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Processing the Processes

Today in eighth period Anatomy I couldn't focus. My mind wandered aimlessly; I made small observations about insignificant things, odd and intriguing sentences popped into my head, phrases and words that had little true meaning but plenty of rhythm and feeling echoed around in my skull... So I wrote. I covered most of the inside of my binder, in a way I hadn't in quite some time. It wasn't a manic sort of frenzied-writing, but a more of a collected, jotting-down of thoughts. There were pieces of stories that weren't my own, ideas that might have come from someone else -- not in the sense of copied works or quotations, but original thoughts I was having from characters that weren't myself. It's a typical thing for writers to invent characters outside of themselves. Of course now if someone were to read the inside of my binder they would think me slightly insane, or perhaps evil, or love-struck, or heartless, all depending on the particular phrase they might read. My mind seemed to run out of other characters to express after awhile, and returned to simple observations, one such that struck me as slightly profound was this: Why is it that my mind wanders so, when I am learning about the very organ that supposedly is in charge of this whole business? The processes of the brain have been made very clear to me in their scientific manner, so hauntingly absent of all the emotion and depth-of-soul that it obviously experiences. Where is the class for learning the processes of the soul? I found it deeply ironic that even as I learned about the way a brain works, I felt as if all the creative and intimate parts of my mind were meaningless. How could it be that a clump of smushed, cramped, folded-over and into itself piece of tissue, made of nothing but tiny electric neurons all running into one another, could feel so deeply? How could I listen to these strange and wonderful phrases that seemed to come from somewhere deep in the unknown of my soul -- as my writing always has seemed to come -- if now I know they are merely the result of electrochemical processes that go on without my consent and beyond my control. Even as I was fascinated by the complexity of it all, I felt as if the mystery had gone out of it. Where were the processes of the soul? Even before I had learned to write down these small and interesting phrases that would come to me, I had been so enamored with their magical mystery. They came from somewhere within myself that would only open up when I least expected... Now somehow they seemed so very less impressive, as I realized that all of my thoughts come from one place in the front of my head, and have very little to do with anything magical. Yet, while I recognized the reality of it all in my eighth period Anatomy class today, I chose to ignore it. I continued to jot down the oddly beautiful phrases that seemed to bleed their way through the ticker-tape scroll of text across the foreground of my conscious. They ebbed and flowed, liquid in a very dry landscape, surrounded by ideas of bones and muscles and black and white simplicity. They were the gray matters I found myself submerged in. Electrochemical processes or not, I was feeling every bit the writer I am, and so I wrote down the odd pieces of stories that were not my own and they felt, as they always do, as if they originated very much outside myself. Regardless of reality, I feel that the depths of emotion us humans can express come from much farther than our own skulls, and our gifts come from much more than simple, complex chemical reactions. I believe firmly in the processes of the soul, and the odd phrases and characters that can come from a moment of daydreaming.

#found #profound #found profound #life #brain #anatomy #chemical #processes #process #magical #emotion #reality #soul #depth #writer #phrases #ideas

Entertain My Memory

Long car rides can lead you to desperation in terms of entertainment.

Some people listen to music, some people watch movies, some read books, some sleep, some play games...

Everyone does something.

What I really wanted on this particular four-hour drive was a good story; something easy to read and nice to immerse myself in without too much effort. Unfortunately, I didn't have a book.

So, I tried for a long-distance story and via text message asked my dear boyfriend to tell me one.

About what...

I asked for a funny story, he said he didn't have any of those.

I said I wasn't picky, I'd take any sort of experience.

My dad and I listened to comedy radio for 17 hours straight once.

I laughed and asked how that happened, he explained and the story was over so I asked for another.

He said he didn't have any -- his memory couldn't do this -- and yes, I know his memory to be approximately that of a gold fish, but it's in a rather endearing fashion.

So that gave me an idea, and I settled for a game.

A memory game.

I told him I'd give him a memory of mine, and he had to give me the first memory that it made him think of.

Back and forth we told memories. Sometimes about the same event, sometimes about things only tied together with a common word. It took little effort to recall the most poignant associations, I read Jonas's memories and replied with my own; not once did one of us not know what the other was referring too.

It was after nearly an hour of this that I realized we had simply been telling two versions of the same story.

Even the memories that had little or nothing to do with each other somehow fit into this eclectic narrative and made it all the more complex, and believe me, nothing we got into was terribly deep either, so what made it so captivating?

That was the funny thing. I had wanted to entertain myself with a story, to lean back and let someone else give me the words, me acting only as spectator. I thought I had settled for a game in which I would have to participate, and Jonas thought his memory couldn't handle coming up with nearly-forgotten events.

How interesting it was then to me, to read back over the messages and see the story we had pieced together from our cumulative odds and ends.

When you look at it from that perspective, writing a story isn't so hard.

You can combine your memories and there you've captured life.

The human experience. What a story that is.

Autobiographies get read because people like to see others' lives, and they like them best when they sound real and relevant. They're entertaining. They beat out the music or the games or the sleep or the movies on the trip back home.

Of course, our memories, our story was only relevant to us, and so that is what made it entertaining.

But what happens when you take a memory that is relevant to everyone.

What happens when you combine more than one memory?

What kind of memory could you entertain?

#found #profound #found profound #entertainment #entertain #memory #entertain my memory #life #remember #game #car rides #trip #travel #story

#memory #entertainment #life #remember #car rides #found #found profound #profound

This Investment

I wrote a note to myself sometime recently, about a topic I wanted to remember for a Thursday. One like tonight when I was feeling overwhelmed.

I thought about it a good deal, tried to determine whether it was too similar to something I'd already written on long ago: a post imploring you to do what you love, regardless of your seemingly more pressing tasks at hand.

I decided it was similar, and I decided tonight to write about it anyway, because it is similar.

You see, I've grown since then, and with some inspiration, I've found a better way to express the point I'd stabbed at before.

So now, in better words: I implore you to invest your time, and not to spend it.

It's on very nights like these, when I'm surrounded with seemingly more pressing matters at hand, that I must remind myself of what investing my time means.

Investments are risky.

They take time to accumulate and effort to start and often their results go unseen for the majority of the time they grow most. Sometimes they turn out to have been worthwhile, and sometimes they are not.

This,

this blog is a worthwhile investment of time, and you, my dear friends, proved it to me last week.

It's risky.

I expose my thoughts and ideas and words to the world, each and every Thursday night, free for any type of interpretation.

It's taken time.

I spend at least an hour or three every week in front of the computer, no matter the other things I've got to take care of.

It took so much effort in the beginning.

I had to figure out what to say every week, and how to say it to other people.

The results had gone mostly unseen...

Until last week I saw that people were listening.

Perhaps just that one post, as its subject matter was so relevant to all those who saw it--

but all 455 people who read that post in one night

they proved that this has been a worthwhile investment of my time.

Perhaps it had taken me 110 other posts to do it, but I had done something.

I'd reached such a larger audience than ever before.

Finally, I said something that caught your attention,

Finally my profound things were found by others.

My investment's value was hinted at,

and now I've put it back in the vault to accumulate more value.

So now, with a little more sense and a broader vocabulary, I can implore you to invest your time, rather than spend it.

Do the things you love.

The risks won't feel to frightening,

The time won't pass so slowly,

The effort required of you will lessen,

And the reward will be greatest.

Greater than anything you could have spent your time doing instead.

It may not seem so while you're earning on your investment, but the night you cash it in -- you realize

It's profound.

Pick it Up and Close it

I'd like to take a moment and provide some closure here. Sometimes, when we feel as if things have been blown out of proportion and carried on with far longer than necessary, we just need a moment to wrap it all up and finish it. So, Ravenwood High school, Class of 2014: here it is. We had an amazing homecoming week. We finally won our homecoming game. We had a paint war that wasn't allowed. We left trash in the parking lot. Yesterday, I heard hundreds of complaints and arguments and disagreements. Roughly ten or so rumors about what would happen to us for it all, but what bothered me most were the people who missed the issue Everyone said it wasn't fair that the seniors were blamed. Everyone hated the teachers that held us accountable. Everyone whined about being told we had to go clean it up. In reality, the seniors should have taken the fall. Think about it: You're a freshman and everyone says the seniors have organized a paint war before the football game. You assume it's allowed, because the seniors know how things work around school. Or better yet: You're a senior and everyone says the Spirit Select have organized a paint war. You assume it's allowed, because they've never done anything that hasn't been. In reality, the teachers should hold us accountable. They tell us stories of their own mistakes, and they advise us against things that seem questionable, they tell us we don't know everything -- instead of realizing that, we indignantly believe that we do know everything. We say they're wrong for acting like they do know more than us... ...I suppose we're wrong then, for thinking we know more than the freshmen? In reality, everyone should have gone to clean it up. In the scope of all the damage that was done: the paint on the band uniforms, the trash in the parking lots, cleaning it up was the least we could do. The heartbreaking part was the minute fraction of people who showed up to help today after school in comparison to the number involved on Friday night, and the number of complaints voiced throughout the week. I wasn't involved at all in the event. I went, and several others went, to take the place of those we knew wouldn't be there, because we knew the heavier consequences would fall on everyone if we didn't. I'd like to ask you all who weren't there, Who would you blame now, if the privilege to tailgate before football games was taken away, because you didn't come clean? The underclassmen who didn't come to pick up your paint bottles? The upperclassmen who started it? The administration that was doing its job? At some point, you have to realize that you have a hand in any of the parts you could lay blame on. I lost a little faith in people this week, because we couldn't just come together and fix something we'd done wrong. We couldn't realize that we all have a hand in each part of everything that goes on. The ones who organized it had the trust of the senior class. The senior class had the trust of the underclassmen. The administration trusted us all. So how can we be so ignorant and hateful to lay blame on everyone else? I didn't go, but I didn't tell anyone not to. I didn't go, but I didn't ask if it was allowed. I didn't go, but in reality, I probably would have, if I could have. And because of that, I felt just as responsible. Nowhere do I have the authority to tell anyone whether they're right or wrong, or judge them for their choices. I hope you realize that's not what I'm doing here, and I hope you see this just as plainly as I saw all of your opinions and complaints: This is my closure, my bag to unpack and tell you all what I think. And frankly, I'm ready to pick it all up and close it. So there you have it, Senior Class of 2014. As trivial an issue as it may have seemed, I hope we can see the bigger picture, and I hope it can all be put behind us now. Consider this your closure, and let's pick up our mess and move on.

Honestly, We Are

On nights like tonight when I've run the whole course of emotions I find it interesting to think about being honest with myself. And sometimes, when we're all being honest, we realize that we aren't. Sometimes in life you hide from things that scare you. You deny them, Sweep them under the rug and hope that no one has the urge to beat it out anytime soon. It's when you realize that the rug keeps getting dirtied with dust that you know you've got to stop the sweeping. You consult your options, and you're honest with yourself for the first time on the issue, you say, I've been lying about where this dust was going all along. Now for those of you who don't then take the rug and beat it out in the sun, even with the fear of all the dust that can overtake you, you are the ones who will let the dust cover your home. It will cover your furniture Your whole house Your soul and your being You'll be unable to see and the rug will be no more under the dust. So, my simple advice: Be honest with yourself. Because when we're finally being honest, we realize, we are not.

383 Words on 653

Tonight I'm up late writing a research paper about the ways an author diminishes the importance of his main character in lieu of her representing the greater whole of society in her time.

It's not terribly difficult, I know what I want to say,

and so I do.

It's broad and long and I don't feel any determinable amount of pressure about its necessary perfection.

It's supposed to be around five pages, and that's no problem. I've always got plenty to say,

and so I do.

Each night I lie awake for a few moments thinking about the ways I could best begin my college essay to ensure my acceptance into my dream school by November 1st.

I'm finding it terribly difficult, I don't know what to say,

and so I don't.

It's short and specific and I feel an indescribable amount of pressure about its necessary perfection.

It's supposed to be under 650 words, I can't imagine doing that. I've got too much to say,

and so I don't.

So now you see why I'm up late about both.

Perhaps it's the stresses of acceptance getting to me, but when the subject of college comes up I find myself speechless.

I become embarrassed of my ambition, and uncertain of my words.

A student-info sheet for college recommenders asked for three words that best described me

I asked social media,

got plenty of answers, all greatly appreciated

I still haven't answered the question.

There are simply so many words in the world.

I love them all,

how do I pick three

especially in the case

that they're for me.

Sometimes it seems that on nights like tonight my words and I have a love-

hate

relationship.

They're here in abundance for a night of graded and recreational writing,

but gone

the second I seek to describe myself.

What does that say, if my words fail me to describe me?

Good or bad?

Long or short?

My day's been long, and so this will be short.

Dearest Sara said my blog was mostly autobiographical.

One of my research sources said novelists usually start with autobiography.

True or false?

If I can write for years upon years about myself,

where are those 3 words?

If I can pull from the broad and craft it into a specific argument,

where are those 650?

I can write easily 383 words on 653,

provided

none of them truly describing me.

Suffering from Surrender

Getting fired is pretty simple. Your boss calls you into their office, tells you that you no longer work there, presumably gives you a reason why you're being let go, and wishes you well as you clean out your desk. Usually you've failed in some fashion to meet standards or expectations, though sometimes they just can't afford to have you working there anymore -- you weren't completely invaluable -- so they cut loose the useless limb. Quitting is about as easy as being fired. Typically you find an alternative type of work, put in your two-weeks notice of resignation, perhaps have a chat with your boss about why you're seeking new opportunities -- especially if you're hoping for a recommendation -- and then you leave when your two weeks are up. Obviously the job wasn't meeting your needs or expectations, you were somehow unsatisfied enough to search elsewhere for a job, and more than happy to leave the company you had previously been devoting a lot of hours to. Now being replaced, surrendering your position and watching someone else do a job you had no intention or desire to leave? That's much more complicated. Tonight it hit me, as I sat in my high school preforming arts center -- the one I'm usually running -- to watch a talent show; my job will be someone else's this time next year. I watched my coming-replacement in a small-scale way tonight as my theatre department friends ran lights and sound and did all the backstage work. I hadn't been needed, and it was fun to watch the show for a change. It went off just as well as anything I'd ever been a part of, and I couldn't help but feel flattered as everyone suddenly realized just what it was that I actually do up there in the booth at the back of the theatre. It was nice to see that I could be replaced well, It was heartbreaking to see that I was going to be replaced, that I have to be replaced. It hit me again that this won't be the last time I feel this way either. This year, during the run of the Fall Play, I will be missing my first performance in three years. My replacement-in-training will take the reigns, and she will call the show on the night after opening. Now, it's just one night, so I'll have the rest of the shows to do, but for a night, everyone will see what next year will be like, and I will too. I know it will go off without a hitch, but I'll feel all the nerves that I would were I there. I'll be suffering from the sickness that is surrender. Unwilling surrender to the natural progression of life, to the fact that I've got to move on, and I can't take everything with me. My show will be running without me, My replacement will be taking over, and I'll be able to count the nights I have left calling shows on one hand.

#found #profound #suffering #from #surrender #found profound

To Cry and To Question

For those of you who haven't been counting, I have the privilege of informing you that this post marks the second year of my blog. As you might see, were you to go back and read them all, or if you've read them all from the beginning, I have learned a lot along the way. So, naturally, why not start out this third year with a post about something I have found myself fascinated with this week: Crying. That comes off terribly morbid, as if I've had a week of mourning and wailing and nothing good. That's not the case at all. Yes, one of my best friends left for boarding school and things are changing everywhere, so tears have indeed been shed; but my week hasn't been dismal. It all stems from my eighth period class, Anatomy. We're discussing the various parts and regions and systems of the body; talking about the differences in observing the body and studying its functions, learning different types of tissues -- you get the idea. The nuts and bolts of humans, if you will. We've had extensive notes on the fact that everything has a purpose and specific function. Nothing happens for no reason, and every process in the body is crucial to maintain homeostasis. The state of balance that occurs when your body is in perfect working condition. Now, as I went through my emotional realizations this week -- including the writing of last week's blog post -- I cried a fair deal. Each time, I felt the familiar sensation of crying. The throat closing up, the lump in your windpipe that you can barely swallow past, the eyes welling with tears, and the heat of your face as they spill over onto your cheeks. Some times there's the sobbing, other times just the tears rolling, one after another; we all know what it feels like. Granted, I am sure there's some reason I've yet to learn, but no matter how much I reason with it, I cannot find a logical explanation for the purpose of humans crying. Certainly there's an emotional release, but what benefit does it bring the body to have salty water pour in abundance from our eyes? What process is it in the brain that recognizes the feelings of hurt and sadness or disappointment or fear and decides that salt water coming from our eyes is probably the best solution to the problem? To me, learning about the physical workings of the body makes me all the more curious about the non-tangibles. Those impulses that let us feel, the very things that give us the emotions that lead to crying...those are what fascinate me, besides the fact that we have a body that can maintain its own physical workings and manage the emotional ones too. After all, regardless of its seemingly purposeless existence, what would we do if we didn't cry? How would we know what someone was heartbroken or choking back their true feelings? What would we do when we were sad? Obviously crying serves its purpose, but I can't help but wonder why it hits us like it does. I can't help but wonder about these brains and bodies we've been given to live with, and in living, to learn with. Tears and cries are such emotional things, how do they fit in any sort of physical definition? I look forward to learning the answer to my questions, after all, I've just started this class, this is my first profound question. You could look back on the past two years and see, I firmly believe that all my questions get answered.

#found #profound #found profound #human #anatomy #life #tears #sad #emotion #physical #high school #learn #crying #to cry and to question

#found #profound #found profound #to cry and to question #cry #question #tears #sad #high school #life #anatomy #human #body

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