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Monthly Archives: May 2012

Remembering a Great Fish

It is with sad news that I inform everyone that Winston Fidel Adolf Mussolini Kim Jong-il Stalin Castro Churchill (let me make a note that I did not name him, Sarah named him Winston Churchill and her friends added the dictator’s names, just clearly things  up) past away early this evening. He was sick for along time, he will always be remembered as the fish with a. the name of a great leader with all his crazy dictator middle names b. the fish that got to travel and see the world, he traveled from College  Station to Austin to Waco back to College Station and then back to Austin.

He was treated like a royal fish and cared for in the best way possible. He was also known as the fire bird and towards the end he was just as crazy as always.

Winston

No human being, however great, or powerful, was ever so free as a fish. (John Ruskinz)

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Posted by on May 29, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

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Define: Home

What defines a home? According to Google, home as a noun is a place where one lives permanently, esp. as a member of a family or household. As an adjective home means relating to the place where one lives: “your home address”. I feel like these definitions are too vague.

What is home to me? Home is a lot of places. The place where I am now is home, the house on Dixon Street, is where I permanently live. Room 646 was home, it was first place that I lived on my own. I have memories of trying to cook eggs in the microwave, failed craft projects, homework, tears, frustrations, where I wrote my papers, read books, listened to music, and dealt with the ever problem of the red ballon. I learned how to share a space with somebody else, how to trust somebody that I did not really know well, and think about hard issues.

Home over the years has been many places. Home started out in the first house we lived in, which was the house on Valley Street. It was a house that my parents built and it was the house that had the best porch ever. We moved when I was in the second grade to the house on Dixon Street. I remembered when we first moved being excited about stairs, the fish pond, a playroom, and the gazebo with the hot tub. This house has been where I have grown up and tried to figure out life. I have spent many nights trying to figure out what am I suppose to do with my life, telling stories to help me sleep, and sneaking the flashlight under the covers to finish a good book. This house is where everyone is, where my sisters and I seem to meet up. The common location.

Home could also be in California where my cousins lived for a short period of time. My family use to visit two or three times a year before we started school and before my cousins moved overseas. It was the house that I was afraid of mostly because I rolled down the stairs when I was five and hit the back of my head on the wood floors. I was also afraid of my Aunt and Uncle’s dog.

Is home the people or is it the physical properties that make up a home? Such this blanket that I am huddled under, the chairs in the playroom, or my room. Is home where my parents are or my apartment next year with roommates I don’t know? Where is home? What is home?

Home

 
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Posted by on May 28, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

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Telling Stories with Cormac McCarthy

I went through a phase in high school where I lived and breathed Cormac McCarthy. We had just finished The Road, our summer reading for that year, I was in love with his books. So much that I am the proud owner of about half his novels. I went through months that year were everything that I read I had to relate back to Cormac McCarthy. Last night, I got to thinking about two of my favorite passages from No Country for Old Men.

“I don’t remember the first one all that well but it was about meetin him in town somewheres and he give me money and I think I lost it. But the second one it was like we was both back in older times and I was on horseback goin through the mountains of a night. Goin through the pass in the mountains. It was cold and there was snow on the ground and he rode past me and kept join. Never said nothin. He just rode on past and he had this blanket wrapped around him and he had his head down and when he rode past I seen he was carryon fire in a horn the way people used to do and I could see the horn from the light inside of it. About the color of the moon. And in the dream I knew that he was join on ahead and he was fix in to make a fire somewhere out there in all that dark and all that cold and I knew that whenever I got there he would be there. And then I woke up”  (309).

I love the way that the movie portrayed this passage, along with the very first scene from the book. I do not like to post YouTube clips but here are two only because the passage is really long.

Moving to The Crossing, throughout the whole Broader Trilogy, The Crossing is my favorite only because of this quote:

“When they came south out of Grant County Boyd was not much more than a baby and the newly formed country they’d named Hidalgo was itself little older than the child. In the country they’d quit lay the bones of a sister and the bones of his maternal grandmother. THe new country was rich and wild. You could ride clear to Mexico and not strike a crossfence. He carried Boyd before him in the boy of the saddle and named to him features of the land-scape and the birds and animals in both spanish and english. In the new house they slept in the room off the kitchen and he would lie awake at night and he would whisper half aloud to him as he slept his plans for them and the life they would have” (1).

The Crossing

Finally, The Road, this one took a long time to find but here it is. This one is why in the future stories are going to important.

“They ate the little mushrooms together with the beans and drank tea and had tinned pears for their dessert. He banked the fire against the seam of rock where he’d built it and he strung the tarp behind them to reflect the heat and they sat warm in their refuge while he told the boy stories. Old stories of courage and justice as he remembered them until the boy was asleep in his blankets and then he stoked the fire and lay down warm and full and listened to the low thunder of the falls beyond them in that dark and threadbare wood” (41).

 
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Posted by on May 26, 2012 in Telling Stories with

 

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Taking out Frustrations

This is my giant rant to the world.

1. I am tried of a daily routine. 

2. That no one has called me back about the jobs that I have applied for.

3. The whole going out and searching for a job.

4. That all my close friends left for the summer/ went to go work at some type of camp. 

I am tried of being the only one here. I want to go out for coffee, ice cream, Snow Beach (snow cones), a movie, or sitting and chatting. I want an excuse to go out. Besides going for a run every morning.

5. That I have no right to be frustrated but some how I am.

6. Even though, I love both my research projects. I don’t want to work on them anymore. 

7. I am sick of being in this house, I feel confined to my room.  Even though, I have a car and could leave anytime I want. I just don’t know where to go. Even going somewhere else in the house, feels awkward because I am not sure what to do with myself. 

8.  Chemistry is too easy and I have already lost interest in writing out notes from the book for class that starts next week. Talk about being over prepared, I am on the fourth chapter. 

9. Not being able to sleep at night, I am sick of keeping strange hours.

10. I have run out of things to do. 

I have complete cleaning project phase 1 and part of phase 2. It just feels like I am doing the same things over and over again. Considering, I have read my book (finished it), checked my Private University email, registration, and blackboard, read some good blogs, had some good tea, played Wii Harry Potter, watched TV (which I don’t normal do, so it feels strange when I do so), and cleaned.

I think tomorrow calls for an adventure. 

 
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Posted by on May 24, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

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Define: Restless

I have been meaning to write a post on this for the past few weeks. What is being restless? adjective: 1. Unable to rest or relax as a result of anxiety or boredom 2. Offering no physical or emotional rest; involving constant activity or motion: “a restless night”.

I have been having trouble sleeping which is not new. It steams back to my days of high school, where I would lay awake at night worried about a project, paper, or homework assignment. It seemed to disappear for a while this past year in my first year of college.

Nemo

It has come back over the last few weeks, I find myself up till about 3:00 am. Last night, I had finally got comfortable and was drifting to sleep around 2:45 am. About 15 minutes later, an alarm goes off. It had only felt like  5 minutes. Time seems to move differently when you are asleep. To me time moves differently then when I am awake. I thought it was alarm that goes off at 9, that I set so that I can go for a morning run. So, I was thinking turn off the alarm and sleep for an extra hour then go running later in the day. False. I hit the alarm on my clock to turn it off. Nothing happens. The alarm is still going in my sleep state. I am tried. I have no idea where the noise is coming from.

It must have been hilarious to watch me run around my room. Searching for anything that could make a noise. I had to find the iPod and cell phone. Make a mental note that I had completely shut down my computer. The iPod and theca cell phone where not making any noise. Then I thought maybe this is my mental breakdown. Maybe I am going crazy. Then I look down at my wrist and noticed the watch. It was flashing and beeping. I turned it off and took it off. Placing it on my desk and turning out the desk light. Got comfortable again and fell asleep. At 9, the alarm went off. I got up and went for a run.

Often times when I can’t sleep I listen to music or snuggle which my Tiger and Nemo, my two stuffed animals. I make up stories usually if I disagree with something that is going on in the book I am reading. What do you do when you can’t sleep?

 
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Posted by on May 23, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

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Last Week of Freedom

In one week, I start school again. I am looking forward to it. In the mean time, I have spent the last two days doing research over Never Let Me Go.

Coffee, Phone, and article

New Article from OSFAST

My favorite chair and a good book

I went and voted today as well. I had to pick a candidate and what party. Which I hate doing, my idea for fixing the system. Just list everyone and forget about the political parties. My humble opinion of being a No Party Affiliation . I don’t really keep up with politics because I find it boring.

 
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Posted by on May 21, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

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Too Young…

Here is a poem that my friend gave a while a go:

“Puberty – With Capital Letters”

by Ellen Hagan

There went being a kid. There went

Barbie dolls, baby dolls, kitchen sets, play-

doh, crayons, make-believe (well, maybe not

make-believe). But there went innocent, child-

like, there went one-piece bathing suits. In came

adolescence, even though I’d had my period

since I was 10. In came self-consciousness,

waiting for breasts. In came attitude, and “Why

can’t I?” “You said!” “I hate you,” under my breath.

In came diaries with hidden messages and dares

I always took. In came kissing and not kissing,

and doing it, and not doing it, and rounding bases,

and not rounding bases, and rounding bases having

nothing at all to do with baseball, and sometimes wishing

you could just play baseball instead.

In came. Rebellion. Cliches. Are you kidding? Drinking.

Do-overs. Cheer-leading Uniforms. Regret. Pure Bliss.

Uncovering. Feeling not good enough. Cockiness. Joy.

In came wild cards. Short skirts. Cocktails. 15. Funnels.

Mid-riff baring. Belly-button rings. Challenges. Being

challenging. The ultimate change. The ultimate fast-forward.

In came growing up.

I also found this poem from last years old AP test:

A Story

By: Li-Young Lee

Sad is the man who asked for a story

and can’t come up with one.

His five-year old son waits on his lap.

Not the same story, Baba. A new one. 

The man rubs his chin, scratches his ear.

In the room full of books in the world

of stories, he can recall

not one, and soon, he thinks, the boy

will give up on his father.

Already the man lives far ahead, he sees

the day this boy will go. Don’t go!

Hear the alligator story! The angel story once more! 

You love the spider story. You laugh at the spider.

Let me tell it! 

But the boy is packing his shirts.

He is looking for his keys. Are you a god.

the man screams, that I sit mute before you!

Am I a god that I should never disappoint! 

But the boy is here. Please, Baba, a story?

It is an emotional rather than logical equation,

an earthly rather than heavenly one,

which posits that a boy’s supplications

and a father’s love add up to silence.

 
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Posted by on May 20, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

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