What We Love

My friend Sean loves to debate the merits of certain books that have historically been called "great." I think he has some strange ideas, but he does share my love for books. I was sharing a quote with him and a couple of other friends, and, as anti-sentimental as Sean is, he thought it was a great paragraph and sentiment:

" Vendler is evoking one of the great myths about those of us who take literature seriously enough to major it in college, perhaps enough to want to spend out lives teaching literature to others: that in our Edenic childhoods we grew up enchanted by the pleasures and powers of literature . . . However we got hooked by literature, it seems to be a lifelong addiction, and studying it is the tribute we pay to the power it has over us."
Falling Into Theory
I told Sean I would try and start a debate, or at least a list, of books others feel are great. Here's mine, in order of greatness:
1. The Waves
2. Jane Eyre
3. The Brothers Karamozov
4. Love in the Time of Cholera
5. To the Lighthouse
6. Mrs./ Dalloway
7. The Portrait of a Lady
8. As I Lay Dying
9. One Hundred Years of Solitude
10. The Good Soldier
I could go on and on, but I am already questioning my top ten list. I would love to see what books show up again and again on this list. Add yours and make Sean happy.

Happy Thanksgiving!!

It's almost obscene.

Life's Little Nuisances

I saw a list on a blog the other day and thought it was very funny, so I came up with a list of a few of the students that I see in my classes at Armstrong. Most of these are found in my education classes. Feel free to add one of your characters to the list.

1. The student who uses the wrong word, or uses unnecessary words, because they are trying to sound smart.

There is a lady in one of my classes who loves to speak articulately and enunciate everything perfectly. She ends up sounding like a minister. Some of her favorite words are "Holistic"and (my personal favorite), "Dramastically." Last night she sounded the battle cry for teachers everywhere to "Give of yourselves" (pause here) "that is the best we can do for our children." One semester, a guy was so out of control, that we had to create a banned word list. If I recall correctly, "Juxtaposition" was at the top of the list.

2. The student who is connected in some way to every situation:

One of the women in my class has a little bit of everybody in her family. "I have been accused of being Jamaican," "I have been around a lot of Muslims,"" I like to eat bean Pies," "My Auntie is an Indian," "I had a great-uncle who was from Turkey," "Jehovah Witnesses always knock at my door." You get the picture. Her initial revelations always end up in a 15 speech that rambles on about things that no one cares about.

3. The student who is so PC that she qualifies everything she says:

There is a girl we call "Lily White" in one of my classes. She is so conscious of everything she says that she has to say two sentences for every one sentence she says. Example, "I never knew that black children had such problems, you know what I mean when I say black, I don't mean black children."

4. The student that "helps out" the teacher by bringing in articles or news stories that she thought we would find "interesting."

Many times these articles are of no interest to me at all. They end up be more paper that I have to toss out of my already too cluttered book bag. I have to confess though; sometimes I am this student. But I do not bring these articles to the whole class, just to the teacher and a select few who I know will be interested in it.

A New Metaphor

Oak Tree on Sapelo

I have my theory that life is like a merry-go-round; there are ups and downs, but you have to stay on the ride. Today, as I was watching Meet the Press, I decided that life is not only like a merry go round, but it is also like a television show. We live life in production mode; presenting ourselves as who we want others to think we are. When we are being observed through the lens of the camera, those watching only see what we want them to see. It looks pretty good to them. We read from the teleprompter and make as few mistakes as possible. We only let a few see the behind the scenes action. The wires that hang free and make the set, when seen in its entirety, look messy and disordered, are cut off when others narrowly observe us. When the camera widens out, others can see that our set is not as perfect as it seems through the selective eye of the lens, so we try to keep them from that wide shot. We try to keep the camera in tight and the frame under our control. When the microphones are turned off, we say things we would rarely say when others could hear our broadcast.

Some may think this is a criticism of the way we live, but it is not. We cannot, no matter how we would like to, walk around saying or doing whatever we please with no consideration of those around us. We live, not only for ourselves, but for others as well. Independence is great, but so is interdependence. I was told by a very wise man once, "Before you say something, ask yourself, Is it necessary and is it kind?" As long as I can present a decent picture to the people in my viewing area, then I can work on the behind the scenes stuff. I can reach back and tuck in a wire that may be hanging in way of the shot. At least I can try.

It really is sad

The Chili Cheese Dog

This post is dedicated to Malinda. Her reaction to Willie's just shows you how, once bitten by the Willie Bug, you can never recover. I also realize how sad it is that I have dedicated so much time to a hot dog stand. Tomorrow we are going to St. Simons to play in the park. Look for the pics. I promise there will be none of Willie's.

Well Put Candide

"'That is very well put,' said Candide, 'but we must cultivate our garden'"

Voltaire in Candide

Sometimes I am amazed at the hurt we can feel for others. I remember reading the end of "Candide" and being so disappointed that he did not find the happiness he had fought for throughout this novella. I felt the same way for Newland Archer at the end of Age of Innocence.

But these are characters in books. I have never, and will never know them. I cry because I feel their pain in a way that I relate to my own life.

Last night I went to a sports banquet for Reese and Hope's football and volleyball teams. Although Hope was never able to play (I am glad to say she is an artist and not an athlete), she was very excited to be able to receive a certificate and stand on the stage with her friends. But when the members of the volleyball team were called up to receive their rewards, Hope's name was not called. She smiled and said "It's OK. I don't mind." But I knew better, and I hurt for her much like I hurt for Candide and Newland.

Tha' Real Willie's

As promised:

Making Your Own Space

I believe that, no matter the circumstances, people find a way of making their own space. I thought you might like to see some of my spaces in Brunswick. What more do you need besides a great restaurant, a good cup of coffee, a delicious cheeseburger and an independent bookseller that sells great old books?

To Will

We are alone, absolutely alone on this chance planet: and, amid all the forms of life that surround us, not one, excepting the dog, has made an alliance with us.
- Maurice Maeterlinck

When I read that quote earlier today, I did not give it much thought. It seems like one of life's cruel moments because my beloved dog Will was killed tonight. It was Phil's fault, and I am going to be completely bitter and unbearably mean for a little while. I hope I can forgive him and be the kind of person I aspire to be, but right now it seems unlikely.

Differance

Nothing great in the world has ever been accomplished without passion

G. W. F. Hegel

When someone asks me what my major is, I am always a little proud to tell them "I am an English major." I am sure there are other people with different majors that feel the same way I do. They ask, "Why would anyone want to be an English major?" while I wonder why anyone would be a business major. Having a degree in English is not especially prestigious, and will probably not bring me great wealth, but I am pursuing my passion. I love that I walk around work all day and talk to people who love, not only to read, but to think. I am convinced we look at the world differently.

When I was younger, I was different from my friends. I was reminded of this last night when I went to dinner with four girls I've known since elementary school. Four times a year, for each others birthday, we go out to dinner. I always think about how we were when we were growing up for several days before we meet. I am convinced that we are who we are and there is not much we can do to change it. Our school did not encourage reading, but I read. I read Austen, Bronte, Shakespeare, Sewell, Alcott and even Margaret Mitchell. I listened to Opera music on large records. or Frank Sinatra as he crooned about love. I was just different. One of my favorite people in the world confirmed this difference for me today. When she was in the sixth grade, her idea of a great Halloween costume was to dress up like a Picasso painting. No one else recognized what she was, they had the nerve to ask if she were "trash," but even then, she knew what she liked and did not care that no one else shared her view of the world. She was different then and she still is, but I hope now she values that difference. One day, I am convinced, she will be famous because of her unique vision.

I was reminded of that difference last night as my friends pulled up in their large SUV's with their American flag magnetic stickers on the back window. They stepped from their cars perfectly pressed, grabbed their Vera Bradley bags and walked to the restaurant confident in their good looks. I picked up my bag from the Junkman's Daughter, smiled and followed them in, confident in the fact that I am where I want to be and, tomorrow, I will walk into a building to a group of people from whom I am not so different.

Killing Time Without Injuring Eternity

"Public opinion is a weak tyrant compared with our own private opinion. What a man thinks of himself, that it is which determines, or rather indicates his fate."

H. D. Thoreau

I love where I am right now in my life. I love school and homework and being told that I have to read certain books. There are very few days that I am truly depressed. I may be blue or out of sorts, but it is a fleeting feeling and insignificant in the large scheme of things.

I fall in love at least eight times a day with guys I will never talk to. I am aware that, if I did talk to them, I probably wouldn't like them anymore. My life is not perfect, but it is life and it is here and it is mine.

I got the title for this post from Thoreau, who always makes me think of life a little more carefully. The direct quote is, "As if you could kill time without injuring eternity." Amazing. As happy as I am, there are people that keep asking me when am I going to get on with my life. "Get a job," they say, and "Start living." As if life begins at certain landmark moments, such as graduation, a new job, or turning 30 or 40, or whatever. We spend our life waiting to live. These "landmarks" come and go and we are eternally disappointed because it is never what we thought it would be. I felt that way when I got my undergrad degree. I was let down because I felt the same as always. Now I realize that each day I live and love what I do and where I am, I am not killing time. If I spend each day waiting for something to happen, then I guess that would be injuring eternity. Maybe, if I try really hard, I can avoid doing that.

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

I just took my son, Reese, to see a one-man show at the Conference Center at Coastal Georgia Community College. The show consisted of one man who looked like a perfectly sane Edgar Allen Poe. The actor lectured on literary criticism and read some of Poe's best known poems. The crowd was larger than I expected, but it soon became obvious that they did not have any idea what the hell was going on in the darkened auditorium.

Several times during the performance, someone would clap at inappropriate times, such as when the actor would pause in the poem. One lone pair of hands would begin to clap, only to quickly realize their error and stop, but not before some other idiot had joined in on the applause. It was not just inappropriate cheering;there was also someone's cell phone blaring out the Battle Hymn of the Republic, while the cell phone owner frantically dug in their purse to silence the offending phone. Then there was the child in front of me whose mother had bought him a bag of cheetos during intermission so they could get through the rest of the show. Crinkle, crinkle, crunch, crunch. They were on the front row, right in front of me.

Although the actor was probably oblivious, or drunk, I felt acute embarrassment for my fellow citizens. Some were intelligent senior citizens who probably relocated here from a large city and, thirsty for a taste of culture, decided to grab an evening with Poe, only to have it ruined by their new compatriots in Brunswick, or as some call it, "The 'Wick." I don't know why I take this type of embarrassment to heart. Why do I care if strangers in the same room as I am, behave like backasswards lunatics? Have any of you ever experienced that feeling? I want to hear about it, unless it was me that embarrassed you by acting a fool.

Friday Night Lights

Last night I went to the city championship game here in Brunswick. The town's two high schools, Brunswick High and Glynn Academy, square off in a game that always attracts a large crowd. All three of my older brothers went to Brunswick High and played football for the Pirates, so I spent many Friday nights in the fall cheering for their team to win. My father decided I should go to a small "christian" school to keep me away from boys like my brothers, so I did not get a regular high school experience. All of our flag football games were played during the day in towns like Waycross, Jesup and Ludowici. Because I was exposed to the hedonous public school games, I knew there was a major difference between our cheerleaders and the Brunswick High cheerleaders. Our cheerleaders had skirts that went to their ankles and had shirts that were sure not to produce any lust in the hearts of the boys in the stands, well not really stands, the fans just kind of stood around on the grass because we did not have any stands.

I was lucky that my brothers were considered studs and the cheerleaders at Brunswick High always wanted to appear maternal in front of them so they would let me sit on the field and hold some of the small pom-poms. Occasionally they would pick me up after a touchdown and I would look up into the stands and feel like I was the luckiest girl in the world. They were sweet and perky and I wanted to be just like them one day. These kind souls did not realize that my brothers despised me because my dad let me watch Seseame Street any time I wanted too, but Rusty, Tim and Robbie tried to be nice to me in front of strangers so it worked out well for all concerned. It was my greatest desire in the world to be a cheerleader. I learned every cheer, every move and I would stand alone outside during lunch at school and do those cheers imagining that I was at the game on a friday night. I spent many hours in detention because, according to mrs. Partin, I was doing "inappropriate gyrations." I knew I had no chance at Emanuel Christian School of being a real cheerleader. I would never be able to wear those short blue and gold skirts and shake my ass as the band played the Brunswick High fight song. I remember my shame and astonishment when, on our first game at Emanuel, the cheerleaders took the field with pom-poms that were made of trashbags that had been cut into long strips! I know it is unbelievable, but I swear it is true.

Going to the game last night brought back a lot of those memories. The cheerleaders I remember looked so much older. The girls cheering last night looked like babies, but maybe its because I am so much older. I saw people that I knew from high school: the girls who were once so beautiful were still beautiful; they only had a few more lines and a thicker waist. Guys that all the girls used to love were chasing a kid around and underneath their baseball cap was a little less hair. I heard some older people around me comment on how rude kids are nowadays, and I thought about it. I don't think it is rudeness, or lack of manners; I think it is that they live in a world consisting of themselves and their friends. A few wrinkles can make you invisible to them. It is not that they don't care; they just don't care about you. Fifteen years from now, they will return to this game and complain about the rudeness of kids nowadays while they adjust their baseball cap or look across the bleachers to find their teenage son and his friends.

Getting Your Way

Sometimes I think getting your way is overrated. We spend so much time pushing for what we think we want, that we spend very little time on really thinking about what we need. It seems unfair that with age comes wisdom. The arrogance of youth is thinking you know exactly what you, and those around you, should think or believe or do. Maybe if we spent a little less time on introspection and a little less time thinking about what those around us could do to give us our way, we could find a peacepul existence.

Thoreau said it best: "If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away."

It Tastes Like Evaporated Milk

I think people are hilarious. As I grow older, I am beginning to realize that I love the quirkiness and differences that are inevitable in people. A few weeks ago, I was on the treadmill next to a man wearing black knee socks, black shoes, black dress shorts and a black fanny pack. I smiled as I saw him stand on the treadmill and begin his very sensible workout; not too fast or exciting. It may sound strange for me to say that his oddness made me happy, but it did. I felt this strange affection for him and his fanny pack because it told me so much about him, or at least my idea of him. He probably has a nice life with a sensible wife and a normal home, nothing out of the ordinary in the decor. He drives a mini-van and wears his seatbelt. His radio is tuned to the station that plays "The best in lite favorites," and plays quietly, only as a backdrop to his thoughts on the ride home from work, and not intrusively as a source of any emotional release or outlet. He knows who he is and what he is all about, and a part of me loves him for that. His predictability is his quirkiness, and I think it is beautiful.
I went to dinner last night with a group of people that, except for one, I do not know very well, and I was reminded of how funny and strange people are. We were served a desert that I had never seen before. It was simply strawberries and cream, but because the restaurant was exotic, it felt like something much more than just strawberries and cream. A girl at our table, that I always find quirky and amusing, said "It tastes like evaporated milk!" She did not use her quiet voice, and my friend and I thought this outburst was so funny, because we always sit on pins and needles when this girl talks. We feel like she is going to say something that will embarrass us or herself at any moment. This was one of those moments when I felt like the guy on the treadmill: uptight and sensible with an emotional fanny pack on. Why would I care what she says or be embarrassed by her outbursts? I don't know the answer, but I may not be as free-spirited as I think. I may be more conscious of the gaze of others than I like to think. I found myself thinking about it and laughing today, but the truth is, it did taste like evaporated milk, but I would have been too afraid to say that.

Living in the House of Mirth

Birthdays are funny. When you are little, you count the days until your next birthday. I remember waking up on my birthday and feeling like I was the luckiest girl in the world. My mom would bake a cake and my brothers would be nice to me for the day and I would get phone calls from relatives and presents from my family and friends; birthdays were fabulous. Another year older and closer to independence. The freedom to stay up as late as I want, to get out of school, to drive, to have sex, and whatever else my age stopped me from doing.

Now, I feel completely different. My son asked me today if I was happy that it was my birthday. I said "no." He found that ridiculous. He just does not know what I know: It is nice to be told what to do. Now all the mistakes I have made, and still make, are all on me. I would like to go back to the days when someone told me to go to bed, not to have sex with just anyone, and drove me where I needed to go. Freedom can be overrated, but my thirteen year old does not recognize that yet, and I am glad. He is still filled with the possibilities of the future. He does not know the constraint of freedom yet, but someday he will. That thought makes me sad, but I know that he can do better than I have. I hope I have plenty of birthdays ahead to see what he does with his freedom.

I Put the King in Burger

I am one of the unfortunate many that sees food as a pleasure and not a source of nourishment. I listen in amazement when someone says, "Oh my god, I forgot to eat today!" I do not even have to look to see that the person that said this weighs as much as my thigh and has on large hoop earings. I was not always this fascinated with food. In fact, when I was younger, my mother said I was "wormy." I would love to find out where I got those worms and if they are still available for service.
My problems all began with a girl named Ginger T. She was far from wormy and lived across the street from me. Ginger was only 11, but she already smelled like Grandma, you know, you have to hold your breath when you go in for a hug kinda smell. Well Ginger loved to eat, especially food from Burger King, specifically the Whopper. Instead of writing about food in her dairy, Ginger wrote about the happiness she felt on the days her mom would go the grocery store. Sad I know, but 100% true.
Ginger taught me this game. The game diod not have a name, but it went something like this: Whoever takes the longest to eat the whopper wins. Sounds fun huh? Well I was not the sharpest kid at this game. When it came to food games, nobody beat Ginger T.
One day I was sick and tires of losing "Eat the Whopper Slowly," so I formed a strategy and challenged the master. Her mother always felt sorry for me because my mom never bought us fast food, so she always bought an extra Whopper for me. As Ginger and I unwrapped our sandwiches, we looked at one another and knew that the game beginning. We paced ourselves, no need to eat slowly until the end. I watched from inder my bangs as we neared the end of the sandwich. I watched in amazement as Ginger took her last bite. Did she forget we were playing? Was the power of that last fabulous bite to much for her? In a moment of her obvious weakness, I defeated the master. I raised my last bite to the air, and felt as I imagined Olympic athletes must feel when they stand on the podium after winning the gold medal, and dropped the small piece into my mouth. But then, to my astonishement, Ginger brought her hand from behind her back and cackled, "You did not winnnnn!," as I swallowed the last sesame seed.
I went home, once again defeated by a child obviously much smarter than I, and had a bowl of pudding.

Cigarettes and Baseball Hats

I recently discovered something about myself that I think I have always known: I like boys that look bad. I am the kind of girl that looks twice at the cute guy standing outside of the probation office wearing a baseball cap and smoking a cigarette. I like the guys who work in central supply here at Armstrong who wear t-shirts that say "Rehab is for Quitters." If you have some sort of addiction or did not enough love as a child, then I am all yours. I guess it is a savior complex, and it would not be a problem if I directed it towards children and small animals, but I inevitably lavish my attention on the cute guys that, if they are not on probation, then they are in danger of it.

Getting On Board

Everyone has told me that I should start a blog, so, here it goes. I do not have any good Washington gossip like Wonkette, or anything beautiful and thoughtful to say like that cool chick at Sunday Morning, but I may try to make you laugh about something that I think is funny or outrageous. Every once in a while, I may try to write something serious about life and how tough we make it.