I Feel Old

I was sitting in my Psych 101 class today when a gaggle of freshmen girls flopped down beside me and began an conversation that made me feel ancient.

"Oh my G-d," one of the trilled, "what was wrong with me that night?"

"Yeah, I had to take off the tags on those Facebook pictures from the party." Giggle giggle.

"Why can't Kristy find her own date?" A third muttered disgustedly.

"Because," replied the first sagely. "She's not friends with the lesbians."

"Uh!" grunted the third.

The conversation continued on like that, punctuated by high-pitched noises of irritation and exclamations about parties and alcohol.

Maybe it was my fault for taking a gen ed requirement that is usually populated by first-year students. But seriously, what?!

I don't understand kids these days. Now, excuse me, I have to pick up my walker from the cleaners. I hope that they put a new set of wheels on the old girl. The squeaking has been irritating my hearing aid recently.

K.

Madonna del Libro

I get tons of questioning looks when I mention to people that I'm extremely interested in Catholicism. The confusion comes from one of three things: (1) Catholics can't find interesting in their own religion, so they can't see why I can; (2) Protestants don't have interest in Catholicism, so don't see why I do; and (3) I'm a Jew, so I should (apparently) keep to my own sphere. It doesn't help that I shun the two Jewish congregations in my college community, choosing instead to attend Sunday morning mass at St. Agnes when the spirit takes me.

Deep down, I think my family is concerned about all of this. My Dad, the life-long Jew, can't understand when I do my best to explain the concept of the Trinity; my Mom, formerly a Protestant, holds a teeny-weeny grudge against Catholics for telling her that she was going to Hell when she was younger. My brother... well, my brother is oblivious when it comes to anything that doesn't involve a soccer ball.

I've done my best to assure them that I have interest in converting (indeed, I really don't), but I find the similarities between Judaism and Catholicism fun to analyze. Eternal lights, bread and wine, ark-like structures-- we share quite a bit. The stuff we don't have in common is just as cool. I grew up in a religion that frowns on depicting the human form in art, so I just love to stare at the marble Madonnas so sheer that I can see a candle's glow behind them. The hierarchy of the Catholic Church is so foreign to me that it takes me forever to understand how a deacon relates to a cardinal relates to a pope and so on.

Going to Rome during my semester abroad, obviously, was like dying and going to Heaven. Nuns, monks, and priest everywhere! Even priest pin-up posters-- imagine that! Almost as cool as the rabbi trading cards I found in Sfat.

Anyway, in poetry class, we were told to pick a piece of art and write a poem about it. Of course, I chose "Madonna del Libro" (above), a beautiful painting by Botticelli.

So, after all of the exposition, here is the poem, in a supremely rough draft.

The woman and the babe debate religion,
their whispered thoughts hushed in the fading sunlight.

The child, his mind clear
from nine months of solitary contemplation,

cranes his neck, curious to catch the glint
of understanding in his mother’s eyes.

She inclines her head in an effort to grasp his words,
but really she is inspecting her child’s unstained brow,

searching for the future. She considers
wrestling the golden thorns from his forearm

but to do so would be like pulling the dead from Fate’s iron fingertips
or turning water into wine.

So she wraps her cloak like the folds of Heaven
around her son, silently urging him

to keep his stubby legs in firm contact with the dirt
and his sticky fingers entwined in her hair.

But his eyes already point towards the
stars and his future amongst them.

The professor says that I should send it to one of the Christian poetry journals. That makes me pee myself a little.

As if my last name wouldn't give it all away.

K.

Success!

Well, I finally grew a backbone and decided to go to the student health center to deal with my on-going illness. I had been missing too many classes. Last thing I need is to fail out courses during my senior year.

The nurse practitioner decided that it might be a mix of my medications, which made all of the heavy breathing I did on rude people's food at the Eagles game useless. They took blood, gave me some meds, and sent me home.

So now I don't have any energy because the nausea medication produces fatigue. Phoning it in again.

K.

Wet Woollen Wonders

I normally don't put up pictures of myself and referring to my Halloween costume so late after the actual event borders on attention-whoredom, but I hadn't had a chance to comment yet. And as I need to post today and I haven't totally worked out what happened yesterday in my head, I figured today would be as good as any.

See, most of this costume is not mine. The socks, Aberdeen shirt, and Aye, Jimmy hat all belong to my brother. But the kilt... well, the kilt's all mine.

Why I spent $80 on a kilt that I'll rarely be able to wear is hard for even me to explain. That is my tartan (albeit of the hunting family) and that is my clan pin on the lower left-hand side, but the chances of me finding a reason to go to class in this are very far in between. And, dammit, wool is itchy. The last wool scarf I bought is still hanging-- unused-- in my closet because I can't bring myself to put it around my sensitive neck.

Although, wool does smell nice when wet. Kind of like a clean barnyard animal. But that's besides the point.

I think the reason I spent so much money was because I was coming to the end of my stay in Scotland. It was my last day in Edinburgh. For the year. And I stood in the midst of the Edinburgh Woolen Mill, cash on my debit card, and the soon-to-be-mine kilt.

Oh, the temptation was too much. I usually don't get too into retail therapy, but leaving the place I had called my home for five months sort of pushed my reserve out of the window.

I miss the rain that was never too cold or too warm. I miss all those damn sheep. I miss Hamish the Hairy Coo. I miss the unintelligible accents. I miss the lochs. I miss those damn hard assignments. I miss my little room. I miss the amazing highland water. I miss the wonderful public transportation. I miss the year-round, preternatural green. I miss Scotland.

My only recourse: spritz some water on my woollen kilt and breathe in deeply, then dream of my adopted home.

K.

Sky High

In reality, I probably should be in bed, healing before I have to work at the Eagles game later today, but such is my determination to do this NaBloPoMo thing right that I am dizzily sitting up typing this post.

Because my brain cells are currently firing at a very low level, I decided that I needed to find a prompt. So, here it is:

If I Had a Super Power-- from 55 More Blog Posts I Hope You Write

Okay, so mine is a pretty common one: I'd like to fly.

I think one of the reasons that I took up swimming when I was a kid was because it was the closest thing I thought I would ever get to actually soaring through the air. When you sink to about a foot off the bottom of the pool and just glide, it's easy to pretend that you're looking down at the ground. The lane markers become remarkably straight rivers, the tiles city grid maps. You can hang on to this fantasy for as long as you hold your breath. Then you need to surrender to your burning lungs and burst through the surface. The freezing air on your skin and the shouts of a public pool remind you that you aren't flying after all.

Sometimes I dream of flying. It's fun for a while, but then I suffer from what I call the Hitchhiker's Guide Syndrome-- namely, if you think about it too much, you start to plummet. I glide for a while, but then I begin wondering exactly how I am moving. Do I have some sort of jet propulsion in the soles of my feet? Am I being pushed by air currents? If I move my arms breaststroke-style, can I go faster? All the while I am steadily losing altitude.

It bothers me sometimes. Why can't I just enjoy flight and give up on the science of the whole thing?

Maybe next time I have this dream, I will concentrate on how fluffy the clouds look from this angle or count the number of bald heads I see from above. Anything to keep flying.

K.

In a Burst of Uncreativity...

One of the reasons I get so cranky at school is because I'm without my cranky little featherball, Tookie. My apartment doesn't allow pets and I think a parakeet would be very difficult to hide.

So, in honor of the little guy who chews on my hands makes and me smile even when I feel like I'm going to throw up, this post is for him.

(Apologies for phoning it in today-- still not feeling well.)









K.

Oh, For the Love of G-D!

Seriously, I don't know what's wrong with my body this week. Wednesday night was spent heaving over a toilet bowl; last night I managed to sleep for about half an hour sideways on my twin bed, feet dangling off one end and head hanging in a trashcan off the other. I got to see the sun rise, a privilege I would have immediately given up for just three more hours of sleep.

There used to be a time when my sick days were often spent like those Victorian ladies with the vapors-- in bed with toast and plenty of parental sympathy. As I get older, I get sick in far more disgusting ways. To top it off, I'm alone.

While it's no fun revisiting your dinner, it's even less fun to do it when there is no one to stroke your back and keep your hair from a horrible fate. It just makes you feel worse.

Luckily for me, I do have a chance to go home this weekend, but I'm a little scared to do it in my condition. The last time I was on a train while ill, an entire carriage-load of Glasgow-bound commuters thought that I was an irresponsible drunk with a hangover. I sacrificed my favorite sweatshirt to hide the evidence. So it's fair to say that I'm slightly worried.

So now, to sleep-- hopefully. We'll see if my poor body can handle the train ride later.

K.

PS. Oh, that picture that I put up is disgusting, but strangely apt.

When Stupid Trivia is Awesome

(Ooh, bad language ahead.)

During Poetry Workshop today, our professor assigned our fourth and final poem. The goal was to adopt another persona and write from that point of view. For an example, she gave us the story of Medusa and Athena and instructed us to write from Medusa's point of view.

For those who don't know the story, Medusa was once one of the most beautiful women in the land and soon attracted the attentions of Poseidon, god of the seas. The two did some naughty things in Athena's temple, sending the goddess into a rage. In revenge, she turned Medusa into the monster we all know today.

Here's what I wrote:

"The Mistress of the Western Gates," they call me.
A term of appeasement used only when my eyes are open
and my hair is alive.
Asleep, I am the monster, the horror,
the hated of the Lady of Wisdom.
Athena, that gray-eyed bitch, who guards her virtue
with lance and shield, must surely have gazed in jealousy
as I was loved by the King of Tides.
The thought that she chokes down her ambrosia alone,
with only her flea-bitten owl for company,
keeps my vitals pulsing and my teeth sharp.

Hard for you to believe, I'm sure, but I was quite a dork back in the day. I used to spend quite a bit of time reading Greek myths and studying up on Greek gods. Athena, for her interesting patronage of both wisdom and war, was my absolute favorite. So when it came time to write this, I had a ton of trivia to pull out. I felt a little bad about it-- it takes a lot of studying to know that Athena was gray-eyed or one of the three goddesses who didn't procreate with freakin' everything around them.

One of those few times dumb knowledge comes in handy.

K.

PS. Happy NaBloPoMo to y'all. And happy NaNoWriMo as well!

Kate is a Liar (again!)

Right, so I mentioned that I had joined NaNoWriMo the other day. The more I think about it, the more I believe that there is no way I can possibly get this done this year. I have papers out the wahzoo and I have Thanksgiving vacation on Chincoteague Island, VA. Whether I'll have internet at that point, I don't know, but I know that I won't have time to write 2,000 words a day during my vacation. I mean, I'll try it, but I honestly don't think that it will happen.

So I've decided I'll at least keep myself writing in a second way with NaBloPoMo, National Blog Posting Month. Why this month should be different from all other months, I don't know, but I think that having two different types of impetus to keep writing.

Or maybe I'm just a serial website joiner. Hey, could be.

K.

What You Can Do

While puttering around my traditional blogosphere route, I came upon yesterday's post by Irina over at The IgNoble Experiment. Irina muses a little over the war and mentions that a fellow blogger, The Bow-Tied Blogger's Thomas, was now in Iraq. One of her commenters mentioned that it was all very well to say "Support the troops," but what can we specifically do? That got me thinking, so I've been searching a little while for ways to show your support, not for the war itself, but the troops.

Now, anyone who knows me knows that I am firmly undecided on anything and everything. Both sides of the congressional aisle anger me almost everyday and I have within drawn from politics in general. However, my views on the war are pretty set. My goal here is not to sway anyone in any direction. It is my opinion that the troops should not suffer the anger we direct at our government. As I said on Irina's blog, you cannot blame the cogs for the mistakes of the machinist. All I want to do it to bring some options to your attention so you can make your own decisions on how you wish to show your support.

Soldiers' Angels- This organization sends letters and packages to soldiers overseas, most of whom don't have anyone to write to them. If you have the funds, you can adopt a soldier with the understanding that you will send him/her a letter per week and at least one care package per month. I particularly like this organization because, when I was a camper, I adored letters and packages. It made me feel like someone was thinking about me. I can't imagine what a letter must mean to a kid so far from home.

Injured Marine Semper Fi Fund- Donating money to this charity will provide financial assistance to marines and sailors suffering from injuries or life-threatening illnesses. Money will also go to help pay for specialized equipment, such as handicap vans and modifications to homes.

AnySoldier.com- This is much like Soldiers' Angels, but without the commitment. The organizations have contacts within the army who distribute packages and letters to those who don't receive mail. There is also AnyMarine.com, AnySailor.com, AnyAirman.com, and AnyCoastGuard.com.

National Military Family Association- With a monetary gift to the NMFA, you can send a child of a deployed soldier to camp, help soldiers' spouses get scholarships for college, or many other forms of assistance. The NMFA can apparently also use volunteers to work at the headquarters. So if you have the time and money, this is a worthy cause.

The Fisher House™ Program- This organization provides comfortable homes near military and VA hospitals so that family can always be nearby to a person in need.

Intrepid Fallen Heroes Fund- Money donated to this organization will go to support the families of fallen soldiers. The money recently went to a state-of-the-art medical center in Texas.

Jewish War Veterans of the United States- JWV is running the SOS Programs, which sends care packages to Jewish servicemen and servicewomen . The packages are distributed by the chaplain attached to the unit.

Alright, there are a bunch of charities to show your support for our troops overseas and at home. Please, if you have any other charities that you'd like me to mention, leave a comment and I will post it.

K.

Haveil Havalim #138

It's been a while since I've linked to this, but here is that world famous Haveil Havalim back on this blog again.

Huzzah!

K.

Proving My Point From the Last Post

While I'm a real fan of this video, the some 1,000 comments to it make me seethe. And really, it is from both sides. Read them, if you have the stomach for it.

The only way to have peace is to listen, which I don't think has been done on a large scale. If listening doesn't work, then I don't know what will.

Damn, now I need a hug.

K.

clipped from www.youtube.com

My Demonic Quarterly Review

[It's been a couple of weeks since I was on the receiving end of two anti-Jewish slurs, targeted at my aversion to spend from my dwindling coffers. From friends, I'll take it; from nearly-complete strangers, expect a quite rage. And thus I began to formulate a satire based on what some people must think my life is like. Here it is. Enjoy.]

I arrived home from class the other day just in time for my quarterly progress review. This was made clear by the whiff of sulfur that charged out of my apartment when I opened the door, the eerie music dominated by minor chords thundering out of my stereo, and the small demon perched on my kitchen counter, fussing with my toaster.

"Oh, is it that time already?" I asked, dropping my bookbag and flipping off the radio (66.6 YHELL FM, if you're inclined to listen). The demon looked up.

"It will be if this toast ever makes an appearance." He determinedly jammed a knife into the slits, absorbing the corresponding electric shock with a frisson of pleasure.

I peered over his thin shoulders. "You people made the thing."

"Doesn't mean that we can figure it out, though, does it?" The demon threw the knife down with a sigh and sprang from the countertop. "Look, I have very little time and quite a bit of paperwork, so I think we should get started." With that, he clamored on to my futon, poofing a pair of reading glasses on to his crooked nose and a legal pad into his claws.

"Sure."

"And take off that ridiculous disguise." He glanced down over his glasses with distaste. "It gives me the creeps."

"Alright." Shrugging, I slid my thumbs beneath my blonde wig, letting my springy locks jut forth, giving me that surprised, wind-tunnel look. The demon watched as I carefully pulled my blue contacts from my eyes, the cute nose prosthetic from my own hooked proboscis, and set them both in their corresponding cases.

"Is all that absolutely necessary?"

"To blend in, sure." I fluffed up my mousy hair then went to stand in front of him. "Well."

"Well," he repeated. "Well, I suppose we should start this off officially." He stood up on the couch, bring him up about to my clavicle. We performed the traditional salute: a few hip-swivels, some lyrics from a death metal song, that sort of thing. Then we both sat and got down to work.

"Look, I must be frank, here," the demon began. "My lord Satan (blessed be He) has been very displeased by the work you people have been doing up here."

"Has He?"

"Indeed. He figures that with so many of you infiltrating high levels of government and economics and entertainment, something must be happening." He consulted his notes. "And, to a certain extent, it has. Those of you in the White House have been doing a marvelous job. And He does have an entire Middle Eastern nation doing His bidding as we speak. But there are some of you who just aren't pulling your weight." The demon gave me a pointed look.

"I've been doing some things."

"'Some things.' 'Some things' is not enough to keep you on the payroll."

"I've always defended Israel."

"Not good enough," the demon said.

"Just the other week, two people accused me of being cheap. I'm keeping up the stereotype."

"Are you?" He lifted an eyebrow. "I know you've been passing pennies on the street, yet you haven't picked them up. Do you call that 'keeping up the stereotype?'"

"I suppose not."

"And," his reedy voice rose an octave, "are you aware that there are currently two dimes just sitting on your bathroom floor?"

"Yes." I frowned. "But I thought that if it were in my bathroom, it would--"

"No! Invest them in high interest accounts! Did you learn nothing during orientation?" I cast my gaze downward. He continued. "Look, I have a list here of what your ancestors used to do in His great name. Have you poisoned a well recently?"

"No."

"Kidnapped any Christian babies?"

"No."

"But you've had chances, haven't you"

"Yeah."

"Hmm." His skin tone darkened to a deep scarlet. "Used the blood of the righteous to make Passover matzahs?"

"No. I went to Israel for Passover, though? Doesn't that count for anything?"

"Fine, I'll put a check there. Have you desecrated any holy water?"

"No."

"Spat on communion wafers?"

"No."

"Given the middle finger to any sort of Christian establishment?"

I started. "My ancestors used to do that?"

"No, but I thought I would throw you a bone." The demon raised his eyebrow again. "Well, have you?"

"Not strictly Christian institutions, no."

"Lent any money and charged a outrageous interest on it?"

"No." The demon threw down his pad in disgust.

"Do you see what I'm talking about? People like you are mooching off the Demonic Funds Department and sending Hell into a recessionary spiral! You should be out there, doing what you all were bred for, instead of spending our hard-earned money on trinkets like fake noses." He waved a claw in the direction of my discarded disguise. "Plenty of your people use their actual noses and still manage to do their jobs!"

I could feel the tears welling up and knew that my nose was being to run. I sniffed hard.

"Oh, by Lucifer's leathery wings, don't cry! Crying never helps!" The demon glared impotently as I began to sob in great, mucousy bursts. "Look, just stop-- I'll give you a satisfactory mark for this quarter if you'll just quit it." He scribbled something down on his pad, then poofed it out of existence. "Just try to do better. Kick a kid wearing a cross, trip a nun, steal money from a church's tithing basket. Anything! I don't want to have to fire you. You'll not find a better gig than this and the health benefits are just awful when you start playing for the other team."

I gave him a watery smile, nodded, and wiped my eyes with the back of my hands. The demon sighed with relief.

"There, that's better." He stood up, struggling for balance as his hooves sunk into my futon. "I'll see you next quarter. And I'll probably not be so lenient. I'm going to have Him on my tail as it is." He gave me an abbreviated salute, then, in a puff of sulfur, disappeared.

I sat for a moment, then got up, grabbing my industrial-strength Febreeze. A great grin broke out over my face, banishing my tears back into their ducts to be used for labor. Good ol' demons and their weakness for crying women.

Who said I wasn't evil?

NaNoWri Oh No!

Seriously, what possessed me to sign up for this when I clearly do not have any time? Or idea. Or plot.

I barely have enough time to study, work, do anything in this blog, or eat, much less write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. Oh well, I supposed that the NaNoWriMo people aren't going to come after me with torches and pitchforks if I'm unable to finish.

But maybe they'll haunt my dreams. :(

K.

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Just Say No to Braveheart

Lost Worlds - The History Channel - History.com

Instead of watching my usual brain-rotting shows, I flipped to the always awesome History Channel. A flash of the familiar Stirling Castle, the sound of melodic Scottish accents, and I'm suddenly sitting flush to the TV, happily identifying landmarks of the city I lived in for five months. It would be harder to find a happier person at that point.

Until I saw the title of the episode...

"The Scotland of Braveheart"

"Oooooh, no," I breathed, pressing the heels of my hands to my mouth. "No, History Channel, no!"

But yes. Braveheart. Referring to William Wallace. Dear G-d.

For anyone that has ever spent time in Scotland, you know that only peddlers of tourist trinkets relate the Mel Gibson William Wallace to the true William Wallace. You'll find shot glasses with a be-kilted and be-woaded Wallace, which only those who came to Scotland after seeing "Braveheart" buy. As any tour guide or historian will tell you, Wallace was actually a lowland Scot (represent, woot!)-- an aristocrat, in fact-- who probably never wore a kilt a day in his life.

And he was not called Braveheart.

In fact, it's said that the term arose in reference to Robert the Bruce. It was Bruce's dream to go on crusade, but he never got the chance. Instead, after his death, his heart was cut out of his body and taken on the next trip south to the Holy Lady. It is said that during one pitched battle, the man carrying Bruce's heart threw it into the midst of the fight, inspiring the men to victory. It was then that Robert the Bruce was referred to as "Braveheart."

Not Wallace. Bruce.

So it's really getting on my nerves that this show constantly refers to Wallace by that erroneous name. Not only that, they showed the wooden sculpture that sits in front of the Wallace Memorial. The artist gave Wallace the face of Mel Gibson and the kilt and mace that appeared in the movie. Stirling residents were not pleased and someone even went so far as to knock off the statue's nose. The statue now sits behind a ten-foot high fence. "Frrrrreedom" indeed.

All of this rage is not to say that I have a lack of respect for Wallace. I actually am rather impressed by his fighting prowess and height (judging by his sword, people believe that he must have been about 6 foot something, huge for that time period... Gibson is a wee person compared to him). However, I am realistic. I know that he was no highland hero, I know that he wasn't that much of a strategist (Andrew Murray, anyone?), and I certainly know that "Braveheart" is merely entertainment and nothing more.

But seriously, History Channel? Stop calling him Braveheart. I mean it.

K.

Accidentally X-posted to The Write Links.

Catching Up

Having become jaded and impatient with news, news media, current events, 24-hour news channels, and the like, I have spent several weeks away from anything that might possibly be happening outside of my apartment and my university campus. Really, the only news that I have gotten from the world is that the Phillies got into the play-offs, but that's only because I live near Philly. That, and that the Phillies were declared the losingest team of all time at the beginning of the season. It's alot to live down.

It seems, though, that I have been losing track of things. I missed the whole Myanmar/Burma thing, the Jena 6 issue, and the incident with independent contractors in Iraq. It's very unlike me. If you had spoken to me freshman through junior years of college, I could have conversed with anyone about anything. Renaissance woman, you know. Right now, all I can tell you is that Britney Spears lost the custody of her children. Not really world-changing news.

So I decided to putter around the Internet for a little to catch up on the news. This is the stuff that I find interesting:

A scandalous character takes his final bow - CNN.com

So this is the end of the famous Nathan Zuckerman, who has acted as Philip Roth's literary counterpart for 25 years. :(

Oh well, perhaps it will lead to more strange plots in the future.

US senators slam lack of Arab support for Mideast conference

You're damned if you do, you're damned if you don't. This bears watching, I think.

K.

Trying Not to Have a Cow (, Dude)

"Campus Speak"- New York Times

I found this article off of the always amusing Best Week Ever blog. The entry featuring it was so ridiculous that I just had to follow the link, which shows how interested I was, as my computer has been running very slowly lately.

Just like trying to explain humor, analyzing slang is a futile practice. Many people have tried to put both subjects into erudite academic articles and come out sounding like complete idiots. When it comes to slang, describing the college lingo casts university students in a light that is not very flattering. Not to sound arrogant, but take me for example. I'm a fourth-year English major who has studied literature from Chaucer to Roth and everything in between. I'm able to communicate with some scions of academia, perhaps not at the same level, but with some degree of proficiency. Yet, you'll find me using words like "chillax," "fauxhawk," and "sketchy/shady."

This is just a reminder to those that would take this article as another sign of my generation's sad future, remember your own slang, yes? I'm sure that your parents were appalled when you came home with an unorthodox vocabulary, whether you said "the bee's knees" or "far out" or "yuppie."

See ya, wouldn't wanna be ya.

K.

You Poor People

There are several things that I wanted to write, but I've found that my brain refuses to concentrate. I can see myself writing something incredibly ridiculous (and perhaps I already have), so I'm just going to post a super rough draft of a poem from my Poetry Workshop 1 class.

We were supposed to create a poem using the specialized language of some animal. That may sound odd, but you're essentially supposed to use the language and point of view of whatever animal you chose to focus on. Also, we were supposed to include anaphora (in this case, a repetitive invocation).

I chose to honor the common mallard. So, here it is.

Pleading for the Mallard

Let the mallard remain ignorant of his undistinguished features.
He blends into the verdant forest of heads, the fertile soil of bodies.
Since his fledgling years, trailing his mother like a strand of weed
caught on a heron’s leg, he’s only concerned himself with the bouquet
of marsh mud and the fluid pressure between his toes.

Let the mallard remain ignorant of his lack of grace.
Compared to the strides of the egret, his waddle is clumsy;
compared to the flight of the eagle, his hold on the sky is precarious.
But his plump body rolls with the waves as he tips,
feet paddling the air, to harvest the bottom-dwelling grasses.

Let the mallard remain ignorant of his place in the universe.
He doesn’t know that his curly-tailed brethren
dabble around city parks, across oceans,
and in golf course water hazards.
Cattailed shores and briny pools form his continents and seas.

Yep, there it is. Still in rough draft form, but feel free to critique.

Hopefully, I'll never have to offend your eyes with my horrendous poetry again. :)

K.

The Penitent Man Kneels Before G-d: A Yom Kippur Review

(Get the quote? You would be surprised how many people don't.)

The Dream

This year, I felt that it might be slightly more meaningful Yom Kippur if I didn't shlep my laptop home. Of course, a great deal of laziness factored into it, but the result was the same. Instead of puttering around on the web while those mighty gates were slowly swinging shut, I decided to take a nap between services. The best way to avoid the pangs of hunger is to sleep through them.

Or so I thought.

I've been looking on-line, but I haven't found anything that tells me about the affect of hunger upon a person's dreams. For my part, my stomach drove me into one of those dreams that seems so real that you actually wake up twice: one in your dream, once in real life. In my dream, I had awoken from my nap and wandered around my dead aunt's house, getting terribly lost in the twisting hallways. As I walked, things would appear to me and then disappear. I can't remember what they were, but I know that I mentally collapsed. Because of my confusion and terror, I hid in a bathroom and avoided going to the (dream) afternoon Yom Kippur service. Then, improbably, I decided to order from Pizza Hut.

I woke up at that point.

It really was a "what-the-hell?!" moment and I tried to ponder it as I quickly dressed for the (real) afternoon Yom Kippur service. I don't really believe in the meaning of dreams; they are just your brain replaying history and adding some of its own commentary in the process. But it still didn't keep me from thinking about it all through services and most of the break fast.

Was it just a yearning for Pizza Hut? Why would my brain keep me from going to services on one of the most important holy days of the year? Why was I in my deceased aunt's house? So many mysteries.

The Tears

My rabbi has held his post at my temple for about 35 years, which is an extremely long time for a notoriously wander-lusty profession. He has been there for all of my early Jewish life events: my naming, my kindergarten consecration, my bat mitzvah, and my confirmation. He has refused to directly answer my philosophical questions (a plus, if you know me), comforted me during the deaths in my family, and offered advice during my many existential meltdowns. He, forever and always, has my respect.

I knew this was coming, but I guess it didn't really hit me until the Kol Nidre service. He's finally retiring.

I think his leaving will be a turning point in my relationship with my congregation. It was his influence that truly kept me anchored to my hometown and my temple. There are two congregations in my college town, but instead of attending them, I sometimes walk down to Saint Agnes, the local Catholic church, and sit through a service. I suppose I would rather spend time in a space radically out of my realm than spend my Saturdays comparing some strange rabbi to mine. I would rather admire the beauty of the church than sit in some other synagogue's austereness.

But I have to get over that now.

There will be a new rabbi. He will be close to my age. He will probably not last more than two or three years. I might as well make a clean break of it.

Change makes me cry. But perhaps the tears will cleanse.

K.

Famous Fish in a Very Small Pond

Last year, I participated in my rabbi's brainchild concocted to get more people to come to the Yom Kippur afternoon service. Basically, five other people and I wrote five minute speeches detailing exactly why we were Jews. It seems to be gaining in popularity, so the rabbi is getting what he wanted. However, my participation seems to have yielded an interesting opportunity.

I believe it was two weeks ago that I got a message from my mother saying that one of our local papers was doing a piece about the people who spoke at the service last year. So I called the reporter and did my thing-- and by my thing, I mean that I babbled for about fifteen minutes to a total stranger about things that I normally keep to myself. Cringe.

So, anyway, the article came out today, complete with a picture of yours truly sitting with a handful of shwarma in the Parisian Jewish quarter. Two of my fellow speakers also responded, so it wasn't a "Kate Show," which keeps my community from thinking that I'm totally egotistical.

Here's a bit of the article. You can find my section of the article and picture by clicking on the link.

Time for reflection: Why they are Jews
Jewish holidays are a time to think about faith.

By
MELISSA NANN BURKE
Daily Record/Sunday News

A month of reflection, Elul, precedes the Jewish High Holy Days. Again this year, Rabbi Irwin N. Goldenberg has asked a diverse group at Temple Beth Israel to reflect on what it means to be Jewish.

The group will speak during a 3 p.m. Yom Kippur service Saturday in York Township.

Among the lay people who spoke last fall were an immigrant, a college student and a secular Jew...

You can find the rest of it on the York Daily Record website or by the link.


K.

Kate is a Big, Fat Liar

So, remember when I promised that I would write from Scotland? And remember when I said that I would post pictures? And remember how I never keep a promise?

It's that time of year again-- the time of year when I feel guilty about abandoning my blog, wonder how the bloggers whose entries I used to haunt like the cyber ghost I am are doing, and just want to take a stab at being a responsible citizen of the blogging community again. My impetus this time is my Writing and Computers class that I'm taking strictly for the credits. Suddenly, I'm forced to look at different blogs, to read books written about blogs, to ponder the significance of blogs and blog-like writings throughout history. Eye-opening, I assure you. It's making me miss what I was once a part of. I'm such a sentimental ass.

And thus the prodigal daughter returns.

K.

Whose Blog is This Anyway?

Well hey there!

I'm an awful person for not updating, I know, but I've been ill for about half the time I've been here and working my ass off the other half. But, I have been thinking about y'all. I just wanted to direct you guys to my travel blog in case you were curious about my travels. I decided that separate blogs for this sort of thing would be best because I'm not keen on my family hanging around this blog. Some things should remain private... or at least anonymous. I'll still be writing here, but direct travel experience will on the other one.

Hope to see you guys there!

K.

Finally Found a Computer...

I just want to let everyone know that I'm doing fine and I will post when I have settled down in Stirling for good. This nomadic lifestyle is not condusive for regular blogging-- not that I did much of that anyway. :)

K.

Jitters

And at last, here we are, the day that I leave what I know and enter the unknown. Sounds pretty cliche, but that's what it is. At 9 PM, I board my flight on Air India and spend seven hours trying to sleep upright on my way to Paris, which, as we all know, is full of the French. All of that is a pretty daunting prospect, but what can you do? I have yet to pack, but I realize that the few belongs that I have scattered around my bags are the only bits of my life that I'm able to carry with me. Bleak.

But here I am, sounding like my house has burned down and my life as I know it with it. I'm sure that there will be happier entries to come once I've settled in.

However, before my semester beings in Scotland, I'm traveling for a bit. So I've started a travel blog for that purpose. Don't worry, I'm not abandoning this. The other one will be filled with pictures and things I see during this hazy period before I get to my apartment. If you'd like to visit, by all means, click on this link.

Until then, au revoir!

K.

PS. I have no idea if that's spelled correctly. I took Spanish, for G-d's sake. :)

Maybe They're Not So Bad

When you've spend all of your previously parent-free time around those who have raised you-- like I have for the last few weeks-- you tend to forget that they can be pretty neat people. My revelation came yesterday as I was walking out of the mall with my mother, bags filled with sweaters, socks, and jeans for my stay in a cold and very wet little country. The shopping spree had ended with me tallying up a rather steep debt to my mother, who had paid for everything with the credit card. On to the bill, I added the cost of my Naots (buying Naots in the States is not cheap), my worry beads, and my passport. Since I had taken care of all of that in the previous weeks, I had assumed my mother had taken the money from my savings account. Mom needed to go to the credit union again, so I figured that she would dip into my account again to pay for the clothing I had just bought.

As we crossed the parking lot, laden with the spoils of The Gap, Mom turned to me.

"Didn't you say you were going to sign over a paycheck?"

"I did!" I exclaimed, a little miffed. "Two, in fact. I put them on your purse."

"Oh, ok. Just as long as you're contributing to all of this."

"Wait, what? Contributing? I've been telling you to take money from my account to pay for all of this." There was silence on her end. "You haven't been taking money out, have you?" The last bit was more of a statement than a question.

"Nope."

"So, you've just been paying for all of this."

"So far, yeah."

I nearly dropped the bag into a puddle. "But Mom... I told you... Well, now I feel incredibly guilty."

"We want to make sure you have everything and you never expect anything from us. So don't worry about all of this yet. We'll work it out later."

All of the crap I've been buying for this trip has cost well over $500. Not only that, in the words of Hugh Laurie, "plane tickets don't grow... on a tree" (if you haven't heard his song "Mystery," you should look that one up). Nothing has been cheap. And yet... they've taken care of me, which is incredibly sweet.

I must keep this in mind when they piss me off. :)

K.

Seeing Things Through New Eyes

As someone who has written 100 posts, I should have realized that saving a day's piece as a draft within the Blogger Dashboard is a bad idea. It becomes obsolete way too easily and then the credit you've built up from writing that particular post has been absolutely lost.

See, I had been complaining that I couldn't find the shoes I needed, my passport hadn't arrived, I couldn't find a nice travel map widget that suited my country-hopping future, and blah blah blah. An hour later, the passport had arrived, I'd ordered my shoes through 2-Day airmail (let's hope they fit), and I'd settled on the fact that I'm going to have to set up a whole new and aesthetically displeasing travel blog on a site that specializes in such things. The other things I had whined about in that unpublished entry haven't necessarily been fixed or even confronted yet, but the damage had been done. I'll just have to delete the damn thing even before it had a chance to breathe the free air of the Internet. Kind of sad in a way.

I still have other things to worry about. For instance, I'm going to my eye doctor tomorrow to see about getting contact lenses. The last time I tried that I was in ninth grade, a significantly more easily frustrated and less medicated person. I drove myself to tears trying to wrestle with the contacts, only to abandon them to grow dusty in my medicine cabinet. Now, I must get over my adversion to touching my slimy eyeballs if I ever want to see something in the distance and take a picture of it. And, in a rainy country like Scotland, it would probably be easier to wander around and take in the sights without raindrops on my lenses. Plus, interestingly enough, I always find my time at the optomistrist's office entertaining. My doctor has never worn a pair of socks on his be-loafered feet (not that I have seen, anyway) and he looks oddly like Mel Gibson (but without the crazed glint in his eyes). He also has called me "Kaitlyn" for 21 years, which is not and has never been my name. At my last appointment, some synapses must have connected for the first time in two decades as he stared at my record sheet because he began calling me "Kathryn," which in fact is my name, but not one I would prefer. But he messes with my vision, so I'm not going to call him on it.

It does make me feel good to get some of these unpleasant things over with, though. It almost makes me think that I'm gradually becoming a new person and shedding off the worries and impediments in my way to enjoying stuff. Hell, I might even be cheerful a week before I leave. But, as my marathon session of watching House episodes while avoiding getting ready for four months away from home tell me, people just don't change. And I know that right before I board my plane on the Air India flight to Paris, I'm going to be sobbing my tear ducts dry and the flight attendents are going to have to drag me through the terminal. Sigh.

Oh yeah, you heard me right: Air INDIA!!!! To PARIS!!

K.

Crazy is as Crazy Does

Whenever there is a impending change in my surroundings or my position in life, I tend to lose it a little. It could be just going back to school after summer break (that only warrants a few nights on my parents' floor and an irritable streak). Or...

It seems that the bigger the change, the sooner I begin to freak out. My semester abroad is a little under two months away, but I'm beginning to mess up my dorm room now so that packing to leave college for six months will be much harder. When I got some playful ribbing from my roommate and a friend about it, I burst into tears and spent the next ten minutes sobbing in the bathroom. I can only imagine the hippy hippy shakes I'll have mid-January.

The worst part is not the neurotic techniques that I use as compensation; it's the fact that I know everything will work out well. There's nothing I can't handle when I get right down to it. But try and tell me that now and I'll rip your hair out by its roots and hand it to you.

Who knows, maybe getting arrested for assault will make it harder to leave.

K.

PS. 100th post. It's about damn time.

Tongue-Tied

My rabbi always used to caution me during my bat mitzvah lessons, "Whoa, whoa, don't let your tongue get in front of your eye teeth! You won't be able to see what you're saying!" I'll admit, I haven't always listened to that advice. I talk loudly and quickly, which often gets me into tight spots, even when it comes to easy words. I just can't force them out.

Today, I was discussing West Chester's Old-Fashioned Christmas parade with my friend Oj, a history major. As usual, I was complaining about Christmas. That's when the trouble began.

"I'm not going to the Old-Fasssssh... Old-Fssh... Old-Fascist-- Fsssssssh... Fshfshfsh... Old-Fashioned Christmas parade."

Oj stared at me, then broke out laughing.

Chagrined, I muttered, "What the hell is an Old-Fascist Christmas parade anyway?"

"German," Oj chirped. I mimed a quick goose-step, then we carried on with the conversation.

Oh, sure, it's fine when I screw up in front of my friends, but I know I'm going to make myself look like a total idiot in Scotland. I really need to get my entire life scripted.

K.

Tell the World to Stop Turning

I've held off a little on this post because I'm not totally sure how I feel about this year's Thanksgiving vacation. Why I stopped writing because I had a less than satisfying break is beyond me, but it doesn't take much to throw me off of my groove.

It's an annual family tradition to go to Chincoteague, VA over Thanksgiving. As geeky as it sounds, I belong to a family of passionate birdwatchers. My father, for example, can identify a shoveler from a distance, without binoculars, and staring into the setting sun. Try it, it's not easy. As for me, I'm dedicated enough to let Dad convince me to wake up at five in the morning to listen to the ducks wake up. It's not the most exciting hobby, but water fowl make me smile, I guess.

Over the twenty-one years I've been going to Chincoteague, things have changed. Newer, more modern hotels with heated pools have sprung up around the island's coastline, overshadowing our little motel that features a pool full of micro-organisms and a backyard donkey. More corporation-owned businesses are entering the little town in an attempt to take advantage of the summer tourist season. It's progress and I understand that. I also understand that such decisions that affect the island are not mine to make; the islands need to do what's best for them.

Even with this understanding, this year's vacation was hard. First, my brother and my father could not attend due to a college showcase soccer tourney in northern New Jersey. Mom and I shared the large suite that usually seems cramped when it holds the four of us, but seemed cavernous with only two. It was the first Thanksgiving without Dad, but it was my brother's presence that I missed the most. Sometimes it's nice to have someone in your age bracket to talk to.

Second, the donkey behind the hotel was particularly active this year. I have never seen this animal and have only known of his presence through his early morning braying, which always seemed harmless. This year, the donkey was shrieking (and I do mean shrieking) far into the night and early morning, making sleeping in my room impossible. My nights were spent huddling next to my mother in her double bed, enduring snoring that was at least more familiar than a possessed barn animal.

Third, the internet cafe downtown decided to close for the holidays, leaving my shaking for a connection like a junkie for a hit. I still have tremors.

Fourth, our motel will probably not be open for Thanksgiving next year. The large hotels attract the families with small children and electricity has gone up 40%, leaving the motel owners to close over the autumn slack. It's not that I blame them; the owners of our motel have two boys to put through college. It's just hard to know that the place you've stayed in for seventeen years won't be there anymore.

Things change, I know. I should look on the bright side... The resturant where we usually eat Thanksgiving dinner wasn't turned into a Waffle House after all. The birds and the ponies are still there. The salt grass will always smell the same (it's one of the three smells I would bottle, along with potato chips and chocolate). And it seems like that donkey will be around as well.

Yes, the bright side is bright, but it's still hard to lose the things you've grown accustomed to in a world that's ever changing.

Sigh.

K.

A Supplication

As my offering to you, oh ye G-d-like readers, I present to you this link, which I hope will fill you with laughter and smiles. Please, oh ye divine entities from the World Wide Web, I beg you to forgive me for my lack of posting. I shall be sure to prostrate myself at your altar more times in the coming week.

K.

The Cuteness Factor is Unbearable!

On this windy, rainy day, I present you with this clever little video about a kiwi. Enjoy!

Hmm, damn Mac hates me... we'll fix this later. Just copy and paste the link.

http://www.i-am-bored.com/bored_link.cfm?link_id=20550

K.

Your Take on This?

The situation:

You are dozing on a couch in your university's newpaper office, trying your damndest to not get any work done. Your cheek is a bit itchy owing to the inferior fabric of the sofa, so you open your eyes in preparation to turn over (you don't know why you always open your eyes before you switch sides; you just do). As your vision becomes clearer, you realize that your line of sight is knee-level to a colleague of yours sitting in the opposite chair. Unfortunately for you, your colleague's knees are splayed wide open, granting you an unobstructed view of places better left unseen.

The problem:

Do you tell your colleague that he has a hole in the crotch of his jeans and let the entire office know that your are looking at his crotch, or do you just let it go, letting your co-worker go all day without knowing that he's showing the world a bit more than he probably wants displayed?

You decide.

K.

The Other Candidate, The Right Choice

It's only a little after four and you still have plenty of time to get out there and vote!

What? You don't want to? But how could that be?

Oh, politicians. Yeah, I understand. I mean, Republicans are of a corrupt sort and even if Democrats take control of Congress, they wouldn't know what to do with it. It does seem pretty hopeless for the average American.

But, you know, there are other choices. Sure, there are several names on the ballot, but have you taken a look below them. See it? Yep, right there-- "write-in candidate." Pretty cool, huh?

However, just because you have the freedom to doesn't mean you should waste your vote! Vote for someone with a plan! Vote for someone with principles! Vote for someone with charisma!

Vote for me!

What? Why are you laughing? Don't you take me seriously? You haven't even asked me about my platform and you're already discounting me? Oh, what a sad state our country is in.

Listen, I have great ideas! In fact, I guarantee you that I can solve America's international relations nightmare as quick as you please. I have a plan that simply cannot fail. Are you ready for it?

Wooly socks.

Yep, wooly socks. Just hear me out. I promise that this is great stuff.

Why is everyone so mad at each other? The answer is simple: we're all worried and over-stressed. And we all know that stressed people are unreasonable. Now, follow me with this one. Pretend it's a cold day, you've just come home from work after having to struggle to get your car started, and you've found that the roads are near impassable. Now you flop down into a comfortable chair and pull on... what? Oh yes, some wooly socks. What happens then? Why, of course, your stress flees under the unstoppable onslaught of the warm wooly sock. You instantly relax and are able to think clearly.

Now, think about this on a large scale. We sends crates and crates of these wooly socks to Russia, China, and North Korea. They put them on. They instantly become more open to negociation. Pretty cool, huh?

My opponents might scoff at this plan. How, they ask, can we possibly appease those in hot countries with wooly socks? Won't this make them even crankier? Well, if you insist on thinking inside the box, this is a perfectly logical point. However, I already have that covered. You see, for our friends in warmer climes, we simply provide them with wooly sweat bands. I don't know of anything more irritating than trying to get work done while sweat stings your eyes. We may find that the Middle East is a friendlier place when we provide them with a sting-free existance.

My international relations plan is inspired, but I think that you may find my domestic issues plans just as spectacular.

What do we complain about most here? That's easy: a lack of jobs and a failing economy. How do we fix this? Why, with new employment created by the rising wooly socks and sweatbands industry. We need people to shear sheep, card the wool, work the knitting machines, and inspect the results. Money and jobs for everyone!

So, as you enter the booth on this fine Tuesday, please keep in mind that you are not limited to those names written on the ballot. Remember me, your wooly textiles candidate! Victory in 2006!

K.

Pax Romana?

As I finished watching "Rome" today, I got to thinking about world events. I don't know, I guess shows about political intrigue, notions of empire, and the installation of dictators just seem to remind me of today's worldwide political climate. Like it or not, we live in interesting times. We see countries traditionally viewed as enemies procuring nuclear arsenals, tyrants being sentenced to death, and bands of "freedom fighters" out-manuovering powerful governments flashed across the TV screen everyday. It's certainly not boring.

Whatever your view on things, I suggest that you click on my link above and watch "Rome." The acting is amazing, the dialogue is interesting, and the lessons it teaches still relevant today. However, may I suggest that you not watch this at work? That is, unless, your boss has a thing for full-frontal Marc Antony scenes.

Apologies for a crappy post. Perhaps I'll have something more interesting to say after the elections tomorrow.

K.

Dreaming of Heather

So, for those who don't know, I'll be spending my spring semester at the University of Stirling in Scotland. I'm very excited-- or, I would be if I weren't sitting under a huge pile of forms and waivers that I have to sign. At some points, it almost doesn't seem worth it. But then I remember this--

And this--

And this--

Yeah, all that is Stirling, the town where I'll be going to school. The last time I was there was this January, on a quintessentially foggy, Scottish day. The town is cute, but I think the castle is the real jewel.

I'm not sure why I like this castle so much. It could be some residual clan pride (it's a Stewart castle and therefore, in an exceptionally round-about way, mine), the fantastic view, or the cool rock wall that you can walk around. I don't know; it's just cool.

There are all sorts of secret little crannies where, I suppose, some people like to hide things.

Some beautiful stained glass in the main hall, as well.

So, I guess I just have to keep this in mind when I get overwhelmed. I think that I'm going to post some pictures from my UK trip every so often if only to keep myself grinning.

K.

A Little Halloween Story

I had about five other ideas for posts today, but it's Halloween and this story can't be put off for another day.

Let me give you a little history--

I've been living in this dorm for two and a half years and I've seen a lot of things. I've seen drunken freshmen carried off by EMTs, hairy guys dressed as cheerleaders, and Campus Safety trying to break down the door of suspected pot smokers. Quite a bit of weird things happen around here, but it's a college dorm. You expect that.

One of the strangest things that would occur happened in one of the rooms down the hall from me. My friend, the current RA of my wing, used to live there with her roommate and I would occasionally hang out to watch movies. Sometimes, the closed door-- which would usually stick when anyone tried to open it, by the way-- would creak open, driving us to get up and shut it. After a period of time, it would open again and the cycle would continue. My friend told me that the lights sometimes blinked on and off, leading her to believe that the room was a tad haunted. This ghost, she rationalized, was male, as this used to be an all-male dorm. And, to repay the thing for being irritating, she gave it the most obnoxious name she could think of-- Eugene.

I only half-seriously believed in Eugene. I believe in ghosts mainly so that they never feel like they have to prove their existence to me. I'll be fine with my unfounded suspicions, thanks. As a normal person does, I tried to explain away the door phenomena by theorizing that the pressure changes in the room forced the door open. I would mention these things to my friend, but then added that, you know, it could still be a ghost, right? Call it added insurance.

Well, for a while, Eugene stopped showing up. He wasn't ever mentioned around the wing. Then this morning happened.

In the wee hours, the current residents of that particular room were sitting up and chatting. The lights were off, the blinds were drawn, and the only illumination came from the glow of their computer monitors. Suddenly, one of the girls saw a flashing light out of the corner of her eye. She waited for a while, then got fed up and convinced herself that the computers were acting screwy. So the two girls turned off their monitors and plunged the room into darkness.

Except...

The light was still there. It was an orb, really, golden in color. It zigzagged back and forth around the room, scaring the girls out of their wits. Screaming, they tumbled out of their room and spent the rest of the night with the RA, too frightened to go back to their own beds. Several boys, having heard the commotion, volunteered to stay the night in the room, but didn't see anything.

Eugene was baaaaaaaaaack.

Talking to the girls this morning, I found out that they had lots of odd activity occurring in the room. They would hear scratching by their ears and other auditory points of interest. To corroborate their story, the girl next door claimed to have seen the orb too. Interesting.

Do I believe it? Let's be honest, I'm scared to say no. I don't need spooks appearing to me. Nooooo way.

You don't think Eugene's real? Fine, then you can tell him!

Happy Halloween.

K.

PS. Odd that it happened so close to the holiday, yes? Hmm...

A Letter

Dear Girl Talking on Her Cellphone While in the Bathroom,

Hey, this is the girl from the next stall over. You know, the one wearing the dirty socks. But you probably didn't notice as you were so wrapped up in your conversation.

As much as I enjoy a little bit of entertainment while I sit there (I bring books in there all of the time), I tend to draw the line at cellphone conversations. You may be enjoying yourself, but trust me, I'm not. Public bathrooms are uncomfortable enough without the added drawback of having to listen to someone talk while taking care of... uh, business. You don't hear me busting out Shakespearean monologues, do you? I think not.

Though even that wouldn't be as bad as a cellphone conversation. See, while the monologue is a two person embarrassment (the reader and the listener), a cellphone involves three or more. Seriously, do you want to broadcast to whoever you're communicating to that you're on the toilet? If so, that's a fetish I don't need to know about.

So, in conclusion, let's stop these little cellphone chats for good, shall we? Because if I hear it again, I am going to make myself obnoxious in ways not necessarily accepted by polite society. And don't think I won't. You only know me by my stockinged feet.

Hugs and kisses,

K.

I'm An Idiot.

G-d, why do I procrastinate? Why, why, why?

I have a paper and a poem due on Monday. :( This means I have to get started.

K.

PS. Sorry that this was such a cop-out post. Maybe I'll have something better to say once I actually get something done.

Taken Over By Victorian Humor

I find that the more I delve into Victorian literature, I'm finding the most idiotic observations absolutely hilarious. My sense of humor-- and my imagination-- seem to have been irrevocably skewed.

I often picture myself standing in front of a blazing fireplace with a companion, clothed in a crimson smoking jacket and cradling a brandy snifter in my palm. We are both gazing up at some protrait of an aristocratic relative that clearly marks me as one possessed of wealth and good taste. I turn to my friend, gently swirling the brandy.

"I say, old boy, did you not find the resemblence between Lady Audley and Phoebe Marks in Lady Audley's Secret quite remarkable? Why, the illustrious lady and her maid servant are only separated by coloring, the inferior far less vibrant than her clear superior."


"Quite right, quite right," my companion harrumphs, "in fact, the only thing the young maid needs to look like her mistress is a make-over. A Pre-Raphaelite make-over! A-hur-hur-hur!"

We both chuckle heartily, then launch into a detailed discussion about my butler Nigel's latest faux pas. It seems that the blighter had mistakenly placed common butter on my table during tea instead of clotted cream. Imagine making such a barbaric mistake. Clearly, this man had never stepped foot in the hallowed halls of Eton, a-hur-hur-hur!

See, that comment that my "companion" made was not at all funny, but I definately giggled at it when my professor said it in class. What is happening to me?

Seriously, there needs to be a comedy intervention.

K.

On a More Happy Note...

I've never watched "The Office" before and then I found a site with all of the episode. Enjoy!

K.

Child Abuse

Every semester, West Chester University has the distinct pleasure of hosting a group of very passionate people on its campus. These people go out of their way to talk to students, try to communicate new ideas to a vast audience, and hold up signs to allow those shyer people to understand their message without actually having to go up and talk to them. And then, without fail, the campus police come and kick them off the property.

That's because these people talk to student by berating them about the sin-filled lifestyle they may or may not be living, communicate ideas through a bull horn, and hold up signs with "aborted" fetuses on them. Yep, the crazies have come to town!

Really, I have no problem if someone is particularly religious or holds beliefs that I cannot possibly agree with. Spice of life, you know? But I want to scream when I am told that I am going to hell or when Bible verses are screamed at me over a loud speaker. Don't break my personal bubble and won't stomp on yours. But I saw something today that left me shaking with rage.

As I was trying to enter our student union, I was confronted with placards sporting bloody fetuses and sour-looking adults staring down a heathen student population. Nothing new. Then I glanced down, only to see a small boy, his plump cheeks flushed with the biting cold, handing out pamphlets with a tiny mittened hand. He was small, barely coming up to my waist, and was topped with a hat with a pompom on it. Shocked, I skirted him, shuffling quickly up the walk. I was nearly in tears by the time I pulled out my phone to call my father, my sounding board.

How could you use a child to hand out propaganda? How could you make a child stand out in the cold in front of bloody dipictions of what may or may not be an abortion? How could you possibly you a child-- your child-- to guilt the people around you? I just don't understand.

It was two o'clock; the kid should have been in school. He should have been on a playground. He should have been playing video games or watching "Dora the Explorer" or building high towers out of Legos. He should have been eating a bowl of Cheerios while coloring with crayons. He should have been everywhere but there-- representing something that he couldn't possibly understand.

I don't care what you stand for. A child is not a tool for your agenda. A child should be living his childhood because it goes by way too fast.

If only I had the courage to walk out there and give him a cookie or some hot chocolate. Woulda coulda shoulda.

K.

I Wasn't Ignoring You! I Promise.

See, I thought I was getting a handle on this blogger thing, but then I switched to blogger beta and found that tons of people had left comments that I (apparently) needed to moderate. So to all those people that left me those 33 comments, I sincerely apologize. I've tried to make it a policy to reply to every comment left on this blog, but I've failed miserably.

Well, live and learn, I guess. I'll do better now.

K.

And I Thought I Was Confused Before

Last night, I ventured over to the student union to watch TransAmerica and caught the tail-end of a panel about gender and sexuality. Having taken psychology in high school, I had some idea of the difference between the two, but I had never actually seen anyone who had gender dysphoria or issues of gender identity. There was one transexual girl on the panel who had been born a male, but had considered himself/herself a girl for many years. A few friends of mine came into the discussion even later than I had and began questioning me about the proceedings. So I tried to explain and I did... sort of... badly.

Where I got screwed up was which pronoun to use. I was trying to convey that this person had been a guy, but considered himself/herself a girl. From what I've read, many transexuals get very irritated when people use the wrong pronouns and I'm pretty sure that if that the person on the panel had been standing next to me when I was explaining, I would have gotten smacked upside the head. I don't mean to be insulting, but when you've experienced such a thing, it's hard to wrap your brain around it.

Oh yeah, if I've mortally wounded anyone reading this post, please forgive me. I clearly have no idea what I'm talking about.

K.

In Which I Make a Really Stupid Analogy

You know you're a sad and pathetic blogger when your unplanned hiatus goes that long...

I really have no excuse for it. Life gets complicated and then it swiftly de-complicates into a swell of boredom, only to re-complicate once more. My classes were/are more work than I had previously assumed (short stories, dense journal readings-- the bread and butter of a lit major), my 21st birthday took more preparation than expected, and I endured the stress of and subsequent acceptance to my study abroad program. I can only imagine what hell I'm going to be put through in Scotland.

So the last thing on my mind has been this blog. In reality, that's really how it should be. If I spend my days postponing work and sleep and play for a bunch of on-line entries, I should be in a very sorry state indeed. Yet, if one keeps a blog, one has the responsibility to tend to it. A blog is like... like a quadrapalegic, deaf/mute cat. It can be an interesting companion, but it does not have the wherewithall to take care of itself or remind you to pay attention. Ignore it, and pretty soon you have a very hungry cat sitting sulkily in its own mess. At some point, you're going to notice the smell.

Alright, so that wasn't the best analogy, but it pretty much sums up how bad I feel for leaving this little hunk of bandwidth unattended. I will try to be better. I will try to go back to reading other blogs and commenting. I will try to write interesting and insightful entries. Oh Lord, will I try.

K.

People Who Are More Successful Than Me...

I went to high school with this kid and now he's on ABC Family! Who knew?!

As I remember from my classes, he was a very sweet person, so I don't mind pimping his IMDB site here. Go check him out!

K.

Dreaming of Elysian Fields

I had a dream last night where I was in a cemetery.

The sky was blue, the kind of blue that you only see touched up in photos. Tombstones dotted the rolling hills, stretching far out into the distance. The stones, I seem to remember, were engraved with Hebrew, so it was clearly a Jewish cemetery. The strangest thing, besides the sheer size of the complex, was my lack of fear or trepidation. Grave yards are not, have never been, my thing.

I was standing with my family among the tombstones, apparently waiting for something. Suddenly, I saw movement in the hills. People were standing by each stone, looking around and squinting in the sun. Around me, men and women began to emerge from the graves.

Aghast, I grabbed my father, begged him for an explanation. He smiled at me and said that once a year the dead climbed out of their tomb to stand in the sun and see their families. At the end of the day, they would re-inter themselves, not to emerge for another year.

For some reason, I accepted this, no matter how strange it was. I guess it helped that the corpses I saw were fully formed with a glint of life in still-intact eyeballs. Live families were reunited with the deceased, hugs shared all around.

I met my Bubbe for the first time.

(I'm crying as I write this.)

She died from cancer before I was born. She always wanted grandchildren, but I came far too late. I've been told that I'm a lot like her in personality and habit. Before the day ended, I had met her and was reunited with my Granddad, who passed when I was four. As the sun set, the dead climbed back into their graves.

What does this dream mean? I suppose if I were more spiritual, I would have many interesting suggestion, whereas in my unenlightened state, I have none. All I know is that when I woke up, I was smiling.

I apologize for the horrendous writing in this post, but I had to get it out.

K.

PS. Bonus points for those who know what the Elysian Fields were.

The Obligatory September 11th Post

As I'm always the blogger who jumps on the bandwagon the second after a wheel pops off its axel, I think I'll continue the tradition by posting a 9/11 piece three hours before 9/11/2006 ends. Why mess with tradition?

Anyone who doesn't know will probably be very turned off by the lines above. They might even quickly backtrack, vowing never to venture into this den of depravity again. Who writes such a flippant introduction to a September 11th article?

I don't mean to be so callous. I really don't. I remember perfectly where I was when the dreadful event occurred, my confusion, and my suspicion that everyone at school knew more about world events than I did. And I cried for those thousands of people. Then I raged. Finally, I accepted.

Five years later, I look back on the event and cannot seem to summon up the same intensity of feeling. The Towers were once there; now they aren't. The people were once there; now they aren't. I can only think of it in a black and white sense with no emotion to color the picture. I'm not totally sure why this happened to me, but I can venture a few guesses.

Having monitored the news for the last five years, I may have grown a little jaded towards the death of civilians. It's awful, I know. But when people are being blown up, shot, or massacred everyday, you have to build a cocoon around yourself to keep your sanity. If I mourned for everyone, I would be a shivering wreck, unable to go on with daily life. I feel that my cocoon protects me from the tragedies today, but it also prevents me from bring up past hurts, such as 9/11. I guess, deep inside, I don't want to feel anything because I'm afraid that I'll never be able to go on with my own life.

Something else that might make it impossible for me to adequately appreciate the significance of this day is the 2004 presidential election. No, not the outcome-- the fact that both parties bandied 9/11 about for their own political gains. Who are you, you scum-sucking scheming bastards, to exploit the deaths of thousands of people and the virtual paralysis of a nation for your own aims of gaining or keeping power? Who are you to play on the sympathies of your fellow Americans in order to garner votes? It just makes me sick. It also makes me wonder if such insensitivity and callousness made me lose the meaning of September 11th. I can only pray that my ability to feel isn't permanently retarded by politicians.

Finally, I come to probably the most prevalent reason: the simple passage of time. If I look down at my legs right now, I will find a bruise that has taken up residence on my body for a few weeks. When I got it, it must have hurt like a bitch, but now I can barely remember what caused it. It's just a splotch of color now; it no longer hurts. Maybe 9/11 is the same way. Five years has just made the pain fade away.

I know I build up these defenses to make myself a stronger person, but I wonder if losing my ability to empathize is making me weaker in the long run. I have a lot to think about.

K.

Facing the Truth

I find myself not looking on news sites anymore because I will invariably find something about Steve Irwin.

Yeah, I'm still on about that.

I find that I'm not alone in my odd feelings. As I walk through my dorm hallways, I see tributes to the Crocodile Hunter on white boards. People still talk about it, most of the time with downcast faces.

I couldn't figure out why the death of one man a world away could affect so many people on my campus. I know of one person who met him, but the rest of us only knew him from Animal Planet or his run-ins with the press. The death of the pope caused less consternation. I just couldn't understand.

Then I spoke to my roommate, a paragon of wisdom clothed in giggly, dippy exterior.

"Well," she said, "it was just so sudden and random. And he was young too. You could sort of relate to him."

True.

I guess it's not just that we miss our beloved Crocodile Hunter, we also have our mortality shoved into our faces. College kids aren't used to that. We think nothing of crossing the road in the direct path of on-coming cars or drinking enough to kill a horse, then getting up the next day to do it all over again. What happens if one day that car doesn't slow down? Or if that last sip of alcohol is just too much for our bodies to handle? What then?

Well, then we die. Simple as that.

But what else does our impending death say to us? It reminds us of that old, cliched saying, "live each day like it's your last." Death is coming, people. Everyday, our internal clocks continue winding down and we get a little older. This is all we have. Drink yourself silly. Travel. Do incredibly stupid things. You might not get to do it again tomorrow.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some manifesto-writing to do. No time like the present!

K.

PS. Thanks, Steve.

Bad Luck

I had written a hell of a post last night, but it was deleted by my personal friend, Blogger. Thanks, Blogger, I owe you one! So I was too despondent to re-write the thing and went to bed irritated.

About an hour later, I woke up with the feeling that my stomach was making a trek up to my mouth. I sprang from my bed and dashed into the bathroom. Several hours later, I came to the conclusion that I had been poisoned by university-produced salad, brushed my teeth, and fell into a deep, exhausted slumber.

As they say, it never rains-- it pours. Here's hoping for a more cheerful entry later tonight!

K.

Croc Hunting No More

Out of habit, I tend to make the CNN website my homepage. That way, if something catastrophic happens, I can be suitable shocked and informed before moving on to my daily business.

Consider me shocked:

Steve Irwin Dead from Stingray Barb

Are you kidding me? That's like David Blaine drowning in that damn fool stunt of his earlier this year! The Crocodile Hunter can't be dead!

I know that people die everyday and one person isn't more important than another, but I almost feel like I lost a friend. He was so open and passionate about his work that you couldn't help but admire him (even when he held his little baby over a set of razor sharp teeth, but we won't go into that). There was no greater advocate for those wild animals than Steve Irwin.

I'll miss him.

K.

Creative Writing Crisis

(This picture has little to do with the content of this post, but it makes me smile. Thank you, Bill Watterson!)

There is nothing worse than sitting over a blank sheet of paper and knowing, deeeeeeeeep in the back of your brain, that you have only one week to churn out a short story that will submitted to the all-consuming editorial maw of your peers and you're stuck with this piece of crap for weeks, doing revision after revision until your hands shake and you understand why Fitzgerald and Hemingway became alcoholics, but you have to keep editing and editing because your grade and writing reputation is at stake, here, but you get so damn tired that-

Yeah, I'm going to stop right there with that line of thought.

But that's the position I'm in-- I'll write, turn it in, get it back, do revisions, turn it back in again, get it back again, and so on. I know that at some point I will never want to see that story again.

I don't even know if I have a viable idea. It's something that happened several years ago, something that I thought would be too personal to write about. But I've been reading from my Creative Writing textbook and have come to the conclusion that if I change the characters, the setting, and the circumstances of my personal event, I could possibly come out of this with a good story on my hands. Or I could come out with a cliched piece of crap. Whichever.

I have no idea why this is so hard for me. Maybe it's because I have spent years writing critical essays that I've totally lost the knack for fiction. Hell, even my personal essays are mostly true, though admitted sometimes exaggerated to get the point across. This jumping into this short story stuff is like trying to do a split having not stretched for years: it going to hurt like hell.

Maybe I can come out of this unscathed and having learned a great deal about my craft. If not, my 21st birthday is coming up. Geniuses like Fitzgerald and Hemingway couldn't have gone too wrong!

K.