georginasand | Entries tagged with old guard- life this side of paradise

“I had a stick of CareFree gum, but it didn't work. I felt pretty good while I was blowing that bubble, but as soon as the gum lost its flavor, I was back to pondering my mortality.”~Mitch Hedberg

There was a catacylismic earthquake in Haiti, and were it not for my Dreamwidth Reading List, I wouldn't know about it. How sad is that. The Christian Science Monitor is my homepage, and I still didn't notice.

I love this place, I do. I love being in the middle of nowhere surrounded by nothing but students and books and academia. I love the focus, I love the community. I love the bubble. But not once, in the three hours I was out of my room (including in an Atlantic History class) did the fact that there was massive earthquake practically next door, come up. Not once.

And even if it did, what can I do about it. I am trapped in in the middle of Minnesota by geography and by the fact that I have a paper due this week and reading for tomorrow. I see funds popping up on the internet (again, thanks Dreamwidth) but despite the fact that I work fifteen hours a week, I have no money to give because it's all going to paying the exorbiant tuition for this bubble. I am barred from participating in the world by the institution that is training me to live in it.

I remain,
Georgie

The proof that the little prince existed is that he laughed, and that he was looking for a sheep. If anybody wants a sheep, that is a proof that he exists. ~ Antoine de St. Exupery.

I have yet to write a real "I am twenty and therefore a real person" post (something about being in the middle of exams at the time) so here goes.

A continual joke among the people in my world is the prerequisites for being "a real person": the having of a retaining wall (or any sort of landscaping), or kitchen appliances (especially a toaster oven or blender), having your own space, having control over your own soul.

Twenty has always seemed to be "that year" in my mind. Part of it is because in Christian Science, that's the year you graduate from Sunday school. So even before twenty was synonymous with freedom, it sounded a lot like adulthood. The other part is that nothing exciting happened at any of the other "grown up" ages. At twelve and a half I fasted for Yom Kippur for the first time, but that had more to do with it being my first Yom Kippur than it did with being twelve and a half. At sixteen I wouldn't even get my learner's permit for another six months. At eighteen I registered to vote and stepped quietly into my civic duty, but wouldn't actually vote or gain anything resembling real independence until just before my nineteenth birthday. I might have signed a field trip permission slip. At twenty one I doubt I will drink any more than I do presently, which is almost not at all anyway. My excuse used to be that I wouldn't drink until it was legal, but it turns out I don't really like how alcohol tastes and I feel no regret for having had exactly one illegal fruity drink in my life. At twenty five I am sure I will rent a car, but in terms of coming of age rituals, it lacks a certain je ne sais quoi.

At nineteen I couldn't be the person who accompanied my camper to the hospital when she broke her leg, because "what would it look to the parents if they should up to find that she had been left with a nineteen year old." But at twenty, things seem really different. Even in the last month I have been accepted as an adult both by people who knew my when I was very small and those who hadn't met me pre-realness. At past Thanksgivings I had been "a kid" both to my younger aunt and my much older cousins wives, but this year I found myself sitting in the same corner as them, bouncing the newest baby in the family on my lap, and laughing and chatting as if I weren't actually fifteen years younger then them. Because those fifteen years suddenly didn't matter like when I was ten and they were twenty five.

So I am pretty sure I am not imagining this real personhood thing. But I'm also fairly certain that becoming a real person wasn't instantaneous. They say that even in the child of seven you can see the man of seventy (who, exactly, they are, I don't know), but I can tell that even in the last ten years I have changed so much to become the "real" person I am. Ten years ago I'd never worked in a theater, was barely interested in history. I didn’t know I was smart. I was also in fourth grade, had just gotten glasses and was just figuring out that I had asthma. I wouldn't go to summer camp for the first time until the next June. Harry Potter had just been written. September 11th and wars were still two years off. The Red Sox hadn't won the World Series and I didn't even know what International Baccalaureate. I didn't think about the things I think about. I can say with a fair amount of confidence, I wasn't a real person yet. Because those are the things that made me real. Real and Loved (like the velveteen rabbit*).

I am now, bogeret l'rehut nafsha--an adult with control over my own soul. And I laugh.

But I still remain,
Georgie

" We'll all grow up someday, Meg. We may as well know as know what we want"~Amy in Little Women

I listen.
I listen over tea, or dinner, or homework, or the invariable ten minute walk to class, or Meeting, or rehearsal.
I listen and I proofread papers, run lines, and take up sleeves. I give hugs and some advice. I am proud and "disappointed" (never,of course, angry. Just disappointed).
I laugh, and I laugh, and I "knock, breathe,shine, and seek to mend,"
and I listen.

As Anne Edwards says in The Sparrow "I've turned into the semi-mom of an odd bunch of children." And I love it.

When i imagine anything about my life in ten years it involves a kitchen table

This ability to listen is, I know, a talent and a gift for which I am very grateful. I don't think there is a production or a grade in my entire life that I am more proud of then the listening that I have done and the ways I have been able to help my friends.

But there (as there always is) a catch. I know more about most of my friends than I think a lot of people do. And as a result I know more about their friends (some of whom I am also friends with) than they know I do. When a close friend starting dating The Boy Scout, he joked that I must be on some sort of committee created to analyze his behavior. And I can take confidence keeping to Olympic championship levels.

But I don't give confidence. I rarely talk about myself and when I do I regret it. I either regret it during and waste a lot of breathe apologizing profusely. Or I regret it after and end up feeling like I have shared too much about myself.

Same goes for helping. I will read papers, take up sleeves, fix jackets, listen for hours at all hours of the day or night, make and keep promise with joy. I love it; it genuinely makes me happy. But I get plagued with guilt if I ask the same of anyone else. Like clearly The Roommate, with whom I am very close (would trust with my live, soul, and light designs) is going to think I am lazy if I ask to borrow her bike when she isn't using it because she is slaving away in that chem lab of hers.

So what gives.

I don't want to end up bitter because I give so much of what I want but can't (for what ever silly reason) receive. And I love, more than even I have words to express, this aspect of my life. It is, without a doubt, the most salient aspect of my life, the part that makes me feel real, regardless of whatever else I am doing. I assures me that I am real and good and loved. But this thing, this catch, it nags.

So what gives.

I remain,
Georgie

“The most annoying thing about the saying "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger" is that it is usually true” ~ Anon Y. Mous

shamelessly stolen from McSweeney's:

Dear Herr. Velociraptor,
Thanks for ruining my ability to take reading quizzes or objective English tests without serious psychological trauma. Seriously, the words "you could have gotten an A instead of an A- on that test, but you were thinking too hard" escaped the lips of my current English professor (who has a soul, by the way).

Also, it turns out that I'm competent, borderline smart. Thanks for holding out on me.

Sincerely,
Georgie

Dear 18 years of Christian Science Sunday School,
I. thought. we. were. over. It would be nice if I could take simple precautions for my health without the crushing guilt. I'm not trying to cheat; I'm trying to be careful. I know it; you know it, now leave me alone.

I turn twenty on Saturday. Goodbye.

Sincerely,
Georgie

Dear Ed. Psych Professor,
I know this may come as a shock to you, but I am a mature, independent adult. I don't want you to like me; I want you to respect me. If I am wrong, tell me. And please, please, do it without all this "I value your contribution" nonsense. If I'm wrong, how valuable was my contribution, really? Also, you may not have a personal space bubble but I do.

Sincerely,
Georgie

"A lot of parents pack up their troubles and send them to summer camp " ~Raymond Duncan

My feet are dirty, there is sand in my bed (neither will be clean for the next 7 weeks) and I have drunk three classes of ice tea sweet enough to make your fingernails curl (Oh, how I love the south). It's official. I'm at camp. And I'm a counselor so I am both in charge (ack! we won't discuss that I haven't been in a sailboat in two years) and being paid (hooray! this is far better than paying exorbitant amounts of money to have dirty feet and beds and scary sweet sweet tea).

I have internet and my laptop so I'll be in and out. Not that I'm ever really in. But I am trying to write more regularly this summer. I have thoughts to think and things to say, but never seem to get around to writing them. Expect things written in the next few weeks (read: next few months) to be about eleven year olds, sail boats, and the wonderful North Carolina Blue Ridge mountains.

There will be a forthcoming post about why this means the world to me,because dirty feet and sweet tea aside, it does.
I remain,
Georgie

Current Location: Tuxedo, NC

"Simply having children does not make mothers." ~John A. Shedd

I have spoken before of the fact that true families are those with whom we have life, not necessarily blood, in common, but never really expounded on the subject. It is a vast one.

The average age of a college population is about 20.5, not including professors, so parental units are a bit hard to come by. That is not say they don't exist, you just have to look a little harder for them, and be willing to let them be when they appear.

They are the ballet teachers who, although they see you no more than three hours a week, seem to know when your midterms are (...and remind you to study), your boyfriend situations (and remind you about Valentines Day), remind you to "be careful" over the weekend (including significant eyebrow raising). I'm in a ballet class this term with those who have never taken a ballet class before, and it has been "often enjoyable and always interesting" to watch them wrap their minds around not only the technique, but the culture of a ballet class. Since I was little I had ballet teachers interested in my life. You life outside of a studio affects how they dance so they make it their business to understand both. Deanna knew what IB subject exams I had on which days, so I was not at all surprised when our ballet teacher wished Katie (names changed to protect the innocent... or not) good luck on her psychology midterm. Katie didn't remember telling her it was coming up.

They are the costumes wardrobe supervisors who inform you, that”you are allowed to swear" when the button holer won't function. (I swear, that thing was possessed), who establish a five o'clock Chocolate break, because "that is usually the time of day that you need a little chocolate." And that don't laugh at you when you sew (and press, and hang on a hanger, Gd know how) a sleeve upside down. This is more than I can say about my real mother.

They are the directors who remind you to drink water (note to self: drink water), take vitamins (note to self: take vitamins), and not, under any circumstances get sick (not to self: don't get sick), and give the necessary disapproving look when someone starts the "mother pheasant plucker" (say that ten times fast) tongue twister. They tell you that you are important and useful and ruthlessly competent, and that you're other parents, biological or theatrical, trained you well and they you do them proud.

They are the other three girls, young as you, foolish as you, and as full of it as you are, that try to be mothers to the lawless and wonderful boys that call themselves your children. Who will squeal with you when "your boys" dressed in their Mid-Winter Ball finery, remind you of your fathers. Looking equal parts dignified, mature (The Fuzzy Syrian in a suit coat puts his hands in his pockets exactly like my father), and awkward as D in a tuxedo.

I remain,
Georgie

Current Mood: Filial
Current Music: No Child of Mine- Marianne Faithful

"Past tense means you used to be nervous" ~ Anonymous (Once I read a quote credited to Anon and spent ten minutes on wikipedia trying to figure out who he was)

The boys on my floor, particularly the Flying Dutchmen, have made a habit of trying to scare the living daylights out of me, would probably scare the dead daylights out of me too, but they aren't that ambitious. This is a habit that they practice at any moment since they learned that I am a bit on the jumpy side. Stepping through the steam of a recently put out fire to appearing horizontally around my door frame, if it will make me scream or dissolve into a fit of giggles they will do it. This of course embarrasses me to no end, because...well I like to think of myself as a strong and brave person, which I am in some cases, but this is not one of them.

I am jumpy because I am a ridiculously tense person. Merry is the only person I know who is more tense, and only because her body is on crusade to drive her up a wall. That and she watches more sci-fi than I do, so he brain rushes to worst case scenarios only slightly faster. Part of why I am so tense is physcological. I am terrified of people, I don't know why... so hands off Freud, and it is the natural tendancy to tense up around things that scare you. Let's face it, I spend a lot of time around people. I associate relaxing with letting my guard down. It has only been of late that I can handle hugs, thanks to several really touchy friends and their sheer persistance, but before I couldn't tell the difference between a hug and an outright attack. The other half is physical, muscle memory. I have going on ten years of ballet teaching teaching me not to be relaxed. And yes, I understand the irony that you have to be relaxed to dance and that I dance to blow off steam, but as much as is about art and asthetics, ballet is about pain, and stretching, and fighting to make your body do something that it shouldn't be able to do,but you're a dancer so by sheer force of will and a little bit of theatrical magic, you'll do it. So on top of the fact that my muscles have largely forgotten how to relax, I equate relaxing with giving up.

Being uptight is how I get things done. My former co-costume crew-chief has asked me innumerable times (read: at least once) to "go smoke some weed and mellow out." She was kidding, but she wasn't. I don't get stressed, but I get focused (that is to say, zen damnit) and then I am a not so relaxed force to be reckoned with.

So as the Flying Dutchman has started this crusade to get me to relax, I've thought a lot about why I do or do not relax. On the one hand I know that being able to relax would make me a better dancer, a much better actor (and I quote the Actor's Neutral Expert of the TAWT acting workshop: Everyone holds tension in somewhere, Georgie just holds it everywhere), a more personable person, and generally less nervous. But at the same time, it's like the previously mentioned thorns, being uptight is so much a part of who I am I don't know if
I could bear to part with it.

I remain,
Georgie

Current Mood: relaxed (or not)
Current Music: Death Cab for Cutie - Cath...

"I'll be half way to heaven with paradise waiting, just five miles away from where ever I am" ~Paradise

This is so much more complicated that I though it would be. I had yet another dream after which I could have sworn when I woke up I was on the bow of a Flying Scot. I have summer jobs that most people I know would kill for, and don't get me wrong I love them and am immensely grateful for them, but...

...some how chlorine isn't doing if for me. I miss green water.

I remain,
Georgie

Current Mood: not so filled with folly
Current Location: not Tuxedo
Current Music: LaRue-- 7 Reasons Why

"Life is short, but it's wide" ~Genevieve Whitman in The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya-Sisterhood

There were never supposed to be the 'I'm going to tell you about my day' sort of letters, but I have had the most marvelous day so I can't resist.

I went to the pool intent on swimming my laps and then going home. And I swam my laps, all 300 metres and than lay in the sun for an hour. Apparently I am turning into one of those girls; you know one of those girls who can lie at the pool without actually swimming for hours reading a trashy romance novel. I think my only saving grace was that I did swim, and that I was reading Lolita. (Which isn't really worth it. As far as I am concerned all Nabokov accomplished with that book was take a perfectly good name out of the baby books. You think I'm kidding, how many Lolita's do you know?) I also fell asleep for about 20 minutes and right before I woke up I could have sworn I was on the bow of a Flying Scot.

I went to the park, had a lovely picnic complete with a massive peanut butter and jelly sandwich (peanut butter on both pieces of bread so it doesn't soak through), carrots, and The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood.

I read all of the The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood which was amazing, and reminded me how much I love a) Theater people ('like I could forget) and b) Southerners (hi, Sarah) and that my mother really isn't all that bad.

I decided I wanted a popsicle, and just got up and left on an epic popsicle quest. You would not believe how difficult it is to find a popsicle. I went to three stores and ended up paying three bucks for it. I swear, in any other gas station in the country you can get a plain old orange popsicle for less than a dollar.

It's been a long time since I've been this spontaneous and it was lovely. I think the only thing that could possibly make it better would be a convertible and gas for $1.75 a gallon. ... or a boy, a boy would be nice. (fine, yes I will call him... don't give me that look Merry).

Now I am going to take a shower, make dinner (mmm... quesadillas with leftover pork chop) and go to a job that, despite its close resemblance to serfdom, I adore. I love vacation.

I remain,
Georgie

Current Mood: satisfied
Current Location: Paradise
Current Music: Summer in the City-- Regina Spektor