I think people only see what they want to see.
That's not me being cynical and pessimistic, it's what I honestly believe.
We view the world - the people, places, events even - that surround us out of our own personalized rose colored glasses. We see the best of people, we see the worst of people, but do we ever see people for who they really are?
Whether we do it out of love or to maintain a selfish ignorance, we do it. We keep our expectations too high or too low, but do we ever really give people the benefit of doubt, or acceptance?
It's something that has been on my mind lately. I am not saying it's a bad thing. Maybe it's even necessary in our society, with as many issues as we have, and how self-absorbed we tend to be.
I am trying to keep my eyes wide open, as well as my mind. But those glasses tend to be hard to remove...
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Monday, June 6, 2011
Frog Eat Frog World
Last summer I spent a few weeks at my grandparents house in a small town in Illinois. I spent most of my days lounging by the pool in their backyard, reading. One morning I woke up early, poured myself a cup of coffee, grabbed my book of the day, and headed to my favorite chair overlooking their yard well before the sun reached it's peak. It was nice to just sit outside, enjoy the sounds of morning.
On this particular morning, as I sat by the pool, I noticed about six or seven frogs swimming in the water.
I know enough about this issue from when I was little to understand that the amount of chlorine and chemicals in the pool will kill those frogs within the hour. So I spent the next half an hour or so fishing these frogs out of the pool. But the frogs didn't want to be saved, they just wanted to stay cool. They would swim down to the very bottom of the shallow end and then coast their way along until they were 10 feet deep and skimming the drain. At this point, I was getting frustrated. The sun was rising fast and it was getting hot and I still hadn't finished my coffee. But I kept at it until the very last one was out, an hour after I started. I caught him after he stopped swimming and just sat at the bottom, slowly starting to float upward. I shook him out onto the grass and just watched him. He didn't move. He was a cute little frog, small and green, with a darker splotch on his back that looked kind of like Texas. I watched him for about ten minutes, sometimes picking up a leaf to poke at him or lay over him. He never moved.
I gave up, with a heavy heart. I couldn't save him. He was just a frog but at this point in my life, something about it resonated with me: I couldn't save him. I went up to change into my bathing suit, grab a bottle of water and maybe a soda because at this point it was too hot to even think about coffee, and head back down. The first thing I do is check the patch of grass where I lay my frog to rest. He wasn't there. I start searching, slightly panicked, when I find him sitting in a bush next to the pool. I looked at him. He looked at me. I shook my head. He darted for the water. This time it only took me ten minutes to fish him out. I carried him out to a bush a little further away and settled down to my book. It only took a couple of minutes for him to hop right back in the pool. I fished him out and this time I kept an eye on him, now concerned my little frog had a death wish. This happened four or five more times, each time taking a little longer to get him out - he was getting smart about avoiding my net. Finally, I'd had enough. It was getting to be late afternoon and at this point I would have normally finished whatever book I was reading, but that day I'd gotten about ten pages in. I'd had enough. I fished him out for the last time. I even went so far as to tell him that I was done, next time I'd just let him die. We looked at each other, both knowing I was full of shit. But I think he got it. I carried him out to the edge of the yard, where the backyard becomes woods and gives way to a little creek. I let him out as far as I could from the pool and turned back.
I didn't see him again. I guess he finally got it, or was just sick of the game. Or maybe he was just a frog and couldn't find his way back. Maybe I should have kissed him just to see what would have happened. I don't know. But I spent my entire afternoon fishing a stupid frog out of the pool. He was just a frog. But I spent all day out by that pool, never going indoors for fear that he'd jump in the water and be dead by the time I returned. I never stopped fishing him out of the water. I never gave up.
On this particular morning, as I sat by the pool, I noticed about six or seven frogs swimming in the water.
I know enough about this issue from when I was little to understand that the amount of chlorine and chemicals in the pool will kill those frogs within the hour. So I spent the next half an hour or so fishing these frogs out of the pool. But the frogs didn't want to be saved, they just wanted to stay cool. They would swim down to the very bottom of the shallow end and then coast their way along until they were 10 feet deep and skimming the drain. At this point, I was getting frustrated. The sun was rising fast and it was getting hot and I still hadn't finished my coffee. But I kept at it until the very last one was out, an hour after I started. I caught him after he stopped swimming and just sat at the bottom, slowly starting to float upward. I shook him out onto the grass and just watched him. He didn't move. He was a cute little frog, small and green, with a darker splotch on his back that looked kind of like Texas. I watched him for about ten minutes, sometimes picking up a leaf to poke at him or lay over him. He never moved.
I gave up, with a heavy heart. I couldn't save him. He was just a frog but at this point in my life, something about it resonated with me: I couldn't save him. I went up to change into my bathing suit, grab a bottle of water and maybe a soda because at this point it was too hot to even think about coffee, and head back down. The first thing I do is check the patch of grass where I lay my frog to rest. He wasn't there. I start searching, slightly panicked, when I find him sitting in a bush next to the pool. I looked at him. He looked at me. I shook my head. He darted for the water. This time it only took me ten minutes to fish him out. I carried him out to a bush a little further away and settled down to my book. It only took a couple of minutes for him to hop right back in the pool. I fished him out and this time I kept an eye on him, now concerned my little frog had a death wish. This happened four or five more times, each time taking a little longer to get him out - he was getting smart about avoiding my net. Finally, I'd had enough. It was getting to be late afternoon and at this point I would have normally finished whatever book I was reading, but that day I'd gotten about ten pages in. I'd had enough. I fished him out for the last time. I even went so far as to tell him that I was done, next time I'd just let him die. We looked at each other, both knowing I was full of shit. But I think he got it. I carried him out to the edge of the yard, where the backyard becomes woods and gives way to a little creek. I let him out as far as I could from the pool and turned back.
I didn't see him again. I guess he finally got it, or was just sick of the game. Or maybe he was just a frog and couldn't find his way back. Maybe I should have kissed him just to see what would have happened. I don't know. But I spent my entire afternoon fishing a stupid frog out of the pool. He was just a frog. But I spent all day out by that pool, never going indoors for fear that he'd jump in the water and be dead by the time I returned. I never stopped fishing him out of the water. I never gave up.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Author vs Writer
The other day my English professor asked our class if we would consider ourselves authors.
She said, think about it, now is the time we are doing more writing than we probably ever will in our lives.
That made me stop. Sure, I'm cranking out an essay a week, a research or exploratory paper a month, and I've got another forty hours of just English ahead of me... but God, I hope this is not the most writing I ever do.
The class debated for a while about whether we were authors, or just writers. And some factors included whether the writing was temporary - would only last as long as it took to graduate, or whether it was enjoyed, whether pride was taken in the flow of the words, the ideas, or even vocabulary. So many things to think about. What makes an author?
I think about the fact that I have two blogs going (somewhat) regularly, that randomly in class I will scribble pages of ideas for essays or personal writing, that I've been working on the same story for about six months and I think I'm finally getting somewhere...
Yes, I would consider myself a writer. Maybe even a budding author. Next semester I am taking two creative writing classes along with a class on nonfiction writing. I am constantly thinking and creating and scribing. I have plenty of insightful papers, creative prose and poetry.
And then I have my journals.
And even though I have enough papers ahead of me to fill multiple novels, I know this will not be the time of my life where I write the most. I know that is still ahead of me, and I really look forward to it.
She said, think about it, now is the time we are doing more writing than we probably ever will in our lives.
That made me stop. Sure, I'm cranking out an essay a week, a research or exploratory paper a month, and I've got another forty hours of just English ahead of me... but God, I hope this is not the most writing I ever do.
The class debated for a while about whether we were authors, or just writers. And some factors included whether the writing was temporary - would only last as long as it took to graduate, or whether it was enjoyed, whether pride was taken in the flow of the words, the ideas, or even vocabulary. So many things to think about. What makes an author?
I think about the fact that I have two blogs going (somewhat) regularly, that randomly in class I will scribble pages of ideas for essays or personal writing, that I've been working on the same story for about six months and I think I'm finally getting somewhere...
Yes, I would consider myself a writer. Maybe even a budding author. Next semester I am taking two creative writing classes along with a class on nonfiction writing. I am constantly thinking and creating and scribing. I have plenty of insightful papers, creative prose and poetry.
And then I have my journals.
And even though I have enough papers ahead of me to fill multiple novels, I know this will not be the time of my life where I write the most. I know that is still ahead of me, and I really look forward to it.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
There are moments
I could close my eyes and find myself back in one specific moment in time. I can recall the thoughts, the smells, the sounds, the feelings, the words. Always the words.
I'm sure I have mentioned before that my best friend lives in Germany. As I like to refer to her, "someone I love".
Someone I love once wondered, what if everyone were naked all the time?
Someone I love once found beautiful old black and white photography when rummaging through drawers. Exactly the thing I adore. She mailed them from Germany to the United States. They now live in my room.
I am thinking back to the day when I first realized love will outlive us all.
And I honestly believe that. The way many people believe in organized religion and politics and that their vote and place in this world or their country will somehow make a difference... and I hope it does but in the meantime, I will be here, believing in love. And being lost in a moment that has long passed but still holds me tight.
Because I honestly believe that no matter what any of us do to destroy this world, there will still be love.
And I know one person, my person, who is proof of that.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Say Cheese
"Smile", she said
As the camera flashed
And she took a photograph
To hang on her wall
Never guessing all her pictures of them
Would become seasonal.
As the camera flashed
And she took a photograph
To hang on her wall
Never guessing all her pictures of them
Would become seasonal.
Pensive Bear
I've been thinking tonight..
A dangerous pasttime, I know.
I do really stupid things. And I don't think that makes me a bad person, I am just very careless.
Sometimes, I am inconsiderate.
I mess up.
Sometimes, I even think I am doing the right thing.
And later, I discover that I am so very wrong. But I'm too scared to admit it.
Not because I don't want to admit I'm wrong, but because I'm scared of what will happen if I do.
All it takes is once for me to realize it's wrong. And I don't need to get caught to know it.
My heart broke for the first time when I was 14. It was my own fault. It was horrible. I thought I would never be okay again. I prayed and prayed to feel whole again, to meet someone new, to be happy.
And months later, I was. Because when you're 14, and you think you're in "love", it feels like the hardest blow. But it's nothing.
Every time it ends, it feels inevitable. Like I was waiting for it. And while it hurts, and feels like the end of the world, I know it's a temporary end, and I'm only biding my time until the next beginning.
This time when I break my own heart, I don't see the next beginning. All I see is lost potential.
Quote of the day:
"Your heart just breaks, that's all. But you can't judge or point fingers, you just have to be lucky enough to find someone who appreciate you."
- Audrey Hepburn
A dangerous pasttime, I know.
I do really stupid things. And I don't think that makes me a bad person, I am just very careless.
Sometimes, I am inconsiderate.
I mess up.
Sometimes, I even think I am doing the right thing.
And later, I discover that I am so very wrong. But I'm too scared to admit it.
Not because I don't want to admit I'm wrong, but because I'm scared of what will happen if I do.
All it takes is once for me to realize it's wrong. And I don't need to get caught to know it.
My heart broke for the first time when I was 14. It was my own fault. It was horrible. I thought I would never be okay again. I prayed and prayed to feel whole again, to meet someone new, to be happy.
And months later, I was. Because when you're 14, and you think you're in "love", it feels like the hardest blow. But it's nothing.
Every time it ends, it feels inevitable. Like I was waiting for it. And while it hurts, and feels like the end of the world, I know it's a temporary end, and I'm only biding my time until the next beginning.
This time when I break my own heart, I don't see the next beginning. All I see is lost potential.
Quote of the day:
"Your heart just breaks, that's all. But you can't judge or point fingers, you just have to be lucky enough to find someone who appreciate you."
- Audrey Hepburn
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
a liquid diet
"I want to be like water.
I want to slip through fingers but hold up a ship."
And that's all I want to be.
I want to slip through fingers but hold up a ship."
And that's all I want to be.
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