Forgiveness?

It's been almost two weeks since I last posted, but in my defence, my life has been pretty hectic. Between papers and essays and study abroad applications and required reading and non required reading and tutoring and bronchitis, I really haven't had the time. (And for the record, the bronchitis is damn annoying. I went through two packs of cough drops in as many days...so, yes, bronchitis is my excuse. I'm sorry my lungs hate me.)
This probably won't come off as well-polished or even well-thought out. But Stef mentioned some time ago that I'm better at sharing my soul-which is ridiculous, since I'm fairly certain I don't-so here goes. When I was little, my mom always told me that if I did something to hurt someone else, I had to apologize. And if someone hurt me and apologized, then I had to forgive them. When I was younger, this really wasn't that difficult, not because I didn't have anything to forgive people for, but because I actually believed that forgiving someone changed things. When I got a little older I realized that forgiveness was a struggle, and that forgiving meant a restoration of trust, a restoration of love. I was able to forgive people, even myself, eventually. And I took great pride in that, because it meant that I was a good person. I believed that I was able to forgive just about everything.

I was wrong. Really, really, wrong. Last semester things between me and one person got very ugly. Downright hideous, actually. I'm talking freak-show carny ugly, here. I don't want to get into specifics, because I don't want to actually come out and name her, but we essentially had an abusive PLATONIC (and I cannot possibly stress that word enough) relationship. I was terrified of her. Ok, I still sort of am. She was incredibly emotionally abusive towards me, and for the longest time I told myself that she needed me to be her scapegoat, and because I could stand it, I should. But I couldn't stand it for long. There's only so many times you can exploit a person's guilt complex before they fight back. (I, however, have a ridiculously large guilt complex, and because I'm a coward I didn't fight back; I ran away. It was just as effective.) I've been made fun of before because of my guilt, but she was gleefully and slowly driving me insane. (Not that I wasn't already incredibly close to the edge, but she wanted to push me completely off.) I was in hell all of last semester, and it was mostly because of her. (To be fair, I had some other issues as well, but they wouldn't have been nearly as destructive without her influence.) Some of the things she's said, and some of the things she's done I will never be able to forget.
It seems that I won't be able to forgive them, either. I've tried, but I cannot forgive her. And that scares the hell out of me. This is the first time I've ever not forgiven someone. (To be fair, she has never actually apologized.) I feel like such a terrible person for being unable to move past this, but I cannot forgive her. I don't even want to be in the same room with her. I can't stand to be around her, or listen to her, or even look at her. I want nothing to do with her. I know that the right thing to do is to forgive her, and to forget this past semester, but I can't. I am still so hurt, and still so angry, and I don't know if I'll ever get past that. And if that makes me a bad person, then I'm just a bad person. I'm sorry for this long and emo-esque rant, and I promise that my next post will be about something happy, like kittens or puppies or rainbows or unicorns, or something equally saccharine.

The Last Post

There was a contest at my University with a $100 dollar prize, a creative writing contest.
I forget the name of it now but the basic idea was something like this. "In some countries, technological interactions, like aim and blogs, are controlled and censored by the government (we all knew this) If you lived in one of those countries, and this was the last blog post you could write before the law was enacted, what would you say?" The deadline already passed for submissions, but the poster got me thinking. I suppose though I'd probably be in trouble for actually speaking my mind, even if the blog law was not technically in force yet. Bit of a problem there still, but I get the idea. If you knew oppression was coming, hell, if you knew death was coming - it may as well be - what would you say? I thought about it and realized I had no clue.

I think the most fun part of blogging is that we all can feel like Shakespeare; we can bang out a few letters on our keyboards and pretend they mean something, imagine we too are great and that we will touch people's hearts and lives. We can write the American way and celebrate our equality: our mediocrity. If everything out there is special, then nothing really is. So, we get a lot of crap out there, honored with 13th place medals and tucked in the mental crevices of the five people who saw more than the title before hitting that "next blog" link in their perpetual Google search to dull the boredom.

As a cynic (but remember, I'm a cynic who took the time to bang this out on her own blog) I have to ask, is it really that big of a loss?

I already hate myself for that last line. Of course it matters! Free speech matters, no matter how idiotic. This country may be a caught in a cycle of mediocrity, but is that so bad? Only a few will ever be dedicated to excellence, most people will never even strive for glory, but is that a problem; is that a reason to mock them or trivialize the silencing of millions of voices? No, screw the cynics. The principles of equality and of free speech are anything but lukewarm. They may lead to glorification of the average and the remotely interesting, but it all deserves to be out there. The courage to give it to the world, to stand up proud on your dust speck and give a full-hearted yawp is reason enough.

The critics and cynics could slam you into the ground or torture you with anticipation and slowly beat you to death with their winding, nonsensical yet unwavering bureaucracies. Even fellow writers, colleagues and bloggers may tell you its all pointless: no one will like it or worse, no one will read it.

But you click away at the keyboard anyway, so good luck and congrats to all the other bloggers out there. I still have no idea what I'd say if this were my last blog post. I'd like to think I'd have a fierce, emboldening battle cry "te arma! te arma!" But that's another story.

You Remember. . .

I love my life now, I really do. But sometimes I can't
help but wish for childhood again, back when things
were simple and honest; when third grade math
problems were my biggest concern. I could sled down
Levagood hill every time the snow fell and run around
Great Grandma Babel's back yard, jumping like Catwoman
and screaming like a banshee. Back then, a candy bar was
the best thing in the whole world and
Mom could always fix my biggest mistakes.
I think these guys said it best.

It Never Comes Again

There are gains for all our losses,
There are balms for all our pain;
But when youth, the dream, departs,
It takes something from our hearts,
And it never comes again.

We are stronger, and are better,
Under manhood's firmer reign;
Still we feel that something sweet
Followed youth, with flying feet,
And will never come again.

Something beautiful is vanished,
And we sigh for it in vain:
We behold it everywhere,
On the earth and in the air
But it never comes again.

     - Richard Henry Stoddard


Nothing Gold Can Stay

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

- Robert Frost

Perhaps the soul's melody is a live cat on a George Foreman grill...

Kat is much better at sharing her soul than I am.
I used to write a lot more than I do, work longer on it, and let people read it. But my writing is fragmented, incoherent, and sometimes I prefer it that way. Don't get me wrong, I know how to shape a good essay or a good letter but my real writing is sporadic at best, and when I edit I have to analyze. It all feels fake to me, the extra words are so empty. Each one feels so rigid, so callous. Mostly I'm afraid. I'm scared that if I analyze my thoughts and feelings all the things I remember and love won't mean anything, and that would be the most empty feeling of all. I don't know if I could handle that. This shouldn't matter to me as much as it does, since only about three people read this blog, and the other two know me better than I know myself.

Its strange the things you remember. . .and stranger the memories that inspire you. I first watched Buffy the Vampire Slayer with Beth and Katie as we lapped up the last of ice cream sandwiches that dripped down our wrists and stuck cakey brown to our fingertips. I still eat ice cream sandwiches every once and awhile and I own two seasons of Buffy now, but I miss the thick sticky air and the effortless friendship of that afternoon. Nothing is the same twice.
I really miss the days when mountain dew was just crappy. Its actually not that bad but the aftertaste always stings the back of my throat so it goes down hard. I imagine liquor is the same way. But now the green label is a bittersweet comfort that makes me want to cry in the bottle as it reminds me of a smile I'll never see again.

The strangest thing is how love can terrify and inspire all in the same moment. Sometimes my feelings are so exuberant they make me doubt everything and want to escape my own mind. But without his silent coaxing and indescribable love I wouldn't even be able to type this out. That may not seem like much courage to some but all of it means the world to me.

- Stef (who wishes she could claim that "cat on a grill" quote, but its borrowed)

Hooray for Spanglish!!

Since I’ve been studying Spanish for 6 or so years now, I’ve begun thinking in this strange amalgamation known as Spanglish. It’s quite entertaining, usually, to switch gears as fast as I can in my head. I’ve tried to write poetry in Spanglish, however, and it’s far harder than I would have guessed. So, for your amusement, here are two god-awful poems in Spanglish. Please to enjoy:

Ya yo sé
how it happened;
how I lost myself
in my búsqueda for todos.
No tengo exito,
I returned with nothing.
Knowledge is greedy,
and una chica sola can’t buscarlo.
Especially not a chica quien cree en cuentos de hadas,
and true amor.
Quiero answers, explanaciones, reasons
for the pain
in the belleza,
la verdad meaning
hidden by nubles obscuros.
I want to verlo todos,
but blindness won’t desaparecer.
¿Dónde esta la luz?
I will search todo el mundo.
¿Dónde debo ir?
Where are mis repuestas,
my hopes y suenos?
I need to find them.
I lo buscaré.
Ya yo sé.

And numero 2:

Esto es muy difícil
To say…
no soy a heroine,
I am una chica,
nada más.
But I can say this,
y la necessario.
You seem to think it’s all ok;
si tú piensas at all.
To forgive is divine,
pero no soy Dios
not even una sancta.
Me duele then and still.
I cannot forgive tus palabras
twinged with shame and guilt.
No puedo olvidar my exile,
when you torced me to salí
mi cuarto, mi casa aquí.
I cannot forget
los noches cuando me lloré a mismo to sleep.
No puedo forget, although
I’ve tratado forgive.
Time has passed,
but I’m still enojada.
You are not mi compeñera.
Nunca again.
Never, nunca, never, por nada vez.

This is really just a filler post, since I'm not going to be posting for a really long time, since I have three essays due next week, I'm starting tutoring at the high school, I have to finish my study-abroad application, I have a ridiculous amount of homework for my classes, and I have something almost resembling a social life as well. So I have no idea when I'll have time to post. Lo siento.