Friday, September 23, 2016

Camping Under Starlight


So, Me and Roommate wandered around club day before she had Bio review decided it would be a good idea to go camping...tomorrow. They left at four. An email would go out at some point later in the day. It was all quite impromptu. So impromptu that I had to go and slightly beg the adventure education coordinator, Jill, for both a backpack and two sleeping bags for us by admitting our lack of preparedness. Before being let out into the wilderness of course, probably exactly what she wanted to hear. 

I must have done a really good job, because she wouldn't let me out of her office after the promise that she would let me borrow both the pack and sleeping bag before asking, "Do you have shoes?"

I looked down at my heeled feet. "Yes."

Allison when I told her this exchange still to this day asks me if I have "shooes" whenever she can. Though I could tease her just as well since we both quite possibly were going to look ridiculous having never been tent in dirt camping before (of course to the group I was very experienced. Backpacking? Rock climbing? I had done it all). Plus, I was not the one that came back with bug bites that turned out to be poison ivy on my stomach. Jill was excited for me. I was excited. On Thursday night, the only person I needed to get a little more enthused as well was Allison. She was still twirling around in stressed out la-la land for assignments that hadn't been fully handed out yet. 

This was life though. Time to live instead of scower over papers. Time to see outside the walls of the dorm room and to the stars.


Leaving late, a quality I have found runs rampant in university functions, which is horrifying to your lovely blogger here and her near impeccable punctuality, we arrived at the campsite in the dark. Five tents and nine of us total, it left three hammocks for a few. One that was quickly taken by myself. There was no doubt in my mind that I was going to love this hammock, and spoiler I did, even if I did nearly sweat to death under the makeshift tarp made from the cover a tent, attached to the ground by twigs. I did my best. At least I was hidden from all bugs compared to my hammock resident beside me that looked like she was a midnight snack. I could only hope that if it did rain, it would help in that respect as well. 

As we set up, new pal and British exchange student for the year Josh looked at all the stars that we did see. The smog and light was not a problem out here for me to stare upon as well in awe. "Ah, guys. The stars are out, it isn't going to rain."

Anything said in that accent would make me feel better about my not so much tarp. It was at least up compared to the two laddered hammocks, hanging the chord above the top hammock, they let their true tarp lie on the ground, unneeded as we crawled into our camping beds. Lying in my enclosed hammock, I couldn't see the stars or the possibility of daddy long leg spiders coming for me off the tree (a good thing), but I could hear the deep hum of a ukulele- or excuse me, small guitar playing with an accompaniment of leaves rustling and the cliche chirp of crickets.

Goodnight, Worthington State Park. I cuddled my flashlight, phone, and sweatshirt close to my chest, releasing a breath. Creating my own story as I promised myself this year, maybe I could actually do that. 


The thunder rumbled through the trees as rain fell against my poor-man's tarp at around four in the morning.

"Oh crap," Lucus said suddenly from the top hammock, swinging out to the beat and patter of raindrops. 

Struggling to put the tarp up over the two hammocks, lighting there lighting, Casara went to each tent as she said Jill would, repeating, "Butt in the dirt, feet on the ground." Most of her commands met with the blurry eyed tent sleepers mumbling, "I am just going back to sleep."

Peeking my head out, I asked if they needed any help, feeling the cool rain finally on my hand. Rain that was not leaking or dripping into my hammock at all. They were both fine, she asking me if I wanted to run to the car for the rest of the night. 

"I am alright. I mean, I am not getting rained on." Honestly, I had to say it aloud. It was a miracle as I tucked myself back in, flashlight gripped for the hours to come. The risk of getting wet much higher if I dared try to make run for it anyway. Nestling in, I fell asleep eventually to wake to the smell of banana pancake batter and the joking calls to Josh mimicking his accent.

"Oh, the stars are out! It can't rain!"


Loaded up with power bars and water (mine plain, the boys hyped up on Tang), we hiked up through the afternoon to sunfish pond. Stepping over rocks watching for snakes which we quickly maneuvered around, I mused my father's rhyme he taught me that he learned while overseas in the army: "Red on black is a friend of Jack. Black on yellow is a deadly fellow." 

All the way to the pond, the view of spectacular. As was the boys swimming while I dipped my toes in to the luscious chill. It was as close to a shower as the weekend would get. Not that it would do too much more. Still had another night to sweat off the two peanut butter cup s'mores I would eat later sleeping in the hammock. 


As we walked back, a state park officer stopped his car, looking at a half naked and soaked John. "What are you guys up to?"

"Uh," John looked at us, down at himself. "We went for a swim...were we not allowed? Because we didn't see a sign or anything."

The officer stared before nodding, "It's hot out so I understand, but technically you aren't supposed to."

"Oh."

"So, for the future don't, alright?"

Lucus made fun of John the same way we all did everyone else at some point during the trip. This though apparently was no the first time that they had to ask for forgiveness rather than permission through John. That is better though sometimes. Because LIVING.

And we did live a little more than usual that weekend. I convinced Allison to go and enjoy. And we did. Living, achieved. At least for a few days. Through bugs and Egyptian rattlesnake card game played by flashlight, but doubt I would know how to ever again. Like rummy. We had won over this weekend. At least to ourselves with new stories and memories to be forged, adding a few to our checklist I hope never ends.

Adventures after all, they are meant to be taken and only leave footsteps.





Of course I also took plenty of photos for us all.

Tuesday, August 16, 2016

The Sweet and the Bitter

Recently I have devoured the novel that is Sweetbitter by Stephanie Danler. And when a book is good, I feel it my duty as I devout reader to let the world know and almost spoil them. It is all in good means of course, I just get really excited and tell them each major plot point, character, and how I felt about it whether they understand what is going on or not up until the end where I usually am quite polite in asking, "Do you mind if I spoil it just a teensy weensey bit?" A fabulous librarian I talked to quite often luckily didn't mind at all since she was a rebel who liked to read the last few pages of a book first anyway.


Don't worry, I will try not to do as such a disservice on here. It is much better going into this read blind if you were on the fence. I will though let you know though if you need some extra umph to get this pretty pink hardcover in your hands, that the prose is some of the sweetest I have ever read in a full length novel, even though the end left me bitter for more.

Seriously, what happens next to Tess? Does she become the writer people have seen her as? Is she based off of Stephanie Danler at all more than the server experience? The world may never know.

“Any business transaction—actually any life transaction—is negotiated by how you are making the other person feel.”  -Stephanie Danler, Sweetbitter

Yet here I am still am, going to be asking such questions and wanting to meet Stephanie to both praise, and get to know the lovely woman who wrote such a raw story. This book, that somehow had the power to keep me turning pages just to see what was going to happen, rather than for a killer ending we see in many strictly laid out novels.

This one felt like life.

A feature that I think is what a book that sticks with a variety of people needs. A sense of perpetual reality in all the excitement of meeting possible true love or running into an epic fantasy battle. A sense that we all have scars from living- and this is the story of how living brought them about one hit at a time whether they be visible or not.


In a worn down world full of dreamers and those who want to break them down, it is nearly inevitable after all.

I think that is how I most related to Tess in this novel, though I also felt that on some level whether it be in the most minute detail, anyone could see a bit of themselves in this last minute coming of age story. Tess is someone who wants to be optimistic but ends up simply falling into a pattern I am familiar with, and not just because I have a more light experience with waitressing but because my thoughts are so much grander than reality that also deserves to be expressed. Her thought process brought such a strong voice throughout that stuck to me and my mind until the last page. 

It was full of prose and beautifully tortured in some other parts that had the most lovely lust filled undertone that made each word my very own treat that books have always been for me. Especially such surprises as this book was.

I toted it around wherever I went for two days straight, and not just to show it off.

It is these books that make me think. These books that make me question myself most specifically as a writer while that positive self in the back of my mind is telling me instead, to let it inspire. To let such beautiful bound books turn into action of being present. To sit myself down and fall forward into words that do not like to not fall into place right away either. 

As this book showed and will continue to as it stays in my mind for some time to come though, I have to start somewhere since life evolves and I may need to choose if I would like to with it no matter how many messy mistakes follow me without reminder. Whether it all takes me on the road where I planned or not.


“Not being able to swipe into the subway when people are backing up behind you. Waiting for him at the bar. Leaving your purse open on a stool with a mess of bills visible. Mispronouncing the names while presenting French wines. Your clogs slipping on the waxed floors. The way your arms shoot out and you tense your face when you almost fall. Taking your job seriously. Watching the sex scene from Dirty Dancing on repeat and eating a box of gingersnaps for dinner on your day off. Forgetting your stripes, your work pants, your socks. Mentally mapping the bar for corners where you might catch him alone. Getting drunker faster than everyone else. Not knowing what foie gras is. Not knowing what you think about abortion. Not knowing what a feminist is. Not knowing who the mayor is. Throwing up between your feet on the subway stairs. On a Tuesday. Going back for thirds at family meal. Excruciating diarrhea in the employee bathroom. Hurting yourself when you hit your head on the low pipe. Refusing to leave the bar though it's over, completely over. Bleeding in every form. Beer stains on your shirt, grease stains on your jeans, stains in every form. Saying you know where something is when you have absolutely no idea where it is.
At some point, I leveled out. Everything stopped being embarrassing.”          
-Stephanie Danler, Sweetbitter 


Sunday, July 3, 2016

Experience Tells the Story

Experience is what makes writer well-rounded. And I don't mean the unpaid get your name out there into publications, experience. I am talking about the one of a kind breathtaking, risk defying, random moment experience. That is what makes a writer as well rounded as a college applying high schooler tries to be after taking a few too many intro of art classes. 

The way a writer can simply write in wise detail of the world, is something that I have begun to think of on my own as I further sink myself into the wonderland of it. I have picked and prodded pieces of random topics, and I am beginning to see that the amount adventure or experience that the writer is able to divulge is a large indicator of if I continue to read. Whether the article be the simplest idea about how decadent their fettuccine alfredo was on vacation, or if they discovered a new species of plant in the amazon. It has always been there in front of me when authors are suddenly just as fantastic of an essayist or a whimsical blogger. These little moments of caught words, well they might as well be the next great work of prose. Thought, emotion, it is all there. Years I have seen and wondered as I read like people watch Netflix. How do they it?

They have stories.


While I have to scower to cut out every "you" in an essay that I want to relate in, I see now that the essay of a past— a story is yelling at me once and for all to just use "I." To show that I believe I deserve to be heard and not let myself mumble the overused excuse of "I don't like to talk about myself," or that it is hard to. I am already a writer, everything is difficult anyway! Might as well take out an odd fear from my brain and leave some room for fear of freshwater fish. 

"It is an epidemic with women your age. A gross disparity between the way they speak and the quality of thoughts they are having about the world. They are taught to express themselves in slang, in cliches, sarcasm- all of which is weak language. The superficiality of the language colors the experience, rendering them disposable instead of assimilated..." -Stephanie Danler, Sweetbitter

To talk about myself and how I am standing, or rather typing here today, I mean to be a character in an all too real story. To express the tiniest thoughts in the strangest of purple prose if I so shall please when it makes sense to me and my mind. Maybe that is how I will relate, not to you all- or at least not all the time, but to myself. That is how the writers do it after all. They weave themselves into a story all their own to somehow chat with a point and wit. They are like the most dramatic of coincidental heroes who still don't know the reader is still reading, because of them. Because of how they see and breathe each day in like the most prominent of short story climaxes that makes even me want to pack up a threadbare backpack and somehow climb the mountains of Europe.

Instead of textbooks and theme studies to help understand, they have themselves to draw from. When reading their piece, they might as well be the wise magic holder that you nod at with every word being taken in.

That is kind of experience to have. Experience that takes chance whether it be to wander, wonder, or both. Those two W's on my to do list each and every day since it means that I am living for a reason. Even if I do push away that same reason that screams the need to write my own stories of everyday in my journal so that I don't forget instead of jotting down the good bits so that I can abuse them in the future. 



Right now, I need those stories. I wish upon a star that I had more stories, period. Stories that mean something enough  to resonate and elaborate on life and utter being, rather than the constant simple entertainment my fictionalized novels are privileged to be. They give joy and emotion. My own life I hope, emotion and thought.

In this moment though, I have nothing. I question if I ever will have those stories that are more than first kisses in a cemetery, that I will have experiences that are not meaningless to everyone but me.

I want somethings out of nothing, yes. But I also desire to write something out of things. Things like me and around me that deserve not to be forgotten. Even if they may need a little face lift.

So here, maybe you'll see it.

Let's make some stories.


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