Welcome To Night Vale is Perfect.

11 02 2014

“But here is the truth of nostalgia: We don’t feel it for who we were, but who we weren’t. We feel it for all the possibilities that were open to us but that we didn’t take. Time is like wax, dripping from a candle flame. In that moment it is molten and falling, with the capability to transform into any shape, then the moment passes and the wax hits the tabletop and solidifies into the shape it will always be. It becomes the past, a single record of what happened, still holding in its wild curves and countours the potential of every shape it could have held.

It is impossible, no matter how blessed you are by luck, or the government, or some remote, invisible deity, gently steering your life with hands made of moonlight and wind, it is impossible not to feel a little sad, looking at that bit of wax, that bit of the past. It is impossible not to think of all the wild forms that wax now will never take.

The village glimpsed from a train window, beautiful and impossible and impossibly beautiful on a mountaintop and you wondered what it would be if you stepped off the moving train and walked up the trail to its quiet streets and lived there for the rest of your life.”

– Welcome to Night Vale, episode 21, “A Memory of Europe”

And THAT, friends, is one of many reasons why Welcome to Night Vale is my favorite podcast EVER.





Where Should A Person Be?

16 07 2013

Yes. All of this.

Thought Catalog

sfjkdskhf 584

Lucy turned to me, looking at the space beyond my body, down past different groups of people that had aggregated on the grassy side of the hill, just like the groups of people that were also above and beside us. “I don’t want to live anywhere,” she said.

The grass was drier underneath us, compared to what we had been walking through (wading through, pulling our knees at high arcs through the mud to be able to place our feet inches from where they were before), as we sat listening to Yeasayer play from the direction of the festival stages. I looked back at Lucy, my eyes focusing on her dark hair sitting above her reddening shoulders, thinking of my own hair—frizzing, dry, and out of control—and thinking back to earlier in the day when Lucy had held her arm out against mine saying in mock disbelief, “I’m so pale.”…

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Shit My Roommates Say

23 06 2013

My roommates are pretty hilarious. I’ve been keeping track of the things they say (one of them more than the other). And I feel like I need to share them.
D:
“What’s the worst thing you could put in someone’s food? Well, actually, probably poison…”

“This food would be good…I mean if it didn’t suck.”

“That is UNIMPEACHABLE! …I really wanted to say peach.

N:
“He asked me if I liked flowers. But I was like, ‘Uhhh, noo…but gimmie some vegetables!'”

“I ate halusky, man. It was cheesy as fuck. I was all cheesed out.”

“The American style is more comatose than the British…so there are more commas.”

“I am a basket of tired.”

Ciao is, like, fucking universal, man.”

“I’m gonna eat a pooooo00ooooomegranate. I don’t mean pomegranate. I mean pomegranate. I mean pomeranc. No. Actually, I mean portobello mushroom.”

“I am so much like a hobo sometimes.”





Quotes That Have Punched Me In The Gut Lately

25 04 2013

“[. . .] memory is time folding back on itself. To remember is to disengage from the present.”
Prague Winter: A Personal Story of Remembrance and War, Madeleine Albright

“…as the music started with a goblin walking quietly over the universe, from end to end. Others followed him. They were not aggressive creatures; it was that that made them so terrible to Helen. They merely observed in passing that there was no such thing as splendour or heroism in the world.”
Howards End, E.M. Forster

“This rehearsal will end, the performance will end, the singers will die, eventually the last score of the music will be destroyed in one way or another; finally the name ‘Mozart’ will vanish, the dust will have won.”
Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, Philip K. Dick

“It is the basic condition of life, to be required to violate your own identity. At some time, every creature which lives must do so. It is the ultimate shadow, the defeat of creation; this is the curse at work, the curse that feeds on all life.”
Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, Philip K. Dick

“Emotions, in my experience, aren’t covered by single words. I don’t believe in ‘sadness,’ ‘joy,’ or ‘regret.’ Maybe the best proof that the language is patriarchal is that it oversimplifies feeling. I’d like to have at my disposal complicated hybrid emotions, Germanic train-car constructions like, say, ‘the happiness that attends disaster.’ Or: ‘the disappointment of sleeping with one’s fantasy.’ I’d like to show how ‘intimations of mortality brought on by aging family members’ connects with ‘the hatred of mirrors that begins in middle age.’ I’d like to have a word for ‘the sadness inspired by failing restaurants’ as well as for ‘the excitement of getting a room with a minibar.’ I’ve never had the right words to describe my life, and now that I’ve entered my story, I need them more than ever.”
Middlesex, Jeffrey Eugenides





I Think They Call This The Feels

9 04 2013

Someone I know died.

I saw the news on facebook and I’ve been in complete shock ever since.

But it’s weird, see, because I didn’t know her that well. She was three years older than me. I didn’t really talk to her that often. We weren’t facebook friends. I was aware of her existence and she was aware of mine, but that was it. She was an active member of my church’s sister church, so we were at a lot of the same youth group and church events.

But now she’s dead and it came out of the blue and I wasn’t expecting it and I shouldn’t be upset but for some reason I am. Maybe it was just because it was so sudden. Like, one day you’re not thinking about a person at all, barely even aware of the fact that they exist, and the next day you’re reminded of them by hearing that they don’t exist. It just…I don’t know. It’s weird. That’s weird, right?

It’s like when I was in seventh grade. I was hanging out in my room after church when my dad came downstairs. He knocked on my door.

“You know [name], right?”

“Yeah…?”

“He committed suicide today.”

And then he just turned around and went back to whatever he was doing. I feel like he MUST have watched me for a reaction or something, but that’s what I remember. I wasn’t friends with this kid. Actually, I barely knew him at all. We went to the same church so I’d gone to some youth group things with him. But for the rest of the day, he was all I could think about. That night we watched this compilation of the best School House Rock songs. I had to leave the room because the one about the skeletons made me think about how this he was going to be a skeleton. I couldn’t get him out of my mind.

That’s how I feel right now. I keep picturing her and then I think about how my great grandma died and she was in a coffin and this girl I knew is in a coffin and just…I don’t know. You know?

But it’s weird because like I said, I didn’t know her that well. You probably couldn’t even call us friends in the loosest definition of the world. She was just someone who was there, then we went our separate ways. So I’m not sure why this is affecting me so much.

But it’s just so strange to me because I keep checking my local news websites expecting this person’s death to be front page news. But it’s not. And it’s not going to be. There’s no reason for it to be: there was no shooting or crazy accident or anything like that. She just died. But why, then, does it feel like it should be front page news? I imagine this is how it must feel when someone really important to you dies. And if I’m this upset that it’s not front page news when someone I barely even knew died, what in the world is it going to be like if someone important to me dies?

 





That Time I Was Oddly Attached To A Tree

4 02 2013

There was this tradition at my school that when you were in second grade, you were given a tree. I’m really not sure what the purpose of this was or why they decided that seven was the age at which we were to be presented with trees. But anyway, it was this BIG deal and we even had this list of all the types of trees we could get. We got to pick one and then we took it home and planted it and watered it and then we’d have an AWESOME tree in our yard that WE PLANTED.

I was really excited at the prospect of having my very own tree in my yard. I pored over the “tree catalog.”. I made my parents tell me about each different tree. I checked out books from the library. Finally, I settled on a red maple. It was going to be awesome. In the fall I’d have great leaves and helicopter seeds to play with, and in the summer I could sit and read in the shade of my tree.

I was so grateful for my tree that I sent the company that gave it to me a thank you card, on which I had drawn a picture of myself reading under the tree.

The day came when I got my tree. My mom picked me up from school in the van and I could not wait for my dad to get home from work so we could plant my tree. I spent the whole afternoon walking around the yard trying to pick the absolute best spot for it. We planted the tree and I was very happy. I was afraid that deer would eat it, so we built a fence around it with some chicken wire. Still, every evening I’d sit in the window and watch my tree to make sure no animals ate it.

The most pathetic part of this story is what happened next. For whatever reason, I loved this tree SO MUCH that when we moved two years later, I made my parents dig up the tree and bring it to our new house. The new people moving into our house must have thought we were insane.

This probably goes without saying, but my tree didn’t survive the move. But still. Even after it died, I would not let my dad get rid of it. We wound up putting it in the fort in our back yard. Sometimes I would sit in the fort and read with it. I honestly have NO idea why I was so attached to this tree. Wanna know the funniest part?

It’s still there.

Yes. The tree that I planted when I was seven and then killed when I was nine and made it move houses with me is still sitting in the fort in my backyard. It’s been there for twelve years.

To be honest, I’d probably still be a little upset if we got rid of it. Luckily, the fort is ten feet high and it’s unstable, so no one can climb it. My little tree is staying in my backyard FOREVER. Just like I’d always imagined.





17 12 2012

My Twin and I are often on the same wavelength.

This song’s been in my head too…

Barbaric Yawpings

Can you hear the prayer of the children on bended knee, in the shadow of an unknown room?
Empty eyes with no more tears to cry, turning heavenward toward the light.
Crying, “Jesus, help me to see the morning light of one more day…
But if I should die before I wake, I pray my soul to take.”

Can you feel the hearts of the children, aching for home, for something of their very own?
Reaching hands with nothing to hold on to, but hope for a better day, a better day.
Crying, “Jesus, help me to feel the love again in my own land…
But if unknown roads lead away from home, give me loving arms, away from harm.”

Can you hear the voice of the children softly pleading for silence in their shattered world?
Angry guns preach a gospel full of hate, blood of the innocent on their…

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