collegethoughts

Ready or not, here I come”-WildfireThe above was posted on a huge billboard by the side of the road.  I found it amusing and a little bothersome (odd to personify fire…).  Why do billboard makers and movie directors (John Polson) insist on twisting the childhood classic game “hide and seek” into something at once trite and morbid?Central/Northern California (by spelling that out I’ve labelled myself as non-native, but “NorCal”–really?) is everything anyone could want in a place.  Ocean, desert and mountains collaborate in a remarkably expansive display of beauty which draws undeniable parallels to the blurry nostalgic mess of a memory that is my high school home._________________________________________Steinbeck travelled across the country to reconnect himself with America, and he delighted in chronicling his meetings with “ordinary” people.  This trip was immediately attractive to me, until I realized that it bordered on condescending…while he liked rubbing shoulders with these quirky, average folk, he would never have been content to be one of them.  Did he have this notion of himself as the intriguing worldly traveller who was (on a subconscious level) better than anyone who stayed in one place?Actually Steinbeck did live among them for large chunks of his life.  Moot

He stepped into the clearing and was swept by a sense of exhilarating freedom.The comparison screamed at him after months of claustrophobic paths and dark caves. It was his Great Valley, Godot’s arrival, a promised land. But, compelled as he was, he resisted the urge to run forward. 

You’re fooling yourself.  We’re living in a dictatorship. A self-perpetuating autocracy in which the working class is…”That didn’t have much to do with what I’m wanting to write, but I figure a little Monty Python integration into everyday speech/thoughts couldn’t do me any harm.I’ve been thinking about the importance of hope and how easy it is to give up on inspiring ideas through self-defeation.  Which is not a word. Or phrase.My Money Sex and Power professor perpetually harps on this point as if he knows I have a blog in dire need of opinions beyond my own.  Of course, I’ve now adopted his take on the subject, so this will another of my ramblings.  But it has an inspired source.In class, he discussed our responsibility to help the poor.  He said he made it his policy several years ago to give to everyone who asked him.  Any bum who hits him up will receive whatever change he has on him at that moment.Convicted middle-class students defensively asked him about the possible conclusion of this policy; what if–heaven forbid – he ended up giving all of his money away. Surely that wasn’t a beneficial outcome? To this he responded that he wasn’t even close to having that problem, and he has actually been surprised at how rarely he is asked for money.  Furthermore, he added, Why should people be so scared of giving all their money away?  Or donating their clothes until they’re naked? Or loving too many people that you’re spread thin? Or going to the extreme of anything “good”?The fact is, none of us are even close to hitting these extremes, and letting the fear of ‘giving too much money away’ stop us from any form of generosity is absurd when we realize how far away we are from these possibilities.  He told us that he doubted it would hurt us to  just  start down that path and see where it takes us.I’m getting quite adept at not following through my thoughts on here.________________________________I want to buy a globe. My hope is to one day be open enough to close my eyes, spin the globe, and go to exactly where my finger lands. I’m actually pretty close to doing that already…

Roommate advice:the most important aspect of a good roommate is consideration.  if he/she is considerate of you, there won’t be problems of —loud music blasting when someone is trying to sleep -mess everywhere (hopefully they’ll contain it to their area)-stolen/used property/clothing and so on.  but it’s luck of the draw and you may or may not end up with a considerate roommate.  and people assume it’s a given, so there’s not a little box that says “considerate” for you to fill out on those charming form things.  which leads me to my next most important roommate trait:appropriate cleanliness factor.  if you are messy, you want someone who is also messy (though that can get crazy into the semester) or someone who is clean but is used to messy people and will encourage you to clean but doesn’t mind mess as long as it isn’t in the common areas.   this might sound silly, but it’s really, really important. good friends have discovered that they can’t live with eachother due to the mess factor.  don’t try to push it–some people are only going to live well together if their mess factors mesh. my room is really messy because my roommate and myself are both inclined towards chaos.  this works for us. it doesn’t work for most people. 

  My sisters and I have recently developed an addiction to Lost.  This addiction was developed at a disturbingly fast rate, and makes me wonder about human nature; Hannah likes her coffee, Emma is stubborn, and I go through various attachment phases, but I would be reticent to label any of us as unusually obsessive or addictive.    The writers of Lost have tapped into a proven formula for addiction–create a story with sympathetic characters, maintain constant action, and leave the viewer with questions that won’t be answered until the next episode.  The show, while well shot and well acted, isn’t anything spectacularly innovative.  The key is the questions–at the end of each episode, something dramatic happens, and the viewer is left with a burning desire to know what happens next, not unlike the Hardy Boys books I devoured as a child.    I find myself watching countless hours of this show (we have it on DvD) every day, even though it is a time waster–drama for drama’s sake; I gain no catharsis, no historical facts, and very few laughs.  What is it about the show that captures me?  Is it a thirst for knowledge, the desire to know what will happen next?  Real life constantly spirals out of control; this show is safe, it’s not real, it’s contained, and while it thrills, it never scares because it can’t affect me.  Or is Lost simply the first thing that presented itself to me as a possible pattern to fill my days with?  Are we all looking for the next addiction?  Can anyone be instantly sucked in?  Not to Lost, necessarily, but to any activity that has been designed to appeal to our craving natures.  Or does the activity even have to be designed to appeal to certain areas of our brains?  Maybe humans can be addicted to anything, and television writers, advertisers, business people are all competing to find the next really big one–the giant generic addiction that will generate the most money until the next one comes out.  Does it all come down to stability?  Supposedly no-one likes change, except for certain people who need change, but perpetual change becomes a constant–the net force is still zero.      I’m probably just rambling.  Ah well, it’s a better use of my time than Lost.

Sitting on the couch tonight eating Mac N Cheese with tuna fish and listening to the LOTR track titled “Hobbit Happy Song,” I was struck with a feeling of contentment. I very much wish that it was solely because of my circumstances and that I could find contentment anytime I were to cook up some Mac N Cheese, grab some tuna and turn on Hobbit Happy Song in the future.I doubt it._________________The Wonder Bread story:I played with the Whites this weekend. That’s what it felt like–lounging, hiking, eating, and trampoline jumping as we reminisced over family memories. There was a Romanian bloke who Elijah had brought from a Theological Institute in Austria (as you do). He spoke fairly good English, but had a few issues and asked Arielle what Wonder Bread was, telling her this story:Apparently he had been walking in a dodgy gang-type neighborhood when a group of thugs started shouting at him.”Hey Wonder Bread, you got any pot?”He shouted back, “No, I do not have any pots or any bread!”They didn’t take this too well and started following him menacingly. He got away, but was bothered enough to inquire about this term.I don’t know what she told him exactly. Ah America.

I’m supposed to read a play, memorize a monologue (angry cheated-on wife), write a play review, and do a week-late news article by 1:30. So I’m on here.            The rest of my notes:met and talked to a homeless guy for a bit. tried to give him money but most of it was foreign (I need to empty out my purse) which led us to conversing about my childhood. Tried to catch 7:02 and 7:30 bus. ended up chasing after both (and almost running in front of full on traffic) because i didn’t see where it had stopped. I now know (and it’s forever ingrained in my head). talked to a guy about where the bus stop was, he pulled out his blackberry and started to research when the bus came barrelling down the street. i told him it was mine and he ran across a lane of traffic to get into the bus’s lane, waving his arms madly. he then ran back to the sidewalk when the driver didn’t stop. i felt touched by this rash act of a stranger on my behalf. no car ride would have offered me that.walked over the highway to another bus station in an unlit, dodgy area that was listed on one of kyle’s maps as “LAST RESORT”. Bus pulls up and lights turn off. I walk up, the driver opens the doors and informs me he’s on break. Oh, and bus 50 has stopped for the night so I might want to try bus 40 and then transferring.which is how I ended up getting five one dollar coins as change from the metro machine.metro back:-secretive guy tries to underhandedly sell me CK perfume. (Oh and that was funny, he was definitely acting like it was an undercover arms deal)-homeless(?) guy gets on with bulgingly massive bags of bottles he’s collected-one guy stares at me even when I look at him…just…stares.got to fullerton bus station (which no longer seems questionable to me at night) and got picked up. in a car. yes I cheated. but reallygot back to biola around 10:30 (left at 2:30)___________________________________conversation between my 11 and 9 year old cousins and myself:(they have been discussing their crushes in the Twilight series)me: “Oh I’m in Twilight!”katie: “Oh yeah. In the book you’re fat!”caleb: “But not in real life.”katie: “Yeah, not in real life!”I was touched

Today I was used by The Chimes as part of a transportation experiment. I suppose I should blame Kyle, the Features editor and not The Chimes as a whole, but nobody shot his idea down during our 8:30 am story meeting, so I blame them all.

Basically we’re doing a car issue which we decided should include alternatives to cars; bike, metro, and bus. I got the bus. ( and no, not “Party bus whoo”…more like “random people shoved together for a few hours bus whoo”).

After discussing whether I was up to the task of doing it alone we decided that

a) I am a girl, but my skilled RADS knowledge compensates for this

b) Though slightly retarded gerbils have a better sense of direction than I do (thanks dad), I should still be able navigate two buses. (to ensure this, Kyle printed three pages of maps and directions for me, with the most important parts circled and underlined, arrows of the bus route, and little dotted lines of where I would walk to the library.)

The beginning was unnerving. Kyle walked me to the bus stop across the street (I really have a bad sense of direction), and we witnessed a three way accident where one car got lifted up by the other two.

This turned out to my advantage (everyone was fine btw) because it served me well as conversation fodder when I told the bus driver (who pulled up 20 seconds later) that I had witnessed it. The passengers quizzed me and I suavely answered their questions.

After that the ride wasn’t terribly eventful. Some of my notes:

3:04 tons of high schoolers get on. 15 (?) year old sits next to me.

3:06 tons of middle schoolers get on.

3:08 more kids. 10 people standing (in aisle)

3:19 old white guy who smells like alcohol sits next to me. (I spent a while trying to figure out what type of alcohol it was–figured I didn’t want to find out if he was a friendly drunk by asking–closest I could tell was some sort of cheap vodka.)

3:20? man I thought seemed creepy helps carry baby carriage for father of two

4:00 two teen guys start shoving eachother. driver yells at them to cut it out. (this had something to do with an ipod)

4:00 lady brings on giant slab of raw meat which I can smell

4:05 loud black guy in military hat gets on. talks to me about my celtic shirt (not sure what he said). friendly. mental?

4:18 getting cold.

4:30 get off at grand (the street with the library).

I wandered over to the library without the help of the little dotted lines on the map. (Turns out it was right across from the bus stop). I circled it for a while trying to find an entrance. When I got in, I fell in love and signed up for a library card. Turns out I needed a proof of address so I have a temporary one. But the library (LA public library) is grand and beautiful and has an intriguing mix of academics, nerds, and homeless people, and I know I would be happy for hours wandering and reading.

So that’s what’s happened so far. I’m writing this in the library, about to explore it some more and then bus home. In all likelihood I’ll meet some debonaire young gentleman who is reading Wilde or Tolstoy and we’ll strike up a literary conversation and exchange numbers. I will lose his number in a gust of wind, and he’ll lose mine in a freak accident and we’ll spend our lives wondering.

It has recently come to my attention that I know too many Christophers.  I have decided that I refuse to meet any more.  The next time a Chris tries to introduce himself to me, I’m just going to look at him and walk away.  If we’re in the middle of a handshake, I’ll jerk my hand right out of his slimy generic clutch.            “Hi, I’m Chris—”            “Whoa,” (The last word he’ll hear from me as I walk away)            No more Christophers?  And if it’s your new girlfriend’s brother?  We’re at Biola.  The only person I would make an exception for is Christopher Walken because he is a god.  And even while I’ll add Mr. Walken my Chris List, I’m kicking another one off.  I’ll choose the Chris with the squiniest eyes or worst hangnails; ignore him, delete him from facebook, and remove him from my phone book.  Which reminds me—I’m always trying to call my brother Chris and dialing the wrong Chris by accident.  While I am always up for a good awkward situation, I prefer to be in control of these.  (Yes, the phonebook problem ostensibly could be solved by including last names when I put them in, but even when properly labeled, accidents happen.)

I understand the occasional obligation of naming your kid a family name, and if it’s necessary, fine.  But really, if there’s no wealthy relation to name him after, why choose something so common?

Why not use an original name—like Trafalgar?  Or Donnatello? (actually any of the ninja turtle names are ideal.  The Transformers too).  Or creatively combine first and last names.  I know of a girl named—and I’m not kidding here—Miranda Ruth Flower-bird Wessellalmon.  (Don’t forget the hyphen in ‘Flower-bird’).  Imagine how much more interesting her existence is—how many enthralling hours of conversation have been added to her life as she explains the rarity that is her name.  No existential crises’ arising from that name.   

But Siobhan, you’re just bitter because you could never find a magnet or bookmark with your name on it at the bookstore.  You’re tired of being called Cinnabon, Chevron, Shake-your-bon-bon and Shablonde.  You want everyone to be cursed with an obscure Gaelic name that comes up on the spellchecker as “soybean.”  This is not true.  I’m advocating orignal names, not Irish names.  Mostly though, I’m advocating naming your child anything but Chris.

People-watching can be a let down.  A woman’s head with unnervingly blond hair styled like a 90’s 11-year-old boy (think Mccully Culkin) talks to someone I can’t see.  There is no mad gesticulating, no expression of wild happiness, just…talking.  It probably doesn’t help that I am watching from my tiny bathroom window (hence seeing only the head of the woman) and my view is incredibly limited.  But still, my samples of human life should do their best to be a little more entertaining. Yesterday I watched someone carry groceries to their room.  Hardly enthralling.I suppose I shouldn’t expect so much from the apartment complex next door, but it’s my most accessible pool of humanity. It’s also disconcerting to do it from a bathroom window. I know I wouldn’t want them to be able to see into my bathroom – but they can’t complain about being watched.  It hasn’t been banned yet, though I suppose eventually Big Brother will have cameras everywhere making sure nobody is people-watching._____________________________________________I think there should be a word for “easily distracted.”  Sticking an ADD label on everyone with a propensity towards distraction (see, that’s why we need a word) isn’t cutting it for me.  I’m thinking something like “ringy”. Ringy people can be annoying to focused people.