Love letters and Lab makers

Thoughts..
Umm let's see where to begin on these.
My friend Chey is having us write love letters to people we always wanted to say something to but never got to. At first I thought it would be fun, and it is fun in a way, but it makes me think a little more than I wanted to think. I think I may have taken this a little seriously, I've been writing it in parts because I'll get frustrated with myself and think did you really mean to say that, or am I really thinking that. I'm just about done, and now I'm going over it and saying why did you write to that person? Why not someone in your family you heartless bitch, why did you pick him? Maybe....maybe because it was the first time I truly felt valued? To be honest I don't know why I didn't choose to write to a family member who I never got to say I love you to. I probably should have and I've thought a lot about doing that in retrospect, and I've been guilty about it. However, I've become quite attached to this stupid little letter that I've written that will never really be received. It isn't even a "love" letter it is an affectionate letter, I guess. I don't really have a clue what it is for me. I'm excited for the exhibit I believe a bunch of Oxford people are coming up for it and I think we can dress up any excuse to wear dresses is always fun.

I have been bracing myself every time I open up gmail, which is quite a bit actually, because what if there is unwanted mail from a certain Oxford university. It's not like I've driven myself crazy trying to get there or making myself sick over it or anything. Also it's not like once I'm there I'll be expecting things to happen exactly like last time, only maybe a little bit, a lot bit, not just a bit lets bulk this bit up into a piece, a whole piece of me wants it to be the same. BUT guess what its not gonna be and I'm gonna be in for a shockeroo. (that is if I get in...)

In the pressing present I have a lab report to do. I'm and a sucky lab maker, and an even suckier lab grapher, I was not put on this earth to graph stdev..at least I don't think I was? Bringing me to another point of umm what do I want to be when I grow up (other than writer of course). I'm doing all these pre reqs for ot which is fine and good better than good it could be great, right? Umm why am I then planning on taking the LSAT, it's not like I've thought about being a human rights lawyer...not at all... or umm why have I been thinking about Fulbrights? This doesn't add up to OT? but then lawyer umm could be one of the driest things in the world, I just don't know, yet. I guess Grandma is asking about what I want to be, she would be very sad/disappointed/disgruntled if she knew I wanted to just write. She doesn't think that's a job, maybe she'll be proven right in the end, but for now its the only certain. I'm just have to pick a profession to earn a living while writing, so what will it be?

I'm not sure how to end this train of thought blog maybe I'll end with chocolet because everything is better if you end with chocolet, it could have been the worse entry yet and since I said chocolet at the end it suddenly goes up five points. So Chocolet, I would like some, that is all for now.

Green Sweater

I wore my little green sweater today. It's torn on one shoulder and worn looking, I had forgotten how much I loved that thing until today when it tumbled out on me in the darkness of a seven am shuffle. When I wear the sweater people always make a point of telling me that the right shoulder has a rip, they do it all secretive like they are trying to hide me some sort of modifying embarrassment, but I know it has a rip. I knew it very well when I put on, but you know what I love that damn rip. The first time I wore the sweater, I was a senior in high school and I wore it all brand new to ask this boy out to prom (call it progressive or what you will) anyways he said no. To be honest it was no big surprise, but I thought it was horrifying at the time and I rejected other opportunities because I was pig headed and said no one else would do. After this I thought the sweater was cursed or something, I use to be very superstitious in high school. I went to a Catholic school, how could I not be?
I finished up Catholic school and finished (some of) my superstition. I wore the sweater the first time I went to Dyrham park. It was still roughly new then, but I remember the chill of June against it. It was never a very thick, but it certainly was a sturdy thing. Then a year later wearing the sweater again and someone taking interest in me, making me no longer feel inferior, replacing the the first memory of the sweater. Maybe that time is gone now, but the sweater is here in all its glory, with all its little rips and worn pieces.

Language or literature?

Language or literature? The question sounds quite sophisticated, doesn't it? So sophisticated that no one could question the validity of a literature degree. Here in the States literature is becoming a little underestimated by our braggadocio science counterparts. Not to be primeval or anything, but the next person who tells me that being an English major I must have a great time to myself, or it must be fun, I'm going to rip out their jugulars and before you correct me on how exactly that may be impossible I will tell you that being an English major nothing is impossible, a man got eaten by a whale for gods sakes. And yes that was a run on sentence I am taking master creative license here I can do that with my literature degree (when acquired). With science there is a right and wrong answer, with English your essays can be ripped apart about fifty times and never put right. Does the latter sound easier? And for all those out there who have never taken an upper level English course it is not as easy to bullshit as you think passages really are required. This is not college writing so please for all of you that aced that, I'm very happy for you, but I also aced nutrition and I really have my doubts that is an upper level chem class, correct me if I'm wrong. English is an art and as an artist I want to be a perfectionist. So please everyone who calls English easy let's see your novels, whether they be good or bad I'd like at least 250 pages. Easy right? Not to bring Hemingway into every argument, but here goes... Hemingway never took the easy way out and although he may not have majored in anything he was certainly a man of words. Case closed thank you Mr. Hemingway.

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.