So I have had a very bad string of luck with cars. Seriously, it is getting ridiculous. Ever since Kermit (my first Bronco) died two years ago, I have not been able to get a car to like me. The Love Boat (a Crown Victoria) has done the best so far, but I sold that over the summer in hopes of getting a new Bronco. Well, I did get a new Bronco... and it broke. Then I got another Bronco... and it broke.
Throwing my hands into the air, I declared that I would have nothing more to do with cars. But then Dad convinced me I needed to drive something. Well, being a silly thing I agreed to learn to drive stick and borrow his white 1960s Ford truck. He drove it down this past weekend, gave me lessons, and wished me luck.
Well, I have managed to practice driving almost every day this week (except yesterday when we had company over). Beth refuses to ride with me anymore, but today Kinsey agreed to go with me. So, we went rampaging across the countryside in the truck, which we have lovingly dubbed "Gandalf the White." Things actually went really well, right up until the moment I stopped at a stop sign at the top of a small hill. I did everything right, but it wouldn't move. Well, somehow the truck got moving, and then I looked down. I had been in third instead of second. Yeah, that was smart of me.
Kinsey and I got feeling brave, though, and decided we were going to Walmart. For those who don't know the area, going to Walmart involves driving through at least one light and going to the other side of town. Well, we decided to brave it. Chugging along, we took the backroads towards it. Along the way we waved at Rori and Jamie and all of the other girls from JC3, and tried to look as natural as possible going through the city. We made it, I'll have you know that. We were laughing so hard, though, that an elderly lady informed us that we were simply having too much fun. Kinsey and I just laughed and told her that we had just survived a harrowing trek in a vehicle I am still figuring out how to drive.
And yes, we made it home safely, too. Figured you all would like to know I haven't managed to kill us yet.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Monday, February 2, 2009
Just music
Some songs I feel... attached to this week.
"Angel of Mine" by Amanda Somerville
"First Time Ever I Saw Your Face" by Leona Lewis
"Breathe Me" by Sia
"Air and Simple Gifts" from the inauguration
"Angel of Mine" by Amanda Somerville
"First Time Ever I Saw Your Face" by Leona Lewis
"Breathe Me" by Sia
"Air and Simple Gifts" from the inauguration
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Nerding Out
Today I discovered that it is entirely possible to nerd out so thoroughly that an entire class of theatre majors falls into a stunned silence for several moments, including the professor. I never thought that could happen, and I would have never guessed something I said would be to blame.
I just got out of my Shakespeare Lit. class, during which we had been discussing Henry V, Henry VI (1, 2, and 3), and Richard III. We had been talking merrily about Richard for twenty minutes and the class was winding down even though we still had ten minutes left. Unsuspectingly, Christrine asked if anyone else had something they absolutely needed to say. There was a silence, a shifting in seats as members of the class tried to avoid notice. And then I rose my hand. Expecting at least some sort of random blathering, Christine called on me, and that was when I hit them with it.
While looking at Richard III I had noticed that he had a very particular way of speaking, that he used certain sounds and structures to the way he spoke. And then I began to remember the way that other villains in Shakespeare spoke, the sounds they used. That little seed of thought blossomed when I started thinking about next semester's production of Macbeth, and it hit: Shakespeare tells you absolutely everything you need to know in the text. By the words people use you can determine whether they are good or evil, and certain speeches will use sounds and structures that purposely make you feel uneasy with a particular character. It's genius, really, the way he does it. The sinuous words they use are absolutely glorious!
Shakespeare really is my hero, and it makes me want to get a doctorate in Shakespeare even more. Ah, the love my heart holds for him can not be contained in words alone!
Anyway, after my little ramble, the class stared at me for a number of moments. Then Christine, giving me a look of mild amusement and awe, told me that I needed to get Shakespeare After All by Marjorie Garber. Luckily, my roommate has it so I can see if I like it half as much as I hope to. If I do, I am just going to have to add it to my list of books I need to get.
Well, here's hoping everything is as wonderful as I'd like!
I just got out of my Shakespeare Lit. class, during which we had been discussing Henry V, Henry VI (1, 2, and 3), and Richard III. We had been talking merrily about Richard for twenty minutes and the class was winding down even though we still had ten minutes left. Unsuspectingly, Christrine asked if anyone else had something they absolutely needed to say. There was a silence, a shifting in seats as members of the class tried to avoid notice. And then I rose my hand. Expecting at least some sort of random blathering, Christine called on me, and that was when I hit them with it.
While looking at Richard III I had noticed that he had a very particular way of speaking, that he used certain sounds and structures to the way he spoke. And then I began to remember the way that other villains in Shakespeare spoke, the sounds they used. That little seed of thought blossomed when I started thinking about next semester's production of Macbeth, and it hit: Shakespeare tells you absolutely everything you need to know in the text. By the words people use you can determine whether they are good or evil, and certain speeches will use sounds and structures that purposely make you feel uneasy with a particular character. It's genius, really, the way he does it. The sinuous words they use are absolutely glorious!
Shakespeare really is my hero, and it makes me want to get a doctorate in Shakespeare even more. Ah, the love my heart holds for him can not be contained in words alone!
Anyway, after my little ramble, the class stared at me for a number of moments. Then Christine, giving me a look of mild amusement and awe, told me that I needed to get Shakespeare After All by Marjorie Garber. Luckily, my roommate has it so I can see if I like it half as much as I hope to. If I do, I am just going to have to add it to my list of books I need to get.
Well, here's hoping everything is as wonderful as I'd like!
Monday, January 5, 2009
In the Eye of the Beholder
Many of us get very excited around Christmas--or so I've noticed. People get that sparkle in their eye, and they anticipate that early morning of opening presents and watching the gifts they've given be received. It's quite magical, all things considered, that so many people are simultaneously happy.
This Christmas, I was as happy as everyone else. At the movie theatre, I would wish everyone a Merry Christmas, and I couldn't seem to stop smiling. I was more excited to see my parents' reactions to their gifts than anything--I thought I had gotten both of them good gifts. I didn't even really think about what I was getting, except maybe shooting a longing glance in the direction of the Doris Day dvd collection.
Christmas Eve came, though, and Mom insisted everyone come upstairs. As was traditional, we read the Christmas story and my brother and I got CTR rings. I was surprised at that, I haven't had a CTR ring since I was about eight years old. The last one, you see, had to be cut off my finger when it got smashed on. I couldn't seem to keep another one after that, in the few times I tried. Thinking that was all, I prepared myself to go wander back downstairs and continuing writing on a side project I've been working on. But Mom reminded me that we still had one tradition left: opening a gift from the extended family.
Since Phillip got to pick out which gift I opened, I was a bit worried. I thought he'd go for something peculiar, but it didn't work that way. Instead, he pulled out a decently sized package that was from my grandmother. When it clunked, I was terrified that it had somehow gotten broken. Hesitantly, I pulled the wrapping paper off the box, and I stared at it in confusion for a moment. Inside was a rather beaten, dusty box that looked as if it had been around for a number of decades more than I had. Confused, I slowly opened it, and I stared at what was inside.
Silverware. But, more than that, beautiful silverware. Looking in the box, I found a sheet of paper that declared it was Tudor Plated Silverware as made by the Oneida Community Silversmiths, and the paper was so old I was afraid it would fall apart in my hands. The set wasn't complete, but every piece was so beautiful and fit so wonderfully in my hands that I couldn't help but marvel at it. "It's so beautiful!" I told my Dad.
And then he told me the most stunning thing of all. "That silverware was your great grandmother's. I've known for some time you were going to inherit it."
I stared at the fork in my hand with renewed awe. It was my great grandmother's? She died nearly ten years ago, you see, and I was devastated when she passed away. My childhood is full of memories of running around in her garden and eating pecan sandies with her. We would spend a lot of time tending to the irises, and she loved to just talk with me even though I was just a tiny kid. I loved her with all of my heart, and suddenly I was holding something that had belonged to her for fifty years. I nearly cried I was so touched and so happy. The next hour was spent looking up the pattern and how much it would take to make the set complete. Suffice it to say, the pieces I am missing are on their way now. Dad was willing to go halfs with me on a set that had what I needed, so Grandma Bone's silverware won't be lonely anymore.
I can't wait until the day when I get to use her beautiful silverware with great grandchildren of my own. The set, I hope, is something that will be passed down through the family for many years to come. I could not have received a more beautiful gift.
Pretty, isn't it?
By way of information, the pattern is called "Fantasy" and was made from 1941-1959.
This Christmas, I was as happy as everyone else. At the movie theatre, I would wish everyone a Merry Christmas, and I couldn't seem to stop smiling. I was more excited to see my parents' reactions to their gifts than anything--I thought I had gotten both of them good gifts. I didn't even really think about what I was getting, except maybe shooting a longing glance in the direction of the Doris Day dvd collection.
Christmas Eve came, though, and Mom insisted everyone come upstairs. As was traditional, we read the Christmas story and my brother and I got CTR rings. I was surprised at that, I haven't had a CTR ring since I was about eight years old. The last one, you see, had to be cut off my finger when it got smashed on. I couldn't seem to keep another one after that, in the few times I tried. Thinking that was all, I prepared myself to go wander back downstairs and continuing writing on a side project I've been working on. But Mom reminded me that we still had one tradition left: opening a gift from the extended family.
Since Phillip got to pick out which gift I opened, I was a bit worried. I thought he'd go for something peculiar, but it didn't work that way. Instead, he pulled out a decently sized package that was from my grandmother. When it clunked, I was terrified that it had somehow gotten broken. Hesitantly, I pulled the wrapping paper off the box, and I stared at it in confusion for a moment. Inside was a rather beaten, dusty box that looked as if it had been around for a number of decades more than I had. Confused, I slowly opened it, and I stared at what was inside.
Silverware. But, more than that, beautiful silverware. Looking in the box, I found a sheet of paper that declared it was Tudor Plated Silverware as made by the Oneida Community Silversmiths, and the paper was so old I was afraid it would fall apart in my hands. The set wasn't complete, but every piece was so beautiful and fit so wonderfully in my hands that I couldn't help but marvel at it. "It's so beautiful!" I told my Dad.
And then he told me the most stunning thing of all. "That silverware was your great grandmother's. I've known for some time you were going to inherit it."
I stared at the fork in my hand with renewed awe. It was my great grandmother's? She died nearly ten years ago, you see, and I was devastated when she passed away. My childhood is full of memories of running around in her garden and eating pecan sandies with her. We would spend a lot of time tending to the irises, and she loved to just talk with me even though I was just a tiny kid. I loved her with all of my heart, and suddenly I was holding something that had belonged to her for fifty years. I nearly cried I was so touched and so happy. The next hour was spent looking up the pattern and how much it would take to make the set complete. Suffice it to say, the pieces I am missing are on their way now. Dad was willing to go halfs with me on a set that had what I needed, so Grandma Bone's silverware won't be lonely anymore.
I can't wait until the day when I get to use her beautiful silverware with great grandchildren of my own. The set, I hope, is something that will be passed down through the family for many years to come. I could not have received a more beautiful gift.
Pretty, isn't it?By way of information, the pattern is called "Fantasy" and was made from 1941-1959.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Understanding Yourself
Christine Frezza is known to say that every play is about a character's journey from ignorance to self-awareness, and Shakespeare once mentioned that we are all just players on the stage of life. So, I suppose you could say that we are all going on journeys of ignorance to self-awareness every day, and that each is a new play for God to watch.
This semester I've been on several journeys, most of them at the exact same moment in time. The funny thing? I didn't even notice. It probably works best that way, all things considered.
My major path, though, has been one of coming to accept myself. All my life I've had ichthyosis, and for most of time I let it define who was. I wasn't just Kirstin. I was Kirstin, the girl with ichthyosis and a sharp tongue. But living like that... It is so draining. This semester I, somehow or another, ended up writing a creative nonfiction story about what it's like to live with my disorder. As I was writing it, I noticed that my disorder was a part of who I am, but it was just that: a piece. I don't know when or how, but sometime in the past year I've moved on, and have really let myself live. Even on days when my face looks absolutely horrible, I still go out and smile at people, even when they give me looks that their mothers would not approve of. I think I may have even come to love myself, to love what I see in the mirror. I may not be stunningly beautiful in the eyes of the world, but... to me, I'm starting to be someone worth noticing. It's the most amazing thing, really, to realize that you love and accept yourself. I feel like nothing can really stop me from doing what I want because I've tackled the hardest thing: myself.
I think I am really going to enjoy the new year, and I wish all of you the best.
This semester I've been on several journeys, most of them at the exact same moment in time. The funny thing? I didn't even notice. It probably works best that way, all things considered.
My major path, though, has been one of coming to accept myself. All my life I've had ichthyosis, and for most of time I let it define who was. I wasn't just Kirstin. I was Kirstin, the girl with ichthyosis and a sharp tongue. But living like that... It is so draining. This semester I, somehow or another, ended up writing a creative nonfiction story about what it's like to live with my disorder. As I was writing it, I noticed that my disorder was a part of who I am, but it was just that: a piece. I don't know when or how, but sometime in the past year I've moved on, and have really let myself live. Even on days when my face looks absolutely horrible, I still go out and smile at people, even when they give me looks that their mothers would not approve of. I think I may have even come to love myself, to love what I see in the mirror. I may not be stunningly beautiful in the eyes of the world, but... to me, I'm starting to be someone worth noticing. It's the most amazing thing, really, to realize that you love and accept yourself. I feel like nothing can really stop me from doing what I want because I've tackled the hardest thing: myself.
I think I am really going to enjoy the new year, and I wish all of you the best.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Poem #2
A poem about what I don't like:
To My Friends
Every little look you gave me
with your plastic little smiles and glazed eyes:
I get it now.
You lied.
I told you not to do it, to not hide
what you thought and felt.
But you didn't bother to listen.
You still did it.
Manicured little dreams,
pretty realities that are so empty--
They're crumbling all around you.
I tried.
Now you wonder why every look
is suspect, scrutinized in expectation;
But you can't say I didn't warn you.
I told you so.
A poem about clothing:
My Battlefield
I can see it, from where I'm sitting on my bed:
A single lifeless mass of knitted cloth and soil that seems
determined to crawl onto my side of the room.
I snarl at it, thinking to banish it with a thought,
But it remains, gloating in its filth as it toes the boundary.
Stupid sock.
To My Friends
Every little look you gave me
with your plastic little smiles and glazed eyes:
I get it now.
You lied.
I told you not to do it, to not hide
what you thought and felt.
But you didn't bother to listen.
You still did it.
Manicured little dreams,
pretty realities that are so empty--
They're crumbling all around you.
I tried.
Now you wonder why every look
is suspect, scrutinized in expectation;
But you can't say I didn't warn you.
I told you so.
A poem about clothing:
My Battlefield
I can see it, from where I'm sitting on my bed:
A single lifeless mass of knitted cloth and soil that seems
determined to crawl onto my side of the room.
I snarl at it, thinking to banish it with a thought,
But it remains, gloating in its filth as it toes the boundary.
Stupid sock.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Poem #1
Unwritten
The words spill down the page
Stark and curled
On the lined surface of the paper
Meaning. Meaningless.
Words.
Let Me Fall
Words imposed on music
A tuned thought
Heart crescendos with each beat
Breath catches
The soul falls into the rhythm and
Perfection is found
The words spill down the page
Stark and curled
On the lined surface of the paper
Meaning. Meaningless.
Words.
Let Me Fall
Words imposed on music
A tuned thought
Heart crescendos with each beat
Breath catches
The soul falls into the rhythm and
Perfection is found
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