The time came this morning to take down all of the Christmas decorations in my room. In a strange burst of energy I jumped up and began to tear all of the ornaments off of my miniature Christmas tree, and I began running around my room gathering up all the excess lights and nativity sets and jingle bells and music boxes. It only took me about ten whole minutes to finish the whole project.
Now my room looks slightly stark and unfestive but I like it that way. I need stark. Stark has an unfortunate connotation, rather negative, and I'm not so sure why. All it means is that something is a blank canvas. I like blank canvases. I like filling them.
It's the 28th of December. I'm leaving on the 7th of January for Ecola. You do the math.
My bookshelves are still stinkingly full of books and trinkets, my cds and dvds are all bursting out of my closet with an catalystic force, there's half a pile of clothes set out on my floor and the rest of my wardrobe is scattered between my chaos-reigned dresser drawers, closet, and laundry basket. I have a small reusable grocery bag full of absent-minded possessions I want to take with me (including the 1989 original LP vinyl soundtrack to Say Anything), and in the guest room is a desk lamp, a twin comforter, an easily-portable laundry bag, and a costco set of two flashlights and a headlamp, in case of power outages.
And that's my life. I can't even see past those piles right now.
What books am I going to take with me? What are the possessions I can live without? Who will keep my typewriter keys from getting dusty while I'm gone? What about my goldfish? I can't take a guitar and a banjo with me, can I??????
Stark, Hannah.
Minimize the chaos.
Don't forget to breathe. Take your Bible, a few notebooks, your laptop, your banjo, and 5 of your absolute favorite books. Only 5.
Wish me luck, this could prove fatal for me.
Chocolate chips and bottomless cups of coffee,
Xx,
Hannah
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Tuesday Morning
Some things I guess I'll never understand. Like quantum mechanics, and why the sky is blue instead of purple. I'll never understand what makes people react the way they do, and when it comes to family troubles, I will never understand how people can change so suddenly.
I'm never going to understand computers, and I'll probably never understand rocket science. I may never even fully understand how to drive a stick shift.
Sometimes you take for granted the things that you will be able to understand. You think that you'll always be able to understand people, for instance. People you've known since the day you were born, people you've weathered storms with, people you've fought with,and made up with, people you've laughed so hard with that you peed a little on yourself on several different occasions.
Here's the ironic part, though. People are the one thing that we take for granted the most, fooling ourselves into thinking that they're familiar territory and they stand on solid ground. They don't. And they're never truly familiar territory. People are the one part of this life that we understand the absolute least, because nobody can predict the human heart and what it feels so deeply on the inside. Nobody can forge this territory into submission. The ground is mobile.
Though I fight so hard against it, this is a part of life I need to accept.
Today I have my yoga, and my Soul Family. I have coffee in my immediate future, and books, and writing, and long conversations. I wish I could throw myself into it without hesitation, but there is a shadow on my thoughts this morning. A shadow with a history tying it to a part of my life that runs deeper than water underneath earth's surface.
This is the way it's meant to be, though. I validate the pain, and I validate the reservations even though I don't understand them.
Forgive me for my heartache and the tears threatening to fall at every passing thought.
I know my heartache is minimal compared to yours, but its still real, and I need you to respect that.
With love always,
Hannah
I'm never going to understand computers, and I'll probably never understand rocket science. I may never even fully understand how to drive a stick shift.
Sometimes you take for granted the things that you will be able to understand. You think that you'll always be able to understand people, for instance. People you've known since the day you were born, people you've weathered storms with, people you've fought with,and made up with, people you've laughed so hard with that you peed a little on yourself on several different occasions.
Here's the ironic part, though. People are the one thing that we take for granted the most, fooling ourselves into thinking that they're familiar territory and they stand on solid ground. They don't. And they're never truly familiar territory. People are the one part of this life that we understand the absolute least, because nobody can predict the human heart and what it feels so deeply on the inside. Nobody can forge this territory into submission. The ground is mobile.
Though I fight so hard against it, this is a part of life I need to accept.
Today I have my yoga, and my Soul Family. I have coffee in my immediate future, and books, and writing, and long conversations. I wish I could throw myself into it without hesitation, but there is a shadow on my thoughts this morning. A shadow with a history tying it to a part of my life that runs deeper than water underneath earth's surface.
This is the way it's meant to be, though. I validate the pain, and I validate the reservations even though I don't understand them.
Forgive me for my heartache and the tears threatening to fall at every passing thought.
I know my heartache is minimal compared to yours, but its still real, and I need you to respect that.
With love always,
Hannah
Sunday, December 25, 2011
And Mary Said
Quiet time, finally.
Today has been emotional, as Christmas Eves are wont to be every now and then.
Everyone else is asleep in their beds, the world is quiet. Cinnamon rolls are prepped in the fridge, all the remaining presents and stockings have been wrapped and stuffed. Burning low in the window is one white candle, guiding Mary in her journey tonight as she searches for shelter to deliver Jesus unto the world.
"Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God."
This Christmas Eve I sit with my Bible on my lap, and my eyes wander to the rose-scented Rosary on my bookshelf. Tonight, I reflect on Mary.
I reflect on the girl she appeared as.
The woman no one knew her to be.
The fervent servant of God.
The one who found favor with the Lord of Heaven.
I'm sorry to say I've never thought much about Joseph or Mary when it comes to be Christmastime, and that's okay, because the focus should be on the birth of Jesus. Glory to God in the highest, and on Earth peace toward Men.
Tonight, however, I was struck by the words, "You have found favor with God," at the reading of Luke during a candlelit Christmas Eve service.
Oh, that I could find that sort of reverent favor with God.
My study Bible has a few things to say about Mary's character:
"Mary is the recipient of God's grace."
"Mary exhibits true discipleship: submission to God's word and promise."
"Mary is blessed for her faith, but she is most blessed for the privilege of bearing the Son of God."
"Mary's entire being is caught up in praise to God."
"Mary herself is not free from sin, but is in need of a savior."
My favorite reference to Mary is found in Luke 2:19, after the shepherds share what they have been told by Gabriel's host of angels. "But Mary treasured up all these things, pondering them in her heart."
My prayer tonight, and from now on, is that God will open my heart to the strength of faith that Mary had.
That I would be good, and full of faith, and God-given grace. That I would be strong, and unwavering in my trust of the Lord. Humble and obedient, that I too will find favor with the Lord this blessed Christmas season.
"Blessed is she who believed that there would be a fulfillment of what was spoken to her from the Lord." -Luke 1:45
"And Mary said:
My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
For He has looked on the humble estate of His servant.
For behold from now on, all generations will call me blessed,
For He who is mighty has done great things for me, and Holy is His name.
And His mercy is for those who fear Him from generation to generation.
He has shown strength with His arm; He has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.
He has brought down the mighty from their thrones and exalted those of humble estate;
He has filled the hungry with good things, and the rich He has sent away empty.
He has helped His servant Israel, in remembrance of His mercy,
as He spoke to our fathers,
to Abraham and his offspring forever."
Amen and Amen,
Merry Christmas.
Today has been emotional, as Christmas Eves are wont to be every now and then.
Everyone else is asleep in their beds, the world is quiet. Cinnamon rolls are prepped in the fridge, all the remaining presents and stockings have been wrapped and stuffed. Burning low in the window is one white candle, guiding Mary in her journey tonight as she searches for shelter to deliver Jesus unto the world.
"Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God."
This Christmas Eve I sit with my Bible on my lap, and my eyes wander to the rose-scented Rosary on my bookshelf. Tonight, I reflect on Mary.
I reflect on the girl she appeared as.
The woman no one knew her to be.
The fervent servant of God.
The one who found favor with the Lord of Heaven.
I'm sorry to say I've never thought much about Joseph or Mary when it comes to be Christmastime, and that's okay, because the focus should be on the birth of Jesus. Glory to God in the highest, and on Earth peace toward Men.
Tonight, however, I was struck by the words, "You have found favor with God," at the reading of Luke during a candlelit Christmas Eve service.
Oh, that I could find that sort of reverent favor with God.
My study Bible has a few things to say about Mary's character:
"Mary is the recipient of God's grace."
"Mary exhibits true discipleship: submission to God's word and promise."
"Mary is blessed for her faith, but she is most blessed for the privilege of bearing the Son of God."
"Mary's entire being is caught up in praise to God."
"Mary herself is not free from sin, but is in need of a savior."
My favorite reference to Mary is found in Luke 2:19, after the shepherds share what they have been told by Gabriel's host of angels. "But Mary treasured up all these things, pondering them in her heart."
My prayer tonight, and from now on, is that God will open my heart to the strength of faith that Mary had.
That I would be good, and full of faith, and God-given grace. That I would be strong, and unwavering in my trust of the Lord. Humble and obedient, that I too will find favor with the Lord this blessed Christmas season.
"Blessed is she who believed that there would be a fulfillment of what was spoken to her from the Lord." -Luke 1:45
"And Mary said:
My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
For He has looked on the humble estate of His servant.
For behold from now on, all generations will call me blessed,
For He who is mighty has done great things for me, and Holy is His name.
And His mercy is for those who fear Him from generation to generation.
He has shown strength with His arm; He has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.
He has brought down the mighty from their thrones and exalted those of humble estate;
He has filled the hungry with good things, and the rich He has sent away empty.
He has helped His servant Israel, in remembrance of His mercy,
as He spoke to our fathers,
to Abraham and his offspring forever."
Amen and Amen,
Merry Christmas.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Some Thoughts
Sunday Evening Brain Exercisin'. I just realized reading that out loud would sound strangely similar to Sunday Evening Brain Exorcisin'. Typical.
-I wish I was a better writer.
-I wish I had as much diligence towards writing as I do towards keeping my sister's kitchen clean, something at which I am quite professional.
-Nothing says crazy quite like black pants covered in smelly pet hair.
-I wish I wasn't covered in smelly pet hair.
-I wish my sister's dog wasn't so smelly.
-Did I say I wished I was a better writer?
-I wish my niece didn't have nightmares about me leaving without saying goodbye to her.
-I wish I didn't cry so easily.
-I wish I could remember all the words to Songbird so that when I sing them to my nephew, I don't repeat "For you, there'll be no crying," over and over and over again.
-I wish I could remember what time my flight gets into Portland on Tuesday.
-I can't believe I'm going to see Celine Dion live in concert on January 4th.
-I wish I could make cupcakes without actually having to make them because I am lazy and gluttonous.
-Sometimes I wish I still had an 8:30 bedtime.
-I wish I was a better writer.
-I wish I had as much diligence towards writing as I do towards keeping my sister's kitchen clean, something at which I am quite professional.
-Nothing says crazy quite like black pants covered in smelly pet hair.
-I wish I wasn't covered in smelly pet hair.
-I wish my sister's dog wasn't so smelly.
-Did I say I wished I was a better writer?
-I wish my niece didn't have nightmares about me leaving without saying goodbye to her.
-I wish I didn't cry so easily.
-I wish I could remember all the words to Songbird so that when I sing them to my nephew, I don't repeat "For you, there'll be no crying," over and over and over again.
-I wish I could remember what time my flight gets into Portland on Tuesday.
-I can't believe I'm going to see Celine Dion live in concert on January 4th.
-I wish I could make cupcakes without actually having to make them because I am lazy and gluttonous.
-Sometimes I wish I still had an 8:30 bedtime.
Friday, December 2, 2011
Children's Crusade
Then she turned to me, let me see how angry she was, and that the anger was for me. She had been talking to herself, so what she said was a fragment of a much larger conversation. "You were just babies then!" She said.
"What?" I said.
"You were just babies in the war- like the ones upstairs!"
I nodded that this was true. We had been foolish virgins in the war, right at the end of childhood.
"But you're not going to write it that way, are you." This wasn't a question. It was an accusation.
"I-I don't know," I said.
"Well, I know," she said. "You'll pretend you were men instead of babies, and you'll be played in the movies by Frank Sinatra and John Wayne or some of those other, glamorous, war-loving, dirty old men. And war will look just wonderful, so we'll have a lot more of them. And they'll be fought by babies like the babies upstairs."
So then I understood. It was war that made her so angry. She didn't want her babies or anybody else's babies killed in wars.
Kurt Vonnegut. Slaughterhouse Five.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Giving of Thanks
I'm the first one awake in my house. I've got a cup of tea next to me, warm sheepskin boots on my feet, the fire is crackling away in the fireplace and Nat King Cole is softly crooning The Christmas Song thanks to a little Holiday Pandora.
It's Thanksgiving today, lovers. I've woken up early because the responsibility of our yearly tradition of Sticky Buns on Thanksgiving Morning was given to me this year, or rather, I took the responsibility upon myself. I wanted to make sure they got made this year. You see, we're being all sorts of untraditional this year and instead of having the normal 20-30 people at our house for the world's best homemade Thanksgiving dinner, we're not cooking anything. Except for the Sticky Buns. We're going out to dinner tonight, to a beautiful restaurant by the Columbia River called Salty's. Bottomless champagne, an all-you-can-eat Thanksgiving Buffet, and world class views of one of this country's most stunning rivers. I'm desperately looking forward to the buckets of iced crab legs that will be floating around like jars of savory, spidery fairy dust. I won't even mention the crab and lobster mac-and-cheese on the menu, or the three different types of stuffing for the cider-roasted turkey. I'm excited for something a little different, this year, if you can't tell, and the diehard foodie in my is, well, dying to be the patron of a blissful food-induced coma after dinner.
That's not what this post was supposed to be about, though. As I sit here waiting for the sticky buns to come to room temperature so I can put them in the oven and fill the house with warm, cinnamony, buttery smells, I've been thinking a lot about gratitude, and why it is that we set aside one day every year to be thankful for the blessings we've been given.
I've been severely blessed by many wonderful and beautiful things and people in my life, and something about Frank Sinatra singing Christmas songs just makes you all sorts of weepy and emotional, so here I go.
Here's my grown-up (but not too grown-up) Thanksgiving list:
And no, that is not all that I am thankful for, but I'm pretty sure that sums up most of my life fairly well.
My greatest wishes and blessings to you and yours this wonderful Holiday, and the rest of this beloved Holiday season.
Wishing you all the stuffing, sweet potatoes and floating crab legs in the world,
It's Thanksgiving today, lovers. I've woken up early because the responsibility of our yearly tradition of Sticky Buns on Thanksgiving Morning was given to me this year, or rather, I took the responsibility upon myself. I wanted to make sure they got made this year. You see, we're being all sorts of untraditional this year and instead of having the normal 20-30 people at our house for the world's best homemade Thanksgiving dinner, we're not cooking anything. Except for the Sticky Buns. We're going out to dinner tonight, to a beautiful restaurant by the Columbia River called Salty's. Bottomless champagne, an all-you-can-eat Thanksgiving Buffet, and world class views of one of this country's most stunning rivers. I'm desperately looking forward to the buckets of iced crab legs that will be floating around like jars of savory, spidery fairy dust. I won't even mention the crab and lobster mac-and-cheese on the menu, or the three different types of stuffing for the cider-roasted turkey. I'm excited for something a little different, this year, if you can't tell, and the diehard foodie in my is, well, dying to be the patron of a blissful food-induced coma after dinner.
That's not what this post was supposed to be about, though. As I sit here waiting for the sticky buns to come to room temperature so I can put them in the oven and fill the house with warm, cinnamony, buttery smells, I've been thinking a lot about gratitude, and why it is that we set aside one day every year to be thankful for the blessings we've been given.
I've been severely blessed by many wonderful and beautiful things and people in my life, and something about Frank Sinatra singing Christmas songs just makes you all sorts of weepy and emotional, so here I go.
Here's my grown-up (but not too grown-up) Thanksgiving list:
- I'm thankful for the wonderful and comforting God-fearing family that our Father has placed me in. We've been through so much together, and every year brings new trials and tribulations for us all. Yet He is faithful to us, and He heals and guides and loves us, and brings us closer in new ways every day. Something that sometimes, feels absolutely impossible.
- I'm thankful for the faithful and loving friends that light up my life. Friends that do their absolute best to understand me and love me even when they don't succeed in understanding my trivialities, and also when I don't deserve to be loved.
- I'm thankful for the beautiful home that I've lived in for the past five years, and all the beautiful homes I lived in before this one. Thankful for electricity and running water and gas stoves, and also the usage of my beautiful and striking Vitamix juicer.
- I'm thankful for the passions that God has given me. I'm thankful for the world of literature, and art, and great feeling. I'm thankful for writing, without which I would be obtuse and deficient. I'm thankful for music, and the way it can change the world. I'm thankful for cooking, and the comfort it brings.
- I'm thankful for my possessions. I'm thankful for my astounding and cherished collection of books. My three beautiful guitars. My frustrating, yet worthy laptop. My inspiring typewriter. My picture frames filled with incandescent memories. My framed posters of Audrey Hepburn and the Beatles... and that one framed black and white movie photograph of Michael Corleone that my father sinfully covets everytime he comes into my room. :)
- I'm thankful for my Cerebral Cortex, and the association it has with keeping and storing memories. I'm thankful for having a healthy Cerebral Cortex, and I'm thankful for every one of those irreplaceable memories.
- I'm thankful for the dreams I've been blessed with. I'm thankful for who they shape me to be, and the determination they foster with love and nurture with care.
- I'm thankful for this beautiful and hopeful world I live in. I'm thankful for the faith I have in the good of humanity, and I'm thankful for the united strive towards Peace that people share.
- I'm thankful for Oregon and the freedom to be strange and unusual and individual, and also be accepted for all of those things.
- I'm thankful for Disney films, and lastly, I'm thankful for Bon Jovi.
And no, that is not all that I am thankful for, but I'm pretty sure that sums up most of my life fairly well.
My greatest wishes and blessings to you and yours this wonderful Holiday, and the rest of this beloved Holiday season.
Wishing you all the stuffing, sweet potatoes and floating crab legs in the world,
Xx,
Hannah
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Dreams
I told Raelyn on Saturday that I wanted to start listening to more Fleetwood Mac because I sort of felt as though I could gain all sorts of valuable insight and writing inspiration from their music.
So now I'm listening to Rumours on repeat, because I figured it was a good place to start, being one of the best-selling albums ever made and all.
The music is incredible, and I'm remembering just how many great songs came from this band; I've listened to Songbird three times in a row just now. I am finding the inspiration I hoped for, but not the inspiration I started out looking for. This inspiration is more or less just for living life the way it should be lived: with great feeling.
There are some things in life that we all take for granted sometimes, and I think our feelings are one of them. I don't want to live like that anymore. Numbness is not an option; let the waters come.
There are only so many moments that we have to experience being overwhelmed. Overwhelmed with love, exhaustion, excitement, sadness, fear, joy, hurt. Each moment of siege is unparalleled. Why shouldn't we celebrate that?
To think, they all lived their great feeling so much that all of their hurt and heartache and love was channeled into writing eleven of the most popular songs of all time. And now their great feeling has had the opportunity to inspire, and now we've come full circle.
About an hour ago, I read something that made me incandescently happy, and even if it was an unusual way to be moved, I refuse to feel anything but happiness about it.
Passion is not for the faint of heart.
I have chosen to live my life with great feeling, with passion, and therefore, hiding and smothering are not of my nature.
So I listen to Rumours, and I smile, knowing that passion is a gift given to make this world a beautiful, art-filled place.
Would you look at that? Yet another something to celebrate...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=02ZKmCQl3vw&list=PL6A8B0765C13A0878&feature=mh_lolz
Xx,
Hannah
So now I'm listening to Rumours on repeat, because I figured it was a good place to start, being one of the best-selling albums ever made and all.
The music is incredible, and I'm remembering just how many great songs came from this band; I've listened to Songbird three times in a row just now. I am finding the inspiration I hoped for, but not the inspiration I started out looking for. This inspiration is more or less just for living life the way it should be lived: with great feeling.
There are some things in life that we all take for granted sometimes, and I think our feelings are one of them. I don't want to live like that anymore. Numbness is not an option; let the waters come.
There are only so many moments that we have to experience being overwhelmed. Overwhelmed with love, exhaustion, excitement, sadness, fear, joy, hurt. Each moment of siege is unparalleled. Why shouldn't we celebrate that?
To think, they all lived their great feeling so much that all of their hurt and heartache and love was channeled into writing eleven of the most popular songs of all time. And now their great feeling has had the opportunity to inspire, and now we've come full circle.
About an hour ago, I read something that made me incandescently happy, and even if it was an unusual way to be moved, I refuse to feel anything but happiness about it.
Passion is not for the faint of heart.
I have chosen to live my life with great feeling, with passion, and therefore, hiding and smothering are not of my nature.
So I listen to Rumours, and I smile, knowing that passion is a gift given to make this world a beautiful, art-filled place.
Would you look at that? Yet another something to celebrate...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=02ZKmCQl3vw&list=PL6A8B0765C13A0878&feature=mh_lolz
Xx,
Hannah
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Holden Caulfield
Dear Holden,
I never thought that I could be physically angry at someone for not existing, but I want you to know I am personally holding you responsible for not being real, and am acting out in upset and volatile manners because of it.
I'm very weak, Holden. Did you know that?
I'm guessing you didn't, but that's why I'm telling you now to make up for it.
I'm so weak that I've discovered I'm one of those people who feel they need to be loved in order to be happy. I swear to God I mean it. It disgusts me too. But the problem is, I mean it. I know it's crazy.
Did you know that you're also weak, Holden? And I'd even go so far to say that you're weak in the same area as me. But there's no way you'd ever admit it, is there?
I'm so weak, Holden, that I'm filing a complaint to a fictional character about how irksome and inconvenient it is to me that they are not a real human being.
You know, if you were real, I'd be so head over heels in love with you. I really honestly already am. Very big deal.
It kills me to realize all of this. I mean, what a disappointment I am. What a slob. If anything, I'm the pond scum that lives on the bottom of the slob's shoe, if you know what I mean.
Do you know what I mean?
The problem with being in love with you, Holden, or one of the problems anyway, is that I have to rationalize with myself over and over again that it's impossible for you to love me back. Which is really quite the downer, because I honestly think we'd be good together, if I may speak candidly.
In some sick, strange way I understand you and all your disaffected sarcasm and blatantly hurtful honesty. Your delivery is weak, and less-than-compelling, but I do believe your intentions are good. Underneath all of that depression and hopelessness, you're really very bright and full of faith. You want to believe in humanity, don't you? I know, because I do too.
Something about you makes me pick up Catcher over and over and over again without tiring or growing bored of the same old story. That's got to mean something, am I right?
But let's get back to the honesty bit. If we were together, I wouldn't try to change you. I wouldn't have to. I don't think we'd be together forever, neither of us is the type to be built to last with someone too similar to us, but I think we could stick it out for a good, long while. And we'd be happy. Sort of. Maybe not so much happy as much as we'd be okay. I wouldn't be lonely, and you wouldn't be depressed anymore.
And you could say the sort of crap to me that you say to everybody else, and I swear I wouldn't get all offended by it. I wouldn't hit the ceiling like good old Sally Hayes did when you called her a royal pain your ass. Honest, I wouldn't. I'd probably call you a pain in my ass just to dish it right back at you. If there's one thing I can't stand, it's a girl who takes crap like that and doesn't dish it right back out. I mean, what else were we given mouths for, you know?
But all of this is a very big deal for no reason at all, because you're only some fictional character. And even though I'm in love with you, kid, the love's not real either.
And that's showbiz.
So you'll stay immortalized on paper, always close to my heart, and on my nightstand, and I'll just have to accept that.
Thanks for all the inspiration, golden Holden.
You're a real dream.
With lasting affection,
Hannah
I never thought that I could be physically angry at someone for not existing, but I want you to know I am personally holding you responsible for not being real, and am acting out in upset and volatile manners because of it.
I'm very weak, Holden. Did you know that?
I'm guessing you didn't, but that's why I'm telling you now to make up for it.
I'm so weak that I've discovered I'm one of those people who feel they need to be loved in order to be happy. I swear to God I mean it. It disgusts me too. But the problem is, I mean it. I know it's crazy.
Did you know that you're also weak, Holden? And I'd even go so far to say that you're weak in the same area as me. But there's no way you'd ever admit it, is there?
I'm so weak, Holden, that I'm filing a complaint to a fictional character about how irksome and inconvenient it is to me that they are not a real human being.
You know, if you were real, I'd be so head over heels in love with you. I really honestly already am. Very big deal.
It kills me to realize all of this. I mean, what a disappointment I am. What a slob. If anything, I'm the pond scum that lives on the bottom of the slob's shoe, if you know what I mean.
Do you know what I mean?
The problem with being in love with you, Holden, or one of the problems anyway, is that I have to rationalize with myself over and over again that it's impossible for you to love me back. Which is really quite the downer, because I honestly think we'd be good together, if I may speak candidly.
In some sick, strange way I understand you and all your disaffected sarcasm and blatantly hurtful honesty. Your delivery is weak, and less-than-compelling, but I do believe your intentions are good. Underneath all of that depression and hopelessness, you're really very bright and full of faith. You want to believe in humanity, don't you? I know, because I do too.
Something about you makes me pick up Catcher over and over and over again without tiring or growing bored of the same old story. That's got to mean something, am I right?
But let's get back to the honesty bit. If we were together, I wouldn't try to change you. I wouldn't have to. I don't think we'd be together forever, neither of us is the type to be built to last with someone too similar to us, but I think we could stick it out for a good, long while. And we'd be happy. Sort of. Maybe not so much happy as much as we'd be okay. I wouldn't be lonely, and you wouldn't be depressed anymore.
And you could say the sort of crap to me that you say to everybody else, and I swear I wouldn't get all offended by it. I wouldn't hit the ceiling like good old Sally Hayes did when you called her a royal pain your ass. Honest, I wouldn't. I'd probably call you a pain in my ass just to dish it right back at you. If there's one thing I can't stand, it's a girl who takes crap like that and doesn't dish it right back out. I mean, what else were we given mouths for, you know?
But all of this is a very big deal for no reason at all, because you're only some fictional character. And even though I'm in love with you, kid, the love's not real either.
And that's showbiz.
So you'll stay immortalized on paper, always close to my heart, and on my nightstand, and I'll just have to accept that.
Thanks for all the inspiration, golden Holden.
You're a real dream.
With lasting affection,
Hannah
Thursday, November 10, 2011
It Is What It Is
Lovers,
It's been over a week since my last post, and I've missed you. I've noticed by looking over my archives that my updates lately have been rather droll, rather deathly and less poignant than I'd like them to be.
I'm not that dark of a person, I do swear.
And so, this post promises to be more lighthearted, as my mood today reflects wonderment. That's actually what I prayed for this morning, for God to make my face and my heart reflect His mercy and peace and love.
We'll see how it goes. I have a willing mind, but my heart and sinful nature are stubborn, unrelenting. Determined to be unmoved and sinister. Still, they're fighting a loosing battle when it comes to God, aren't they?
Life is moving on lately at a whirlwind sort of pace. The days are flying by until my departure for the coast; less than two months remain. I've been getting all sorts of updates from Ecola in the mail, reminding me to fill out background check forms, and to buy a new Study Bible, to remember candles are not allowed in the dorm rooms (NO CANDLES? WHAT?!?!) to advise me to bring flashlights for power outages, to accept a flashy Ecola t-shirt, their gift to me free of charge.
It's all very surreal to me, logically sound and acceptable, but otherwise totally and completely outlandish and foreign. I like it.
Unfortunately, I have a lot more time on my hands than normal right now as my hours were cut at work a few weeks ago, due to extreme and damaging construction on all 4 sides of the restaurant. North, South, East and West. Customers just aren't fighting the gloom and doom warning signs to come for a bite of pizza and lovely hour of conversation. I used to work Wed-Sat and now I'm only scheduled for Fridays and Saturdays. This week I'm only working Friday, because I had to take Saturday off for a wedding.
I never thought I would miss it this much, but I guess it's really more fortunate than un, because now I have the time to get my life together before leaving, comprende?
For instance, my mom and I made a list the other day.
Hannah's To-Do Before Ecola:
It's been over a week since my last post, and I've missed you. I've noticed by looking over my archives that my updates lately have been rather droll, rather deathly and less poignant than I'd like them to be.
I'm not that dark of a person, I do swear.
And so, this post promises to be more lighthearted, as my mood today reflects wonderment. That's actually what I prayed for this morning, for God to make my face and my heart reflect His mercy and peace and love.
We'll see how it goes. I have a willing mind, but my heart and sinful nature are stubborn, unrelenting. Determined to be unmoved and sinister. Still, they're fighting a loosing battle when it comes to God, aren't they?
Life is moving on lately at a whirlwind sort of pace. The days are flying by until my departure for the coast; less than two months remain. I've been getting all sorts of updates from Ecola in the mail, reminding me to fill out background check forms, and to buy a new Study Bible, to remember candles are not allowed in the dorm rooms (NO CANDLES? WHAT?!?!) to advise me to bring flashlights for power outages, to accept a flashy Ecola t-shirt, their gift to me free of charge.
It's all very surreal to me, logically sound and acceptable, but otherwise totally and completely outlandish and foreign. I like it.
Unfortunately, I have a lot more time on my hands than normal right now as my hours were cut at work a few weeks ago, due to extreme and damaging construction on all 4 sides of the restaurant. North, South, East and West. Customers just aren't fighting the gloom and doom warning signs to come for a bite of pizza and lovely hour of conversation. I used to work Wed-Sat and now I'm only scheduled for Fridays and Saturdays. This week I'm only working Friday, because I had to take Saturday off for a wedding.
I never thought I would miss it this much, but I guess it's really more fortunate than un, because now I have the time to get my life together before leaving, comprende?
For instance, my mom and I made a list the other day.
Hannah's To-Do Before Ecola:
- Get eyes checked
- Get teeth cleaned (You know, because things like these are vitally important in my family.)
- Organize closet and set aside clothes
- Trip to IKEA for dorm junk like sheets and an alarm clock
- Apply to the conference center
- Apply to PSU
- Switch banks, and get a real debit card
- Replace battery in my laptop. (Sigh.)
- Reread driver's manual
- Get License
- Get Car (which I had, until the Turkish gentleman we had bought it from kindly decided he wanted it back to sell to his wife's coworker who, apparently, threw a hissyfit upon learning they had sold the car to somebody else. I refrain from using the choice words here that I used the other day to vent my frustration.)
- Finish Gospel Reconciliation (Which is a book that I promised my dad I would finish before I left for Ecola, that I am now sincerely regretting because time is tick-tick-ticking away and I've barely even scratched the surface, and it's not a very thrilling on-the-edge-of-your-seat sort of read. Everytime I crack it open, I end up napping.)
- Maintain friendships in this time of extreme "Do-Or-DIE"
- Oh, and also go to Florida for a week to watch my sister give birth, be the first one to see the baby, celebrate four family birthdays and sing lots of Christmas Carols and tra-la-la-the-Holiday-Roast! (This I am looking forward to the most.)
- Schedule time for Becca to come down over Christmas break. (Yes, Becca, that is literally on our list.)
Have I stressed you out yet?
Oh, well. The only thing I can really say about the whole thing is "It is what it is." Which has become my new philosophy over the past month.
My parents and I spent three and a half hours last night watching all of Godfather, part II and I got some good wisdom from that, so I don't feel as stressed today as I did yesterday. Easily calmed, much?
That's all for now, lovers. I simply must get on with my day.
That's all for now, lovers. I simply must get on with my day.
I hope this finds you all well!
Wishing you all the clarity, love, peace and chocolate chips this earth can allow,
Wishing you all the clarity, love, peace and chocolate chips this earth can allow,
Xx,
Hannah
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
The Art of Choosing Bogarts
Well, Halloween is over. As of five minutes ago, it's now officially All Saint's Day.
I wish I knew a saint to tell you about, but unfortunately, I have no saint-age in my religious background. Except for the obvious ones like Saint Mary. And Paul. Does Jesus count?
I just finished watching Graveyard Shift and have developed an entirely new fear of rats. Well, okay, that's not true. It was a fear I already had, due to that one awful scene in 2 Fast 2 Furious with the rat and the bucket and the torch, but it kind of intensified just now. A lot.
The rats weren't the scariest part, though. And neither was the gross bat-pig-rat-like creature of the deep that fed on unknowing and injured cotton mill workers (although, I must admit, creatures from the deep are never scary, in my opinion). The scariest part of the movie was watching everyone go crazy with fear.
I realized that the power of fear is more terrifying than anything else.
Everytime I watch a Stephen King movie, I go through this thing where I sit for awhile and ponder just how I plan on going crazy in my old age, whether it's from the power of fear, or not. Like after I watched The Shining for the first time. I had to completely rethink my life and the likelihood of a normal, healthy aging process.
There's so many types of crazy, you know? Don't you ever wonder what mental illness you're prone to?
I do. All the time.
I mean, honestly. I could go bi-polar. I could start seeing things. I could hear voices. I could develop a complex. I could start murdering people in cold blood. I could start hoarding, or develop OCD.
I could do all of those things, realistically, but I think the only valid and probable mental incongruency I would develop would be multiple personality disorder.
In fact, I know I would.
All writers have some form of multiple personality disorder, in my opinion. It goes unnoticed, however, because we're actively expressing the disorder through the development of characters and plotlines. It's not locked inside our minds. Our illness is alive in our words.
And I'm okay with the idea of developing multiple personalities.
I'd rather do that, than start hearing voices. Or seeing things. Or feeling bugs crawling underneath my skin nonstop. At least with MPD you aren't conscious of what's going on when the "alters" are in control. You can't hear them whispering things in your ear. You just become them for awhile.
Things like these fascinate me. I'm alternately terrified and enthralled by the world of the psychologically insane.
So are a few of my friends, which is absolutely wonderful, because then we get to have the most stimulating and controversial discussions ever. Like last week, we discussed the sanity of serial killers and whether or not they're inexplicably cruel animals or intellectually unsurpassed geniuses.
All this to say: I'm too keyed up to sleep. But not because I'm terrified to move from this spot on the couch, just because I'm all thoughtful and contemplative now.
Although, because it was Halloween, there's a lot of updates about Paranormal Activity 3 in my various minifeeds, and I'm trying not to remember the time I decided it would be a good idea to watch the first one all by myself late at night.
Because let's be honest, here, folks: I still have nightmares about that movie. Give me ghost stories, vampires, campy werewolf monster horror, zombies, psycho thrillers, aliens, even killer clowns, and I'll be fine. But when you throw demons, exorcisms, hauntings and paranormal entities into the mix: I am the biggest basket case on the planet. Nothing terrifies me more. Well, I also deeply dislike cannibalism. But that's more irrational than anything else.
So, don't ask me why I watched it in the first place, because I really can't tell you why.
And now that I've started thinking about it, I am a little bit terrified to go to bed.
I need a man, you know?
But let's not go down that road, either. That might be the most terrifying road of all.
Regardless of what I'm afraid of, it's been a fine Halloween this year, and even though it doesn't really bother me, I am still glad it's over. The Holiday Season can officially begin. 54 sleeps 'til Christmas!
Yeow.
Sweet dreams, lovers.
XOXO and Chocolate Chips to boot,
Hannah
I wish I knew a saint to tell you about, but unfortunately, I have no saint-age in my religious background. Except for the obvious ones like Saint Mary. And Paul. Does Jesus count?
I just finished watching Graveyard Shift and have developed an entirely new fear of rats. Well, okay, that's not true. It was a fear I already had, due to that one awful scene in 2 Fast 2 Furious with the rat and the bucket and the torch, but it kind of intensified just now. A lot.
The rats weren't the scariest part, though. And neither was the gross bat-pig-rat-like creature of the deep that fed on unknowing and injured cotton mill workers (although, I must admit, creatures from the deep are never scary, in my opinion). The scariest part of the movie was watching everyone go crazy with fear.
I realized that the power of fear is more terrifying than anything else.
Everytime I watch a Stephen King movie, I go through this thing where I sit for awhile and ponder just how I plan on going crazy in my old age, whether it's from the power of fear, or not. Like after I watched The Shining for the first time. I had to completely rethink my life and the likelihood of a normal, healthy aging process.
There's so many types of crazy, you know? Don't you ever wonder what mental illness you're prone to?
I do. All the time.
I mean, honestly. I could go bi-polar. I could start seeing things. I could hear voices. I could develop a complex. I could start murdering people in cold blood. I could start hoarding, or develop OCD.
I could do all of those things, realistically, but I think the only valid and probable mental incongruency I would develop would be multiple personality disorder.
In fact, I know I would.
All writers have some form of multiple personality disorder, in my opinion. It goes unnoticed, however, because we're actively expressing the disorder through the development of characters and plotlines. It's not locked inside our minds. Our illness is alive in our words.
And I'm okay with the idea of developing multiple personalities.
I'd rather do that, than start hearing voices. Or seeing things. Or feeling bugs crawling underneath my skin nonstop. At least with MPD you aren't conscious of what's going on when the "alters" are in control. You can't hear them whispering things in your ear. You just become them for awhile.
Things like these fascinate me. I'm alternately terrified and enthralled by the world of the psychologically insane.
So are a few of my friends, which is absolutely wonderful, because then we get to have the most stimulating and controversial discussions ever. Like last week, we discussed the sanity of serial killers and whether or not they're inexplicably cruel animals or intellectually unsurpassed geniuses.
All this to say: I'm too keyed up to sleep. But not because I'm terrified to move from this spot on the couch, just because I'm all thoughtful and contemplative now.
Although, because it was Halloween, there's a lot of updates about Paranormal Activity 3 in my various minifeeds, and I'm trying not to remember the time I decided it would be a good idea to watch the first one all by myself late at night.
Because let's be honest, here, folks: I still have nightmares about that movie. Give me ghost stories, vampires, campy werewolf monster horror, zombies, psycho thrillers, aliens, even killer clowns, and I'll be fine. But when you throw demons, exorcisms, hauntings and paranormal entities into the mix: I am the biggest basket case on the planet. Nothing terrifies me more. Well, I also deeply dislike cannibalism. But that's more irrational than anything else.
So, don't ask me why I watched it in the first place, because I really can't tell you why.
And now that I've started thinking about it, I am a little bit terrified to go to bed.
I need a man, you know?
But let's not go down that road, either. That might be the most terrifying road of all.
Regardless of what I'm afraid of, it's been a fine Halloween this year, and even though it doesn't really bother me, I am still glad it's over. The Holiday Season can officially begin. 54 sleeps 'til Christmas!
Yeow.
Sweet dreams, lovers.
XOXO and Chocolate Chips to boot,
Hannah
Monday, October 31, 2011
The Rev
Okay, lovers.
I'm sending this straight to you on a mission of urgency and beautiful music.
So go grab yourself a foamy cup of hot coffee and some rainclouds, sit back and be moved.
Hugs, kisses and chocolate chips.
<3
I'm sending this straight to you on a mission of urgency and beautiful music.
So go grab yourself a foamy cup of hot coffee and some rainclouds, sit back and be moved.
Hugs, kisses and chocolate chips.
<3
Friday, October 28, 2011
Pivoting
'The time has come', the walrus said,
'To talk of many things:
Of shoes- and ships- and sealing-wax-
Of cabbages- and kings-
And why the sea is boiling hot-
And whether pigs have wings.'
-Lewis Carroll
The time has indeed come to talk of wondrous things. Things of heartache, and melancholy. Things of decisions, and ambiguity. Things that cannot be comprehended without the power of words behind them.
Words are wondrous things. They are weighty, and come with heavy responsibility. They can transform and heal, they can dissect and destroy. Who are we to understand them?
And yet, we do.
I've put some new quotes on the fridge today.
A quote for acceptance:
"How 'bout me not blaming you for everything.
How 'bout me enjoying the moment for once.
How 'bout how good it feels to finally forgive you.
How 'bout grieving it all one at a time.
Thank you, India.
Thank you, Terror.
Thank you, Disillusionment.
Thank you, Frailty.
Thank you, Consequence.
Thank you, thank you, Silence."
-Thank U- Alanis Morissette
A quote for grace:
"If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them."
-Henry David Thoreau
A quote for healing. A quote that made me cry when I first saw it at a Craft Warehouse a few days ago. A quote that made my mother cry as she also looked at it for the first time, and we hugged our sorrow and indignation out in that aisle, surrounded by family quotes and all-too-fresh remembrances of what we've recently lost. Which ultimately, is a story for another time.
"Nobody can drive you crazy unless you give them the keys."
-Anonymous
And last of all, a quote for encouragement. A quote that has meant the world to me time and time again.
"Keep on beginning and failing. Each time you fail, start all over again, and you will grow stronger until you have accomplished a purpose- not the one you began with, perhaps, but one you'll be glad to remember."
-Anne Sullivan
Pivotal moments are what each of these quotes represent to me. Pivotal moments that have changed life as I knew it. Signals, flashing red and yellow lights. Obstacles, signs, visionary moments of reveal.
"Speaking words of wisdom, let it be, let it be."
I knew I needed to change the quotes on the fridge today because not only did I feel it was time to start the cycle again, but because I knew it was time to pivot. It was time to be overwhelmed by the end of life as I know it right now.
This morning I made myself breakfast as I listened to a playlist particularly ripe with memories. I didn't think anything of it as I fried the turkey bacon and sipped my hot, strong cup of coffee. I didn't even have to think about what I was doing, I never really do when I'm making food. Everything just goes together, it always has.
Before I knew it, a completely assembled open-faced breakfast sandwich was sitting before me on the counter. Ezekiel bread, sharp cheddar cheese, two overeasy eggs, turkey bacon, sliced tomatoes.
Dido on the iPod dock behind me; and I realized that as I stood with a cup of coffee in my hand and a hot plate of warm breakfast in front of me, I felt like the ruler of the world.
When I cook, when I make food, I feel like a goddess. Nothing can touch me.
Writing is something that I love more than life itself, when I think of how much I yearn for it, and how much I would sacrifice and give for it, I want to cry. Tears well up behind my eyes because nothing I do can free me quite like writing can. But it comes at a very high price. For every feeling of happiness, euphoria and relief that it brings, there is twofold of pain. No matter what it is that I write, a huge part of me is taken away once the words hit the paper. Writing is something that I have to give myself to over and over and over again. I sacrifice a part of me for everything I write, and it never gets easier, it never gets less painful or less exhausting.
Am I complaining? Never. I've been given a gift. I have a way with words and I would never exchange that for anything less harmful.
But cooking doesn't hurt me. It doesn't split me into a thousand tiny pieces and it doesn't make me sad. Writing is what I'm good at, it's who I am. But cooking is what heals me.
And I think that's why I'm going back to it, all of the sudden.
There's a 12 week course at an infamous cooking school in Ireland called Ballymaloe, and I think that's where I'm going after bible school. The only way I'm going to be able to travel and meet people, have life-changing experiences and eat amazing food is if I'm writing about the food that I'm eating.
Students at Ballymaloe have gone on into various fields including restauranteering, becoming private chefs on yachts, and food journalism. Food writing. Travel writing.
I've been sitting tight on this for a week, now, but it's not the first time I've encountered this school, or this thought process. I researched it fairly extensively a year and a half ago, but ruled it out when I ruled out Le Cordon Bleu and the Art Institute culinary programs. I didn't want them, even after multiple interviews, so I figured I wouldn't want Ballymaloe either.
And then by chance last week at my doctor's office, I came across an article about the school in one of the magazines. And so I ran the numbers, and I told my mom.
I'm not making any plans because my plans have never worked out in the past. But I'm feeling happy about it. I'm feeling peaceful. And that to me is more important that figuring everything out right now, anyways.
Who knows where it could take me?
Maybe someday after that, I'll go to bartender's school. Maybe I don't need a four-year college degree. Maybe I just want to learn a little about a lot, instead of a lot about a little.
Pivotal moments. The end of life as I know it.
'To talk of many things:
Of shoes- and ships- and sealing-wax-
Of cabbages- and kings-
And why the sea is boiling hot-
And whether pigs have wings.'
-Lewis Carroll
The time has indeed come to talk of wondrous things. Things of heartache, and melancholy. Things of decisions, and ambiguity. Things that cannot be comprehended without the power of words behind them.
Words are wondrous things. They are weighty, and come with heavy responsibility. They can transform and heal, they can dissect and destroy. Who are we to understand them?
And yet, we do.
I've put some new quotes on the fridge today.
A quote for acceptance:
"How 'bout me not blaming you for everything.
How 'bout me enjoying the moment for once.
How 'bout how good it feels to finally forgive you.
How 'bout grieving it all one at a time.
Thank you, India.
Thank you, Terror.
Thank you, Disillusionment.
Thank you, Frailty.
Thank you, Consequence.
Thank you, thank you, Silence."
-Thank U- Alanis Morissette
A quote for grace:
"If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them."
-Henry David Thoreau
A quote for healing. A quote that made me cry when I first saw it at a Craft Warehouse a few days ago. A quote that made my mother cry as she also looked at it for the first time, and we hugged our sorrow and indignation out in that aisle, surrounded by family quotes and all-too-fresh remembrances of what we've recently lost. Which ultimately, is a story for another time.
"Nobody can drive you crazy unless you give them the keys."
-Anonymous
And last of all, a quote for encouragement. A quote that has meant the world to me time and time again.
"Keep on beginning and failing. Each time you fail, start all over again, and you will grow stronger until you have accomplished a purpose- not the one you began with, perhaps, but one you'll be glad to remember."
-Anne Sullivan
Pivotal moments are what each of these quotes represent to me. Pivotal moments that have changed life as I knew it. Signals, flashing red and yellow lights. Obstacles, signs, visionary moments of reveal.
"Speaking words of wisdom, let it be, let it be."
I knew I needed to change the quotes on the fridge today because not only did I feel it was time to start the cycle again, but because I knew it was time to pivot. It was time to be overwhelmed by the end of life as I know it right now.
This morning I made myself breakfast as I listened to a playlist particularly ripe with memories. I didn't think anything of it as I fried the turkey bacon and sipped my hot, strong cup of coffee. I didn't even have to think about what I was doing, I never really do when I'm making food. Everything just goes together, it always has.
Before I knew it, a completely assembled open-faced breakfast sandwich was sitting before me on the counter. Ezekiel bread, sharp cheddar cheese, two overeasy eggs, turkey bacon, sliced tomatoes.
Dido on the iPod dock behind me; and I realized that as I stood with a cup of coffee in my hand and a hot plate of warm breakfast in front of me, I felt like the ruler of the world.
When I cook, when I make food, I feel like a goddess. Nothing can touch me.
Writing is something that I love more than life itself, when I think of how much I yearn for it, and how much I would sacrifice and give for it, I want to cry. Tears well up behind my eyes because nothing I do can free me quite like writing can. But it comes at a very high price. For every feeling of happiness, euphoria and relief that it brings, there is twofold of pain. No matter what it is that I write, a huge part of me is taken away once the words hit the paper. Writing is something that I have to give myself to over and over and over again. I sacrifice a part of me for everything I write, and it never gets easier, it never gets less painful or less exhausting.
Am I complaining? Never. I've been given a gift. I have a way with words and I would never exchange that for anything less harmful.
But cooking doesn't hurt me. It doesn't split me into a thousand tiny pieces and it doesn't make me sad. Writing is what I'm good at, it's who I am. But cooking is what heals me.
And I think that's why I'm going back to it, all of the sudden.
There's a 12 week course at an infamous cooking school in Ireland called Ballymaloe, and I think that's where I'm going after bible school. The only way I'm going to be able to travel and meet people, have life-changing experiences and eat amazing food is if I'm writing about the food that I'm eating.
Students at Ballymaloe have gone on into various fields including restauranteering, becoming private chefs on yachts, and food journalism. Food writing. Travel writing.
I've been sitting tight on this for a week, now, but it's not the first time I've encountered this school, or this thought process. I researched it fairly extensively a year and a half ago, but ruled it out when I ruled out Le Cordon Bleu and the Art Institute culinary programs. I didn't want them, even after multiple interviews, so I figured I wouldn't want Ballymaloe either.
And then by chance last week at my doctor's office, I came across an article about the school in one of the magazines. And so I ran the numbers, and I told my mom.
I'm not making any plans because my plans have never worked out in the past. But I'm feeling happy about it. I'm feeling peaceful. And that to me is more important that figuring everything out right now, anyways.
Who knows where it could take me?
Maybe someday after that, I'll go to bartender's school. Maybe I don't need a four-year college degree. Maybe I just want to learn a little about a lot, instead of a lot about a little.
Pivotal moments. The end of life as I know it.
Work Stories
The decision has been made at work that we're required to dress up tomorrow night, in honor of it being the Saturday-Before-Halloween. Apparently we're all going to be pirates. Needless to say, I'm not exactly thrilled about donning a scarf and boots just to seat people so they can eat their pizza and laugh at us, but whatever. I get that we're just trying to spread some cheer. Or something.
A few of us were talking about it last night, and trying to figure out how on earth to dress up without actually having to dress up, when I jokingly told my coworker that he should put a fake parrot on his shoulder. This led him to confess that at one time in his life, he owned 72 birds. Among which were 5 cockateels and 1 parrot.
72 birds.
As the evening wore on, and conversations had run amok as they usually do, it had been unofficially decided we were switching from pirates to hippies. Unofficial meaning by the time I left, everyone was so muddled and unsure, that the term "Hippy Pirate" was coined to describe our costume guidelines. I guess I'll find out tonight exactly what that means.
I was busing one of the booths last night and I couldn't help but overhear a phrase uttered by a customer in the adjoining booth. "I didn't get your inside joke to Darci." A thousand questions immediately poured into my thoughts. I carefully observed the situation. A wife, a husband, and their tweenage daughter. Judging by the length of time it took for the husband to respond to his wife's unsettling question, I jumped to the ultimate conclusion that he was having a lurid affair.
Who else could Darci be? Maybe Darci was a coworker. An old flame. An old friend who was really much more than that. Where had they been that the wife was in the same surroundings as Darci? A work party? A soccer game? Was Darci the babysitter?
I looked for a moment at the young girl's face. I looked away and left the table shiny and wet behind me.
A few of us were talking about it last night, and trying to figure out how on earth to dress up without actually having to dress up, when I jokingly told my coworker that he should put a fake parrot on his shoulder. This led him to confess that at one time in his life, he owned 72 birds. Among which were 5 cockateels and 1 parrot.
72 birds.
As the evening wore on, and conversations had run amok as they usually do, it had been unofficially decided we were switching from pirates to hippies. Unofficial meaning by the time I left, everyone was so muddled and unsure, that the term "Hippy Pirate" was coined to describe our costume guidelines. I guess I'll find out tonight exactly what that means.
I was busing one of the booths last night and I couldn't help but overhear a phrase uttered by a customer in the adjoining booth. "I didn't get your inside joke to Darci." A thousand questions immediately poured into my thoughts. I carefully observed the situation. A wife, a husband, and their tweenage daughter. Judging by the length of time it took for the husband to respond to his wife's unsettling question, I jumped to the ultimate conclusion that he was having a lurid affair.
Who else could Darci be? Maybe Darci was a coworker. An old flame. An old friend who was really much more than that. Where had they been that the wife was in the same surroundings as Darci? A work party? A soccer game? Was Darci the babysitter?
I looked for a moment at the young girl's face. I looked away and left the table shiny and wet behind me.
Friday, October 21, 2011
Stolen
S.
I want you to know that I will always love you. In some way, with some strange magic and practical disaster, you still own the place where my thoughts go to hide, to play in secret. The place where my thoughts dapple in the world of What If and Where Are You Now.
I was a child and you were a child, although the moments were anything but childlike. I remember them all, still, as vividly as if they had happened yesterday. But that time was eons ago.
I've been thinking about you a lot lately, and that's not a good thing. I thought I was at the place where I could look back on all the memories and regard them simply as memories and nothing more, but I can't. You are a Pandora's Box of mistakes and all-too familiar feelings, and even though in every Pandora's Box there's a touch of hope mixed with all the hurt and sorrow, I can't hold on to that little whisper of hope at the bottom of the box anymore.
I have to let go. I have to let you go. Trust me, I'm shocked to find out I haven't already yet, too.
I was unwise to think that I had let it all fall behind me. Wishful thinking, I suppose.
I know this couldn't mean anything to you now, but I know that it would mean something to the 14 year old you. You cared much more than you let on, and I saw through to that. Tender soul. I do miss you, still.
The time for missing is over, though. I need to prepare for the changes ahead of me, changes that do not in any way involve you or the memories of you floating around in that corner of my mind labeled "Stolen."
A dear friend told me today that closure comes in many forms. Sometimes the most from private reflection. Closure is something people seek as a decoy; it's an excuse to keep winding their thoughts around and around whatever they're trying to close. I've been lying to myself for awhile now, telling myself things would be better if I only had closure. Closure of what? Any closure I received would only open everything right back up again. Any closure I received would act as a black hole.
And so this is a final goodbye, gentle heart.
This is the goodbye that needed to happen all along, but never did because I was holding so tightly onto that faded, weak glimmer of hope, that I was blind to the world of hope and possibilities outside of the box. Outside of you.
Promise me one thing, before this all settles into dust and infinity. Promise me that you will never change who you are. Promise me that you will never stop smiling, and absolutely, under-no-circumstances-ever, will you stop giving out those incredible, life-changing hugs.
Cheers to the moon and back, and always wishing you all the love and sugar-coated-cereal in the world,
Xx,
Hannah
I want you to know that I will always love you. In some way, with some strange magic and practical disaster, you still own the place where my thoughts go to hide, to play in secret. The place where my thoughts dapple in the world of What If and Where Are You Now.
I was a child and you were a child, although the moments were anything but childlike. I remember them all, still, as vividly as if they had happened yesterday. But that time was eons ago.
I've been thinking about you a lot lately, and that's not a good thing. I thought I was at the place where I could look back on all the memories and regard them simply as memories and nothing more, but I can't. You are a Pandora's Box of mistakes and all-too familiar feelings, and even though in every Pandora's Box there's a touch of hope mixed with all the hurt and sorrow, I can't hold on to that little whisper of hope at the bottom of the box anymore.
I have to let go. I have to let you go. Trust me, I'm shocked to find out I haven't already yet, too.
I was unwise to think that I had let it all fall behind me. Wishful thinking, I suppose.
I know this couldn't mean anything to you now, but I know that it would mean something to the 14 year old you. You cared much more than you let on, and I saw through to that. Tender soul. I do miss you, still.
The time for missing is over, though. I need to prepare for the changes ahead of me, changes that do not in any way involve you or the memories of you floating around in that corner of my mind labeled "Stolen."
A dear friend told me today that closure comes in many forms. Sometimes the most from private reflection. Closure is something people seek as a decoy; it's an excuse to keep winding their thoughts around and around whatever they're trying to close. I've been lying to myself for awhile now, telling myself things would be better if I only had closure. Closure of what? Any closure I received would only open everything right back up again. Any closure I received would act as a black hole.
And so this is a final goodbye, gentle heart.
This is the goodbye that needed to happen all along, but never did because I was holding so tightly onto that faded, weak glimmer of hope, that I was blind to the world of hope and possibilities outside of the box. Outside of you.
Promise me one thing, before this all settles into dust and infinity. Promise me that you will never change who you are. Promise me that you will never stop smiling, and absolutely, under-no-circumstances-ever, will you stop giving out those incredible, life-changing hugs.
Cheers to the moon and back, and always wishing you all the love and sugar-coated-cereal in the world,
Xx,
Hannah
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Status
Do you ever get the idea for a particularly enticing Facebook status, but you don't post it out of courtesy to some of your friends that might take offense?
I do it all the time. I'm not okay with it, either. Should I have to feel guilty or apologetic for my own personal, private 140 characters? Should I really censor my thoughts just because someone who I haven't seen in 5 years might be offended on the off chance that they should see my post, and actually care about it?
That's ridiculous. I'm serious. I've thought several times about deleting my entire Facebook, starting over from scratch and only accepting friends who I can have these sorts of conversations with, just so I don't have to give myself grief over whether or not X will think I'm a scarlet woman.
Like why on earth should I feel guilty for wanting to post a quote with the word "bastard" in it?
Here's what I don't understand about Facebook, and Social Networks in general:
There's a formal adding/accepting of friends that you can choose to either ignore, or allow, depending on how close you feel your relationship to that person is. That's it. No strings attached. If you want to be friends, sure, click the accept button. If not, hide the post. Whatever.
Okay. So where does the moral issue come into play? Why does it suddenly turn into a freaky mindgame of guilt, shame, and horrendous fear over whether or not the other person will accept or deny you or hate you forever if you deny or accept them?
Some of us who started Facebook when we were sadly young and immature, got caught up in the "Oh I Know This Person I've Met Them A Few Times I Will Add Them On Facebook" syndrome, and are, thus far, stuck with gads and scores of people that we don't actually want to be Facebook Friends with.
What do I do now?
I am a firm believer that deleting people off of your Facebook is a really petty thing to do. Or, at least I was. Now I'm not so sure. Now I'm wondering why on earth I have an obligation to remain "friends" with people who have no honest business knowing anything about my life? People who, if I ever do see them again, won't ask me how I'm doing, or engage me in conversation, but who will probably exchange snide remarks if they see a Facebook post of mine that they don't agree with.
Or what about those awkward people in your past who you knew at one time, because you were mutual friends with another person, who you eventually grew apart from, and now there's this awkward elephant in the room of "I know you, but I don't really know you, but I don't want you to think I don't like you because of what happened, so I'm just going to stay friends with you, but really I could care less about what happens in your life?"
Or on the flipside, what about those extremely annoying people who actually get into heated arguments and debates on someone else's random Facebook post, and you're left absolutely bewildered, wondering, "Why does this generation have so much unearthly time on their hands?"
Since when did the need for Social Networking seriously start taking over all of our lives? I feel like more and more I get into a constant state of stress worrying about whether or not people will chastise or take offense at something I've posted on Facebook, or over whether or not I've posted an update in the past three hours, or, God forbid, I miss a friend's crucially funny or important update and am suddenly left, lurching, out of the loop and out in the cold, wet, fog of mystery and good-old-fashioned 1950s house-wife-to-house-wife perception.
And yet, in the midst of all this ranting and raving about what other people think, I'm left considering whether or not anybody really cares. Who honestly gives a damn?
Who are these conniving, contrived, conceited people I have made up in my head, waiting like sharks to brutally attack and tear apart any snippet of controversial flesh and status update I throw into the water?
It's Facebook, Hannah. Nobody really cares what you think. Nobody really cares what you say.
Facebook is a double-edged sword. It's a great way to keep up with people you haven't seen in years, or a great way to reinforce a quick "I Love You" to someone you've been too busy to call. But it's the single, easiest way to thrust yourself pell-mell into a world of self-centered, nosy, self-righteous and absolutely disgusting mockery. And I'm starting to get quite sick of it.
I do it all the time. I'm not okay with it, either. Should I have to feel guilty or apologetic for my own personal, private 140 characters? Should I really censor my thoughts just because someone who I haven't seen in 5 years might be offended on the off chance that they should see my post, and actually care about it?
That's ridiculous. I'm serious. I've thought several times about deleting my entire Facebook, starting over from scratch and only accepting friends who I can have these sorts of conversations with, just so I don't have to give myself grief over whether or not X will think I'm a scarlet woman.
Like why on earth should I feel guilty for wanting to post a quote with the word "bastard" in it?
Here's what I don't understand about Facebook, and Social Networks in general:
There's a formal adding/accepting of friends that you can choose to either ignore, or allow, depending on how close you feel your relationship to that person is. That's it. No strings attached. If you want to be friends, sure, click the accept button. If not, hide the post. Whatever.
Okay. So where does the moral issue come into play? Why does it suddenly turn into a freaky mindgame of guilt, shame, and horrendous fear over whether or not the other person will accept or deny you or hate you forever if you deny or accept them?
Some of us who started Facebook when we were sadly young and immature, got caught up in the "Oh I Know This Person I've Met Them A Few Times I Will Add Them On Facebook" syndrome, and are, thus far, stuck with gads and scores of people that we don't actually want to be Facebook Friends with.
What do I do now?
I am a firm believer that deleting people off of your Facebook is a really petty thing to do. Or, at least I was. Now I'm not so sure. Now I'm wondering why on earth I have an obligation to remain "friends" with people who have no honest business knowing anything about my life? People who, if I ever do see them again, won't ask me how I'm doing, or engage me in conversation, but who will probably exchange snide remarks if they see a Facebook post of mine that they don't agree with.
Or what about those awkward people in your past who you knew at one time, because you were mutual friends with another person, who you eventually grew apart from, and now there's this awkward elephant in the room of "I know you, but I don't really know you, but I don't want you to think I don't like you because of what happened, so I'm just going to stay friends with you, but really I could care less about what happens in your life?"
Or on the flipside, what about those extremely annoying people who actually get into heated arguments and debates on someone else's random Facebook post, and you're left absolutely bewildered, wondering, "Why does this generation have so much unearthly time on their hands?"
Since when did the need for Social Networking seriously start taking over all of our lives? I feel like more and more I get into a constant state of stress worrying about whether or not people will chastise or take offense at something I've posted on Facebook, or over whether or not I've posted an update in the past three hours, or, God forbid, I miss a friend's crucially funny or important update and am suddenly left, lurching, out of the loop and out in the cold, wet, fog of mystery and good-old-fashioned 1950s house-wife-to-house-wife perception.
And yet, in the midst of all this ranting and raving about what other people think, I'm left considering whether or not anybody really cares. Who honestly gives a damn?
Who are these conniving, contrived, conceited people I have made up in my head, waiting like sharks to brutally attack and tear apart any snippet of controversial flesh and status update I throw into the water?
It's Facebook, Hannah. Nobody really cares what you think. Nobody really cares what you say.
Facebook is a double-edged sword. It's a great way to keep up with people you haven't seen in years, or a great way to reinforce a quick "I Love You" to someone you've been too busy to call. But it's the single, easiest way to thrust yourself pell-mell into a world of self-centered, nosy, self-righteous and absolutely disgusting mockery. And I'm starting to get quite sick of it.
"A Dream Made to Order, South of the Border..."
I like cream in my coffee, I like to sleep late on Sunday, nobody knows me like my baby.
and I like eggs over-easy, and flour tortillas, and nobody knows me like my baby.
Nobody holds me, and nobody knows me, nobody knows me like my baby."
Last night I stayed up late watching P.S. I Love You with Becca over Skype. I didn't cry so much this time. Either it's loosing its effect on me because I've seen it so many times, or I was too distracted by the dizziness of my head and the pocket of phlegm stuck at the back of my throat. Sickness has struck again.
Still, there is one scene in the movie that always gets to me. Towards the end, when Daniel reads the final letter that Gerry sent to Holly, in the middle of Yankee Stadium.
"You made me a man by loving me, Holly... Promise me that whenever you're sad, or unsure, or you lose complete faith, that you'll try to see yourself through my eyes. Thank you for the honor of being my wife. I'm a man with no regrets, how lucky am I."
I know that it's just a movie, but I can't help but feeling as though great love stories like these really happen.
Love stories of epic proportion. The kind that are full of tragedy and impossibilities and.... magic.
I may be what you consider a hopeless romantic, but I don't really think that's what it comes down to.
It's not a matter of whether or not I believe in love at first sight, or romantic candle-lit dinners, or following your heart, or any other of that Disney, Rom-Com cheesy Hollywood garbage.
It's more or less that I believe in love, and fate, and the power of "it could happen."
But it was a dream made to order, south of the border, and nobody knows me like my baby.
And she cried, man, how could you do it, and I swore that there weren't nothing to it.
But nobody knows me like my baby. And nobody holds me, and nobody knows me.
Nobody knows me like my baby.
I also believe that it's the people who determine the greatness of their own love stories. There are people who are destined for greatness in whatever form. Greatness in their lifestyles, their careers, their characters, their experiences, and then there are those who are destined for greatness in love.
Neither of these people are greater than the other, I honestly believe that. It's not my intention to put one on a pedestal over the other, because there are people in my life that could fit any of these categories, and not a single one is "best."
But I do wonder what it takes to make the kind of person destined for great love?
I think it must take a little bit of bravery, and a great deal of stubbornness. I imagine it takes a large desire for adventure, and a dash of fragility, a sprinkle of insanity, a dusting of chaos. The need for interaction, the craving to be understood, the will to fight, and also the ability to stand alone.
One must have the incorruptible faith that everything will always turn out in the end.
So, I guess now the question is, do I have what it takes?
Because that is the area in life where I want to be great. I want to be capable of the greatest kind of love story; that is the legacy I want to leave behind me. Not in careers, not in lifestyles, but in love.
And I like cream in my coffee, I hate to be alone on Sunday, and nobody knows me like my baby.
Xx,
Hannah
P.S. " Nobody Knows Me"- Lyle Lovett
and I like eggs over-easy, and flour tortillas, and nobody knows me like my baby.
Nobody holds me, and nobody knows me, nobody knows me like my baby."
Last night I stayed up late watching P.S. I Love You with Becca over Skype. I didn't cry so much this time. Either it's loosing its effect on me because I've seen it so many times, or I was too distracted by the dizziness of my head and the pocket of phlegm stuck at the back of my throat. Sickness has struck again.
Still, there is one scene in the movie that always gets to me. Towards the end, when Daniel reads the final letter that Gerry sent to Holly, in the middle of Yankee Stadium.
"You made me a man by loving me, Holly... Promise me that whenever you're sad, or unsure, or you lose complete faith, that you'll try to see yourself through my eyes. Thank you for the honor of being my wife. I'm a man with no regrets, how lucky am I."
I know that it's just a movie, but I can't help but feeling as though great love stories like these really happen.
Love stories of epic proportion. The kind that are full of tragedy and impossibilities and.... magic.
I may be what you consider a hopeless romantic, but I don't really think that's what it comes down to.
It's not a matter of whether or not I believe in love at first sight, or romantic candle-lit dinners, or following your heart, or any other of that Disney, Rom-Com cheesy Hollywood garbage.
It's more or less that I believe in love, and fate, and the power of "it could happen."
But it was a dream made to order, south of the border, and nobody knows me like my baby.
And she cried, man, how could you do it, and I swore that there weren't nothing to it.
But nobody knows me like my baby. And nobody holds me, and nobody knows me.
Nobody knows me like my baby.
I also believe that it's the people who determine the greatness of their own love stories. There are people who are destined for greatness in whatever form. Greatness in their lifestyles, their careers, their characters, their experiences, and then there are those who are destined for greatness in love.
Neither of these people are greater than the other, I honestly believe that. It's not my intention to put one on a pedestal over the other, because there are people in my life that could fit any of these categories, and not a single one is "best."
But I do wonder what it takes to make the kind of person destined for great love?
I think it must take a little bit of bravery, and a great deal of stubbornness. I imagine it takes a large desire for adventure, and a dash of fragility, a sprinkle of insanity, a dusting of chaos. The need for interaction, the craving to be understood, the will to fight, and also the ability to stand alone.
One must have the incorruptible faith that everything will always turn out in the end.
So, I guess now the question is, do I have what it takes?
Because that is the area in life where I want to be great. I want to be capable of the greatest kind of love story; that is the legacy I want to leave behind me. Not in careers, not in lifestyles, but in love.
And I like cream in my coffee, I hate to be alone on Sunday, and nobody knows me like my baby.
Xx,
Hannah
P.S. " Nobody Knows Me"- Lyle Lovett
Friday, October 14, 2011
October 14th
October has hit the Northwest full-throttle. The leaves have started turning, the sky is a constant shade of stormy blue-grey, and the rainstorms are magnificent. On the days when the sun comes out, a beautiful fog seems to rest over the valley and the trees and houses shine with all glory.
I think Fall must be God's favorite season. He's made it so beautiful, so much more beautiful than any other season. Then again, I may be a little bit biased, having grown up in the most beautiful part of the country. I can't help it. Oregon is, in my fairly well-traveled opinion, unrivaled.
The month of October always makes me want to get up earlier, I want to catch the first rays of the Autumn sun as it peeks frail and golden over the roofs of the houses and distant mountains. I want to cuddle up with a cup of tea as the day's first spell of rain comes rolling through. I want to take a walk and breathe deeply in the crisp, cinnamon air and observe the first leaves that begin to fall from their treetop homes. I want to spend the majority of my days reading, thinking, writing, and surviving solely on cups of tea and pieces of toast. Candles are meant to be lit all day long during the month of October, they start in the morning and don't stop until late at night. The music plays soft and soothing. Nat King Cole and Linda Ronstadt make up my Autumn playlist, and Gillian Welch Pandora.
My hands smell like burnt matches. God, I love this season.
October is also a good month for learning things. I learned last week that witnessing one person's good deed can change your entire perspective on how your day has been. I know, I know. Story time.
I was at work one night, after a long day of feeling lowly and alone, miserable and so far from my dreams, that I could hardly even distract myself with the busy hustle and bustle at work. I'm getting better at dealing with business on auto-pilot.
It was drawing near to the end of my shift, the rush had settled and there I was, standing at the counter, dappling in self-pity and contemplation. I noticed a homeless man, or, I assumed he was homeless, digging through the garbage can outside of the restaurant. I felt some pity for the man, for whatever had driven him to such desperate ends. I continued rolling my silverware. I noticed out of the corner of my eye that my boss, Travis, was staring at the assumed-homeless man, too. He looked like he was weighing something heavily on his mind.
Wordlessly, he turned around and grabbed a to-go bowl and filled it to the brim with fresh, hot soup. After taking a lid, a napkin, and a plastic soup spoon with him, he ventured outside and handed it to the man.
I've never seen one act of such single, solitary kindness before in my life. And I always thought I was a kind person, or that I've been surrounded by kind people. I have, this is still true, but I've still never seen such concentrated kindness in another person before. I realized as I was going home that night, what I had witnessed completely changed my day. It had become one of the best days I've ever lived, because my faith in the goodness of everyday people was restored. I've always been an idealist, and I look for the good in people, and that day, I found it. Or, it found me. That was on October 2nd.
Amongst other things that I've been meaning to blog about but haven't really pinned down, Becca came into town this past weekend for her birthday. She brought me a typewriter. Becca is a sort of Garage Sale Goddess, and picked up a circa 1960 Olympia typewriter for fifteen bucks, because she knew about my lifelong desire to own one. What a gal! I've named my pretty new pet Athena, because she is the Olympian Goddess of Wisdom, and I like to think that wisdom and inspiration are pretty close to the same thing. I've since cleaned, and scrubbed, and oiled Athena to the best of my typewriter-ignorant abilities, and she turned out to be a beautiful shade of aqua, instead of the seafoam-y green we thought she was. Years of dirt and weathering in a barn will do that, I guess. Still, she runs like a machine, and has hardly any signs of extreme wear and tear, which is impressive considering how old she is. However, just to be sure, I plan on taking her to a typewriter expert sometime soon, so he can look her over, give me the general history, model type, and cleaning and care information. The ribbon she came with, who knows how old it is, works amazingly well, though, and I've already gotten a good hour and a half's worth of typing out of her.
Antiquity has an extreme sort of power over inspiration, I'm discovering. I've been suffering from an unfortunate case of writer's block on my fairytale I started about a year ago, and as soon as I sat down to my typewriter, shut off my laptop and my music, I pounded out a good 3 pages in an hour. I was pretty excited about that.
A friend told me yesterday that she heard a story on the news about a young girl, who faked being pregnant for a high school project, is now in possession of a book deal, and a movie in the works on Lifetime. I would just like to take the time right now and say: WHERE IS MY BOOK DEAL??
I did the same thing for my psychology case study project in high school two years ago. I'd put money down on the fact that she's not half the writer I am, either, and I'm not a betting woman. (Which is exactly what my friend said, too. Although she's more of a betting woman than I am.) I analyze risk too much.
One day, one of us will be recognized for our talents, I'm sure of it. And one day, I told her, Kate Winslet will play me on Broadway.
I've been attempting my second journey into Jane Austen, lately. Sense and Sensibility, to be exact. Everytime I venture into the realm of Austen, the desire to use words like 'rudimentary' and 'implicit' and 'asenine' in everyday conversation consumes me. I think in a 19th century English accent.
Halloween is vastly approaching. And once again, I have no idea what I'm supposed to dress up as. I've been invited to a Halloween Harvest Party thing, and even though I am really excited to go, my spirits dropped a little bit when I saw the "COSTUMES ARE REQUIRED" sign on the FB event. Great. Halloween is a fine enough Holiday to me, I don't really mind it, it's not my favorite, but it doesn't really bother me either. Except for this whole adults dressing up thing. Let's leave it for the kids, shall we? I mean, really. So I've been trying to think of costume ideas that will take little or no effort on my part to contrive, and this is what I've come up with:
I think Fall must be God's favorite season. He's made it so beautiful, so much more beautiful than any other season. Then again, I may be a little bit biased, having grown up in the most beautiful part of the country. I can't help it. Oregon is, in my fairly well-traveled opinion, unrivaled.
The month of October always makes me want to get up earlier, I want to catch the first rays of the Autumn sun as it peeks frail and golden over the roofs of the houses and distant mountains. I want to cuddle up with a cup of tea as the day's first spell of rain comes rolling through. I want to take a walk and breathe deeply in the crisp, cinnamon air and observe the first leaves that begin to fall from their treetop homes. I want to spend the majority of my days reading, thinking, writing, and surviving solely on cups of tea and pieces of toast. Candles are meant to be lit all day long during the month of October, they start in the morning and don't stop until late at night. The music plays soft and soothing. Nat King Cole and Linda Ronstadt make up my Autumn playlist, and Gillian Welch Pandora.
My hands smell like burnt matches. God, I love this season.
October is also a good month for learning things. I learned last week that witnessing one person's good deed can change your entire perspective on how your day has been. I know, I know. Story time.
I was at work one night, after a long day of feeling lowly and alone, miserable and so far from my dreams, that I could hardly even distract myself with the busy hustle and bustle at work. I'm getting better at dealing with business on auto-pilot.
It was drawing near to the end of my shift, the rush had settled and there I was, standing at the counter, dappling in self-pity and contemplation. I noticed a homeless man, or, I assumed he was homeless, digging through the garbage can outside of the restaurant. I felt some pity for the man, for whatever had driven him to such desperate ends. I continued rolling my silverware. I noticed out of the corner of my eye that my boss, Travis, was staring at the assumed-homeless man, too. He looked like he was weighing something heavily on his mind.
Wordlessly, he turned around and grabbed a to-go bowl and filled it to the brim with fresh, hot soup. After taking a lid, a napkin, and a plastic soup spoon with him, he ventured outside and handed it to the man.
I've never seen one act of such single, solitary kindness before in my life. And I always thought I was a kind person, or that I've been surrounded by kind people. I have, this is still true, but I've still never seen such concentrated kindness in another person before. I realized as I was going home that night, what I had witnessed completely changed my day. It had become one of the best days I've ever lived, because my faith in the goodness of everyday people was restored. I've always been an idealist, and I look for the good in people, and that day, I found it. Or, it found me. That was on October 2nd.
Amongst other things that I've been meaning to blog about but haven't really pinned down, Becca came into town this past weekend for her birthday. She brought me a typewriter. Becca is a sort of Garage Sale Goddess, and picked up a circa 1960 Olympia typewriter for fifteen bucks, because she knew about my lifelong desire to own one. What a gal! I've named my pretty new pet Athena, because she is the Olympian Goddess of Wisdom, and I like to think that wisdom and inspiration are pretty close to the same thing. I've since cleaned, and scrubbed, and oiled Athena to the best of my typewriter-ignorant abilities, and she turned out to be a beautiful shade of aqua, instead of the seafoam-y green we thought she was. Years of dirt and weathering in a barn will do that, I guess. Still, she runs like a machine, and has hardly any signs of extreme wear and tear, which is impressive considering how old she is. However, just to be sure, I plan on taking her to a typewriter expert sometime soon, so he can look her over, give me the general history, model type, and cleaning and care information. The ribbon she came with, who knows how old it is, works amazingly well, though, and I've already gotten a good hour and a half's worth of typing out of her.
Antiquity has an extreme sort of power over inspiration, I'm discovering. I've been suffering from an unfortunate case of writer's block on my fairytale I started about a year ago, and as soon as I sat down to my typewriter, shut off my laptop and my music, I pounded out a good 3 pages in an hour. I was pretty excited about that.
A friend told me yesterday that she heard a story on the news about a young girl, who faked being pregnant for a high school project, is now in possession of a book deal, and a movie in the works on Lifetime. I would just like to take the time right now and say: WHERE IS MY BOOK DEAL??
I did the same thing for my psychology case study project in high school two years ago. I'd put money down on the fact that she's not half the writer I am, either, and I'm not a betting woman. (Which is exactly what my friend said, too. Although she's more of a betting woman than I am.) I analyze risk too much.
One day, one of us will be recognized for our talents, I'm sure of it. And one day, I told her, Kate Winslet will play me on Broadway.
I've been attempting my second journey into Jane Austen, lately. Sense and Sensibility, to be exact. Everytime I venture into the realm of Austen, the desire to use words like 'rudimentary' and 'implicit' and 'asenine' in everyday conversation consumes me. I think in a 19th century English accent.
Halloween is vastly approaching. And once again, I have no idea what I'm supposed to dress up as. I've been invited to a Halloween Harvest Party thing, and even though I am really excited to go, my spirits dropped a little bit when I saw the "COSTUMES ARE REQUIRED" sign on the FB event. Great. Halloween is a fine enough Holiday to me, I don't really mind it, it's not my favorite, but it doesn't really bother me either. Except for this whole adults dressing up thing. Let's leave it for the kids, shall we? I mean, really. So I've been trying to think of costume ideas that will take little or no effort on my part to contrive, and this is what I've come up with:
- A Lit Major- this involves khakis, a button up blouse paired with argyle sweater, and TOMS.
- Barefoot and Pregnant- This is more involving than I'd like it to be.
- "Hopeless"- this involves my Star Wars shirt, a pair of acid wash jeans from the nearest Goodwill, and if possible, a Mickey Mouse watch. And probably tennishoes.
Feeble and unstimulating, I know, but that is as far as my creative genius will go in order to match with my willingness of cooperation.
Did you know that Esther had to wait one whole year before going before King Xerxes as a Queenly Prospect?
One whole year in complete and utter suspension. I am amazed and inspired by her strength of character.
One whole year in complete and utter suspension. I am amazed and inspired by her strength of character.
Wishing you all the love, Fall Weather and chocolate chips in the world,
Hannah,
Xx
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Beauty
I've been spending the last two hours reading, pajama-clad, in an armchair with multiple cups of tea, and I just came across a passage that must be shared.
A Year In Provence, "February."- Peter Mayle.
________________________________________________
An old man had emerged from the kitchen and was peering at us, screwing up his eyes against the light coming through the door. We told him we'd made a reservation for lunch.
"Sit down, then. You can't eat standing up." He waved airily at the empty tables. We sat down obediently, and waited while he came slowly over with two menus. He sat down with us.
"American? German?"
English.
"Good," he said, "I was with the English in the war."
We felt that we had passed the first test. One more correct answer and we might be allowed to see the menus which the old man was keeping to himself. I asked him what he would recommend.
"Everything," he said. "My wife cooks everything well."
He dealt the menus out and left us to greet another couple, and we dithered enjoyable between lamb stuffed with herbs, daube, veal with truffles, and an unexplained dish called the fantaisie du chef. The old man came back and sat down, listened to the order, and nodded.
"It's always the same," he said. "It's the men who like the fantaisie."
I asked for a half bottle of white wine to go with the first course, and some red to follow.
"No," he said, "you're wrong." He told us what to drink, and it was a red Cotes du Rhone from Visan. Good wine and good women came from Visan, he said. He got up and fetched a bottle from a vast, dark cupboard.
"There. You'll like that." (Later, we noticed that everybody had the same wine on their table.)
He went off to the kitchen, the oldest head waiter in the world, to pass our order to perhaps the oldest practicing chef in France. We thought we heard a third voice from the kitchen, but there were no other waiters, and we wondered how two people with a combined age of over 160 managed to cope with the long hours and hard work. And yet, as the restaurant became busier, there were no delays, no neglected tables. In his unhurried and stately way, the old man made his rounds, sitting down from time to time for a chat with his clients. When an order was ready, Madame would clang a bell in the kitchen and her husband would raise his eyebrows in pretend irritation. If he continued talking, the bell would clang again, more insistently, and off he would go, muttering, "j'arrive, j'arrive."
The food was everything the Gault-Millau guide had promised, and the old man had been right about the wine. We did like it. And by the time he served the tiny rounds of goat's cheese marinated in herbs and olive oil, we had finished it. I asked for another half bottle, and he looked at me disapprovingly.
"Who's driving?"
"My wife."
He went again to the dark cupboard. "There are no half-bottles," he said, "You can drink as far as here." He drew an imaginary line with his finger halfway down the new bottle.
The kitchen bell had stopped clanging and Madame came out, smiling and rosy faced from the heat of the ovens, to ask us if we had eaten well. She looked like a woman of sixty, not eighty. The two of them stood together, his hand on her shoulder, while she talked about the antique furniture, which had been her dowry, and he interrupted. They were happy with each other and they loved their work, and we left the restaurant feeling that old age might not be so bad after all.
________________________________________________
I could cry.
A Year In Provence, "February."- Peter Mayle.
________________________________________________
An old man had emerged from the kitchen and was peering at us, screwing up his eyes against the light coming through the door. We told him we'd made a reservation for lunch.
"Sit down, then. You can't eat standing up." He waved airily at the empty tables. We sat down obediently, and waited while he came slowly over with two menus. He sat down with us.
"American? German?"
English.
"Good," he said, "I was with the English in the war."
We felt that we had passed the first test. One more correct answer and we might be allowed to see the menus which the old man was keeping to himself. I asked him what he would recommend.
"Everything," he said. "My wife cooks everything well."
He dealt the menus out and left us to greet another couple, and we dithered enjoyable between lamb stuffed with herbs, daube, veal with truffles, and an unexplained dish called the fantaisie du chef. The old man came back and sat down, listened to the order, and nodded.
"It's always the same," he said. "It's the men who like the fantaisie."
I asked for a half bottle of white wine to go with the first course, and some red to follow.
"No," he said, "you're wrong." He told us what to drink, and it was a red Cotes du Rhone from Visan. Good wine and good women came from Visan, he said. He got up and fetched a bottle from a vast, dark cupboard.
"There. You'll like that." (Later, we noticed that everybody had the same wine on their table.)
He went off to the kitchen, the oldest head waiter in the world, to pass our order to perhaps the oldest practicing chef in France. We thought we heard a third voice from the kitchen, but there were no other waiters, and we wondered how two people with a combined age of over 160 managed to cope with the long hours and hard work. And yet, as the restaurant became busier, there were no delays, no neglected tables. In his unhurried and stately way, the old man made his rounds, sitting down from time to time for a chat with his clients. When an order was ready, Madame would clang a bell in the kitchen and her husband would raise his eyebrows in pretend irritation. If he continued talking, the bell would clang again, more insistently, and off he would go, muttering, "j'arrive, j'arrive."
The food was everything the Gault-Millau guide had promised, and the old man had been right about the wine. We did like it. And by the time he served the tiny rounds of goat's cheese marinated in herbs and olive oil, we had finished it. I asked for another half bottle, and he looked at me disapprovingly.
"Who's driving?"
"My wife."
He went again to the dark cupboard. "There are no half-bottles," he said, "You can drink as far as here." He drew an imaginary line with his finger halfway down the new bottle.
The kitchen bell had stopped clanging and Madame came out, smiling and rosy faced from the heat of the ovens, to ask us if we had eaten well. She looked like a woman of sixty, not eighty. The two of them stood together, his hand on her shoulder, while she talked about the antique furniture, which had been her dowry, and he interrupted. They were happy with each other and they loved their work, and we left the restaurant feeling that old age might not be so bad after all.
________________________________________________
I could cry.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
"It's not personal, Sonny, it's business."
"Forgive me lover
For I have sinned
For I have let you go
But this estranged organ in my chest
Still beats for you
It will not rest, so
Meet me in our secret place
When the time has come."
I have separation issues.
And I don't mean as in a separation of distance between myself and other people.
I mean as in a separation of necessary distance between aspects of my life. Like reality, and fantasy.
Like letting go and bottling inside.
Like embitterment and acceptance.
Like letting go and saying goodbye.
Like learning how to say no after too many months of saying yes to something that does more harm than good.
Like learning how to leave the past in the past and letting the future stay unknown.
Like learning how to walk away from something you love because its the right thing to do.
I blur lines. I distort boundaries. I mix and I muddle because inside I am a gluttonous child who thinks I can have a little bit of everything and eat the whole cake, too.
But this week I have learned my lesson. And I've learned it hard.
Distinction is necessary. Lines are drawn because they are meant to be drawn, and the separation of past, present and future is something that you cannot run away from. It's there for a good reason.
Sometimes we have to pick ourselves up and just move on, and it hurts. It hurts like all hell. But the past does hurt sometimes, that doesn't mean we shouldn't leave it behind us.
And the future is not for us to know. It's untouchable because it's not meant to be touched. It's unpredictable because it's not meant to be predicted. And no matter how much I thought I could predict my future, I can't. No matter how much I want or will certain things in my life at a certain time, I can't make them happen.
I've never been able to separate letting go of something, and saying goodbye to it. My best friend will tell you all about my fears and failures on the subject.
I don't know which is which. For the first time, I can truly admit that.
Saying goodbye doesn't mean letting go. But letting go doesn't mean saying goodbye either.
So what do they mean?
I still haven't the foggiest clue.
But I know that they're both necessary to moving on. And moving on is necessary before you start something new in your life. Things have been tumbling down, albeit slowly, around me for a month now, and I'm starting to realize it's because I'm moving on. I have to before I move away to the beach.
God wants me to start with a clean slate.
You can't have baggage where I'm going. Or, that's the opinion I'm starting to feel from The Man Upstairs.
So what have I realized today about blurring lines?
I've learned that what matters the most, is that I don't let them change me. I can accept something, I can say goodbye, I can move on, and I can even let go, but I don't have to let it cut me down, nor do I have to cut it out forever.
It's not personal, Hannah, it's business.
It's the business of growing up, that's all.
So.
To all the things that I've let go this week, I want you to know from the bottom of my heart that I love you all deeply. I will always love you deeply. I will not cut out the beautiful memories I have with any of you. I will not let this hurt you, or me, or anyone.
I wish you all the best of luck in life, and I want you to know that this goodbye is not forever. I will always be here when you need me. I will always be here when you don't realize you need me.
And I am positive that we will meet again, someday. Until then, know that I'm living my life the way it's supposed to be lived, finally.
I'm living right now, in the moment, in the present, and I'm letting the past stay behind me, and the future ahead of me.
Wishing you all the luck, love, and life in the world,
Hannah Xx
For I have sinned
For I have let you go
But this estranged organ in my chest
Still beats for you
It will not rest, so
Meet me in our secret place
When the time has come."
I have separation issues.
And I don't mean as in a separation of distance between myself and other people.
I mean as in a separation of necessary distance between aspects of my life. Like reality, and fantasy.
Like letting go and bottling inside.
Like embitterment and acceptance.
Like letting go and saying goodbye.
Like learning how to say no after too many months of saying yes to something that does more harm than good.
Like learning how to leave the past in the past and letting the future stay unknown.
Like learning how to walk away from something you love because its the right thing to do.
I blur lines. I distort boundaries. I mix and I muddle because inside I am a gluttonous child who thinks I can have a little bit of everything and eat the whole cake, too.
But this week I have learned my lesson. And I've learned it hard.
Distinction is necessary. Lines are drawn because they are meant to be drawn, and the separation of past, present and future is something that you cannot run away from. It's there for a good reason.
Sometimes we have to pick ourselves up and just move on, and it hurts. It hurts like all hell. But the past does hurt sometimes, that doesn't mean we shouldn't leave it behind us.
And the future is not for us to know. It's untouchable because it's not meant to be touched. It's unpredictable because it's not meant to be predicted. And no matter how much I thought I could predict my future, I can't. No matter how much I want or will certain things in my life at a certain time, I can't make them happen.
I've never been able to separate letting go of something, and saying goodbye to it. My best friend will tell you all about my fears and failures on the subject.
I don't know which is which. For the first time, I can truly admit that.
Saying goodbye doesn't mean letting go. But letting go doesn't mean saying goodbye either.
So what do they mean?
I still haven't the foggiest clue.
But I know that they're both necessary to moving on. And moving on is necessary before you start something new in your life. Things have been tumbling down, albeit slowly, around me for a month now, and I'm starting to realize it's because I'm moving on. I have to before I move away to the beach.
God wants me to start with a clean slate.
You can't have baggage where I'm going. Or, that's the opinion I'm starting to feel from The Man Upstairs.
So what have I realized today about blurring lines?
I've learned that what matters the most, is that I don't let them change me. I can accept something, I can say goodbye, I can move on, and I can even let go, but I don't have to let it cut me down, nor do I have to cut it out forever.
It's not personal, Hannah, it's business.
It's the business of growing up, that's all.
So.
To all the things that I've let go this week, I want you to know from the bottom of my heart that I love you all deeply. I will always love you deeply. I will not cut out the beautiful memories I have with any of you. I will not let this hurt you, or me, or anyone.
I wish you all the best of luck in life, and I want you to know that this goodbye is not forever. I will always be here when you need me. I will always be here when you don't realize you need me.
And I am positive that we will meet again, someday. Until then, know that I'm living my life the way it's supposed to be lived, finally.
I'm living right now, in the moment, in the present, and I'm letting the past stay behind me, and the future ahead of me.
Wishing you all the luck, love, and life in the world,
Hannah Xx
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
"Tear down the house that I grew up in, I'll never be the same as then."
I close my eyes for one whole minute.
I know by instinct that the river is in front of me. Beyond the meticulously kept lawn and beautiful flowerbeds, after the lengthy driveway, across Starr Road, and beyond our unfriendly neighbor's houses. There,the Clackamas carves its blood and life through rock and sand. Mighty river. I splashed in your shallows before I could talk. I swam with your salmon and I floated your rapids and I learned from your watery peacefulness. I learned also from your roaring anger. I remember being afraid of your green depths, and yet jealous of them also and the solitude they must afford some river creatures of the deep.
Blue is the color of my childhood. Blue was our beautiful front door. Blue was the color of our wood stove. Blue was the sky in those warm Summer months. Blue was my childhood bedroom, my dresser. Blue, the baseboards in Katie's room. Blue, speckled into the carpet in the upstairs living room. Blue, the beanbag chair in my cubby-hole. Blue, the cover of our trampoline. Blue, the pots and dishes in our yellow kitchen. Blue, blue, blue.
Green was the grass, the pride of my father's midlife. Green was our family room carpet. Green were the countertops in mine and my sisters' bathroom. Green were the frogs that choired our fishpond. Green, the evergreens and maples which fueled my love for nature. Green was our outdoor furniture. Green was my turtle-shaped sandbox. Green were the plants in our flowerbeds. Green, the vegetables in our garden.
Yellow was our happy, laughter-filled kitchen. Yellow was Hallie's bedroom across the hall from my own. Yellow, the leaves first turned in Fall. Yellow were the snapdragons-turned-puppets by my sisters. Yellow were the swings my father swung me from every day. The first one small enough for a baby. The last one for a little girl. Faster, higher.
Xx,
As the seconds tick away, so do the four walls around me. Gone are my laptop, desk, picture frames. Disappeared have my bed, dragonfly lights, guitars. Replacing them is the warm rock gravel under my feet, the sweet smell of shaded grass in the afternoon. High above me I hear the rustle of sunkissed evergreens as the river-wind caresses them back and forth. I open my mouth and breathe. Earthy, mossy dampness collides with clean, fragrant dryness and I swallow big gulps of this unforgettable country air.
Tear down the house that I grew up in
I'll never be the same again
Tear down the house that I grew up in
I'll never be the same again
Take everything that I've collected
And throw it in a pile
I know by instinct that the river is in front of me. Beyond the meticulously kept lawn and beautiful flowerbeds, after the lengthy driveway, across Starr Road, and beyond our unfriendly neighbor's houses. There,the Clackamas carves its blood and life through rock and sand. Mighty river. I splashed in your shallows before I could talk. I swam with your salmon and I floated your rapids and I learned from your watery peacefulness. I learned also from your roaring anger. I remember being afraid of your green depths, and yet jealous of them also and the solitude they must afford some river creatures of the deep.
I know by memory that the woods are to my left, and also to my right. To my left, they climb a high knoll that is shaded entirely during the morning and afternoon. But come sunset, as the sun descends low into the sky, suddenly the knoll is surged by light and the trees are blasted with warmth and virtue. Tangled knoll. Many times I tried to scale your height. Many times I lost sight of the house whilst doing so. No matter how high I climbed, I never could seem to reach your ridge. Time and time again, I emerged at the bottom tired and battleworn with scars and scratches to prove my failure. Discouragement does not come easily to those who are very young, however. And I never gave up trying.
The woods to my right were mostly untouched, as they grew deeper than the ones on the knoll, and no amount of low sun could light their dark shadows. But still, curiosity overwhelms a young spirit, and in the mindless hours of Summer afternoons, I did sally forth cautiously. The woods are silent with age and ripe with invisible life. Many times did I hear, but never see, the scamper of rabbits and other forest creatures as they raced away from my tumbling footfalls. Haunted woods. I hated how I made myself go alone into your realm. I remember the campfire my sisters built on the outskirts of your treed soul. A campfire outlined by smooth stones, and surrounded by chopped tree stumps for those delicious adolescent parties that you dream so hazily of when you are too young to witness them, too young to stay up past your bedtime, the same time that the fires are first lit.
Bulldoze the woods that I ran through
Carry the pictures of me and you
I have no memory of who I once was
And I don't remember your name
I know by familiarity that the house stands directly behind me. I dare not turn around. All I wish is to open my eyes to see it standing in front of me, but instinctively I know if my eyes are opened, all of this beauty around me is lost. And so I keep them tightly shut. Beloved home. You bore me for my first nine years, and I have not forgotten your magic. I feel the creak of the porchboards beneath my feet, and I almost smell the heavy, wet air in which we watched many thunderstorms from the safety of that covered, wraparound porch.
Park the car that I love the best
Park the car that I love the best
Inspection's due and it won't pass the test
It's funny how I have to put it to rest
And how one day, I will join it
Blue is the color of my childhood. Blue was our beautiful front door. Blue was the color of our wood stove. Blue was the sky in those warm Summer months. Blue was my childhood bedroom, my dresser. Blue, the baseboards in Katie's room. Blue, speckled into the carpet in the upstairs living room. Blue, the beanbag chair in my cubby-hole. Blue, the cover of our trampoline. Blue, the pots and dishes in our yellow kitchen. Blue, blue, blue.
Green was the grass, the pride of my father's midlife. Green was our family room carpet. Green were the countertops in mine and my sisters' bathroom. Green were the frogs that choired our fishpond. Green, the evergreens and maples which fueled my love for nature. Green was our outdoor furniture. Green was my turtle-shaped sandbox. Green were the plants in our flowerbeds. Green, the vegetables in our garden.
Yellow was our happy, laughter-filled kitchen. Yellow was Hallie's bedroom across the hall from my own. Yellow, the leaves first turned in Fall. Yellow were the snapdragons-turned-puppets by my sisters. Yellow were the swings my father swung me from every day. The first one small enough for a baby. The last one for a little girl. Faster, higher.
I remember crying over you
And i don't mean like couple of tears and I'm blue
I'm talking about collapsing and screaming at the
moon
moon
But I'm a better man for having gone through it
Yes I'm a better man for having gone through
There is so much to treasure, so much to share and make careful note of, and so little time and space to accomplish it all.
Brown is the dirt that surrounded my existence. Brown, the squishy, freshly tilled dirt in our garden come planting time. I used to follow behind my dad as he pushed the rototiller back and forth. I took so much pleasure in squishing the cool dirt between my tiny toes. Brown was the barkdust shoveled in piles year after year. "Barkstuff" as Katie said when she was younger.
Brown is the dirt that surrounded my existence. Brown, the squishy, freshly tilled dirt in our garden come planting time. I used to follow behind my dad as he pushed the rototiller back and forth. I took so much pleasure in squishing the cool dirt between my tiny toes. Brown was the barkdust shoveled in piles year after year. "Barkstuff" as Katie said when she was younger.
I remember the hammock and I remember the garage that stood apart from the house, in front of the woods on the right side. I remember the skunk that made its home underneath my Grandpa's Pontiac in our garage. I remember the bats that took refuge in the attic above my parents' bedroom.
I remember climbing the attic ladder in the garage. Smell of mothballs and molding insulation, oh, I remember the excitement of finding something beautiful among all the old. I remember the fear of falling straight through the ceiling.
I remember climbing the attic ladder in the garage. Smell of mothballs and molding insulation, oh, I remember the excitement of finding something beautiful among all the old. I remember the fear of falling straight through the ceiling.
Ever since I learned how to curse
I've been using those sorry old words
But I'm talkin' to these children and I'm keeping it
clean
I don't need those words to say what I mean
No, I don't need those words to say what I mean
But I'm talkin' to these children and I'm keeping it
clean
I don't need those words to say what I mean
No, I don't need those words to say what I mean
I remember the unit attached to the other side of the garage, where my Grandma Annie used to live. I remember the exact way it smelled. I remember the spider I once found in her old bathroom, long after she died.
When she was alive, her apartment always smelled of cookies. My cousin and I picked her flowers, and toddled over on our chubby, two-year-old legs to give them to her. She had coloring books and crayons in a basket underneath the TV.
When she was alive, her apartment always smelled of cookies. My cousin and I picked her flowers, and toddled over on our chubby, two-year-old legs to give them to her. She had coloring books and crayons in a basket underneath the TV.
I remember the well-used bikes tucked up in the garage. I remember the Thanksgiving that Katie found a strange black cat on the knoll. I remember a year after, when she had her first batch of kittens.
I remember the parties and the twinkle lights and the music that came from the series of outdoor speakers. Oh, the pride my father took in those beauties. I remember burning days, when my dad piled up everything he no longer needed and burned it in a huge pile. I remember my mom worrying about the Fire Marshall and fines and words that I was too young to understand as I danced excitedly around the burn pile. Burning days always meant fresh roasted hot dogs. In the midst of her worrying, my mother would pile hot dogs, buns, ketchup and potato chips in a basket and carry it down past the garage, past my grandmother's space, and to the border of the woods, where I sat in a green chair and chattered endless, mindless four-year old chatter while my dad burned and burned, and together, the two of us roasted hot dogs for lunch.
I remember cutting days. When entire weekends were taken up by the arduous task of cutting down trees. What a smell. What a mess. What a wondrous excuse to take a day off school. We always had chili on cutting days.
Tear down the house that I grew up in
I'll never be the same again
I'll never be the same again
Take everything that I used to own
And burn it in a pile
And burn it in a pile
I remember starry nights. Us girls slept all night long on the trampoline many times. I slept in the middle. Hallie slept on the side closest to the forest, and Katie slept nearest the house. There were times when we had small fires and roasted marshmallows in the firepit on our driveway. Dad and Hallie built it themselves, laid stone after stone and mortared them together. I helped carry the stones. I sat on top of them in the wheelbarrow.
The best nights were right before Fall, right as it starts to get chilly at night. Hallie, Katie and Dad would shoot hoops and have long talks on those nights. I sat on the back of the basketball hoop and dreamed of the day when I would be big enough to shoot hoops and talk about boys, too.
I remember during Fall and Winter, my one task was to run through all the house, and plug in all the candle-lights in each of the windows just as it was getting dark. Driving up the driveway to that beautiful custom-built home, lit up by small candles in each window was one of the most breathtaking sights to ever behold.
Even more awe-inspiring were the Christmas lights that went up year after year.
I remember during Fall and Winter, my one task was to run through all the house, and plug in all the candle-lights in each of the windows just as it was getting dark. Driving up the driveway to that beautiful custom-built home, lit up by small candles in each window was one of the most breathtaking sights to ever behold.
Even more awe-inspiring were the Christmas lights that went up year after year.
I remember the two staircases we had, one at each end of the house. I used to think, "one for going up, and one for going down," and the idea had stuck. I went up at one end of the house, and down at the other.
I remember my tree fort that my dad built me all by himself. The tree it wrapped around became infested with ants, and I never went up there after that.
I remember my tree fort that my dad built me all by himself. The tree it wrapped around became infested with ants, and I never went up there after that.
And bulldoze the woods that I ran through
Carry the pictures of me and you
I have no memory of who I once was
And I don't remember your name
Scraped knees, sunburns, watermelon stains, and dirty feet. I remember them all. I remember the volleyball net, and I'll never forget playing on the scaffolding that was erected during the second addition onto the original garage: a storage unit for dad's work equipment.
River, trees, house, dirt, I cannot count the ways in which I have been shaped by these elemental beings.
And after too many years of forgetting how to swim in a river, while pads of feet grow too soft and fleshy to walk barefoot on gravel, and of growing wary and jumpy of unnamed and unforeseen insects, I'm finding myself again becoming lost in the flow of the country.
Happy is the color of the memories I have collected; thankful, the color of the instincts I've reawakened.
Alive is the color of my childhood. Wisdom, the color of all she has taught me.
Tear down the house that I grew up in
I'll never be the same again
Carry the pictures of me and you
And throw it in a pile
Xx,
Hannah
Monday, September 26, 2011
La Belle France
I have recently fallen in love with France.
It all started last month when in the middle of my Summer Reading Companion (I.e, A Year In the World by Frances Mayes) the author was spending a delicious vacation with her husband in the South of France. Nice, Provence, Saint-Saveur-En-Pusaiye.
It was there that I first came across Colette.
Mayes had studied her extensively in college, and had read and re-read her works throughout her entire life, and in the period she spent in the South of France and Burgundy she interspersed a lot of Colette's words with her own. Her and her husband took a pilgrimage to the childhood home of Colette. The very same home she wrote about in one of her most cherished works, "My Mother's House and Sido."
Of course, after I finished my travel book, I ran to the library and picked up My Mother's House and began to fall deeper. Around the same time, I finally got around to creating a La Vie En Rose playlist on Pandora. This is where I really toppled over the edge, as I became absolutely enchanted with France's most famous popular vocalist, Edith Piaf.
I first met Edith through a youtube video when I heard the French version of La Vie En Rose for the very first time. This must have been almost 2 years ago.
But it was only last month that I really explored beyond that one song, and I'm completely addicted to what I've discovered.
As I was experiencing the region of Yonne through Colette, I also picked my copy of Julia Child's My Life In France which I started several years ago, but never finished. Julia showed me Paris and all of it's rainy, rosy glory.
I finished the book; I encourage anyone who's ever experienced sheer determination to pick it up. It's a highly inspiring read.
Of course, I've decided that I must experience all of this beauty and taste and inspiration for myself.
I especially want to read more of Colette's books. And I, too, want to travel to that small village and see Colette's childhood home for myself.
Doesn't that make you want to pick up all of your belongings and just move?
I don't mean move only as a sense of physical movement, as in moving houses, I mean it in a emotional and psychological sense, too. To move something, to move someone, to be moved by a place, a person, a meal. To be touched. To touch others. To inspire, to be inspired. To change circumstances, to be changed.
For reasons like these alone, I live my life.
And all of these reasons surface when you listen to French music, or cook a French meal. Or even read a book by a French author.
I believe that the French have figured out the secrets and eccentricities of life. They know the way things work, and I willingly sign myself up to learn the same lessons as soon as possible.
de vous envoyer tout l'amour et de pépites de chocolat dans le monde,
Hannah Xx
It all started last month when in the middle of my Summer Reading Companion (I.e, A Year In the World by Frances Mayes) the author was spending a delicious vacation with her husband in the South of France. Nice, Provence, Saint-Saveur-En-Pusaiye.
It was there that I first came across Colette.
Mayes had studied her extensively in college, and had read and re-read her works throughout her entire life, and in the period she spent in the South of France and Burgundy she interspersed a lot of Colette's words with her own. Her and her husband took a pilgrimage to the childhood home of Colette. The very same home she wrote about in one of her most cherished works, "My Mother's House and Sido."
Of course, after I finished my travel book, I ran to the library and picked up My Mother's House and began to fall deeper. Around the same time, I finally got around to creating a La Vie En Rose playlist on Pandora. This is where I really toppled over the edge, as I became absolutely enchanted with France's most famous popular vocalist, Edith Piaf.
I first met Edith through a youtube video when I heard the French version of La Vie En Rose for the very first time. This must have been almost 2 years ago.
But it was only last month that I really explored beyond that one song, and I'm completely addicted to what I've discovered.
As I was experiencing the region of Yonne through Colette, I also picked my copy of Julia Child's My Life In France which I started several years ago, but never finished. Julia showed me Paris and all of it's rainy, rosy glory.
I finished the book; I encourage anyone who's ever experienced sheer determination to pick it up. It's a highly inspiring read.
Of course, I've decided that I must experience all of this beauty and taste and inspiration for myself.
I especially want to read more of Colette's books. And I, too, want to travel to that small village and see Colette's childhood home for myself.
Doesn't that make you want to pick up all of your belongings and just move?
I don't mean move only as a sense of physical movement, as in moving houses, I mean it in a emotional and psychological sense, too. To move something, to move someone, to be moved by a place, a person, a meal. To be touched. To touch others. To inspire, to be inspired. To change circumstances, to be changed.
For reasons like these alone, I live my life.
And all of these reasons surface when you listen to French music, or cook a French meal. Or even read a book by a French author.
I believe that the French have figured out the secrets and eccentricities of life. They know the way things work, and I willingly sign myself up to learn the same lessons as soon as possible.
de vous envoyer tout l'amour et de pépites de chocolat dans le monde,
Hannah Xx
Sunday, September 25, 2011
A.H.D.S-O.
Avoidance:
In the month that has passed since I really last posted, I do regret to admit that I was avoiding you all.
I have been shamelessly avoiding my natural duty and outlet to write and release my thoughts because I was tormented by many things I wanted to say, but I could never quite find the words.
I also avoided updating because I knew the things I wanted to write about were sure to be emotional and full of memory. Sometimes, I do admit, I am a coward when it comes to emotion.
Sometimes, in my darkest hours, I repress things for the sake of avoiding pain.
It's stupid, really, repression is merely reverse psychology for such things as pain and regret, or frustration, or sadness.
And yet I still do it. I am a self-diagnosed basket case at times, I will not deny.
Honesty:
A moment of honesty with you all, I now promise. Which, although I am not a truly dishonest person, I do admit is rare for me to share.
I was afraid to delve any further into my past over the last month.
The post about my mom's bout with cancer wore me out for weeks. The seemingly-lifelong-journey I took through myself whilst camping in the wilderness wore me out for over a month.
I was too scared to write what I already knew. Writing things down immortalizes them forever. It's one of the most exhilarating and exhausting aspects of being a writer. The process of writing also forces you to really explore your discovery. Sometimes new treasures are unearthed, sometimes new tragedies take their place instead.
Desire:
There were so many things I wanted to write about the past month; I honestly did sit down several times to try my hand at one or the other, but I couldn't stomach it. I caved to my fear.
I wanted to write about The Old House, and I wanted to write about The Beatles. I wanted to write about my childhood, and I wanted to write about the music that moves me the most. I wanted to write more about my camping trip. I wanted to write about my mom. I wanted to write about epiphanies and realizations and healing and moving on and all of them seemed so beautiful, so untouched.
As silly as it sounds, I wanted to write about me.
Not the things I love now, not the things I dream about in the future. Not the books I've read.
I wanted to write my history. My childhood. My journey. My familiar and my unfamiliar. The entire process of my life.
Recently I finished reading My Mother's House and Sido by Colette, and I realized that an author's greatest work is undoubtedly their reflections on childhood. Their greatest talent is to write where they came from, and their oldest memories, and to make you fall in love with the raw beauty of home and family and youth.
The age of innocence is the most impactful age of a writer's life.
And I wasted mine on trying to grow up too fast, and then trying to forget it all.
I succeeded, too. Up until I went camping, when my childhood collided heavily with my present self, and refused to let me go.
Since that week when my 7 year old self told me to let all of my pain go, memories and feelings I've not thought of or felt in years have been flooding back to me. And I wanted to write about all of them, but in truth, I had not given myself the proper time to process them.
Sworn Oath:
And so here we are.
I promise the period of withdrawal is over.
These things need to be written down, and they need to be immortalized.
And I want you all to be the first receivers of this sort of life-manuscript.
I'll try my very best to keep them from being long and wordy, but some will probably err on the side of longish with an accompaniment of nostalgia, served with a healthy sample of musical influence.
Thanks for your patience, and your support and understanding.
You are all brilliant stars. :)
Sending you all the chocolate chips in the world,
Hannah Xx
In the month that has passed since I really last posted, I do regret to admit that I was avoiding you all.
I have been shamelessly avoiding my natural duty and outlet to write and release my thoughts because I was tormented by many things I wanted to say, but I could never quite find the words.
I also avoided updating because I knew the things I wanted to write about were sure to be emotional and full of memory. Sometimes, I do admit, I am a coward when it comes to emotion.
Sometimes, in my darkest hours, I repress things for the sake of avoiding pain.
It's stupid, really, repression is merely reverse psychology for such things as pain and regret, or frustration, or sadness.
And yet I still do it. I am a self-diagnosed basket case at times, I will not deny.
Honesty:
A moment of honesty with you all, I now promise. Which, although I am not a truly dishonest person, I do admit is rare for me to share.
I was afraid to delve any further into my past over the last month.
The post about my mom's bout with cancer wore me out for weeks. The seemingly-lifelong-journey I took through myself whilst camping in the wilderness wore me out for over a month.
I was too scared to write what I already knew. Writing things down immortalizes them forever. It's one of the most exhilarating and exhausting aspects of being a writer. The process of writing also forces you to really explore your discovery. Sometimes new treasures are unearthed, sometimes new tragedies take their place instead.
Desire:
There were so many things I wanted to write about the past month; I honestly did sit down several times to try my hand at one or the other, but I couldn't stomach it. I caved to my fear.
I wanted to write about The Old House, and I wanted to write about The Beatles. I wanted to write about my childhood, and I wanted to write about the music that moves me the most. I wanted to write more about my camping trip. I wanted to write about my mom. I wanted to write about epiphanies and realizations and healing and moving on and all of them seemed so beautiful, so untouched.
As silly as it sounds, I wanted to write about me.
Not the things I love now, not the things I dream about in the future. Not the books I've read.
I wanted to write my history. My childhood. My journey. My familiar and my unfamiliar. The entire process of my life.
Recently I finished reading My Mother's House and Sido by Colette, and I realized that an author's greatest work is undoubtedly their reflections on childhood. Their greatest talent is to write where they came from, and their oldest memories, and to make you fall in love with the raw beauty of home and family and youth.
The age of innocence is the most impactful age of a writer's life.
And I wasted mine on trying to grow up too fast, and then trying to forget it all.
I succeeded, too. Up until I went camping, when my childhood collided heavily with my present self, and refused to let me go.
Since that week when my 7 year old self told me to let all of my pain go, memories and feelings I've not thought of or felt in years have been flooding back to me. And I wanted to write about all of them, but in truth, I had not given myself the proper time to process them.
Sworn Oath:
And so here we are.
I promise the period of withdrawal is over.
These things need to be written down, and they need to be immortalized.
And I want you all to be the first receivers of this sort of life-manuscript.
I'll try my very best to keep them from being long and wordy, but some will probably err on the side of longish with an accompaniment of nostalgia, served with a healthy sample of musical influence.
Thanks for your patience, and your support and understanding.
You are all brilliant stars. :)
Sending you all the chocolate chips in the world,
Hannah Xx
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