Campbell Cemetery

Graveyards are the one place where people are allowed to be solemn because no one is expecting any different. Especially with depression being diagnosed nowadays as often as the common cold, people don’t allow themselves to be sad because sad now equals crazy. But, unafraid, I let the solemnity seep into my bones as I sat within the four, tall concrete walls of Campbell Cemetery.

The engravings on the outside wall told me that the gravesite has been here since the mid 1800s, a relic in my advanced city. I happened to stumble upon it while Geocaching with my friend, Ryan, from school; we plugged in the coordinates of the geocache, drove to the local Red Robin, parked, then followed the GPS to a section of woods I have never really noticed before although I had been there a million times. A beaten path led us straight to the rusted iron gate of Campbell Cemetery. Ryan pushed it open as the worn hinges squealed in disuse and we stepped inside the looming walls. Suddenly, I was overtaken with a calm, almost eerie feeling that I accredited to this magnificent graveyard. We carefully examined every tombstone as if it held secrets rather than the names and dates of death of these unknown people.

Ryan knelt down in front of one of the tombstones to pick up some of some fake flowers, dust them off, and straighten out their weathered petals to how they were supposed to look. I smiled because someone was careful enough to leave these artificial flowers; not real ones since they die, and a cemetery does not need any more death. I watched him in this completely subordinated position and asked why he was doing this for a complete stranger to which he replied, “Well, I would want someone to do this for me.” His response was so nonchalant and honest that I could only inwardly agree and step back to watch him finish his work.

Our presence gave the graveyard life where there was only death and ruin. No one makes it out of life alive, I thought, but then felt gloomy. But it was okay, because no one was expecting any more from me.

Chicken in America

I had a dream the other week that I immediately fell in love with:

My mother and another mother (who is unfamiliar to me) got into an argument. In order to settle said argument, they partook in a high stakes game of Chicken: Whomever’s child backed out first from the soon-to-be arranged marriage-lost.

My sister took me into a room and started to help me get into my wedding dress, which was a yellow and white checkered dress with a high waist and a beautiful hem. The white shoes that came with it were two sizes too big so I switched to a pair of brown oxfords. I coupled the odd shoes with a brown belt over where the dress gathered on my waist (I know I am being crazy specific, and I appologize for that, I just am amazed that I remembered this much from a dream!). My bouquet was composed of autumn colors and white roses. Needless to say, this whole ensemble was gorgeous.

My time came to walk down the makeshift aisle towards a man I had never met. When he came into view, I noticed he was wearing a suit that has been modeled after a peacock: his suit was light gray, his tie was a pale peacock feather print and his vest was light purple. It sounds a bit out there, but it totally worked for him.

I made it all the way to the alter before my groom finally uncle’d out and my mother won the disagreement.

Here is the thing about this dream, never ONCE did I feel like backing out of this arranged marriage. Not because I felt I owed it to my mother, not because I liked this guy, it was because I whole heartedly believed, at least in my dream state, that I could make this work. There is hope for me yet.

Just thought I would share this with you.

(P.S. If the title seems a little strange, it’s because I have done some research and concluded that most people are refered to our site because everyone google searches ‘America’. So if I include the word “America” in my title, maybe more people will read my post. Yes, I am aware I am genius!)

The Insomniac City

The bare sign read “Rockefeller Place”.

She stared in wide-eyed wonder.

The insomniac city is clever,

crushing people together,

a maniacal pastry blender

whose blades you cannot escape.

 

The percussion of the pounding streets

echoed in the alleyways

with twists, turns and reverberations.

It seemed as if a noise maze

had sprung up to up heave this city

from the foundation it had,

to the destruction it will become.

 

She was new to this place,

(but already she figured it out.)

Her tired shoes knew the routes

although they were wrinkled, bruised and sad.

Her tongue pressed against her teeth

determined not to admit defeat,

for in time she has learned that

the insomniac city is clever,

crushing people together,

a maniacal pastry blender,

whose blades you cannot escape.

Watercolor Pencils

I was introduced to watercolor pencils by a friend of mine, Becca. She set them in front of me and explained how they worked: I was supposed to color on a page then grab a paintbrush, dip it in water, and pull it across the pencil sketch.

It reminded me of those old watercolor books that seemed to come only in Disney Princess or Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles themes that would be previously painted and all you needed to do is blend the cross hatched, water activated paint, which always bled into a brownish mess.

I carefully chose an unimportant envelope to practice on. The blue pencil looked inviting so I sharpened it and drew a thick, bold square on the corner, making sure all the edges were nice and dark. However, when I pulled the hairs of the damp paintbrush across my geometric masterpiece, the hard edges wouldn’t run. In the midst of my colorful blob were four solid, un-blurred lines. I decided to change my strategy: instead of solid lines, I would thatch out an indefinite shape. This worked out perfectly, as soon as I smeared the paintbrush over my new form, the pencil flowed onto the page, no more harsh lines left behind.

It is the night before I start my sophomore year in college and I can’t help but think about these miraculous, water activated pencils. My whole life has been far too vague, and these watercolor pencils reminded me of that because I drew my life with no edges so I can’t be closed into anything definite. Like the pencils: if you draw a shape with too noticeable of boundaries, the edges won’t smear; but if you leave the edges just clear enough, the finished piece will look as seamless as the rest of the work.

Life doesn’t have to be only dark lines with definite beginnings and ends because then it won’t match the rest of the masterpiece.

New College Hopefuls

My best friend, Carolotta, invited me to sing at a Baccalaureate with her in Michigan this weekend. After we sang our bit and were applauded off the stage by eager parents and apathetic teenagers, the graduating seniors were asked to stand up and tell what their plans were for the coming school year. Person after person stood up and made confident claims about their college choice, if and where they were planning to transfer to after a few years, and what major they were going to pursue.

Every single one of them sounded so sure that nothing was going to change, that life was NOT, in fact, going to throw a wrench into their “perfect plan”.

Every time someone asked me last year where I was going and what I was studying, I could only tell them ‘away and something’. Vagueness has become my best friend. See the thing is, I don’t trust life and I don’t trust myself IN life. At any moment, I could get bored of something and crave change, but then when everything is going fine and I like it the way it is, life can up and change on me.

I have just learned to never plan too far in advance because who knows what is going to change that would make your solid plan disintegrate in front of your expecting eyes.

Maybe I am being a pessimist here (I prefer the term realist, but you can judge me however you like), maybe these kids WILL stay on the path they have erected in their 4-year plans, maybe every single one of them will make it through life with no surprises, maybe maybe maybe.

But maybe they will be rudely awakened in the first week of college 🙂

I wish them, and all the other new college hopefuls, the best.

Sun vs. Grass

What does the sun think of the grass?

Perhaps it is jealous:

The sun sits impossibly high in the afternoon sky peering down with the utmost envy as the grass mocks his hot surface. He sticks his tongue out as kids, with sandals in hand, trounce over his spiky soft blades. The sun gets so sick of him everyday, rolling his eyes as the earth rolls its mass on the tilted axes of seasons. He is thankful when the ocean takes the lands place in his line of sight. “Finally,” he exhales, “someone else that knows not what it feels like to have the presence of human feet on its surface.” But he can’t help but feel envious of the ocean as he watches boats and ships slice through its water, there is still that human interaction that the sun will forever crave. Though, late at night, the sun gazes through the reflection of the moon as lovers lay on sheets atop the grass, and he can only smile when he realizes they are admiring his own pale manifestation while completely ignoring the grass below.

Perhaps it basks in its supremacy:

Without the sun, the grass cannot grow. The sun reminisces about this fact as he sits back and watches the grass grow hopelessly long in some neglected areas as it itches to be groomed. Each passing day when it is not, the suns presence only makes it grow longer and longer, more and more uncomfortably un-kempt. He laughs at its misfortune because he requires no up keeping himself, in fact, no one can even hope to walk on his fiery surface, nonetheless push a mower across its exterior. “I don’t need anyone,” the sun mocks, “I give life and growth, no one can bring either to me.” The grass does not like the sun for this very reason and will constantly try to tick the sun off. This only makes the sun shine stronger, leaving brown patches of burnt grass to litter the lawns of unfortunate people.

.:This one, once again, is attributed to Sam McClellan for he gave me the prompt for this on a whim and encouraged me to flesh it out. Thanks dear:.

Last

It is the last week of school, nay, it is the last DAY of school. I write this post as I am sitting, for the last time, on what was the muse of our blog name, my uncomfortable college mattress.

This springy piece of plastic has provided many strange dreams to flash through my subconscious, but as I laid on it for the last time on Tuesday night (I spent the rest of the nights at my friends’ dorm, a bittersweet goodbye), I reminisced about my freshman year.

When, the first day of my Fiscal Wellness class, we were asked to write on a notecard what we are studying to be, I misheard the teacher and thought he said “what we want to be”, so I wrote “Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream Taste Tester/Flavor Inventer” which he would read off to the rest of his classes as a joke.

When I met Morgan and Talley for the first time and that whole tangled mess of how we even became friends at all!

When Matt could not remember my name even though he promised that we were gonna be best friends the first time he met me.

When Grace and I went to the Rocky Horror Picture Show on Halloween all prepared with rice, newspapers and bread in her purse…which she left and it became moldy.

When I escaped death from the looming elevator doors at Bracken Library.

When I went to Grace’s house and met her wonderful family, same with Morgan’s parents and when Talley’s parents came up here.

When I got the flu and all my friends took care of me.

When I joined the Ball State Swing Society and it has forever changed my life.

When I found out I had Creative Writing with the one and only Becca Jackson, my other half.

When Grace, Chris, Becca, Caleb and I started up “Fellowship” that will hopefully continue next year.

When I went to Scramble Light Blues and fell in love with Blues dancing.

When we instigated Tuesday and Thursday night 5:00 dinners which everyone and their mother participated in forcing us to add WAY too many chairs to the proverbial round table.

When, in the last week of school, even though I had finals to worry about and a room that wasn’t going to pack itself, I spent every moment with the people I was gonna miss in the 3 months of summer. The same summer that, as a high school student, I would count down to has become something that I was running away from.

Who knew I was going to change this much? I have never really been a huge fan of nostalgia, but when I got to college, when I was supposed to do the most growing, I regressed back to a childish mindset.

Sometimes, things end too abruptly…

Shattered

I have learned that things sound different when they break.

A cheap vase sounds just that: cheap. It falls and no one really cares that it does. They are more concerned about picking up the sharp pieces scattered on the smooth floor. Cautiously, they grab their brooms and dustpans and sigh as they kneel down to clean up this inconvenient mess.

Now, if someone knocks over a priceless heirloom, the piece crashes down with a loud sssshang, the whole room stops and heads swivel on eager necks towards the expensive sound. The scenery and mood change at once. The tension can be cut with one of the shards because no one wants to take the blame for this costly mistake.

Hearts sound unusual when they break: like a soft pang followed by an eruption of hot, silent tears sliding down the person’s hollow cheek. It’s a lonely sound, full of emptiness and sorrow, but this kind of break can be fixed in time (a healing heart is an entirely different sound itself).

Yet, when lives shatter, no one hears it. It is a split second in time when the person’s world is destroyed in front of them. It is a sound that can only be felt. The person may stand up and try to be strong but they can hear, see…feel their world being tilted on its axis as they stumble around, desperately trying to grasp onto something tangible, all the while wondering how everyone around them can be acting so calmly. They can’t help but wish that it was maybe their heart, or priceless heirloom, or cheap vase that had shattered instead.

.:Thank you Sam McClellan for pushing me to write that one night over break, this was the result:.

Road Trip of My Own

The gloomy light spilled into my car as I adjusted the volume of my stereo in order to hear the first track of my well thought out road trip CD that I created two weeks in advance. The weather was perfect for a no-destination road trip; it was chilly and misting, my crappy windshield wipers were permanently set to the slowest interval and my sunglasses rested on my head, just in case the sun decided to pay a little visit.

Just as the intro of The Temper Traps’ Sweet Disposition came on (which I will always hold as the BEST song to begin any road trip), I shoved my sunglasses down onto my nose (sun or no sun, I wanted to wear them), put my car into drive and pulled away from the front of my house.

I was off, and it felt good. My sister had expressed her concern for me leaving with no destination in mind, no directions and no cell phone, but I told her there was nothing to worry about, I knew what I was doing in not knowing what I was doing. This equation allowed me to be anywhere and nowhere at the same time. I had no expectations for this trip, which meant I could not be disappointed. I needed a day to myself, a day away from myself. So here I was, sitting in the cockpit of my own life (aka. my car) with just a CD and a map of Indiana to guide me. I can write my own intro, rising action, climax and ending.

I stopped first at a wildlife preserve. I parked my car and walked over to a dilapidated awning with a concrete picnic table under its hole ridden roof. After shooing many birds from it’s rafters, I sat on the cold bench, that I later found out was covered in bird doo doo, and opened the book A Purpose Driven Life that my mother had given me to read.

Side-note: right before I read the first chapter, I prayed that this day would be about me, no one else. Then, the application at the end of the chapter read, “It’s not about me”. This came as a huge slap in the face. Not a mean one, mind you, more like a wake-up and smell the roses slap. Immediately, I changed my prayers to be God centered, not ME centered.

My second stop was at a small diner in a large town. After going down so many one-ways, I settled on this place because I was hungry and lost. I sat down, ordered a buffalo chicken grinder and read the next chapter in the book.

When I said I changed my prayers, I meant I changed them to asking God to help me realize what my gifts are because I feel like I have none. Then, in a moment of weakness, I rattled off all that I didn’t like about myself. Well, guess what the application was this time. “I am not an accident,” and the question was, “What areas of my personality, background and physical appearance am I struggling to accept?”

Wow, really God? Twice in a row? I hung my head low and smirked, he knew me entirely too well.

My road trip ended not long after these two breakthroughs because I was rushing though this book, chapter by chapter, that I was supposed to read once everyday and it was too much to handle. So, after 5 hours of continuous driving, I decided to head home so that I could put everything together. Only then did I realize just how much I learned.

To close out my road trip to nowhere, as I was pulling into a tiny parking spot next to my favorite downtown coffee shop, I heaved a huge sigh of familiarity and relief. All day, I was thrust into towns that I had no background in, places that were so unfamiliar to me that I just drove right through them and paid no mind to their tiny names on my map. So when I was finally back in a town that I knew like the back of my hand, I had one closing thought: one has to leave somewhere to realize how much it meant to them in the first place.

Passionless

Morgan and I had a nice little road trip this weekend. She invited me to go with her and her family (along with a long time friend of hers, Melissa) to see Les Miserables in Chicago. Little did we know that we would also take our friend back home, this added on a good hour and a half to our trip, but we didn’t mind! Having this time, Morgan and I decided to discuss the finer things in life, one of those topics being: What am I passionate about?

This conversation came up because we have decided to room together next year (our 4 person suite idea having ended up trashed since Grace will be in Ghana), and she was wondering, since she knows I am ambivalent towards politics thus would rather not argue about them, what I was passionate about.

That question left me at a loss for words; I thought I had a lot of things that I was passionate about, then the time came when I was actually faced with that question and I was suddenly left scrambling for something. Anything.

I’m a freshman in college, I am undecided in my major, I don’t have a noticeable talent to my name, and I am slowly losing my ability to BS! Life is finally becoming real and wanting a real answer from me, yet I have nothing to show. I squeaked by in school by completing my homework (sub par at that), which made up for the tests I continued to do poorly on. It also helped that I was a teachers’ pet and could write pretty averagely.

What do I have that I can be passionate about? I don’t have academia, I don’t have politics…I do have my religion, but everyone is so used to the same old arguments that present themselves in that category.

I go to Google. Define: Passion. Definitions of Passion on Web:

• A strong feeling or emotion
• Heat: the trait of being intensely emotional
• Rage: something that is desired intensely

Good, now I have a definition to go off of, too bad I already knew all of that! Why can’t Google just tell me what to be passionate about? So, I try that next. Google: What should I be passionate about? Only 83,000,000 matches, I should find something in there. Right? Scroll down, “What Are You Passionate About?” *click* Of course it’s an article where people send in questions like:

Q. What if having a relationship or a certain kind of relationship is just not attainable for me?

A. You need to ask yourself WHY it isn’t attainable.

No help here, I don’t suggest using Google to make huge life decisions, take that lesson from me.

It doesn’t help that all my friends have a passion! Morgan has music and the goal to have every human experience possible. Matt has his never-ending search for truth; Grace has her human trafficking cause, basically any kind of justice. Talley has a passion for theatre, philosophy and politics. Me? What do I have? If there was anything passion worthy in dipping just about anything in buffalo sauce, I would have that down, but I fear that that would be frowned upon.

I wish I could say that at some point before writing this I had an epiphany about my passion, but I cannot lie. I am still stuck in that moment in time that Morgan asked what I was passionate about, jaw slack from the lack of words.

Here I am world, full of hope, full of dreams and full of questions…yet completely…