cinemaphilia

I just saw The Debt today with Jessica Chastain and Sam Worthington, written by Matthew Vaughan. And I absolutely loved it, though it was a bit slow--mainly, I loved it because it's made me think.

There are so many things that influence who we are and what we do. It's difficult to name just one event that led up to the next: it's not a linear progression. Rather, everything is intrinsic upon everything else.

When we deny ourselves what we want out of fear, is this because of who we are? Is this because of the series of choices and decisions, some our own but mostly those of other people, that have contributed to causing that fear?

At Nathan's funeral, the preacher, a man whose wife had suffered two miscarriages twenty years ago, told his parents, "You're lucky, at least you had twenty years with him." Did he say that because of his own hurt and pain, or did he say that to put things in perspective? I don't particularly believe that you can make your grief a lower portion of your life just because you're lucky you aren't worse off.

I've written so many short stories, from 2 to 20 pages. I can't focus on anything after that 20th page, like I have a block. I write poetry, mostly just angry lines. But I hope that anything I write can be as powerful and thought-provoking as some of these movies that I watch. They have this element of something being withheld from the main character--not as some plot device, but because sometimes, that's just what happens. Something just holds us back.

senior year: take one

Just started my senior year...filled with 19 hours of classes, long waits for overcrowded buses, and an insane amount of hours at work.

Ahh, this is the life.

Other than that...there really is no other than that. I've come to treasure my alone time, so getting me out of the apartment seems to be a bit of a trick. There's a party tomorrow night that I'll probably be coerced into attending, but I always feel so damn awkward at those things. But still, it's better than looking at the ugly gray carpet in my living room.

Wow, this is sounding bleak. Which isn't new, I suppose. But it's really not all that bad. I really enjoy the classes I'm in--they're all about language and how we use it and how we learn it. It's fascinating and philosophical. And I do love to work, because I love the people, and it forces me to interact with everyone who comes into the dining hall (even if they are all functional idiots). I just dislike the fact that I don't get home until 11, and then I've got homework to do.

So, in short, I'm overworked, overtired, and under-funned. Yeah. I said funned. But it's my last year, so woot woot!

two more days

I just keep telling myself it's only two more days until I'm done with this class, so all I need to do is suck it up and edit my portfolio to turn it in Wednesday. But editing is always the hardest part, because I have to look back over all of the crap I was thinking and reason it out again. I hate that.

Also, I'm really bad with comma splices and split infinitives.

But, such is life.

writing is something i do when i'm breathing

I found out last night at about 11 that a good friend of mine in high school died earlier on Wednesday with his younger girlfriend after hydroplaning into a tree on the interstate. I received a text from another friend, telling me, but groggy with sleep as I was, I didn't really process it. When I woke up again a few hours later, she had written back, "This is real." And after that, I realized I'd been dreaming about him. And then I couldn't go back to sleep.

I haven't talked to him regularly since we left high school, but I'd see him every now and again, keep up with his song writing and creative writing on Facebook. It'd always inspire me to want to write something, whenever I would see him post something. His writing is some of the most beautiful stuff I've ever read, and it always made me want to just sit and wonder about how he could have written it.

In high school, he was part of the party/stoner crowd, but he was so damn sweet and funny and handsome that I still liked to sit next to him in our Creative Writing class. He never did his work unless the assignment appealed to him, instead telling us his stories about his most recent drug use and how that worked out for him. If I misspoke, he'd repeat it back and make fun of me. We agreed that if we weren't married by the time we were 34, we'd have a kid together because it'd be the smartest and most good-looking child on the planet. But that's not going to happen.

I've been crying, sobbing really, on and off since 3 o'clock, when I got on the computer and found an actual news article confirming what I was hoping was just a joke gone too far. I can't seem to focus on anything for more than a few minutes, and immediately after I eat something I want to throw it up. There's going to be a double funeral on Saturday for him and his girlfriend, who was only 17 years old and one of the most caring individuals I've ever met. I can't even think the words double funeral without reacting, it's such a heinous idea.

And even though I knew him, I still feel like my grief pales in comparison to his friends, the people who really knew him--I can only imagine that whatever I'm feeling, they're feeling times a thousand. But even without that kind of bond, I do know that I love him, and I took for granted that there was a ray of such goodness and light in the world. It just breaks my heart.

kick in the pants

10 things about my life in the last month:

1. I ordered HBO. And it is delicious. True Blood ftw.
2. I have gotten all A's in my classes, from Spring semester to the classes I've already finished over the summer.
3. I screwed up the courage to ask a guy out! But that didn't work out...
4. I have slightly gotten over my fear of calling people on the phone, which I think is more to do with sounding like an idiot or wasting someone's time.
5. I am writing a paper right now, that I started at 11 pm on a Friday night, about William Wordsworth, which I think is shaping up to be one of the better papers I've written.
6. My roommate is moving out, and a new, cake-decorating one is moving in. Variety is the spice of life and all that jazz.
7. I've gone to the dollar theater so many times that the attendant actually recognized me last night. It also doesn't help that I tend to change into the same slightly ratty t-shirt when I get out of Friday class.
8. This September, when I turn 21, I'm going to see Wicked at the Fox! I'm sure it's nothing like New York...but I don't live in New York, so it doesn't really matter, now, does it?
9. One of my good friends is incredibly, seriously sick. She's not able to retain any nutrients, and her already stick-thin figure is starting to look emaciated. It's scary, and for the first time it was like that realization that you hear about, that we aren't invincible and bad or inexplicable things happen to good people.
10. The reason that I'm writing this paper earlier in the weekend (it's due Monday, so I probably could have started it a bit earlier) is that I want to bake some more. It's like I'm addicted to having baked goods in the apartment. There are TWO white chocolate truffle cakes in the fridge (one of which is headed to my parents, but still). And I really want to try pretzel bread again, with different toppings than just salt. But I cannot bake until I write this paper. And I cannot write this paper until I give a happy and upbeat update for once in my life!
    

be invisible

Is it bad that I absolutely love the Charlie's Angels movies? As in, I could watch them a million times and not get tired of them. Although, the endings do desire a little bit more originality. Other than that...gold. But I suppose I don't have the world's most discerning taste, I do like "Baby" and Linda Howard.

I've been writing again. I think it's easier when I'm living alone, in the zone, in this state of inertness. That'll end tomorrow, when one of the roommates returns, but I've got myself yet again the beginnings of another story. A story that I'll probably never finish.

Maybe I should just stick to short stories.

Other than that, I've just been reading, watching movies, and organizing our cabinets. I wish I had the supplies to cook or bake something intricate, but my funds are running low because no summer job. If I hadn't worked all last semester, I don't know where I'd be right now. And as much as I love my parents, I sometimes just wish I could be like all of these other college students who've been to other countries and done amazing things and actually have vacations. And of course, their parents pay and they get out of college debt free, with a clean state.

But, such is life. Other than the occasional bouts of crippling depression, it's hard to really complain, except to say that I haven't done anything particularly earth-shattering in my life. But, again, such is life.

It'll probably look up.

all alone

In order to graduate a year early, it's necessary for me to take summer classes. So for this past week, I've been at my apartment, by myself, with no roommates or any of my few friends who live in Athens.

And on the one hand I love it. I love feeling so independent, and being responsible for everything that I do. There are nobody's messes that I have to look with, no carefully negotiating who gets control of the television--it's very nice.

On the other hand, I am absolutely numb with loneliness. I feel like I forget the effect that depression has on me until it happens again. There are twisting vines squeezing any semblance of a human being out of me, and I can never fight it without the help of my friends or my family.

And now I don't even have them.

So melodramatic. But it's the only time I ever write is when I'm trying to fight this thing, so real, like a Hydra always growing more and more heads until eventually I'm sure it'll swallow me, and no Hercules will save me.