The TImes They Are A-Changin'

So!
Hello there.
Whoever you are...

I have been so. Incredibly. Busy. Everyone is busy, so I feel like this is a cop-out. But it's just true. I've been taking a full load of courses with TONS of reading. I tried to work in independent sales for a spell. Oops. I still love the company, but it just didn't work out. I've also spent what little time I have left taking care of my lil self; yoga, sleep, eating food that's not terrible for me, ya know. A little bit of social time, a dash of sleep here and there, and I am burning out.

But I need to do this. Write, I mean. Because I've discovered something terrifying: I am not as passionate and creative as I once was. I used to be able to pull stories from thin air, draw, crochet, sing, bake... essentially, I was a grandma, but still, I had talents that I cultivated and utilized purely for enjoyment. But nowadays? It's like casting a bucket into a well and just scraping a bit of muddy water from the bottom. I keep tossing the bucket down to help with essays and such, and it's just... dry. I'M dry. And that just will not do. I will not become middle-aged and burned-out before my time.

I'm not going to change everything about myself just because of this. I'm still not going to drink, even though "everyone does it," because A) that is a blatant myth, and B) I would find it terrifying to look back on a night and not remember it. We only get a finite number of nights. Why would I ever toss an entire night into a bottle of vodka? Because "that's what college kids do"? Pshhh, I don't buy into those kinds of generalizations.

I have to change something. All of these crazy deadlines and papers and articles on the evolution of the apple (don't ask, you're not ready (hardy har, name that series!) ), they are draining me of life before it's begun. I deeply enjoy research and scholarly work, but I find myself absorbed for weeks on end in topics that hold less enjoyment for me than they should.

SO! I have a camera. I'm committed to learning about myself, as cheesy as that sounds. Hey, stop rolling your eyes! Not my fault that I'm addicted to Oprah's Life Class. I am going to document my deathly boring life for y'all. Buckle up, because it's going to be a wild ride! Well, only if you consider those little kiddie roller coasters wild. But I do, so let's go! Insert catchy catchphrase from television/movie here!

(PS: I am sitting in the library. Someone threw a snowball at the window and made me jump about 20 feet. I turn around, and they stare back awkwardly before running away. They clearly mistook me for someone else. Cue bedtime.)

So Why I Write, aka MY Belle Letres

Frankly, I enjoy writing for writing's sake.

But I'm here because I love the idea of carving out my own little corner of cyberspace.

I'm a college student who loves blogs, especially lifestyle. It's a way for me to gaze into the future and think about where I want to go. Especially for someone who loves reading? It makes my life easier if I flip through sites and read something delightful... possibly during a dry lecture. Heh. Sorry. What they know won't know won't hurt them!

But when I looked up, "blogs written by college students," diddly squat! Not really. Maybe two or three written by graduate students (Hannah at Student Life, can we share chocolate and watch Grey's sometime? K thanks), or university-sponsored blogs with random pieces of advice. But other than that, slim pickins.

Well, then I thought, "Why don't I write a lifestyle blog now?"

Answer: college lifestyle isn't very glamorous. It involves dorm food (the least photogenic of all foods), dorm design (cramped, smelly and vaguely seventies, coated in air freshener and tacky glue) and frugality. I haven't bought a shirt for more than $20, and my new makeup addiction is suffering because I have NOWHERE TO PUT IT. Making my own dinner involves microwave chicken, a slightly bruised apple, and a cheese stick. There's a dirth of silence and reflection. Expression and art for its own sake seems nonexistent, possibly worthless.

College is one of those crucial times where expression and reflection keeps me more than sane (relatively). It allows me to step back from the growing chaos, remember what I really want and where I want to go.

There is something, I suppose, to be said for the experience of dorm life, as a right of passage or an initiation. It's like a training bra for adulthood. Some days, I slosh around campus in a mechanical fog: class, lunch, library, Netflix, repeat.

But staying in that mechanical fog isn't good enough for me. I want to revel in life, not just endure it. I am experiencing college life. I have nursed several friends as they puked jungle juice/Thai food for hours... let's just say you can't come back from that smell. Just ask my stuffed bunny, Barney. He still has some dried vomit on his ear that his mommy is scared to touch. From last year. Sorry Barney. I've been involved with Greek life on my campus, dressing up in fun but absurd costumes.

That being said, I don't want to brand myself as the Dear Abby of collegiate life. I'm not just a college kid. I love yummy, interesting food, interesting clothes, movies... I'm a young woman, just trying, like so many of us, to find my way. To take joy in reading, writing, food, exercise, friends, love, laughter...

I'm getting sappy and rambly trying to avoid midterm work. Point? College life may not always be glamorous, but that's a few very important years to fill with sunshine, beauty and smiles.

(Reblogged from Bianca's Tumblr, original clip from the movie Mean Girls. If you don't know it... I love you. You're like a Martian. :) )

I had to do it! It was getting more saccharine that the blue milk left over from Lucky Charms.

Life Collegiate

Why I Did Nothing This Sunday

I had a very unproductive weekend. Wanna know why? Let me explain... Here's a story about lovely dorm living that's sure to make you cringe!

So I slept, by a strange turn of fortune, in my friend M's room. M needed some cheering up, so my quiet little evening with nail polish and Downton Abbey turned into a sleepover. I don't mind at all--sitcoms and frosting were involved. A very nefarious duo.

Her and the frosting, I mean.

Anywho, I slept on her roommate N's bed (another good friend of mine). She was away, but her bed was so prettily made that I just felt wrong displacing all those gorgeous, whimsical pillows. So I used an old plaid fleece blanket and curled up on a mass of oddly-shaped pillows. So it was kind of a crappy night's sleep, what with waking up and forgetting what bed I was in several times. (Hey, college milestone!) The next day I went to lunch and did miscellaneous chores and such until about two. By then, I was exhausted.

And here's the crux...

In college, you don't sleep naked. I mean, if there's a fire drill at 2 am you'll want clothes. Besides, with that whole recently-awakened amnesia phenomenon I previously described, you (read I) could end up strolling about in the painfully bright hallway in your birthday suit. In Arizona, it was insanely hot in the summer and I had no AC in my west-facing room, so I slept in my skivvies quite a bit. And it's nice! Extra-relaxing.

It was stuffy, I was tired, and my roommate was working until late. So I thought, "Eh, why not!" So I locked the door (just to be safe), stripped to my comfiest bra and panties, crawled into bed, and promptly conked out until about 6.

During my lovely Sunday nap, I heard this weird, light tapping. I ignored it, kept sleeping.

Tap tap tap.

Is someone knocking? Nah, too quiet. Zzzzzz...

Tap tap tap.

Zzzzzz...

Then I hear the jingle of keys.
I sit straight up, pulling the covers to my neck like some scandalized Victorian virgin. I called for my roommate nervously.

I hear the jingling stop, and then a man's falsetto saying, "Yeeeeeees?" It's my roommate's boyfriend. Apparently she gave him her keys... for some unknown reason. I love them both, but he's now our third roommate. I panic. They can't know that this is my semi-naked naptime... That sounded dirty, but I swear it wasn't. Honest to blog.

"Wait!" I yelp, leaping out of bed. "Um, need to shower. Getting ready. To, um... to shower! Just wait. No clothes."I grab a robe and grab my shower caddy, to continue the illusion. Hurridly I unlock the door and run smack dab into a crowd of miscellaneous men.

He brought a posee. Fantastic. He said, "Hey." I said, "Hey." Then they turned and left with little comment on why I had been semi-nude while they'd been knocking for five minutes.

And I still have no idea what the hell he was doing trying to break in during my naptime.

Long story short, I was thoroughly rattled and henceforth did nothing but take the aforementioned shower/make mac and cheese/clean.

Did that story really relate to my productivity? Nope. And therein lies the paradox.

Happy Monday!

The King Has Returned... From Target

Sooo I thought that today, I would share a little faux-blog post/journal entry from August 2012. I was feeling very philosophical that day, but since I didn't have a blog yet, I just scribbled a train of thought. Stumbling upon it now, I realize that I HAVE to publish it. It's long... but it's just too wonky.


Today is a very important day. In exactly three weeks- twenty-one days- I will be jetting off with my family to gorgeous Denver, Colorado to begin the next chapter of my life.

It. Is. A HUGE. Deal.

I am massively aware of this fact. Every time I’m talking to somebody, like a relative, a hairdresser, or the teller at the bank (I’m the most entertaining person they see all day, barring any mental patient antics) and my impending lifestyle change comes up casually in the first five minutes, they usually say something like, “Aren’t you excited?”

“Yes, I’m very excited. It’s beautiful there,” I say demurely, smiling and looking up through my eyelashes like Audrey Hepburn does in old movies. But inside, my heart just did three backflips up my esophagus, causing a jolt of adrenaline and a rapid stream-of-consciousness.

"Hell yeah, it’s freaking gorgeous! I wonder if I’m going to need a coat. I WILL need a coat. I’ve never needed a coat on a daily basis before. Maybe I should get one of those timeless Burberry trenches and knot it around my slim waist as I float through the campus, sipping green tea lattes and reading Proust. Burberry trenches call for Proust. Nah. Most likely I’ll get one of those super-insulated black puffballs with the faux-fur around the hood that will make me look like one of the hamsters in that car commercial. Run from the human-sized hamster! It’s aliiiiiiiive!! Hehe. Wait. What if my jacket isn’t warm enough? Will faux-fur insulate my sensitive earlobes? What if a snowstorm hits and all I have is a cheap American Eagle sale jacket? And I fall in a snowdrift and run in, sopping and late, to my hardest class? What do sorority girls wear in winter? Pink windbreakers? Will I join a sorority? Will I read Proust? And what will happen when (not if) I fall into a snowdrift and soak everything I own? Do you put your books in the dryer or blowdry them like The Incredibles? What will happen to my beautiful (and fictitious; clearly I start hallucinating) Burberry?”

But, in lieu of insanity, what do I say instead?

“I can’t wait to go shopping! Target has super cute towels.”

Deep. The Burberry shuns me.

So if my audience has a deeper relationship with me than the bank teller or gas station cashier, they usually smile politely, if not a tad indulgently. Then they hit me with another whammy, like, “What are you planning to major in?”

En guarde! And the mental battle begins again.

My mother, unfortunately for her, lives just down the hall from me. Therefore, she receives the most unfiltered script, usually while she’s trying to work. And, being much more mentally sound than myself, she tells me like it is. To paraphrase, she says something like, “You worry too much. Enjoy yourself. There’s only so much you can do before you drive yourself crazy- and drag me down with you. Now run along and go shopping. I have an empire to run.”

(A more accurate transcription: “Whaaaaa? I was half-listening after you started talking about a shopping schedule. Find a friend, get a job, and stop annoying me. My hours are six-to-eight on non-Happy Hour days.” My dad's technically the boss and she's just his secretary, but let's face it: he's Darth Vader, but SHE'S Palpatine. JFGI)

My mother, phrasing aside, was correct. I was so worried about my Next Great Hurdle that I wasn’t really living in the moment this summer. My entire week was revolving around appointments and errands meant to prepare me for the ever-looming deadline. My head was so wrapped around in knots that it looked like a giant rubber band ball. I needed to go out into the world and LIVE!

Which is why I spent last night eating dark chocolate, painting my toenails on the couch, and watching Disney movies on VHS.

VHS! Remember that, kiddies? That was far before movies could fit in the palm of your hand, or before you could record and rewind any little sitcom at the drop of the hat. It actually took WORK.

I sound like a crotchety old lady. (Crotchety. Teehee.)

Anywho, my brilliant sister came up with the idea. We have a huge shelf full of “vintage” VHS classics like Tarzan and Angels in the Outfield (you thought that we’d forgotten you, preadolescent Joseph Gordon-Levitt--never), as well as a giant VHS collecting dust under our TV. “I can hook up my Apple TV in three minutes flat,” I boasted. “This should be a cinch.”

Thirty-five minutes of swearing, wire-fishing, and electrocution later, we had yet to get the damn thing to click. I got in trouble with my sister for saying some very dirty words in front of the Disney movies. She shoved past me and tried to push her lanky five-foot-ten frame behind our TV.

“Pull that plug thingy.”
(grinding teeth together) “Which one?”
“The white cable thing into the grid on the back of that thingy.”
“There’s a power cord.”
“From the VHS to the cable box?”
ZZZZZZZZZT.
…
“That wasn’t right.”


Once we were both close to a mental breakdown, I busted under her legs to fiddle with the wires one last time. “If I don’t get this in five minutes,” I swore, “I’ll just use the damn OnDemand. This makes Steve Jobs cry.”


“LANGUAGE!”


*siiiiigh*

Finally, it splutters and whirs to life to our triumphant Spartan cheers. After a fistfight with the rewind button, and a fierce debate about which way the cassette goes in, the screen flickers to life. We run to turn out the lights. We snuggle into quilts. The Disney emblem soars across the screen. A lion roars in the distance. Slowly, beautifully, life begins on the savannah. The Lion King has begun.

Suddenly, there is peace. Both of us become entranced by the beautiful artistry, touching feet under the blanket. We don’t speak, except to mouth lines and make the occasional fangirl comment to the other. (For example, “I love that Ferris Bueller and Simba are essentially screen brothers.”) It is an hour-and-a-half of bliss that I haven’t experienced for a month.

At one point, I decide to try to do laundry. As I ease myself up, my sister hisses, “Where are you going? There’s no pause button.”

No pause button? I had forgotten this. I live on the pause button. I now recognize its little indent on my thumb without looking. This allows me to, in the present day.

Of course, I realized that you could, in fact, press stop and wait for the other person.  But I understood my sister’s frustration a little. Running to do another task in the middle of this serendipitous moment was a bigger commitment. Everything would have to STOP, midstory, for something that could wait for another forty minutes.

I’m feeling very philosophical as I write this- The Lion King does that to me. So I apologize for the soap box. Life doesn’t have a pause button. There’s a stop, and there’s a play. Laundry and college lists and winter shopping could wait for a night. I see what my mother was trying to say now. Life doesn’t pause- but everything comes soon enough, no fast forwarding required. For tonight...

Hakuna matata.

(Still so true. And if you’re one of the rare individuals who has never seen this movie... shame shame. It’s very powerful. And no, it’s not on Neflix.)

On a semi-serious note... Writing from a Student’s Perspective

(Not mine: image found here)


When this graph is too accurate; just a few problems with writing...

What is good writing?

I’ll let you mull that over for a second.

That question has always tormented teachers of writing. But now, with the advent of the Internet, blogs, Tumblr (I would have loved to hear Socrates’ opinion on that one), that debate has intensified. So many professors ruminate over gems such as, “Why do we teach writing? Does good writing create good citizens? Do we teach writing so that students can enter the workplace armed with grammar and sentence structure? Can kids these days write at all?"

First of all, take a deep breath. Did you do it? Good. This generation is still quite young and pretty darn innovative. Calm yourselves.

Now, remember why you love writing. Not about your syllabi, or that article that you assigned. The beauty of writing. The way you feel putting all of your thoughts/emotions/miscellaneous musings on paper, no matter how difficult it may be.

That said, there are quite a few problems and questions with the teaching of writing today. I cannot offer concrete answers to each hyper-concerned professor. But I hope to further de-clutter the writer’s conscience. Then maybe I can enlighten a teacher or two. Step back from the politics, the business world and egos and wonder a little more. At writing as an art, and of course at the students themselves.

Now please recall why you love writing. The issue is that with all of the politics and economics and debate about writing, writing has become less of an art and more of a chore. A checkbox.

I’m going to try not to take sides in this fierce (and slightly exaggerated—boy, it’s a bit sad how intense it is) debate, and I’m certainly not going to pretend to persuade. I’m going to analyze writing itself a bit.

Writing and Capitalism

“I am a good writer. I utilize excellent grammar. I can compose effectively in various formats and genres.”

These have become a part of a person’s brand, their marketable skills presented in a neat package for potential employers and professors. Trying to meld the capitalist-fueled, practical side of writing with the beauty and bubbling and frothing is exhausting!

Honestly, the whole idea of writing linking to citizenship makes literacy, which should be enjoyable, into a political chore. Citizenship is a duty bestowed upon us by others. Implying that good writing creates "good citizenship," when not defined, also implies that these “citizen writers” owe allegiance to some higher government or virtue.

Is that “good writing”? Matching the writing style to the agenda and the audience? That attitude disservices the writers and those who read it.

Writing well is a freedom, not an obligation. I think a lot of people could relate to this sensation: I love something interesting, maybe painting or pandas, and I have a perspective that I wish to share. But when I want to put that on paper… nothing happens. There’s some confusion between the brain and the paper/screen. I’ve received so many complicated agendas and methodologies that I forget how to just write!

While we’re tossing around phrases like “citizen writers” (am I the only individual that winces a bit there?) and the importance of citizenship in the context of writing instruction, we should be cautious of what sort of writers that creates, not what sort of citizen. I think that Fish would agree with me on this one: writing teachers should teach writing, not civic responsibility.

Citizenship implies writing for the sake of social responsibility. While that’s all well and good, it takes away the purity of writing for its own sake. Not all writing should be artistically correct Socratic arguments—how boring would that be? And isn’t a generation of boring writers worse than “bad” writers? Perhaps that’s my prerogative, not yours.

Glossing over invention

Writing is supposed to be enjoyable, freeing, communicative… so why is it becoming an aggravating, politically charged bore? Teachers and professors of writing fret over the result while they gloss over the enjoyment! The invention! As Stephen Fry describes, the bubbling and frothing of language for language’s sake!

(Also, there's a wonderfully creative video of these essay "performed" via kinetic typography here. It's worth a view.)

That creative invention has been ignored in favor of standardization and personal branding in the business world and the academic world. We’ve mastered format without invention. It’s like making pies without the filling—tasteless, thin, crumbly.

Between this implied “obligation” which we are being taught and the mechanics that we supposedly don’t understand, no wonder students are having trouble writing. People teach writing or encourage writers based on their own agendas instead of writing as simply an art.

I definitely don’t agree we students “cannot write”, if only for the fact that our generation is too young and unorthodox to say for certain. Oh, and for some reason the more senior generation almost always maligns the younger ones. Seriously. Even Socrates whined about the youngsters of his day. But today we’re faced with a generation of unwilling writers. Somehow the pressure to contribute something meaningful has multiplied (just because we can write, doesn’t mean everyone should), but along the way the beauty of the process has been murdered.

Yes, writing requires study and practice, but only so much! I’m frankly exhausted of all of the talk of what writing should be. Writing is art! Not a skill acquired for citizenship or careers or tests or a politically correct curriculum vitae or any other nonsense. We’ve forgotten that. By we, I’m referring to hundreds of thousands of college students who, even if they love writing, have learned to hate and avoid it. I love writing—but every time I have to write a paper, it’s a torturous process. Every article, every essay. As soon as it’s assigned a purpose or a grade, I dread it.

I find that far more alarming than any other phenomenon. I think you “guardians of language”, as Fry puts it, should be alarmed as well. Good writing is a chore, an obligation, a grade, a resume builder? Is this the mindset we have been taught?

Writing for writing’s sake

Business proposal, lab reports and research project have practical purposes of course. But prolific writing doesn’t need to have a greater purpose but to be. It’s this joy and this pure freedom that seems to have dissipated.

In researching this, I came across a dusty old phrase that, in all my years of "writing education," I never learned. Belle letres, literally meaning “beautiful letters.” It’s writing as an end to itself and not for practical or informative purposes. Art for art's sake.

Why have I never learned this? Because I’ve constantly obsessed about product over process, purpose over poetry. I freeze when I writing that article or novel because I’ve never been taught to just write.

What’s the point of forcing students for a dozen or so years to conform their writing to the conventions of communities that they have no desire to join? Most people will probably not become professors of literature or writing. Sorry.

Blank remarks that current trends in writing allow the mediocre to gain a competitive edge. (Saying that practically makes me twitch) Well, to borrow one of Fry’s phrases, sod them to Hades! An ordinary person can still create beauty and art—one need not be brilliant to create art for art’s sake. It’s those cynical schools of thought that scare good writers away. What kind of writers do we honestly expect to create with these methods?

This debate centers on the idea that writing should always perform a higher purpose, whether practical or virtuous. But that only perpetuates ideas of the present! Writing for writing’s sake creates. And yes, that’s the extent of that sentence. It creates.

This generation of taught-to-the-standard students invents their own belle letres. They communicate their passions and experiences through inimitable and slightly unorthodox styles that should be celebrated, not condemned for breaking the norm.

I guess it depends on what sort of guardian you wish to become for the craft of writing. All I can ask is that professors support student writers instead of belittling them, please. Then they will feel that urge to create and write. And please, for all our sakes, stop belaboring your own agendas for an end result.

Happy Random Acts Of Kindness Day!

And Happy Valentine's Day!!! :) I love this day, because it's a day to smile and wear pink. But it's also National Cream-Filled Chocolates day. Yippee! So if you want to buy yourself a big ole box of your favorite chocolates, have no shame!

Anywho, I decided not to get into the Valentine's Day politics today. I feel that people get so wrapped up in their status, their dates, what kind of flowers they get (even kids in elementary school have this issue--you know, how many Valentines did I get in my shoebox, what kind of candy did I get, Johnny/Janie got more than me, ect) that they forget that this is a day to LOVE EACH OTHER! Which is why I'm taking a moment to promote Random Acts of Kindness ® Week.

Today I smiled (big smile, but not creepy) at 12 strangers. And 10 smiled back! I may have just made their afternoon. It certainly made mine! Remember to love one another, and yourself! :) :)


“All you need is love. But a little chocolate now and then doesn’t hurt.”

—	Charles M. Schulz

However you choose to celebrate... have a lovely, chocolate-covered day! :)


PS: If there's ANYONE out there who knows how to post pictures from other blogs WITHOUT infringing on copyright, please let me know! Does acknowledgement suffice, or must I contact the blog owner? What about links? When are those copyrighted? I scared! haha

PPS: Soon enough, I will have a camera so I can post my own pictures without copyright craziness! Stay tuned! :)

Yay! I just love new beginnings! :)

"Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show. To begin my life with the beginning of my life, I record that I was born..."

-David Copperfield, Charles Dickens

That's one of my favorite quotes, embossed on the cover of my current journal, seen here. I just got it at Barnes & Noble, but this should do! I'm a teensy weensy bit of a quote junkie; Fact #1 about me! It's dreamy when someone finds exactly what I want to say.


Well. Hello there! Lovely to see your face.

I don't actually see it. But hello nonetheless! Welcome! I'm so glad to have you here! :) :) :)

I've been a bit of a sissy starting this site. My friend Mallory helped me sort through dozens of names before deciding. Thank you chica! Why call it Honey Wondering? Cuz they call me Honey and I wonder a lot! :) At life, at love, at the world, at funny videos (although I pinky swear I'll never force them upon you-probably).

I don't even know where I'm going with this blog. Or this post. Oops? :P I suppose I just wanted to say my hellos to kind of get over that initial fear of posting- a pre-posting post? Anyone else experience this?

Anywho. I was always one of those kids that paced the pool deck, dipping in my toe, then my finger, then stepping in to my ankles and waiting for five more minutes (while dodging the siblings and friends that tried to push me in... I lost that battle a lot). So it took me quite a while, once this idea popped into my head, to take this plunge. I'm not entirely sure that I have! Haha But c'est la vie, oui? (That is the extent of my French, teehee) Sometimes you have to just jump in.

Right now, someone is playing nonsense keys on the piano in the common room, and frankly that should be an evil punishable by tiny little crabs snapping at the perpetrator's toes. So if this isn't a stellar first post- well, build a bridge, darling. At least you don't have to listen to a tone deaf mash-up of Hot Cross Buns and Mary Had a Little Lamb.

So! I just wanted to thank anyone who took a gander at this. I'm crazy excited to show you all the wonders that I'm wondering. I'll just close us out with one more lovely quotes:

"Keep on beginning and failing. Each time you fail, start all over again, and you will grow stronger until you have accomplished a purpose – not the one you began with perhaps, but one you’ll be glad to remember. "

-Anne Sullivan

I don't know where I'm headed or what's waiting for me, but... CANNONBALL!!!!!! :)

Thanks for stopping by, and have a wonderful day! Hugs! :)