Saturday, January 01, 2005
I know I havn't posted in awhile. I've wanted to post...just havn't. I wanted to post because I hated leaving you on that dismal note. I wanted to tell you that things got better (which they did). Some relationships went back to the point where they had left off three months ago. Others...it will take time. Its strange, I was so unhappy here the first few days home, now I want to grasp each moment, hold it, and not let it go. I finally am feeling comfortable again here, only to go back. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad to be going back. I just know it will be awkward the first week, and it means I have to say goodbye again. Will it be this way for the next four years? Does it get any easier?
I dunno. I've been so preoccupied with time lately. I guess three funerals in six months of people close to you will give you a definite check on your own mortality and life.
"Life is but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more."
I have had this sense this year (no, not 2005, I guess I'm actually refering to last year then) of wanting to live every moment. Mrs. Goffin use to always say: is there any other place you would rather be? It use to baffle me. Of course I'd rather be somewhere else right now then in class! But then I relized that I am here in this moment, like it or not, and if I live each moment wishing it was another I will wind up wishing most of my life away. In hard times, we remember that God has us in that moment for a purpose, why do we not do the same for the mundane ones?
"Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day to the last syllable of recorded time"
A lot of what we call boring or fun is often a matter of point of view, or to me it appears to be.
I found my old poetry notebook stuffed with poems I'd printed and papers I'd written. In the very front was T.S. Eliot's Four Quartets. Fascinating reading a poem preoccupied with time while already pondering hte concept of time. I also realized that I missed reading poetry.
I also found my senior paper notebook. Ah yes, you ACA people probably remember well and yet not fondly that notebook. I read through some of the interviews and part of my paper and remembered why it interested me. The human mind is fascinating (I seem to be stuck on that word tonight). How it works and what makes us who we are, do what we do, see things as we do. So I've been pondering that lately.
Have I been thinking too much for being on break? Most likely. That's what happens when you have too much time on your hands.
Speaking of thinking, I've had some fascinating (may as well use it again) conversations with people about topics like: what makes someone a best friend, or a friend even? what is the basis of a relationship? where do we get our personality and can it change? can it be trusted? Seems like I'm not the only one with too much time on my hands.
Do I have regrets from this break? Yes. Fahrenheit 451.
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
T.S. Eliot "Love song of J. Alfred Prufrock
I dunno. I've been so preoccupied with time lately. I guess three funerals in six months of people close to you will give you a definite check on your own mortality and life.
"Life is but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more."
I have had this sense this year (no, not 2005, I guess I'm actually refering to last year then) of wanting to live every moment. Mrs. Goffin use to always say: is there any other place you would rather be? It use to baffle me. Of course I'd rather be somewhere else right now then in class! But then I relized that I am here in this moment, like it or not, and if I live each moment wishing it was another I will wind up wishing most of my life away. In hard times, we remember that God has us in that moment for a purpose, why do we not do the same for the mundane ones?
"Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day to the last syllable of recorded time"
A lot of what we call boring or fun is often a matter of point of view, or to me it appears to be.
I found my old poetry notebook stuffed with poems I'd printed and papers I'd written. In the very front was T.S. Eliot's Four Quartets. Fascinating reading a poem preoccupied with time while already pondering hte concept of time. I also realized that I missed reading poetry.
I also found my senior paper notebook. Ah yes, you ACA people probably remember well and yet not fondly that notebook. I read through some of the interviews and part of my paper and remembered why it interested me. The human mind is fascinating (I seem to be stuck on that word tonight). How it works and what makes us who we are, do what we do, see things as we do. So I've been pondering that lately.
Have I been thinking too much for being on break? Most likely. That's what happens when you have too much time on your hands.
Speaking of thinking, I've had some fascinating (may as well use it again) conversations with people about topics like: what makes someone a best friend, or a friend even? what is the basis of a relationship? where do we get our personality and can it change? can it be trusted? Seems like I'm not the only one with too much time on my hands.
Do I have regrets from this break? Yes. Fahrenheit 451.
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
T.S. Eliot "Love song of J. Alfred Prufrock
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