ok, so I forgot to grab some pictures in the morning for school. The truth is I been up so late the night before doing homework of course and I told myself I would just look for them in the morning but in the morning I forgot. Oddly enough I happened to bring a photograph with me to school anyway. This one is of me and my best friend about two years ago. As I was walking out the door yesterday morning my mom stopped me and said she found a picture. Without thinking, I stashed it in my book bag and only thought of it again before class when I started panicking that I forgot to look for a photo. But I had one all a long and I consider this in some way fate.
My best friend: How do I describe him. He has been there for me my whole life- well for the past 2 and a half years of knowing him. I have many friends but he is a person I can honestly say is a genuine and rare find. He proves how much he loves me every day by helping me get through my most difficult moments. And when I pulled that picture out of my book bag, I couldn't help but smile. This time he came through for me again without even realizing it. The picture I have of us is just one of many but it is one of the pictures I used to put together a calendar of all of our memories as a christmas present for him. Pictures hold memories whether painful or happy and I feel that they are so useful in life. When I look at that picture I know even more that we share such a powerful connection and this will last forever.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Blog # 13 Clutter?
Ok, so maybe I don't have an actual item to describe but I will tell you this- I don't like to throw things away. When I looked into my purse before, I noticed many receipts, old chocolate, and a tissue wrapper with no tissues left in it. Call me lazy or weird but I think it also has to do with my having the constant feeling that I might need these items again in the future. In some way, I'm nervous of throwing things out- eventually I get to it but I always seem to put it off.
My closet: My mom is obsessed with garbage day and she yells at me to find stuff she can collect to throw away. I dread garbage day for two reasons. 1: This means I actually have to get off my ass and search for things I don't need and 2: What can I possible throw away? Everything is wrapped in to some type of memory. I have old stuffed animals, clothes, dolls, boxes filled with little trinkets I used to call treasures, and the old miscellaneous. My mom goes into my closest herself and shows me a box of things to look at and I immediately say "No, I like those," or "I can't throw THIS away!" Everything reminds me of a specific time and I just can't bring myself to throw things away. For instance, I used to love collecting things- pencils, stickers, etc. I remember when I found my old sticker book in my closest. I was amazed at how many stickers I collected and of all different styles and colors. Everything represents me now or who I was and I like to hold on to that.
My closet: My mom is obsessed with garbage day and she yells at me to find stuff she can collect to throw away. I dread garbage day for two reasons. 1: This means I actually have to get off my ass and search for things I don't need and 2: What can I possible throw away? Everything is wrapped in to some type of memory. I have old stuffed animals, clothes, dolls, boxes filled with little trinkets I used to call treasures, and the old miscellaneous. My mom goes into my closest herself and shows me a box of things to look at and I immediately say "No, I like those," or "I can't throw THIS away!" Everything reminds me of a specific time and I just can't bring myself to throw things away. For instance, I used to love collecting things- pencils, stickers, etc. I remember when I found my old sticker book in my closest. I was amazed at how many stickers I collected and of all different styles and colors. Everything represents me now or who I was and I like to hold on to that.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Blog # 12 Hmm
My two essays that I wrote were completely different which is good. My first one means so much to me because it surrounds a difficult time in my life that i had to face. I feel that I needed to get that story out and when I read it over again, remembering those same experiences I can begin to see all over again how intense everything was for me in 2006. But I overcame it. That's the important part. Writing is strength for me. It always has be. To write about all I went through- it eventually becomes much more than an experience. I put together many stories in one to give way to a symbolic meaning and I want to finish it. I can't leave this piece alone. I don't want to. I think I will do more editing to it and see how much more powerful I can make it.
Don't get me wrong. My second piece also includes many interesting, and sometimes difficult experiences from the past. It also talks about what I want to do with the rest of my life and why I came to this conclusion. But I also feel that I need to think into this one a little more and how I am going to focus it into one whole idea instead of numerous ideas. Both stories represent a lot of truth but I am going to revise number 1.
Don't get me wrong. My second piece also includes many interesting, and sometimes difficult experiences from the past. It also talks about what I want to do with the rest of my life and why I came to this conclusion. But I also feel that I need to think into this one a little more and how I am going to focus it into one whole idea instead of numerous ideas. Both stories represent a lot of truth but I am going to revise number 1.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Blog # 11. Essay 2.
I don't have a title for this yet but here goes...
My 2nd Essay.
I was sitting at a diner last night with my best friend. Our food didn't arrive yet so I was able to tell him about my day. "Writing is such a huge part of civilization," I say as I think back to my last class. I tell him how writing is such a major impact on the world. I begin a conversation about a couple stories I had to write for another class and how they connected to previous poems I had already written All the intense moments in my life, I turned to writing- to break down the extremity, dissemble it and help me deal. "Maybe that's your writing style," my friend says feeling my passion through my words. My eyes shift began to shift as I qickly thought back to how a pen and paper become the most essential tools throughout my life.
The first real poem I can remember emphasized the cruelty of friends and the impact it had on my life those three years in middle school. The poem was titled "Hidden Secrets." The girl I wrote about was was in school with me and I don't think she realized what I was feeling. This marked the beginning of my realization of true friendship and how if that gets destroyed, it can get be returned. I ended up losing many friends in middle school- "dropping them like flies" was an expression I used a lot. They happened to all join together in a union against me. Their leader, Janet, used to also be a friend of mine. I can still picture her eyes, squinty like, but enough to show evil through them. At that time, she made an effort to taunt me, attacking me for sport- an extracurricular activity she participated in full- time. I had to pass by Janet and her snickering clan, playing their never-ending game of follow the leader to get to my mom's car. Janet followed me and put her arm around me as she looked back at her friends and laughed. I wanted to break her arm off and destroy her but I just kept walking. My mom was my support system. Most of the time i just ignored them, knowing my mom would raise my spirits and tell me how special I was. My home was a separate dominion and when I was there, nothing else seemed to matter.
Now when I drive past that school, It's so hard for me to recall good memories but I can't help but turn my head in it's direction every time. "The worst years of my life" I always say but I guess it was a learning experience, all happening for a reason- a cliche I know, but for now, A cliche is what I can start you off on and I promise I'll be more specific.
I didn't like the way I looked in middle school. An assumption of many was that I was a nerd even though I was just as average in school as many of my classmates. Boys didn't really notice me and if they did, it was for the usual commentery. I would always know when someone was thinking something. And even when I wasn't being criticized, I still felt insecure about my looks. My biggest enemy was the mirror and how I would try so hard to look a certain way, to fit in even in the slightest way. I hated my bangs. I felt like I had a small animal resting on my forehead. I snapped one day when I took out a hairbrush and pressed the wire bristles against my think bangs, just enough to feel the pain on my forehead as my crying turned into a raged scream. But getting a haircut just made me feel worse. I cried the whole way home. My guy friend at the time called it my bang operation. I remember coming home from my haircut and crashing onto the kitchen floor in tears. My thick bangs turned into a few strands. They eventually grew out but I was completely devastated going to school that way.
Highschool was when I came out of my shell. I got voted 'most changed since freshman year' when I graduated. It was different in highschool- Major changes occurred the start of my junior year when guys were actually interested in dating me- a few of the ones in middle school who seem to forget I existed. I didn't make much of a fuss over them though even though I liked the attention. I had my group and I classified us as the weridos. Any way I could stand out to prove how I didn't give a shit about what others think, I did. I dressed up like a guy one day and another day I wore crazy makeup on my right eye. Me and my best friend at the time called it our freaky fridays. I was happy with how I looked after I got contacts, got rid of my bangs, and my braces came off. Funny how that works huh? My Sophomore year in high school, before my "dramatic" change, I came into homeroom with my hair strengthened and I felt pretty. My teacher noticed my change and adressed that all I needed to do was get contacts and have my braces taken off. She compared me to the girl in the movie Princess Diaries- you know, the girl who has the big makeover and became a knock out. Oh yea, that's great for my insecurity. Eventually, another peom came forth. This one is called immerged beauty. It will always stand out as my favorite for what it represents in my life.
When I was 16 years old- the summer before my Junior year in high school, I fell in love with a boy from Italy. This seemed like a once in a life time kind of thing. An unbelievable first time experience that gave my life a heavy spin. He came to America for english lessons and I met him through my family. The sense of loss afterward left me in complete devastation. The next summer I went to Italy with my Uncle and his family to spend three with with him. I often think that maybe I imagined the whole thing. Maybe it wasn't real. How could I be so happy? But I was happy because I didn't think about our ending. After our three weeks were over, I had to go back home to reality. It wasn't long after that we both broke apart I tried to fight for him back the beginning of my senior year but I realized something- When you know what it's like to touch a form of pure happiness and then try going back and living without it. It is impossible. For a young girl who never experienced something like this before, it was brutal. We didn't want to go back to phone calls and emails. My only way to deal with it was through poetry. Poems after poems were written and it eventually healed me. I would gaze out the window as the weather grew colder, clutching on to a notebook, and a collection of poems grew.
Where did all my other poems come from? I often call myself the dark poet because I don't write about happiness. Rarely I recall life's fruitful moments. Whenever i experience something, I just need to get it out as fast as possible before I lose any sort of explanation. The same themes kept showing up through my work- death, change, depression. Writing has always been a part of my life. Trust me, I am not a miersbale person but that's where my inspiration comes from and I feed off it. We all have our own style.
I remeber in the 6th grade, I had to do my first writing sample. I don't remember the topic but I wasn't nervous because I didn't learn anything about this before and I wasn't informed that it was a type of assessment. Maybe I just wasn't listening which wasn't totally rare for me but when I received my assignment in front of me, I just wrote what I thought- anything that came to my mind, I wrote and it was fun for me to just invent. My english teacher read this paper in front of my class that same year. I felt so proud. Sitting there and listening to a teacher say to my peers that they should possibly wrote more like me? Ok, so maybe she didn't say it quite like that but she used my paper as an example. This was the same teacher that made me see I had a talent for wriitng, that creativity defiantly dwelled inside me and I thought- yea, you know, I do like to write. I love it. She urged me to keep writing and I tried to keep in touch with her after middle school but she didn't return my email. I still carry around her advice around though.
After that year I didn't do quite as well on other writing samples even in highschool. I felt more pressure on those days and it was difficult for me to just start writing. The first time was just plain me. Sure the punctuation sucked but it was me. How was I supposed to say what I want without worring about time limits, rules, and oh no, was I off topic?
I felt that school sometimes made you think too much into writing instead of feeling it- stripped you down to the bear minimum. School can take the realness out of you. Rules can sometimes constrict you and make you doubt yourself- thinking that you can't possibly get your writing a certain way. You can't let yourself think outside the box- the true irrational thinking I now surrender to all the time, was more suppressed. Creativity is hard to come by when your told to write a certain way. Even today, there are those teachers or professors that want you to write their way. They see great idea and what you wrote just wasn't it so you change your paper completely around. Why? Many times, this is where the doubt begins to form even more.
How many times did i doubt myself in college? I never stooped. I started out in writing and i swtiched to early childhood eduation because of my fear that i wouldn't get a future job. "I'm just going to be a teacher and write on the side," I would constantly say. But teaching was just not for me. I remember telling a certain professor at school of my conflict inside my head. She told me a lot of people pick teaching and regret it later on. I realized right then and there I'm just going to go back to what I really want which is writing. My third year in, I switched but its ok- I'm graduating this year- not bad after five years. My mom does bombard me with questions of my future. "What are you going to do after school?" "You need to pay off your loans and you need health insurance! " Most of the time I'm quiet, taking it all in, trying to distract myself with something. But it hurts. Especially when I'm scared too. "Mom, i'll get a job, ok. I might have to work to get where i want but ill do it." Nothing comes easy- i know this. I can't begin to describe the times i cried believing my work won't even be close to being published or even recognized. I just want to insprie the world- help others through my writing and in some way connect with them.
I call writing my love/hate relationship. It drives me crazy. I can never get what i really want to say out. It's all lies! And many times I think to myself- maybe i don't want to write, maybe theres something else out there. Then why do I keep going back to it? No, no. It has to be for me. For the first time, I'm going to except it. You can't deny who you are. It just sucks because unfortunately, you can't control doubt either and you can't force a career upon yourself no matter how much passion dwells inside you. I can see myself working for a magazine somewhere in NewYork City carrying a long my dreams in my right hand.
I told the same friend I was eating with how rational I think his mind is. I know he hates this but its true. He sees things for what they are. I go beyond. You can explain rational thinking I always tell him. It's the irrational kind that's hard. I think back to my science class- a class I need for graduation and only the past two classes I been actually forcing myself to pay attention to. Always the same routine. "Bing" the elavator sounds to the third floor. It's so quiet when I reach the top- no one is around. There are specimens of scientific evidence all around me- explantions, facts, and theorys. I notice maps, and certain rocks and minerals in showcases along the route to my class. I don't belong there. I find a seat in class and my mind begins it's drift session until I tell it to concentrate.
A guy from one of my english classes yesterday said that he think of himself as a fraud as a writer. He said it with a laugh and I knew he was only half serious but I often feel the same way. But really, when we compare ourselves to other writers without getting anywhere near their talent, it's normal to feel like a fraud. I joked back and eventually said that with writing you can never be perfect. What's the defintion of that? You can keep getting better and better but you can't write up a version of complete perfection. The Greek Philosopher Plato saw writing as a form of imitation- far away from his idea of an "ideal world." Writing can never perfect, but you can come close to describing a feeling of perfection and the beauty around you. Writing gives you that ability. It's beyond expression. I feel that you are putting a form of yourself into the world. In science or mathematics, we can get to where we can find out the answers. It might not come easy to some of us such as me, but it's something we can learn through practice and study. Many people might go down that field because it is possible. If you don't have it in you, you can't learn it. Writing is based upon what you want to say and how you want to say it. It depends on you- the individual. And no one can ever steal your style. I didn't think there could be anything that can take away some of the doubts and fears I been facing, but then I recently learned about Longinus. He is a greek, rhetorician that believed in the acquired knowledge and rules you can learn to get better at perfecting your skills and connecting with your reader , but ultimately he saw writing as a natural, innate ability. Some people have it and some people don't.
I was talking to my best friend on the phone when I first switched my major to English. "I don't know if I'm good enough. There are a lot of great writers out there," I said in a voice that sounded more tense than serious. He held my optimism. "Yea, but you're a great writer," he replied back. "There's a lot of great writers too," I rebuked. "Well, the world can always use one more." His last sentence made me pause. Writing has always traveled with me throughout life and I think I just started to realize that now. Do I have a set focus? No, but I want to write and that should be enough. It took me this long to figure this out but I think I'm stronger. You can't hide from your shadow. It's a part of you and follows you wherever you go. I'm not saying the road ahead will be easy. As a matter of fact, it won't be, but it is important to remember one thing. You can't runaway from who you are. Accept it, embrace it, and give it to the world.
My 2nd Essay.
I was sitting at a diner last night with my best friend. Our food didn't arrive yet so I was able to tell him about my day. "Writing is such a huge part of civilization," I say as I think back to my last class. I tell him how writing is such a major impact on the world. I begin a conversation about a couple stories I had to write for another class and how they connected to previous poems I had already written All the intense moments in my life, I turned to writing- to break down the extremity, dissemble it and help me deal. "Maybe that's your writing style," my friend says feeling my passion through my words. My eyes shift began to shift as I qickly thought back to how a pen and paper become the most essential tools throughout my life.
The first real poem I can remember emphasized the cruelty of friends and the impact it had on my life those three years in middle school. The poem was titled "Hidden Secrets." The girl I wrote about was was in school with me and I don't think she realized what I was feeling. This marked the beginning of my realization of true friendship and how if that gets destroyed, it can get be returned. I ended up losing many friends in middle school- "dropping them like flies" was an expression I used a lot. They happened to all join together in a union against me. Their leader, Janet, used to also be a friend of mine. I can still picture her eyes, squinty like, but enough to show evil through them. At that time, she made an effort to taunt me, attacking me for sport- an extracurricular activity she participated in full- time. I had to pass by Janet and her snickering clan, playing their never-ending game of follow the leader to get to my mom's car. Janet followed me and put her arm around me as she looked back at her friends and laughed. I wanted to break her arm off and destroy her but I just kept walking. My mom was my support system. Most of the time i just ignored them, knowing my mom would raise my spirits and tell me how special I was. My home was a separate dominion and when I was there, nothing else seemed to matter.
Now when I drive past that school, It's so hard for me to recall good memories but I can't help but turn my head in it's direction every time. "The worst years of my life" I always say but I guess it was a learning experience, all happening for a reason- a cliche I know, but for now, A cliche is what I can start you off on and I promise I'll be more specific.
I didn't like the way I looked in middle school. An assumption of many was that I was a nerd even though I was just as average in school as many of my classmates. Boys didn't really notice me and if they did, it was for the usual commentery. I would always know when someone was thinking something. And even when I wasn't being criticized, I still felt insecure about my looks. My biggest enemy was the mirror and how I would try so hard to look a certain way, to fit in even in the slightest way. I hated my bangs. I felt like I had a small animal resting on my forehead. I snapped one day when I took out a hairbrush and pressed the wire bristles against my think bangs, just enough to feel the pain on my forehead as my crying turned into a raged scream. But getting a haircut just made me feel worse. I cried the whole way home. My guy friend at the time called it my bang operation. I remember coming home from my haircut and crashing onto the kitchen floor in tears. My thick bangs turned into a few strands. They eventually grew out but I was completely devastated going to school that way.
Highschool was when I came out of my shell. I got voted 'most changed since freshman year' when I graduated. It was different in highschool- Major changes occurred the start of my junior year when guys were actually interested in dating me- a few of the ones in middle school who seem to forget I existed. I didn't make much of a fuss over them though even though I liked the attention. I had my group and I classified us as the weridos. Any way I could stand out to prove how I didn't give a shit about what others think, I did. I dressed up like a guy one day and another day I wore crazy makeup on my right eye. Me and my best friend at the time called it our freaky fridays. I was happy with how I looked after I got contacts, got rid of my bangs, and my braces came off. Funny how that works huh? My Sophomore year in high school, before my "dramatic" change, I came into homeroom with my hair strengthened and I felt pretty. My teacher noticed my change and adressed that all I needed to do was get contacts and have my braces taken off. She compared me to the girl in the movie Princess Diaries- you know, the girl who has the big makeover and became a knock out. Oh yea, that's great for my insecurity. Eventually, another peom came forth. This one is called immerged beauty. It will always stand out as my favorite for what it represents in my life.
When I was 16 years old- the summer before my Junior year in high school, I fell in love with a boy from Italy. This seemed like a once in a life time kind of thing. An unbelievable first time experience that gave my life a heavy spin. He came to America for english lessons and I met him through my family. The sense of loss afterward left me in complete devastation. The next summer I went to Italy with my Uncle and his family to spend three with with him. I often think that maybe I imagined the whole thing. Maybe it wasn't real. How could I be so happy? But I was happy because I didn't think about our ending. After our three weeks were over, I had to go back home to reality. It wasn't long after that we both broke apart I tried to fight for him back the beginning of my senior year but I realized something- When you know what it's like to touch a form of pure happiness and then try going back and living without it. It is impossible. For a young girl who never experienced something like this before, it was brutal. We didn't want to go back to phone calls and emails. My only way to deal with it was through poetry. Poems after poems were written and it eventually healed me. I would gaze out the window as the weather grew colder, clutching on to a notebook, and a collection of poems grew.
Where did all my other poems come from? I often call myself the dark poet because I don't write about happiness. Rarely I recall life's fruitful moments. Whenever i experience something, I just need to get it out as fast as possible before I lose any sort of explanation. The same themes kept showing up through my work- death, change, depression. Writing has always been a part of my life. Trust me, I am not a miersbale person but that's where my inspiration comes from and I feed off it. We all have our own style.
I remeber in the 6th grade, I had to do my first writing sample. I don't remember the topic but I wasn't nervous because I didn't learn anything about this before and I wasn't informed that it was a type of assessment. Maybe I just wasn't listening which wasn't totally rare for me but when I received my assignment in front of me, I just wrote what I thought- anything that came to my mind, I wrote and it was fun for me to just invent. My english teacher read this paper in front of my class that same year. I felt so proud. Sitting there and listening to a teacher say to my peers that they should possibly wrote more like me? Ok, so maybe she didn't say it quite like that but she used my paper as an example. This was the same teacher that made me see I had a talent for wriitng, that creativity defiantly dwelled inside me and I thought- yea, you know, I do like to write. I love it. She urged me to keep writing and I tried to keep in touch with her after middle school but she didn't return my email. I still carry around her advice around though.
After that year I didn't do quite as well on other writing samples even in highschool. I felt more pressure on those days and it was difficult for me to just start writing. The first time was just plain me. Sure the punctuation sucked but it was me. How was I supposed to say what I want without worring about time limits, rules, and oh no, was I off topic?
I felt that school sometimes made you think too much into writing instead of feeling it- stripped you down to the bear minimum. School can take the realness out of you. Rules can sometimes constrict you and make you doubt yourself- thinking that you can't possibly get your writing a certain way. You can't let yourself think outside the box- the true irrational thinking I now surrender to all the time, was more suppressed. Creativity is hard to come by when your told to write a certain way. Even today, there are those teachers or professors that want you to write their way. They see great idea and what you wrote just wasn't it so you change your paper completely around. Why? Many times, this is where the doubt begins to form even more.
How many times did i doubt myself in college? I never stooped. I started out in writing and i swtiched to early childhood eduation because of my fear that i wouldn't get a future job. "I'm just going to be a teacher and write on the side," I would constantly say. But teaching was just not for me. I remember telling a certain professor at school of my conflict inside my head. She told me a lot of people pick teaching and regret it later on. I realized right then and there I'm just going to go back to what I really want which is writing. My third year in, I switched but its ok- I'm graduating this year- not bad after five years. My mom does bombard me with questions of my future. "What are you going to do after school?" "You need to pay off your loans and you need health insurance! " Most of the time I'm quiet, taking it all in, trying to distract myself with something. But it hurts. Especially when I'm scared too. "Mom, i'll get a job, ok. I might have to work to get where i want but ill do it." Nothing comes easy- i know this. I can't begin to describe the times i cried believing my work won't even be close to being published or even recognized. I just want to insprie the world- help others through my writing and in some way connect with them.
I call writing my love/hate relationship. It drives me crazy. I can never get what i really want to say out. It's all lies! And many times I think to myself- maybe i don't want to write, maybe theres something else out there. Then why do I keep going back to it? No, no. It has to be for me. For the first time, I'm going to except it. You can't deny who you are. It just sucks because unfortunately, you can't control doubt either and you can't force a career upon yourself no matter how much passion dwells inside you. I can see myself working for a magazine somewhere in NewYork City carrying a long my dreams in my right hand.
I told the same friend I was eating with how rational I think his mind is. I know he hates this but its true. He sees things for what they are. I go beyond. You can explain rational thinking I always tell him. It's the irrational kind that's hard. I think back to my science class- a class I need for graduation and only the past two classes I been actually forcing myself to pay attention to. Always the same routine. "Bing" the elavator sounds to the third floor. It's so quiet when I reach the top- no one is around. There are specimens of scientific evidence all around me- explantions, facts, and theorys. I notice maps, and certain rocks and minerals in showcases along the route to my class. I don't belong there. I find a seat in class and my mind begins it's drift session until I tell it to concentrate.
A guy from one of my english classes yesterday said that he think of himself as a fraud as a writer. He said it with a laugh and I knew he was only half serious but I often feel the same way. But really, when we compare ourselves to other writers without getting anywhere near their talent, it's normal to feel like a fraud. I joked back and eventually said that with writing you can never be perfect. What's the defintion of that? You can keep getting better and better but you can't write up a version of complete perfection. The Greek Philosopher Plato saw writing as a form of imitation- far away from his idea of an "ideal world." Writing can never perfect, but you can come close to describing a feeling of perfection and the beauty around you. Writing gives you that ability. It's beyond expression. I feel that you are putting a form of yourself into the world. In science or mathematics, we can get to where we can find out the answers. It might not come easy to some of us such as me, but it's something we can learn through practice and study. Many people might go down that field because it is possible. If you don't have it in you, you can't learn it. Writing is based upon what you want to say and how you want to say it. It depends on you- the individual. And no one can ever steal your style. I didn't think there could be anything that can take away some of the doubts and fears I been facing, but then I recently learned about Longinus. He is a greek, rhetorician that believed in the acquired knowledge and rules you can learn to get better at perfecting your skills and connecting with your reader , but ultimately he saw writing as a natural, innate ability. Some people have it and some people don't.
I was talking to my best friend on the phone when I first switched my major to English. "I don't know if I'm good enough. There are a lot of great writers out there," I said in a voice that sounded more tense than serious. He held my optimism. "Yea, but you're a great writer," he replied back. "There's a lot of great writers too," I rebuked. "Well, the world can always use one more." His last sentence made me pause. Writing has always traveled with me throughout life and I think I just started to realize that now. Do I have a set focus? No, but I want to write and that should be enough. It took me this long to figure this out but I think I'm stronger. You can't hide from your shadow. It's a part of you and follows you wherever you go. I'm not saying the road ahead will be easy. As a matter of fact, it won't be, but it is important to remember one thing. You can't runaway from who you are. Accept it, embrace it, and give it to the world.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Blog # 10 Focus for essay 2
Ok, Well, I totally avoided writing this for a while because I honestly didn't know what to write about. And then yesterday at school, I came up with an idea of writing about middle school. Now, those three years were not easy for me and I honestly went through a lot- which I learned from. But now that I'm thinking about it, I don't know if I'm ready to unleash all those personal stories, especially if it has to be something I might publish. As I am writing this, another idea came to my head. Writing means the world to me. My next essay will incorporate just how much it means to me- how I may have doubts at different times about my future job or even my writing capabilities itself, but it is who I am. It always has been. And I first realized this in the 6th grade which is one very good thing that did happen to me in middle school.
I will explain the poems I wrote and how they connected to different aspects in my life by addressing those experiences. And Throughout, I will show my views of writing and how strong they are- different from the rational world. I know it sounds a bit confusing now, But I been jotting some stuff down and I actually think this could work and in there will have remembrances of difficult times but not in a way where I can't write about them. My main focus: I can't runaway from who I am. None of us can.
I will explain the poems I wrote and how they connected to different aspects in my life by addressing those experiences. And Throughout, I will show my views of writing and how strong they are- different from the rational world. I know it sounds a bit confusing now, But I been jotting some stuff down and I actually think this could work and in there will have remembrances of difficult times but not in a way where I can't write about them. My main focus: I can't runaway from who I am. None of us can.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Blog # 9 Revising
Revising my essay is actually not an easy thing to do. I already started to change paragraphs around and wording that can hinder the flow of this story. I really want this to come out great since this story really means a lot to me. I never told it fully before and it also gives myself the opportunity to get it all out without having these memories remain inside me.
First of all, I am unsure about the opening. I wanted to introduce it in a way where it wasn't so direct. The symbol in my story is the claddagh ring and from this ring comes memories of my grandmother. So I thought it would be important to mention this first. The paragraphs I wrote are either in the present time or the past and how I am able to see this same experience from different times. I think I put down all the things I would like to write about. This was a challenge for me in the beginning but the information i want to say is all out there. The only problem is, I hope it is presented in a way where it is easily understood. I want each paragraph to flow well. And I want the reader to be able to feel connected, even if it is in a small way. Maybe their own experiences came up while they read my story. I hope my writing will be able to depict an image or truth.
I tried listening to a song that that helps me remember the experiences I wrote about very well. And instead of focusing on proper wording, I just wanted to get those memories out there and then work on that. This seems to help because, otherwise, I am worrying mostly about the final outcome when I am not even close to being finished.
First of all, I am unsure about the opening. I wanted to introduce it in a way where it wasn't so direct. The symbol in my story is the claddagh ring and from this ring comes memories of my grandmother. So I thought it would be important to mention this first. The paragraphs I wrote are either in the present time or the past and how I am able to see this same experience from different times. I think I put down all the things I would like to write about. This was a challenge for me in the beginning but the information i want to say is all out there. The only problem is, I hope it is presented in a way where it is easily understood. I want each paragraph to flow well. And I want the reader to be able to feel connected, even if it is in a small way. Maybe their own experiences came up while they read my story. I hope my writing will be able to depict an image or truth.
I tried listening to a song that that helps me remember the experiences I wrote about very well. And instead of focusing on proper wording, I just wanted to get those memories out there and then work on that. This seems to help because, otherwise, I am worrying mostly about the final outcome when I am not even close to being finished.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Blog # 8 My Personal Essay- The Claddagh Story
My Claddagh Story
The beautiful irish ring worn today by many people encompasses a great symbolic meaning and it seems that mostly everyone who wears one possesses their own story. With its accented and pronounced radiance dressed up in silver or gold, the claddagh ring stands out as a very powerful symbol. Whether it is worn with its intended meaning or as a treasure, it is very much valued by its owner.
This ring always intrigued me and I became captivated when I eventually learned of it's meaning. I absolutely loved when I saw others around me wearing the ring and I would automatically start up a conversation about it. When I got older and bought my first claddagh ring, I followed this traditional custom. It wasn't until 2006 when I started using the ring's meaning in my own way, that I truly saw its profound significance and importance in my life and now it never leaves my finger.
I was first introduced to the claddagh ring when i was a little girl and my grandmother took me to a jewelry store where rows of rings stood before me. My surroundings were hazy and unrecognizable looking back at that moment but I now see it must have been important for her to buy me this ring. I watched her pick up a small, silver, claddagh ring, finding the right one to fit my finger and I carelessly took care of it, in adoration of the object itself like a child often is with a new toy. Now I see there was a reason this time was highlighted and a special memory was formed and a link was created. From that day on, I saw this symbol as our own- a special bond we shared of her irish background she passed down and from all the love she bestowed. She always wore a gold claddagh ring on one of her fingers and I always admired that ring and would gaze at it, unspokenly, knowing it represented a connection we had.
I tried numerous times to find the ring my grandmother bought for me but it was impossible and I think it will forever remain lost. If i would've known how much that ring would mean to me in the future, I would have never taken it off, just like the one i own today. This one has a black heart. And I am conscious of it's presence on my finger in fear that this too shall slip off and veil itself from my sight.
My grandmother died November 17th 2006 due to a sudden aneurism in the brain. The phone rang in the morning as I was in the bathroom toying with my hair in preparation for school. I froze as my mother picked up the phone and began screaming. My grandfather told my mom a blood vessel burst in my grandmother's brain and was being taken to the hospital. But yet I held on to a sense of optimism that eveything was going to be all right. It had to. My grandfather, her best friend in life, remained by her side, trying to talk to her until her last words turned to slurs and he watched as she slipped out his life. On the way to my Grandparents house to meet my uncle, my sister was driving as me and my mother began a conversation about Thanksgiving and how we want to cook this year for the first time since my grandmother will be too weak. When we arrived, our optimishm turned into a reality we weren't ready to embrace. "She's not going to make it" my uncle said so fast- too fast, but quick enough for him. My mother immediantly fell to the ground, her eyes rolling up towards the sky. As everyone tried to help her up. I began screaming "Nana!" "Nana!" My uncle grabbed me and while I began to cry in his arms, he starting breaking down. Realizing it, he stooped and said we had to go. It wasn't long after before I realized she died on the way to the hospital, this i know, even though a machine was keeping her alive until we all decided it was time to let her go.
It was the year of death. Rich and Tony- their names still reappear in my mind never letting me forget. A car accident that started it all quite like the big bang theory. One was my best friend's ex-boyfriend and the other, a friend of my boyfriend. Life sucks and the difficult moments will always stick out in our minds the most in effort to distort it. Bad things could happen and they will. This was the main thought that dwelled inside me- found a place to live and stayed dormant ever since. My relationship with my boyfriend at the time began to falter, a complete turnaround from the ideal relationship I thought we once had- a relationship that focused on perfection- change was incomprehensible. The third death was my grandmother. I tried to make him see that their is no competition but our usual fighting consisted of who should be more in pain. I wasn't able to let him grieve and his pain wasn't in relevance to mine. The next instance of death after my grandmother, my boyfriend just gave the only response he could. I felt the coldness of his words rise goosebumps on my skin. "Everybody dying," he says to me without glancing at my face. This time we were walking figures- so distant, not able to save each other. Death became the norm and support for each other couldn't be found.
I sat in the waiting room not far from where my grandmother's body was. There was several amish people there and I remembered the amish shootings (note) that occurred that same year. I felt connected to them. Someone was there talking to one of them about the situation. "Do you think there is hope she will make it?" I asked one of them in hope they would give me some type of spiritual response. The woman looked at me and said it was possible. A small amount of optimism came back and I prayed that maybe this time God can let my family have a miracle. I recall very clearly the first time my other uncle clung onto me outside the room. We both broke down together. He said the last time he saw his mother was at halloween when they all took my cousins trick-or-tricking. "What was Isabelle for halloween?" I tried to stay consistent with the converstaion. He paused and forced the words out. "She was the grim reaper."
Later on that day while looking at my grandmother inside the room, I remembered the claddagh. My eyes shifted around the room and stopped when I reached her belongings. Her ring was somewhere in here and I wanted it. It needed to be with me. Before we left, I kissed my gradmother's forehead whispering "I love you nana," - my unreturned goodbye. My grandfather sat lifeless in the chair, refusing to believe what was surrounding him, only focusing on his own strength he said to me, "I'm sorry kiddo."
The last day she was alive, I was fighting with my boyfriend which was habitual at the time. My mind, half absorbed over a merry-go-round of a problem which I usually started, focused on whether I would get a call from him soon. My Grandmother was still alive that day. We all sat in the dining room talking, just my grandparents, my mom and I and I remember staring at her gold claddagh ring but this time I told her how much I liked it. I lifted up my hand to show her mine. They looked so happy that day. My grandfather showed us his new wedding band that my grandmother recently bought for him after he lost the previous one. Jokingly, she said that this was going to be his last one. After a while into the conversation, I decided to walk downstairs to watch TV in complete thought of my boyfriend and feeling slightly guilty but I didn't yet understand why. i looked upstairs and saw my grandmother looking back at me. When she left, I ran upstairs giving her a quick goodbye and I wish now it was longer. But it was enough for me to remember her scent and feel of her brown jacket with the furry hood brushing up against my face. That day I didn't wave out the window until the car drove out of sight.
It will be three years next month since her death and the season's return drags in extra memories. He doesn't wear his ring anymore now and even though I don't fully understand, I realize for him it is something he needed to do. I broke up with my boyfriend that first summer, realizing it was something that had to be done. Even though I think about being in a relationship, I can't imagine myself taking that chance again just yet. My grandfather lives alone. He takes a women out for breakfast on Sundays. My mom says it is just for companionship. But I wish that woman was my nana. I picture her sometimes at the house, walking in her slippers, revitalizing it with her presence and returning that feeling of contentment as soon as you walk through the door.
My mind always drifts when I'm driving and I often wait for a good song to come on the radio to match the mood I'm in. "How to save a life" by the fray comes on occassinally- A depressing song that I used to not be able to listen to and I watch my mind replaying the same scenes. That long drive to philadelphia knowing what we were about to do. It was the second day there and the last. My brother was driving so I was able to stare at the window in complete orbit trying to form her face in the passing clouds. I felt the pain more when this song came on. Now I turn the song up, almost full blast so it can penetrate througout my body erasing everything else that could distrub this time. I can almost hear her speaking to me. "I need you Nana" I begin to say out loud as several tears sometimes build up in my eyes.
I stared at my ring and rubbed the heart so roughly that the ring become wet from the sweat of my finger caused by severe pain surrounding my entire body. I clung on to it, pressing it against my finger, like a memory I didn't want to forget. At this time the heart was facing outward but when I was sitting there at the hospital, I didn't want to think of him as my finger caressed the ring. My only thoughts were of my grandmother and this ring was what she gave to me- not the one I lost long ago but the meaning, the power, the love that will remain with me forever. I took the ring off my finger and slide it back on with the black heart facing towards me. My grandmother was gone but she wasn't permantly gone from my life and I know she will always be with me. I am taken. It is a hidden secret resting upon my finger connecting to my soul. But now I own something even better. My grandfather gave me her own, gold, claddagh ring that she always wore and this means more to me than anything. I always owned silver, but now I have gold.
Claddagh Citation: The center piece displays a heart of love surrounded by hands of friendship and on top rests a crown of loyalty. The old custom and tradition of this ring can be worn to represent if a person's heart is available or taken. If the ring is worn on the left hand with the heart facing inward, it means that you are married. But if the heart is facing outward, you are enaged and will soon be wed. If the ring is worn on the right hand with the heart facing inward, you're in a relationship with someone and your heart is therefore taken, but if the heart is looking the other way, then you are still in search for love and your heart is open.
Oh, Aquamarine
The finest of blues
Born with the color flowing throughout my blood
Dripping from a claddagh of memory
So permanently attached upon my finger
A magnet to my grandmother
The link connected to a blue heart
Coloring my world as a constant reminder
The blanketed sky where she watches
Like a river reflecting the sky in soft ripples
Not to disturb their unity transforming to one
A desire to swim with the water splashing over me
A continuous rejuvenation of memory
An understanding of a fish’s dependence on water
Our shared Piscean souls
The color resting beside diamonds, rubies and pearls
Value more often to catch the light
A gift left for me
And the golden treasure dressed in blue
That walks beside me always
The beautiful irish ring worn today by many people encompasses a great symbolic meaning and it seems that mostly everyone who wears one possesses their own story. With its accented and pronounced radiance dressed up in silver or gold, the claddagh ring stands out as a very powerful symbol. Whether it is worn with its intended meaning or as a treasure, it is very much valued by its owner.
This ring always intrigued me and I became captivated when I eventually learned of it's meaning. I absolutely loved when I saw others around me wearing the ring and I would automatically start up a conversation about it. When I got older and bought my first claddagh ring, I followed this traditional custom. It wasn't until 2006 when I started using the ring's meaning in my own way, that I truly saw its profound significance and importance in my life and now it never leaves my finger.
I was first introduced to the claddagh ring when i was a little girl and my grandmother took me to a jewelry store where rows of rings stood before me. My surroundings were hazy and unrecognizable looking back at that moment but I now see it must have been important for her to buy me this ring. I watched her pick up a small, silver, claddagh ring, finding the right one to fit my finger and I carelessly took care of it, in adoration of the object itself like a child often is with a new toy. Now I see there was a reason this time was highlighted and a special memory was formed and a link was created. From that day on, I saw this symbol as our own- a special bond we shared of her irish background she passed down and from all the love she bestowed. She always wore a gold claddagh ring on one of her fingers and I always admired that ring and would gaze at it, unspokenly, knowing it represented a connection we had.
I tried numerous times to find the ring my grandmother bought for me but it was impossible and I think it will forever remain lost. If i would've known how much that ring would mean to me in the future, I would have never taken it off, just like the one i own today. This one has a black heart. And I am conscious of it's presence on my finger in fear that this too shall slip off and veil itself from my sight.
My grandmother died November 17th 2006 due to a sudden aneurism in the brain. The phone rang in the morning as I was in the bathroom toying with my hair in preparation for school. I froze as my mother picked up the phone and began screaming. My grandfather told my mom a blood vessel burst in my grandmother's brain and was being taken to the hospital. But yet I held on to a sense of optimism that eveything was going to be all right. It had to. My grandfather, her best friend in life, remained by her side, trying to talk to her until her last words turned to slurs and he watched as she slipped out his life. On the way to my Grandparents house to meet my uncle, my sister was driving as me and my mother began a conversation about Thanksgiving and how we want to cook this year for the first time since my grandmother will be too weak. When we arrived, our optimishm turned into a reality we weren't ready to embrace. "She's not going to make it" my uncle said so fast- too fast, but quick enough for him. My mother immediantly fell to the ground, her eyes rolling up towards the sky. As everyone tried to help her up. I began screaming "Nana!" "Nana!" My uncle grabbed me and while I began to cry in his arms, he starting breaking down. Realizing it, he stooped and said we had to go. It wasn't long after before I realized she died on the way to the hospital, this i know, even though a machine was keeping her alive until we all decided it was time to let her go.
It was the year of death. Rich and Tony- their names still reappear in my mind never letting me forget. A car accident that started it all quite like the big bang theory. One was my best friend's ex-boyfriend and the other, a friend of my boyfriend. Life sucks and the difficult moments will always stick out in our minds the most in effort to distort it. Bad things could happen and they will. This was the main thought that dwelled inside me- found a place to live and stayed dormant ever since. My relationship with my boyfriend at the time began to falter, a complete turnaround from the ideal relationship I thought we once had- a relationship that focused on perfection- change was incomprehensible. The third death was my grandmother. I tried to make him see that their is no competition but our usual fighting consisted of who should be more in pain. I wasn't able to let him grieve and his pain wasn't in relevance to mine. The next instance of death after my grandmother, my boyfriend just gave the only response he could. I felt the coldness of his words rise goosebumps on my skin. "Everybody dying," he says to me without glancing at my face. This time we were walking figures- so distant, not able to save each other. Death became the norm and support for each other couldn't be found.
I sat in the waiting room not far from where my grandmother's body was. There was several amish people there and I remembered the amish shootings (note) that occurred that same year. I felt connected to them. Someone was there talking to one of them about the situation. "Do you think there is hope she will make it?" I asked one of them in hope they would give me some type of spiritual response. The woman looked at me and said it was possible. A small amount of optimism came back and I prayed that maybe this time God can let my family have a miracle. I recall very clearly the first time my other uncle clung onto me outside the room. We both broke down together. He said the last time he saw his mother was at halloween when they all took my cousins trick-or-tricking. "What was Isabelle for halloween?" I tried to stay consistent with the converstaion. He paused and forced the words out. "She was the grim reaper."
Later on that day while looking at my grandmother inside the room, I remembered the claddagh. My eyes shifted around the room and stopped when I reached her belongings. Her ring was somewhere in here and I wanted it. It needed to be with me. Before we left, I kissed my gradmother's forehead whispering "I love you nana," - my unreturned goodbye. My grandfather sat lifeless in the chair, refusing to believe what was surrounding him, only focusing on his own strength he said to me, "I'm sorry kiddo."
The last day she was alive, I was fighting with my boyfriend which was habitual at the time. My mind, half absorbed over a merry-go-round of a problem which I usually started, focused on whether I would get a call from him soon. My Grandmother was still alive that day. We all sat in the dining room talking, just my grandparents, my mom and I and I remember staring at her gold claddagh ring but this time I told her how much I liked it. I lifted up my hand to show her mine. They looked so happy that day. My grandfather showed us his new wedding band that my grandmother recently bought for him after he lost the previous one. Jokingly, she said that this was going to be his last one. After a while into the conversation, I decided to walk downstairs to watch TV in complete thought of my boyfriend and feeling slightly guilty but I didn't yet understand why. i looked upstairs and saw my grandmother looking back at me. When she left, I ran upstairs giving her a quick goodbye and I wish now it was longer. But it was enough for me to remember her scent and feel of her brown jacket with the furry hood brushing up against my face. That day I didn't wave out the window until the car drove out of sight.
It will be three years next month since her death and the season's return drags in extra memories. He doesn't wear his ring anymore now and even though I don't fully understand, I realize for him it is something he needed to do. I broke up with my boyfriend that first summer, realizing it was something that had to be done. Even though I think about being in a relationship, I can't imagine myself taking that chance again just yet. My grandfather lives alone. He takes a women out for breakfast on Sundays. My mom says it is just for companionship. But I wish that woman was my nana. I picture her sometimes at the house, walking in her slippers, revitalizing it with her presence and returning that feeling of contentment as soon as you walk through the door.
My mind always drifts when I'm driving and I often wait for a good song to come on the radio to match the mood I'm in. "How to save a life" by the fray comes on occassinally- A depressing song that I used to not be able to listen to and I watch my mind replaying the same scenes. That long drive to philadelphia knowing what we were about to do. It was the second day there and the last. My brother was driving so I was able to stare at the window in complete orbit trying to form her face in the passing clouds. I felt the pain more when this song came on. Now I turn the song up, almost full blast so it can penetrate througout my body erasing everything else that could distrub this time. I can almost hear her speaking to me. "I need you Nana" I begin to say out loud as several tears sometimes build up in my eyes.
I stared at my ring and rubbed the heart so roughly that the ring become wet from the sweat of my finger caused by severe pain surrounding my entire body. I clung on to it, pressing it against my finger, like a memory I didn't want to forget. At this time the heart was facing outward but when I was sitting there at the hospital, I didn't want to think of him as my finger caressed the ring. My only thoughts were of my grandmother and this ring was what she gave to me- not the one I lost long ago but the meaning, the power, the love that will remain with me forever. I took the ring off my finger and slide it back on with the black heart facing towards me. My grandmother was gone but she wasn't permantly gone from my life and I know she will always be with me. I am taken. It is a hidden secret resting upon my finger connecting to my soul. But now I own something even better. My grandfather gave me her own, gold, claddagh ring that she always wore and this means more to me than anything. I always owned silver, but now I have gold.
Claddagh Citation: The center piece displays a heart of love surrounded by hands of friendship and on top rests a crown of loyalty. The old custom and tradition of this ring can be worn to represent if a person's heart is available or taken. If the ring is worn on the left hand with the heart facing inward, it means that you are married. But if the heart is facing outward, you are enaged and will soon be wed. If the ring is worn on the right hand with the heart facing inward, you're in a relationship with someone and your heart is therefore taken, but if the heart is looking the other way, then you are still in search for love and your heart is open.
Oh, Aquamarine
The finest of blues
Born with the color flowing throughout my blood
Dripping from a claddagh of memory
So permanently attached upon my finger
A magnet to my grandmother
The link connected to a blue heart
Coloring my world as a constant reminder
The blanketed sky where she watches
Like a river reflecting the sky in soft ripples
Not to disturb their unity transforming to one
A desire to swim with the water splashing over me
A continuous rejuvenation of memory
An understanding of a fish’s dependence on water
Our shared Piscean souls
The color resting beside diamonds, rubies and pearls
Value more often to catch the light
A gift left for me
And the golden treasure dressed in blue
That walks beside me always
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