Finding a Written Time Capsule From 2009

        Sorry I haven't written in quite a while.  I was having trouble coming up with a topic for the past few days - actually I've been spending a lot of time seriously considering starting a novel, which is pretty funny because I've been saying that for years.  Case in point, I was looking for an old journal to start jotting some notes down in today and I found one that only had writing on the first few pages.  I started reading what was there and was shocked to see that not everything was crap.  There is a laughably bad poem, which is honestly against my better judgement to put here, but in the interest of full disclosure I will.  Actually, it's hilariously awful so it does possess some value, if only comedic.  The second piece is pretty good, I think, and it's a true account of a day I vividly remember.  The third piece is a journal entry that made me smile because it is fraught with the exact thoughts I've been having for the past week or so.  So here goes, I'm not changing anything, just typing them as they appear in the journal.  I should also add that no one has ever seen these, very few people have ever seen my personal writing - the few times that people have opened my various journals throughout the years, (almost always by accident - they are usually just looking for paper) I have irrationally freaked out.  I realize that I have to get over that if I ever really want to write, which it seem that I do.  I will probably greatly regret this in a few hours.
        May 23, 2009
    "Suspended Disbelief"
Watching a drop of water swell.
A drop on the outside of a glass.
A drip coming off the faucet.
It gets bigger and bigger.
It looks pregnant, I wait for it to give birth.
In its shining, mirrored surface, I see things.
Parched peasants in third world countries.
Oil slick blemishes on the beautiful face of the sea.
Dead fish flowing in the current of a river.
Acid rain ravaging majestic maples.
Tsunamis swallowing pristine beaches.
Waves crushing levees, demolishing cities.
The world's most abundant resource, $2 a bottle.
A planet more than halfway covered with water.
Water, water, everywhere, and not a drop to drink.
In its round, waxing surface, I see things.
I see myself.
I am thirsty.

** I would like to note here that this was my last attempt at poetry, and will probably remain so, for obvious reasons. **

May 23, 2009
"The Forest in Full Renaissance"
        It was a day in mid-April, and it was ninety-five degrees.  I decided to take a hike.  I was excited to be able to be in the woods when it was this warm and not have to share it with the mosquitoes; but I was disappointed because my favorite part of Spring is its smells, and I thought with the heat the aroma of the forest would skip right over Spring and leapfrog into Summer.  To my delight, I realized when I got there that I had been wrong.
        As I entered the trail I could smell all my Spring favorites - flowering trees and bushes, new grass and wet, warm earth.  The sunlight was coming through the canopy in shafts like spotlights.  It was about noon and, with the sun at its zenith, the new ferns and wildflowers on the forest floor were basking in the limelight.  It had recently rained, and the peculiar quality of the light rendered the light-green baby leaves of the trees in stark contrast to the almost black-colored bark of the still-wet trunks.  All of this mixed with the palpable stillness of the unusually intense heat to create an environment reminiscent only of magical places like the Hundred-acre Wood or that enchanted forest on the other side of the wardrobe door.
        The air around me as I trekked up and downhill, maneuvering around small boulders and stepping over rotted logs, was close and warm, but not overly humid.  The sharp rhythm of a woodpecker sounded startlingly close, but I could not spy the musician, although I searched the treetops all around.  Other birds sang on the branches above me as I walked, and as I came upon no one during my hike, I felt that this special magic of magnified Springtime had been created just for me.
        I rounded a curve in the trail, and the glittering, rippling surface of a pond unfolded to my right.  I stopped for a moment when I reached it, watching the gliding reflections of the clouds in the mirror of the pond.  I could hear the waterfall I knew was on the other side; and although that was normally my favorite part of these trails, it was getting hotter by the minute it seemed, and I was getting tired and thirsty.  I took one last look that encompassed the blue sky with its billowy clouds, the pond, slightly chopped by the breeze, and the magical new growth and vibe that was the renaissance of the forest, and turned onto the shortcut that led to the parking lot.  It had been a experience that had assailed all the senses with unexpected surprises.

June 10, 2009
"Short Story"
        For some reason I fear this form of writing.  I don't know why.  Short stories are some of my favorite pieces to read, and I want desperately to be able to write a good one.  I've been working on my writing for a few weeks now, thinking about writing for much longer than that.  It was very difficult for me to get started, I almost had to force myself.  Once I began, I fell into it pretty easily, and I'm actually proud of my first two pieces - one a poem and  the other a short piece of nature writing.  These were the first two ideas I had and I actually got them out on paper - the first time I've done that and it felt great.  I feel a little self-conscious about the writing while I'm doing it, and I don't know why - re-reading them now I like a lot of the images I thought were silly and I think I conveyed the concepts I wanted to.  This summer and this book are going to be writing workshops for me.  My goal is to create as many forms of writing as I can and practice, practice, practice.  These first two attempts weren't terrible, actually I think they weren't even bad, but I need to get to fiction.  That's what I want to write and what seems so difficult for me to write.  The short story is tricky because you have to focus everything into a small window, but I think I shouldn't have trouble pulling that off.  I'm having trouble thinking of a plot that's worth writing and reading about.  I have the shadowy outlines of a character in my mind - female, about my age, unsatisfied with life - but that's as far as I'm getting.  I'm reading Stephen King's On Writing, and he says that ideas for stories come from the collision of two previously unrelated concepts, but that's not happening and I don't have time to wait.  So I think I'm going to attempt a loosely autobiographical piece for practice, and I hope that doesn't make me a sell-out.  Maybe a more original idea will come to me while I'm using my shitty little life for some inspiration.

        Okay.  That didn't hurt as much as I thought it would, but it did hurt a little, I must admit.  So this journal entry is a snapshot of my mindset about three years ago, and its startling to me because it is simultaneously so similar to and so different from my thoughts these days.  I was a bit more pessimistic back then - not much but a little - I don't think my life is shitty and little anymore.  Also, when I wrote this I obviously thought a lot more highly of that awful poem, which makes me laugh.  The parts about writing fiction are all still true, however.  I still can't think of a plot worth writing and reading about, and right now I have the shadowy outlines of a character remarkably similar to the one I described then.  Interestingly, though, the next few pages of the journal contain notes for a short story about a female character that isn't anything like me, and it takes place in the 1960s.  It was really cool to find that journal and to read those words, on today of all days.  Feels providential or something.  I learned two important lessons from finding these pieces and reproducing them here: 1.) that I did, and still do, use the word "actually" entirely too much and 2.) that the girl who wrote that, and the girl who writes this, has a desperate need to write fiction.  It's a gnawing feeling that won't go away.  I can't really explain it.  The closest that I can come is to quote the magnificent Maya Angelou: "There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you."

50 Shades of Grey - The Latest Watermark in Poop Culture

        So, as everyone who hasn't been residing under a rock for the past few months is aware, the "novel," Fifty Shades of Grey is taking the nation by storm.  I am more ashamed than I can put here in words that I purchased this "book," and read almost 200 pages of it before I threw it away.  Just looking at the line I just typed makes me feel a little queasy.  This was hands down the most horrendously written piece of filth I have ever seen.  This lady, E.L. James makes R.L. Stine look like William freaking Faulkner.  Remember R.L. Stine and Goosebumps?  At one point in the nineties he was turning out a piece of crap, 200 page book every two weeks.  Seriously.  And he is WAY better than James.  I wasted money on a lot of his books too, but I was eleven.  So, now that this "book" has permeated the literary world with the foulest of stenches, it has moved on to infect   theater.  

        Yes, you heard me correctly, the turd, Fifty Shades of Grey  has been turned into a short musical by AVbyte. It depicts what the makers see as the "three camps in this whole "50 Shades of Grey" phenomenon: camp "I love this book," camp "this book is garbage," and camp "I'd never tell anyone, but I'm secretly reading and liking this book" (huffingtonpost.com).  I agree with this, and at least my camp is represented.  Thank god it isn't hitting any actual theaters - yet.  But I honestly don't feel confident that it won't happen.  I always knew that there was way too much stupidity per capita in this country, but these days it seems like an epidemic.  So let's all keep our fingers crossed that this literary chancre doesn't metastasize - well, beyond Hollywood, that is - because the movie is coming, folks.  Yikes America!

Demoscopology at the Beach

        I spent this past weekend at the beach with great friends.  The Delaware beaches are the best I've ever been to, (not that I've been to that many) - not too crowded, but just populated enough for good people-watching.  I am an avid people-watcher.  I recently adopted the term demoscopology for this odd hobby when I came across an interesting entry in the Urban Thesaurus: "Demoscope -\dē-mäs-skōp\ - To covertly examine the interactions of human subjects in a natural setting" (urbandictionary.com).  When I go out to eat, I'm way more interested in what is going on at other tables - I like to listen to conversations - even if, actually especially if, they are personal.  I've watched and listened to strangers break up, get engaged, all that milestone stuff that people usually do in restaurants.  I even listen to people talking when they are just walking by - like at the mall or a flea market or something.  Sometimes those are the best - little nuggets of strange conversation without any context.  Once, at a diner, I eavesdropped on a conversation that lasted longer than an hour.  I actually asked my boyfriend not to talk to me until we got in the car.  A little mean, I know, but this one was gold.  It was a meeting between two older men who had never met before.  One was writing a book about aliens and UFO's, and the other man was saying that his dog had been abducted from his yard the day before.  The writer asked the guy if he had looked for his dog and he answered that he knew exactly where he was so there was no point in searching.  The writer said that he was exactly right and and that canvassing the neighborhood for the dog would be a waste of time.  This was the most interesting point in the conversation, and the only part that really stuck in my memory, but it was good stuff.  The beach is the best place for people-watching, I'm not exactly sure why.  Maybe because of the exhibitionism that goes on at the beach, and exposing more of yourself than usual in public seems to do strange things to people.  It makes some self-conscious while it makes others overly confident.  This makes for odd behavior that is entertaining as hell to watch.

        Beach demoscopology is divided between two major areas.  First area of interest is the sand - where you first encounter all the different types of people on the beach.  There are the people embarrassed to show too much skin - they stay pretty stationary and fiddle with their suits a lot.  Then there is the group that obviously wishes they were wearing less clothing - they stroll up and down the beach and play games like volleyball and Frisbee, so as to show off their rippling pecs and abs.  Then there is the group that hates the sun like poison but are on the beach anyway.  They pitch tents in the sand, wear long-sleeve shirts and smear their faces with zinc oxide.  Then there is the flock of elderly women who just don't care anymore and are going to enjoy the beach no matter what they look like - maybe for the first time in their lives - these ladies are usually my favorite.  A few years ago I got a great picture of a group of 4 ladies standing in circle, trying out belly dancing moves that one had learned in a class.  Don't know what happened to that picture.  A real tragedy.                                                                                                          
        The second, and much better area of interest is the water, of course.  This is where people don't feel as self-conscious and inhibited.  They splash around and act like little kids, or the couples get really randy.  The boogy-boarders are always good for a laugh.  It's fun for anyone to watch complete strangers wipe out and go skidding down the beach on their chin.  Good wholesome fun for all.  Then there is everyone's favorite - the wave induced wardrobe malfunction.  I was the victim of this over the weekend for the second time in my life - almost as embarrassing as the first.  Everyone knows what I'm talking about - people -usually girls, due to the fact that suits these days are made with and held together by materials akin to dental floss - jump through a wave that pulls their bottoms down (or off in extreme cases) and gives tops a mind and agenda of their own.  A few years ago I was on a family vacation on Chincoteague Island in Virginia.  So I'm splashing around in the water, jumping waves with my sisters, when one knocks me down and I stand up - facing the beach with most of my family on it - sans top!  I was completely unaware of the fact until my uncle made a strange hand gesture and I look down to find my chest exposed and my top floating in water a few feet away.  Great.  Everyone promised they didn't see anything, but I know they were lying.  To this day, I still can't figure out if the witnesses being family made more or less humiliating.  This trip, I fell victim to the other kind of malfunction.  I didn't completely lose my bottoms, and my butt was facing the water this time, but I definitely gave a few people a free little show.  I'm going to invent a bikini that comes with suspenders to prevent this kind of thing from happening.  Maybe I will become a millionaire!  Fingers crossed.

The Latest Development in My Bibliophilia

        Super bored at work again today - spent half the day looking up quotes.  Not exactly sure what my fascination with quotes is all about - I seem to enjoy claiming the thoughts of others - not as my own, but as if to say "I agree" or something.  Well, anyway, looking up quotes today gave me some ideas on how to keep myself busy, at least.  I'm always looking for things to do - if it was possible to die of boredom, I would have died many times by now.  So, I found some good Herman Melville quotes, which gave me the idea to read Moby Dick again.  Lots of people hate that book, but I loved it when I read it in school.  To be fair, I did skip some chapters - all those chapters about rope and different whaling gear are not exactly crucial to the plot.  Maybe this time around I will try to get into those chapters.  That led me to another idea - on Jeopardy! the other day, a contestant said that he had tried several times to succeed in reading 100 books in a year, and couldn't do it.  He said that the secret is to read the shortest books you can find.  I started thinking about this, and as an avid reader I don't think it would be that difficult.  I am a slow reader, and even so I manage to read an average of about 50 books a year without really trying.  In my college days, (admittedly, not that long ago) as an English major, I read six or seven books a month while taking classes - that is 60 or 70 books in 10 months - so I decided to give it a try.  I don't want to read just any old books, though, I want to read good ones.  So I looked up the New York Times "100 Best Novels of All Time" and saw that I had read about half of that list and disagreed with the placement of about half of those books, so I looked up Time magazine's list of the top 100 novels.  This list has only 17 books that I've read and I agree with the placement of all, except for Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita.  That book is number 4 on the NY Times list and also appears on Time's, although those are in no particular order.  This book is about a rich, old pervert cavorting with a rebellious twelve-year-old girl - which most would agree is gross and inappropriate  - but I never would have thought it would be boring and tedious, too.  I read until there were 40 pages left and just couldn't care anymore, so I threw it away.  I am not in the habit of ever throwing books away, unless they are horrible, then I think that the garbage is the best place for them.  Life is too short to invest time in crap; along that vein, I decided that I will give each of the books on this list a fair shot and if I hate them, then I will move on to the next.

"The Bookworm," 1850 by Carl Spitzweg

     So, I'm starting with Moby Dick, which for some reason that Time and the NY Times should both be ashamed of does not appear on either list - even though I have read it already - because I had that idea first.  Then I will start with "A" on the Time magazine list and work my way to the end.  That will make 83 books, and I will decide after that what 17 others I will supplement the list with to make 100.  I bet it won't take me a whole year, but I guess we will have to see what happens.  

Musings: From Fireworks to Photographs to Facebook

        So yesterday was the fourth of July - and I did all the holiday-appropriate stuff like eating and sweating way too much, enjoying family and friends, and of course, fireworks!  During the display this year, I tried really hard to capture a firework in a picture, and it is much harder than it looks.  You have to push the button at the precise moment and I kept getting pictures of a milky, smoky sky and nothing more.  My boyfriend ended up taking some nice ones, but I wasted almost the whole show trying to get one good picture.

        That got me thinking about the fleeting moments in life that will never be captured, only remembered; and it also made me think of all the time that we all waste throughout our lives trying to wrangle our most precious moments with our cameras.  It made me a little sad to think about.  Some of my best memories are of days with friends and family that for some reason or another were never documented.  For me, and I'm sure for a lot of people if they really thought about it, these memories burn brighter than any photograph.  In this day and age, most people have cameras on them at all times; and this has enabled people to capture all kinds of images that otherwise would have been only stories.  I'm sure a lot of them are really good, but many and more of them would have been better as stories.  Isn't it fun to listen to a friend recount an experience - to see the scene through their eyes?  They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but sometimes its worth even more than a thousand, and sometimes the words are better.

        Is it just me, or does it seem to anyone else that we don't feel like something really happened, or that we weren't really there unless there is a picture or a video to share on Facebook?  It's like living in a weird state of hyper-reality or something - it's like, if I can't update my status and tell people that I'm on my way home from work, and have people I know "like" it and comment on it, then it's not really happening at all.  If you can't share it with your "friends" on Facebook, then it's like you're living in a vacuum where nothing you do or say matters in the least.  When did we begin to feel the need to have every thought and event in our lives confirmed by "likes" and kind words from people we don't like enough to actually hang out with in person?  Don't get me wrong, I love Facebook and spend a lot of time on it - and most of my "friends" are people I hang out with pretty regularly - but the fact that I frequent social media sites doesn't make what I'm saying any less true.  Think about it - how often do you actually talk to people on the phone these days?  I can't stand to.  But how often do you carry your phone around in your hand, waiting for the notifications from your favorite games, and of course the ubiquitous Facebook.
        Remember the days of no caller I.D., when people had huge, crappy cell phones, just for emergencies?  You know, the days when little kids played outside and there were still small surprises every day?  I miss those days sometimes.  I mean, I'm like everyone else, if I lost my iphone I would probably cry, but it just feels to me that we've lost some small things along the way.  And maybe when you think about it, they aren't so small - connections between people - the impressions we make on each other.  Think about it.  And also - the next time you find yourself doing something worth remembering, try just remembering it instead of spending the day with the camera between you and the fun - you'll be surprised at the little things you miss when you're trying to catch the "big" picture.

Homeless Cuisine Makes Transition from Street Food to Fine Dining

So this article about a homeless man scamming guests at expensive hotels made me laugh. This guy would sneak into people's rooms as they were leaving and extend their stay, rack up room service and restaurant bills, buy himself new clothes, the works! He spent $9,000 on just one guy's debit card - and on the statement he saw that the guy had purchased the best and most luxurious wines, foods and services - that's hilarious! He probably has great taste! If this guy exerted even half that amount of energy to find a job, he would probably land a pretty good one - he sounds like a resourceful and tireless worker to me. It must be really hard to go back to being homeless after a nice vacation like that - from oysters on the half shell and champagne to apple cores and the backwash in the bottom of bottles. Well, to be fair, maybe eating bologna sandwiches in county jail is a nice transition, so I guess we shouldn't worry about him too much. And we have at least this to feel good about: this guy is eating a lot better than the homeless man who was in the news a few weeks ago!
http://usnews.msnbc.msn.com/_news/2012/07/01/12506510-report-homeless-man-scammed-luxury-hotel-stays-at-others-expense?lite