close. Created, sometimes quite poorly with the worst of intentions. All writing is created with the worst of intentions, though; really, a self-serving selection of words, melodrama, lingering glances and forced emotional pain from which might spring personal growth, all set for a stage created and existing only in the author's mind. But that's where the beauty is. To see it is to connect, for a second, with the words they wrote, to feel them, almost, but barely, to know them.
Anyway, it's strange how so much of growing up can't be taught. I think that's what I drew from watching youth poetry. Think. Because I was so busy living somewhere else, I'm not entirely sure what I drew. Perhaps a million poems from now I'll know what I felt.
Listening to life experiences that can't be relived is beautiful, but then again, so is living.
I turned on the tv this morning to fall asleep and the movie "The Dead Poet's Society" was on. Do you remember going through that Walden Pond phase? Whew, I'll never forget senior year of high school. I embraced transcendentalism like a second skin, loving the possibilities that it offered. Even thinking about it now makes me smile. I seized the subject matter with such fervor, not wanting to wade through Emerson or Thoreau, but wanting to dive in. But the details have long been forgotten.
I emerged as we all must from that phase having realized that life cannot be lived in the mind. And thus, I had forgotten the rush that I felt as a lost teenager when the BRAND NEW NEVER BEFORE SEEN idea of "Carpe Diem" hit me. NO ONE had ever felt like that. NO ONE, NEVER. Ha, ha, it's sad to think that now I've realized that instead of being unique I was merely being another in the long line of people to embrace and then disregard (perhaps not entirely) the ideas that Emerson and Thoreau (among many others, including A.E. Waite - of Rider Waite Tarot card fame) put forth into the world.
I watched about five minutes of the movie before growing annoyed at everything: their actions, their ideas, etc. I turned on HGTV and learned how to stage a house for sale (arguably a better waste of time) and finally fell asleep, most definitely not seizing the day.
Some of that jumble of thoughts must have lingered because I woke up with the urge to go exploring. Instead, I walked the Highline Canal from Iliff through Fairmont and back. I know it's really morbid, but I love graveyards. They are so peaceful, so stunningly set apart from the rest of the surrounding city, so immense in their silence and calming in their sprawling, curving layouts. The path cuts through the cemetery, backing up to one of the mausoleums (I'm not sure that it's what they're called--those tall, flat, white wall-like structures?). As I passed, I heard a family crying as they buried one of their relatives. The pain was acute and although I felt it not for them in particular, I felt it for those who have to grieve and lose.
Life, for all its beauty, is an immense burden to bear.
To all of those in our family grieving, I extend my support. I'll not pretend to know your pain or even try to understand it.
Avery came over tonight, knocking at the back door in the dark. She was wearing the tiniest little boots but had her pants pulled up past her knees. She proceeded to inform me that they may have gotten wet on the walk over. I opened it and she came in. "Where's Ms. Barry?" she asked. "At quilting class," I told her. "Oh, I came over to see you," she told me matter-of-factly.
We had hot chocolate and played with Barbies. I had to be Prince Erik, but it's alright. No less than three times did she say, "I love you, Katie." I would be Prince Erik or even one of the "mean ones" forever to get to hear her say that or even to hear her chatter away.
Also, completely unrelated to most everything in the blog: Please don't workout without a shirt. Especially indoors. This applies to all genders, races and age groups. yuck.
It was an enjoyable evening, dark wine to match the dark curtains hung behind the stage. Red like the lights draped across the ceiling. Wooden chairs, clustered young adults throughout a crowded room. Music from another room floated in as the waitstaff flitted back and forth, carrying clear pitchers of water.
Four performers, or five, maybe. I whispered the scores I'd have given, not really wanting to give scores at all. Poetry is such a personal art, I thought, held so close. Created, sometimes quite poorly with the worst of intentions. All writing is created with the worst of intentions, though; really, a self-serving selection of words, melodrama, lingering glances and forced emotional pain from which might spring personal growth, all set for a stage created and existing only in the author's mind. But that's where the beauty is. To see it is to connect, for a second, with the words they wrote, to feel them, almost, but barely, to know them.
Anyway, it's strange how so much of growing up can't be taught. I think that's what I drew from watching youth poetry. Think. Because I was so busy living somewhere else, I'm not entirely sure what I drew. Perhaps a million poems from now I'll know what I felt.
Listening to life experiences that can't be relived is beautiful, but then again, so is living.
I turned on the tv this morning to fall asleep and the movie "The Dead Poet's Society" was on. Do you remember going through that Walden Pond phase? Whew, I'll never forget senior year of high school. I embraced transcendentalism like a second skin, loving the possibilities that it offered. Even thinking about it now makes me smile. I seized the subject matter with such fervor, not wanting to wade through Emerson or Thoreau, but wanting to dive in. But the details have long been forgotten.
I emerged as we all must from that phase having realized that life cannot be lived in the mind. And thus, I had forgotten the rush that I felt as a lost teenager when the BRAND NEW NEVER BEFORE SEEN idea of "Carpe Diem" hit me. NO ONE had ever felt like that. NO ONE, NEVER. Ha, ha, it's sad to think that now I've realized that instead of being unique I was merely being another in the long line of people to embrace and then disregard (perhaps not entirely) the ideas that Emerson and Thoreau (among many others, including A.E. Waite - of Rider Waite Tarot card fame) put forth into the world.
I watched about five minutes of the movie before growing annoyed at everything: their actions, their ideas, etc. I turned on HGTV and learned how to stage a house for sale (arguably a better waste of time) and finally fell asleep, most definitely not seizing the day.
Some of that jumble of thoughts must have lingered because I woke up with the urge to go exploring. Instead, I walked the Highline Canal from Iliff through Fairmont and back. I know it's really morbid, but I love graveyards. They are so peaceful, so stunningly set apart from the rest of the surrounding city, so immense in their silence and calming in their sprawling, curving layouts. The path cuts through the cemetery, backing up to one of the mausoleums (I'm not sure that it's what they're called--those tall, flat, white wall-like structures?). As I passed, I heard a family crying as they buried one of their relatives. The pain was acute and although I felt it not for them in particular, I felt it for those who have to grieve and lose.
Life, for all its beauty, is an immense burden to bear.
To all of those in our family grieving, I extend my support. I'll not pretend to know your pain or even try to understand it.
Avery came over tonight, knocking at the back door in the dark. She was wearing the tiniest little boots but had her pants pulled up past her knees. She proceeded to inform me that they may have gotten wet on the walk over. I opened it and she came in. "Where's Ms. Barry?" she asked. "At quilting class," I told her. "Oh, I came over to see you," she told me matter-of-factly.
We had hot chocolate and played with Barbies. I had to be Prince Erik, but it's alright. No less than three times did she say, "I love you, Katie." I would be Prince Erik or even one of the "mean ones" forever to get to hear her say that or even to hear her chatter away.
Also, completely unrelated to most everything in the blog: Please don't workout without a shirt. Especially indoors. This applies to all genders, races and age groups. yuck.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Blegh
T H E F O R E H E A D D O T
>
> Finally, someone has explained this.
>
> For centuries, Hindu women have worn a dot on their foreheads. Most of
> us have naively thought this was connected with tradition or religion,
> but the Indian Embassy in Washington , D.C. , has recently revealed
> the true story.
>
> When a Hindu woman gets married, she brings a dowry into the union. On
> her wedding night, the husband scratches off the dot to see whether
> he's won a convenience store, a gas station, a donut shop, a taxi cab
> or a motel in America .. If nothing is there, he must remain in India
> to answer telephones and provide us with technical support.
>
I received the above forward in my Gmail inbox this morning and haven't been able to stop thinking about it since. It followed one that involved "brain tests" to see if we could spot something different in a group of the same. Guess which test was included? Spot the black president.
I won't say much because I know that I too am guilty of letting these things slip by unnoticed, but this is unacceptable behavior if we want to consider ourselves people of the world.
The most intelligent professor that I have had in my four years of college is an Indian woman. Slender with long dark hair and a beautiful smile, she stands in front of us not with a little red dot but with the knowledge of cultures, languages and literature that I can only dream of.
So stop putting everyone you know or meet or even talk about in a corner based on their history, race, culture, religion, etc. It's nasty, very un-neighborly behavior.
I think that this is a response to a comment I made at dinner the night about rape. I feel guilty. A sentence slipped out of my mouth that I regret saying, even thinking. And you know what, maybe what I was saying had some partial truth value but at the same time, it didn't need to be voiced. Every woman has a right to the sanctity of her own body and no matter who she is or what profession she may have taken on, no one should ever take that right away from her. That being said, the truth is the truth and no amount of distortion should be allowed to create a situation.
I'm in town until next Sunday -- I wanted to be able to get to Ft. Collins (which I now will be able to do!!) and get other stuff done. No real reason other than avoiding Chicago for the moment. Very mature, I know. We've got someone guesting on our couch and I am not in the mood to deal with visitors now, so hopefully that will all be over by the time I go back. I miss Simon, though, and desperately need to get him to a shop where he can be cleaned up. Apparently, Goo-Be-Gone (sp?) hasn't helped with the spray paint. I swear, I want to find that kid who did it and spray paint him.
>
> Finally, someone has explained this.
>
> For centuries, Hindu women have worn a dot on their foreheads. Most of
> us have naively thought this was connected with tradition or religion,
> but the Indian Embassy in Washington , D.C. , has recently revealed
> the true story.
>
> When a Hindu woman gets married, she brings a dowry into the union. On
> her wedding night, the husband scratches off the dot to see whether
> he's won a convenience store, a gas station, a donut shop, a taxi cab
> or a motel in America .. If nothing is there, he must remain in India
> to answer telephones and provide us with technical support.
>
I received the above forward in my Gmail inbox this morning and haven't been able to stop thinking about it since. It followed one that involved "brain tests" to see if we could spot something different in a group of the same. Guess which test was included? Spot the black president.
I won't say much because I know that I too am guilty of letting these things slip by unnoticed, but this is unacceptable behavior if we want to consider ourselves people of the world.
The most intelligent professor that I have had in my four years of college is an Indian woman. Slender with long dark hair and a beautiful smile, she stands in front of us not with a little red dot but with the knowledge of cultures, languages and literature that I can only dream of.
So stop putting everyone you know or meet or even talk about in a corner based on their history, race, culture, religion, etc. It's nasty, very un-neighborly behavior.
I think that this is a response to a comment I made at dinner the night about rape. I feel guilty. A sentence slipped out of my mouth that I regret saying, even thinking. And you know what, maybe what I was saying had some partial truth value but at the same time, it didn't need to be voiced. Every woman has a right to the sanctity of her own body and no matter who she is or what profession she may have taken on, no one should ever take that right away from her. That being said, the truth is the truth and no amount of distortion should be allowed to create a situation.
I'm in town until next Sunday -- I wanted to be able to get to Ft. Collins (which I now will be able to do!!) and get other stuff done. No real reason other than avoiding Chicago for the moment. Very mature, I know. We've got someone guesting on our couch and I am not in the mood to deal with visitors now, so hopefully that will all be over by the time I go back. I miss Simon, though, and desperately need to get him to a shop where he can be cleaned up. Apparently, Goo-Be-Gone (sp?) hasn't helped with the spray paint. I swear, I want to find that kid who did it and spray paint him.
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