This is it. The last day I can consider myself a twentysomething. I have to suck up every second I have left of my twentyness before it all slips away. Every second that passes is one less second I have in this epoch of my life.
But tomorrow, (cue swelling music) marks the beginning of an era. A new day dawns. Tomorrow, the sunflowers of the world will lift their heavy heads to the golden effervescence that emanates from the heavens and will bask in its glory. Tomorrow, prisms will be shot through with shimmering rays that will bathe every wistful soul in all the colors of the rainbow. Tomorrow, the songs of a thousand sweet-throated swallows will resound in a hopeful, ephemeral chorus. Tomorrow, I will awake with the wings of the morning which will usher me into a new way of being.
Tomorrow, I will be 30. And I will wear a sunflower in my hair.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Monday, March 26, 2012
Another Poignant Excerpt from The Big Sea
I won't rehash my current literary crush on Langston Hughes. I was reading a little more of his autobiography last night and I was left with a beautifully bittersweet feeling right after I read this. Just a little context, Langston gets a new job as a sailor and the ship sails to Africa. There, he meets a young man and his mother:
The boy's name was Edward. He spoke very good English, and he liked to come down to the boat often to talk with us during the week we were there. He took me one day to his house, a very modest house, much like the other African huts, and I was introduced to his mother, who did not speak English. She was young and not unbeautiful, in African clothing, a flowered cloth wrapped about her body. She offered me coconut juice to drink and the only chair.
Edward's father was an Englishman, I learned, who had been in charge of the bank at this far-flung post of the British Empire. He had lived inside a kind of compound, where the bank and the various government officials' homes were located. Four years ago, Edward had lived inside that compound, too, for a while with his mother, the house servant. But his father had retired and gone back to England. And now Edward and his mother lived outside the compound. His father had left a small allowance for them and occasionally wrote them a letter from London. But he would not permit the boy or his mother to come to England.
Edward said that it was very lonely for them there. The whites inside the compound naturally would have nothing to do with them, nor would they give him a job, and the Negroes did not like his mother, because she had lived for years with a white man, so Edward had no friends in the village and almost nobody to talk to. Was our boat going to England? Could we take him away with us? Was it true that in America the black people were friendly to the mulatto people? But the white people were bad to them all? Were the white people generally bad to colored people everywhere? Edward said his own father was not bad, but now his father had gone away to England and left him there alone with his mother. What could he do?
Poor kid! He looked very lonely, as he stood on the dock the day our ship hauled anchor. He had taken my address to write me in America, and once, a year later, I had a letter from him, but only one, because I have a way of not answering letters when I don't know what to say.
But I Say
I just finished a long excerpt (is that an oxymoron?) of the epic poem La Araucana. One little check mark box checked off. Yay, me.
This is something that stuck with me today at church. After giving the Beatitudes, Jesus goes on this whole, "You have heard ____, but I say_____" riff throughout the rest of Matthew 5.
Again, I've heard this stuff time and time again, but today, something really stayed with me. "You have heard" so many things: What the Law said, what the facts are, what the statistics say, what someone else is doing, how everybody else is living . . . just fill in the blank.
"But I say" is such a powerful counterstatement. What really matters are His words. What has He declared? What is He telling you to do?
It's easy for me to believe what I hear from others. It's easy for me to trust in what the facts and statistics say. It's easy for me to rely on my logic. It's easy for me to compare myself to others and feel that I'm lacking.
"But I say." Whose words hold weight here? Who am I going to choose to listen to? Whose words are going to determine my actions? Whose words determine my worth? What did I say?
This is something that stuck with me today at church. After giving the Beatitudes, Jesus goes on this whole, "You have heard ____, but I say_____" riff throughout the rest of Matthew 5.
Again, I've heard this stuff time and time again, but today, something really stayed with me. "You have heard" so many things: What the Law said, what the facts are, what the statistics say, what someone else is doing, how everybody else is living . . . just fill in the blank.
"But I say" is such a powerful counterstatement. What really matters are His words. What has He declared? What is He telling you to do?
It's easy for me to believe what I hear from others. It's easy for me to trust in what the facts and statistics say. It's easy for me to rely on my logic. It's easy for me to compare myself to others and feel that I'm lacking.
"But I say." Whose words hold weight here? Who am I going to choose to listen to? Whose words are going to determine my actions? Whose words determine my worth? What did I say?
Friday, March 23, 2012
Why I Am Content Right Now
1. It is Friday.
2. All the things I should have done over Spring Break got done.
3. My grad student panel presentation went over well.
4. I'm about to make some Swedish meatballs.
2. All the things I should have done over Spring Break got done.
3. My grad student panel presentation went over well.
4. I'm about to make some Swedish meatballs.
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Psalm 143:8
Cause me to hear thy lovingkindness in the morning;
for in thee do I trust:
cause me to know the way wherein I should walk;
for I lift up my soul unto thee.
for in thee do I trust:
cause me to know the way wherein I should walk;
for I lift up my soul unto thee.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
The Ides of March Are Come
For the past couple of years, I've taken on the nerdy task of warning my friends of the ides of March via text message on March 15.
It's just so funny to me. I amuse myself extremely easily, and this is one of the ways. I'm a huge Julius Caesar fan (as any longtime readers will know), and I usually post something about Caesar's Shakespearean demise on this fateful day. (Here and here for example.)
But this year I was sort of reflecting on my nerdy task. How do I decide to whom to send a "Beware the ides of March!" text? I realized that March 15 is kind of my contact reflection day. What I mean is, as I scroll through the list of my contacts, I think about the people I've come into contact with throughout the years in such a manner that I have their numbers in my phone. Some of the people made it on sort of a situational basis. We're at some event together and hey, let me get your number so I can tell you when we arrive at such and such. After the event was over, we never stayed in touch. But I still have their numbers. Some of the people I used to talk to on a frequent basis, but now due to time, distance and/or a change in relationship dynamics, I never hear from them now. And, admittedly, I never call them, either. But I still have their numbers. Some people are people I don't usually talk to, but we're still really cool. What I mean is, we don't have frequent phone conversations at all, but when we do, we just pick up where we left off. There's no awkwardness due to the fact that we haven't talked or seen each other in however long. Then there are the frequent friends. No explanation needed there. But lastly, and leastly, there are the people I don't even remember. That's pretty bad. If I don't even remember how I met them or who they are, maybe it's probably time to delete them, right?
But back to my text selection process. I don't send the text to people solely based on the above categories. It's also a matter of who I think will get it and/or appreciate it. Even if someone falls into the used-to-be-frequent-but-never-hear-from-now category, I will include them if they are a similar brand of nerd as I am and would appreciate it. But I can't say that getting it or appreciating it is a big criterion either, because sometimes I send it to people knowing they would probably not get it. In these cases, my purposes are slightly pedagogical, as in, I feel that they need to know. These are usually friends of mine who are college kids or to whom I've given academics-related advice. They're the ones who respond "What are ides?" much to my amusement.
Points always go to the one who texts back the wittiest response. "Et tu, Brute?" is kind of played out, to be honest. My favorite this year is "Thanks, I went ahead and sprayed for them this year. They tend to get in the house and make such a mess." LOL!
And of course, I must end with my favorite lines in Julius Caesar (not counting Mark Antony's funeral oration, of course, which is the off the chain):
Caesar: The ides of March are come.
Soothsayer: Aye, Caesar, but not gone.
So, beware! Seriously, try not to get assassinated today. That's not good for anyone.
But this year I was sort of reflecting on my nerdy task. How do I decide to whom to send a "Beware the ides of March!" text? I realized that March 15 is kind of my contact reflection day. What I mean is, as I scroll through the list of my contacts, I think about the people I've come into contact with throughout the years in such a manner that I have their numbers in my phone. Some of the people made it on sort of a situational basis. We're at some event together and hey, let me get your number so I can tell you when we arrive at such and such. After the event was over, we never stayed in touch. But I still have their numbers. Some of the people I used to talk to on a frequent basis, but now due to time, distance and/or a change in relationship dynamics, I never hear from them now. And, admittedly, I never call them, either. But I still have their numbers. Some people are people I don't usually talk to, but we're still really cool. What I mean is, we don't have frequent phone conversations at all, but when we do, we just pick up where we left off. There's no awkwardness due to the fact that we haven't talked or seen each other in however long. Then there are the frequent friends. No explanation needed there. But lastly, and leastly, there are the people I don't even remember. That's pretty bad. If I don't even remember how I met them or who they are, maybe it's probably time to delete them, right?
But back to my text selection process. I don't send the text to people solely based on the above categories. It's also a matter of who I think will get it and/or appreciate it. Even if someone falls into the used-to-be-frequent-but-never-hear-from-now category, I will include them if they are a similar brand of nerd as I am and would appreciate it. But I can't say that getting it or appreciating it is a big criterion either, because sometimes I send it to people knowing they would probably not get it. In these cases, my purposes are slightly pedagogical, as in, I feel that they need to know. These are usually friends of mine who are college kids or to whom I've given academics-related advice. They're the ones who respond "What are ides?" much to my amusement.
Points always go to the one who texts back the wittiest response. "Et tu, Brute?" is kind of played out, to be honest. My favorite this year is "Thanks, I went ahead and sprayed for them this year. They tend to get in the house and make such a mess." LOL!
And of course, I must end with my favorite lines in Julius Caesar (not counting Mark Antony's funeral oration, of course, which is the off the chain):
Caesar: The ides of March are come.
Soothsayer: Aye, Caesar, but not gone.
So, beware! Seriously, try not to get assassinated today. That's not good for anyone.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Snobby, Sensitive, Persnickety Rant
The title is warning enough, I guess.
I hate when people ask me how long my PhD program is going to take.
Okay, let me qualify that a little. I don't mind at all if someone just purely wants to know how long getting a PhD takes. I'm not such a snob that I expect everyone to know. It generally takes at least 4 years. Two years of coursework, a year to prepare for and pass comprehensive/qualifying exams, and a year (usually more) to write the dissertation. I plan to finish ASAP. I want to finish in 4 if at all possible.
But back to my rant. I guess what I hate is not the simple asking, but the reactions after I answer. Example:
Person: So, how long is this PhD going to take?
Me: At least four years.
Person: FOUR YEARS?? Wow! That's a really long time!! Oh, my gosh!! (Continues with other expressions of bewilderment and freaking out and nearly fainting because of the exorbitantly, inordinately long amount of time of four years.)
I cannot express how annoying that is. My God, shut up. You aren't the one getting your PhD, so why are you flipping out about how long it's going to take me? Four years is definitely a commitment, but in the big scheme of things, it really isn't that long. At least it doesn't seem that way to me. I'm already nearing the end of my first year . . . it really has flown by. You're acting like I'm going to be on my deathbed by the time I finish. Please, have some foresight.
Here's what really bugs me, though: When the question of how long it's going to take is followed by an absurd guess. Example:
Person: So, how much longer do you have in school? A year?
Me: (struggling to not let my voice take on an annoyed tone) Noooo. It's a PhD. It'll take at least 4. I'm at the end of my 1st year, so I have at least 3 more to go.
Person: (if I failed to hold back the annoyance enough) Oh. I didn't know.
Dude, do you know what a PhD is? A year? I know, I'm being a sensitive snob, but really? A year? You have zero idea of how much time and work and effort it takes to get an education. I know what you think about me . . . a single, school-obsessed, liberal, snobby weirdo, maybe. But can I help that? You're probably thinking, Why the heck are you going back to school for that long? You're not getting any younger! Don't you want to get married and have kids? I know, I know. But I can't help that. I have to do what I have to do to take care of myself. Do you expect me to wait around for a husband and kids to drop in my lap? It's not going to happen that way, honey. The Lord literally directed me onto this path, and I have no choice but to follow it. And it's going to take longer than a freakin' year.
I don't know how else to express that I'm cool with where I am right now. I'm doing really well. After a rough patch of instability, I've leveled off and I feel like I've hit my stride again. I can rest assured in the fact that I know I'm where He wants me to be right now. I'm not going to say that I never, ever have doubts. It's a constant process of waking up every day and choosing to believe that He has it under control. I know I could stand to readjust my attitude. I can be a snarky little snob sometimes. I just wish people wouldn't react in alarm when I tell them how long this leg of my journey is going to take.
I hate when people ask me how long my PhD program is going to take.
Okay, let me qualify that a little. I don't mind at all if someone just purely wants to know how long getting a PhD takes. I'm not such a snob that I expect everyone to know. It generally takes at least 4 years. Two years of coursework, a year to prepare for and pass comprehensive/qualifying exams, and a year (usually more) to write the dissertation. I plan to finish ASAP. I want to finish in 4 if at all possible.
But back to my rant. I guess what I hate is not the simple asking, but the reactions after I answer. Example:
Person: So, how long is this PhD going to take?
Me: At least four years.
Person: FOUR YEARS?? Wow! That's a really long time!! Oh, my gosh!! (Continues with other expressions of bewilderment and freaking out and nearly fainting because of the exorbitantly, inordinately long amount of time of four years.)
I cannot express how annoying that is. My God, shut up. You aren't the one getting your PhD, so why are you flipping out about how long it's going to take me? Four years is definitely a commitment, but in the big scheme of things, it really isn't that long. At least it doesn't seem that way to me. I'm already nearing the end of my first year . . . it really has flown by. You're acting like I'm going to be on my deathbed by the time I finish. Please, have some foresight.
Here's what really bugs me, though: When the question of how long it's going to take is followed by an absurd guess. Example:
Person: So, how much longer do you have in school? A year?
Me: (struggling to not let my voice take on an annoyed tone) Noooo. It's a PhD. It'll take at least 4. I'm at the end of my 1st year, so I have at least 3 more to go.
Person: (if I failed to hold back the annoyance enough) Oh. I didn't know.
Dude, do you know what a PhD is? A year? I know, I'm being a sensitive snob, but really? A year? You have zero idea of how much time and work and effort it takes to get an education. I know what you think about me . . . a single, school-obsessed, liberal, snobby weirdo, maybe. But can I help that? You're probably thinking, Why the heck are you going back to school for that long? You're not getting any younger! Don't you want to get married and have kids? I know, I know. But I can't help that. I have to do what I have to do to take care of myself. Do you expect me to wait around for a husband and kids to drop in my lap? It's not going to happen that way, honey. The Lord literally directed me onto this path, and I have no choice but to follow it. And it's going to take longer than a freakin' year.
I don't know how else to express that I'm cool with where I am right now. I'm doing really well. After a rough patch of instability, I've leveled off and I feel like I've hit my stride again. I can rest assured in the fact that I know I'm where He wants me to be right now. I'm not going to say that I never, ever have doubts. It's a constant process of waking up every day and choosing to believe that He has it under control. I know I could stand to readjust my attitude. I can be a snarky little snob sometimes. I just wish people wouldn't react in alarm when I tell them how long this leg of my journey is going to take.
Friday, March 09, 2012
I/ 'm/ 've ______ing/en/ed
I'm wonderingwhere my shaved off facial growth is now. Probably in a bio-hazard bag or something. Maybe even on its way to a bio-hazardous waste treatment facility. Maybe it's already been incinerated.
I've eaten
a dolma, a piece of baklava, a dried fig, pickled carrots, a couple of Turkish dumplings, and a piece of Turkish delight. International Coffee Hour hosted by the Turkish Student Association. I must admit, though, I can't eat Turkish delight without thinking about the White Witch.
I've learned
"I Will Worship" on my guitar. Such an awesome sounding set of chords. I think I've improved since my guitar debut. (Plus I have a new guitar.)
I've managed
to get my car's CD player working again. Truth be told, I rebuked it in the name of Jesus out of desperation, totally not wanting to listen to 90s hits or static-filled NPR the whole way. I must've cast out the non-functioning demon or something. Whatever works. I realized that I hadn't listened to my Steven Curtis Chapman Signs of Life CD (Yes, that's right. I refuse to be ashamed.) since I started learning the guitar. Now I super want to get all the sheet music to that CD and learn every song.
I've resolved
not to rest until I get 500 points on Fruit Ninja. My highest score is 472. I'm so close. I feel like if I can get 500 points on this game, then I can do anything. I'm already going to have to do a million things over the break . . . paper proposal + annotated bibliography, finish reading this Afro-Ecuadorian novel and outline my share of a presentation, translate and edit down a paper I'm presenting . . . ugh. But if I can meet or surpass my Fruit Ninja goal, I know I'll be able to knock the rest of these babies out.
Tuesday, March 06, 2012
TMI or A Piece of Me
I said I wasn't going to write about this, but I have to.
To make a long story short, I developed a little . . . I don't know what to call it, moleish looking thing on my cheek. My skin has never been baby's butt quality and never will, so I kind of shrugged it off as just another one of those bad skin things. It was minimal at first, but then it became kind of raised and started bothering me. I became concerned, and I wanted it to go away.
So, I went in and got it checked out and the Dr. was like, we can do this quick little procedure where we inject it with this stuff to numb it and then just shave it off. I was repulsed yet intrigued. He didn't think it was malignant, but would send it to the lab anyway just to be on the safe side. He expected any scarring to be minimal (as if an additional little facial imperfection could jack up my swag) and said we could take care of it right then. "It takes longer to talk about it than to actually do it." I said let's do it.
I've always been one to be skittish about needles and blood, so I'll spare you the particulars of the procedure. But here's the disgusting yet magnetically attractive thing: That little moley skin growth they shaved off was deposited into a little liquid-filled jar to be taken to the lab. As much as I wanted that yucky thing off of my face, and as easily as I'm grossed out by things, I still had to see it. There it was. A former piece of my face floating around in a little solution. I almost felt sad. Bye, little guy.
As unattractive and undesirable as it was . . . well, it was a piece of me. Literally. Ey, you wanna piece of me? You don't really wanna piece of me, buddy.
Now, I'm sporting a circular band-aid on my cheek for a little while. A little awkward for now, perhaps. (As I'm typing this, I'm already trying to think of graceful ways to explain it to curious questioners.) But I cannot express how happy I am that this thing is off my face. It's refreshing. Like I can breathe again and not have to look in the mirror and grapple with the existence of an unwelcome moley addition to my visage.
I will admit, however, that there is a small, morbid, weird part of me, the same part of me that was obsessed with Edgar Allan Poe in 7th grade, perhaps, that is still kind of taken with the image of that tiny piece of my flesh floating around in a glass jar.
To make a long story short, I developed a little . . . I don't know what to call it, moleish looking thing on my cheek. My skin has never been baby's butt quality and never will, so I kind of shrugged it off as just another one of those bad skin things. It was minimal at first, but then it became kind of raised and started bothering me. I became concerned, and I wanted it to go away.
So, I went in and got it checked out and the Dr. was like, we can do this quick little procedure where we inject it with this stuff to numb it and then just shave it off. I was repulsed yet intrigued. He didn't think it was malignant, but would send it to the lab anyway just to be on the safe side. He expected any scarring to be minimal (as if an additional little facial imperfection could jack up my swag) and said we could take care of it right then. "It takes longer to talk about it than to actually do it." I said let's do it.
I've always been one to be skittish about needles and blood, so I'll spare you the particulars of the procedure. But here's the disgusting yet magnetically attractive thing: That little moley skin growth they shaved off was deposited into a little liquid-filled jar to be taken to the lab. As much as I wanted that yucky thing off of my face, and as easily as I'm grossed out by things, I still had to see it. There it was. A former piece of my face floating around in a little solution. I almost felt sad. Bye, little guy.
As unattractive and undesirable as it was . . . well, it was a piece of me. Literally. Ey, you wanna piece of me? You don't really wanna piece of me, buddy.
Now, I'm sporting a circular band-aid on my cheek for a little while. A little awkward for now, perhaps. (As I'm typing this, I'm already trying to think of graceful ways to explain it to curious questioners.) But I cannot express how happy I am that this thing is off my face. It's refreshing. Like I can breathe again and not have to look in the mirror and grapple with the existence of an unwelcome moley addition to my visage.
I will admit, however, that there is a small, morbid, weird part of me, the same part of me that was obsessed with Edgar Allan Poe in 7th grade, perhaps, that is still kind of taken with the image of that tiny piece of my flesh floating around in a glass jar.
Monday, March 05, 2012
You don't know.
That's what I keep telling myself. You don't know. When you know you don't know but still allow your mind to perform processes as if you do know (every day), it's time to stop, hit reset, and remind yourself that you don't know. Awww, I'm never gonna. Stop that. You don't know.
I have a grand total of four W-2s to contend with this year when I file my taxes. Four. I was bouncing all over the place last year, good Lord. I have two states to file for as well. Moving around. Bouncing around. Like one of those little superballs. And I'm still not here to stay. I'll know I've settled down when I finally change my "permanent address" from my parents' house. I remember getting a letter from the whatever ministry in France talking about declaring my income so that it will be calculated into my retirement. I worked as an ESL instructor for like two months. Um, I said au revoir to y'all a long time ago.
My guitar instructor was showing me the "numbers." If I learn the numbers, I can transpose in my head. See, these pairs of chords sound alike. They have the same pattern. Then I noticed that progression sounded like that Nirvana song. I laughed and told him. Hey, you're right. These are the bass notes to "Smells Like Teen Spirit." You listened to Nirvana? Um, no . . . but that song was SUPER popular when it came out. I know he had a moment of cognitive dissonance. Imagining the likes of me in the grunge scene. Er, I was 9 years old. Here we are now, entertain us . . .
Exulting in the fact that I knocked out a 10 page midterm. I was going to say what it was about, but nah, it's done. Sent off. Every victory is short lived, though, because another lizard tail of work grows back in its place. What else grows back? Starfish arms. Hydra heads.
I ate the last of my Girl Scout cookies today. It was a sadly delicious moment. Sad, but delicious.
Spring break coming up. I laugh at the word "break." I think I'm just going to call it Spring week. It's a week to get more work done before the onslaught when the "break" is over.
After years of sugar addiction, I'm finally beginning to drink hot tea without sugar. It started because I was too lazy to buy more sugar, so I had no choice. But then I started liking it. Whaddya know.
I have a grand total of four W-2s to contend with this year when I file my taxes. Four. I was bouncing all over the place last year, good Lord. I have two states to file for as well. Moving around. Bouncing around. Like one of those little superballs. And I'm still not here to stay. I'll know I've settled down when I finally change my "permanent address" from my parents' house. I remember getting a letter from the whatever ministry in France talking about declaring my income so that it will be calculated into my retirement. I worked as an ESL instructor for like two months. Um, I said au revoir to y'all a long time ago.
My guitar instructor was showing me the "numbers." If I learn the numbers, I can transpose in my head. See, these pairs of chords sound alike. They have the same pattern. Then I noticed that progression sounded like that Nirvana song. I laughed and told him. Hey, you're right. These are the bass notes to "Smells Like Teen Spirit." You listened to Nirvana? Um, no . . . but that song was SUPER popular when it came out. I know he had a moment of cognitive dissonance. Imagining the likes of me in the grunge scene. Er, I was 9 years old. Here we are now, entertain us . . .
Exulting in the fact that I knocked out a 10 page midterm. I was going to say what it was about, but nah, it's done. Sent off. Every victory is short lived, though, because another lizard tail of work grows back in its place. What else grows back? Starfish arms. Hydra heads.
I ate the last of my Girl Scout cookies today. It was a sadly delicious moment. Sad, but delicious.
Spring break coming up. I laugh at the word "break." I think I'm just going to call it Spring week. It's a week to get more work done before the onslaught when the "break" is over.
After years of sugar addiction, I'm finally beginning to drink hot tea without sugar. It started because I was too lazy to buy more sugar, so I had no choice. But then I started liking it. Whaddya know.
Thursday, March 01, 2012
God. Dude.
I want to thank you for giving me good genes and helping me keep a relatively fresh face. You know, I'm coming up on the big 3-0 here in a minute, and it's nice to know that I could pass for younger. However, this presents a barrel of awkwardness when people who are a generation younger than I am feel prompted to use lines such as "it's just a decade," to try to minimize our off-the-chain age difference. Really, buddy? To be fair, you know, he does have the Holy Ghost and stuff like that. So, Lord, you know I'm not trying to minimize that. But I think I draw the line when the guy hasn't even declared a major yet and here I am up to my eyeballs in Homi Bhaba. I mean he's cute and tall and all of that, but 6 years younger than my "little" brother? Naw, dawg. Naw.
Now, if the age difference were the other way around . . . (does this make me a hypocrite?) I would be totally down. A man in his late 30s/early 40s? He about that Lord and has his stuff together? Whuuut? Sign me up.
I'm just saying.
Now, if the age difference were the other way around . . . (does this make me a hypocrite?) I would be totally down. A man in his late 30s/early 40s? He about that Lord and has his stuff together? Whuuut? Sign me up.
I'm just saying.
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