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Wednesday, January 23, 2013

This I believe #2

Please leave your second this I believe essay in the comments section of this post!

40 comments:

  1. Every morning
    bright green eyes stare at me

    as I bask
    in my affair with bed.

    Tenderly, I stroke the strong, lean, and hairy body
    that is pressed against me.

    “Hey baby”
    I say.

    I am greeted with a painfully indifferent “meh”
    as bearded cheeks turn from me.

    My quest for the coffee pot
    is less than graceful.

    Like a hobbit with vertigo
    on top of mount doom.

    I trip on my book bag and look to find
    a judgmental emerald stare.

    “Goddammit, why can’t
    you have a little compassion!?”

    I shout, as I brim a bowl with breakfast
    for the companion who once loved me so.

    I absolutely believe
    that my cat is a jerk.

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    Replies
    1. Loved this. I found it funny to imagine a bearded cat.

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    2. This is funny, Sarah, and crafted in a way that maintains the suspense throughout. I like both of these points.

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    3. There are no jerk cats. We are the ones inconveniencing them. Once we understand this, we can exist in cat harmony.

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    4. I LOVE CATS. Also, I like that I pictured a burley man at the beginning.

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    5. You are a mistress of suspense, Sarah! I thoroughly enjoyed your reflection and I loved the twist at the end (all along I thought it was going to be about your love for your cat...)

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    6. http://youtu.be/sP4NMoJcFd4


      ^I could never be single again, because this is how it would play out.

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  2. I believe in Music.

    Spinning in circles to the beat of a drum. Getting you out of the internal hum of your own central processing. No more stressing. Just you caressing the air. Who cares who stares? You're answering prayers. We all know God wont take the time to. Who cares who sees? Seeing is only the first step to believing--you CAN have one without the other.

    Music. The language of The Gods. Tuning forks, like lightning rods, channel the emotions of the universe. Well versed in the way air molecules disperse as sound travels through them, we privilege this knowledge over actual movement.

    Movement. Spinning in circles to the beat of a drum. The underground railroad of consciousness. We tend to forget that knowledge, like a bank, sells your body to the wealth of your thoughts. Like a slave. It rots your ability to move outside of yourself. Is that really wealth or just poverty?

    It's Highway Robbery, when that part of our soul dies. It's life without it's highs and lows, without it's flows. A stream without the fish that direct it's water. Like a father who's lost his son. An athlete who can't run. Where's the fun in that?

    The Universe is moving, why aren't we?

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  3. Last summer, my roommate and I decided to have a night dining out. My mother is a pharmaceutical sales representative, and uses the catering services of the Italian chain restaurant, “Johnny Carinos.” Because of this, the restaurant gives her a gift card each time she decides to buy their glorious food. She, in turn, gives the gift card to me. I had over two hundred dollars in Italian food gift cards when my roommate and I were deciding where to eat. Obviously, in hopes of saving our own precious money, we went to Johnny Carinos.

    Our food was delivered to us by the most charming, middle-aged, bald man I have ever had the pleasure of seeing. His eyes sparkled like the top of his shiny baldhead. He may or may not have had an earring, and been wearing black eyeliner. With the biggest smile possible, he said, “Would you like some fresh Parmesan?”

    I was absolutely delighted. When he left our table, I declared, “That was such a charming bald man.” After a brief discussion in which it was made pretty clear that the bald man was magical, I reached a conclusion. The man was a genie. Our conversation continued along the lines of, “Where do you think he lives, a magical lamp?” “Do you think he knows Aladdin?” “Maybe we could ask him for wishes.” Finally, my roommate posed a question, “What do you think his name is?”

    I thought for a moment, and answered, “Robert.”

    Luckily, I had a friend working there at this fine establishment as a waiter. She came to our table to share in small talk, so I seized the chance to know more about the genie, specifically his name. She replied, “Do you mean the manager?”

    “I suppose? Just the charming bald man.”

    She exclaimed, “Oh yes! He’s our manager. He’s great. His name is Rob. Why?”

    My roommate and I were shocked! We couldn’t stop giggling for the duration of our dinner. In conclusion, I believe I am actually the genie.

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    1. This is fantastic. I laughed out loud at work (where it is totally acceptable for me to be browsing the internet...)

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    2. How incredible. This just made my entire night, stinky.

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    3. Perfection. I knew you were a genie.

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    4. So you like middle-aged bald men?! This was a fun & clever reflection to read.

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  4. I believe in never, ever listening to your now ex-boyfriend when all through your relationship, he claimed that that short, tacky, and distasteful bleached blonde who always texted and called him, was just crazy, annoying, and obsessed with him… Oh, and he just hated her. That makes sense, right? After all, he is the one who is dating you, and you are the one who he asked to be his girlfriend.

    There are several reasons why the relationship, which was probably a bad idea to begin with, was very short-lived. First, he was a baby senior in high school, with the immaturity level of a boy going through puberty… Oh wait, he probably was still going through puberty. Secondly, he was an hour away. Now, normally I wouldn’t say that amount of distance would endanger a relationship, but considering he NEVER once came to Lexington, and I ALWAYS had to go there to see him… Well, let’s just say I wasn’t too happy about that. Thirdly, the real deal-breaker, he bought my movie ticket before we were “official” on Facebook and when our relationship was just “talking” and not “dating”. However, the day after we became “FBO”, the world of chivalrous boyfriends that hold the door, buy your dinner and your movie ticket, and make time to see you even when they’re busy, came rapidly crashing down. Yeah, I don’t know why I didn’t break up with him right then and there…

    In short, I believe that if someone doesn’t need you, you don’t need them. I believe that if you think someone is cheating on you, they probably are. I believe that if you wear your heart on your sleeve, it will more than likely get torn off. But most importantly I believe that if you ever date someone who has an “obsessed, stalker-ish, crazy, psycho, annoying” bleached blonde that always texts and calls him when you’re together, you shouldn’t believe a word they say, because you’re getting played.

    My mantra for my next relationship: “You’re a player? Oh, nice to meet you. I’m the coach.”

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    1. Don't take any shit.

      However, more importantly: wait a couple of years, move on with your life completely, find some amazing and well educated man, be more than he could ever even aspire to be, and appear to completely disregard his existence. BUT always hold on to the teensiest grain of anger. That way, when you're twenty years old and key the living cuss out of his vehicle under cover of night, no one would ever possibly think you were the one who did it.

      It's best this way... trust me.

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    2. FBO...I learned a new phrase AND a new set of parameters, what is and is not acceptable before becoming FBO. Thanks.

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    3. What a funny and passionate statement about who NOT to date! I really enjoyed reading this, Sarah. And I appreciate your willingness to make yourself vulnerable.

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  5. Savanna Barnett

    I believe that I am too easily distracted. Like right now, for example. As I should be thinking up a real topic, I am 100% distracted. In this certain case, it’s only half my fault that I’m distracted. “Hey, roomie, I’m going to write this essay and then go to sleep. Oh, you invited someone over? You told them they could stay until 1 a.m.?” Now there is, not only my roommate, who distracts me the most, but yet another distraction. One of whom speaks mind enthusing topics. How am I supposed to give my attention to my homework when I have the off chance of speaking to someone of things other than how climbing is awesome and how we’re going to (not) workout tomorrow? However, I did say that this was also half my fault; I find myself distracting him from his homework, because I know in turn he will distract me from mine. Maybe I spend these late hours of the night searching for distractions. Unfortunately, I needn’t search far. I am probably my biggest distraction. I believe that anyone who gets so easily distracted from themselves and literally anything/anyone surrounding them, is too easily distracted.

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    1. Being distracted from homework is one of my greatest pleasures currently. I also like that I could follow your train of thought even though it is sporadic (and supposed to be).

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  6. I hate when I have so much to say, but can’t figure out the right way to say it. I want to tell you things that are too important to hodge-podge out, but I think these things would suffer from over editing. The syntax, dialogue and voice need to unite in a way that package together perfectly these precious moments. I want you to know how moving these moments past are to me and how these sometimes tiny instances have changed my life. The reason I pause at telling you these snippets of my life in full detail is that I haven’t quite figured out how to make people feel what I feel using language yet. I trust that some of you experience this same frustration as you write these essays on your beliefs. I want you to believe my beliefs. I want you to experience my truths just as I stumbled upon them myself.
    When telling a story I hardly ever get the reaction that I had while living out the experience. I could tell you that the view from Mt.Kenthos was the most beautiful sight I have ever seen in my life, but you could never really understand how insignificant everything else suddenly seemed in comparison. I could tell you about the moment I thought the world were ending when he left, how mind numbingly shattered I thought I was, but you would never feel the tears that ran down my face. I could tell you about the day I saw those celebrities walk into a sandwich shop, and how I realized just how big of a fan girl I was like everyone else. However, I’m not quite sure you would ever get the full picture.

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    1. It seems to me that you have also, as an unintended part of this essay, outlined up to three more essays. I bet you could make us feel and see these things.

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  7. This comment has been removed by the author.

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    1. That's a really heavy belief. Don't let it break you.

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  8. I believe in the beauty of the out of the ordinary. Of the smoke drifting through the cracks, slowly contorting through the air. The spirals drifting in space. I believe in the beauty of unorthodox art. Images and colors in places that one would never expect. Beauty in places you normally don't look for it. Especially in the sprawling vistas and deep valleys of life, forever inked upon the smooth canvas of the human body.

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  9. I believe in trapeza.

    Though spell-check wants to correct trapeza to trapeze, the two of them are not the same thing.

    I grew up helping my grandmother set up trapeza for guests. Trapeza: a table weighed down by dishes made by my grandma, a skilled cook by all accounts. She made different things depending on the occasion. For the feast of St. Georgy she made lamb with rice, cold cucumber soup (cucumbers always marked the beginning of summer), French fries, and pita: a home-made round bread decorated with whimsical creatures fashioned from bread dough. For Sts. Cyril and Methodius Day, she made banitsa, my personal favorite. It took her all morning to start the dough, spread it out in thin sheets, stuff each sheet with feta and butter, and bake the banitsa. In the summer she roasted eggplant for kiopolu and chopped vegetables for shopska salad: two favorite sides to roasted chicken, fried meatballs, or last winter’s horse-shoe shaped sausage (made by my grandfather).

    Trapeza: a table around which friends gathered for a meal that lasted all night. Drinking rakia, our equivalent to Moonshine, took hours. Mostly it was about telling stories about Svetlin, my first cousin, who abandoned his wife so he could marry his girlfriend, a nurse in the hospital where he worked as a doctor. Their twin kids were born less than 9 months after the wedding to which no one from our side of the family was invited. About Ilyana, Svetlin’s sister, who, my father claimed, would have left her husband of 5 years, had it not been for my father’s advice that she persist, stick it out, what’s a woman in her 20s to do without a husband. That was back in the 1980s when women still needed husbands in Bulgaria.

    Trapeza: I grew up hearing that the Bulgarians were the most hospitable people on earth, that everyone would put together trapeza within minutes if someone dropped by unannounced.

    After Communism ended, trapeza gave way to a cup of coffee and a box of chocolates.

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    1. From our emotional outpourings here, sounds like all of us are looking for Trapeza.

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  10. I believe in calling the police.
    It was a momentous occasion for Miss Sarah Tipton. At ten minutes til midnight, a group of girls and me had secretly gathered in her empty room, waiting to officially initiate her into her twenty-first year of life. The moment came and went. She opened the door, we made a big ruckus. Cookie cake was involved. It was a simple celebration, although the surprise was a success. However, the celebration would not be complete until she legally bought her first alcoholic beverage. Six of us piled into a car and we made our way to the only place open on a Sunday at midnight.
    The neon and fluorescent lights of Thorntons welcomed us as our gang of girls pulled into the parking lot. This is where it gets weird. As soon as we got out of the car, we were greeted by two very interesting gentlemen with a question, “Do ya’ll girls like DVDs? How ‘bout ya’ll watch this DVD…” We politely responded with a “no, thank you,” and went on our way. We spent the next ten minutes taking pictures, singing Happy Birthday, and causing a scene. After, Sarah ceremonially exited Thorntons with a six-pack of beer in hand. We were victorious in our endeavor.
    However, the two men were still there, waiting for us to exit in order to commit their criminal act. As soon as we piled back into the car, one of the men sprinted into Thorntons, leaving his companion behind. Through the windows, we watched as he grabbed the largest case of Natural Ice that he could carry and sprinted back out to join his friend who was standing watch. From there, both men began running up Loudin with their prize. They did not get far before the man carrying their stolen beer tripped and flew through the air. He landed on his head and somersaulted forward with the beer case cradled in his stomach. After this show, he was out, lying like a starfish next to the road. However, this did not deter his friend, who snatched the beer right up and kept on running, leaving his friend for dead.
    This is when I started believing in calling the police.

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    Replies
    1. Katie, either you have the best stories or you are an expert story-teller. And I am yet to call the police...

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    2. somersaulting while cradling a case of beer and lying out like a starfish--you have incredible imagery in your essay, Katie. Thanks for taking the time to find all the right words.

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  11. Because of his daily belligerent response, I told my son, at 7:25, that I would not push him anymore; I would not try to accelerate him and his sister through morning routines drawn purposefully out to a pace that humbles glaciers.

    Instead, I waited, coat and scarf on, the car already running in the driveway, slow-moving mountains of ice taking shape between my son and me as he, too, waited for his sister. She is too young to understand time. She did not know that school had already started before she danced herself into the bathroom and performed The Nutcracker for the girl watching her from the mirror in front of which she was supposed to be brushing her teeth.

    Weary of my son’s certainty that at ten, he is better at parenting than I am, I told him to do whatever he wanted. I told him that he could ride his bike to school. He asked, sure that biking would be faster than waiting. I told him, too, that he would likely be hit by a car crossing Richmond Road at rush hour. I made it clear that I didn’t care.

    He pulled a pillow over himself and cried. His sister sang inside the shower stall, a final pirouette away from brushing her teeth. Soon her lap, too, would fill with wails and tears; at 8:07 was terrified of being late.


    At 8:26 my phone rang. The call was from his school. “Hello?”

    “um….”
    ........“I forgot my clarinet."
    ................"Can you bring it to the school?”

    ........................“Yes.”

    On that day, I believed in forgetfulness.

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    1. Entries like this make me believe in the fallibility of people and how it's because of that fallibility that we ARE people. I tend to forget this myself.

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    2. I love how the awareness of time and the increase of emotion play off each other in this reflection...

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  12. I believe in the heat of a stage light. That blinding radiance that turns the earth into a dot and pushes it to the borders of reality. Like a sun beaming down, it is the deity that reminds me that I am no longer Josiah. For this brief eclipse of time, I can lay down my inhibitions, my self defeat, my who-are-you-trying-to-fool-Josiahs, and my empty-smiling-back Josiahs. This is not an escapist sanctuary though, somewhere to go to forget for a while. This is a place for knowing and feeling. This is a place where I am forced to be myself, not Josiah, not a student at Transylvania, not a member of a family. Those are the things the world and its rhetoric have assigned to me. Myself is a vacuum filled with fear, and terror, and doubt, all housed within this organic wrapper called a body. Lights like knifes and spears serrate and tear that body open, exposing the vacuum, looking unceasingly for a chink in its armor. Once found, I am forced to stare at that chink, that weak spot, that lose stone that will bring the whole structure crashing down. I am made to ponder my own fragility, the imagined integrity of the materials used to create this thing called “me.” Ever mindful of the blades, I brace and anticipate the dull stab, that moment when the vacuum will be burst. The plunge is never taken though. The purpose of the lights is never the destruction, only the revelation. Sometimes it is like a mirror with no reflection. And I know that I am tasked with creating that reflection, and providing for the endless hunger of the vacuum. Because I know that the hunger can be satisfied. The lights told me so. I have to fill this body, this Josiah, with myself.

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    1. I want to see you on stage, Josiah! There are so many beautiful images and powerful emotions in this reflection...

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    2. This essay does not make me want to stand on a stage myself, not at all. It does, though, allow me to see that it isn't as easy for those that do perform as I might have thought it was. Thank you for sharing this, Josiah, for inviting all of us to watch you perform in a way that is different from how we may have watched before (maybe you didn't think you were doing this--whoops).

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  13. One of the things I really wanted to learn to do growing up was cooking. In particular, I wanted to learn to dice veggies - although I didn’t really appreciate their taste or nutritional value at that time. You would think my mother would’ve been thrilled I wanted to chop things up for soups and salads and casseroles, but I was the child that was shooed out of the kitchen.

    Why? I had come to believe that I wasn’t allowed near the kitchen knives due to a classic case of left-handedness discrimination. My right-handed siblings were encouraged and praised for cooking while I was banished to table-setting tasks. Needless-to-say, while I was getting increasingly proficient in the art of napkin-folding, I really was interested in the process of cooking.

    So, growing up, I became accustomed to just nod and smile when I was teased for not knowing how to boil water and only being able to make things from simple recipes on boxes despite whenever I tried to pitch in, Mom being quick to say, “Watch out, you’re going to hurt yourself!” or “I can cut these much faster, so don’t worry about it.”

    Having my own apartment with a stove has allowed me to finally believe in the delights of cooking that I was deprived of growing up. Despite not being quite considered a cook yet by my family, I’m making progress (and tasty sweets!)

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