Breathe

For me, to write is to breathe.

I have taken a semester off of writing this blog so that I could concentrate on school. You will be happy to know that it paid off. I did very well in school this semester.

I was writing throughout the semester. I had many papers due and one class was strictly a 15 page paper. It was not completely creative, though, and I cannot explain how I've missed writing. Now that I have time to start again, I just can't seem to get back into the groove. Taking so much time off has made me lazy. I have more ideas for excuses to not write than ideas to write about.

For inspiration, I started reading a few classical authors of the same period. I read F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatzby. You may claim that I read it in light of the new film that recently hit theaters if you like. That was not the reason, though. I read it because he was an author from St. Paul. I want to know how Mid-Western authors write. The story was, in my opinion, rather drab, though Mr. Fitzgerald's writing style sucked me in. He describes the scenes with such fluency that I could almost taste the setting.

I recently watched Midnight in Paris with Owen Wilson. He travels back in time to visit with the expatriate authors of Paris in the 20's. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein are all brought to life through the film. Curious about this part of history, I picked up Hemingway's memoire on the subject. A Moveable Feast is a fascinating read. I am only half way through it right now, but I have gained some much needed inspiration from Hemingway. Reading his other works, one would wonder if he liked anything or anyone, but in this book he goes into detail of his relationships with other writers and of his favorite cafes and restaurants. The man was writing the memoire near the end of his life, which was a very dark period for him, but he was able to look back on the time with happy nostalgia.

He also gives advice to other writers. I don't believe this was on purpose, but he speaks in the second person pulling you into the story. He talks about working (writing at the cafes and at his office) but uses "you." I often think it is me trying to order my second beer and write down the story before the afternoon fades to evening.

He tells me that I should never run my inkwell dry when writing. As in, if I'm writing a story and I have just a little bit more to add before the end of the day, I should leave it as is and come back to it the next day. I should allow the little bit of ink soak overnight; mulling it over in my sleep so I can write even more when I go back to work. Otherwise, with nothing to chew on, there will be nothing to write in the morning.

He also suggests that I not think of the story while it is percolating. I should instead pick up a book of the current authors and see what other people are writing about. This will keep my mind occupied so I don't lose my train of thought, and will keep me up to date with my peers.

This time period was very romantic. Several authors are living cheaply in Paris, reading each other's works and critiquing them. It sounds lovely, though I'm not completely sold. They had hard lives, and everything was not perfect. I guess I would rather have the community they had, without the lifestyle.

These are some tools I have picked up while on hiatus. I hope they will prove useful and helpful and that you will continue to read my musings. Thank you for your patience.

Your Regularly Scheduled Blogging will Resume Shortly

Friends, family and valued readers,

I must apologize for my sudden disappearance from the blog. I abruptly stopped writing so I could continue my education with the hopes of graduating within the school year.

I am on schedule to receive my bachelor's degree in Communication Studies this coming May. I plan to resume my writing after this semester is over, and more regularly through the coming semester.

Until then, I simply ask for continued patience. I will be scripting more stories in the near future.

I would like to share a brief story with you, though, while I have a moments peace from homework:

Several years ago I was working overnight shifts at a nursing home. My direct supervisor was a charming old lady whose smile was nothing more than less of a frown. She was stingy on generosity and had a lightning fast response to goofing off. Her number one rule was no phones while working the floor.

It was midnight and I was writing up the menu for the next day's meals. Right next to me, Nurse Ratched was setting up the medication for her next rounds. Wouldn't you know it, but my cutesy chime sounded a new text message.

I held my breath as I glanced over at her. Her furrowed brow indicated that the chime did not go unnoticed.

"Was that you?" she scowled.

"Um, yeah." I said, without really thinking, "I farted."

For the first time, I saw a genuine smile grace the face of the nurse. She walked away without another word. She eventually became my favorite nurse to work with.

Birds of the Air

When I was little, people would ask what I wanted to be when I grew up. A bird. Everytime I was asked, I said I wanted to be a bird. I was convinced if I worked hard enough, I would sprout wings and fly over the trees to make a nest for my family and me.

That didn't happen. I work in a call center right now. That doesn't mean that the desire has gone away. One of my favorite things in the world is to fly, and I do it every chance I get. Which isn't terribly often.

As I started understanding more about biology and the way the human body develops, I realized that wings were not on the table for me. I watched a movie, I believe it was called "Fly Away Home", where a girl took a gaggle of geese and taught them how to fly. She had to migrate with them, so her dad built her a small aircraft so she could fly with her children to a warmer climate. At that moment I realized that if I were to fly with birds, I would be required to have a machine to do the flying for me. I was a little disappointed.

Since then, I haven't really figured out what I want to do with my life. Dana and I have dreams of living overseas and working in community development, or investing in a certain community to love the people there, but what does that look like? I guess we'll figure that out when we get there. Wherever "there" is.

Sometimes I think it's awful to ask a kid what he or she wants to do with his or her life at a young age. It takes a bit of the fun out of being a kid. What do you want to do when you grow up? I don't know. I don't even know what I want for dinner. I don't even know what toy I want to play with next. Leave me alone and let me be a kid!

Kids are really good at living in the moment and as adults, we lose sight of that. We're always looking at what we're going to do, rather than what we are doing. We should encourage living in the moment. If they want to become a bird, then we should ask what type of bird rather than shooting them down.

That doesn't mean we get to avoid planning and being responsible with our time and resources. We do need to be conscious of staying in the present at the same time.

Today at lunch, I was observing birds. They were swimming around in the Mississippi, then they got out and cleaned themselves. They then propped themselves up on one foot and took a nap. How is this a bad thing? I was very tempted to follow suit until I looked at the murky river and decided I would rather not contract a vile disease.

I still want to be a bird, though. That desire will probably never leave. I can't decide if I would be a bird of prey with the mountains as my home, or a sparrow that can dart in and out of tiny spaces in a blink of an eye. I'll get back to you on that.

Time is not on Your Side

How many months of the year have 28 days in them?

All of them.

It's interesting how time passes. Some days seem to just drag when you're doing something you find extremely boring, or if you're waiting for a big event like your wedding in 18 days (shout out, Charles and Ruth!). Despite these dragging days, suddenly the summer is over, you're about to graduate college and you've been married over a year (shout out, Dee!).

I remember in middle school I would go baling with my great aunt. Her baler was broken and didn't push the twine completely out of the way of the oncoming grass. I would have to jump off the tractor after every bale and pull the twine 6 inches to prevent it from tangling in the next bale.

One of these long baling excursions, I was bored almost to tears. I consoled myself by saying that time isn't actually slowing down, I just think it is. By the next day, I would be doing something infinitely more interesting and soon enough, I would never have to do this again. Here I am, several years later, still very thankful that I'm not standing on that tractor anymore.

I didn't hate being with my great aunt so much as the fact that my presence was unnecessary. On several occasions, my dad and uncle both offered to fix the glitch, but my aunt liked the company. She refused every time because she didn't want to bale alone.

When I got too big to sit on the tractor, I would drive behind Harriet in her Rendezvous, in AC, listening to music that I brought with me. My aversion to baling with Harriet quickly diminished.

Time is interesting in other forms, too. There are seasons in life that seem to take forever to get through. Like college. I thought I'd never obtain my bachelor's degree, but I'm now beginning my final year at university. By May, I will be the proud owner of a diploma stating my eligibility to work. I don't know what type of work I will be eligible for, but I will be eligible to work.

This summer has been interesting to get through. In June, I wasn't sure I would be able to survive an entire summer sitting in a cubicle, then racing off to a second job afterwards. Three months of 50+ hours of work every week can really get to someone. Granted, I know a lot of people who work a lot more than that, but when it comes to being at work and paying bills, I'm weak. This Friday marks the end of this season, and I am very excited about it.

I was waiting to go on break this morning. I watched the clock go from 9:58 to 9:59. OK, one more minute and I can clock out. Has anyone ever told you that a watched pot never boils? Well, that's not true. Nor is it true that a watched clock never turns 10:00 am, but I'll be damned if it was only sixty seconds.

Bobbing in Coffee

My Grandpa once told me a story about a time he visited the local Dairy Queen. As he was waiting to place his order, a lady came up to the counter to complain about her coffee.

"Sir," she said to the server, "my coffee is cold. Will you please fix a fresh pot?"

"Oh no, ma'am, you must be mistaken. We just made this pot a little bit ago. It should still be hot."

"Yes, I'm sure you did, but the fact remains: my coffee is cold and I would like a new cup."

"But ma'am, there is no possible way for your cup of coffee to be cold. I made the pot myself, and it wasn't that long ago. I assure you, it's hot."

Grandpa was watching this conversation between server and customer while waiting for his burger. He was astounded by the young man's persistence, but couldn't help but think that he was as daft as a two bob watch (his words, not mine).

The next thing Grandpa noticed was that the customer had actually placed her finger directly into the cup of coffee and was on the verge of yelling, "Sir, make me a new cup of coffee. This is cold!"

I don't know how many times they went around until another worker came to the counter and asked what the altercation was all about. Both of them erupted into their own story about the coffee and how it was hot or cold respectively.

The other worker looked incredulously at her two-bobbed co-worker, shook her head and made a new pot of coffee, apologizing profusely to the customer for her co-worker's daftness.

Not long before this scene happened, I had been an employee of the fine establishment. The entire time I worked there, we brewed strictly Folgers coffee. Replacing a cold cup of Folgers with a hot one, in my opinion, doesn't enhance the taste in the least. It seems that the customer was a few bobs short of a watch herself.

The Sound of Triumph

Yesterday was the first day that I ate at the cafeteria in the bank where I work. I had no idea what I was doing. I had been told that one can purchase two sides of vegetables rather than ordering the entree, but I didn't see where the sides where. I started panicking because it was almost my turn in the queue. There were a lot of people piling up behind me, so I had to make a decision. I couldn't wait anymore. The chef was looking at me. "What'll it be, bub?!" Oh no! "Uh...I'll...I'll have the Rachel sandwich!"

I said it so fast and loud that the kitchen hushed for a moment. I'm sure my neck turned scarlet. I quickly looked at the floor and ignored everyone until someone tapped my shoulder.

"Hey, she didn't hear you. What are you ordering?"

I said it again, quieter this time, and she asked if I wanted cheese. Yeah, sure.

As I watched her prepare my sandwich, I started thinking about my restrictive diet. I don't eat meat. I don't eat dairy. If it weren't for eggs, I'd be vegan, really. Then I watched her smother my rye bread with 1000 Island dressing. She was getting ready to put the cheese on my sandwich when I realized that I have to be at work for at least another 4 hours. How will I survive if I eat a bunch of food that my body will surely reject?

"May I retract my request for cheese?"

"Huh?"

"No cheese, please."

"Oh, sure."

I got my sandwich. It came with fries, which I was not expecting. I love fries. I went to pay for it. Another line of people who knew how to work the system. I noticed they all were paying cash. Interesting. What a different mindset we live in. I can't imagine carrying cash with me when I can just use my card. Oh well. Different strokes, am I right? Here you go, nice cashier lady. You take my card and I'll take my food.

"We don't accept cards here."

That explains the different mindset crap. And I thought I was being so philosophical.

I set my food down and went running to the ATM. I come back and wait in line again. I got my food and finally I made it to the river - my favorite lunch spot.

I opened my box of food hesitantly. Maybe I shouldn't have ordered this. I don't know how my body will react to it, and I don't want to spend the rest of my shift...shall we say, "indisposed"?

Well, I had forgotten my lunch that morning, so I needed to eat something. I wasn't able to take my time through the cafeteria, so there I was, sitting next to the river with a sandwich of meat and dairy-based sauce. I dove in head first.

My first sensation was delicious sauerkraut exploding over my taste buds. Then the thousand island came to mix a gentle harmony climaxing to the victorious arrival of hot grilled turkey. It was intoxicating. I couldn't help noticing my anxiety melt into a small, pitiful form of loss. How have I lived all summer without eating animals and their byproducts?

I ate fast. I couldn't look up or take my time to savor it. It was too delicious to wait. I could look at the river later; right now Brother Bear is eating!

As usual, I was reminded why I make the dietary choices I do after eating said lunch. There are things that my stomach and taste buds just will not agree on, and my stomach almost always wins the the battle. Yesterday my taste buds were rewarded for their persistance with the delights of meat and dairy. In nearly no time at all, my stomach lashed back in avengence.

Sweet, sweet vengence.

Seg-weighs

Segways. I've noted in past posts how much enjoyment I get from making fun of them.

I have thought in the past that I should probably take a Segway tour before I pick on them, but then I thought about my dignity and decided I should just make fun of them. Most things deserve a benefit of the doubt. Not all.

The first thing I think of when I see a Segway is GOB from Arrested Developement who is rarely off of his Segway. He conducts himself in such a shameful manner which gives the impression that Segway drivers are conceited, arrogant (redundency empowers the insult) jerks who only come down from their high horse (or wheels) for a free chocolate covered treat from the banana stand - in which there is always money.

I also cannot help but think of the owner of the Segway company who died in a freak accident on one of his own machines. These "scooters" are not here to help the world get from one place to another. They are here to take over the world one multi-millionaire at a time.

"Help the world get from one place to another"? That's an interesting statement. These wheelie-pods are 6 inches and a heart attack away from walking. Here's a novel idea: bikes. Sometimes you can rest while still moving forward, yet still get some of that much recommended physical activity.

Dana and I were at a park on Sunday watching not one, but two Segway tours go by us. Both groups had nearly 30 tourists brimming with pride and glee as they sped through the park in a single file line. I shouldn't have stared, but they were just as much a spectacle to ogle at as the Mississippi, Stone Arch Bridge or downtown skyline.

The faces were rather fun to interpret, too. There was an older woman who looked like whe was having the time of her life. Her discontented husband looked like he'd rather have stayed downtown to find another corn dog to smother in ketchup. It looked as if they had come to a compromise. He must have told her that he would be willing to go on one of those stupid tours she had been talking about for months before the trip to Minneapolis as long as he didn't have to walk. He would be willing to take a bus, train, horse and buggy - anything but walking. But he woke up that morning to his beaming bride holding a brochure and two tickets to a Segway tour.

"That's not what I meant!"

"Doesn't matter! You said anything but walking. We're not walking, dear, so get your shoes on. It's starts in an hour!"

Now that I think about it, her smile may have had a touch of smugness in it.

There was a small family, too. Two parents, two little girls and an early-high-school-aged boy. A high school boy on a Segway tour with his parents and little sisters. Imagine his face. Moving on.

The tour guides had smiles plastered on their faces like a row of flight attendants thanking their passengers for flying Segway Air. I could see a hint of stress behind their eyes, though. They knew that the highly-read man wearing an archaeologist's hat was going to continue his barrage of questions until the last of the procession had parked his or her shiny Segway and the tour security had ushered the questioner off the premises.

"This is what I have to look forward to until the end of the summer. God help us."

If cleanliness is next to godliness, Segway-ness is next to laziness. It's probably the only time that standing will require a helmet. At least I hope it is.