What are pictures really?

What do the blind see from a picture? Rather what do the seeing see in a picture? If you have had any part in the picture you no long see the picture, you feel the memory. So how do the blind capture memories? Maybe they feel them better in the first place without all the snapping of lenses and rushing to capture the moment instead of feeling it. For some reason I have a recurrence memory of the day I went for a walk to the perch pub and it is very clear, in fact more clear than most, but at the time I remember scolding myself for forgetting my camera. But most memories are brought back by more than looks or a still frame of another time. Smells tend to bring back memories, I'll smell woodsmoke and remember cold days sitting by the back door watching the embers and smoke, wishing the heat would come on soon. Now that is an image I would never take a picture of, is the smell my "picture" in a way, the capturing of a memory. It's harder to capture a smell than a picture, and in that way it is like the return of the memory has to choose you. There are sounds of course, and sounds frame and capture time, look at radio. Roosevelt's speeches during his presidency certainly capture a time period, and I'm sure to any one who lived through the time the voice of FDR still triggers certain memories. Bells and organs will always remind me of trying to get to sleep in England and the consistency of the chime every hour. So how can we capture a memory? There is no way to take all of our sense back to the memory at once. So we must rely on bits and pieces of our a sense to capture a moment that has already past. And perhaps hiding behind a lens we never saw it. Here is a picture of place you need 5 senses to know, but it's the best I can do.

Things you can learn from standing in line

I honestly think you can learn more standing in a taco line than you can from half your classes. You have psychology, nutrition, and my personal favorite, stories. And the cost is minimum, in fact if you were really low on cash you could stand in the line until it's your turn then politely excuse yourself remembering you are allergic to 95% of the ingredients. It's your free education embrace. The only problem is you can never get people to stay in the taco line long enough for a full story, they all seem to walk away with their stories after they get their taco, strange really. I suppose that is when writers come in, they make up the other half of the story. As a writer you end up finding the oddest things that intrigue you.
I remember looking a someones feet that were twisted and worn, and I thought wow I want to be friends with those feet. Those feet have been places. Mine looked so young in comparison, but when I looked up and saw the girl she was my age. Maybe her feet had just seen more, been to more places, dealt with more things. Feet are funny like that, they can tell your life experiences that you try to cover on your face. Anyways those are my thoughts I'll give you some more tomorrow.

Is double really better?

Is double really better? I sure wouldn't say so about doubling my jean size, or the price of gas. But what about a college major? Is more better? I feel like I'm drowning in all of these misconceptions about majors, minors, certificates and what have you...everyone seems to be pushing for more and more. I'm trying to figure it all out myself, should I double major and take the college for what it's worth? But in the process of that am I losing something else, something we use to go to college for a long time ago... love of the subject? Isn't being passionate about one subject just as important as getting your twelve degrees or what have you. I'm not really sure at this point, but I can tell you that after dabbling a bit in other subjects I still feel most comfortable in an English class. And I write, not for class, but for love. I research for writing, I read to help my writing, I listen and think of writing, I observe and put it into words: is this not important? Should I be stuck in a text book instead, hyperventilating over reqs like I've been doing for the past year. I do think I would like being an ot, so I can help other people develop writing as a stress reducer, but do I need to double major, no. I've also been looking at Oxford and it looks like they want a focused candidate, someone who loves their subject. Of course Oxford is slightly ridiculous to get into...but who knows crazier things have happened. So what if I focus on writing and start looking at agents instead of spreading myself thin. So for now I think I'll stick to writing and hopefully everything else will just fall into place.

Waking up is getting a little out of control

"I love sleep. My life has the tendency of falling apart when I'm awake, you know?" ~ Earnest Hemingway. I think Hemingway had it right, life easily falls out of place during the conscience hours. I remember having a wonderful sleep last night, I was very productive in my dreams, if only that was my life. When I'm awake everything seems to be slipping and words are continuously falling out of my mouth before my brain has time to parent it.
I've been thinking a lot about perceptions lately, and if we are who we perceive we are. I'm nervous that I've turned into someone I wouldn't like. At times I have a strong sense of who I am, but other times if I'm distracted and give a snap answer or am thoughtless I think well that wasn't really the kind of person you are in your day dreams. Of course it is very difficult to be the person we dream up and short answers and snap judgements come easy with stress. I always find the more alone time I have the closer I become to myself...if that makes any sense. It's funny although I was thousands of miles away I felt very much like myself in England and oddly enough closer to some people in America. Of course I missed home and my family but I was able to see it from a new perspective looking west. Maybe that is why we love dreams so much because we are alone and can see ourselves and everyone we are close to from a new view, an unconscious view point.

Pain: yours, mine, and ours

Ever since Christopher Rick's gave that lecture on pain, I have been thinking about the representation of pain. I think it is true that no one can feel an other's pain, or feel the pain that was once theirs but no longer exists. And who is to measure our pain? If the atrocity, circumstance, aliment (creator of the pain) is different for everyone who gets to have a painometer? As Austen says one half of the world doesn't understand the pleasure of the other, isn't' that true with pain one half doesn't understand the pain of another? Is pain measured by severity? Does a starving person always hurt more than a person who is well fed but broken from words? I remember when I skated I got a very bad cut on my leg that got infected and became green. When I finally brought it in to the doctor they told me I was very lucky I came in when I did because it could have become gangrene which in very bad cases ends in amputation. I remember being frightened and wasn't able to walk on it for a few days, but I really don't have any recollection of the pain. However there are words, rejections, places that when I think about still hurt. So what is pain? And what is the pain of others, it certainly is not ours, and yet isn't it our responsibility to try and understand?

Outside looking in

Tonight I was talking to someone about writing as an outsider. Really it is the only way to fully understand a group of people. You have to be on the fringes of a certain society to really know them. No one understand the group they are in or the role they are playing. I seriously could not tell you fully what I'm like as a person, or even what sort of friends I have; I could however tell you very accurately about groups I never quite fit into. And the further you grow from different relationships the easier it is to see the person in full. I think that's why it's so easy to be cynical of other people, because you can see their flaws so much easier than your own. We were talking about F.Scott Fitzergald and how though perhaps he never quite fit into society he was able to beautifully personify. He captured the jazz age without actually being admitted into it. I have a funny feeling that the servants at the party could tell you more about the guests than the hosts could. It's the feeling of being removed, and yet present that makes good literature. These were just my thoughts. Any more?

Green and chained

"Time held me green and dying/ Though I sang in my chains like the sea." ~ Dylan Thomas. I'm beginning to find something in poetry. I never did before, but everyone changes life makes you change. This poem is about pastoral Wales and childhood; it makes you think about returning to places you haven't been in a long time. Will they be the same or if the place will be gone; still physically there for others but not the same place you remember. As we were reading the poem today I thought about Wales and driving out of Gower, will I ever see it again? The ponies and the rugged grass offset by the cliffs and sea, I may look at it again but I won't see the same thing. I'll see it with anticipation perhaps or maybe expectations, but surprise? Worries? Probably not.

What about being chained to time? Sometimes I want to brake the clocks arms and make the tick tock stop so I can be closer to a different time. But we are in fact, chained to the clock no matter how many arms we intend on braking. Maybe I'll age with grace, and won't have to worry about the pesky clock's tick tock's. Perhaps it will be better the next time around and when I see things again it will be even better. I wonder about people too, and what will happen to my opinions over time. Will there always be excitement with certain people or will that die? I really don't know, but things like that scare me. A lot of things scare me being forgotten over time, scares me. Can a place forget you, can people forget?