6 posts tagged “writing”
only i could blog creatively about a ball i bought for fifty cents at CVS.
a return to childhood, for a moment.
love it.
as swiped off .Erin.'s blog . . . can you tell today's a "hurry up and wait" kinda day?
Ten things about yourself:
1. Name: Erin (Carly), although in some circles, I'm known by my pledge sisters' bestowed nickname.
2. Birthday: April 17th
3. Where do you live: Arlington. Virginia. The Washington, DC Metro area. Depends on if the person asking is familiar with the area.
4. Nationality: An ancestors-fled Jewish mutt - Russian, Hungarian, and Romanian. We think.
5. Right or Left handed: Right, but my parents thought I'd be left-handed before I started drawing.
6. Favorite color: To make sure they don't get jealous of each other, I'll say all of them. (since it's true.)
7. Favorite sport: Anything where I'm standing on the sidelines with a camera in hand. Specifically? Football and karate.
8: Biggest Fear: Forgetting.
9. Status: Check my Gmail Chat or Facebook. It's always current.
10. Do you like someone? Oh, I'd say so.
Nine Lasts:
1. Cigarette: Me? You need to ask me? I don't smoke - I sing!
2. Beverage: Coffee . . . mmmmmmmm, it's still warm.
3. Kiss: Real one? From a boy? August. I did kiss my seester, Kat, on the cheeks last night when she gave me the most adorable Hannukah present ever.
4. Hug: From Marc, just before heading off the metro towards home.
5. Movie seen: The Librarian (what a bad, yet campy-fun movie)
6. CD played: "Boys Like Girls" - it's a great driving CD. Don't poke fun. They actually have some great stuff!
7. Song listened to: Something quietly rocking out on our XM.
8. Bubble bath: Umm, when I was five?
9. Time you cried: I [thankfully] don't remember any recent all-out cry moments, but I can predict tears by Friday night, maybe Saturday afternoon, with a soundtrack of Sussex Mummers.
Eight Have-You-Ever's:
1. Dated one of your best friends or wanted to? Dated, once. My high school boyfriend. Wanted to? I plead the Fifth.
2. Skinny dipped: No way.
3. Kissed somebody and regretted it: Totally. Sadly.
4. Liked someone you knew you couldn't have: More times than I can count.
5. Been overseas: Yes! Israel was incredibly amazing.
6. Dressed in costume: I vas a member of ze French Rezistance for Halloween zis year.
7. Been drunk: Drunk like everyone else? No, thanks. I've learned those lessons from watching my friends. Drunk for me? Of course!
8. Run away: Does moving to DC count, if you factor in the job searching before ending the bad relationship from which I desperately needed out?
Four Places You've Been To:
1. Masada
3. Tripod Rock in Kinnelon, NJ
Four Favorite Things (In No Order):
1. Watching the snow blow by like I'm in a snow globe.
2. Revels.
3. Lox and cream cheese on a cinnamon raisin bagel.
4. Singing.
Three things you can't live without:
1. Chap stick
2. Lactaid - ugh
3. My family.
(no Erin, I'm not copying you. really. :) great minds just think alike!)
Two Things That You Want To Be When You Grow Up:
1. A photographer.
2. Loved.
One Thing That You Regret:
1. Letting myself get lost for so long. I'm actually pretty fantastic! (Or so I've been told on occasion.)
i came here today to indulge in my most favorite coffee, with a most favorite muffin (yogurt - low fat - yet so good), and a most favorite activity, blogging.
yet i sit here and the words are just floating in and out, not settling on a single thought. do i really have a reason for writing today? do i ever really *need* a reason to write?
someone just ordered a bowl of lentil soup. although i just at the muffin (well, maybe an hour or more ago), the soup sounds really satisfying. maybe i'll leave and come back later for it. or maybe i'll get it to go. maybe.
***
scattered thoughts are a bit unsettling for me.
in my attempts to enjoy this relaxing day, all i can think about is making it over to the chocolate shop, and then heading home, and then doing [something, anything] until it's time to go to my friend's for her birthday.
always running, always running.
and when i'm not, i sleep in too much.
***
all these people around me, always running. there are a few who have been sitting here longer than me, with their work spread out over the table as though this coffee shop is their sole office. and others sit on comfortable couches, reading the newest and greatest addition to their library. or perhaps, they're hating the book and suffering through every word just to say they finished.
either way, around them, everyone else, always running.
the lady with the four month old baby has come and gone, stirring the air around her as people came to coo and giggle at the happy girl. the energy is just returning to normal. before her, a blind lady with her dog sat at the same table. i hated observing her, as i'm sure everyone else observes her every single day of her life. but the lady sitting next to her was doing what every person should not do - play with her seeing eye dog. the dog is working . . .
some man just stood in front of me, making typing motions, and then waving his gloves around. i didn't look up. he yelled across the room, "you got me!" and then proceeded to walk to the back saying "you know, i spent twenty years in alaska . . ." the next thing i heard was, "dream on, dream on." he's a strange old man, wearing what looks like an old bomber or flight jacket complete with a drill whistle and a matching hat.
i bet his stories have stories.
only here do you catch glimpses of some of the most amazing people.
***
perhaps i should get on with my day before i become one of the watched instead of the watcher.
i just sat here for well over an hour and poured this story out, which started out as a comment on my [awesome and apparently inspiring] former boss's blog. i realized after about four lines that this was going to open a can of worms more suited for my own blog than someone else's.
i suggest taking the time to read the blog behind the link below to understand the topic at hand. as an overview, it talks about the difference between a fixed-mindset and a growth-mindset in children when it comes to intelligence and learning. a fixed-mindset would say, "i've been told i'm smart. success should come naturally to me. if i work hard and don't do well, i should avoid doing this again." a growth-mindset would say, "i've worked hard, and now i've learned something new. working hard brings success, so i'm going to keep working hard and try new things to continue doing well."
can you guess which one i was?
***
i wish someone had written this information on the effects that intelligence and forms of praise have on education and given it to me on my first day of school in fourth grade. although i'm rather happy with the way i've turned out, knowing this could have eradicated years of good education wasted.
at some point in third grade, our school system gave us a standardized test to see if we qualified for the "honors program," an advanced program for kids who demonstrated a higher level for learning than the 'regular' kids. apparently, i did well [i have no recollection of this test] and my parents, excited to have a 'smart' kid, put me in the program.
this program took us out of our regular class for half a day, traveling from one school to another, separating us from our former peers. essentially, the accelerated track had us skip whatever was learned in fourth grade and put us in the fifth grade books - completely assuming that we were 'smart' enough to either already know or put two and two together about what we were missing.
at first, i loved this program. as a child who didn't have many friends in her original class because A. she was the 'replacement' redhead [a topic for another time] and B. she could read on a sixth grade level in first, it sounded like a safe haven. everyone around me could do so much more than our other classmates, and it was inspiring. i wanted to be just as good as the best kids in the class . . . but it wasn't long before i realized i had to work twice as hard as them to keep up.
math has never been a strong point for me, and in this program, we skipped a key lesson - how to add in our heads. to this day, i still count on my fingers; or, more discretely, i count imaginary dots on the sides of the number on the page. so, as a recently pegged "official smart kid," i lost my faith in myself when i realized i couldn't even complete the timed math problem sheets we were required to do every week, let alone work on par to my classmates.
but i was told i was smart! my parents believed in my inherent intelligence and placed me in this program, where i was supposed to do great things! i felt like i should be able to be top of the class . . . yet here i was, failing.
failing was unacceptable.
i studied, and studied, and studied, and still, i struggled. after my classmates moved on from addition and subtraction to multiplication and division, and i was still attempting to complete [for the first time] the addition time sheets, i'd come home and cry out of resentment. i hated math. HATED MATH.
somewhere, in my little mind, i decided that since i hated math, i didn't care about math. and if i didn't care about math, then i didn't need to try so hard at it. there were so many other things i was good at! why should i do something that's just going to cause me to fail and make my parents mad?
thus started the downward spiral. anytime a subject became too hard, where studying twice as much as my classmates wouldn't produce the same grade, i gave up. i lost interest. i stopped caring.
once i stopped caring, i realized i could slip by on a decent grade by doing minimal work. i took on the mantra that i was "the dumb kid in the smart kid's class." after all, there has to be someone at the bottom, right?
looking back, my mom knew exactly what was happening. she told me, later on in life, that she was the same way as a kid. if a subject wasn't interesting, she didn't care, and she would put in only enough effort to pass. maybe, at the time, she didn't know how to solve the problem because she realized we were exactly the same. or maybe, she thought if she came down hard on me, i'd fix my ways and get back on track. either way, i vividly remember nights of yelling and crying about homework that i just didn't want to do because it was HARD. but if i was so 'smart,' then why was it so hard? i didn't want to fail, and i felt like if i put in the effort and still failed, then i was worse than a failure - i wasn't smart anymore. i couldn't bear the thought of not being my mom's smart child anymore.
moving from elementary to junior high and then to senior high school didn't change a thing. every year, i'd excel in certain classes, and falter miserably in others. my art and english classes were highlights, with math trailing in the wind. i did relatively well in history, but i didn't care about it. all those dates - numbers - to remember made my head spin, and i became aware immediately that everything we studied was driven by war [another topic for another time]. science would vary as well, with biology stronger than chemistry or physics.
do we see the correlation here? anything needing math skills or revolving around numbers got pushed to the end of my priority list, with the constant creative points being number one. when i put effort into my writing or art, i found success, and all i wanted was to finally be GOOD at something. i cared about these creative outlets more than i had cared about any subject in my ten years as a student, and it was liberating. i felt like finally, i'm smart, just like they said so long ago.
i could have gone to a big, great college. i had enough AP credits and had taken a year and a half of remedial math study at the end of high school to make up for the deficit in my education. i had extra curricular activities, and i placed relatively well on my SAT's and SAT2's. instead, i opted for a small, average college. it wasn't where the spectacular kids went . . . but there, i felt like i could finally put in effort and achieve success.
a funny thing happened when i went to college. after about three miserable weeks of being a biology major, i had an epiphany when my teacher spoke the words "organic chemistry" in reference to what courses were required next.
i said to myself, "i don't want to take organic chemistry. i don't HAVE to take organic chemistry! i pick my own classes here, and i'm [via my grandparents, thank you] paying for it. i should take all classes i WANT to take, classes that make me happy! classes where i can work hard and actually do well!"
from that day on, even my math classes seemed so much brighter. i knew that once i was done with that class, i never HAD to take a math class again. i could take literature and writing and languages, and eventually, design and photography and painting and sculpture and yes - even art history!
and, from that day on, i realized that i WAS smart - just in a different way than my former classmates. while they're now doctors and lawyers and perpetual students, i'm a creative mind. i'm an artist.
i can take the hundreds of thousands of words floating around in my brain and turn them into stories. i can take the millions of notes humming through my bones and turn them into songs. i can see fleeting moments in life and capture them as memories for all time. i can stand among just a few to a few thousand people and sing my heart out, illustrating melodies written by amazing composers, from songs committed to memory to ones i'm reading for the first time.
***
sometimes i wonder what would have happened if i hadn't been placed in that program. if i hadn't been overwhelmed in the challenge, or if i had been told my efforts were more important than the end result. if i hadn't needed to live up to expectations of excellence, and been encouraged to excel on my own.
although the journey was hard, and not one i'd like to live over again, i feel like i was given a second chance to succeed with college.
thank goodness i opened my eyes to see the wealth of knowledge available to me.
and thank goodness for the ability to see what happens when passion and creativity come together.
quite amazing, isn't it?
I took a walk today.
This wasn't an ordinary walk, with any sort of intention. Between the rain and the snow, something just told me to strap on my boots and get out of the house. My destination was more a stop along the way, resulting in warm coffee I didn't need, but wanted anyway.
Only a few steps out the door, and I knew that this walk was different. The ordinary stood out in focus, and I began to observe, to record every moment, every step. With every foot further into the world, I saw moments I wanted to photograph, to capture. Without my camera, I knew my words would become my medium of expression.
Stomping through the slush (after all, what's the use of having waterproof snow boots if you don't use them), I walked where cars usually dominate, unafraid of anyone coming by. Everyone else was warm and dry in their homes, perhaps sipping on hot chocolate beside a crackling fire.
Everyone, except a mom pulling her two year old down the street in a sled meant for children twice as big. The child looked a bit frightened, unsure how to understand this cold damp white stuff covering the ground and falling from trees. Normally, I would pass some judgment about pulling the kid in the street, but as I had been essentially doing the same, I just smiled.
Further along, I saw this child in ten years - a pair of teen girls sledding down the snow-covered stairs of one of my neighborhood's tucked away churches. They seemed to be ending their escapades, as they wore off the snow of the first few steps. Attempts at making it down the stairs again were proving futile.
I smiled, remembering the crazy places I used to try to sled, when I was young and had less fears. Most were unsuccessful, and in all honesty, fear usually got to me before creativity.
Faced with rather daunting puddles ahead on the sidewalks, I opted to make my way across the unplowed parking lot. Two men stood talking on the porch of a house across the way, watching me jump from untrodden space to space. (If I'm going to walk across a field of snow, I may as well make my own footprints instead of following everyone else's.) I made sure to jump hard into the slush at the other end, and wonder if they were oblivious to what I was doing or if I became their afternoon entertainment.
The rain continued to fall as I made my way to the coffee shop. Within feet, I realized that although I reached my destination, my journey had only reached the halfway point. The trip home started to feel daunting, so I thought it might be a good idea to stay a while and dry out before heading back into the rain. A sign outside on the door said "Closing at 5pm for renovations."
Slightly cold and severely wet, I stepped into the shop, only to find the clock on the wall reading 5:02pm. However, the girl at the counter happily poured me my coffee, saying I made it just in time. Sitting around me were other brave souls - mothers, dads, writers, readers, children, friends, conversationalists - enjoying their last moments of community warmth together before needing to head home.
Every time I walk there, I try to take different streets. Even though it's only a half mile from my apartment, I find new and amazing sights as I wander through the neighborhood. This time would be no different.
I took a road I had yet to explore in past travels, and found myself fascinated by a pair of homes straight from a fairytale of a small country town. Mirror images, these homes were two stories tall, with a large covered balcony on one side, elaborate decoration between the rungs of the railings, and shingles shaped like rounded flower petals. I heard a voice say, "Is it still raining or is it just falling from the trees?" I looked up to find a lady on the second house's balcony, smoking. I replied, "Both, yuck," wished her well, and continued on my journey. I knew she wouldn't be venturing out until tomorrow, and I didn't want to linger - the cold was beginning to bite.
From around the corner, I could smell a fireplace just starting to burn. In the fall, the smell makes me think of wintertime and snow. But in February, the smell almost reminds me of springtime, the first warm day with every green thing stretching its arms out wide to soak up the warmth. Under this snow, spring is waiting, ready to be unleashed at any moment.
Through the silence of the day, with far away squeals of excitement from children in snowsuits, that all too familiar scraping sound echoed between the houses. Only a few blocks away from home, with my apartment building in view, a dad shoveled the heavy slush from the sidewalk. He tried to mask his discontent, but I could see right through to his grunting and thoughts of hatred towards mother nature. He's not the only one to be having these thoughts. All the sidewalks were already clear.
In the short moments I spent on this walk, the neighborhood witnessed births of snowmen. The first had been spotted on my way out, on the lawn of the home immediately next to my building. He stood as tall and wide as a child and probably took three to build, with a crooked branch smile and eyes of summertime grill charcoal. On my return, I found his son across the yard, barely two feet tall and vaguely resembling his father. The carrot nose gave away his identity, but being so small, he suffered from premature melting syndrome.
My favorite snowman appeared on the lawn in front of my building. He sat there, only one giant snowball, but probably took all of his creator's energy to roll.
He reminded me of my snowmen as a kid. Out in the snow, I spent my time patting and rolling, eventually ending up with the largest snowball, grass bits and all. By the time the first one was done, I would be cold, wet, and disinterested. My mom would call me inside to dry up and thaw out with hot chocolate and marshmallows. We admired my handiwork from within, knowing full well I gave up.
But today, I didn't give up. Although the rain started to come down just one street out and the coffee shop was closing early, I could have sat in this chair all day, continuing to watch episode after episode of Six Feet Under on DVD. But I didn't give up. I got up off my chair. Put on my boots. Went out for a walk. Thought about writing this story.
And I did.
today, i came across an interesting post in "recently favorited" wondering has blogging run its course?
below is my comment (which you can read in context at the link above) to her thoughts.
why am i posting it here?
mostly because in some way or another, i've just described why i blog and how i view myself as a writer. only recently have i really considered myself a writer again, and this realization makes me feel pretty damn spiffy.
(that, and the little comparison i draw at the end makes me crack up.)
[this is good]i don't fancy myself an author. just your every-day, run-of-the-mill blogger who hopes that anyone reading my words will get my strange and sometimes witty comments . . . or that anyone is reading at all. i don't write with any intent beyond wanting to share stories, interesting ideas, and sometimes my relationship drivel. however, i do consider myself a writer. correct capitalization may not be in my vocabulary (except when writing for work), but i write as i would talk to someone on the street in sentences, thoughts, and most of the time, non-sequitors.
in speaking on the quality of blogs out there (mostly with personal / memoir type blogs, since that's my personal experience), i think the line gets drawn between the following types of posts:
ex. 1: omg, so this dude comes up 2 me and says "girl, u are so fine, u no?" since when do guys think they can talk 2 me like that? wtf, right?
ex. 2: So last night, the girls and I went to this fantastic bar on 57th and 5th Street to catch an after-work drink. Out of nowhere, this guy comes up to me and lays it on thick, "Girl, you are so fine, you know?" Since when do guys think they can talk to me like that, especially when they can see I'm clearly more interested in my martini.
