Hi. I'm Megan.

I Wrote a Poem on the Fridge.

2010-10-17T01:34:00.000-04:00

Downtown drink

Drink liquor and

Call fun from spill of

Clothes

Shout not sweet doubt

The time like personality study

He said work

They took and made art touch

Put taste

Shot pen

Went

Cheers

Drop

Cheers

Flash moment cram

Abstraction

2010-10-04T13:10:00.000-04:00

I think that, after years of therapy and journalling (online, dream, and traditional) and general introspection, I am burnt out. I am tired of talking about my feelings, why I feel them, who I have them for or about. It seems silly.

The irony of blogging about my feeling of disliking blogging about my feelings does not escape me.

I think about how I used to be an actress. Really. I once wanted to act. As a career. What was wrong with me? When I think about theatre now, as an art form and an institution, I can barely stomach the thought. People get paid (sometimes) to pretend to be other people. What!?!

Thinking about things in their simplest terms is a bit of a mindfuck.

I'm not very articulate on this rainy Monday morning, but I guess I'm trying to say that even though I can't really summon enough time/energy/care to formally blog lately, I can divide my feelings into "likes" and "dislikes."

I have a Tumblr. It makes me happy, and there's no pressure. If I want (and I do want, often), I can simply reblog other people's observations.

Brilliant.

I'm Into This

2010-09-28T16:38:00.002-04:00

6 Months Ago

2010-09-03T19:53:00.000-04:00

I was thinking about Thanksgiving, and where I might end up. I thought I might be somewhere different, with someone important. For the first time in four years, I thought I might be having a Southern Thanksgiving.

I was on a cloud. I saw names in the sidewalk. I was having dreams.

How things have changed.

I think "be careful what you wish for" is probably appropriate.

What I Love Right Now: Summer Bucks

2010-08-26T22:57:00.000-04:00

I saw these on my favorite fashion blog, and I want 'em. I might even wear them after Labor Day, a little scuffed up, with some tights and a kicky little skirt.

Infinite summer.

[Cole Haan, $125]

What I Love Right Now: "Feeling Good"

2010-08-23T22:45:00.001-04:00

I really, really like cover songs. That is no secret. This classic from The Roar of the Greasepaint, The Smell of the Crowd came to me by way of Muse, then Nina Simone. I can't get enough.

Muse's live version kills me--I live for a group-sing. Nina's is simple and deep. And, oh, that brass part. Mmm.

The perfect pick-me-up when the never-ending heatwave has turned into cold, drizzly rain. Because the endsummer blues get us all, don't they?

Muse--"Feeling Good"at Wembley Stadium.
Nina Simone--"Feeling Good"

What I Love Right Now: PIRATE TALK OR MERMALADE

2010-08-18T09:39:00.005-04:00

I’ve seen boats as big as this whale. I’ve seen gryphons the same size, with teeth growing in even as they were taking their last breath.

My friends always know about the coolest things first. Better still, they are usually involved. Lauren directed me (and the rest of Twitter) to an excerpt of Terese Svoboda's newest novel, Pirate Talk or Mermalade. I read it and now, many minutes later, I am still sighing at the beauty of it.

Pirate Talk is a "novel in voices." It reads like poetry set to pirate-speak (like that option on Facebook). I was immediately reminded of Virginia Woolf's The Waves, another book that left me breathless. The excerpt, the dialogue-instead-of-narration, left out just enough to make me wonder what might be coming next. As if the word "mermalade" wasn't enough to pique my interest.

Pirate Talk or Mermalade comes out on Talk Like a Pirate Day. Read this book.

The Way It Goes

2010-07-14T11:17:00.002-04:00

As I've gotten older, the rate at which I learn things about myself has started to snowball. Now, every day brings a new surprise with it, a little gift.

A few nights ago, I had drinks with a very dear friend who broke my heart once, and he told me something that I'm finally able to accept, and to believe.

Megan, it takes an incredible amount of force to ignore you, to even begin to try to not think about you.

That's sweet, isn't it? I suppose my brilliance is very hard to hide. I don't mean that in an egotistical way at all, just in the way that some people accept that their nose will always be this shape or that, their legs will always be so long (like my sister) , or whatever. I'm not easily forgotten, and that's comforting. But people will continue to try.

For the past few months, I've been working on a little experiment. I've thrown practicality and reason almost entirely out the window, and just let my intuition guide me. The crushing blows are much less crushing, and I feel like time has sort of stretched itself out and allowed me to get perspective on things as they come. If I don't get what I want, I will get something a million times better.

That's how I know it's all going to be okay. Wonderful, even.

Things That Happen

2010-07-12T16:32:00.003-04:00

There are a lot, lately. In the midst of trying to figure out how to cement my life--my real, adult life--in New York, I can't help but think of all the places I could go, now that the strings have been cut.

Today I looked at Greensboro. I fell in love with downtown a month or so ago, and it's got a combo of mountains and trees and proximity-to-things that I really love. Apartments can be had for $400 a month...a place of my own!

A coworker asked me how far I'd gotten in the relocation process. Was I sending out resumes? Transcripts? Making deposits?

"No. I was just looking. Like window shopping, but for a life."

I'm waiting to fall in love with New York again, for now.

Life Looks Out

2010-06-26T12:18:00.003-04:00

It is rather exhausting to be on so many blog-things. Tumblr gets a lot more of my brain-space, because it's quicker and I don't feel so bad when I can't quite come up with complete sentences.

Anyway.

Today, after my first week of full-time work, I'm spending the weekend coming up with some goals, and working toward some others. This is my semester (or year) of independence, so I'm going to the library once a week to start crossing off some more of those 1001 Books I must read before I die, and getting some research out of the way for papers I want to write.

More creative writing is on the agenda, and I'd really, really like to start painting my nails more. Priorities, right?

Aside from all those good things, I'm keeping my ears out for creative, PR-related things to help me grow in the direction that I want--toward the sun.

What I Love Right Now: British Racing Green

2010-05-26T09:00:00.002-04:00

I've just painted my nails the color of the 1974 Jaguar that I want to own. It's like The Secret, in real life.

For someone sweet, lost at sea.

2010-05-26T00:34:00.002-04:00

There's nothing anyone can say on days like this, when one's life is a bright, blinding light and the other, you, has spent the last few days reflecting on the last several years. Time goes by so quickly and, suddenly, here you are, an adult, the years marked with thick, black ink, or pages folded down. I never wished so hard to be more pensive, less happy, than I did today, to think of you, FOR you. I never stopped dancing, even when I should have been weeping, because I knew the thing I should not know. I never made you hold my hand, lean on my shoulder, cry in my bed. We never sat next to one another, burning holes with our gazes, and just talked. What was there to talk about? When was there ever time enough for talking? I bobbed my head to the music that I don't normally like. I painted my nails a particular shade of green-black-gold. I went out and I danced, and I screamed, and everything blurred except you. You remained, peripheral, standing like a shadow, like the dead. I can feel this pain like it's my own, and there is still nothing that anyone can say to anyone else on a day like this.

What I Love Right Now: Runaway Dorothy

2010-04-22T15:47:00.005-04:00

Last Sunday, I saw Runaway Dorothy at Rockwood Music Hall on NYC's Lower East Side. Up front, I will say that I was completely blown away. I'd heard a few songs on their Myspace page, and Tweeted a bit at the lead singer, Dave, but I couldn't have possibly prepared myself for the experience of seeing them live.

Rockwood is a small venue--exactly what you would expect in New York. I got there right as Runaway Dorothy started playing, and there was one chair left that my friend and I used to hold our bags and coats. Runaway Dorothy's set, 45 minutes in one of the full days of music that Rockwood is known for. No cover except for a donation hat passed around for the guys, I promise the show is worth whatever you have to give, and more.

Before, and since, seeing Runaway Dorothy, I've told countless friends about the band. Add them on Facebook, buy their album on iTunes, and support some of the best music I've heard in a while. I mentioned on Twitter that the band's music tucks perfectly into a playlist featuring Ryan Adams, Willie Nelson, Patty Griffin, and Johnny Cash--this holds true for their live performance, as well. The melodies are simple, the lyrics are beautiful, and I became completely homesick for anywhere south of the Mason-Dixon. "Abilene" and "Caulfield" (link below) are two of my favorites. Runaway Dorothy are the most universal of local bands--walking the fine line between hip and homespun, and creating great music in the process.

Runaway Dorothy's next show is May 12 at NYU's Sullivan Hall. Come out and celebrate my birthday with some great music!

"Caulfield"--Runaway Dorothy

Check Runaway Dorothy out on Facebook and Myspace.

Photo credit: Jon Diaz

Hallelujah, I love him so.

2010-02-02T23:49:00.002-05:00

When people ask me about my musical tastes, I usually say "I like it all." That's a lie, and a big one. I just hate getting grilled about something so fundamental, and so driven by emotion, as music. Also, if I say that, for example, I like Imogen Heap (which I do), someone somewhere will jump on that and start quizzing me on Imogen Heap facts. No, thank you.

Sometimes, I'll say I "like" someone, but that I'm "not a fan." This just means that after I say I like someone, I want to be left alone. I like Beethoven, Lou Reed, Ella Fitzgerald, and Elliott Smith. I am not a fan, though.

I am a fan of the Spice Girls, and not much else.

But I do know that I love this song, and the way that Justin Timberlake sings it. Mmm.

Happy Birthday

2010-02-01T11:09:00.001-05:00

A very late, very happy birthday to Virginia Woolf. When my thirteen-year-old self picked up a copy of Mrs. Dalloway after seeing The Hours, I never expected that we would become so close.

A thought on the train

2010-01-27T22:04:00.002-05:00

Youth makes us loud.

I get really afraid sometimes that my voice, the loud-as-I-want one, is leaving me much too soon. In the past six months, my inside voice took over a lot more than I wanted it to, and I followed it inside. There's some kind of spiral staircase there that led me into the scariest, most comfortable place, where I had to be quiet for fear of disturbing the peace.

I'm ready to feel my age, and myself. I don't want to be impolite, but I do want to be memorable.

Well, damn

2010-01-22T19:28:00.002-05:00

It's January, and I'm alright.

How about that.

2009-12-07T00:46:00.003-05:00

You are shaking. All is all. Remember that time we ran into each other in the parking lot?

I had taken a hundred years to find my car--it was silver and probably invisible--when I found it, you were parked next to me. How about that.

I asked you why the long face, and you said why not. You meant, "why start now?"

On the drive home, I wondered out loud what you didn't want to start. I closed my mouth and swallowed the rest of the words, because I knew. But I've felt it too, you know. Twenty-two years of walking alongside that abyss. I know who you are; I've looked in the mirror. I can break these muscles into a thousand pieces with my clenched teeth, nightshade, Valium. And one, two, three. Just like that: an absence.

I think about you a lot, and that night, in the parking lot. I wonder if you saw the way my face was soft around the edges then. Did you know how blue your eyes looked in the moonlight? Had you picked that shade of red paint just so that your car would glow in the parking lot at night?

Questions don't really matter much, now, though. I'm across the country, and you're somewhere else. I thought about calling, but I guess I don't have your number. I must've put it in my phone when I was drunk, if I even did that at all, so you've become an "A" or "Smarty" or "1!" I'm sorry that I let you fade away into another drunken mis-decision and now you might be gone forever because I don't have the heart to call all those one-letters and symbols and say your name out loud.

I know it was just a parking lot, and just under the moon. I know that you might not have noticed my soft face or your cutting eyes, and that's okay. I just had to tell you that I wish I hadn't let you go. I wish that I'd stopped to sit a while, and hear your story, and to walk on the line with you until your eyes melted just a little.

Downtown.

2009-12-07T00:35:00.004-05:00

I am the cool side of the pillow. I am always tingling with the feeling of outsider-ness. I have never been on the inside. But who has? Surface people are always insiders.

I sleep a lot now. That way, I can avoid thinking too much about my problems, anyone else's, or the relation between the two.

Maybe I will always be second place to everyone. But maybe it isn't so awful to be a last resort? Does that mean I get to attempt pulling people back from the edge when no one else can?

I have spent a lot of this trip looking inside myself. And questioning. I thought I carried some kind of light around inside myself, but I guess not. feeling connected to so many seems to mean that I have no connection to anyone. How long can I pretend to be happy? How long can I love in one direction before I dry up and break and blow away or shatter?

Maybe I am afraid to be something because I am meant to be nothing.

I wish, just once, to love someone and need them and to know that they love me and need me too. I can't be everything for everyone, so I am not anything to anyone. Friends come a dime a dozen, and I am the most invisible of all. Conversations go on continuously, even though I sometimes talk too much.

Trips go, lives go, loves go. Car rides pass in silence, or they do not. I disintegrate, unnoticed.

I am too melodramatic; I whine; I flail like a child throwing fits to grab some attention. I always wonder how long I have to stay quiet and hidden before someone comes looking. it would be a game, except there is no prize when I am found.

Every feeling is false. Every connection is false. Raw is the only thing.

I thought I knew you, but I don't. I am unnecessary. I am weird and grotesque and blue and twisted.

I wish I had no body.

The hole inside makes me too greedy.

I just want to feel whole.

I just want to feel needed.

I just want to stop scaring people away.

I want to trust that something is real, that I am real, that anything is worth it.

I feel like I have nothing to show, except millions of almosts. I almost had a best friend. We almost made it. I was almost included. I almost finished. I almost made it through the day without breaking.

I wish I were stronger. I don't know how long I can pretend I want to stay around. I know that things would be okay without me.

I am no one's entire world anymore. There will be others, better, to take my place. I am so close to being perfectly okay with the idea. The idea of no more almosts. At least I will have finished something, and everyone will be left in good hands. Mothers, fathers, wives, other children, boyfriends. I have never really been here, so it will not matter if I go away. I hope that someone would be touched, or prodded, or poked, or embraced, by my writing (not this, obviously).

I hope I will be easily forgotten, that I will get some rest, and that everyone else will, too. The only person who would not be able to get over it is gone now.

Mama,

2009-12-07T00:30:00.004-05:00

I am in San Diego visiting a friend. My best friend. You would love her.

More and more, I feel like I'm floating, but not in a good way. A suspension bridge. A hot air balloon. I am going to fall one of these days.

Who will remind me to be polite? Who will remind me where I come from? There is no one and nothing is the same. We are all trainwrecks.

I am glad that you never got to see this darkness inside me. I am glad I kept it contained. It's harder now. It's harder to keep going, harder to remember what it felt like to have a mother. People try, but nothing works.

Nothing helps me feel like a whole person. That's why I take such deep breaths--I have to fill up the empty spaces.

What if you really are just gone when you die? What if you're down there, rotting away, and that sometimes I just imagine that I hear you? I'm pretty sure it's all fake. I'm pretty sure I've done something terrible wrong and that I'm just too stupid to realize it. I don't want to eat, and I hate that I have to. I don't want to sleep, and I also never want to wake up.

* I don't want to be alone anymore. But I always will be, huh?

Facebooking

2009-11-30T03:18:00.000-05:00

I seem to have stored a lot of memories on Facebook. Often, they are too painful to access.

Or too ridiculous to believe.

Housewife/Desolation--Steinian Groupings.

2009-11-30T03:10:00.000-05:00

A counter full of bottled exponents, composing synonym hairdos with expedient, viral efficiency. Double-featured refrigerated chrome honeymoon fruitbasket.

Airport scratch feelings sidewalk thin. And the and the and these elevator waiting rooms.

Five Years--Revision

2009-11-30T03:06:00.003-05:00

We were sitting in some diner. Some damned diner that would seat us past midnight. If I had been a doctor, I would have heard your heart beating irregularly, extracurricularly, spectactularly sadly, and beautifully, across the orange vinyl.

"So now what?"

Your voice rose, a song. I hung myself on that question mark.

In therapy, you repeated that question so often that Dr. Weisman rolled her eyes, clapped her hands, and took a long vacation to South Africa. Apartheid was easier to end than our relationship.

If I had opened my mouth, three little words might have tripped out truthfully.

I might have said, "I can't deal."

Maybe something like, "It is over."

Or, to put it another way, "I love you."

Three truths trilling on the tip of my tongue, and all I could think of was your name.

I loved your name in those inky blue hearts you hid in the margins of every sheet of paper in my briefcase. your name, esses lassoing onto the end of neon-pink Post-Its, where you'd declare your love at lunchtime.

Alyssa, downstairs in my tuxedo shirt.

Alyssa, in a silk dress.

Alyssa, a sigh, a silence.

I watch myself get up and go.

How to Grieve

2009-11-30T03:02:00.002-05:00

Start this process early--age four, at least. When your mother runs a bath for you, the water must be precisely level with your navel. It will not be hot enough, so don't expect it to be. Sit in this bath for half an hour. As the water grows colder, think of your parents. What will happen when they die?

Now, wrinkle your face and cry until your eyes are red and shiny as glass. A mild panic attack is desirable. Get out of the tub, stare in the mirror, and make sure that the correct effect has been achieved. Repeat once a year until you are twelve; too old to take baths.

When your first parent dies, both of you will be too young. But don't worry--you have mourned for over half your life. Have someone shove a Xanax and purple Gatorade down your throat. Leave your body. Do not speak. Watch yourself turn to stone.

The Picture of Megan Branch

2009-11-18T15:10:00.003-05:00

I wish my looks would settle down, so I'd know what to expect when I looked in the mirror. I'm convinced that, one of these days, I'm going to wake up and find my mother (only much less pretty) staring back at me.

199995

2009-10-31T02:52:00.003-04:00

These are my collected Airport Feelings on a Two O'Clock Train.

First, I have kept you bottled up inside. So that we are perfectly clear, this is the you that once was, the me that once was, and the us that once was. An ecosystem of perfection, bundled around some nucleus made up of equal parts sexual attraction, lunacy, and fate.

Second, I am not sure what the men on the this train want from me, except to glare silently with eyes red like mine.

Third, I am sorry that your mother, and my insecurities, have co-conspired to keep me away from you, and myself, for as long as possible.

The things that will fade have done so, and I am left, tightly not-smiling, missing my stop in a Tinkerbell costume because the party ran too late and I drank too much to fill the spaces.

199996

2009-10-31T02:49:00.003-04:00

A heart, a time or two. I loved this once, this hearty stream. This time passing, these years worn smooth like pebbles.

All are equal in the eyes of our Lord.

I sat in that old rocking chair, marking each new day with the same old things. Curtains open, sun in, biscuits made with slamming pans.

Life lays low like Johnny Cash. A whiskey-soothed song of a century.

Out of my window, I cannot tell which of my vices has done me worst.

I sing a hymnsong to mark this, my last day staring at green pines, honeysuckle, old porch through smudged glass.

Empty Cup, Uncarpeted Stairs

2009-10-31T02:41:00.003-04:00

You said I didn't look like myself. My hair wasn't done, that was all. I watched the naked book shivering against the cold stone ceiling, waiting to be talked down.

The furs are in the kitchen, the pens are under the sink. It is April, and I am freezing.

What If

2009-10-31T02:36:00.002-04:00

I haven't taken sides. The sides cannot be seen. When you're standing on one half of the ocean, the ocean doesn't end.

My friend has left her shirt on the sand, and she's going into the water. I should tell her to stop, she'll drown, but my throat is as closed as the night.

My feet have grown together while I've been standing on this shore. I could move, I could do anything. I could save anyone. I could swim forever. I could see the other side.

199997

2009-10-30T00:37:00.004-04:00

An inside heartbreak.

A delicate architecture.

And you and your sword and your false-soft heart-start.

I have loved. I have lied.

The only betrayal after ten years in mourning was the bag that I packed. My eyes dry, forgetting their part of the bargain, pupils dilated in the quietest, rainiest, earliest winter.

You and I have won no beauty contests.

Your second face was late to the party. Those pink balloons have popped, or floated out to sea to kill some dolphin--smarter than us--or strangle an ancient turtle.

How do we gasp in the sea?

I asked you this once, how do fish catch their breath? You paused and said, "Like crying in the shower."

The poetry of you was always unintentional.

A misplaced tear from somewhere else.

199998

2009-10-30T00:24:00.002-04:00

We were sitting in some diner. Some damned diner that sat us past midnight. If I had been a doctor, which I was not then, and now, am not, I would have heard your heart beating irregularly, extracurricularly, spectacularly sadly, and beautifully, across that orange, vinyl wasteland.

"So now what?"

Your voice rose, a song, and I hung myself on that question mark.

In therapy, you repeated that question so much that Dr. Weisman had rolled her eyes, clapped her hands, and taken a long vacation to South Africa. Apartheid was easier to end than our relationship.

If I had opened my mouth, three little words might have tripped out truthfully.

I might have said "I love you."

Or, to put it another way, "It is over."

Again: "I can't deal."

Three truths trilling on the tip of my tongue, and all I could think of was your name.

I loved your name in blue inky hearts that I hid in the margins of my notes. Your name, esses lassoing on the end of neon-pink-post-its declaring your love at lunchtime.

Alyssa, downstairs in my striped shirt, lips red like Kool-Aid.

Alyssa, in a silk dress.

Alyssa, a sigh, a silence.

I watch myself get up and go.

199999

2009-10-30T00:02:00.006-04:00

This is so bad that Journey can't fix it.

If I had only had a day-old, smashed-up cigarette, I would not have met you and yours. Pretentious wild-tobacco-spilling-out-the-ends-rolled-up-with-hipster-hands. I could have saved myself this particular eight-ninety-five.

I would have bought a beer or two instead.

This is so bad that it is worse than the time I remembered at work that I had eaten the last box of Girl Scout cookies, and that none would be waiting for me when I got home that day at seven twenty nine. I spent the hours from two to five alternately mourning the Samoas, once-here-now-gone, and refreshing Ebay continuously (search: Girl Scout cookies). Futilely, because who doesn't want to savor their last Girl Scout cookies of the year?

I had been walking through an empty Wal-Mart parking lot, holding my entire life in one hand, while searching for a savior at the bottom of my bag with the other. Your tattooed wrist and ironic pink thumbnail got in my face, and you were Jesus.

You are in my phone as Hal, for a number of reasons.

This is so bad, it is worse than meeting the father of your too-old baby in a Wal-Mart parking lot.

2009-10-28T01:17:00.005-04:00

You promised me that, during your one-hundred-forty-character talent show admission of love, I would not want to fall asleep once. You promised me that, if I spun around nine times on a Tuesday while drinking a Bloody Mary, I would find my true love in a week. At least.

You climbed in through the window and said, "Hey, come to the beach with me."
"But, Sadie, it's twenty-three-hundred."
"I don't care. Let's go."

We stood on the beach, then, seven hours before dawn. Our breath hung between us like an angel.

I threw some salt over my left shoulder.

You told me how you found true love, or the square root of one-hundred-forty-three, by taking four steps down a sandy hill and shouting.

My Bee

2009-09-07T22:38:00.002-04:00

A very long time ago, someone asked to see my saddest face. In the most melodramatic way possible--I was seventeen, after all--I said, "You're lookin' at it."

Well, now, three years later, it's making a reappearance.

I've been all over the place lately. And that's all I have to say about that.

2009-08-10T18:11:00.001-04:00

I feel like I am a heartbeat away from letting go of whatever is holding me back.

It is:
Thrilling.
Wonderful.
Terrifying.

Pencil It IN

2009-07-21T22:42:00.006-04:00

Some days, okay--most days, I look in the mirror and can barely recognize myself.
I mean that in the best way.

But, really, who am I? (by the way, the picture above is from about 3 years ago)

Today, for example, I am wearing a pencil skirt, and a blousy shirt tucked in.

The point of this is, basically, that my bffl (no, seriously, we've been besties since 8th grade and are still going strong), Suzy is a fabulous graphic-novellista and everyone and their sister ought to be talking about how effing clever she is.

Suzy X. in Paris perfectly captures the homesickness, the bummed-about-money-ness, the learning-to-love-the-shit-out-of-the-time-your-having and the this-could-only-happen-here-ness of a summer in Paris.

I adore Suzy, I adore this lil' book. And you should all go give it a long, lingering glance and know that some day, she's going to be a Big Deal. At which point, you can thank your lucky stars (and Me) that you got to see her "when."

And, PS--go check out her blog. It's wonderful, too!

What I Bought: 3 July

2009-07-03T21:53:00.004-04:00

I spent most of the day lazing around and turning healthy food into junk food. I drizzled a Chocolate Brownie Z bar with almond butter, warmed it up on a plate and put a tiny oval of yogurt next to it, with honey on top. Classy, as always.

I went to see The Proposal. I thought that Sandra Bullock's character was too resistant for most of the movie (even until the end), and saw no give from her except when she was yelling about forgetting that people had families or something. Ryan Reynolds is hot, Sandra Bullock can do no wrong, I was in exactly the right mood to see it and, as Roommate #2 says, "it looked cute or whatever." Indeed. 4 out of 5 stars.

Then I bought books. It's not like I have at least 10 waiting to be read or anything. I wanted to pretend I was 15 again, and read an entire book in a night. This may yet happen.

I meant to only buy The Well of Loneliness by Radclyffe Hall.
Here is what I ended up with:
I am beyond excited about Perfect Fifths. My best freminist (she is a feminist, a hell of a lady, and one of my best friends), Suzy, and I have been squealing over Jessica Darling's adventures since we were 14. That is a lot of adolescent emotion to expend over a work of fiction, but that's what we did, always sharing our opinions each time a new book came out. Marcus Flutie, Jessica's love interest, is (I think) the kind of boy that Suzy loves (especially in 8th grade), and I am a little bit like Jessica (pretty neurotic, an over-analyzer of every situation)--so it's a good series for our friendship. Jessica moved to New York around the same time we did, and so I'm pretty sure that we both missed the 4th book (and I was underwhelmed by the few pages I read in a store), but the 5th, and last, book--told from Marcus' perspective--looks promising.

I picked up Herzog (even though Saul Bellow frightens me)because I wanted to balance out Perfect Fifths and Bridget Jones's Diary with something, and because Saul Bellow is all over the 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die. Most of his books seem to be notable because of their covers which, for the first editions that I saw, only have his name in GIANT letters and then the title, smaller.

I also purchased Denis Johnson's Jesus' Son because it is Amanda Stern's "favorite book in the entire world"--she even made a Stickie on my laptop for it--as well as the various cosmetics pictured above. A cream eyeshadow called "Skinny Jeans," 2 cheap blue eyeliners, and some clear mascara, because I want to have gorgeous, thick eybrows just like Emma Watson (who is a top 5 style role model of mine--and also on Twitter!).

I am on attempt 2 of tea-making tonight, because the whistles of tea-kettles apparently no longer mean that the water is hot enough.

Access! Oh, rise!

2009-07-02T22:16:00.003-04:00

Generally, I am a failure at accessorizing. I have a few bracelets--some are vintage lucite remakes from Anomaly in Jacksonville, where I've been getting the all my cutest clothes from Emily since I was 16. I have a perfect two-of-a-kind necklace I spent way too much money on in Covent Garden last summer. I usually wear the same necklace for weeks, through showers and all, and change up my earrings (a collection I am most proud of).

Today was special. I knew that I had to have something exciting to go with my semi-boring, yet unusually bright, blue v-neck.

The necklace was a Christmas gift from 2008--it's a gold oil drum (I know that because it says "oil" on it) that had a rhinestone in it for a while. It's one of the boldest necklaces I own (is that sad?) and the giver said "It's for smart people," which is certainly flattering. The earrings are from a short-lived arts fair in Jacksonville, but I'm sure something similar (they are, after all, only little glass dangles) can be found at the Riverside Arts Market, every Saturday of the month, under the Fuller Warren Bridge. [Side note: Because I am Southern, up until very recently I thought the correct pronunciation was "Fullahwar'n."] The ring was a 13th birthday gift from my mama--so far, I'm the only woman in my family who has been able to hold on to hers for this long--one of the many ways in which I am not them.

Although not an accessory, my hands are one of my favorite things about myself. On the return flight from France a few years ago, a great English teacher tapped me on the head from the seat behind me to let me know that "Megan, you have the most elegant hands."

Love train.

2009-07-01T01:23:00.003-04:00

I am really trying to post almost every day. Today's post, originally meant to be about letter-writing, had to be put on the shelf because my camera doesn't have enough energy to share pictures with my computer. My camera and I are in a similar state of life, right now, I think.

Anyway, I really like looking at engagement and wedding photos. I was telling Lauren last night, that I just want to have a huge party where I can wear a fabulous dress and eat good food and have people toast me. A wedding, but without a man...or a marriage. I mean, that would be nice, obviously---but not necessary. Not right now. But, the point is, I don't care if it's creepy--I like looking through the portfolios of wedding photographers and seeing:
A) Who is a good photographer
B) Who makes a good couple

These railroad engagement photos are far too common, I think, and don't do a very good job of showing off either the talents of the photographer or the personality of the couple. And what are they trying to say?
+"We have climbed aboard the love train."
+"Our love/engagement/relationship is so perfect/safe/isolating that we will put ourselves in moral peril and be completely fine with that." [Train tracks. Hello.]
+Perhaps railroad tracks are meant to be "homey"--this couple can't possibly be stuck-up, because they're walking down railroad tracks together, displaying the kind of small-town charm heretofore only seen on Dawson's Creek.
+Foretelling a train wreck of a marriage?

Also, I feel like the railroad thing is so overdone at this point that, while it may have been inventive and edgy or something at first, it's become a trademark of Cady & Cady-type wedding photographers. [Was that reference too region-specific? My bad. I'm sure every city has an equivalent. They train people to take kind-of-good photos, but the poses and settings are so same-y...boring.] Apologies to the First Photographer Ever to Think Up Railroad Tracks as a Plausible/Appropriate Setting for Wedding and Engagement Photographs--I'm sure a clever person like yourself will think up something even more creative, if you already haven't.

Sorry to any of my friends who have had, or will have, railroad tracks featuring in their engagement announcements. [Most of] This post was meant in jest.

The opposite of lame.

2009-06-30T01:20:00.008-04:00

Tonight, in a very un-Monday sort of way, I stopped being lazy and went down to the Tribeca Barnes & Noble to hear Ben Greenman's last reading for Please Step Back.

If I think real hard, I can sort-of remember when Lauren Cerand had some copies up for grabs. I wish I'd gotten one, but if I had, I probably still wouldn't have read it (I have six books on rotation, currently...I'm not mad about it). So, anyway, I'm glad I got to see him read from the book for 5 minutes and 22 seconds (or less). From the little bit I heard, it sounds like Please Step Back is my kind of book. I don't know that the 1960s and 1970s, or funk music for that matter, get nearly enough love in fiction--all the polyester, maybe?

I like the idea of an era that's always seemed a little fluffy, to me, being juxtaposed against heavy, well-written, darkness and music (one of my top 5 favorite things in existence. ever). [Also, brains featured in the reading--just sayin'. If you're into brains, know that they are mentioned at least once in Please Step Back] Maybe. I only heard a little bit, but I promise I will get around to reading it before summer's over, because I know it's gonna be great.

Other things that made tonight the absolute opposite of lame:
+Lauren Cerand--the best--in tiger-stripes and great shoes (you can't see them in the pic, but they're there--blue and gold, I think). We split a burger and had an excellent conversation (where I learned much, as always). She also introduced me to some wonderful people (see below).
+Stealing(ish) hummus and carrots from my new style icon Lauren Elkin of Maitresse (Paris! Tokyo! New York! Hong Kong! Fabulous Dress!). Twitter 3D. Or something. I am going to Paris, ASAP.
+Meeting Ben Greenman (author of Please Step Back, if I didn't say that before). He asked me a lot of questions, but I'm not mad about it--flattered, actually.
+Todd of Opium magazine (which I must--and you must--take a look at soon), and Literary Deathmatch (amazing? apparently.), interviewing Greenman--hilarious. With a special appearance by Dan Rollman, last seen (by me) at Amanda Stern's Happy Ending Reading Series (I am an intern. Surprise!)
+My SHIRLEY TEMPLE! Clearly, this was the true highlight of the night, even if it was more soda water than anything else. Every time I drink one (only on special occasions, since kindergarten graduation), I'm reminded of being in Steak & Ale--where I had the first one. As a five-year-old, the cheesy wood paneling and hunting prints looked so classy--like an old gentleman's library...with a salad bar.

Then I came home and swabbed my mouth with some Q-Tips so that I can be added to the Be the Match bone marrow donor registry. You know, for mama.

Photo by Todd Zuniga, initially, and then I took it from Lux Lotus.

Jealousy on Wheels

2009-06-30T01:06:00.002-04:00

I am not an angry person. At least, I wasn't one before I moved to New York.

People on bikes were cute. Rollerblading was healthy. And boys on skateboards were hot. Not anymore.

At least once a day, I feel Hulk-like anger come over me (so. irrational.) because I've almost been ran over by someone on wheels. Again. If it isn't a baby boy on a skateboard, or, more often, an older-than-me on a skateboard, it's a delivery-person on a bike, or someone who's decided that they must rollerblade to-day even if they haven't yet learned how to stop.

People on bikes are terrifying. Rollerbladers, honestly, never know what brakes are. Boys on skateboards, here, turn the sidewalks into a game of chicken.

I need a car.

Further Inspiration: MJ Style

2009-06-27T23:32:00.003-04:00

I'll be honest: I'm a little too young to remember Michael Jackson at the top of his game. I "whatever"-ed him a lot when I was younger, and almost never gave him the credit he deserved for being such a great performer. However, I've always been drawn to his style.

The penny loafers, the white socks, the dark jeans, the sunglasses--there's something about all of it together. Taken one at a time, everything he wore was classic (yes, even the epaulets), but with the potential to get boring or become overdone quickly. As an ensemble, though, wow. He made all of it completely fresh and completely his own. I dig that.

+white socks +white tank top. Obviously.

Inspiration

2009-06-27T21:43:00.003-04:00

I love everything about this photo: Audrey, the outfit, the headband and ponytail, the attitude. An old guy at a gas station once asked me, seeing the Audrey Hepburn sticker on my window, "Is that you?"

That Girl Was a One-Time Teenage Drama Queen

2009-06-26T17:15:00.002-04:00

This picture was taken last night, hair still wet, before I met up with some AMAZING people at St. Mark's. I don't think I look like myself.

I bought Revlon's "Cherries in the Snow" lipstick--prompted by a sort-of suggestion on Lux Lotus--and, for just a second, turned into That Girl.

I was more confident than usual.

Maybe my mother, who hardly ever wore any makeup besides lipstick, was right.

Too beautiful, you sweet things.

2009-06-20T12:10:00.002-04:00

"I love my friends" is a simple-enough statement. I've written it too many times in elementary-school essays on "What I Am Thankful For," tucked in among "mommy" and "shoes," probably. But still, over 10 years later--I still love my friends.

How did I, a girl from a family that almost negatively-values education, diversity, acceptance, differences--end up with such a wild group of girls (and a few boys)?

If I were someone other than myself, which is less of a constant-wish now than in the past [but still a wish] , I would not be my friend. It feels like a constant art project--molding myself into a girl I'd like to be friends with, but I do have friends (great friends) just the same. And they are wonderful.

A church was filled with them, a few years ago, a surprising school-holiday that helped to break me out of a haze of isolation. Before that, these laughing, pretty girls would spend birthdays with me in hotel pools and saunas and mall-days. We've all learned so much, but I feel like I might have learned the most.

I have learned new-school Southern-ness [and taken from it what I like], kindness, ambition, acceptance. I've gotten most of my music from friends and, I like to think, have given that , at least, as well as I've got. In my group, we are witty, intelligent, sassy, and we dream the biggest dreams possible. I never could've gotten here on my own.

Biscuits

2009-06-18T22:32:00.002-04:00

I am just saying that right now, more than anything, I would like a Southern strawberry shortcake with an extra-fluffy biscuit and home-made whipped cream.

Maybe something like this.

Tonight, I will be dreaming of every fabulous little thing. Tomorrow, I will give my mind a little rest, eat some oatmeal (with carrots, peanut butter, almond milk and bananas...or not), and tie up all of this week's loose ends.

Enrichment

2009-06-16T23:50:00.001-04:00

It's not too hard for me to forget, this summer, that I'm up here for school. I feel like I'm living in some trial run of adulthood with a little less responsibility and a lot less money. I'm trying to keep busy, in my minimal downtime, by reading all the things that I've neglected in favor of my "education."

Plath, Dickens, Austen, Woolf (of course!), Milton--I'm going to slog through all of them, I hope. Too often, I feel like I've missed out on a classical education. In my imagination, I would have gone to the sort of school that taught Latin to six-year-olds, and would've read-and understood-Chaucer by the time I was fourteen. I mean, I guess the place I'm thinking of is from at least a hundred years ago and, most likely, only boys would've been allowed to attend.

So I'm reading. I'm not going to learn Latin, but I am going to try to make up for the educational gap that comes with being born decades too late.

On Beauty

2009-06-15T00:35:00.003-04:00

I just read a post over at Fernham that made me remember, in a flash, all the times that I've been told "you'd be so pretty if..."

Of have course my parents always told me, and continue to tell me, that I'm pretty, beautiful, smart, or whatever, but that doesn't always count. All through elementary school, random boys would tell me I needed a tan as if I could get one. The headmaster's son, a crush of mine from ages 8 to 13, found out and told one of his friends that I would be "perfect" if I dyed my hair blonde and got a tan. I would look terrible with blonde hair, especially with a tan.

My little sister is about 8 feet tall, and continues to tell anyone who'll listen all about how underweight she is--she gets a lot more attention from guys than I ever have. She also barely graduated and has hardly any plans to go to college. I think that sometimes, being pretty isn't everything.

I feel like I'm pretty, in a smart way. I usually go out of my way to not over-sexualize myself. My haircut is sensible, my skirts are never too short. I struggle immensely with my weight, but not my appearance. I look how I always have.

Many of the most beautiful women I know aren't anywhere near supermodels. Most of them have children, they're all insanely intelligent and witty. My mother, some teachers, a few friends--their spirits completely shine through all the time. If anyone asked me to say what they looked like, I'd mention a few basic physical characteristics, but all I'd be thinking about is their personalities. So and so is 5 foot 4, dark skin, black hair, wears a lot of sneakers, but she is so smart and supportive. Like that.

All of the women in my life are knockouts, as far as I can tell.

Remembering my happiness.

2009-06-15T00:13:00.003-04:00

Things have finally started happening, and I almost can't believe it. I've spent two years (plus some) living in a kind of haze of second-guessing. Am I at the right school? Am I focusing on the right things? Was leaving home a good decision? Should I move back?

Now I know: I've been doing the right thing all along.

My life is really starting to pick up. I have a roommate who is completely insane (not joking), but I stay out a lot. I'm picking out things I want to learn and books I want to read. I can't wait for the next big thing!

If you will, and I think you will.

2009-06-10T03:01:00.002-04:00

Allow me to pause for a minute and tell you about all the Really Big Things that are happening to me. I should preface this post by saying that, for the past couple of years (since graduation, really), I've felt so static. Yes, I moved to New York. Yes, I started college. Yes, I went to London by myself. And on and on and on. INCREDIBLE things have always happened to me, or around me, and I'm certainly not trying to downplay my good fortune or anything like that.

But.

I have been stuck. I have the occasional great class, a wonderful advisor and an off-and-on appreciation of just about everything I see. But still, I've always felt like nothing was happening. Despite all my efforts to be proactive and get things going, I could never pick the thing (or things) that I was good at. I could never get busy enough, or care enough, to really push myself. As much as I stressed, I was totally taking it easy and not even exploring my potential. Gosh, that sounds egotistical. Here's another bit of ego: I'm good at publicity. I'm a good writer and, with time, I'll be understanding obscure literary references with the best of them.

Now, though, I am ecstatic. My life is moving so fast, and I have at least the next few months FULL of things to keep me occupied. My plane for home leaves in about five hours, and I'm planning to see a lot of friends, some old teachers, and talk to my daddy about money (scary). There will also be LOTS of reading (Lee and Gruber, specifically), and a fair amount of writing (outlining the 4 or so Woolf papers that sprung into my head at the Conference, publicity write-ups, and some data searches).

I have so much to say about the Woolf Conference. It was my first one, and I'm SO SO SO SO grateful that I had the opportunity to attend, to give a paper (a little one, but still), and to meet so many amazing people. If anyone would have told me even a month ago that I would have met the Woolfs, Katherine Lanpher, many random Woolf scholars and been able to use the phrase "on lock" and mean it---I would've laughed. Actually, I would've rolled my eyes, but whatever. I'm trying to not go into too much detail, because I'll just start gushing in a completely not-cute way. BUT--it was my first semi-independent publicity endeavor and it went AMAZINGLY well (how well? check back soon.).

As bummed as I am that it's over, I'm completely jazzed and ready for my junior year (scary) of college, for study abroad, for Woolf 2010, for EVERYTHING--even the bad stuff.

Flat Megan

2009-04-29T10:08:00.002-04:00

Today on DListed's (don't judge) "Hot Slut of the Day": Flat Stanley.

This surprise appearance by one of my favorite characters ever made me do a little sporadic Googling (very bad timing, I have 2 papers due today that I've yet to begin). I looked at the images page and saw pictures of little Flat Stanleys with former Pres. Bush & Condaleeza Rice. This led me to the site where teachers, children and everyone else can go to print out their own Flat Stanley which they can then mail or, I guess, take with them when they hobnob with world leaders and celebrities.

It took a few minutes of staring at the site before I was overcome with a rush of memories. In my K-4 class, we made Flat Stanleys to mail. We got to dress them up however we wanted and mail them somewhere (maybe to the author?). Now I'm sitting here in my college cafeteria, books about Africa and African History strewn around, and all I can think about is Flat Stanley. I never mailed mine because I didn't think he was good enough.

This is a recurring theme in my life. Many, many times I don't do things entirely because I'm afraid they won't be good enough. From mailing Flat Stanley at 4 to papers and assignments now (much less often than in high school, though). I guess I'm beginning to realize that I'm never going to be perfect, nor should I try to be. But in my quest to be the best that I can be, trying is part of getting there.

Wherever "there" turns out to be.

2009-03-14T19:46:00.000-04:00

I continuously love the last sentence of each of your body paragraphs. If you don’t conclude on this sentiment all day, I might kill you.

Meriam Sassi

Fantastic Day

2009-03-11T00:41:00.000-04:00

Today, for the first time, I had it put into my head that I might just be a good writer. Maybe there's something there, after all. I volunteered myself for hours of unpaid letter-writing ( persuasive letters, ya'll--it's creative), and decided that tomorrow I'm going to read Emma...all of it. I'm not worried.

I think I'm giving up the diner down the block for Lent, and for life. It's really sad that I can get French fries at 3 AM...and even more sad that I will get cheese fries at 3 AM.

I really love life right now. I've got great friends. Some crazy guys like me or something. I am pretty much guaranteed to have an awesome spring break. And---I've stopped caring about the rest. I exist for the next 2 papers, the midterm, and the 5 AM wake-up call from the car outside my building on Monday.

I'm kind of the funniest person on Earth.

2009-03-02T06:01:00.003-05:00

Why won't you let me
Be great!!!!

I've been thinking of
Raps
Beats
Clothes
Videos
Stage Designs and
Philosophies.

I always feel
My best work
Is my next work.

I've made some
Good choices
And some Mistakes.

I've been loved and
Hated
I've been hailed and
Ridiculed

I've been attacked for being
Me.
For being bright red
In a
Grey
World

I am Nuclear Energy
When encapsulated in an idea
Or box
Like a Stage
or
Shoe Design
I CREATE MAGIC

Put this in the magazine: There's nothing more to be said about music. I'm the fucking end-all, be-all of music. I know what I'm doing. I did 808s in three weeks. I got it. It's on cruise control. . . . Man, we talked about music for God knows how long! Now let's talk about how my fucking sweater didn't come back right from Korea. That's what's interesting me.

-K. West, The Fucking End-All, Be-All of Music

I'm just wondering

2009-03-02T05:57:00.002-05:00

How do I get more people to read this blog? I know it isn't very exciting...but it's mine and I love it. I mean, I think I've got the market cornered on the Southern-vegan-England loving-literary-celeb obsessed-intern blog...right? I must have. SO....how do I make this work for me?

Help.

Yeah, okay, whatever

2009-02-25T00:20:00.002-05:00

This week hates me.
Or maybe God hates me.
Either way, I finally feel like I'm having some kind of "real college experience" because I'm in the library at 12:21 AM on a Tuesday having to actually research and write a paper and like, know stuff. And the topic is pretty impressive too. The best part? I came up with it all by myself. I am so smug right now.

I'm just annoyed at A)not having started writing before now and B)having to squish my topic around to make it fit within the actual, um, requirements for the paper. Damn the man, stomping all over my creative ambition!

For the first time, probably ever, I've written my intro and conclusion first.

500 words to go! All facts from here, baby!

"Link Love"--OUP placeholder

2009-02-22T02:39:00.002-05:00

These are little things I've written for my internship at Oxford University Press. I love them over there!

Excerpt from Finish Rich: Creating a financial plan
Excerpt from Finish Rich: Common money mistakes
Scandal & Civility quiz
As-yet-untitled Mythology post

Who's That Girl?

2009-02-22T02:31:00.002-05:00

This got an A! (Which is, you know, only the highest grade they can give you.)

Peter Walsh glimpses an anonymous girl walking across Trafalgar Square at a moment when he was “escaping (only of course for an hour or so) from being precisely what he was” (51). Virginia Woolf uses the character of the anonymous girl as a mirror through which the reader gains greater insight into the character of Peter Walsh. The girl represents the “endless avenues” (51) of options that Peter feels he has as well as a human connection that he so desperately desires. One of the defining characteristics of Peter’s brief encounter with the nameless young girl is that she seems “to shed on him a light which [connects] them, which single[s] him out.” (52) Peter ignores the reality of the girl’s life, and the reality of their non-connection, in the same way that Clarissa Dalloway and Ms. Kilman ignore the realities of the relationships in which they are the more involved parties. In Mrs. Dalloway, Virginia Woolf uses the character of the anonymous girl to illustrate the theme that the majority of human relationships turn out to be largely imaginary.

Woolf introduces the girl directly after Peter leaves Clarissa’s house. He walks toward Trafalgar Square and thinks, “Only one person in the world could be as he was, in love.”(47) Peter’s feelings for Daisy are transferred to the girl abnormally quickly, “susceptible as he was,” (51) and as she walks toward him she becomes “the very woman he had always had in mind; young, but stately; merry, but discreet; black, but charming.” (51) For Peter, this young girl provides an antidote to Clarissa. He imagines that she knows “his private name” (52), that she is “not worldly, like Clarissa; not rich, like Clarissa.” (52) Peter lets this anonymous young woman that he encounters, entirely by chance, and then follows, become his perfect woman. By introducing the girl immediately following Peter’s visit with Clarissa, Woolf shows how lonely and desperate Peter really is, after a divorce and failing to connect romantically with Clarissa, how much he wants to find love, and a thread of recognition, in even the smallest, imagined encounters.

The reader’s entire picture of this anonymous girl comes from Peter’s perspective. Unlike Ellie Henderson, Maisie Johnson, and the other minor characters in Mrs. Dalloway, the girl isn’t using her own thoughts to make a commentary on Peter. As a result of this, the “mockery in her eyes,” and the impression that she is “witty, with a lizard’s flickering tongue” (52) are entirely imagined and allow the reader to examine the character of Peter Walsh from a distance. Peter’s view of himself in relation to the girl, as “an adventurer, reckless […] swift, daring, […] a romantic buccaneer…” (52) provides some insight into Peter’s view of “all these damned proprieties” (52). Peter wants to live in a society where he can ask a girl to “‘Come and have an ice,’” (52) and she will answer “perfectly simply, “Oh yes.” (52) While all the major characters in Mrs. Dalloway desire, and have, connections with one another and everyone else in London, Peter wants a different sort of connection, one that is honest, risky and exciting, transparent like ice, rather than timid and restrained.
At the end of Peter’s path, when the girl finally reaches her door and goes inside, Peter comes to a realization:

'And it was smashed to atoms—his fun, for it was half made up, as he knew very well; invented, this escapade with the girl; made up, as one makes up the better part of life, he thought—making oneself up; making her up; creating an exquisite amusement, and something more.' (53)

Although the girl hasn’t had any motivation or thoughts, from Peter’s point-of-view, by closing the door she is effectively making a choice to end Peter’s “exquisite amusement” and reminding him of the reality of his life. What started out as something fun, and then turned into “something more”, shows how desperate for a simple connection Peter really is, and that there are no such things as simple connections and that relationships will always be “half made up” (53). The girl represents the human need to find a kindred spirit, for some real relationship to cling to in a time when, for Clarissa and Peter, the past is coming back. The girl also illustrates the painful truth of the situation: “all this one could never share—it smashed to atoms.” (53)

Work Cited
Woolf, Virginia. Mrs. Dalloway. Ed. Bonnie Kime Scott. New York. Harcourt, 2005. pp. 47-53.

Today...

2009-02-01T00:15:00.002-05:00

Today a stranger lit my cigarette. I don't smoke very often, just when I need a break from eating or gum-chewing or breathing air that's as fresh as it can be, considering. I always have a lighter. Today, though, I couldn't get it to light, I went to every possible wind-shielding piece of building, and the lighter just wouldn't light. I was about to give up, I didn't want it that badly, when I heard a soft voice say, "Here." A cigarette appeared right beside mine, and then, "Use this. I know how it is, honey."

It was only a light from a stranger, for a cigarette I didn't even want. It was only some kind soft-voiced man helping out a girl who might've looked like she wanted a smoke real bad. That small kindness, maybe even the smallest--he didn't give me a lighter, or a shield, or anything, but just let me use the fire from his cigarette to light mine--it meant so much. What if everyone were so kind? What if people realized that sometime, just a little help is enough? Lately, I find myself falling less in love with the world and more in love with the people in it.

That man yesterday at Starbucks, he had such a sweet face and kept staring at me. Not hot, not cute, but sweet. The kind of face I wouldn't mind talking close to my own. The kind of brow I'd like to smooth. My imagination doesn't just run away, it sprints, clearly. And then, after those couple of brief connections, where I felt some kind of common thread of humanity, and recognizing some good. people. , I came back up here, I locked the door, and I wrote. I have an idea for something, that may not get finished, or may not be good if it does, but it's an idea. It's started.

Now, I wish the internet would just work already,

Where ARE you?

2009-01-30T20:22:00.002-05:00

So, this is probably a very bad idea, but I've recently got it into my head to go looking for someone I should never have found in the first place. I'm too curious.

My Life, Bookmarked

2009-01-25T16:57:00.002-05:00

Since starting college, my life on the internet has changed significantly. In elementary school, middle school, in high school, I would spend hours every day on the internet. Before YouTube, before Facebook, even before LiveJournal I would sit at the desk in front of "my" computer at my mom's office and visit chat rooms. I would make up a new personality for myself. Online I was the person I thought myself to be on the inside. I was more grown-up, less insecure, and I was fun. I didn't think how potentially dangerous it was to be a mature 11-year-old on the internet. I probably should never have went into a chat room at all, but through them the internet became my escape from an elementary world of playground teasing and trying desperately to pretend I wasn't smart. My bookmarks from back then consisted of game websites (not Warcraft, Word Warp) and a ridiculous amount of Buffy websites. There wasn't a news site to be found, I was 11, then 12, then 14--I didn't care about any of that and besides, my mom watched it all on TV every night anyway.

Online journaling was, and is, I guess, a way for me to validate myself. It's faster than writing out by hand, and there's less pressure to make it sound good. If I put my feelings down and then threw them into the world, in some way that was semi-permanent (until I, or the server, deleted it), they would mean something. I always open myself up too much, but spilling secrets on the internet was safer, anonymous. Early on in high school, I spent loads of time on LiveJournal, finding my friends, and the popular girls at school and then reading back through all of their entries. I would grab up scraps of information like they were lifelines. It didn't matter that I didn't really know these people, or even if I did, I had read their stories. It gave me some kind of edge and made me feel like I was close to them too, I would become popular, I would know them in this intimate, voyeuristic way. I was creepy.

Around junior year, I used MySpace and LiveJournal to write intense love letters, and to receive them. The entries came much less regularly, I had a "real life." I didn't feel the need to put down every event in my life for some stranger to read. I finally had friends, a relationship, and the entries became ways to mark significant events. The internet was an external hard drive for my memories. After the relationship fell apart, I deleted all the important entries. I wish I hadn't. Facebook came into my life around the time my mom got sick. I could focus on finding friends, I could communicate with everyone, even though I was hardly ever around. I went online even less, spending more and more of my time in hospitals, theatres and in my car.

This is turning into a very different post than I originally intended. I was going to talk about how my bookmarks have changed, and what that says about me and my personal evolution. I got a little sidetracked by my internet usage patterns through the years. Anyhow, now I spend about 3 hours, if that, on the internet. I get on to check Facebook, Twitter, Blogger and my email, then I go do real life things. My bookmarks now primarily consist of websites I've found helpful for research (for school!), Virginia Woolf things, YouTube exercise videos, literary sites and vegan recipes. This would suggest that I'm growing up. But maybe if I still had a Yahoo account, or an AOL account, I might still be up into the wee hours in some chat room, trying to hide behind my better self and reach out to strangers.

Underused word/Idiocy

2009-01-21T10:57:00.005-05:00

Placeholder for a day when I was stupid.

re: the word "discern"

"Kew Gardens" and the (Un)Importance of Words

2009-01-18T19:56:00.004-05:00

While I was reading "Kew Gardens," I must've listened to over a dozen different songs. I can't tell you what any of them wee, except that "I Am the Walrus" is coo-coo-coochoo-ing its way into my ears right now. The words don't matter, they just provide a backdrop for my thoughts.

In "Kew Gardens," several different couples go by. They all have something in common--they aren't there for the words, but they aren't there for the flowers either. I don't imagine that anyone really goes to Kew Gardens for the flowers though they are quite spectacular. Unless you're a botanist, the Gardens themselves simply provide the background for whatever conversation or introspection you might be engaging in that day. In "Kew Gardens," Woolf seems to be suggesting that the words passing between the couples are as unimportant to them as the flowers of Kew Gardens.

The first couple, a husband and wife, are so preoccupied with "thinking of the past" (85) that their children don't warrant any attention other than an occasional head-turn from the woman (84). The man thinks back to a time in the Gardens where one of the most important decisions of his life was made. Lily's answer to his marriage proposal, the actual "yes" or "no," isn't what the man notices. Instead of the words themselves, he hangs all of his hope on an aimless dragonfly who "went round and round: it never settled anywhere." (85) His wife, lost in thoughts of her past, remembers a time when an action, a kiss from an old woman, affected her more deeply than words ever could--"the mother of all my kisses all my life." (85) The words that pass between the couple, these "falling words," (87) between all the couples, seem to have all the importance of strangers exchanging small-talk about the weather. They're the soundtrack of a walk through Kew Gardens, but the important things are the ghosts of the past, all the might-have-beens and actions of the moments that really affect us. Woolf seems to be suggesting that words, though a necessary aspect of life, prevent us from fully reflecting on our thoughts, and startle us awake (87) to remind us of the canyon that exists between "one's happiness, one's reality." (85)

If I were to apply...

2009-01-16T02:09:00.001-05:00

Could I possibly even have time for one more internship?

Some Tips On Finding You

2009-01-14T20:41:00.005-05:00

"Some tips on finding you" is accompanied by a "tinyURL" on someone's Twitter feed. I am on-purpose not clicking on the URL, no matter how big it is. I feel like no one's tips for finding "me" (or "you," for that matter) could possibly measure up to the one-million-and-one directions in which my mind is now racing.

Is this meant literally or metaphorically (in the sense of finding oneself)?

I don't know if I'm lost, or if I just haven't quite gotten the point of all this nonsense yet. And by nonsense, of course, I mean life. Maybe the "me" that is lost is the part that doesn't know yet what I'm going to do with my life. Today, in the cafeteria, I told my friend I was thinking about picking up a 2nd major in African studies. He, practical pre-med student that he is, looked at me for a second and said "and then...?"

"Then," I said, "grad school."

He shook his head at me, of course I'd be going to grad school, whoever wouldn't?

"No, I mean, then what? After grad school?"

Gosh, what a large question to be posed by someone the exact same age as me. I mean, I guess if someone is pre-med they obviously have a much higher ratio(right word? I don't know.) of plan-to-commitment. I'm an English major. I read. I write. I pretty much live in my imagination all of the time and, occasionally, I live in someone else's. If I could get paid based only on the AMOUNT of books I read, I'd be perfectly happy. And also, perfectly rich.

Anyway, my long-term plan is to be happy. That's it. I assume, perhaps naively, that if I'm happy, everything else (money, relationships, career, etc) will fall into place. Right now, I can think of at least 10 life-plans that would make me indescribably happy if I should happen to just fall into them. None of them involve saving lives or curing diseases, but they all involve interacting with and affecting people on a daily basis.

I want to keep reading, keep writing (get better at it, for sure), do some acting (because if I don't, I think I'll go crazy), open a shop, live in Europe, have a life. That's all. I want time and money to not have to worry about either of them. I want to be a complete person with a full life---I want to continue to be myself.

Oh No.

2009-01-13T22:59:00.002-05:00

Today I looked in the mirror that is the iSight camera on my computer and realized, for the first time, that my face is starting to look like an "adult." It dawned upon me that this look is really tiredness.

I'm not even 20. I can't be tired yet, can I? Also, I'm so far from being ready for adulthood it's not even funny. No matter, I seem to have been pushed into the deep end of that pool anyway.

The News.

2008-12-13T04:10:00.002-05:00

Cutting newspaper delivery to three days a week?! Really, Detroit?

It's called news for a reason. Not "three-day-old"s. I don't understand how a paper can so readily dismantle the tradition of the daily news.

Please, God, let this get better soon. I don't know what to do in a world where the meaning of "news" is being questioned and altered.

World AIDS Day

2008-12-01T21:19:00.002-05:00

Say a prayer for those you know suffering from HIV/AIDS.

Say a prayer for those you don't know.

Say a prayer for those who have lost their lives to this horrible disease.

Say a prayer for the entire world.

I know I will.

A Belated Poem for Autumn

2008-11-21T22:48:00.002-05:00

I'm only going out to clean the pasture spring;

I'll only stop to rake the leaves away

(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):

I shan't be gone long.-- You come too.

I'm going out to fetch the little calf

That's standing by its mother. It's so young.

It totters when she licks it with her tongue.

I shan't be gone long.--You come too.

--The Pasture, Robert Frost

I know that this poem is about spring, with the tottering young calf and all that, but for me---it's so autumnal. Everything Frost writes feels that way to me though. And, after Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening, who can blame me? I know, I know--that poem isn't about autumn either. The point is, Robert Frost (my very first favorite poet) is crisp apples picked at a local orchard, peacoat weather, driving a 1950s Ford pick-up truck down a smooth dirt road. His poetry is just enough of the chill in the air, warm apple cider (or hot chocolate) and a good book with a warm blanket by the fire. Robert Frost makes me want a hand to hold, and someone to cuddle with, even though so much of what he writes is a-lonely.

Robert Frost is responsible for me moving "up North," for autumn being my favorite season, and why I keep writing poetry.

This Documentary Broke My Heart

2008-11-11T01:07:00.006-05:00

Today I watched an HBO documentary called Thin. And then I cried.

What struck me the most, more than the shock that these 80-to-90 pound women thought they were fat, was that everyone in the "community" of the treatment center looked so normal. Apart from the extremely low weights which, for some of them, didn't seem that low, these women looked just like any other women on the street. A little too skinny, sure, but I don't think that anyone who didn't know them would immediately think "Oh, she's anorexic." (Or bulimic)

I cried for the millions of women walking around with eating disorders everyday. Women who can't or won't or don't go to a treatment facility. I cried because maybe no one will ever know or care or do anything about this huge number of women who are starving themselves for no reason other than to fit our society's definition of thin.

Who made up these rules anyway? Being thin used to mean you were poor, working-class and undesirable. Malnourished. A healthy weight was an indicator of. . .health.

Now what does it mean if you're thin?

You can fit into the best clothes, you are maybe sexily damaged (a cigarette smoker, drug addict or non-eater) and a little wild. You might be described in a magazine as "frail" or "tiny" the way Mary-Kate Olsen sometimes is. You want to be "bird-like" and "petite." Who doesn't?

Somewhere along the line, American society (with the help of Europe) made it cool to starve. What's up with that?

Women are stopping themselves from eating, throwing up every meal and working out 8 times a week until their periods stop and they become like one of the women in the documentary: "...twenty-eight and a little girl." Hair falls out, pulse and body temperature drops, liver and kidney functions go to hell. Not sexy. Not at all.

Irrational Fear of the Day #1

2008-11-10T02:10:00.002-05:00

Fear that I will somehow bend my fingers or toes in such a way that the skin will break.

Why?

Because this has happened to me before.

Ouch, right?

-MB

The Republican Party, Sarah Palin and Feminism--An opinionated reflection

2008-11-07T23:39:00.007-05:00

In the days since Barack Obama was elected to be the next president of the United States of America, articles about the Republican party have been popping up everywhere. What went wrong? What will they, or can they, do differently next time? Will there even be a next time? There have also been several articles "exposing" the sins of Sarah Palin on the campaign trail. In my opinion, the largest of these sins were evident from the second Palin got the nomination for vice presidential candidate.

I, admittedly, don't know very much about economics or foreign policy or even what the Republican party stands for specifically. For the most part, I only know what I believe, and I think that's as good a way to vote as any. Over the two year run of this historic presidential campaign, I've learned a lot more about the Republican party's beliefs than I have in my nineteen years as the daughter of two very staunch Republicans in the South. More tax cuts, less governmental spending , minimal economic regulation and a seeming desire to give guns to all combined with a strict, no-nonsense approach to foreign policy and anyone not supporting so-called American ideals.

At first, that didn't sound bad at all. Who wants more taxes? What about the government intruding in the free market? Terrorists? No way!

Now, I like my "freedom" (such a relative term, that) as much as the next girl, but as the Bush administration wore on for eight long years, the deficit increased and my optimism decreased along with the majority of Americans'. I questioned, like so many people, what these "wars" were really about, and if they were even worth it. It didn't help that I became the picture of a poor college student as soon as I moved to New York City, a place where the National Debt Clock is prominently placed near Times Square. I began to question the Republican party and their motives. I know that many of the problems of the last four years can be attributed to George W. Bush personally, but he definitely wasn't alone. Numerous advisors, lobbyists ,maybe-misguided voters and fellow office-holders down the line contributed to the current predicament of the US economy, international perception and morale.

Enter the 2008 presidential campaign, began almost three years before the election. The Republican party's final nomination went to John McCain, the 26-year Arizona senator famous for "reaching out" on "both sides of the aisle" and going on The Daily Show several times to kindly make fun of George W. along with much of America's youth. McCain, in turn, nominated Alaskan governor Sarah Palin as his running mate. I still have no idea why Palin was ever nominated, but these are the reasons I've been able to come up with:

-She's a woman.

-She's folksy, and has a "down-home" appeal that reaches out to moms.

-She looks exactly like Tina Fey, making for a couple of months of SNL hilarity and, hey, any publicity is good publicity, right?

I mean, surely her assertion that Alaska's geographical nearness to Russia is an example of foreign policy competence can't actually be a reason. Can it?

Maybe the thinking was that she could take the female vote, regardless of party affiliation.

I am sure of two things: Sarah Palin makes women look bad, as in setting feminism back a long way and she is nowhere near equipped to be the vice president of this country. In fact, they should probably bar her from public office (except for PTA president, perhaps) altogether.

And here are just a few reasons why.

When attempting to talk up her foreign policy expertise, she mentioned Alaska's geographical proximity to Russia, saying that Alaskans "keep an eye" on the Russians over the "narrow maritime border." (Video here)
She seems a little bit power-hungry, even in the early days of her career as mayor of tiny Wasilla, Alaska. She gave "loyalty tests" to state employees and the oft-mentioned librarian, firing them and then rehiring within days. Also, several abuse-of-power investigations are ongoing.
She went to six different colleges in six years, and still doesn't know that Africa is a continent.

I'm sure that Palin is somewhat intelligent, she must be clever, at the very least, to get as far as she has in politics. But Sarah Palin has played into the media's insistence on characterizing, and indeed caricaturizing of her as a folksy hockey mom who doesn't know very much and says the wrong thing at the wrong time and is just generally unprepared for this position and the criticism and questioning that comes with it. In doing so, she has taken the woman-for-president movement with her. For those who championed Sarah Palin, saying she was just like everyone else, they (along with the Republican party) have implied in this campaign that being intelligent and well-spoken is elitist and that this elitism is bad and scary. Well, those educated elitists have had their say and they say "Obama!" And some of the Republicans who were for Sarah Palin based on her cuteness and normalcy may be the ones who want their wives to be subservient and think that a woman's only place is in the kitchen and if we must have a woman then at least she should be a mother, for God's sake (believe me, I am related to these people). If anyone ever wants to make a case for why women don't belong in positions of power, they need only look to Sarah Palin and her many foibles for proof.

-MB

Hope. I have it.

2008-11-07T02:32:00.000-05:00

For the past few days, I've been frantically fact-checking, note-taking and celebrating. I still can't even begin to collect my thoughts about the results of the 2008 presidential election, beyond a few pages of bulleted notes about anything and everything political.

I voted for Barack Obama, and I think, for now, this picture sums up my feelings quite nicely.

-MB