I first saw Nina Sankovitch’s “Tolstoy and the Purple Chair” in a random bookstore in downtown Boise. I wasn’t looking for anything specific, just browsing.
I’ve loved memoirs ever since my senior year of high school when we focused on some great memoirs for an entire semester. I also took a course in college that focused on memoirs. I find them interesting in many ways. For one, you get to see a very personal side of someone’s life. You get to see their life through the lens of a specific theme which they’ve chosen as their backdrop. And then, after you’ve read it, you can analyze their version of events and speculate how other people in their lives may have told the story. The subjectiveness of truth has been the downfall of many memoirs’ reputations. It brings up the question: Is it how events happened that matter, or how we remember them, the message we take away from those events?
Anyway, I was going through the memoir section of this bookstore, and “Tolstoy and the Purple Chair” jumped out at me. I read the back, and found it interesting, but I didn’t really need more books (as if I ever do…) so I put it back. Read the rest of this entry
Just that little bite,
inside a bite,
a jolt of flavor,
that even things that are necessary
can be fun.
So this morning I woke up tired. This is usually the case, but I did not go to bed at a decent hour last night, what sleep I had was interrupted twice, and it was monday.
But I woke up in a good mood. And as I pulled clothes onto my body, I figured it was going to be a good day. And it was.
But even good days have little fiascos. As I decided what to wear, (“deciding” consisting of pulling the shirt closest to me over my head”), I chose to don a nice orange blouse I bought a few months ago but hadn’t worn yet. I vaguely recalled thinking it was a high maintenance shirt, but couldn’t figure out why. I looked in the mirror, all the important bits were covered, off to work I go.
Fast forward to me sitting at my computer, glancing down and noticing half my bra. I pulled my shirt up. 30 times. Before 8. There was no way I was making it through the day. I started to think of solutions. I didn’t have any safety pins. I didn’t have any extra clothes in my truck (sometimes I do). I glance down. Pull up my shirt. Look at my desk. Pen. Pen cap. Done.
I walked to the bathroom without even really thinking. Pull up my shirt, fold the back over, slide the pen cap over the fold and WAH-LA! My brief stint of workplace inappropriateness has come to an end! Hurray for ingenuity. Next time, a camisole gets to go under this shirt.
Is life a box
where we are confined,
only allowed small snippets
of the world as a whole?
Or is life the world as a whole,
where we inhabit only a small space
not because we’re boxed in,
but because we choose to stay where we’re comfortable?
Some people are buried beneath their worries,
shouldering the heavy burdens with their whole bodies.
They may sink beneath the weight,
or hobble along, overcoming the obstacle.
But others take a different approach altogether.
They pick the problems up,
squish them down as small as they can,
and tote them around on their shoulder.
Yes, even small weights can become tiring,
but for some reason,
it’s just not as simple
to throw those crumpled up burdens
off into the great yonder.
Maybe we’d miss them.
before we have any idea
of what is really going on.
The story about a situation
you didn’t realize you were in.
The song you write
that helps you later in life.
The impulse purchase
that comes in handy.
The feeling that a storm
is just around the corner.
I should blog more. I should do a lot of things more. I did actually write down a bit of a story the other day, but it was mostly autobiographical and not of stuff that I wanted out on the great big internet. But I am reading more, and with that comes the inspiration to write more.
You’d think because I’m not writing at work very often, I’d write more at home. But of course that procrastination thing that rules my life gets in the way.
Oh well, lots of exciting stuff going on, and all of it pretty boring.
But I’m going to a Sarah Bareilles concert on Sunday, with One Republic and Serena Rider! I’m super excited!
Tomorrow I’ll write you a poem, but for now, I leave you with the words of One Republic:
Everything that drowns me makes me want to fly.
Communication is difficult. Not only do you have to work up the courage to explain yourself to other people, but you basically put it in good faith that they won’t misunderstand what ou are saying. Since we use words to communicate and all words were manufactured by other humans, it can be difficult to get meaning across.
Take religion, for instance. You might discuss the existence of a higher being. Even though two people might say they believe in God, they might have drastically different opinions about who this god is and how they function.
Same goes for love. Some people don’t believe in love. I think most people do, but what does that mean? There are a lot of opinions on what love is. Love is often seen as perfect. When you love someone, you put their needs ahead of your own. You want what’s best for them. But you also have to love yourself. Because if you put others ahead of yourself all the time, that’s seen as unhealthy.
Romantic love is extremely difficult to pin down. Is it about chemistry? Is it pre-ordained? Is there a spark? Do we control who we love?
I don’t know the answer to any of these questions, but I do know that even if we don’t control our emotions, most of us are capable of controlling our actions. In this way, we can show love to others when they need it, and even if it may not be an exclusive love or an approval of a person’s choices, we can love them as a fellow human being, wandering through this world trying to find answers just like everyone else.
What is love to you? Is there a difference between familial love, general love for humanity, and romantic love? Or are they all the same thing, presented in different scenarios?
I know it’s been a while, but I have been avoiding my computer. Something to do with the ten hour work days on the internet, I presume.
Anyway, today I came back to my blog and what did I see? Only 5 spam comments! I guess when I don’t post, the robots visit my blog less! Too bad real people do too, go figure.
One of these messages informed me that the commenter cogitated that my blog was very good. That spinner had a great vocabulary.
I’ve been cogitating a lot lately though. Well, kind of. I have short bursts of deep thoughts that I never really return to. Moral questions, speculation on my life goals, etc. No conclusions of course, because there are probably no conclusions to be had. Whether I decide on a goal or not does not necessarily affect whether I complete that goal.
Anyway, lots of thoughts, but not a lot of reading and writing has been done. Let’s see if that can change over this four day weekend.