my post-college decent into stupidity

i'm pretty sure i'm getting more and more stupid each day.  it's as though my four years of college education (preceded by 13 years of formal education via public school) were the peak of my intellectual stimulation and since graduation i've begun a rapid decent into stupidity.  

for example: while in college, i regularly found myself reading 4-5 books at a time (mostly a mixture of some densely written philosophy text, a bit of applied philosophy- usually ethics, some refreshingly light novel about reconciliation, a standard anthropology text and almost always something to aid in one's spiritual formation).  lately, however, i find even just one book difficult to get through and have resorted to reading a chapter here from mindlessly shallow book number one and then skipping to a chapter from similarly mindless and shallow book number two.  

example two:  while in college, i sought out ways to engage my intellect outside of class, engaging mindfully in culture through critiques of music and movies.  i enjoyed entertainment that made me think and that commented on our society at large and similarly enjoyed discussing these various movies and albums with friends over tea or the forbidden glass of wine.  these days, i can't seem to get enough of the mindless "chick-flicks"... i've even resorted to watching certain ones over and over again- each time hoping to find some redeeming value to thus justify my behavior- and each time failing miserably to do so.  on a similar note, i've become addicted to watching smutty tv-dramas online.  the beauty (and detriment) of online tv is that if you look hard enough, you can find just about every episode of every popular tv show and then watch an entire series from pilot to series finale in just over a month.  so far, i've completed multiple embarrassing shows and am on the hunt for my next mindless distraction.

example three:  while in college, i lived my life aware of how it affected others and how i as an individual was connected with the larger global community.  i co-lead a group of student-activists in pursuit to better educate our campus of world events and global issues,  and strove to be more mindful of the resources i used.  today, however, i catch myself letting the faucet run as i brush my teeth, or mindlessly unroll the toilet paper until half the roll is sitting in my lap read for use.  our neighborhood doesn't have a recycling program and so i've gotten lazy and now see just about everything as trash, and consider my 5 minutes of BBC headlines a day to be sufficient in staying up to date with world news.  

it's been nearly a year since graduation... 365 days of unraveling.  but as spring arrives and appropriately sparks feelings of hope, motivation and excitement, i am ready to shed my slothful-wintery state and begin anew.  my brain and body have had enough time to recover from the intensity of formalized academia and are ready to be exercised once again.  time to limit my intake of mind-numbing crap and reintegrate thoughtful, productive forms of entertainment.  

i may need some help getting started though.  do you have any book suggestions?  right now i'm big into memoir, but feel i need to branch out beyond this field and try my hand at some other forms of writing.  my friend mel always seems to have good suggestions- so in the off chance that no one responds.... :o)  (please respond, if you're out there).  

also, any good movies out there now?  i feel like i've been living under a rock for the last year and don't have any idea what's out and what's good... something about old men seems to ring a bell and maybe one called "there will be blood"... but i'm not sure what either of these are about.  i should probably shoot my former prof. postema an email and see what he has lined up for this year's film forum as he has impeccable taste regarding film.  

and on to music... help.  that's it.  that's all i need to say.

okay, i think i've adequately fulfilled my blogging quota for the day, now for sleep.

... one last minute comment relating to work, thank you to the man who efficiently went through my check out isle this afternoon with little to no delays.  it was kind of you to have the forethought to have your money ready and available for me to collect, and even more kind that you helped to bag your own groceries... sidenote:  for those of you that may shop at trader joe's and don't know the rules... you're supposed to bag your own groceries- i've seen 75 year old women successfully manage to put away multiple bags worth as i finish scanning everything leaving you with no excuse.  it's just plain rude to stand by and idly watch as i unload an entire grocery cart (or two!) onto the small check-out counter and then struggle to fit your newly purchased items into two double-paper bags- evenly balanced of course so you don't topple over on your way out to catch a cab.  just thought i'd let you know.

goodnight now and sweet dreams from my part of the world.

blogging as a replacement for tv

the at&t repair man, victor,  came by today to fix our internet connection.  it seems the majority of our exterior wiring was all mixed up, wires touching in places they shouldn't be and barely connected where they ought.  it's only been down for two days and my obvious dependence on this highly evolved technology has left me feeling somewhat uncomfortable.  i've survived without internet (and without other seemingly necessary things like pickles, shampoo, properly flushing toilets) for considerably longer periods of time throughout my life, what is it about this season that makes me feel so dependent upon technology?  

it's as though technology is the only thing keeping me connected to the world, either with the handful of soul-mates living on the other side of the planet or with the close friends and family i have scattered across the states.  even more-so, it's as though the technology of blogging has helped me feel better connected with my self, more challenged to articulate and therefore better able to understand my own thought processes.  

it felt silly at first, admitting to myself (and to you) the vast number of times i thought about blogging while our internet was down.  but if someone as respectable as jenell can admit to being obsessed with blogging, then at least i'm in good company.  the truth is, i'm constantly blogging in my head.  have you ever watched scrubs?  well, i feel like JD (or Dr. Dorian) with his "floating-head-doctor."  JD is constantly floating off into his own world where he narrates his life in order to better understand his experiences.  i feel like i have my own "floating-head-blogger" as my mind escapes real life to imagine what i would say if i were to blog about it.  not sure what i mean?  well, imagine me sitting on the bus, staring aimlessly out the window, or better yet, standing at the register at work, mindlessly scanning bottles of wine and bags of frozen peas.  i appear to be on auto-drive, like those broomsticks from fantasia that keep filling the well with bucket after bucket of water, only for me, it's groceries, and while my mind may seem to be blank, it's actually racing with ideas about proper sentence structure and which amusing anecdote would fit better in this particular scenario.  i can't help it.  not only am i bagging cart after cart of groceries, all done at an increasing pace as the crescendo to fantasia builds in the background, but my imagination also picks up speed as it jumps from one idea to another, following a crazy rabbit trail of thoughts that even i can't understand.  most days i feel insane.  

is this the life of a writer? always living in one's head?  or is this just me?  seems i've been living in my head for some time now... maybe blogging is my way of getting outside myself, (not totally since i'm still writing about myself), but taking my inner thoughts and putting them out for the world (okay i guess world may be going a bit too far... how about for the small handful of readers... mostly consisting of friends who i've begged to read this so i can be assured of some semblance of an audience...).  maybe blogging will help calm the chaos and provide a bit of structure to the wandering imagination.  or maybe i'll just meander through these rabbit trails of thoughts, taking you along for the ride. 

engaging my multi-faceted self

i've spent the afternoon reading over jenell's (one of my previous professors) archived blogs and have discovered that she's a lot like me... or rather, she was a lot like me in the fall of 2004.  i identify with her thick layers of cynicism intermixed with her struggle to understand deep feelings of pain and disappointment; i appreciate her delight in finding an outlet for herself, a way that she can better communicate both her intellectual musings and her random thoughts throughout the day; i am struck by her honesty and desire that i could be so bold.  

i used to have a pretty strong distaste for blogs, similar to what most people feel about memoirs... who would want to read about someone's reflections on their own life?  seems a bit self-centered to write only about me and my life.  but i've  recently discovered a love for the memoir style of writing... at least, for those that are done well- those that not only tell stories from a person's life, but that also point to the human experience as a whole, those that use the act of storytelling to better connect the audience with either an experience or a particular insight.  and similarly, i've come to enjoy the sphere of blogging as a sort of unedited and immediate kind of memoir.  i especially enjoy the way reading jenell's archived blogs helps me understand myself with all my confusion and grief, and helps me rethink how i can find hope and strength in god from this state of being.

in one of her early postings, jenell talks about how she appreciates blogging for the voice that it allows women to carry- how it humanizes a person, allowing them to put forth both intellect and emotion, both seriousness and humor, both the rational and irrational.  she herself writes both about the loss of her triplet sons during childbirth and also about the daily lives of her cats.  

and so i'm excited to participate, excited to discover an avenue through which i can engage my multi-faceted self, excited to explore my truest voice in the midst of such a confusing stage of life.  and i'm excited to have you along for the ride... whomever you may be.  

little black dress

I don’t own a single article of clothing that’s black.  No little black dress that’s supposedly every young woman’s necessity, no lacey black tank-top perfect for a night at the clubs, not even a black t-shirt.  Normally, this sort of discovery would be like noticing that I also don’t own anything pink; it’s a color that doesn’t fit my personal tastes, and I since I don’t usually have any need for black clothing, or fancy clothing for that matter the fact that I don’t own a single article of black clothing doesn’t phase me.  But tonight, my lack of appropriate “going out” clothing actually hindered me from seeing a good friend on her last night in town.

 

I’ve been friends with Bethany Anne Murphy ever since her mom and my mom co-chaperoned our monthly Brownies meetings after school during our first grade year.  We both wore glasses back then and both had the option of being called Beth- two very solidifying marks of good friend potential to a first-grader.  I remember playing flashlight-tag in her large and slightly wooded back-yard when we were young and faking an attack of the mosquito bites so I could hide indoors where it was light and I wasn’t alone.

 

It wasn’t until junior high, however, that Beth and I really became close.  My entire group of friends from elementary school had just started experimenting with high-school parties, drinking, some minor drugs and boys, leaving innocent me to fend for myself and find a new clique.  Bethy was there, ready to accept me into her posse of girls in which she was the obvious ringleader.  She welcomed me in with open arms and gave me a group of friends with whom I could experience the typical, awkward phases of junior high at a slower and to me, more enjoyable pace.

 

I found myself longing for those friends again later, after entering high-school, after Bethy moved out of state, and after our seemingly tight-knit group began to disband.  Boyfriends took over, popularity constantly pressured us, and life was no longer easy to understand.

 

I only recently reconnected with Beth, as we are both college graduates living in the city and trying to figure out where life will take us next.  Even though our degrees and experiences have led us down different paths- her to a job in a law firm, meeting in a glass high-rise in the center of downtown and me to a part-time gig in a unique grocery store with a full-time DJ as a boss- we’ve still been able to reconnect over our love for travel, different cultures, and our fond memories of growing up together.

 

But tonight our differences in lifestyle and routine became apparent.  Bethy is leaving the country to teach English in Thailand for 7 months and as a going-away bash, organized a night out on the town for all her friends currently living in the area, mojitos and Salsa dancing at a pretentious club just north of the river.  Excited for the opportunity to get dressed up and thrilled by the idea of going out with girlfriends, I spent a good portion of my evening preparing myself for the night ahead.  Legs were shaved, eye-liner applied, jean mini-skirt was taken out of storage.  After assembling what I thought was a fun ensemble and checking myself in the full-length mirror one last time, I felt ready.  Granted, my fun ensemble consisted of a flashy orange tank-top, jean mini-skirt, fishnet stockings, knee-socks and moccasins, but I felt sexy in my own way, confident that one could still dress like themselves and manage to enjoy an evening out on the town, or wherever they found themselves.

 

My cell phone rang just as I was about to leave.  It was Beth.  She felt she ought to call and let me know that not only did this club have a pretty steep cover, but there was a strictly enforced dress code as well.  “Just don’t wear any jeans or anything, okay?”  I looked down at my skirt trying to decipher whether a jean mini was considered “jeans.”  “How about a jean skirt?” I asked, figuring I’d leave the moccasins out of this one.  Beth paused for a minute, but even in her silence I could tell the answer was no.  “Why don’t you just put on a black skirt or pants, just to be safe” she replied.  Dang, the moccasins were surely out. 

 

After tearing through every article of clothing I owned, I realized to my own disbelief that I didn’t own anything appropriate for such a club, no slinky skirt or sexy tank-top, no heels or black pants or anything silk, satin, or bejeweled.  My wardrobe consists entirely of jeans, corduroy, flowy peasant skirts and cotton-polyester-blend t-shirts. 

 

My thoughts drifted back to my life in Minnesota.  My friends and I went out to clubs almost every night of the week, and somehow managed to enjoy Minneapolis’ night-life without ever once needing a little black dress.  I felt nostalgic for that time and longed to be surrounded by people who shared my taste in clothing.  I looked at my once perfect outfit, which was now lying in a heap on the closet floor and was immediately angry at the aforementioned, pretentious club just north of the river.  How dare that club- those bouncers and bartenders and club-goers, how dare they tell me I’m not good enough to enter, that I don’t fit the bill.  Of course I don’t fit in there, I know it and they know it.  But who’s to say that just because I don’t own anything black that I can’t come dance and share in my friend’s last night in town?

 

Angry and once again motivated to find something, anything “appropriate” to wear, I looked at my closet again.  I put on outfit after outfit, but nothing made me look “normal.”  And so, after much deliberation, and many wardrobe changes, I was defeated, forced to give in and stay home, upset that I’d be missing out on what should have been an incredible night, and even more upset that I once again allowed the elite, the popular crowd, the black-clothing-wearing-club-going-downtown-working masses make me feel inadequate. 

 

I put my original outfit back on, admiring myself in the mirror for a while and smiling at my funky style.  This is me world, you can take it or leave it, but you should know in case you decide it’s not up to some standard, that this chic is one hell of a dancer. 

daily reminders of home

There’s a man who lives in a field just a few blocks from my apartment.  I see him every day on my way to work and am always torn between feelings of joy, heartache, and a touch of envy. 

 

I’m joyous because I find the sight so utterly beautiful.  This man has turned a barren plot of land into a home simply by bringing to it his constant presence.  He has embodied the true meaning of home by filling his lot with family and friends, surrounding a fire together at night, sharing stories, sharing lives, all without the modern entanglements of tv and radio, indoor plumbing and clocks. 

 

I lived in Kenya for a year, and while there visited a friend’s home in Litein, a small, outlaying town of Kericho in the western region of the country. 

 

In this home, dinner lasted long into the night, the whole family sitting, relaxed, in the living room on couches and on the beautiful area rug at the center of the room.  Candles lit the night as our hands served for utensils: uniting each of us with one another, and uniting our bodies with their source of nourishment.  Conversation was easy, free flowing; laughter was consistent and song danced on the tips our tongues. 

 

Somehow I felt bonded to these people, as though this were my own family, as though I belonged in this foreign land with its melodic language and dark skinned people.  We were one.

 

Upon returning to the states, I have tried for such a night, such a connection with other people, yet only experiencing glimpses of it here and there, like in Michigan one night with my American family.

 

We vacation together once a year at the end of the summer, the whole lot of us.  We wait until the heat of august gets too impossible, ‘til the pressure of another school year is upon us, and we escape to a friends cabin on a small lake in western Michigan.  It’s more of a house than a cabin really.  Close family friends recently turned their three very rustic cabins into one very large house.  What used to house a very tight 10 now comfortably sleeps our 25; bathrooms that once followed the “if it’s yellow let it mellow”-rule, now have multiple sinks, large mirrors, updated plumbing and 3 full showers. 

 

This last year it rained nearly every day of our trip, causing aunts and uncles, cousins, sisters, nieces, nephews and our grandma- the matriarch of us all, to be stuck indoors for the majority of our week.  On one particular night, there was a storm so powerful that it blacked out the entire town.  Nothing was visible as our eyes searched the dark night for signs of power, signs of life.  The silence that overtook our normally boisterous house was eerie at first as we became even more isolated in our now small shelter.  We felt as though we were the last people on the planet, which for those who know my family is a scary thought.

 

But something happened that night, with the TV acting as nothing more than an elevated candle stand.  Preexisting family patterns seemed to fade as toddlers now had no bed-time, as poker became an all-ages, all-genders game, as smokers couldn’t isolate themselves out by the fire and non-smokers had no reason to pass judgment.  We stayed up late, laughing over cards, talking over glasses of wine, hovering close to candles and flashlights, all wanting the night to go on and on.

 

In my own imagination, the man I see living in a field experiences such beauty, peace and community each night as the sun sets and his only reminder of this modern society is the street lamp flickering a soft orange glow overhead.

 

But part of me knows that can’t be true.  I’ve taken enough sociology classes and understand too much of urban structures and systems to see my daydreams about this man’s life as nothing more than naïve and idealistic. 

 

I know those lots are empty from abandonment.  The gentrification happening around the hospital and around the university just blocks north have pushed previous inhabitants further south.

 

I know the city would rather have a string of empty lots to deal with than blocks and blocks of abandoned houses and buildings, where crime can breed and taxes go unpaid.

 

And I know the high rate of prostitution and drug dealing that happens within my idealized field of empty lots, reminding me that the “friends and family” which surround this man’s campfire each night are probably not singing songs and playing cards.

 

Being reminded of the systemic injustice that plagues our cities, that’s continued to push the poor further south and further out toward the suburbs, hurts my soul.  I don’t know where to put that kind of pain or how to process the knowledge that this man is probably not living outside because he wants to commune with nature and re-experience the simplistic lifestyle we humans were intended for.  Bur rather, he’s living outside because he can’t afford to live inside.

 

No matter how intangible the concept of home may be at the intellectual level, at the material level four walls and a roof cost money, they cost a constant stream of money coming in and require a lot of social capital to obtain.

 

Still, I can’t help but distinguish this man from the myriad of other homeless men I encounter on the streets downtown, those that smile politely reminding little ol’ white-girl me that they’re not going to rob me but just need a buck or two- those that ask me if I want a shoe shine or if I’ve ever been a model.  Those men truly seem to fit the notion of homeless to me as they walk the streets, carrying everything they own in a stolen shopping cart or bundled up in a soiled blanket.

 

But the man in the open field has a home, his plot of land with boxes and crates lining his boarders, cars parked in the street out front, a fire roaring in a trash can at the center of his lot. 

 

Why hasn’t he expanded? I wonder as I view his home from the train.  Why does he continue to abide by plot lines, by previous city ordinances?  He could inhabit the whole block, or the whole field for that matter.  He could widen his boarders and live on an acreage if he wanted, and acreage in the middle of the city.  But then he’d be just like the men downtown that see the entire city streets as their domain, wandering where they will, carrying everything the own with them each day.  By sticking to a few structures, this man seems to be destroying so many more.  Its as though he’s saying, “screw the system.”  “Screw the system that tells me land should cost money, and those who say I don’t deserve to be settled, to build a home because the minimum wage is too low for me to afford one.”

 

He’s reminding us, reminding me, as the train passes by his home on my way to and from work each day, what home is really about.  I go to work to make money, and that money is applied directly to the apartment I live in, so that I can continue living down town and going to work each day.  He reminds me daily of the dangerous cycle I’ve entered into.  

retail.

I worked a mid-shift today.  In the glorious world of retail, a mid-shift means I neither opened the store nor closed it at the end of the day.  What mid-shift also means is that my entire seven hour work day will be spent surrounded by customers, dodging their “can you help me” eyes, picking up their lipstick-stained demo cups.  It also means that I need to wake up at a decent hour, forfeit my afternoon of productive TV watching, and return home before diner- even before the Late Show.  Offices will still be buzzing with activity as I hop the train and settle in for my 45minute commute around the loop and headed south.  Rail maintenance will not have started yet, TV watching can be put off for after dark, and for once, I will be on the same time schedule as the rest of the city.