Ben and Jamie are brothers. Ben is eight years old, Jamie is six. Their parents are Alex and Millie. Before Ben was born, Millie suffered two miscarriages. The family lives in a modest one-story home in upstate New York. On Sunday mornings they attend mass at their community church. While the boys attend Sunday school, Millie teaches the confirmation class and Alex gives rides to the elderly and stranded. The boys go to a Catholic private school, but also participate in recreational soccer and baseball.
Ben and Jamie are close.
They have to be.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Follow me?
In my typical fashion of being extremely observant, I just noticed I have followers!
Touched I am that you would want to follow me, when I don't know where I'm going.
Don't flip though, I always take the scenic route.
If you would, however, tell me what it means to be a follower? That'd be awesome. I make better decisions when I'm well-informed.
Although I make my best decisions when I'm drunk.
More on that later.
When I'm drunk.
<3 LB
Touched I am that you would want to follow me, when I don't know where I'm going.
Don't flip though, I always take the scenic route.
If you would, however, tell me what it means to be a follower? That'd be awesome. I make better decisions when I'm well-informed.
Although I make my best decisions when I'm drunk.
More on that later.
When I'm drunk.
<3 LB
The River Rats
I love finding things on my computer that I don't remember writing. A few days ago I was telling Dorothy and Tali the story of my near demise... and look what I just found!
****
February 20, 2009
Three nights ago a charter bus carrying the Albany River Rats turned over on the Massachusetts Pike. Three of the rowdy hockey players sustained serious injuries, but all made it off with their lives in tow.
When I was nine, a hockey puck shot by a River Rat came within inches of taking my life. I haven’t been to a hockey game since.
There is an inexplicable beauty in narrowly avoiding a life threatening accident. A victorious sensation. A rush of adrenaline. The excitement that comes with cheating death. And then there is sadness. While the excitement is fleeting, the sadness is forever.
That inevitable question seeps into thoughts during quiet moments, self reflections, at the sight of random memorabilia, after a painfully familiar sound. “What if?” What if. What if…that stranger in the seat in front of me had not shot his hand up into the air, at the last moment? What if.
Would it be nothing? Or perhaps, everything.
***
Also, I just wrote a love letter to my garbage can. I miss being 14.
ALSO. This is my twelfth post. Show some love for 12!
ALSO ALSO. Update: Nelson was NOT behind the fridge, nor was he behind the stove, nor the dishwasher. Rasto, our super, thinks he's under our floor boards. Looks like the stench of good ol' Nel will be with us for quite a bit longer.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Nelson is...dead?
You may remember Nelson.
He was/is our tiny friend who likes cheese. Though I've never seen him, I know he's there. Much like Santa or the tooth fairy, he leaves evidence of his existence. However, rather than presents or money, he likes to leave little dark pellets under our sink. I've yet to discover their significance, for I refuse to touch them. Out of respect for Nelson, of course.
Nelson liked/likes Sesi the best. He visited her often, poking his tiny little head out of her curtains at night, greeting her home after a long day at work. Sometimes Sesi would scare Nelson, though, and he would scurry across the floor into his hiding place. Sesi didn't mean to scare him--she's not bigger than many things, but she's a lot bigger than Nelson.
Some nights, Nelson would be brave enough to wait for Sesi in the kitchen. Knowing she likes midnight snacks when she returns home late from the office, he'd prepare a little something for her. She would show her gratitude by running into her room, curling up in bed, and leaving the light on so Nelson could find his way home.
Nelson and I aren't as close. From what I hear, neither are he and Meghan. Sometimes, though, Nelson plays music for Meghan by scratching on her walls and stomping his feet. This lets Meghan know he's safe and close by.
This past Saturday, Sesi and I decided to be productive by getting up early and starting the day off right. We assumed Nelson was sleeping in, or had gone on vacation, since Sesi hadn't seen him in a few days. A sweet, yet foul, stench reminded us we needed to take out the trash.
Later in the day, Sesi and I returned home determined to clean house and then have a restful evening. The powerful wind and rain made us want to stay inside.
While I was cleaning dishes, Sesi was putting a DVD in the player for us to watch during dinner. She suddenly let out a piercing scream, that of a child who discovers a monster in her closet. Her steps were so quick that by the time I had turned around, she was already there, preparing to hide behind me. In a panic I had dropped the dish I was rinsing. When I didn't see a burglar or the appearance of imminent danger, I scolded her for scaring me half to death.
She managed to whisper "Nelson." I was infuriated. For starters, I thought they were friends. By observation I had learned that Sesi may not care for Nelson as much as Nelson cared for Sesi, but her scream at his presence surprised me.
While I sushed her and asked where he was, she grabbed my arm and stared in my eyes. "No. Nelson is DEAD."
Oh.
OH.
She pointed to the living room. "On the chair. Congratulations--you hate that thing, now it's gone!"
I smirked. I do hate that chair. It's broken and awkward. I'm sure in its prime it was lovely, comfortable, appealing. But next to a couch? No question.
I walked over to the chair and was immediately stopped in disgust. Keeled over on the black cushion was a large gray mouse. His little mouse eyes were closed. His little mouse arms folded on his little mouse chest. He wasn't sleeping. He was dead.
"Also..." Sesi called from ten feet away in the kitchen. "That's not Nelson."
Her descriptions of Nelson came back to me. "Really? Are you sure?"
She nodded her head vehemently. "Yes. Nelson is brown. And small. That thing is not Nelson."
"Well, that's good!"
She gave me a wary look.
"Not good?" I asked.
She used her head to point behind her.
"I don't get it," I said.
She knocked on the wall.
"Still nope."
"I think he's in there," she said. The sweet stench returned.
"Oh God."
"MHMM!" she exclaimed. "Nelson."
***
To be continued...after we move our fridge.
He was/is our tiny friend who likes cheese. Though I've never seen him, I know he's there. Much like Santa or the tooth fairy, he leaves evidence of his existence. However, rather than presents or money, he likes to leave little dark pellets under our sink. I've yet to discover their significance, for I refuse to touch them. Out of respect for Nelson, of course.
Nelson liked/likes Sesi the best. He visited her often, poking his tiny little head out of her curtains at night, greeting her home after a long day at work. Sometimes Sesi would scare Nelson, though, and he would scurry across the floor into his hiding place. Sesi didn't mean to scare him--she's not bigger than many things, but she's a lot bigger than Nelson.
Some nights, Nelson would be brave enough to wait for Sesi in the kitchen. Knowing she likes midnight snacks when she returns home late from the office, he'd prepare a little something for her. She would show her gratitude by running into her room, curling up in bed, and leaving the light on so Nelson could find his way home.
Nelson and I aren't as close. From what I hear, neither are he and Meghan. Sometimes, though, Nelson plays music for Meghan by scratching on her walls and stomping his feet. This lets Meghan know he's safe and close by.
This past Saturday, Sesi and I decided to be productive by getting up early and starting the day off right. We assumed Nelson was sleeping in, or had gone on vacation, since Sesi hadn't seen him in a few days. A sweet, yet foul, stench reminded us we needed to take out the trash.
Later in the day, Sesi and I returned home determined to clean house and then have a restful evening. The powerful wind and rain made us want to stay inside.
While I was cleaning dishes, Sesi was putting a DVD in the player for us to watch during dinner. She suddenly let out a piercing scream, that of a child who discovers a monster in her closet. Her steps were so quick that by the time I had turned around, she was already there, preparing to hide behind me. In a panic I had dropped the dish I was rinsing. When I didn't see a burglar or the appearance of imminent danger, I scolded her for scaring me half to death.
She managed to whisper "Nelson." I was infuriated. For starters, I thought they were friends. By observation I had learned that Sesi may not care for Nelson as much as Nelson cared for Sesi, but her scream at his presence surprised me.
While I sushed her and asked where he was, she grabbed my arm and stared in my eyes. "No. Nelson is DEAD."
Oh.
OH.
She pointed to the living room. "On the chair. Congratulations--you hate that thing, now it's gone!"
I smirked. I do hate that chair. It's broken and awkward. I'm sure in its prime it was lovely, comfortable, appealing. But next to a couch? No question.
I walked over to the chair and was immediately stopped in disgust. Keeled over on the black cushion was a large gray mouse. His little mouse eyes were closed. His little mouse arms folded on his little mouse chest. He wasn't sleeping. He was dead.
"Also..." Sesi called from ten feet away in the kitchen. "That's not Nelson."
Her descriptions of Nelson came back to me. "Really? Are you sure?"
She nodded her head vehemently. "Yes. Nelson is brown. And small. That thing is not Nelson."
"Well, that's good!"
She gave me a wary look.
"Not good?" I asked.
She used her head to point behind her.
"I don't get it," I said.
She knocked on the wall.
"Still nope."
"I think he's in there," she said. The sweet stench returned.
"Oh God."
"MHMM!" she exclaimed. "Nelson."
***
To be continued...after we move our fridge.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Into the Wild
When I first heard about the Amazon Kindle digital reader, I was a skeptic; there is such magic in holding a book close to you—smelling the musty pages of a worn favorite, the factory stench of a new release—running a finger along a crisp page, preparing to turn before finishing the sentence you’re reading—losing a post-it, a ticket stub, a receipt among the pages meant to mark a meaningful passage, and finding both the item and the meaning at a later date—falling asleep with an open spine across your chest, words seeping into your dreams, waking in the morning to a waiting story. How can you not love a book? So yes, when I first heard of the Kindle, I shunned the idea.
But now, I admit, I have fallen in love with my classy white digital book reader. The space for 10,000 books, but the weight of barely one, travels everywhere I go. The instantaneous satisfaction that comes when hearing of a new book and having it in your hands seconds later…is almost unimaginable. The freedom to choose books based on moods, yet to carry them all with you at once, is gratifying.
I still love my books. I love studying them on my bookshelf, quantifying all the words read. I love flipping, not clicking, to a desired page. But I love reading more. And that, I have learned, is not because of the smell, the weight, the feel of the pages, or the title on the shelf—it is because of the words.
************
I recently finished reading Into the Wild by John Kraukauer. Into Thin Air has been sitting on my dad’s bookshelf for years, but I’ve never once thought to pick it up. I’ve seen Into the Wild dozens of times in the bookstore, but never really given it a second glance. So why I suddenly became interested in the story of Chris McCandless, I don’t really understand.
I found myself consumed by his life and death. His desire to rid himself of all that is meaningless, his frustration with superficial values and company, his simultaneous pursuit of grandeur and simplicity…these are all feelings I find familiar.
And yet, his curiosity, his naivety, his “fuck-you” to civilization led to his death—a death that was neither sought nor necessary. A death that, besides bringing his story to the forefront, did not change the world in any way. Nor did his end provide the salvation McCandless sought, for he died a long, painful, and extremely avoidable death.
Beyond the relatable story of Chris McCandless (except for the whole ‘live in the Alaskan Bush, eat moldy potato seeds and die’ thing), Kraukauer presented some noteworthy literary quotations throughout his book.
“Wilderness appealed to those bored or disgusted with man and his works. It not only offered an escape from society but also was an ideal stage for the Romantic individual to exercise the cult that he frequently made of his own soul. The solitude and total freedom of the wilderness created a perfect setting for either melancholy or exultation.”
--Roderick Nash, Wilderness and the American Mind
How true. How amazing it feels to sit on the summit of a mountain, to lay down in overgrown grass, to crack sticks beneath your steps in the woods…to be free from cars and buildings and money…to walk in silence among pictures that could have existed thousands of years before your existence, exactly as they appear before you. To take a deep breath and inhale nothing but fresh air. To yell at the top of your lungs and receive only an echo for an answer. To smile for the sake of smiling—to think for the purity of thought. To be a philosopher, no less important than those granted fame by the circumstance that they came first. The wilderness definitely appeals to the wandering mind. But it can also drown you in solemnity. Remind you of how alone you are in the world. Break your spirit as you try to match its power.
“McCandless was candid with Stuckey about his intent to spend the summer alone in the bush, living off the land. ‘He said it was something he’d wanted to do since he was little,’ says Stuckey. ‘Said he didn’t want to see a single person, no airplanes, no sign of civilization. He wanted to prove to himself that he could make it on his own, without anybody else’s help.’”
--John Kraukauer, Into the Wild
Here is where the connection is drawn between McCandless and every other human being. The strife of making it on our own, to prove not to them, but to ourselves, that we have what it takes. The tragedy of McCandless’s story is that he DID have what it took to make it in the most dire of circumstances. When he met his end, he was less than a mile from a camp where he could have found rescue. Unaware of this, he died alone, not because the harsh elements of an Alaskan summer did him in—but because he stupidly ingested an undetected toxin that stripped his body of all nutrition, rendering him weak and starved. Had he avoided that toxin, eaten seeds that were without it, he would most likely be alive today.
I, as stated in my last entry, dove head first into a challenge—not to impress others, but to impress myself. Sick of backing off out of fear, I ignored all warning signs, all thoughts of doubt, all indicators that I was not ready for the path I had chosen to follow. It cost me an entire year, most of my sanity, and a large part of my ego—but I made it out alive. I didn’t prove to myself that I could make it on my own. In fact, I proved the opposite. I proved the need for a support network, social time, friends and family. I proved that nothing is worth the pain I felt, no matter how prestigious, original, or philosophical it might seem.
“Oh, how one wishes sometimes to escape from the meaningless dullness of human eloquence, from all those sublime phrases, to take refuge in nature, apparently so inarticulate, or in the wordlessness of long, grinding labor, of sound sleep, of true music, or of a human understanding rendered speechless by emotion!
…And so it turned out that only a life similar to the life of those around us, merging with it without a ripple, is genuine life, and that an unshared happiness is not happiness…And this was most vexing of all.”
--Boris Pasternak, Doctor Zhivago
The greatest lesson. For McCandless, it was too late learned. For myself, just in time. I found it utterly impossible to be happy without the happiness of others around me. I found it insanely frustrating to be happy without anyone to share with. I once thought grades, jobs, things, money, prestige, fame were ways to happiness. In the last two years I have discovered that while these things may accelerate celebrations, they are not the cause nor the sustainer of true bliss. People, friends, family, idols…these are what harbor happiness. These are what make life worth living.
But now, I admit, I have fallen in love with my classy white digital book reader. The space for 10,000 books, but the weight of barely one, travels everywhere I go. The instantaneous satisfaction that comes when hearing of a new book and having it in your hands seconds later…is almost unimaginable. The freedom to choose books based on moods, yet to carry them all with you at once, is gratifying.
I still love my books. I love studying them on my bookshelf, quantifying all the words read. I love flipping, not clicking, to a desired page. But I love reading more. And that, I have learned, is not because of the smell, the weight, the feel of the pages, or the title on the shelf—it is because of the words.
************
I recently finished reading Into the Wild by John Kraukauer. Into Thin Air has been sitting on my dad’s bookshelf for years, but I’ve never once thought to pick it up. I’ve seen Into the Wild dozens of times in the bookstore, but never really given it a second glance. So why I suddenly became interested in the story of Chris McCandless, I don’t really understand.
I found myself consumed by his life and death. His desire to rid himself of all that is meaningless, his frustration with superficial values and company, his simultaneous pursuit of grandeur and simplicity…these are all feelings I find familiar.
And yet, his curiosity, his naivety, his “fuck-you” to civilization led to his death—a death that was neither sought nor necessary. A death that, besides bringing his story to the forefront, did not change the world in any way. Nor did his end provide the salvation McCandless sought, for he died a long, painful, and extremely avoidable death.
Beyond the relatable story of Chris McCandless (except for the whole ‘live in the Alaskan Bush, eat moldy potato seeds and die’ thing), Kraukauer presented some noteworthy literary quotations throughout his book.
“Wilderness appealed to those bored or disgusted with man and his works. It not only offered an escape from society but also was an ideal stage for the Romantic individual to exercise the cult that he frequently made of his own soul. The solitude and total freedom of the wilderness created a perfect setting for either melancholy or exultation.”
--Roderick Nash, Wilderness and the American Mind
How true. How amazing it feels to sit on the summit of a mountain, to lay down in overgrown grass, to crack sticks beneath your steps in the woods…to be free from cars and buildings and money…to walk in silence among pictures that could have existed thousands of years before your existence, exactly as they appear before you. To take a deep breath and inhale nothing but fresh air. To yell at the top of your lungs and receive only an echo for an answer. To smile for the sake of smiling—to think for the purity of thought. To be a philosopher, no less important than those granted fame by the circumstance that they came first. The wilderness definitely appeals to the wandering mind. But it can also drown you in solemnity. Remind you of how alone you are in the world. Break your spirit as you try to match its power.
“McCandless was candid with Stuckey about his intent to spend the summer alone in the bush, living off the land. ‘He said it was something he’d wanted to do since he was little,’ says Stuckey. ‘Said he didn’t want to see a single person, no airplanes, no sign of civilization. He wanted to prove to himself that he could make it on his own, without anybody else’s help.’”
--John Kraukauer, Into the Wild
Here is where the connection is drawn between McCandless and every other human being. The strife of making it on our own, to prove not to them, but to ourselves, that we have what it takes. The tragedy of McCandless’s story is that he DID have what it took to make it in the most dire of circumstances. When he met his end, he was less than a mile from a camp where he could have found rescue. Unaware of this, he died alone, not because the harsh elements of an Alaskan summer did him in—but because he stupidly ingested an undetected toxin that stripped his body of all nutrition, rendering him weak and starved. Had he avoided that toxin, eaten seeds that were without it, he would most likely be alive today.
I, as stated in my last entry, dove head first into a challenge—not to impress others, but to impress myself. Sick of backing off out of fear, I ignored all warning signs, all thoughts of doubt, all indicators that I was not ready for the path I had chosen to follow. It cost me an entire year, most of my sanity, and a large part of my ego—but I made it out alive. I didn’t prove to myself that I could make it on my own. In fact, I proved the opposite. I proved the need for a support network, social time, friends and family. I proved that nothing is worth the pain I felt, no matter how prestigious, original, or philosophical it might seem.
“Oh, how one wishes sometimes to escape from the meaningless dullness of human eloquence, from all those sublime phrases, to take refuge in nature, apparently so inarticulate, or in the wordlessness of long, grinding labor, of sound sleep, of true music, or of a human understanding rendered speechless by emotion!
…And so it turned out that only a life similar to the life of those around us, merging with it without a ripple, is genuine life, and that an unshared happiness is not happiness…And this was most vexing of all.”
--Boris Pasternak, Doctor Zhivago
The greatest lesson. For McCandless, it was too late learned. For myself, just in time. I found it utterly impossible to be happy without the happiness of others around me. I found it insanely frustrating to be happy without anyone to share with. I once thought grades, jobs, things, money, prestige, fame were ways to happiness. In the last two years I have discovered that while these things may accelerate celebrations, they are not the cause nor the sustainer of true bliss. People, friends, family, idols…these are what harbor happiness. These are what make life worth living.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
A Solemn Reminder
Today I was cleaning out my Google Reader Feed when I came across my old blog on LJ. I haven't updated it in over two years. It was largely an outlet for incoherent thoughts--a place to procrastinate when I was feeling silly.
Two entries in particular jumped out at me. If words could physically move you, I'm sure I would have fallen out of my chair.
I don't know what's more disturbing--the fact that these words are still true 2 1/2 years after the fact...or the fact that I seemed to have known...all along...that I was making a mistake.
See below:
**********************************************************************************
Una Domanda
Monday, October 15, 2007, 12:18:01 AM
What would happen if I failed?
Like really failed.
It's always the beginning
Sunday, September 23, 2007, 5:41:37 PM
Inevitably, I keep stumbling upon the same realization over and over again: I don't know who I am or where I'm headed.
The more time I devote to discovering answers to these questions, the more confused I become. I try to begin with my likes versus my dislikes. This should keep things simple and organized. The main problem here is that I don't even know what I really like anymore. I'm finding that my opinions are easily influenced by those of others around me. I admire strength in others, but feel it is lacking in my own life.
Perhaps I'm being too philosophical about everything, missing what is right in front of me while looking for the big picture.
What I fear is that I'm really losing myself in this world. I used to pride myself in knowing that I hadn't yet discovered my identity. Now I am questioning whether that pride was an excuse to stop looking. Perhaps I've always believed that my destiny would find me--that is the whole point of destiny, isn't it?
I don't know what I believe in. I desperately wish it were clearer to me.
My thoughts go round in circles. I cannot explain my reasoning to anyone. I remember for what I used to be passionate, but I forget the whenwherewhyhow.
I never wished more that I could go back in time, or at least stop it from moving forward.
The future--the real future--the future that comes after school--is in sight. I have never been so afraid of making a colossal mistake.
I don't want to go down the wrong path. I don't even know if there is a right path.
Teenage me was incredibly adamant about going to grad school right after undergrad--finishing my education as soon as possible in order to begin my "real" life. Just that I thought this way says so much about how I feel about school--while I love learning, it doesn't feel like living. I've been waiting for life to begin. I've been hiding behind homework. I can't picture what life without grades will look like.
Part of me wants to make teenage me proud--to go onto grad school, to be one of those people who knows what she wants and to achieve it at a young age. The rest of me knows that I have no idea, or at least incredibly mixed ideas about where I see myself in the future--so how could I possibly justify spending three or four more years and countless dollars on training...for something that confuses me so?I don't want to be a screw-up.
I don't want to be unhappy. I want to be great. I want to be successful. I want to be loved.
This is not the first time I've had these thoughts. It's a dysfunctional cycle. I come to the same conclusions, but I never do anything to change the process. I think I have no clue how to change things. I think I am too scared.
Applying to Teach For America is scaring the hell out of me. That's partly why I'm doing it. I'm not sure I actually believe I'm capable of teaching children one year from now. But at some point, I need to stop doing things that I know I can do, and start doing things that will challenge me. I guess that's the only way to grow...
I'm taking a web class for my journalism-media major. It makes me want to buy laurenbaideme.com. I want a blog. I want to use it to write about my interests. Maybe this will help me categorize and get to know myself better. It seems silly, doesn't it? But it also seems like it might be fun. I need something creative in my life that has nothing to do with homework. Maybe this can be it.
Of course, I'm not actually going to buy laurenbaideme.com. That requires money. For now I'll just use LJ.
I'm not sure if anyone will read this--if you do, feel free to throw your 2-cents in. Similar concerns--useful strategies--comments of any and all kinds.
KIT
LB
**********************************************************************************
I think I just found the beginning of my book. Thoughts?
<3
LB
Two entries in particular jumped out at me. If words could physically move you, I'm sure I would have fallen out of my chair.
I don't know what's more disturbing--the fact that these words are still true 2 1/2 years after the fact...or the fact that I seemed to have known...all along...that I was making a mistake.
See below:
**********************************************************************************
Una Domanda
Monday, October 15, 2007, 12:18:01 AM
What would happen if I failed?
Like really failed.
It's always the beginning
Sunday, September 23, 2007, 5:41:37 PM
Inevitably, I keep stumbling upon the same realization over and over again: I don't know who I am or where I'm headed.
The more time I devote to discovering answers to these questions, the more confused I become. I try to begin with my likes versus my dislikes. This should keep things simple and organized. The main problem here is that I don't even know what I really like anymore. I'm finding that my opinions are easily influenced by those of others around me. I admire strength in others, but feel it is lacking in my own life.
Perhaps I'm being too philosophical about everything, missing what is right in front of me while looking for the big picture.
What I fear is that I'm really losing myself in this world. I used to pride myself in knowing that I hadn't yet discovered my identity. Now I am questioning whether that pride was an excuse to stop looking. Perhaps I've always believed that my destiny would find me--that is the whole point of destiny, isn't it?
I don't know what I believe in. I desperately wish it were clearer to me.
My thoughts go round in circles. I cannot explain my reasoning to anyone. I remember for what I used to be passionate, but I forget the whenwherewhyhow.
I never wished more that I could go back in time, or at least stop it from moving forward.
The future--the real future--the future that comes after school--is in sight. I have never been so afraid of making a colossal mistake.
I don't want to go down the wrong path. I don't even know if there is a right path.
Teenage me was incredibly adamant about going to grad school right after undergrad--finishing my education as soon as possible in order to begin my "real" life. Just that I thought this way says so much about how I feel about school--while I love learning, it doesn't feel like living. I've been waiting for life to begin. I've been hiding behind homework. I can't picture what life without grades will look like.
Part of me wants to make teenage me proud--to go onto grad school, to be one of those people who knows what she wants and to achieve it at a young age. The rest of me knows that I have no idea, or at least incredibly mixed ideas about where I see myself in the future--so how could I possibly justify spending three or four more years and countless dollars on training...for something that confuses me so?I don't want to be a screw-up.
I don't want to be unhappy. I want to be great. I want to be successful. I want to be loved.
This is not the first time I've had these thoughts. It's a dysfunctional cycle. I come to the same conclusions, but I never do anything to change the process. I think I have no clue how to change things. I think I am too scared.
Applying to Teach For America is scaring the hell out of me. That's partly why I'm doing it. I'm not sure I actually believe I'm capable of teaching children one year from now. But at some point, I need to stop doing things that I know I can do, and start doing things that will challenge me. I guess that's the only way to grow...
I'm taking a web class for my journalism-media major. It makes me want to buy laurenbaideme.com. I want a blog. I want to use it to write about my interests. Maybe this will help me categorize and get to know myself better. It seems silly, doesn't it? But it also seems like it might be fun. I need something creative in my life that has nothing to do with homework. Maybe this can be it.
Of course, I'm not actually going to buy laurenbaideme.com. That requires money. For now I'll just use LJ.
I'm not sure if anyone will read this--if you do, feel free to throw your 2-cents in. Similar concerns--useful strategies--comments of any and all kinds.
KIT
LB
**********************************************************************************
I think I just found the beginning of my book. Thoughts?
<3
LB
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Dream to Sleep
I never remember falling asleep. Even though laws of sequence, cause and effect mandate that there must be a final conscious thought before the transition into a state of unawareness, it is never memorable. Perhaps memory collapses into sleep before the stream of consciousness follows suit, eliciting an ever-transient period of time (maybe minutes, maybe seconds) when you are still thinking, but not registering for later retrieval. What a disappointment to be laying awake, eyes closed and body curled, actively trying to fall asleep. As long as you’re trying, you know it’s not coming anytime soon. Try as you may to locate the moment when you feel yourself drift off into Neverland, if you are aware enough to feel the drift, you inadvertently break the sequence. Awake again.
When this process, falling asleep, works effortlessly, it is a magic. Lucky ones don’t realize this magic until waking in the morning—able to consciously appreciate that, though no memory of it exists, they must have fallen asleep.
But the process isn’t flawless.
Decades, centuries…millennia have passed with tortured, sleepless nights haunting the undeserved. Tossing. Turning. Counting sheep. Mumbling. Sighing. Stretching limbs. Shifting. Cursing. Midnight snacks.
And then what of dreaming? That mystical version of life that steals you away to a part of your subconscious you cannot control—finding your collapsed memory, taking hold of it, twisting it, shaping it, mangling it, ripping it to shreds so that only scraps of the story remain upon waking, if any at all. All while you lay lifeless, peaceful, still. The horrors, the happiness, the sorrows, the fantasies, seeming within reach but having no bearing on reality—presenting no threat to your existence—no risk of rejection, injury, or failure. Dreaming is fantastical—when you are asleep.
I was drifting…I could sense that. I was still in control of my body, though—still able to flutter my eyelids and let the world reenter, if I chose to do so. I assessed my comfort level, sighing into my pillow. My right cheek was warm against a crease in my blanket. My arms wrapped around a pillow, providing a sense of security I had grown to need. My toes tingled. My consciousness dispersed ever so slowly…
Present again. My hands were numb. They felt cold and lifeless, as if they had fallen asleep before the rest of me. Suddenly I was frightened. I was flipped on my other side without moving. My old roommate (now I lived alone) was crouched by the side of my bed, her head leaning in toward mine. Her face was dark but her eyes glowed. “You’re about to enter Hell!” she hissed. I strained to shake myself awake. My eyes were open. She was gone. A dream? She looked so real. I could almost touch her.
I was on my back, my hands at my sides, staring at the white ceiling. A faraway buzzing noise, like the hum of a beehive, located itself somewhere above me. A small yellow point of light appeared on my ceiling over the foot of my bed. It grew bigger. It swirled with color, orange, red, purple, green—it was soon the size of a basketball, round and tangible. It hovered high above my feet, the buzzing now more prominent. I stared in awe. Then it moved rapidly toward me, the buzzing growing louder as the blob got closer, changing its shape from round to flat and back again with fluid movement…like a drop of oil in a glass of water. Before I could shield myself it was on top of me, pressing on my chest, smothering me, pushing the life out of me. The buzzing was everywhere. A loud, explosive sound muting my thoughts. I struggled to push the blob off of me, but I couldn’t move my arms. They were plastered to my sides, as my legs were to the mattress. My head vibrated in paralyzed fear.
Suddenly it was gone. The room was empty. Silence. I used my hands to pull the blanket up to my chin. Despite my new ability to move, I was frozen with fear. I contemplated making a run for it—escaping whatever evil entity that was trying to steal me. I could slip into my suitemate’s room. Explain to her what had happened. What time was it, anyway?
I couldn’t get up if I wanted to. I stared at the spot on the ceiling where it had all began. Impossible. But so real. My eyes had been open. I had been looking at my room. It had all happened right in front of me.
And yet, my body had been rendered motionless. I remembered my hands. The numbness. As if they had fallen asleep before my mind had. Could it have been a dream? Could part of my mind have been asleep, while the other, the perceiver, the eyes, the ears, the nerves…remained awake? Present? Able to…remember?
I remained alert for what seemed like hours, lying still, afraid to close my eyes. Every few minutes I flexed my hands, refusing to let them surrender to fatigue. When the sunlight fell on the back of my eyelids in the morning and I woke in a new, more natural position, I knew I had fallen asleep. I couldn’t remember how…
As it was supposed to be.
When this process, falling asleep, works effortlessly, it is a magic. Lucky ones don’t realize this magic until waking in the morning—able to consciously appreciate that, though no memory of it exists, they must have fallen asleep.
But the process isn’t flawless.
Decades, centuries…millennia have passed with tortured, sleepless nights haunting the undeserved. Tossing. Turning. Counting sheep. Mumbling. Sighing. Stretching limbs. Shifting. Cursing. Midnight snacks.
And then what of dreaming? That mystical version of life that steals you away to a part of your subconscious you cannot control—finding your collapsed memory, taking hold of it, twisting it, shaping it, mangling it, ripping it to shreds so that only scraps of the story remain upon waking, if any at all. All while you lay lifeless, peaceful, still. The horrors, the happiness, the sorrows, the fantasies, seeming within reach but having no bearing on reality—presenting no threat to your existence—no risk of rejection, injury, or failure. Dreaming is fantastical—when you are asleep.
I was drifting…I could sense that. I was still in control of my body, though—still able to flutter my eyelids and let the world reenter, if I chose to do so. I assessed my comfort level, sighing into my pillow. My right cheek was warm against a crease in my blanket. My arms wrapped around a pillow, providing a sense of security I had grown to need. My toes tingled. My consciousness dispersed ever so slowly…
Present again. My hands were numb. They felt cold and lifeless, as if they had fallen asleep before the rest of me. Suddenly I was frightened. I was flipped on my other side without moving. My old roommate (now I lived alone) was crouched by the side of my bed, her head leaning in toward mine. Her face was dark but her eyes glowed. “You’re about to enter Hell!” she hissed. I strained to shake myself awake. My eyes were open. She was gone. A dream? She looked so real. I could almost touch her.
I was on my back, my hands at my sides, staring at the white ceiling. A faraway buzzing noise, like the hum of a beehive, located itself somewhere above me. A small yellow point of light appeared on my ceiling over the foot of my bed. It grew bigger. It swirled with color, orange, red, purple, green—it was soon the size of a basketball, round and tangible. It hovered high above my feet, the buzzing now more prominent. I stared in awe. Then it moved rapidly toward me, the buzzing growing louder as the blob got closer, changing its shape from round to flat and back again with fluid movement…like a drop of oil in a glass of water. Before I could shield myself it was on top of me, pressing on my chest, smothering me, pushing the life out of me. The buzzing was everywhere. A loud, explosive sound muting my thoughts. I struggled to push the blob off of me, but I couldn’t move my arms. They were plastered to my sides, as my legs were to the mattress. My head vibrated in paralyzed fear.
Suddenly it was gone. The room was empty. Silence. I used my hands to pull the blanket up to my chin. Despite my new ability to move, I was frozen with fear. I contemplated making a run for it—escaping whatever evil entity that was trying to steal me. I could slip into my suitemate’s room. Explain to her what had happened. What time was it, anyway?
I couldn’t get up if I wanted to. I stared at the spot on the ceiling where it had all began. Impossible. But so real. My eyes had been open. I had been looking at my room. It had all happened right in front of me.
And yet, my body had been rendered motionless. I remembered my hands. The numbness. As if they had fallen asleep before my mind had. Could it have been a dream? Could part of my mind have been asleep, while the other, the perceiver, the eyes, the ears, the nerves…remained awake? Present? Able to…remember?
I remained alert for what seemed like hours, lying still, afraid to close my eyes. Every few minutes I flexed my hands, refusing to let them surrender to fatigue. When the sunlight fell on the back of my eyelids in the morning and I woke in a new, more natural position, I knew I had fallen asleep. I couldn’t remember how…
As it was supposed to be.
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