On keeping a notebook | Response

I loved this essay. It completely hit a chord. I’d never really thought about why I write what I do, but now I understand. Like the author, I’ve tried and failed to keep a diary but it’s too boring! Who wants to write down exactly what you did that day? It’s much more interesting to put down random thoughts, and it’s much more interesting when you go back to read them.

“we are talking about something private, about bits of the mind's string too short to use, an indiscriminate and erratic assemblage with meaning only for its maker. And sometimes even the maker has difficulty with the meaning.”

These things, theses “bits of the mind’s string too short to use”, are mainly the reason I keep a notebook {or journal}. Quotes overheard. Thoughts that are bursting through my mind that don’t make sense to tell others. Interesting people I met. Internal struggles. Those are the things I’d rather look back at, and those are the things that bring me back to those places.

I am, like Didon, one of those people that have to write things down. I can never just file it in my mind and enjoy the moment, I want to write something down to save it forever.

I like what she said about staying in touch with the person we used to be. I might not want to be there, and I might be glad I didn’t stay there, but it’s good to remember.

“It is a good idea, then, to keep in touch, and I suppose that keeping in touch is what notebooks are all about.”

Kind of like Sisters

So I've decided that I hate short stories... so much for thinking this was an easy assignment. They always end up so lopsided... my intro is as long as the rest of the story for crying out loud. And the whole thing doesn't have a very strong story line for someone who wasn't there. Ahhhh! I guess practice makes perfect... So I should just suck it up and do more, right? haha

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 The girl waited impatiently to leave the plane. She stood in the isle with her backpack slung across one shoulder and her suitcase at her feet. She pulled at the neck of her Twins sweatshirt and shifted. Thoughts flashed through her brain, ‘was this really a good idea?’ she second guessed herself.

Eventually the line started moving and everything went from the quiet calm on the plane to busy people rushing here and there, the sound of roller bags on the linoleum, sometimes a different language. The girl briefly wished she wasn’t wearing a sweatshirt and tennis shoes in the California airport, but the thought was interrupted by the sound of her name.

“You’re here!” hugs, parking lots and cars followed, and then a year’s worth of catching up. It didn’t take long to skip the small stuff and jump right into what God had been doing in their lives, but still the quiet doubts lingered.

The next day the two found themselves in San Diego, looking for a gelato shop in the midst of all the crazy ComicCon goers. After enjoying cappuccino flavored gelato they ventured up the outside staircase to find the bathrooms. Laughing and talking as the followed the sign the pushed open the door and stopped when they realized it was a single bathroom.

  

 “ummm, go ahead,” one of them said, and the other walked back to the main room to awkwardly read the bulletin board. Before she could get to the board however, one of the men sitting at a table looked up from his computer with a laugh and remarked, “not that good of friends, huh?”

“ha… yeahhh not that good,” she managed, and the man went back to his work.

The girls had a good laugh about it on the two hour drive back, “what an awkward comment!

Nine days, a wedding, four days of camping in a small tent, tramping all over Yosemite with their bibles, a day of rock climbing, being mistaken for sisters (and mother/daughter), meeting crazy people, brushing their teeth in the street, 24 hours in the car and hoards of adventures later, they were sitting at a picnic table in the dark, somewhere in the mountains, talking.

One of them remarked on how they both had such similar taste, “I mean we never have to argue about what kind of music to listen to, we get the same kind of coffee where ever we go, we like the same kinds of food, and the same kinds of activities. It’s kind of a good thing...”

“I know! It’s a really good thing… Otherwise I don’t know how the ten days would have gone. To be completely honest I was kind of wondering how good idea this was,” said the CA girl. “I was thinking, ‘I liked her at Photoj and all, but that was two years ago..”

“Since we’re being honest… I had the same thoughts!” admitted the one that came to visit, “What if we didn’t have any of the same tastes!? What if we didn’t get along very well and had to spend all that time together?!?”  The two laughed about how unfounded their fears had turned out to be, and tried to ignore the fact that they wouldn’t be together in another day.

The next night was her last night in Cali. She cuddled up on the floor while her friend crawled into bed. “What are you doing down there?!? Get up here and bring your pillow!"

She laughed, “I guess maybe, by now, we are ‘that good of friends’.” 

The Cryptozoologist

This is me getting the cryptozoologist out of the way, because it's been plaguing me for a lonnnnng time. ;) [happy Jennette???]

I'm not sure this really counts are writing... but whatever.
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I don’t want my life to be like the story of the Cryptozoologist.

Honestly, I’m intrigued by stories like that; slight randomness, lots of insinuation and not a lot of flat out answers. They make my imagination run, and I make up sub-stories while I’m reading.

But this ending, annoyed me; in reality, it more than annoyed me, but less than infuriated me. What did the two plastic five gallon buckets half filled with apples have to do with it? Was it Wayne Lee, or a Skunk Ape? Or did it have something to do with her dying, or was she dreaming? And what did the Secret Agent Dude want?

I don’t want my life to be full of questions, I want a least a few answers. I don’t want my life a bunch of random, gloomy events; I want a least a little order. I don’t want my life to happen by default, but I do want to make the best of what does happen like Rose did.

I don’t know where this “response” is going, and that’s what I didn’t like about the story. So I guess I’ll end this by saying, I actually really enjoyed reading it, even if it was a bit depressing and had a ridiculous ending. Haha

I think I need to get back in the swing of this writing. 

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I wrote this last night... so I'm going to try to write some more today :)

"Can I give this lady some free guac?"

I wasn’t a picky kid when I was younger, but there was one thing I couldn’t stand. Avocados. Oh, the texture. The smooshy green pieces slid down your throat. There wasn’t anything that I couldn’t eat, but avocados… they made me gag. Really gag.

We have a policy in our family that no matter what it is, no matter how much you hate it, you have to eat a tiny bit every time it’s served. So I did. I’d quickly search my salad, or whatever it was, pick out one nice gooy piece, and with glass in hand quickly swallow it.

I’m not sure when it happened. Or how it did. But I like avocados now, and like is a weak word. Actually I love avocados now. And it wasn’t something that slowly happened, it was a sudden occurrence. Now I can’t get enough of them. It’s sort of sad, because living in Minnesota means that they are expensive, not very plentiful and mushy by the time you get to them (or they get to you).

When I went to visit my friend in the Bahamas and, get this, she has an avocado tree in her back yard! We literally ate them for breakfast , lunch and supper. And any time we were hungry. Lots of salt and pepper. Creole seasoning. On their own. Mmmmm, delicious. Nice and firm, just picked and perfectly ripe, and huge. I’d never seen such big ones. We brought them to the island, and they were even better there. So I ate my fill for ten days, and now I dream about them.

Oh and then there’s guacamole... I used the think it was smooshy* and not worth ruining your chip for. Not anymore. Blend up that gorgeous green stuff, add some lime juice and salt, crush some garlic and pull out the chips. Especially Chipotle’s guac, it’s smooth and creamy, with cilantro and salsa. Add a burrito and it’s heaven. Plus, bring your mom along. Because she’s amazing at getting free stuff.

[This was a lot harder than I thought it was going to be... sorry guys! hahah, I think I'll stick to letting Jennette assign us stuff. I *do* want to try something like this again... maybe something a little less specific...]

The Dreaded Poetry

A cloudy day, a comfy hoody, business books, and image back-ups. Coffee and pumpkin bars with cream cheese frosting. Comfortably achy muscles from yesterday’s workout, conversations with friends, and that little nagging thought in the back of your brain, “mmm, you’d better not put off that poetry too long”.

Such is my day. And it’s a good one, except for the poetry part.

Syllables. I’m not sure if I should admit how hard a time I have with these. I know, I was homeschooled. Wait, thought is only one syllable???

Why did I agree to this? Where is writing poetry going to get me? Maybe I’ll do the response instead. Yeah, that’s a brilliant idea.

I guess if I could write poetry like that I would.

Other thoughts fly through my head: “bring Sarah a business card. Remind the parents sign up starts today. Shoot pictures for tomorrow’s LDPS. Finish the wedding contract. Oh and write something for Red Ink.”

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Black marks on a page

Brings fascinating emotion

And takes me somewhere

Obscure story of

Pain trial triumph hope love

Runs through cluttered thoughts

An adventure of

Living life finding knowledge

Slowly taking shape

Sentences forming

Writing words and syllables

Worlds come into view

People places ideas

My book filling fast with dreams

Final page happy thoughts

Flipping pages cover closed

Peaceful content not for long

More thoughts more marks come.

Grammer and Smarts - My Niagara Response

I wish I could write like Mark Twain. Although he uses enormous words, quite a few you don’t understand and plenty you’ve never heard, he keeps you entertained even if you are a slight bit confused. I laugh at things I’m not sure I understand, and he has my favorite kind of sarcastic humor. The things he said to the supposed Indians, and his last paragraph on his fatal injuries, made me love the essay.

He inspires me to go read the dictionary to expand my vocabulary, and not just the encyclopedias [yes, true story. I used to read through the encyclopedias when I was young]. It makes me want to be smarter, so I can write smarter. He also inspires me to be more humorous in my writing. I aspire to make my readers laugh and relate while reading my writings. 

I miss this quality of writing. In this era of facebooking and texting and emailing, nothing sounds even close to his Niagra ramblings.

“Wht up w u? im gnna b @ concrt”

“hey brb in 2 sec”

“idk wht 2 think”

Although I might be slightly confused, I’m definitely not entertained at the same time. Half the time I pick up a kids book to read to my siblings I wonder what pre-schooler wrote this one. Or when I read someone’s comment on facebook, and I have to go over it three times to understand what they are saying due to lack of punctuation and misspelt words, I have to think, are we really that dumb? Or are we that lazy?

[If I was a conspiracy theorist, I might wonder if it’s a plot to dumb us down, so we don’t realize a few people are planning on taking over the world, but I’m not. Or maybe I am. There are more ridiculous thoughts. ]

I could now get started on about people’s punctuation and grammar, oh and their lack of capitalization [that one really gets me, really guys? It’s that much harder to write “I” instead of “i”?], but the real reason we started this was to like improve our righting so I should proly stop here for i expose my lack of smartness.  ;)

Sports Writing: Softball

{This was fun for me, because I really like sports. I like watching them, playing them, writing about them. Well most of them... I really don't enjoy golf, for multiple reasons that you probably shouldn't ask about, [God must know that, I just got assigned both girls and boys golf for this season. haha] and I *can't* play soccer. I was going to write about football, and the super cool athletes [tongue in cheek here] that have egos bigger than their shoulder pads, but I decided to write about something that was closer to home for me. I'm not sure it'll be much fun for someone who doesn't/hasn't played, but it was fun writing it :) }

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I miss softball. I've played some form of baseball/softball since I was about three (it's very much the family sport) but playing competitively was different.

There was something about putting on the uniform that made you assume your “game face”. Something about knowing that you were prepared as much as you could be, and realizing that you were going to have to try your hardest. There was something about knowing your body could actually do these things. Putting on the uniform pumped yourself up mentally, while you warmed up physically.

Softball is a very mental game. When you get up to the plate, and even in the on deck circle, you start to zone in. By the time the pitcher starts to wind-up it’s like you are the only two on the field. Occasionally, mainly because it was so familiar, I could hear my dad’s voice when I stepped up to the plate, but after that there was nothing besides the battle between you and the pitcher.

Yeah, it takes skill to hit the ball, and more to hit it well, but it also takes concentration and mental toughness. I know. You can smash every ball in the cage, but have a batting average of .000. It was a challenge against myself, and a battle in my mind every time I was at the plate.

When you hit the ball you can hear again, even though all your focus is getting to the next base. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of the ball hitting your sweet spot, and you could know without looking that it was a solid hit. * Then you’re on base, the play is over and the next batter at the plate. I loved base running; pushing your limits, playing with the catcher’s mind, sprinting hard, stealing bases, sliding, taking out the catcher while scoring, it was all a blast.

I played both catcher and short stop, two awfully different positions. When I caught, I loved having every aspect of the game in your mind as you crouched behind the plate, eyes on each runner, knowing the count, remembering each batter’s weaknesses. I loved being the leader on the field. Catching was a challenge, and the feeling of playing a good game was immensely satisfying.

Short was completely different but as much of a challenge. I loved not having the responsibility of a bag, but having to know the next play, and exactly where you were going with the ball; fielding fast moving ground balls, and whipping them over to first. I loved being part of a play at second, or turning on a pop-up; being the mouth on in the infield, or covering a base on a bunt. I loved the relationship with the second baseman and deep throws from in the hole.  

In either position, I can remember the feeling of a hard pitch or a screaming line drive in your pocket. The sting of your palm as you closed your glove on the ball and brought your other hand over it. I remember the adrenaline of a play, and the smug feeling of one well done.  

Capping it off were the feelings after a game; exhausted and full of dirt, you might have some bruises or a raspberry from sliding, and your muscles would be aching [and since I couldn’t separate them from softball, your quads would be killing you], but if you knew you’d done your best and left it all on the field, they were all pretty good feelings, even your quads. 

* (There's also nothing quite like the feeling of hitting the ball off your handle, and the vibrating in your palms, and the stress of trying to out run it. But this is about the things I actually miss) 

Brain Coral and Sand dollars

There are too many parts of my last trip, which was to the Bahamas, to write about, so I’m just going to write about one of the my favorite parts. ;)

I went to the Bahamas to visit my friend Susan, who married a Bahamian. Yes, a Minnesotan married a Bahamian. Anyways, because we stayed with his family the whole time, for the first five/six days we didn’t do typical “tourist stuff”. Those days, for me, were the best part of the trip, although that could be because my sister and brother were there too….

We went camping on another island, Rose, for three days. Really roughed it, and it was a blast, long nights, lizards, no toilets and all! 

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We were on a boat, skipping over calm water. The wind whipped my hair and I could taste the salt spray from the bright blue water. The sun shone, and in places the water appeared darker. We didn’t talk much on the short ride out from the island to the reef.

Brett killed the engine and we drifted a short ways while Susan pulled out the rope and threw over the anchor. I helped her feed the rope until it hit bottom. Everyone passed around masks and snorkels, found flippers that fit and talked all the while.

The sun glinted off the edge of the boat as I peered into the reef. Although eager to get in the gorgeous water, I didn’t want to be the first one in out here in the unknown. Hey, there could be sharks... Eventually everyone had gear, and one by one we sat on the side of the boat, sliding into the water backwards.

The cool water closed around me, as did the silence. Suddenly I felt alone. I looked around for the others, and started kicking. The reef was both intriguing and beautiful, and a little bit eerie. I could vaguely hear noises of people kicking their flipper clad feet, and the sound of my own breathing through the snorkel tube.

 I smiled at Ange, the best I could while still holding my teeth around my snorkel, and waved. Both of us popped our heads above the surface and pulled the snorkels out.

“Did you see this?”

“Look at that!”

“Woah, did you see that piece of coral?”

“This fish!”

The coral was gorgeous, and way more intricate than I had imagined. Brain coral, that looked like a maze carved out of rock, and pretty purple sea leaves covered the bottom of the ocean, interspersed with fire coral, that Brett told us we’d better not touch. Brightly colored fish swam in schools all around us.

Amy popped up to the surface and pointed to a large brain coral. “Woah! Did you see that thing down there… someone has been down there carving!” Needless to say, she still hasn’t lived that one down.

Sucking in a big breath I dove down towards the edge of the reef and the deeper water, getting a close up look. I ran out of air and pushed myself up towards the surface, blowing hard to get the water out of the snorkel. Amy and I posed for an underwater picture.

Back under the water Brett waved us over, pointing out a weird fish that looked almost like a sea cucumber swimming upright. Above water he explained it was a relative of a sea horse called a pipe fish.  I think we had a million and two questions for him, “What’s this? What’s that?” and “How does the coral survive? What kind of fish is that?” and the all-important one, “What sharks do you have here?”

Brett had two spears and shooters, but none of us tried. Being used to Minnesota I was a little scared that if I did end up miraculously spearing something it would be something out of season. Apparently everything is fair game in the Bahamas. We watched him spear a blue jack and a crawfish, both of which we ended up eating for dinner. 

Pretty soon we started to tire out, and headed back to the boat. I sat soaking up the warm sun, enjoying how your muscles feel after a good swim.

“Derek, what did you find?” Kara says with her camera running.

“A butt! And Dory.”

“Ahh! He touched the butt!”

Mark pulled the crawfish out of a bucket by its long antenna and wiggled it in front of Kara. “Ahhhh!!  Get that away from me! That’s not on Nemo!”

After warming up we moved to a shallow, sandy part of the ocean. Four of us got back in the water to drag behind the boat, and look for sand dollars and conch shells (fyi, it’s really pronounced conk). I grabbed the yellow rope and held on next to Susan. The water rushed over my body as I gazed at the rippled sand.

Things didn’t go so well, although we found a lot of sand dollars we only found one conch, and it was just the shell. Every time Brett would get the boat moving one of us would see something and drop off, and then we’d have to start all over again. When the boat got moving faster, I would have a hard time keeping my mouth around my snorkel and it would fill up with water. I would come up choking, desperately trying to fix it without letting go. It didn’t work.

Finally, after too many times starting and stopping, starting and stopping, and a bucket full of sand dollars, Brett told us, “NO MORE sand dollars OR sunshine shells. You can eat conch… you can’t eat sand dollars.” (We ended up going hungry that night. Well actually, we ended up eating hot dogs instead.)

Susan was heartbroken over all those sunshine shells she was passing over. “I kept seeing gorgeous ones… and I couldn’t get them!”

Eventually we all ended up shivering and back in the boat, watching Brett kite surf. And laughing at Susan’s driving.  We drove back to the island for a long, cold, windy night. Haha, but that’s another rad story…..

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This was fairly hard... but I made it, even if it took me two days. Oh, and did I say sometimes I have a problem with rambling? 

Living Like Weasels - A response

[This was a really hard assignment for me. I'm not sure why, because I actually enjoyed reading it. But I wrote a story originally, and then thought it was weird, and not what I wanted to say, so I ended up with some thoughts. I'm not even sure they make any sense, but since I didn't really write anything last night, I'll just go ahead and post this. Feel free to rip it to pieces, 'cause I'm not attached. At all.]
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What would it be like if we lived by our senses and not by our brains? What would it be like if we noticed everything, but remembered nothing? What would it be like if we lived in necessity instead of in choice?

I think if we lived by our senses it would be both simple and chaotic. A weasel lives by his senses, his sense of survival, his sense of hunger, his sense of self. If we thought only of our senses, or lived only by them, everything would depend on our individual sense of survival. It would be an evolutionary world. We would live by reaction, seeing something and reacting in the way that would serve us best. We wouldn’t have friendships, but we wouldn’t have worries.

If we noticed everything and remembered nothing life would be full, but empty. We’d notice everyday things, we’d be full of the gorgeous little details in life, but it wouldn’t make us richer. We’d notice, but it wouldn’t fill our lives. What’s the use of noticing if it doesn’t make us safer, or happier, or more knowledgeable? A weasel notices everything in order to survive, but yet he doesn’t appreciate everything.

Of all the options, the most appealing to me is living by necessity instead of by choice. A weasel lives only by what is necessary, by only what he needs to survive. There’s no worry, but there’s no joy. Life would be simple and free of stress, but there wouldn't be joy. There wouldn’t be happiness in life. Is a weasel happy? Is it happy just because it is living, and its life makes it happy?

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Response to Annie Dillard's Living like Weasels

Home

I lay in my bed this morning, stretched out under my down duvet, warm in spite of it being winter and pleasantly wore out from teaching swimming lessons last night. I began thinking of the day, and remembered it was the first day of the month.

March 1^st. Oh no. What did I get myself into? Alright, I thought, this was my idea after all. I figured that I’d do an assignment today, just to get them over with. First one… nope, too much work for a Tuesday. Second one… um, too hard. Never mind. I’m just going to scribble today.

On second thought, my brain isn’t inspired, so maybe I’ll go back to that assignment list.

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I don’t consider myself a “home body” but yet, I really love my home. Driving down the long dirt road, coming home from work at night, I’m pretty eager to get home. Sometimes too eager, like the night that I backed over the snowbank, but that’s kind of a different story.

Despite the fact that our house is rarely still, much less quiet, it’s still a peaceful place to be. After a tough night, I can’t wait to get home. I might just flop in a chair and listen to stories of everyone’s day. I might join a couple of my siblings in the “big boys room” and watch a movie, but regardless it’s usually a perfect end to the day.

Home is where there is always someone to talk to, someone to play catch with, someone to cry on, someone to rant to. Home is where we talk about everything; our day, our struggles, our triumphs, our God. Home is where I learn, where I’ve grown.

In the physical it’s a farm, with chickens and goats, cows and rabbits. A farm that gave me muscles and a hard work ethic. A place where there is always new life, and a place where we learned about death. It’s a place where I learned to do stuff that I don’t like, and where I learned to love life.

It’s on a dirt road in the sticks of central Minnesota, where we walk half a mile to get our mail, and I run the hills. It’s a red house in a valley that’s always 5 degrees colder than the rest of Motley.

Home means lots of action and noise, craziness and good food. It means lots of haybales and trees and paths to find quiet time with God. It means a game of baseball or Frisbee. It means working out with my brothers, or watching them play Ping-Pong or practicing their pitching. But most of all it means love.

And that’s what draws me home at the end of a day, the love. And that’s why I’ll always come home.

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[To be completely honest I sat here and stared at this, not sure if I like it, or if it's good enough, or if it's the style I wanted, and then I realized that I was wasting time being scared. Scared of being the first person of the *whole* project to post. So I'm going to get over it, post this... and go make chocolate cupcakes instead of obsessing about this.]