Dreams are funny things, aren't they? They can be so vivid sometimes--like a memory. To this day I don't know if I've gone waterskiing or not. I have this vague memory of a time but it's just as likely to have been implanted during a sleep-induced state. Like an alien baby.
Just this morning I had a dream involving one of my unwed friends. In this dream my friend was a mother and it wasn't until her adorable, pointy-faced child was brilliantly adding letters together that I realized all the implications of such motherhood--no, not that I could exploit him for money making schemes, but I didn't know who the father was. The immediate feelings of distraught disappointment actually woke me up, and in the remnants of sleepy remembrance I doubted the fidelity of this friend; for no other reason than the ghostly vision of a blue-eyed babe, straight brown hair falling into his eyes.
I've had dreams before about made up fights or where someone's been really mean to me and I wake up feeling like I need to make amends or get the other person to apologize for their very unkind and unwarranted actions...in fact, I've actually done that.
Now, not all my dreams are strangely and emotionally tied to reality, I also have perfectly normal dreams sometimes. Dreams where I steal a bus and accidentally drive it off the edge of a cliff, landing unharmed by a cabin in the woods wearing Aladdin's clothes. Normal.
I still argue that unless I'm dreaming about sparkly vampires making lust in hidden groves of trees, I'm doing all right.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Saturday, April 11, 2009
It is enough...
All my life I've been dogmatically pursuing some idea of greatness. Some pinnacle vision. Some unachievable unknown.
All my life I have failed in obtaining it.
Sometime during my early existence I convinced myself that perfection is solely a mortal quest; that the omnipresent demands it; that it's expected of our weak flesh and brittle bones, our failing hearts and finite minds.
Slowly, I'm beginning to realize the inevitable consequence of such thinking, the truth behind the inward lies -- I do not know how to be good enough. I only know how to try to be perfect. So when my floundering missteps can no longer be swept under the vast rug of human nature, when the stark contrast between myself and attainable good crashes down upon the conscience of my mind...I shrink. Instead of standing boldly and being counted, unworthy as I am, I shrink from the awful portent of my inadequacy and in my anguish I admit I must not be trying hard enough.
...but these are not the final verses.
One clear and generously lucent day, I was given a glimpse of a feeling. A recognition -- that though I have done nothing worth true merit, I have done something, and I have done something good. I have believed. I have trusted. I have tried, failure after failure, to the best of my limited ability...and it is enough. It is enough to shed the heavy layers of my deepest shame. It is enough to stop frantically bailing water from my floating boat. It is enough to know that there is a reaching beyond my farthest reaching. To know that every good day brings me closer to taking that one day back for the rest of my life.
All my life I have failed in obtaining it.
Sometime during my early existence I convinced myself that perfection is solely a mortal quest; that the omnipresent demands it; that it's expected of our weak flesh and brittle bones, our failing hearts and finite minds.
Slowly, I'm beginning to realize the inevitable consequence of such thinking, the truth behind the inward lies -- I do not know how to be good enough. I only know how to try to be perfect. So when my floundering missteps can no longer be swept under the vast rug of human nature, when the stark contrast between myself and attainable good crashes down upon the conscience of my mind...I shrink. Instead of standing boldly and being counted, unworthy as I am, I shrink from the awful portent of my inadequacy and in my anguish I admit I must not be trying hard enough.
...but these are not the final verses.
One clear and generously lucent day, I was given a glimpse of a feeling. A recognition -- that though I have done nothing worth true merit, I have done something, and I have done something good. I have believed. I have trusted. I have tried, failure after failure, to the best of my limited ability...and it is enough. It is enough to shed the heavy layers of my deepest shame. It is enough to stop frantically bailing water from my floating boat. It is enough to know that there is a reaching beyond my farthest reaching. To know that every good day brings me closer to taking that one day back for the rest of my life.
Thursday, April 02, 2009
The strangest thing...
I have two jump drives. At first it seemed like one too many but since those youthfully ignorant days I have found them unusually convenient. I leave one in my purse and keep the other one in my backpack. The ability to transfer files is always at my fingertips...well, that is...until today.
Today I wanted to convert some pictures from a file type I cannot use on my computer to one I can. Don't worry, that's as much tech-speak as you'll be getting from me today. So I brought my extra jump drive to school to make the ever important conversion...and spaced it completely. I left it there. A thing I didn't realize until I got home at 5:00 to 10 emails from a false email address under a false name generously sending me all the files from it (which I originally thought was a virus). I greatly appreciated it until I read this:
"Sorry i couldnt get the drive back to you but at least you have the files"
and later this:
"Next time be more careful about leaving your stuff around. Most people wouldn't even be nice enough to send you your files."
I'm sorry. What? "COULDN'T get the drive back to you." Couldn't. As if it magically dissipated. As if there was a group of them conspiring to keep it and he so Reuben-esquely suggested to spare my life. He even set up an account on MediaFire, a free file hosting website, to make sure I got everything. When I tried to write him back to say thanks and "Uh, what exactly happened to my jump drive," the email address was no longer valid. It would have taken him less of an effort to just give me my property back. What do jump drives cost these days? Like $20? I mean, he must have been seriously hurting for some portable data storage.
Yes...I know I should be grateful. I am very glad to have not lost any files, but what's the deal with this faux-generosity, this posturing at integrity, this cowardly attempt to protect his weaseling identity?
So far it's just served to make me really angry.
Today I wanted to convert some pictures from a file type I cannot use on my computer to one I can. Don't worry, that's as much tech-speak as you'll be getting from me today. So I brought my extra jump drive to school to make the ever important conversion...and spaced it completely. I left it there. A thing I didn't realize until I got home at 5:00 to 10 emails from a false email address under a false name generously sending me all the files from it (which I originally thought was a virus). I greatly appreciated it until I read this:
"Sorry i couldnt get the drive back to you but at least you have the files"
and later this:
"Next time be more careful about leaving your stuff around. Most people wouldn't even be nice enough to send you your files."
I'm sorry. What? "COULDN'T get the drive back to you." Couldn't. As if it magically dissipated. As if there was a group of them conspiring to keep it and he so Reuben-esquely suggested to spare my life. He even set up an account on MediaFire, a free file hosting website, to make sure I got everything. When I tried to write him back to say thanks and "Uh, what exactly happened to my jump drive," the email address was no longer valid. It would have taken him less of an effort to just give me my property back. What do jump drives cost these days? Like $20? I mean, he must have been seriously hurting for some portable data storage.
Yes...I know I should be grateful. I am very glad to have not lost any files, but what's the deal with this faux-generosity, this posturing at integrity, this cowardly attempt to protect his weaseling identity?
So far it's just served to make me really angry.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
What you've all been waiting for.
I was going to write a post about how I usually don't complain about being sick but that I came down with a cold our last day in Ireland...and have now been sick for two whole weeks...and I'm beginning to realize why my brother constantly updates us on his health via Facebook...until I figured out that I've only been back from my trip for one week. Sick = one measly, non-pitiable week.
Therefore, I shall post pictures of Ireland. Highlights include a quick trip into Paris (the Opera House, walk by the Louvre, the Seine, a ham and cheese baguette), hiking the great Sugarloaf mountain, Dublin for St. Patty's Day, a brief jaunt into Northern Ireland, kissing the Blarney Stone--which, incidentally, is what I think made me sick. Do you know how many people have planted their lips on that thing?--other sundry castles, taking a prohibited picture in the library of Trinity College, an eternal quest for traditional music, visiting Cobh--the last stop of the Titanic, and spotting a rainbow--an authentic, no pot o' gold at the end, rainbow.
Everything about Ireland was quaint. Quaint little towns with cute, colorful pubs and Mary Poppins chim-chim-ineys. Quaint rolling green farmland with stone walls and hedgerows. Sheep. Accents. Narrow roads. Castles. Quaint. Everyone was super friendly and no one used the "th" sound. Tree tousand...tirty-tree...you get the picture. So...that's what I did for my spring break...beats henna tattoos and cover charges any day.
This was a cool mystical park in Northern Ireland. Rumor has it that C.S. Lewis loved it. He's from Belfast, you know. We're trying to fit in...as gargoyles. I won't even begin to describe how difficult it was to get down from up there.
After the St. Patrick's Day parade the streets were just FILLED with people for a good few hours afterwards...then the bars started filling up. By the way, we found out that they don't actually pinch people if they're not wearing green. Some sort of weird, frisky American tradition.
Blarney Castle.
Cobh.
Rainbow.
Quaint.
Therefore, I shall post pictures of Ireland. Highlights include a quick trip into Paris (the Opera House, walk by the Louvre, the Seine, a ham and cheese baguette), hiking the great Sugarloaf mountain, Dublin for St. Patty's Day, a brief jaunt into Northern Ireland, kissing the Blarney Stone--which, incidentally, is what I think made me sick. Do you know how many people have planted their lips on that thing?--other sundry castles, taking a prohibited picture in the library of Trinity College, an eternal quest for traditional music, visiting Cobh--the last stop of the Titanic, and spotting a rainbow--an authentic, no pot o' gold at the end, rainbow.
Everything about Ireland was quaint. Quaint little towns with cute, colorful pubs and Mary Poppins chim-chim-ineys. Quaint rolling green farmland with stone walls and hedgerows. Sheep. Accents. Narrow roads. Castles. Quaint. Everyone was super friendly and no one used the "th" sound. Tree tousand...tirty-tree...you get the picture. So...that's what I did for my spring break...beats henna tattoos and cover charges any day.
This was a cool mystical park in Northern Ireland. Rumor has it that C.S. Lewis loved it. He's from Belfast, you know. We're trying to fit in...as gargoyles. I won't even begin to describe how difficult it was to get down from up there.
After the St. Patrick's Day parade the streets were just FILLED with people for a good few hours afterwards...then the bars started filling up. By the way, we found out that they don't actually pinch people if they're not wearing green. Some sort of weird, frisky American tradition.
Blarney Castle.
Cobh.
Rainbow.
Quaint.Sunday, March 22, 2009
A necessary amendment.
***The views expressed are those of the author and do not reflect the official policy or position of persons mentioned or otherwise involved***
It has so recently come to my attention tonight that I have committed a very gross error. I have done what no self-respecting person should ever do. I have plagiarized.
Two weeks ago, in an attempt at incriminating humor, I wrote about being "perpetually single." A phrase, though conjured up and threatened to be used during one of our one-on-one banter sessions, was originally coined by my life coach, Stefanie Star, Esq., Inc. While I try to avoid getting in the habit of apologizing for my actions and since I'm determined to continue using someone for writing material, I feel the need to give credit where credit is due--return the rights to the people--no taxation without representation (Rev. Jonathan Mayhew, 1750). Condemned to the truth I will merely add that the sombrero picture is to be accounted to her as well, though I will take full responsibility for the face. In tribute to the originator of all my original ideas, Stef, I thank you from the bottom of my obsequious heart. Truly, you have effected my life.
It has so recently come to my attention tonight that I have committed a very gross error. I have done what no self-respecting person should ever do. I have plagiarized.
Two weeks ago, in an attempt at incriminating humor, I wrote about being "perpetually single." A phrase, though conjured up and threatened to be used during one of our one-on-one banter sessions, was originally coined by my life coach, Stefanie Star, Esq., Inc. While I try to avoid getting in the habit of apologizing for my actions and since I'm determined to continue using someone for writing material, I feel the need to give credit where credit is due--return the rights to the people--no taxation without representation (Rev. Jonathan Mayhew, 1750). Condemned to the truth I will merely add that the sombrero picture is to be accounted to her as well, though I will take full responsibility for the face. In tribute to the originator of all my original ideas, Stef, I thank you from the bottom of my obsequious heart. Truly, you have effected my life.
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