I have been informed, by someone that I love desperately and who loves me, that I may have been an idiot when I wrote the blog below. Who knew? Apparently everyone except me.
I do not take back anything that I said. It is all true. I will not try to soften the violence of the post, because that was the way that I felt. If you think any less of me for reading this post, then I deserve it. However, if I have hurt anyone with what I wrote, I am now groveling in apology and begging you to forgive me and promising over and over that I did not mean it.
I did not realise that what I lashed out in hurt would hurt anyone else. I was under the (apparently mistaken) idea that a written note would be far less hurtful and confrontational than a speech. I still believe that I would not have been as clear, nor would have gotten people's attention as well, if I had tried to voice my hurt in person, but I did not mean to actually hurt anyone else. If I have, you can come punch me in the face.
I would also like to clarify a few things:
1) I will enjoy Rome. There are so many things that are much more important to me now, and I am so stressed and confused that I wish rather heartily that I am not going, but since I am, I will make the most of it.
2) I love you all. If you were actually thinking those things (I know some of you were) then do not feel like I love you any less, because I don't. I tend to keep things that hurt me to myself, so they fester and just make me miserable if they are bad enough to stick around. I am trying to prevent that from happening by voicing things and maybe resolving them, but I don't have much practice. Pity my pathetic communication skills. I had (have) valid points, but a bad method of letting you know.
3) If you were one of the few people who were not hurt, saw that I was, and reached out to comfort me, thankyou, thankyou, thankyou. I really needed, and appreciated, that. I cannot tell you how much it meant to me. Thanks.
~Maria
Tuesday, July 20
Sunday, July 11
Warning: Extremely Angry, Ranting Post
There are two things that I would very much like to scream right now. One is easy to understand, the other is not. Here is the first one:
I DO NOT THINK TOO MUCH!
Thinking is like seeing. I may not like what I see, but that does not mean I should not have looked in the first place. I may stare at one thing more than others, but that does not mean that I am looking too much, but too little. Most importantly, just because other people do not depend on their eyes as much as I do does not mean that my dependence is bad.
I DO NOT THINK TOO MUCH!
It hurts because I usually get "you think too much" when something is really bothering me, and all it means is that it is my fault for being upset because normal people don't think about that kind of thing, or care. So I'm abnormal, and it's my own fault.
The other thing that I want to scream about will take some explanation. I am absolutely raging furious about this. I am stomping through the earth's crust hopping mad, and it is not because of what I want to yell, but because of your reaction.
It will be a knee-jerk reaction of pity for my short-sighted feelings. It will be a sudden feeling of superiority and "well, she will realise how stupid she is being when she gets older." It will be a completely unthinking, and therefore moronic, urge to tell me that I am wrong. Here goes.
I DO NOT WANT TO GO TO ROME!
There! You see? Squelch that immediately! Stop looking at me that way or get off my blog! STOP LAUGHING! If I could get in your face and scream until you saw that I really meant it, I... still wouldn't. I am too nice. I would cry, and you would leave the room thinking that I was being a baby and that I will get over it. This is why I want to scream right now.
I DO NOT WANT TO GO TO ROME!
You know what I wanted to do this summer? I wanted to take a class in oil painting at the community college. I wanted to volunteer in youth ministry, and find out where I could get involved with foster care or child services. I couldn't because I was working too hard to pay for this darn trip.
I want to be independent. I want to have my own place, and buy art, and take dance classes, and have a dog. I want to travel, but to linger where I want, and talk to people, and see things that interest me (which usually means that it doesn't interest other people) and have the time to find an interesting job, and BE HAPPY. There are actual people with actual problems that I would like to do something about. Hey, I might even have not gone to college at all this fall, and- DON'T YOU DARE! DON'T YOU DARE SAY SOMETHING WITHOUT THINKING OR I WILL PUNCH YOU IN THE FACE THROUGH THIS COMPUTER SCREEN!
College is an expensive and powerful tool, that should only be used when the job calls for it, and when the worker has the time and attention to make sure that it is being used properly. Right now, it is not being used properly at all. I hate it.
No. I will not feel differently later. This is not a fad. I have hated it for the past two years. Three years ago, I stuck to something that I hated and I have yet to look back and say I was glad that I did. DO. NOT. TELL. ME. THAT. I. AM. BEING. STUPID. OR. EMOTIONAL. I don't even like the fields I am majoring in, and do not plan to get a job with them.
I DON'T WANT TO GO TO ROME!
Rome is a splendid place. In fact, I've been there. (if only long enough to discover that it looks exactly like to pictures) I would love to travel there, and absorb the atmosphere and the culture, and revel in being in the Eternal City, but not now! Not during college! Not without knowing the language! It is not what I want to do right now, not even in the top 20, for goodness sake, and it will take me years, money and confusion away from the things that I DO want.
YOU ARE STILL THINKING THINGS THAT ARE MAKING ME FURIOUS!
This is not some great opportunity. Italy is no better than America, and not the only place with history and beauty. Italy is not going to suddenly close its borders, or airplanes suddenly stop flying. If you think I am being stupid, and that this chance is akin to winning the lottery, and that I would be turning down the equivalent of touching Elvis, getting a free Ferrari, and being declared queen for three months (none of which I actually want), YOU go. There is no excuse for you STILL BEING HERE that you could bring up that I could not match. And me going will keep me from plenty of things that would give me much more pleasure than the gracious permission to throw pennies in the Fount de Trevi.
DON'T YOU DARE TELL ME I AM THINKING TOO MUCH!
I DO NOT THINK TOO MUCH!
Thinking is like seeing. I may not like what I see, but that does not mean I should not have looked in the first place. I may stare at one thing more than others, but that does not mean that I am looking too much, but too little. Most importantly, just because other people do not depend on their eyes as much as I do does not mean that my dependence is bad.
I DO NOT THINK TOO MUCH!
It hurts because I usually get "you think too much" when something is really bothering me, and all it means is that it is my fault for being upset because normal people don't think about that kind of thing, or care. So I'm abnormal, and it's my own fault.
It will be a knee-jerk reaction of pity for my short-sighted feelings. It will be a sudden feeling of superiority and "well, she will realise how stupid she is being when she gets older." It will be a completely unthinking, and therefore moronic, urge to tell me that I am wrong. Here goes.
I DO NOT WANT TO GO TO ROME!
There! You see? Squelch that immediately! Stop looking at me that way or get off my blog! STOP LAUGHING! If I could get in your face and scream until you saw that I really meant it, I... still wouldn't. I am too nice. I would cry, and you would leave the room thinking that I was being a baby and that I will get over it. This is why I want to scream right now.
I DO NOT WANT TO GO TO ROME!
You know what I wanted to do this summer? I wanted to take a class in oil painting at the community college. I wanted to volunteer in youth ministry, and find out where I could get involved with foster care or child services. I couldn't because I was working too hard to pay for this darn trip.
I want to be independent. I want to have my own place, and buy art, and take dance classes, and have a dog. I want to travel, but to linger where I want, and talk to people, and see things that interest me (which usually means that it doesn't interest other people) and have the time to find an interesting job, and BE HAPPY. There are actual people with actual problems that I would like to do something about. Hey, I might even have not gone to college at all this fall, and- DON'T YOU DARE! DON'T YOU DARE SAY SOMETHING WITHOUT THINKING OR I WILL PUNCH YOU IN THE FACE THROUGH THIS COMPUTER SCREEN!
College is an expensive and powerful tool, that should only be used when the job calls for it, and when the worker has the time and attention to make sure that it is being used properly. Right now, it is not being used properly at all. I hate it.
No. I will not feel differently later. This is not a fad. I have hated it for the past two years. Three years ago, I stuck to something that I hated and I have yet to look back and say I was glad that I did. DO. NOT. TELL. ME. THAT. I. AM. BEING. STUPID. OR. EMOTIONAL. I don't even like the fields I am majoring in, and do not plan to get a job with them.
I DON'T WANT TO GO TO ROME!
Rome is a splendid place. In fact, I've been there. (if only long enough to discover that it looks exactly like to pictures) I would love to travel there, and absorb the atmosphere and the culture, and revel in being in the Eternal City, but not now! Not during college! Not without knowing the language! It is not what I want to do right now, not even in the top 20, for goodness sake, and it will take me years, money and confusion away from the things that I DO want.
YOU ARE STILL THINKING THINGS THAT ARE MAKING ME FURIOUS!
This is not some great opportunity. Italy is no better than America, and not the only place with history and beauty. Italy is not going to suddenly close its borders, or airplanes suddenly stop flying. If you think I am being stupid, and that this chance is akin to winning the lottery, and that I would be turning down the equivalent of touching Elvis, getting a free Ferrari, and being declared queen for three months (none of which I actually want), YOU go. There is no excuse for you STILL BEING HERE that you could bring up that I could not match. And me going will keep me from plenty of things that would give me much more pleasure than the gracious permission to throw pennies in the Fount de Trevi.
I really don't want to go. I will, though. And then I will finish the school year. And then I will finish college because I will be a senior. And then it will be two years later from today and I have no guarantee that I will be any happier, though I do guarantee that I will be older and in debt.
People will tell me that I am being ridiculous if I complain because everyone has debt and hardly anyone knows what they are doing when the finish college. Yay. I'm jumping off cliffs, but everyone else is doing it, so it must be all right.
DON'T YOU DARE TELL ME I AM THINKING TOO MUCH!
Winston
Well, I am duly disappointed in myself for neglecting to shower this blog with brilliance, but several occasions, plans and activities in my real life have pushed documenting them to the background. One of these distractions is my new friend, Wilson, who is currently living with me.
I know he is a bit lacking in certain areas, but he listens more than he speaks, which is a fine quality in anyone.
(I do have to admit that it is a little embarrassing how well he fits my running shorts. )
Anyway, I do not know if you can tell from the picture, but he has a very strange texture that I found impossible to work with, so, naturally, I covered him in toilet paper.
This surprisingly effective paper-mache technique has given him a little bit of class, but I must confess myself not entirely sure of what is going to happen to him next. I have a few ideas, but none of them are perfect... I will, of course, keep you "posted."
~Maria
Saturday, June 12
The moral of the story is...
I used to think of fireflies as "God's Sparkles."
This was because I only saw them at dusk, when the day had simply faded away without a sunset so that all that was left was a dull grayish landscape waiting for the horizon to die. Dusk is soft and pretty in its own right, but it's magical and perfect when sprinkled with little flickers of floating light. Sparkles.
It is very different when you are running down the road in the middle of a June night, with no cars or houses or even a moon to ruin your night vision. There is nothing but the sticky air, and a jagged black horizon and the charcoal shade of the road. You could be running in a vacuum, except for the feel of asphalt under the pale smears of your sneakers, and the air moving past the inside of your knees.
The fields to the left and the right of your pumping fists are blanketed with flashing lights.
The lights are brighter and quicker and denser than any tacky Christmas strings, stretching in packed thousands and millions along the road and back into the fields, climbing the trees like hoards of silent paparazzi, frantic and dancing and brilliant and bright. Your legs are burning and your lungs are heavy, but you are running through fields of white fire.
There is no sound but the crickets and the frogs, your mouth and your shoes, and the strange lonely call of a peacock chasing you down the electric hill.
~Maria
This was because I only saw them at dusk, when the day had simply faded away without a sunset so that all that was left was a dull grayish landscape waiting for the horizon to die. Dusk is soft and pretty in its own right, but it's magical and perfect when sprinkled with little flickers of floating light. Sparkles.
It is very different when you are running down the road in the middle of a June night, with no cars or houses or even a moon to ruin your night vision. There is nothing but the sticky air, and a jagged black horizon and the charcoal shade of the road. You could be running in a vacuum, except for the feel of asphalt under the pale smears of your sneakers, and the air moving past the inside of your knees.
The fields to the left and the right of your pumping fists are blanketed with flashing lights.
The lights are brighter and quicker and denser than any tacky Christmas strings, stretching in packed thousands and millions along the road and back into the fields, climbing the trees like hoards of silent paparazzi, frantic and dancing and brilliant and bright. Your legs are burning and your lungs are heavy, but you are running through fields of white fire.
There is no sound but the crickets and the frogs, your mouth and your shoes, and the strange lonely call of a peacock chasing you down the electric hill.
~Maria
Sunday, May 30
Are You Worth Fighting For?
I really don't believe that this country pays enough attention to Memorial Day. Little me couldn't remember the difference between Memorial Day and the Fourth of July, and bigger me has the sinking suspicion that a large percentage of the population still has that problem. This is really, really bad.
When I think about war, I think of two sides, like two sides of a coin:
1) As a character in "Black Hawk Down" said, "When that first bullet goes past your head, politics goes right out the window." I am certainly not qualified to talk about the fog of war, but have heard that it is dirt and sweat and homesickness and blood and not enough sleep and pain and "is it worth it" and stretches of excruciating boredom punctuated by horrific excitement; ie, not glamorous. Hell, in fact.
2) On the other hand, there are heroes. Like that of the two soldiers who begged for permission to be deployed, fully aware that there was no one to help or back them up, to the sight of a fallen helicopter. They didn't even know if anyone had survived the crash, but when the arrived, they dragged the injured pilot out and fought for their lives against pretty much the entire city. The two soldiers, Gary Gordon and Randall Shughart, died protecting the pilot, who survived since he lasted long enough for the leader to take him hostage, and both received the Medal of Honor post-mortem. It is possible to die for your friends. People do.
That being said, what I think about most is not the war, but the aftermath.
What hits me is that I am what they fought for. I am the country that is "the land of the free and home of the brave." I am the girl who has not been killed or raped because someone won a battle. I am the one who is alive instead of another.
I am the only one who can make it worth it.
During the visit to hell "Saving Private Ryan," a dying captain mutters to the last Ryan, "earn this...earn it..." and at the very end, Ryan is crying over the graves, begging his wife to assure him, "Tell me I led a good life. Tell me I'm a good man."
For me, Memorial Day is not about remembering a list of casualties. It is about remembering my own role in the fight, and promising to fulfill it as well as the guy who kept shooting. It is about thanking the girls who did what I could not by doing what they could not. It is about becoming worth fighting for.
People need to be hit hard with what they have to live up to. Don't morn the dead, see what you can do to be the living.
Happy Memorial Day.
~Maria
When I think about war, I think of two sides, like two sides of a coin:
1) As a character in "Black Hawk Down" said, "When that first bullet goes past your head, politics goes right out the window." I am certainly not qualified to talk about the fog of war, but have heard that it is dirt and sweat and homesickness and blood and not enough sleep and pain and "is it worth it" and stretches of excruciating boredom punctuated by horrific excitement; ie, not glamorous. Hell, in fact.
2) On the other hand, there are heroes. Like that of the two soldiers who begged for permission to be deployed, fully aware that there was no one to help or back them up, to the sight of a fallen helicopter. They didn't even know if anyone had survived the crash, but when the arrived, they dragged the injured pilot out and fought for their lives against pretty much the entire city. The two soldiers, Gary Gordon and Randall Shughart, died protecting the pilot, who survived since he lasted long enough for the leader to take him hostage, and both received the Medal of Honor post-mortem. It is possible to die for your friends. People do.
That being said, what I think about most is not the war, but the aftermath.
What hits me is that I am what they fought for. I am the country that is "the land of the free and home of the brave." I am the girl who has not been killed or raped because someone won a battle. I am the one who is alive instead of another.
I am the only one who can make it worth it.
During the visit to hell "Saving Private Ryan," a dying captain mutters to the last Ryan, "earn this...earn it..." and at the very end, Ryan is crying over the graves, begging his wife to assure him, "Tell me I led a good life. Tell me I'm a good man."
For me, Memorial Day is not about remembering a list of casualties. It is about remembering my own role in the fight, and promising to fulfill it as well as the guy who kept shooting. It is about thanking the girls who did what I could not by doing what they could not. It is about becoming worth fighting for.
People need to be hit hard with what they have to live up to. Don't morn the dead, see what you can do to be the living.
Happy Memorial Day.
~Maria
"Click"
When I was younger, I would try to capture memories.
I distinctly remember lifting both hands, both thumbs and first fingers shaped into "L"s, and fitting them together into a viewfinder. I remember whispering "click" when my baby sister was inside the frame. I remember thinking that when I got to heaven, God would be kind enough, or amused enough, to show me what my younger self had wanted to bring to eternity.
It has been quite a few years since then. I had almost forgotten what it was like to want a moment to last forever.
It was the middle of the night, and I had run out in my bare feet to to the bright garage, only to be invited on an impromptu motorcycle ride. I hope I never forget how it feels to run up the stairs as excited as a girl to sneak boots from beside a sleeping sister, or the feel of the cool night breeze on my arms while the humidity was still leaving my palms sticky. I hope I never forget Daddy's unconventional idea of "just around the block" or the way he saw deer so far ahead that there was no chance of an unexpected tragedy. I hope I never drop the last two letters in "Daddy," and since I'm 20 years old and they haven't left yet, I think that one will come true.
I rode for the first (and last, considering how much he stresses this) time without a jacket, and I gave in for the first (and last) time to the yearning to spread my arms like wings, just for a minute, since no one was around. I wished I could stay like that forever.
This is such a personal post, but since my days of hiding behind doors and pretending to record the sounds of baby laughter, I have learned that the real way to capture something, for me, is in words. Even if I never get good enought to transplant a feeling into a stranger's soul, the black squiggles will at least be magical to me. Thanks, God.
~Maria
I distinctly remember lifting both hands, both thumbs and first fingers shaped into "L"s, and fitting them together into a viewfinder. I remember whispering "click" when my baby sister was inside the frame. I remember thinking that when I got to heaven, God would be kind enough, or amused enough, to show me what my younger self had wanted to bring to eternity.
It has been quite a few years since then. I had almost forgotten what it was like to want a moment to last forever.
It was the middle of the night, and I had run out in my bare feet to to the bright garage, only to be invited on an impromptu motorcycle ride. I hope I never forget how it feels to run up the stairs as excited as a girl to sneak boots from beside a sleeping sister, or the feel of the cool night breeze on my arms while the humidity was still leaving my palms sticky. I hope I never forget Daddy's unconventional idea of "just around the block" or the way he saw deer so far ahead that there was no chance of an unexpected tragedy. I hope I never drop the last two letters in "Daddy," and since I'm 20 years old and they haven't left yet, I think that one will come true.
I rode for the first (and last, considering how much he stresses this) time without a jacket, and I gave in for the first (and last) time to the yearning to spread my arms like wings, just for a minute, since no one was around. I wished I could stay like that forever.
This is such a personal post, but since my days of hiding behind doors and pretending to record the sounds of baby laughter, I have learned that the real way to capture something, for me, is in words. Even if I never get good enought to transplant a feeling into a stranger's soul, the black squiggles will at least be magical to me. Thanks, God.
~Maria
Saturday, May 15
Upcycling
Once upon a time, a bought a new shirt. The second time I wore it I promptly ripped it. Roughly a year from the fateful day, I got myself to Ye Olde Goodwille and procured yet another gray shirt, took both of them apart, put both of them back together again, and voila! T-shirt couture.
Yes, I will wear it in public, although now that I think about it I should really reinforce the neckline...
While on the subject of upcycling (recycling, except better, for those of you unfamiliar with the term), I should mention that I managed to transform my tangled pile of jewelry into some semblance of order last weekend with some similar elbow grease. An old frame + some cup hooks that had been floating around my craft supplies + a partial can of black paint + some white crackle paint =
I am hoping to hang it on the wall. (inspired by these fancy jewelry holders.)
Today I am officially finished school, so hopefully this blog will pick up a bit. I love you all!
~Maria
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