:: growing up ::

meet my oak tree. 

once upon a time, I left the place where I grew up. there were new things to see, new places to go, new people to meet; it was exciting. it was an adventure. I took my memories, and thought that I could always come back, because it would always be waiting for me. as if here stays the same: as if I can be 8 again and there will be the garden -- the railroad tracks -- grace & allie & eva & john & andrew -- fresh strawberries, pine needles, games of pretend. 

I didn't understand time. I didn't understand change. (I still don't. for the record.)

of the few definitive mental snapshots of my childhood, this oak tree is near the top. I played house with jessa in the tall spring grass, crushing rooms and passages in wavy mazes. we chased crickets when the dry grass got mowed in the fall. we explored the dirt piles and picked morning glories and sat in the shade on the bedroom porch (to the right of this tree; not in the picture). and one grey morning, we stood outside under the oak tree, just where the shadow falls, and mama cried as daddy read isaiah 40.8: "the grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of the Lord stands forever." and it started to rain. 

I think of that baby sometimes. 

I didn't understand a lot when I was little: like why mama cried on my best friend's mom's shoulder that afternoon. I didn't understand why, a few short years later, that best friend decided she didn't like me anymore. I didn't understand why I cried the day we drove down this driveway for the last time, because I didn't understand that "people change, darling," as do things -- and places -- and I. 

this trip has been an incredible one, but like travel always goes, it involves more than physical moving. I find myself growing and changing and learning. the painful thing is in being gone for so long and coming back to find that I don't fit anymore, don't fit in the place I've always held in my mind as The Place I Can Always Come Home To. it's like I thought that it would wait for me; or that I would wait for it; or that I could slip back to when I was a kid and ignorance was bliss, because I thought I had it all figured out. 

news flash. I don't have it all figured it out. 

I've cried here, remembering and missing and regretting. it's been almost harder to come back than to have not come at all. nothing is the same. I'm not the same. somehow it makes me feel adrift and lost.

   sure, I'm 21: still young. I still have time to discover and make a home of somewhere new. I have homes and homes ahead of me! but it makes me ache to come back and have everything unfamiliar, with a thin veneer of "but you do remember this" glazed over top. uncanny valley of memories. 

   it feels like a different life to me -- I wasn't at all the same person then that I am now. and that lack of continuity makes me feel so alone.

so I went outside last night and lay in the short grass underneath my oak tree, looking up at the stars.

starmaker

standing high above

wrapped in life and crowned in love

dark shaker

it trembles at your name

and here with you we are amazed

what else can I say

but sing in adoration

you are holy

high above the earth

creator

what mysteries you hold

your words worth more than wells of gold

soul waker

it was so peaceful. and I thought of the oak tree again. why? 

the oak tree is the only thing that really seems the same. it always looks like the tree I remember, and it's so solid. so eternal and unchanging. (...sound familiar?) 

some constant, that's what I'm looking for, what I've been chasing all my life. ironically, it's been right here in front of me, in the love of my Savior, but it took coming "home" to realize the place I no longer recognize doesn't have to break my heart. I won't ever find that place on earth, and I know that now. I still have changing to do, but my old oak tree will stay with me as a symbol of change and stability: life happens around it, but I have a constant in my life. 

I also have years of homes ahead of me. I haven't gotten to some places yet that years further in the future I'll remember with fondness, places yet to mold and shape me. But if this trip is teaching me anything, it's to better treasure where you are -- for all I know, this (eternal) time in kentucky will become its own life, too, and I'll visit louisville just as tearfully in 15 years. (...okay, I doubt it.) the bad things are so quickly forgotten, though, and so many good things that I may not even realize are good will shine through in hindsight. 

so many times this trip I've wished to be young young young again -- if only I could go back to that very moment, or that one, or that one. but in a few years, THIS moment is the one I'll wish I could revisit, so I'd better enjoy it; make it worth remembering. like that old TtWS song: "there is nothing but the moment // don't you waste it on regret." 

buck up, girl. homes to come. nothing is as good as you remember it being. this too shall pass. with the homes will come heartbreak and I have heartbreaks to come as well. 

oh life. 

california delta breeze, blow back my hair as I march on. 

when I die my body will say goodbye

to the things that held me down

to the fear that kept my hands tied

when I'm gone my heart will carry on

past the valleys I called my home

where my questions and concerns will piece together

until then

I'll ride the wind like a feather toward home

:: to2c thoughts, from abroad ::

"Dickens clearly sees the Manette household, presided over by Lucie, as a repository of value, a private sanctuary from public spying, madness, and violence. To some readers, however, it has seemed frail, and in any case, more a product of the author's values than his observation of reality."
- discussion question excerpt from the back of kelsey's BN copy of a tale of two cities

when I'm at friends' houses, I always check out their reading material. my lovely friend kelsey (whom I've mentioned before) hosted me for a few days during this california trip and one evening I was sitting next to this, one of my all-time-favorite books, and I couldn't resist picking it up and reading the final paragraphs. gosh, it gets me every time.

this discussion question in the back caught my attention (I am a sucker for good discussion questions. I read the forewords, afterwords, prefaces, epilogues, introductions, and questions like they're dessert). read it again: dickens sees the manette household as a private sanctuary, but to some it has seemed frail, a product merely of the author's values.

absolutely yes.

this is striking. it might be why I have never really liked charles darnay, this aspect of him and of the manette household (that he really becomes one of, not vice versa). he's passive, and so naive. charles and lucie both are childlike in their trusting openness and it really bothers me. sydney carton, with all his cynical outlook, at least knows what he's getting into.

I definitely think that's what dickens valued -- he has so, so many stories with a fallen, weak, or struggling man who is loved and supported (or longs to be loved and supported) by a sweet, good woman despite that. I'm sure he wanted that himself.
   in a way, the darnays are doomed when carton dies: they will always need someone to get them out of their naive difficulties, and through the book they really rely on carton just to be there. now that he's gone, the hidden strength he provided in their relationship, or at least the promise of "anything I can do for you, ever" (lucie relied on him more than she realized, I think), is gone. and it's not that the darnays will fall apart, but they'll be battered.
   sydney + lucie would have been mismatched -- but she would've been taken better care of. charles + lucie are pure optimism (optoomuchstic, as maryrose wood puts it), and they won't get far with that. at least with sydney's pessimistic, cynical, worldly understanding they were sheltered (in a small way).
 
but then dickens apparently thinks they'll be okay, as he speaks through carton's prophetic 'vision' -- like louisa's gazing into the fire. "such things were to be." ...or maybe that's carton's wishful thinking: that his sacrifice will be worthwhile. it at least shows his own growth. growth? development. he's now putting her before himself. but also, he's leaving his first distrustful mindset.
   for better or worse.

:: big bite, little chew ::

(HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY EVERYBODY!!!! I love so many things about this country. the foods, the people, the laws that give us freedom; I love having the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. I am so grateful for the men and women who have fought over the last 250 years for our freedom, and so blessed to be in a nation where the star-spangled banner yet waves o'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. here's to 240 more years of standing united for truth and justice. I love you, america!!!)
- - -

here's my dilemma. apparently I've bitten off a little more than I can chew in my original timeframe.

recap: I'm trying to read war and peace. to break the sad news to you, I've only reached part two of the first of the first of the firstest books today (about 25 chapters in). life has been so busy and there have been other priorities in my life, and

I mean seriously there are literally 15 books that are real-book length in this thing, so. what can you even expect. (but it's just as good as I remember it :') )

anyway, that's part of my dilemma. the other part(s), as follows: I leave for california on the 7th, and I'm pretty occupied with straightening that packing and planning out--between the several people commitments and car rentals and spotify playlists I have a lot going on and reading for pleasure just can't make the top of my list. (you should be proud of me for getting this far, haha.)

while in the socal and the norcal and all the cals (puuuuumped) I'll be spending time with people and basking in the driest of dry sunshines (puuuuuuumped) and won't have time to read and probably less to write--I still have online classes happening and lettering to do, too, and I'm feeling more pressure as summer comes to a close.

this is not supposed to be a complaint-fest. this summer's been great. internship, scholarships, kitty hawk, california, michigan (in august), and then school--productive in so many ways and I've learned a ton and grown in all directions (but also worked out, so hopefully that stalled a few directions)--but I need to focus on real life and not on self-imposed "commitments". I will totally do this, just maybe not all this summer.

I do have a few notes so far, though. ka-pow. (that was fireworks. we have to have fireworks, it's the fourth.)
- - - -

mostly questions, which I'm recording and keeping in mind as I read.

by chapter 25: already so many examples of war and peace -- between nations, but also between and within families.

relationship tracker: 
boris + natasha
nikolai + sonya
andrei + lise
vera + berg?
marya + anatole are being set up
single: pierre, helene, dolokhov

death count: 1

themes/things I'm watching for*
- love. young vs. old. how is portrayed when it lasts vs. doesn't? who is 'worthy'? who grows to worthiness? how is platonic love portrayed?
- social strata, politeness, rules. french vs. russian. fates of the rich vs. poor vs. illegitimate (aka just pierre).
- personal beauty. how does it affect those who have it or those who explicitly don't: andrei, lise, helene, vera, nikolai, boris, dolokhov even, vs. natasha, marya, pierre? better, worse, or is it a variable? how does it play into their stories?

and then I noticed eyes. for example: pierre wears glasses and is searching. marya is explicitly plain, but with beautiful eyes; or eyes so expressive, so indicative of her inner beauty, that they frequently "make her beautiful"--and she has a(n overly simplified) spiritual outlook. m & p both find their one true love (not each other!!) (if I'm remembering correctly) and both are plain. do they have what the more beautiful miss? ...and what counts as beauty, what counts as worth and value, as exemplified in the book?

*not totally fair. having read w&p before, I have a fuzzy notion of what to look out for (though my memory is far from perfect, so I could be wrong about watching for some of this). I'm afraid I'll be routinely giving stuff away if you've never read this book before; all the more reason to go read it. now.

wheeeeeeeee BANG sparkle sparkle
...more fireworks. eat some watermelon! happy 4th!

:: reading & other summer things ::

work and productivity and swimming are all things taking up my summer time at the moment: my design internship is three days a week, swimming is basically at least an hour every afternoon, and then I fit everything else in the cracks between.

"everything else":
- free online classes through harvard
(YES. go take some. they are spectacular, especially professor kelly's first nights series -- I just finished monteverdi's l'orfeo and it was magnificent. both the opera and the course.)

- lettering practice + videos through sean mccabe's learn lettering series
(which I unreservedly recommend as well)

- reading out loud to brother and sisters
(the brother is 8, the sisters are 6 and 10. a third, almost 3, sometimes accompanies. we've made it through the first two peter and the starcatchers books and are almost done with book one of the incorrigible children of ashton place. I need to find #s3 and 4 of peter and finish that before plunging into maryrose wood's utterly delightful saga. love that simon harley-dickinson. ahem.)

- memorizing all of "I've been everywhere" by johnny cash
(first verse, check. second verse... we'll get there someday.

haha.)

- planning my TRIP TO CALIFORNIA
(yes, but that's as per usual and I'll mention it a lot in the future, so just know I'm going for almost the month of july and planning on enjoying myself hugely. except trips aren't so fun when you're on your own; but I'll make it work. heh.)

- reading in my head, to myself. for fun.
(what is that.)

this is where my list really comes to the point. I've checked quite a lot of books out of our online library woo and actually read -- get this -- thirty books in may. yes, three-zero. I've been practically inhaling them, but you have to remember it's been a long time since I had this time or this opportunity. june's been a lot more busy, and I'm not going to read nearly that many for the rest of the year; especially since I just started leo tolstoy's war and peace this morning.

I'll obviously be reading war and peace for a while -- I swear, a single "book" that is divided into fifteen poly-chaptered books should not have the need for a second epilogue -- and I'm going to do my best to record my live-streaming thoughts this time around. last time I started in probably book 12 or 13 and wrote down all my shipping as the plot line progressed (still have that paper; pretty hilarious), and I've decided to start at the beginning this time and write slightly more of-content thoughts -- although what's a good russian novel without some hearty love interests, amirite. especially since like everyone ends up with the wrong person and then half of them die and they reshuffle so you get to pair 25% of them around like three times. whee. fun.

those russians, goshdarn and bless their hearts.

yeah. so the result may end up slightly muddled and circular and inconclusive like my night train to lisbon series, but I'm aiming for something more like my oliver twist thing, only hopefully more sophisticated. but not much because w&p is still way way over my head. still, I love it, love it, and hopefully I'll keep understanding better as I grow with it. (those are the best books, that grow with you.) and really, tolstoy is the master. -- my dad was a russian lit major in college for about a year, and he must have handed something down to me. I remember reading one of our pushkin anthologies when I was 9; pushkin and me, we go way back.

enough about russian novels. takeaway: w&p will be read and commented upon, so stay tuned for the upcoming tears (AHH FORGIVENESS and REDEMPTION), guilty boredom and tears (AAH MORE WAR DESCRIPTION I don't undersTAND), and gushing and tears (AN. DREI. BOL. KON. SKY. JUST STAHP).

I'm afraid you're in for a lot of all-caps and tears. I'll try to tone it down. (but seriously: TOLSTOY!!

I clutch my heart and die dramatic russian death)

:: what do you read, my lord ::

words, words, words! it's been about three years since I've posted one to make you sound more pretentiously literate; and so I said, "the time is ripe / to send one shooting [down] the pipe!"

read.
memorize.
use obnoxiously.

diapason: full, swelling, harmonious sound.
(or to do with pipe organs and pitch. but who needs that clinical of a definition.) 
      n., from greek through latin: dia pason (khordon) - 'through all (the notes)', the whole octave

pronounced: (die-uh-pay-sun)

"—And yet this great wink of eternity,
Of rimless floods, unfettered leewardings,
Samite sheeted and processioned where
Her undinal vast belly moonward bends,
Laughing the wrapt inflections of our love;

Take this Sea, whose diapason knells
On scrolls of silver snowy sentences,
The sceptered terror of whose sessions rends
As her demeanors motion well or ill,
All but the pieties of lovers' hands."
- hart crane

:: the fault in our extremely loud wallflowers ::

I read stephen chbosky's perks of being a wallflower on tuesday.

it really bugs me how every time I write a blog post I almost invariably start with "I" (meaning the pronoun, not the letter, or it would even more almost invariably be "i" --see the beginning of this paragraph). I suppose this is my blog, and I'm basically the only one who reads it, but still. it's like I owe it to the universe to focus a little less on me.

^not my point.

so, chbosky.

there's this one part in the book where protagonist charlie is given rand's the fountainhead by his english teacher, who tells him to read it "as a filter, not a sponge", which our genius gifted mangenue charlie doesn't understand, despite being ~16 and theoretically grasping hamlet and a separate peace. but okay. fortunately, charlie's reader ((YOU)) is at least as intellectual as he is, because the reader gets it. YEAH, charlie. DUH. go you, reader. give yourself a little pat on the back. much intellect. very insight. wow.

yeah, so the book bugged me. bugged me like extremely loud and incredibly close bugged me (although that, not nearly so much), and other similar books that I know I've read but have fortunately forgotten.
   in these books, there's always a character -- usually the first-person protagonist narrator -- who is rather young and, while somewhat naive and innocent, is simultaneously wise beyond their years (in an inexplicable, 100% unrealistic way). they accept tragedy and trauma and love and life and facts about all these things with an unshakeable, pragmatic calmness (as part of their childish wisdom and maturity) and say things that produce strong reactions from adults, though for the life of them the precocious prodigies can't figure out why -- why the laugh or cry or stare? just tellin' it like it is, right?

charlie in particular uses childishly simple language (which chbosky/charlie attempts to justify by saying basically, why use complex words for the sake of complex words? --which I agree with, but he misses completely that complex words are for complex thoughts, and if our charlie is so intellectually and emotionally gifted, he'll not only know and understand the words, he'll be able to use them appropriately and easily in a sentence).
   this language thing especially bothered me, not just because the writing itself was rough and badly modulated and...not well-done; but because charlie is supposed to seriously turn 16 during the book, and I kept thinking of him as about 11 or 12. it was honestly, truly confusing when it mentioned him driving ("but he's only 12! oh, right"), while his not-dating sam made complete sense ("she's like 18 and he's like 12, so this is a hero-worship sort of crush. ...they're making out?! oh. right"). I attribute that confusion to the language, because charlie just sounds so young it really made the book hard to get into. jonathan foer was at least interesting and easy to read.
   plus, charlie's attributes as explained by charlie -- whose paper musings the reader can of course interpret but that confuse poor charlie's innocently straightforward brain -- are really not that spectacular and unusual. plenty of people enjoy reading & thinking, which is basically what sets charlie apart in this book. that, and the fact that he is so loving and accepting of gay people and their serially-dating sisters. charlie should just go date hazel grace (oh, there's another one. which did I hate more: chbosky or john green? hard call. at least john green is actually clever and well-read).
 
these are books written to make the reader feel educated and intellectual and high-and-lonely-destiny, but really these are things we all feel, all identify with, all literary references we recognize. which is why these books are famous. people aren't so insensitive and uncultured as people like to think. so I read wallflower, or TFIOS, or extremely loud, or maybe even tell the wolves I'm home, and (am supposed to) go, "wow, charlie is just like me what similarity I'm lonely too oh this book moved me 'in that moment we were infinite' such insight *small tear*" but I think it makes everyone feel that way.
   (go back to john green: remember the unfinished book that is hazel's driving force for the whole amsterdam trip? that book is represented like these books are supposed to feel: a hidden treasure, belonging only to the reader -- practically undiscovered by the rat-racing public, its depths plumbed only by YOU and related to on a deeper level because of the Personal Trials and Heartbreaks you in particular have experienced. like that boy you liked in 6th grade who ended up moving away before you screwed up enough courage to talk to him, and you now live every day with regret. you could never have cried so much over poor gus if you hadn't felt hazel's heartrending pain in your own life.)
   to rephrase: the emotional bond the general You feel with the book seems personal and intimate. 'I had such an experience reading this book; it's my book; it changed my life.' but you don't realize that it's calculated to make literally everyone who reads it feel just as connected, and really your experience is only a fluffy emotive tear-jerky fakeness that has given you no new ideas about the world, just played off of your warm fuzzy feels.
 
who am I to say what the author is trying to do, of course. and again, this is my personal feeling, which is not-universal in exactly the way I've been criticizing; also, my personal feeling is usually to be/do/say/think the opposite of anyone and anything I feel is scorn-worthy and beneath me. oh look, see how different I am from the masses. I didn't like this bestseller. whoop, whoop, what discernment.  but that's how I feel about these types of books, and my immediate reaction is NOPE, NOT GONNA FEEL IT. TRY TO MAKE ME.
   chbosky did have a few interesting sentences in there, but for me it was more along the lines of, "well, I get what he's trying to say & I hear that; but I think it's..." oversimplified. trying too hard. saccharine. trite.

I guess that's what I feel about a lot of "literature" written recently. it's trite. it tries too hard. too many people want to do something new and revolutionary -- why can't you do something old, well? a lot of the really good books that people still love and read and write about and assign for school were quietly good. they weren't trying to make! a! statement! (or revolutionize present-tense writing, a trend that is quite aggravating to my english-speaking ears. STOP IT MORGENSTERN ONLY REMARQUE CAN DO THIS). they just stated. and I don't mean just dickens and austen, necessarily -- although austen was incredible in pointing out societal concerns and issues in her societal-microcosms-as-polite-drawing-rooms. hey, include greats from the past 100 years: everyone's favorite fitzgerald. jane smiley. toni morrison. kathryn stockett. they don't have to bash you over the head with their message (...although they can be heavy-handed, yes); for the most part, they just point to it and let you figure it out for yourself.

really, it's worse when the book's message itself doesn't resonate with me, either. these amazing, revelatory, brilliant ideas and questions and thoughts the kids come up with all sound exactly the same, just in different vague, sort-of-poetic ways. like the author -- each author -- thought of an idea and muddled it with fancy words to make it sound deep, but really be easily understandable, so that whoever is reading feels like they have a depth just like the main character. oh, I'm so alone, so misunderstood, so different, so unique and special. but this author/character/book gets me, speaks to me, knows what I'm going through.
   dude. everyone feels alone, misunderstood, different, and special. why do you think the social media are so successful??

I wish I were more articulate and took better notes. upshot: modern lit just doesn't do it for me. I need to read more non-fiction and stop taking myself so seriously.

:: list at midnight ::

(that title. did you read that title??! I think it could be a really good poem if someone who wrote really good poems wrote one and called it that.

ahem. the list.)

1. the semester is over
SO, YAY. let that sink in for a moment.

2. I have much things to do
like perfect those grammar skillz.

3. make lists of those things
*check*

4. go to bed and finish this in the morning
but it's okay, I'm doing the procrastination part tomorrow.

all right, real talk! school's been out for a week, but we took a vacation in north carolina (OBX FTW)(which I've said at least once before), and I took all that time away from electronics. except for my computer, because I wanted to read a bunch of books. (so by "away from electronics" I really actually mean my phone, which means texting and social media. which is just instagram right now. so it's not like I was an electronic virgin the whole time, but I didn't want to face my friends after a whole semester of neglect, just yet. I did check my email though BECAUSE MY BEST FRIEND WAS HAVING A BABY CONGRATS I'M NOW AN HONORARY AUNTIE!!!! (congrats to her, not to me. although I definitely take congrats if you have some extras you'd like to hand out).)

sand and surf are good for the soul. it was great.

but I have a lot of things I need to get on top of, now that I'm back: personal projects as well as a couple freelance jobs I'm juggling (business logo, wedding programs), and I am behind on my emails. I meant to catch up during that vacation, but see: when given the choice between
sit inside staring at a retina display
vs.
go outside to get soaked and literally cold feet and maybe a sunburn and totally tangled hair that no disney movie could ever begin to speak to and definitely sand in every possible orifice and salt everywhere else
--I mean, really. which would you choose?
rhetorical question!!!! which here means, DUH. getting slapped in the face with a great big salty wave is my kind of paradise. don't know what planet you sprung from.

ookay. it's past midnight and I get weird past midnight. I am also tired, so I will now shuffle off to buffalo, and worry tomorrow about wrapping up my semester and probably some books (ugghhhh my book to-review list is killing me with guilt) in overdue tome-length posts that include material on whatever happens to strike my fancy. who knows, maybe I'll cover the calculated existential angst to be discovered in a bowl of breakfast cereal.

life is full of surprises.