Not a philosopher.

Let me start off by saying that no matter how much I search for the right words and sentiments I wish to express, there is no way that this post is going to come off with the same seriousness as the feelings that hit me last night. Also, if you're already in a sad mood or simply don't want to read about my crazy emotions, just stop here.

I watched a documentary last night that not only made me think, but made me have a 90 minute existential 'crisis.'

You know those scary little moments when you gasp and get that terrible feeling? In the span of a second, a million questions run through your head:
Why am I here?
What is the point of my life?
What is the point of the universe?

Well, usually it passes after about thirty seconds and I go on my merry way to whatever more pressing matter awaits me (having a cup of yogurt, facebooking, shredding paper, doing some laundry, schoolwork -- you know, the real important stuff). Last night, it took the end of the documentary, a hot shower, and journaling to get me back to normal. With the distraction of my internship and work all day, I've been fine but then the feeling hit me again a couple of hours ago.

I was talking with Tyler on the phone and got on this topic. I'm scared. I'm really scared of the future and am having a great deal of trouble understanding the reason I'm here. And part of me thinks that I'm just thinking about this because I'm so worried about my post-college life (Should I go to grad school right away and be long distance with Tyler? Should I try to move to France? Should I just settle down and get a teaching job? Should I get a teaching job and try to get into a creative writing Master's program? Should Tyler and I drop out of life, move to Washington, plant a garden, and do whatever we want until we run out of resources? Should I stop writing these things because they are too personal?).

This is the first time that the 'right answer' isn't built in for me. After high school, the obvious next step was college, but now I really don't know what I want to do with my life. It's a pretty lousy time to have this feeling. For one thing, my birthday is one week from tomorrow and I can hardly have a good birthday month if I start out all emo wondering about my purpose in life. Then again, maybe it's a good thing that I'm stepping back and trying to reevaluate my priorities and options. Who knows.

Usually finding happiness, beauty, and purpose in the everyday comes so naturally to me.
I want it back.

This weekend...

Picnic + Snowboarding = Great weekend.
I'm bummed to not be at the Paul McCartney concert tonight with my family, but listening to some Beatles while doing homework is almost as good.

Not really, but let me just pretend.

La France me manque

Aujourd’hui quelqu’un m’a demandé si j’habitais en France et j’ai répondu que j’y suis allée une fois. Cette question me fait toujours heureuse, mais un peu triste au même temps car la France me manque. Et en plus, je suis tellement jalouse de Jessica et ses projets d’y aller en mai. Elle va s’amuser bien, je suis sûre. :)

Today someone asked me if I used to live in France and I told them that I went there once. That question always makes me happy, but at the same time it makes me sad because I really miss France. Plus, I’m super jealous of Jessica and her plans to go to France in May. She is going to have so much fun. :)

Princesses

Today I acquiesced to three little girls' requests
to draw each of them SIX Disney princesses to color,
not including drawing Ariel twice
(once as a mermaid and once in her wedding gown).

Little girls are serious about their princesses.

My future child

This is the greatest. Someday...

via weheartit

Abe, Marilyn, & Elvis

Claire Denamur

I love that Claire Denamur's voice is described as "légèrement cassée" on wikipedia.
It sounds so much cooler than just saying she has a raspy voice.

Drink your Nehi and eat your Coney Island!

I watched this movie for the first time in at least five years. Paper Moon came out in 1973, but the whole film is done in black and white to give off the Depression Era vibe of the 1930's setting.

Ryan and Tatum O'Neal play the roles of con man and orphan, selling bibles to recent widows and claiming that the husbands ordered the bibles as gifts for the wives just before they died. In this clip, Moses is about to send Addie off to live with her aunt in St. Joseph, but Moses has "her $200."

Libraries vs. Laboratories

I texted Tyler that someday, I want an underground library.

His reply, "You mean, a laboratory?"

"No, a library."

"A laboratory??"

"Fine. A library/laboratory."

Crazy scientist.

The Color of Water, by James McBride

I'm starting to read another autobiography for my online literature class. I'm about halfway through and I love it. It was published back in 1996, and it just might make it into my top ten favorite books.

Here's a sample from Chapter 2:


"Although P.S. 118 was only eight blocks away, I wasn't allowed to walk there with my siblings because kindergarten students were required to ride the bus. On the ill-fated morning, Mommy chased me all around the kitchen trying to dress me as my siblings laughed at my terror. 'The bus isn't bad,' one quipped, 'except for the snakes.' Another added, 'Sometimes the bus never brings you home.' Guffaws all around.

'Be quiet,' Mommy said, inspecting my first-day-of-school attire. My clothes were clean, but not new. The pants had been Billy's, the shirt was David's, the coat had been passed down from Dennis to Billy to David to Richie to me. It was a gray coat with a fur collar that had literally been chewed up by somebody. Mommy dusted it off with a whisk broom, set out eight or nine bowls, poured oatmeal in each one, left instructions for the eldest to feed the rest, then ran a comb through my hair. The sensation was like a tractor pulling my curls off. 'C'mon,' she said, 'I'll walk you to the bus stop.' Surprise reward. Me and Mommy alone. It was the first time I remember ever being alone with my mother.

It became the high point of my day, a memory so sweet it is burned into my mind like a tattoo, Mommy walking me to the bus stop and every afternoon picking me up, standing on the corner of New Mexico and 114th Road, clad in a brown coat, her black hair tied in a colorful scarf, watching with the rest of the parents as the yellow school bus swung around the corner and came to a stop with a hiss of air brakes.

Gradually, as the weeks passed and the terror of going to school subsided, I began to notice something about my mother, that she looked nothing like the other kids' mothers. In fact, she looked more like my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Alexander, who was white. Peering out the window as the bus rounded the corner and the front doors flew open, I noticed that Mommy stood apart from the other mothers, rarely speaking to them. She stood behind them, waiting calmly, hands in her coat pockets, watching intently through the bus windows to see where I was, then smiling and waving as I yelled my greeting to her through the window. She'd quickly grasp my hand as I stepped off the bus, ignoring the stares of the black women as she whisked me away.

One afternoon as we walked home from the bus stop, I asked Mommy why she didn't look like the other mothers.

'Because I'm not them,' she said.

'Who are you?' I asked.

'I'm your mother.'

'Then why don't you look like Rodney's mother, or Pete's mother? How come you don't look like me?'

She sighed and shrugged. She'd obviously been down this road many times. 'I do look like you. I'm your mother. You ask too many questions. Educate your mind. School is important. Forget Rodney and Pete. Forget their mothers. You remember school. Forget everything else. Who cares about Rodney and Pete! When they go one way, you go the other way. Understand? When they go one way, you go the other way. You hear me?'

'Yes.'

'I know what I'm talking about. Don't follow none of them around. You stick to your brothers and sisters, that's it. Don't tell nobody your business neither!' End of discussion.

A couple of weeks later the bus dropped me off and Mommy was not there. I panicked. Somewhere in the back of my mind was the memory of her warning me, 'You're going to have to learn to walk home by yourself,' but that memory blinked like a distant fog light in a stormy sea and it drowned in my panic. I was lost. My house was two blocks away, but it might as well have been ten miles because I had no idea where it was. I stood on the corner and bit back my tears. The other parents regarded me sympathetically and asked me my address, but I was afraid to tell them. In my mind was Mommy's warning, drilled into all twelve of us children from the time we could walk: 'Never, ever, ever tell your business to nobody,' and I shook my head no, I don't know my address. They departed one by one, until a sole figure remained, a black father, who stood in front of me with his son, saying, 'Don't worry, your mother is coming soon.' I ignored him. He was blocking my view, the tears clouding my vision as I tried to peer behind him, looking down the block to see if that familiar brown coat and white face would appear in the distance. It didn't. In fact there wasn't anyone coming at all, except a bunch of kids and they certainly didn't look like Mommy. They were a motley crew of girls and boys, ragged, with wild hairdos and unkempt jackets, hooting and making noise, and only when they were almost upon me did I recognize the faces of my elder siblings and my little sister Kathy who trailed behind them. I ran into their arms and collapsed in tears as they gathered around me, laughing."



James McBride's mother died January of this year. I just found the article this morning.