STOP! Grammar Time.

Maybe I am being dramatic, but this semester has been kicking my ass. I should have listened to Dr. Carb when he peered over his eye glasses at me and said, "four English classes? In one semester? You must be confident. Maybe you should only take two." You know what I did? I took four. To spite Dr. Carb (even though I love him). I'd say a good 50% of the things I do are out of spite, but it works out well for me (i.e. getting into college, writing a novel, being a vegetarian, etc). But unlike my past juvenile self, I am no longer fueled by only spite; I have now mixed in a need to use all of my brain power, all the time, in everything I do. This is a relatively new idea, considering I just found out how to do it this morning. For years, I have worked hard trying to keep up with school, maintaining relationships, working (kind of) and making sure I give myself time to write and read. But from now until I am retired, I plan on working even harder. Last week, I had an American English Grammar exam. In my previous exam, I received the lowest grade I have ever gotten. Ever. What motivation! I buckled down, studied for 12 hours, meditated, ate a complete breakfast and BAM. There, written gracefully across the top of my exam from last Tuesday, was a 91%. I yelped, I cried and drew all the attention from my classmates on to myself and did not feel embarrassed at all. I earned this, people, back off! That was probably one of the best and most meaningful moments of my life, right up there with falling in love, hearing Conor for the first time, and being accepted into college. All that hard work paid off., even though I almost went crazy from studying infinitives. But anyway, so now I must try to keep up this trend of hard work, which will ensure my progression in my education as well as serving as a distraction from disappointing and unhappy matters.

Winter break is swiftly approaching. With winter break comes the daunting task of keeping busy. I will be babysitting every once in a while and spending ample time with by nest friends. I am hoping to read as many books as possible and also complete the five short stories I've been working on and finish a few of my poems. I just need to stay away from time sucks like Law and Order: SVU and shopping malls. Down side to winter vaca: Borders will be crawling with holiday maniacs trying  to find that perfect book for that perfect someone. Maybe I will have to retreat to the library. But libraries don't have coffee- yeah, no way.

I just need to push through these last two weeks.

The Greatness of Conor Oberst's Performances and Overall Existence

This was the third time I have seen Conor Oberst. The first time was in November of 2006 when he was with Bright Eyes. Spectacular. Mind-bending. Perfect. At this time, Conor was still in his angst-filled early 20s and though his music and words from that period are beautiful, there show was filled with sadness. I cried for most of it, but still felt a sense of enlightenment afterwards, like I had just discovered a a truth that no one else had. The particular songs he played were filled with personal problems like depression, alcoholism, his anger with God and a sense of alienation from those around him. This is very indicative of his teenage years and were, at the time, very easy for me to relate to. That was the reason I started listening to Conor all those years ago: he was saying what I could not. As his music progressed and matured with the release of Digital Ash in Digital Urn, I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning and Cassadaga, his poetry became less centered around his life and more about universal feelings and issues. His view of God also changed and he seemed more agnostic than anything. This change also coincided with my maturation.  I was extremely impressed by the rest of the members of Bright Eyes who made up the orchestra on stage. Perfection. Each note in its place, each word slurred to perfection by the drunken poet.

The second time I saw Conor was this past summer in Battery Park when he was with The Mystic Valley Band. This sound is very different from Bright Eyes. But still perfect. It is more rock and roll, but still folk. In fact, some songs, especially those written and sang by Taylor Hollingsworth, even have a tinge of country in them. But old country. With this new musical formation, Conor's words became more descriptive and more metaphorical. Certain lyrics about the possibility of a God sounded more positive. Unlike Bright Eyes, Conor incorporated songs written and performed by other members of the band. This was also a sign of maturation that I found I could easily relate to. Rather than Conor sitting on a chair or wallowing around the stage like in the Bright Eyes show, he was dancing and jumping and shaking his butt which made the atmosphere of the show much happier and instead of simply crying of the enamoring beauty of Conor's words, I was also crying because of the joy that surrounded me.This show was particularly great because it was not in a sit-down styled theater but rather a huge crowd of other young adults passionate about this great band. I felt a great connection to those around me and I was pleased to realize that I am not the only one bat-shit crazy over Conor.

Last night was just as perfect. This time Conor was playing in Monsters of Folk, a collaborative group made up of  Jim James, M. Ward, Mike Mogis and Conor. All of these men are extremely talented poets and musicians. The show was not centered around one of them, but rather, they all took turns singing and playing different instruments. And, as a change, they all wore matching suits (Conor has never matched anyone before). This is a symbol of their equality in the group. I expected Conor to be great, which he was, and I was thrilled when they played some old Bright Eyes songs. I was blown away by his performance, especially when he was dancing and looking adorable. But I was extremely impressed by the performances of M. Ward, Jim James and Mike Mogis. I have not heard much Jim James but he has an amazing voice, which is reminiscent of old country, and a great way with words. I plan on listening to his most popular musical project, My Morning Jacket. M. Ward was great too. His voice is so electrifying and probably the most unique of the group. Very sexy. Though Mike Mogis did not sing, he played the slide guitar more many of the songs and also a smallish guitar thing I have never seen (very ukulele like). He is a great musician and also very attractive.The energy of the audience was magnificent. There were people around me screaming equally as loud as I was (which is very hard to do) and jumping and cheering. There was this one guy in front of us who, whenever M. Ward or Jim James played a song, screamed and jeered and you could see the passion swirling around him. It was a great feeling to see other people as passionate as I am about this music. It is comforting and makes me feel less alienated. The entire experience was exactly what I had hoped for. Julie and I waited outside the doors where we (and several other bat-shit crazy fans) thought the band would be exiting the building. But alas, we were dooped by Conor and M. Ward who magically slipped out the front when no one was looking. We were so close. But we did see Mike Mogis and Jim James for a brief second before they jumped into their tour bus. I was kind of disappointed. But we did meet some interesting people while we waited there for almost two hours on a street in Philly. This includes a homeless man who reeked of alcohol and told Julie and I that we were beautiful then proceeded to kiss our hands. Yes, for real. I should try to look less approachable when I am in cities. But anyway, it was great and I would let a million homeless people kiss my hands if it meant I could see Conor.

I strongly recommend for everyone to listen to as much Conor as possible. I would suggest songs but I love all of them and could never choose.

Untitled thus far

Note: For those of you confused, this story is written from the perspective of a very good, male friend of mine.

                          The past few days have been rather cold; but today it was unseasonably warm and they hadn’t turned off the heat in the library. I sat in one of the oversized arm chairs near the windows. A pair of dragonflies flew past me, just outside the glass. They glided and twirled around one another, never parting. I looked back down at my book and forgot about the dragonflies.

                             In the distance, heels clicked and clacked on the linoleum floor. The sound grew louder with each step. I {tore} my eyes from the book now lying limp in my lap and saw a young woman waiting cross-armed at the circulation desk. She wore a short, navy blue dress with gray stockings stretching up her long legs. I gazed at her a while, tracing the waves of long, golden brown tresses down her back. I loved her.

                             Impatiently, she rang the desk bell with a smooth tap of her hand. When no one responded, she rang the bell again.

                             “Excuse me?”

                             A librarian wearing too much makeup and a pair of glasses around her neck appeared at the counter.

                             “Can I help you?” She asked as politely as possible.

                             “Yes, I was just wondering where I can find Brett Easton Ellis’ Less Than Zero.”

                             I was sure she could hear my thumping heart that seemed to echo through the vacant halls of the library. I loved her most in that moment. Lying on my lap was Brett Easton Ellis’ Less Than Zero. I quickly covered the book with my sweatshirt and looked back out the window, seeing only blank space.

                             The librarian typed away at the computer on the desk. “It should be on the third floor; I’ll write down the call number for you.” The librarian took a piece of small, white paper from a plastic holder next to the computer.

                             “Thanks so much,” the young woman said and took the paper from the librarian.

                             “Oh, you’re welcome. “ The librarian left us.

                             The woman walked past me, towards the elevator. I panicked and felt a strong urge to follow this woman and tell her I loved her. When she had turned the corner, I stood and gathered my books and pencils and quickly followed her. I peeked around the corner just as she was getting on the elevator, making sure she did not see me watching her. My palms were drenched in sweat and I moved towards the stairs, rushing to make sure I got to the third floor before she did.

                             The stairwell was silent other than the thump of my foot on each step. The stairs went on for miles and when I finally reached the third floor, I was out of breath. The bookshelves were just feet away when the elevator made a bing sound and the doors opened. Her eyes met mine and I held my breath. She looked through me and went towards the bookshelves. A smell of sweet vanilla filled my nostrils as she walked by and I nearly lost my balance. I continued to follow her, while reading the labels on the shelves, even though I knew right where the book should be. The woman turned down an aisle. I turned just a few aisles away from her and watched her through the books. First, she stood on her toes, trying to read the call numbers of each book. She was looking on the wrong shelf and didn’t notice it for a few minutes. She continued down the shelf until she had to kneel on the maroon carpet to read the numbers. When she finally got to the place where Less Than Zero should be, I heard her sigh and saw her look at the top shelf of the proceeding bookcase. Again she sighed beautifully and I felt wretched. My breath quickened and I worried she might hear me. I read the books on the shelf in front of me. A Study of T.S. Eliot’s The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock and Other Poems sat beside leather bound books with no title on their bindings. I looked back up in the direction of the woman and she was no longer there. I felt a sense of alarm travel through my body and I frantically looked around. Time stopped. Fear.

                             She was standing right next to me. How could I not have heard her coming? I silently cursed the carpet beneath our feet and tried with all I had to calm myself. I didn’t risk looking at her, and stepped back. She passed in front of me and I got another whiff of her enamoring scent. I needed to be with her. I continued to eye the shelf in front of me, as if searching for the most important book in the world. Her back to me, she walked down the aisle and turned, stopping only once in the section titled Shakespeare and smiled at the books before her. How great would it be to have her beam with such admiration and longing for me? She gracefully fingered the books and continued away from me.

                             I lost sight of her and sighed. Walking down each aisle, I searched and searched for her through the bookshelves. Each time I turned a corner, I held my breath in fear but also in hopes of seeing her again. I heard the elevator bing in the distance and I panicked at the idea that she may have pressed that button. Hastily, I walked towards the elevator, praying to see her again. I reached the elevator to see the metal doors close between the beautiful girl and I. My reflection looked desperate and lost. I pushed the button for the elevator and the doors opened automatically. The woman was still standing there.

                             “Hello,” she said.

                             Acknowledgement. She smiled and apple-like cheekbones formed on her freckled face and she was beautiful. I swallowed deeply and the door started to automatically close. She reached for the button and held the door for me. My love waited for me to take a step. But my feet were stuck to the ground and weighed down by bricks. The smile disappeared from her face and she looked perplexed. How could she not realize I didn’t deserve to look at her with such an aching in my chest let alone share a four by seven space with her?

                             “Are you getting on?” She asked with an inquisitive look upon her face.

                             “Uh, uh,” I was a stammering fool, “um, yes.”

                             “Alright then,” she continued to hold the door and I finally stepped in.

                             The doors closed behind me and we were alone. She stared at the small metal buttons next to the floor numbers and then glanced back at me.

                             “What floor do you need?” She asked, still looking puzzled.

                             The second floor button was already illuminated. “Second, please,” I said.

                             We stood alone in the elevator and I tried to keep calm. I wanted so badly to scream out to her that I loved her and wanted to spend forever with her. Would she understand? I felt completely out of control though I was standing still.  My chance to speak to her was slipping away as the elevator descended.  I had to speak. This could not be our ending. The elevator stopped and she left me.

"You want to know the trouble with women?"

There I was. Enjoying a delightful breakfast with my soon-to-be married sister and my little grandma at a diner in South Plainfield.We sat in a booth near the counter where several elderly people enjoyed their cream-filled pastries and cups of coffee. To out surprise, an older man wearing a newsboy cap and a plaid button down spun around and invaded our conversation about the wedding.

"Would you like to see my new postcards?" He asked, with a hopeful smile on his wrinkled face.

When my sister nor my grandmother answered, I burst out with a friendly "sure!" and the ship was launched. Why did I burst? I have the tendency of being over-friendly in uncomfortable situations which is the complete opposite of how I want to appear when an invasive old man interrupts my cozy breakfast.

"I just got these in the mail yesterday," the old man said, as he handed the postcards to my sister who reluctantly took them. "Don't get anything on them," he added.

"Wow," my sister sighed. She flipped through the small stack of obviously new postcards. I watched over her shoulder as scenes from 1950s TV shows flashed before us then disappeared behind the stack. I only recognized a few: The Honeymooners, Perry Mason, Bonanza, and then we came to I Love Lucy. It was my favorite show when I was younger. It was often played during a segment of Nickelodeon called "Nick at Nite" before the segment became flooded with unrealistic 90s sitcoms. I would snuggle up in my bed and watch I Love Lucy for hours, or until I fell asleep. I collected memorabilia and even dressed up as Lucy for one, now embarrassing, Halloween.

"I Love Lucy," I said, "that was my favorite show." I took the card in my hand and admired it.

The old man rambled on about all the postcards and stamps he collected. He even had us guess how much postcards cost in the 1950s.

"Two cents," I guessed.

The old man boasted, "one cent."

Trying to sound surprised I said, "wow, that is inexpensive."

My sister pretended to get a phone call from her fiancé, handed the postcards back to the man, and rushed off to the ladies room and I was left with an old man stuck in the 1950s and my poor grandmother who was not too sure what was going on.

And then he said it: "You want to know the trouble with women?"

Had this not been an older gentlemen who clearly lost his marbles long ago, I would have said in response, "Do you want to know the trouble with misogynists?" But seeing as the old man was much older than I, I  simply laughed and asked, "what?"

And so he started.

"A buddy of mine back in the 50s was a stamp collector too. One day, his wife was mailing some bills and was one stamp short. While my buddy was in the bathroom, she took one of the stamps out of his books and used it."

I hoped this was the end of the story.

"The police were called later because he had beat her up pretty bad. But you know what I would have done  if a woman had done that to me?"

Oh, Jesus.

"I would have took her in the bedroom and made her watch as I urinated all over her shoes."

I stared as this man for a long while, trying to decide what to say. Thankfully, my sister returned and I looked away from the man. I would not usually have done this because I was obviously being rude but I could not take anymore of this old man's nonsense. He finally got the idea and turned to the couple sitting next to him. "You want to see my new postcards?" He asked.

For the rest of the breakfast, we tried to look at the window as much as possible.

The future hangs over our heads...

Upon completion of my undergraduate studies, I will be tossed into the chaotic world of being a real adult, in which a salary is demanded to live. This presents several problems for those of us who will have trouble finding a  job after graduation, which will be most people. So to keep my mind at rest, I have come up with a systematic approach involving three possible options.

Option 1 (probably the most realistic, but least exciting of the three): The sensible thing after graduating college with a certification in teaching high school, a BA in English and a minor in Writing Arts would be to find a teaching job. However, there are hundreds of individuals also joining the educational frontier and that may make it quite difficult for me to find a job. Chances are, if I find a high school to teach at in Somerset or Hunterdon county, I will live at my parent's house. I would like to avoid this at all costs. But if the opportunity arises, I am sure I will continue to live in their house until I can gather enough funds to move the hell out.

Option 2: I can get my MA in English at either Rutgers-Newark or TCNJ. This would not be cost efficent, but in the long run (which may be quite long), it will help me find a job much easier and also perpetuate my life-long dream of learning everything I can. The downside of this option would again be the fact I would most certainly have to live at my parent's house, unless I can get some kind of student housing on campus. But personally, I do not want to live in Newark but, I suppose living in Ewing Township would not be quite that bad.

Option 3 (this option is the most exciting): To join either the Peace Corps or Americore. If I joined the Peace Corps, I would be sent somewhere in the world to teach English for two years. The Peace Corps would insure me for the entirety of my time spent abroad and pay me $6,000 upon my return to the states to help me readjust to American life. The Peace Corps would also provide housing and food for me as well. This sounds amazing. I would get to travel and teach at the same time, while not having to pay for anything. Sounds magnificent. Downside: I will miss my lovers and, I may enjoy the country so much, I might just stay there. On the other hand, I could join Americore, which is basically the same thing except I would be placed domestically and the time in the program is shorter. Both of these ideas are risky, especially if I am placed in the South for Americore or placed in South America.

What to do?

I technically need to decide within the year so I can schedule my GREs or apply for the Corps.

I suppose I will just think about...

Not so promising...

As it seems, I am an unreliable blogger. I will try to participate more in my own projects.

This year, I am making a vow to myself not to celebrate Thanksgiving. True, I will enjoy the smoked turkey, the buttery and sugared sweet potatoes and probably even a slice of spicy pumpkin pie. But, I will not be thinking of  pilgrims or cornucopias. I will not be "giving thanks" for the food I have received. I will not be tracing my hand to make turkeys. If I think about anything other than the enormous amount of calories I will be enjoying, it will be the Native Americans who are forgotten about on that day. The ones who never went to the first Thanksgiving wearing feathers on their heads and dancing around fires. As it turns out, there were not Native Americans at Thanksgiving; at least none that were alive. Perhaps laying off in the wilderness somewhere, there were Native Americans. But they were not comfortably enjoying the feast from a far; they were hiding in fear for their lives. I find it disgusting and immoral that children are taught the myth of the first Thanksgiving in school. The first pilgrims were Puritans: hypocritical savages masquerading as Christians.They hated anyone who was not a Puritan, including the barbaric Native Americans. Yes, those barbaric Native Americans who purposefully gave the newcomers small pox and stole their land, in the process, murdering hundreds of people--oh, wait, that was the Puritans. I refuse to further perpetuate the fabled first Thanksgiving with the pilgrims in their little black hats passing a bowl of steaming, hot corn to their brotherly Native American friend. Nor, when I have children one day (perhaps), will I allow their minds to be filled with such nonsense. So how did this mythological tales of friendship and kindness make their way into the history books? Consider who has been writing down history since the Puritans; hm, could it be the wealthy, landowning white man? I think it could. They would never speak badly about the moral and Christian men who discovered and settled this great country. So rather, they fill the pages of history books with lies and hypocrisies because they are too afraid of anyone really knowing the truth about where this country came from.

See Monsters of Folk's Baby Boomer.


Now, on to more exciting and less depressing matters. Lately I have been sending in numerous PostSecrets. In the past, I usually sent one in once a month. But these past couple of months, I have sent maybe 10 or 15. What does this mean? Am I developing more secrets? Or am I feeling more comfortable revealing old secrets? Either way, none of them have been published on the site and I think that is okay.

Okay, until next time. But I will do my best to write again within the week.

Distinctive Goals and Opportunities?

This is my new ambition. This blog, that is. It has recently occurred to me that though writing is my only true emotional release, i rarely do it. Does this mean I have pent up emotions? Yes. Does this mean I intend on writing quite frequently? Yes. Though I am becoming increasingly more busy as the semester progresses, I plan on updating this blog as often as possible. Consider this a kind of outpost of interests. I will discuss factual analysis and perhaps even allow the realms of fiction to enter.

Now, I am not too sure of blog etiquette, so forgive any informality. I suppose I should give some background about myself. Let's see, I am a freshman at a state university in New Jersey. I study English and Secondary Education. Yes, my great ambition in life is to change the life of one of my students. Actually, allow me to revise that. My great ambition is to help a student discover a piece of literature that will one day change their life. I suppose you could say, that's what happened to me. It was in 8th grade, when I read The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton. I read that young adult novel and fell in love with the idea of meaningful words. Soon after, I discovered the romantic literature of V.C. Andrews. And soon after that, I realized that romantic literature was not literature at all. When high school came around, I had been reading random poets; pretty much anything I could get my hands on. Then junior year, it happened.

By means of research for a literary paper on the US in the 1950s, I discovered Jack Kerouac and my life changed. I read On The Road and I've never thought the same way since. I soon came across Allen Ginsberg's "Howl" and my outlook on poetry also changed. From then on, I was in love with the Beats.

That is my literary background.

I have always been a writer. I recall writing a historical fiction piece about the Titanic in 5th grade. I misplaced it one day. That could have been my gold and my carelessness lead me to its disappearance. Anyway, in high school, I took every creative writing class possible (which was quite a few since my high school was a rather elegant one and allowed me many opportunities in the writing arts). In 12th grade, I wrote a novel for my novel writing class. It is not completed but very close. One day, it will be published along with the second extended prose I have been working on: my memoir. My memoir recounts the darkest period of my life thus far, something I call the Apocalypse. People tend to understand my talent in writing, and that has been made brutally clear to me especially today when four separate people asked me for my opinion and assistance on their writing. It felt good.

As far as employment goes, I have had five jobs. I was a tomato picker, a cashier, a dry cleaner's assistant, a sales associate and a hostess. But through all those remedial jobs, I've remained true to my life-long curse of being a writer.

I suppose this will be the conclusion of my first official blog. Until tomorrow...