Ideas on Wings

I feel like I need to mention the fact that, thus far, the promised chocolate calendar has had some extremely empty little doors. Before my "25 days of blog" resolution I didn't post here unless I was somewhat inspired, and I'm discovering that writing anything remotely worth reading on a regular basis takes an extreme amount of effort (slightly too much effort, I daresay, for winter break). I can't imagine that some people write for a living.

My lack of posting, however, is not due to a dearth of ideas. Today at work I was doing the usual thing: transcribing charts while listening to This American Life, sipping free espresso, and eavesdropping on office gossip. As I sat in my office chair, ideas for things that I should write about kept pestering me--they were like little winged poltergeists, incessantly tapping me on the shoulder and distracting me from my mind-numbing labor.

Instead of ignoring the ideas completely, I opened up a Gmail draft and attempted to list their essences and they passed me by. Copied below is that list. Perhaps, at the Yuletide nears, I will conjure the motivation to flesh out these ideas on wings.

1) this is just to say

2) rose, where did you get that red?
3) Sisyphus
4) little doors are windows to my brain...but not chocolate... apples?
5) old houses

6) some thoughts on traveling

7) to be!!!

8) small talk is the devil

9) espresso: a love story
10) words, failure, and enlightenment

Silly Jobs

'Tis the season! This means that I'm working, as I have been for every break since I graduated high school. As I start my new job, I think the time is appropriate to reflect on my resume. Listed below are all of the jobs I've worked, starting with the oldest. Silly? Maybe. But I've been pretty blessed as far as cheap labor goes (my Dad never hesitates to mention the beet cannery)--I've learned some stuff and earned some dollars along the way.


#1 Translator for Eugene Urology Specialists
The Good: I got to work on my Spanish, and was well-payed.
The Bad/Ugly: AWKWARD. Awkwardawkward. My dad is a urologist.

#2 Ice Cream Scooper for Cold Stone Creamery
The Good: People who buy ice cream are happy. Free ice cream. The owner of the store took us white water rafting.
The Bad/Ugly: Carpel tunnel.

#3 Arb Crew in the Carleton Arboretum
The Good: Picking seeds. Destroying Buckthorn. Prairie Burns.
The Bad/Ugly: Huddling behind a Burr Oak to protect myself from a -5 degree wind chill.

#4 Gottshalks Customer Service Assistant
The Good: Gift wrap?
The Bad/Ugly: Silver Bells seventeen million times a day. Angry customers. Coming into work at 4 am on Christmas Eve. (This is the only job I've quit. I'm not proud of this, but, in the same situation, I would quit again.)

#5 Paper Grader for Spanish 102
The Good: Drawing happy koalas on people's papers when they did a good job.
The Bad/Ugly: Correcting multiple choice tests.

#6 Arts and Crafts Counselor at Jameson Ranch Camp
The Good: Camel hunts, downhill running, and stinging nettle tea. Singing around rose arbor and sleeping under the stars.
The Bad/Ugly: Knotted friendship bracelets.

#7 Desk Person for Campus Activities (This is my current campus job.)
The Good: I get paid to do my homework.
The Bad/Ugly: Sometimes I actually have to do work.

#8 Borders Cashier
The Good: Intimate contact with books.
The Bad/Ugly: Holiday consumerism, cash registers, and Borders Rewards memberships.

#9 House-sitting for the Washburns
The Good: Two adorable huskies. Three full seasons of Scrubs on DVD.
The Bad/Ugly: Nutria massacres in the front yard.

#10 REU Intern at the Marine Science Institute
The Good: Diversity of avian life in Port Aransas. Mastering Microsoft Powerpoint.
The Bad/Ugly: Rotten seaweed and 100% humidity.

#11 Data Transcriber for Oregon Urology Specialists
The Good: I can listen to music and make my own hours. The people are hilarious, and there's tons of free food.
The Bad/Ugly: This is the most tedious thing that has ever happened to me.

Istanbul

There is oh so much to write about, as always, but I'm sleepy and very full of delicious mother food. Seeing as how this is not conducive to insightful prose, I'm copying a relic of my Turkey journal below.

To the Gulls

You have a better view of the Bosphorus than I could ever imagine. Whirling and swirling, your two-thousand eyes are the eyes of a thousand winged dervishes. I'll bet you can see the world from all angles up there, complete with every detail.

Tell me, what patterns do the barges trace with their wakes? I want to know your aerial impression of the fishermen in yellow rain slickers lining the Galata Bridge; of the shaggy dogs curled up on the boardwalk with their noses under their tales; of the young men on motorcycles that shout as I run by; of the amiable fellows that roast corn on the cob and chestnuts beneath wide umbrellas, hawking at passersby; of the one lonely buoy that bobs a few hundred meters off-shore; of young couples strolling arm in arm, lost in one another's eyes; of the minarets that admire themselves in the gleaming waters that invented "turquoise;" of the little children drumming in the aisles of the ferry-boats that run between Europe and Asia; of the tea sellers and the winking old men that jog-shuffle with backpacks; of the stiff winds, grey skies, and snow flurries; of musical scores composed by city lights reflected in the sea; of ten-thousand red flags buffeted by the breeze; of the throngs of pedestrian traffic that blend into a parade of ants; of the days of heavy fog with air-brushed flaws and that perfect white sphere of a sun; of the toddlers with dirty faces selling cigarettes; of sunsets that set fire to the westward-facing windows; of Orhan Pamuk, his pen poised, elevated not quite high enough in his office: I want to know of it all.

Can you, from your high vantage point, piece together the post-cards? Is this enigma the reason you forgo sleep to spiral through the night by the eerie under-light of the city? Or is your endless flight a joyful dance?

I watch you circle, spelling out exclamation points and periods and question marks on a Shakespearean skyscape. The wind is picking up, and I dangle my feet over the sharp stones alongside the water. An orange cat is picking over some left-over crab claws, and a man with a gray face stands transfixed, reflecting himself off of the Bosphorus. A fog-horn booms deep in my chest, and I can suddenly sense the density of my bones.

Tell me, if I shook these words from my mind, would they turn into wings?

pineapples, dancing
avoiding inverted cake
tea party of fruit!

Somnambulance

Today I was reading about the extent to which societal influences control our behavior. From the Milgram experiments to abstract art, it appears that our species wavers strangely between submission and expression. We at once thirst for freedom and behave as though programmed automata. Our thoughts are a strange stew of originality and background noise, reverberations mistakes born forward through generations.

It made me think back to the presidential election, to the moment when I filled in the little circle that would cast my vote. Or when I decided that I would come to Carleton, major in Religion, and shave my head in Morocco.

Were these choices really mine?
How can one cultivate the strength and mental quietude to hear their own voice?
What is freedom, really?

As is often the case, I'm lacking a conclusion. It's raining, though, and the water is talking: "Wake-up, wake-up, wake-up," the drops whisper.

My Cat is a Zen Master

I swear to you, it's true. He's laying on the couch right now, his white-tipped paws crossed and his eyes barely open slits. Surely he is in tune with the innermost workings of the universe, for his every sleepy motion is one of strangely enlightened bliss.

I am prepared to welcome the massive influx of pilgrims that is bound to come knocking on my front door in search of the next Buddha. The Awakened One will most likely hold your audience around the wicker basket in the living room. His availability is highly volatile, however, and I must ask that you accommodate his busy schedule of grass-sneaking and rooftop-sitting. Also, please remember to take off your shoes at the front door, otherwise my mother will be upset.

Yes, we of rambunctious and unruly intellect have much to learn from my Zen master cat. He is haiku incarnate, the fluffy fulfillment of enlightened contentment...

As I watch his meditating form, he stirs briefly. His bright green eyes meet mine for an instant:

What?
Suffering?
Paradox?
Hmmm.

He purrs a little, and then sighs, licking his left paw before drifting back to sleep.

25 Days of Blog

You know how, when you were little, you got those cardboard chocolate calendars at Christmas time? They had 25 doors punched in them, and on every day of December leading up to Christmas you would open up a door and find questionably-fresh-manufactured-milk-chocolate. Mmmm. Maybe you didn't get those, but I did, and in honor of the Chocolate Lent Calendar of Yore I've decided to update my blog every day from now until the 25th. I'm on vacation, after all--my brain needs to stay sharp. And words are like chocolate.

So stay tuned!