I thought so.

Normally when I have mail I drop it into a basket at the apartment office, where it will be picked up and delivered at some unknown point in the future. Today, though, I drove my large envelope down Jackson Road to the post office, where I could be sure it would be sorted and sent today. I’m applying for a job with the U.S. Army Signal Corps, as editor of the main publication of that worthy body. I don’t believe I am qualified, at least not in writing; however, I do know that I could do all the tasks described in the job posting. It pays extremely well, and it’s right here in Augusta–more precisely, Fort Gordon–so it would be perfect for me. I hope the recruiters won’t hold my lack of experience against me.

After that I turned around and headed back towards home, but instead of continuing on I turned right onto Walton Way, one of the prettiest roads in all of Augusta, where trees and old-timey manor houses line the street. I had my camera with me.

Since the self-actualization exercise, I’ve been eager to get out and about, but as I am easily bored, my apartment complex parking lot wasn’t going to cut it forever. On Sunday, I amused myself by running around the complex taking pictures. Yesterday, I went to Augusta Mall, and took more (mainly of emptiness and ambulating oldsters, since the stores weren’t open at 9 am). Today, I went downtown.

It was really a spontaneous decision. I had thrown on some stretch pants, my Obi-Wan shirt, and some sneakers, and pulled my hair back into a Hairagami bun. But as I was preparing to leave with my mail, I thought about taking the camera with me and snapping shots of Walton Way. I then pondered stopping occasionally to take better pictures, perhaps posing for a few. My slovenly outfit wouldn’t do for pictures, so I changed into my grey dress pants and blue flowered shell with the sheer, short-sleeved outer shirt. Stepping into my brown loafers, I decided to put on my contact lenses, some makeup, and some jewelry. When I was finally satisfied with my appearance, I took a few pictures of the apartment and the driveway and finally made it out onto the road.

The trip to the post office didn’t take long, and then I was off. I had a vague idea about heading downtown, but I just figured I would go wherever Walton Way took me. And so I did.

I passed through the upscale houses swathed in regal old pines and out into another commercial district. The Partridge Inn, a lovely, rather famous old hotel, went by on my right. I’d considered it for the wedding; it’s so stately and elegant. Next door to the Inn was Smoak’s Bakery, where we got our lovely wedding cake. I flew past them both and kept going, snapping pictures all the way. I had now firmly decided that I was going downtown to take pictures.

When Walton Way ended, a weird series of twists and turns landed me on Riverfront Parkway, a lovely lane running along the Savannah River. You can’t see the river from the street, but you can tell that it’s there. I got the same feeling from a little road running alongside the Ohio River in Louisville. The street was quite lovely; I imagined that it must be rather nice to live there.

A sweeping turn landed me on Broad Street. Figuring that I was still west of the city, I turned left and barrelled forward. Things were looking pretty thin and pokey, and I wondered how much farther I had to go.

And then, somehow, I wasn’t on Broad Street anymore, but some sort of highway. Fascinated, I kept driving. I’m at the point with Augusta that I have a vague idea of where everything is, but there are so many gaps in my knowledge that a wrong turn can lead to quite an adventure. I drove and drove, finally passing over the Savannah River before coming to a large sign.

Oops. I’d blown through Augusta and into Aiken County, South Carolina.

No matter. I turned around and headed back. This time I knew that the street I was on would turn into Broad Street…and I already knew that Broad Street was the main hub of downtown Augusta.

When things finally started looking familiar, I pulled over into one of the parking spaces the city provides down the center of Broad Street. Gathering my camera and purse, I proceeded into town on foot, looking for good photo opportunities.

My wanderings led me down to 6th Street, where I encountered to my right the Augusta Museum of History. It’s a grand building, brick, with a brick and cast iron fence running along the front and forming a regal gate. I decided to turn right and pass the museum. I knew that Riverwalk was somewhere along the Savannah River and that the Savannah River was in that direction. I figured if I kept walking, I’d happen upon it.

I passed the museum, what I believe was an old Pabst Blue Ribbon bottling factory with the words “Cream of Kentucky” in huge faded letters across the side, and a regal church, and I saw that I was coming upon a large metal bridge. I’ve always loved bridges like that; they look so old-timey that they practically belong wherever they are. Maybe it reminded me of High Bridge in Wilmore, Kentucky, a place I’d visited several times as a teenager. Or maybe I just like bridges. Whatever the reason, I eagerly approached it.

There was a bricked walkway leading up to and around the railway bridge. I followed the brick and concrete path to the top and looked down into what must be Augusta Marina, a small line of boats along the Savannah River. It was all very beautiful and peaceful. As I snapped pictures of the bridge, a woman towing her dog along commented to her husband, “Oh, I should have brought the camera!” As I’m usually the one saying that, I had to grin.

I considered following the bricked path the way the couple and their dog were, but it didn’t seem to lead anywhere. Looking down to the building that lay below and beside the bridge, I saw that there seemed to be a garden path. I chose the low road, stepping down the grassy hill to the bottom.

I then realized I was at the Riverwalk. This was perfect, of course, because I wanted to be at the Riverwalk. It’s gorgeous, and I’ve always wanted to take pictures of it. I have the niggling feeling that I have taken at least a few pictures before. But if I have, they must still be on a roll of undeveloped film somewhere.

In any case, I slipped across some rectangular terra cotta garden stones and into the Riverwalk proper. The complex is a series of bricked walks leading along the Savannah River, with staircases and ramps leading to higher ground. The whole area is filled with trees, shrubs, and flowers. Even now, in February, there are trees and plants in bloom. I took a moment to explore the Marina before entering the gates to Riverwalk.

The day was warm and mildly overcast, but still very beautiful. I paused to talk to a toddler who was tripping about Oglethorpe Park–I wouldn’t realize the significance of the name ‘Oglethorpe’ until later–and then moved on to get more pictures. There were a handful of people at Riverwalk, strolling about or power-walking for exercise. I spoke briefly with a man who seemed to be aimlessly observing the pigeons and seagulls; he noted that I seemed to be having fun with my camera, and I remarked that the weather was quite different from the ice storms in Kentucky. Above all else, I took lots and lots of pictures.

I worked my way down to the amphitheater and decided to call it quits. There was more Riverwalk to be seen: the Japanese Pocket Garden and a few more delights lay beyond. But I was about out of pictures and batteries, and I was growing weary, so instead of continuing onwards I climbed the bricked steps of the amphitheater to put myself out at the main entrance of Riverwalk, on 9th Street.

Brick seems to be the theme here, but it’s done quite beautifully. I love this part of town. I could–and did–stay there for hours.

Moving down the bricked portion of 9th Street and out to Reynolds Street, I made a left turn and continued on until I noticed a lovely courtyard smack in the middle of town, with gardens and statues. Beyond it lay Broad Street, which was where I was parked. I cut across Reynolds and into the park, which turned out to be the “Original Augusta Common”, established in 1736. It was a quaint little spot, rather open, but not barren or lonely. It felt rather comfortable, right down to the little chess table off to one side.

Down towards the end of the Common, I discovered the Oglethorpe connection. Apparently he is the “Father of Georgia” and the “Founder of Augusta”.

The text on the statue reads:

The thinking of the Misfortunes of others, and giving Succour to the afflicted, even before they ask, is the most glorious Action that can be performed by a mere human Creature.

Oglethorpe 1732

It sounds like General James Edward Oglethorpe was a pretty good guy.

I made my way back down Broad Street again, seeing a few blocks I’d missed due to cutting towards the river at 6th Street. There were huge, imposing bank buildings with massive columns and looming gargoyles; there were quaint and funny shops; there was the Theatre, which I vowed to someday visit; but I have pictures of none of these, as I had used my last shot on General Oglethorpe’s statue. Mourning this fact, I continued on, promising myself that one day I would return and take pictures only of downtown.

On my way, though, I saw that I was passing a gigantic ivory spire…and the inscription on the side said something to the extent of “a nation whose purposes were only Pure”. Already I was thinking that it couldn’t be…but as I rounded the statue I saw that it was.

A million conflicting emotions rose in me then, but amusement won out, and I knew I had to have a picture of this monument. I chose one of the less spectacular Riverwalk shots and deleted it to make room. Unfortunately, a group of tourists planted themselves smack in front of the thing, posing for pictures, debating and teasing each other instead of hurrying to take the group shot. I didn’t have anywhere to go, particularly, but a young businesswoman who was getting into her car kept giving me strange looks, as if she was wondering why I was standing there with a camera. It was rather disconcerting. Finally I decided that it might be funny to have the pack of white tourists in the shot with the Confederate memorial, and so I quickly took my picture and scuttled off. Unfortunately, the inscriptions on the stone base are too blurry in my hasty picture, so the humor is completely lost.

And so that was my day, through the early afternoon. I hopped back in my car and hightailed it home, ready for my snack of potato chips and Vanilla Coke. Believe it or not, I’ve spent the rest of my time resizing and cropping pictures and writing this journal entry. I think it’s about time to stop now. All in all, it was fun, and I’m looking forward to going back to get more pictures of downtown.

Last night, or more correctly this morning at 5 am, I was guided through a self-actualization exercise a la Tony Robbins by my longtime friend–and sometimes foe, for that’s how the best friendships tend to be–Ironside. I was asked to visualize a behavior I wished to change, and visualize how I would be after the change. Then I was to concentrate on using the new, happy image to destroy the old, ugly image. I went through this routine seven times last night, and seven times this morning.

My goal was to instill in myself the desire to get out of the apartment and move around. The picture in my head of the ‘bad behavior’ was a rather Jabba the Hutt image of myself sitting on the couch or at the computer desk with a blank look on my face, surfing channels or the Web. My ‘good behavior’ was a joyful, thinner me, bouncing around the parking lot of the apartment complex and enjoying the feel of the breeze and the vigor in my step.

When I finally made it to bed, I was having trouble sleeping. The concentration had made me feel rather light-headed and giddy, and the way I’d been asked to shout “WHOOSH” when I exploded the image of ‘bad behavior’ had only added to that sensation. Finally, though, I drifted off into almost perfect, uninterrupted sleep.

Somewhere around 9:30, I was awakened by a thunderstorm. High winds were shaking the gutters and flinging splats of rain onto the window. For a moment I was concerned…and then I remembered that Sean says we don’t get tornadoes here, and so I rolled over and went back to sleep.

When I finally returned to true consciousness at around noon, I opened my eyes to see that Sean was not in bed beside me. There was little point in remaining there, wrapped in covers; and indeed, the room felt stuffy and just a bit too warm. I remembered that I’d shut off the air conditioning the night before, and I knew that Sean probably wouldn’t have messed with it. Strangely, though, it wasn’t with resignation that I rolled out of bed so much as with actual desire to be awake. This was quite different from Friday morning, in which I hid in bed for as long as possible, shirking my chores and responsibilities, too sorry for myself to even move.

I pulled on my black ‘house pants’, bra, and white ankle socks, and then I searched through the top drawer for a suitable T-shirt. It had to be light in color, that much was certain. Finally deciding on a beige tee from the “Jester” incarnation of my brothers’ band, I pulled it on and then slipped into my tennis shoes. I left the bedroom, crossed through the living room, and went to ‘my’ bathroom, the guest one. I applied deodorant, pulled my hair back into a pony tail, brushed my teeth, and washed my face. I then stepped into the office, where Sean was already engaged in a game of Asheron’s Call 2.

“I’m going for a walk,” I said. “Want to come?”

He seemed to deliberate before saying “No.” It turned out that he had just begun a long quest. I kissed him and retrieved my keys from where I’d left them on the card table–home of Eowyn, our dear server–and turned the air conditioning on as I left the room.

I wasn’t sure how the weather was going to be. I hadn’t checked it before stepping out the front door and into the rain-soaked world. But it turned out that the air temperature was fine–not warm, but certainly not cold, and there was a gentle breeze. My outfit was perfect, although I think I could have gotten away with shorts instead of pants.

Tromping down the three flights of stairs that I assumed would get me into shape when we moved in, I stuffed my keys into my pockets and set out through the parking lot. I’d made this circuit before, starting at the dumpster back behind and to the right of our apartment and moving clockwise. Today I went counter-clockwise. I stayed on the outside, defining my route by the tips of the parking space lines.

I’d smashed the ugly picture of myself seven times in my head the night before, each time with a solar plexus-huffed cry of “WHOOSH!” I was supposed to do it today, too, but I hadn’t done it in the apartment for fear of looking foolish in front of Sean–isn’t it amazing how such insecurities can follow us into married life?–and so I figured I’d better do it now. At reasonable intervals, when I thought no one could hear, I performed the visualization exercise as I walked, “WHOOSH”ing as loudly as I dared. Seeing the Jabba the Hutt me was more difficult, but seeing the new, happy, active me was easy, since I was doing what I want to be doing. I felt fantastic, the breeze cooling my skin, my muscles warming and moving, the scent of recent rain calming my mind and erasing stress and trouble. I have always loved water, and I believe it has a beneficial effect on me.

I decided to quit after one circuit. My muscles were tingly but weary, and I decided that rather than overdo it, I would go in, relax, and then take another walk later in the day. So I cut across the parking lot, stopping at my car to retrieve some groceries I’d left there a few days ago, and carted an armful back up the stairs.

Sean came out to greet me as I returned. “Ah, groceries! Hotdog buns! Hotdogs…that sounds good.”

“You want hotdogs?”

“Yeah. You can make them for dinner if you want, but they sound really good right now.”

He returned to his computer, no doubt lured once more by the call of Asheron, and I unloaded the basket I’d brought up from the car. Linens went into the bedroom, bread went into the breadbox and freezer, Mountain Dew and strawberry jam–homemade, from Mom–went into the fridge, and the basket itself went into the bathroom, where it will hold probably about half of my gargantuan collection of beauty products that I rarely, if ever, use.

I placed four hotdogs into the steaming shelf of my rice cooker and set it to ‘cook’. We still don’t have a microwave. As they were steaming I got out four buns and two plates, then started cooking a can of green beans (Allen’s, Kentucky Wonder style) and a can of Bush’s Baked Beans on the stove. By this point I had decided that I was not interested in eating at the dining room table, or at the computer. I slipped back into the office and hugged Sean’s shoulders.

“Busy?”

“Um, uh, why?” My husband is very eloquent when he tries.

“I want to eat on the deck.”

“I feel compelled to do that with you,” he said after a brief pause. I love the way Sean phrases things. He always says what he thinks, but in such nontraditional ways that the importance of the words seems greater. In any case, I was highly flattered by this. “Let me just find this chief and kill him and I’ll join you on the deck.”

Agreeing, I moved off to prepare the deck for our picnic. The porch was a little damp from the rain, so I laid down two towels first, then spread my orange quilt on top. The breakfast in bed tray Gabrielle gave me one year (for Christmas or my birthday, I can’t remember…but I love that tray) was ideal. I set out two potholders for the bean pans. The resulting area looked like this. I would like to mention at this juncture that the twenty extra dollars per month we pay for our view is well worth it. Once Sean was finished assassinating the NPC, I moved the food out to our cozy little picnic spot, like so.

We spent the early afternoon just sitting on the deck and eating and talking and watching the ducks frolic in the pond.

It was just nice. I feel refreshed and content. I plan to go on another walk a little later, to take the trash out and carry some letters over to the mailbox and then bring up more items from the car once I’m finished with my stroll. Today feels very positive, light, and happy. It’s nice to feel good about myself, especially after the past few days of constant self-loathing. Cycles of despair are far too easy for me to fall into. But today I’ve been productive and yet carefree, satisfied. What a remarkable, welcome feeling. I don’t know if the self-actualization is what did it or not, but I fully intend to ride this wave for as long as I can.

And now I feel the urge to get away from the computer…so I bid you a fond farewell. Have a lovely day, all, and keep smiling.

* Phantom bets that r3ap3r’s the one with the erection now ^^

* r3aper looks down

<r3aper> nope

<r3aper> takes more than the talk of porn to give me one

<r3aper> there needs to be substance

<r3aper> dude

<r3aper> Daredevil

I know, I know. Actual substance will arrive soon. Or when I feel like it. Whichever.

I am exhausted.

I’ve been pushing myself to the limit–which really isn’t very far, but I’m out of shape ;P–getting ready for the move and the wedding and, of course, Christmas. I made so many different types of cookie this year; I’m pretty proud of myself, but it was a big effort. I also did a lot of the decorating for our family celebration.

We had Christmas yesterday on Christmas Eve, since Faye and AJ and Connor are spending Christmas Day at Faye’s mother’s house in Cynthiana. So when I got off my eight hour shift that morning, I went to Wal-Mart to pick up a few things I needed–some more white chocolate to dip Christmas tree cookies in, and some bottled water and Coke for Dad–and then went home and finished up the aforementioned Christmas tree cookies. When I say I “finished” I mean I dipped little trees into white chocolate for as long as I could possibly stand, and ended up leaving about half of them undecorated. I made far too many of those cookies. Fortunately, I got enough of them done to put in tins for shipping and still have some left over for family eating.

After finishing those up, I worked on cleaning the kitchen and preparing the living room and dining room for Christmas. I put two more leaves in the table; cleared out the boxes I’d brought from Grandma’s–she gave me some things for my new home, and I hadn’t bothered to pack the boxes up yet; set the table nicely; cleaned out all the cookie-making stuff from the kitchen and arranged the cookies on the table; and then, as everything was under control and it was noon and the party wasn’t till 4, I decided to take a quick nap until 1:45, and so I did.

When I got up I took my shower and got dressed. I decided to look Christmas-y for once. At one of the family dinners this year I didn’t dress up, and I looked awful in the pictures, and so I definitely knew I wanted to wear something nice. At the same time, I wanted to make sure I looked like I was celebrating Christmas, and not Thanksgiving or some other fall holiday–many of my nice clothes are in fall colors like brown and tan. Luckily, I came across a short sleeve green shirt handed down to me from Mom, a black skirt with a red and green floral design, and a red button-down sweater. I complemented this getup with some festive jewelry; here’s the result:

You can see my beautiful engagement ring in that shot too ;)

So after I was all ready to party, it was only three o’clock. I set to work making my famous corn casserole. Well, okay, it’s not really my corn casserole; we got the recipe from Dickie Lee Porter, mother of Isaac, who used to be a total jerk to me in middle school but turned out okay in high school. Anyway, it’s a damn good side dish. I also started the tea and peeled the potatoes so when Ben finally arrived he could make mashed potatoes. Then I tried to relax a little bit, and then finally everyone had arrived and it was time to party. AJ, Faye, Connor, Ben, and Dan were there in addition to me, Mom, and Dad. We all missed Manda and Sean; it’s too bad they couldn’t be here! Maybe next Christmas the whole family will be able to come together.

We had a lovely dinner: ham, broccoli casserole, corn casserole, mashed potatoes, scalloped oysters, peas, green beans, rolls, and Jell-O fruit salad. Everything was so delicious. I somehow wound up eating too much, and I’m still not sure how that happened, but I was unable to finish what was on my plate, and even now, eight hours later, I still feel full. Suffice it to say that I didn’t have any dessert (I know, blasphemy!), but I did drink some boiled custard, which was quite good. Hopefully tomorrow I’ll feel up to trying some of Faye’s apple pie; she makes them so well.

After dinner we cleaned up a bit and let our food settle, then set to work opening packages. Socks were the big thing; I think everyone received them except Mom. ;) In addition to that, I got two Southern Living cookbooks from Mom, a lovely black shawl, hat, and gloves from Ben and Manda, a set of silverware from AJ and Faye, and last but not least the gift I’d been begging for for months: a digital camera, identical to Mom’s, from Mom and Dad. This is just like the camera I took to Japan–I’m so excited that I’ll have one to take in March!

Connor, of course, got lots of toys, but the biggest toy that was unwrapped was the digital piano Mom got for the boys. They’d planned on using it to orchestrate some music for the band. I’m not sure if it turned out to be what they wanted or not, but it was certainly quite a fine piano. It got me wondering whether or not I should invest in one someday, or just buy a real piano. I’ll have to think on that. I lean towards the real piano because, well, it’s real, but at the same time a digital one would take up less space and wouldn’t need to be tuned. Something to ponder. Of course, it would help if I actually played the piano every now and then.

When everyone descended into the joy of playing with their gifts, I descended into the joy of sleep. It wasn’t nearly long enough; right now my eyes are dry and I have a headache and I really just want to pass out. But I’m at work right now (I’m working on Christmas!), so I can’t really take a nap. Boo hoo…I’ll probably end up watching Full Metal Panic!, like I did last night and the night before. Fortunately, this is my last day, and then I have about a week of free time before I move to Georgia.

Everything’s happening so fast :> It’ll be nice to get moved in and settled so I can relax into a routine. Of course, after the move and wedding there is the little matter of finding me a job, and then of course there’s planning the honeymoon, which is still taking place in March…so perhaps I won’t truly get to relax for awhile. We’ll have to see.

Being busy like this isn’t really a curse, though; for one thing, I choose to be this busy, and for another, I am ecstatic about it. I’m getting married! I’m starting a new life! I am truly one of the luckiest people ever, because I managed to find a man who so perfectly complements me it’s scary sometimes, someone I can love and hold and kiss and take care of, someone who is so cute and handsome and smart and witty and sexy and fun that I sometimes wonder what he sees in me. And we get to be together for the rest of our lives! It’s such a rush of happy feeling.

I’m also lucky simply because I’m not starting off my new life in debt–my parents were able to pay my college tuition in full, without student loans–and I actually have a lot more of the things I’ll need to take care of my own household than a lot of people do when they’re first starting out. My aunt Bev bought us a beautiful dining set from JC Penney, my dad is giving us his blue loveseat, Sean’s parents are giving us their La-Z-Boy and some nested glass tables, we have other furniture and dishes and silverware and Tupperware and kitchen appliances…man, we are pretty much set. (If you want to see what we don’t have, then click here.)

So yeah…I feel really happy and lucky. The only bad thing to happen is that I got a B in one of my classes this semester, meaning that my final GPA is a 3.388. I needed a 3.4 to graduate cum laude…but that’s the way the cookie crumbles. I have to admit that the Shakespeare survey was not my top priority these past three months. In fact, it was probably my last priority…and I should probably consider myself lucky to have gotten the B. I wish I hadn’t had to take the class at all, though :>

But that isn’t enough to dampen my mood, really. I’ve got too many other good things going on. And I’m graduating, so I don’t have to deal with stupid classes anymore! At least for awhile. I do want to get my PhD in Linguistics at some point, and I’m also considering getting an MBA. We’ll have to see what happens there. For now I just need a job ;)

The upshot is (did I just write “the upshot is”? -_-), I am very blessed and happy right now. I love my life, I love my family, I love my friends, and I love my future husband.

I also love the fact that this is my last day of working night desk. I am soooooo tired right now.

You know that horrible fascination where you don’t want to look at a car wreck, but you keep staring at it? How you don’t want to see someone twisted and maimed and bloody and torn and dying, but that’s exactly what you’re looking for anyway?

That’s how I feel about Internet forums.

Sometimes I just get so tired of them. I’ve just witnessed yet another situation in which a group of regulars pounced upon someone for offering up an alternate view, and then spoke among themselves knowingly that there was no point in having a discussion with her because she never changed her mind. They’re all a bunch of hypocrites; they’ve been on the Internet for awhile and they’re in their mid to late twenties, so they believe they know everything. This girl they’re marginalizing is older than they are, and not a native speaker of English, so her viewpoint is different and it’s sometimes difficult to understand what she’s saying. But the others don’t care; all they care about is the fact that she is disagreeing with them or bringing up points that make them uncomfortable. And so they’ll go out of their way, in long, perfectly-written (and boring, I might add) posts, to turn up their noses at her.

I used to think that the Internet would lead to a greater, more open, and more diverse set of interconnected communities…but I see now that the ‘net is just like any other medium, any other place. Grand cliques arise before you even know it, and soon if you’re not in agreement, you’re obviously just being difficult, and why don’t you just stop bothering us with your ideas?

And yet I am not sure I can stop reading that forum. I don’t even know why; it’s not like it’s based on anything that I spend my days thinking about. It’s based on a television show I happen to like, that’s all. Unlike many of the regulars there, though, I don’t make cookies in the shapes of my favorite characters, or build elaborate dioramas that fill my room. I just enjoy the show.

Perhaps fans are by their very nature obsessively attached to their own ways of thinking, but I’d like to believe that you can be a fan of something without going ‘exclusive’. T. Campbell’s Fans! feel more inclusive than exclusive to me–though, going directly against my point here, one of the characters would have survived the current war storyline and become a better person if he’d been excluded in the first place. (He would have learned that he has to stop being a bigot, or people aren’t going to like him.) Maybe I would just prefer, if there is a best way to be and to think, that the people who have already attained that way would stop mocking the people who haven’t, stop telling them that they have no right to voice their thoughts. All the popular wisdom I’ve ever gleaned indicates that those who put down others are unsure of themselves, and those who speak as if they know everything are fools. But maybe that’s just one of those maxims meant to keep the common man quiet. Who knows.

But even so, cliques do the same thing–keep people quiet. If we say “Stop bothering us with that; go elsewhere to discuss it” then we are effectively cutting ourselves off from ways of thinking that are different from our own. And thought-incest leads to very bad things: hatred, malice, disdain.

No matter how I look at it, I can’t see this is being good or fair.

If the forum moderator had rules against it, that would be one thing. But she doesn’t; the forum is effectively self-moderated. And thus the Great Clique reigns supreme.

I’m tired of playing by their rules. I hope I don’t go back.

My bookshelves are empty. Out in the hallway, a huge stack of boxes fills the space along the wall between what is my door now and what was my door up until 1996. Soon, this door won’t be mine either.

A lot of things I thought I would want to keep initially I’ve decided to leave here, for Connor, and for the new baby. My collection of Disney movies on VHS, for example. And my stuffed animals. I don’t know if I assumed I was taking those or not, but it occurs to me that Connor is the one who plays with them. It will be special for him to have something of mine when I’m gone.

Several of the books I thought I’d be keeping are staying behind, too, such as a book called Everyone Poops that my aunt Bev gave to my mom as a gag gift. I thought it was hilarious and kept the book, but now I think I’ll leave it and see if Faye thinks Connor would like it. It’s a book about pooping, and Connor’s an Aubrey; how could he not like it? I’m also leaving the Popeye film book given to us by Pop-Pop, Mom’s father. The book is old and worn and stuck together with duct tape, and besides, it belongs here anyway.

I threw away a few things I’d been keeping for awhile, like my calculus binder from high school. “Mr. Barnes is always right,” proclaims the front cover, crediting “Confused Calculus Student” for the brilliant quote. Next to that, “I will try harder,” attributed to Boxer. I hated AP Calculus, but I loved AP English, and I knew it at the time, and I suppose that’s why I was putting Animal Farm quotes and paraphrases on what was supposed to be a math folder. If I really liked math I would have written some brilliant formula that described the shape of a lightbulb (or perhaps Einstein’s head); but to this day my best mathematical joke is as follows: “The cos of leia is a gentle curve.” And you’ll only get that one if you know that my main Internet nick is cosleia. And that I’m a girl.

Underneath my bookshelf in the area that is too short for books but just tall enough to be annoying, I found my old jewelry boxes. One’s wooden with the lid handle broken off, and the other is probably wood too, covered in green vinyl with a mock-sewn diamond pattern notched in. When you open it, the lid is pale yellow with a smattering of gold stars, and there are fifteen unequal fabric cubbyholes in the base for treasures.

And indeed, opening these little chests is like opening a treasure box. I was wondering before I looked inside why I held on to them, but now I know.

In the green jewelry box I found my very first present from a boy, a small three-stone faux diamond pendant necklace. The “diamonds” have turned the color of ash, and the necklace itself is tarnished and broken off at one end. Slightly bent and still sporting two small pieces of Scotch tape is the card, red with holly clusters in both top corners and a sprawling Christmas tree in the center. The card reads: “To: Heather From: Eddie,” in left-handed cursive script.

Johnnie Edward Benedict, Jr. was my very first friend after my very first move. I began my life living in a trailer and going to private school in Lexington, but when I was seven we moved to a house, and after a year we couldn’t afford the private school anymore. I’d never ridden the bus before, let alone attended a public school, so it was a rather striking change.

We got on the bus our first day of school–I was headed to fourth grade, AJ to third, and Ben to first–with more than a little trepidation…and what should happen first but some rowdy kids yelling “Ha, ha, the Brady Bunch!” I suppose when you’re stupid, it’s hard to come up with good insults. Immediately depressed by the lack of friendliness, I groused to myself about how these public school kids couldn’t count and tried to find a seat.

A boy with rather wavy blond hair, green-blue eyes, and a hawkish nose let me sit next to him that day, and it wasn’t long before Eddie and I were best friends. He not only comforted me and joined me in making fun of the lame-ness of the bullies’ taunts, but he later introduced me to such things as Michael Jackson, Madonna, the Beach Boys, and Super Mario Bros. We spent fourth and fifth grade together–even during the brief stint where I was quasi-dating a smart-aleck named Anthony Bruner–and remained fast friends. I met Melissa Christopher then too–she was also on our bus route–and the three of us formed a vanguard against Pretty Much Everyone Else. (We even started a club, called WBLF–We’ll Be Loyal Friends.) In retrospect, our coalition probably was the beginning of the end of my social life in public school, but back then I didn’t care…I had people with me (Eddie, Melissa, Willie Costley, and a few more girls: Callie Lewis and Vicky Lancaster, to name a couple. I remember Eddie once wanted us all to have nicknames; I don’t remember anyone’s except Vicky’s, which was “The Fly” because of her eyes).

Of course, now that I’m waxing sentimental I’m checking up on Classmates.com and Reunion.com to see what all my friends from high school are up to. (Kenneth Burdine has two kids!) It’s hard to find people from middle school or elementary school, which is a shame. Fortunately, the friend I remember most from all of secondary school, Noelle Scuderi (Mitchell), and I still keep in touch. In fact, she and her husband John are planning on coming to my wedding. I’m so excited–I haven’t seen them since 1998, when they stopped in for a visit on their way down to see Noelle’s parents. My hair was much shorter then :>

There’s all kinds of other stuff in these jewelry boxes: plastic beads; an odd orange light bulb; screws; a hair clip; skee-ball tickets from Showbiz Pizza Place; a small Gumby toy; a laminated picture of me at around six sitting next to my mother when she got her drivers license renewed one time; a silver jingle bell bracelet that almost still fits; one of the original No Dogs that Dad and I made by hand–cutting individual pieces of aluminum, drilling holes in them, sawing out the legs with the band saw, and then sanding them down–in a small leather case that I made; and a leather wallet that used to belong to my great uncle Lewis, Dad’s uncle on his mother’s side, filled with paper money from when he was in Europe during World War II. Those last two items are special treasures, and if nothing else I’ll keep them. I don’t want the jewelry boxes themselves anymore, though they served their purposes well in their time. I really do have Too Much Stuff(TM). But there are some things I feel compelled to keep, things that connect me to my past and my family.

Speaking of which, it’s about time I resumed my efforts to drag those boxes downstairs.

It has occurred to me, just now, that our modern myths and legends are stories such as Walker, Texas Ranger and Andromeda. You know the kind. These shows, no matter how inventive they are, all fit the same pattern: the good guy always wins. You could say that he is destined to win. Bad things can happen to him, but if he didn’t win, people wouldn’t watch the show. The Pretender, JAG, Renegade…I’m not sure what came first, but perhaps it was The A-Team. And suddenly we have a proliferation of media in which justice is served and the good guy comes out on top. What can we call these shows? Some of them are probably classified as “dramas”, though I think to have a drama you can’t have the certainty that something good is going to come of it. (In fact, in movies, it seems that a drama has to have a sad ending…if it’s happy, it’s more than likely going to be put in Blockbuster’s “comedy” or “romantic comedy” section.)

And so what label do we stick on these things? I’m going to have to stick with “legend” or “myth”. Obviously what happens in these shows could not happen in real life. No one wins that consistently. And yet we love it…there’s not one of us who doesn’t at least secretly like one of these types of shows. Well, except maybe Sean, but he’s weird ;>

This line of thinking came to me because I’ve been working on a paper comparing Laurence Olivier’s 1944 version of Henry V to Kenneth Branagh’s 1989 version. Branagh’s version felt more sophisticated to me; King Harry was hardly perfect, but I loved him anyway. He felt like a real, true person. Olivier’s Harry was quite idealized, and there were even parts cut out of the original story that could have made Harry look bad. So to me, Olivier’s film was mythic in nature; it put King Harry on a pedestal and worked hard to keep him there, and in so doing made him two-dimensional. Sure, he had a personality, but he didn’t feel like a real person. Branagh, on the other hand, was brutally honest in most cases, staying in general quite loyal to the original Shakespeare script. He used a bit of artistic license to enhance the effect of Harry’s trials on the audience, and I believe that on the whole he was successful.

But does that make Olivier’s version bad? I’ve been thinking about it, and I have to say no. It’s pretty obvious that people need myths. Why would they be so popular otherwise? We want something to believe in, want it so badly that we will suspend our disbelief in the ideal so that we can be told fantastic stories about great men and women who can do anything they set their minds to. We want heroes.

And just because something is popular doesn’t make it bad. It might mean that it has something to do with what it means to be human.

Now I’ll content myself to await all the emails from the cynics crying things like “Oh God, if Christina Aguilera’s ‘music’ is part of what it means to be human, then just shoot me now!”

What kind of idiot assigns two projects that make up 60% of the final grade over the very last weekend of the semester? The kind of idiot that teaches a Shakespeare survey course, I suppose.

The Wal-Mart People Greeter hates me.

I know, because when I went into Wal-Mart this morning to search for cheap-o wedding invitations (they turned out to be too cheap-o, unfortunately), and I smiled at her and said “Good morning,” she frowned and turned away as though I smelled of manure. But I didn’t, honest!

Then, after I checked out (of course I bought something else; you think I can just go into a store, look for something, decide not to buy it, and then walk out again without buying anything else? Madness!), I carried my bags past the same lady. Wondering if she would want to see my receipt, I smiled at her. She frowned again and looked away! What, was she jealous of my awesome Land’s End coat? Did she resent the way I’d pulled my hair back into a ponytail because it was a little dirty today? Does she hate my glasses? Or is she perhaps bitterly suspicious of anyone who attempts friendliness, because her husband of 50 years (she was damn old after all) ran off and left her with half the bridge club?

It’s too bad Wal-Mart isn’t anything like it is in the commercials. I think they must grow those people who love working at Wal-Mart in jars somewhere in a secret lab, and then raise them inside a Wal-Mart so that they are perfectly acclimated, and then give them the honor of actually working in one, and that’s why they’re so ecstatic in the commercials. But this process must be really expensive, which is why they never send any of the happy clones to the Wal-Marts where I shop. They have to reserve them for the ritzy, upscale places, like Columbia County, Georgia–where a Super Wal-Mart is constructed, I kid you not, entirely of beautiful brown brick. Never in my life had I thought that a Wal-Mart could look that good.

Maybe when I move to Georgia and shop at the Columbia County Super Wal-Mart, the People Greeter will like me.

Look, I’ve taken a cool overexposed picture of myself! Can I join the l33t w3bm0nk3y club now?

You might notice something new in that picture. My engagement is official, per the traditional dowry purchase of my body and soul via diamond ring. Silly historical concerns aside, it is a damn fine rock. And I am changing my name.

I went to visit Sean for the past week and a half, leaving on November 22 and returning today. It was a great trip. We found a place to live and put in our application. Cheryl and Reid bought us our wedding rings, and Sean gave me the aforementioned hunk of diamond goodness. We also got our blood tests and obtained our marriage license. The woman at the desk informed us when we arrived that “I usually don’t do this after 4:30.” We thought that was cute. Yes, this office is open until 5. But I stop doing my job at 4:30. Sorry. Fortunately, she wasn’t quite that obnoxious, and she went ahead and processed us. She even sounded halfway sincere when she told us “Congratulations”! Now all that’s left is to find a place to get married, and go ahead and do it already.

There are plenty of stories I could tell about my trip, and hopefully I will later, but for now I’m quite tired. The eight hour drive wasn’t too bad, but it’s been a long day in all. それで、good night, everyone.

http://www.graffiks.com/dylan_articles/dylan30.html

Someone told me on a forum three days ago in a very condescending manner that I was “pretty much correct” concerning a kanji reading, and that as for China, they imported their writing system from Japan in “several waves”.

I have been so incredulous ever since then that I keep mentioning it to everybody. How in the world does a person get the idea that China got its writing system from Japan? I mean, sure, I didn’t know much about Asia before I started taking Japanese culture classes, but still…even European history shows how freaking old China is, and how advanced they were ages ago. Japan, on the other hand, as we know from American history, secluded itself so much until recently that they had quite a bit of catching up to do, and that holds true regardless of the fact that now they lead the world in many ways. I mean…I am just completely astounded.

I told that girl how it is, and she hasn’t bothered to reply to the thread. Oh, well.